Egg Drop Dead Page 14

  “You saw something?” Toni hissed.

  “I think so,” Suzanne said. At least, she was pretty sure she had.

  They stopped dead in their tracks.

  “What was it?” Toni clutched Suzanne’s arm as if her life depended on it.

  “I don’t know,” Suzanne breathed. But she wondered—was Claudia, fresh from her husband’s funeral, capering through the woods? She thought not. Was it Deputy Driscoll? But if it was him, wouldn’t he simply pop out and reveal himself? Wouldn’t he demand to know what they were up to?

  Another shadow slipped behind a tree, way off in the pasture.

  That did it for both of them. Holding hands, Suzanne and Toni raced toward their car as fast as their legs could carry them.

  CHAPTER 16

  IT should have been Flapjack Friday at the Cackleberry Club, but on this particular Friday half of Kindred was seated in Hope Church waiting for Mike Mullen’s funeral to begin.

  Suzanne, Toni, and Petra had arrived early and taken seats midway between the altar and the rear of the church. Petra, of course, had wanted to be prompt. Suzanne wanted to eyeball each and every person who showed up, just in case a suspicious mourner wandered in.

  Much to her annoyance, they hadn’t yet.

  Overhead in the choir loft, tiny Agnes Bennet cranked out “Wind Beneath My Wings” on the old pipe organ. She bent and swayed as her fingers flew across the keys, pumping the foot pedals as if she were driving an Indy car. The choir (only fourteen of the normally twenty-six-member group had shown up today) gamely belted out the lyrics as mourners continued to filter in and the church filled to near capacity. Mike had obviously been well liked and held in great esteem by the community.

  “Your head is swiveling like a periscope,” Toni whispered to Suzanne. “You must be on the lookout for Mike’s killer.”

  “Only if I’m suddenly struck in the head by lightning and develop a psychic sixth sense,” Suzanne said. “Or the killer hangs a great big banner around his neck that says I Did It.”

  Petra leaned forward and gave them a slightly disapproving glance. “I doubt you’re going to find any killers here,” she said rather stiffly.

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” Suzanne said. She’d just spotted Mayor Mobley and Byron Wolf as they entered the church. They both moved importantly and presumptuously, as if this funeral service were somehow all about them.

  “Look at Mobley with his bad comb-over,” Toni sniffed. “Making a beeline for the front. Sheesh, the guy’s wearing a crappy leisure suit with topstitching.”

  “I think that’s his golf jacket,” Suzanne said. She figured Mobley planned to sneak out after church and play a round before he headed off to join a few of his fat cat cronies for lunch. A typical day in the life of their busy, do-nothing mayor.

  Still, Suzanne watched Mobley closely as he plopped down in the second row, causing the wooden pew to groan loudly. And she kept an even more watchful eye on his buddy Byron Wolf. There was something about Wolf that she found distasteful. He projected a little too much swagger and bravado, was a little too hale-hearty-handshaking sure of himself. If she had to characterize Wolf she’d say the man was definitely slippery when dry.

  The thunk of the double doors opening at the back of the church caused everyone to spin in their seats. And, sure enough, there was George Draper, silhouetted in the doorway for a moment. Dressed in one of his Sunday-go-to-funeral suits, he hastily ushered in six pallbearers as he honchoed the rolling in of the gleaming wooden coffin.

  A murmur rippled through the congregation.

  “Oh dear.” Petra touched a hand to her cheek. Funerals always made her emotional.

  “There’s Claudia,” Toni said. “I was wondering when she was going to show up. Looks like she’s opted to lead the casket down the aisle.”

  “That’s a little strange,” Suzanne said.

  But Petra was leaking tears. “I find it very touching that she’d do that. They must have had a very loving marriage.”

  Maybe, Suzanne thought. Or maybe not.

  Claudia Mullen, dressed in a sedate black dress, her hair pinned into a retro French roll, walked slowly down the aisle. She looked grim, but that could be an act, Suzanne decided. Inwardly, she could be jumping for joy at the windfall she was going to get for selling the farm.

