Cold Turkey

Chapter Four

Cindy Brody’s house stood at the far end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a peaceful neighborhood of Meritville, Merit County’s principal-but still small-town. A peach-tinted streetlight illumined the rolling rain-drenched lawn with its majestic willow centerpiece, neatly trimmed escallonia shrubs lining a curved cement driveway, and an impressive pseudo-Tudor rising out of an orderly arrangement of raphiolepis and climbing roses. Definitely the upper rent district.

“Hate to see her lease on that,” muttered Sheriff Sarkisian. He slowed the official Jeep and swung onto the cement drive. “I take it accountancy pays.”

“Depends.” I, at least, had never managed to bring in exorbitant wealth in that profession. Maybe my problem was honesty. That was one trait I doubted Clifford Brody had shared.

Sarkisian set the brake and switched off the engine. “Did she want this divorce, or was it his idea?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking her?” I unbuckled my seat belt but found myself in no hurry to climb out into the late November storm.

“I mean,” he said, unlocking his door, “should I be calling a doctor to prescribe tranquilizers for her? Is she going to take this hard?”

It wasn’t my place to prejudice him. I said simply, “I think we can handle it alone.”

“Ahhh.” He gave the sound a wealth of meaning. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

We ran for the shelter provided by the roof’s overhang, and Sarkisian rang the doorbell. A minute passed, and he was just reaching for it again when the squeak of rubber soles on tile reached us. The next moment a light flooded the little porch area, and a brisk alto voice called, “Who is it?”

“Merit County sheriff, Ms. Brody. And Annike McKinley. We’d like to talk to you.”

A key turned in the deadbolt, and the door opened a few inches on a heavy chain. A perfectly made-up face appeared for a fraction of a second, then retreated. The chain rattled, and the door opened wide.

Cindy Brody stood in the full glare of the hall light, all sleek designer jeans from the best shop, sleek designer dark hair from the best salon, and sleek designer body from the best health spa-and possibly the best plastic surgeon. She must be almost as old as me. And looked a good ten years younger.

Cindy nodded briefly to me, her attention focused on Sarkisian. “So you’re the new sheriff.” Her gaze ran over him in an appraising-and openly approving-manner. A slow smile settled on her perfectly reddened mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“Could we sit down?” Sarkisian eased himself a step away from her. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

“What, did you clock my car going over the speed limit or something?” She smoothed down the clinging yellow knit top over the waistband of her blue jeans, then led the way across the Italian marbled entry hall into a living room decorated in shades of white and cream. Draping herself onto the natural-colored sofa, she indicated with an airy wave for Sarkisian to join her. Apparently, I could fend for myself.

I took the chair across a low glass-topped coffee table from our hostess and leaned forward. “It’s your husband, Cindy.”

The woman stiffened. “God, what’s he done this time? I love him, I really do, but I just can’t take any more. I’ve reached the point where that divorce can’t be settled a moment too soon for my peace of mind. What is it, now? Go on, tell me the worst.”

I did. “He’s dead.”

Cindy blinked. “Dead? Oh!” She groped ineffectually over the coffee table, then searched her pocket and dragged out a tissue. She buried her face in this, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded muffled. “Dead! I-I can’t believe it. Dead! Dear Cliff.” After about ten seconds, during which time no one spoke, she looked up. “Don’t tell me he crashed the Mercedes! Oh, please, not the car!”

Sarkisian, who’d been glaring at me, transferred his disapproving look to Cindy. “Not the car.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” She leaned back against the cushions, extended her long legs in front of her, and dabbed at dry eyes with the corner of the tissue. “How did it happen, then?”

Sarkisian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he was murdered.”

“Mur- Oh, no. But who…? I can’t believe it!”

She wailed on, but I didn’t listen. In my opinion, Cindy Brody could use some acting lessons. I’d swear her predominating emotion was satisfaction, not shock, though to her credit, I sensed distress, as well. Or was that just uneasiness?

