Egg Drop Dead

by Laura Childs

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Suzanne said. She turned over the sign on the front door that said Closed, then pulled Toni into the Knitting Nest and grabbed a needle and thread.

  “I tried wrapping this myself,” Toni said, unrolling her long piece of netting. “But I ended up looking like a sad tulip.”

  “Here, slip out of your jeans and let me figure this out. Okay, first we wrap two layers of netting around your hips . . .”

  “For modesty’s sake.”

  “Right. And then I’ll take a tuck and secure it.” Suzanne threaded her needle and made the necessary tuck.

  “Don’t stick me!” Toni cried.

  “Not to worry. Now we’ll kind of pooch out the fabric just above your knees and take a few judicious tucks at your waist.” Suzanne fashioned the netting into a semblance of a ballet skirt and then quickly did a running stitch around Toni’s waist to hold it all together.

  “This is looking seriously good,” Toni said.

  “Hopefully,” Suzanne said. “Now, what you need to do is grab a spool of black velvet ribbon.”

  Toni hunted around, found the ribbon, and was back. “Whatcha gonna do with this?”

  Suzanne snipped off a hunk of ribbon. “One piece gets cinched around your waist to hide the stitches. And this smaller piece will work as a kind of headband to tie your look together.”

  “Ooh, I like that.”

  Suzanne ducked into her office, grabbed a purple pen that had a tuft of black ostrich feathers on one end, and ripped off the feathers. “Then these feathers go in your hair.” She tucked them into the headband. “Voila, you are now principal dancer with the Kindred Ballet Company.”

  That sent Toni scampering to a mirror. “This is great,” she called back. “I love it!”

  * * *

  THE rest of the day was spent prepping for their Halloween party. Petra and Toni readied the brats and chicken wings, buttered the buns, and set out big jars of mustard, ketchup, and pickle relish.

  At four o’clock a few kids dropped by to trick-or-treat and Junior, pretending to be terrified of all the miniature ghosts, elves, skeletons, and pirates, handed out trick or treat bags.

  By five o’clock the trickle of kids slowed and Virgil Bannerman showed up with three enormous metal fire cauldrons and enough firewood to keep them roaring all night. Then Freddy from Schmitt’s Bar showed up with two kegs of beer and three cases of apple cider. The Whistling Dixies, three guys in cowboy outfits and a girl singer in a fringed skirt, also arrived and immediately began warming up their banjos and guitars.

  “It looks like the circus just hit town,” Junior announced from his observation post at the window.

  “It has,” Suzanne said.

  “Oh man, will you look at this!” Now Junior was hobbling back and forth on his crutches. “Horses!”

  Suzanne peered out the window just in time to see Bud Nolden drive his team of Percherons into her parking lot. The giant horses were tossing their heads and snorting loudly as they pulled a large wooden wagon that was stuffed full of hay. Feathered hoofs rang out like anvil strikes against the pavement.

  “It’s gonna be a gas to ride in that wagon,” Junior chortled.

  “Don’t you dare,” Toni said. “You climb up there and you’ll probably bust your other leg.”

  “I want to have fun, too,” Junior whined.

  “Then go back to the hospital and flirt with that nurse,” Toni said.

  “You’re the only gal for me, Toni.”

  “Huh.”

  “Hey, Suzanne,” Junior said. “Why don’t you take some of that leftover black netting and wrap it around my cast? And then take another hunk and make me an eye patch?”

  Suzanne stared at him. “And what would that accomplish?”

  Junior grinned. “I’d be like Peg Leg Pete!”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE party was supposed to begin at seven, but their guests began arriving just after six-thirty.

  “We’re in for it now,” Toni announced as cars began to stream in.

  “You put the signs out so everyone knows to park across the road?” Suzanne asked. She’d moved her own car over there earlier in the day. “Because I think we’re going to have a big crowd.”

  “Signs are up, we should be set,” Toni said.

  “Then let’s go out and greet our guests.”

