The ladies of the Cackleberry Club café serve up justice in the latest installment from the New York Times bestselling author of Eggs in a Casket . TIME TO EGGS-TINGUISH AN ARSONIST. Getting her hair colored at Root 66, Suzanne is stunned to witness the County Services office next door suddenly go up in flames. Sadly, the fire claims the life of longtime civil service worker—and friend to the Cackleberry Club—Hannah Venable. When it’s discovered that an accelerant was used to fan the flames, Suzanne, Petra, and Toni vow to smoke out the culprit. When Suzanne finds a possible connection between the fire and the nearby Prairie Star Casino, she comes to realize that the arsonist wanted something very big and bad kept secret. And if the ladies aren’t careful, they may be the ones gambling with their lives… “Childs shines…a dandy plot and cherished characters.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch “ Scorched Eggs is a delight.”—Fresh Fiction “A strong entry in an enjoyable series. Ms. Childs writes some of my favorite cozy mysteries, and this is no exception.”—Open Book Society Laura Childs is the New York Times bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries, Scrapbooking Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. In her previous life she was CEO of her own marketing firm, authored several screenplays, and produced a reality TV show. She is married to Dr. Bob, a professor of Chinese art history, enjoys travel, and has two Shar-Peis. Acknowledgments CHAPTER 1 SUZANNE didn’t know how she felt about Blond Bombshell No. 4 as a hair color, but she was about to find out. Especially since she was sprawled in a red plastic chair roughly the size of a Tilt-a-Whirl car, bravely enduring her “beauty experience” at Root 66, downtown Kindred’s premier hair salon. Silver foils that looked like baked-potato wrappers were crimped in her hair, while a sparkly pink ’50s-era bubble-top hair dryer hovered above her head, blasting a constant stream of hot air. Yup, the foils were bad enough, but the droning dryer made Suzanne feel as if her head were being sucked into a jet engine. Jiggling her foot, tapping her fingers, Suzanne knew she should try to regard this as “me time” as so many women’s magazines advocated. But, all cards on the table, Suzanne felt restless and a little guilty about ducking out of the Cackleberry Club, the cozy little café she ran with her two partners, Toni and Petra. She’d dashed away this Friday afternoon claiming a dire personal emergency. And when you were a silvered blonde who was a tad over forty, the emergence of dark, scuzzy roots all over your head definitely qualified as an emergency. But now, after all the rigmarole of mixing and tinting and crimping and blow-drying, Suzanne just dreamt of sweet escape. She glanced around at the five other women, customers in the salon, who seemed perfectly content to sit and be beautified. But scrunched here, paging through an old copy of Star Whacker magazine and reading about the questionable exploits of Justin and Miley, didn’t seem like the most productive way to spend an afternoon. “How you doin’, gorgeous?” cooed Brett. He bent down and flashed his trademark pussycat grin. Brett was her stylist and a co-owner of Root 66. A man who wore his hair bleached, spiked, and gelled. “Are you in need of a little more pampering? Should I send Krista over to do a French manicure?” He cast a slightly disapproving glance at Suzanne’s blunt-cut nails. “No thanks, I’m fine,” Suzanne told him as she balled her hands into tight fists. What she wanted to tell Brett was that she had working-girl hands. Every day she muscled tables, swept floors, hauled in boxes of groceries, and wrangled two unruly dogs when she finally arrived home at night. In her free time, she stacked hay bales, mucked stalls, and guided her quarter horse, Mocha Gent, through his paces at barrel racing. Oh, and last week, on an egg run to Calico Farms, she’d manhandled a jack and changed a flat tire on her Ford Taurus. Lifestyles of the rich and famous? Here in small-town Kindred? Like . . . not. Suzanne poked a finger at an annoying tendril of hair that tickled the back of her neck. Ten more minutes , she told herself. Gotta white knuckle it for ten more minutes. Then I’m outta here. She knew she should relax and let herself be coddled, but there were things that needed to be done. Kit Kaslik’s vintage wedding was tomorrow and she had to figure out what to wear. Toni was babbling about launching a new book club. Her horse, Mocha Gent, still wasn’t ready for the Logan County Fair. And Petra was all freaked out about the dinner theater that was coming up fast. And what else? Oh man. She’d gone and invited her boyfriend, Sam, over for dinner next week. And hadn’t he promised to bring a bottle of Cabernet if she grilled a steak for him? Yes, she was pretty sure they’d struck that particular deal. Suzanne drummed her fingers. She wasn’t high maintenance, but she was definitely a high-achieving type A