Cold Turkey

Chapter Thirteen

“So she lied,” Sarkisian said, mostly to himself. He turned and looked over his shoulder, back toward the cafeteria.

“All that means is that you scared her, and she didn’t have a real alibi,” I said.

“I scared her?” Sarkisian regarded me with a frown.

“You know what I mean,” I told him. “Lots of perfectly innocent people get frightened by authority figures, especially police and sheriffs. It doesn’t mean they’re guilty.”

“I know, just the way they were brought up.” He gave me a smile he probably hoped was reassuring. “I got my degree in psychology, so I know enough to know I don’t know a hell of a lot. So let’s look at this as an intellectual exercise. What possible motive-hypothetical motive-could Ms. O’Shaughnessy have for killing Brody?”

I wasn’t going to let him trick me into saying anything, the way he had Bill O’Shaughnessy. I eyed him with distrust. “Can’t think of a thing.”

He regarded me with disapproval. “You’re too intelligent for that. She’s the bookkeeper for Brandywine Distillery, and Brody was their accountant. That meant he oversaw her work. What if she wasn’t doing a good job?”

“She is good,” I said at once. “I’ve looked over some of her work when she asked me to.”

He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“I’m a C.P.A.,” I admitted, in the tone of voice one might use to confess to some heinous crime, like being a politician.

“Ah. So her work is good. Good enough to hide a few little alterations?”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing. This is hypothetical. What-hypothetically-if she were embezzling? Brody might have caught some discrepancy. That wouldn’t have been just a firing offence. It would have meant serious jail time.”

I glared at him. “She’s not the one renovating her property.”

“A retirement nest egg?” he suggested.

“She wouldn’t,” I snapped, but with more certainty than I could feel. The fear of not having sufficient funds for retirement haunted most people. Every once in a while the news carried a story about some poor old soul whose savings hadn’t gone far enough, reducing them to homelessness and starvation. Not to mention the nightmare of long-term healthcare. I didn’t know how well Peggy had prepared, and she had reached the age when the worry could easily become paranoia.

“Let’s rule it out,” Sarkisian decided. “I’ll get a warrant for the Still’s books, then the matter will be settled and I can forget about it.”

“Other people have motives, too,” I reminded him. “Look at Brody’s wife, and all she stands to gain by his death-or lose in a divorce! Or Adam Fairfield’s jealousy over Brody dating his ex-wife. Or Simon Lowell, and whatever Brody was about to reveal about him. Or Dave Hatter-” I broke off. He acted suspicious, but I’d yet to uncover a motive for him.

“Or your aunt?” Sarkisian suggested with a touch of sweet innocence. “He cheated her badly, and she was going to lay a trap for him.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

He grinned. Apparently that was exactly what he’d been hoping for. “Let’s rule out any funny business with the Still’s books, all right?”

I sighed and nodded, not that I had any say in the matter.

I turned back to the cafeteria. Let him do what he would. I had other worries to attend to. I didn’t want to spend the whole evening on the phone, and this was a golden opportunity to catch a lot of people before they could escape. We’d managed to survive the pie-eating contest, but we still had the park clean-up and decorating lurking for us tomorrow. Pumpkin pie filling might no longer smear across the tables and benches, but the hedges needed trimming, branches needed pruning before they fell in a winter storm, the trash can holders needed repair, and a dozen other chores awaited us before we could start hanging the colored lights and waterproof banners.

Sarkisian followed me, apparently wanting to see who else might be adept at wielding a letter opener. To my surprise, everyone seemed to be finishing up inside. A short class because of the holiday, probably. We watched while Peggy reminded them once again of the major points they had covered, then all the participants headed for their coats and purses.

I stepped inside the door. “Hey, everyone,” I shouted. A few stopped talking. Most ignored me.

“Attention, please!” called Peggy, and got instant results. “Annike has an announcement.” As one, the room’s occupants turned to stare at me.

I straightened, aware I looked a mess. Nothing like people staring at you to make you realize you hadn’t seen a comb in hours and that your clothes were still covered in pumpkin custard. “Tomorrow is the annual park clean-up,” I began, starting with something easy and obvious.

“What if it rains?” called someone.

“It’s supposed to pour,” added another.

“Got to be prepared in case it doesn’t,” I said. “We need trash bags, rakes, and some refreshments…”

“Pumpkin pie do?” called someone, and got a round of laughs. After that, no one paid any more attention to me.

“Good try,” Sarkisian said, shaking his head.

I grimaced. “With my luck, it’ll be bright sunshine, and not a single person will show up. I…”

But Sarkisian was no longer listening to me. Why should he be any different? I followed the direction of his gaze and saw that Cindy Brody had donned a wrap-around skirt, boots, and a sweater coat I lusted for.

