“The raffle…” began Peggy, ever hopeful.
“The breakfast.” Sarkisian cut her off before she could shift into high gear.
“We should have that set up by now,” Gerda fretted. “Ah, Annike, you’re not doing anything. Just lounging around, I suppose. Come here and take care of this hungry man, will you? I’ve always wanted to give a lawman a ticket, but I’ve got my hands full.”
I found the cashier’s box after considerable searching, in its clever hiding place in plain sight on top of the table beside the front door. Then I only had to find the tickets, which turned out to be in Peggy’s car, since she’d only printed them off her computer late last night. By the time I got back, Simon and Art had drafted Sarkisian to help with the construction. It did my heart good to see those two ordering the sheriff around. I would probably have stood there watching if families hadn’t started to arrive.
I left Ida Graham selling tickets and hurried back to the kitchen, where Adam now squeezed the carton of oranges with cheerful abandon. I’d have a job mopping up after him-unless I could con someone else into that chore. The noise level from the Hall grew steadily, accompanied by the occasional pounding of nails. A radio blared out-briefly, then someone mercifully turned it off. At least I heard a fair amount of laughter, and no complaints had yet reached the cooks.
Nancy returned from her breakfast break and sent me out for another inspection. What I wanted was a phone-and a turkey company that might actually answer a call. What I got was Dave Hatter, looking like he’d come to a funeral instead of a community shindig. His wife, a brown little woman from the top of her straight, feather-cut hair to the soles of her square-toed sensible leather shoes, hovered at his side, not mingling, not even answering the greetings called to them by others already eating.
Dave hesitated only a few steps into the room, looking around. His gaze fell on the rickety platform around which the three men stood shaking their heads, and he drew a step back. I’d swear he actually blanched, but at that distance I couldn’t see well enough to be sure. He muttered something to his wife Barbara and all but bolted for the door. She stared after him, mouth open, eyes wide with dismay.
So naturally, I strolled over. “Hi, Barbara. Remember me?”
She refocused to stare at my face.
“Annike McKinley,” I supplied.
“Yes, of course.” Barbara Hatter looked out the door, to where Dave pulled out of the parking lot in their beat-up truck, one of the vehicles I’d seen in the Still’s lot the day before.
“What’s with Dave?”
“He…” Visibly, she pulled herself together. “He only dropped me off on his way to work. He’s guarding the Still over the holiday.”
“Too bad he couldn’t get breakfast, first.” He’d been holding a ticket, as was Barbara, but I didn’t think I ought to mention that at the moment. Dave had panicked and run, not dropped her off. And at a guess, I’d have to say it was because he’d seen Sarkisian. Now, why, I wondered, did the sight of the sheriff send Dave Hatter sprinting from the room like a rabbit pursued?
Dave had looked pleased over Clifford Brody’s death. And now he avoided the sheriff. Maybe Aunt Gerda was going to have some serious competition for the honor of being chief suspect. I couldn’t help but wonder where Dave was while someone was murdering Brody. I only knew he hadn’t been at work, yet.
Adam Fairfield emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a fistful of paper towels. He stretched, looking around the filling room with an expression of benign satisfaction at an orange well squeezed. Abruptly, his affability vanished. I didn’t need to follow the direction of his glower to know he had just spotted Simon Lowell standing on the platform.
“Hey, Lowell!” he shouted over the general din of the crowd. Silence spread through the Hall as everyone turned to stare. “About to make one of your offensive speeches?”
Simon turned around. “Capitalist!” he shouted back, but more as one duty-bound to make such a response than with any real feeling. It hardly paid him to antagonize his girlfriend’s father.
“Coward!” came Adam’s prompt response.
That stopped Simon. “What the hell do you mean by that?” He jumped down from the makeshift platform and stalked toward Adam, swinging the hammer, leaving Art and Sarkisian stuck supporting the beam he’d been about to nail.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Adam called, standing his ground before the approach of the bulky young man. “Anyone told you, yet? Our Simon here’s always sermonizing about the evils of money and the people who have it. And Cliff Brody, who had pots of it, was the only one who ever told him to shut up.”
