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

flickering throughout the old part of the cemetery and guides dressed in Civil War–era costumes to give tours and point out historic markers.”
    Toni looked suddenly intrigued. “Sounds sort of spooky.”
    “Everything sounds spooky to you,” said Petra. She slipped out of her loafers and into a pair of size-ten green Crocs, what she called her cookin’ shoes. “I’m afraid you have a profound sense of the macabre, Toni.”
    “What’s macabre?” said Toni. She thought for a minute, then snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute, it’s that island right by Hong Kong, right?”
    “That’s Macao,” said Suzanne politely. “Macabre means gruesome or ghastly.”
    Toni considered this. “I guess that might describe me. Since I kind of groove on scary movies like
Halloween
and
Final Destination
.”
    “Dreadful fare,” shuddered Petra.
    “What about the
Twilight
movies?” said Toni. “At least there’s a little romance tossed in among the vampires and werewolves.”
    “Doubtful,” said Petra.
    “Suzanne,” said Toni, a little jacked up now, “let’s go to the candlelight walk tomorrow night. Okay?”
    But Suzanne wasn’t all that anxious to make yet another trip to the cemetery. And weren’t her nerves frazzled enough?
    “Come on,” said Toni, sensing her mood and trying to cajole an answer out of her. “It’ll be fun.”
    “Maybe,” said Suzanne, caving a bit, wondering how much fun it would be to visit graves in flickering candlelight. “I suppose we could.”
    “Suzanne,” said Petra, “better do the chalkboard.”
    “What’s on tap for lunch?” asked Toni.
    “Let’s see,” said Petra. “Pulled pork sandwiches, personal pan pizza with pancetta and caramelized onions, and egg salad sandwiches. And maybe, if I hustle my buns, I can manage a couple pans of cranberry muffins.”
    * * *
    AT exactly twelve noon, amid the clanking of dishes and clacking of silverware, Sheriff Doogie shuffled through the front door. He gazed around with his cool law enforcement gaze, gave his sidearm a perfunctory pat, then ambled over to the counter and slid onto the end seat. It was Doogie’s regular seat, the one with the permanent tilt to it.
    “How’s it going?” Suzanne asked, looking him straight in the eye. “The investigation, I mean.”
    “Cooking along,” said Doogie. “I got that list of recent parolees that we’re trying to run down. Those who still reside in the area, that is.”
    “And how many would that be?” Suzanne poured Doogie a piping-hot cup of coffee and slid it across the counter.
    Doogie winked one eye shut, thinking. “Looking at the surrounding counties, probably . . . a half dozen?”
    “So not too difficult to follow up on.”
    “Of course, the list could always turn out to be a dead end,” said Doogie, pulling his cup closer.
    “Is there anything else on your radar?” Suzanne asked.
    Doogie sucked air in through his front teeth. “There’s a halfway house over in Cornucopia.”
    “No kidding.” That was news to her. “With ex-cons?”
    “That would be the general idea.”
    “You think one of them could have killed Drummond?” she said, working hard to keep her voice low. I mean, are they dangerous guys?”
    “There hasn’t been any trouble up until now,” said Doogie. “But . . .”
    “But you never know,” said Suzanne, interrupting him. “So you have to check it out.”
    “Correct.”
    Suzanne decided this was as good a time as any to bring up her conversation with Dale. “Hey, one of the prison guards was in here this morning, after his shift ended. Dale Huffington?”
    Doogie took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Sure, I know Huff.”
    “Anyway,” said Suzanne, “Dale happened to mention a guy by the name of Karl Studer. Are you familiar with him?”
    Doogie stared blankly at her. “Can’t quite place him.”
    “Apparently Studer sells firewood and has been known to poach a few deer.”
    A look of distaste suddenly dawned on