Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Read online

  “I think I know who that is,” Suzanne choked out hoarsely. “We know who that is.”

  “Who? Who?” said Toni, sounding like a startled owl from the nearby woods.

  “It’s Lester Drummond,” whispered Suzanne.

  “The prison warden?” asked Toni, stunned.

  Suzanne gave a tight, wooden nod as she grabbed her cell phone. “The former prison warden.”

  * * *

  SUZANNE’S breathless 911 call produced a flurry of activity. Molly Grabowski, the dispatcher at the Law Enforcement Center, listened to her frantic, slightly garbled plea and promised to send Sheriff Roy Doogie right away. Then Molly told her she was also going to alert the director of the Cemetery Society, as well as George Draper, proprietor of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.

  “Send them all,” Suzanne begged into the phone. “And please hurry.”

  George Draper got there first, pulling up some five minutes later in a large black Cadillac Federal.

  “Limo here,” said Toni. She’d gotten over her initial shock at seeing the dead body and now, as they stood by the grave, felt brave enough to steal little peeks at the dead-as-a-doornail Lester Drummond.

  “Draper,” Suzanne said, under her breath. “I wish it had been Doogie who got here first.” Sheriff Doogie was a friend, the duly sworn sheriff of Logan County, and generally the voice of reason. She knew he’d secure the scene, kick-start the investigation, and begin asking all the proper questions. Because—and Suzanne had pretty much accepted this in her head without yet voicing the terrible words—there was no question about it: this certainly had to be a wrongful death.

  What else would account for such a bizarre scenario? How else would a dead man end up in a freshly dug grave? Even if Lester Drummond had passed away unbeknownst to them, no self-respecting funeral home would simply dump him in the ground and forgo a coffin, would they? No, of course not. It would never happen. So this had to be . . . an accident? Murder?

  Suzanne and Toni stood like frozen statues in the continuing drizzle as George Draper hurried across the wet sod. He was tall and gaunt and dressed in one of his trademark black funeral suits as he walked stiff and stork-legged toward them. Reaching the edge of the freshly dug grave, Draper gave a brusque nod and peered down. He studied the body that lay on its side, pulled his face into a frown, and said, “That was dug just yesterday. That’s Mr. Schneider’s grave.”

  “Not anymore,” said Suzanne. “Now it’s Lester Drummond’s grave.”

  CHAPTER 2

  SHERIFF Roy Doogie was the next one to arrive. His maroon and tan cruiser shuddered to a stop on the narrow road. Blue and red lights twirled idly atop his roof, but his siren was blessedly silent.

  Doogie climbed slowly from his vehicle, hitched up his pants and utility belt, and headed across the soaked ground. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders, jiggly in the hips, with a meaty face and a cap of gray hair. But the glint in his steel gray rattlesnake eyes and the sidearm on his belt indicated he didn’t take his duties lightly. Sheriff Doogie, with his hangdog face and outsized khaki uniform, only looked slow-moving. Truth was, not much got past him.

  Toni spoke up first. “He’s down there.” She cocked a thumb. “We found him that way.”

  Doogie strode to the edge of the grave and gazed down. He frowned, walked around to the narrow end of the hole, and bent down. As he did, Suzanne could hear the cartilage pop in his knees.

  “What do you think, Sheriff?” asked Draper. Of the four of them he was the least affected. After all, death was Draper’s business. He handled pretty much all the body pickups, embalmings, and visitations in the small town of Kindred. He also provided sympathy cards, guest books, and memorial videos, and he honchoed funerals at the Lutheran, Methodist, Catholic, Baptist, and Episcopal churches. Draper was an equal-opportunity, nondenominational funeral director.

  As Doogie straightened up, his eyes betrayed nothing. “Who discovered him?”

  “I spotted him first,” said Suzanne. “We were chasing Toni’s umbrella and we . . .” She saw his brows beetle, so she quickly cut to a more abridged version. “We were delivering flowers for the Sesquicentennial Celebration and just happened to find him that way.”

  “It’s Lester Drummond,” said Doogie. “Right?”

  “It certainly looks like him,” responded Draper. He inadvertently kicked a clod of earth with his toe and Suzanne flinched as it tumbled into the hole.

