Bedeviled Eggs (24 page)

“Very appropriately,”
said Petra. “Still, that girl could
walk around in a plus-size burka and men would
swoon.”
She
took a circular cookie cutter and began cutting circles
in her dough.

“Then let’s just hope
Kit wants to keep helping out
here,”
said Suzanne.

“You think we’re a
good influence on her?” Toni
asked.

“Well,
you ‘re
more
like Lady Gaga than Emily Post.”
Suzanne laughed. “But Petra and I... hey, we’re practi
cally model citizens.”

“I could
tell a tale or two about you, Suzanne,” said
Toni, crinkling her eyes.

“Don’t you dare,”
Suzanne murmured.

Toni looked impish
now. “About this past Tuesday
night?”

“What happened
Tuesday night?” asked Petra.

“Nothing!” said
Suzanne.

Toni grinned. “Bet you’re
hoping it’ll happen again real
soon.” She snickered, then grabbed a rag and dashed out
to
wipe tables.

“Hope what... ?”
began Petra.

“Nothing,” said
Suzanne. “Nada, nix, nothing. As they
say in
The Wizard of Oz,
pay no attention
to the man behind
the curtain.”

“Ah,”
said Petra, peering at her closely now. “Is this
about you and the good doctor... ?”

But Suzanne had
already escaped into the cafe.

“Don’t
go spilling the beans, okay?” Suzanne asked Toni. Toni was arranging
slices of pie in the glass case, Suzanne

was putting a final
polish on the silverware in anticipation
of lunch.

“I didn’t know it was
so hush-hush,” said Toni, still in a
playful mood.

“Please,”
said Suzanne. “I don’t want this to get all over
town.”

Toni made
a zipping motion across her mourn. “Mum’s
the word, girlfriend. Your sordid
little secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank
you,” said Suzanne, as the tinkle of the entry-
way bell interrupted their conversation.

“Hey,” said Toni, a
wide smile spreading across her
face.
“It’s the Beck sisters.”

Only Donna and Nadine
Beck weren’t really sisters at all. They were sisters-in-law who’d become best
friends
once
they’d both divorced their respective philandering hus
bands some twenty years ago. Now
well into their sixties, they supplemented their Social Security checks by
supply
ing
the Cackleberry Club with wonderful homemade foods.

“Whatcha got?” Suzanne
asked, as Donna hefted a
large,
wicker picnic basket onto a table.

“Hope it’s pickles,”
said Toni, peering in.

“Garlic
dill pickles,” said Donna, who was small, silver-
haired, and compact.

“And are they ever
garlicky!” exclaimed Nadine, who
was small, silver-haired, and pleasingly plump. “You
should get a whiff of
our kitchen. Even the cat’s giving it
a wide berth.”

“Perfect,” said
Suzanne. For some reason, oddball goods
were always the most popular
items. Whip up a batch of
cranberry-pear jam and it disappeared from the shelves
in
stantly.
Same thing with sprouted wheat bread and potato
rolls. So garlic pickles? Sure to please.

“And I brought pies,”
said Nadine. “Two apple pies, one
pumpkin, and another I call autumn harvest.”

“Which is?” asked
Toni.

Nadine
dug in her basket and pulled out the pie. “A mix
ture of apples, cranberries,
pears, and brown sugar.”

“Sounds heavenly,”
said Suzanne, as she led the ladies toward her sputtering, vibrating,
maybe-on-its-last-legs
cooler.

Petra
strolled out of the kitchen, just as the first of the
luncheon crowd was
arriving. “Got some specials for you,”
she told Suzanne.

Suzanne grabbed a
piece of chalk and said, “Go.”

“Curried egg salad
sandwich,” said Petra. “Squash blos
som soup and a
croque madame.”

Suzanne printed
quickly. “And for dessert?”

“Strawberry rhubarb
crumble, chocolate cake with co
conut
sauce, and seven-layer bars.”

“Be still my heart,”
said Suzanne, who considered herself your basic connoisseur of seven-layer
bars.

Petra hesitated for a
moment, then said, “Toni told
me about your little to-do with Mike O’Dell after the
funeral.”

“The guy went totally
postal,” said Suzanne. “Good
thing
Doogie came along when he did.”

“You’ve
got to be more careful, Suzanne,” said Petra. “More and more people are
figuring out that you’re run
ning
your own investigation.”

“I am careful,” said
Suzanne. “Really.” Then, when
Petra flashed a questioning glance, she amended her words
to, “I’ll
try
to be
more careful.”

“That really was a
pretty nasty article Gene Gandle
wrote. If you ask me, Gene’s adding fuel to the fire.”

“Maybe
his article will shake something loose,” Su
zanne suggested, ever the optimist.

Petra considered that
for a moment, then said, “Maybe
it’ll
just make the killer angrier.”

“Dale,”
said Suzanne. Dale Huffington slid onto a stool at
the counter. He was a
big behemoth of a man, a local guy
who worked at the Jasper Creek Prison handling
security.

“You serving lunch
yet, Suzanne?” Dale asked.

Suzanne nodded. “We
sure are. What can I get you?” She
poured out a cup of coffee as Dale studied the
chalkboard.

“You serving frog
legs?” Dale asked, beetling his brow.

“Not that I can
recall,” said Suzanne.

