Introduction

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Suzanne Deitz didn't set out to start the Cackleberry Club, the whole thing just sort of happened. The ramshackle white-washed building with the tangle of wild roses and stack of antique egg crates out front actually began life as an unassuming Spur station on Highway 65, just outside the small town of Kindred. Truckers stopped there to buy diesel, empty their bladders, and stock up on Slim Jims. Underage teenaged boys tried to wheedle six-packs of Schlitz. And on Sundays, folks from the Journey's End Church of Ultimate Repentance came by after morning services for ice cream. Probably, raspberry swirl and peppermint bon bon brought cooling relief from a sermon rife with hellfire and brimstone.

But then Suzanne's husband, Walter, died and Burt Lemmings, the district manager for Wanamingo Oil & Gas, got a bug up his fat ass and decided to jack up fuel prices and add a hefty surcharge for delivery. In the middle of interviewing for a new manager, Suzanne found herself caught between that proverbial rock and a hard place.

“Walter died, you know,” Suzanne told Lemmings, standing out by the pumps that had finally run dry. She was lean and brown from the sun, her hair a silvered blond, eyes a deep cornflower blue. “Four months ago. Pancreatic cancer.” She pushed the toe of her cowboy boot into the dust and stared at the turquoise leather steer head on her left ankle and tried not to let her lower lip quiver. Walter, who'd been one of the town's doctors, had given her those boots two birthdays ago. Back when the damn dots on his damn X-ray had just looked like specks of dust.

Burt Lemmings sucked air through his front teeth and stared across acres of waving green soy beans and undulating pasture that seemed to stretch from southern Minnesota to the nether reaches of Missouri. “I got increased costs,” he told her, his beady eyes carefully avoiding hers. Lemmings wore shitty double knits, a wonky tie, and possessed not an ounce of sympathy.

Suzanne wasn't born yesterday. And now that she was on the far side of forty, didn't have much trouble spotting an asshole from a mile away. Maybe, Suzanne thought, teaching school and overseeing the Spur station wasn't really in the cards after all.

Then her best friend Toni's husband took up with the floozy bartender from the American Legion, and Petra's husband got so bad he finally had to go into the Pine Manor Nursing Home. And like planetary aspects lining up in a once-in-a-thousand-year cycle, the three women came together. Middle aged, semi-desperate, with more grit than you could shake a stick at.

Three Months Later . . .

CHAPTER 2

We are officially out of wild rice sausage,” Toni announced. She stood behind the lunch counter, hands on skinny hips, wearing an AC/DC concert t-shirt and tight jeans, her reddish-blond frizzled hair pulled on top of her head like a show pony. All around her forks clacked noisily against plates, coffee was slurped loudly, and the gaggle of men hunched at the counter watched her surreptitiously. For Kindred and the surrounding area, Toni was pretty hot stuff.

“I'll grab another package from the cooler,” Suzanne told her, moving quickly, pushing her way into the kitchen.

It was nine in the morning and the mercury had already hit eighty, the heat gathering momentum, building into a steamy midwestern August day. Toni, as waitress supreme, was handling the morning rush with aplomb, if you could call eight men perched at an eight-stool counter a morning rush. Petra was short order cook, rattling pots and pans, making magic at the grill, slipping in a few strips of turkey bacon here and there, doing her small part to help keep their patrons from suffering cardiac infarctions before they hit fifty.

Suzanne, as one part inventory manager, one part marketing guru, and one part major domo, ran herd on the rest of the place

The rest of the place, the Cackleberry Club in toto, was a homey, crazy-quilt warren of rooms that almost defied description.

There was the café, of course, the counter and half dozen battered tables that turned into a tea shop in the afternoon. The whitewashed walls were decorated with antique plates, grape vine wreaths, old tin signs, and turn of the century photos. Vintage hats hung from pegs, wooden shelves were jammed with ceramic chickens and forties-era salt and pepper shakers.

