Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

by Childs, Laura

  “Too bad.”

  “Guys,” said Petra, leaning through the pass-through. “The storm is starting to intensify. WLGN has reports of a tornado being spotted some six miles southwest of here. Over near St. Helena.”

  “Oh man,” said Toni. “That’s right by Cappy’s General Store.”

  “Has there been an actual touchdown?” asked Suzanne.

  “Not yet,” said Petra. She wrapped her knuckles against the counter. “Knock on wood.”

  Suzanne and Toni glanced out the front window of the Cackleberry Club. The sky was an angry swirl of low-hanging blue-black clouds.

  “This does look bad,” said Suzanne. Nearby poplars and small maples were being thrashed like crazy by the wind, practically being stripped of their leaves. She wondered if they should move customers away from the windows, just to be on the safe side.

  “Aw, we’ll be okay,” said Toni, sensing Suzanne’s unease. “Maybe we’ll just have to request that our customers drink out of the southwest side of their coffee mugs.” Still, her eyes flicked nervously as she said it.

  “I’m going to turn the radio on out here, too,” said Suzanne. She hopped up onto a straight-backed chair and spun the dial on their old Emerson radio. It was tucked up in the rafters on a shelf filled with colorful ceramic chickens. As a burst of static filled the air, several customers immediately quieted down, the better to hear the weather report.

  Still, Suzanne and Toni moved about the café, gamely taking orders, joking with customers, keeping tabs on the storm outside.

  Suzanne had just delivered a cheese omelet when her eye went to one of the craft items hanging on the wall. It was lovely paper collage depicting a food-laden farm table. The hand-painted calligraphy on it spelled out “Come and get it.” Something about the calligraphy resonated with Suzanne, and she narrowed her eyes, studying it. It’s interesting, she thought, that in that particular style of printing, a C looks more like a G. She blinked and straightened up. Now why on earth is that suddenly pinging in my brain?

  Then it dawned on her—the note in the cemetery! The note that had been left on the grave where Drummond had died. Whoever signed that note signed it with the initial G. But what if it had really been a C? If so, who could C be?

  Before her brain could dredge up any sort of answer, there was an unearthly roar overhead, as if a hundred jumbo jets were about to crash-dive into the Cackleberry Club!

  Suzanne glanced around, wild-eyed, and saw that everyone in the café had stopped eating and was casting fearful glances about, too. Then, before anyone could move a muscle, the entire building began to tremble. Water glasses rattled and crashed over on tables, ceramic chickens shuddered and shook on their narrow shelves. The atmosphere suddenly felt hollow and weird, but pulsing with dangerously charged electrical energy!

  As every light in the place winked off, screams and cries erupted from the customers. But before Suzanne could move a single step, there was a tremendous, ear-splitting crash, as if a giant sledgehammer had been dropped on their roof. And then a high-pitched rasping sounded—and one of the front windows completely shattered!

  Tiny shards of glass burst in upon them with gale force, followed by a tremendous whoosh of damp, cold air and a swirl of rain, leaves, and debris.

  There were sharp cries and moans from the customers, followed by Petra’s cry of “Heaven help us!” from the kitchen.

  In the darkness, panic seemed to reign for a few moments, until Suzanne grabbed a book of matches, lit a candle, and held her little torch aloft.

  “Anybody hurt?” she called out, as Petra came flying out of the kitchen.

  “What the Sam Hill . . . ?” began Petra. Then she saw the window, completely open to the elements now, and skidded to a halt. “Oh no!” she cried.

  Everyone started babbling at once. “The window . . . the lights . . . the glass!” they all exclaimed. Customers got up from their chairs, looking scared and shaky and disoriented.

  Luckily, Toni had the presence of mind to dig out a dozen little tea light candles. She quickly distributed them to all the tables, helping restore a semblance of calm.

  But there were a few injuries. Dan Beckman, one of their regulars, had a nasty gash across his forehead.

  “Petra!” Suzanne called. “Grab your first aid kit!”

  “I’ve got it!” Petra called as she rushed to Beckman’s side. She bent down and carefully inspected his head wound.

