“Later, dear. Here’s some tea.” Gerda handed over a steaming mug. “Chamomile, with a touch of St. John’s wort and wood betony to make you less grouchy.”
“Make it up by the pot,” I advised, and sank onto the only vacant seat, the bench from my aunt’s loom. “Okay, what’s the consensus of the convergence?”
“That you’ll do a wonderful job.” Peggy O’Shaughnessy leaned forward with a rustle of papers as she brandished the notebook containing her lists. “We’re going to have more fun than ever this year.”
“Who is?” I murmured.
Sue Hinkel selected another roll. “We are. You are another story.”
“Make it one with a happy ending.” I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, let’s hear the worst. What have you got planned?”
“You’ll enjoy every minute of it,” Peggy assured me.
“You have to. That’s on her list,” Sue stuck in.
Peggy shot her a repressive look, then turned back to me. “And it’ll give you a chance to tell a whole lot of people you’re taking over from Brody.”
I peered at the corner of the page I could see. “Is that on your list, too?”
Orange and white tail held high, Furface strolled into the living room. Before I could get my feet to safety, he latched his teeth onto my ankle, purring as he did so. I detached him with care. He’d never yet drawn blood, but there was always a first time. Still purring, he settled his considerable haunches on the loom’s treadles, and six of the eight harnesses shot upward by varying degrees. They lowered a little as the cat curled into his impression of an overweight furry brick. He regarded the crowd with unblinking eyes.
“First,” pronounced Peggy, ignoring both Furface’s and my interruptions, “is the pancake breakfast on Thursday morning. That’s culminating in a turkey raffle, as you already know.” She lowered her wire-rimmed glasses down her narrow nose and peered at me. “You haven’t bought any ticket books for yourself, yet, have you? Don’t worry, I’ve got a few more in my bag.”
“Later,” I said quickly. “Breakfast and raffle, Thursday morning. What’s next?”
Peggy consulted her notes. “That would be Friday at one, and the First Annual Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest.”
“A pie eating contest.” I looked around the circle of SCOURGEs in disbelief. “The day after Thanksgiving when everyone’s been stuffing themselves? For heaven’s sake, why?”
“You weren’t here for the Third Annual Harvest Festival Pumpkin Growing Contest,” Gerda told her. She dragged a kitchen chair into the room and stationed it near a basket of freshly dyed turquoise wool. “It was an overwhelming success. In fact, it’s the sole reason for the pie eating contest. We didn’t know what else to do with all the pumpkin, and it seemed such a waste to throw it out.”
“Why didn’t you donate it to the homeless shelter, or the church?”
“We did.” Peggy beamed at me. “And they were very happy, but neither of them had much freezer space. So they cooked up what they could use and gave the rest back.”
“A lot of rest back,” stuck in Ida Graham. “We’d intended to can it, but no one’s had any time.”
“Pumpkin pies,” I muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope they’ve already been baked?”
“Much too much.” Gerda picked up several locks of the uncombed wool and began to tease them with rapid-or nervous-movements of her fingers. Amazingly, only the black tom Clumsy helped, batting at the brightly colored fluffs she set aside ready for carding. “Cooked, turned into pie filling and frozen, but that’s it.”
“Great.” I caught the corner of Peggy’s list. “Only one event for Friday? Good. What about Saturday?”
Art Graham stretched out a long arm and took one of the few remaining rolls. “That’s the same as always. The Clean-Up-the-Park project. Fourth Annual this time around, isn’t it, Ida?” he asked his wife.
Ida nodded. “Not that it really needs it since we put in the trash cans and conned the Boy Scouts into mowing and pruning. Thank heavens for community service requirements for ranks.”
“Can’t we just skip it, then?” I looked from one to the other of them, and my budding hope faded.
“Tradition,” Art Graham said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to give up any of our little traditions.”
“It’s only been done three times before!”
“Think of it as pre-holiday decorating,” suggested Sue Hinkel. “We’ll be stringing the lights and hanging the banners, even if we don’t turn on the electricity or unfurl anything for another week. This way, the park’s ready for the dinner, and the heavy Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa work gets done, too, and we only have to gather the workers once.”
