“That’s a private business issue,” Carmen snapped. “One that’s not up for discussion. So kindly keep your nose out of it!”
“Missy’s my friend,” Suzanne continued, undaunted. “And I take umbrage that she’s been treated so badly.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake!” hissed Carmen. “I can’t have a woman who’s a murder suspect managing my boutique. That would be utterly ridiculous! It would drive customers away and damage my reputation!”
At that Suzanne practically lost it. “But you can sashay in here with Deanna Drummond on your arm!”
“She’s not a murder suspect!” cried Carmen.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Suzanne.
Carmen stood stock-still now, practically quivering with anger. “Why is it you constantly pick at me, Suzanne? Why does every conversation we have always end in an argument?”
That stopped Suzanne in her tracks. Carmen was right. They did argue constantly. And she wasn’t proud of that fact. She wasn’t really a hectoring, lecturing person—not really. It was only when she was around Carmen that she seemed to fly off the handle. Carmen just . . . pushed her buttons.
“Truce,” said Suzanne. “Détente, okay?”
Carmen continued to glare at her. “On the artwork, yes. But when it comes to Missy, absolutely not.”
Still feeling the need to make her point, Suzanne dialed back her anger and forced herself to speak in a pleasant, almost conciliatory tone. “You know as well as I do, Carmen, that Missy’s not a killer. She’s a sweet and decent human being who’s somehow caught up in trouble she had nothing to do with.” Maybe she had to deal with Carmen the same way one would handle an aggressive dog. Show no fear, don’t back down, remain perfectly calm.
Carmen bristled. “I really don’t know that.”
“Sure, you do,” said Suzanne, trying to get Carmen to see her point. “If you look deep into your heart you’ll realize what a good person Missy is. How loyal she’s been to you and your boutique. How hard she’s worked for you. And you’ll see that you acted impetuously. Probably out of fear and worry—and I certainly understand that. But, Carmen, you did the wrong thing. Missy didn’t deserve to be fired from your shop.”
Instead of getting angry, Carmen fixed Suzanne with a nasty smile. “Typical Suzanne,” she almost spit out. “Always pleading the case of the underdog.”
“Well, somebody has to!” Suzanne snapped back.
* * *
CARMEN slipped out of the Book Nook in a huff, just as a few women came spilling in. One of them was Carla Reiker.
“Whoa,” Reiker said bluntly to Suzanne as her eyes darted around the room. “Are you okay? I don’t know what just happened here, but it looked like you and that author lady were close to a knock-down, drag-out fight.”
Suzanne waved it off. “I shouldn’t let her get under my skin like that.”
Reiker grinned. “See, you really do need a self-defense class.”
“Carmen’s just . . .” Suzanne drew a shaky breath. “A basket full of crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” Reiker was saying. “Whenever Queen Carmen comes to the gym, she expects someone to go ahead of her and wipe down all the handles and seats on the machines before she climbs on. I think she’s deathly afraid of someone else’s sweat!”
“Aren’t we all?” said Suzanne, which somehow made them both giggle.
“So,” said Reiker, “I understand you’ve been asking about Lester Drummond.”
Suzanne looked at her. “Did Boots Wagner tell you that?”
“Not in so many words, but I heard via the local gossipmongers that you’re following the case pretty closely.”
“Just trying to clear my friend,” said Suzanne.
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Reiker. “I know Missy and I think she’s a great girl.”
“You spend a lot of time at the gym,” said Suzanne. “Did you ever have any nasty run-ins with Lester Drummond? I’m curious.”
“Not me, personally,” said Reiker. “But I know that a lot of our members did. In fact, truth be known and all cards on the table—I wouldn’t have blamed Wagner for wanting Drummond gone permanently. The man caused so many problems.”
“When I talked to him, Wagner was fairly closemouthed about Drummond,” said Suzanne.
“Aw, that’s just because Boots is a good guy,” put in Reiker. “He’s got kind of a Marine code of ethics. Loyalty and Semper Fi and all that. But, really, he pretty much despised Drummond.” She turned and smiled as Toni walked in, dangling a white bakery bag in one hand. “Please tell me that’s for me.”
