Ida laughed at me. “Good try, kiddo, but we’ve got well over a hundred people signed up for it.”
“Can’t we make them bring their own?” I tried, but Ida merely laughed again and hung up on me.
Great. I no longer had much appetite for my dinner. I pulled out another batch of pies, shoved in the next, and felt stumped. Maybe I could call Sarkisian, get the key for the Grange Hall, and use their ovens to bake. And why hadn’t I thought of that earlier?
I called the sheriff’s department and reached some poor soul low on the hierarchy who’d gotten stuck with working the holiday. He promised to get my message to Sarkisian somehow, but didn’t sound too hopeful. The sheriff, we agreed, was probably out trying to unravel the tangled motives surrounding Cliff Brody’s death.
Well, I could only wish Sarkisian luck. There were far too many people whose lives Brody had disturbed, far too many who were only too relieved to see him dead. And the problem was that I liked all of them. They were part of my life. I returned to the table and the perplexing question of who else I could con into baking pies.
“Can’t we eat just one?” Bill asked, eyeing the grouping I’d set to cool on the sideboard. “What’s Thanksgiving dinner without pumpkin pie?”
“A lot easier,” I sighed.
Gerda directed a forgiving look at me. “Of course we can spare one. I wonder,” she added, “if my turkey would like some?”
“He’d splatter it all over my car!” I protested.
“Nonsense,” said Gerda. “That poor bird has a great deal to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I’m going to give it a slice.”
“You and that beastly bird-” I began, when it dawned on me there was another beastly bird I hadn’t heard anything from. I sprang up and hurried to my room, to be greeted by Vilhelm calling, “I’m a pest! Let me out!”
“Later,” I promised him, even though his demand was addressed to his favorite cola can as he threw it around the cage. Water and seed levels both fine, Vilhelm in good spirits. Relieved, I returned to the table to speed our guests on their way.
Bill was standing in front of the television, shoveling in pie, watching some poor player get smeared on the snow-dotted grass. The ball bounced free, but the pile of players remained where they lay. Bill grinned at me. “Great game.”
“Got another one for you. It’s called, ‘how many pies can you bake?’”
“At least a half dozen more,” Peggy assured me. “That’s on top of the dozen I already promised.”
“I’ll miss a chunk of the game if we leave now,” Bill complained.
“Look, you could stay here if we had another oven, but we don’t.” I plucked the empty plate from his hand.
Peggy shoved a washed casserole dish at him. “Come on, we’ve got to straighten up the living room. Sheriff Sarkisian said he might stop by in a little while.”
“If he does,” I called as they headed down the stairs, “get the Grange key from him.”
Two batches of pies later, Sarkisian had not appeared bearing the key, nor had Peggy called. And I still had way too many pies to get baked. Leaving Gerda to man our own ovens, I armed myself with several tubs and a canvas tote bag full of defrosted shells, staggered out into the dark and cold and rain, and made my cautious way down the stairs to the garage.
Telltale signs littered the cement floor to prove the damned bird had indeed hopped out, not only for a drink but to stroll around a little. But it had returned, and now slept happily in its chosen roost. There really didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. I dumped my burdens onto the passenger seat, raised the top on my car, and set off for Peggy’s.
Bill opened the door for me, all the while looking over his shoulder so he wouldn’t miss a moment of the game. “We need a couple more crusts,” Peggy called from the kitchen. She emerged into her comfortably cluttered front room wiping her hands on a towel. Specks of orange clung to her face, clashing with her hair. “And bad news on the key. The sheriff said he’d already taken it back to the office.”
I muttered a word my aunt would never approve of.
Peggy eyed me benignly. “If it will do you any good, he said he was on his way over to see Simon Lowell. He only left a few minutes ago.”
Something about her manner, the brightness of her eyes, alerted me. “What else?”
“Oh, not much.” She grinned. “But I remembered something I thought our sheriff might find interesting. And he did, I’m sure of it, though he acted like it wasn’t of any importance.”
