Cold Turkey

by Janice Bennett

“The new sheriff.” I looked him over even more critically than he’d regarded me. Tallish-perhaps an inch over my own six foot one-wiry build, tightly curling black hair flecked with premature gray, sharp features with rain trickling down a dominant nose. And young. He couldn’t be much over thirty. I didn’t approve.

  His eyebrows shot upward, and his mouth broke into a grin that had probably melted a heart or two. “Jennifer warned me I wouldn’t measure up. Okay, let’s get it over with. Yes, I’m from Los Angeles, but no, I don’t plan to use my tough-guy big-city tactics on your beloved little town. I don’t have any. And no, I don’t expect you to believe me. What you can believe is that everyone’s told me no one can do this job as well as your late husband. So take that as already said, okay? Now that’s settled, we’d better get on with what I came for. You’re the one who found Clifford Brody?”

  “I did.” He was direct, at least. I moved back to let him into the house. The other people crowded on the steps behind him, still in the rain. They’d drip all over the hardwood floors.

  Gerda, her expression determinedly composed, appeared at my elbow, her arms filled with towels. “I want your raincoats so I can hang them in the kitchen. Dry yourselves on these.” Her tone brooked no disobedience.

  Sheriff Sarkisian unbuttoned his slicker. I took it from him, eyeing his uniform with a grudging acknowledgment for its crisp creases. Neatness didn’t automatically make him a good sheriff, though. I agreed with popular opinion-no one could do the job better than Tom McKinley. And I’d give anything if he could still be here to do it. Some kid fresh from the city wasn’t my idea of a replacement.

  A woman pushing middle age emerged from another slicker, revealing knee-high boots, a burgundy mid-calf corduroy skirt, and a white sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. The light fell across squared features, layered brown hair that curled about her ears, and the friendly countenance of Dr. Sarah Jacobs. She offered an apologetic smile to me. “Some welcome home for you, isn’t it? How’ve you been?”

  “Fine-until tonight.” I took her rain gear, as well. “You’re medical examiner, now? Do I offer my congratulations or condolences?”

  “Bit of both.” She accepted with gratitude the towel Gerda held out to her and rubbed it vigorously over her face, neck and hair. “Don’t mind the sheriff,” she added. “He’s not usually this edgy. In fact, he kind of grows on you.”

  “I’m not edgy,” Sarkisian informed her. “I’m just not used to finding drunks parked in the middle of the road. And I take it I don’t have to introduce you to anyone.”

  “Not around here. Small town, remember?”

  Sarkisian rolled his eyes. “Is there anybody in this entire county who doesn’t know everyone else-aside from me?”

  Dr. Jacobs shook her head. “Only in Upper River Gulch. There’re lots of people in the rest of the county who haven’t come our way.”

  “Give it five or ten years,” I told him as I took the doctor’s towel, “and you’ll start to fit in, too. Either that or you’ll go screaming back to your big city.”

  “I like small towns,” Sheriff Sarkisian complained. “I came here on purpose.”

  Sarah Jacobs patted his shoulder. “We all suffer from fits like that. Don’t worry, it’ll pass, then you can go home to where you don’t have to drive fifteen miles just to find a restaurant or theater.”

  “All I said was that I wished one of the pizza places would deliver to the boonies,” he muttered. He accepted the towel Gerda still held out pointedly, and mopped his face. “Where’s the body?”

  “At least he doesn’t call it a ‘stiff,’” Gerda muttered to me in a too-loud aside.

  “You watch too much TV,” I shot back. “What was that about a drunk?”

  “He means Adam Fairfield,” Dr. Jacobs explained. She moved aside to allow the two paramedics and a slightly built, bearded man into the crowded entry hall. The round face of Roberta Dominguez, the police photographer, showed from behind the shoulders of the others. As the crowd shuffled in, muddy puddles formed on the brick-colored tiles at their feet. I shifted my load and collected more slickers and ponchos.

  “Adam Fairfield is not a drunk!” Gerda, bristling in her neighbor’s defense, thrust towels at the new arrivals. “He’s just been depressed since Lucy divorced him. That was six months ago,” she reminded me. “I told you all about it, remember?”