She strolled toward us, smiling at Sarkisian. “Good evening, Sheriff,” she said. “I see Annike made you help with the pie contest.”

“A civic honor,” he assured her.

“I’d blow a raspberry if I knew how,” I muttered.

His mouth compressed, forcing back a grin. The next moment he was all business again. “We got the lab report back on the mud from your tires,” he said, still all charm and friendliness. “It matches the mulching around Gerda Lundquist’s drive.”

Cindy’s mouth dropped open. “But… Mulching is mulching. You buy it in bags. I mean, there must be hundreds or even thousands of yards around Meritville and Upper River Gulch with the same stuff.”

“You were at Ms. Lundquist’s on Tuesday night.”

“I wasn’t! Why would I go there? I was getting ready for my guests.”

“No signs of cooking in your kitchen, a streak of dried mud on your shoes, your car engine was warm, and that mud on the tires. Enough to justify the testing.”

Cindy looked to me for help.

“It’s okay, Cindy,” I assured her. “He’s trying to eliminate suspects. Just tell him why you went to Aunt Gerda’s so he doesn’t have to waste time worrying about you.”

A shaky sigh escaped her. “God, I’m actually glad to be able to tell someone. I hated lying, but the widow is always the chief suspect, and I couldn’t have borne that. I mean, how did I know you wouldn’t be like those horrible policemen in stories, always shouting and never listening?” She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“So why did you go?” He managed to sound purely sympathetic.

“I was going to give Gerda a few notes I’d found about the weekend activities, but no one was home. I could see the light from her study, so I went around to check if she’d locked the glass doors there, or if I could just leave the stuff on her desk. Only when I got there-” She broke off, looking ill.

“What happened?” Sarkisian prompted.

“The desk light was on, and I saw my husband in the chair. And there was so much blood…”

“About when was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think,” the sheriff suggested. “Were you listening to your car radio on the way over?” She nodded. “Any news or traffic reports?”

“News,” she said after a long minute. “It started just before I reached the intersection, so I switched stations.”

“And which one were you listening to before?” he asked. She named it, and he nodded.

“They do the news three minutes past the hour and half-hour, to match their call number,” I said.

He nodded again. “Five-thirty, six, or six-thirty?”

She considered. “Five-thirty, I guess.”

“So, giving you time to drive up to Ms. Lundquist’s, knock on the door, go around the deck to the study… About five-forty,” he decided. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“About twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, before I got there,” I said. “We wouldn’t have passed each other.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Brody. That helps a great deal.”

She smiled, but worry still lingered in her eyes. “You believe me?”

His eyebrows gave a humorous quirk. “No reason not to.”

This time, her smile looked genuine. She started off.

“Cindy!” I called, remembering another problem that I had shoved to the back of my mind. “I can’t find the sign-up list for the pot-luck dinner.”

She looked back. “Oh, there isn’t one. I just told everyone to bring whatever they felt like!” She waved and hurried toward the parking lot.

“Just bring…” I felt sick.

“Sure. Good plan.” I could hear the grin in Sarkisian’s voice. “You can bring a turkey.”

I turned on him, searching for words, but the arrested expression on his face gave me pause. “What is it?” I asked.

“Is that Lucy Fairfield?” He nodded toward another woman who had just climbed out of a car parked along the street.

It was indeed Adam’s ex-wife, her dark shoulder-length hair all becoming curls, minimal makeup, and looking as gentle and pretty as always, even wrapped in an old raincoat. She hurried toward the cafeteria. “How’d you recognize her?” I demanded.

“Don’t you look at pictures in people’s houses?” he countered.

I stared at him, impressed. Maybe this sheriff wouldn’t turn out so badly after all. Or maybe he would. This investigation was far from over.

He strode forward to intercept Lucy. “Ms. Fairfield?” He introduced himself. “Can I have a word with you?”

“Of course.” She looked past him, to me. “Hi, Annike. Have you seen Nancy? We were supposed to meet here.”

“I didn’t see her inside.”

Lucy glanced toward the cafeteria. “I should hope not. She’s not up to one of Peggy’s classes, yet.”

“Why here?” asked Sarkisian.

She rolled her eyes. “You haven’t met my ex-husband, yet, I take it? This is easier than going to the house or even trying to call. Just because I want to avoid him doesn’t mean I want to avoid my daughter.”

“I’ve met Mr. Fairfield,” Sarkisian said. “He’s been somewhat upset about your dating Clifford Brody.”