  “You’re positive Drummond’s dead?” asked Doogie. “He’s not drunk or doped or anything?”

  The notion startled Suzanne. “I think he’s dead. But I never . . .” She hesitated as a wave of guilt swept over her. Should she have done more? Could she have done more? Should she have clambered down into that grave and checked his respiration or pulse? Done CPR or chest compressions or something? It hadn’t occurred to her until this very second. Still, the notion of dropping down into that dank hole chilled her to the bone.

  “He’s deceased,” said Draper. He spoke with authority as he stepped closer to the grave and pointed. “You see how one side of his face is dark, almost a purplish red? That’s lividity.”

  “Lividity,” Doogie repeated. “That means his blood has settled. That it’s no longer circulating.”

  Draper bobbed his head, pleased that Doogie understood. “Correct. It’s a general indication that a person has been deceased for a number of hours.”

  “How many hours would you think in this case?” asked Doogie.

  Draper shrugged. “I’d be making a guesstimate, since I don’t have liver temp or anything. But I’d say at least two or three.”

  “I wonder if that’s what scared Missy away,” said Toni.

  Sheriff Doogie’s head jerked sideways, as if he’d been touched with a hot wire. “What’d you say?”

  Oh boy, thought Suzanne. Here we go. She drew a deep breath for what she knew was coming.

  Toni looked sheepish now, as if she wished she could take back her words.

  But Doogie wasn’t about to let it go. “Explain, please,” he said, waggling his fingers.

  Toni tried to piece together their story. “When Suzanne and I were driving into the cemetery . . . um, to deliver the flowers, we saw Missy Langston driving out. She was in an awful rush. Fact is, she almost smacked into us. So now I’m thinking she might have, you know, seen this?”

  “Is that true?” Doogie stared directly at Suzanne.

  “Yes,” said Suzanne. She knew she had to fess up, too. “We saw Missy back at that turn.” She made a quick gesture over her shoulder. “Where the stone sundial is nestled in those cedar trees. Missy practically sideswiped my car.” Suzanne fervently wished she had a reasonable explanation for why Missy had been fleeing the cemetery. Because, suddenly, their story seemed to be pointing toward Missy having some sort of involvement in Drummond’s death!

  “So she was in a rush,” said Doogie. “I wonder why?” He rocked back on his heels and stared off into the nearby woods, allowing his thoughts to percolate. Then he said, “Didn’t Missy and Lester Drummond go on a few dates together? Weren’t they kind of sweet on each other?”

  “No,” Suzanne said in a firm voice. “No way. Drummond kept making passes at Missy, asking her out. But she was definitely not interested.”

  “You’re sure about that?” asked Doogie.

  “Absolutely positive,” said Suzanne. And she was. She knew Missy had pretty much loathed Drummond. It wasn’t a particularly Christian attitude, to be sure. But Missy had confessed to her that Drummond made her skin crawl. Actually, he’d made Suzanne’s own skin crawl. There was just something about the man . . .

  Doogie gazed thoughtfully into the grave. “Well, something pretty nasty went down out here. Something or someone killed Drummond. And, from the way you describe your near-collision, whatever it was must have scared the pants off Missy, too.” He
continued to mull over the strange circumstances. “I don’t think it takes a genius to assume an incident took place between the two of them.”

  “You don’t know that at all,” said Suzanne. “There could have been two totally separate incidents. Drummond had some sort of freak accident or health crisis. Missy might not have even seen him. Maybe she was alone and felt scared or threatened and just took off fast.”

  “That seems awfully far-fetched,” put in Draper. Much to Suzanne’s consternation, he seemed almost amused at her attempt to conjure up a sort of alibi for Missy.

  “It could have been . . .” Suzanne began. But her words were quickly drowned out by the blatting whine of the ambulance. They all stood in the mist and watched as a white ambulance roared up behind Doogie’s cruiser. Then it turned and began to slowly nose its way down the slight hill and across the damp grass. It threaded its way among the markers and gravestones, headed for the open grave where they stood.

  “An ambulance,” scoffed Toni. “Lot of good that’s gonna do. I’d say Drummond’s way beyond resuscitation.”