“I snuck away with the last four blueberry scones for you,” said Toni. “But do not tell a soul!”
“Bless you,” said Reiker. “I rarely eat carbs, but for these little puffs of goodness I’ll make a huge exception. Even though I’ll have to do a gazillion crunches to make up for it.”
Toni nudged Suzanne’s arm. “Did you ask her about Lester Drummond?”
Reiker answered for Suzanne. “She did. And my personal take on Lester Drummond is that he was a major pain in the butt for everyone at the gym.”
“I think everyone in town felt the same way,” said Toni. “He wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.” She glanced at Suzanne. “Have you heard any word on the autopsy yet?”
“Not really,” said Suzanne, wishing Toni hadn’t brought it up out of the blue like that.
“We’re lucky,” said Toni, giving a slow wink. “Suzanne has a direct pipeline to all the hot news.”
As Suzanne’s stomach did a little somersault, Reiker said, “Oh, you mean from Dr. Hazelet? I suppose he would be involved in this.”
“In the autopsy,” Toni said in hushed tones, drawing out the word again, making it sound alien and threatening, “They’re running all sorts of special tests to help determine who killed Drummond!”
“Well . . . that’s good,” said Reiker, looking a little taken aback at Toni’s dramatics and hyperbole.
But Suzanne wasn’t about to set the record straight concerning Sam deferring to a visiting ME. It was bad enough that Drummond’s autopsy was even being discussed at what had been a perfectly lovely tea party.
Toni still wasn’t finished. “You know they actually take teeny little slices of a person’s liver, kidney, and brain and look at them under a microscope?”
“You must be a huge fan of CSI,” said Reiker, looking a little askance.
“Nah,” said Toni. “I think I saw that on an old episode of Quincy.”
* * *
“HOW awful is it out there?” asked Petra. The tea was officially over and all the guests had departed in a sugar-induced, carbo-zonked haze. Suzanne, Toni, and Kit had gathered in the kitchen, picking at what was left of the sandwiches and cake. “Is the café pretty messy?” Petra asked again. She was a neat freak with a touch of OCD. She liked things to be clean, organized, and in good repair.
Playing to Petra’s insecurities now, Toni gave a huge grimace. “Do you remember those old films of Woodstock? When the concert was over and everyone had cleared out and there was so much trash and garbage left it looked like a neutron bomb had exploded?”
“Oh no,” said Petra. “It can’t be that bad.”
“I think it’s worse,” said Toni.
“It’s not that bad,” said Kit.
“In that case,” said Toni, “you can give me a hand with the cleanup.”
“But only if she feels okay,” said Petra. “Kit, do you feel okay—are you better now?”
“I’m fine,” said Kit. “That piece of quiche you gave me kind of settled things down.”
“Eggs have a way of doing that,” agreed Petra. “They’re kind of a magic elixir.”
“So what’s our plan of attack?” asked Toni.
“Petra stays in the kitchen to tidy up her domain,” said Su
zanne. “And the three of us tackle the café. We’ll bus dirty dishes, gather up tablecloths, put away candles and stuff, and handle whatever else needs doing.”
“Got it,” said Toni, pushing open the door. “Come on, Kit Kat.”
“What are we going to do about that poor girl?” asked Petra once she and Suzanne were alone in the kitchen.
“You mean Kit?”
“Yes. Who else?”
“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. She stood up just as the wall phone shrilled. “Maybe . . . throw her a baby shower?” She grabbed the receiver off the hook and said, “Hello?”
“Suzanne.”
“Sam!” she said, recognizing his voice and suddenly feeling badly that she hadn’t thought about him all day. Well, since they kissed each other good-bye this morning, anyway.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m going to be hung up at the hospital for a while.”
“Okay,” she said. They had planned to go out for a burger tonight, but she understood. The life of a doctor could be—interesting.
