Authors: Laura Childs
“Have to wait and
see,” Suzanne cautioned.
“A Revolutionary War
character?” Toni asked.
“Maybe,” smiled
Suzanne.
“John Paul Jones?’
“No.”
“Sergeant Pepper?”
“Try again.”
Toni stomped a foot “I
hate it when you get all coy!”
Night
was full on now, with flames dancing in the fire pits,
a breeze stirring the
ghosts in the trees, the band playing a
blend of country and rock, and
the drifting scent of burning
pine and apple wood hanging like incense in the air.
“Yowza,”
said Toni, surveying the scene, “everything
looks spectacular.”
“Spooktacular,” added
Petra.
Suzanne had to agree.
The Cackleberry Club’s front lot had indeed been magically transformed. And
just when
things
couldn’t get any better, like leaves tumbling in on
the night wind, their guests
began to arrive.
There was a clown, a
pirate, an astronaut, Darth Vader,
and a whole troupe of vampires.
“Look,” said Petra,
pointing, “even Spider-Man came.”
“So did Hugh Hefner,”
said Toni.
“He’s got the
requisite smoking jacket and pipe,” said
Suzanne, “but no bunnies on his arm.”
“This is gonna be a
madhouse,” said Petra, as more
people
arrived.
“Don’t you love it?”
asked Toni.
They scattered in a
rush, then, Suzanne dashing over to greet their guests, only to find that
Junior had put up a sort
of rope entrance. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Me and Kit are
taking tickets,” said Junior, in a self-
important tone.
“You don’t have to
make a big deal of it,” Suzanne told
him. “Just give each guest a plastic wristband
and let them
in.”
“You sure?” asked
Junior.
“Yes, I’m sure,” said
Suzanne. “And lose the rope.
“What
do you think this is? Studio 54?”
Petra
busied herself with grilling brats, while Toni served
up hot cider.
Buckshot Benoit and his gang cranked out
tunes like mad and even inspired
some vigorous dancing.
A caveman, a French
maid, and a ghost came waltz
ing in, and then, just as Suzanne was beginning to wonder
where
the heck he was, Harry Potter arrived.
“You look great,” Sam
said, hugging her.
Suzanne shook her
head. “This is only part of the cos
tume.”
“I wasn’t talking
about the costume,” Sam said, pulling
her closer. They swayed together, arms entwined,
bumping
hips,
watching the festivities heat up around them.
“Limousine coming,”
observed Sam.
“Not for this party,”
said Suzanne.
“It’s stopping,” said
Sam.
Suzanne gazed at the
glistening black stretch limo as a driver in hat and coat jumped out, then dove
for the back
door. It yawned open and Carmen Copeland, their local au
thor
terrible
slowly emerged.
Carmen was dressed as
a sorceress in a stunning purple
velvet dress. It was hooded, floor length, and slit up
one
side.
A dangerously plunging neckline was modest only by dint of a stunning crystal
pin that thankfully covered a large
expanse of skin.
“She looks like some
exotic character out of a Jackie
Collins novel,” Sam commented. “And making a grand en
trance to boot.”
“Carmen’s
the queen of grand entrances,” Suzanne told
him.
‘Tell me
about it,” said Sam. “Carmen comes into the
clinic, it’s like she expects us
to roll out the red carpet.”
“Well, do you?” asked
Suzanne, a hint of jealousy
creeping
into her voice.
“Are you
kidding?” said Sam. He clutched her hand
tighter. “No way.”
Suzanne wasn’t
expecting him, but Sheriff Doogie showed up, too. She didn’t think he was on
duty, but he
was wearing his
uniform.
“Nice
costume,” said Toni, as she flitted by him. “What
is that? French Foreign Legion?”
“Very
funny,” said Doogie, as he headed for Suzanne,
looking slightly grim.
“Evening,
Sheriff,” said Sam, who threw a meaningful glance at Suzanne, then slipped away
quietly.
“Sheriff,” said
Suzanne, greeting Doogie, “everything
okay?”
Doogie answered with
a shrug.
“If you’re
looking for suspects,” she said, “it appears the
whole town has turned out here tonight.”
Doogie nodded. “Kind
of what I expected.”
“But you’re not
expecting anything else, are you?” Su
zanne asked. “Like trouble?” She glanced over at
Petra, who
was
talking with an animated Jane Buckley, and wondered if Doogie was still
hounding Jane. Maybe. Maybe not.
“I’m just
surveying the crowd,” Doogie told her. “Keep
ing the peace.”
Suzanne did a quick
check to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Did you find out anything about
my car,
yet?”
Doogie shook his
head. “Only that it’s still a smoldering
piece of metal.”
“How about the
fighting dogs?”
“Got something on
that,” Doogie said, brightening. “I
dug around county records and came up with the
owner of
the farm where the
dogs were kenneled.”
“Did you pay the owner
a visit?”
“I did,” said Doogie. “At
first the guy didn’t want to talk,
but
I can be a fairly persuasive fellow, so he
finally admit
ted that particular piece of land was’ leased to Parnassus
Enterprises.”
“What’s that?” Suzanne
asked.
