Doogie’s face turned red as a chili pepper.
Of course, they did, thought Suzanne. I can see it large as life on Doogie’s face.
“It’s out of my hands now,” said Doogie with some resignation. “We went in, did our search, and found a Taser.” Looking dejected, he turned and stepped back outside.
“So what are you going to do now?” Suzanne shouted out after him. “Arrest her?”
“We already did,” answered Doogie. “Missy’s being arraigned first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Then I’ll be there to post bail,” Suzanne snapped back.
“Be careful, Suzanne,” warned Doogie. “Be careful who you take sides with in this thing.”
But Suzanne had already taken sides. And slammed the door in his face.
* * *
THREE minutes into Suzanne’s recounting of events to Toni and Petra, the phone rang. Petra picked it up, listened closely for a couple of moments, then silently held out the receiver to Suzanne.
“Suzanne!” came Missy’s hollow, strangled voice. “I . . . I . . .”
That was all she managed to get out. The rest of her words were lost behind pitiful sobs.
“I know, I know,” Suzanne cooed into the phone. Even though she was angry and frustrated to the point where she wanted to let out a good long scream, she tried to hold it together for Missy. “Sheriff Doogie just stopped by and told me you’d been taken in.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “arrested.”
“I need your help!” wailed Missy. She sounded frantic and desperate. “I need to make bail tomorrow. I just have to. I know this is a lot to ask and all, but I’ve got to, Suzanne. Can you . . . Will you . . . ?”
“Of course,” Suzanne answered without hesitation. “You know I will. But, um, what do I do exactly? Who do I speak with?” She wasn’t sure how this whole process worked. She’d never posted bail for anyone before. In fact, she’d never even known anyone who’d been arrested. Except maybe Junior.
“They tell me there’s an arraignment tomorrow morning,” Missy stammered out. “So that’s when you have to post bail.”
“What about a lawyer?” said Suzanne. “Do you have one?”
“Yes,” said Missy. “I called Harry Jankovich over in Jessup. So he’ll be there, too. In fact, I can give you Harry’s phone number if you need it. He said it’d be okay if you called him at home. He’ll tell you how everything works.” She sniffled loudly.
“Good. Okay. I’ll give Harry a call. And I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“You promise?” Missy’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“You better believe it,” said Suzanne. She was dying to ask Missy why she had a Taser in her possession—she still couldn’t get over that fact. But she figured she’d let it go for now. One thing at a time. I’ll put one foot in front of the other and forge ahead step-by-step.
“Now what do we do?” Petra asked, once Suzanne had hung up the phone. Petra and Toni had remained at Suzanne’s side during the entire conversation with Missy.
“There’s nothing to do,” said Suzanne, “until I go to the Law Enforcement Center tomorrow morning.”
“It’s a good thing Missy didn’t come to the tea,” said Toni. “Imagine if Sheriff Doogie had come busting in on all those ladies like some kind of crazy storm trooper!”
“Don’t even think about that,” said Suzanne. “All we can do is try to stay positive.”
“And pray,” said Petra. “Ask the Good Lord for help.”
“Do you think He’ll hear us?” asked Toni.
Petra’s face softened. “Honey, the Lord hears us whenever we pray. That’s one thing in this world you never have to worry about.”
* * *
SUZANNE’S arms and legs felt leaden and her brain felt as soggy as a bowl of day-old oatmeal as she stumped to her car. Climbing in, she tossed her bag on the seat next to her, gripped the wheel, and gritted her teeth, trying to cut through the fog and kick her brain into overdrive. There had to be a reasonable explanation as to why Missy owned a Taser. There had to be! Most women didn’t have a nasty thing like that tucked in a dresser drawer next to their slip.
Even if Missy had bought the Taser for self-protection, wouldn’t she have dumped it right after Drummond’s death? Just in case something like this happened? Sure she would have. Of course, that supposition was based solely on the premise that Missy was innocent.
So, what if she wasn’t? What if she was guilty?
Suzanne didn’t want to contemplate that possibility. Her brain just didn’t want to go there. No, there had to be something else going on. A clever killer who had schemed to set Missy up? But who—and why?
