Amen, Suzanne thought to herself.
“So,” said Paula, switching gears, “are you ready to handle a quick interview?”
“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” said Suzanne. Which is basically not ready at all.
But that wasn’t about to stop the efficient and ever-cheerful Paula. She bustled Suzanne into a small studio with low lighting, baffled walls, and a large, blinking console. Once the two women were seated in comfy chairs adjacent to one another, Paula plopped a set of headphones on Suzanne’s head. Wiley VonBank, one of the sound engineers, quickly appeared and adjusted Suzanne’s microphone, then did a voice level check. After that she sat there, nervously twining her feet, hoping she wouldn’t come off like some kind of ditz.
“There’s going to be three sixty-second commercials,” Paula told her as she settled in her chair and pulled her microphone close. “Then, after the bumper, I’m going to do my intro and come directly to you.”
“Bumper?” said Suzanne, puzzled.
“The theme music that opens and closes my show,” said Paula.
“Right,” said Suzanne. “Got it.”
And just a few minutes later, Paula’s Friends and Neighbors theme music came on—a little bit country-western with a hint of salsa for good measure. Paula’s fingers danced across the soundboard as she punched buttons and spun dials. Then, as the last notes sounded, she said in a booming, over-the-top voice, “Good mornnnnnning Logan County! And welcome this Tuesday morning to Friends and Neighbors. I’m Paula Patterson and I’ve got a terrific show in store for you today.”
Alert now, nerves fizzing, knowing she was seconds away from being live on the air, Suzanne sat up straight in her chair.
“For those of you who haven’t ventured outside yet, it’s raining cats and dogs,” said Paula, smooth as silk. “And the temperature’s hovering at a chilly fifty-two degrees.” She paused and glanced over at Suzanne. “But nothing’s going to dampen our community spirit when it comes to helping out some of our dear friends and neighbors. As many of my listeners know, I’ve talked about the Hearts and Crafts Show that’s going to take place later this week at our own Cackleberry Club café. The proceeds from this arts and crafts show are earmarked to benefit our local food bank. And it’s just our luck to have Suzanne Dietz, the majordomo of the Cackleberry Club, here in studio with us today! Suzanne, welcome!” Paula nodded at Suzanne.
“Thanks, Paula,” said Suzanne, taking the cue. “It’s great to be here.”
“So tell us, Suzanne, about the Hearts and Crafts Show.”
Doing her best to sound articulate despite jittery nerves, Suzanne explained about the paintings and the needlework and the crafts, with Paula cutting in now and then, lending an encouraging word, making the interview sound relatively flawless.
“And half the profits go back to the artists?” said Paula. “While the other half . . .”
“Will go to support the food bank,” Suzanne answered. “I know a lot of your listeners might think that fall and winter are the key times when the food bank needs to be well stocked. Unfortunately, in our county—and so many other places, too—hunger is a year-round issue.”
“It sure is,” said Paula, nodding encouragement at Suzanne. “So I’m urging all of our listeners today to visit the Cackleberry Club this Thursday through Saturday. Look over all the wonderful arts and crafts and place your generous bets in the silent auction.”
“That’s exactly what we’re hoping for,” said Suzanne.
“Now let’s take a few calls,” said Paula. “I’d love to get some reactions from our listeners.”
Within just a few seconds, three of the call lights on the phone immediately lit up.
Paula punched button number one and said, “Good morning, you’re on the air.”
“I just want to thank Suzanne,” came a woman’s voice. “It’s so nice when someone in the community steps up to help.”
Suzanne smiled at the woman’s words. “You can really thank all our artists and crafters,” she said. “They’re the ones who are making this possible.”
Paula punched another button. “And you’re on the air, my friend!”
This time it was a man’s voice. “I just want to know, Suzanne, if you’re going to be serving those caramel rolls—the ones covered with pecans?”
“They’re one of our breakfast favorites,” Suzanne answered. “So we pretty much bake a couple pans of sticky buns every morning.”
