“‘Fraid so, lady. Where ya want it?”
I looked again. A very large white turkey, currently secured in a wire cage, stared back at me with a malevolent glare. The man let down the back of the truck, dragged the cage to the edge, and opened its door. The bird remained sitting, though now it transferred its glare to him. He reached in, grabbed the end of a leash and gave it a shake. The turkey surged forward, wings expanding as it cleared the cage bars, and landed with a peevish flap on the ground.
“It’s supposed to be smoked,” I said.
The man shrugged. “So stick a cigarette in its beak.” He shoved the leash into my hand, then shooed the unstrung bird toward me. With a wave, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed out of the lot with suspicious speed.
I stared at the bird. It paid me no heed, but looked around, extending its wings and folding them again. It pecked at the ground.
I was going to murder Cindy Brody. At least Sarkisian would have no trouble figuring out who would be responsible for that crime.
I turned around to find Gerda standing in the doorway. “It’s not smoked and wrapped,” she said.
“We already went through that routine,” I sighed.
“Maybe a small dinner jacket and a Sherlock Holmes-style pipe?” suggested Peggy from just behind my aunt.
I gave the leash a gentle tug, and to my surprise, the bird waddled over to join me. It still looked around, extending its neck and lowering it again. Occasionally it darted out its beak to sample a bit of gravel.
“That can’t be good for it, Annike.” Gerda shook her head. “You’d better bring it inside.”
“At least it’s ready for a buffet table.” Peggy grinned at us. “See? It’s hungry.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. If I could possibly rig this contest, I’d make sure Peggy won the damned bird.
Silence, followed by laughter, greeted our arrival inside the hall. The bird shied, flapping its wings, and darted in every direction to the limits of its leash.
“Here.” Art Graham took it from me, and I handed it over with relief. “We’re supposed to have it on display.” He looped the end of the leash around the base of the platform.
“I don’t think-” I began, but too late. The turkey tugged, the platform teetered, and the leash came loose as one end of the structure collapsed. With a terrified squawk, the poor bird attempted to launch its unaerodynamic body into the air, then hot-footed it off between the tables. Children squealed and shouted from all over the room. Several clambered from their chairs and took off in pursuit, laughing and diving after the leash, terrifying the big, white, flapping bird even more.
“Stop!” shouted Sarkisian, but whether to the turkey or the children, I couldn’t be sure. The children, at least, responded. “No one move,” he ordered.
The turkey ran to a corner and stood there, trembling. I made a mental note-again-not to be among the mopping up crew. The distressed bird had contributed to the mess on the floor. I approached it from one side, and Sarkisian from the other. He reached the end of the leash first and picked it up.
“The sheriff just arrested the turkey!” Simon Lowell yelled.
The resultant laughter startled the bird, and it darted about the sheriff’s legs. Sarkisian unwound himself and handed the leash to me, and I only had to tug a couple of times to get the prisoner to come with me.
Outside seemed a haven of peace. I tied the poor thing to a pipe near the door where it could await the raffle in relative quiet. Then it would be someone else’s problem. It stood at the extent of its tether, wings still raised, looking forlorn. I felt certain there was something in the Geneva Convention, and possibly the Sheriff’s Department regulations as well, about food and water for those being held in custody. I reentered the building in search of a couple of dishes, only to be met by Adam Fairfield’s raised voice.
“Your shoddy construction’s always causing trouble,” he yelled. I wasn’t at all surprised to find him facing Simon Lowell once more.
“There was nothing wrong-” Simon began.
“You’re supposed to be an odd-job man,” Adam sneered. “If that platform is a sample of your work, Upper River Gulch had better beware.”
Simon flushed. “At least I don’t do my job drunk. What happened, did Brody catch you swigging the inventory, so you killed him?”
“How dare you imply my home is a brewery,” Gerda declared, quivering with indignation. Or at least pretending to. She inserted herself between the two combatants, effectively breaking up the fight. “That’s where Brody was killed, remember? Now, you’re both acting like a couple of ten-year-olds, and I, for one, have had enough of it.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at them.
