Cold Turkey

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 holidays 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.”

“Ouch. On a Friday night, Thanksgiving weekend.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Ouch,” he repeated. He was silent for a long minute, then shook his head. “I know the party supply place in Meritville can get hold of them, but I think it takes a week or so to get them shipped. And even if it didn’t, they’d be closed now, with no way to reach anyone.” He fell silent again, then at last shook his head. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “That’s what I was afraid of. Emergency backup arrangements should have been made weeks ago.”

“Cindy Brody,” Simon said, and we nodded in unison. “Well, I’d offer to let you use my place…” He gestured around the decidedly unspacious cabin.

“Thanks all the same. Well, maybe it’ll clear up.” I paused, and the pelting of the rain on the roof made its point. “Oh, well.”

“Oh, well, is right. Anything else I can do for you? What brought you out? You could have just called about the tents.”

I explained about needing to get away from phones, then told him about the need for a chain saw.

“I’ll bring tools if you’ll bring a break in the weather,” he offered.

That seemed to sum it up. Thanking him, and armed with his envelope, I left. I didn’t really want to go home, yet. And there was still one matter I hadn’t taken care of. If, on the slim chance I really did bring a break in the rain, we had to hang the Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa decorations. And, unlike the frozen pumpkin, I knew where the town stored them. At the Still. And since both Adam Fairfield and Dave Hatter would be on duty at the moment, I might as well head over there, remind them about the promised bottles of liqueur, and see if I could pick anything up now. Maybe I could leave the turkey in exchange.

Pine and redwood needles littered the road to the distillery. I inched along the hazardous curves, the river roaring in its gulch not that far below. It must be rising steadily with all the rain. With a sigh of relief, I spotted the glow from the parking lot lights and rounded the last curve with more confidence.

Several cars stood in the lot, including Sheriff Sarkisian’s Jeep. That surprised me. What I didn’t see was Adam’s pickup. I continued along the road and turned down the hill that led to the lower level with the shipping and receiving dock. After all, I hoped to receive a trunk-load of decorations. But the odds of being able to ship out a turkey seemed pretty slim. Maybe the Still would like to adopt it as a mascot. I could but try.

And there was Adam’s pickup, parked next to the loading dock. I pulled in beside him, glared at my unwelcome passenger and climbed out into the downpour. I ran up the cement ramp toward shelter and in a few moments rang the bell.

Several minutes passed before Dave Hatter appeared. “What are you doing here?” he demanded with less than enthusiasm.

“Came for the holiday decorations. We need them for the park tomorrow, remember?”

“Rain’s not going to let up.” But he stepped aside and let me in.

“That’s the ticket,” I said cheerfully. “Think positive but prepare for the worst. What’s going on around here?”

“A full-scale police investigation.” He sounded glum.

“Has something happened?” I looked around, fearing to see some vandalism, some damage. My gaze met only the clean emptiness where trucks pulled into the dock. Tony Carerras’ motorcycle parked near the massive roll-down doors, and a few crates stood at one end, neatly sealed with the distillery’s name and logo stamped on the cardboard, but that was about it.

“The sheriff’s looking at the books.”

So, he hadn’t wasted a minute getting that warrant.

“Might as well come on up,” he added. “He’ll want to know you’re here.”

“I’ll bet,” I murmured, but followed Dave through the door that led to the storage area.

Tony was there, sweeping. He stared at me but made no response to my wave, merely turning back to his work. Then we passed through to the production floor, where a middle-aged woman wandered around in a white lab coat checking instruments and making notes on a clipboard.

“The current experimental batches,” Dave explained as we mounted the iron grate stairs to the office level, with their glass windows looking down on the rows of copper stills and the single bathtub-sized vat.

I nodded, looking straight ahead, anywhere but down.

The accounting office was one of the few that didn’t overlook the production floor. It held two desks, a wall of filing cabinets, another of shelves partly filled with binders of completed financial records, a table piled with purchase orders, inventory printouts, memos, and every other bit of paper Peggy had yet to process, and four people. Adam Fairfield and Sarkisian stood to one side, watching the plump, fiercely concentrating Roberta Dominguez at work with her official cameras. Her accomplice, a man of medium build, black hair and a handlebar mustache he obviously spent hours tending, dusted for fingerprints.

The sheriff turned as we entered and snorted. “I should’ve known you’d turn up.”

“She came for the holiday decorations,” Dave explained. “I thought you ought to know she was here.”

Sarkisian nodded, his gaze lingering on me. Abruptly he turned back to the two technicians. “Almost done?”

“Just this last one,” said the photographer.

Sarkisian waited, Roberta Dominguez finished, and she and the other man packed up their equipment. “All yours,” she said as they loaded themselves down with their cases of gear. “We’ll take people’s prints downstairs,” she added as they left. At the sheriff’s signal, Adam and Dave followed them.