Suzanne racked her brain for answers. Was there some critical clue that she or Doogie had missed? There had to be. She tried to concentrate, tried to think outside the box, but no brilliant thoughts appeared in a cartoon bubble above her head. No blinding flash lent any new insight into the murder. Not right now, anyway.
Feeling dazed and a little helpless, Suzanne put her car into gear. But instead of creeping around the Cackleberry Club and onto the main road, in a spur-of-the-moment decision she eased her way past the back shed and through the woodlot at the rear of her property. Then she bumped across the dirt road that led to the farmyard across the way.
It was really her farm, bought and paid for by her dear Walter as an investment of sorts. Now she was leasing it to a farmer named Reed Ducovny. He put the rich acreage to work by growing bumper crops of soybeans and Jubilee corn.
Suzanne topped a small hill and was rewarded with a panoramic view of a lovely faded red, hip-roof barn, three small outbuildings, and a white American Gothic farmhouse where Reed and his wife lived. No cattle, pigs, chickens, or dairy cows inhabited the old farmstead at the moment. Just her beloved horse, Mocha Gent, and a mule by the name of Grommet.
I might be busy with the Cackleberry Club—and now I’m smack dab in the middle of a murder mystery—but I’ll never, ever forget about these critters. They mean the world to me.
Thinking about Mocha and Grommet soothed her, helped her respiration slow down and her racing mind find some comfort.
Parking her car next to the barn, Suzanne stepped out of the car and glanced at the sky. A sultry haze hung over the fields as far as she could see, and the temperature had climbed into the low eighties. But the air carried an electrical feel, almost as if a big storm might be brewing to the south. Storm clouds hunkered over Kansas, trying to suck up moisture from the Gulf and spin it into something fierce. Or maybe, she decided, the rain would just move in harmlessly and give the fields a much-needed soaking.
Sliding open the barn door, Suzanne breathed in the rich mingled scents of fresh hay, oiled leather, and horses. She drifted past the long row of empty stanchions, heading for the back of the barn and the two large box stalls.
Mocha was the first one to hear her coming. He’d probably picked up her scent. Or perhaps he was a psychic horse. Either way, there was a low, welcoming nicker, then the echoing stomp of a hoof.
“Hey, guy,” Suzanne called to him, a smile spreading across her face. “Hey, Mocha boy.”
Mocha pushed his chest up against the gate and thrust his head out for Suzanne to pet. He was a stocky, blocky quarter horse, a reddish brown chestnut with large brown eyes and a crooked white blaze that splattered down the center of his Roman nose. He’d been with her for five years now and she loved him dearly.
Suzanne scratched behind Mocha’s ears, then ran her hand down his cheek, tracing down the side of his nose and ending up under his chin in a field of prickly stubble. In appreciation, Mocha gave a vigorous snort.
Grommet, the mule, pushed his head across his gate, too. He was shiny black and enormous, almost seventeen hands high. Bobbing his head, he thrust his huge ears forward, eager for her touch and attention. She’d bought him in a sheriff’
s auction a year ago and never regretted it.
“I was getting to you, boy,” said Suzanne, rubbing his nose just the way he liked. Suzanne didn’t ride Grommet: his gait was a little too slow and shambling, but he made a dandy roommate for Mocha. The two guys seemed to get along just fine as stable buddies, and Suzanne was grateful that Ducovny took such good care of his equine guests.
Popping the lid off a metal container, she grabbed a scoop of oats and fed it to Grommet. Mocha, worried he wouldn’t get his fair share, let loose a nervous whinny.
“Not to worry,” she told him. When Grommet was finished munching, she dipped the scoop back into the oats and fed some to Mocha. He chowed down noisily, chewing, drooling a little, all the while keeping a watchful eye on her. When he was finished, he nudged the scoop, trying to cadge a second serving.
“No, you don’t. In fact, in another week, you’re going to be spending a lot more time out in the pasture. Be good for you. You could stand to lose a couple of pounds.”
Mocha just stared at her, as if to say, Please. I’m perfect just the way I am.
“You do want to do some barrel racing this summer, don’t you?” Suzanne asked gently.