“Why don’t you try shutting up?” came a shout from the back of the room.
“Knock it off, Fairfield,” called Art Graham.
“We’re trying to have a good time here,” someone else added.
Adam ignored them. “And you nearly had a real brawl with Brody on Monday, didn’t you? I saw it all, the way you argued, and the way you grabbed him. Don’t know what you’d have done next, if you hadn’t seen me watching.”
In three more strides, Simon closed the space between them. He took a swing at Adam-luckily casting aside the hammer, first. Adam, his expression gleeful, slugged Simon in the jaw, sending the younger man staggering backward, barely missing a table from which three children ran with mock shrieks and real laughs. One-a twelve-year-old boy-managed to overturn his plate, dumping a mass of maple syrup-soaked pancakes and sausages onto the floor. More kids laughed, and only the quick action of parents all around the room prevented a bigger mess for the mop-up crew-which I strongly feared would be just me. Apparently, this was entertainment to their liking.
“Enough!” Sarkisian inserted himself between the two men. Simon tried to get in a swing around him, but the sheriff shoved him back. Art stood guard over the dropped beam, both hands supporting the wavering platform.
“Lowell killed Brody?” I heard someone ask behind me.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” answered a man’s voice. “Never know with these political fanatics.”
“It must have been a fanatic of some kind,” agreed a fourth voice.
“And Lowell’s the only fanatic we’ve got around here,” mused another.
I stared behind me. Others were nodding as well.
“I’d be glad if it were that simple,” murmured Ida Graham in my ear. “It’d be a real relief to have this settled. I hate having a murder in our neighborhood-in your aunt’s house, especially.”
“She wasn’t thrilled about it, either,” I said.
Ida patted me on the arm. “This will probably be the solution, kiddo, then we can all get back to normal.”
Suddenly, Simon gave a barking, mirthless laugh. “This is ridiculous.” He waved a hand at Adam. “He’s not worth the effort.” He returned to the platform, picked up the dropped end of the beam, then stared pointedly at Art Graham until the grocer hoisted the other end into position. Sarkisian remained where he stood for several long seconds, glaring at Adam Fairfield, then returned to the platform as well.
“You don’t object to your husband working with someone you think is a murderer?” I asked Ida.
The woman shook her head. “I only said it would be a good solution. And for that matter,” she added as she turned away, “Brody could have provoked a saint.”
I headed back to check on the cooks and found Nancy standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her bacon fork like a weapon. Tears hovered on her eyelashes, and as I approached, she turned away, back to the frying pans. The next batch of sausages came out burned, and I don’t think she even noticed.
Adam returned to the oranges, and Nancy swiveled on her stool so that her back faced him. A number of people seemed to think Adam’s reasoning about Simon might be correct. And now it seemed that Nancy, who ought to know Simon better than anyone else did, believed it was possible, too. I tried hard to put aside the stereotypes of hot-headed communist students. Simon Lowell wasn’t a student. For tha
t matter, being a real estate agent hardly seemed like a job for someone with his political and social ideology.
I returned to the front and spotted Peggy and Gerda standing in a corner, stuffing raffle tickets into a huge glass bowl. Tony Carerras, lithe, dark and tattooed, stood ready to help. They all looked up as I approached, and Tony stepped back, out of the way but hovering near at hand like a faithful dog. A Doberman or Rottweiler, perhaps. One that kept up a growl just under its breath. And displayed all its teeth.
“It’s going very well, dear,” said Gerda, though without a trace of pleasure in her voice.
Peggy folded another ticket and rammed it in with the others. “I don’t see why anyone has to investigate Brody’s death. Everyone is better off without the nosy old snoop.”
Tony nodded, but said nothing. His gaze challenged me to contradict Peggy, or even say something nasty to her. Like “hello”.
“Hush!” Gerda looked around, and her expression changed from worry to consternation. I didn’t have to look behind me to guess who had crept up.
“Any trouble between you and Clifford Brody, Ms. O’Shaughnessy?” asked Sheriff Sarkisian.
