Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs
Tea Shop Mysteries
DEATH BY DARJEELING
GUNPOWDER GREEN
SHADES OF EARL GREY
THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER
THE JASMINE MOON MURDER
CHAMOMILE MOURNING
BLOOD ORANGE BREWING
DRAGONWELL DEAD
THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER
OOLONG DEAD
THE TEABERRY STRANGLER
SCONES & BONES
AGONY OF THE LEAVES
SWEET TEA REVENGE
STEEPED IN EVIL
MING TEA MURDER
DEVONSHIRE SCREAM
PEKOE MOST POISON
PLUM TEA CRAZY
New Orleans Scrapbooking Mysteries
KEEPSAKE CRIMES
PHOTO FINISHED
BOUND FOR MURDER
MOTIF FOR MURDER
FRILL KILL
DEATH SWATCH
TRAGIC MAGIC
FIBER & BRIMSTONE
SKELETON LETTERS
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
GILT TRIP
GOSSAMER GHOST
PARCHMENT AND OLD LACE
CREPE FACTOR
GLITTER BOMB
Cackleberry Club Mysteries
EGGS IN PURGATORY
EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD
BEDEVILED EGGS
STAKE & EGGS
EGGS IN A CASKET
SCORCHED EGGS
EGG DROP DEAD
EGGS ON ICE
Anthologies
DEATH BY DESIGN
TEA FOR THREE
Afton Tangler Thrillers writing as Gerry Schmitt
LITTLE GIRL GONE
SHADOW GIRL
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc
Excerpt from Broken Bone China by Laura Childs copyright © 2018 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Childs, Laura, author.
Title: Eggs on ice / Laura Childs.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2018. | Series: A Cackleberry Club mystery ; 8
Identifiers: LCCN 2018009331| ISBN 9780425281727 (hardback) | ISBN 9780698197459 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women private investigators—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. |
BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H56 E36 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018009331
First Edition: December 2018
Cover art by Lee White
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
Acknowledgments
Major thank-yous are owed to Sam, Tom, Grace, Roxanne, Tara, Jessica, Bob, Jennie, Troy, and all the designers, illustrators, writers, publicists, and sales folk at Berkley. You are all such a wonderful team. Thank you also to all the booksellers, reviewers, librarians, and bloggers. And special thanks to all my readers and Facebook friends, who are so very kind and supportive. I truly love writing for you!
Contents
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Recipes from the Cackleberry Club
Excerpt from Broken Bone China
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
IT was a Dickens of a night. Velvet topcoats worn with silk ascots, fake British accents that echoed through the theater, a key light focused on an antique rolltop desk piled high with black ledgers. Like that.
“It’s perfect casting,” Suzanne Dietz whispered to her friend Toni as they stood backstage. “Allan Sharp playing Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“Our town curmudgeon scored the ultimate role,” Toni chuckled. “What’s not to like?”
It was Sunday evening, a few weeks before Christmas, and the Kindred Players were holding their first-ever dress rehearsal for A Christmas Carol. Suzanne and Toni had ditched their holiday decorating chores at the Cackleberry Club Café in order to help with costumes, sets, and lighting. Now they stood in the darkened wings of the refurbished Oakhurst Theatre, watching their fellow townsfolk do some fairly credible acting.
“Look at Bud Nolden,” Toni said. “Who would have thought a big gallumping guy who drives a two-ton snowplow would make such a believable Bob Cratchit?”
“He’s doing great,” Suzanne said. “The entire cast is. They’ve learned their lines and are putting real emotion behind them.” Suzanne, who’d never appeared onstage, never even sung in a high school musical, was delighted to remain in the wings. “And take a gander at Mayor Mobley stomping around out there. Even he’s giving a hundred and ten percent.”
“Which is about what he usually gets after he stuffs the ballot box.”
“Still,” Suzanne said. “For once Mobley’s trying to do his part for the community.”
“Which is more than I can say for myself, because I still haven’t figured out which rope raises the curtain and which pulley lowers the backdrop.” Toni let out a long
sigh. “And then there are the confounded lights. I don’t know a key light from a klieg, which I guess makes me some kind of dim bulb.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Suzanne said. “We’ll get the bugs worked out. That’s what rehearsals are all about.” For her own part, Suzanne was struggling with the fog machine, trying to figure out how to make it spew just the right amount of moody mist. Too little and everything was out of focus. Too much and the stage looked like a foggy night in the Okefenokee Swamp.
