Bedeviled Eggs Page 9

  Smiling and waggling her fingers back at him, Petra murmured, “Drummond creeps me out.”

  As Suzanne sped away, she happened to glance in her rearview mirror. “I see what you mean.”

  “Hmm?” said Petra.

  “Because he’s still watching us.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I really adore the idea of the oversized quilt squares,” said Petra. “They’re just so perfect.”

  “A new kind of X marks the spot,” agreed Suzanne.

  Twenty-eight hand-painted blocks, six by six feet in size and mimicking a quilt square pattern, now dotted the land-scape of Logan County. Each marking a designated historical site on the Quilt Trail map.

  “The first one’s easy to find,” said Suzanne, as she goosed her Taurus across a narrow bridge that rattled beneath her tires. “I’ve been by it a hundred times.”

  “But have you been in it?” asked Petra.

  “No,” said Suzanne.

  Number one on the Quilt Trail was an old log cabin built by Christian Schmitt, one of the first settlers in the area. Over one hundred years since its inception, the cabin fit so naturally into its woodsy surroundings it appeared to have grown directly out of the pine and hardwood forest.

  “Look at this,” Petra exclaimed, as they ducked through the doorway and surveyed the tidy little cabin. “Can you imagine living here?”

  The log cabin, constructed of hand-hewn logs and shake shingles, was small and cheery, with a fire hissing and crackling in its small stone fireplace.

  “Welcome,” said the guide. She was dressed in long denim prairie skirt, blouse, and bonnet. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Tiny,” murmured Suzanne. The home was only ten logs high and the ceiling seemed to press down on her.

  “Oh, but there’s a sleeping loft,” the guide told her. “Climb up there if you want.”

  “I’m sure it’s very cozy,” said Suzanne.

  The second quilt square marked a round, red barn that had been constructed in 1912. Old-timers believed that a round barn was more efficient for housing cattle, though it was also rumored that many round barns were built out of superstition. Apparently, an old wives’ tale claimed that the circular shape provided no corners for evil spirits to lurk!

  “Logan County is just rich in history, isn’t it?” Petra exclaimed, as they pulled away from the third site, the slightly down-at-its-heels Pine Grove Spiritualist Church.

  “The history is amazing,” Suzanne agreed. “But I’d take this drive just for the scenery.” The black asphalt road they were speeding down was winding and narrow. Red and gold trees lined both sides as they traversed wooden bridges and wound their way deep into gullies.

  A barrage of red and gold leaves streamed down and fluttered against Suzanne’s windshield. When she flipped on her wipers, they flew away.

  “It’s raining leaves!” Suzanne exclaimed.

  “The weatherman’s predicting three inches,” Petra joked back.

  The wind continued to swirl and whistle and more foliage fell on the car in a colorful kaleidoscope of red, orange, yellow, and rust.

  Rolling down the passenger side window, Petra stuck out her head and let the wind restyle her mop of salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Enough.” Suzanne laughed, as a couple of red leaves sailed in. “We’re getting blown to bits!”

  “But isn’t it fun?” said Petra.

  Twenty minutes later, Petra had checked off eight sites on her Quilt Trail map and the sun was sinking rapidly, barely an orange glow on the horizon.

  Still they kept going. The ribbon of road was hypnotic and the dark trees and fields of dry cornstalks seemed to hold wonderful secrets.

  “Hungry yet?” Suzanne asked.

  “Starving,” Petra admitted.

  “What’s the next place?”

  “Cappy’s General Store,” Petra announced, with some delight in her voice. “So... perfect timing.”

  Cappy’s was a family-run grocery and deli that could have been a stage set out of a 1930s movie. Much of the inventory was still rooted in the past and included canning supplies, penny candy, beeswax candles, and barrels of pickles. Of course, Cappy’s also stocked today’s basic essentials: milk, bread, eggs, coffee, deli foods, chips, beer, and lottery tickets.

  Suzanne and Petra headed directly for the deli, which was basically an old-fashioned meat-and-cheese counter with three small marble tables hunkered nearby. Massive country hams hung from the ceiling, while blocks of Cheddar cheese, rings of bologna, and home-smoked meats were stacked high in the cooler. Black-and-white tiles covered the floor in a checkerboard pattern, and ceiling fans (the original fans) circled lazily above them. “Love this old-time feel,” remarked Petra.