  “That yellow plaster hen just came hurtling down at me,” said Beckman. He was bleeding and shaken but trying to feign a casual calm. “Like some kind of kamikaze dive-bomber!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Petra cooed, pulling out strips of gauze and antiseptic.

  “But I’m . . . I think I’m okay,” said Beckman.

  “Good thing you’ve got a hard noggin,” said Petra, trying to make a joke even as her voice shook. “That chickie didn’t really mean to hurt you.”

  Suzanne stood in the middle of the café and surveyed the chaos. “Are there any other medical problems?” she asked in what she hoped was a loud, clear voice.

  Turns out there were.

  “Sonja’s got some glass stuck in her head!” called Toni. Sonja Winter, a retired librarian, was clasping a bunched-up napkin to the back of her head.

  Suzanne hurried over, glass crunching underfoot, to inspect Sonja’s injured head. “Toni, grab a bigger candle,” she directed. “Petra, bring that first aid kit over here.”

  They all crowded around Sonja, as Suzanne ever so gently parted the woman’s cap of gray curls.

  “Doggone,” said Suzanne, “there are a couple of glass shards.”

  “It’s not too bad, is it?” asked Sonja, glancing hopefully at Suzanne.

  “I don’t think so,” said Suzanne. “But they need to come out.”

  Petra took a closer look. “I can’t do this,” she said. “We need a medical professional.”

  “You’re right,” said Suzanne. “A nurse or doctor will have to pluck out those shards with forceps. Make sure none of the glass breaks off.”

  “I could use my manicure tweezers,” offered Toni.

  Suzanne held up a hand. “No, we really do need someone with medical training.”

  “Better call the clinic,” said Petra. “Hopefully the roads are passable and we can drive Sonja and Dan over there. And whoever else needs patching up.”

  Suzanne tried the wall phone and found it was dead. “Lines must be down,” she muttered. She grabbed her cell phone instead and quickly punched in the number for the Westvale Medical Clinic. She knew Sam would be there with his calm voice and rock-solid reassurance.

  Esther, the office manager, answered in a shaky voice. “Westvale Medical Clinic.”

  “Esther,” said Suzanne, “this is Suzanne over at the Cackleberry Club. We’ve got a couple of medical emergencies. One of our windows blew in and we’ve got people with cuts and embedded glass.”

  “We’ve got trees down all over the place, too,” replied Esther. She sounded scared and a little frazzled.

  “Is your power still on?” Suzanne asked.

  “No,” said Esther. “But our backup generator clicked on a few minutes ago, so we’re good for a while.”

  “Is Sam there?” Suzanne asked. “Can he come over here or can we . . . ?”

  “Dr. Hazelet’s not here,” Esther interrupted. “You just missed him. He took off something like three minutes ago.”

  “Where’d he go?” asked Suzanne. This was not what she wanted to hear.

  “We received an emergency call from a very panic-stricken woman,” said Esther. “Apparently there’s been a three-car smashup out on County Road 28, right near that old church. Five people injured, some of them little kids. Anyway, you know Sam. When he heard there were kids, he grabbed his bag and took off like a jackrabbit.”

  “They cal
led the clinic directly? Not 911 to get an ambulance?”

  “Couldn’t get through I guess,” said Esther. “Some cell phones aren’t working and the lines are down all over town. I suppose even at the Law Enforcement Center. Poor Molly must be going crazy!”

  “But some of the nurses are still there? Still at the clinic?”

  “Sure are,” said Esther. “So if you can get your injured folks over here we’re open for business. I bet there’ll be a lot more injuries coming in, too.”

  “We’ll be there,” said Suzanne. She hung up abruptly and turned to face a dozen inquiring faces. “Anybody who’s cut or injured, we’re going to drive you to the clinic,” she announced.

  “Uh . . . I don’t think so,” said Toni. She grabbed a wildly flapping curtain and pulled it aside as she peered out the broken window. “There are trees down all over the place. On top of cars, even blocking our driveway.”

