Bedeviled Eggs (17 page)

“Not exactly.”

“Okay, on a score of
one to ten...”

‘Twelve,” she told
him.

“Wow. And I was just
warming up.”

“I don’t know,” said
Suzanne, her cheeks a little flushed
now. “I thought it was all amazingly hot.”

“Excellent. So how’s
the dog?”

“Scruff’s doing great,”
Suzanne told him.

“You’ve named him,”
said Sam. “That’s a dangerous
sign. You can give away a nameless dog, but never a dog
with a cute name.”

They chatted for
another couple of minutes, then Su
zanne hung up, hoping she didn’t look as excited
and tingly
as she felt way
deep down inside.

“What was
that
about?” Toni asked, eyeing her suspi
ciously.

Suzanne
tried to muster a look of supreme innocence.
“Nothing.”

“Didn’t
sound like nothing,” said Toni. “More like ...
oh, I don’t know, hot stuff?”

Suzanne put an index
finger up to her mouth and pulled
Toni into their small walk-in cooler. “If you
must know,
Sam stayed over
last night.”

“Finally!”
cheered Toni. She pumped an arm and said,
“You go, girl!”

Midmorning
found Suzanne in the Book Nook, experiencing an emotional roller
coaster that alternated between
nervous giggles and a seriously manic high. She knew she
wasn’t
in love with Sam, but she sure was in like.

Humming to herself, a
slowed-down version of Be
yonce‘s
Single Ladies,
Suzanne grabbed the new
John
Sandford
novel and stuck it on the shelf. Found a copy of
Winnie-the-Pooh
that sure didn’t
belong in the Mystery/
Thriller section. But when she checked me Children’s section,
she found that was the last copy. So time to order.

Suzanne stepped
behind the desk and jotted a note.
When she looked up, Carmen Copeland was standing
there
staring at her.

“Jeez!” Suzanne
clapped a hand to her chest, startled.

“Scared you?” Carmen
sounded pleased, in an evil kind
of
way.

“Kind of,” said
Suzanne. Carmen Copeland was a prom
inent romance author who lived in me neighboring
town
of
Jessup. She was snooty, snotty, exotic-looking, and the
New York Times
bestsellers she
consistently churned out

had made her rich.
Which meant she could indulge her
taste in clothes and jewelry and always wrap
herself in the
latest couture. Today her red silk jacket and black pencil
skirt were pure Dolce
and Gabbana, paired with four-inch-
high, Dior red alligator pumps.

Because Carmen
considered herself a fashionista and
far superior to everyone else in matters of taste
and style,
she’d
recently opened Alchemy Boutique in downtown Kindred. Suzanne figured it was
Carmen’s twisted, fiendish scheme to bring fashion and flair to what she
perceived
as
the dowdy women of Kindred. But to Suzanne’s surprise
and—dare we say it,
disappointment?—Carmen’s plan
was working. Women were actually buying J Brand jeans,
bright-colored faux furs, and oversized cocktail rings at Al
chemy. Surprise, surprise.

“How can I help you,
Carmen?” Suzanne asked.

Carmen stared at her
with glittering green eyes. “Did
you
forget?”

“Um... no, of course
not.” Carmen’s upcoming event
had
slipped her mind, like a pat of butter off a stack of
griddle cakes.

“I’d
like to briefly review the menu for Friday’s Cash
mere and Cabernet event which
you, ahem, agreed to cater?”

“Absolutely,” said
Suzanne, gritting her teeth. Carmen
was staging a trunk show at Alchemy, a first ever
for Kin
dred.
Vendors for Rock & Republic jeans, Marc Jacobs
boots, and Donegal cashmere
sweaters were coming in to
set
up shop and woo customers.

“You do have the menu
prepared?” Carmen asked, in a
challenging
tone.

“Let me
run into my office and grab it,” said Suzanne.
‘Take a seat if you’d like.”

Carmen looked askance
at the two rump-sprung floral
upholstered chairs that squatted invitingly in the Book
Nook. “Thanks anyway,”
she said in a nasal, peer-down-
your-nose
tone of voice.

Suzanne dashed into
her office, took forty seconds to
scratch out a menu, then was back in a flash.

“Carrot and ginger tea
sandwiches and miniature
crustless quiche, just like we discussed. Plus I was
thinking of adding lobster salad and cucumber cream cheese
sandwiches.”

“Mmm,” said Carmen. “And
madeleines and chocolate
mousse
bars?”

“Absolutely,” said
Suzanne, though she knew she’d have
to conjure up a few good recipes.

“Fine,”
said Carmen. Reaching into a tan Birkin bag,
she pulled out a leather notebook
and pen.

“How’s Missy doing?”
asked Suzanne. Missy was Me
lissa Langston, a friend of Suzanne’s and now Carmen’s
overworked boutique manager.

“She’s fine,” said
Carmen. She clicked her pen and with
a friendly barracuda smile, said, “Now tell me
about the
murders, Suzanne.”

“Oh, Carmen,” said
Suzanne, trying to muster a look of
disappointment, “I really can’t do that.”

“Of course you can,
dear.”

Suzanne shook her
head. “I’m under strict orders from
Sheriff Doogie.”

Carmen
toyed with a strand of her long, dark hair. “I
understand you were witness to
both murders.”

“Not exactly,” said
Suzanne.

“The first one was
here at the Cackleberry Club,” said
Carmen, doodling on her pad. “The arrow.”

Suzanne managed a
tight nod.

