Bedeviled Eggs Read online

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs

  LAURA CHILDS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  PRAISE FOR

  Eggs in Purgatory

  “Tasty and fun.”

  —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  “With a plot that holds interest and characters who are well-envisioned and well-executed, Childs will have readers planning another trip to the Cackleberry Club and its treats.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Childs excels at creating comforting settings in which to put her characters, and the Cackleberry Club is a place you’d like to visit.”

  —St. Paul Pioneer Press

  “Eggs in Purgatory has plenty of humor, emotion, good food (with recipes), and fantastic plotlines to make it another success story.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  PRAISE FOR

  THE SCRAPBOOKING MYSTERIES

  BY LAURA CHILDS

  “Childs rounds out the story with several scrapbooking andcrafting tips plus a passel of mouthwatering Louisiana recipes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The heroine is a plucky, strong, and independent womanwho takes charge when necessary as she is the original steelmagnolia.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “If you are a scrapbooker and like to read, then Laura Childs’sScrapbooking Mystery series is for you! These books are sogreat that I just couldn’t put them down! I just can’t wait forthe next one to be released.”

  —BellaOnline

  “Scrapbook aficionados rejoice! Ms. Childs creates a charming mystery series with lively, quirky characters and plenty of how-to ... Serving up some hors d’oeuvres of murder and mystery, creativity and fashion, she has a winning formula to get even the laziest of us in a scrapbooking mood.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “An entertaining who-done-it.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Childs does an excellent job of weaving suspense with great tips for scrapbooking and crafting aficionados.”

  —/ Love A Mystery

  PRAISE FOR THE TEA SHOP MYSTERIES BY LAURA CHILDS

  Featured Selection of the Mystery Book Club “Highly recommended’’ by the Ladies ‘Tea Guild

  “A delightful read... Childs has an eye for great local color.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A paean to Charleston, the genteel enjoyment of tea, and the tasty treats that accompany it.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Murder suits Laura Childs to a Tea.”

  —St. Paul Pioneer Press

  ‘Tea lovers, mystery lovers, [this] is for you. Just the right blend of cozy fun and clever plotting.”

  —Susan Wittig Albert, bestselling author of Holly Blues

  “It’s a delightful book!”

  —Tea: A Magazine

  “Will warm readers the way a good cup of tea does... A delightful series that will leave readers feeling as if they have shared a warm cup of tea on Church Street in Charleston.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “This mystery series could single-handedly propel the tea shop business in this country to the status of wine bars and

  bustling coffee houses.”

  —Bu&n Gusto

  “If you devoured Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, this new series is right up your alley.”

  —The Goose Creek (SC) Gazette

  “Gives the reader a sense of traveling through the streets and environs of the beautiful, historic city of Charleston.”

  —Minnetonka (MN) Lakeshore Weekly News

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs

  Tea Shop Mysteries

  DEATH BY DARJEELING

  GUNPOWDER GREEN

  SHADES OF EARL GREY

  THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER

  THE JASMINE MOON MURDER

  CHAMOMILE MOURNING

  BLOOD ORANGE BREWING

  DRAGONWELL DEAD

  THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER

  OOLONG DEAD THE TEABERRY STRANGLER

  Scrapbooking Mysteries

  KEEPSAKE CRIMES

  PHOTO FINISHED

  BOUND FOR MURDER

  MOTIF FOR MURDER

  FRILL KILL

  DEATH SWATCH

  TRAGIC MAGIC

  FIBER & BRIMSTONE

  Cackleberry Club Mysteries

  EGGS IN PURGATORY

  EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD

  BEDEVILED EGGS

  Anthology

  DEATH BY DESIGN

  LAURA CHILDS

  Bedeviled Eggs

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to Sam, Tom, Niti, Jennie, Dan, and all the designers, illustrators, writers, and sales folk at Berkley Prime Crime. And a special thanks to all the booksellers, reviewers, librarians, bloggers, and wonderful readers who helped put Eggs Benedict Arnold, the previous book in this series, on the New York Times bestseller list. Wow. Who would have thought a funky little cozy about three middle-aged women would land there!”

  To Dr. Bob and twenty-five years of marriage. Yowza!

  Chapter One

  “He reads Mario Puzo,” Suzanne murmured, focusing on a couple that was eyeing each other warily. “She likes Charlaine Harris.”

  “Could be a match made in heaven,” said Toni, brushing her hands against her apron after hastily arranging a plate of sugar cookies.

  “Only if you believe in a vampire who’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Suzanne quipped, as she glanced over the crowd of hopeful singles that had jammed the Cackleberry Club this Sunday evening.

  It was the week before Halloween and Suzanne Dietz, cafe owner and slightly reluctant matchmaker, was holding her first-ever “read dating” event. The whole shebang was similar to speed dating, except that the singles, mostly middle-aged and divorced folks from the small midwestern town of Kindred, were searching for compatibility based on reading preference. It wasn’t exactly a polite afternoon of tea and cookies at Hope Church, but it wasn’t the slightly desperate and bumbling last call for alcohol at Schmitt’s Bar, either.

