Cold Turkey

Chapter Eight

My clock radio went off with a violent fit of static, which sent poor Vilhelm into a screaming fit. Thanksgiving morning. Too soon, my mind whimpered. Too soon. I tried to bury my head under the pillow. That’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It was stifling, and my neck bent at the wrong angle. With a sigh, I threw the pillow aside and sat up with a cavernous yawn.

My mind jumbled with lists and tasks-completed, coming up today, and those still in the not-distant-enough future. I’d set the alarm for five-thirty, which didn’t leave me much time to spare-or much sleep, for that matter. We hadn’t gotten to bed until at least one a.m. I couldn’t be sure of the exact time, by then, my eyes were too bleary to see a clock. Suppressing a groan, I climbed out from under my warm comforter into the chill of the room, pulled the cover off the parakeet’s cage, and found him glaring at me with his beady eyes.

“I’m a pest,” he yelled at me.

“I think the entire SCOURGE elite have replaced you, there,” I muttered and turned to find my jeans.

Pies, I still needed to find people to bake pies. And how could I talk them into doing that when I already had them scrambling eggs or flipping pancakes? But I’d have most of the rest of the town coming to eat, and if I could escape the kitchen, I could corner the unenlisted before they left and hand out tubs of pumpkin. Feeling much better, I exited my room to the tinny cries of “Yummy bird, here kitty, kitty.”

I found Aunt Gerda, already dressed for the day in a denim skirt and a sweater she’d knitted back when I was in high school, slumped over a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Siamese Olaf overflowed her lap, while calico Birgit and orange Mischief rubbed against her ankles, and the tiger-striped manx Hefty sprawled on her feet. The aroma of peppermint filled the room.

“That’s not going to do it, this morning,” I warned her. I scooped up Dagmar, who was doing her best to trip me, and cradled the fluffy ball of gray and white fur and claws in one arm. “Nothing like good old caffeine to get you going.”

Aunt Gerda yawned. I’ll swear she didn’t even notice when black Clumsy leapt onto the table and hunkered down beside the teapot. “Can’t drink caffeine. Not even decaf.”

Which only went to show how worn-out the poor dear was. She always lectured me, in that healthier-than-thou manner of hers, that caffeine could kill you. Apparently, in her case, that might be the literal truth. I joined her in her herbal brew.

I’d barely sat down, settled Dagmar in my lap, and taken my first sip, when Gerda dragged herself to her feet, scattering cats in all directions. “We’d better get going.” She drained her own mug. “Bring your tea with you, dear. We’ve got the key, remember?”

We did, thanks entirely to a nine p.m. phone call from Owen Sarkisian. He surprised me even more by meeting us at the school’s kitchen, for which he’d also obtained the keys. He would have endeared himself to me forever if he’d stuck around and helped, but he claimed pressing business to do with the murder-which I took the opportunity to scoff at loudly-to leave us to it. Aunt Gerda and I had spent the next hour and more lugging pancake mix, sausage, bacon, eggs and oranges into the hall’s kitchen. But we’d done it, and all the breakfast makings, even that damned giant coffeepot, awaited us there.

“I wish the turkey company had called back,” Gerda fretted as we climbed into Freya for the trip to the Grange.

That was beginning to sound like a broken record from both of us. I’d left several frantic messages for the company supplying the smoked breast for the raffle, but so far hadn’t received any answers.

“At least you made up a gift certificate,” I said. She had-at about midnight. Not exactly a professional job, since she didn’t have any certificate-making software for her computer. But we’d cobbled one together, then had to print it out on plain paper, with Gerda protesting that I should have warned her so she could have sent me out to buy something embossed and fancy.

Peggy, bless her brightly colored socks, sat in her old Pontiac in the Grange lot. She waved gaily to us, as if getting up before dawn on a holiday morning was her idea of a great time. As a group, we ran through the light drizzle, Gerda unlocked the door, and we piled inside. I headed straight for the heater, and in a few minutes warm air began to mingle with the icy chill. We might even be able to shed our coats and wooly hats before it was time to go home again.

Shoving up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, I strode into the kitchen. It was a large room, as kitchens go, with three stoves and ovens, two refrigerators, and two sinks. Cupboards and countertops lined the walls, with two preparation tables evenly spaced in the center of the floor. You could just walk between them, if you weren’t too large. What it would be like with a whole crew working in here defied my imagination. Of course, with my luck, I wouldn’t have the chance to find out.

Not much to my surprise, no good fairies or brownies or whatever had come during the night to magically squeeze oranges or mix batter. Which at the moment left it up to me, since Gerda and Peggy were arguing over whether or not to try to find the Grange’s harvest decorations.

The front door opened, and feet shuffled in the hall. “Damn, it’s cold in here. Why didn’t someone get here early to turn on the heat?” Art Graham demanded.

“You could have volunteered,” I shouted back.

“How’d I know someone hadn’t already?” came his prompt reply. I could hear the grin in his voice.

“Well,” put in his wife Ida, “we’re the decorating committee. I suppose heat might come under that category.”

“Nope. Decorating’s a luxury,” Art told her. “Heat’s an essential.”

“Do you know where everything’s stored?” Peggy asked, and any hope I had of getting help vanished as all four of them started opening cupboards and closets and exclaiming for the others to come and see the treasures-none of which pertained to Thanksgiving-they unearthed.

I, too, opened cupboards in a search for mixing bowls and utensils. “Batter up,” I muttered, and dumped half a bag of mix into a stainless steel container with a handle.