Gerda peered over the top of her glasses at me. “Never turn down anyone who volunteers to work, dear.”
I snagged the last cinnamon roll from under Sue’s nose. Store-bought, of the cellophane and plastic container variety. Not even heating in the microwave had induced them to give off any heavenly aromas. With a sigh, I bit into it. “What are you bribing them with?”
Ida Graham gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Got it in one, kiddo. Hugh Cartwright promised to come through with a trial batch of one of his new liqueurs. That, and the pie leftovers.”
“Which brings us to Sunday afternoon’s Thirty-Sixth Annual Community Dinner-in-the-Park,” Peggy announced. “See? We told you it wouldn’t be all that hard. And I’ve made lists of everything you need to do.” She proffered her notebook.
I accepted it and leafed through the first few pages. My sense of uneasiness grew. “Nothing’s checked off.”
“Gee,” Sue murmured.
I looked from one to the other of the SCOURGEs. Not one of them met my gaze. “Nothing’s checked off!” I repeated.
“We told you,” Peggy said with exaggerated patience. “Cindy was supposed to assign jobs to people. She didn’t.”
I flipped back to the first page. “The breakfast is set for tomorrow morning.”
“Check out the first item.” Sarah Jacobs leaned across and tapped the sheet. “The one about reserving the Grange Hall? Guess who never got around to it.”
“Great. But they’ll know we’re counting on it. Won’t they?”
Peggy sprang to her feet, disturbing the calico Birgit who’d been snoozing on the cushion behind her. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all, dear. Just a couple hours on the phone, and everything will be settled. Now, we’ll run along and let you get to work. Gerda, you should dye another batch of wool that color. It’ll make the most heavenly sweater. Gotta dash, I’m going to be late to the Still. You wouldn’t believe the number of invoices and purchase orders I have to process every day.”
The SCOURGEs evaporated from the room, leaving me clutching the notebook with its myriad detailed notes. At least I wouldn’t have to figure out what needed to be done. I only had to do it. Great.
I took time out for a hasty bowl of low-fat granola-homemade, of course, from Aunt Gerda’s own recipe. It was the only cereal she stocked in her pantry cabinet. Then I headed for the kitchen phone to begin the round of placating and begging calls. At that moment, my old hated accounting firm began to take on the golden glow of fond remembrance.
I got lucky with the first item on the list. The homeless shelter’s source for bulk foods promised me not only all the pancake mix I needed, but sausages, sliced bacon, and dozens of cartons of eggs. They could even supply a crate or two of oranges. When they told me they’d deliver, as well, I nearly swooned with delight. We struck a deal, I gave them directions to the Grange, and promised to meet them there in the early afternoon. Now, if only the rest of my arrangements would go as smoothly, I might survive this SCOURGE scourge, after all.
They didn’t. I spent the next ten minutes going down the list item by item, noting names and numbers of likely prospects, without getting a single phone response from any of them. Then I reached “coffee maker.” Peggy had warned me the night before the Grange’s machine
had broken. “Anyone have a coffee machine big enough for the breakfast?” I called to where Gerda still sat in the living room. “Or am I going to have to have everyone bring their own?”
“Let’s see.” Aunt Gerda’s voice trailed off, and a long minute of silence stretched. Then, “Try the Fairfields. Lucy inherited the one from the defunct women’s club. I doubt she hauled it away with her when she left Adam. Maybe Nancy can find it.”
Adam Fairfield, whom Sheriff Sarkisian had found parked part way into the street last night, too drunk to drive. And whom the sheriff had stated his intention of visiting first thing this morning.
If our visits coincided, I just might find out if Adam remembered seeing someone pass his house headed toward Aunt Gerda’s at about the time of the murder. Or if he didn’t, perhaps his daughter Nancy had. I came to a decision. Someone had ruthlessly dumped poor Gerda in the middle of this mess, making her a prime suspect. I took that as a personal affront. I had no intention of letting the wheels of justice inch forward in low gear. I intended to make sure this new sheriff did his job, and did it efficiently. And first on that list would be to see if the Fairfields could offer us anything other than coffeepots.