Definitely unease. And she hadn’t asked how, when, or where her husband had been murdered. The news had come as no surprise to her. She’d known. But how?

I allowed my gaze to travel down Cindy’s jean-clad legs-damn, I’d give anything to be able to squeeze into a size that small-until I hit the ankles. Something brown smeared around the rolled hem at the bottom. Mud? The small expanse of dark blue nylon stockings didn’t offer any clues. I shifted in my seat to get a glimpse of the soles of her running shoes. Mud, all right. Streaked and mostly wiped off, but definitely mud.

Cindy had her face buried in her tissue again, this time adding an artistic sniff. I gestured at Sarkisian, catching his eye. He glanced at me, and I pointed at Cindy’s feet. He signaled me to be still, but checked out the mud for himself. It was a pity there wouldn’t be any readable footprints around Aunt Gerda’s house. The heavy rains had done too thorough a job of saturating the soil and smearing any clues.

Cindy looked up and managed a trembling smile. “It’s very kind of you-of both of you-to bring me the news. I didn’t even know you were home, Annike.”

“I just got here. It’s a terrible night to be out driving, isn’t it?”

Cindy nodded. “That’s why I stayed in.”

“You did?” I kept the skepticism out of my voice, but it wasn’t easy. “What have you been doing?”

“Preparing for Thanksgiving. I’ve got out-of-town guests arriving tomorrow, so everything’s going to be chaos. I thought I’d get a jump on it by starting this evening.”

“Guests?” My compassion surged to the forefront. “Look, would you like me to call them for you? Break the news? I know how hard it can be telling people.”

Cindy shook her head. “I’ll let them know when they get here.”

“Get…” I blinked. “You mean you still want them to come?”

“After all this work? I’m not about to call it off, now.”

“No, of course not,” I murmured, taken aback. I glanced at Sarkisian, but he said nothing, merely sitting there with a sympathetic expression plastered on his face. I turned back to Cindy. “All that work,” I agreed in what I hoped was a commiserating tone. “Is that why you resigned as event-coordinator?”

Cindy’s mouth tightened. “Your aunt told you about that, did she? It was the only thing I could do! There was no way I could get ready for my friends when I was forever running around on the most ridiculous errands. Have you seen the lists they’ve all made up?”

“I’m about to. They elected me to take over.”

Cindy gave a short laugh. “You have my condolences. If you want some advice, don’t go anywhere near Peggy. Don’t even listen to that woman! She’s list-crazy.”

Sarkisian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve had a shock, Ms. Brody.”

Cindy jerked her head around to look at him. “Oh, God, yes. Am I babbling?” She resorted to her tissue once more, then began shredding it. “I’m sorry, it’s just that anything is better than talking about…about Cliff. I mean, just because I couldn’t bear to live with him any more doesn’t mean I can face the fact he’s dead. It’s…” She broke off and shuddered.

“You need some brandy,” Sarkisian announced. “Got some? Ms. McKinley, you stay with her while I go and find some. In the kitchen?”

“That’s very kind of you. In the dining room. There’re some decanters on the sideboard. Bring snifters for you two, as well.”

He nodded. “You keep an eye on her, Ms. McKinley.”

He put enough edge in these last words so that even an idiot must know he meant something special by it. Luckily, Cindy Brody appeared too preoccupied to notice. I moved to the sofa so Cindy would have to turn away from the door to the dining room.

I pinned a false smile on my face. “This is a lovely house, Cindy. Much nicer than just getting an apartment.”

Cindy took the bait. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, but Cliff… Well, he never wanted to spend money for something like this. He said he preferred antique country charm.”

“Drafty houses always falling apart,” I interpreted. Over Cindy’s shoulder, I glimpsed Sarkisian passing through the dining room and peering through another doorway beyond. He disappeared through it. I rushed into speech as a faint creak of hinges reached me. “I never understood how he could have so much money and never let you spend any of it.”

