Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  “Okay, okay, let’s get back to Deanna Drummond,” she said. “If you’re not ruling her out as a suspect, does that mean you picked up some kind of vibe?”

  “A vibe,” said Doogie, looking perplexed. “Why do women always talk in terms of vibes and hunches?”

  “I guess what I’m really asking,” said Suzanne, “is do you think she might have wanted her ex-husband dead?”

  “That’s . . . difficult to say. I mean, the two of them were legally divorced, so she was already receiving alimony.”

  “But you are suspicious of her,” said Suzanne. “A little bit anyway.” Something about Deanna Drummond had apparently set off Doogie’s internal cop-o-meter.

  “Somewhat, yes.”

  “Maybe if Drummond were dead, she’d inherit his entire estate?” said Suzanne. “Not just half but the whole enchilada?” She thought for a moment. “Or would she? Do you know if Lester Drummond has any other heirs?”

  “We don’t know at this point,” said Doogie. “I need to have my investigators do some forensic work on Drummond’s finances and gather a lot more background information. Even though he lived and worked in our midst, there’s a lot we don’t know about him.”

  “I wonder,” said Suzanne, reflecting. “Could Deanna Drummond have made those two phone calls?”

  Doogie just stared at her with his flat, gray eyes.

  “Could Deanna have sent those textlike messages and asked Lester Drummond to come to the cemetery last Thursday morning? And then also called Missy?”

  “Probably not if she was in the same house with him,” said Doogie.

  “Cell phone?” said Suzanne.

  “Ah jeez,” said Doogie, shaking his head. “I suppose. It’s kinda convoluted, but it could have happened.”

  “And then Deanna Drummond set up Missy?”

  “You’d come up with any excuse to get Missy off the hook, wouldn’t you?” said Doogie.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Suzanne. “But I know this Drummond case is a tough nut to crack. It’s probably going to call for some out-of-the-box theories.”

  “I guess so,” agreed Doogie. “Because there ain’t much in the box to go on.”

  “While we’re on this, did you pay a visit to that halfway house in Cornucopia?”

  “Aw, those guys are mostly small potatoes. Nary a bank robber or murderer among them.”

  “How about Karl Studer? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I’m still getting around to that,” said Doogie.

  “The sheriff’s breakfast is up!” Petra suddenly shrilled through the pass-through.

  Suzanne grabbed a steaming platter and set it in front of Doogie. Then, as theories spun like windmills in her head, she hustled off to take orders from their breakfast customers, who had been filing in faster than she realized. As Suzanne brewed tea, poured coffee, delivered breakfasts, and joked with their customers, Doogie seemed to pick and poke at his enormous breakfast.

  “Not to your liking?” Suzanne asked, as she swung by him a few minutes later.

  “It’s good, all right,” said Doogie, putting down his fork for a minute. “It’s just that I got to thinking about all the weird little permutations in this case. If I could just get a fingernail under one single thing, I’d be off and running. Anyway . . .” Doogie leaned back and adjusted his utility belt. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”

  To Suzanne this was code for, “I’m worried sick.”

  “Then how about something sweet?” Suzanne asked. She knew that sweet things always had a soothing effect on Doogie.

  That seemed to perk him up a little. “You got any pie?”

  * * *

  THIRTY minutes later, Doogie was still sitting at the counter, sipping coffee. He’d long since polished off his piece of blueberry pie, and now was staring into space. It was as if he was hesitant to go out and honcho a full-scale investigation. Or maybe he was just chewing everything over.

  “Is Doogie okay?” Toni whispered to Suzanne in the kitchen.

  “I think he’s just mulling things over,” said Suzanne.

  “Mulling what things?” put in Petra. “Shouldn’t he be out chasing down clues, sniffing out sources—trying to solve a murder?”

  Suzanne decided she might as well tell them what she knew. “Doogie’s kind of befuddled because he interviewed Deanna Drummond last night.”

  “What’s going on with her?” asked Petra.

