Cold 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.

I decided, as my alarm wrenched me from sleep the next morning, that getting up before dawn was a habit I’d be delighted to break. I took the time to scramble eggs-after all, I was stuck in the kitchen anyway, shoving pies in and out of the oven. I even went so far as to chop fresh herbs from the pots Aunt Gerda kept in the large glass garden window that overlooked the back deck and pine trees beyond. The mushrooms, fortunately, came in a cardboard carton from the grocery store. I’d never cook one she’d picked herself.

Thanks to the bread making machine we’d set with a timer before going to bed, a heavenly aroma already filled the kitchen when I’d staggered in. By the time the eggs had set and I tipped them out of the pan, the machine was just beeping its readiness. I turned out the fragrant cinnamon oatmeal loaf and tore off a chunk. After all, using a knife before it was cool would have meant crushing it. Much better-and faster-this way.

Gerda drifted in, just in time to appropriate the plate I’d fixed for myself. She sank into a chair at the table, garbed in a fluffy purple bathrobe, sheepskin slippers and a bleary-eyed expression. Hefty inserted his plump tailless body into her lap, and Siamese Olaf pawed at her leg, trying to scramble up. She hoisted him onto a space I would have sworn was incapable of holding so many furballs, but Hefty shifted to make room, and the two settled down to an amicable purr.

I filled another plate and soon had Birgit leaping gracefully onto my lap. Purring wasn’t in her plan, though. She reached out a claw and expertly snagged a piece of egg that contained some diced ham. When I tried to stop her grabbing another, she snarled at me. It was going to be war, it seemed. And the way I felt this morning, I had few doubts that Birgit would come out on top.

Around eleven-thirty I dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt and left Gerda in charge of the baking. If I wanted to make sure we had sufficient pies to start the contest, I’d have to collect them and take them to the park myself. After stacking the first load we’d cooked yesterday into a large cardboard box, I made my careful way down the outside stairs. I let myself into the garage, and there was that damned bird, tucked cozily in its nest in Freya’s backseat. It had kicked the newspaper into a shredded heap, making itself more comfortable. It had also-obviously and messily-made a considerable foray around the garage at some point since I’d seen it last, but I’d leave the cleaning up for Gerda. It was bad enough I had to house and chauffeur the damned thing. I wasn’t going to mop up after it, too.

The sky actually looked like it might clear for a little. At least we wouldn’t have to worry about rain-yet. But the pie eating contest wasn’t scheduled until one o’clock, which gave the weather a good hour and a half to gather its resources for a torrential downpour that would cancel the event. I liked to think positive.

I skipped Peggy’s house-I could count on her to show up on time-and went to the next neighbor’s. By my fifth stop, I’d filled what little space remained in the car. Relieved-who’d have known Upper River Gulch denizens could be so reliable?-I headed for the park.

To my surprise, a car already stood at the curb. Sue Hinkel opened the door as I pulled up behind her. “What took you so long?” she called, and waved toward the backseat of her Honda sedan. “Two dozen pies, as ordered.”

“Bless you,” I said, and meant it.

Art Graham emerged from his store, which stood diagonally across the street, his arms loaded down with the red and white checkered plastic tablecloths the town used for the seven picnic tables scattered around what we lovingly called our park. Actually, the expanse of grass, trees and shrubs wasn’t much bigger than a normal square lot-which is what it was. A corner lot located at the intersection of our two major cross streets. Hey, we’re a small town. We take what we can get.

“Gerda opening her store today?” Art asked as he reached us. “We want to unwind with a movie tonight.”

“Just let her know,” I assured him.

We didn’t bother trying to move the tables. We just spread out the cloths, then stacked the pies down the center of each. Art and Ida Graham would bring over paper plates for the contestants, and knives to cut the pies into chunks. We all agreed forks probably wouldn’t be necessary, but they’d bring a few of those, as well, just in case someone proved fastidious.

Peggy pulled up in her dilapidated old Pontiac, but it wasn’t a box of pies she unloaded from the passenger seat. She dragged out a plastic bag, set it on the ground and produced a bright orange T-shirt from the top. She held it up. In large black letters it proclaimed “Pumpkin Pie Chef.”

“For the bakers,” she called. She stuffed it back into the sack and carried the load over, then handed one to each of us. She already wore hers, over her thick hand-knitted sweater.

