Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  “Apparently she’s Lester Drummond’s ex-wife,” said Suzanne. “And she’s here in town.”

  “Get outta town!” said Toni. “There’s an ex-wife in the picture?”

  “I suppose she’s here for the funeral?” said Petra.

  “Noooo,” said Suzanne tantalizingly. “According to Gene Gandle, the ex-wife has been living at Drummond’s place for the past couple of weeks.”

  “You mean they were going to get back together?” said Toni, going pop-eyed now. “Wow, it sounds like the plot of a soap opera. Star-crossed exes about to reunite—then POW! Tragedy strikes!”

  “With an imagination that vivid, I think you could write soap operas,” said Petra. She pulled on an oven mitt and peeked inside her oven. “Mmmmn.”

  But Toni was still demanding the 411 on Deanna Drummond. “So what else do you know about this Deanna person?” she asked Suzanne. “Come on, girlfriend! Start dishing some dirt!”

  “I just told you everything I know,” said Suzanne, suddenly aware of a loud rumbling coming from their back parking lot.

  “Which wasn’t very much,” said Toni.

  “What is that awful noise?” asked Petra. “It sounds like some kind of heavy machinery.”

  Toni pressed her nose to the window. “Yee gads, it’s Junior.”

  “Did he steal a tractor or something?” asked Petra as the noise got louder. “Or a forklift?”

  “Naw, he’s just driving some rotten old blue car,” said Toni. “Probably something he found in Auto Trader.” Then she did a kind of double take and said, “Oh shoot!”

  “What’s wrong?” said Suzanne.

  “I hope that isn’t what I think it is!” said Toni, grabbing Suzanne’s hand and pulling her out the back door.

  Junior Garrett grinned when he saw them. He was nothing less than a vision in saggy blue jeans, white T-shirt, and scuffed black motorcycle boots. He swept his grease-stained trucker cap off his head and said, “Afternoon, ladies.”

  “What. On. Earth,” said Suzanne. She turned an inquiring gaze at what almost passed for an automobile.

  “Isn’t she something?” said Junior. He was practically bursting with pride. “My blue beater. I’ve been working on this for quite some time.” His hand coasted along the front fender in a loving caress. “I plan to enter it in the demolition derby Sunday night!”

  Suzanne and Toni stared in horror at Junior’s car. It was an old Chevy Impala, but that’s where the similarity to a street-legal car ended. The blue paint was mostly chipped or worn off, leaving the car with a fine patina of rust. The front bumper was reinforced with what looked like heavy-duty bedsprings, the windshield as well as side and rear windows had been chipped out, and the roof was punched in.

  “You can’t race that car in a demolition derby,” said Suzanne. “You’ll be disqualified on the basis that it’s already demolished.”

  “It’s a total wreck,” agreed Toni.

  “Naw,” said Junior. “What you see here is a car that’s been stripped down to its bare essentials and customized with special reinforcements.” He grabbed a metal strut that had been welded from the driver’s side door to the roof. “See? Genuine steel rebar.”

  Suzanne thought the strut looked suspiciously like a metal crowbar.

  “And the doors have been welded shut, too,” Junior continued. “For added strength and safety.”

  “Safety?” squeaked Toni.

  “How on earth do you get in and out if you can’t open the doors?” Suzanne asked. She knew she shouldn’t indulge Junior with such questions, but, like a mongoose drawn to the cobra, she was fascinated by his demented dreams of speedway glory.

  “Simple as pie,” said Junior, giving his hips a little shake. “I just shimmy through the open windows. See, that’s the beauty of my unibody modifications. There are no pesky doors to come unhinged or fly off at critical moments during the race.”

  “You’re the one who’s unhinged,” cried Toni, who couldn’t stand it anymore. “Junior, you’re gonna kill yourself!”

  “If you flame out,” said Suzanne, “there’s absolutely no way for you to escape!”

  Junior reached inside the car and pointed to a small red fire extinguisher that had been crudely wired to the dashboard. “Then I just pull that thing out and extinguish the flames.”

