Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  Suzanne nodded. “Of course.” Unless it’s something Sheriff Doogie needs to know.

  “Here’s the thing of it. You don’t gain that much muscle mass simply by working out. It doesn’t just happen that way, if you catch my drift.”

  Suzanne stared at him until the pieces suddenly clicked into place. “You think Drummond was taking drugs.” Her words came out in a slow, measured statement that surprised even her.

  Wagner shrugged. “Not that I ever saw any evidence of it. If I had, he’d have been out on his tail. Banned forever. We don’t tolerate that kind of thing here.”

  “But you saw his progress in developing his body,” said Suzanne.

  “Rapid progress,” said Wagner.

  “Weight training, exercise physiology, that’s what you do. That’s your expertise. So you had a fairly good idea that Drummond might have been taking performance-enhancing drugs.”

  Wagner spread his hands apart. “I’m just saying . . .”

  Suzanne thought for a minute. “This adds a new dimension to things. Would you be willing to share your theory, your suspicions, with Sheriff Doogie?”

  “Why?” asked Wagner. “Are you working with him or something?”

  “Are you kidding? Doogie probably thinks I’m working against him,” said Suzanne, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “No, but I have an ulterior motive. What I’m really trying to do is clear a friend of mine, Missy Langston.” When Wagner looked a little confused, she continued. “Missy was spotted at the cemetery right around the time we found Drummond. So, in Doogie’s mind, she’s become a kind of suspect.”

  Wagner’s brows pinched together. “That little girl? She’d be no match for a big guy like Lester Drummond. She couldn’t have done anything to him.” He paused. “She wouldn’t have . . .”

  “My point exactly,” said Suzanne. “So I’ve been asking around, trying to develop a different perspective on the investigation. Really, an amateur’s point of view.”

  “I see,” said Wagner. He reached up and scratched an ear. “I suppose I could talk to the sheriff. Tell him what I observed in Drummond’s case, though I don’t know it to be gospel truth.”

  “Still, it might be a great help,” said Suzanne.

  “Okay then,” said Wagner, as they walked slowly toward the door. “Tell the sheriff to drop by. I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you,” said Suzanne. “I appreciate your help.”

  “And I’d still love it if you’d think about joining,” said Wagner. “We’re not just a bodybuilding studio, you know. We’ve got plenty of classes for the ladies, too. Cardio Bounce, Tai Chi, Zumba . . .”

  They were standing in the outer office when the door burst open and a small, dark-haired woman came steaming toward them.

  “Oh, hey,” said Wagner. “Speaking of which . . . Here’s someone you should definitely meet. Suzanne Dietz, meet Carla Reiker.”

  “Hi,” said Suzanne.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Reiker, extending a hand. She was short and compact, with spiky black hair and warm brown eyes. She seemed bubbly, bordering on high-strung, and filled with boundless energy.

  “Carla teaches a number of our classes,” said Wagner.

  “Right. When I’m not teaching phys ed at the middle school over in Jessup,” said Reiker.

  “Carla is also going to be teaching a new self-defense course starting next week,” said Wagner.

  “Self-defense for women,” said Reiker, giving Suzanne a quick smile. “You ought to sign up. Our first class is this Monday. You look like you might enjoy it.”

  “The only workout I get these days is tossing hay bales and riding my horse,” said Suzanne.

  “There you go,” said Reiker. “Instead of tossing hay bales wouldn’t you like to learn how to toss an attacker to the ground?”

  “Actually, that sounds like fun,” said Suzanne.

  “It’s a blast,” said Reiker. “It’s physical as all get-out and you really feel pumped once you learn a few basic moves.”

  “And your class starts next week?”

  “Monday afternoon at five,” said Reiker, sensing more than just casual interest. “Tell you what . . .” She dug into her gym bag and pulled out a brochure. “Take one of my flyers. And if you decide to come, I promise you’ll learn some killer moves and have the time of your life.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE sun hadn’t bothered to peep out once all day long. And with an unsettled sky full of dark, low-hanging clouds, the night seemed to press down with ominous intensity.

