Egg Drop Dead Page 8

  The man transferred his clipboard to his left hand and extended his right hand. “Rick Boyle. executive vice president at Claggett Foods.” He hesitated for a moment, letting his title sink in, hoping to impress her. “It is so nice to finally meet you.”

  “Ah,” Suzanne said. “Claggett Foods.” She knew that Claggett Foods was a regional company that provided restaurants and grocery stores with so-so produce and meat. None of their products were that great and definitely didn’t live up to the standards she’d set for their farm-to-table restaurant. She’d always insisted on using hormone-free meat, free-range chickens, fresh eggs, and locally produced vegetables and artisan breads. If she spent a little more money on inventory, so be it. The local producers prospered and her customers were happy. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Mrs. Dietz . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to take a few minutes to familiarize you with some of Claggett Foods’ excellent products and tell you about some of the exciting changes our company has made.”

  “I hate to waste your time, Mr. Boyle, but I’m pretty happy with the vendors and producers I already have.”

  Boyle held up a hand. “Now, just a minute. I’m in charge of boosting sales for this particular region and there’s nothing I like better than a challenge. Now if you’ll just let me . . .”

  Suzanne shook her head. “I’m sorry. But we really are pretty well set. If you’d care to leave your business card and product sheets, maybe I can . . .”

  “You see now,” Boyle said, “here’s where we differ in principle. I haven’t even begun to tell you how much money I can save you.” He grinned. “I mean, who doesn’t like to shave a little off the bottom line, right? It makes for a win-win situation for both of us.” He winked at her. “And nobody, meaning your customers, are ever the wiser.”

  “Mr. Boyle, I’m sure you’re very good at your job . . .”

  “I’m the best,” Boyle said. “At sales, service, and marketing. Which is why I’m primed to take over as your new cheese and dairy vendor.”

  “My new cheese . . .” Suzanne was completely taken aback. Mike Mullen hadn’t even had a proper burial yet and this guy was pitching to be his replacement? Boyle’s pushiness didn’t just annoy her, it made her heartsick.

  Boyle peeled off a sheet from his clipboard and thrust it at her. “Now I happen to know that your cheese vendor recently met an untimely end. So I took the liberty of drawing up an initial order. You see, I’ve even listed our wholesale prices on ten-pound wheels of cheddar, blue, and pepper jack cheese. I believe you’ll find . . .”

  “Excuse me,” Suzanne said, feeling uneasy. “But you really do need to leave.” She started to back away from him. “This isn’t . . . no way is this going to work.”

  But Boyle was undeterred. He flashed a knowing crocodile smile at her and his eyes glittered. “You and I both know you need a new cheese supplier, so I plan to come back and pitch you again—as many times as necessary. I’m pleased to say that several other area restaurants and grocers have already jumped on board with me, so I’m not going to give up easily.”

  * * *

  SUZANNE’S blood pressure didn’t dip back to normal until Boyle’s car pulled out of her parking lot and disappeared down the road. Then she turned away from the window and bit her lip. The nerve of him. Considering the awful circumstances of Mike Mullen’s death—which everybody and his brother seemed to know the details about—who in their right mind would dare to swoop in and pressure her like that?

  Toni popped out from the kitchen, a broom clutched in her hands. “That was pretty weird.”

  “You overheard some of our conversation?” Suzanne asked.

  “Sure did. What a complete jerk to try and horn in like that.” Toni twirled her broom like a baton, then poked it under one of the tables. “At least the smell of his Eau de Brimstone cologne went with him.”

  “It’s awful to see the vultures circling so soon,” Suzanne said just as the phone rang. She grabbed it, said, “Cackleberry Club,” and smiled when she recognized the caller’s voice.

  It was Sam.

  “You have no idea how happy I am that you called,” she said.

  “What’s up?” Sam asked. “Are you having a bad day?”

  “Not anymore I’m not. In fact, I’m just happy about your excellent timing.”

  “It’s a gift,” Sam laughed.

  “So how’s your day progressing?” Suzanne asked.