  “Apparently,” said Suzanne, “after she forced out a bucket of crocodile tears she kind of came on to him.”

  Toni looked stunned. “Came on to him? You mean, like, flirted?”

  Suzanne nodded. “Something like that.”

  Petra frowned and said, “Wow. Talk about messing with the law.”

  “So is this Deanna Drummond person an actual suspect?” asked Toni. “Or a potential hot date?”

  “I think she’s firmly in the suspect category for now,” said Suzanne.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Petra. She leaned to one side and peered out the pass-through. “Suzanne, I think another artist just showed up. And it looks like he brought in a couple of paintings.”

  * * *

  JAKE Gantz was a sometime customer of the Cackleberry Club. He was a big man whose wardrobe stylist must have been the slacker kid who worked at the local Army-Navy Surplus Store. Because that’s how Jake dressed. Army jacket, baggy olive drab slacks, web belt, steel-toe boots. In winter he switched it out for a padded anorak and white Arctic pac boots.

  “Jake,” said Suzanne, greeting him. “I see you brought us a couple of your paintings.” Jake was what an art critic at a big city newspaper might term an “outsider artist.” His work consisted of slashes of bright color laid over almost primitive motifs. Paintings that were compelling, prosaic, and just plain fun.

  Jake gave a shy nod. “I’ve been seeing your posters all around town and thought I might bring in these paintings for your show. That’s if you’ll have them.”

  Suzanne waggled a finger. “Come on in to the Book Nook and let’s see what you’ve got.” She gave Jake an encouraging smile as she noticed Doogie peering at him with hooded eyes.

  Jake followed Suzanne into the Book Nook and carefully placed his paintings on the counter. “They’re acrylics,” he said. “I like to work with acrylic paint ’cause it dries nice and fast.”

  “These are wonderful,” said Suzanne, holding one up. The first painting was a landscape of an old hip-roof barn done in purples, reds, and bright oranges and featuring a herd of purple and green dairy cows. The second painting was a lot more abstract with some graffiti thrown in for good measure.

  “So you’ll take ’em for your Hearts and Crafts Show?” Jake asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Suzanne. “In fact, it’s very kind of you to bring these in.”

  “And half the proceeds go to charity?” said Jake.

  “To the food bank,” said Suzanne. “And the other half goes to the artist.”

  “That’s good,” said Jake. “I can always use a little money.”

  “If you’ll just write down your information,” said Suzanne, sliding two entry forms across the counter, “then we’ll be set.” She punched out two crack-and-peel tags, wrote P-11 and P-12 on them, and adhered them to the backs of the paintings. Then she jotted those same codes on Jake’s entry forms.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Jake. He lifted his head and smiled. “I have to say, it sure smells good in your café. You must be cooking up some wonderful things.”

  “We may be on the far side of breakfast,” said Suzanne, “but we have plenty of food left if you’re interested.”

  Jake dug a hand into the pocket of his saggy pants and pulled out a single crumpled dollar bill. He looked at it carefully, almost hopefully, then said, “Nope, not today, ma’am. Looks like I’m a
little tapped out. No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Suzanne, trying not to be embarrassed for him.

  “But I’ll drop by some other time.”

  “Do that,” said Suzanne. She gave a wave. “Maybe next Thursday when everything’s on display.”

  She carried Jake’s paintings into her office and leaned them carefully against the wall. She was hoping that, over the next few days, they’d be inundated with lots more artwork and handicrafts. Hopefully, the Cackleberry Club would, with all good luck, be filled to the rafters and the fund-raiser would be a roaring success.

  When Suzanne stepped back into the Book Nook, Doogie was standing there. His khaki bulk was pressed up against the counter and he was frowning at the entry forms that were spread out.

  “You seem a little more upbeat,” Suzanne told him. She knew it was a lie, but figured if she dished out positivity, some goodness and light, some of it might stick.

  “Yup,” said Doogie, practically ignoring her. Then he pressed his big paw down on the papers and spun them around so he could read them.

