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  “What kind of rumors?” Doogie asked, as his hooded eyes roved across the back counter.

  “Apparently Earl sold Driesden and Draper some key partner insurance and now George Draper is set to collect.”

  Doogie let out a sigh that sounded like a balloon deflating. “George already mentioned that to me.”

  “He did?” Suzanne was surprised. George Draper was either a completely forthright guy or else a master at setting up an excellent smokescreen.

  “Anything else?” asked Doogie. Now he seemed fixated with the chocolate-covered doughnuts that sat plump and glistening, covered with pink and yellow sprinkles, in the pastry case. Before the sprinkles, Suzanne used to decorate with little silver balls. But when a customer busted a filling biting down on one, she switched to the more dental-friendly sprinkles.

  “I have a theory,” said Suzanne. “That I’d like you to hear.”

  When Doogie scrunched up his face in disapproval, Suzanne pulled a doughnut from the case, set it on a small plate, and shoved it across the counter toward Doogie. That seemed to soften him up.

  “Okay, what’s your theory?” asked Doogie, grabbing the doughnut and taking an enormous bite.

  Doogie, the doughnut whisperer, Suzanne thought to herself. Then she shook her head to clear it and proceeded to lay out her meth lab theory. Basically postulating that crazy, whacked-out crackheads had swarmed out of the hills, on the hunt for supplies.

  “Already thought of that,” Doogie told her as he brushed away some of the sprinkles that had cascaded haphazardly down the front of his shirt. “Or, I should say, George Draper mentioned it. He said it’s not uncommon for meth lab freaks to break into funeral homes and veterinarians’ offices, looking for chemicals to brew up their poison.”

  “So drugs were missing,” said Suzanne.

  Doogie nodded slowly. “Appears so.”

  “You think there’s any merit to the meth lab idea? Are you going to look into it?”

  Doogie turned a flat-eyed stare on her. “You mean am I going to cruise Logan County, rousting folks from every cottage, cabin, farmhouse, and outhouse?”

  “Put out an APB?” Suzanne asked, weakly.

  “Nope,” said Doogie. “Although that’s what most people think I should do if I want to win reelection.”

  “By most folks you mean Mayor Mobley and his toadies?”

  “You got that right,” said Doogie. Then his nose twitched spasmodically and his head swiveled as though set on ball bearings as he watched Toni slide past them, carrying two steaming platters of Cackleberry Club Meatloaf. “Now that’s what I really need,” exclaimed Doogie, “to perk up a shitty day.”

  Chapter eleven

  The Silver Leaf Tea Club was an afternoon tea club you had to be over fifty to belong to. The tea club had been Petra’s brainstorm and had proved to be more popular than reruns of Friends. Always held the first Tuesday of the month, the Silver Leaf Tea Club attracted a huge following of wonderful, older women. To top it off, they were funny, gregarious, and always dressed to the nines.

  Besides attending church or going out to dinner at Kopell’s over in Cornucopia, there weren’t a lot of places around Kindred that gave a lady an opportunity to get all dolled up. But when they flocked to the Cackleberry Club for tea, the women of Kindred and the surrounding small towns pushed fashion to the max.

  One contingent of women always seemed to opt for the classic British look. Tweedy skirts and jackets, cream-colored blouses with pussycat bows, sensible shoes, tams and berets perched rakishly on well-coifed heads. Your basic Miss Marple wannabes.

  Another contingent went for the sophisticated Brooke Astor socialite look. Tailored suits, sheath dresses, strings of opera pearls, vintage crystal pins on their lapels, fifties-style felt hats, and antique mink stoles draped around their shoulders, the pelts clamped nose to tail with tiny mink paws dangling.Suzanne and Toni had worked feverishly to transform the Cackleberry Club into a proper tearoom. White linen tablecloths were draped over battered wooden tables. Small candles flickered enticingly in glass teapot warmers. Sugar cubes were piled in silver bowls with matching tongs alongside. Place settings included hand-embroidered placemats, elegant Haviland china with plates and matching teacups in the Annette pattern, and polished flatware. In addition, pink tapers and crystal vases filled with pink tea roses adorned each table.

  “What do you think?” asked Toni, lighting the final candle and stepping back to assess their artistry.

  “Very posh,” said Suzanne.

  “That’s the exact word I was thinking of,” said Toni with a grin.

  At ten to two, the Silver Leaf Tea Club ladies bunched excitedly outside the door. At two o’clock promptly, they entered the Cackleberry Club, oohing and aahing at the table settings that seemed so elegant and magical.

  Then Suzanne and Toni were off and running yet again, taking orders for pots of tea. Today’s offerings included Formosan oolong, Assam, Chinese Hao Ya black tea, and Egyptian chamomile. Of course, once a table had finished their pot of tea, they were free to select another variety.

  As Toni raced out with pots of tea, Suzanne worked beside Petra in the kitchen. They were serving all the food at once today, using three-tiered curate stands. This not only made serving a breeze, but the three-tiered silver stands were show-stoppers when laden with goodies.

