Bedeviled Eggs (21 page)

Giving a nudge with
her heels and a quick flick of
the reins, Suzanne urged Mocha into a fast trot. As they
bounced
along, Suzanne surveyed the farmland she owned.
It had been an investment that
Walter had proposed to her several years ago. When she’d put up a sort of pro
forma resistance to the idea, worrying about purchase price, he’d
teased her with the
old adage, ‘They’re not making any
more land that I know of.”

Now she was happy she
owned it. Not just because the
land had held its value, but because it gave her a
genuine sense of pleasure, of being connected to the earth. She en
joyed looking over
the undulating fields of soybeans, al
falfa, and corn as they sprouted, grew, and
flourished, even
if she wasn’t the one doing the actual farming.

Even standing in the
kitchen of the Cackleberry Club
this morning, she had gazed out the back window and

smiled at what was
now an ocean of pale wheat and gold,
stretching as far as the eye could see.

As Mocha pranced toward
the stand of oak, sumac, cedars, and buckthorn that separated the farm fields
from the
backyard
of the Cackleberry Club, an owl let loose his low,
mournful hoot.

The sound momentarily
startled Suzanne, then she de
cided it might be a perfect sound effect for their
Hallow
een
party this Sunday night. All the decorations were set,
but she still needed something
to tease the guests as they
picked their way through the corn maze. Something a
little
more
low-key and sophisticated than the cassette tape of
bloodcurdling screams Torn had offered.

There was, of course,
a lot more to be done for the
upcoming party. Like putting up a giant tent, getting
the fire pits in place, and pinning down a few games. Thank
fully, she had her
costume designed, as well as a neat little
one-act play that should come as
a terrific surprise to ev
eryone!

As they clopped back
toward the barn, in horsey
cool down mode, Suzanne glanced at her watch again. She
had just enough time
to brush Mocha, give him a fortifying
cup of oats, then run home and take a quick
shower.

Chuck Peebler’s
visitation was being held tonight at the Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.
Which, sadly, was a
place she was getting to know all too well.

“Don’t
you just expect Emily Dickinson to step out onto that front porch?”
Suzanne asked, nodding at the funeral
home. “Wearing a velvet cape and gazing
mournfully into
the night?”

“I’m thinking more
along the lines of Alfred Hitch
cock,”
Toni replied.

They were standing on
the sidewalk, gazing at Kindred’s
oldest and grandest clapboard structure. The
muted gray
funeral
home was set well back from the street, guarded by
a green moat of manicured lawn.
Pointed-arch windows,
like highly expressive eyebrows, stretched across the
front
of
the building. The roofline was a visual joyride of tur
rets, finials, and balustrades.
Though the architecture was a crazy combination of American Gothic and
Victorian that
shouldn’t have worked, it did sort of work, conveying a
sense of elegance and
foreboding all at the same time.

“Ready to go in?”
Suzanne asked.

“As ready as I’ll
ever be and still breathing,” Toni re
plied. She’d changed into more formal attire for
tonight: black cowboy shirt, slacks, and boots. Suzanne had se
lected her black
funeral suit. It wasn’t funereal per se, just an outfit she’d worn to several
funerals in a row. Now it hung in the back of her closet, a respectful distance
from
her
blue jeans, camisoles, and shift dresses.

Climbing the front
steps, Suzanne and Toni pushed open
the large oak door and were immediately assaulted
by the
mingled scent of
florals and chemicals.

“Eeeyew,” said Toni,
wrinkling her nose and turning her
head, as if searching for a whiff of fresh air. “Why
do all
funeral homes smell the
same?”

“Because
they ...” began Suzanne. Then she stopped,
bagged her terrible thoughts
about chemicals and bodies, and amended her words to, “Because they just do.”

Driesden and Draper’s
entry way was a depressing blend
of dove gray carpet, drooping velvet draperies, and
stuffy-
stiff
upholstered chairs. A guest book rested atop a heavy
oak stand, a small, wobbly table
held a lone box of Kleenex
tissues. To the left, a large visitation room was
thronged with Kindred residents who’d come to pay their last re
spects to Chuck
Peebler. To the right, a second visitation
room sat dark and unoccupied.
Suzanne supposed that
room had been reserved for Deputy Wilbur Halpern, who
might even be at this
very minute resting in repose in the
back embalming room.

“This is awful,” Toni
breathed, as they peeped into the crowded visitation room and caught sight of
the copper-
colored
casket that held Peebler’s remains. “And it’s an
open coffin, too. I
hate
an
open coffin. I don’t even like to look at a dead bird, let alone a dead person.”

“Just
stroll around and keep your eyes down,” Suzanne
advised. “Look sad and nod at people.”

“Are you serious?”
said Toni. “That works?”

“Trust me,” said
Suzanne, who’d garnered more than
enough experience at her husband Walter’s funeral.

“Gosh,
you’re a good friend,” said Toni, still sounding
shaky.

“There’s
Doogie over there,” said Suzanne, catching
sight of the sheriff. “Looking as
if he doesn’t have a friend
in
the world.”

“And he
won’t,” whispered Toni, “if he doesn’t solve
these two murders!”

Suzanne headed
directly for Sheriff Doogie while Toni
eased her way around the room. “How
are you doing, Sher
iff?” she asked, placing her hand on his sleeve.

