Bedeviled Eggs (7 page)

 “Do you need a glass
of water?” Suzanne asked. “Or
maybe a cup of tea?” Jane was slumped in a big, comfy
chair in the Book
Nook, her demeanor a fragile mix of rage
and woe. Petra sat on a lumpy
footstool, holding Jane’s
hand
and making soft cooing sounds.

“Only if it has a dram
of gin in it,” Jane managed to
answer. Then added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound
snippy.
It’s
just one of those museum-world clichés. The old maid
who sits at home nipping Bombay
gin or drinking dry
sherry
while tending a herd of cats.”

Suzanne made a noise
in the back of her throat. “You
have
cats?”

“Just two,” said
Jane. “Which is actually well within
the normal range.” She coughed, then added, “And
truth
be
told, I don’t drink much at all, except for a single glass of wine last night
to help me relax in case I actually
met
someone.” She pulled a hanky from
her handbag and blew
her nose loudly. “And now look at me, a messy little
lump
of sadness.”

“You’re not, either,”
said Petra.

“What exactly did
Doogie say to you?” asked Suzanne.

Jane let out a breath
of despair. “He said I was at the top
of his suspect list”

“He has a list?” Petra
asked, skeptically.

“What
were his exact words?” asked Suzanne. “Did
Doogie say you were on his list
because of your fight with
Peebler?”

Jane edged herself
farther back into the comfort of the
upholstered chair and nodded. “I didn’t realize
every single person in the Cackleberry Club overheard us.”

“I doubt they did,”
said Petra, always the staunch ally.

“But the
whole town’s talking,” said Jane. “Sheriff Doo
gie told me so himself.”

“The whole town’s
not
talking,” said Petra.

“Yes, they are,” said
Toni, suddenly appearing in the
doorway. She held a tray that contained an ornate red tea
pot and three small
Chinese-style cups. “Everybody’s been buzzing about the murder all morning and
I don’t think it’s
going to
stop anytime soon.”

“They’ll stop,” said
Petra, as if her strength and iron will
could make it so.

“I’m not
so sure about that,” said Suzanne, accepting the
tea tray from Toni. “Thank you.”

“You bet,” said Toni,
backing away.

“Everything okay out
there?” Suzanne asked. She didn’t
want to leave Toni in the lurch for afternoon
tea.

“Nothing I can’t
handle,” said Toni.

Petra poured a stream
of jasmine tea into a teacup and handed it to Jane. “Straight tea, no cream or
sugar.”

“You
always remember how I like my tea,” Jane mur
mured. “You never forget anything.”

“Or
anyone,” said Petra smiling warmly at Jane. “Now,
tell us what we can do to help.”

Jane
took a quick, appreciative sip of tea and said,
“Since you brought it up...”

“Because if you want me to
speak to Doogie ...” began Petra. “Really let him have it...”

Jane plucked nervously
at the sleeve of her blouse. “Ac
tually,
I came here to ... um ... ask Suzanne for help.”

“I see,” said Petra, in a quiet voice.

“What?” Suzanne yelped.

“The thing is,” said Jane, turning an
imploring look on Suzanne, “you were so smart about straightening out that
terrible mess when Ozzie was killed.”

“Oh, not so much,” said Suzanne. She waved
a hand, trying to make light of it, make it seem like a minor little incident.

Jane continued in a rush. “And,
of course, you’re awfully close to Doogie.”

Suzanne grimaced. “Not really.”

Petra gave Suzanne a level
gaze. “Sure, you are. You two went to school together.”

“He was a few years
ahead of me,” said Suzanne, as her
brain whirred into overdrive.
How to get out of this?
she
wondered.
Just beg off nicely? Sure, that’s the
ticket. Petra
will probably
even back me up. She knows I really don’t want
to get involved in chasing down suspects in Peebler’s murder.

“Obviously,” said
Petra, furrowing her brow and staring
directly at Suzanne, “Jane really needs our help. And by that I mean
your
help.”

So much for backing me up,
thought Suzanne. “I could probably
recommend a good attorney.”

“No!” cried Petra. “We’re not at that point
yet!”

“Listen,” said Suzanne, crossing her arms
in front of her, trying to look as uninvolved as possible. “Doogie already
knows how I feel about Jane as a suspect. I told him he was wasting his time.”

“Thank you,” said
Jane. “I think.”

“Then
what’s the harm in your speaking with Doogie
again?”
asked Petra. “Surely
you could make him under
stand
that Jane wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

Suzanne was feeling
frustrated. “There’s always a risk
I could make things worse! When you defend
something
once
too often, Doogie has a tendency to use the ‘doth pro
test too much’ argument.”

“It’s probably the
only line from Shakespeare he can
quote,” stewed Petra.

“Please,” Jane
implored Suzanne. Tears sparkled in her eyes then spilled down her pale cheeks.
“Couldn’t you just
try
to talk to him?”

In the
end, of course, Suzanne relented. Agreed to speak
with the duly elected Sheriff
Doogie and make an impas
sioned
plea regarding Jane’s innocence.

With one small
codicil.

“I have
to ask this,” said Suzanne. “What were you and
Chuck Peebler arguing about last night?”

“Oh, it’s really
stupid,” said Jane, waving a hand.

Suzanne stood firm. “You
still need to tell me.”

“The thing is,” said
Jane, “I used to be friends with Pee
bler’s aunt.”

