“Excuse me?” Barbara Hatter appeared in the doorway, and Peggy moved aside to let her in. She looked every bit as mousy as she had at the breakfast, with those large, sad brown eyes that tore at my heart. “Oh, I didn’t know you were so crowded.” She started to back out.
“Barbara!” Lucy Fairfield cried. “You look like you’ve gone through the wringer since I saw you last. What’s wrong?”
So much sympathy, so much warmth, accompanied those words, that tears sprang to the mousy little woman’s eyes. “Oh, Lucy, I’ve missed you!” she cried, and embraced the other woman. Lucy had that effect on people. “I-I just came in to see if I could rent something soothing for tonight. Dave’s working, and the house gets so lonely.”
Soothing, not companionable, she’d said. I couldn’t help but think of Dave’s distress.
“Come over here, sit down and tell me all about it.” Lucy wrapped an arm about her shoulders and led her to the tiny table with its two chairs where Aunt Gerda ate her lunch and served tea to friends. “Now,” Lucy went on as she pressed Barbara Hatter into one of the seats. “I hear Dave’s been upset over something. Anything I can do to help?”
“No.” The tears slipped down Barbara’s cheeks. “There’s nothing anyone can do. That horrible man-” She broke off.
“Surely not Dave!” Lucy exclaimed, but softly, so as not to attract the attention of the other customers.
Gerda inched closer, and so did Peggy and I. None of us are gossips-at least, not the unkind variety. We honestly cared. If someone were in trouble, the SCOURGEs put their heads together and came up with some way to make life a little better. Except in my case, I remembered, reflecting on the weekend they’d let me in for.
“No.” Barbara dragged out an already damp-looking handkerchief and applied it to her eyes and nose. “That Brody.” She spoke the name with loathing.
“I know,” Lucy agreed as if she hadn’t been dating the man. Or maybe because she had. “What happened?”
“Dave…” Barbara swallowed, then forged ahead. “Dave invested all our savings in some scheme Brody hatched. We lost everything. Everything! All our savings, our retirement money, our emergency fund. All gone. And then-” She broke off.
“What happened, then?” Lucy’s voice was so gentle, so soothing, it could caress a confession out of a hardened criminal.
“We heard Brody came out of it unscathed. He didn’t loose a dime of his own! Not one single, solitary penny, that cockroach!” And for Barbara, that was pretty harsh language.
“When did you hear that?” I asked gently. “On Tuesday?”
Barbara stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Honestly, Annike, I’ve been sick about it. I thought Dave…” She shook her head. “He just exploded, then all that anger just melted away, and he was so depressed! I was afraid-” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was afraid he was going to hurt himself.”
Kill himself, she meant. I knelt in front of her, taking her hands. “What happened?”
She sniffed. “It-it was a couple of hours before he had to go to work when he got that call. From-from a friend in Meritville who also lost money in the scheme, though not as much as we did. Dave exploded, then-then he just walked out of the house and got into the truck and drove off, and I didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do. It was only about four o’clock. So I called the Still, and Carrie-she’s the new receptionist,” she added for my benefit, “-she promised to keep an eye out for Dave, then I just waited…”
Waited for the sheriff, or a deputy, or the highway patrol to bring her word of an “accident,” I guessed. God, that must have been an awful evening for her.
“Then Carrie called at last. Dave was a little late, but he hadn’t been drinking or anything-he never does, but I was afraid… But he was all right except for being depressed. Then he heard Brody had been killed, only it didn’t cheer him up, like I thought it would. If anything, he only got more depressed.”
I heard a slow intake of breath behind me and didn’t have to look to know the sheriff had joined us. I rose, but he touched my arm, shook his head, and strolled out the door. I followed.
“So, what are you going to do about the dinner sign-ups?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Apparently he didn’t want to discuss that unsettling bit of information about Dave Hatter, who now apparently had both the motive and the time to kill Brody. I followed Sarkisian’s lead. “Get on the phone, I suppose. It would have been better to have a sign hung on the bulletin board at the post office where everyone goes almost every day.”
