Suzanne turned in her seat so she could face Missy. “I need to ask you something, and I’d like you to answer me as honestly as you can. Was that your Taser that Sheriff Doogie found?”
“No!” Missy cried, yanking her hands away from her face and throwing Suzanne an anguished look. “Of course not! What do you think I am? Some kind of crazy weirdo?”
“Then where did it come from?” Suzanne pressed. “I mean, something like that doesn’t just magically appear.” That one indisputable fact had been gnawing at her all night long. “There has to be a logical explanation. The object came from somewhere.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Missy. “Someone put it there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I sure didn’t!”
“You’re positive about that? There’s no doubt in your mind?”
“Yes! Of course!”
Suzanne leaned in closer. “Hey, Missy, this is me—Suzanne. I’m your friend. I’m here for you. You can level with me.”
Missy’s distress was palpable. “I am leveling with you!” A fresh sob escaped her throat and hot tears coursed down her cheeks.
Suzanne dug in her purse and pulled out a small pack of tissues. She passed it to Missy and said, “I want you to be scrupulously honest. If you did something a little crazy, if you made some sort of mistake—I need to know about it.”
“Jeez, Suzanne.” Missy blew her nose with a forceful honk. “I know it sounds crazy and I wouldn’t blame you for doubting me. But somebody really did call and ask me to come to that cemetery last Thursday. And then . . . and nobody believes me on this . . . but I think that same person snuck into my house and planted a Taser!”
“If that’s what really happened then I believe you,” said Suzanne. She knew Doogie was still working on getting that call traced. Once they had that information, this whole bizarre incident would probably be over.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what really happened,” said Missy, intensity etched into her face. “I want you to believe that. I need you to believe that!”
“Then I do,” said Suzanne. She still had questions—but she also saw how much Missy needed her buy-in on this. She hesitated. “You told me you rarely lock your front door.”
“Stupid of me,” admitted Missy. “And I guess I’ll be lots more careful from now on.” She let out a deep sigh and bowed her head. “Please, Suzanne, will you just take me home?”
They were both silent on the drive to Missy’s house. Suzanne coasted along, turning all the events of the past four days over in her mind. She wondered who could have set Missy up. Who had rather effectively incriminated Missy while deflecting blame for their own dastardly actions? What was this about?
When they were a half block from Missy’s house, Suzanne said, “Now don’t do anything crazy, okay?”
“What do you mean by crazy?” asked Missy. Her eyes were red and swollen and continued to leak a steady stream of tears.
“Don’t leave town or anything like that. Just stay put.” Suzanne rolled to a stop in front of Missy’s small bungalow.
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . It just seemed like good advice.” She bounced her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “Sorry I couldn’t come up with something better.”
Missy smiled wanly and leaned over to give Suzanne a heartfelt hug. “You did come up with something better,” she said. “You came up with the bail money.”
* * *
BREAKFAST was in full swing when Suzanne came flying in the back door of the Cackleberry Club some ten minutes later. Petra was rattling her cast-iron pans, sizzling eggs, red peppers, and thick slabs of Canadian bacon. Toni worked diligently at the countertop, setting out plates and adding garnishes of sliced strawberries and orange wedges. The aroma of breakfast fixings and baked goods permeated the small kitchen.
“Hey,” said Toni, turning when she saw Suzanne. “Is Missy a free woman again?”
“For now anyway,” said Suzanne.
“I think it was very sweet and loyal of you to post bail for her,” said Petra, turning and wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re a good friend. Better than most.”
“I bet you’d do the same for us, huh?” said Toni. “If Petra or I were ever arrested and tossed in the clink?”
Suzanne furrowed her brow. “Depends on what the charges were.”
“Haw!” said Toni.
“Really,” said Petra. “Is Missy okay?”
“Her pride is severely damaged,” said Suzanne. “But other than that I think she’ll be just fine.”
“Unless she’s convicted in court,” said Petra.
“We’re not going to let that happen,” said Suzanne.
