Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  “Come on,” said Sam. “This is me you’re talking to.”

  “Okay,” she said, unable to resist a grin. “So we grabbed the note and read it.”

  “And?”

  “The contents were short but sweet. All it said was ‘And he slipped sadly away.’”

  “Poetic. But what’s it supposed to mean?”

  “No idea,” said Suzanne. “But it was signed with the initial G.”

  “Gee,” said Sam.

  “Then, just as I was poised for a clean getaway, Toni wanted to visit the new meditation garden.”

  “Toni being so totally chill and Zen.”

  “Right. Anyway, we walked a little too far and a crazy redneck straight out of Deliverance, complete with camo gear and shotgun, threatened bodily harm to us if we didn’t get off his land.”

  “What!”

  “What part didn’t you understand?” said Suzanne.

  “Deliverance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shotgun?”

  “I’m guessing it was a 12-gauge,” said Suzanne.

  “Woof,” said Sam, furrowing his brow. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Suzanne aimed a finger at him. “Exactly my take. Thank you, Dr. Hazelet.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “I’m guessing it was a guy by the name of Karl Studer. Apparently his property borders Memorial Cemetery.” She debated telling Sam about Dale Huffington’s take on Studer, that the man hated Drummond with a passion. Then she decided that might complicate the story. Or her own investigation.

  “Are you going to tell Sheriff Doogie about all this?” said Sam.

  “Which part of my sad tale do you think I should lay on him?”

  “All of it!” said Sam. “Your entire evening sounds a little off-kilter.”

  “My world and welcome to it,” she said.

  “Suzanne,” Sam said, assuming his clinical, no-nonsense, doctor’s voice now. “I want you to sit down with Sheriff Doogie and tell him exactly what you just told me. And give him the note—you still have it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Let Doogie sort it all out. That’s his job. Yours is to go on living.”

  “You think?”

  “I know,” said Sam.

  Suzanne pulled her feet up and snuggled closer to him, feeling his warmth and inhaling his scent. She felt a tad bit guilty that she hadn’t told Sam about the information Dale had passed on to her. That Studer hated Drummond. She shook her head. But telling Sam might complicate things. To the point where he wouldn’t want her involved at all. “Now. What was your news?” she asked him after a few more moments of snuggling.

  “It concerns the autopsy that was done today.”

  Suzanne un-snuggled in a jiffy and carefully swung her feet back on the floor. “Oh.” She decided she needed to have her feet planted on solid ground for this.

  “You have to swear not to breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you. I mean, you can’t tell another soul.”

  “How about if I swear an oath on one of my Alice Waters cookbooks?”

  “This is serious.” Sam cleared his throat. “As you know, the visiting medical examiner, Dr. Merle Gordon, began Drummond’s autopsy today at the hospital.”

  “Were you there? Was it awful?”

  “Yes and no,” said Sam. “Realize, please, that I had no real interest in being a part of it. But once Dr. Gordon came up with a few preliminary findings, Sheriff Doogie called me in and requested that I be a witness. In case he needs a second opinion when this case goes to court.”

  “Dear Lord,” said Suzanne. This sounded serious. “What on earth did your Dr. Gordon discover?”

  “Bear with me,” said Sam. “Because some of this is fairly technical.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what a petechial hemorrhage is?” asked Sam.

  “Not exactly. Should I?”

  “No reason you should know. But here’s the thing. They’re small blood leaks that Dr. Gordon found behind the victim’s eyes.”

  “Meaning Drummond got smacked in the eye, too?”

  “Not exactly,” said Sam. “Petechial hemorrhages are often present when someone has been a victim of hanging or suffocation.”

  Suzanne gave him a sharp look. “You just told me last night that Drummond might have gone into cardiac arrest from some kind of intracranial pressure. Now you’re saying he was . . . what? Tasered and then strangled? Were there bruises around his neck? Was he beaten?”