“I’ll probably be stuck here until around nine. Can I call you later?”
“Of course,” she said. “No problem.” She hesitated. “Is everything all right?”
“Um,” said Sam. “I promise I’ll call you later.”
* * *
“SUZANNE,” said Toni. She jabbed a broom under one of the tables in the café, trying to snag a few errant crumbs. “I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that?” asked Suzanne. She was at the counter, stacking teapots into a gray plastic tub.
“Come along with me to the race tonight,” said Toni.
Suzanne turned, a blank look on her face. “What race?” She wondered if there was something she’d missed. Maybe a 10K for the Sesquicentennial?
Toni wrinkled her nose. “You know . . . with Junior? The demolition derby over at Golden Springs Speedway?”
“He’s really racing tonight? Oh dear.”
“Tell me about it,” Toni said in a small voice.
“Why exactly do you want me to come along?” Suzanne decided that Toni either wanted her to mumble prayers for Junior’s safety—or try to talk him out of racing.
Toni shrugged. “Let’s just call it moral support.”
“Won’t Junior think it’s weird if I tag along?” And mumble prayers? Or try to talk him out of racing?
“Aw, he’ll be thrilled. We’ll give you a trucker cap and tell him you’re part of the pit crew.”
“Does Junior have a pit crew?” asked Suzanne.
“You’re lookin’ at her.”
Kit, who’d been listening to their exchange, said, “You really should go, Suzanne. Those races are a lot of fun.”
“You think?” said Suzanne. But deep down she knew it would be a horrible experience. Cars buzzing around a track like angry hornets, rollovers, crashes, sirens and red lights . . . injuries.
“Come on, Suzanne,” said Toni. “Do you really have something better to do?”
Sensing Toni was in desperate need of company, Suzanne gave in and said, “Okay, if you absolutely insist.” But deep down she was really thinking, Yes, I have something better to do. A lot of things would be better. Like reading a book, watching TV, maybe even scrubbing the kitchen floor!
* * *
FORTY minutes later, the café was sufficiently restored to its normal state of readiness and Kit was sent on her way home. As Petra and Toni poked around in the Knitting Nest, marveling over a new shipment of alpaca yarn, Suzanne worked in the kitchen, wrapping up leftover tea sandwiches and carrot cake to take home with her.
Maybe, she decided, she could bring some of the food with her to the demolition derby tonight. Then she wondered if a pit—is that what you really called it?—was really the idyllic spot for a picnic.
A tap, tap, tap on the back door brought Suzanne out of her reverie.
Who’s there? she wondered. Then she scrambled to the back door and peered through the screen at a shadowy, looming figure.
Which turned out to be none other than Sheriff Doogie.
“What’s up?” Suzanne asked him, as she opened the door and let him in. Had something happened? Had he been at the autopsy and learned something new and important?
“I’ve got a heads-up for you,” said Doogie, mincing no words. His gray eyes bounced around the kitchen, studiously avoiding hers. His mouth was pulled into a tight line.
“What’s going on?” Suzanne asked suddenly.
Was there big news? While tea kettles hissed and burbled at the Cackleberry Club, had Doogie finally nabbed the killer? Was this nightmare finally over? But no, if that’s what had happened, wouldn’t there be a look of supreme relief on his face? Wouldn’t he’d be acting a lot more cocky than he was right now?
“I’m only doing this because we’re friends,” said Doogie. “And because the two of you are friends.”
A warning bell sounded loud and clear in Suzanne’s head. “What are you talking about?”
Doogie rubbed a meaty hand over his mouth, then focused sad eyes upon her. “We found a Taser stashed in Missy’s apartment.”
His words hit Suzanne like the proverbial ton of bricks. Her mind reeled with disbelief, as if the world had seriously tilted on its axis. Then, in a voice filled with gravel, she choked out, “What?”
CHAPTER 15
“DON’T make me say it again, Suzanne. It was hard enough getting it out the first time.”
“Doogie, no!” Suzanne cried. “I don’t believe it!” She stared at Doogie’s mottled face and suddenly realized that he looked as lousy as he probably felt.