Tony’s hackles rose, but he kept his mouth shut. At least he transferred that unsettling glare of his from me to the sheriff, who seemed not to notice.
Peggy peered over her glasses at Sarkisian. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mrs. O’Shaughnessy would never hurt anyone!” Tony took a protective step closer to Peggy.
Sarkisian studied the young man for a moment, then turned back to Peggy. “Brody oversaw your work at Brandywine Distillery, didn’t he?” A lesser detective would have inserted a wealth of meaning into the question, but the man actually made it sound like no more than casual conversation.
Peggy bristled nevertheless. “I didn’t like him, but I don’t know anyone who actually did, except that sister of his.” Tony nodded agreement.
“So what did you do about him?” Sarkisian managed to sound fascinated.
“Subtle things.” She cast him a suspicious glance, then shrugged. “I made things hard for him to read. Or I’d take a few shortcuts in notations. All perfectly legal, and much easier for me, but it made it harder for him to double-check every entry.” She pressed her lips together, squeezing out a smile at what was probably a fond and malicious memory. “Petty, I know, but vastly satisfying.”
“You don’t murder someone just because they irritate you,” I pointed out. “Sounds like Peggy had a much better plan in irritating him right back.”
Sarkisian’s gaze transferred to me. “You’re thinking he might have wanted to murder her, instead?”
I met his gaze, and with surprise recognized his amused appreciation. I supposed a sense of humor was mandatory for anyone in law enforcement who wanted to keep their sanity. Tom had certainly had one. He’d married me, after all. “Irritation isn’t a motive for murder,” I said, just to make sure he’d gotten the point.
He studied me for a long moment, then turned with exaggerated surprise toward Gerda and Peggy. “Did either of you two hear me invite Ms. McKinley here to join in the investigation?”
“Yes,” said Gerda promptly. “You asked her to go with you to see Cindy, didn’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but to my delight he apparently found nothing savage enough to say that was still polite enough for the ears of two aging ladies. I grinned at Aunt Gerda and made a motion with my finger, chalking up one point for our side.
“Annike!” yelled Sue Hinkel, interrupting my moment of triumph. “Get over here and help me sell tickets! There’s a line!”
I looked from Sue and the small crowd around her, to the glass bowl stuffed with raffle tickets. The turkey still hadn’t arrived.
Gerda stiffened, straightening to her full and rather impressive height. Peggy gasped, and around us a circle of hushed expectancy rippled outward until no one was talking in our immediate vicinity. I turned around, bewildered, then spotted the petite, elegant figure of Doris Brody Quinn, Clifford’s sister, just inside the door.
Gerda strode toward her, quivering in anger. I reached out to grab her arm, but Sarkisian caught me. I glared at him, but he shook his head, and his grip tightened on my wrist.
“You have some nerve, showing your face here,” Gerda breathed, not loud, but with amazing menace.
“Nerve?” murmured Sarkisian. “Because she should be in mourning?”
Peggy sniffed. “Because of the way she and her brother conned poor Gerda. It’s a deliberate provocation, her coming to a Service Club event.”
I closed my eyes. Why, I wondered, had no civic-minded soul thought to strangle Peggy before now?
Chapter Nine
Doris Brody Quinn had done the occasion proud. She wore a black suit with a gray lace blouse and a hat with a wisp of black netting for a veil. Her gray flecked brown hair curled softly about her beautifully made-up face, and her brown eyes gleamed with malicious enjoyment. “Whatever can you mean, my dear Gerda?”
Gerda ignored her and turned to Sue Hinkel. In an unnecessarily loud voice, she said, “Don’t accept a check from her. And make sure her cash isn’t counterfeit.”
She turned on her heel, but Owen Sarkisian moved forward into her path. “I think I’d like an explanation from both of you ladies, if you don’t mind.”
Gerda pinned him with a pitying look. “If you believe her, I’ve got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.” She stalked with considerable dignity toward the kitchen.
Sarkisian raised his eyebrows and looked questioningly at Brody’s sister. “Well, Ms. Quinn?”