  Toni shook her head. “In between the rolling of the car, the crunching of metal, and flames singeing your hair and flesh, do you really believe you’ll have the wherewithal to operate a fire extinguisher?”

  “Sure,” said Junior. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Junior,” said Toni, practically hyperventilating now, “you barely have the wherewithal to operate a pencil sharpener!”

  Stung by her words, Junior’s face darkened. “You see why we can’t make a go of our marriage?” he cried. “You’re constantly picking at me and finding fault! It’s ‘Junior, this won’t work’ or ‘Junior, you can’t do that.’” He shrugged his forelock off his face. “Sometimes it feels like I can’t do anything right!”

  “That’s because you can’t!” Toni shot back.

  * * *

  BACK inside the comfy café, in the zone of safety and sanity, Suzanne said, “You’re not really going to let Junior race that thing, are you?” They were setting up for afternoon tea, covering the battered wooden tables with linen tablecloths, adding crystal sugar bowls and small tea light candles. Petra had baked two more batches of cranberry scones.

  “What can I do?” said Toni. “Junior may act like a dim bulb juvenile delinquent, but he’s a grown man. I can’t tie him to a chair or lock him in his room. I can’t idiot-proof his life!”

  “But Junior would seriously be risking his fool neck,” said Suzanne. She wasn’t all that crazy about Junior, but she didn’t want to see him end up in a full body cast, either. Plus, he was her friend’s husband, even though the two of them were estranged. She cared because she cared about Toni.

  “Maybe on the night he races I could hire an ambulance to stand by,” muttered Toni.

  “Expensive,” said Suzanne.

  “Life insurance?” said Toni. She frowned, thinking. “Although shouldn’t they really call it death insurance?”

  “That might make it a harder sell for the agents,” said Suzanne.

  “Ah man, Junior’s so poor he can barely afford the free clinic.”

  “Hold that thought,” Suzanne said, as the phone started to ring. She scampered a few steps and snatched up the receiver. “Cackleberry Club.”

  “Suzanne?” said a small voice.

  “Yes?”

  There was a choking sound and then Missy Langston said, “Suzanne, I’m so sorry to interrupt your day. But I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “What’s wrong, Missy?”

  “I just got some really bad news.”

  “What happened?” asked Suzanne, fearing the worst.

  “I’ve been fired.”

  The wire that was strung tight around Suzanne’s heart loosened just a bit. At least Missy hadn’t been arrested. “Oh no, Missy. Just now?”

  Missy sighed. “Carmen waited until I’d unpacked about fifteen boxes of clothes, steamed everything, and carefully hung it all on racks. Then she canned me.”

  “That’s awful. In fact, it’s practically sadistic.”

  “We always knew she was a little crazy,” said Missy.

  “Did Carmen give you any severance pay?”

  “Not a dime.”

  “Well, can you apply for unemployment?”

  “Carmen warned me that I better not try. She said it was a disciplinary firing, so I wouldn’t be eligible for unemployment. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

  “It wasn’t disciplinary.” Suzanne snorted. “You were a model employee who received rave reviews from all your customers. Thi
s firing was based on Carmen paying too much attention to town gossip, then having a snit fit and completely overreacting.”

  “You know that and I know that,” said Missy. “But what am I going to tell the people at the unemployment office?”

  “You don’t need to tell them anything,” said Suzanne. “Just go and apply first thing Monday morning. If Carmen tries to deny your unemployment claim, you can appeal it. You just write out exactly what happened and let the unemployment people sort it out.”

  “Really?” said Missy.

  “Of course,” said Suzanne. “And if Carmen still tries to deny it, then she will have to sit down with you and a mediator. That’s the way it works. Respectful and fair.”

  Missy gave a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, Suzanne. Thank you so much for telling me all of that. At least now I feel a little more hopeful.”

  “What happened?” Toni asked when Suzanne hung up the phone.

  “Carmen fired Missy,” said Suzanne, shaking her head.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Toni. “Carmen’s a real witch.”