  “Same old, same old. Man versus tractor, tractor came out on top, man required a dozen stitches. Then we had a nasty case of head lice among two third graders. And, let’s see, two ear infections. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, actually.”

  “I was wondering . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you heard any word yet about Mike Mullen’s autopsy?”

  “Suzanne . . .” Sam’s voice carried a warning tone.

  “Come on, it’s just a simple question.”

  Sam sighed deeply. “If you must know, it’s going on right now.”

  “No kidding.” Suzanne was instantly alert. “Over at the hospital?”

  “That’s right. Doogie’s medical examiner hit town this morning and got right to work.”

  “Are they going to share their findings with you?”

  “Only if I ask.”

  “So are you? Going to ask, I mean?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Come on, Sam, you know I’ve got a stake in this. You know that I’m interested.”

  “Maybe a little too interested for your own good. You worry me.”

  “I don’t mean to,” Suzanne said.

  “Oops,” Sam said. “My beeper just went off. Gotta go.”

  “Is that just an excuse to dodge me or is this a real emergency?”

  “Suzanne, everything’s an emergency these days.” And he was gone.

  Suzanne hung up the phone and gazed around the Cackleberry Club. Toni had finished sweeping and was setting up the tables for tomorrow’s breakfast service. Now all she had to do was cleverly place a few pumpkins and gourds. And, let’s see, what else?

  Oh right, Petra had given her a grocery list.

  Groceries.

  Suzanne’s thoughts immediately turned back to Boyle. What a jerk he’d been, coming in here and acting all presumptuous about being her new cheese vendor.

  Maybe a little too presumptuous?

  Boyle’s visit had struck a chord with her that she didn’t care for. And she wondered—could Boyle, in his haste to increase sales in his new territory, have had a hand in Mike’s death? Maybe he hadn’t set out to murder Mike, maybe he had just meant to scare or intimidate him. But then something went wrong?

  It was a terrifying thought. But so was the fact that poor Mike Mullen had lain in his own barn, helpless and bleeding to death, with just the cows to witness his final moments.

  CHAPTER 9

  “IF I have a bad day,” Toni explained, “I like to relax with a drink. If I have a good day, I have a drink to congratulate myself.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Suzanne said.

  They were sitting in a battered wooden booth in Schmitt’s Bar, snarfing down chips and salsa, as a rapidly growing crowd spilled into the place. Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville” blasted at nearly ear-shattering decibel levels, pinball machines clattered, and there was the sound of billiard balls being racked in the back room. The wood-paneled walls were covered with a mosaic of tin signs (I’m Not Lazy, I’m Just Very Relaxed was one of Suzanne’s favorites), and an American flag and a black POW/MIA flag were draped above the nearby U-shaped bar.

  “So,” Toni said, leaning forward, “Doogie’s going to let you into the investigation?”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Suzanne said. “He’s one territorial fella.”
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  “Even though you’ve helped him in the past?”

  “Mmn, I think Doogie’s got a very short memory.”

  “Or one that’s very selective,” Toni said.

  Freddy, the hippie-dippie bar owner, was suddenly hovering at their booth. “Time for a refreshing beverage, ladies? Perhaps a pitcher of our special margaritas?”

  “Ya got that right,” Toni said.

  “We’re serving traditional margaritas,” Freddy told them. “And as an added treat, pomegranate- and raspberry-flavored margaritas.” Tonight Freddy was dressed in his best Pink Floyd T-shirt, red bandanna, flip-flops, and had his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. In deference to the health code restrictions, his goatee was braided and kept in check with a teeny tiny gold ring. He was a stoner of the first magnitude and looked like he’d just stepped out of a Cheech and Chong movie. In fact, every time he blew through the kitchen’s swinging door there seemed to be a slight hint of marijuana.

  “I vote for the traditional margarita,” Toni said. “I just don’t get all these kooky flavored drinks that bars are serving these days. I mean, who wants a tutti-frutti martini, anyway? Yuck.”

