Cold Turkey

Chapter Three

Gerda’s silence didn’t last for long. Or rather, not for long enough. She turned on me. “He’s trying to make me say I killed Brody! He actually thinks I’m capable of committing murder!” She swung back to face the sheriff, and the look she directed at him gave that suspicion some justification. “And you’re just basing it on the circumstances of where he was found! You haven’t even gotten to motives-” She broke off, snapped her mouth closed, then regrouped her forces. “Don’t you think you ought to look at real evidence?”

Owen Sarkisian closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“I think,” I said in an attempt to diffuse the situation, “she wants you to look for exotic foreign cigarette butts with traces of outlandish colored lipstick.” I couldn’t understand what had set Gerda off like this. It was completely unlike her.

The sheriff turned a pained look on me.

“Or maybe,” I went on, hoping Gerda would take the hint and lighten up or cool down or something, “a trail of gum wrappers leading to a size nine shoe print with an unusual pattern on the sole?”

“Thank you, Ms. McKinley. Your insights are invaluable. I’m sure. To someone. Now, Ms. Lundquist, I only asked-”

“You’re trying to upset me and make me say things I don’t mean!” she accused him, still in full flare. My interruption hadn’t done any good.

A ragged sigh escaped him. “Calm down, Ms. Lundquist.”

“How can I calm down when you’re accusing me of murder!”

He spread his hands. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I only asked-”

“Then you’re stopping just short of it!” she exclaimed. “Is that how you go about your investigations, bullying people? Or,” and her gaze narrowed on him, “is this your first murder case?”

“Here, yes. Over the course of my career, not by a long shot.”

“Well, maybe you can get away with making wild accusations in Los Angeles,” she snapped, “but not here.”

“So who’s making wild accusations-except you? I just asked a very logical question-why you went out and left Clifford Brody in your house. Was he alone? Were you expecting anyone else? What was he doing, anyway? And where’s his car?”

Gerda drew a shaky breath and pushed up the sleeves of her lilac turtleneck. After a moment she smoothed them down to her wrists again. Her anger visibly faded, leaving her deflated. Only a haunted look remained in her eyes. “His car was getting an oil change. I promised to drive him back to his office when he was done.”

Sarkisian nodded, smiling in a deceptively gentle manner. He made no interruption.

After a moment, Gerda went on. “He was checking over my tax records for me. Before the end of the year, so I’d know where I stood while I could still make investments. And I wasn’t here because I ran out of vanilla.”

The sheriff’s mobile eyebrows rose. “I presume there’s a connection there, someplace.”

Gerda clenched her hands. “Of course there is.”

“Cooking the books,” I murmured, unable to prevent myself.

Sarkisian shot me a quick glance containing an unexpected gleam of amusement before turning back to Gerda. “So you went out when? How soon after he got here?”

Gerda frowned. “His sister dropped him off around three-thirty. So an hour, maybe a little less. I left here just before four-thirty.”

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at me. “And you? I take it you hadn’t arrived, yet. When did you get here?”

“A little after six, I think. It’d been dark for awhile.” I hesitated. “The-his blood-it felt sticky when I touched his shoulder.”

“We’ll leave the time of death up to the doctor, I think.”

I folded my arms. “You mean you aren’t about to trust anything I say?”

“I mean it’s a damned difficult thing to determine. For all I know, the murderer could have stood there with a blow dryer pointed at the blood. Now,” he offered Gerda a placating smile. “You went out to buy vanilla. Just that? Nothing else?”

“That’s all I needed.”

Before he could voice his next question, lights flashed through the big front window as a car swerved around the curve in the drive. Owen Sarkisian rose, strode into the living room, and pulled back the curtain. “Light-colored four-door sedan,” he called over his shoulder. “Old Pontiac, I think.” He watched a few seconds longer. “Woman getting out. Short curly hair, it looks like.”

“Peggy,” Gerda announced. “That’s Margaret O’Shaughnessy. She’s my nearest neighbor. You’d have passed her driveway about a quarter mile down the road.”

Sarkisian looked back at Gerda. “You expecting her?”

“No, but we’re always dropping in on each other.”

