Bedeviled Eggs (36 page)

“Mocha’s part of it,
sure,” said Suzanne. “And when the
moment is right, I’ll gallop through the party and
scare the
living daylights out
of everyone!”

“I love
it!” Sam declared. “So I
do
have to dress up. But
what should I wear?”

“Maybe go as a
doctor? Wear scrubs or something.”

“No, no, no, I get
enough of that every day.”

Suzanne thought for a
minute. “Maybe...” She held up
an index finger. “Wait right here, I have an idea.”

Suzanne
returned a few minutes later to find Sam stand
ing at the sink, up to his elbows
in sudsy water.

“An employed male who
isn’t afraid of soapsuds. Al
most as good as a multimillionaire who loves to shop.”
She
grinned
at him. “Come on over here and sit down. I want
to try something.”

Sam wiped
his hands, then obediently followed her to
the table and plopped down.

“Now tilt your head
back,” said Suzanne. Using red lip
liner, she drew a lightning bolt scar on Sam’s
forehead.
Then
she balanced a pair of round, wire-rimmed reading
glasses on his nose and wound a
long scarf around his
neck. Finally, she rumpled his hair and brushed it
forward.

“You have a dark
tweed jacket?” she asked.

Sam nodded.

“Perfect.”

“What am I?” Sam
asked.

“Welcome to my
Halloween party, Harry Potter!”

That sent him
skittering to the mirror. He came back,
moments later, looking quite
pleased. “You’re a very crafty
lady,” he told her. “In more ways than one.”

“Really?”
Suzanne responded. “I think you’re the crafty
one, maneuvering another sleepover.”

Sam
spread his arms wide, the better to envelop her.
“What could I do? You were a
damsel in distress.”

True
to Toni’s promise, Junior had parked a red Chevy
Impala in front of
her house. Correction, eons ago, it had
rolled off a showroom floor as
red. Now the car’s color was pretty much an oxidized liver brown spackled with
demar
cations
of rust In some spots, even the rust had blisters of
rust. But it was here, so it must still run.

Suzanne grabbed the
keys that dangled from the rear-
view mirror and held her breath as she cranked the
engine. First the car shimmied, then it rattled like it was being buffeted by
an F6 tornado.
Maybe an exhaust system hanging
on for dear life? A
transmission ready to implode?

Suzanne pulled away
from the curb, chuckling, wonder
ing if the neighbors were getting an eyeful. And when she
stopped
at the comer, Junior’s clunker belched like a flatu
lent old man, then actually bucked!

But she
made it to the Cackleberry Club, where Toni
and Petra were already scurrying
around like mad.

Junior was there, too,
dressed in a black T-shirt that said
Carpe Noctem
across the front and
his usual pegged jeans,
pounding in the last stake that held up a ginormous white
tent that was open on three
sides.

“How’s it running,
Suzanne?” was Junior’s greeting. He
pulled a pack of Camel straights from his
rolled-up sleeve
and lit one. “Purring
like a kitten?”

“More like a salsa
dancer with indigestion,” she told
him, with a wry smile.

Junior
grinned like a maniac, loving her analogy.
“Ha-cha!”

Toni came bounding up
to them, in blue jeans, a cham
bray shirt tied at the waist, and a red bandana
containing
her
wild fluff of hair. “When you finish pounding tent
stakes, Junior, I want you to set
up the tables and chairs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” mumbled
Junior. Toni could be a tough
taskmaster.

But Toni wasn’t
finished. ‘Then you gotta haul those
hay bales ...” She pointed at a stack of hay
bales that had magically materialized from Ducovny’s farm. “And ar
range them in
concentric circles. That’s where we’ll set the
fire pits for roasting hot dogs
and s’mores.”

“What’s concentric?”
Junior asked, tossing his dark
forelock of hair back and pluming out a stream of smoke.

Toni rolled her eyes.
“Round.”

“Oh,” said Junior,
catching on, “yeah.”

“He’s like a fourth
grader who needs remedial help with
geometry and a juvenile delinquent all rolled into
one,”
Toni
told Suzanne, when Junior finally stumbled off to his
next task.

“But he’s working,”
said Suzanne. “Which is what I
need
to do.”

“We’re
actually in pretty good shape,” Toni told her.
“Joey Ewald was here earlier, so
he schlepped most of the heavy stuff for us. Of course, Petra’s going crazy
inside.”

“It’s
not high tea,” said Suzanne, “it’s hot dogs and
beans.”

“Try to tell her that,”
said Toni, as they headed inside.

“Hey,”
said Suzanne, “does Junior know what’s on his
T-shirt?”

Toni giggled. “Naw. He
thinks
Carpe Noctem
means
fishing
at night.”

“Suzanne!”
cried Petra. “I heard what happened last
night!” She came
flying from the kitchen, deep concern
etching her broad face, and grasped Suzanne in an
expansive bear hug. “I feel awful! More repercussions!”

“I think so,” said
Suzanne.

“I’m going to say a
special prayer,” said Petra, “so your
guardian angel watches over you extra carefully
today. Oh,
and poor Cynthia!”

“Who’s Cynthia?”
asked Toni.

“Her car,” said Petra.
“Cynthia was her car.”

“You name your car?”
Toni asked, scratching her head.
“I
thought only I did that. And Junior.”

Petra let loose a
mock shudder that almost caused her
chef’s hat to topple. “I hate to think what names
Junior
dreams up.”