  “Vividly,” I murmured.

  “All right.” Owen Sarkisian added his towel to the collection of wet things I already held. “Technically he might not be a drunk, but he was asleep at his wheel with that battered old pickup of his sticking out into the road, and definitely a few beers or whatever for the worse.”

  Sarah Jacob’s gray eyes gleamed. “So why didn’t you run a breath test on him and book him?”

  The sheriff avoided her gaze. “He wasn’t actually driving. I’ll stop by in the morning when he’s sober enough to pay attention and put a scare into him, don’t worry. I had a more important matter on my mind.” He directed a questioning glance at me. “Which way?”

  Gerda cleared her throat. “I…I’ll show you.” Without meeting my troubled gaze, she made a rapid collection of the remaining towels, dumped the soggy armload on top of the heavy pile I already held, then ushered the investigating team through the living room and down the hall to the study beyond.

  Why was Aunt Gerda so afraid? What had been going on around here? Seething at not being able to just shake it out of her, I headed into the huge kitchen, then glared at my burden. With a sigh, I opened my arms and allowed everything to fall to the polished floor. I prodded the heap with the toe of my shoe, then sorted out the slickers which I draped over the backs of chairs. Too much mud clung to the towels just to put them in the dryer. Instead I tossed the lot into the washing machine, then carefully measured in soap and vinegar in lieu of softener before starting it.

  I should probably brew a pot of coffee for everyone-provided Aunt Gerda had anything non-herbal in the kitchen these days. I refilled the bird-shaped kettle, poured water into a large saucepan as well, and put them both on to boil.

  The room felt cold. That necessitated lighting the pellet stove that stood in the corner of the formal dining room. It wasn’t until I was fiddling with the knobs, adjusting the burn, that it dawned on me I was searching for excuses not to go near the study.

  I closed my eyes, allowing myself at last to acknowledge my own shattered nerves. I was too darned sensitive to atmospheres and the emotions of others. I needed a stretch of quiet and solitude. Fat chance. I wondered how long the crime scene investigators would infest the place.

  Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped from where I knelt by the stove, spinning about and half rising.

  Gerda regarded me with a forced smile. “A bit nervy, there, aren’t we?”

  I sank back on my heels. “How’re they doing?”

  “Taking forever.” With a jerky movement, she brushed unruly strands of her faded fair hair from her forehead. “Roberta’s going nutty with her camera, like always. She’s taking shots of everything from every possible angle, and they’ve got these numbered cards set up all over the place and little plastic bags, and paper ones, and tweezers. And they’re all wearing surgical gloves.”

  “You mean they’re going to analyze every single cat hair? I wish them luck.”

  Aunt Gerda stared at the wavering flames as they consumed the compacted sawdust pellets. “They’ve tracked mud all over the rugs.”

  “It’ll come out. Come on.” I stood, turned her around, and marched her into the kitchen. The homey aroma of drying herbs surrounded us, comforting in its familiarity. I pressed her onto a chair painted bright blue. “Careful not to lean back. There’s wet rain gear.”

  The kettle, which had been rumbling in an agitated manner, gave an experimental whimper which rose to a shrill scream. I scooped both it and the saucepan off the burners and began assembling mugs from one of the oak cabinets. I couldn’t remember how many peop
le had come. Reaction, I supposed.

  “Why did this have to happen!” Gerda exclaimed suddenly. “Why-” She broke off, then resumed with suppressed savagery, “He’s dead! Clifford Brody is dead. He’s been murdered. Here, in my house!”

  “That just about sums it up.” But it didn’t provide the key I needed to understand her fears. I removed the cozy from the pot and poured my aunt the last of our previous chamomile and peppermint brew, then rummaged in the pantry cupboard for the bottle of emergency rum. I added a healthy dollop and handed it over.

  Gerda sipped in silence for almost a minute. “Someone,” she said at last, “came into my house while I was gone, and killed him. I don’t feel safe, here, now.”

  “Yes, you are.” I set down the ceramic pot in which I’d placed new herbs and boiling water, and laid a soothing hand over her trembling one. “Tell you what, though. I’ll get you a dog. A great big one with a worthwhile woof.”