  “Love their food,” sang Suzanne, as they pulled out high-backed kitchen chairs and sat down at one of the tables.

  Petra squinted at the soup-splotched menu. “What are you going to have?”

  “I’m thinking soup and sandwich,” said Suzanne. She and Walter had stopped here two years ago, on one of their antique scavenging trips, and she could still taste the thick-sliced, brown sugar-cured ham on crusty rye bread topped with homemade Thousand Island dressing. Very tasty. So maybe time for a redux of that fine sandwich?

  “I think I’m a Cappy’s Classic Club kind of gal,” said Petra.

  “And soup,” said Suzanne. “See?” She touched a fingertip to the parchment paper menu. “They’ve got roasted butternut squash soup.”

  “Think it’s as good as mine?” Petra asked with a playful grin.

  “No,” said Suzanne, “but just on the off chance it’s tasty, I’m going to give it a try.”

  “Nicely put,” said Petra. “And oh so politically correct.” Which suddenly reminded Suzanne of politics and Mayor Mobley.

  “How much do you trust Mayor Mobley?” Suzanne asked.

  “About as far as I could pick him up and throw him,” said Petra. “Which for me is nada.” Then she squinted at Suzanne. “Why? What are you getting at?”

  “Just that Peebler’s death pretty much paved the way for Mobley to stay in office,” said Suzanne. “It was just so ... convenient”

  “Too convenient?’

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “That’s really the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  They pushed that upsetting notion away for the time being while they ordered, took a quick wander through the store, and were finally served their sandwiches.

  “Look,” said Petra. “Creamy coleslaw in little paper containers. I love that.” She paused. “Why do I love that?”

  “Not sure,” said Suzanne. “But I think there’s something reassuring about it. Maybe some deep-seated memory from childhood? Of going to an old-fashioned drive-in?”

  “Versus a drive-through,” said Petra. “Yes, I think you may be right.”

  Twenty minutes later they were stuffed, satiated, and ready to get back on the trail.

  “If we take County Road 9 back,” said Petra, studying her map, “I think we can still see the Atherton School House and the Cole house.”

  “Let me see that,” said Suzanne, reaching for the map. She scanned it, said, “Oh.”

  ‘Too far out of the way?” asked Petra.

  “Up in the Highland Hills area,” said Suzanne. She glanced at her watch, said, “I’m not sure those two sites will even be open.”

  “Maybe not,” said Petra, “but I’d still get to see the quilt squares that Toby Baines painted.”

  “Okay,” Suzanne agreed, “then let’s get going.”

  They paid their check, grabbed a loaf of pumpkin bread in the bargain, and climbed into the car.

  “And away we go again,” said Petra.

  “You really had a great idea,” said Suzanne, complimenting her on the whole concept of the Quilt Trail.

  “Scoping out historic spots, then highlighting them with the oversized quilt squares. Very inventive.”

  “Well, thank you,” said
Petra. “It was a labor of love. Of course, I had lots of help from quilters and all the volunteers at the historical society.”

  Putting her car in gear, Suzanne backed up slowly. And then, because she was boxed in and rain had started to patter down, Suzanne rolled her driver’s side window down so she could stick out her head for a better view.

  And that’s when a noisy, beat-up clunker of a pickup truck suddenly tore in front of her.

  “Whoa!” Suzanne exclaimed, braking hard as she was suddenly enveloped in a headache-inducing cloud of exhaust fumes.

  “How rude!” cried Petra. The clunker shuddered to a stop, then a man in olive drab slacks and a camo jacket jumped out. He slammed the truck’s door, then paused to stare at them through the streaming windshield. As his eyes bored into Suzanne, he bared his teeth and flashed her a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

  “Oh rats,” muttered Suzanne.

  Petra’s head whipped toward Suzanne. “You know who that is?”

  Suzanne’s fingers drummed nervously against the steering wheel. “I’m pretty sure that’s Mike O’Dell.”