  “This is gonna be fun, huh?” said Toni. She was riding shotgun, primed and ready for adventure, as Suzanne’s car crawled back up the road to Memorial Cemetery.

  “It’s a cemetery,” said Suzanne, shrugging. “A candlelight walk where a lot of dead people are buried. How much fun can it be?” They were both bundled in boots, jeans, and sweaters, in anticipation of the chilly evening.

  Toni glanced over at her. “You, my dear, are in a grouchy funk.”

  Suzanne decided she was being a grouch. Probably because Doogie was pressuring Missy so hard and it offended her sense of fair play.

  “Apologies,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Toni, reading Suzanne’s mood and mind. “It’s that we’re back in the cemetery. I know you think it’s all creepy and weird, and that the memory of finding Lester Drummond is still really fresh in our minds.”

  In a fresh grave, Suzanne thought to herself. “Yes, I suppose that’s it.” She left it at that.

  “But the good thing is we’re not alone tonight,” Toni pointed out, as they drove past dozens of parked cars. “It looks like lots of people have showed up for this candlelight walk.”

  “Peachy,” said Suzanne.

  “Petra’s been talking it up like it’s really going to be a big deal. Lots of history, a little bit of mystery.”

  Suzanne shook her head. “Sorry. I guess I’m still being a grouch.”

  “You sure are.”

  “So I hereby promise to kick my dumb mood and try to get into the spirit of things.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” said Toni.

  They bumped past graves, statuary, and little groves of trees, heading for the oldest part of the cemetery, pretty much exactly where they’d dropped the flowers two days ago. Close to where they’d found Drummond. Had it really only been two days, Suzanne wondered? It seemed like . . . forever.

  “Over there,” said Toni, pointing and swiveling in the passenger seat. “You can slide in right there. There’s an opening.”

  Suzanne angled her car between two cedar trees and shut off the motor. She sat with her hands clutching the steering wheel for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. I’ve got this.”

  Toni flung open the passenger door. “Whoa!” she cried. “Look at all the candles. And there are some of the guides, dressed in period costumes. Come on, Suzanne, shake a leg and let’s hit the trail!”

  Together, the two women crossed the damp grass and headed for the white tent that seemed to be command central tonight.

  But when they arrived at the check-in table, illuminated brightly by a bunch of portable lights borrowed from the City Works Department, they were in for a surprise.

  Cheryl Tanner, one of the volunteers who was dressed in a calico bonnet and long prairie skirt, said, “I’m really sorry, ladies, but we’re backed up like crazy right now. Every one of our guides has just left with a group in tow, so now there’s almost a forty-minute wait.”

  “Oh man,” said Suzanne. It was dark, getting chillier by the moment, and the hundreds of little candles strobing off nearby tombstones were making her feel jittery.

  “We have to wait?” said Toni, supremely disappointed.

  “We had no idea the candlelight walk would be so popular
,” Cheryl apologized.

  “Now what?” said Toni.

  “You could wait and hope one of one guides finishes early,” Cheryl told them. “Or you could take our self-guided tour.” She handed Toni a printed sheet. “Which is basically a map with all of the salient points marked off.”

  Toni held the paper at arm’s length and squinted, the better to read it. “It follows the same trail?”

  Cheryl and her bonnet nodded. “Oh, absolutely. And there are signs and markers everywhere to guide you and tell all the unique stories of the settlers who are buried here.”

  “What do you think?” Toni said, glancing at Suzanne. “Should we do the self-guided trail?”

  “Sure,” said Suzanne, shivering. “I’m game.”

  “Excellent,” said Cheryl, handing a sheet to Suzanne, too. “The first marker is right over there”—she pointed—“at the Settlers’ Monument.”

  Suzanne and Toni padded over to a six-foot-high obelisk that was surrounded by a low black wrought-iron fence. Just inside the fence, two dozen red pillar candles flickered and danced against the dark.