  “Uh-oh,” said Toni, putting a hand up to scrunch the frizzle of reddish blond hair that bobbed atop her head like

  a show pony. “A World War Two buff and a romance reader just paired off.”

  “If she’s into historic romances, it’s a done deal,” said Suzanne. Toni may have been a show pony, but Suzanne was both Thoroughbred and workhorse. With silver blond hair brushing her shoulders, eyes of cornflower blue, and a penchant for slim-fitting jeans and white shirts tied at the waist, she could have breezed through an elegant crowd at an East Hampton polo tournament. Instead, Suzanne was CEO, PR d
irector, and chief purveyor of eggs and sundries at the Cackleberry Club. This heartwarming Midwestern cafe’, where all manner of egg dishes were whipped up for breakfast, had been launched some eight months earlier, right after Suzanne’s husband, Walter, had died.

  In the weeks following Walter’s funeral, Suzanne, not one to put off decisions, had taken a long, hard look at her life, sorted through her various passions and penchants, and bet the house on the Cackleberry Club. Under the combined banners of sisterhood and over-forty BFFs, her best friends Toni and Petra had thrown in with her to help revamp a rickety little Spur station into a cozy cafe. Now, with the addition of a Book Nook and Knitting Nest, the Cackleberry Club had become a kind of crazy quilt magnet for knitters, book lovers, and breakfast lovers.

  “One, two...” Toni called loudly, as she stepped to the center of the room, then blew an eardrum-busting toot on her silver whistle.

  Which caused an immediate flurry among the “read daters.”

  “Nice to meet you” and “I’ll give you a call” echoed throughout the cafe, as men popped up from their chairs like manic gophers dodging potshots, then quickly moved to the next table. Much clearing of throats and smoothing of hair, or what was left of it, ensued as they plunked themselves down to meet yet another potentially available female.

  Suzanne figured that, with any luck, the read daters would enjoy the books they discussed and maybe each other as well. Maybe.

  “I’ve got one more pan of blond brownies in the oven,” Petra announced, as she tottered from the kitchen, bearing an enormous tray stacked with peanut butter cookies and lemon bars. Her white chef’s hat bobbed atop her head as she hefted the tray and gazed out over the buzzing crowd. “Can you believe how hungry these men are?” she asked. “Our first two trays of desserts disappeared in something like three seconds flat. They didn’t even bother to chew, they just... gunk... swallowed everything whole, like crocodiles. Really hungry, I guess.”

  “And for more than just food,” Suzanne observed. She’d seen flickers of interest in the eyes of quite a few men, who ranged in age from fortyish all the way up to Methuselah.

  “Typical,” snorted Toni, coming up to grab the tray from Petra. “All men are hot to trot, aren’t they?” Toni had a chip on her shoulder the size of Rhode Island, thanks to her on-again, off-again marriage to Junior Garrett, an overage juvenile delinquent who was known for his roving eye. Especially when it came to floozy female bartenders with tight angora sweaters and hot pink extensions clipped into their hair.

  “Still,” said Petra, “this was a grand idea.” She nudged Suzanne. “You see Mrs. Moxley over there?” They all turned to gaze at a cheerful-looking woman with a head of white hair who was talking animatedly to a red-faced

  farmer in overalls. “She probably hasn’t had a date since her husband died some twenty years ago.”

  “It’s not really a date,” Toni pointed out. “More like a... mixer.”

  “Even so,” said Petra, a faint smile playing at her lips, “it’s nice and sociable.” Petra, as head baker and chef at the Cackleberry Club, was the third partner in the troika. Big-boned and bighearted, she had a clean, square-jawed face with shining brown eyes. Today, the green ivy-print apron she wore over her chef’s jacket matched the bright green Crocs she wore on her size-ten feet. Petra, too, had lost her husband, only in a different but just as heartbreaking way. Donny suffered from Alzheimer’s and now resided in the Center City Nursing Home. Though Petra visited him constantly, Donny was rarely responsive.

  “You going to pass out those bars?” Suzanne asked Toni.

  “Yup,” replied Toni. “Then I’m gonna blow my whistle and move ‘em on again.”

  “Excellent,” said Suzanne, grabbing a lemon bar dusted with powdered sugar as Toni moved off.

  “Those are for our guests,” Petra said, scolding.

  “Can’t help it, they’re so good.” Suzanne laughed.

  “Well, in that case...” said Petra.

  Suzanne and Petra grabbed steaming pots of coffee and Darjeeling tea and wound their way through the tables, pouring refills and doing their fair share of eavesdropping.

  ‘This really is a success,” said Petra, when they met back behind the counter. Then she made a tiny grimace. “I just hope our Quilt Trail is this popular.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Suzanne, ever the civic booster, “you’ve been working with the historical society, planning it for months. It’s gonna be like gangbusters!”

  The Quilt Trail was a special event Petra had talked the Logan County Historical Society into sponsoring, and it kicked off tomorrow. Giant quilt squares, painted on blocks of wood, had been hung on the county’s historical homes, barns, historic sites, farmer’s markets, and quaint country restaurants. Self-guided maps had been readied to lead tour goers to these special sites via a meandering route through the most picturesque and remote parts of the county.