  Directly behind Claudia came Mike’s casket. It had been hoisted onto a stainless steel casket carrier that was being rolled down the aisle by six pallbearers. They were a robust-looking group, all red-faced, big-boned men. One of the pallbearers looked like he might be Mike Mullen’s brother and probably was. She recognized the other five guys as being local farmers as well.

  The wheels of the carrier clacked noisily as they proceeded down the aisle while an immense spray of white roses bobbed precariously on top of the casket. Once the casket arrived at the front of the church, Draper seesawed it into position and Claudia and the six pallbearers took their places in the front pew.

  Suzanne glanced about the church again. There were lots of friends and neighbors here, lots of folks that she recognized from last night. But there was no sign of Noah Jorgenson and his mother, Faith Anne. And no sign of Julian Elder, their friendly neighborhood horse broker.

  At the very last moment, just as Reverend Strait strode out to take his place at the pulpit, Sheriff Doogie slid inside the church. He stood in back, next to the baptismal font, a large, immovable object in a rumpled khaki uniform, appraising the entire gathering with cool law enforcement eyes.

  And just as Suzanne tried to catch Doogie’s attention (he seemed to be resisting her glances), Sam hurried in and sat down next to her. He gave her a warm smile, then reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it,” Suzanne said under her breath.

  “Didn’t you want me to make it?” Sam looked dead serious but his eyes danced with amusement.

  Suzanne slid closer to him so their hips and legs were touching. “Of course I did. But I didn’t expect you to move heaven and earth to be here.”

  “No biggie,” Sam said. “Just shoved a little earth to the side.”

  Petra leaned forward and eyed them, her brows rising to form twin arcs.

  “Petra disapproves of our talking in church,” Suzanne whispered.

  “Of course she does.”

  Reverend Strait had already launched into the service. Looking dignified and handsome with his white hair, dark suit, and solemn air, he’d opened with a blessing. Then he led everyone in prayer and proceeded to deliver a short but heartfelt eulogy.

  As always, Suzanne tried to keep her head in the game but her mind began to wander. She wondered why she could never seem to focus her attention at a funeral. Maybe it was because she’d buried her own husband not that long ago and was trying to block that painful memory. Or maybe because the finality of the whole thing was just too much for her. Was just too overpowering.

  The other thing that worried Suzanne was that maybe she just didn’t care all that much. Perhaps she’d come to the realization that life was simply a transitory trip and there was more waiting for her on the other side.

  She frowned and shook her head. No, that wasn’t it at all. If anything, she wanted to hang on desperately to the here and now, to grab all the earthly living she could for as long as possible. She guessed that what really pulled her away from the hard reality of the service was thinking about Mike Mullen’s murder. Wondering if she was on the right track to figure it out. To solve the crime.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Sam was suddenly peering at her with great concern. As if she were one of his sick or injured patients.

  “I’m fine,” Suzanne said.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  Suzanne squeezed his hand, prompting another look of reproach from Petra. “I’m okay. Really.” She arranged her face i
n a look of deep concern and decided she’d have to be a lot more circumspect when it came to this investigation business.

  * * *

  FORTY minutes later, the service was concluded. Music and voices thundered down from the choir loft, a few rays of sunlight shot through the stained glass windows, lending a somewhat hopeful glow, and the coffin was rolled back down the center aisle. Claudia followed in its wake, accompanied by a gray-haired, middle-aged, sniffling-into-her-hankie woman whom Suzanne hadn’t seen before. Was this a relative? Maybe the sister from Minneapolis? Probably.

  Out on the sidewalk, people milled around, forming into clusters, breaking up, and then reforming into small groups yet again. They expressed their condolences to Claudia, chatted casually about the service with one another, and then, as usually happened, began to pull away emotionally. The funeral was over, the deceased would be hustled on his way to the cemetery, and they were more than ready to jump back into their normal everyday lives.

  Sam was one of them.