Light footsteps hurried up the outside steps, and Sarkisian crossed to the front door and swung it open. A moment later, Peggy O’Shaughnessy poked her thin, bird-like face inside, an anxious expression creasing her brow. She stared blankly at the sheriff through her huge wire-rimmed glasses, blinked, then her searching look slid past him.

“Gerda?” Her voice rose, trilling like a reed flute. “What’s going on? I heard the sirens. Are you all right? Annike? Oh, wonderful! We didn’t expect you until tomorrow. That wasn’t you arriving, was it?” She peered at Sheriff Sarkisian again. “With a young man?” she added, forever hopeful.

I located an almost dry kitchen towel and presented it to Peggy. The little woman ran it over her flyaway mop of short permed hair, currently an improbable orange-red to hide the gray, then touched it gently to her face, careful not to smudge her makeup. She kicked off her running shoes in a corner, then padded into the kitchen in her bright chartreuse socks, hand-knit from one of Gerda’s more outrageous dying and spinning jobs. Settling at the pine table across from her friend, she accepted the cup of tea Gerda proffered.

“Well?” Peggy demanded. She turned to look at Sarkisian, who had followed her into the cozy room. “Oh.” Her face fell. “Not a gentleman friend of Annike’s. You’re our new sheriff, I take it. What’s happened? Did someone try to break in?”

Sarkisian folded his arms. “You hear or see anything unusual during the last couple of hours? Loud noises? Cars racing past?”

Peggy slid her glasses down her pointed nose and peered at him over the top. “Why?”

Sarkisian closed his eyes for a pregnant moment. “Can’t anyone just answer a simple question around here? Did you hear or see anything?”

“Well,” Peggy pointed out kindly, “if I knew what you had in mind, it might help.”

“Someone murdered Clifford Brody in my study while I was out,” Gerda explained.

Sarkisian glared at her. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Lundquist…”

“I’m just trying to move things along. There’s no point in not telling her, is there?”

“Maybe you’d like to drive down the middle of your main street shouting it through my loudspeaker,” he suggested, exasperated.

“Why on earth would I want to do any such thing?” Gerda shot back, her expression far too innocent. “Really, don’t you think you ought to stop being so frivolous and set about finding out who murdered him? We’ve got a lot of things to take care of.”

Peggy, who had been staring open-mouthed at Gerda during this exchange, turned to me. “Is he really dead? Clifford Brody?” At my nod, Peggy’s wide mouth worked, as if she struggled to contain some strong emotion. Her control slipped, and for a fleeting moment she broke into a broad smile, which she mastered at once. With a suitably somber expression, she turned to the sheriff. “How terrible. Especially for Gerda. And Annike. Who did it?”

“He seems to think I did,” Gerda stuck in before Sarkisian could speak.

“I never said that!” the sheriff protested. “Damn it, I’m trying to find out-”

“Then why are you just standing there?” demanded Peggy. “For heaven’s sake, young man, what do you expect to accomplish if all you do is open doors for people?”

He started to speak, then closed his mouth again. “Next,” he finally said through gritted teeth, “I suppose you’re going to tell me how Tom McKinley would have had this murder solved by now.”

“Well, he certainly wouldn’t have wasted time suspecting Gerda,” Peggy pointed out.

The sheriff flushed. I watched in sympathy as his jaw clenched. Frustration seemed to radiate from every pore. Peggy frequently had that effect on people.

I turned a quelling glance at the little bird-like woman, only to surprise an odd expression in her eyes. Fear? Peggy? No, that had to be absurd. What had my aunt’s closest friend and neighbor to fear? Except possibly the same undisclosed worry that haunted Aunt Gerda?

“You want me to get on with the investigation?” Owen Sarkisian strode up to the table and glowered at all of us, indiscriminately. “Okay. Which of you ladies smokes?”

“Not in my house!” Gerda objected.

“Smokes?” I looked from my aunt to the sheriff, perplexed. “Why?”

“There’s a rather fancy lighter, a Navajo-design case of stamped silver with a chunk of turquoise, lying on the desk beside the body. But no smell of cigarettes, cigars, or smoke anywhere. Not on Brody, not in the room. So what’s it doing there?”