“Thank you for that,” Paula said to the caller. “Let’s see who else has a question or comment.” She punched another button.
“I’d just like to thank Suzanne for all her good efforts,” came a soft voice.
Startled, because the voice was so achingly familiar, Suzanne blurted out, “You’re so welcome.” Is that Missy’s voice? she wondered with a start. Could that be her? Because it sure sounds like Missy!
“Thank you,” Paula said abruptly, ready to cut to another call.
“I’d like to say one more thing,” said the woman. “And that is . . . please don’t worry.”
Puzzled, Paula shook her head and said in a breezy voice, “And now a word from the fine folks over at Chalmers’ Feed Store.” She hit a button and a prerecorded commercial blared in their headphones. “Weirdo,” Paula muttered over the canned spot. “We get a lot of those.”
“No problem,” said Suzanne. But more than ever she was pretty sure this last cryptic caller had been the missing Missy!
CHAPTER 22
THIS was Chicken Pickin’ Tuesday at the Cackleberry Club, one of their most popular days when they cooked up a number of signature dishes. And when Suzanne stepped through the back door into the kitchen, there was Petra, hovering at the stove, tending to sizzling chicken breasts and links of rice sausage in a black cast-iron pan while also stirring a pan of chicken gravy to grace her potato cakes.
“Smells good in here,” said Suzanne, eyeing the food. “Looks good, too.” She realized she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Just no time.
“We had the radio on!” Toni told her proudly from nearby. “And listened to your whole interview!”
Petra turned and smiled at Suzanne. “You did good, girl.”
“You think so?” said Suzanne. “It didn’t seem a little strange?” She was referring, of course, to their final caller of the show.
Petra turned back to the stove. “Sounded fine to me.” She flipped a dozen or so sausages onto a platter, then said, “How’s Doogie doing?”
“Looking a little battered,” Suzanne admitted. “But he’s still feisty as all get out,” she fibbed.
“Doogie’s feisty?” said Toni. “Really? Lying there in the hospital?”
“Did you actually talk to him?” asked Petra. She grabbed a dish towel and twisted it nervously. “Was he able to tell you what happened? About the accident, I mean.”
“Well, not exactly,” Suzanne hedged. “Doogie was still a little out of it.”
“So he didn’t ask you to take over the investigation?” said Toni. “Pick up where he left off?”
Suzanne was taken aback. “No, of course not!”
“But he gave you some clues?” said Petra.
“Not really,” said Suzanne.
“Oh,” said Toni. She sounded deflated.
“But I talked to Deputy Driscoll and he seems to be stepping in nicely,” said Suzanne. It was a little white lie but she figured it would make them all feel better. Why admit the dreary truth about how Doogie really looked?
“Eddie Driscoll?” said Petra. “Is that who you’re talking about? Seems to me I had him in school back when I taught sixth grade. He had trouble diagramming sentences.”
“I could never do that, either,” said Toni. “Nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, it was all very confusing. To say nothing of dangling participles.” She laid out six white plates
on the butcher-block countertop, ready for Petra to fill.
“You’re still serving breakfast?” said Suzanne. It was after ten o’clock.
“We had a few latecomers,” said Petra. “Probably because of the bad weather. Hey, I heard you two had fun at your self-defense class last night.”
“I was telling her all about it,” said Toni to Suzanne. “Hey!” she grabbed at Petra’s apron string. “Did you know that shouting actually adds thirty-three percent more power to your blows and throws?”
“I did not know that,” said Petra. She shook her head. “How in the world I lived this long without that piece of information I’ll never know.”
Toni babbled on. “And we learned how to go after our opponent’s natural soft spots, too. Really kick or gouge ’em in the eyes, throat, nose, shins, and—”
Petra held up a hand. “Stop right there. I think I can guess the rest.”
“Well, yeah,” said Toni. “Obviously.”
