Egg Drop Dead Read online

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe right now.”

  Suzanne thought for a few moments. “Did you ask Noah if he owned any hunting knives or machetes?”

  “I asked him that,” Doogie said. “And he said no. At least none that he or his mother would admit to.”

  * * *

  SHERIFF Doogie didn’t leave right away. He followed Suzanne into the café and plunked himself down on his usual stool at the counter. The one with the sideways tilt to it.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Toni said. She slid a ceramic cup across the counter and poured him a cup of coffee. “What’ll you have, Sheriff?”

  “Maybe a piece of pie,” Doogie said.

  “We got pumpkin, apple, and lemon meringue.”

  “Gimme a slice of apple.”

  “You got it, big guy.”

  Toni bustled around behind the counter, pulling the apple pie out of the pie saver and cutting an extra big slice for Doogie.

  “You want a scoop of ice cream on that, too?” Toni asked.

  “Why not?” One of Doogie’s hands crept up to his gut. “I gotta get over to the Hard Body Gym one of these days. Lift some weights.”

  Toni set Doogie’s apple pie à la mode down in front of him and then gave him a fork and a spoon.

  “You know what my surefire workout is?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a cross between a lunge and a crunch. It’s called lunch.” Toni gave him a slow wink and spun away.

  * * *

  “HOW long is His Royal Highness going to sit out there anyway?” Petra asked. She was perched on a stool in the kitchen, working on the menus for tomorrow. It would shape up to be a busy day. Breakfast, lunch, and then their mid-afternoon Knitter’s Tea.

  Suzanne was in the kitchen enjoying a quick sandwich—cream cheese and roasted red pepper stuffed inside pita bread. Glancing out the pass-through, she said, “Doogie’s probably going to sit there until he gets bored.”

  “How’s he coming with the investigation?” Petra asked. “Any more serious suspects?”

  “Noah Jorgenson,” Suzanne said. “The neighbor kid. And you can’t rule out Claudia Mullen.”

  Petra looked worried. “Noah’s just a boy. And I still can’t believe Claudia would kill her own husband.”

  “I don’t want to believe it, either,” Suzanne said. “But look at the facts. Claudia is suddenly interested in selling her farm to Byron Wolf. Maybe a little too interested.”

  “Maybe Wolf killed Mike,” Petra said.

  “Maybe he did.”

  “You didn’t think much of Wolf, did you?”

  “I think Wolf is one cagey guy. He could probably pick your pocket and sell you a parcel of swampland in Florida, all in one fell swoop.”

  “Remind me not to buy any retirement property,” Petra said. “As if I can afford to retire.” She touched the eraser tip of her pencil to her chin and frowned. “We’re going to need a few groceries for tomorrow.”

  “Make a list and I’ll run out to the Save Mart,” Suzanne said.

  “Thank you.” Petra slid off her stool and ambled over to her big, industrial-strength oven. She opened the door, said, “Yum,” and pulled out a steaming hot pan of banana nut bread.

  Toni came rocketing through the swinging door. “Is that for us? I sure hope so, because I’m about ready to collapse from hunger.”

  “Didn’t you already snarf a sandwich along with two brownies?” Suzanne asked.

  “So what,” Toni said. “I’ve got a very high metabolism.”

  “Sorry, but I’m taking this banana bread to Donny tonight,” Petra said.

  Her husband, Donny, had advanced Alzheimer’s and lived in the Center City Nursing Home. Every couple of nights Petra drove over to visit him, feeding him cookies and sweet breads, watching TV with him, singing him songs from their past. When she was there, he responded beautifully to her. Once she packed up and left, he had no memory of her visit. Suzanne found it heartbreaking, but Petra had finally made peace with it. She was a till-death-do-us-part kind of wife.

  Suzanne, on the other hand, had experienced the untimely death of her husband, Walter. His presence was still with her, of course, tucked deep within her heart. But she’d processed her grief and, surprise, surprise, had also found room in her heart for Sam. Two hearts—really three now—beating as one.

