Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

“Quiet!” snapped Sheriff Burney. “I’ll do the talking.”

  “How deep in doo-doo would you say we are?” whispered Toni, her hands extended up over her head.

  Suzanne managed a quick glance around. “We got a dead body swinging from a tree and the two of us goofs standing right next to it,” she whispered back. “I’d say we’re in way over our heads.”

  And still the excitement continued as another siren wailed and a fourth vehicle, blue and red light bars pulsing like mad, roared up to join their little circle of Dante’s Hell.

  But this time, Suzanne and Toni caught a small break. Because the new arrival was Sheriff Roy Doogie. He climbed from his cruiser, hitched at his pants, and scowled ferociously at them.

  “We got a homicide here,” Sheriff Burney called to Sheriff Doogie. Burney was a by-the-book kind of guy. Tall, rail thin, a former marine drill sergeant.

  “Dang!” yelled Doogie. He snatched his hat from his head and threw it to me ground. “Dang!” he shouted again.

  “What?” called Burney. “What?”

  “They ain’t your killers,” cried Doogie. ‘They’re just pain-in-the-butt pests!”

  Suzanne and Toni were given a chance to explain themselves, of course. And then were given a lecture that fairly scalded their ears. They knew all the fiery words, of course; they weren’t complete innocents. But they’d never heard them strung together in the context of such barbarous, blistering prose!

  Chapter fourteen

  Wednesday morning dawned overcast and gray. Wind stripped yellow and gold leaves from trees and sent them swirling, in miniature tornadic clouds, down the blacktopped streets of Kindred. To add insult to injury, rain spat down in icy little pellets. It was the kind of weather that set the stage perfectly for Ozzie Driesden’s funeral.

  Suzanne, Toni, and Petra were huddled in the back of Hope Church, whispering among themselves. Obviously, Suzanne and Toni’s big adventure last night was their topic du jour.

  “I can’t believe you actually found Bo Becker’s body!” breathed Petra. She was stunned and a little taken aback by their crazy confession. “I mean . .. what were you two doing out there? What on earth were you thinking?”

  “Jeez,” said Toni, glancing at the conservatively attired mourners, then buttoning the top button of her black cowboy shirt, “we were just on a cheese run.”

  “That escalated into a harebrained plan,” admitted Suzanne.

  “And ended in a complete debacle,” scolded Petra, gazing from one to the other.

  “You know, it was really Junior’s fault,” said Toni, looking studiously innocent.

  “How do you figure that?” asked Suzanne. They’d both been complicit in their urge to snoop, hadn’t they?

  “If Junior hadn’t traded cars with me,” said Toni, “we’d never have had access to that police scanner.” She gave a sharp nod of her head and her frizzled, pinned-up hair bobbed in silent indignation.

  ‘That’s bordering on situational ethics,” said Petra.

  “No,” said Suzanne, “what happened was ... we were just plain stupid last night. And morbidly curious.”

  “Speaking of morbid, my friends,” said Petra, dropping her voice. “We’d better go in and take our seats. Ozzie’s funeral will be starting soon.”

  Glancing out the double doors of the church, Suzanne saw a long, black hearse glide to a stop. It bore a discreet Driesden and Draper crest-shaped logo etched on the side window. “Since our guest of honor has just arrived,” she told them.

  “Oh you,” fluttered Petra. “Please be serious ... for once.”

  Suzanne decided that Ozzie’s funeral ranked about a seven out of ten possible points as funerals go. There was a full house, of course, with a few curiosity seekers shuffling around in the back of the church. So all the mourners from last night and then some.

  The flowers and decor were quite lovely. A large cross made out of white mums and red roses with a lemon leaf border stood behind Ozzie’s gunmetal gray coffin. A casket spray of gladiolas and carnations sat on top. Black velvet bunting was draped across the front pews.

  Eulogies were delivered by several of Kindred’s more prominent citizens, including Mayor Mobley.

  Mobley, dressed in a black suit that wouldn’t quite button, came across as upbeat mixed with his own brand of greasy charm. He spoke about Ozzie’s many contributions to the community, then went on to talk about vigilant law enforcement and seeking final justice in what was certainly a wrongful death. Suzanne knew Sheriff Doogie was in the audience. Was he squirming at Mobley’s pointed words? Had to be.

  But the best eulogy of all was rendered by Reverend Strait. He spoke gently of Ozzie’s kindness in shepherding so many people through their hour of grief. Of his dedication to the community. Then finished with, what Suzanne decided, was the perfect line pulled from Emily Dickinson: Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.

  These final words elicited great, gasping sobs from Missy, who was seated in the third row from the front. Her ex, Earl Stensrud, sat beside her, comforting her. But his comfort seemed to extend to a few genial pats on her shoulder.

  Then George Draper and two assistants in somber black suits seesawed Ozzie’s coffin and pointed it, feet first, down the center aisle. There was a subdued rumble as everyone rose to their feet, then the organist chimed in with a slightly off-key version of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven.”

