Free Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) by Laura Childs

Dale Huffington was a behemoth of a man, one of the locals who worked at the Jasper Creek Prison, the private prison run by Claiborne Corrections Corporation that Kindred’s town council had hailed as a wellspring for new jobs when it opened a few years ago. “You just get off your shift at the prison?”
    “That’s right,” Dale said as he slipped onto a stool at the counter.
    “Fix you a cuppa?”
    “Why not?” said Dale.
    Dale was one of Suzanne’s recent converts. He’d once been a confirmed coffee-and-donuts type of guy. But, over a period of repeat visits to the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne had converted him to tea and scones. Dale was Suzanne’s bright spot among the men of Kindred, who tended to favor coffee, black, with six lumps of sugar along with bear claws, glazed donuts, and sticky buns.
    Working quickly, Suzanne placed a small pot of Darjeeling tea in front of Dale along with a cup and saucer.
    “Thanks, Suzanne.” Dale peeked under the teapot’s lid and decided to let his tea steep a minute longer.
    “I suppose everyone out at the prison is all atwitter over Lester Drummond’s death,” said Suzanne.
    “It’s all anybody’s been jawing about,” agreed Dale. “Guards, administration, inmates. Even the guys who are confined to their cells are passing kites.”
    “What are kites?” Suzanne asked.
    “Little folded-up notes,” said Dale. He poured out his tea in a golden stream, added two lumps of sugar, stirred gently, and took an appraising sip. “Good,” he said.
    “You want a scone, too?” Suzanne asked. “We’ve got fresh-baked maraschino cherry scones.”
    Dale’s right hand strayed unconsciously to the ample tummy that hung over the belt of his blue prison-issued slacks. “I shouldn’t. But . . . okay, you talked me into it.”
    Suzanne plated a scone and added a small dish of Devonshire cream.
    “You’re fairly close to Sheriff Doogie,” said Dale. “Does he have any idea what happened to Drummond? Or even a wild card notion?”
    Suzanne wasn’t about to breathe a word about Missy. Instead she said, “I don’t think so. All I know is he is bringing in a forensic pathologist to examine Drummond’s body and run some tests.”
    Dale looked surprised. “That so? That’s kind of big-time, isn’t it?”
    Suzanne shrugged. “I guess.” She knew it was.
    “They expect to find something unusual?”
    “I suppose they expect to find cause of death,” said Suzanne carefully.
    “It was murder, wasn’t it?”
    “Probably,” said Suzanne. “But no one knows
exactly
how Drummond died.” She thought about the strange marks on his chest that Doogie had discussed with her. “Or if there are any clues that might lead to his killer.”
    Dale ducked his head right, then left, then hunched forward slightly toward Suzanne. “I got a kind of theory on that.”
    “Is that so?” Suzanne was suddenly dying to hear it.
    “If I were going to go looking for suspects, I’d take a good, hard look at Karl Studer.”
    Suzanne shook her head. The name meant nothing to her. “I don’t think I know who that is.”
    “Sure you do,” said Dale. “Ornery-looking guy with long gray hair. Drives a red rattletrap pickup and makes his living selling firewood and poaching deer out of season.”
    Thinking about it, Suzanne did recall a skanky-looking guy who favored camo shirts and vests and stumped around town looking generally unhappy.
    “You probably saw him at Schmitt’s Bar or Hawley’s Place,” said Dale.
    “Okay,” said Suzanne. “I guess I’ve seen him around.”
    “Anyway,” said Dale, “his son, Dwayne, is incarcerated at the prison and old Karl pretty much hated Drummond with a passion.”
    “Why?” Suzanne asked. “Drummond was just the warden, not the judge and jury that sent his son there.”
    “Those facts don’t matter to Studer,” said Dale. “He isn’t your logical, linear thinker. The thing is, Studer lives right near that cemetery where Drummond was