“Did she, um, say anything about what happened?” asked the ever-curious Toni. “How she thinks that Taser got into her house?”
“Only that she thought she’d been set up,” said Suzanne. “Correction, she said she knew she’d been set up.”
“That’s exactly what she said before,” said Toni. “I mean about being called to the cemetery that morning.”
“Well, now she thinks somebody slipped into her house and planted the Taser,” said Suzanne. “As a kind of coup de grâce.”
Petra flipped a couple of pancakes onto a plate. “Do you think that’s what happened?”
“I think I believe Missy,” said Suzanne.
“She sure doesn’t strike me as a killer,” said Toni.
Petra pursed her lips. “Who in town does?”
“I have no idea,” said Suzanne. “But I’m not going to stop investigating until I get to the bottom of this. No matter what Doogie says. There are just too many unanswered questions.” She hesitated. “Besides, it’s personal now.”
“Atta girl!” said Toni.
“Changing the subject to the here and now,” said Petra. “We’re going to be offering a new menu item this morning and I wanted to clue you ladies in.”
“What is it?” asked Suzanne. With all the egg and breakfast permutations Petra had dreamed up, it was hard to believe she’d invented something new.
“Drumroll please,” said Toni.
“A Cackleberry Sunset,” said Petra. “A fried egg on a fluffy baked potato, drenched with melted cheddar cheese.”
“Holy calorie count!” blurted out Toni. “That’s more like a Cackleberry Carb Explosion!”
“Oh foo,” said Petra. “Who counts calories or carbs or fat grams when it comes to breakfast?”
“But you said your pants were getting all tight and uncomfortable,” Toni pointed out.
Petra put a hand on her hip. “That’s because my stupid clothes dryer shrank every last pair.”
Toni eyed her warily. “Did you ever think of just cutting back on chocolate?”
Petra set her jaw. “Not really.”
“You do eat a lot of chocolate,” ventured Toni.
“Seriously,” said Petra, “I don’t think chocolate chip pancakes, truffle cake, and peanut butter fudge are that far out of line, do you?”
“Noooo,” Suzanne and Toni echoed together. They knew when to drop a touchy subject. Or at least let it lie there.
“Anyway,” said Petra, “melted cheese is always a big seller.”
“You got that right,” said Toni. “You could probably put melted cheese on an old shoe . . . or a tire . . .”
“Dead carp?” said Petra.
Toni nodded. “There you go.”
“Carburetor?” laughed Petra.
Toni giggled. “That’d for sure be a hit at the Golden Springs Speedway!”
Which dredged up a whole raft of bad memories for Suzanne. She hadn’t told Toni about how she’d felt menaced during her little foray to the parking lot to grab the ratchet set. Maybe it had been nothing at all, just her imagina
tion working overtime. Or maybe it had been something. Maybe it was . . . what? Somebody who didn’t want her to get too close to discovering the truth . . . about Drummond or Missy?
* * *
SUZANNE tucked that thought in the back recesses of her brain as she joined Toni in the café. They did their whirling, twirling breakfast ballet, greeting customers, taking orders, hyping the new Cackleberry Sunsets, and ferrying plates to and fro.
Later that morning, after breakfast was wrapped up and the room was made spick-and-span again, Pat Shepley stopped by with a few bags of potato rolls for their little market area. And then two of Petra’s dyed-in-the-wool (no pun intended) knitters carted in a half dozen scarves and shawls for entry in the Hearts and Crafts Show.
“These are amazing,” Suzanne told Sasha, one of the knitters, as she held a soft and gorgeous cream-colored shawl in her hands. “I can’t believe you’re willing to part with these creations.” The women were in the Knitting Nest now, going over all of the items.
“Oh, we’ll just knit new ones,” said Andrea, Sasha’s sister-in-law. “You’d be amazed how fast these items fly off my fingers. All I need is a squishy movie on Lifetime and I’m good to go.”