  “Still,” said Petra, as she measured Kona coffee into the coffeemaker, “I always ...”

  “Are you insane?” came the sudden burst of a woman’s shrill voice. It rose above the normal buzz and clatter, instantly causing heads to turn.

  Petra frowned and glanced over. “Jane?” she murmured. Jane Buckley was one of her best friends. And right now, Jane Buckley was beaucoup angry over something.

  “You’re the one who’s crazy!” a male voice shouted back, matching and even exceeding Jane in volume.

  You could have heard a pin drop in the Cackleberry Club. Then chairs scraped and necks craned as everyone tried to see what Jane Buckley and Chuck Peebler were shouting about.

  “If I find out that you...” Chuck Peebler raged again, only to shrink back in his chair as Toni leaned down and blew her whistle directly in his ear.

  ‘Time to switch!” Toni cried. “Move along, move along, just like the Mad Hatter’s tea party!”

  “Fast thinking,” Suzanne breathed, watching everyone change partners again.

  “Why was Peebler yelling at Jane?” wondered Petra.

  “Maybe because she disagrees with his political platform?” Suzanne speculated. Chuck Peebler was a mayoral

  candidate running against the incumbent Mayor Mobley. Though popular opinion held that Peebler would be a breath of fresh air, after Mobley’s dirty tricks and politics.

  Except, perhaps, Jane?

  Toni came tripping up to Suzanne and Petra, smiling broadly. “Pretty crazy, huh?” she trilled. “Kind of like our own version of The Bachelor or The Bachelorette.”

  “Seemed more like Survivor to me,” Petra murmured.

  Twenty minutes later, the event was slowly winding down. Men and women shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and exchanged phone numbers. More than a few bought books.

  That was just peachy with Suzanne, who was hunkered in the Book Nook, ringing up sales like crazy. She watched mysteries, cookbooks, and even romance novels fly off the shelves. Maybe because interest had been piqued, maybe because she was discounting everything 20 percent tonight.

  Whatever the reason, sales were good, and the evening had been a lot of laughs.

  “You okay over there, Mr. Mayor?” Suzanne asked Chuck Peebler. He was lingering in the Book Nook, nosing through books on the Korean War.

  “Sorry about...” Peebler began. Then, because he didn’t look particularly eager to explain his earlier outburst, he amended his words to just, “Sorry.”

  Suzanne pushed the cash register closed and walked out into the empty cafe with Peebler. Toni was humming to herself and halfheartedly pushing a broom around. Petra had already gone home for the night.

  “You need help?” Suzanne asked Toni.

  Toni shook her head. “I’m cool, but the front door’s already locked, so you two will have to go out the back.”

  “No problem,” said Suzanne. She smiled at Peebler, who still looked slightly sheepish, then added, “We’ll just scoot through the kitchen. Easier than unlocking the front door and resetting the security system.�
�

  Peebler nodded, as he followed her through the swinging door. “Sure. I’m parked back here anyway.”

  Suzanne juggled her jacket, her purse, her keys, and a handful of Quilt Trail brochures as she pulled open the back door. “Know what I think?” she said, eager to forgive his earlier transgression, “I think you’re going to be elected in a landslide. Everyone in Kindred is fairly convinced that Mayor Mobley is up to his armpits in more than a few dirty deals.”

  “That’s why I’m running,” said Peebler, holding the door for Suzanne.

  “So a good thing,” echoed Suzanne. She strolled out into the backyard where her dog Baxter was pulling himself up to greet her. Suzanne grimaced, worried about the cool autumn weather playing havoc with Baxter’s arthritis. “Baxter,” she said, concern coloring her voice. “You okay, fella?”

  But Baxter had spun around and was staring directly into the dark woods where leaves rustled and shifted in the night wind and a twig suddenly snapped.

  “Did you... ?” Suzanne began, turning back toward Peebler. Then her words were interrupted by a kind of mechanical twang followed by a strange swooshing sound.

  Peebler’s hands flew up in protest as he let loose a harsh gasp and began to crumple.

  Suzanne uttered a sharp cry as Peebler continued his downward, slow-motion progression, wondering what on earth had happened to the man! Heart attack? Stroke? She put out a hand to try to lend some sort of assistance and was suddenly stunned to see a gleaming metal shank protruding directly between Peebler’s eyes. And just before Peebler fell forward onto the dry earth, she saw a thin trickle of blood ooze slowly down the side of his nose, like some unholy form of war paint.

  Dumbfounded, Suzanne lifted her head and stared into the twisted tangle of buckthorn and scrappy poplars that backed up to the Cackleberry Club. She figured that was where the arrow had zinged out from. And the terrified, fleeting thought that burst like a cartoon bubble in her brain asked, Am I next?

  Chapter Two

  Luckily, Suzanne’s survival instinct kicked in big time. Grabbing Baxter by his collar, she dragged his furry, protesting, sixty-pound body back inside the Cackleberry Club. Once the dog’s tail had cleared the sill, she slammed and bolted the back door, her heart thundering in her chest, her breath coming in rattley gasps.