“Funny you should ask,”
said Doogie. “Because then I
had to do some
more
digging and finally
discovered it was
a subsidiary
of Obsidian Inc.”
Suzanne frowned. “I
never heard of them, either.”
“It’s a shell company.”
“Shill?”
“No,” said Doogie, “shell.
But never mind that. Guess
who’s
one of the corporate officers?’
Suzanne considered
this for about a second. “Mayor
Mobley?”
“Nope,” said Doogie. “Lester
Drummond.”
“The prison warden?”
Suzanne squealed. “Are you seri
ous? Lester Drummond is raising fighting dogs?”
Doogie gave a nod. “Looks
like.”
“Illegal,” said
Suzanne.
“A felony,” said
Doogie.
“Do you
think...” Suzanne’s mind was racing a mile
a minute now. “If there’s a
clandestine dog fighting ring
around here, do you think it could be linked to Chuck
Pee
bler’s
murder as well as Deputy Halpern’s?”
Doogie gazed into the
crowd. “Possible.”
“What if Peebler found
out and disapproved to the point
of
turning Drummond in?”
Doogie nodded. “That’s
one possibility.”
“And your deputy
caught on to it,” Suzanne added.
“Again, a decent
enough supposition,” allowed Doogie.
“Now we just need some actual
proof?
Just
when Suzanne figured the party couldn’t get any
more crowded, Mayor Mobley and
Allan Sharp showed
up. They weren’t in
costume per se, although their bad golf
shirts and shiny double-knit
slacks probably counted as a
kind
of small-town politico costume.
“You see that?” asked
Petra, sidling up to Suzanne. “They’re passing out campaign buttons. Doesn’t
that just
frost your pumpkin?”
“But look,” said
Suzanne, as a woman laughed at Mo
bley and turned away, “people are pretty much ignoring
them. They know it’s
a Halloween party and not a political
rally.”
“And thank goodness
for that,” said Petra, taking a sip
of amber liquid.
Suzanne’s mouth
crinkled in a quirky smile. “And just
what are you drinking, my dear?”
“Hennessy,” said
Petra, with a look of feigned innocence. “Junior gave it to me, said it would
help calm my
nerves.”
“Or have you partying
like a rap star.” Suzanne laughed.
“Still,” said Petra, “it’s
kind of tasty.” She dropped her voice. “Did you see that Sasha and her husband,
Mike,
showed up?”
Suzanne nodded.
“Think there’s going
to be trouble?”
Suzanne thought for
about half a second. “The potential
certainly exists.”
“Oh dear. And I
thought all I had to do was keep Doogie
away from Jane.”
“That and feed
everyone,” said Suzanne.
Petra took another
small sip. “Probably time to set up
my dessert bar.”
“Need help?”
“That’d be great,”
said Petra. But when they got inside the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne noticed that
more than a few people had made their way into the Book Nook. She
hadn’t expected book
business tonight, but no way was
she going to complain. Slipping behind the counter, she
reminded herself that
all book sales would be a welcome
addition to their bottom line.
“Who are you supposed
to be, Suzanne?” asked Lolly
Herron. Even though Lolly was dressed as a witch, she
slid
a
very non-witchy cookbook across the counter for pur
chase.
Pasta for Deux.
“Big secret,” Suzanne
told her. “All will be revealed
later.”
“Do you have any more
of these alphabet books?” Snow
White asked, as two of her dwarfs, really children, clung
to
her voluminous skirt.
“I do,” said Suzanne,
“but I’ll have to dig them out. Can
you give me a few minutes?”
“No problem,” said
Snow White. “We’ll go bob for ap
ples
and come back.”
Suzanne rang up a
copy of
Blackwork
and a copy of
The
Teaberry Strangler,
loving the extra
business, but worrying about who was entertaining Sam. Not Carmen, she hoped.
When there was a
break in the action, she dashed into
her office to try to unearth that children’s book.
As she pawed through a
carton of books, Suzanne no
ticed a man in a Davy Crockett costume sidle slowly into
the Book
Nook. Since his back was turned toward her, she
couldn’t quite make out who it
was. But, out of the comer
of her eye, Suzanne noticed the man select a book, then
browse through it for
a few moments. Then he glanced
around, set the book down, and slipped away. It was
doubt
ful he’d even noticed
her watching.
But something about
the man’s furtive gesture had registered with Suzanne. She drew a breath and
hesitated.
Something about him
...
Maybe
she was jumping at shadows, but a low-level
vibe had insinuated itself in her
prefrontal cortex.
Suzanne thought for a
few moments, then clambered to her feet and hurried over to grab the book the
man had just
abandoned.
She
stared at the cover—
Spain’s Gilded Riches
—and
opened the book, glancing
quickly at color photos of armor,
helmets, breastplates, gold chalices, and coins.
Treasure to
be sure.
What the...?
And like a slow-moving
galleon, the word
Tortuga
swam
into her brain.
Suzanne
blinked, spun toward her computer, and typed
in
Tortuga.
And
came up with something like four million hits. There
were Tortuga T-shirts,
Tortuga rum cakes, and Tortuga
maps, as well as games, knick-knacks, and hundreds of
Tortuga resorts
scattered all across the Caribbean.
So an impossible
search, really.