With renewed vigor, I picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Five
The driveway leading to the Fairfields’ place opened off the main road about a quarter mile below Peggy O’Shaughnessy’s house. As I drew closer, I could see that Adam had made some improvements since I’d been home last. Actually, quite a few. I was really impressed. It’s not easy to make a country property look like anything but a haven for weeds.
He had transformed the entry into a magnificent array of flowering shrubs and boulders, with a covering of shredded bark and a brick border. A brilliantly white post and rail fence stretched to either side. Vinyl, not wood, I realized. No more whitewash, termites or rot. The old broken gate that had hung on rusted hinges was history, as well. In its place gleamed black wrought iron, complete with spikes tipped in gold. It stood open, the two halves drawn back so they lined the asphalt that had not been there the last time I stopped by. I took a closer look as I started up the drive. An electric gate. The brick posts from which it hung also supported a control box, complete with an intercom.
More of the flowering shrubs and shredded bark lined the full length of the drive. It wasn’t a short one, either, leading a good hundred yards up a hill. Someone-and I wagered it was Adam Fairfield himself-had put in a tremendous amount of back-breaking labor. And a tremendous amount of money, as well. And all in an attempt to get his wife back, I supposed. If he’d done all this when she’d begged for it… But that was exactly like Adam, applying bandages after the patient had bled to death.
Adam’s white Chevy pickup truck stood in front of the garage, probably where John Goulding left it last night. My gaze moved on to the house, and I slowed to a stop, impressed. It had received a new coat of paint, bright yellow with white trim. Raised brick planting beds surrounded the foundations, as yet unplanted. New shrubs lined a recently added brick walkway, though as yet no flowers filled the empty areas. That would probably wait until spring-or until Lucy returned to tend that herself. I hoped she would. So much effort deserved some reward. And I hated to see couples who’d been together for so long break up. You had to give Adam credit for trying. I hoped Lucy would.
I climbed out and walked toward the door, which opened as I neared it. Nancy Fairfield looked out, her dark, curling hair-natural, no need for a perm, here-framing her pale face and delicate features. A bulky fisherman knit sweater topped a long corduroy skirt that hugged her slender hips, and she wore sheepskin-lined boots that added an inch to her five foot four. With her eyes rimmed with red, as if she’d been crying, she looked frail and fragile.
“You should be lying down!” I blurted out. Not the most encouraging greeting, perhaps, but she really looked drained. She had started her senior year at Stanford, only to develop pneumonia two weeks into classes. She’d spent almost three weeks in the hospital before being sent home to recuperate. From the looks of her, she might not be able to resume her studies in January, as Gerda had said she’d planned.
“Just got up from the sofa.” She managed a wan smile. “I’m doing better.” She stepped back and waved for me to enter the hall.
The renovations hadn’t reached the interior yet, which remained comfortably cluttered and shabby. I looked around, trying to remember the last time I’d visited here. More than a year ago, long before Lucy had packed up and moved out. It still felt like her, warm and friendly.
A loud thud sounded from somewhere above us, and we both glanced up. “He’s getting the pot out of the attic,” Nancy explained needlessly.
“Your dad’s been doing a lot of work.” I sat in the large, padded chair she indicated. To my relief, she sat down in another.
“Everything Mom always wanted,” she agreed. Her lower lip trembled. “A bit late, though.”
“She might appreciate the gesture,” I suggested. “It’s a rather impressive one.”
“God, I hope not!” Tears started in her eyes. “They just weren’t meant to be together. Not like-” She broke off.
“Not like you and…” I racked my memory. What was the name of that guy Gerda had told me Nancy was seeing? Someone her father hated- Lowell, that was it. “You and Simon Lowell?” I finished.
Nancy blinked rapidly, then dabbed with a handkerchief at the moisture that slipped down her cheeks. “And Dad just can’t see it!” she cried with the voice of youth throughout the ages. “Just because Simon’s a little unconventional.”