She flushed. “I know. I only did it because… Well, I wanted to go out to dinner rather than stay home and cook it all the time. I wanted to go to a concert or a theater, and have someone to go with. All Adam ever does is work or watch television. I wanted to have some fun. And Cliff asked me out, and I knew it was Cindy who’d kicked him out and filed for divorce, so it wasn’t as if I was contributing to breaking up their marriage.”

“But your husband blamed Brody for your not going back to him?”

“For awhile, I’m afraid so. He couldn’t believe that nothing would drag me back there. But I did tell him when I stopped seeing Brody a few weeks ago.”

“When…” Sarkisian stared at her. “You stopped seeing Brody and Mr. Fairfield knew?”

“Of course. I thought it would make life easier for Nancy if I told him. I just didn’t mention I was seeing someone else. There she is,” she added as a small silver older model Toyota pulled up behind her own car.

Nancy climbed out and waved, then hurried over to give her mother a warm hug. “I miss you,” Nancy whispered.

“It’ll be all right, soon,” Lucy told her daughter. “I’m getting a raise and I’ll be able to move out of that wretched room and into an apartment of my own. Then you can come stay with me until you go back to school.”

“But Dad…”

“Your being there hasn’t stopped him from drinking. Maybe your absence will make him wake up and realize he has to grow up and take care of himself.”

Nancy nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. “I told him I was coming out to get a video.” She glanced at me. “Do you think Gerda will open the store for me?”

“Ask her. She’s just inside, talking to Peggy.”

Lucy and Nancy started for the cafeteria. I hung back with Sarkisian. “There goes Adam’s jealousy motive for killing Brody,” I said.

He nodded. “If only we could eliminate other people as easily. Well, back to work, I guess.”

“Have fun.” I waited where I stood while my Aunt Gerda emerged, accompanied by Lucy and Nancy. As a group we strolled down the street, past the few darkened shops and offices.

There stood Brody’s. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to it, now. And to all the records inside, all the clients who would be left in the lurch. And here was me, recently without a job. I could take over, it would be so easy to step into an already established business. Compared to the work I’d been doing at Hastings, Millard and Perkins, Inc., doing local accounts and taxes would be easy. The word ”boring” hovered in my mind, only to be dismissed. By the end of this weekend, I’d be so SCOURGEd out, I’d be grateful for a good dose of boring.

But then, on the realistic side, I couldn’t see Doris Quinn, or even Cindy, endorsing me. Unless I paid them a hefty fee to do so. Whichever of them inherited the business would try to sell it intact and at a fee that would leave me so deeply in debt I’d never dig myself out.

The relief that accompanied that thought surprised me. I didn’t really want to be an accountant anymore. But that was probably just the bad taste left in my mouth from my last job. More likely, I just didn’t want anything to do with Brody’s business. Whoever took over his work would probably discover he’d been a considerable crook.

We passed Aunt Gerda’s old café on the other side of the street and reached her new business, only one store away from the corner. She unlocked the door, let us in, switched off the burglar alarm, then flicked on the lights.

The place always amazed me. Shelves of books lined one wall, sticking endwise into the room to allow for the maximum amount of storage. She stocked everything from old hardbound classics to paperback mysteries, romances and science fiction, anything that the residents of our small town might enjoy to help unwind from their high-tech jobs. She’d told me she had an amazingly high turnover rate, with books rarely staying on the shelves for more than a month.

Along the other side of the room stood heavy display cases holding collectible figurines and plates and a few pieces of silver. She made it a point never to stock anything truly valuable, to avoid the insurance costs and the danger of break-ins. Since I’d been in last, she’d added a display of skeins of handspun yarn, some of her weavings, and a rack with movable arms that displayed about twenty quilts.

The back wall held the movies. You could look through the catalogues she’d created that displayed the covers by category, stick on a “rented” tag, then tell her what you’d selected. Then she’d find it in the filing cabinet drawers where she kept them all stored. A fairly efficient system, all in all.

While Nancy and Lucy browsed through action/adventure, arguing the merits of Roger Moore versus Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, the door opened and a couple of other women came in. One went to the books, and another to the catalogue labeled “Comedies”. More people, apparently attracted by the lights, began to drop in. Nancy settled on a Roger Moore, Lucy chose a Pierce Brosnan, and three of the others argued the humor-and vulgarities-of some of the recently released comedies. Gerda beamed at them all. Probably deciding how much turkey chow she could buy at the local feed store from this night’s profits.

Peggy stuck her head around the door. “So when did you decide to start opening nights?”

“I’ve obviously been overlooking a huge window of opportunity,” Gerda agreed. “But what I really need is for someone to invent a vending machine where the customer just runs their card through, and out would pop the video of their choice, with all their information saved for my records.”

“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.