  “No, absolutely not,” said Sam. “There’s no indication of strangulation at all. No skull fracture, no vestiges of bruising, no sign of ligature marks. In fact, Drummond’s hyoid bone, the bone directly at his neck, was quite intact.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Suzanne. “So Drummond wasn’t strangled? Then how did he get those . . .” She fluttered a hand in front of her eyes. “Those eye hemorrhage things?”

  “Best guess? He could have been smothered.”

  “You mean like a pillow jammed over his face or something?”

  “Or something,” said Sam. “If Drummond was seriously incapacitated by a high number of Taser bursts, he would have been at his attacker’s mercy.”

  “So first Drummond was Tasered like crazy,” said Suzanne, not quite believing they were talking about this so matter-of-factly. “And then when he collapsed, someone smothered him?”

  “It’s pointing in that direction,” said Sam.

  “Wow,” said Suzanne as she digested this new information. “Didn’t this just turn into a murder and a half!”

  He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Sorry. I know it’s late at night and this is all quite unsettling. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.”

  Suzanne had to agree. For the last two nights her dreams had been haunted by visions of cemeteries and open graves, of earthen holes and bleached white bones.

  “Then let’s change the subject,” she said.

  “To trout fishing,” said Sam suddenly. Which made Suzanne giggle. “No, seriously,” he said. “I read that book you gave me, cover to cover. And I’ve been practicing my casting techniques.”

  “You’re telling me, right here and now, that you want to go trout fishing,” said Suzanne.

  Trout fishing was a sport she’d shared with Walter. But when she’d mentioned trout fishing to Sam in passing one day, he’d jumped at it. And now he seemed intent on venturing out and hooking himself a brook trout or two.

  “There’s supposed to be a mayfly hatch in a few days,” said Sam. “That’s according to Burt Finch at the Sports Shack.”

  “Do you even know what a mayfly looks like?” asked Suzanne.

  “No, but I’m very perceptive,” said Sam. “If I can find one in a book, I’m sure I can spot one in the outdoors.”

  “Well . . . okay. We’ll go next week. I’ll dig out my waders.”

  Sam pulled her closer and gently kissed her neck. “Do I know how to set the hook or what?”

  “Oh yes, you do, Dr. Hazelet. You most certainly do.”

  CHAPTER 13

  PETRA stuck her hands on her broad hips and pulled her normally placid face into a frown as she stood squarely in the middle of the kitchen and surveyed the grocery-strewn countertops. “Do you think we ordered enough bread?” she asked. But before Suzanne or Toni could muster an answer, she said, “That’s it. We didn’t order enough bread. We’re going to be short.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Suzanne. “Bill Probst delivered twelve fresh loaves yesterday. That should be enough to feed six teams of hungry Little League baseball players, never mind a women’s tea group.”

  It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning at the Cackleberry Club as the three friends fussed about the kitchen, getting ready for the tea party. It should h
ave been a snap with their preplanned menu of scones, tea sandwiches, quiche, and cake. But these days, everything seemed fraught with worry and second-guessing. Things that should be straightforward and simple seemed . . . not simple at all.

  “I see egg twist, sourdough, rye, and honey wheat bread,” said Petra, scanning a pile of loaves. “But no cinnamon bread. I need that for my chicken spread. The spice always adds an extra punch.”

  “That bread’s probably still in the cooler,” said Toni as she juggled a stack of dessert plates. “Want me to go look?”

  “I’ll do it,” offered Kit. Per their request, Kit Kaslik had shown up to help set tables, prep food, serve, and do whatever was needed to help the day run smoothly.

  “Thank you, Kit,” said Petra. “I’m glad someone’s on their toes.”

  “You’re nervous as a dog at a flea market,” Toni said to Petra. “What’s the problem, lady? Usually you’re all cool and collected and I’m the one who’s stressing.”

  “I don’t know,” said Petra. “I’m just upset about . . . things.”