Unconventional was putting it mildly, according to Gerda. Everything from his appearance to his politics seemed to upset most of the town. But I didn’t voice that comment. I’d never actually met Simon Lowell, after all. “Probably because he isn’t a third-generation Upper River Gulcher,” I said with an attempt at diplomacy.
Nancy sniffed. “He inherited his place, you know. From a great uncle. Only three years ago,” she added, grudgingly.
“That puts him in the category of summer visitor,” I said.
She didn’t smile. Just goes to show how deep in her misery she was. Normally jokes about newcomers-those who’d lived here for less than twenty years-were met with more jokes.
“I don’t see why he can’t try to get to know Simon,” she declared. “He-”
Steps sounded on the stairs, accompanied by bumps and mutters. Nancy fell silent. Another thud followed, then a minute later Adam Fairfield strode into the room. He looked as if he’d thrown on an old sweater and jeans at random onto his tall, wiry frame. He certainly hadn’t combed his sandy hair. His eyes, normally a mundane shade of brown, were so bloodshot I didn’t see how he could be standing, let alone moving coffeepots. He clutched his head and groaned.
“Hangover?” I asked, more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. It never seemed to me that the pain a person was trying to forget could possibly be worse than the one he inflicted on himself. Adam wasn’t an alcoholic. He drank by choice, not compulsion. And he seemed living-if you could call it that-proof that he’d made a very bad choice.
He nodded, then winced and sank onto an old floral pattern couch. “Your pot’s in the kitchen. You’re welcome to keep it.”
“Meaning you don’t want to haul it back to the attic?”
He grinned, then winced again. “Yeah. Hey, that’s tough about your finding Brody. Rotten thing to happen to you.”
“To him, too,” I pointed out. “How’d you hear?”
“Dave Hatter.”
“Dave…?”
“Night watchman at the Still. Thought you knew him.”
“I do. But how’d he hear? And why’d he call you?”
“Woke me up.” Adam leaned back with a groan, massaging his temples. Could his drinking be self-punishment, maybe, for driving away his wife? “Wanted to share what he thought was good news.”
“Dad’s swing-shift manager, now,” Nancy stuck in with a touch
of pride. “Dave reports just about everything to him, even when Dad’s got a night off, like last night. Then Tony called, too.”
That would be Tony Carerras, one-time-or I gathered frequent-time-resident of juvenile hall, now Peggy’s prize protégé. She’d picked him up at the homeless shelter where she donated hours of work, and got Gerda to help her convince the Still’s owner, Hugh Cartwright, to hire the guy as a janitor and general grunt laborer down in shipping and receiving to give him another chance. And one chance he never missed was to pass on any tidbits of gossip, the more gruesome the better.
It wouldn’t be quite accurate to call the Still-that’s Brandywine Distillery-a grapevine. They don’t crush grapes there so much as apricots, cherries, and other varieties of fruit-and a lot of rumors and hearsay. And come to think of it, they don’t really crush them. They ferment them, add flavor, and distribute them.
“Neither one of them knew very much,” Adam opined, “only what Peggy told Tony, which was that you’d been the lucky one to find him. So, give with the gory details. Who done him in?”
“No idea. But I think the new sheriff is eyeing Aunt Gerda.”
“Gerda?” Adam sat up too fast, groaned, and sank his head back against the couch. “I’d laugh, but it’d hurt too much.”
“Peggy’s running a close second.”
That brought a deep chuckle and another groan from him. “God, if old Tom were here-” He broke off. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, I agree,” I said as brightly as I could.
The sound of an engine approaching saved us from embarrassment. A moment later it cut off, and a car door slammed. Correction, a Jeep door. I could just make out the uniformed figure of our new sheriff as he headed toward the brick walkway.
Adam peered out the window. “I’m not home,” he told Nancy.
The girl closed her eyes, then gripped the arms of her chair to leverage herself up.
“I’ll get it.” I pushed her gently back against the cushions, hurried into the hall, reached the door as the first knock landed, and swung it wide.
Cold Turkey Page 6