“I gotta get this locked down,” Toni said. “Opening night is this coming Saturday and I’m so worried that I bit my press-on nails down to their plastic nubbins.” She swiped a hand across her stomach. “And I’m getting a case of the whim-whams to boot.”
“Tell you what,” Suzanne said. “After everybody leaves the theater tonight, we’ll have our own private stagehand rehearsal. Figure out which pulleys do what. We’ll label all the ropes if we have to. Light switches, too. That way there’ll be no second-guessing on opening night.”
Between Toni and their other partner, Petra, Suzanne was blessed with the cooler head, the more practical approach to everyday life. She was the one who ran interference at the Cackleberry Club, coaxing everyone down from the ledge whenever they dared entertain a harebrained scheme. She also handled the pesky financial and personnel details that made Toni and Petra whimper with fear. In other words, Suzanne was the voice of reason.
Suzanne, who was a few ticks past the age of forty, was also newly engaged to Dr. Sam Hazelet, the town doctor and her own personal hottie. With her shoulder-length silver-blond hair and cool blue eyes, Suzanne projected an air of self-confidence that was reflected in her penchant for slim-cut blue jeans and suede jackets, which was the exact combo she was wearing tonight.
Toni, on the other hand, was the Cackleberry Club’s self-proclaimed hoochie momma. She favored silver-studded jeans and skintight cowgirl shirts that showed off her cha-chas, and she had never seen a piece of fake Dynel hair that she didn’t want to clip into her own mop of reddish-blond hair.
“I didn’t realize this show had such a large cast,” Toni said. She held her breath as she flipped a switch, dimming the lights right on cue as a half-dozen actors milled about onstage. “Ooh, I did it,” she cooed softly. They were coming to the end of the second act and she was still nervous about dropping the curtain. “Eeny, meeny . . .” Toni grasped a thick red rope that led to an overhead tangle of ropes and pulleys. “Is this the right one or should I . . . ?”
Actors streamed past them, coming off the stage and disappearing into the back of the theater: Nolden, Mobley, and six others.
“Don’t drop the curtain yet,” Suzanne hissed. “You need to dim the lights because the ghost still has to come out . . .”
Toni swatted a switch with the flat of her hand and the entire stage went dark.
“Not that dark,” Suzanne said. “The audience has to be able to see something.”
Toni’s fingers crawled along the entire panel of light switches and settled on one. “Maybe this one?” She flicked the switch and a weird blue light filtered down from above.
“That’s the ticket,” Suzanne whispered.
“Maybe I am starting to get the hang of things,” Toni said. She sounded relieved and a little more confident in her ability as a stagehand.
“Whoa, that might be a bit much,” Toni cautioned.
Suzanne dialed her machine back, got it running just right, and then glanced at her script. She was trying to follow along in the dim light. “Okay, so the ghost is supposed to enter stage right . . .”
“Here he comes.”
They watched as the ghost floated out right on cue. There was a hush from the other actors, who were all seated in the first few rows of the theater, watching the play, waiting for the next act, when it would be their turn to strut their stuff onstage.
The ghost, dressed in long gray robes and a deep cowl that hid his face in darkness, drifted dramatically about the stage.
“Who is that?” Toni asked as they peered out from the wings.
Suzanne shook her head. “No idea. I wasn’t here when Teddy Hardwick had the casting call.”
“But the ghost is good. Very believable. Whoever it is.”
The ghost postured importantly and lifted his arms as if he were some sort of avenging spirit. “Ooooh.” His hollow tones rippled across the stage and filled the near-empty theater.
“Spooky,” Suzanne said. “And very realistic.” She made a mental note to find out who’d created the ghost costume. With its gray-green color and straggly bits of cheesecloth hanging down, the shroud was very convincing. Like the ghost had actually swept in from the great beyond.
“This is, like, the best part so far,” Toni said. She was watching the action with rapt attention.
Suddenly, the ghost darted in close to the Scrooge character and embraced him as he sat at his desk.
“Scrooooge,” the ghost lamented. “Scrooooge.”
Then Scrooge and the ghost seemed to merge into a single image for a few moments, doing some kind of ethereal dance. The ghost released Scrooge and then floated off into the wings on the opposite side of the stage.