“Silver and turquoise…” Peggy’s voice trailed off. She fumbled at the strap that hung over her shoulder, dragged her cavernous hand-woven bag into her lap, unsnapped the top, and pawed through the contents. Slowly, her gaze rose to Gerda.

“I took it last time you were here,” Gerda said quickly.

Too quickly? I studied the set of my aunt’s features. I knew her expressions, could read them no matter how hard she tried to disguise them. I hadn’t a doubt she was lying.

“You took it?” Peggy blinked.

Gerda turned to the sheriff. “I’ve been trying to get her to quit smoking for years, now. Everyone in town knows that. Nothing’s worked so far, so I thought I’d try subtle means for a change. Like hiding her lighter, or her cigarettes. Make it more difficult for her.”

Owen Sarkisian looked from one to the other of them. “And when was she here last?”

“This afternoon,” Gerda said, at the same moment that Peggy announced, “Yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” Gerda corrected at once, while Peggy cried out, “This afternoon.”

“Yesterday?” Sarkisian jumped on Peggy’s first answer. “And you hadn’t noticed yet that your lighter was missing?”

“This afternoon,” Peggy repeated more firmly. “I-I forgot I’d come over.” Peggy cast a frantic glance at Gerda. “I do so often, you know. And I have other lighters, anyway.”

“You’ve been so busy, I don’t see how you could have noticed which lighter you were using,” Gerda stuck in, doggedly loyal.

“It’s been fun, though,” Peggy assured her. “I’m in charge of selling raffle tickets for the turkey drawing this year,” she explained to Sarkisian. From the depths of her bag she produced a rectangular booklet of printed orange strips of paper. “You haven’t bought any yet, have you, Sheriff?” she added, latching eagerly onto this new-and innocuous-topic. “It’s for a very good cause, you know. Our Service Club’s scholarship fund. And the prize is a smoked turkey, all ready for a buffet table. At least it was last year.”

“I told Cindy to go to the same place,” Gerda stuck in, readily abetting her friend in this diversion. “That’s the only detail she did take care of.”

“So how many do you want?” Peggy asked the sheriff.

“I don’t-”

“Of course you do. Everyone buys raffle tickets,” Peggy assured him. “One book or two? Or would you like to buy three?”

“I don’t want any. What did you do when you came over today?”

Peggy and Gerda exchanged glances, and it was Gerda who rushed into speech. “We were trying to figure out what still had to be done for our town’s Thanksgiving celebrations, of course. Our chairperson had just quit.”

Peggy, refusing to be diverted back to the real business of the hour, fixed Sarkisian with a look that put me uncomfortably in mind of my third grade teacher. “You should take three booklets, I think. After all, you are sheriff. You have to do something to support the community.” She fished two more of the orange books from her bag. “Two dollars for a book of five. That comes to a total of six dollars.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Apparently, Peggy’s look had the same effect on Sarkisian. Without saying a word, he fished in his back pocket, produced his wallet, and counted out the bills.

Peggy plucked these from his hand and presented him with the tickets. “Just deposit them in the fishbowl at the pancake breakfast on Thanksgiving morning. If you’re going to have to leave early, you can write your name and phone number on them, first. You don’t have to be present to win.”

A series of muffled bumps and scufflings sounded from the far end of the house. I moved to Gerda’s side, and my fingers clutched the chair’s uppermost rail through someone’s rain-beaded slicker.

Sarkisian grimaced. “They’re probably moving the desk so they can examine the carpet. They’ll still be awhile. Takes a minimum of a couple of hours to finish even the simplest crime scene.”

A young man and a girl barely out of her teens-the paramedics-emerged from the living room. Gerda took one look at their drawn faces and rose to pour the contents of the waiting saucepan into the teapot. The two slumped into chairs at the table.

“Ramirez threw us out,” the girl said. She cradled between both hands the mug Gerda poured her, her fluff of drying brown hair falling forward across her absurdly childish face. “God, there’re times I hate this job.”

“Ramirez?” I pushed the sugar bowl toward the girl. She looked like she needed something stronger, she must be new to the job. My aunt apparently felt the same. The canister with its raspberry chocolate chips joined the sugar bowl.