Adam turned on his heel and stomped back to the kitchen, presumably to take out his ill temper on the oranges again.
Simon had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, Gerda,” he muttered, and went to repair the platform.
Sarkisian leaned close to me. “I’ve never been to such a friendly little gathering. Are all the Service Club activities such fun and games?”
I nodded. “They live up to their name of SCOURGEs.”
He grinned. “If I’d had an ounce of foresight, I’d have had them declared a public nuisance.”
“Oh, please do!” I whispered back.
“That Lowell really is a rather violent young man, isn’t he?” Doris Brody Quinn inserted herself between us. She gave me a dismissive nod and turned the full force of her gaze on the sheriff. “Do you know, my brother claimed to have found out where Lowell’s money came from.”
“What money?” I asked, reflecting on the single-construction shack he lived in.
She directed a pitying look at me over her shoulder, then turned back to Sarkisian.
“And where is that?” the sheriff asked.
Doris Quinn lowered her voice. “He wouldn’t tell even me. He said he was saving the information for the most public unmasking possible. But someone killed poor Clifford before he could reveal Simon’s dirty secret.” She regarded the sheriff with a touch of triumph, as if she expected him to rush right over and arrest Lowell.
Instead, he merely smiled at her. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s citizens like you, who bring the officials much needed information, who make our jobs easier and solve crimes faster.”
Doris smiled. She honestly seemed to think he was being serious, not sarcastic. But I had to admit, from his tone of voice, it was hard to tell.
Several people near the front of the room stood and began collecting their plates. “Looks like the first to arrive are done eating,” Sarkisian murmured to me.
“And hightailing it for the door,” I agreed. “And who could blame them?”
“The raffle?” he suggested.
I grinned. “Right. Then at least I can get rid of that ridiculous bird. Peggy!” The little woman looked up from a plate stacked high with pancakes and scorched bacon. “Time for the drawing!”
I’m not sure everyone in the building realized the full implications of that comment. They might still be under the impression we were going to produce the promised smoked breast from somewhere. Boy, was someone going to be in for a surprise when I handed them the leash.
While Peggy hurried to the repaired platform, I strolled to the door and propped a shoulder against the jamb. Art Graham handed Peggy onto the rickety stand, and Tony hovered nearby, probably to catch her if she fell. It swayed under her meager weight, but nothing worse. Simon Lowell stood by, looking ready to handle damage control if it collapsed again.
“Sheriff!” Peggy waved to him. “Come up here, please.”
He wisely declined to clamber up to her side. Undaunted, she held out the giant glass bowl to him, just over his head, and he fished around inside, finally drawing out a folded ticket. He read the number in a loud voice. I looked around, wondering whom to pity, but even though everyone seemed to be checking their tickets, no one spoke up. I began to wonder if maybe so
meone just didn’t want to collect their prize. I couldn’t blame them. I’d keep quiet, too.
With a sinking heart, it dawned on me I might have to take that damned bird home with me until I could trace the winner if they weren’t present-or couldn’t be brought to own up to it. “Is there a name and number on it?” I called, clinging to that slim chance.
He turned it over. “No.”
“Read that again, will you?” Adam stood in the kitchen doorway, his ticket in his hand. “Couldn’t hear you over all that sausage and bacon sizzling.”
Hope warmed me. I’d love to hand the turkey over to one of the SCOURGE elite.
Peggy took the number from Sarkisian and read it again, as loudly as she could. An all too familiar squeal erupted from the kitchen. Aunt Gerda emerged, waving the winning ticket. I just leaned there, lacking the willpower to move. Sarkisian, grinning hugely, strode past me.
I caught his arm. “You did that on purpose!”
“Hey, it was a fair drawing. You watched.”
“I don’t know how you did it, but you arranged it!”
Laughing, still protesting his innocence, he escaped into the parking lot. He returned only moments later with the giant white bird tucked under his arm. To the general applause-relieved that it wasn’t them, I’m certain-he presented it to its new owner.