Mocha backed away.
“Ooh, you know exactly what I’m talking about! Well, buddy, you and I are going to start doing some serious workouts. I can promise you that.” Suzanne unbolted the gate and slipped inside Mocha’s stall. She threw her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his rough, tangled mane. Big horse, comforting horse, she thought to herself as she inhaled his pungent horsey scent. In a world gone a little bit crazy, it was pure joy to have a creature like this to love.
And know that he loved you back. No matter what.
* * *
BACK home some twenty minutes later, Suzanne felt calmer and more centered than before. Her little detour had worked wonders. And as she hummed about the bathroom, freshening up, she wondered what on earth one should wear to a demolition derby. Was there even “proper” attire?
Then she decided that whatever threads she threw on would work just fine. In this case a navy T-shirt, blue jeans, and short black leather boots.
Back downstairs, Suzanne fed Baxter and Scruff, let them romp around outside in the backyard for ten minutes, and bribed them with jerky treats to get them back inside. Their paws were mud-caked because of the previous day’s rain, so she got bowls of warm water then knelt down on the floor and sat back on her heels.
“I know this looks like I’m ready to do a Japanese tea ceremony,” she told Baxter, “but I really need to dip and scrub each of your paws. You, too, Scruffer.”
At eight o’clock, Suzanne turned off all the lights in the house and stood in the entryway, checking her wallet for money. Two twenties—that ought to do it. She glanced idly out the narrow window next to the front door and watched a car slide slowly up to the curb.
Is that Toni?
Peering out her front window into the dusk, Suzanne squinted to see who it might be. But it was so dark she couldn’t really tell. The car sat there, the engine rumbling, the lights turned off. Hesitating, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest, Suzanne watched the car idle at the curb. It sat there for another thirty seconds or so—then abruptly pulled away.
Well, Suzanne thought, it’s obviously not Toni. But who then? Was it a case of mistaken address? Or was the lone person sitting in that car somehow connected to all the craziness that’s been going on?
Or—gulp—could someone be stalking me? I know I shouldn’t be jumping to crazy-quick conclusions, but I can’t help it!
Feeling more than a little jittery now, Suzanne craned her neck to make sure the car had vanished down the street. Then she stepped gingerly outside to wait on her front steps, hoping Toni would hurry along soon.
She heard Toni’s car before she saw it—a rattling, shaking cacophony that sounded like a medieval instrument of torture. Then a horrible-looking cat-urine-yellow car pulled to the curb and shuddered to a stop. Suzanne turned around to her front door, locked it securely with her key, and skittered down to Toni’s car.
“This isn’t what you usually drive,” were Suzanne’s first words as she opened the creaky passenger door and clambered in.
“Ah, you know Junior,” said Toni, with a wave of her hand and a big smile, almost as big as the reddish blond clip-on hairpiece on top of her head. “He’s always stealing pieces and parts to make do.”
“And he jacked your car?”
“Just for a couple of days.”
“And this is what you get in trade?” said Suzanne, thinking Toni had gotten the raw end of the deal.
“Hey,” said Toni, “I’m just lucky this junker runs.”
“What is this thing, anyway?” Suzanne had a vague memory of this particular make of car being popular when she was in high school.
“An eighty-one Plymouth Fury.”
“Didn’t Detroit stop making these babies?” Suzanne asked.
“Yup. Hence its enormous appeal to Junior.”
“How many cars does Junior actually own?” asked Suzanne, fishing for the seat belt. This car was so ancient the seat belts were the old-fashioned kind that strapped across your lap.
“At least a dozen,” said Toni as they screeched away from the curb. “But I’m not sure Junior has a pink slip on every one.” She was struggling to find second gear and couldn’t seem to come up with it. The car grunted and groaned until Toni finally revved the engine and popped it into third gear.
“So this is like Frankencar,” said Suzanne. “Rebuilt with random pieces.”
“Good one,” Toni chuckled.
“What time does the race start?” Suzanne asked. “Or, rather, Junior’s demolition event?”
Toni grimaced. “I think Eve of Destruction starts around eight-thirty. But I got a call from Junior a little while ago telling me he might be a little late. He had a flat tire.”
