“What do you think?” Toni asked, a gleam in her eye.
“It’s crazy,” said Suzanne. “This is practically . . . epic!”
“Hey!” called Junior. “I could use a little help over here.”
They got busy then, arranging gear, sorting out Junior’s flame-retardant jacket and jumpsuit, and watching breathlessly as two Thundercars dueled their way to the finish line while a great roar went up from the crowd.
“That’s it,” said Toni. “There’s the checkered flag. That means our race is next.” She was quivering like a Chihuahua caught in a snowstorm.
“We got time,” said Junior. “They gotta award prizes first.” He pointed a greasy finger toward a small stage in front of the grandstand. “See? They’ve even got tire models here tonight!”
Suzanne peered across the hazy track and saw two women dressed in tight white tank tops, impossibly short leather skirts, and white go-go boots, and decided those must be the tire models.
“That’s big-time,” Junior assured her as he undid a latch and flipped up his hood. “Whenever companies send tire models to these races, you know there’s decent prize money involved.”
Toni handed Junior a can of motor oil and watched him pour it, the engine gulping hungrily. “Might have a leak,” said Junior. “And Toni, grab me a ratchet, will you? I wanna tighten up the screws on this gasket.”
She grabbed a tool and handed it to him.
“That’s a wrench,” said Junior. “I need a ratchet.”
“Um . . .” said Toni, rattling around in the tool kit. “I don’t think we brought those.”
“You forgot my ratchet set?” barked Junior. He ran his fingers through his dark, unruly hair and breathed out a stream of air. “Ah, man, that means they’re sitting in the back of my truck, in the parking lot.”
“I’ll run back and get your tools,” Suzanne volunteered. “No problem.”
“Just the ratchet set,” said Junior.
“Thanks, girlfriend,” said Toni, as Junior made a whirring motion with his finger, indicating he wanted her to peel off a strip of electrical tape.
Suzanne dodged through the waiting fleet of demolition derby cars and headed back out to the racers’ lot. It was full-on dark now, with gray, bubbly-looking clouds hanging low in the sky, making the atmosphere feel more than a little oppressive. Suzanne wondered if the soft purple evenings of early summer were ever going to arrive. Then she decided she’d better worry about that later and kick it into high gear if she wanted to get Junior’s tools back to him.
When she reached the truck, she found the ratchet set right where Junior said it would be. Lying in the truck bed. Suzanne stuck a toe into the wheel rim and found a toehold on a bolt. Then she hoisted herself up so she could lean over and grab it.
Just as her fingers made contract with the plastic box that held the tools, she heard the sharp clunk of metal. Grabbing the toolbox, she scrambled down and whirled around. Her eyes searched the dark. And saw . . . absolutely nothing.
But I heard something, didn’t I?
Suzanne stood in the dry grass, trying to relegate the dull sounds of cheering and rumbling engines to background noise. She tuned in to her immediate environment of dry grass and parked trucks, listening for the smallest sound.
The sudden ring of her cell phone shattered the silence and almost scared the daylights out of her!
She fumbled in her pocket for it, pressed the On button, and managed a squeaky, “Hello?”
It was Sam.
“Hey,” he said. “You sound funny.”
“I’m at the car races with Toni and Junior.”
“Car races?”
“I’ll explain later. What’s up?”
“Suzanne . . . there’s something weird going on that I have to tell you about.”
Suzanne was instantly on alert. “Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Not over the phone. When I get to your place, okay?”
“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours, okay? Come over then.”
“Got it,” said Sam.
Suzanne stood there, nerves amped, suddenly wondering what was on Sam’s mind. Had he discovered something during this second and final day of Lester Drummond’s autopsy? Or was something else going on? If so—what?
She gulped, blew out a glut of air, and heard . . . another clunk.
There was that sound again! Almost as if a metal crowbar had ticked against the side of a truck.
Someone else come back to grab some gear?
Shoulders stiff, head cocked, Suzanne stood stock-still. Then, almost out of nowhere, a puff of wind arose and tiny bits of dust blew up into her face. She wrinkled her nose to keep from sneezing and wiped at her eyes. All the while she continued to listen.
Someone had crept back to grab some gear, she decided. Or . . . hold on a minute . . . what if someone had followed her back to this seemingly deserted parking lot?
But why?
Her thoughts drifted back to the car that had pulled up outside her house tonight. Dark car, no lights. Who had it been? And could they have followed her here?
Gripping the socket set tightly against her chest, Suzanne took off running and didn’t look back.
* * *
WEARING his flame-retardant jacket and gripping a toothpick between his teeth, Junior grabbed the ratchet set from Suzanne’s hands and set to work.
“Did I miss anything?” Suzanne asked.
Toni looked worried. “They just called the demolition cars onto the track.”
“So when does this crazy derby officially start?” asked Suzanne.
Toni looked at her watch. “Like, in two minutes.” She glanced up at Suzanne and noticed her friend’s shakiness. “Hey, are you okay?”
Suzanne nodded. “Fine.” This wasn’t the time or place to explain her sudden paranoia.