  “What things?” Suzanne asked, her eyes squinting at her dear friend. She and Toni hadn’t told Petra about their shadowy cemetery encounter last night, so that certainly couldn’t be what was eating her.

  “For one thing,” said Petra, hesitating, “I got a phone call about ten minutes ago . . .”

  “Go on,” said Suzanne, her antennae suddenly perking up.

  “It was Missy.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. Now the story was going to spill out.

  “And she said she wasn’t coming to the tea,” said Petra.

  Suzanne gave Petra a quizzical look. “What? Wait a minute . . . Why isn’t Missy coming? Last time I talked to her, she was looking forward to the tea.”

  Petra’s face turned downward in a glum look. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Missy said that wherever she goes, people give her funny looks. Suspicious looks. She said things have been really tough for her.”

  “You’re telling me the entire town knows that Sheriff Doogie is talking to Missy?” Suzanne couldn’t quite believe that.

  Petra hefted her serrated bread knife and began shearing off crusts from an unsliced loaf of bread, the teeth of the knife making clear, straight cuts. “I guess that’s about the size of it.”

  “But how did people find out about it?” Suzanne wondered. “I know it wasn’t Doogie. He’s trying to keep things under wraps.”

  “How much you want to bet it was George Draper?” said Toni. “Doogie probably mentioned it to him—and you know how George loves to talk. He’s the Chatty Cathy of the funeral industry! Pull the string in the back of his sedate black undertaker’s suit and he drones on about death being so peaceful then immediately segues into all the hot town gossip. It’s almost like he’s got a split personality.”

  “That snarky little crepe hanger!” said Suzanne bluntly. She thought about how, only a few months ago, Draper had been romantically linked to Claudia Busacker, the wife of the former bank president. And how the snooty, snotty Claudia had quietly skipped town to avoid getting caught in a scandal. Talk about serious gossip!

  “Anyway,” said Petra, slicing away mechanically, “Missy told me she feels like persona non grata.”

  “Not around here, she shouldn’t,” said Suzanne. “She knows I’m sticking up for her.”

  “Ditto that,” said Toni.

  “I found your cinnamon bread,” said Kit.

  “One mystery solved,” said Toni, snapping her fingers.

  Kit dropped two loaves onto the butcher-block counter and suddenly slumped forward.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Suzanne asked, alarmed. She stretched out an arm to support Kit and decided the poor girl was looking a little green around the gills. A thin sheen of sweat dampened her forehead.

  Kit folded an arm across her stomach, looking nervous and slightly chagrined. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “I can’t quite believe it myself . . .”

  “What?” said Petra, looking concerned. “If you think you might be coming down with something . . .”

  “I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean,” said Kit. “I’m not contagious.”

  “Then what?” asked Suzanne. She reached over to the sink and turned on the cold water so she could fix Kit a cold compress.

  “I might be pregnant!” Kit blurted out.

  Suzanne turned off the water and gazed at Kit. “You think you might be pregnant or you really are?”

  “Well,” said Kit, swallowing hard and wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “I used one of those home pregnancy tests yesterday and the result was positive. I saw a little blue arrow.”

  “Then you probably are,” said Suzanne. “Those things are pretty accurate.” Oops.

  But Toni had a completely different take on Kit’s rather dramatic announcement. “Wow!” she said, letting out a raucous whoop. “That’s super! So who’s the lucky baby daddy? Is it . . . ?” She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, cowed by withering looks from Suzanne and Petra.

  “Sorry,” Toni murmured quickly. “I shouldn’t have . . . um, presumed.”

  “It’s okay,” said Kit.

  “Is it really?” said Petra, who was coming from a slightly different position. She was deeply religious and believed in the sanctity of marriage before starting a family.

  Kit managed a weak smile. “Everything’s going to be fine because I’m actually engaged to be engaged.” At that, she held out her left hand and waggled her fingers. An oversized silver ring with a black stone and wad of tape wrapped around its shank bobbled on her ring finger. “See? Ricky gave me his class ring to wear as a promise ring.”