“The one who died last
month?” asked Petra.

Jane gave a
thoughtful nod. “That’s right, Evelyn Novak.
A very nice lady. Caring and
socially committed. She even
donated a couple of nice paintings to the Darlington
College
art
museum. Anyway, Peebler was asking me about some an
tiquities his aunt owned that
were missing from her house.”

“What’s
that
got
to do with anything?” huffed Petra.

Suzanne peered at
Jane. “Excuse me, but Peebler
thought
you
stole
them?”

“That was the basic
gist of the conversation,” said Jane,
giving Suzanne a baleful look. “Chuck Peebler
seemed ab
solutely
convinced that I strong-armed his aunt into donat
ing them to the museum.”

“Why would he think
that?” asked Petra. “Why would
he
jump to that conclusion?”

“I suppose because
the items are missing?” theorized
Jane. “Because she’d donated items before?”

“And you
are the registrar,” Suzanne murmured. She
thought for a minute. “What
exactly are these items that
are
missing?”

Jane
shrugged. “No idea. Peebler wouldn’t tell me, just
kept haranguing me, saying, ‘You
know what they are!’
and treating me like I was some kind of criminal.” Jane
stared worriedly at
Suzanne, then at Petra. “But you know
I wouldn’t... I couldn’t...”

“We know
you wouldn’t, dear,” said Petra, patting
Jane’s hand.

Suzanne
placed an index finger between her brows and
massaged her frown lines. Decided
this was all very strange.

A half hour before
closing, Arthur Bunch strolled into the
Cackleberry Club. As he quickly
scanned the cafe, his stack
of Quilt Trail brochures shifted in his hands and began
to
spill.

Suzanne dashed
forward and made a quick save before
the colorful brochures hit the floor. “Slippery
buggers,” she
said, grabbing for
them.

“Thanks, Suzanne,”
said Bunch. “Guess my mind is
elsewhere.”

Suzanne noticed Bunch’s
oversized black galoshes with
his tweed trousers stuffed inside. “It’s wet enough for
rain
gear?” she asked.

Arthur gave a quick
smile. “No, but it’s about to start
spritzing any minute, so I got all suited up.” He
offered a lopsided grin. “I plan to drive the entire Quilt Trail tonight
and make each and
every stop. I want to make sure every
thing is perfect!”

“Have you eaten yet?”
Suzanne asked, feeling sorry
for this quaint middle-aged man in his tweeds and boots.
She’d seen Bunch at garage sales and tag sales, rummag
ing through piles of clothing,
and figured that’s where he found his slightly out-of-date tweedy wardrobe. On
the
other
hand, a civil servant, especially one who worked at a
small county historical society,
didn’t exactly pull down a
hefty
income.

Arthur
shook his head as his eyes lit up. “No lunch yet.
Been awfully busy.”

“We’ve
still got scones and chicken chili,” she told him.
“Have a chair and we’ll get you fortified.”

Bunch stumbled to a
table, sat down heavily, then gazed
up at her, a worried look shadowing his face. “I
heard
what
happened here last night,” he murmured. And now
he looked slightly unnerved. “Mr.
Peebler was shot with
an
arrow?”

“A
special kind of arrow,” said Suzanne. “From a cross
bow.”

“That a fact?” Now
Bunch looked even more worried.
“A ghastly way to go. Just like in the days of King
Arthur
or
Cromwell. Do you know, does the sheriff have any idea
who ... ?”

“No idea,” said
Suzanne. “Sheriff Doogie’s really just
begun his investigation.”
And
I guess so will I.

The
mild-mannered Bunch was still unsettled. “Because
the idea of a random killer...
you know, like that crazy
sniper who stalked the Washington, D.C., area some years
back?’

Suzanne nodded.

“A
random killer would be utterly terrifying,” said
Bunch. “I hope it’s nothing like
that,” he added hastily.

“The
sheriff’s thinking it was probably an isolated inci
dent,” said Suzanne.

“If even a hint of
worry gets out,” said Bunch, “it could
affect the Quilt Trail. A lot of
people have worked ex
tremely hard to make this happen.” He bobbed his head for
emphasis.
“We’ve got historical sites all over the county
that are scrubbed and polished
and staffed with hardworking volunteers. Plus we’ve been promoting it like
crazy for
the last three
months.”

“I know you have,”
said Suzanne.

“Plus the smaller
merchants, like antique shops and
cafe’s, are counting on an influx of tourists for
this event,” said Bunch. “Business has been tough for them these last
couple of years.”

“I hear
you,” said Suzanne, as she counted her bless
ings once again. For some reason
the Cackleberry Club had
weathered the vicissitudes of a bad economy. Whether it
was the cozy cafe,
the Book Nook, or the Knitting Nest
that attracted people, there had been a steady
uptick in their
bottom line. They hadn’t scored a huge profit, mind you,
but they were making a decent living.

Suzanne plated a
scone for Bunch and added a huge dol
lop of Devonshire cream. Two seconds later, Toni
brought
out
a large bowl of chili and placed it in front of him.

“A veritable feast,”
declared Bunch.

Suzanne slid into the
chair across from him, while Toni
finished setting up tables for tomorrow. “Mr.
Bunch ...”
she began.

“Arthur,” he said,
spooning up chili at a rapid rate.

“Arthur,”
said Suzanne. “Do you, by any chance, know
a woman by the name of Evelyn Novak?”