Bedeviled Eggs (33 page)

“I thought I was
doing Doogie a favor,” said Suzanne.

“What’s that
weird saying?” asked Petra. “No kind act
goes unrevenged?”

“That
is
convoluted,”
said Toni.

“But maybe a little
true,” Suzanne admitted.

“I have a terrible,
gut-wrenching feeling someone knows
you’re seriously on the hunt for the killer,” said
Petra, look
ing worried. “Maybe even the killer himself!”

“It’s possible,”
Suzanne admitted, though she didn’t
really want to go there. Trying to track down a
murderer
sounded so much
better in the abstract!

“And it’s all my
fault,” said Petra. “I was the one who
initially asked you to help
clear Jane!” She threw her arms
up, looking colossally unhappy. “And now everything’s
snowballed!”

“You didn’t know
things would get this crazy,” said
Toni. “How could you know?”

‘Tell
me, Petra,” said Suzanne, “what does Tortuga
mean to you?”

Petra
wiped tears from the comers of her eyes and shook
her head. “I don’t know. Turtles.”

“That’s what I said “
said Toni.

“Are you thinking the
note is some kind of anagram or
riddle?”
asked Petra.

“Yeah,” said Suzanne.
“Maybe.”

“And maybe I should go
wait on customers?” said Toni.

Petra leaned forward
and took a quick peek through the pass-through. “Please do get your fanny out
there.”
She
turned back to the stove, flipped over a pair of grilled
cheese sandwiches,
and said, ‘Tortuga. Maybe it was some
kind of cue or prompt.”

“Excuse me?” said
Suzanne.

“You know, slow as a
turtle,” said Petra. “Peebler was running for office against an incumbent, so
maybe he was
just reminding himself that slow and steady wins the race.”

“But Peebler was
ahead,” said Suzanne. “He was the
hare.”

“Maybe he wasn’t ahead
when he
wrote
it,” said Petra.
She slid her spatula under the cheese sandwiches,
lifted
them
off the grill, and expertly set them atop a lovely green
sweep of lettuce. Then
she added a dill pickle spear and a
mound of salty kettle chips.

“You might be right,”
Suzanne said, just as the phone
shrilled. She spun about, grabbed the phone from the
hook,
and said, “Cackleberry
Club.”

“Suzanne.” It was Sam
Hazelet.

“Hello there,” she
said, her voice going up an octave, a
smile lighting her face. She snicked open the
door of the
pantry and slid in. Better that way. More privacy.

“I just had an
interesting conversation with Sheriff Doo
gie,” said Sam.

Oops.
“You did?”

“Don’t play cute,
Suzanne,” said Sam, his voice seri
ous verging on terse, as if he was about to
deliver an un
welcome medical diagnosis. “You know exactly what I’m
talking about”

Do I really? Are you
talking about ransacking Chuck Peebler’s house, getting cornered by a slavering
dog, or
being threatened by a crank caller this morning ?

“Urn,” she said,
stalling.

“The dogs,” said Sam. “Or
should I
say fighting
dogs.”

“Oh that Those.”

“According
to Sheriff Doogie you stumbled into a nest
of pit bulls. Highly
dangerous
pit bulls.”

“And here I thought
they were teacup Chihuahuas.”

“Sometimes you scare
me to death, Suzanne,” said Sam.
“This having been a particularly harrowing week in
Kindred, although it probably seemed normal for you.” He
sounded upset, just this side of angry.

Breaking-up angry?
She hoped not.

“Believe
me, I don’t run around looking for trouble,”
Suzanne told him.

“Maybe
not, but trouble certainly seems to find you in
its crosshairs.”

“Could we
please change the subject,” Suzanne asked,
“now that I’m thoroughly chagrined?”

He was silent for a
few moments. “I suppose.”

Suzanne
crossed her fingers. “Did you by any chance
catch my radio show this morning?”

“I’m
sorry I wasn’t able to catch it. I had to stop by the
hospital.”

‘Too bad,” Suzanne
cooed. Although she was really
thinking,
Excellent, then you didn’t hear that nasty,
threat
ening phone call
I received.

“Are we still on for
our date tonight?” Sam asked. Now there was a questioning tone in his voice, as
if he might be worried about coming off too harsh or overbearing.

“Absolutely, we’re
on,” said Suzanne.

“Just burgers and
beer? You won’t be disappointed?”

She
wanted to say,
I don’t think you could ever disap
point me.
Instead she said, “Sounds
delish.”

“How are we set for
tomorrow night?” Suzanne asked
Petra.

Petra had just
finished toasting almonds for her
Fave
dei Morti
almond-flavored
cookies. Done in the shape of beans, they were traditionally eaten in Italy on
Day of the
Dead.
She was about to toss her almonds into the food processor, whir them to bits,
then add them to her sugar cookie
dough.

“You mean with the
food, the tent, or the decorations?”
asked Petra. “Because there’s a
ton
of
stuff that still needs
doing.”

“You just worry about
the food,” said Suzanne. “Let Toni
and Junior deal with the tent, fire pits, and
decorations.”

“I know they offered,”
said Petra, rolling her eyes, “but
Lord help us.”

“He will,” said
Suzanne.

Petra wiped her hands
on the front of her apron. “The
food is for sure under control. I’m going to bake up
these
cookies,
then sort of prep, as best I can, the rest of the stuff.”