* * *
BEFORE they knew it, rain or no rain, it was time to get the place spiffed up for lunch.
After their last breakfast customers departed, Suzanne and Toni whirled through the café like a pair of crazed dervishes, scooping up dirty plates and wiping tables, pushing in chairs and sweeping up errant crumbs. Then they set out fresh silverware, napkins, and glasses, and put fresh coffee on to brew.
“Got a jelly donut left over,” said Toni.
“I think it’s got your name on it,” said Suzanne.
Toni reached into the glass pie saver and grabbed it. “You got that right.”
“Suzanne,” Petra called from the pass-through. “Time to do the menu.”
“On it.” Suzanne grabbed a piece of yellow chalk and stood poised.
“Beer-battered chicken with a zucchini and corn medley,” said Petra. “Cheddar and broccoli quiche, and curried chicken salad on seven-grain bread.”
“And the pie you’ve got bubbling away in the oven?” said Suzanne. She made a cartoon drawing of a piece of pie.
“Blueberry,” said Petra. “We’ll serve it with vanilla ice cream.”
“And we’re off to the races,” said Toni, peering out the window. “Because here come our first customers now.”
* * *
BUT even as Suzanne served her customers and tended to a hundred little details, she continued to worry about Missy. Where was she when she made that phone call to the radio station? Where was she hiding out? And, since Missy was listening to the radio, did that mean she was nearby? Had she snuck back to her home? Or had she found a little bolt-hole somewhere else?
“Earth to Suzanne,” said Toni. They were standing behind the counter and Toni was holding up a plate with a chicken salad sandwich on it. “Maybe you should eat something while our customers work on their desserts?”
“Thanks,” said Suzanne. “I am feeling a little hungry.” She took a bite of sandwich and chewed. “Mmn, good.”
“Uh-oh,” said Toni.
Suzanne stopped chewing. “What?”
The front door banged open and Junior walked in.
“It’s okay,” said Suzanne. “We’ve only got a few customers left.”
“Still,” said Toni. She didn’t look happy as Junior, in ripped jeans and a dingy T-shirt, strode across the café carrying what looked like a car battery.
“You can’t bring that in here,” said Toni.
“Oh no?” said Junior. He hoisted his package up for them to see, grinning proudly, like he was showing off a new puppy.
“So you’ve got a car battery,” said Suzanne. “So what?”
Junior did a little tap dance, then doubled over and laughed soundlessly, still holding the case. “Gotcha! I did it! I got you girls!”
“What are you talking about?” said Toni, sorely irritated now.
“I want you to take a gander at this here battery,” said Junior. He shuffled over to the counter and hefted it up.
“Big deal,” said Toni. “What’s so special about it?”
“Just watch this,” said Junior. He pulled off what turned out to be a metal shell that replicated the look of a car battery. Underneath was a six-pack of Budweiser. “Now ain’t that something?” he chortled.
“Uh, no,” said Toni, staring at it. “Not really.”
“Sure it is,” said Junior.
“What’s the point?” said Suzanne.
“The point is,” said Junior, sounding frustrated now, “you buy this handy-dandy fake battery cover and then you can sneak your own six-pack into anyplace your heart desires and enjoy a refreshing libation. A restaurant, the movies, a concert, you name it.”
“You don’t think hefting a car battery into the local Cineplex is going to look a little strange?” said Suzanne.
Junior frowned. “You have to think outside the box, Suzanne. We’re competing in a global marketplace now. The sky’s the limit.”
“Bah!” said Toni. “More like pie in the sky.”
Junior waved a hand at them in dismissal. “Ah, you gals don’t know a good thing when you see it. This here invention could make me a million bucks!”
“Good,” said Toni. “You make your million and I’ll take half of it in the divorce settlement.”
Junior shook his head slowly. “Ain’t gonna be no divorce.”
“And why is that?” said Suzanne.