Well, why not? I reflected. Might as well get into the spirit of the thing. I dragged on mine-she’d gotten all extra larges, so those of more petite proportions, such as herself, could wear them over sweaters or coats. Art displayed his proudly, beaming. It fit a bit tightly, but he didn’t care. Sue-naturally-looked terrific in hers. I began to feel a little more cheerful. Nothing like group camaraderie to lighten the heart.

“How’s the turkey?” Peggy asked, thereby shattering my mood.

“See for yourself.” I stalked off to her car to collect the pies I could see in the back. I heard her making cooing noises behind me and turned to see her tapping on the window. The turkey glared at her balefully.

“Oh, isn’t she sweet?” Peggy sighed with an incredible lack of insight. “I’ve already come up with a couple of names for the contest.”

“What contest?” demanded Sue, but fortunately I didn’t have to hear the answer, as several more cars pulled up, and people began calling greetings to each other. I left the Name-the-Turkey contest to Peggy.

I had to give the SCOURGEs credit, they showed up. No matter how ridiculous the event perpetrated by their elite squad, the rank and file members turned out in force to support them. I don’t know if that constituted stupidity on a massive scale, or if they’d decided it was easier to humor the lunatic fringe. At any rate, people appeared bearing pies, Peggy handed out shirts, and I began to feel like it might not be a major disaster after all.

Somewhere in all the chaos Gerda had arrived. She seemed to have put herself in charge of covering each newly delivered pie with a napkin-an excellent scheme, since the November rains hadn’t reduced the fly population noticeably. Even the contestants and their supporters began to appear. I couldn’t see a single place left where a car could be parked.

Except for a sheriff’s Jeep. Owen Sarkisian pulled up next to Freya and left his vehicle blocking the street. Privilege of office, I supposed. He got out, stopped by my car to say something cheerful to the resident turkey, then strolled over to join us. “Quite a shindig,” he said to me. “Anyone in town not coming?”

“You’ve heard about mob mentality,” I said.

Peggy beamed at us. “You can always count on Upper River Gulch. Such wonderful support.”

Sarkisian shook his head. “Must have taken a lot of organizing.” His gaze settled on Gerda. “These pies the reason you had to leave Brody alone in your house? For vanilla, wasn’t it?”

I shot him a suspicious glance, but he gave every appearance of it having been an idle question. I thought I knew him well enough by now not to fall for that.

Gerda sighed. “You don’t use vanilla for pumpkin pies. Besides, the fillings were already mixed before they were frozen.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I’d only meant to be gone for a few minutes, you know, just down to the store.” She pointed across the street to Art and Ida’s mom-and-pop market.

“But?” Sarkisian’s friendly tone invited confidences.

Gerda scowled. “Doris Brody Quinn was in there.”

“Ahhh.” Nothing but sympathy showed on the sheriff’s face. “I noticed yesterday she wasn’t exactly your best friend.”

“She certainly is not.” Gerda glanced at him, then at me, and shrugged. “She was in full swing, with about five people for her audience, quoting her brother as saying the most vile things about my business sense. I got so furious I just stormed out and drove all the way into Meritville and had to stand in the most awful lines. It took forever.”

“It was such a rotten, untruthful thing for Brody to say about her,” Peggy declared, bristling in her indignation. “I could just kill-” She broke off, appalled.

“I know, figure of speech,” Sarkisian said. Peggy eyed him with suspicion, then hurried off as someone called her. He turned back to Gerda. “Look, I’m really sorry about this, but is there any chance you can find some way of proving you were in Meritville? It would make my life so much easier.”

“And mine,” Gerda agreed.

I marveled at Sarkisian’s ability to inform a suspect he wanted proof for her alibi, and make her think she’d be doing him a favor.

He looked around, frowning. “I don’t see that kid.”

“There are plenty here, take your pick,” I told him.

“The one who hangs around Ms. O’Shaughnessy. What’s his name, Tony something?”

“Ah,” I said, enlightened. “Tony Carerras. He’s probably working. He’s a janitor at the Still. Why?” I shot at him, suddenly suspicious.

“Just got used to seeing him tagging around after her.”

He sounded so innocent, the hackles of my suspicions rose. “What-” I began.

A racket, rather like a herd of lunatics let loose with a cartload of noise makers, shattered the midday peace. It took me a moment to realize that was almost exactly the case.

“The entertainment!” Peggy cried, delighted.

