Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Read Free Page B

place between the two of them.”
    “You don’t know that at all,” said Suzanne. “There could have been two totally separate incidents. Drummond had some sort of freak accident or health crisis. Missy might not have even seen him. Maybe she was alone and felt scared or threatened and just took off fast.”
    “That seems awfully far-fetched,” put in Draper. Much to Suzanne’s consternation, he seemed almost amused at her attempt to conjure up a sort of alibi for Missy.
    “It could have been . . .” Suzanne began. But her words were quickly drowned out by the blatting whine of the ambulance. They all stood in the mist and watched as a white ambulance roared up behind Doogie’s cruiser. Then it turned and began to slowly nose its way down the slight hill and across the damp grass. It threaded its way among the markers and gravestones, headed for the open grave where they stood.
    “An ambulance,” scoffed Toni. “Lot of good that’s gonna do. I’d say Drummond’s way beyond resuscitation.”
    “We need to transport him,” said Doogie, with sudden efficiency. “Bag his hands and feet, see what sort of evidence we can come up with. I’ll need to get Deputy Driscoll out here to photograph the scene and . . .” He suddenly looked unhappy. “And then we’re going to need an autopsy.”
    Suzanne glanced at George Draper. “Is that something you can do?”
    Draper shook his head. “No, that’s absolutely not within my realm of expertise. We’ll have to bring in a medical examiner.”
    “You mean Sam?” Suzanne had been keeping company with Dr. Sam Hazelet lately. They were in like, definitely careening toward being in love. It was Sam’s turn, this year, to serve as county coroner. So she figured he’d be the one they’d call.
    “No, Dr. Hazelet can
pronounce
death,” explained Draper. “And decide which cases should be autopsied. But he’s not a trained medical examiner. We’ll need a specialized forensic pathologist to determine exact cause of death.”
    “Who’s best for this particular case?” asked Doogie.
    “There’s a fellow I know in Rochester by the name of Merle Gordon, Dr. Merle Gordon,” said Draper. “He’s awfully good. He’s an expert in gunshots and toxicology.”
    “Is that what you think happened to Drummond?” asked Suzanne. “He was shot or poisoned?”
    Draper looked vexed. “It’s impossible to tell
anything
at this point, until we get him out of there.”
    “How are you going to do that?” asked Suzanne.
    Draper spun on his heels and gazed at Doogie. “How are you going to do that?”
    Doogie’s hound dog face suddenly took on a sickly cast. “You want
me
to do it?”
    “You’re the one in charge,” Draper snapped. “You’re the duly elected sheriff.” He edged away from the grave. “Once you get him up, you can deliver him to my back door.”
    Toni looked at Doogie. “I hope you haven’t had breakfast yet.”
    Doogie didn’t look happy. “Hash browns, bacon, and scrambled eggs,” he mumbled.
    “Scrambled eggs!” exclaimed Toni. “That’s exactly what we’re planning to serve at the Cackleberry Club this morning.”
    * * *
    PETRA, their baker and short-order chef, stared at them, a look of disbelief on her broad Scandinavian face. “You found
what
?”
    Suzanne and Toni had just returned to the Cackleberry Club and were hunkered in the kitchen. They spilled out their story, even as they got ready to dash into the café and take orders. The kitchen was already redolent with the aroma of sizzling sausage, peppery hash browns, and oatmeal muffins. Petra rattled pans and kept a watchful eye on her grill even as she gazed at them, a blue plaid apron wrapped around her ample waist.
    Toni rapped her knuckles on the butcher-block table. “Were you not paying attention the first time we ran through this? I said we found Lester Drummond lying in an open grave!”
    “I heard you just fine,” said Petra. She was big boned and big hearted,