Bedeviled Eggs Read online

“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” said Toni, as Suzanne wandered back into the living room. “Something wrong?”

  “Actually, things have been put kind of right.” “Reverend Yoder’s better!” exclaimed Toni. “Toni, lots of things are better.”

  By ten thirty they were zonked on pasta, wine, chocolate chunk cookies, and a quartet of Sex and the City reruns.

  “Man, I love Samantha’s saucy attitude,” said Toni, stifling a yawn. “She totally cracks me up.”

  “She’s a pistol,” Suzanne agreed, getting up to turn out lights. “Dogs were out a half hour ago, so I think it’s time we head for bed.”

  Toni stretched languidly. “I’m so bushed, nothing could keep me awake.”

  A loud metal clank suddenly echoed from the backyard.

  “Wha...” said Toni, going wide-eyed, as Suzanne held up a hand.

  Tiptoeing to the window, Suzanne pulled back the drapery and peered out. Her backyard was silent and empty. Except, of course, for the holes that Baxter had excavated. And that his new compadre Scruff had helped scoop out a little deeper.

  “See anything?” Toni asked, padding up behind her.

  “No, I... doggone!” said Suzanne.

  “What?”

  “Motion detector light just flashed on. The one over the garage.”

  “Somebody pussyfooting around out here?” asked Toni. Her voice sounded tremulous and worried.

  “Not that I can see.” Suzanne pressed her nose to the window, feeling the coolness just beyond the pane of glass. “Oh wait. Something knocked over my garbage cans.”

  “Something? Or someone?” asked Toni.

  “I don’t know.” Then, when she saw the worry on Toni’s face, Suzanne said, “Probably nothing to worry about. Just the neighborhood raccoon looking for a handout.”

  “Or kids pulling an early Halloween prank?” asked Toni.

  ‘Trying to scare us,” Suzanne added, in what she hoped was a soothing tone.

  But Toni wasn’t buying it. “Huh.” She snorted. “They did scare us. I probably should have brought my security system along.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Toni grinned. “My trusty twelve-gauge shotgun.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Friday morning may have been Egg Strata Ya Gotta day at the Cackleberry Club, but a sense of unease pervaded the place. Normally the joint was jumping, but today it was a much smaller, more reserved crowd that had piled in for breakfast.

  “Everybody’s still nervous,” said Petra, as she rattled pans and poured pancake batter onto her blackened griddle, “even though two of the prisoners have already been apprehended.” They’d heard the news this morning on WLGN radio. Two prisoners had been found curled up behind a Dumpster in back of Paradise Pizza. Apparently, they’d helped themselves to a half dozen or so discarded pizza pies, then fallen asleep from the carbo high. At least that’s what they were reporting on the Bugs and Moe Morning Show.

  “But,” said Toni, looking worried, “two guys are still on the loose.”

  “Probably far away from here,” Suzanne said breezily. “Hopped a freight train or something, hightailed it out of the county. Maybe out of the state.”

  “People still do that?” Toni asked. “Hop freight trains?” “I dunno,” said Petra, “maybe they hopped an Amtrak.” “Dressed in prison pinstripes?” asked Toni.

  “You’re thinking of prisoners in those old black and white movies,” said Suzanne. “I think today they wear orange jumpsuits or something.”

  “Oh,” said Toni. ‘Trendy stuff.”

  “Holy smokes,” said Petra, “I hope they don’t pick up Joey Ewald by mistake. Wasn’t he wearing a prison shirt the other day?”

  Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Oh man,” she murmured, “he sure was.”

  “Suzanne. Toni,” Petra said in a quiet voice. She slid wedges of egg strata onto four plates, added a dollop of salsa, then a tangle of cilantro for garnish. “We have orders to deliver.”

  “If two prisoners are still on the loose,” said Toni, when she and Suzanne convened at the coffeepot, “where do you think they are?”

  “Not here,” said Suzanne. She gazed out at her customers, eyes pausing to study a few grizzled faces. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “Good thing I took that self-defense class,” Toni said, as she filled a pot of coffee, enveloping them in a heady aroma of French roast.

  “What was that again?” Suzanne asked. “Jujitsu?”