  Gerda sniffed. “It would scare the cats.” She looked around. “Where are they?”

  “Probably hiding under your bed. Or more likely, in it. You know how they are with strangers clomping around. How about if I get you a flock of geese? They’d make even more noise than a dog.”

  Footsteps approached down the hall, crossed the living room, and Owen Sarkisian strode into the brightly lit kitchen. He accepted the mug of fresh tea I handed him, and sat at the table across from Gerda. His brow puckered as he stared into his steaming mug.

  “Small town.” He looked up and his brown eyes studied Gerda. “Everyone knows everything about each other, I suppose?”

  Uneasiness flickered across my aunt’s face, to be replaced almost at once by her determinedly sweet, mildly reproving smile. “That’s a bit of a cliché, don’t you think? Besides, we’re larger than we seem. We have a population of nearly two thousand. Upper River Gulch is a bedroom community for everyone who wants to escape the computer industry during off hours. I would have thought that as sheriff, you’d know that.”

  Sarkisian inclined his head in acknowledgment. “But there aren’t many of you who have businesses in town, are there? Dr. Jacobs tells me there’re only nine of you.”

  “Eight, now,” I murmured. I measured more herbs into a stainless steel tea ball and set it into the saucepan to steep.

  Sarkisian ignored my interruption. “Do you belong to any sort of business association?”

  Gerda blinked. “Or course not. That would be too formal. Hugh Cartwright-he owns the Still-suggested it once, but they’re not really part of our little community.”

  “The Still? You mean Brandywine Distillery? Why don’t they count?”

  “They aren’t downtown. Not in our little district, I mean. And they’re a large business-well, large by our standards. We only count the ones that cluster at the intersection of Fallen Tree Road and Last Gasp Hill.”

  Sarkisian nodded. “So there are a total of nine-” he shot a challenging glance at me, “-shops or offices in Upper River Gulch.”

  “Unless you want to count the school, library, and post office,” I offered without looking up from the second pot of tea I prepared. “That makes three more.”

  “Thank you, Ms. McKinley. I’m sure I couldn’t have figured that out on my own. Now, Ms. Lundquist,” he turned back to Gerda, “I just want to make sure I have a few basic facts straight. The victim came here, to your house, at your invitation? So you did know he was here. But then you went out and left him alone?”

  “Yes, but…” Gerda’s face drained of blood.

  “I’m just trying to get an overall picture.” The sheriff leaned forward, folding his hands on the table and fixing her with a compelling smile. “Why don’t we begin with why you asked him to come over, and why you then left.”

  “Why I…” As abruptly as Gerda had blanched, stormy color now surged into her cheeks. “You don’t believe I did go out! You think I stayed right here and murdered him! You’re actually accusing me! Annike, I told you this was going to happen!”

  Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a pretty strong reaction to a simple question, Ms. Lundquist.” His tone invited an explanation.

  Her flush deepened. “I do not have a guilty conscience, so quit implying that I do.”

  “Oh, I rarely need to imply anything,” the sheriff assured her with a misleadingly gentle smile. “I let people do that for themselves.”

  And that, finally and thankfully, rendered my aunt speechless.

  Chapter Three

  Gerda’s silence didn’t last for long. Or rather, not for long enough. She turned on me. “He’s trying to make me say I killed Brody! He actually thinks I’m capable of committing murder!” She swung back to face the sheriff, and the look she directed at him gave that suspicion some justification. “And you’re just basing it on the circumstances of where he was found! You haven’t even gotten to motives-” She broke off, snapped her mouth closed, then regrouped her forces. “Don’t you think you ought to look at real evidence?”

  Owen Sarkisian closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “I think,” I said in an attempt to diffuse the situation, “she wants you to look for exotic foreign cigarette butts with traces of outlandish colored lipstick.” I couldn’t understand what had set Gerda off like this. It was completely unlike her.

  The sheriff turned a pained look on me.

  “Or maybe,” I went on, hoping Gerda would take the hint and lighten up or cool down or something, “a trail of gum wrappers leading to a size nine shoe print with an unusual pattern on the sole?”