Doogie gave a
perfunctory grimace. “Okay, considering
I’m gonna have to attend another
one of these darn things
in a couple of days.” He was referring, of course, to
Wilbur
Halpern.

“Sheriff,” said
Suzanne, “have you come up with any
more clues on Peebler?” She understood that
Peebler’s
murder
must seem secondary to him now, while finding
Deputy Halpern’s killer was at
the top of his list. Still, she
had
to ask.

“There’s one or two
things I’m looking into,” said Doo
gie, “but I got so much piled on my plate...”

“And there’s the
election coming up,” said Suzanne.

“There’s that,”
allowed Doogie.

“Are you worried?”
she asked. Then quickly added,
“Because
you shouldn’t be.”

Doogie shook his head in disagreement. “Bob
Senander’s running against me, and he’s got
credibility.
The man’s ex-highway
patrol and I guess some women
might
even consider him a looker, what with all his silver hair. Though I don’t think
that
should factor in.”

Although it probably
does,
Suzanne
thought.

Doogie looked
thoughtful. And worried, too. “But I’ll
tell you this,” he continued, “if
I don’t solve at least one of these cases, my goose is probably cooked.”

“I doubt that,” said
Suzanne, kindly.

“No,” said Doogie. “People
want results. I don’t give them results, I won’t even get elected dogcatcher.”
He
sighed
heavily. “Besides, I should be further along on these
two cases than I am. I should
have figured something out by
now. I should
know
who’s committing murder in
Kindred!”

“Stop it,” said
Suzanne, “you’re obsessing now.”

“I know,” said Doogie.

“You’re the duly
elected sheriff,” said Suzanne, “not an oracle from on high. You can’t just
know
things out of the
blue. All you can do is run the best investigation possible
and
glean clues and information along the way.”

“I’m doing that,”
said Doogie. ‘Trying to anyway.”

“Then I’m confident
you’ll unravel both of these cases.”

“You’re the only one,”
muttered Doogie, as he moved
away.

Feeling frustrated,
Suzanne watched Doogie melt into
the crowd. She wished she could help him, wished she
could...

“Hey there.” A warm
whisper was followed by hot
breath
in her ear.

Suzanne whirled, found
Sam Hazelet smiling at her. He
looked beyond adorable in his light blue scrubs top worn
casually over blue jeans with a suede jacket topper.

“Don’t
you know you’re not supposed to smile at these
things?” she told him.

His gaze sobered. “I
was smiling at you.”

“Well... don’t,” she
said, secretly pleased.

“Really?”

“Maybe smile on the
inside,” Suzanne joked.

“Believe me, I am,”
Sam told her, lifting one eyebrow.

“Now you’re flirting.”

“Not true! I’m
looking serious, per your instruction.”

“Now you’re making me
laugh,” said Suzanne, biting
her
lower lip.

“How’s the dog?” Sam
asked. “Scruffy. Scruff.”

“A terrific guy,” said
Suzanne. “Which is why I’m prob
ably
going to give him to you.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure, I have great
faith you’ll be a wonderful pet par
ent. Besides, you could probably use the company,
a single
guy like you.”

“What if I, um, meet
someone?”

“You probably meet
lots of women in your line of work.”

“I mean someone I
really care about?”

“I don’t know,” said
Suzanne. “Maybe...” She was
blushing now. “A blended family? Isn’t that the term
these
days?”

“You two are looking
way too cozy,” said a throaty, fe
male voice.

They both turned to
find Carmen Copeland standing
there,
smiling at Sam.

“Hi, Carmen,” said
Suzanne.

“Hello,” said Sam.

But Carmen was
focused only on Sam. “Lovely to see
you again, Dr. Hazelet.” She was clad in a snug
black dress that screamed evening rather man mourning. Her cleavage,
which was prominently
displayed, seemed to be edging its
way toward Sam. A diamond the size of Mount
Rushmore
hung from a chunky
gold chain.

“How goes the
literary world?” asked Sam, being polite.
“Must be awfully favorable, since
I see your novels all over
the
place.”

“Yes,” said Carmen,
with a predatory smile. “They are
rather popular.”

“I keep meaning to
pick one up,” said Sam.

“No need,”
said Carmen, moving a step closer to Sam. “I’d be delighted to drop a couple of
books by the clinic.”

“Kind of you,” said
Sam.

“Forward,” said
Suzanne.

“Excuse
me?” said Carmen, her jaw going slack as she
finally acknowledged Suzanne.

“We need
to keep moving forward,” said Suzanne. “Sam
and I. We’re, urn, in line to
offer condolences.”

“Of course,” said
Carmen, with a disdainful curl of her
lip.

“You two don’t like
each other much, do you?” asked
Sam. “You were both acting like those weird frilled
lizards, facing off against each other, hissing and spitting
away.”

“It’s not so much
dislike as ...”

“Distaste?” filled in
Sam.

“Maybe that,” said
Suzanne, “with a little mistrust
thrown
in for good measure.”

“And you don’t trust
her with ... me?”

“Oh please,” said
Suzanne. “You’re your own independent adult person. You can do whatever you
...” She hesi
tated, then
said, “You can do whatever.”

Sam gave her a
searching look, his brows knit together.
“Is that all we mean to each
other? Whatever?”