“That’s the ticket,” Toni said. She grasped the rheostat and slowly dimmed the blue lights to a pale glow that practically pulsed with electrical energy.
“Perfect,” Suzanne whispered.
“Suzanne?” came a worried voice from behind her.
Suzanne whirled around to find Bill Probst, one of the owners of the Kindred Bakery, staring at her. His face was scrunched into a nervous expression and he wore a ghost costume made of gray netting.
“I’m sorry,” Bill said, “but I completely missed my cue.”
“What?” Suzanne blinked rapidly and glanced out at the stage, where Allan Sharp as Scrooge was slowly slumping over his rolltop desk, practically moving in slow motion.
“And now the curtain,” Toni said with a triumphant yelp. She had her back to them, hadn’t even seen Bill yet, as she released the pulley and a heavy damask curtain came thudding down.
But Suzanne was still staring out at the stage. Hold everything, she thought, her mind making a series of nervous blips. If the ghost is standing right next to me, then who just acted that scene with Allan Sharp?
“How about an encore?” Toni asked. She raised the curtain halfway up and then glanced toward the stage.
Allan Sharp was still sprawled at his desk as eerie blue light filtered down. His head was bowed low and he looked as if he’d fallen into a trance.
A thin spatter of applause rose from the actors sitting in the first couple of rows. They seemed deeply impressed by such a dramatic climax. But a few moments after their applause died down, Sharp still hadn’t made a move to get up and take a well-deserved bow.
Is this method acting? Suzanne wondered. Or is something a lot more sinister going on?
Just as Suzanne was about to react, Toni jammed an elbow into her ribs and whispered, “Don’t you think Sharp is overplaying his role? I mean, he isn’t Jeremy Irons and this isn’t exactly the Globe Theatre.”
Sharp still hadn’t moved a muscle, and Suzanne was slowly, almost unwillingly, putting it all together. Connecting the dots between the mysterious ghost, the almost deathlike embrace, and Allan Sharp flopped out there in a heap.
“Holy cats,” Suzanne gasped. “I don’t think he’s acting!”
“What?” Toni cried.
“I think Sharp is . . .”
Without finishing her words, Suzanne rushed out onto the stage. She circled Allan Sharp’s crumpled body, reached out a hand to touch the pulse point at his neck, and felt . . . absolutely nothing. There was no sign of breathing, no other vital signs.
Shocked, practically reeling from her grisly discovery, Suzanne spun about and gazed down at a dozen questioning faces in the audience. “Call 911!” she shouted. “Something terrible has happened to Allan Sharp!”
The cast and crew all froze for a long moment, until a few of them had the presence of mind to fumble for their phones. By that time, Suzanne had already turned and sprinted past Toni. Then she dove into the gloom and darkness of the theater’s backstage.
Suzanne could hear footsteps—hasty, running footsteps—just ahead of her but could barely see her hand in front of her face. The entire backstage was dark as a tomb except for a single red exit light way at the back. As she dodged past a rack of costumes, in hot pursuit of the mysterious fleeing ghost, she shivered. The dim red light made the Victorian sets look as if they were bathed in blood.
“Stop!” Suzanne shouted. Her voice reverberated back at her as she spun around a row of dressing rooms and spotted the ghost some ten paces ahead of her. “I’m talking to you,” she yelled.
The ghost ignored her completely, flinging out a hand to tip over a wooden crate.
Suzanne stumbled, one knee going down to hit the cold cement floor. Then she righted herself and leapt clumsily over the crate. Up ahead, the ghost was moving quickly again, crashing through set decorations, knocking over a Victorian streetlamp, and heading for the back door.
Suzanne pushed herself harder and dodged around a corner, past a dusty grouping of old furniture. Way back here, in the bowels of the old theater, the air was musty and filled with the smell of mildew and rot. Her heart hammered; her temples throbbed with rushing blood. It was like being in a tomb—dark and silent—only she wasn’t alone.
She spun around another corner, saw gray cheesecloth fluttering ahead of her, and followed it down a clattering flight of metal stairs.
At the bottom Suzanne hesitated. Was this a good idea? Where was the ghost? Was he lying in wait for her?
Suzanne glanced about for some sort of weapon. In the dim light she saw folding chairs, stacks of old newspapers, and a toolbox. Her hand swept out and grabbed a rusty hammer. She hefted it carefully, feeling the weight, hoping it would be enough of a defense weapon if she needed one.