The small Book Nook across the hall carried CD's and boasted a fairly decent children's section. Toni led the book club on Tuesday nights. Their first few meetings had started out academic and scholarly, the women discussing writers such as Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. But after someone brought along a jug of wine and everyone had a glass or two of sweet, jammy shiraz, the women pretty much admitted that bodice-busting romances were really top of mind.

Next door was the Knitting Nest, a cozy corner filled with overstuffed chairs and stocked with a veritable rainbow of yarns and fibers. Petra taught Hooked on Wool classes Thursday nights. This was a slightly more crunchy-granola crowd, distinguished by their nubby sweaters and Swedish clogs.

The adjoining bake shop sold fresh-baked breads, potato rolls, corn muffins, and apple and strawberry pies. Locally grown produce was also carried in season, inventory being what folks trucked in that morning. Today the shelves held blueberries, plums, tomatoes, green beans, and honeydew melons, as well as rhubarb jams and native grape jellies made by Petra in the same double boiler her grandma had once used. The small, second-hand display cooler offered wheels of organic blue and cheddar cheese produced by Mike Mullen, their neighbor down the road who owned a herd of long-lashed, doe-eyed Guernseys. And there were fresh eggs, brown, white, and the speckled variety, from local poultry producers.

Eggs were the morning specialty at the cafe. Puffy golden omelets bursting with sautéed mushrooms and molten with pungent gruyere cheese. Monte Cristo Eggs Benedict served with a sidecar of sour cream and strawberry jam. Slumbering Volcanoes, a concoction of baked eggs, pepper jack cheese, and roasted garlic atop grilled artichoke hearts. Toad in the Hole with pork sausages surrounded by a flaky golden crust of baked eggs. Plus Scotch Eggs, Eggs on a Cloud, and Huevos Rancheros. Hence the name, of course. The Cackleberry Club.

Suzanne wasn't surprised when, at half past nine that morning, Bobby Waite came ambling in. Bobby was Kindred's most popular attorney, a nice enough fellow who always had his polo shirt tucked neatly into his khaki slacks and wore well-buffed Cordovan leather loafers.

As Suzanne's lawyer, Bobby had been a gentle guiding force through the myriad of death certificates, probate red tape, and other documents that the banks, courts, and Social Security Administration had required.

“Got a few more papers for you to sign,” Bobby told her. He slid onto a just-vacated stool and shoved the documents across the counter.

“More government stuff? They sure love to poke their nose in a person's business,” said Suzanne, fumbling for the pen tucked into her jacket pocket, finding it wasn't there. Then again, neither was the jacket. These days she was comfortable and unapologetic in faded blue jeans and a white shirt tied at the waist. Serious jewelry traded for silver earrings and a simple turquoise bracelet that somehow looked exotic against her suntanned skin.

Bobby reached into his briefcase, fished out a silver Bic. “Here. Use mine.”

As Toni was wont to do, Toni sidled over. “Whatcha want for breakfast, honey?” she asked Bobby.

He shook his head. “No time. I'm on my way into the office, then I have to drive over . . .”

“You gotta have breakfast,” cut in Toni, who wasn't about to let him off so easy. “It's the most important meal of the day. Fortifies the body and the spirit. Maybe you want to take somethin' with you?”

“Okay, sure,” Bobby relented, a grin on his face. “Your Eggs in Purgatory then.” Eggs in Purgatory was Petra's version of baked eggs swimming in lethal Tabasco and chipotle-laced tomato sauce. Besides being delicious, you were assured of getting your capsaicin fix.

“You got it,” said Toni, with the enthusiasm of an insurance salesman who'd just landed a major account.

Suzanne scrawled her signature where Bobby had affixed little plastic tabs with red arrows. Idiot-proofed it, she told herself, for people like her who needed a professional to deal with the nits and nats of legal documents. So she could focus on more broad-concept topics. Like . . . eggs.

“Got another call last week,” said Bobby. “About your land.” Suzanne owned a two hundred acre portion of land nearby. Well, actually, it had been Walter's land, an investment of sorts when he'd signed on as doctor at the Westvale Clinic. Now the land was hers and she continued to lease it to a farmer named Ducovny who produced corn and soybeans from the rich, black soil.