“But not over a holiday weekend,” he pointed out, quite unnecessarily. “You look like the best thing you could do would be to go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ve got work to do, first. I’ll sign you up for a casserole, shall I?”
“Do you want half the town down with food poisoning? I’ll bring cans of olives or cranberry sauce.”
I actually smiled. “I’ll hold you to that. And while I’m waiting for my aunt,” I added, the light of battle filling me once more, “I’ll sign up everyone in her store.”
He nodded. “That ought to clear them out fast. Goodnight.” He waved and headed across the street toward the corner where he had left his Jeep.
Next to, I remembered with a sinking sensation, my own car with its resident turkey.
Tonight, before I went to bed, I swore that damned bird would be roosting-or for preference roasting-elsewhere.
Chapter Fourteen
That damned bird stayed right where it wanted to stay. I gave up trying to move it after receiving a few flesh wounds and left it where it sat, a smug expression on its beak, for the night. I admit it. I was just too tired for the fight. Beaten by a bird. Vilhelm, if he knew, would never let me hear the end of it.
It didn’t seem possible, but when I got upstairs and glanced at the chiming clock on the mantel, it claimed it was still a few minutes shy of seven p.m. I would have guessed midnight, at the least. I checked on my poor parakeet and gave him a new seed treat, which renewed his evening cheep session. I sat on the edge of my bed watching him attack his mirror and tell it, among other things, that it was a dirty bird and needed a bath. I’d have to let him out of his cage for a good flap around the room first thing in the morning. At the moment, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, so I let myself out into the hall, caught two cats trying to let themselves in to visit him, and closed the door. Still armed with Dagmar and Furface, his teeth settled companionably in my wrist, I headed for the kitchen phone.
Peggy, showing amazing insight, either had not returned home yet or was avoiding all calls. She probably had one of those ID things on her phone that let you know either the name or number of the person trying to reach you. I wondered how many of those menaces lurked in Upper River Gulch, and if Gerda’s ID would be a warning not to touch the phone and to unplug the answering machine. I suspected I was getting a lot of that, lately.
But my second call reached Ida Graham. “What a hoot!” she exclaimed as soon as I’d said hello. “Who’d have thought a good old fashioned pie fight could be such fun! Haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” And she’d even stuck around to help clean up the mess. I was impressed. But then, she’s on the SCOURGE elite squad. That has to explain a lot. “So, watcha need?” she went on.
“A phone tree.” I told her about Cindy’s idea of organizing a potluck. “I foresee no main dishes, only a hundred deserts. And with my luck, they’d all be pumpkin pies.”
“Ouch.” Silence stretched while she apparently considered the horrors in store for Sunday evening. “Right. I’ll get calling. We’ve already got a tree set up. We’ll assign things. That’s safer than giving people a choice. And we can sign others up at the park clean-up, remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” I wasn’t likely to forget the clean-up-if it happened, which seemed a bit iffy because of the weather. How did the town get the decorations hung for the assortment of winter hol
idays if the clean-up event wasn’t held? I wondered if it had ever happened before, or if I’d go down in town history as the first to create this disaster. “At least we’ve got bait to entice the work crew,” I added.
“I don’t come out for minnows or flies,” Ida informed me.
“How about a couple bottles of experimental cranberry orange liqueur?”
“You mean you’ve actually gotten them out of old Cartwright? I am impressed.”
I hesitated. “When you’re making those calls, why don’t you ask for cookies and punch and coffee, as well.” I hung up quickly, grinning at Ida’s groan.
That one call made me feel a lot better. I had no doubts about her efficiency. I turned to tomorrow’s page in Peggy’s book of lists and checked my progress. I’d asked for rakes and trash bags, but I’d forgotten about pruning shears, not to mention hammers and nails for fence repairs. I made a mental review of Gerda’s tool shed, but knowing the toughness and determination of the shrubs around the park, we’d need gas-powered chain saws, not the hand-operated pruners my aunt felt safer using. My best bet would be to find a handyman.