  “I’ve got to take off,” he told Suzanne. “But I’ll for sure catch you tonight.”

  “Great,” Suzanne told him. “Thanks for coming. See you then.” But she was already looking around, craning her neck, trying to locate Sheriff Doogie in the scattering crowd.

  Finally she spotted him, cutting across the street, almost kitty-corner from where she was standing. He was heading resolutely for his maroon and tan sheriff’s car.

  “Doogie!” Suzanne called out.

  Doogie stopped, his hand paused on the handle of his car while he waited for Suzanne to cross the street. She dipped and dodged through a string of cars, got halfway across, then was bullied back by a large black SUV. Finally she made it across.

  “What’s up, Suzanne?” Doogie asked. He sounded slightly resigned, as if he knew she was going to badger him some more about Mike Mullen’s murder.

  Suzanne greeted him breathlessly. “I need to talk to you about Julian Elder.”

  Doogie stared at her. “Julian Elder.” He said the name as if he was totally unfamiliar with it.

  Suzanne quickly enlightened him. “Julian Elder lives a farm or two over from Mike Mullen. He buys run-down horses and then sells them to some Canadian dealer for horsemeat.”

  “And this should concern me why?” Doogie asked.

  “For one thing, because it’s awful,” Suzanne said.

  “In case you might have noticed, I don’t exactly have jurisdiction in Canada.” Doogie chuckled. “A bright red Canadian Mountie’s uniform isn’t exactly my taste.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Suzanne said. “Mike Mullen bought three of Elder’s horses. In fact, they’re stabled in his dairy barn right now.”

  Doogie continued to stare at her. “There’s no law against horse trading.”

  “It wasn’t trading,” Suzanne said. “Mike bought those horses in order to save their lives.”

  “That’s nice. Mike was a good guy. We all knew that.”

  “I think there’s a chance that Mike Mullen tried to buy the rest of those horses and got into an altercation with Elder.”

  Doogie’s shoulders dipped and he rocked back on his heels. “Oh jeez. Are you trying to tell me that this horse guy Elder is a suspect? That he was the one who killed Mike?”

  “He certainly could have,” Suzanne said. “I’m telling you, Sheriff, this Elder is a bad apple.”

  Doogie stared at her. “Huh.”

  “Don’t huh me, Doogie. What you really need to do is strap on your six-gun and investigate Elder.”

  Doogie reached up and slid his Smokey Bear hat back on his head. “First you were suspicious of Claudia Mullen. Then it was Noah Jorgenson. Then you jumped on the bandwagon for Byron Wolf. Now it’s Julian Elder.”

  “Need I remind you that you were just as suspicious of Claudia, Noah, and Wolf?”

  Doogie gazed at her. “You’re really serious about this Elder guy?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “But this is all speculation on your part,” Doogie said.

  “No,” Suzanne said. “It’s not speculation. This is based on the fact that Mike really did buy three horses from Elder. And I’m guessing he wanted to—or tried to—buy some more.”

  “To save their lives.”

  “Yes, to save their lives.” Suzanne paused and took a calming breath. If she acted too upset, Doogie might write her off as a hysterical female. Not someone with legitimate and relevant information. “Can you find out if Elder has any prior arrests or outstanding warrants?”

  Doogie was slightly amused. “Now you sound like one of my deputies.”

  “I could be one of your deputies,” Suzanne said. “Because I’m good at this. I’m not exactly an amateur when it comes to investigating.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everybody. Toni and Petra and . . .”

  Doogie put up a hand. “Hold everything, Suzanne. I’m not discounting a word you just said. But for me to go cowboying in to some horse trader’s farm . . . it’s not exactly within the parameter of the law.”

  Suzanne bit her lip. That’s exactly what she and Toni had done last night. Gone cowboying in. And almost gotten in trouble.

  “What’s your interest in this?” Doogie asked. “Aside from the fact that you found Mike Mullen dead in his barn?”

  Suzanne had to think for a few moments. Finally, she said, “I guess what I’m really looking for is justice.”

