Bedeviled Eggs (2 page)

“Uh-oh,”
said Toni, putting a hand up to scrunch the
frizzle of reddish blond hair
that bobbed atop her head like

a show
pony. “A World War Two buff and a romance reader
just paired off.”

“If she’s into
historic romances, it’s a done deal,” said
Suzanne. Toni may have been a
show pony, but Suzanne
was both Thoroughbred and workhorse. With silver blond
hair brushing her
shoulders, eyes of cornflower blue, and a
penchant for slim-fitting jeans
and white shirts tied at the
waist, she could have breezed through an elegant crowd
at
an
East Hampton polo tournament. Instead, Suzanne was
CEO, PR director, and chief
purveyor of eggs and sundries
at the Cackleberry Club. This heartwarming Midwestern
cafe’, where all
manner of egg dishes were whipped up for
breakfast, had been launched
some eight months earlier,
right after Suzanne’s husband, Walter, had died.

In the weeks
following Walter’s funeral, Suzanne, not
one to put off decisions, had
taken a long, hard look at her
life, sorted through her various passions and penchants,
and bet the house on
the Cackleberry Club. Under the com
bined banners of sisterhood and over-forty BFFs,
her best
friends
Toni and Petra had thrown in with her to help revamp a rickety little Spur station
into a cozy cafe. Now,
with the addition of a Book Nook and Knitting Nest, the
Cackleberry Club had
become a kind of crazy quilt magnet
for knitters, book lovers, and breakfast lovers.

“One, two...” Toni
called loudly, as she stepped to the
center of the room, then blew an eardrum-busting
toot on
her silver whistle.

Which caused an
immediate flurry among the “read
daters.”

“Nice to meet you” and
“I’ll give you a call” echoed
throughout the cafe, as men popped up from their chairs
like manic gophers dodging potshots, then quickly moved
to the next table. Much clearing of throats and smooth
ing of hair, or what
was left of it, ensued as they plunked
themselves down to meet yet another
potentially available
female.

Suzanne figured that,
with any luck, the read daters would enjoy the books they discussed and maybe
each
other as well. Maybe.

“I’ve got one more pan
of blond brownies in the oven,” Petra announced, as she tottered from the
kitchen, bearing an enormous tray stacked with peanut butter cookies and
lemon bars. Her white
chef’s hat bobbed atop her head as
she hefted the tray and gazed out over the buzzing
crowd. “Can you believe how hungry these men are?” she asked.
“Our first two trays
of desserts disappeared in something
like three seconds flat. They didn’t even bother
to chew, they just... gunk... swallowed everything whole, like
crocodiles. Really hungry, I guess.”

“And for more than just
food,” Suzanne observed. She’d seen flickers of interest in the eyes of quite a
few men, who
ranged in age from fortyish all the way up to Methuselah.

“Typical,”
snorted Toni, coming up to grab the tray from
Petra. “All men are hot to trot,
aren’t they?” Toni had a
chip on her shoulder the size of Rhode Island, thanks to
her on-again,
off-again marriage to Junior Garrett, an over
age juvenile delinquent who was
known for his roving eye.
Especially when it came to floozy female bartenders with
tight angora sweaters and hot pink extensions clipped into
their hair.

“Still,” said Petra, “this
was a grand idea.” She nudged Suzanne. “You see Mrs. Moxley over there?” They
all
turned
to gaze at a cheerful-looking woman with a head of white hair who was talking
animatedly to a red-faced

farmer in overalls. “She
probably hasn’t had a date since
her
husband died some twenty years ago.”

“It’s not really a
date,” Toni pointed out. “More like
a... mixer.”

“Even so,” said
Petra, a faint smile playing at her lips,
“it’s nice and sociable.” Petra,
as head baker and chef at the
Cackleberry Club, was the third partner in the troika.
Big-
boned
and bighearted, she had a clean, square-jawed face with shining brown eyes.
Today, the green ivy-print apron
she wore over her chef’s jacket matched the bright green
Crocs
she wore on her size-ten feet. Petra, too, had lost
her husband, only in a different
but just as heartbreaking
way. Donny suffered from Alzheimer’s and now resided in
the Center City
Nursing Home. Though Petra visited him
constantly, Donny was rarely responsive.

“You going to pass out
those bars?” Suzanne asked Toni.

“Yup,”
replied Toni. “Then I’m gonna blow my whistle
and move ‘em on again.”

“Excellent,” said
Suzanne, grabbing a lemon bar dusted
with powdered sugar as Toni moved off.

“Those are for our
guests,” Petra said, scolding.

“Can’t help it, they’re
so good.” Suzanne laughed.

“Well, in that case...”
said Petra.

Suzanne and Petra
grabbed steaming pots of coffee and
Darjeeling tea and wound their way through the
tables,
pouring
refills and doing their fair share of eavesdropping.

‘This
really is a success,” said Petra, when they met
back behind the counter. Then she
made a tiny grimace. “I
just
hope our Quilt Trail is this popular.”

“Are you kidding?”
said Suzanne, ever the civic booster,
“you’ve been working with the historical society,
planning
it
for months. It’s gonna be like gangbusters!”

The Quilt Trail was a
special event Petra had talked the
Logan County Historical Society into sponsoring,
and it
kicked
off tomorrow. Giant quilt squares, painted on blocks
of wood, had been hung on the
county’s historical homes,
barns, historic sites, farmer’s markets, and quaint
country
restaurants.
Self-guided maps had been readied to lead tour
goers to these special sites via
a meandering route through
the most picturesque and remote parts of the county.