  “The Settlers’ Monument,” said Toni, reading from her sheet. “Huh. I guess nobody’s buried here per se. But they’re buried all around here in unmarked graves.” She scanned the rest of the notes in front of her. “Apparently, most of the people died from smallpox.”

  “There’s a happy thought,” said Suzanne.

  “Next marker,” said Toni. Some of the wind had gone out of her sails, too.

  They eased their way down a hillside slick with wet leaves, passing a guide and a large contingent of people who were following like ducklings, all of them huffing back up the hill.

  “The second marker,” said Toni. “General Josiah Seville, who was the commander at nearby Fort Sandstone.”

  “Is he buried here?” asked Suzanne.

  “Let me consult the old cheat sheet,” said Toni. “Yes, he is.” She glanced up at Suzanne. “This isn’t quite as fun as I thought it would be.”

  “You want to bail?” asked Suzanne. Please?

  “No, we said we were gonna do it, so we should do it,” answered Toni. “Besides, I don’t want to disappoint Petra. She was so gung ho when we told her we were going to do the candlelight walk.”

  “You were gung ho, too,” said Suzanne. Toni had burned with the unbridled enthusiasm of a cheerleader hyped on a double espresso.

  “Maybe things will pick up,” said Toni.

  “Maybe,” said Suzanne, as they turned and trudged their way to the next marker.

  But in the dark, with low-hanging tree branches and shrubbery all around, the next marker wasn’t so easy to find.

  “I thought it was over there,” said Toni, pointing. She stopped, scratched her head, and tried to peer through the thick darkness. “On the other hand, we might have taken a wrong turn.”

  “I think we came too far,” said Suzanne. “We should retrace our steps and . . .”

  “Looking for something, ladies?” came a loud male voice.

  Both Suzanne and Toni jumped as if an air horn had exploded behind them.

  “Jeez!” Toni yelped as she spun around. “You scared the bejeebers out of me!”

  Allan Sharp, Kindred’s local lawyer and right-hand man to Mayor Mobley, stepped out of the bushes. Tall and angular, Sharp had his greasy black hair slicked back from his receding hairline. Wearing a dark suit that seemed two sizes too big for him, Sharp’s stomach pouched out strangely, as if he’d just swallowed an entire rump roast. Suzanne always thought of him as a first-class weasel who favored gold neck chains and multiple rings on his spidery fingers.

  “Allan Sharp!” said Suzanne, feeling as cross as she sounded. “What are you doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing you’re doing,” said Sharp. He was tough, tenacious, and took no guff from anyone. There wasn’t much that unnerved him or caused him to back down.

  “We’re looking for the Pembley grave,” said Toni.

  “Back that-a-way,” said Sharp, jerking his chin to the left. “Right close to where you ladies found Lester Drummond the other day.”

  Suzanne’s head swiveled in shock. “How do you know about that?” she asked.

  Sharp gave her a look of superior amusement. “Everybody knows about that. Besides, not much goes on in this town that I don’t know about. You should know that by now.”

  “Who gave you a crown and scepter?” said Toni. But when Sharp angled his head and glared darkly at her, she took a step back, suddenly intimidated.

  Sharp now heaped all his attention back on Suzanne. “I even know that your little friend is Sheriff Doogie’s prime suspect.” He seemed to smile then, his teeth gleaming white and nasty in the darkness. “On the plus side, Drummond’s murder couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” said Suzanne, genuinely puzzled.

  Sharp’s answer was a harsh bark. “Because Lester Drummond was on a collision course with this town. One he wasn’t going to win.”

  “I don’t think anybody wins in a situation like this,” said Suzanne evenly. She recalled that Sharp had been one of the board members who’d helped oust Drummond from the prison. No wonder he sounds so gleeful. So why am I even talking to this guy? What am I, the jackass whisperer?