  “We need to transport him,” said Doogie, with sudden efficiency. “Bag his hands and feet, see what sort of evidence we can come up with. I’ll need to get Deputy Driscoll out here to photograph the scene and . . .” He suddenly looked unhappy. “And then we’re going to need an autopsy.”

  Suzanne glanced at George Draper. “Is that something you can do?”

  Draper shook his head. “No, that’s absolutely not within my realm of expertise. We’ll have to bring in a medical examiner.”

  “You mean Sam?” Suzanne had been keeping company with Dr. Sam Hazelet lately. They were in like, definitely careening toward being in love. It was Sam’s turn, this year, to serve as county coroner. So she figured he’d be the one they’d call.

  “No, Dr. Hazelet can pronounce death,” explained Draper. “And decide which cases should be autopsied. But he’s not a trained medical examiner. We’ll need a specialized forensic pathologist to determine exact cause of death.”

  “Who’s best for this particular case?” asked Doogie.

  “There’s a fellow I know in Rochester by the name of Merle Gordon, Dr. Merle Gordon,” said Draper. “He’s awfully good. He’s an expert in gunshots and toxicology.”

  “Is that what you think happened to Drummond?” asked Suzanne. “He was shot or poisoned?”

  Draper looked vexed. “It’s impossible to tell anything at this point, until we get him out of there.”

  “How are you going to do that?” asked Suzanne.

  Draper spun on his heels and gazed at Doogie. “How are you going to do that?”

  Doogie’s hound dog face suddenly took on a sickly cast. “You want me to do it?”

  “You’re the one in charge,” Draper snapped. “You’re the duly elected sheriff.” He edged away from the grave. “Once you get him up, you can deliver him to my back door.”

  Toni looked at Doogie. “I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  Doogie didn’t look happy. “Hash browns, bacon, and scrambled eggs,” he mumbled.

  “Scrambled eggs!” exclaimed Toni. “That’s exactly what we’re planning to serve at the Cackleberry Club this morning.”

  * * *

  PETRA, their baker and short-order chef, stared at them, a look of disbelief on her broad Scandinavian face. “You found what?”

  Suzanne and Toni had just returned to the Cackleberry Club and were hunkered in the kitchen. They spilled out their story, even as they got ready to dash into the café and take orders. The kitchen was already redolent with the aroma of sizzling sausage, peppery hash browns, and oatmeal muffins. Petra rattled pans and kept a watchful eye on her grill even as she gazed at them, a blue plaid apron wrapped around her ample waist.

  Toni rapped her knuckles on the butcher-block table. “Were you not paying attention the first time we ran through this? I said we found Lester Drummond lying in an open grave!”

  “I heard you just fine,” said Petra. She was big boned and big hearted, favoring jeans and loose-fitting blouses, her size-ten feet shucked into comfy bright green Crocs. Her kindly face and bright brown eyes usually projected a hearty reassurance. But this sudden news had upset her. “Dear Lord, how do you suppose Drummond got there?” she asked. “Who put him there?”

  “We have no idea,” said Suzanne. She draped a long black Parisian waiter’s apron around her neck and tied it in back. “Doogie’s securing the scene right now. I’m guessing he’ll drop by later and we can squeeze a few choice details out of him.”

  “Maybe he’ll drop by for lunch,” Toni cackled. “That’s if he can keep breakfast down.”

  “What’s this going to do to the Sesquicentennial Celebration?” worried Petra. “The festivities are set to kick off first thing tomorrow with the rededication ceremony. I mean, our church choir has been practicing for weeks.” Petra was deeply religious and a pillar of the Methodist Church. She was also a volunteer with the sponsoring Historical Society.

  “I have no idea how the event will be affected,” said Suzanne. “I don’t know if it will be cancelled or just proceed as planned.”

  “Drummond,” said Petra. “Dumped in an open grave.” She shook her head mournfully. “That’s just plain awful.”

  Toni shrugged, then cracked open the door to the café and peered out. “We got customers,” she announced. “And they look hungry.”

  Petra turned back to her industrial stove and sighed. “They always are.”