  Toni reached into the Scooby-Doo cookie jar on the counter, grabbed a cookie, jammed it into her mouth, and, between bites, said, “What’s the deal with that Yarn Truck?”

  “It’s an old truck that two women rehabbed and turned into a mobile yarn store,” Suzanne said. “It’s supposed to be really cute and loaded with all kinds of homespun artisan yarns.”

  “They’re scheduled to roll in here around two o’clock,” Petra said. “But I expect we’ll have a couple dozen anxious knitters show up here for lunch. And then they’ll hang around until the Yarn Truck arrives.” She hesitated. “Toni, would you like me to make you another sandwich?”

  “Oh yeah,” Toni said. “That would be great. She gulped down the rest of her cookie. So . . . what time is our tea gonna happen?”

  “Tea at three,” Petra said. She buttered two slices of whole wheat bread, added a slice of roast chicken, and slathered on some of her homemade avocado spread.

  “We’ll probably be crazy-busy then, huh?” Toni asked. “Should I ask Kit to come in and help us?”

  Petra pursed her lips. “The girl is what . . . almost five months pregnant now?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t make her a bad waitress,” Toni said. “Just a little slow moving.” When Petra didn’t respond she added, “Hold the pickles, the lettuce, and the judgment, please.” She was referring to the fact that Kit still hadn’t married her boyfriend, Ricky.

  Petra smiled a thin smile as she sliced the sandwich. “I hear you.”

  Toni grabbed the sandwich, took a big bite, and said, “Guh.”

  “I think that means ‘good,’” Suzanne said.

  Toni gave a vigorous nod. She chewed, swallowed hard, and said, “Suzanne, would you come with me to Schmitt’s Bar tonight?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Suzanne said. She was just this side of disinterested. The local dive bar just wasn’t her thing. Imagine that.

  “Pretty please,” Toni said.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Margarita night,” Toni said, beaming. “You know, Jimmy Buffett tunes on the jukebox, a pitcher of chilled margaritas on the table? Please come along and be my wingman? Wingwoman?”

  “Okay,” Suzanne said. “But just for one drink. After all, it’s a school night.”

  “Oh, goody, goody,” Toni said.

  “Petra,” Suzanne said, “does Faith Anne Jorgenson belong to your church?”

  “Yes. Both she and Noah do.”

  “And they attend regularly?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Petra said. “They’re always there bright and early on Sunday morning.”

  “Does Noah participate? I mean in the services?”

  “Not really,” Petra said. “At least I don’t think so. And I’ve never seen him attend Bible studies.” She frowned. She knew exactly why Suzanne was asking. “But Noah’s just a boy. You don’t really think that he . . . ?”

  Suzanne blew out a glut of air. “Right now I’m not sure what to think.”

  CHAPTER 8

  BUT the afternoon wasn’t over yet. At three o’clock, almost precisely on the nose, Junior Garrett, Toni’s soon-to-be ex, shuffled his way into the Cackleberry Club. He was carrying an enormous orange pumpkin under each arm and looked like a street punk who’d just stepped out of a modern-day production of West Side Story. Junior wore pegged jeans, scuffed biker boots, and a d
irty T-shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled up in one sleeve. A silver chain hooked his wallet to his belt.

  “Pumpkins,” Suzanne exclaimed. “We were hoping you wouldn’t forget.”

  Toni was right there, too. “Where are the gourds?” she asked in an accusatory tone. “Don’t tell me you forgot the gourds.”

  “I got ’em, I got ’em,” Junior wheezed as the pumpkins slowly began to slip from his grasp. “Just hurry up and tell me where to put these stupid things.”

  “I’ll tell you where to put it,” Toni said. Ever since they’d separated (after Junior’s lying, cheating fling with the floozy bartender with the hot pink extensions in her hair), Junior seemed to rub Toni the wrong way. Only problem was, she continued to drag her feet on their divorce.