“Still,”
said Petra, as she measured Kona coffee into the
coffeemaker, “I always ...”

“Are you insane?”
came the sudden burst of a woman’s
shrill voice. It rose above the normal buzz and
clatter, in
stantly causing
heads to turn.

Petra frowned and
glanced over. “Jane?” she mur
mured. Jane Buckley was one of her best friends. And
right
now,
Jane Buckley was beaucoup angry over something.

“You’re
the one who’s crazy!” a male voice shouted
back, matching and even
exceeding Jane in volume.

You could have heard
a pin drop in the Cackleberry Club. Then chairs scraped and necks craned as
everyone
tried
to see what Jane Buckley and Chuck Peebler were
shouting about.

“If I find out that
you...” Chuck Peebler raged again,
only to shrink back in his chair as Toni leaned
down and
blew her whistle
directly in his ear.

‘Time to switch!” Toni
cried. “Move along, move along,
just
like the Mad Hatter’s tea party!”

“Fast
thinking,” Suzanne breathed, watching everyone
change partners again.

“Why was Peebler
yelling at Jane?” wondered Petra.

“Maybe
because she disagrees with his political plat
form?” Suzanne speculated. Chuck
Peebler was a mayoral

candidate running
against the incumbent Mayor Mobley.
Though popular opinion held that Peebler would be
a
breath
of fresh air, after Mobley’s dirty tricks and politics.

Except, perhaps, Jane?

Toni came tripping up
to Suzanne and Petra, smiling
broadly. “Pretty crazy, huh?” she trilled. “Kind of like
our
own
version of
The Bachelor
or
The Bachelorette.”

“Seemed more like
Survivor
to me,” Petra murmured.

Twenty
minutes later, the event was slowly winding
down. Men and women shook hands,
exchanged pleas
antries, and exchanged phone numbers. More than a few
bought books.

That was just peachy
with Suzanne, who was hunkered
in the Book Nook, ringing up sales like crazy. She
watched mysteries, cookbooks, and even romance novels fly off the
shelves. Maybe because
interest had been piqued, maybe
because she was discounting everything 20 percent
tonight.

Whatever the reason,
sales were good, and the evening
had
been a lot of laughs.

“You okay over there,
Mr. Mayor?” Suzanne asked
Chuck Peebler. He was lingering in the Book Nook, nosing
through books on the Korean
War.

“Sorry about...”
Peebler began. Then, because he
didn’t look particularly eager to explain his earlier
out
burst,
he amended his words to just, “Sorry.”

Suzanne pushed the
cash register closed and walked out
into the empty cafe with Peebler. Toni was humming
to
herself
and halfheartedly pushing a broom around. Petra
had already gone home for the night.

“You need help?”
Suzanne asked Toni.

Toni shook her head. “I’m
cool, but the front door’s al
ready locked, so you two will have to go out the back.”

“No problem,” said
Suzanne. She smiled at Peebler,
who still looked slightly sheepish, then added, “We’ll
just scoot through the kitchen. Easier than unlocking the front
door and resetting the security system.”

Peebler nodded, as he
followed her through the swing
ing door. “Sure. I’m parked back here anyway.”

Suzanne juggled her
jacket, her purse, her keys, and
a handful of Quilt Trail brochures as she pulled open
the
back
door. “Know what I think?” she said, eager to forgive his earlier
transgression, “I think you’re going to be elected
in a landslide. Everyone in
Kindred is fairly convinced that
Mayor Mobley is up to his armpits in more than a few
dirty
deals.”

“That’s
why I’m running,” said Peebler, holding the
door for Suzanne.

“So a
good thing,” echoed Suzanne. She strolled out
into the backyard where her dog
Baxter was pulling him
self up to greet her. Suzanne grimaced, worried about the
cool
autumn weather playing havoc with Baxter’s arthritis. “Baxter,” she said,
concern coloring her voice. “You okay,
fella?”

But Baxter had spun
around and was staring directly
into the dark woods where leaves rustled and shifted in
the
night wind and a twig
suddenly snapped.

“Did you... ?” Suzanne
began, turning back toward
Peebler. Then her words were interrupted by a kind of me
chanical twang
followed by a strange swooshing sound.

Peebler’s hands flew
up in protest as he let loose a harsh
gasp and began to crumple.

Suzanne uttered a
sharp cry as Peebler continued his
downward, slow-motion progression, wondering what
on
earth
had happened to the man! Heart attack? Stroke? She
put out a hand to try to lend
some sort of assistance and was
suddenly stunned to see a gleaming metal shank protruding
directly
between Peebler’s eyes. And just before Peebler
fell forward onto the dry earth,
she saw a thin trickle of
blood ooze slowly down the side of his nose, like some
unholy form of war paint.

Dumbfounded, Suzanne
lifted her head and stared into the twisted tangle of buckthorn and scrappy
poplars that
backed up to the Cackleberry Club. She figured that was
where the arrow had
zinged out from. And the terrified,
fleeting thought that burst like a cartoon bubble
in her brain
asked,
Am I
next?

Luckily,
Suzanne’s survival instinct kicked in big time.
Grabbing Baxter by his
collar, she dragged his furry, pro
testing, sixty-pound body back inside the
Cackleberry
Club. Once the dog’s tail had cleared the sill, she slammed
and bolted the back
door, her heart thundering in her chest,
her breath coming in rattley gasps.