I eyed the mess that remained. “Did they fingerprint everything?”

Sarkisian nodded. “So now it’s safe to touch.”

“Well, have fun.” I turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Decorations?”

He looked at his shoes, then up at me. “I don’t know anything about bookkeeping.”

I nodded in a sympathetic manner, a touch of unholy glee starting deep within me. “That’ll make it a lot harder for you.”

He glared at me. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”

I grinned, savoring the moment. “Only ask. But I wish I could have witnesses.”

“For?” He sounded suspicious, and well he should.

“For the next time you ask the world in general if anyone heard you asking me to help with the investigation.”

He grinned. “All right, you win. Please, An…Ms. McKinley, will you help with the investigation?”

My own grin of triumph faded as I turned to regard the pile of ledgers and printouts that sprawled in untidy heaps across the desks and table. I’d had a really long day, what with fighting with pies, before, during and after the event. I was going to have another long day tomorrow. I sighed. “Let me call Gerda to tell her I’ll be a little later than planned.”

I was going to be a whole lot later. We had no idea where, if, or how any discrepancy might have occurred. I determined to prove to Sarkisian that Peggy had to be innocent of any wrong doing, but that required going back to the beginning of the year and checking every entry against every receipt and every invoice. And if we didn’t find anything we’d have to do the same thing for the previous year, and maybe all the many long years she had worked for the Still.

Sarkisian went to get us coffee and returned bearing snacks from the machine and with Adam and Dave trailing after him. The clock read twelve-twenty. I yawned, downed a cup of barely palatable caffeine, sank my teeth into the bliss of pure chocolate, and checked more entries.

“Did you look to see if Brody left any notes in his office?” Adam asked as I finished another page of the daily journal.

“Nothing pertaining to anything amiss, here.” Sarkisian sounded bored. I had set him to work unearthing paid bills and receipts from file folders for me, but the delights of that occupation had worn off for him within a very few minutes. “Why?” he added.

Dave peered over my shoulder. “He’s been here an awful lot, lately,” he said. “Turning up at odd times, wanting me to let him in at night, poring over the books. You know, definitely above and beyond what you’d think was normal duty.”

“Yeah,” Adam agreed. “For about a month, now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Six weeks?” suggested Dave.

Sarkisian picked up a handful of reports from the table, then glanced at the bound journals and ledgers that surrounded me. “The books or some of the rest of this stuff?”

Dave shrugged.

“The books,” Adam said after a moment of thought. “At least, they’re what he was studying whenever I looked in on him.”

I finished my last bite of chocolate. Paper rustled, and Sarkisian handed me a fresh bar. I really could begin to like this man, I decided. I bit into it, savoring that miraculous blend of caffeine and chemical nirvana, and set to work on the next page of entries. Brody’s intense interest implied he suspected Peggy of being up to something. Sarkisian suspected the same thing. I was determined to find some other reason for Brody’s preoccupation with the books.

“Time to quit for the night.” Sarkisian’s hand rested on my shoulder, shaking slightly.

I looked up, bleary-eyed.

“You were nodding off to sleep,” he explained.

I peered at the clock. Either it was ten after midnight, or-

“It’s two in the morning. Come on.” He took my elbow and helped me to my feet. “I’ve already called Adam and Dave.”

The two men appeared a few minutes later, both armed with boxes stacked on handcarts. In a little over half an hour we had carefully packed away every financial record, whether bound or filed, the place boasted. Dave and Adam transported them to the parking lot where they began stacking them into the Jeep.

Sarkisian turned to me. “You be all right?” Then, “Where’s your car?”

“Around back. I came for…” I broke off to yawn. “Decorations,” I finished.

“Tomorrow,” he decided. “Want a lift home?”

I yawned again. “I’ll be fine. Besides, you don’t have room.” I nodded toward his front seat where Dave stacked more of the boxes. I waved at them, then reentered the building, staggered down the stairs and made my way out to my car. And to that damned bird.

At least the rain had let up a little. I climbed in, started the engine and headed up the hill. The Jeep stood near the entrance to the parking lot, waiting. I slowed as I neared it, but Sarkisian stuck out an arm, thereby getting it wet, and waved me ahead. A touch of chivalry? I considered the source and decided that yes, it probably was. He wanted to make sure I got home safely. I accelerated past him, slowed for the turn, eased onto the road and sped up a little along the straight.

The next curve came almost at once. I let up on the gas, felt the bump of twigs and branches beneath my tires, then abruptly my car spun out of control, pivoting around the right front wheel, throwing me against the side window. A screech of panic reverberated around the car, and part of me registered that it was the turkey, not me. Other tires squealed and protested, and the Jeep spun past me, swerving to avoid a collision. It slammed through the frail metal barrier, hovered on the brink for a terrifying moment, then to the horrific racket of snapping branches and metal grinding against stone, it lurched down the gorge.