  “The guy with the deer-hunting license?” asked Petra. “The stripper’s husband!”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

  “He looks positively unhinged,” said Petra, watching as O’Dell ducked into Cappy’s. “And furious.”

  Suzanne gunned her engine and shot out of the parking lot, fishtailing onto the narrow blacktop road. “If looks could kill,” she murmured.

  To soothe their nerves, Suzanne slid in a CD and pushed Play. The relaxing strains of Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 11 immediately filled the car.

  “This is nice,” said Petra.

  “It’s actually a CD of afternoon tea music,” said Suzanne. “All different classical artists, but conducive to tea and very soothing.”

  “Soothing is good,” Petra acknowledged. As Suzanne felt the music flow around her, her breathing quieted and she relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. Humming down the dark road, she took stock of the area. They were out in the most distant part of Logan County now, an area rife with steep hills, dark valleys, and rushing creeks.

  This was a favorite spot for hikers and all manner of outdoorsman. There were woodsy ridges and rocky gullies where a hunter could hide. Gurgling streams teeming with brown trout and rainbow trout. And even a few paths where hardy hikers or mountain bikers could test their skills over rocks and rills. It was beautiful, it was indeed God’s country, and it was very remote.

  Petra turned on a small overhead light to study her map. “I’m pretty sure the schoolhouse is out this way.” She nodded to herself. “Yup, this has to be the right road.” She folded up the map. “We’re on course.”

  “Hope so,” said Suzanne. The strange encounter with Mike O’Dell had left her nerves feeling raw and jangled.

  “I’m just dying to see one last quilt square,” Petra chattered. “It’s the wedding-ring pattern that Toby Baines designed.”

  “Toby still writes the advice column at the Bugle!” Suzanne asked.

  “She does, but she’s trying to get out of it.” Petra chuckled. “Are you interested?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “Not on your life; I have enough trouble writing my once-a-month tea column.”

  Petra popped her head up like a gopher, peering ahead as the road unfolded. “You see anything yet?”

  “Not a thing,” said Suzanne. “Maybe we took a wrong turn? It’s awfully dark.”

  “The rain stopped,” Petra said with a hopeful lilt in her voice. “Maybe we could give it a couple more miles?’

  “Okay,” said Suzanne, but she’d already decided to backtrack if something didn’t turn up soon. It was getting awfully late.

  Suzanne kept an eye on her odometer as she drove. One mile. One and a half. Two miles. Still nothing. Decision time looming. “I think we took a wrong turn.”

  “Ohhh,” said Petra, sounding disappointed.

  “Just too dark, I guess,” said Suzanne, easing off the accelerator and edging toward the shoulder so she could negotiate a U-turn on the narrow road.

  That’s when her headlights picked up the outline of a car, dead ahead of them. “Who’s that?” Suzanne murmured. The car was pulled way off to the side of the road, tilting crazily.

  “Someone had car trouble?” speculated Petra. “Ran out of gas?”

  “Holy smokes!” said Suzanne, as she bumped forward and her headlights finally revealed the true outline and

  markings on the vehicle. Because there was no mistaking the whip antenna, reinforced bumpers, light bar on top, and official emblem on the door.

  “That’s one of Doogie’s cruisers,” Petra exclaimed.

  Suzanne tapped her brakes and eased over onto the shoulder directly behind the cruiser. “It sure is. And it looks unoccupied.” She wondered what Doogie or one of his deputies could be doing way out here. Maybe an emergency call? Or call of nature.

  Putting her car in park, Suzanne said, “Sit tight, I’m gonna take a quick look.” She hopped from her car, engine still running.

  A low vibe had started to prickle up and down Suzanne’s spine. A car parked in the middle of nowhere? Seemingly unoccupied? The woods on both sides of the road felt dark, dense, and slightly ominous. If—and this was a wild thought that suddenly cascaded through Suzanne’s brain—if an archer was waiting with a bow and arrow cocked, she’d never see him. Doogie wouldn’t have seen him, either.

  Stepping silently over to the cruiser, Suzanne peered cautiously inside. And saw ... nothing. No body slumped in the driver’s seat or crumpled in a heap on the floor.