  CHAPTER 10

  “EXCUSE me,” said Suzanne. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking a look.” Doogie said it with such forced nonchalance that she was instantly suspicious.

  “Because you’re so curious about the artwork that’s been donated?”

  “Because I’m investigating,” said Doogie.

  “Well, I doubt you’ll find anything of great importance there,” said Suzanne. “Those are just entry forms and copies of receipts for the folks who brought in artwork for our Hearts and Crafts Show.”

  Doogie gave her a placid look. “I know that. And I just recognized a name that’s on my list.”

  “Your list? Which list?”

  “The list of local parolees that Warden Fiedler gave me,” said Doogie. “Your artist friend who just left? Guess what?”

  “What?” said Suzanne. A low tickle of apprehension started to build inside of her.

  “He’s an ex-con.”

  “Jake?” said Suzanne, startled. “He’s not . . . Are you sure? Well, for heaven’s sake, what’d he do?”

  “I don’t know offhand,” said Doogie. “Though it couldn’t have been too serious. He was only in the joint for a few months.”

  “But you know Jake!” said Suzanne, trying to quell her rapidly blipping heart. “He’s an okay guy.” Why was Doogie suddenly so focused on Jake? The man was harmless, wasn’t he? At the very least, he’d always struck her as a man who could use a break.

  Doogie shook his big head. “I really don’t know Jake, but he does seem familiar to me. I’m pretty good at remembering faces. In my line of work you have to be.”

  “Maybe Jake’s just a type,” said Suzanne. “That’s why you remember him. In his case, a down-at-the-heels starving artist type.”

  “The fact remains,” said Doogie, “his name is on my list.”

  “So you’re telling me you have to check him out.”

  “That’s right,” said Doogie.

  “Well, do me a favor, will you?”

  Doogie stared at her.

  “Don’t be too hard on him. I think Jake’s kind of wounded. I don’t mean physically, but . . . psychologically. I don’t want you to beat him up too badly.”

  “And if he turns out to be the killer?”

  “He won’t,” said Suzanne.

  “Heck,” Doogie snorted. “You don’t think anybody’s a killer!” And with that he spun smartly on his heels and clomped out to his car.

  * * *

  WHEN Suzanne told Toni and Petra about Jake being on Doogie’s parolee list, they both pooh-poohed it.

  “I can hardly believe it,” said Petra. “Jake’s a pussycat! He’s always so sweet and polite. If you meet him at the drugstore or something he greets you politely and holds the door open for you. You know how many people still do that these days?”

  “Like, zero,” said Toni. “Chivalry is kaput.”

  “Well, Jake’s on Doogie’s radar now,” said Suzanne. “Big-time.”

  “You really don’t think Jake had anything to do with Lester Drummond’s death, do you?” said Toni.

  “No, not really,” said Suzanne.

  “What do you think he was in jail for?” pressed Toni. “I mean what crime did he commit that landed him in the slammer?”

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “But Doogie said it couldn’t have been too major. He was only in for a few months.”

  “I feel sorry for Jake,” said Toni. “He always seems so down-and-out.”

  “That’s probably because he really is,” said Suzanne. “I think he wanted to stay and have breakfast but couldn’t afford it. All he seemed to have on him was a dollar—literally.”

  “Good gracious,” said Petra. “Then you should have given him a coffee and a sweet roll to go.”

  “Even though he’s an ex-con,” said Toni, nodding. “Yup, they have to eat, too.”

  “And he’s a veteran,” said Suzanne. “I know for a fact that Jake was in the Gulf War.” She figured that Jake’s military service might account for his slightly drifty nature.

  That cinched it for Petra. “In that case you should have definitely offered him a sandwich!” Petra had a soft spot in her heart for veterans. She routinely delivered homemade chicken dinners and baskets of cookies to two old World War II veterans who lived out on Stonybrook Road and a Korean War veteran who’d been missing a leg ever since the landing at Inchon. She had her own little private meals-on-wheels.