  Sharp looked like he was about to say something else, then thought better of it. Instead, he touched a finger to his forehead in a mock salute and said, “Good night, ladies. Happy cemetery walk.”

  “What a dirtbag,” muttered Toni under her breath once Sharp had moved on.

  “There’s no sense in even talking to the man,” said Suzanne. “Any conversation on his part is always cryptic and nasty. I think he honestly tries to intimidate. The best thing to do is just . . . ignore him.”

  Toni had her nose buried in the map again and said, “You were right, Suzanne. We have to do a little backtracking.”

  They did so and quickly located the next marker. Oddly enough, it was close to the site where they’d discovered Drummond’s body.

  “I’d call this a creepy coincidence,” said Toni. “It’s like we’re somehow back where we started.”

  “Please don’t say that,” said Suzanne.

  Toni took a few tentative steps and pointed. “See? The grave’s right over there.” There was an oval mound of fresh dirt that wasn’t quite level with the earth around it. She sucked in her breath and added, “At least they filled it in.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  Toni moved closer. “You think anybody’s down there?”

  Suzanne thought about the muddy Bobcat tractor she’d seen humping across the grass late Thursday afternoon. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s empty. Nobody home.”

  “Look at that,” said Toni. “Somebody even set a candle on top of the grave. But I guess the wind must have snuffed it out.” She glanced around. “Who would have done that? Do you think the mysterious ex–Mrs. Drummond was prowling around here?”

  “Maybe,” said Suzanne, though it didn’t feel right to her.

  “Still . . . it’s awfully strange,” said Toni.

  The more they talked about it, the jumpier Suzanne felt. “We should really keep moving.”

  But Toni seemed compulsively drawn to the gravesite. “Suzanne, come look at this,” she said in a low voice.

  “What?” Suzanne stepped closer to see what Toni was so jazzed about. That’s when she saw a creamy parchment envelope, a corner of it stuck into the dirt.

  “What is that?” Toni hissed.

  Suzanne blinked. “It looks like . . .”

  “Some kind of note?” said Toni.

  “Maybe it has something to do with the Sesquicentennial Celebration?”

  “No,” said Toni, “I don’t think so.” She looke
d around quickly. “I think we should take a peek at it. Do you see anybody? Anybody on the tour? Is anyone watching?”

  “Do you really think this is a good idea? It could be personal,” said Suzanne.

  But Toni’s hand had already snaked out and grabbed the envelope. Hastily stuffing it inside her jacket, she reached out and yanked Suzanne’s hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  When they arrived at the next marker, a large square mausoleum bathed in the light of a hundred tiny vigil lights, they opened the note.

  “I don’t think we should be doing this,” Suzanne whispered. “It feels awfully . . . intrusive.”

  Toni gazed at her. “Why are we whispering?”

  Suzanne let out a deep sigh. “Because that’s what people do when they’re in a cemetery at night poking their noses into somebody else’s business.”

  “Is that what we’re doing?”

  “Oh . . . just open it,” said Suzanne. Truth be told, even though she had a terrible case of the guilts, she was as eager as Toni to read the darned note.

  Toni tore open the envelope and scanned its contents. “Holy muckluck!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Here, take a look.”

  Suzanne grabbed the note. There was but a single sentence: And he slipped sadly away. It was signed with a single letter, a G. “Wow,” she breathed. “That’s weird.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Toni.

  “I mean, I wonder who . . . ?”

  “Who on earth is G?” said Toni. She thought for a minute. “Do you think it could be Greta Jones who works at the stationery store?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Suzanne. Greta Jones was seventy-five if she was a day. She doubted the septuagenarian would be cavorting with the likes of Lester Drummond, seeing as how she could barely heft a ream of paper.

  “Well, what about Grace Hammond?” said Toni.

  “She’s married,” said Suzanne.

  “Still,” said Toni, “she could have been having an affair.”

  “Doubtful,” said Suzanne. Grace and her husband, Stanley, raised standard poodles and seemed dedicated to each other as well as to their adorable dogs.