I’d never seen so much spite as the woman managed in her smile. “I’m afraid Gerda blames her own lack of business acumen on my brother. He tried to warn her, but you may have noticed she’s a trifle headstrong, as well as eccentric.”
“Specifics, if you don’t mind.” Sarkisian matched her smile.
Doris Quinn eyed him with speculation, then smiled in that gossipy way she has. “Well,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was over Gerda’s last business-Upper River Gulch’s sole coffee shop. She ran it into the ground, poor dear, all through mismanagement.”
A sputtering gasp escaped Peggy, but I clamped a warning hand on her shoulder. I wanted to hear this version.
“It was such a nice little place, and it had such potential, if only the right person had charge of it. So I bought it from her before she lost it to bankruptcy, and I built it back up. You ought to come in sometime, you’d love what I’ve done with it.”
“Thanks, I will.” Sarkisian nodded to her and headed back toward the raffle jar, still gripping my wrist. I still gripped Peggy, so we made a threesome. Foursome, actually, since Tony tagged along. I found the kid’s gratitude toward Peggy rather extravagant, but maybe she’d been the first motherly figure to enter his life.
Once out of earshot of the ticket table, the sheriff turned to face us. “Okay, Ms. O’Shaughnessy. Let’s hear the other side of this coffee shop affair.”
Peggy beamed at him. “I knew you had to be smarter than to be taken in by that-that-woman.”
“Oh, I’m rarely taken in by anything,” Sarkisian assured her. “So, what’s Ms. Lundquist’s version?”
Peggy cast him a suspicious glance. “The truth, of course. That swine Brody kept giving Gerda bad advice, then told her she was going to lose the place if she didn’t sell. Then he undervalued the shop and its assets on purpose so his sister could buy it for a song. Poor Gerda took a substantial loss and had to go into debt to buy her current store. She-” Peggy broke off in consternation.
“She what?” The sheriff sounded no more than mildly curious.
“Look,” Peggy declared, arms akimbo, “no matter what you’re thinking, that does not give her a motive for killing Brody. Really, it doesn’t! She wanted him alive to prove to him she could come out on top, in spite of what he did to her.”
“Sheriff?” Doris Quinn appeared at his side. “A word with yo
u?” She drew him several steps away, but still within earshot for Peggy and me. “I’m sure Gerda has a perfectly good alibi for when dear Clifford died,” she stage whispered. “But you will double-check it, won’t you? Not that I’d wish to try to make anyone look guilty, but…” She broke off with that sad, bereaved, pitiable smile that made me itch to dump a cup of coffee over her head.
When she’d strolled off to join the breakfast line, Owen Sarkisian returned to Peggy and me. “I know,” I said before he could open his mouth. “My aunt’s alibi is just driving to a store in Meritville. I wish she’d gotten a ticket on the way.”
“So she’s implying I killed her wretched brother, is she?” Gerda appeared at Peggy’s elbow. “Or is she stating it right out? Horrible woman.”
“I hope she chokes on a sausage,” Peggy declared loyally. Tony nodded, still glued to Peggy’s side.
“That venomous…” Gerda began.
“Annike?” Sue yelled. “Someone to see you.”
A man elbowed his way through the crowd toward us. “You the one who’s gotta sign for the turkey?”
The turkey! I could have kissed him, greasy white apron, stubbly beard and all. Timely interruption and raffle prize, all in one package.
He held out a clipboard, pointed to a line, and I scrawled my name where he indicated. He tucked it under his arm. “Where ya want your bird?”
“Refrigerator, I guess.” I started toward the front door.
The man choked on his laugh. “It’s not gonna like that.”
A sinking sensation of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean?”
He cocked his head at me. “You ordered it.”
“No, someone else did. She ordered a smoked breast, ready for a buffet table.” I said the words slowly, trying to convince myself they had to be true.
A slow, evil grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe you better come outside and take a look, lady.”
Some part of me already guessed the ghastly truth, even before we got to the lot. He hadn’t bothered to pull his truck into a parking place, he’d just left it in front of the door. Probably so he could make a fast getaway. I stared for a long moment, then closed my eyes. “No.”
Cold Turkey Page 11