  “Ricky Wilcox?” said Toni. “He’s a good kid.”

  “Does a class ring really count?” asked Petra. She sounded less than thrilled.

  “Sure it does!” said Toni. “It means Kit is engaged to be engaged. That she won’t be an unwed mother.”

  “I’m not sure anyone uses that term anymore,” said Suzanne.

  “How about baby momma?” said Toni. “You hear that a lot on Jerry Springer.”

  “Well, there’s a chance I might not be married before the baby comes anyway,” said Kit. “Since Ricky’s National Guard unit was just called up.”

  “Oh no,” Suzanne said with dismay. “Oh, Kit!”

  Now Kit looked a little less sure of the situation herself. “I think Ricky might get sent to Afghanistan.”

  “Can’t you guys get married right away?” asked Toni. “Book a church and have a . . . What’s the expression I’m looking for?”

  “Shotgun wedding,” said Petra.

  “A quickie wedding,” said Toni. “A speedy one. You know . . .”

  “I suppose we could,” said Kit.

  “Or better yet,” suggested Toni, “you could dash off to Las Vegas and get hitched at the Elvis Wedding Chapel, like Junior and I did. You could get married by the King of Rock and Roll himself—or, rather, one of his handsome look-alikes.”

  “And we all know how well your marriage turned out,” said Petra.

  “Yeah—but I’m still all shook up about it!” finished Toni.

  * * *

  KIT pulled it together then, as they all did. And, at precisely quarter to twelve, Havis Newton, the director of the Historical Society, waltzed through the front door. She wore a black-and-white houndstooth jacket over a black skirt, her hair was perfectly wound on top of her head, and she tottered on high heels. Instead of her usual denim skirt and nubby sweater, she’d dressed to the nines in honor of the tea party.

  “Havis,” said Suzanne warmly, going over to greet her. “Everything’s just about ready.” She took a step back so Havis could feast her eyes on the new, improved Cackleberry Club.

  “Oh my gosh,” said Havis as her eyes roved about the c
afé. “What’d you do? The place is absolutely gorgeous. It looks just like a proper tea shop!”

  Suzanne smiled. Yes it does, she thought to herself. With white linen tablecloths draped over the tables, crisp silk bows tied onto the chair backs, and huge bouquets of colorful spring flowers on every table, it looked as if a wonderful English tearoom had been magically transported from the Cotswolds of England to right here in comfortable Kindred.

  Havis took a step closer. “The glassware, the china . . . everything is sparkling!” She sounded thrilled.

  Suzanne had selected their best china, polished the silver to a high luster, and put out their nicest cups and saucers. Then she’d added cream pitchers, sugar bowls, and glass tea warmers with small flickering votive candles. So, yes, the tables looked highly inviting and even—dare she say it?—a touch glamorous.

  Toni came flying through the swinging door, saw the wonderment on Havis’s face, and said, “Oh, you like what we’ve done?”

  “I like it very much,” said Havis. “You ladies have created a beautiful setting for our tea.”

  “Wait until you get a load of the food,” said Toni. “Petra’s really knocked herself out.”

  “If you don’t mind . . .” Havis dug a hand into her tote bag. “I brought along some place cards. Is it okay . . . May I go ahead and arrange them?”

  “You can do anything you want,” said Suzanne. She liked the notion of having place cards at each setting. And Havis obviously wanted to ensure that friends sat with friends, and that potentially shy and uncertain newcomers were tucked happily next to chatty, welcoming volunteers who could share everything they knew about the society and today’s tea.

  As Havis consulted her seating chart, she slowly picked her way around the tables, precisely arranging place cards. When she was done, she glanced across the room and gave a self-satisfied nod. Along with the cemetery’s Sesquicentennial Celebration, this was one of the first major events she’d organized as the society’s new leader, and she was pleased at how well Suzanne and her Cackleberry Club partners had brought her wishes to fruition.