  Junior thumped the pumpkins down onto a table. “Jeez, Toni, who put a quarter in you today? Yap, yap, yap. Gimme a break, will you?”

  “You got the gourds?” she asked.

  “Of course I got the gourds. They’re outside in my truck.”

  “Okay then,” Toni said. She folded her arms across her chest, somewhat mollified. “Since you finally did what you were told, you might have earned yourself a glass of apple cider.”

  “And a cinnamon donut, too,” Suzanne said. Sometimes Suzanne felt bad about all the grief that Toni heaped upon Junior. Sometimes.

  “Can’t spare the time,” Junior told them. “I gotta keep moving. I got places to be.”

  “Where do you have to be?” Toni snickered. Junior’s meager talents weren’t exactly in demand. When he did land a job as a mechanic or factory worker, he rarely stayed employed for very long.

  But Junior pulled himself up to his full height and preened. “I’m a businessman now. Time is money.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Toni held up a hand. “Run that by me again, bucko. You say you’re a businessman? Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?”

  “Seriously?” Suzanne said. She knew that every crazy business Junior started had failed miserably. From his car cooker, to his Hubba Bubba beer, to his fried pig’s ears on a stick at the county fair.

  “Ladies, you are looking at the proud proprietor of the Typhoon Car Wash.” Junior stuck his thumbs in his belt and grinned like a demented Cheshire cat. “In fact, I just made a small down payment this morning.”

  Toni was stunned. “You bought a car wash?”

  “I’m the new bubble czar.”

  “What on earth did you use for money?”

  “I got resources,” Junior said.

  “What?” Toni asked. “Monopoly money? You realize the yellow hundreds are not legal currency. Real money has to have a picture of a president on the front, not some old dude with a monocle and top hat.”

  “Maybe he’s trading on his good looks,” Petra called through the pass-through.

  Junior puffed out his chest like a bandy rooster and said, “I got something better than good looks.”

  “What’s that?” Toni asked. “An oil lamp with a genie inside?”

  Junior flexed an arm and made a pitiful-looking muscle. “Sweat equity.”

  “Sweet dogs,” Toni said, shaking her head. “You don’t even wash your own junky truck, so how are you going to do it professionally? For actual customers with nice expensive cars?”

  But Junior was far from deterred. “That’s all been figured out. I talked Larry Butters into letting me fix up that defunct car wash he owns out on Highway 212, just past the old fish hatchery. We’re gonna be business partners.”

  “You mean Buggy Butters?” Suzanne asked. Everyone called him Buggy because his main source of income was selling beer at the local golf course out of a baby buggy that he’d turned into a rolling beer cooler.

  “That’s the guy,” Junior said. “Soon as I bring the car wash up to code I’m gonna start raking in some serious cash.”

  “You’ve never made serious cash in your life,” Toni said. “You couldn’t even give away a lawn mower on Craigslist. And every one of your pie-in-the-sky inventions has been a miserable flop.”

  Junior tapped an index finger against the side of his head. “That’s because I never had an angle before.”

  Suzanne couldn’t help herself. She was like a silly, fluttering moth drawn to the bright, hypnotic lure of the flame. She had to ask. “What’s your angle on this car wash, Junior?”

  “I’m gonna hire a bunch of hot-lookin’ women and have them do all the vacuuming and hand drying.”

  “What!” came Petra’s shriek through the pass-through.

  “So you’re basically going to be running a nonstop wet T-shirt contest?” Toni asked.

  “Well, heh heh, yeah,” Junior said. He looked a little sheepish, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I guess you could call it that. How else am I supposed to lure customers in?”

  “Perhaps with smart marketing and genuine business acumen?” Suzanne said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not in the picture,” Toni said. “Sounds like Junior’s going to take advantage of someone else’s assets.”

  “The best part of the deal,” Junior said, “is I get to handpick all the talent.”

  “Don’t you mean employees?” Suzanne said.

  Junior grinned stupidly. “I guess.”

  “This is the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done,” Toni said.