  A few of the customers crowded around the window with Toni. It was, indeed, complete chaos outside. As if an enormous game of pick-up sticks had been played out in their parking lot.

  “Probably straight line winds,” said Petra, surveying the damage. “Looks pretty bad.”

  “And the wind’s still whipping like crazy, blowing debris all over the place!” exclaimed Toni.

  “What if there’s another tornado?” someone cried out.

  “My car’s parked in back,” said Suzanne, trying to remain calm. “We can get out that way.”

  “Go check,” urged Petra.

  But when Suzanne hurried through the kitchen and looked out the back door, her heart sank. A huge tree branch had been sheared off from the giant oak that stood in the backyard. While it hadn’t damaged Suzanne’s car, it was definitely blocking the driveway.

  “Wow,” said Toni, who’d followed her in. “I guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

  Suzanne and Toni went back into the café to break the bad news.

  “Looks like we’re stuck here for a little while longer,” Suzanne told everyone. “Until we can move some of these downed trees.”

  “I’m gonna try to call Junior at the garage,” said Toni. “See if he can get some guys over here with chainsaws and pickup trucks.”

  “Good thinking,” said Petra. She smiled at Sonja, who now had a red bandana tied around her head. “How are you doing, hon?”

  “Hanging in there,” said Sonja.

  But Suzanne was pacing back and forth, still fretting. The storm and injuries had set her on edge . . . as well as Sam just taking off like that.

  Petra pulled her aside. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  Suzanne chewed her bottom lip. “Just . . . I don’t know. Call it a low-level vibe. A worry vibe.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Sam,” said Suzanne, finally vocalizing her nervousness. “I’m worried about Sam.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” said Petra soothingly. “Didn’t you say he was out tending to the injured?” She glanced about and let loose a sigh. “Lord knows, we sure could use him here.”

  Toni saw Suzanne’s consternation, too. “Did you try his cell phone?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Give him a buzz,” she urged. “If you can get through to him, maybe it’ll set your mind at ease.”

  Suzanne grabbed one of the tea lights and walked into the Book Nook. She pulled her phone from her hip pocket and hit Sam’s number. No answer. She waited a minute and tried again. Still no answer. Suzanne stood there, staring dejectedly at her phone. When she heard soft footsteps behind her, she whirled around.

  It was Toni. “Did you get hold of him?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “No, but I guess I really didn’t expect to. Esther said a lot of phones were out all over town. Even some cell phones. It was a miracle I got through to her.”

  “You think the phones are out at the Law Enforcement Center?” asked Toni.

  “Sure,” said Suzanne. “I suppose so.” She stood there for a moment, considering this. Then she quickly dialed Doogie’s direct line.

  A man’s voice answered immediately. “Law Enforcement Center.”

  “You’ve got phone service,” said Suzanne, surprised.

  “For now anyway,” said the man.

  “What about at the 911 call center?” she asked. “Is it working? Are people getting through?”

  “They are as far as I know.”

  “Okay, thank you,” said Suzanne.

  They walked back into the café.

  “Did you get hold of Sam?” asked Petra.

  Suzanne shook her head.

  “Where’d you say that accident was?” said Toni.

  “Um . . . County Road 28,” said Suzanne. “Near that old church.”

  “Huh,” said Toni. “As the crow flies, that’s like ten minutes from here.” She gave Suzanne a reassuring smile, but it faded as soon as she saw the look of consternation on her friend’s face. “Hey, you’re looking a little jittery. You didn’t get conked on the head, did you?”

  Suzanne wasn’t injured, but her mind was suddenly spinning out a strange scenario, a dark and evil scenario. First Lester Drummond had been put out of commission. Then Sheriff Doogie was laid low. And now . . . Sam had been called out? Boom, boom, boom. One, two, three? It couldn’t be, could it?

  Grabbing Toni by both shoulders, Suzanne said, “You stay here, try to get Junior working on those chainsaws, and keep everybody calm.”

  Toni’s eyes went wide. “What are you talking about? Suzanne, hang on a minute! Are you going somewhere?”