I stared at her in horror as the elementary school band and chorus marched up the street, singing and playing-if it could be called that-their hearts out. I cringed, as did every music lover in the crowd. Don’t get me wrong. I think music education should be required for everyone. It broadens appreciation of something other than the current pop culture and it heightens mathematical ability. I just wish the early stages of it didn’t have to be inflicted on me. Every squeak of a reed, every blatted note from a brass, every badly tuned instrument assaulted our ears. And, in the true tradition of small neighborhoods populated by loving parents and aunts and uncles everywhere, our crowd cheered their arrival and proudly pointed out their offspring or junior relatives to each other. Yet in spite of all this parental pride, it occurred to me that our pie eating contest might be unusually short if the entertainment were to continue throughout. I wondered if that would make it worth the ear pain.

“I arranged for them,” Peggy shouted at me.

I forced a smile back. “Thank you,” I said, and meant it. She’d take the blame, not me. Yet in spite of the continuing cacophony of wrong notes and good intentions, people still thronged to the park to take part in the contest. To my delight, Peggy had Sheriff Sarkisian formally declare the event underway. Again, I could escape blame.

We had far too many participants for the number of tables, but we’d known that in advance. We split the contest into groups, with a time limit of thirty minutes each. The Women’s Division went first, and with only forty-seven entries, they all ate at once. Peggy, Gerda, Sue and I ran around making sure each contestant had what they needed, that no one interfered and that fairly accurate totals were kept. Luckily, since that was hard work, it didn’t take the full half-hour. I think most of the women only took part for the sake of taking part, and dropped out after a few delicate bites. Only a handful put in any real effort.

In the end-a mere twenty-one minutes into the contest-a fifteen-year-old girl, tall and lanky and I’d swear not an ounce over a hundred and ten pounds, came up the winner, having consumed six and a half pies. The rest of us hated her on principle. One piece of pie-even a low-carb, non-fat, sugar-free, tasteless variety-and I gain five pounds. With all due ceremony, Sheriff Sarkisian awarded her the T-shirt that read “Pumpkin Pie Eating Queen.”

We divided the men by age, with the over forty-five’s having more contestants than their juniors. We let the “age enhanced,” as Art Graham called his group, eat first, cheered on by the observers and those still waiting their turns, and at the end of the time declared a winner. The stockpile of pies had thinned noticeably, down to a mere hundred and twenty or so. What, I fretted, if we didn’t have enough? If we had to cancel for lack of supplies, would the “youngsters”-also named by Art-demand that we reschedule and do all this again on another day? The horror of that fear left me numb.

The final group took their places on the benches. We set a pie before each of them, the sheriff blew the starting whistle, and we raced to get replacements for the fastest eaters, keeping things-I hoped-running smoothly.

I don’t know who started it, but about ten minutes into the event the laughter started. A minute later a slice of pie went sailing past my head. A whole pie flew back in the opposite direction, then all hell broke loose. Everyone dove for ammunition, and all those pies, which I’d spent two days coercing and cajoling people into baking, which we’d slaved over and lugged around and worried about and brought with tender loving care to their appointed destination, were decorating people’s shirts, the checkered cloths, the ground, even the benches. I ducked for cover under a table as a glob of orange filling hit my shoulder.

I found myself face-to-face with Gerda. “Why did you bother rounding up all those bakers?” she demanded.

“Peggy forgot to put a pie fight on her list,” I shouted back to be heard over the racket.

Gerda snorted. “We’ll know better, next time.”

“Honestly,” I said in disgust, “we could have just brought the tubs over here and let them have at it. Think of all the time and effort we could have saved.”

“Next year-” Gerda began.

“No!” I interrupted before she could get into full swing. “We are not going to start an annual pie throwing contest!”

“But-”

“No!” I repeated.

When the last ammo had been flung, and the embarrassed laughter that follows such an outbreak had begun to die down, Gerda and I emerged. The wreckage lay about us in gooey, orange gobs. I closed my eyes and whimpered.

“All you pie throwers,” came Sarkisian’s shout. He stood in the center of the crowd, his uniform liberally splattered in orange. “You’re the clean-up crew.”

At that moment I think I loved him. At any rate, I could have kissed him if it wouldn’t have meant getting pie filling all over my face. He looked as bad as the rest of them, and I wondered if he’d taken a few pot-or pie-shots, himself.