“A serious offer?” she asked. “Beacoup bucks?”

Bobby shrugged. “More like a casual inquiry from an agent. You still not interested in selling?”

“I'll think about it,” Suzanne told him. But she knew it wouldn't be top of mind. She was noodling lots of plans for the Cackleberry Club. And maybe even a sister restaurant that offered fine dining. Suzanne had a real passion for cooking and food concepts, especially when it involved fresh ingredients that were locally sourced. And Kindred, with its dairy farms, boutique cheese makers, and organic farms, was a rich source.

“Well, let me know,” said Bobby. He stashed the papers back inside his well-worn briefcase, then fumbled for the white plastic container that Toni slid across the counter.

Suzanne thanked Bobby again, then grabbed an order book and threaded her way through the cluster of wooden tables where two more groups of customers had made themselves comfortable.

It was crazy, she decided. The Spur Station had done a reasonable business, had been a good investment. But this place, the Cackleberry Club, was going gangbusters. Suzanne still wasn't sure what was the magic charm that drew folks in. It could be the home-cooked angle. Men loved Petra's breakfasts and women adored their tea service in the afternoon. Or maybe it was the eclectic mix they'd stumbled upon. The food, the books, the yarns. Whatever it was, business was good. In fact, three months after launching, they weren't just eking out a living, they were edging toward making a profit. A difference that didn't sound like much, but was immense in the scheme of things.

“Bobby Waite is sitting out back,” Teddy Harlingen told Suzanne some twenty minutes later. He slipped onto a stool and winked at her. Teddy Harlingen was a World War II vet who'd served with George Patton in the Battle of the Bulge, got bayoneted in the gut, and never let anyone forget it. Unfortunately, Teddy's mind had slipped a few cogs since his glory days with the hard-charging General.

“What are you talking about?” asked Suzanne.

Teddy giggled as he tilted his head sideways and rolled his eyes. A three-day stubble covered his wrinkled cheeks, his eyes were a transparent blue, as though he'd been gazing out to sea too long.

Suzanne knew that Teddy always showed up the day after his Social Security check arrived. Ordered a humongous breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage then caromed off down the road on the balloon-tired Schwinn bicycle his son had outfitted with training wheels. Probably, Suzanne figured, that vehicular arrangement neatly offset Teddy's penchant for splurging on a pint of Mad Dog 20-20, then following it up with a night of beer and bull at Schmitt's bar.

“Did you do something to Bobby's car?” asked Suzanne. Teddy was known for his practical jokes. He'd once jammed firecrackers and fresh cow manure into the tailpipe of Joe Dumar's milk truck. That had caused a big stink in more ways than one.

“Didn't do nothin,' shrugged Teddy. “Just walked by, saw Bobby sittin' there.”

“And what did Bobby say?” asked Suzanne. Her eyes slid over to meet Toni's who was doing her darndest to ignore the old coot. Toni shrugged. An I-don't-know-what-the-heck-that-old-geezer's-talking-about shrug. But Suzanne was suddenly aware that Baxter, her aging Irish Setter, was barking his fool head off out back. Baxter, who napped out there pretty much every day, was rarely disturbed by anything, save the occasional Harley Davidson that rumbled into their parking lot or a lone jackrabbit that poked its furry nose out of the fringe of woods the property backed up to.

“I'm gonna go out back and check on Bobby,” Suzanne told Toni. “Sounds like he might be having car trouble.”

But Toni was suddenly busy, trying to explain the subtle but critical variances between Eggs Florentine and Eggs Neptune to a customer at the counter.

Suzanne pushed her way back into the kitchen where she was once again enveloped in a rich cocoon of aromatherapy-like smells. Pepper jack cheese melted on sizzling eggs, mettwurst sausage and cinnamon French toast fried on the grill, blueberry scones and ginger muffins baked in the oven.

“Hey,” said Petra, who was handling the grill like a jolly maestro, flipping cakes and prodding sausages, then spinning deftly to plate each breakfast. Already in her fifties, Petra was smart, intuitive, and a calming influence. With her bright brown eyes and kindly, square-jawed face she was always quick with a smile. And though her body was full-figured, it was still curvy in all the right places.