The girl leaned forward, sniffed, and a half-smile eased the tension in her face. “The crime scene investigator. Told us to get our big muddy feet out of there before we tromped on all the evidence.”

“Tromped on any more of it, he said.” Her coworker, an African-American youth with a face too innocent for the horrors he must have seen, scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. “You should have heard what he said about sheriffs and cats and people who…” He broke off, shooting an apologetic glance at me.

“And people who find bodies and try to help?” I suggested. “I only touched his shoulder, but I did walk around the desk. I was going to phone…” I shook my head, the memory of those staring eyes too vivid for comfort.

The young man grunted. “He has nothing to complain about here, compared to some cases.” His mouth tightened, and he turned his attention to his tea.

“That was a real mood lightener,” the sheriff murmured.

“Tickets! The very thing,” Peggy announced, which for her was not quite the non sequitur it might have sounded. She produced several more booklets for the raffle from the depths of her purse. “Gives us something pleasant to think about,” she explained. “You’re coming to the pancake breakfast on Thursday, aren’t you both? Of course you are. Everyone comes so they only have to cook the one big meal that day. Gerda, I told you we should sell advance tickets for the breakfast, too. But at least they can buy these. How many?”

Somehow, both paramedics found themselves holding two books, their wallets lighter by four dollars each. Peggy, positively burning with enthusiasm for her cause-or with enthusiasm for escaping Sarkisian’s suspicious scrutiny-had to be forcibly restrained by Gerda from going in search of Sarah Jacobs, the investigator Ramirez, and the photographer Roberta Dominguez to try her luck on them.

Thuds sounded from the stairs outside, and the front door flung wide to admit the breathless and red-faced Deputy Sheriff John Goulding. He paused just over the threshold, his considerable bulk heaving as he panted. “Why,” he gasped, “do you have to have-” another breath “-twenty steps, Gerda.” He shook his grizzled head.

“What is it?” Owen Sarkisian demanded.

“Fence post,” the aging deputy informed him. “Near the road. Been bashed over.”

Sarkisian swung around to Gerda. “You know about that?”

“A fence post? One of my fence posts? No, I’d have noticed if it were near the road. It wasn’t dark yet when I went to the store.”

Sarkisian ran a hand through the tightly curling mass of his hair. “It may have nothing to do with the murder. But then again…”

“Better not go tromping through the mud around it,” said the brown-haired girl at the table, “or Ramirez will have a fit.”

“Ramirez.” Sarkisian cast a darkling glance in the direction of the living room and, presumably, the study beyond. He stalked down the hall, to return a few minutes later with the bearded crime scene investigator firmly in tow. “Now,” he was saying as they crossed the living room together. “Before the rain washes away any more evidence. Why the hell didn’t you start out there, anyway?”

“And give you a chance to muck around all over the study before I could get in there?” The tenor voice of the gangly investigator held more than a touch of condescension. “If you’re so all-fired hot to get it done outside in a hurry, why don’t you try helping? I’ve got to have casts of tire treads and any and all footprints, and God knows what else I’m going to have to check.”

Sarkisian threw open the front door, letting in a blast of icy, wet air. “Everyone else stay in here!” he yelled back before the two men disappeared outside.

“They didn’t take their rain gear,” Gerda observed. “And we’ve already used all the spare towels.”

“They can always use Vilhelm’s cage cover. He- Oh, golly, I forgot him!” I sprang to my feet and dashed for my room. I’d never refilled the parakeet’s water dish. I threw open the door, to be met by a series of cheeps, from the midst of which emerged a somewhat squeaky, “Let me out! Let me out!”

“Not on your feathery little life. Too many cats around.” I swept the cover off the cage and found the bird hanging upside down from the corner bars.

The beady black eyes glared at me. As if he’d understood, he announced, “Yummy bird, here kitty, kitty. Yummy birdy brain.”

“Glad to see you’re your usual self again.” I detached his water dish and headed for the bathroom. Muffled cries of “Let me out, let me out,” followed me across the hall from behind my closed door.

I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later to find the group around the table studying a pad of paper held by Gerda. Everyone except the burly Deputy Goulding. He stood near the dining room door, clutching a booklet of raffle tickets with a defeated look on his jowled face. I’d had past experience of Peggy’s victims. I left him to recover.