It always amazed me how fast people vanished whenever there was any real work to be done. In the end, much as suspected, only the most dedicated of the SCOURGEs carried out the mopping up. There was too much mess to rely on the rags we’d brought, so Art ran across to his store and came back with an armload of paper towel rolls. These soon filled the trash bags we’d brought. And then it started to drizzle again. In Upper River Gulch, we don’t let anything as mild as that bother us. We just keep working. It takes a real downpour to drive us inside.

“If it would just rain harder,” Ida Graham declared as she tied off another filled bag, “it might wash the tables.”

“At least it’s making it easier to get this mess off my face,” said Sue. And yes, she even looked good covered in pumpkin custard.

“Where’s Ms. O’Shaughnessy gone to?” Sarkisian picked up another roll of towels but he was studying our few remaining workers.

“Self-defense class,” Gerda told him. “It’s almost five. That’s where most of the women have vanished to.”

Sarkisian’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t heard about that. Good idea.” He glanced at me. “You taken it, yet?”

“Years ago, when Peggy first started teaching it,” I assured him.

That stopped the sheriff. He stared at me, grinning. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy is the teacher? This I’ve got to see.”

“Then you can help lug these sacks down to the school trash bins. The class is in the cafeteria.”

We set forth in the drizzle that threatened to increase to a full-blown storm, hauling the remains of the contest with us. Cars already stood in the school parking lot, and more arrived, swerving around our procession, splattering us with mud to go along with the pumpkin. Women of all ages and shapes, garbed in sweat suits or leotards and coats, raced to get inside the lit cafeteria before the rain really let loose. We tossed the bags into the bin, then Sarkisian strolled after the women. I joined him.

“How many years has she been teaching this?” he asked as he propped a shoulder against the doorjamb.

I looked into the brightly lit interior. “About seven. She’s really good at it.”

Sarkisian nodded. The women finished stretching and paired off, apparently reviewing break-away techniques covered in the previous class. I was impressed. Peggy had added quite a few things since I’d been one of her first pupils. I should probably take it again.

One of the women moved with incredible grace. She wore a knockout leotard outfit in lavender and blues, and threw off her attacker with ease. She shifted her position, taking her turn to do the grabbing, and I realized it was Cindy Brody.

“A woman who can do that,” murmured Sarkisian, watching Cindy’s tenacious hold, “would be quite an adversary. Well up to dealing with someone much larger and stronger.”

“Especially if he weren’t expecting it?” I asked.

The sheriff glanced at me. “Just musing,” he said.

I nodded. We watched as they segued into judo moves, which impressed me considerably.

“I should get her to teach classes to our department,” Sarkisian said. “She really is-“ He broke off as Peggy clapped her hands, and her class, amazingly obedient, stood to attention.

“Let’s review using whatever you can find as a weapon,” she called. Beside her on a table lay a motley assortment of everyday objects, from a running shoe to a pair of glasses. She demonstrated possible uses of each on a volunteer attacker. She set down a purse, which she’d used in a highly unorthodox manner, and her hand hovered over the next item, a letter opener. She shoved it beneath the purse and went on to a key ring.

A sigh escaped the sheriff, and he straightened. He didn’t say a thing, but I could almost hear his thoughts. Peggy was good with weapons and obviously an old hand at seizing opportunity. If she’d walked in, seen Brody sitting there, noticed Gerda’s letter opener… She could have killed him before she’d even thought through the consequences.

The sheriff strode down the covered walkway, and I hurried after him, trying to think of something to say to divert him. “She doesn’t have a motive!” I blurted out at last.

“You mean you don’t know of any,” Sarkisian corrected me. “And I’m not accusing her. There’s just something I’d like to settle for sure so her little display of expertise doesn’t keep haunting me.”

That sounded reasonable. The damned man made most things he did sound reasonable. If you could prove someone innocent to your own satisfaction, then you didn’t waste time and effort wondering about them.

He stopped at the end of the building, still beneath the roof’s protective overhang, and pulled his phone from his belt. A call to the office got him the number he wanted, and a moment later I heard the ringing. Peggy’s son Bill answered, and Sarkisian identified himself. “This’ll just take a second.” He sounded friendly. “Your mother finally confessed she wasn’t really with you at the time Brody was being murdered. If you’ll just confirm that for me?”

Even I could hear the heavy sigh. “Thank God for that. I hated her lying about it, and I hated knowing I’d have to back her up on it. But if she’s told you the truth, that means you don’t suspect her anymore. That’s great.”

They hung up, all joviality, and I felt like a rat.