Forebodings nudged at the edges of my mind. “What have you done?” I demanded.
She looked hurt. “Really, Annike…”
“Sorry, but really, what did you tell him?”
She hesitated between disapproval of my suspicions and delight in what she had accomplished. “Last week Cindy asked me-ever so casually, which is why I forgot about it until now-about options-to-buy on houses. I got the impression she had to come up with some cash real fast if she wanted to purchase that fancy place she’s living in. And she was worried about it.” Peggy beamed at me, waiting for the applause such a revelation deserved.
“She really asked you about that?” I was impressed-though still a touch suspicious.
“I guess she didn’t want to ask her husband.” Peggy still beamed. “And I’m the only other financial person she knows.”
I nodded. “I just bet Sarkisian found that interesting. Cindy’s been going on about not having any money-or any understanding of it.”
“And,” Peggy added, her delight bubbling over, “she’s the primary beneficiary of Brody’s will-and a very fat insurance policy.”
I grinned for the first time in a very long while. “Bless you, Peggy. He needs someone other than Gerda to think about.”
“That’s what I thought.” She tilted her head to one side. “You know, you haven’t asked Simon Lowell to bake any pies, have you?”
My grin broadened. “Probably the only oven in town not busy. I guess I better get over there.” I took off, for once not resenting having to chauffeur that dratted bird with me.
The rain had let up while I’d been indoors, and a few stars actually lit the night sky, though the trees dripped enough to keep my windshield wipers busy. I turned up the side road that lead to the real estate agent’s property, bounced onto the bridge, and the latches popped on my car’s top, sending the canvas back a couple of inches. I left it, the opening let in that terrific wet pine aroma. It also let in a few drips, but not enough to worry about.
As I neared the last winding turn, a soft glow lit the gravel. It made negotiating the next dozen or so potholes much easier. I found the source when I rounded the final bend and pulled into Lowell’s yard. A powerful spotlight, mounted on the barn, illuminated the entire front of the property. A truck stood near the barn, but what caught my attention was the jerky movement of two men near the fence. About ten feet away from them stood the sheriff’s Jeep, with the sheriff himself leaning with his back against its hood, his arms folded.
I pulled up near him and climbed out. He glanced at me, nodded, and returned to glaring at the figures who had now come together in an odd-looking dance. I stared at them for a long moment. “They’re fighting!”
“If you can call it that,” Sarkisian said.
“What…?” I began.
“Drunk,” the sheriff said succinctly. “Both of them.”
“Aren’t you going to stop it?”
He shrugged. “They’ll stop on their own, soon enough.”
I could see his point. Both men looked bruised and muddied, and their breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Simon had one arm slung over the fence to support himself while he took an ineffectual swing at Adam Fairfield. Adam had collapsed over a rail and now could muster only enough energy to wave a feeble arm in Simon’s direction.
Sarkisian gave a short nod. “That’s about enough,” he announced in a loud voice. “Either of you want to explain?”
“That damned hippie!”
Adam paused, struggling for breath. “Been preachin’ at Nancy again. Damn comm’nist philos’phy.” He took a staggering step toward Simon but collapsed in the sheriff’s arms. Sarkisian propped him against the fence.
“Apparently,” Simon said with the careful enunciation of one who knows his speech is slurred, “she packaged up their leftovers-”
“Every single one of ‘em,” nodded Adam.
“And took them down to the church.”
“I like turkey san’ches,” Adam mumbled. “An’ b’rittos and cass’roles. Wan’ a court order. Keep ‘im an’ ‘is sub-subvers-”
“Subversive ways,” Simon interjected with the superiority of one who could still pronounce it.
“S’right. Keep ‘im ‘way from m’girl.”
“Well, you can come down to the office in the morning,” Sarkisian told him. “An-Ms. McKinley?” He jerked his head toward Simon.