“On his race car?” said Suzanne. She decided this might be a piece of good luck. A reprieve of sorts.
“Not on his car,” said Toni. “On his house.”
Suzanne’s head spun sideways so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you don’t know about that, do you?” Toni chuckled as she checked her rearview mirror. “Junior bought himself a used double-wide trailer a couple weeks back.”
“No kidding,” said Suzanne. “So that’s where he’s living?” She knew he wasn’t with Toni. Toni had kicked him out more than a year ago.
“You got it,” said Toni as they careened around a corner, a cloud of blue exhaust belching from the tailpipe, laying a smoke screen worthy of James Bond.
“So I guess that means that Junior’s the newest resident of the Essex Motor Park,” Suzanne mused. She tried to picture Junior fitting in there with the retired bridge and bowling folks. “Isn’t that place kind of ritzy for Junior? I hear they even have a swimming pool.”
Toni snorted. “Hah! Junior should be so lucky. No, his trailer’s parked illegally out on Revere Road. Just down from the town dump.”
“Well, that’s, um”—Suzanne searched for an appropriate word—“convenient.”
CHAPTER 16
TWENTY minutes later they pulled into the parking lot at the Golden Springs Speedway. The place was teeming with tricked-out pickup trucks, souped-up cars, and classic muscle cars. From the scream of engines and the roar of the crowd, it was obvious the races were well under way.
These people are all gearheads, Suzanne thought to herself as she looked around at the crowd. So what was she doing here? A dyed-in-the-wool . . . um . . . bookhead? Egghead? She decided there really wasn’t a toned-down, normal equivalent to gearhead.
“Here we are,” Toni crowed as she pulled into a parking space. “Take a gander at all the denim tuxedos!”
“Denim . . . what?”
“You know, denim jackets and jeans,” said Toni.
“Okay,” said Suzanne as she climbed out. Suddenly she was feeling overdressed. “And we’re going . . . where?”
“Over this way,” said Toni, tugging at her arm. “No grandstand for us tonight. We gotta hook up with Junior in the racers’ lot!”
When the two women reached a large, flat, weedy lot out back, Junior was just pulling in. Driving a beat-up pickup truck, he was towing his demolition derby car on a rickety wooden trailer.
Junior grinned when he saw them. “Glad you guys made it. I can really use your help!”
“What can we do?” asked Suzanne. On the walk back here, she’d made up her mind to remain positive. She’d come here to lend a hand for Toni’s sake, and that’s exactly what she was going to do. No judgment, no snide remarks. Just a good time with one of her BFFs, even if the venue was a bit on the wild side.
“Suzanne, grab those cans of motor oil and brake fluid,” said Junior. He was dressed in saggy jeans and a ripped Pennzoil T-shirt. “And Toni, if you can get that spool of electrical wire. Oh, and the wrenches and socket set, too.”
While they gathered equipment, Junior backed his car down off the trailer. “Wiggle in if you want,” he invited them. “You girls are skinny enough to squeeze in through the back windows.”
“That’s okay,” said Suzanne. “We’ll just follow you over.”
“Don’t get lost!” warned Junior.
How could they? As they huffed their way along behind Junior’s car, the noise from the track got even more deafening. It started out as a throbbing rumble then built to the ear-piercing, bone-shaking roar of a freight train.
“Is it always this loud?” Suzanne mouthed to Toni, thinking this was eardrum-splitting territory.
Toni nodded. “That’s because the Thundercars are racing now,” she said. “Their souped-up engines are crazy loud. Some of the fans even wear earplugs, like they do at rock concerts.”
Once they were in the pits, lined up alongside a dozen or so other demolition derby cars, Suzanne found herself growing strangely fascinated by this race-night spectacle. Brightly painted and decaled cars, so vivid they looked like neon-colored parakeets, thundered past them on the high-banked asphalt track. People cheered, the jacked-up crowd seemed lost in an endless human wave, and loudspeakers blared with a fuzzy announcer’s voice that went virtually ignored. It was an amalgam of carnival, pageantry, and theater all rolled into one.
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 16