“And the one last
night...” Carmen’s eyes danced with
eagerness. “The hapless deputy shot with his own
service
weapon. That
you
once
again discovered.”

“Are you by any
chance planning to write a book about
this?” asked Suzanne. “Move beyond the romance
genre
into police procedural?”

Carmen dimpled
prettily. “You never know.”

“I
certainly admire your creative bent, Carmen,” said Suzanne, “but I really can’t
spill any details.”

“Very well,” said
Carmen, looking cool and calm, “then
I’ll get them somewhere else. And make no mistake,
I
will
get them.”

“I believe you,” said
Suzanne. And she really did.

As Carmen made a big
fuss of tucking her notebook back into her bag, she bumped a small sign on the
counter, causing it to topple over. She frowned, picked up the
sign and read it, then
frowned again. “You’re having a book
signing here on Thursday?”

“A local author is
joining us for our Mystery Tea,” ex
plained Suzanne. “Julie Crane.”

“Never heard of her,”
said Carmen, her voice going
frosty. “And what exactly has she written?”

“A nonfiction book,”
said Suzanne.
“Ghostly Lore and
Legends.
Really a compilation
of area haunted house leg
ends, published by Palette Press at Darlington College.
Kind of fun, but in a
slightly academic way.”

Carmen’s ruby red lips
pursed together to form a perfect
oval. “Oh. A small, local publisher. So this
woman isn’t an
actual author. Not an author anyone would have heard of.”

“Julie’s
not been on the
New York Times
Bestseller List,
no,” said Suzanne.

Carmen, who’d enjoyed
her fair share of trips to that
much-coveted list, gave a self-satisfied smile. “Mmm.
Pity.”

Ten
minutes
later, Sheriff Doogie walked into the Cack
leberry Club. Not with his usual
cocky saunter, but with
a deliberate slowness, as though his joints ached and he
was toting the weight
of the world on his broad khaki-clad back. He maneuvered to the counter and sat
down heavily,
his shoulders drooping, his bloodshot eyes cast downward.

Suzanne and Toni
exchanged worried glances. Toni
grabbed a coffeepot and headed straight for him, while Suzanne’s
tactical weapon of choice was a sticky bun drizzled
with caramel and covered in pecans.

“How ya
doing, Sheriff?” asked Toni, plunking the cof
fee in front of him.

Doogie gave a vague
nod.

Suzanne slid the
sticky bun, always a surefire cure for
what ails you, in front of Doogie.

“No,
thanks,” said Doogie. He shrugged and pushed the
plate away.

Suzanne’s
eyes grew wide with shock. This was serious
business. She’d never—repeat,
never
—seen
Doogie turn
down food.

Doogie
sighed deeply, twined his fingers around the
coffee mug, and took a sip. No
fussing with multiple cubes
of sugar, no tsunami of heavy, artery-clogging cream. Su
zanne knew Doogie hadn’t
suddenly gone on a Dr. Oz-type
wellness kick and put himself on a Spartan diet. Rather,
he
was
punishing himself, probably overwhelmed by guilt and
frustration about last night.

“What’s wrong,
Sheriff?” Suzanne asked him. She
knew what was wrong but wanted to hear Doogie articulate
it.
Maybe, if she could get him talking, she could get him
fired up again.

Doogie looked up,
focused rheumy eyes on her, and
said, “I shouldn’t have been so hard on Wilbur. Shouldn’t
have pushed him.”

“You were teaching
him,” said Suzanne. ‘Toughening
him
up so he’d be a better deputy.”

“Didn’t work,” said
Doogie.

“You don’t know that,”
responded Suzanne.

Doogie took another
sip of coffee and grimaced. “And I
shouldn’t have cussed at him.”

“Well, no, you really
shouldn’t have,” Suzanne said in
a soft voice. “But that’s...” She paused to think. Was
the
phrase
“water over the dam”? Or under the bridge? Or both?

“The thing is,”
continued Doogie, “Wilbur was a pretty
good kid.”

“He always tried very
hard,” said Suzanne, reaching
across the counter to pat Doogie’s burly hand, “and he
was
a very kind boy.”

Doogie looked up, as
in a daze. “Was he?”

“Sheriff,” said
Suzanne, trying to offer some com
fort, “you had no way of knowing what would happen
to
Wilbur.”

Doogie stared at her. “I’m
a law enforcement officer.
Wilbur was a law enforcement officer. Every second we’re
at work we run the risk of putting ourselves in a dangerous
situation. We should
always be... vigilant.” He was barely
able to choke out this last word.

“I understand that”

“But Wilbur’s mama won’t,”
said Doogie.

“No,”
said Suzanne, “I don’t suppose she will.” Her fin
gers toyed with the plate that
held the sticky roll, then she
slid it across the counter. “Have a roll. It’ll make you
feel
better.”

“No, it won’t,” said
Doogie, reaching out a big finger
to tow the plate in. “But I’ll have it anyway.
Sugar will do
me good.”

“Probably
will,” said Suzanne, deciding it was definitely
time to change the subject.
Doogie seemed poised on the
verge of a self-pity jag. “Have you, uh, found out
anything
more
about the key card you discovered out back?”

“I did,”
said Doogie, chewing, “and it’s no big deal. Be
longs to the courthouse. So
anybody who works there could
have dropped it.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Heck, you
yourself said lots of different folks were here Sunday night
for that reading
thing.” He continued to munch.

The courthouse?
Mayor Mobley’s fleshy
face suddenly
swam before Suzanne’s eyes. The courthouse was where the mayor worked,
where he manipulated his shady little
deals.