  “Ah . . . she’s just been listening to stupid rumors. And letting her emotions get away from her. Maybe, hopefully, when Drummond’s killer is finally caught, she’ll see her way clear to hiring Missy back.”

  “You think Drummond’s killer will be caught?”

  “Of course he will,” said Suzanne. “And I hope sooner than later.”

  “What if—” Toni stopped abruptly.

  “What if what?”

  Toni waved a hand in the air, as if to erase her thoughts.

  “No, go ahead,” said Suzanne. “Say it.” Because I think I know what you’re going to say. And I think I want to hear it.

  “What if Missy really was involved?” said Toni. “Then what?”

  “Then . . .” Now it was Suzanne’s turn to hesitate. “Then she’s really cooked.”

  CHAPTER 8

  SUZANNE swung into the parking lot at the Westvale Medical Clinic and tooted her horn. About two seconds later, Sam came striding out the front door, zipping a light green Polo jacket over his blue scrubs. Tall and in his early forties, with tousled brown hair and blue eyes, he was good-looking in an earnest boy-next-door kind of way.

  “You’re like a bad date,” Sam said, a smile curling his lips, as he jumped into Suzanne’s car. “You just pull up and honk. Don’t come in to meet the folks or anything.”

  “Because that’s what you told me to do!” Suzanne protested.

  “Kidding,” said Sam. “Kidding.” He leaned across the console and gave her a nice, long, lingering kiss. No quick, perfunctory peck, so, okaaaay.

  “Your, um, car is ready?” Suzanne was suddenly feeling all warm and tingly and slightly discombobulated.

  “Naw, not until tomorrow.”

  She gave him an expectant look. “So you want me to drive you . . . where?”

  “Home,” said Sam. “Preferably your home if you don’t mind.”

  “Dr. Hazelet,” said Suzanne, smiling now, “I don’t mind a bit.”

  As they bumped across the parking lot, which was jointly shared by the Hard Body Gym, Sam lifted a hand and waved at Boots Wagner, the owner. Wagner, a fit-looking man of sixty with ropey, sinewy arms and buzz-cut gray hair, was stomping out to his car, a little red two-seater Miata.

  “That’s the guy Doogie should be talking to,” said Sam, as they watched Wagner fold himself into his car. “If he wanted to get a line on Lester Drummond’s comings and goings, that is. I swear Drummond spent half his waking days at that gym. Mornings, when I’d come in to work, Drummond’s black SUV would be parked outside. When I’d leave at night, it would sometimes be back again.”

  “Drummond was working out twice a day?” said Suzanne. “Isn’t that bad for you? Isn’t that awfully hard on your spine and joints? I thought the smart thing to do was let your body rest a bit between workouts.”

  Sam cocked his head and winked at her. “Depends on what kind of workout you do, baby.”

  Suzanne smiled. It might have been springtime, with the weather still cool, but suddenly it felt like the heater was going full blast.

  * * *

  BAXTER and Scruff were over the moon to see Sam. They whirled and twirled and licked and kissed him in greeting.

  “Whoa,” said Suzanne. “I never get that much attention when I come home.”

  “That’s because they’re used to you,” said Sam. “To them, I’m still the new flavor of the month.”

  Yes, you are, thought Suzanne happily.

  “So maybe a glass of wine?” said Sam. “To celebrate TGIF?” He’d brought over a case of assorted wines a couple of weeks ago and they were slowly working their way through it.

  “Sounds perfect,” said Suzanne. “You go ahead and do the honors while I season and grill a nice piece of swordfish for us.”

  “White wine then,” said Sam, reaching for a bottle of chardonnay.

  As Suzanne worked on her fish, chopped vegetables, and tossed together a simple salad, Sam popped the cork and they shared a glass of wine.

  “Good,” said Suzanne taking a sip. Then she reconsidered. “No, better than good. This is really quite exceptional.” The wine felt silky but robust on her tongue with hints of berry and citrus that lingered pleasantly.

  “You can always count on Cakebread Cellars to be lush as well as bright.” Sam took a sip and paused. “You know, you really should get a wine and beer license for the Cackleberry Club.”