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Suzanne, feeling regretful now. “I should have been a little more hospitable.”

  “You realize,” said Petra, “a veteran is someone who wrote a blank check to this country for an amount up to and including his life.”

  “Now I really feel bad,” said Suzanne, vowing to make it up to him somehow.

  * * *

  AS soon as they locked the doors of the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne drove over to the Hard Body Gym. She had it in her head to talk to Boots Wagner, the owner. Maybe he could offer a different perspective on Lester Drummond. Or maybe he’d witnessed some sort of conflict that had gone on at the gym. A grudge or a misunderstanding that might have festered and somehow led to murder.

  The Hard Body Gym smelled of dirty socks, manly sweat, and Lysol. Lots of Lysol. A young man in a faded Maroon Five T-shirt sat at the front desk, munching a PowerBar and talking on a cell phone. When Suzanne mouthed “Boots Wagner” to him, he nodded, hooked a thumb, and pointed to the doorway.

  Suzanne drifted past displays of knee braces, yoga mats, and weight belts as she stepped into a large, well-equipped, but mostly empty gym. Two men were huffing like mad on rowing machines, looking like prisoners on a Roman slave galley, going nowhere fast. Wagner was kneeling next to a machine, tinkering with some kind of cog. When Wagner finally looked up and spotted her, he raised a hand and stood up.

  As he strode toward her in his tight T-shirt and gray gym shorts, Suzanne decided he looked like a Marine Corps drill sergeant straight out of central casting. All muscle and sinew and silver brush-cut hair.

  “Have you come to join up?” Wagner asked her.

  “Thinking about it,” said Suzanne. The words popped out of her mouth before she could give them careful consideration. She hadn’t been thinking about joining until she stepped inside his gym. Now the idea of working out, of pumping a little iron, suddenly appealed to her. It would be one way to hopefully lift her derriere and keep her arms from developing little underarm pudding sacks, which was the term Petra used for hers.

  “Well, good,” said Wagner, giving her a broad smile.

  “But what I’m after right now,” said Suzanne, “is a little information about Lester Drummond.”

  Wagner’s smile slipped a few notches. “Why
is that? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Suzanne had figured he’d question her motives, so she gave him what she thought was a logical, straightforward answer. “Because I’m the one who found Drummond in that grave. Early Thursday morning when Toni and I were delivering flowers to the cemetery.”

  Wagner looked surprised. “I didn’t know that. That must have come as a real shock to you, huh?” He looked both curious and profoundly sad.

  “It wasn’t the best way to start the day,” said Suzanne. She looked past him at shiny Nautilus and Cybex machines, several StairMasters, a huge free-weight setup, and a number of bright blue punching bags that dangled from chains in the ceiling. “So,” she said, “Drummond worked out a lot, huh?”

  “I’d have to say he was one of my best customers,” said Wagner.

  “What kind of workouts did he do?” Suzanne hoped her questions seemed more like basic curiosity.

  “Mostly with the free weights, although Drummond liked doing crunches on the Nautilus and leg work on the Cybex machines.”

  “I heard he was a jogger, too.”

  “Now that was unusual,” said Wagner. He picked up a bright blue ten-pound barbell and idly did a few curls. “Usually hard-core body builders don’t bike or run. Truth is, they get so muscle-bound they lose a lot of their flexibility. But once or twice a week Drummond did a little jogging, just to stay loose.”

  “I understand he might have had a bad heart,” said Suzanne.

  “Is that what your doctor friend thinks?”

  Suzanne smiled. He’d obviously seen her picking up Sam at the clinic next door. And more than a few times. “It’s one theory.”

  Wagner’s gaze suddenly wavered and he fell silent for a few moments.

  “What?” said Suzanne.

  Wagner just shook his head. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of school.”

  “But if it’s something that might lead to solving a crime and, um, explain how Drummond died . . .” said Suzanne.

  “This is on the down low?” said Wagner. He stopped doing curls and moved a step closer to her.