  Scones graced the top tier, of course, which today consisted of Petra’s special cinnamon date scones served with mounds of Devonshire cream. The middle tier, traditionally used for savories and tea sandwiches, was filled with crab salad sandwiches, goat cheese and cucumber sandwiches, and cheese and honey bruschetta. Strawberries dipped in chocolate, almond bars, and small squares of lemon cake lined the bottom tier.

  Suzanne was finalizing the arrangement of the strawberries and almond bars when Toni came flying into the kitchen. “Everything ready?” she chirped. “Our dear ladies are sipping away and making polite inquiries regarding food.” She glanced at the trays laden with food. “Oh, wow, don’t those look special.”

  Petra gave an elfish grin as she added a few edible flowers to the arrangements. “And pretty, too.”

  “You’re so right,” exclaimed Toni. “Our guests are gonna jump out of their skins when they get a load of all this gorgeous food!”

  “Shall we carry out the trays, ladies?” asked Suzanne. “And make our presentation?” With great care, each partner picked up two of the food-laden trays, then carefully eased through the doorway and into the cafe. And their guests did not jump out of their skins at all, but instead gave their hostesses an enthusiastic and well-deserved round of applause.

  Halfway through the tea, Suzanne introduced herself (though they all knew who she was) and did a lighthearted presentation on tea etiquette.

  First up was a quick lesson on scones.

  “The proper way to eat a scone,” Suzanne explained, “is to split it in half horizontally with your knife. Then spread a little butter on the scone’s crumbly side, and top it with jam.”

  “What about adding Devonshire cream?” asked a lady in a plum-colored suit.

  “Put a judicious dollop right on top of your jam,” said Suzanne. “Enough for a bite, then use your small spoon to keep adding more dollops if you want.”

  “What about lemon in tea?” asked a woman in tweeds.

  “Personal preference,” said Suzanne. “But the accepted method is to put a thin, almost translucent slice of lemon in your teacup, then add your tea.” There was a soft murmur, then Suzanne added, “but never add lemon and milk to your tea. The citric acid in the lemon will surely make your milk curdle.”

  A woman way in back raised a hand tentatively.

  “Yes?” said Suzanne.

  “How long do you boil your water for tea?”

  “Ah,” said Suzanne. “You really don’t. The trick is to pull your kettle off the stove just as it begins to boil.”

  “Interesting,” said another woman. “Then how long should you allow your t
ea to steep?”

  “The rule of thumb,” said Suzanne, “is two to five minutes for green tea, four to seven minutes for black tea. But, of course, timing is always dependant on personal taste. And the variety of tea.”

  The woman in the plum suit raised her hand again. “How did you learn all this?”

  Suzanne gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. “Trial and error. And some really good books.”

  While Petra poured refills and chatted with friends on the cafe floor, Suzanne and Toni gobbled up the leftover tea sandwiches that had been sliced crookedly or, for some reason, weren’t up to Petra’s exacting standards.

  “They still taste good,” mumbled Toni.

  “And this cucumber and goat cheese is to die for,” said Suzanne. “Even if it’s not everyone’s taste.”

  “Cheese,” said Toni. “I wanted to tell you, we’re down to our last wheel of cheddar. I hope you were able to get Mike Mullen on the horn.”

  “I did and he says he’s busier than a one-armed paper-hanger,” Suzanne told her. “So I’m gonna have to rattle on out there myself.”

  “I got an idea,” said Toni. “Are you still going to Ozzie’s visitation tonight?”

  Suzanne nodded. “Sure. Though I can’t honestly say I’m looking forward to it.”

  “What if I picked you up,” said Toni, “and then, afterward, we drove out to Cloverdale Farm together?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Suzanne. “Is Petra coming, too?”

  “No,” said Toni, licking her fingers. “She’s going to visit Donny. But she’ll be at Ozzie’s funeral tomorrow.”

  Petra came flying through the swinging door. “My ears are burning. Someone’s been talking about me.”

  “Are you psychic?” asked Toni.

  “No, just psychotic,” Petra said with a laugh. “Suzanne, there are ladies drifting toward the Book Nook. You want to do the honors?”

  As a lucky strike extra for the Cackleberry Club, book sales were suddenly as brisk as the tea. And Suzanne found herself riffling through cardboard boxes in her office, pulling out extra copies of books that prominently featured tea and baking.

  “Remember me?” asked a short, pleasant-faced woman who hoisted a stack of books onto the counter.

  Suzanne gazed at her, then snapped her fingers. “You live out Highway 22. The Miss Marple fan. Or, I should say, Agatha Christie fan.”

  “Lolly Herron,” said the woman, offering her hand to Suzanne. “I’m so glad I finally got it together and came to one of your marvelous teas. What great fun. And marvelous food!” She patted her tummy and rolled her eyes.

  “Please do come again,” Suzanne urged her, as she rang up the books, then gave her a ten percent discount.

  “I will,” Lolly promised.

  “And don’t forget,” Suzanne told another group of ladies, “Tomorrow our own Carmen Copeland will be right here signing her newest book, Ramona’s Rhapsody.”

  “We’ll be back,” promised Minerva Bishop, a tiny little octogenarian whom everyone simply addressed as Mrs. Min.

