Bedeviled Eggs (12 page)

“Perfect,” murmured
Suzanne.

But perfection is
often short-lived. Because just as
Suzanne was taking a second dreamy sip, Junior
Garrett
stumped
his way into the Cackleberry Club.

With his chin stuck
out, his stride clipped and deter
mined, Junior looked like a bandy rooster who’d
just invaded the henhouse. His dark hair was swooshed into a
pompadour that would
have made James Dean proud, and
he’d slathered on enough grease to start a forest fire.
Ju
nior’s
tight, straight-legged jeans and black bowling shirt with the name “Junior”
stitched in white thread polished
off his look.

If it
had been the mid-1950s instead of 2011, Junior
Garrett would have been
considered a cool cat. Now he was
just considered a quirky anachronism by most, a
juvenile
delinquent by
Suzanne.

‘Too bad the community
theater’s not having a casting
call for
West Side Story”
Petra remarked. “Junior
would be
a shoe-in for one of
the Sharks.”

“You gals
talking about me again?” asked Junior. A sar
donic grin was plastered across
his face; a toothpick was
clamped
firmly between his teeth.

“Just small talk,”
replied Suzanne.

“Aww,” said Junior,
clearly hurt.

“What are
you
doing
here?” Toni asked, as she came
hurtling out of the kitchen. “You know I told you never
to
drop by without calling
first!”

Theirs was a marriage
in crisis. An abrupt union that had
been fueled by overactive hormones, too much Jack
Dan
iel’s,
and a lack of functioning brain cells. Although Toni had
tried valiantly to
make the marriage work, it was apparent
the relationship had cooled even
before their plane touched down on its return trip from their Las Vegas
nuptials.

A few months later,
the cake was iced when Toni dis
covered a piece of purple net lingerie in the backseat
of Ju
nior’s
car. Confident it wasn’t hers—since she wore red and
a size smaller—she promptly
tossed Junior, his toolbox,
and various rebuilt motors, out of their apartment. Now
they lived apart, in
a kind of netherworld of bickering and
making up. Not completely in
love, but not quite ready to
file
for divorce, either.

“Did you get fired?”
Toni demanded of Junior. Grabbing
the back of his collar she steered him to a table
and forced
him into a wooden
chair.

Junior gazed up at her
with round, innocent eyes. “No!
Cross my heart! I’m still workin’ diligently at Shelby’s
Body Shop.”

Suzanne and Petra
shuffled in to watch the show. If you
were in the right frame of mind, Junior could be
pretty darned amusing. Fodder, almost, for a TV sitcom. Think
Fonzie meets Homer Simpson.

“You sure you’re
still working?” Toni asked, bunching
her right hand into a fist. “Because I’ll clock
you if....”

“Whoa, whoa!” said
Junior, putting up an arm in mock
defense. “Whatever happened to innocent until
proven
guilty?
Seriously, babe, I just dropped by to get a bite.”

Toni glanced up at
Suzanne. “What do you think?”

Suzanne gave a shrug.
“If the man’s hungry, I say go
ahead
and feed him.”

“Just do it quick,”
said Petra, making her escape. Then
she called back over her shoulder, “Thank
goodness we’re
not real busy.”

Toni brought Junior a
leftover chicken sandwich and
a bowl of vegetable soup. “Watch out,” she warned him,
“that soup is so hot
it could boil your eyeballs.”

Junior nodded. “Okay.”

“And you’re going to
have to pay for this,” Toni nat
tered. “We’ve catered to enough freeloaders for one day.”

“Jeez,” said Junior, “will
you chill out? I got money. I
can
pay.”

“Still
raking it in at Shelby’s, huh?” said Suzanne. Hon
estly, how much could a guy make
repairing fenders and ironing out dents? On the other hand, maybe quite a lot.

“I got something going
on the side, too,” Junior told Su
zanne. He gave a cocky, knowing look as he took a
big bite
of sandwich.

Toni looked unhappy. “What
are you talking about?’ To
the best of everyone’s knowledge, none of Junior’s hare
brained;
get-rich-quick schemes had ever panned out. Not
the Cuban tax haven, plastic
antenna balls, or bait business.

“I’m going into the
scrap metal business,” Junior boasted.

“Excuse me?” said
Toni.

“There’s money in
that?” Suzanne asked.

“Oh yeah,” said
Junior, suddenly looking more confi
dent. “Me and Marsh Freedman are gonna be
partners.”

“Isn’t Freedman the
guy who used to wander through town with a plastic sack, picking up pop cans?”
Suzanne
asked, trying to
stifle a grin.

“Ancient
history,” said Junior, waving a hand. “Now
we’re partners, fifty-fifty.”

“And what does this
partnership entail?” asked Suzanne.
She was a tiny bit fascinated by Junior. It was
probably the same fascination a mongoose felt for a cobra. A bit of dan
ger, but still that hypnotic lure.

“We’re going to scour
the countryside in our truck,” Ju
nior told her, delighted to have an audience. “Picking
up
discarded
car parts, old farm equipment, appliances, milk
cans, bedsprings, tire rims,
pretty much anything we can get our hands on. Then we’ll sell it at the scrap
yard over
in Jessup.”