  “Heaven forbid,” said Suzanne. “Then we’d have to be open evenings, too.”

  While the swordfish sizzled on the Jenn-Air grill and Suzanne stirred a pan of beurre blanc sauce on the stove, Sam gave her the update on Lester Drummond.

  “He was definitely Tasered,” said Sam. “A number of times. Which I think might have sent his heart into cardiac arrest.”

  “Wow,” said Suzanne. “That sounds like a terrible way to go.”

  “But that’s not all,” cautioned Sam. “He had drugs on board, too.”

  “You already ran a toxicology test? I’m surprised. I thought that was something the medical examiner would handle.”

  “It is and he will when he gets here tomorrow. I just ordered a couple of basic tests to make Doogie happy and satisfy my own niggling curiosity.”

  “So what were the drugs? Can you say?”

  “Looks like a psychostimulant. An amphetamine.”

  “Drugs,” said Suzanne, cocking her head. “I find that awfully strange. I always pegged Drummond as being fairly health conscious. What with the jogging and the incessant working out he did.”

  “There’s more. He’d also suffered a nosebleed.”

  “What would that indicate?” asked Suzanne.

  Now Sam looked a little concerned. “Generally it’s a sign of intracranial pressure.”

  “Which means what exactly? Talk to me in layperson’s language, please,” Suzanne reminded gently. “Explain it in terms I can understand.”

  “Well, I’m no ME so I can’t make a final determination about cause of death. But I’d say that Drummond’s breathing had been seriously compromised.”

  “No kidding.” Suzanne gave a low whistle. This news pretty much turned her on her ear. “How would that happen? Him pitching into the grave and lying on his side with his mouth stuck in the mud?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And this is on top of the Tasering?” said Suzanne.

  Sam took a sip of wine. “Yup.”

  Suzanne stirred her sauce thoughtfully. “Who would have a Taser in their possession, besides Sheriff Doogie and a few of his deputies? I mean, I know you can order one through the Internet and all, but who’d want to? They just seem so . . . dangerous.”

  “But easy to get,” said Sam. “Much like buying an assault weapon. I hope
someday we’ll put laws into place to prevent the purchase of nasty items like that.”

  They were quiet for a minute, thinking things over but also just enjoying each other’s company. “So,” said Suzanne, “did anything else jump out at you?”

  “To be honest, I only took a cursory look at Drummond. Partly out of curiosity and partly because I knew you’d pester me about it.”

  “You’re right,” said Suzanne. “I would have.” She turned this over in her brain while she picked up a small baguette and buttered it. “I am pestering you.”

  Sam nodded. “Yes, you are. But it’s okay, since you’re also making me this lovely dinner. It’s a fair enough trade.”

  “So it’s looking more and more as if Drummond was murdered.”

  “The evidence is piling up,” Sam affirmed.

  “And you were the one who discovered the Taser marks in the first place?”

  “No, no,” said Sam. “George Draper did. That’s why he wanted Drummond’s body moved to the hospital morgue. He wanted me to take a look at the marks, too, so we could give Doogie a heads-up. Plus, I don’t think Draper really wanted the autopsy to take place in his embalming room. He probably thought Drummond would take up valuable table space. Just in case he suddenly got a couple of customers.”

  Suzanne wrinkled her nose. “The autopsy is tomorrow?”

  “Right. The ME’s doing it on a freelance basis, so Saturday worked out perfectly for him.”

  “Does anyone else know that Doogie is bringing in a forensic pathologist?”

  “Just you and maybe Deputy Driscoll. Oh, and George Draper.”

  “Maybe we should keep this whole thing under wraps.”

  “I pretty much thought we were,” said Sam, looking at her, his eyebrows raised.

  She nodded. “So . . . a day or two for the autopsy results. And then I suppose a funeral. I wonder if anybody’s even planning that far ahead?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” said Sam. “Apparently there’s an ex-wife.”

  “Yes!” Suzanne cried. “I know. I just found out about her. Gene Gandle dropped by the Cackleberry Club this afternoon and bragged that he’d wangled an interview with her.”