  “Krav maga,” said Toni, managing to keep a straight face. “The deadliest fighting art known to man. Only a handful of warriors have actually been initiated. I mean, we’re talking mortal combat.”

  “You go, girl,” said Suzanne.

  “You two sound like you’re having fun out there,” said Petra, when Suzanne strolled back into the kitchen.

  “It’s a laugh a minute,” said Suzanne.

  Petra glanced at her sharply, then said, “Oh you.”

  Suzanne nibbled at a pumpkin pancake that Petra had decided wasn’t quite perfect enough to serve. “Do you think we should call the hospital and see how Reverend Yoder is?”

  “I’m sure your doctor friend will keep you tightly in the loop,” said Petra. A slow smile spread across her broad face. “Am I right?”

  “I suppose,” said Suzanne. Tightly in his arms would be even better.

  “But we should certainly send flowers,” said Petra.

  “That’d be a nice gesture. Last night, Sam said there was a whole contingent there praying for him.”

  “Praying for Sam?”

  “No.” Suzanne giggled. ‘For Reverend Yoder.”

  “Then he’ll for sure get better, won’t he?”

  “I’m thinking yes.” Suzanne watched as Petra tossed a generous handful of slivered jalapeno and habanero peppers into her cast-iron skillet to sizzle alongside chunks of thick-cut bacon and rounds of diced Yukon potatoes. When everything was golden and brown, she added her whisked egg mixture to the pan. Tres bien!

  “Suzanne,” said Petra, who was keeping an eye on three different pans at once, “can you slice up those Granny greens?”

  “Sure.” Grabbing a silver bowl full of peeled apples, Suzanne balanced a half dozen apples on the cutting block and began slicing them into rounds. “You going to make apple fritters?”

  “I thought I might,” said Petra. “They’re such a nice autumn treat. Good alongside a pork chop, or you can serve ‘em with a scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert.”

  “You’re so creative,” said Suzanne.

  “Hah,” said Petra, “look who’s talking. You did the whole menu for the catering gig today.”

  “Something I’m not exactly looking forward to,” Suzanne admitted. In fact, she was pretty much dreading the Cashmere and Cabernet event.

  “Carmen Copeland can be a real trial,” said Petra. Though she never came out and directly insulted Carmen, Petra did seem to hit the nail on the head.

  Suzanne sliced for a few moments, then said, “Petra, you don’t think last night’s prison breakout could be related to the two murders, do you?”

  Petra, who had a wooden ladle halfway to her mouth for tasting, stopped and stared at her. “What are you saying, Suzanne?”

  “I don’t know. What if last night’s scare was engineered to be a... what would you call it? A diversion?”

  Petra frowned. “A diversion from what?”

  ‘Taking focus away from the two murders? An attempt to make Sheriff Doogie look bad? Reinforcing the need for a law-and-order mayor?”

  “That would never have occurred to me! Suzanne, you have a very active and suspicious mind.”

  “Sorry, but I’m just...”

  “No, no,” Petra said, waving a hand. “You bring up a legitimate concern. Lord knows, things have been kapow crazy all week.” She turned toward the large, stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a tray of small glass ramekins filled with crème brule. “And now that you mention it, the prison break
did take the edge off the murders.” She shook her head. “Now you’ve got me looking at angles and questioning motives.”

  “The only sticking point,” said Suzanne, “is that it would have to be a fairly elaborate scheme. And Lester Drummond would have to be involved.”

  “Do you think he is?” asked Petra.

  “No clue.” Suzanne thought for a few moments. “And the prisoners would have to be sort of dunces, handpicked by Drummond.”

  “He really bothers you,” said Petra.

  “I just don’t think he’s a nice guy,” said Suzanne. “Or even trustworthy.”

  “And he runs a prison,” said Petra.

  “Go figure,” said Suzanne.

  Petra was still considering Suzanne’s words. “So you think Mayor Mobley and Lester Drummond could be allies?”

  “Possible,” said Suzanne. “Anything’s possible. The thing to figure out is ... what’s the payoff?”

  “What do you mean?” Petra asked.

  Suzanne popped a bite of apple into her mouth. “Who stands to benefit?”