“Need help?” came a gentle, tired voice from the door.

I looked up to see Nancy Fairfield leaning against the jamb, looking fragile and quite pretty in a corduroy skirt and bulky sweater-apparently her favorite outfit. She had dragged back her fair hair and fastened it behind her neck, and wore only lipstick in a shade of dusty pink that set off the blue of her eyes.

“Up to it?” I asked. I might be desperate for assistance, but I didn’t want to be responsible for her suffering a relapse.

“If I can sit down,” she admitted with a wry face for her enfeebled condition.

I fetched a chair, and with relief saw Sue Hinkel had arrived and commandeered Art, and they now carried the first of the tables-the long, foldable variety that seats at least ten-from their storage place leaning against a wall.

“You don’t know Simon Lowell, do you?” she asked as I set her up at the stove to watch a pan of bacon and another of sausages.

“Met him yesterday.” I flicked a few drops of water onto the skillet, but they sat there instead of dancing away. Not hot enough, yet.

“Isn’t he great? So intense.”

So hairy, I thought, but I managed to keep from saying that aloud.

“I’ve never met anyone like him, before,” she added.

“He’s one of a kind,” I agreed with perfect honesty.

“He makes politics come alive for me. I mean, I never really thought about the government’s role in society until I met him. And I go to Stanford!”

“Should have gone to Berkeley.” I tested the skillet, and this time the drops of water sizzled away in a satisfactory manner. I poured the first batch of pancakes. “Is he coming to help today?” I added, forever hopeful.

She turned vague. “He said he had some business he had to take care of.”

“On Thanksgiving morning?” I demanded, but she was off and running on Simon’s brilliance in general, and his concern for the downtrodden masses in particular. But since nothing she said implied this earnest young Communist held accountants-specifically Clifford Brody-in abhorrence, I allowed my thoughts to return to making sure I’d done everything necessary to get things running smoothly today. Everything except make sure that damned turkey breast showed up in time for the raffle, I concluded at last.

By seven a.m., we were up to our elbows in pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon, and the place smelled like heaven for the hungry and had my mouth watering. At least enough people had arrived to help, so I no longer despaired of the event getting off the ground. Lesser members of the SCOURGEs now set up and positioned the tables, while others stacked plates and silverware at one end of the serving counter. Things were beginning to hum smoothly, except for the minor squabbles over who forgot to bring the scissors and thumb tacks for some of the decorations.

The first of our cooked offerings now rested beneath a heat lamp-but not for long. Art Graham bore down on them with a gleam in his eyes. Well, we all had to eat before the customers arrived, so why not? I let him serve himself, then dragged off my coat and tossed it in a corner. The kitchen was the one place you could count on getting warm.

“I need someone to squeeze oranges,” I shouted, and as usual, no one came running to volunteer. Muttering under my breath, I went in search of a knife.

“Don’t worry, Simon’s bound to get here soon.” Nancy forked a sizzled piece of bacon onto the draining plate lined with paper towels. “He never shirks any task. I just can’t understand why Dad doesn’t like him.”

I was beginning to get an idea why, if she talked about him like this all the time. I was getting pretty sick of hearing how dedicated and noble was this latter-day hippie, myself. “How’re your studies going?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject. “You’re a senior, now, aren’t you?”

“I may change my major,” she said. “I can’t believe how politically naïve I am.”

Or naïve in general, I reflected.

“Someone need an orange squeezer?” Adam Fairfield strode into the kitchen, sober and cheerful. “You didn’t wait for me, Nancy.”

The girl froze. “I didn’t think you’d want to get up so early.”

“And not help?” He ruffled her smooth hair in the way of fathers everywhere, with the universal obliviousness to how much their offspring hated it. He took over with the knife and soon had orange halves piling in a growing mound. And as if that weren’t enough, his presence had one other benefit. Nancy fell silent about her forbidden love.

I warmed toward Adam. When I’d seen him yesterday, he’d still been recovering from too much to drink. Today he seemed calm, in control, not the least angry. More determined, that was it. Maybe he’d spoken to his ex-wife Lucy. Something had certainly had a positive effect on him.

“Sorry I’m late.” Sarah Jacobs hurried in. “Emergency. Someone just got a baby instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.” She looked us over and nodded. “You look the most exhausted,” she told me. “Let me take the pancakes for awhile. You go check out front.”

With relief, I left her to it. I grabbed a plate, piled on a pancake, some scrambled eggs, and a couple of slices of bacon, and went to see what disasters awaited me in the hall.

To my surprise, I found Simon Lowell, once again-or still-in his tattered overalls and plaid flannel shirt, standing on a table as he helped Art Graham erect the platform from where the raffle drawing would be centered. As I watched, Simon pulled a ninepenny nail from his pocket and hammered it through one two-by-four into another. Good with a hammer, I noted, and couldn’t help but wonder if he were equally good with a knife or other tools, such as, oh, just for instance, a letter opener. He looked strong…

I was getting carried away. Had it been Adam Fairfield found dead, I might have had reason to suspect Simon. But he had nothing against Brody that I’d heard of. Yet.

The door opened, and Sheriff Sarkisian sauntered in, eyeing our activity with a better-you-than-me expression. Gerda stopped in mid-pin of a supposedly festive orange garland, winning a yelp of protest from Peggy. My aunt lowered her glasses and peered over their top at the sheriff. “Come to harangue your chief suspect on a holiday?” she demanded.

He held up both hands as if to ward off further accusations. “Just stopped in for breakfast, if you’ll sell me a ticket.”

“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 that 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?