“Your pieces are the perfect addition to our Hearts and Crafts Show,” Suzanne told them. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure?” said Sasha. “They’re not too crafty?”
“Not at all,” said Suzanne. “We seem to be getting a nice mix of things. A few paintings and sculptures, some crafts and lovely needlecraft items.”
“Maybe,” said Sasha, glancing around eagerly, “we should do a little fiber and yarn therapy while we’re here?”
“For sure,” said Andrea. “In fact my doctor told me I should definitely get more fiber!”
* * *
AROUND eleven o’clock, Suzanne had her morning confab with Petra over their luncheon menu.
“I think we’ll keep the Cackleberry Sunsets on the menu and just add a nice piece of summer sausage to make it a slightly heartier entrée,” said Petra.
“Works for me,” said Suzanne. “We’ll just raise the price two or three bucks.”
“Make it three,” said Petra.
“So what else?”
“Chicken and waffles,” said Petra. “Plus egg salad sandwiches on rye, a fruit salad plate, and curried carrot soup. Plus Toni’s hard at work in the kitchen, whipping together her infamous dump cake for dessert.”
“The one with the pineapple chunks?”
“And the angel food cake mix,” said Petra. “Though you know I’m not a big fan of packaged mixes.”
“Hey!” Toni called through the pass-through. “Don’t dump on my dump cake! Not everybody’s a gourmet baker. Some of us have to cut a few corners here and there.”
“What if we top your cake with vanilla ice cream and call it Angel Ice Cream Dream or something like that?” said Suzanne.
“What?” said Toni. “Dump cake doesn’t sound classy enough?”
“No!” came Suzanne and Petra’s blended voices.
* * *
THE first one in for lunch that day was Dale Huffington.
“You’re getting to be a regular,” Suzanne told him.
“Ah, it’s this crazy shift I’m on.”
“So you’re ready for breakfast? Or something heavier?” Suzanne asked.
Dale shrugged. “Maybe just a tea and scone.” He patted his stomach. “I’m cutting back.”
“I can see that,” she said, as the door opened and customers began to trickle in.
Suzanne hastily began taking orders, poured coffee, and hyped the specials. And, wouldn’t you know it, right at the peak of the lunch hour, Jake Gantz came ambling in with another painting.
“Toni?” called Suzanne. She nodded toward Jake as she refilled Dale’s teacup. “Can you check him in?”
“Will do,” said Toni, scurrying off.
Chewing his last bite of scone, Dale gazed across the café at Jake. “I know that guy,” Dale said to Suzanne. “He was at Jasper Creek for a while.”
Suzanne decided to play it cool. Maybe she could pick up some information. “That’s Jake Gantz. He’s a pretty decent painter.”
“That a fact?”
“Looks like he brought us another donation for our Hearts and Crafts Show. So . . . do you know what Jake was in for?”
Dale hunched forward and stuck his elbows on the counter. “Jake’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box. Basically, he’s a Gulf War vet who never plugged back into society when he came home.”
“Unfortunately, I think that happens a lot,” said Suzanne. “But what exactly did Jake do to end up in prison?”
“It’s a sad story,” said Dale.
“I’ve got a full box of Kleenex,” said Suzanne.
“As best as I recall,” said Dale, clearing his throat, “he was hanging with a bunch of guys one night—guys he met in a bar somewhere who started pumping him for war stories. You know, military wannabes who’d never think of enlisting but could spend all night listening to tales about night patrols, ammo loads, and AK-47s. Anyway, it turns out these yahoos popped into the Quick Stop over in Jessup to grab a pack of Marlboros. And while they were getting their smokes they decided to grab a little unauthorized pocket money out of the cash register. Poor Jake is sitting in the backseat minding his own business when they came running out with a handful of cash and two twelve-packs of Budweiser. Long story short, they all got caught and soldier boy over there was sentenced to eight months at Jasper Creek.”
“Didn’t he have a lawyer?” asked Suzanne. “I mean, it sounds like there were extenuating circumstances.”