  “I’m going out,” said Suzanne. With every passing second her nerves were strumming wildly and she was filled with an ice-cold fear.

  “Outside?” Toni stammered.

  “Out to check on Sam,” said Suzanne.

  Toni’s face went completely blank. “Check on Sam?” she choked out. “With our cars out of commission, how are you gonna do that?”

  Suzanne was already halfway out the door as she hollered back, “How else? Pony express!”

  CHAPTER 25

  AS Suzanne scrambled down the back steps, the wind caught her broadside and practically spun her around. Rain slashed painfully at her face and she was instantly drenched from head to toe. Still, Suzanne tore through the driving rain, skittering across the hardpan backyard that had suddenly become a sea of turgid mud. She ducked into the back strip of woods on her property, ignoring the branches that tore at her clothes, and ran out into a field of planted corn.

  Clouds roiled overhead, lightning crackled, and thunder played a set of dark and ominous timpani drums.

  Am I going to be struck by lightning? Suzanne wondered. Am I going to keel over from all this stress?

  Still she pushed on. Running, sometimes stumbling, through the field, heading for the barn where Mocha and Grommet were stabled. Though the going was terrible and clods of mud kept building up on the soles of her shoes, Suzanne fought to remain close to the hard-packed line of earth that, in drier weather, served as a sort of road for farm vehicles.

  Her breathing grew more and more labored as she ran. But she was definitely making forward progress and drawing ever closer to the farm, ignoring, as best she could, the sharp stitch of pain in her side. Because this was certainly no gentle jog around the park with an aging dog—this was a full-out race through a dangerous storm!

  Finally, with a harsh gasp, Suzanne threw herself up against the rough wood of the barn and quickly muscled open the barn door. Ducking inside the shelter suddenly came as a huge relief! No more wind whipping her hair, no driving rain to make her eyes blink and her nose run.

  Suzanne took a couple of minutes to dry off, then located an old riding helmet from a cubby on the back wall. She plopped the helmet on her head, grabbed her tack, and had Mocha saddled and ready to go in about two minutes flat. All the whi
le, she talked calmly to Mocha. “It’s okay, boy. We’re going for a ride. I know we can do this, you and me!”

  Giving a final tug on the cinch, Suzanne jumped on Mocha’s back and rode him out of the barn, his hoofbeats ringing sharply against the cement. She took a deep breath, ducked her head through the doorway, and was, once again, back outside—heading into the teeth of the storm!

  Mocha shook his great head in protest, spooked by the wind and rain, but Suzanne dug her heels into his flanks and they were suddenly off.

  Suzanne knew it was maybe a fifteen-minute cross-country ride from the farm to the old church that served as a sort of landmark. That was where Sam was supposed to be, tending to the injured. So that was where she was headed. And, hopefully, when she arrived, she’d find that everything—especially Sam—was just fine.

  Mocha was a big, powerful quarter horse. Which made for an easy gallop across a newly seeded field of soybeans. Suzanne could feel his powerful haunches bunching beneath her, driving hard, kicking up clods of earth. Within minutes they reached the edge of the nearby woods.

  This is the best way to go, she told herself. Cut through the woods, come out by that old church, and follow along the highway.

  She spurred Mocha forward and headed into the woods. And found some blessed relief from the storm. The denseness of trees slowed the wind’s terrible onslaught, while the canopy of leaves afforded her a little extra shelter from the rain. But the woods were tough going, too. There were fallen trees to negotiate, rocks to angle around, and stands of buckthorn that scratched and tore at their legs. Mocha kept pushing ahead, reading her familiar signals, carefully sidestepping obstacles.

  Ten minutes into the woods, Suzanne worried that she might be turned around. The scenery all looked the same. Trees, thick underbrush, hills, and occasional ravines.

  Where am I? Where’s the old church? That would mark my way, wouldn’t it? Only if I could find it!

  Suzanne and Mocha splashed across a shallow, rock-strewn creek, kicking up mud and debris.

  This way? I hope it’s this way.

  They plunged farther into the woods, passing through groves of sumac, the tiny red berries just beginning to form among the thick green leaves.