I nodded and took the real estate agent by the arm.
He responded by pulling it free and draping it around my shoulders. “I’d be delighted if you escorted me inside.” Leaning heavily on me, he started for his one-room cabin.
“Are you going to be all right?” I asked when I’d gotten him through the door. The place felt cozily warm. Not at all what I expected from the shabby exterior.
He looked around, then nodded solemnly. “Go straight to bed. My apologies for your seeing me like this.” He staggered across the small room and fell face first onto the narrow bed.
After a moment’s consideration, I dragged off his muddy boots, then reached for a flying geese patterned quilt. To my surprise, it proved to be a duvet cover encasing a thick down-filled comforter. Very warm-and very expensive. I pulled this over him, and he muttered something that might have been “thank you”.
I looked around and found the place unexpectedly neat. A pile of split logs and branches lay in a cast-iron hoop beside a massive stone hearth. Inside of this stood a wood burning stove, a modern necessity in such a fire trap as this. The blaze within had reduced to a low burn. I checked the flue, opened the door and banked the fire for the night. After readjusting the air flow, I stood back and looked around. Everything looked safe enough. I let myself out and walked back to where Owen Sarkisian tried to boost the unconscious Adam into the passenger seat of his Chevy.
The sheriff looked up as I approached. “Want to pull from the other side?”
I went around, and between us we managed to get the limp body into a semi-upright position on the seat. I handed Sarkisian one side of the seat belt. He took it solemnly and fastened the man in place. Adam spoiled it by tilting to one side and slowly collapsing.
Sarkisian sighed. “I’m going to drive him home. Would you mind following, then giving me a lift back here to the Jeep?” He stepped back and frowned at the man. “His daughter tells me he’s been constantly ready for a fight-and a drink-ever since his wife left him. But only since then?” He raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember him being like this before, if that’s what you’re asking. But…”
“Yes?” he prodded when I stopped.
I shook my head. “Brody hadn’t been hit, had he? Only stabbed?”
“Only?” The sheriff actually grinned.
“You know what I mean. No head bashing. No bruising. Just a quick stab. If Adam had been drinking and out for a fight and encountered Brody…” I shrugged. “When he’s drunk, Adam seems to think with his fists. If he wanted a weapon, he’d grab something heavy, not something sharp.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So he’d need a reason for killing Brody that didn’t involve him getting mad. Well.”
“And since Lucy left, it seems that anything and everything makes him mad.”
He slammed the door shut. “Let’s get him home so you can go back to baking pies.”
“Gee thanks,” I muttered, and slid through the mud back to my car and that damned sleeping turkey.
Chapter Twelve
I followed the truck up the Fairfields’ drive a scant six minutes later and pulled to a halt a few feet away from it. The rain had started up again, and I’d forgotten to close the latches on what I was beginning to think of as my flip-top. I jumped out, rammed them into place, then ran to the door to knock. Nancy must have heard the engines because she was already there, peering out and looking frightened.
“Has something happened?” she demanded as I drew near.
“He’s just drunk,” I assured her.
She tensed, and the worry and strain etched their lines on her face. “Where was he?”
“Simon’s,” I admitted. “He’s drunk, too. I made sure he was all right before we left.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “And Dad-neither one got hurt?”
“Oh, they’ll probably both have a few bruises in the morning, but nothing to worry about.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t see how I can ever get Dad to accept Simon when they keep fighting like this.”
“A grandchild?” I suggested, then could have bitten my tongue when I saw the arrested look in her eyes. It had been a flippant comment, not meant to be taken seriously. If she had, if I’d given her the idea… “That wouldn’t work,” I declared with considerable force. “He’d probably murder Simon-” I broke off. Damn, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I kept saying the wrong thing.