  * * *

  SUZANNE and Toni got busy then, doing their morning meet and greet. They settled customers at tables, rattled off specials, jotted down orders, and poured steaming cups of French roast coffee and English breakfast tea. True to its moniker, the Cackleberry Club did indeed specialize in eggs. The café’s creative repertoire included the heavenly Eggs in Purgatory, eggs Benedict, and Eggs Vesuvius, as well as more traditional breakfasts such as scrambled eggs, fried eggs, eggs over easy, and eggs on hash. On certain days, when the mood struck Petra and the stars aligned, she even whipped up specialties such as huevos rancheros, seafood omelets, and white bean breakfast hash.

  And their customers, as well as folks who ambled down Highway 65 and stumbled upon the Cackleberry Club, pretty much adored the place. The whitewashed walls were decorated with antique plates, grapevine wreaths, old tin signs, and turn-of-the-century photos. Wooden shelves were jammed with clutches of ceramic chickens and forties’-era salt and pepper shakers. Besides the battered tables, there was a large marble counter and soda fountain backdrop that had been salvaged from an old drugstore in nearby Jessup.

  The rest of the place, the Cackleberry Club in toto, was a homey, crazy-quilt warren of rooms that almost defied description. Across the hall from the café was the Book Nook, a small space that carried bestsellers and boasted a fairly decent array of children’s books. Next door was the Knitting Nest, a cozy room packed with overstuffed chairs and stocked with a rainbow of yarns and fibers. Petra gave knitting and quilting lessons there and taught her occasional Hooked on Wool classes. Most of her customers were dedicated homemakers, a slightly crunchy-granola crowd that tended to favor nubby sweaters and Swedish clogs.

  * * *

  AS Suzanne ferried orders from the kitchen to the café, she couldn’t help but wonder about Missy Langston. Why had Missy looked so frightened this morning? What had she laid eyes on? And what part, if any, had she played in this morning’s bizarre scenario?

  There were a ton of questions to be asked and only Missy could answer them. Suzanne glanced around at the tables, deciding that once everyone was served, she’d slip into her office behind the Book Nook and give Missy a call. She hoped she’d reach her before Sheriff Doogie did.

  “Suzanne,” Petra called, hunching down to look through the pass-through. “Got your pancake order here.”

  Suzanne delivered a stack of but
termilk pancakes dripping with maple syrup, refilled coffee cups, and hastily put together an order of turkey bacon and English muffins for a take-out customer. She was especially happy that a few customers were ordering one of their newest side dishes, quinoa breakfast cookies. They were sweet and robust and healthy.

  Then, when all her customers were finally enjoying their breakfasts, she dashed into the office to make her private call, away from prying eyes and ears that could launch an avalanche of town gossip. Punching numbers in by heart, she dialed Missy’s cell phone. It rang six times, then went to voice mail.

  “Missy,” said Suzanne, keeping her voice low. “Call me. It’s real important. I need to talk to you about this morning. Toni and I saw you, Missy. We were at the cemetery, too!”

  Hustling back out to the café, Suzanne grabbed a fresh pot of coffee and made the rounds again, joking with her customers as she poured generous refills. But all the while she continued to think about Missy. And worried about the fact that Lester Drummond had hound-dogged after her for the last few months. He’d flirted with her constantly, asking her out, never wanting to take no for an answer. She wondered briefly if Missy and Lester might have had some terrible confrontation this morning. If so, Suzanne fervently hoped Missy hadn’t been caught in some strange, compromising situation where she’d been forced to physically defend herself.

  Suzanne grabbed a plate of fresh-baked strawberry muffins from Petra and began stacking them in the glass pie saver on the counter. And then was struck by the sudden notion that Missy might have been lured to the cemetery. Had Drummond tricked her somehow? And then threatened her? Had Missy been forced to act in self-defense?

  Suzanne was also burning with curiosity about how Drummond had died. Could it have been a heart attack? Or an epileptic seizure? Maybe his death wasn’t related to Missy at all. Maybe he’d been out jogging, minding his own business, and suffered some sort of desperate health crisis. Maybe, in his pain and delirium, Drummond had stumbled into the open grave and died. Or maybe he’d simply fallen into the grave and broken his neck. Could have happened.