Dale tilted his head. “Probably just a first-year public defender. And, last time I checked, being dumb as a sack of hammers doesn’t count as an extenuating circumstance.”
“Maybe Jake isn’t dumb,” said Suzanne. “Maybe he’s just . . . numb.” She knew Petra had volunteered with a couple of Vietnam veteran organizations and that a few of those poor men were still traumatized, fifty-some years later.
Toni came hurrying back to the counter. “Okeydoke,” she told Suzanne. “All checked in and good to go.”
“Great,” said Suzanne, as two more newcomers settled at the counter. One of them was Allan Sharp, the lawyer they’d had the contentious run-in with on Saturday night. Then again, Sharp always acted contentious.
“Howdy-do,” Toni greeted the two men. Sharp was seated next to Dale, the other man farther down the counter. She gave them both ice water and coffee, then set about taking orders. When Toni got to Allan Sharp he was his usual brusque self.
“Just a bowl of soup,” Sharp told her.
“You don’t want to hear the specials?” said Toni. “We’ve got egg salad sandwiches plus chicken and waffles.”
“Chicken and waffles?” said Sharp. “That’s an unusual combination.”
“It’s Southern,” said Toni. “Kind of a comfort food thing. Besides, Allan, it’s always good to get a fresh perspective on different cuisines.”
“I prefer my own perspective,” said Sharp. “Just the basics, nothing too wild or crazy.”
“Whadya think?” asked Toni, sidling closer to him. “You think we’re the kind of café that serves crap like deep-fried jalapeno poppers? Junk food that comes frozen from a restaurant supply company in fifty-pound sacks?”
“Uh, okay,” said Sharp, drawing back a little.
“This is a real café,” said Toni. “Didn’t you ever hear of the locavore movement?”
“You’re the one who’s loco,” snarled Sharp.
* * *
SUZANNE wondered if today’s lunch crowd would ever end as customers continued to pour in. It was great for the bottom line, but she was beginning to feel a bit frazzled. She took another dozen orders, shoved them through the pass-through to Petra, and drew a
deep breath. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee and practically inhaled it. I need a hit of caffeine, she decided. She stood there, gulping her coffee, trying to muster her energy. And as she did, became aware that Allan Sharp was saying something to Dale about Lester Drummond.
What?
Suzanne edged closer to the two men, hoping to catch Sharp’s words. Instead, Sharp muttered a few more words, chuckled nastily, then did a mock wipe of his brow.
“I guess so,” said Dale, sounding agreeable.
Then Sharp stood up, tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter, and quickly left.
Suzanne glanced at Dale, who was hitching up his belt, also ready to depart, and said, “Um, what was that all about?” She was beginning to realize that Dale was a bit of a gossip.
“More drama and intrigue,” said Dale, smiling and shaking his head. “It never seems to stop.”
“Do enlighten,” said Suzanne.
“Here’s the thing,” said Dale, in a conspiratorial tone. “It seems that Allan Sharp and two other prison board members were named in a three-million-dollar lawsuit over Lester Drummond’s firing. Now, with Drummond dead, Sharp is off the hook. No longer liable. End of story.”
“Just like that,” said Suzanne.
“Like water off a duck’s back,” said Dale. “A lucky duck.”
“Maybe,” said Suzanne. But she was instantly suspicious. Because if Allan Sharp was now free and clear of a multi-million-dollar lawsuit—and openly celebrating it—didn’t that make him a suspect, too?
CHAPTER 18
ONCE lunch was finished and every last bit of Toni’s dump cake had been polished off, the floodgates seemed to open for donations to the Hearts and Crafts Show. At least a dozen or so artists popped in to drop off contributions.
“This is fantastic,” Suzanne told Agnes Bennett, who served as part-time organist at Hope Church. She was gazing with an appreciative eye at the canvases in front of her. “I had no idea you were such a skilled painter.”
“I’m not really,” said Agnes. “I think of myself more as a dabbler. I just like the way colored paint looks on canvas.”
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 18