  “Good gizzards!” Toni cried suddenly, as she popped her head through the pass-through. “We just got hit with a spurt of customers!”

  “Be right there,” said Suzanne.

  “I’m going to think about what you said,” said Petra.

  Within twenty minutes the Cackleberry Club was over-the-top busy again. Suzanne threaded her way from table to

  table, pouring ice water and topping off coffee cups, while Toni studiously took orders. As Petra cranked out cheesy wedges of strata, scrambled eggs, and French toast, Suzanne and Toni hustled to deliver the orders.

  “Hey diddle diddle, it’s hot off the griddle,” Toni joked playfully.

  “Did you hear the one about the Roadkill Cafe’ Suzanne asked. “From your grill to ours?”

  “Good one!” said Toni, whirling like a ballerina, balancing her tray on one hand.

  But merriment and mayhem came to a screeching halt when Lester Drummond and Allan Sharp strolled into the Cackleberry Club midmorning.

  Lester Drummond, all broad shoulders and shiny bald head, was smiling like Hannibal Lecter after a buffet of fellow inmates. Sharp was equally slimy with a thin, snake of a smile crawling across his face.

  Toni flashed Suzanne a what’s up? glance.

  Suzanne answered with a shrug. Something sure looked like it was about to play out.

  Drummond strode to the center of the cafe, hitched up his pants, and broadened his smile. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

  Customers coughed, forks clanked against plates, and chairs were tilted to catch a better angle. Definite electricity in the air.

  Suzanne slammed the register shut but made no motion to interrupt Drummond. He could say his piece, but if he started spouting any type of politics, she’d put a hasty stop to it

  “I know you were all worried about the little incident at the prison,” said Drummond. “But I’m pleased to announce

  that all escaped prisoners have been apprehended and are once again locked securely in their respective cells.”

  The crowd broke into a round of applause. Murmurs of “thank goodness” and a few hallelujahs were heard.

  Incident, thought Suzanne. That’s a nice, benign way to soft-pedal it.

  Allan Sharp beamed, then strode across the room to join Drummond. “At no time was a citizen of Kindred ever in danger,” he added. “Our mayor Mobley saw to that.”

  There was another brief spate of applause, then the two men shook hands, as if they’d single-handedly sloshed through a swamp with a pack of baying bloodhounds and captured the prisoners themselves.

  When Drummond and Sharp wandered back toward a table, Suzanne hustled over to greet them. “Great news about the prisoners,” she told them, as she filled their coffee cups.

  “Thank you,” said Sharp, who seemed to have appointed himself grand poobah spokesman and PR muckety-muck.

  “My men found them in that old rock quarry out on Driver Road,” said Drummond. “They were hiding in a cave.”

  “So they didn’t get very far,” said Suzanne.

  “Not on my watch,” boasted Drummond. “We were able to react almost immediately.”

  “That’s right,” said Sharp, like a bad echo, “the warden’s own guards apprehended the prisoners. No thanks to Sheriff Doogie.”

  “I’m sure Sheriff Doogie and his deputies were out looking as well,” said Suzanne. “He wasn’t just sitting at his desk, twiddling his thumbs and listening to Kenny Chesney albums.”

  “Still,” said Drummond, “we’re the ones who got the job done.”

  “And Mayor Mobley is absolutely thrilled,” said Sharp. “The operation couldn’t have gone better.”

  “Sure it could,” said Suzanne, dropping menus into each of the men’s hands. “Those prisoners never should have escaped in the first place.”

  “You feeling more optimistic now?” Toni asked Petra. They were all gathered in the kitchen, muddling over Drummond’s news and prepping lunch.

  Petra nodded. “About the prisoners I do. I’m still worried about Reverend Yoder.”

  “Suzanne, why don’t you call the hospital,” Toni suggested. “See how he’s doing.”

  “Now there’s a novel idea,” said Petra, a definite twinkle sparking her eyes as she stirred a large pot of butternut squash bisque. “Give Suzanne an excuse to call her doctor friend.”

  “Already did,” said Suzanne, as she laid out ten yellow Fiesta ware bowls on the counter. “And he’s doing just fine.”