  “Oh no,” Junior said. “Remember the time I was driving a truckload of turkeys and the cages . . .”

  Toni threw up her hands. “Stop! I can’t take any more. This isn’t happening.”

  “Sure it is,” Junior said. “I’m going to hold open auditions for talent. Gonna print up some flyers, put out the call.”

  “Sounds more like a booty call,” Suzanne said.

  Junior sidled over to Toni and slid a hand around her waist. “If things don’t work out here . . . if you ever need a new gig . . . I can always find a spot for you. All you have to do is wiggle your hips and whip your chamois rag like you mean it.”

  Toni squirted out of his grasp. “Forget it, Junior. I’m not coming within a mile of your porno car wash.” She grabbed a teapot off one of the tables and stormed into the kitchen.

  Junior smiled after her. “She’ll come around.”

  “Junior,” Suzanne said. “Maybe you should just bring in the rest of the pumpkins and gourds, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Suzy-Q.”

  Junior made two trips out to his rattletrap truck, finally hauling in all the produce they’d asked for. When he dropped the third bushel basket filled with colored gourds on the table, he said, “That’s the last of ’em.”

  “Thanks, Junior,” Suzanne said. She was already thinking about how to arrange them. Maybe scatter some of the smaller gourds in among her collection of ceramic chickens?

  “No worries,” Junior said. “Just doing a solid for a fellow entrepreneur.” But despite his assertion of places to go and people to see, Junior didn’t seem like he was in a big hurry to leave.

  “Thanks again,” Suzanne said, hoping Junior would take the hint. The sooner he cleared out, the sooner she could get back to work.

  “So,” Junior said, edging a little closer to her. “I heard you were out at Mike Mullen’s farm. That you were the one who discovered poor Mike all cut up and bloody.”

  There it was. Junior was sticking around for details on the murder. Then again, who wasn’t?

  Junior’s eyes had gone big as saucers. “I even heard you ran inside the house to check on Mike’s wife. That was pretty risky, seeing as how there was a machete-wielding maniac on the loose.”

  “How did you know Mike was killed with a machete?”

  Junior guffawed. “Everybody knows that. It’s all over town.”

  “Great.”

  But Junior wasn’t finished. “Are you gonna get involved in
the investigation? Kind of like you did when Ricky was accused of setting fire to that old building downtown?”

  “Probably not,” Suzanne said.

  Junior cocked his head at her. “I ain’t buying your nonchalant attitude, Suzanne. I’ll just bet you gals have been looking at all sorts of different angles. You and Toni and Petra are the original Snoop Sisters.” He pulled his face into a knowing smile and added, “I bet you’re taking a hard look at that freaky neighbor kid, too, huh?”

  Suzanne’s interest was suddenly piqued. “How do you know about Noah?”

  Junior made a swooping motion with his hand. “I’m like a patch of ground fog. I slip in softly and hear all sorts of things.”

  “Most of it’s probably gossip and unfounded rumors.”

  But Junior continued to press her. “I could help out, you know. I could sneak around town and ask a few questions. Scrape up some dirt and report back to you, all covert-like.”

  “You’re not exactly a skilled CIA operative,” Suzanne said. “Besides, we don’t need your help.”

  “But I really want to help.” In two seconds flat Junior had gone from boastful to whiny.

  “Junior. Please don’t . . .” Suzanne hesitated. “Just please don’t, okay?”

  Junior shrugged. “Whatever. But you’re missing a great opportunity here.”

  * * *

  TWO minutes after the door slammed on Junior’s sorry ass, a man Suzanne had never seen before came charging into the Cackleberry Club. Tall and thin, with a precise, almost military, bearing, he wore a navy blue department store suit. The clipboard he carried gave him the air of an officious accountant.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “I’m here to see the owner.”

  “That would be me,” Suzanne said.

  “Oh,” the man said, his dark eyes drilling into her. “A woman.”

  “Last time I looked, yes,” Suzanne said. “I’m Suzanne Dietz. How can I help you?”