Bedeviled Eggs (19 page)

Toni glanced up.

Suzanne
made rapid buttoning motions and Toni com
plied. Thank goodness, case
closed. Blouse, too.

“So I gotta put on
regular clothes?” Joey whined.

“Sorry,” said
Suzanne. “But rules are rules. And health code regulations in particular are
almost inviolable.”
Al
though maybe not so much at Hoobly ‘s,
she decided.

“Okay,” said a
reluctant Joey. He swung his backpack
off his shoulder and picked up his skateboard all
in one
motion.

“You run in back and
change,” Suzanne instructed.

“Nice rags,” Toni
called, as Joey scooted by her.

Suzanne shook her
head. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Ah, he’s just a kid,”
said Toni. “A couple of years from
now he’ll be wearing golf shirts and khaki slacks,
looking
like
a cookie-cutter used car salesman.” Toni got a wild gleam in her eyes. “Besides,
remember how we used to
dress
in the eighties?”

“Don’t remind me.”
Suzanne grimaced.

“How’d you used to
dress?” asked Petra, interested now.

“I was the Cyndi
Lauper of Kindred,” Toni bragged,
“and our dear Suzanne here was a mini Madonna.”

“No!” said Petra.

“Complete
with crinolines and ripped fishnet stock
ings!” Toni finished.

“Seriously?” asked
Petra.

“Not really,” said
Suzanne.

“Oh yeah,” said Toni.
“With mall rat hair.” She glanced
at Petra’s basket. “What’s in there, honey?” She
reached
out
and flipped up the corner of a red gingham napkin. “Ah,
scones.”

Petra nodded. “I
baked an extra two dozen. I’m going to
take them over to Reverend Yoder
and the other men who
are helping rebuild the Journey’s End Church.”

“It’s really coming
along,” said Suzanne. “Might be
ready
for Christmas yet.”

“The bell tower went
up last week, so that’s a positive
sign,” said Petra.

Toni gave a shrug. “And
Reverend Yoder’s been there
every day, rain or shine, trying to help out even though
he’s
surely not much of a
carpenter.”

“Just mentions them
in his sermons,” said Petra, a sly
smile on her face.

“Amen,” said Toni.

“Okay,”
said Suzanne, glancing at her clipboard. “As soon
as Petra gets back we
need to do a final heads-up. Make
sure we’re all on the same page.”

“How many
reservations today?” asked Toni.

‘Twenty-two,” said
Suzanne. “But I won’t be surprised
if we get another dozen or so walk-ins.”

“You think?” asked
Toni. “Because if word is out about
last night...”

“Hopefully it’s not
too
out there,” said Suzanne.

“What if people stay away in droves?”
-”I don’t think they’re going to perceive the
Quilt Trail
as being dangerous,”
said Suzanne. “They’re going to be
lieve
that Deputy Halpern got himself into a situation he
couldn’t handle.”

“No kidding.”

“But you’re right,”
said Suzanne. “People will talk.
Even Carmen Copeland was asking questions like crazy.”

“Carmen drives me
crazy,” said Toni. “She’s a Type
A—annoying.”

“I just hope she doesn’t
go bugging Doogie,” said Su
zanne. “Seems like he’s barely hanging on.”

“Doogie’s a tough
guy,” said Toni, “he’ll pull it together.”

“It’s hard for him,
though,” said Suzanne. “Doogie’s
alone and probably doesn’t have a lot of close friends
to
lean
on. No sounding board, nobody to bounce ideas off.”

“Like we do,” said
Toni. “Even if we are a little off the
chain.”

Suzanne nodded. “You
can say that again.”

As if by magic, merry
old England seemed to drop from
the skies and land smack-dab in the middle of the
Cackleberry Club. Or, at the very least, a charming little tea shop
from a village in the Cotswolds.

Because an amazing
transformation had taken place at the Cackleberry Club. White linen tablecloths
now draped
the
normally battered tables. Red and gold chrysanthemums bobbed their shaggy
heads from crystal vases that
graced each table. Creamy white tapers flickered and re
flected off polished
silverware. The best china had been
laid out and soft music—a nocturne by
Chopin—played in
the
background.

“Fantastic,” said
Suzanne, as she surveyed the room.

“It’s like a fairy
godmother waved her magic wand,”
agreed
Toni. “Bippity-boppity-boo.”

“Perfect for a proper
English tea,” chimed in Petra.

“Oh hey,”
said Toni, glancing out the front window.
“Here’s Arthur already.”

The front door flew
open and Arthur Bunch, dressed in
his trademark tweeds and bow tie, stepped inside.
His scruffy
brown leather messenger bag hung from one shoulder; he
held another stack of
Quilt Trail brochures in his hands.

“Aren’t you the
optimistic one,” said Toni.

“Don’t be negative,”
said Petra, scolding. She scurried
toward Arthur and dragged him into the middle of
what had
become
a showplace tearoom. “Pay no attention to Toni,”
Petra instructed with a laugh. “She’s
our problem child.”

“If only,” Suzanne
murmured.

“We’re just delighted
you can join us today,” Petra con
tinued, hanging on Arthur’s arm. “Thrilled you
agreed to
give a little talk.”

Arthur Bunch smiled,
blinked, and gazed about the tea
shop. “Oh my goodness,” he rasped. “This is absolutely
lovely! You ladies
have brought about a spectacular trans
formation.”