  “Flavored cocktails are mostly for our younger patrons,” Freddy confided. “They’re big consumers of your crapple bombs, flaming Dr Peppers, B-52s, and duck farts.”

  “Those are actual drinks?” Toni asked. “They sound awful.”

  Freddy smiled. “They pretty much are.”

  “We also want a couple of burgers,” Suzanne said. Freddy’s grill was as black and crusted as the deepest pit in Hell, but still produced some of the most flavorful burgers in the tri-county area. Pink and juicy on the inside, a perfect char on the outside.

  “And give us the works,” Toni added. “Bacon, cheese, pickles, and fries.”

  “You got it,” Freddy said.

  Toni grabbed another chip, dunked it into the salsa, and said, “Dealing with Junior today completely wore me out. What a dim bulb. He wants to open a car wash that’s staffed with bimbos wearing bikinis? It sounds practically illegal.”

  “Or illicit. Do you think he can actually pull it off?”

  “I dunno. I hope not. I hope nobody shows up for his stupid tryouts. I mean, can you imagine it? Girls in string bikinis working for Junior? How many ways can you say ‘jailbait’?”

  “Or ‘sexual harassment,’” Suzanne said.

  Freddy slammed down a pitcher of margaritas on the table along with two salt-rimmed glasses. “Drink up, ladies. Burgers are on the way.”

  “Excellent,” Toni said. She grabbed the pitcher and, ice cubes rattling, poured out their drinks. Then she held up her glass and grinned at Suzanne. “A toast.”

  Suzanne clinked glasses with her. “What are we toasting?”

  “Here’s to a long, hard week.”

  “It’s only Wednesday.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Toni said. She took three big gulps. “I feel the need to let my hair down and loosen up a little.”

  “Honey, if you loosen up any more you’re going to positively unravel,” Suzanne teased.

  A couple minutes later, their burger baskets arrived and both women tore into them.

  “Ah.” Toni lifted her bun and peered under it. “The bacon fairy has arrived.” She shot a warning glance at Suzanne. “Now don’t go and tattle to Petra about us eating all unhealthy. Otherwise she’ll be on my case like stink on a skunk. First she wants to fatten me up ’cause she says I’m as skinny as a wet cat, and then she yells at me to watch my cholesterol. I mean, what’s it supposed to be?”

  “Petra means well. She just goes off the rails once in a while. We all do.”

  Toni gazed at Suzanne. “You don’t. Look how everything always comes up sweet red roses for you. You had the smarts to open the Cackleberry Club . . .”

  “After my husband died,” Suzanne reminded her.

  “And then you hooked up with Sam a little while later,” Toni said.

  “I met Sam in the ER after a crazy person tossed me through a window and I almost bled to death.”

  “Huh, I kind of forgot all those nasty details.” Toni’s eyes slid sideways and she said, “Say now. Take a look at that long, tall drink of water that just strolled in.”

  Suzanne followed Toni’s gaze and watched as a tough-looking man slid through the crowd, all shoulders and narrow hips, and then casually eased himself onto a bar stool. Wearing tight jeans and a worn-looking brown leather jacket, he was skinny and wiry with a stubbly beard, intense eyes, and strong jaw.

  “Who’s the cowboy?” Toni wondered, instantly intrigued. “I mean, giddyup.”

  “I don’t know,” Suzanne said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

  “Maybe he’s new in town? He doesn’t look like one of our local yokels. He looks like . . .” Toni tilted her head and thought for a moment. “Like he could show a girl a good time.”

  “Down, girl.”

  “I’m just doing a little window-shopping,” Toni said, but her eyes were clearly drawn to the stranger.

  The man at the bar ordered a longneck beer, rested his elbows on the bar, and sipped his brew slowly. Even though there was lots of flirting and dancing going on all around him, he seemed to have little interest in anything but his beer.

  “Nobody’s talking to him,” Toni said. “I think he looks kind of lonely.”

  “Or maybe he just doesn’t enjoy the witty repartee of a small-town bar.”

  They watched as the man tipped back his beer again, then curled a finger at Freddy. Freddy shuffled over to him and leaned across the bar.