  Everybody came. In costume, no less. Lolly Herron and Ellen Hardy, a couple of teatime regulars, came bustling in. Lolly was wrapped in a Greek toga, Ellen wore a flapper dress. They were followed by WLGN’s own Paula Patterson, dressed as a cowgirl, and Shar Sandstrom, a local baker, who wore her baker’s whites and a chef’s hat. Then the floodgates opened and at least another four dozen guests poured in. The fire cauldrons smoked and crackled, the band struck up a sassy, twangy version of “Red Dirt Road,” and Mayor Mobley arrived with Byron Wolf in tow.

  Toni sidled up to Suzanne. “Did you notice that Wolfy boy is here?”

  Through the wavering heat of a fire pit Suzanne saw that Mobley and Wolf were already enjoying a glass of beer. “I did notice. Though neither of them came in costume.”

  Toni smirked. “Mobley’s dressed as a petty bureaucrat and Wolf’s in his sheep’s clothing.”

  “And look,” Suzanne said. “Claudia Mullen just walked in, too.”

  Toni rubbed her hands together. “I’d say things are getting mysteriouser and mysteriouser.”

  “Maybe,” Suzanne said. She looked around, spotted Joey, their busboy, and waggled her fingers to get his attention.

  Joey saw Suzanne waving and veered toward her, a big smile lighting his face. “Hey, Mrs. D, I heard you and Toni came to the Haunted Forest last night. What’d you think? Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Pretty scary,” Suzanne said. She wasn’t about to spill the real details. “Do you know the drill for tonight, Joey?”

  “You mean sticking close to Petra? Yeah. I guess she wants me to help with the food. Take care of grilling the brats and Bat Wings.” Joey paused. “Say, they’re not real bat wings, are they?”

  “They’re chicken wings dredged in batter and layered with seven spices,” Suzanne told him.

  “Like wing dings. Cool. So I should . . . ?”

  “Head into the kitchen and check with Petra.”

  Suzanne’s eyes fell upon two more guests coming her way. Oh no, it couldn’t be! But Noah and Faith Anne were walking straight toward her and, praise be, Faith Anne actually had a faint smile on her face.

  “Noah, Faith Anne,” Suzanne said, greeting them warmly. “Welcome to the Cackleberry Club. Happy Halloween.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t think we’d come,” Noah said, ducking his head. “But here we are after all.”

  “I’m so sorry Sheriff Doogie hauled you away like that,” Suzanne said. “It wasn’t right.”

  “That’s okay,” Noah said. “I only had to stay at the Law Enforcement Center for, like, an hour. And they didn’t even put me in a cell, just gave me a bottle of orange pop and let me sit in a regular chair.”

  “Sheriff Doogie even sort of apologized,” Faith Anne said.

  “Doogie told me that he felt awful about it,” Suzanne said. “He knows Noah isn’t any kind of killer. As for those horses . . . well, I’m still trying to work something out.”

  “Noah told me how nice you’ve been to him,” Faith Anne said. “And I kind of want to, um, apologize for my behavior the other day. When the Yarn Truck was here.”

  “That’s okay,” Suzanne said. “I’m just glad you’re here now, ready to enjoy the party.”

  Suzanne greeted another dozen guests and tossed a log into a fire pit. When the band played a pepped-up version of Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places,” she even managed a twirl or two.

  Then a red and blue light bar pulsed, a siren gave one low brrrk, an
d Sheriff Doogie pulled in.

  Suzanne went over to greet him.

  Doogie exited the driver’s side of the vehicle, Deputy Driscoll hopped out on the passenger side.

  “You’re just in time for the food,” Suzanne told them. “Petra put the brats on the grill two minutes ago.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Driscoll said as he wandered off to join the party.

  Suzanne faced Doogie. “What’s up?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Doogie said. His sharp, rattlesnake eyes skipped across the crowd for a few moments. “Isn’t that interesting. I see Claudia Mullen and Byron Wolf.” He scratched his chin. My recollection is that you asked me to keep an eye on those two.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Seems to me you’re the one keeping an eye on them,” Doogie said.