“No kidding,” said
Suzanne. The whole idea sounded sort of old-timey, like something from the
forties, when
people supposedly donated tin cans and scrap metal to the
war effort.

“Of course, the really
primo stuff is copper,” Junior said,
knowingly. “You can pull in three bucks a pound
for scrap
copper, did you know
that?

“Where exactly are
you going to find this scrap cop
per?”
Suzanne asked.

Junior looked
suddenly evasive. “Around.”

“Hmm,” said Toni, in
a suspicious tone.

Petra leaned out of
the kitchen, rubbing flour from her
hands onto her red calico apron. “Suzanne? I just
remem
bered,
we still need to order pumpkins for Saturday night.
With all we’ve got going this
week, we could easily overlook it.” Saturday night, Halloween night, they’d
planned
a
huge outdoor Halloween party at the Cackleberry Club.
Complete with decorations,
costume contest, live music,
bobbing for apples, fire pit for roasting hot dogs,
cider and
doughnuts,
and a major theatrical surprise.

“Hey!” exclaimed
Junior, “I know a guy who’s got a
bumper crop of pumpkins.”

“No, thanks, Junior,”
said Suzanne, “I’m going to ...”

But Junior persisted. “No,
seriously. This guy owes me
a
huge
favor, so I can get you guys a whole
truckload of
pumpkins for
free.”

“How’s that?” asked
Suzanne. Maybe Junior really
could
help.

“This guy
had a car accident but didn’t want to tell his
wife,” Junior explained. “It was
her car, a Toyota Celica,
and he was just this side of tipsy when he had a close en
counter with a bridge abutment”

“Why am I not
surprised?” said Toni, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway,”
continued Junior, “I ironed out the dent and
touched up the paint Made it look
good as new, all on the
QT.
And now he owes me big-time.”

“Really,”
said Suzanne. What with a Quilt Trail Tea,
Mystery Tea, book signing, and
Halloween party going on this week, maybe Junior really could lend a helping
hand.

Junior
hooked a thumb and touched his chest, trying to
look important. “You need
pumpkins? I’m the guy who can
hook
you up.”

“We’re
talking pumpkins,” said Suzanne. “Vegetables.
Members of the squash family.
You’re acting like we’re
dealing
in human body parts.”

Junior was
undeterred. “Still,” said Junior, “I’m your
connection.”

An
hour
later, Suzanne and Petra sped through downtown Kindred, heading for the
Westvale Medical Clinic. They’d taken off an hour early, determined to drive as
much of the
Quilt Trail as possible, Toni had agreed to hold down the
fort until closing,
then drive Baxter to Suzanne’s house and
feed him his cup of kibble. Doggy
day care at its finest.

“What’s
in your care package?” Petra asked, as Suzanne
pulled into the clinic’s parking lot
“Soup and scones for Sam, scones and sticky rolls
for
everyone else.”    

“Good for you,” said
Petra.
“I
hate to see anything go
to waste.”

“Believe
me, it won’t,” said Suzanne, climbing out of
the car. “You gonna wait here?”

Petra
pulled her nubby sweater around her and nodded.
“I think so.”

Suzanne
dashed into the clinic, exchanged hugs with
Esther, the clinic manager, then
handed over all her loot.

“Wow!”
exclaimed Esther, peering in the larger bag. “Thanks loads. And it’s all low
cal, right?”

“And low
carb,” said Suzanne. “Especially the sticky
rolls.”

You want me to give
Sam a buzz?” Esther asked. She was cheery and upbeat, dressed in pale blue
scrubs. “I can
see if he’s
free.”

“No,” said Suzanne, “Petra
and I are driving the Quilt
Trail
today. Gotta run.”

“Oh fun,”
chirped Esther. “I’m hoping to do it this
weekend.”

“You’re still coming
to our Halloween party on Satur
day
night, aren’t you?” asked Suzanne.

“Wouldn’t
miss it,” Esther called, as Suzanne skipped
out the door.

“That was quick,” said
Petra, as Suzanne climbed in and
turned
the key in the ignition.

“We’ve
got a... what?” said Suzanne. “Thirty-five-
mile drive ahead of us?”

“Something like that,”
said Petra, studying the map.
“Maybe more. First the log cabin, then the round barn,
then...”

“Seat belt,” Suzanne
reminded her, as she backed out,
noting Sam’s BMW parked three stalls down. She smiled,
glanced in the mirror,
and happened to catch a quick re
flection of Lester Drummond, the prison warden, emerging
from the
Hard Body Gym next door. He was a big man
with shaved head, craggy face,
and a forehead full of worry
lines. Suzanne always thought Drummond had the kind of
hard face and hard
muscles that came from serving hard
time. Except, of course, Drummond
ran
the
prison.

Drummond had just
tossed his Nike gym bag into his
black SUV, as Suzanne swung around in a turn. He nodded
at both of them and
gave a perfunctory wave.

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.”

“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.