“Done!” said Junior. He snatched up his helmet and plopped it onto his head.
Toni squinted at him. “Is that regulation?”
Junior spat out his toothpick and tapped a finger against his helmet. “High school football.”
“Dear Lord,” said Toni as Junior slithered into his car and settled into the driver’s seat. “Buckle up tight!”
“Don’t worry,” said Junior as he turned the starter. There was a clicking sound, a loud sputter, and a series of nasty backfires. Then Junior was put-putting his way into the center of the track.
“Be safe!” Suzanne called. But who was she kidding, really? Was anybody safe in this wonked-out demolition derby that actually went by the name Eve of Destruction?
Thirty seconds later a starter gun exploded and the demolition derby began in earnest. Suzanne decided it was like watching the Keystone Cops, only with hideous cars. A yellow and black car that looked like an angry beetle took aim and promptly smashed into a white car. The beetle car shivered, shook, backed up twenty feet, then crashed into a blue car. It was chaos, pandemonium, and flying auto parts. She also noticed there were a few cars whizzing around the outer perimeter, wisely staying out of the fray.
“There’s Junior!” cried Toni. “Oh jeez, he’s sandbagging it.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Suzanne.
“He’s trying to avoid getting hit, hoping he can keep going until the end of the race.”
“That’s good, huh?”
“No, that’s bad,” said Toni. “The judges might disqualify him for not participating.”
“We can only hope,” said Suzanne.
But Junior wasn’t out of the action for long. A red Chevy with yellow flames painted on both sides was suddenly dogging him. Junior zigged and zagged and spun and turned, but he couldn’t shake the aggressive Chevy. Finally, as Junior was charging down the straightaway in front of the grandstand, the red Chevy powered straight
at him and struck him broadside. Junior’s driver’s side door crumpled like a piece of tinfoil and a tire flew off the rim!
“Come on, Junior, move it!” Toni screamed. “Get your butt outta there!”
But try as he might, Junior couldn’t get his car started again. The Chevy had struck a death blow. Junior’s engine was shot and he was out of the race.
“Now what?” asked Suzanne. “Junior just sits there like a squished bug until every last car is out of commission?”
Toni looked morose. “Those are the rules. In this derby anyway.”
“But isn’t he a sitting duck?”
“Aw,” said Toni, “the other drivers don’t care about him anymore.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Toni frowned. “I didn’t want Junior to enter, but now that he’s out of the money I feel kind of sad for him.” She shook her head and said, “I guess that’s why they call it the pits.”
* * *
SAM was waiting in his car, parked neatly at the curb, when Suzanne arrived back home an hour later.
“Lucky you,” said Toni, pumping the brakes on her hunk of junk. “You’ll have sweet dreams tonight!” She giggled as Suzanne jumped out of her car.
“Thanks! See you tomorrow.”
Suzanne sped toward Sam as he stepped out of his car. “What’s up?” she asked.
He put his arms around her and gave her a quick kiss. “Better we should go inside.”
Suzanne shook her head to clear it. Right. She was so wound up over Missy’s arrest, her argument with Doogie, Junior’s stupid contest, and the scare she’d had in the parking lot that she wasn’t processing things very well.
“Did you hear about Missy?” Suzanne asked once they were in the kitchen and the dogs had been let out into the backyard. She stood at the sink, washing her hands and drying them with a crisp dish towel.
Sam shook his head. “No. What?”
Over glasses of Cabernet, sitting at the counter, she filled him in on the sad events of the day, especially her news about Missy.
“Arrested her,” said Sam, whistling. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“I think I kind of did,” said Suzanne. “Even though I tried to push it to the back of my brain.” She took a sip of wine for courage. “I’m going to post bail for her tomorrow. And please don’t tell me I shouldn’t, because my mind’s already made up.”
Sam lifted both hands in a show of no protest. “Hey, you’ll get no argument from me.”
“If the tables were turned, she’d do the same for me in a heartbeat.”
“If the tables were turned,” said Sam, “I’d beat her to it.”
Suzanne smiled and touched his cheek. “Thank you.” The flutter in her stomach seemed to subside a little. “Now, what were you all fired up about?”
“Dr. Gordon finished the Drummond autopsy this afternoon.”
Uh-oh, here it comes, Suzanne thought to herself. “And let me guess—he was finally able to determine the cause of death?”
“First things first,” said Sam. “What he discovered were additional hemorrhages on Drummond’s heart and lungs.”
“Which means what?” said Suzanne. “Remember, please, I never went to medical school.”
“Internal hemorrhages like that are usually caused by stress-induced arrhythmia.”
Suzanne peered at him. “Drummond had a heart attack?”
Sam continued. “There was no indication of that, but his breathing was definitely compromised and the rhythm of his heartbeat was either slowed considerably or sped up. Which meant his heart couldn’t pump enough blood to his body.”
“So what killed him, then?” asked Suzanne, puzzled.
“We don’t have conclusive evidence, since we don’t have all the test results. But I have a rather intriguing theory for the actual cause of death. Really, a fairly straightforward theory.”