  “Thank you, Ms. McKinley. Your insights are invaluable. I’m sure. To someone. Now, Ms. Lundquist, I only asked-”

  “You’re trying to upset me and make me say things I don’t mean!” she accused him, still in full flare. My interruption hadn’t done any good.

  A ragged sigh escaped him. “Calm down, Ms. Lundquist.”

  “How can I calm down when you’re accusing me of murder!”

  He spread his hands. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I only asked-”

  “Then you’re stopping just short of it!” she exclaimed. “Is that how you go about your investigations, bullying people? Or,” and her gaze narrowed on him, “is this your first murder case?”

  “Here, yes. Over the course of my career, not by a long shot.”

  “Well, maybe you can get away with making wild accusations in Los Angeles,” she snapped, “but not here.”

  “So who’s making wild accusations-except you? I just asked a very logical question-why you went out and left Clifford Brody in your house. Was he alone? Were you expecting anyone else? What was he doing, anyway? And where’s his car?”

  Gerda drew a shaky breath and pushed up the sleeves of her lilac turtleneck. After a moment she smoothed them down to her wrists again. Her anger visibly faded, leaving her deflated. Only a haunted look remained in her eyes. “His car was getting an oil change. I promised to drive him back to his office when he was done.”

  Sarkisian nodded, smiling in a deceptively gentle manner. He made no interruption.

  After a moment, Gerda went on. “He was checking over my tax records for me. Before the end of the year, so I’d know where I stood while I could still make investments. And I wasn’t here because I ran out of vanilla.”

  The sheriff’s mobile eyebrows rose. “I presume there’s a connection there, someplace.”

  Gerda clenched her hands. “Of course there is.”

  “Cooking the books,” I murmured, unable to prevent myself.

  Sarkisian shot me a quick glance containing an unexpected gleam of amusement before turning back to Gerda. “So you went out when? How soon after he got here?”

  Gerda frowned. “His sister dropped him off around three-thirty. So an hour, maybe a little less. I left here just before four-thirty.”

  The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at me. “And you? I take it you hadn’t arrived, yet. When did you get here?”

  “A li
ttle after six, I think. It’d been dark for awhile.” I hesitated. “The-his blood-it felt sticky when I touched his shoulder.”

  “We’ll leave the time of death up to the doctor, I think.”

  I folded my arms. “You mean you aren’t about to trust anything I say?”

  “I mean it’s a damned difficult thing to determine. For all I know, the murderer could have stood there with a blow dryer pointed at the blood. Now,” he offered Gerda a placating smile. “You went out to buy vanilla. Just that? Nothing else?”

  “That’s all I needed.”

  Before he could voice his next question, lights flashed through the big front window as a car swerved around the curve in the drive. Owen Sarkisian rose, strode into the living room, and pulled back the curtain. “Light-colored four-door sedan,” he called over his shoulder. “Old Pontiac, I think.” He watched a few seconds longer. “Woman getting out. Short curly hair, it looks like.”

  “Peggy,” Gerda announced. “That’s Margaret O’Shaughnessy. She’s my nearest neighbor. You’d have passed her driveway about a quarter mile down the road.”

  Sarkisian looked back at Gerda. “You expecting her?”

  “No, but we’re always dropping in on each other.”

  Light footsteps hurried up the outside steps, and Sarkisian crossed to the front door and swung it open. A moment later, Peggy O’Shaughnessy poked her thin, bird-like face inside, an anxious expression creasing her brow. She stared blankly at the sheriff through her huge wire-rimmed glasses, blinked, then her searching look slid past him.

  “Gerda?” Her voice rose, trilling like a reed flute. “What’s going on? I heard the sirens. Are you all right? Annike? Oh, wonderful! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. That wasn’t you arriving, was it?” She peered at Sheriff Sarkisian again. “With a young man?” she added, forever hopeful.

  I located an almost dry kitchen towel and presented it to Peggy. The little woman ran it over her flyaway mop of short permed hair, currently an improbable orange-red to hide the gray, then touched it gently to her face, careful not to smudge her makeup. She kicked off her running shoes in a corner, then padded into the kitchen in her bright chartreuse socks, hand-knit from one of Gerda’s more outrageous dying and spinning jobs. Settling at the pine table across from her friend, she accepted the cup of tea Gerda proffered.