  Once the ladies of the Silver Leaf Tea Club had taken their leave, once Joey Ewald, their slacker busboy, came in to clear tables and load up the dishwasher, Suzanne ducked into her office to make a few calls. She had a to-do list that was a mile long and most of it had to do with their Take the Cake Show.

  Suzanne checked in with Sharon Roper at SugarBakers in Jessup to make sure she was still willing to serve as one of the judges for the cake-decorating contest, then called Claudia Dean over at Darlington College to make sure she was still on for the fondant and frosting demos.

  Jotting notes, double-checking, and going over her final plans, Suzanne felt fairly confident they’d be able to pull off the event.

  What she didn’t feel confident about was helping Missy. She’d noodled the various suspects around in her mind— Earl Stensrud, Bo Becker, George Draper, and even Missy herself—and nothing seemed to add up. No one seemed to have held that much of a grudge against Ozzie Driesden.

  Of course, you never knew what anger or despair a person could hold and hide, deep within their heart.

  But a significant piece of the puzzle still seemed to be missing. Even Sheriff Doogie had pretty much said the same thing, in his own inimitable shit-kicking way.

  Wandering back into the kitchen, Suzanne was suddenly struck by a weird sensation. A memory tiling—synapse or flashback—that felt very unsettling, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” asked Petra. “You look like you just saw a ghost!”

  “It’s . . . nothing,” said Suzanne, trying to figure out what had made her so jumpy. But the memory or sensation or whatever it was, wouldn’t dredge up. “You know how you sometimes get a weird déjà vu thing going in your head? You think you saw or heard or smelled something familiar, something kind of unsettling, but you can’t quite figure it out?”

  Petra continued frosting her almond cake, a special order for tonight’s PTA meeting. “Uh-huh. I guess.”

  “That’s what I... oh, never mind,” said Suzanne. “It’s probably just some crazy synapse thing.”

  “Or hormones,” said Petra.

  When Suzanne jogged down her sidewalk that evening and climbed into the passenger seat of Toni’s car, the first thing she said was, “You got a new car.” Toni generally drove an old navy blue Honda, infamous for belching black clouds of oil until Junior hauled it into the garage and installed a new exhaust system. This car was a Ford Custom 500. Not so new, but not so dotted with rust, either.

  “Naw,” said Toni, “this is Junior’s car. He wanted mine for his deliveries, so he traded with me. I guess my Honda has newer tires or something.”

  “But this one’s got a bigger engine,” said Suzanne, fastening her seat belt, as Toni rumbled away from the curb.

  “It does have that touch of muscle car,” said Toni, sounding pleased.

  “And a CB radio.” Suzanne pointed at a box with dials and a backlit digital tuner display that had been haphazardly bolted to the dashboard.

  “Police scanner,” corrected Toni.

  Suzanne frowned. “Seriously?”

  “Monitors police, fire, and EMS channels,” said Toni.

  “You’re telling me that Junior monitors police channels?” said Suzanne. This seemed like a red flag to her. Another indication that Junior could be up to no good.

  Toni spun into a left turn so fast, Suzanne had to clutch the dashboard to steady herself.

  “You say stuff like that,” said Toni, “you make me nervous.”

  “You know,” said Suzanne, “I think you might have good reason to be nervous.”

  Chapter twelve

  To see Ozzie laid out in his own funeral home was bizarre beyond belief. For years he’d been the sober meeter and greeter for most of Kindred’s deaths and burial services. Now, here he was, lying in a gunmetal gray casket, wearing his black three-piece funeral director’s suit.

  Or at least Suzanne hoped it was his funeral director’s suit and not one of those awful, cheesy suits that were slit up the back.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” murmured Toni, standing at Suzanne’s elbow and peering at Ozzie.

  “It’s like watching a bad movie,” said Suzanne. “Only this is really happening.” She took a step backward, took in the arrangements of peace lilies, listened as Amy Grant’s “Say Once More” played discreetly from the hidden sound system in this, the larger of the two visitation parlors. And wondered who had made all these decisions? Who had selected the casket, the flowers, the music? Ozzie’s brother, she supposed. Although glancing around at the crowd, which was already quite sizeable, Suzanne didn’t see anyone that particularly resembled an Ozzie-type relative.

  “This is totally freaking me out,” whispered Toni. “Maybe we should go out into the lobby and sign the guest book or something. Besides, it’s freezing in here.”

  Shivering, Suzanne nodded. “Good idea. Sign the guest book, take a goo
d hard look at the guests. Because... well, you never know.” They grabbed each other and scurried out into the entry hall.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” said a tall, white-haired man as Suzanne finished writing her name. “Ozzie was such a wonderful man.”

  Suzanne set the pen down and favored the white-haired man with a sympathetic smile. Then did a sort of double take. “Oh,” she said, “you’re...” She couldn’t quite dredge up his name.

  ‘Ted Foxworthy,” said the man. “I used to own the funeral home over in Jessup. Foxworthy and Sons.”

  “Used to?” Suzanne asked. “Did you retire? Are your sons running the place now?” She’d been there a year or so ago for a visitation and funeral.