Bedeviled Eggs Read Online Free PDF

chitchat would
make them feel welcome as they waited. “What brings you to the Cackleberry
Club this morning?” she asked
in a breezy tone.
    “We heard on the radio
about...” the man began excit edly, until his wife gave him a determined elbow jab in
the ribs.
    “Breakfast,” the woman
finished in a brisk tone.
    Suzanne groaned
inwardly. The Cackleberry Club’s unfor tunate connection to the murder
was being broadcast across small-town airwaves, in other words, via word of mouth.
    Toni, who’d heard the
exchange, strolled past Suzanne and said in passing, “By lunchtime we’ll have ‘em lined up outside the door.
Folks are just getting curiouser and curiouser.”
    Suzanne nodded in
agreement. What happened to the good old days when a murder kept people away from a place?
Ah, but those days were probably long gone, given today’s penchant for
ripped-from-the-headlines stories and lust for true crime with all the gory details
tossed in for good measure.
    When a table of four finally left, Suzanne
quickly cleared away dirty dishes, wiped it
down, and set it up for the elderly couple.
    “Here you
go,” said Suzanne, offering the husband and wife a set of menus.
    “You got eggs for
breakfast?” the old man asked.
    “Absolutely,” she
told him. “There’s our special Eggs Mornay as well as eggs Benedict, toad in the hole,
frittatas, Eggs in a Basket, and even Slumbering Volcanoes.”
    “Why so many kinds of
eggs?” asked the woman.
    Suzanne gave a slow
reptilian blink. Don’t get out much? was the answer that
bubbled up inside her brain. Instead she said, “Well, this is breakfast and we are the Cackleberry Club.”
    Zipping back to the
old brass cash register to ring up a check, Suzanne noticed that the ruffled pink
Depression- era
candy dish, normally filled with mints, was empty. And the stack of Quilt Trail
brochures that also sat there had been reduced to a single copy.
    Gotta get some more, Suzanne told herself,
snatching up
the colorful tri-fold brochure and sticking it in her apron pocket. Then, ten
minutes later, when things were finally under control, Suzanne stepped
into the Book Nook and dialed the number for the Logan County Historical
Society.
    Arthur
Bunch, the director, answered the phone himself. “Logan County Historical Society.”
    “You’re
in early,” said Suzanne. There was dead air for a moment, then she continued, “Hey,
Arthur, this is Suzanne from
the Cackleberry Club.”
    “Oh hello,” said
Bunch, sounding cheery now.
    “Just wanted to tell
you that we’re down to our last copy of the Quilt Trail map. Looks like you might have
a hit on your hands.”
    “Sure hope so,” replied
Bunch. “I’ve been putting in twelve-hour days but loving every single minute. The buzz we’re
getting over here is terrific. I think lots of folks are planning to drive the trail!”
    “It’s a great thing
for the county,” said Suzanne, “to showcase all our historic buildings.” She
hesitated. “I hate to add to your workload, but we sure could use some more of those brochures. We’ve
been talking the Quilt Trail up like crazy and, of course, Petra’s, completely gung ho.”
    “I’ll get some to you
as soon as possible,” said Bunch. “Wait a minute, are you by any chance serving
cranberry almond
scones today? The kind with Devonshire cream?”
    “It’s
our autumn special all this month,” Suzanne told him. “Along with wild rice soup
and pumpkin pie.”
    “Then I might just
bring those brochures over myself,” enthused Bunch. “And I won’t even feel guilty
about deserting my post, I’ll just consider it multitasking.”
    Arthur chuckled
loudly and Suzanne could almost see his trademark bow tie moving up and down his wiry
throat in
the process. Arthur Bunch was a gentle soul, with his bow ties and serviceable,
tweedy suits. He could have al most been cast in a 1950s sitcom as the good-hearted
neigh bor
or even the slightly bumbling but well-intentioned dad.
    “See you