  “It’s a party. What can I tell you?”

  “Nice try, Suzanne. But I think I’ll stick around to see what’s really going on.”

  “I don’t know if anything is. Besides some Halloween spirit, that is.” She’d just spotted Sam’s blue BMW pulling into the lot, so she ambled over to say hello.

  “Holy smokes, Suzanne, half the town must have showed up,” Sam said as he climbed out of his car. He put his arms around her and kissed her. “You’re a popular girl.”

  “Not half as popular as our beer and brats,” she said.

  “Ah well, beer and brats . . .”

  “Sam, I wanted to ask you about Mike Mullen.”

  “Uh-oh, another murderous query. And on All Hallows’ Eve at that?”

  “It’s about the machete.”

  “Mike wasn’t killed with a machete,” Sam said.

  “What do you mean?” Suzanne could barely hide her surprise.

  “Dr. Pope, the ME, issued a secondary report today. A kind of cuts-and-weapons analysis. He stated that the cuts were too deep and angular to be made by a machete. Dr. Pope suspects they were more likely from a hawkbill knife.”

  “How many people know about this?”

  “Just myself and Sheriff Doogie. And now you.”

  “But the rumor all over town has been that the murder weapon was a machete!” Suzanne’s words tumbled out. “I mean, a machete was even planted at Noah’s place . . .”

  “Yes, I’d like to know more about that.”

  “It’s a long, crazy story, which I promise I’ll tell you. But now you’re saying the killer used a . . . what did you call it? A hawkbill knife?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. And you’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone, Suzanne. That knife is what you’d call exclusionary evidence. And for goodness’ sakes don’t start secretly scouring the countryside looking for that exact type of knife.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me!” a hearty voice rang out.

  Suzanne and Sam both turned to find Rick Boyle steamrolling toward them.

  “Suzanne!” Boyle held a clutch of paper aloft in one hand. “I’ve got those product sheets you wanted.”

  “Who is this turkey?” Sam asked under his breath.

  Suzanne waited until Boyle was standing right in front of them.

  “Dr. Sam Hazelet,” she said. “This is Rick Boyle from Claggett Foods.”

  Boyle stuck out a hand. “How’d ya do, doc? I just came by to drop off some information for the little lady here.” He handed the papers to Suzanne. “We’re carrying a new blue cheese called True Bleu. I believe you’d like it.” He looked around as if just noticing for the first time that a party was taking place. “This is some shindig you got going.”

  Suzanne indicated the grilling station for the brats. “Help yourself if you’d like. There’s plenty of food to go around.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Boyle said, heading off toward the grill.

  “What a weird guy,” Sam said.

  “Tell me more about the knife.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “So the final analysis of the knife wounds means that Noah’s completely off the hook.” Suzanne leaned closer to Sam. “Sheriff Doogie never did believe Noah was guilty.”

  “But Noah did steal the horses,” Sam said. “Right?”

  “I’m working on that angle,” Suzanne said.

  “Bad idea,” Sam said. “You need to let this go, Suzanne. Like now.”

  “I hear you. But I also have a funny feeling that things might be coming to a head real soon.”

  * * *

  THE punkin’ chunkin’ contest went off without a hitch, with top honors on distance going to Boots Wagner, owner of the Hard Body Gym.

  “Probably because he’s the one person in Kindred who works out twenty-two hours a day,” Toni said to Suzanne. “The last time we went to his gym and did that core fitness routine I almost puked.”

  “You need a more positive attitude,” Suzanne said.

  “Even if I have a negative body?”

  “How about you get that costume contest started?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Toni said. She fluffed her skirt. “Now if I can just avoid stepping in all the orange goo that’s laying around.”

  Meanwhile, Suzanne had noticed a couple of new arrivals. Todd Lansky had pulled in with his pickup truck, probably still playing deputy for Doogie, and Julian Elder was prowling around in the shadows. She figured Elder was the one who required her immediate attention.