  Suzanne brushed tears from her eyes as Ozzie’s coffin rolled past her on squeaky wheels. Then came a stolid-looking man who had to be Ozzie’s brother, a small entourage of hastily summoned relatives, and Missy and Earl.

  Glancing at Toni and Petra, Suzanne noticed that Petra was wiping her eyes with a white hanky while Toni picked a bit of lint from her shirt. Then again, Suzanne reminded herself, Toni had yet to experience the death of someone close to her.

  Hadn’t felt that iron band of grief close around her heart in a way that felt like it would never loosen. Hadn’t experienced the dreams that haunted and taunted.

  Then Toni surprised her by sniffling loudly. ‘That was so sad,” she said. The three of them sat there numbly, watching the rest of the mourners file past.

  Petra nodded. “I feel just awful for Ozzie’s brother. What must he think of our town? That something this horrible could happen to his only brother?”

  “You can bet he’s heard about last night, too,” said Toni. She gave a quizzical look. “Don’t you guys find it awfully strange that two people from the same funeral home were murdered?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Petra. “But you’re right. It is an odd coincidence.”

  “Maybe not a coincidence at all,” said Suzanne.

  Once everyone was milling about outside the church, Suzanne looked around for Sheriff Doogie. And saw him clumping toward his cruiser.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told Toni and Petra, then scurried after him.

  “Now what do you want?” asked Doogie when he caught sight of her. He had his hand on his car door, looking like he’d been hoping for a clean getaway.

  “About last night...” began Suzanne.

  “You and your friend are in serious trouble concerning that,” came Doogie’s stern warning. “Charges could be filed.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” said Suzanne.

  “Interfering with the law ...”

  “Stumbling across a dead body is hardly interfering,” said Suzanne. “It’s just... bad luck.”

  “Bad luck and trouble seem to follow you around,” snarled Doogie.

  Suzanne backed off then, hoping to deflect some of Doogie’s anger and get to the point where she could ask him some serious questions. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “We really didn’t mean to get in the way.”

  “You should be sorry,” sniffed Doogie. He was still nursing hard feelings. Or maybe he’d just felt embarrassed in front of Sheriff Burney.

  �
�What I wanted to ask you,” said Suzanne, “since law enforcement packed us on our merry way rather hastily last night, was ... did Bo Becker hang himself?”

  “What?” said Doogie.

  “Because if Becker did kill Ozzie, maybe he was overcome with remorse.”

  Doogie folded his arms across his broad chest and stared at Suzanne with flat eyes. “No remorse,” he finally said.

  “You don’t think Becker murdered Ozzie, do you?” said Suzanne. “You’ve changed your mind, shifted your paradigm.”

  Sheriff Roy Doogie continued to stare at her. Sometimes no answer was an answer.

  “And Becker didn’t hang himself, either, did he?” said Suzanne, a little excited now.

  “Let’s just say we now have parallel investigations,” said Doogie.

  Suzanne knew she shouldn’t, knew it was probably in horrible taste, but she just had to talk to George Draper. She caught him just as he and his assistants slid the casket into the hearse and slammed the back hatch.

  “George. Mr. Draper,” she called.

  George Draper stood by the side of his hearse, looking even more gaunt and haggard than usual. “Hello, Suzanne,” he said.

  Suzanne didn’t waste any words. “I’m assuming you heard about Bo Becker?”

  Draper’s face sagged. “Of course. Sheriff Doogie phoned me last night. Roused me out of bed, in fact. I drove out there immediately, had to see for myself.” He shook his head. “Shocking, absolutely shocking.”

  “So you think Becker was murdered, too,” said Suzanne. “Not a suicide.”

  That seemed to stun Draper. “Well... I. . . yes, I suppose so,” he finally stammered.

  That was all Suzanne needed to hear. “Do you have any idea what Bo Becker might have been involved in? I mean, outside of the funeral home?”

  “Not really,” said Draper. “Of course, he was mostly Ozzie’s assistant. I think Ozzie had been trying to get him into a program to be a morgue assistant.”

  “When was the last time you saw Becker?” asked Suzanne.

  Draper scratched his head. “He helped with the Carr-funeral Monday morning, then took off immediately afterward. I never saw him again. Must have ... I don’t know... run into some kind of trouble.” He sighed. “Obviously he did.”

  “But Becker was loading flowers into his car Monday night,” said Suzanne. “I saw him.”

  George looked stunned. “Where?”

  “At the back door of your funeral home.”

  “Did you tell Sheriff Doogie about this?”

  “Of course,” said Suzanne. “What I’m trying to figure out is ... why did Becker end up at that deserted cemetery?”

  George Draper stared at her. “I don’t know.”

  “Was he supposed to deliver flowers there?” asked Suzanne.

  Draper blinked. “There were a few flowers in the backseat of Becker’s car. I saw them last night. They let me look inside his car.”

  “Whose flowers were they?”

  “I’m guessing they might have been from the Carr funeral on Monday,” said Draper.