“Tell me,” said Suzanne. Now she was hanging on his every word.
“After Drummond was Tasered and fairly incapacitated, I think someone held a plastic bag over his nose and mouth.”
Suzanne’s hand inadvertently went to her own mouth. “That’s awful!” She could almost feel a burning sensation in her lungs. “And then his heart went into arrhythmia?”
“Probably.”
“Does Doogie know all this? I mean, you shared your theory?”
“I did,” said Sam. “We had a confab with him earlier this afternoon.”
“And then Doogie got a search warrant and went to Missy’s apartment,” Suzanne said bitterly.
“My guess is he probably had one already, he just hadn’t executed it yet. Was holding off, I guess.”
“But your information really didn’t point toward Missy,” said Suzanne.
Sam shook his head. “Not really.”
“So Doogie bulldozed his way into her apartment and discovered a Taser. Hmm.” Suzanne took a sip of wine and rolled it around inside her mouth, thinking.
“There’s more,” said Sam. “More about the autopsy, I mean.”
Suzanne’s mind suddenly leapt to the last time she’d seen Drummond. Alive, that is. He’d acted frazzled, angry, and hopped up. “Drugs,” she said suddenly. “He was taking drugs.”
Sam cocked a finger at her. “Bingo.”
“What kind?”
“It’s way too early to tell. But something unusual, since it didn’t show up on the first tox screen.”
“When will you know?” Suzanne asked.
Sam shrugged. “Another few days. A week at the most, depending on how backed up the state lab is.”
Suzanne looked at him with a penetrating gaze. “Keep me in the loop, will you?”
“Sweetheart,” said Sam, leaning in close to her, “I’d rather keep you safe.”
CHAPTER 17
NERVES fizzing, shoulders hunched forward, eyes darting from side to side as if she were casing the joint, Suzanne pushed her way through the double doors of the Law Enforcement Center. She’d been to this building many times before, but never for official business that meant posting bail for a friend and springing her out of jail!
Suzanne’s pumps clicked efficiently against the marble floor as she hurried along. She’d dressed with care today in a navy blue suit with a sedate white blouse underneath and a string of small white pearls draped professionally about her neck. She hoped her formal business attire made her look competent and maybe even a little intimidating. Like she’d just walked out of a Wall Street firm and sealed the biggest deal since the financial crisis!
Luckily, before she was forced to intimidate anyone, Missy’s attorney, Harry Jankovich, appeared in the hallway and hailed her.
“Suzanne?” Jankovich, in a pin-striped suit and clutching an overstuffed briefcase, looked expectant but friendly as he stuck out a hand.
Suzanne shook his hand firmly. “Mr. Jankovich, has Missy been arraigned yet?” she asked directly. She saw no need for idle pleasantries, since this wasn’t a pleasant situation—but she was careful to stay on the right side of rudeness, too.
Jankovich gave an affirmative nod. “That’s right, it’s over and done with already.” He was short and portly with a ruddy, red face. But it was also a kind face.
“That was awfully speedy, wasn’t it?” Suzanne said. She’d never known the wheels of justice—good, bad, or indifferent—to turn quite that fast.
“I think Sheriff Doogie . . . ah . . . facilitated a few things,” Jankovich told her.
Suzanne shook her head in bewilderment. “First he arrests Missy—and then he greases the skids and arranges special treatment.” It didn’t make sense. Then again, this whole situation was most peculiar. “So . . . what do we do now?”
“Now we pay her bail,” said Jankovich.
“What’s her bail set at?”
> Jankovich shepherded her into a nearby office. “Fifty thousand dollars,” he said crisply. “But the court only requires you to post ten percent.” He stepped to the counter and had a mumbled conversation with a stern-looking woman who sat behind a sturdy set of bars. When she passed him a set of papers, he looked them over hastily and said, “Suzanne?” He stepped aside so she could slide in next to him. He pointed to two red Xs. “You need to sign here and here.”
“Oh dear,” said Suzanne.
Jankovich dug in his jacket pocket. “Need a pen?”
* * *
TWENTY-FIVE minutes later, the transaction completed, Suzanne and Missy walked out of the Law Enforcement Center.
Head down, shoulders slumped, her long blond hair looking clumped and straggly, Missy said, in a barely audible voice, “I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.”
Suzanne saw the circles under her eyes and the way her clothes were wrinkled and rumpled. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she said. “It was . . . unconscionable on Doogie’s part.”
“I’m never going to speak a civil word to that man again,” said Missy, a few tears leaking down her face.
When they reached her car, Suzanne pulled open the passenger door for Missy. “Get in and let’s talk.” She hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
Missy sat with her face buried in her hands. “It was awful, Suzanne,” she said in a muffled voice. “You have no idea!”
“No, I don’t,” said Suzanne. “And I know you’re feeling terribly scared and fragile and wounded right now. But we do have to talk.”
Missy dug in her pocket, found a single Kleenex, and blew her nose. Then she said, “About what?”
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 17