  Suzanne cut through a line of costume contestants, skirted around Mayor Mobley and Byron Wolf, who both hoisted their beers at her, and headed for Elder.

  “Mr. Elder,” she called.

  Elder stepped out of the shadows looking tall, sinuous, and slightly sinister. “Suzanne,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Do you have my money?”

  “Do we have a deal?” she asked.

  “Eight hundred dollars for the lot.”

  “There’s no wiggle room in that price?”

  He cocked his head. “Take it or leave it.”

  “And then what?” Suzanne asked. “Then you get in another herd of horses? And another one after that?”

  Elder shook his head. “Nope, this is it. I’m taking too much flack. It’s tough to find horses in the first place, expensive to ship them, and there are too many activist organizations who want to rip my head off.” He held up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  “Redemption,” Suzanne said. Or are you the killer we’ve all been hunting for?

  “Call it what you want,” Elder said. “I’m wiping my hands of the whole business.”

  “Good. And I do want those horses.”

  “I thought you might,” Elder said.

  Suzanne worried her front teeth against her lower lip. “This is going to be a little tricky. Will you take a check?”

  “Check works for me.”

  Suzanne turned her attention toward the party, which was in full swing. Music blasted, couples danced, brats hissed and spit on the grill. “I’ve got to take care of a couple of things. Can you give me fifteen minutes? I mean, you’re welcome to mingle and have a beer and a bratwurst.”

  “Whatever,” Elder said.

  * * *

  SUZANNE hurried back through the crowd, wondering how to pull off this deal. She had $200 in cash stashed in her car. If she cadged four hundred more from the Cackleberry Club account and wrote a personal check for two hundred . . . well, then she’d have it. It would be a squeaker to pay bills this month, but she could still manage.

  Ducking into her office off the Book Nook, Suzanne hastily wrote out a check and stuck it in her pocket. When she came out into the café, Junior was sitting in a chair, looking morose.

  “Wish I could join in the fun,” Junior said.

  “If I carried a chair outside, you could sit by a fire cauldron,” Suzanne said.

  “You’d
do that for me?”

  Suzanne picked up a wooden captain’s chair. “Grab those crutches, Junior, and let’s go join the party.”

  She deposited the chair near the fire cauldron, got Junior situated (he was given a bratwurst, but no beer) and headed for her car. As she passed the second grill, she saw that the Bat Wings were sizzling and that Joey was dousing them with gobs of Petra’s hot sauce.

  “Suzanne!” Bud Nolden called out. He’d just parked his hay wagon and was waiting for his passengers to clamber down. “Want to take a ride?” he teased.

  “I’m just going across the road,” she told him. “Have to grab something from my car.”

  “Hop in, we’ll make it a short trip.”

  Suzanne, never one to turn down an opportunity to ride in a horse-drawn wagon, climbed up onto the wooden seat.

  Nolden snapped the reins and the big horses rumbled off.

  “This is so nice of you to bring your team to the Cackleberry Club,” Suzanne told Nolden. He was one of those guys who loved to pitch in. Member of the Lions Club, helped with bingo at his church, drove grade-school kids on outings to the Logan County Historical Society.

  “It’s good practice for the team,” Nolden told her as they clopped along, the big horses switching their tails as if in rhythm to the sway of the wagon. “We might even enter the two-horse hitch at the county fair next year.”

  “I bet you’d win.”

  They rolled along companionably through the night until Nolden pulled back on the reins. “This is as far as we go without clipping that red pickup truck.”

  Suzanne stood up, ready to hop down from the hay wagon, when something sitting in the back of the pickup caught her eye. A large blue canister tucked in the corner with a single word printed across it in silver. The word was “Gleason.”

  The proverbial lightbulb fizzed on, flickered, and then exploded inside Suzanne’s brain.

  Gleason. Wasn’t that the word Mike Mullen had scrawled in his calendar?

  Suzanne leapt down from the hay wagon and peered into the back of the truck, certain she must be wrong. Positive she must have misread the label.

  But no, the blue canister still read Gleason.