“You off the phone?” Gerda called from the living room. She sat on the bench of her loom but plied the pair of carders on the teased hanks of turquoise wool, blending three different shades into a beautiful mix. She pulled off the first bat and rolled it deftly in her hands into a log-shaped rolag. Clumsy and Mischief curled about her feet, while Furface watched from the privileged vantage point of Gerda’s recliner.
“Want some tea?” I asked.
She considered, then nodded. “I’m too tired for dinner.”
“Well, you’re going to get some, anyway. Omelet okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I pulled the carton of egg substitute from the refrigerator and set to work chopping mushrooms, onions, garlic and herbs. We still had the cinnamon oatmeal bread from breakfast, so I made thick slices, buttered them and shoved them into the oven to broil.
The aromas made me realize how hungry I was. I hadn’t had so much as a single bite of pie that day. Which seemed odd, considering I’d had a couple of facefulls.
Gerda followed her nose and appeared in the kitchen door. Absently she began to pull out plates and silverware. “Poor Dave Hatter. And poor Barbara. How awful it would be for her if Dave killed Brody. And the worst of it is, I don’t think anyone would blame him if he had.”
“Sarkisian would. And so would a jury. None of them lost their life savings because of that jerk.”
“No,” agreed Gerda. “It all seems so unjust. The only bright side is that I don’t think I’m chief suspect anymore.”
I served our meal, ate mine too fast, at least according to Gerda, delivered my plate to the sink, and reached for my coat.
“Where are you going?” she demanded as I started for the door.
“Just down to Simon’s. He’s my best bet for heavy-duty tools.”
“Can’t you phone him?”
“Don’t ever mention the word ‘phone’ to me again.”
Gerda nodded her understanding. Right now, those hideous instruments loomed over me like ten-ton boulders. I couldn’t imagine what had made me even consider getting a cellular one the other day. They were electronic leashes. You couldn’t escape people.
But I had another reason for getting out of the house right now. Gerda wanted to talk about the murder and the suspects, and I didn’t. I wanted a peaceful drive in my car, all alone. And, I realized as I entered the garage, I had a real chance of it. The turkey was actually out of Freya, getting a drink! If I could get the top up in time…
I couldn’t. It saw me coming and with a mad flapping of wings launched itself into the backseat again. It glared at me as I resignedly raised the top and climbed into the driver’s seat, then nestled down to sleep as the engine roared into life.
A steady drip beat a tattoo on my canvas roof as I pulled out of the garage, and by the time I’d backed around and headed down the drive toward the gate, the rain came down in torrents. That just might make my errand pointless, a silver lining to those charcoal clouds if I’d ever seen one. No one could blame me if the rain stopped us from tending to the park. Everyone would just have to do it some other weekend-preferably when I was out of town.
I turned down the lane toward Simon Lowell’s, then had to slow to a crawl. The rain came down so hard I couldn’t see, in spite of my wipers beating away at top speed. Even the turkey made a few discontented noises. If it gave that damned bird a distaste for my car, this could prove a winning downpour all around.
Except for the dinner. I braked-but gently, since I didn’t want to go into a skid. If this rain kept up-and I knew from long experience that it could-we’d need some huge pavilion tents for the dinner. We’d used them in the past, but not for at least eight years. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I knew, as a certainty, Cindy wouldn’t have bothered reserving any to be on the safe side. Cindy hadn’t bothered doing anything-except getting the wrong kind of bird for the raffle.
There must be some way to get tents, even at this late date. Maybe Simon would have some ideas. After all, he was, at least nominally, a real estate agent.