“That being...?”

“Hot dogs and boas,
baked beans, deviled eggs, apple
strudel cider...” She stopped in midsentence. “I’m forget
ting something. Oh, the s’mores.”

“Can’t forget those.”

Petra’s normally
guileless eyes took on a mischievous
glint “Except I’m going to do s’mortuaries. They’re
like
s’mores, only deadlier!”

“Petra,
I never thought I’d say this, but you are off the
chain, girl!”

“She sure is,” said
Toni, wandering into the kitchen
again. She was futzing with some of the orange rubber
bracelets they were going to give to their guests Sunday
night, stacking them
on her wrist “What’s the cover charge
going to be for the Halloween party?” she asked.

‘Ten dollars,” said
Petra.

“I
thought it was going to be
fifteen,” said Toni.

“That’s what we talked
about” said Petra, “but after I
figured our food costs, it looks like ten is a more
reason
able
number.” She glanced at Suzanne. “After all, these are
tough times.”

Toni looked up from
her wrist. “What?”

“Because of the
recession,” said Petra. “People don’t
have a lot of extra money right now.”

“Huh,” said Toni, “and
all along I thought it was just me”

“Suzanne,
if you don’t start visiting us more often, I’m
going to have to change the name
of our salon from Root
66 to Root 66,000. Because you’ve put lots of miles on
between  touch-ups.”
Gregg, one of the salon owners, stood
behind Suzanne, clucking his tongue and gazing
balefully
at
her in the mirror as he ran his hands through her silky,
silvery blond hair.

“Sorry,” said Suzanne,
“I’ve been busy.”

“What else is new?”
snipped Gregg. “You always say
that.”

Tall, blond, and
ethereal, Gregg and his partner, Brett,
were the most popular
hairstylists in town.

Suzanne smiled back at
him in the mirror. “Nice to see
you, too, Gregg.” It was three o’clock Saturday
afternoon in the salon on Kindred’s main street, and the place was
packed. Women in
black smocks were being shampooed,
trimmed, blown-out, and touched-up, as well as
manicured
and pedicured.

“You all set for your
big party tomorrow night?” Gregg
asked, as he slipped on vinyl gloves and began mixing
hair
color.

“I wish,” said
Suzanne. After she left here she was going
to zap back to the Cackleberry
Club and carve pumpkins.
Then rush home to get ready for her date with Sam, hoping
and
praying she didn’t get pumpkin goo stuck in her soon-
to-be newly blonded hair.

“We’re planning to be there,”
said Gregg, glancing at his partner, Brett, who was busy cutting the hair of
the woman
in the chair next to
them. “Aren’t we.”

“That’s right,” said
Brett. He was the polar opposite
of Gregg, short and dark, a dynamo with a long ponytail
draped down his back. “And
if we don’t get our act together
and figure out a costume, we’ll be forced to come as gay
hairdressers. Heaven forbid!”

“At least we have
dates” said Gregg. “I hope our Suzanne here has been eyeing the local rogue’s
gallery for
potential male
companionship.”

“Don’t worry about me.”
Suzanne laughed.

Sensing
a shift in Suzanne’s dating status, Gregg, ever
on the prowl for good gossip
leaned closer to her. “Who is
it,
sweetie? Someone we know?”

“Sam Hazelet,” said
Suzanne. She couldn’t help smiling
at her reflection in the mirror.

“I heard that!” said
Brett. “And may I just say the man
has
no
business whatsoever being a doctor.”

“Excuse me?” said
Suzanne.

“Because,”
said Brett, “the man is drop-dead gorgeous. He should be a movie star at the
very least!”

“I’ll tell him you
said so” Suzanne laughed again.

Brett suddenly looked
worried. “No, don’t! Forget I said
anything at all!”

*    *    *

“Space
alien.” Gregg laughed
some twenty minutes later.
“If I leave the foils in your hair you can go as a space
alien
tomorrow night.”

‘Too bad I already
have a costume, though it needs a bit
of tweaking,” said Suzanne.

“Are we going to wax
your brows today?” Gregg asked,
as he untwisted the foils. “Or better yet, let me tint
them?
They
are a tad light. Darkening them would give you better
definition. Of course, so would a
shot of Botox between
those
nonexistent brows.”

“No, thanks,” said
Suzanne. Her eyes flicked toward
Gregg. “Gregg, what does Tortuga mean to you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t
know. Turtle?”

“That’s what everyone
says.”

“Well, is that the
right answer?”

“I don’t know,” said
Suzanne. “It’s something I’m still
puzzling out.”

Gregg pulled out the
last foil. “It also makes me think of
tattoos,” he added.

Suzanne crinkled her
brows. “Really? How so?”

“You know, a tattoo as
a symbol.” He thought for a mo
ment. “Like a tribal thing, you know? Tribal motifs are
very popular right now.”

“I
never thought of it that way,”
said Suzanne, “but I
suppose a
turtle can be quite symbolic.”

“Sure, like in Native
American culture,” Gregg pointed out

“Then it might even be
spiritual,” said Suzanne.

“What’s spiritual?”
asked Brett, as he eased his way
over
to steal a scissors.

“A turtle. Or a turtle
tattoo,” said Gregg.

“Oh sure,” said
Brett. “Like that big guy has on his
arm.” They exchanged knowing glances with each
other.