“What’s that on the
board then?” Dale asked. He shifted
around, his bulk spilling over his straining
belt.
“Croque
madame?”

“Croque
madame
is
basically a fancy grilled cheese
sandwich with a fried egg on top,” Suzanne explained.

“Yeah?” Dale looked
like he didn’t quite trust her.

“It’s
sourdough bread, Gruyere cheese, ham, and an egg.”
See? Nothing up my sleeve, just
regular old ingredients.

Dale gave
a loud guffaw. “Shucks, Suzanne, I thought you were trying to pull a fast one
on your customers. Like
you did with the scones and clotted cream that time.
People
don’t
really
eat
clotted cream, do they?”

Suzanne reached across
the counter and patted his hand.
“Sometimes, Dale, you just have to live dangerously.”

“One
thing’s for sure,” said Toni, surveying the cafe, “it
sure doesn’t look like a man cave.”

Suzanne
joined in the fun. “No wide-screen TV, no pool
table, no pinups...”

“No kegerator,” Toni
added.

“Just
perfect decor for today’s Mystery Tea,” said Petra,
as she came chugging out of the
kitchen, carrying two
crystal bowls filled with Devonshire cream. “I have to
say,
Toni, you worked wonders
in here.”

Lunch
had been hastily orchestrated and now all the tables in the cafe were covered
with beige linen tablecloths, with chocolate and burnt orange organza sashes
swagged
around
each chair. Carved white pumpkins filled with dried
milkweed pods, bittersweet, and
autumn leaves served as
centerpieces, and were flanked by cinnamon-colored ta
pers in wooden
holders. Place settings were cream-colored
china plates with matching
teacups and polished silver.
Tiny gold-net favor bags held cinnamon sticks, tea bags
filled with persimmon
and berry tea, and orange-flavored
sugar swizzle sticks.

“It’s
Halloween, but without the black cat and goblin
theme,” said Suzanne.

“We’re saving all that
for Sunday night.” Toni grinned.

“That’s
when we go all-out traditional with ghosts, bats,
and a scream-a-ganza party!” She
gave a little shiver. “A
Halloween
to die for.”

“Let’s hope not,”
Petra murmured, as the front door
opened and a half dozen guests spilled in.

“Lovely as always,”
declared Mrs. Cleo, peering through
the black veil that covered her eyes. Mrs. Cleo
was Mrs.
Cleopatra
Sunderd, a staunch member of the community
and a woman who adored dressing
up for a proper English
tea, albeit a Mystery Tea. Her black pillbox hat was
teamed
with
a wine-colored wool suit. The suit was vintage fifties, but Mrs. Cleo hadn’t
scoured every thrift store in the
county to find her prize, she’d just yanked it
from the back
recess of her
closet.

Suzanne checked their
guests’ names off her reservation
list as Toni escorted them to their tables. When
the room
was
about half full, Suzanne suddenly realized that Julie
Crane, today’s featured author,
was standing right in front
of
her.

“Welcome,
Julie,” said Suzanne, giving the girl a wel
coming hug. She was thin with
gorgeous reddish blond
hair, and studious looking in a pair of narrow black
glasses
that
looked both severe and fashionable at the same time.

“This is so exciting.”
Julie bubbled. “My very first book
signing. I’ve always hoped and dreamed about this,
but
now it’s actually
happening!”

“And it’s
well-deserved at that,” said Suzanne. “So ...
we’ll have you signing at a
table in the Book Nook. In fact,
I
have your books all arranged.”

“Oh my
gosh,” said Julie, following Suzanne into the
Book Nook and gaping at the
display that had been created,
“it
looks so ... so
professional.”

“That’s because you
are a pro.” Suzanne smiled. “No
more
amateur status for you, my dear.”

Julie plunked herself
down at the table, pulled two roll
erball pens from her purse, and grinned. “I’m
lucky, you
know that?”

“How’s
that?” asked Suzanne, who was busily rearrang
ing books for a second time.

‘To even get
published,” said Julie. “Palette Press gen
erally handles only academic
books written by Darlington
College professors, but I kind of snuck in the back door.
And now they’ve started to branch out and embrace other genres in hopes of
generating additional revenue.”

“All businesses have
it tough today,” said Suzanne.
“Restaurants, little retail shops, service industries,
you
name
it.” She took a poster she’d whipped up and placed
it to one side of the table. “Do
you happen to know Jane
Buckley,
the museum registrar?”

“Oh sure,” said Julie,
“she’s really sweet. Too bad she’s
been ... what would you call it? Marginalized?”

Suzanne suddenly
snapped to and focused on Julie.
“How’s
that?”

Julie screwed up her
face and said, “Unfortunately,
the
museum is focusing more on exhibitions by their
own
studio
arts professors and students. There’s not much on
display anymore that you could
classify as traditional mu
seum
pieces.”

“No
paintings?” Suzanne asked. “No sculptures?” She remembered attending an art
opening at the Darlington College museum a couple of years ago and being blown
away by some tasty Early American paintings, Japanese prints, and some very
contemporary sculptures. All kinds
of things, in fact..

Julie shook her head. “Not
anymore. Not unless they’re
done
by professors or students.”

“That’s awfully sad,”
said Suzanne, wondering if Jane
Buckley could have gotten some sort of crazy idea in her
head. Maybe solicit a
couple of important donations to
score a coup and save her job? Could have happened.