“Watch it,” drawled
Toni, “you make it sound like we
were all running around in gingham dresses and smoking
corncob pipes.”

“I didn’t mean ...”
said Bunch, in a rush.

“Joke,” said Toni. “Joke.
Take it easy and chill out,
okay?”

Suzanne stepped in to
address Bunch. “Maybe you’d
like to hang out in the Book Nook until things get under
way? Our guests should...” She glanced at her watch, a
Timex that seemed to be running
late. “Should be arriving
within the next ten minutes or so.” She gave her stubborn
watch a little tap.

“That
sounds fine,” said Bunch, eager to escape Toni
and her sharp tongue. He dogged
Suzanne’s footsteps into
the Book Nook, dropped his messenger bag on the counter
and said, “I checked
my records about those donations you
mentioned.”

“Hmm?” said Suzanne,
turning back to him with two
more quilting books she’d decided to add to her table
display.

“You asked about
Evelyn Novak making a donation to
the historical society?” Bunch prompted.

“Right,” said
Suzanne, focusing now.

“She
didn’t,” said Bunch. “Not as far as I could see,
anyway.”

“You looked through
your records,” said Suzanne. “And
found nothing for Novak.”

“I went back three
years,” said Bunch. He looked at
her expectantly. “You want me to go back further? I sure
can, if you want me to. What was it you were looking for
specifically?”

“Maybe ... paintings?”
said Suzanne. She knew that’s
what Novak had donated to the museum at Darlington
College.

“Like I mentioned
before,” said Bunch, “we don’t re
ally accept anything that’s of European origin.
Our mis
sion
as set forth is quite clearly focused—nineteenth- and
twentieth-century Americana. And
we prefer items directly
related to the settlement of this particular area.” He
gazed
at
her, saw she was still troubled. “But I could certainly
search further back in our records ...”

“No,”
said Suzanne, “it was just a wild hunch. Thanks
anyway; you’ve done enough.”

“Glad to be of
assistance,” said Bunch, as a chorus of
eager female voices suddenly
shrilled from the other room.

“And we’re off and
running!” said Suzanne.

Lolly
Herron’s grand entrance would have made Ag
atha Christie proud. Although
she lived on a farm out on
Highway 22, Lolly could have easily passed for an aging
BBC star. Her sensible
Miss Marple attire, classic tweed

skirt, carpetbag tote,
and shoes with heels sturdy enough to
construct a skyscraper on, screamed God Save the
Queen! She’d wisely chosen to top off her outfit with a brown felt
beret, held on with a
jeweled hatpin that could probably
double as a rapier.

“Am I too early?”
Lolly breathed breathlessly, then saw
that one table was already filled. “Oh perfect,”
she said.

“I am loving that
outfit!” Suzanne exclaimed.

“Got it all at
Goodwill,” said Lolly. “Which accounts for
the mingled aroma of Estee
Lauder and mothballs.”

“Even the shoes?”
asked Suzanne.

Lolly grinned. “Actually,
these were mine to begin
with.” A few laugh lines appeared on her pleasantly plump
face.

“Well, you’re
perfectly dressed for a proper English
tea,” said Suzanne, leading her
to a table. Then she headed
back to the front door to welcome yet another arriving
group of women.

These women had taken
what Suzanne always thought of
as the fifties matriarch approach. That is, demure
suits, veiled
hats, rhinestone cluster pins, and white gloves. And was one
woman even wearing
nylons with seams? Oh yes, she was!

As Suzanne continued to seat guests, Toni
rushed
to greet Minerva Bishop, also known
as Mrs. Min. The
tiny octogenarian
was barely counter height, yet she was dressed fashionably in a brown suit with
beige piping.

“Over here.” Suzanne
waved as Toni lead the elderly
lady to a chair that had been set up with a booster
pillow.
‘There
you go,” said Suzanne, pushing Mrs. Min in snug
to the table.

“She’s so old she
should be
displayed
in the historical
society,” Toni whispered in Suzanne’s ear.

“Wait a
few years,” Suzanne whispered back, “and that
will be us!”

A tap on Suzanne’s
shoulder caused her to turn, a broad
smile still lighting her face. Her smile dimmed a
bit when
she
found herself staring into Jane Buckley’s tear-filled eyes.

“I just heard about
Wilbur,” Jane moaned, holding her
arms across her stomach, as if she was in pain. “It’s
so
awful.”

Suzanne didn’t pull
any punches.

“Doogie’s going to ask
more questions, you know.”

Jane bristled. “Like
what?”

“Like where you were
last night?”

“Home,”
said Jane, looking both wary and a little
defensive.

“Home alone?” Suzanne
asked.

Jane
nodded, then she looked worried. “Oh no. He can’t
think that I...”

“Doogie’s
not thinking too clearly about anything right
now,” Suzanne said as she led
Jane to a table where two giggling tea regulars were seated. The duo was
already chatting, laughing, and sipping tea and Suzanne figured
they’d be the perfect
tonic for Jane right now.

With
every chair in the house occupied and an
aromatherapy-like haze
of Darjeeling, Assam, and Lap-
sang souchong drifting over the cafe, Suzanne pushed her
way into
the kitchen. And stopped short when she saw what
Toni and Petra had created.

“My
goodness, those are gorgeous!” Suzanne ex
claimed, gazing at the
three-tiered silver serving stands that
were brimming with goodies.