  Doggone it, she thought If I had any common sense, I’d hightail it out of here. But Suzanne stood firm, her curiosity burning like a signal flare.

  Cupping her hands to her mouth, Suzanne called out, “Doogie! Are you out there?” She hesitated. “Is anybody out there?”

  There was no answer, save the low hiss and rattle of wind through the forest.

  Suzanne backtracked a few steps toward her car, her nerves jacked up high.

  Petra rolled down her window, looking worried. “What do you think happened?” she called out. “Would Doogie or one of his deputies just leave their cruiser like that?”

  Suzanne shook her head, puzzled. “I don’t know. Maybe, if they had car trouble. But I’m going to take a quick look around, just in case.”

  “You want me to come with you?” Petra asked. But her quavering tone implied she’d much rather stay in the warmth and safety of the car.

  “No, that’s okay,” Suzanne called, already heading toward a sort of opening in the woods. “I’m just going to take a quick peek.”

  “Be careful,” Petra called.

  Careful is my middle name, Suzanne thought, all the while knowing she was dead wrong. Just my way of whistling in the dark, that’s all.

  Putting her hands in front of her, Suzanne parted a stand of tall reeds. And stepped into darkness. The woods were dark and dreary now, and the words Sleepy Hollow pinged in Suzanne’s brain. The sunset’s encouraging glow had long since vanished and blackness loomed in front of her in the form of twisted oaks and scruffy buckthorn. The mournful hoot of an owl echoed off dead and wind-stripped trees, and off in the distance she heard a high-pitched yip. Probably a coyote, she decided. Lots of those little pests thronging the woods these days.

  Turning up the collar of her jacket to keep the chill wind at bay, Suzanne called out, “Doogie?” Then, because the only other deputy whose name she could remember was Wilbur Halpern, she cupped her hands and called out, “Wilbur?”

  No response.

  She tried again. “Deputy Halpern?”

  As Suzanne ventured a few more steps into the woods, her eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark. Now she could see what might be a faint trail—a deer trail?—and a couple of places where cattail stalks looked freshly broken. As though someone or something had blundered hastily through the woods.

  So maybe... a
person?

  She pushed her way into the tangle of woods, mindful of wind rustling dead leaves and making them sound suspiciously like stealthy footfalls, her nose caught the putrid, rotten egg scent of brackish swamp water nearby.

  Two more steps brought her to the edge of a small pond and more broken cattails.

  “Doogie?” she called again.

  Pushing her way into a small clearing, Suzanne felt a sharp prickle, then bent forward to pick a cluster of brown burrs off her slacks. Her heart pounded a timpani drum solo of nervousness in her chest and she felt dampness seep into her loafers. Probably shouldn’t be...

  Overhead, the gray veil of clouds suddenly parted and a not-quite-full moon shone down its faint waterfall of silvery light.

  And that’s when she saw Deputy Wilbur Halpern.

  He was kneeling in a sort of clearing, head bowed, as if in prayer. His arms were pulled around a skinny poplar tree, a pair of standard issue handcuffs locked tight about his wrists. The young man’s eyes were open wide, his pupils fixed and dilated, mouth drawn back in a feral rictus of pain.

  And he was dead. Shot execution style in the back of the head.

  Chapter Eleven

  Standing transfixed, Suzanne stared at the dark slickness at the back of Deputy Halpern’s head, the deep, purple grooves where handcuffs had dug into his wrists. Probably, she decided, Wilbur had struggled terribly. The poor guy hadn’t gone down without a fight.

  She felt curiously solemn, like she should say a prayer or something. Until she heard a faint rustle nearby, maybe the wind, maybe not, and decided the smart thing, the sane thing, was to get the heck out of there!

  Sprinting to her car in record time, Suzanne clambered in and punched the locks.

  “What’s wrong?’ asked Petra.

  Suzanne struggled to catch her breath. “Call Doogie,” she said, frantically. “Hurry up and call Doogie!”

  Realizing something bad had just gone down, Petra yanked her phone from her quilted tote bag and hit 911. Then she quickly passed the phone to Suzanne.