Suzanne couldn't resist snatching a piece of turkey bacon from the grill, then pulling open the oven door for a quick peek. “Lookin' good,” she declared. Petra was also baking one of her trademark carrot cakes.

“No you don't,” warned Petra. “Remember what happened when you snuck a peek at my pineapple upside down cake? Poor puppy went flat as a board.”

“Not my fault,” Suzanne grinned. “That was due to a barometric imbalance in the stratosphere that produced gobs of humidity.”

“Oh you are so full of it,” laughed Petra, as Suzanne eased the oven door closed then slipped out the back door.

Baxter's barking could mean the coyotes were back, Suzanne decided. She'd seen one last week when she was hauling out garbage. A small female, skinny and mangy. She'd felt so sorry for the miserable little thing that she'd tossed it a hunk of chicken. Now she wished she hadn't. She'd probably just encouraged the little pest to pay a repeat visit.

Off in the distance Suzanne could see a hawk circling lazily in the sky, probably zooming in on a nest of field mice. She winced inwardly, suddenly thinking of the shrieking intrusion that would come cannonballing out of the sky, the tiny lives lost. Since Walter died, she thought about death a lot. Yesterday, she'd set a little red spider outside rather than swat it.

Suzanne crossed the back lot, a patchwork of hard pan, grass, and struggling violets. A slight breeze had sprung up and she felt it instantly dry the tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. Her silver dangle earrings fluttered gently, caressing her throat like butterfly wings.

“Hey, Baxter,” Suzanne called. “What's going on, fella? What's got you so hot and bothered?”

Baxter, his brow furrowed, his muzzle starting to go white, pulled himself up to greet her and give an answering woof. Although Baxter didn't seem particularly upset now, something had gotten him riled up. And Bobby Waite's shiny black Ford pickup was parked over there by the old shed. If he was hunting around in there for tools, he was out of luck. There was nothing in there now except a sputtering Toro lawn mower and a few bags of fertilizer that were probably well past the statute of limitation on germination.

Car trouble? Suzanne wondered as she crossed the back yard. She figured maybe Bobby had phoned Lou Marcy at the Conoco station, then didn't want to wait around for the tow truck to show up. Maybe Bobby had caught a ride into Kindred with one of her customers. He was a busy lawyer, after all, with a meeting to go to.

Suzanne edged up to the truck. With the sun tasering down in a cloudless blue sky it was hard to see in, lots of reflection off the glass. She had to press her nose up against the passenger side window.

And then wished she hadn't.

Bobby Waite was in there all right. Along with his takeout order of Eggs in Purgatory. The whole shebang was splashed across the dashboard and up the front window. Gobs of sauce obscured the speedometer, dripped off radio dials, and soaked Bobby's shirt. In fact, it looked like a damn ten gallon can of industrial strength tomato sauce had exploded in there. Except, Suzanne realized, some of the red stuff was blood. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Do you think the title of the book offers a clue to its content?

What is the starting point of the book - the one action that gets the story rolling?

Do you think Sheriff Doogie is Suzanne's adversary - or her friend?

Are there any characters that you identify with? Any characters you particularly like or dislike - and why?

Which character do you think offers the most comedic interest?

Laura Childs' Eggs in Purgatory is a classic “cozy,” written in the spirit of Agatha Christie. Why do you think many women prefer this kinder, gentler type of mystery?

Why do you suppose many women want to be entrepreneurs like Suzanne, Toni, and Petra? And why do many women prefer to own smaller, more manageable businesses?

Do you think the Cackleberry Club plays out as a “character” in this book?

Do you think the author has succeeded in creating a “sense of place?”

What is the over-riding theme of the book? Justice, faith, friendship? Has the author used any repeating images or symbolism?

Novels are much like three-act plays. There is an opening act, a middle
act, and a concluding act. Where do you think these “break points”
occur?

If you were going to create a new egg dish, what would it be?

Weblinks

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