“What’re you working on?” I demanded, resuming my seat.

Peggy looked up, her bright green eyes positively gleaming. “Lists. You’re just the one to take over our little Thanksgiving festivities, dear. I’m so glad Gerda talked you into it.”

“You mean I had a choice?”

Peggy just beamed at me. “Don’t worry, I’ve been making notes of everything we’re going to need for the Pancake Breakfast.” She included the two paramedics in her determined smile. “Such a wonderful time, we’ll all have. You’ll be so glad you came. Now,” she turned back to me. “The coffee maker at the Grange Hall is broken, so you’ll have to find another one. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”

“Find a coffee maker big enough to serve a couple hundred?” I stared at her. “Oh, sure. No problem. Where?”

Peggy waved a vague hand. “That’s up to you, dear. You’re in charge. I’ll just run along and find the list for you, shall I? It’s a long one, and the breakfast is only the morning after next. So much to do.”

“For me,” I muttered.

Peggy gathered her things and wrapped around her neck the long, trailing ends of a dusty rose scarf Gerda had knitted for her the previous Christmas when Peggy’s hair had been a less volatile shade. “Would you like the recipe book now? It’s just down in my car. And it tells how much of everything you’ll need.”

“Might as well.” I appropriated someone’s rain hat and slicker and followed my aunt’s friend out the door.

The wind whipped about me, freezing after the warmth of the house. Only a light rain fell now, and overhead a star flickered in and out of sight as the clouds surged past. Maybe the weather would clear by the time I had to start running my errands.

Peggy headed down the stairs, only to come to an abrupt halt on the landing. She peered over the railing to where a search light was trained on her car. “Whatever is that sheriff doing?” she demanded, and ran down the last steps. “Young man, that is my car, I’ll have you know. What are you looking for?”

Sarkisian straightened, his expression bland. “Dented fenders.”

“Dented- Are you suggesting I’d knock over Gerda’s fence post and not tell her? The idea!”

“You think the murderer did it?” I picked my way through the puddles to join them beside the old Pontiac.

“It was knocked down real recently, that’s all I’m sure of.” He ran his hand over his dripping hair.

“Well?” Peggy demanded, her voice as icy as the wind. “May I take my car, or did you find some scratch and now intend to impound it?”

He stepped back, gesturing her toward the aged sedan. “No recent damage. Go ahead. Just be careful going out the gate. Ramirez is prowling around.”

“I’m not blind. I can see his light through the trees.” Peggy rummaged in the front seat and emerged with a thin, hardback book, which she handed to me. “Cooking for a Crowd, it’s called, or something like that. Tell Gerda goodnight for me, will you?” She climbed in and, pointedly ignoring Sarkisian, started the engine. Her headlights flicked on, and the old car surged forward around the circular curve of the drive.

“I think I offended her.” Sarkisian shook his head. “‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’”

“‘We should have thought of that before we joined the fo-orce,’” I responded promptly, as in-tune as possible-which isn’t very-not to be outdone when it came to quoting Gilbert and Sullivan.

An appreciative gleam lit his brown eyes, and he almost smiled. For a long moment his considering gaze rested on me. “Everyone around here knows you as Sheriff McKinley’s widow, don’t they?”

“I do have an identity other than that,” I pointed out.

He waved that aside. “I mean- Damn it, I’ve got to break the news to the victim’s wife. What I really need is a police woman, but Jennifer’s the nearest thing I’ve got. She’s nice, I’m not saying she isn’t, but she’s a little too…cheerful, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” I kept my voice steady. “But she’s done the job before.”

“You know Ms. Brody, don’t you?” At my nod, he added, “Then would you come with me?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do-” I broke off before I could add “less.” As one widow to another, I might be able to offer comfort-if Cindy Brody needed any, of which I was by no means certain. But more importantly, I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to be on the inside track of this investigation. If anything turned up that implicated Aunt Gerda, I wanted to know, and to be in a position to present Gerda’s side of the matter to Sarkisian. Besides, it never hurt to place the sheriff firmly in my debt. “Give me five minutes,” I said and ran for the stairs.