“Dodie,” said Toni, “he
calls his Mustang Dodie.”

Petra
grabbed Suzanne’s hand and pulled her into the
kitchen. “And I have an update on
Reverend Yoder.”

“Good news, I hope.”
For some reason, Suzanne felt
guilty for not asking Sam how the good reverend was

doing. Then again, she
really didn’t want to mix business
with... pleasure.

“He gets
out of the hospital tomorrow,” said Petra. ‘Too
bad he couldn’t make it to the
party tonight.”

“You
really think a minister wants to rub shoulders with
people dressed like witches and
ghosts?” asked Toni.

“Mmm,” said Petra,
reconsidering, “though it’s all in
good fun, you make a good point. He might not
appreci
ate it.”

“Maybe more than his
heart can take,” Toni muttered.

“Oh my gosh,” said
Suzanne, gazing at a huge silver
tray, “you made your special bedeviled eggs.” Petra’s be
deviled eggs included
hot peppers, diced pimento, onions,
and homemade mayo.

“Honey,” said Petra,
giving an offhand wave, “that’s just
the tip of the iceberg. There are two more trays
in the cooler.”

‘This has to go down
in the annals as a Cackleberry
Club specialty,” said Suzanne. She glanced around the
kitchen. “What else?”

“Beans are on the
stove,” said Petra, pointing to an
enormous vat of bubbling brown liquid. “I’m going
to toss
in
more molasses and brown sugar, then shove ‘em in the
oven to finish off.”

“Yum,” said Toni.

“The bakery came
through with a special delivery of hot
dog buns,” said Petra, “and I
ordered bratwurst instead of hot dogs.” She shrugged. ‘Tastier, I think.
Meatier.”

“Our wurst is our
best,” Toni joked.

“Oh,” said Petra, “and
Junior gave me his recipe for dev
iled ham.”

“Junior has a recipe?’
asked Suzanne. This from a man whose idea of haute cuisine was Old Country
Buffet?

“Petra
said we could whip it up,” said Toni, jumping in.
“I guess it’s not too complicated.”

“No,” said Suzanne, “I
doubt it is.”

They
worked together for the next twenty minutes,
prepping the rest of the food,
discussing the best way to
arrange the buffet table, and trying to figure out how
many
fire
pits they’d need for making s’mores—or S’mortuaries,
as Petra insisted on calling them.

Just as they decided
that Petra would oversee the cook
ing of all the brats on the outdoor grill, Junior
strolled in.
He grinned, grabbed a sugar cookie that was shaped like a
bat and decorated
with chocolate icing, and promptly bit
off its head.

“You’re here to help
us set up, Junior,” said Toni, trying
to snatch the cookie away from him. “Not eat”

Junior
danced out of reach. “Yeah, but think of all the
free consulting work I’ve given you.”

“Consulting work?”
said Suzanne.

“Sure,” said Junior,
looking earnest. “Coming up with
ideas on where to put the tent, figuring how many chairs
you’d need, deciding
where to put the band. You guys
didn’t
even
think
about the band.”

“You’re right,” said
Petra, “we didn’t. Have another
cookie,
Junior.”

“Don’t mind if I do,”
said Junior, grabbing an entire
handful of cookies. “You can’t let a musical group domi
nate festivities,”
said Junior, “but they still need to be front
and center. For entertainment purposes.”

“Where’d you learn
this stuff, Junior?’ asked Petra.
“How did you get to be such a crackerjack party
planner?’

Junior shrugged,
looking pleased. “Jeez, I don’t know.
Going to stock car races, I guess. Hanging around
in the

pits, where they have
music and beer tents and sexy tire
models and stuff.”

“Well put, Junior,”
said Suzanne. “Well put.”

“Done with your
break?” Toni asked as she pinched his
arm hard. “Because we’ve got
lots
of
decorating to do.”

“More work?” whined
Junior.

“And then you have to
set up the games,” Petra re
minded
them.

“Oh man,” he groaned.

It
took
a lot of sweat and effort, but by the time the sun
sank low on the horizon, turning
the sky a perfect Hallow
een orange, the parking lot in front of the Cackleberry
Club
had
been transformed into a veritable Halloween land.
Filmy white chiffon ghosts
fluttered from tree limbs. Life-
sized witches hunkered over cauldrons filled with steaming
dry ice. A grinning glow-in-the-dark skeleton clicked and clacked ominously
from his perch in a large oak tree.
Entire cadres of black vinyl bats dipped and
swung from the tent’s rafters. And realistic-looking tombstones tilted
crazily in the yard.

“This looks
spectacular,” said Suzanne. She and Toni were doing a quick reconnaissance.
Junior had set up the
tables and chairs, some under the tent, some under the
stars.
The
buffet station and large grill had been moved into the tent Hay bales were
arranged in circles and an area for the band had also been marked with hay
bales.

“All we need to do is
haul out a few more pumpkins,”
said Toni. She pointed at a row of stakes that had been
pounded into the ground. “You see that? I’m gonna plant
a grinning, glowing
jack-o’-lantern on top of each stake.”

“Very effective,”
agreed Suzanne.

“We just need to
carve a few more.”

“You need my help?”
Suzanne asked.

“Naw,”
said Toni, “Kit’s gonna come by and help me
finish up.”

“Glad to hear she’s
not dancing tonight,” said Suzanne.

“She’s not,” said
Toni, then gave a mischievous grin. “At
least not at Hoobly’s.”