  Doogie stared back at her. “That’s funny. Here I thought that was my job.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I need another package of turkey bacon,” Petra called out. She was standing at her grill, flipping squares of hash brown potatoes, fried eggs sizzling in her cast-iron skillet. It was ten forty-five and the Cackleberry Club had filled up the minute they took the Closed sign off the front door. Which was about ten minutes ago.

  “Coming right up,” Suzanne called out. She dashed into the cooler, grabbed the turkey bacon, and delivered it to Petra. “This stuff is really catching on, huh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I mean, people are requesting it, right?”

  Petra smiled to herself. “Sometimes they are.”

  “Wait a minute,” Suzanne said. “Are you substituting turkey bacon for the real deal?”

  Petra set down her spatula. “You know what, Suzanne? I like to think I’m the good fairy for healthy hearts. That I’m doing my part to keep our male customers from dropping dead of cardiac infarctions.”

  “You’re substituting.”

  “Think of it as saving lives. Just ask Sam. He’s a doctor, he probably sees lots of heart disease. And the tragedy that comes along with it.”

  Suzanne folded her arms and leaned against the butcher-block counter. “You’re something else, you know that? Especially when your idea of vegetables consists of carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie.”

  “I try,” Petra said. She reached for the pepper shaker, then changed her mind.

  “Are you upset about the funeral?” Suzanne asked. For all her good nature, Petra seemed a little discombobulated.

  Petra picked up her spatula and poked at her bacon. “I guess I am. A little.”

  The swinging door slammed open and Toni rushed into the kitchen, hips swinging, ponytail bouncing. “Who’s upset?” she asked.

  “Petra’s got a funeral hangover,” Suzanne said. “She’s feeling somewhat morose.”

  “Yeah,” Toni said. “A funeral will do that to you. It makes you think about your own immorality.”

  Petra peered at her. “Don’t you mean mortality?”

  “Huh?” Toni asked. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Petra smiled. “Never mind, dear.”

  “I think the funeral made us all a little introspective,” Suzanne said. “We’re sad about Mike and wonderi
ng what’s going to happen with Claudia.”

  Toni grabbed a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe she’ll be sitting fat and sassy after she sells the farm to that hunky developer guy.”

  “Byron Wolf,” Suzanne said. She’d been surprised that he’d shown up at the funeral.

  “I saw Claudia talking to Wolf right after the funeral,” Toni said. “They looked awfully chummy.”

  Petra furrowed her brow. “Really? Claudia was talking to him?”

  “Chatting him up,” Toni said. “Heck, he was practically sitting with her at the funeral. And then, afterward, they had their heads together, looking thick as thieves.”

  “I don’t like to hear that,” Petra said. “It’s awfully . . . unseemly for a widow to carry on like that.”

  “Maybe Claudia’s a modern-day widow,” Toni said. “As in ‘the times they are a-changin’.’”

  “Maybe,” Petra said. But she didn’t look like she was buying it.

  * * *

  THEY buckled down then, Suzanne laying out plates, Petra serving up her brunch entrées, and Toni delivering them to customers. Then they coalesced back in the kitchen and did it all over again.

  “Got the second shift delivered,” Toni chirped when she came back into the kitchen. “The Cackleberry Club is humming like clockwork.”

  “Trying to anyway,” Petra said. She’d already started mixing up her pizza dough for tonight and had just stuck two loaves of molasses bread in the oven.

  “But I’m still not sure if we’re serving breakfast or lunch,” Toni said.

  Petra put both hands on her hips and turned to face her. “Did you not check out the chalkboard?”

  Toni shook her head. “Not exactly. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been busting my buns out there.”

  “We’re serving brunch,” Suzanne said.

  “Got it.” Toni gave a thumbs-up sign. “I like that brunch always sounds so classy. Hey, Pet, are you baking molasses bread?”

  “Just stuck it in the oven,” Petra said. “Along with a pan of apple scones.”