I hurried over to the truck in time to help Sarkisian boost Adam to the ground. The man was groaning, but not yet awake. We sandwiched him between us, draping one of his arms over each of our shoulders, and half walked, half carried him to the house. Nancy opened the door wide and stepped aside, her expression a mingling of resignation and dismay. After a brief discussion, we dumped him on the sofa and left Nancy covering him with blankets.
“That’s a hell of an example to set for a kid like her,” the sheriff said as we headed for my car. He opened the passenger door, then pulled back. “What the…”
A rustling of feathers sounded from the backseat, but I don’t think the turkey actually woke up. “It won’t get out,” I explained as I scrambled inside, out of the rain.
“Pick it up and heave it,” the sheriff suggested.
I made an expansive gesture toward it. “Be my guest. You’re more than welcome to try.”
He regarded it speculatively, then reached out. The moment his hands closed around the plump body, all hell broke loose. Sarkisian jerked back, releasing the bird. “It bit me!”
“Join the club,” I sighed, and started the engine.
“Damned bird.” The sheriff lowered himself into the other bucket seat.
“At the rate it’s going, that’s going to be its official name.”
He shook his head. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy told me you’d decided to hold a Name-the-Turkey contest.”
“She decided,” I stuck in quickly, not wanting to carry any of the blame for that rotten idea. I put the car in gear and backed in a sweeping curve.
Owen Sarkisian remained quiet while we negotiated the newly paved driveway, all the while sucking the beak-inflicted wound on his wrist. As we turned onto the road, he spoke at last. “Lowell always seems to have sufficient money, doesn’t he?”
“Does he? It doesn’t look like he spends much,” I pointed out. I chose to ignore the quality of that down comforter.
“Mmmm. He’s not extravagant, but have you looked at his barn?”
“No,” I admitted. “Why?”
“He’s been making renovations.”
“Him, too?”
“Isn’t there a species of bird where the male fixes up the nest in the hope of attracting a female?”
I slowed the car and shot him a quick glance.
“From what I’ve been able to tell,” he went on, “Lowell makes no attempt to list or sell houses through his real estate agency. It’s as if the place is a cover for the way he really makes money.”
“But look at him!” I objected. “That’s not someone who values money, not like…” I broke off.
“Like Cindy Brody?” Sarkisian asked. “Don’t worry, you never mentioned her name. I did hear a rumor today about Lowell’s dealing drugs.”
I negotiated a winding turn in silence. “There are always rumors flying around a small town. Simon hasn’t lived here long, and everyone calls him a hippie. Naturally there’d be rumors about drugs.”
“So you’ve heard them, too?”
“Rumors aren’t proof. Besides, have you ever known a drug dealer who sneers at money?” I countered.
“Depends on why he deals, I suppose,” came the prompt answer. “He might believe in the sacredness of the mushroom, or the enlightening power of LSD or Ecstasy.”
“Or the healing power of pot?”
He sighed. “Don’t go there, that’s one hell of a medical and legal tangle.”
I took pity on him and dropped the subject, pleased by his response. It showed he had an open mind, a bit of a luxury for a career law enforcement officer. Instead, I said, “Look at that shack he lives in. You’d think he’d put in insulation if he had any spare cash lying around. And that van of his is about forty years old and is always needing repair.”
“What year is this car?” he asked with far too much innocence.
I shook my head. “Freya is a classic.” And naturally, right on cue, we hit a pothole and those damned latches popped.
“So is that hippie van of Lowell’s,” pointed out Sarkisian, as I caught the canvas top and gripped it. He sat in silence, considering, as we bounced over the bridge. “You suppose drugs were the dirty secret Brody was about to expose about him?”
“A public unveiling, Doris Quinn said, or something like that,” I mused. “Calling him a hypocrite.” I shook my head. “I have no idea.” With that we reached Simon’s, and I dropped Sarkisian at his Jeep and headed for home and more pie baking. The one thing neither of us had mentioned was the strength of the hatred between Brody and Simon Lowell, and the fact that it could well have flared into murder.
Cold Turkey Page 14