“Believe it,” he said. “It was there. Top drawer of her dresser. Saw it with my own two eyes.”
“What were you doing prowling around Missy’s apartment?” Suzanne demanded. “In her dresser, for goodness’ sake! Isn’t that a little—I don’t know—beyond protocol? A little too personal?”
“Not prowling, searching,” Doogie corrected. “And it was all carried out exactly by the book. We had a search warrant signed by Judge Carlson. Had everything all sewed up just like we were supposed to.”
“Why on earth did you go to a judge for a search warrant?”
“Because we had probable cause,” said Doogie, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Suzanne wasn’t buying it. “You had nothing of the sort!”
“Yes, we did,” said Doogie, trying to keep his voice level. “We have two other witnesses, besides you and Toni, who swear on a stack of Bibles that they saw Missy driving out of that cemetery Thursday morning. You all placed her there without question. So that was good enough for me and a few other people.”
“Who are the other witnesses?”
Doogie shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m really not at liberty to get into specifics . . .”
“Come on, Doogie,” said Suzanne. “That’s a bunch of hooey and you know it. If you drove all the way over here to tell me about finding the Taser, then you can sure as heck reveal who your witnesses are.”
“I suppose,” said Doogie slowly. It was clear he wasn’t happy with the way this conversation was going. “One of them is Mrs. Haberle. And the other is Allan Sharp.”
“Mrs. Haberle!” Suzanne blurted out. “The woman is eighty-four years old, wears glasses with Coke-bottle lenses, and is hardly the poster child for most reliable witness.” She could feel the outrage bubbling inside her now. And it was about to pop and ooze all over the place.
“Still,” said Doogie, “Mrs. Haberle was working in her tomato patch and she recognized Missy’s car.”
“Excuse me, but Mrs. Haberle wouldn’t recognize a VW Bug from a Rolls-Royce Phantom,” said Suzanne, really steamed. “And how did Mrs. Haberle come to be a witness in the first place, pray tell? This I’d really like to hear.”
“Bec
ause of smart and solid investigative techniques.”
“Meaning?”
Doogie studied his boots. “I sent all my deputies out to question the folks who live along Monarch Road.”
“And just how was Allan Sharp’s keen observation called into question?” Suzanne asked.
“Turns out the man was right there when it all went down.”
“Isn’t that convenient,” Suzanne snapped.
Doogie held up his hands. “It was all aboveboard. Allan Sharp and Mayor Mobley were out scouting a plot of land near the Sunnyside Daycare Center. Apparently, Sharp has big plans to develop that area. He’s gonna put up some more of his ticky-tacky town houses, I guess.”
“And Sharp just happened to see Missy drive by,” said Suzanne.
“Yup. He swears he saw Missy drive by that morning, and Mobley backs him up.”
“That’s not backing someone up, that’s collusion!” exclaimed Suzanne. “You know what a dirty dealer Mayor Mobley is—and Sharp isn’t any better. Shame on you for taking their word for it! For swallowing their story hook, line, and sinker!”
Doogie tried to muster a dollop of patience, but he seemed less and less sure of himself with each passing moment. “I don’t know why Allan Sharp would lie about something like this.”
“Sure you do,” said Suzanne. “Allan Sharp despised Lester Drummond. Sharp was one of the board members who voted to fire Drummond from the prison, remember?” She stopped and tried to pull her scattered thoughts together. “Doogie, listen to me, Toni and I ran into Allan Sharp last night at the cemetery walk. He was chortling like mad about Drummond. About what a dreadful person he was. On and on. For all you know, Sharp could be the killer!”
“That’s doubtful,” said Doogie. But he looked like he was ready to wobble.
“Come on, Doogie, you know for a fact that Allan Sharp and Mayor Mobley stuffed the ballot box last November to get Mobley reelected. If they’re not above that kind of shameless tactic, obviously they wouldn’t think twice about coercing you into getting a warrant!”
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 15