Aunt Gerda stared at the big white bird. The big white bird stared at Gerda. After a long moment, Gerda turned to me. “How do you cook a vegetarian Thanksgiving meal?”
Chapter Ten
You could only describe my mood as foul-or rather, fowl. After exchanging a few choice words with my Aunt Gerda, I stalked off to line the backseat of my beloved vintage Mustang convertible with numerous sheets of newspaper. After arranging a bowl of water on the floor and a plate of pancake scraps on the seat, I stalked back to the Hall to collect the unstrung turkey. To my disgust, it hopped right in, then settled down with all the air of a broody hen going to roost. It left me with a deep sense of foreboding.
I stalked-which was becoming my normal walk-back indoors to dish up the last of the bacon and pancakes to the lingering customers, and wished wholeheartedly that Adam Fairfield would run out of orange juice so we could all go home. And at last, he did pour the last glass, and I forked out the last bits of bacon and trudged with the greasy plate to the sink where Ida Graham and her husband Art had begun to soak the pans.
“Hey, Annike!” Sue Hinkel bounced in to collect a fresh trash bag for one of the big cans in the Hall. “How’re the preparations coming?”
I stared at her, trying to switch gears. “You mean for tomorrow?” I hadn’t finished coping with today, yet.
“Yeah, you remember? The Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest?”
Here I was, up to my elbows in bacon grease, with a gobbling turkey roosting in the back of my car, and Sheriff Owen Sarkisian chuckling every time he looked at me. I took a deep breath.
Sue held up her hands in a defensive gesture. “Hey, just trying to make conversation.”
“Why don’t you try helping?” I demanded, quite unfairly. “You can personally bake two dozen pies, even if it means having to cook them under your salon’s two hair dryers.”
Sue considered. “Might take awhile.”
“Then you better get started.”
“Take it easy, kiddo.” Ida patted my arm.
“I’ve been passing out tubs of pie filling as ordered,” added Sarah Jacobs.
“Not enough of them,” I sighed.
The doctor shrugged. “A lot of people got away before I could catch them.”
“And who can blame them?” I muttered.
“Soon as Art and I finish the pans, we’ll head home and phone all the bakers to see who got filling and who didn’t, then let you know. And we’ll call them again later, just to prod them along. And we’ll keep you posted on the tally.”
I kissed her cheek. “Bless you,” I said, and meant it. “Would you like a turkey? It’s the least I can do,” I added hopefully.
Ida laughed. “Good try, kiddo but Gerda would have a fit.”
I nodded, recognizing the futility of the effort. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try again, though. “Well, thanks for the calls, anyway. The list is at Aunt Gerda’s.” I looked around, knowing I couldn’t leave until the Grange Hall was as spotless as it had been before we arrived. It said so on the papers I’d signed. “I don’t think I can get away yet.”
Peggy looked up from where she was retrieving her purse. “I’ve got to run home,” she said. “My son’s coming over. But I can swing by Gerda’s and pick it up for you. It’ll take less than ten minutes, round trip. No, I’ve got a key, don’t worry. I-” She broke off, her hand flying to her mouth in dismay. She threw a horrified look at the sheriff, who leaned against the table, and ran out.
Sarkisian cocked an eyebrow at me. “She has a key to your aunt’s house?”
“Of course she does,” announced Gerda. She entered the kitchen bearing empty pitchers and dripping the remains of the orange juice on the floor. “Peggy feeds my cats whenever I have to go away.”
“I hope Peggy likes feeding turkeys, too,” I muttered. I could guess what was going on inside Sarkisian’s head. Peggy didn’t like Brody, she could have let herself into Gerda’s house-and locked it up again when she left, the way I found it. Whoever murdered Brody, I realized, had to have a key. Aunt Gerda’s doors won’t lock without one. Where, I wondered, was Peggy while Brody was being murdered?