Junior focused a mournful gaze on Toni. “’Cause we’re still in love, right, baby? There’s a reason I spray-painted your name on that overpass.”
Toni made a fist and said, “Junior!” in a threatening tone. But Junior just smiled and spun on his heels.
“Are you okay?” Suzanne asked. Toni was still scowling, but wiping at her eyes, too.
“Got something stuck in my eye,” she murmured.
“And in your heart, too, I think.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Toni. “All I know is Junior’s got these crazy dreams and schemes that never work out.”
“Amen to that,” Petra called loudly from the kitchen. “If you ask me, I think your boy is a couple sandwiches short of a picnic lunch.”
* * *
WHILE Suzanne and Toni quickly assembled chicken salad sandwiches for afternoon tea, Petra dashed outside with a bag of trash. When she returned she was rubbing her arms and briskly hugging herself. “Temperature’s dropping and my lumbago tells me we’re in for a whopper of a storm!”
“You don’t have lumbago,” said Suzanne.
“No,” said Petra. “But I’ve got an itchy toe.”
“And it’s itching for a storm?” said Suzanne.
“Something’s rumbling toward us,” agreed Toni. “Has been for days.”
“I just hope it’s not a tornado,” worried Petra. “There’ve been a couple of touchdowns in Missouri and Kansas.”
“Uh-oh,” said Toni. “Maybe we’ll get a tornado and the Cackleberry Club will be swept off its foundation just like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.”
“And we’ll land in a magical new place?” said Suzanne.
“That’d be okay with me,” said Toni. “Just as long as there’s not a wicked witch in the picture. I couldn’t deal with a stupid witch.”
“Especially one who wears green pancake makeup,” said Petra. “Ugh.” She glanced at Suzanne. “You still going to Lester Drummond’s funeral today?”
Suzanne nodded. “I thought I would.”
“Well, it’s a perfect day for a funeral,” said Petra. “Rainy, dark, and gloomy.”
“Who has a funeral at two in the afternoon?” said Toni. “Aren’t they usually bright and early in the morning—before anyone’s had a chance to wake up and smell the coffee?”
Suzanne shrugged. “I guess Lester Drummond is still doing things his way—even from the other side.”
* * *
; ARRIVING at Hope Church, feeling a little out of breath, Suzanne paused in the vestibule to collect herself. And was immediately greeted by a pair of sober-looking ushers decked out in formal black suits with white carnations in their lapels.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” one of them said with great gravitas. “I’m afraid the service is already under way.”
“Oh!” Suzanne cried. Had she gotten the time wrong? Or was she running late? “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought the service started at two P.M.”
“Mrs. Drummond requested that it begin earlier,” said one of the ushers, the older of the two men. “On account of the fact she isn’t feeling well. So it all started about five minutes ago. She’s up front now, with the, um—”
“Casket,” put in the other usher.
How extremely odd, Suzanne thought to herself. I’ve never heard of such a thing.
As she made her way inside, she heard the quiet murmur of prayers being recited at the front of the church. There was Reverend Strait, of course, standing over the gunmetal gray casket draped with a white cloth. To either side were standing sprays of white flowers—lilies, roses, and carnations.
A small group of mourners occupied the front five rows.
But what really caught Suzanne’s eye, as she took a seat discreetly near the back of the church, was the woman who sat front and center in a black dress and veil. Shoulders hunched and one hand clutching a hankie, her back appeared to be heaving as she crumpled over in grief.
Deanna Drummond?
Had to be. Yes, Suzanne was positive it was her, looking like a carbon copy of Carmen Copeland even from the back.
And sitting right next to Deanna, their shoulders practically touching, was a bulky man in a dark suit. Even from where she sat, Suzanne could see the man holding Deanna’s arm, almost supporting the grieving woman’s full weight as they sat there together.
Suzanne craned her neck to get a better view but couldn’t make out the man’s identity. Then he turned for an instant and she caught his profile.
Boots Wagner. Oh!
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 23