  “The plot thickens,” Toni said. “Maybe he’s applying for a job here as a bouncer.” She chuckled. “He could bounce me on his knee.”

  “With a stone face like that, he might scare away the customers.”

  “He doesn’t scare me. I think he looks like the strong, silent type.”

  Freddy was listening impassively as the man spoke to him. It looked as if the man was making a pitch to Freddy, trying to sell him something. When Freddy shook his head no, the man seemed even more insistent. Finally, Freddy threw up his hands and walked away. The cowboy barked something at Freddy’s back and then returned to his beer.

  Five minutes later, when Freddy stopped by their booth to see if they wanted another pitcher of margaritas, Toni was still twitching with excitement.

  “Who’s the dude you were talking to at the bar?” Toni asked. “The tall, rangy guy?”

  Freddy wiped his hands on his apron. “Nobody you’d want to know.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Toni said.

  “But you seemed to know him,” Suzanne said. Truth be told, she was a little curious, too.

  Freddy ducked his head, as if he was almost embarrassed. “Aw, that’s Julian Elder. He was trying to sell me some ground horsemeat.”

  The words “ground horsemeat” seemed to hang in the air like a malevolent thought bubble.

  “Excuse me?” Suzanne said.

  “Horsemeat?” Toni said, shocked. “Like actual dead . . . horses?”

  “It’s not a pretty story,” Freddy said. “Elder buys horses, mostly old ones that nobody wants anymore. Glue factory rejects or something. He pays next to nothing for them and then sells them at auction to some guys up in Canada. There’s apparently a market for that sort of thing.”

  Freddy’s story completely horrified Suzanne. She was, after all, a dyed-in-the-wool horsewoman. Dearly loved her barrel racing quarter horse, Mocha, and her dear plodding Grommet.

  “I can’t believe it,” Suzanne said. “Who would . . . ?” She peered through the crowd at Elder, who was still lounging at the bar, and swallowed hard. “Well, I guess he would.”

  “That little nugget of information pretty much sucked the mojo out of the evening,” Toni said. She pus
hed her half-eaten burger away from her. “At least for me, anyway.”

  “Me, too,” Suzanne said. “Vegan is starting to sound good.”

  “And that guy is suddenly so not attractive,” Toni said.

  “I’m sorry to upset you ladies,” Freddy said. “I sure didn’t mean to.”

  Suzanne waved a hand. “We’re okay. A little bummed out, but we’ll live.”

  Freddy nodded, as if a bit more explanation was in order. “Elder comes in here every couple of weeks and tries to hustle a few pounds of what he calls horse burgers. Of course I would never buy that stuff and serve it here. It’s just not right.” He tapped his ample chest. “Hey, I’m a horse lover, too.” He hesitated. “So. Another pitcher? This one’s on the house for you gals.”

  “We’ll take it,” Toni said.

  Suzanne snuck another peek at Elder, who was still sitting at the bar. She was careful to avoid his direct gaze—she didn’t need him noticing her and getting the wrong idea. Still, she was curious about him. Especially since Freddy’s comment about Elder purchasing old horses had struck her so hard. She thought back to the pathetic herd of skinny horses she’d seen this morning on her way to visit Claudia. And wondered if Elder could be the owner of those poor creatures? If so, he was a very close neighbor to the Mullen farm.

  * * *

  THE bar lights dimmed and a slow, torchy song played on the jukebox. Couples filed hand in hand onto the dance floor, lovers melting into each other, hips swaying on the downbeat.

  “Jeez,” Toni said. “Now I’m really depressed.”

  “About the horses?”

  “No, because everybody’s all paired off.”

  “Honey,” Suzanne said, “you’ve got men flocking around you like bees to honey.”

  “Now I’m a plastic squeeze bottle. Great.”

  “You know what I mean. And you know darned well that if you divorced Junior you could probably be happy-ever-aftering with a really nice guy.”

  Toni ducked her head. “Yeah, I know. But if I wasn’t there to boss Junior around, what would happen to him? Where would he go?”