  “Sam or Reverend Yoder?” Toni sniggered.

  “Both,” Suzanne shot back.

  “Is Sam younger than you are?” asked Toni.

  Suzanne blinked. “What?”

  “I think he is,” Toni said, playfully. “Which officially makes you a cougar.”

  Suzanne tied a paisley apron around her waist and said, “Honey, you’re the cougar. Junior is ... what? Six years younger than you are?”

  “I’ll be happy when Toni renounces her cougar status,” said Petra. “Get that divorce she’s always talking about.”

  “You’re talking about me like I’m not here,” said Toni. “Like I’m some addle-headed zombie.”

  “When is that divorce going to happen?” asked Suzanne.

  Toni was suddenly busy stirring a vinaigrette. “Not sure,” she mumbled.

  “Oh no,” said Petra, “don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again!”

  Toni stuck out her chin. “I have a right. Besides, Junior isn’t without certain charms.”

  “Ah,” said Petra, “a man who wears a black mesh shirt is definitely a chick magnet. To say nothing about the grease under his fingernails.”

  “Junior tries,” said Toni.

  “Wrong,” said Petra, “you try while Junior bumbles through life.”

  ‘Toni works her kerfloppus off,” agreed Suzanne.

  “Could we please focus on our customers?” Toni begged. “And drop this particular subject?”

  “Gonna come back to haunt you,” warned Petra, as Toni bumped through the swinging door and disappeared into the cafe.

  Halfway through lunch, Sheriff Doogie stumbled in. With a weary demeanor and wrinkled clothes to match, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Which he probably hadn’t.

  Hoisting himself onto the end stool, Doogie planted his elbows on the counter, stared at Suzanne with bloodshot

  eyes, and ran a hand across the scratchy gray stubble that covered his cheeks.

  Suzanne sprang into action. Pouring a quick cup of coffee, she shoved it across the counter to him. “Nothing personal, Sheriff,” she said, leaning toward him and keeping her voice low, “but you look terrible.”

  Doogie glowered at her. “What’s not personal about that?’

  Suzanne immediately regretted her choice of words. “Sorry, what I meant to say is I’m worried you’re working yourself into an early grave.” She flinched again as those words came
out of her mouth. There’d been too much emphasis on graves and death lately.

  Doogie shrugged. “On my best days I’m not exactly a stud muffin, so I can just imagine what I look like on one of my worst days.”

  “Is this one of your worst days?” she asked.

  Doogie took a sip of coffee before he answered her. “No.” He pressed a big hand flat against the marble counter. “Worst day was last Tuesday.”

  “Wilbur,” said Suzanne. “How’s that going? Anything?”

  Doogie shook his head. “Nope. I’m workin’ the case, getting top-notch help from the crime lab guys, but we’re mostly coming up empty.”

  Suzanne thought Doogie might elaborate a little more, but he seemed at a loss for words. “At least the prisoners were caught,” she offered.

  Doogie shifted his khaki bulk on the tippy stool, causing the metal to screech in pain. “By Drummond’s own men. Security guys in blue windbreakers and baseball hats. Made us look like the Keystone Cops.”

  “The important thing is they were caught,” said Suzanne.

  “I know that,” snorted Doogie. “I’m not an idiot. I swore an oath to protect and serve.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Suzanne. “Take it easy.” She walked to the pie saver and grabbed a blueberry muffin. She added two pats of butter, then took it to Doogie. “How about the other case,” she asked. “Any new theories on Peebler’s murder?”

  Doogie’s jowls sloshed as he shook his head, then pushed the muffin back across the counter at her. “Nothing new.”

  Suzanne thought for a minute. “You’re looking at suspects.”

  “Of course I am,” Doogie said, sounding downright cantankerous. “And I’m looking hard.”

  “What if you focused solely on motive?”

  He sucked air in between his front teeth and gave a quick grimace. “I’m way ahead of you, Suzanne. I’ve done that, too. Studied all the angles, turned ‘em around and around.”

  “I take it you went through Peebler’s home?”

  “With a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Because if Peebler felt threatened or was trying to follow a trail concerning where his aunt’s antiquities disappeared to, there might be some sort of clue.”