“Hi?” A woman’s voice penetrated the chaos of the cleanup. “Am I too late for a breakfast?” Cindy Brody, looking gorgeous in a narrow wool skirt, silk blouse, boots and sweater, all in tones of rust and cream and gold, appeared in the doorway behind Gerda. She clutched a handkerchief in one hand. A heavy floral scent hung in a cloud around her.
“Here.” Nancy picked up a plate and forked on one of the few remaining pancakes. “Bacon? Sausage?”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “And another pancake.”
Where, I wondered, did she put it? Not on her hips or thighs, that was certain. Liposuction? Or one of those incredible metabolisms that devoured food molecules before they even entered the digestive system?
Cindy took the proffered plate. “Who gets the money?”
I took it, then snagged a cup of coffee and trailed after her to the table where she sat. I took the chair opposite. “It’s good to see you getting out,” I said, and won a smile from her.
Sarkisian followed and perched on the edge of the table. “Where are your out-of-town guests?” His tone held nothing more threatening than casual curiosity.
“Oh, they decided to go home last night. Left me to grieve in solitude.”
“So you came here?”
“I felt certain I’d find you here, Sheriff.” She offered a sad smile. “I want to know what you’ve found out. It’s not fair of you to keep so quiet. After all, the victim was my husband.”
“About to be ex-husband,” Sarkisian reminded her.
Cindy’s lower lip quavered, and her eyes actually filled with tears. “Can you blame me? I do have my pride. The way he chased after every woman he saw… I couldn’t put up with it any longer. When he started dating Lucy Fairfield…” She shuddered. “That really was too much.”
Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “You mean Adam Fairfield’s ex-wife?”
Cindy nodded, her mouth full. When she had swallowed, she said, “It was absolutely disgraceful. I’d have been insulted, him chasing after a woman with a twenty-year old daughter, except he didn’t seem to be able to help himself.”
Jealousy? I wondered. Or outraged humiliation? She wouldn’t be the first wife driven to murder an unfaithful husband.
“How did Adam Fairfield feel about your husband dating his ex-wife?” Sarkisian asked.
Simon, who walked past carrying an armload of folding chairs, overheard this last. “He was so jealous he couldn’t see straight.”
The sheriff turned to him. “What makes you say that?”
> Simon snorted. “Haven’t you seen all the work he’s done around his place? Everything Lucy ever wanted. Fairfield’s not doing it for himself, you know. And he went ballistic when he caught her having dinner with Brody.”
“She ought to be impressed by his effort, if nothing else,” Sarkisian said. “That must have cost a fortune. Did he take out a loan?”
Simon shook his head. “Nancy says he can’t stand going into debt. No,” he shot a glare toward the kitchen, “he’s stealing from her college fund.”
“You’re kidding!” I protested. “It means so much to him to have her at Stanford!”
“So maybe he’s just borrowing it.” He shrugged. “At least he’s working a lot of overtime. Nancy says he’s always at the Still. But what if she needs the money before he’s able to pay her back? She’d never make a fuss, but it’s worrying her. You can tell.”
“Why would he take the risk of upsetting his daughter?” Sarkisian asked.
Simon snorted. “I’ve never seen a man that jealous.”
“Haven’t you?” Ida Graham, also laden with folding chairs, came up behind him. “You weren’t even the teensiest bit jealous, then, when Brody started hanging around Nancy?”
Sarkisian’s eyes gleamed. “When was that?”
“Last week,” Ida said. “And you can stop glaring at me like that, Simon Lowell. Half the town heard you threatening Brody.”
Simon flushed. “Yeah, well.” A sudden embarrassed grin broke through. “She’s too smart to fall for a jerk like that. Oh, sorry, Ms. Brody. But it’s true, you know.”
Cindy sniffed. “He certainly made a fool of himself.”
“Annike, why are you just sitting there?” Sue Hinkel hurried past with an armload of decorations. “We have to clean this room, you know.”
I sighed and stood. For a moment I met Sarkisian’s amused glance, then turned away quickly as his grin broadened. With what dignity I could muster, I went to encourage everyone still in the room to help with reestablishing order to the Hall.
Cold Turkey Page 12