  “They didn’t get left at Memorial Cemetery with the body?”

  “Obviously not,” said Draper. He had a look on his face as though someone had screwed up. “Must have come back in the hearse.”

  “So why would Bo have taken them to that particular cemetery?”

  “I don’t know,” said Draper. “He doesn’t... he didn’t... always listen terribly well.”

  “What if someone called the funeral home and told him to take the flowers there?” postulated Suzanne. “Or left a message to that effect?”

  “Then he might have done it,” said Draper, jingling his keys nervously. “I mean ... it’s possible.”

  “And someone could have followed him,” said Suzanne. “Or been waiting for him.”

  George made a motion to open the driver’s side door. He was anxious to get going.

  “And drugs were missing from the funeral home?” pressed Suzanne.

  “Well . . . yes,” said Draper, making a sour face.

  “We don’t make a big deal of it. The families prefer to think of their loved ones as looking quite natural. But to accomplish that kind of miracle we do employ a rather large arsenal of chemicals.”

  Jut as Suzanne was about to climb into her car, Doogie pulled up alongside her. Suzanne pocketed her keys and hurried over to Doogie’s driver’s side window.

  “I had a feeling you weren’t finished with your questions,” said Doogie.

  “You’re right,” Suzanne told him. “And I’ve got a whopper of a question for you.”

  “Shoot,” said Doogie.

  “Do you think maybe Bo’s killer wasn’t after Bo at all? That he was really after George Draper?”

  “First Driesden, then Draper,” mused Doogie. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Missy’s not looking much like a suspect anymore, is she?” said Suzanne.

  “Nobody is,” grumped Doogie.

  “Maybe,” said Suzanne, “we should be looking at George Draper. What he might be involved in, if he has any prior—”

  “No,” interrupted Doogie, “I need to do all that. You need to keep your flat little nose out of my investigation.”

  “What about that funeral home consortium?” began Suzanne. “What’s their name again ... ?”

  “Roth Funeral Consortium,” supplied Doogie.

  “Could they be involved in something like this?”

  “No idea.”

  “Could you contact other law enforcement agencies in the states Roth Consortium is in?”

  “Why?” asked Doogie.

  “See if there have been any similar murders of funeral home directors?”

  “That ain’t a bad idea,” allowed Doogie.

  On her way back to the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne had another small brainstorm. Who owns the deserted church and graveyard, anyway?

  If the property was in Deer County, she’d have to run all the way over to Cornucopia to dig through records. But if the church was situated in Logan County . . . well, then she might be able to pull up that information at the county courthouse.

  Five minutes later, Suzanne parked in front of the redbrick building, sped up the sidewalk, then hurried down a linoleum-tiled hallway that smelled faintly of disinfectant.

  At the battered wooden desk that stretched ten feet across, a barrier that separated the record keepers from the record seekers, Suzanne ran into Nadine Carr. Nadine seemed to be in the middle of filing papers related to her husband’s death. Suzanne’s heart went out to the poor woman. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d had to deal with the same heartbreaking tasks.

  “I’m so sorry about your husband,” Suzanne told her. “My sincere condolences.” Nadine’s husband, Julian, had been a soft-spoken man who’d eaten at the Cackleberry Club a couple of times. Purchased books at the Book Nook, too. On World War II and the Korean War.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Nadine. “But Julian had been sick for a very long time. I was ... we all were . . . prepared, as they say.”

  “Still,” said Suzanne, “these things are never easy.”

  “I saw a poster down at Kuyper’s Drug Store about the Knit-In at the Cackleberry Club,” said Nadine. “I thought I might drop by. Give me something to focus on.”

  “You’d be more than welcome,” said Suzanne, wishing now that she’d gone to Julian Carr’s funeral the other morning. It probably would have really meant something to Nadine.

  Now Nadine’s lower lip trembled slightly, as if the harsh realization of her husband’s death had struck her yet again.

  Suzanne put her arms around Nadine and embraced the woman who was at least a head shorter than she was. “I know how you feel,” she commiserated.

  “I know you do, honey,” said Nadine. “I know you had a tough time yourself a while back.”

  They held each other for a few more moments, sniffling, tears hot on their cheeks. Then Suzanne said, “I have kind
of a strange question for you.”

  Wiping away tears, Nadine looked up at her. “Yes?”

  “The flowers for your husband’s funeral. Do you know ... were they left at the cemetery or brought back to the funeral home?”

  Nadine gazed at her. “That’s a strange question.”

  “It has to do with Ozzie’s murder,” said Suzanne. “And... another strange development.” She didn’t know if Nadine had heard about Bo Becker yet.

  Turns out she hadn’t. So Suzanne hastily filled her in.

  Nadine’s eyes widened in horror as Suzanne’s story unfolded. She put a chubby hand to her chest as if her heart could barely withstand this terrible news. “Awful, just awful,” she murmured. “It sounds like someone’s targeting people at the funeral home.” Needless to say, Nadine was more than a little stunned.