I turned onto his drive and bumped and sloshed my way through the deep mud-filled ruts. No glow showed through the trees, and my heart sank. I might have come out-and put poor Freya through this obstacle course-for nothing. But then maybe he didn’t illuminate his yard every night. Maybe that had been for Adam Fairfield’s and Sheriff Sarkisian’s sakes.
I rounded the last bend and with relief saw lights in his cabin windows, bright through the cracks in his curtains. Pale gray smoke gushed from his chimney as if he had just lit a blaze. I pulled up as close to his door as I could manage, regretted not having an umbrella, then scrambled out and dashed for the shelter of his meager front porch.
I hammered on the door as hard as I could. He must have heard my car approach-Freya’s hard to miss. Still, it was a full minute before I heard his footsteps crossing the single room. He peered out, and I, unmannerly in the extreme, pushed my way inside. “Sorry. It’s horrible out there.”
He had perforce stepped back to allow my rude entry, and he eyed me with considerable surprise. “What’s up?”
“I need advice. And possibly a favor.”
The glass door of the wood burning stove stood open, and a pile of small sticks and medium-sized branches lay on the stones beside it. I started toward the fire, holding out my hands. It actually wasn’t that cold, but I’d take any hope of getting a bit drier.
Simon shot after me, placing himself in an awkward position between me and the fire. Very awkward, I realized. Two letters, separated from their envelopes, lay on the floor, not completely hidden by his muddy boots.
“Burning letters?” I asked, then realized that could have been a very dumb thing to say. There had been a murder, after all. If Simon had killed Brody, and I saw him disposing of evidence…
His shoulders slumped. “God, I should have known I’d get caught.”
That didn’t sound too threatening, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I took a casual step backward.
He ran both hands through his dark hair, loosening it from the ponytail that hung down his back. “Look, you’re not going to believe me, but honestly, I only received these when I got home half an hour ago.”
Emboldened, I leaned forward to take a closer look. “That’s Clifford Brody’s return address,” I pointed out.
He grimaced. “Yeah. Damn, I’d make a rotten plotter, wouldn’t I? First time I try something stealthy, I get caught.” He flung himself down in the room’s only chair, then sprang up again and gestured me toward it. He crossed his ankles and sank with surprising grace onto the cabin’s cement floor.
“You’re burning letters from Brody?” I remained standing for a moment, but his posture seemed more resigned than threatening, so I settled onto the cushions.
“No point in denying it, since you caught me. It was only some stupid personal matter between us.
But I suppose I can’t expect you to keep this from the sheriff, not when your aunt is also a suspect.” He reached over, picked up the sheets, refolded them, and stuffed them back into their envelopes.
He could have tossed them into the blaze-in fact, I expected him to. Then it would have been his word against mine, and even if the sheriff believed me-a possibility of which I could by no means be certain-without evidence it would never stand up in court. As Simon had just pointed out, my aunt was also a suspect. Instead, he rose and carried them to his desk where he pulled out a manila envelope. He dropped in the letters, sealed it, scrawled something across the front, then handed it to me.
“You might as well give them to the sheriff. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” He’d written “To Sarkisian, with love, Lowell”.
“But…” I began.
He shrugged. “No harm in your knowing, I suppose. Brody was trying to blackmail me into helping him buy up prime real estate at a cheap price, and without any agent commissions being paid, in exchange for not divulging a secret about me. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep that secret-er-secret.”
“Go right ahead.” Blackmail? Since he’d told me so much, yet sealed up the letters, I wondered if they contained that secret. Probably. I felt the temptation to steam open the envelope but knew I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want anyone prying into my secrets-not that I’d managed to collect any worth blackmailing me for. Obviously other people led more interesting lives than I did.
He threw the handful of branches onto the fire and closed its door, then adjusted the air flow before turning back to me. “So,” he declared with that forced brightness people adopt to cover an embarrassing pause, “you said you needed advice? Want to buy some property?”
“On a night like this? No, I need to know where I can get those big pavilion tents for the park dinner.”
Cold Turkey Page 17