Cindy’s eyes gleamed, she started to speak, then shut her mouth tight. After a moment, she mopped her dry eyes again. “Dear Cliff, he was certainly an original. It’s sad we developed different goals in life.”

True. He liked to amass money, she liked to spend it.

“We’ve gotten along much better since we separated,” Cindy went on. “Isn’t that odd? But I understand it happens a lot. We really cared about each other, you know. We just weren’t made to live together. You weren’t married long enough to reach that stage, I suppose.”

Thanks for the reminder, I reflected, and chalked up one more reason to dislike Cindy Brody. With an effort, I forced my smile to remain firmly in place. “What will you do now? Stay here?”

“Ummm.” Cindy’s gaze roamed around the living room. “Right here. I made sure I had an option to buy.”

“I thought you weren’t expecting much in the divorce settlement!” I blurted out, then could have bitten my tongue.

Cindy waved that aside. “Oh, you know how Cliff talked. All he really wanted was for me to forget about the divorce and go back to him. I always knew he’d come down handsomely in the end.”

She was the only one who did, then, according to Aunt Gerda. And that certainly wasn’t the opinion Cindy’d been voicing all over Upper River Gulch. What was keeping Sarkisian? I searched for another topic to keep Cindy busy. “How long are your friends staying?”

“Only a few days, but you know what company is like. You want everything to be perfect.”

With relief, I saw Sarkisian reappear. He vanished again, but this time I heard the chink of crystal. “I suppose you’ve been baking pies and bread. Aunt Gerda always raves about your pies.” That the crusts were from the freezer department of a grocery store, that Cindy relied on sugar to try to cover up for canned ingredients, and that she had no imagination with the spices, but I didn’t mention that.

Cindy looked over her shoulder. “Where… Ah, here he comes. Only two brandies, Sheriff?”

“I’m on duty. And I’m driving.” He handed over the glasses. “Are you going to be all right, Ms. Brody? Would you like us to call anyone to come and stay with you?”

Cindy took a sip of the rich amber liquid. “No. I’ll just keep myself busy. That’s always the best course, isn’t it, when you’ve suffered a tragedy? Do so many things you don’t have time to think until you’ve grown accustomed to the loss? That’s what I’ll do.” She rose gracefully to her feet and ran a hand over the impeccable smoothness of her hair. “I’ll be fine, really I will. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Thanks and get out,” I murmured as we found ourselves on the other side of the front door a minute later. “I didn’t even get to taste my brandy. She could hardly wait to get rid of us, could she? What were you doing for so long?”

Sarkisian swung himself into the Jeep. “Checking her car. The hood felt warm.”

I worked that out as I climbed in beside him. “Warm but not hot. So she’s been out, but has been home for a while. Any dents on any fenders?”

“Not a mark.” He backed onto the wet street. The wipers slapped back and forth, streaking more than they cleared.

That didn’t rule her out, though. “Did you happen to go into the kitchen?”

Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah. The door to the garage was through there. Why?”

“Any pies lying around on the counters? Any sign she’d been preparing bread dough? I didn’t smell anything like that, and you know how those aromas can fill an entire house.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, he actually looked wistful. “No. A TV dinner tray in the trash, dirty fork and cup in the sink, but no bowls or pans.”

I regarded his Roman-nosed profile for a moment, then stared ahead through the rain. “For someone who spent the evening getting an early start on Thanksgiving,” I said with a determinedly neutral voice, “she doesn’t seem to have gotten the usual chores done.”

“No cooking, no curiosity about the details of the murder, a warm engine, and mud on her shoes,” the sheriff mused. “Well, looks like my life isn’t going to be boring for a bit.”

I didn’t get to sleep until well after two in the morning. By that time, Sheriff Sarkisian and his fellow ghouls had been long gone. Aunt Gerda, though, had refused to go to bed. She’d sat before the blazing fire in the living room, three of the cats ensconced in her lap and two curled on her feet, drinking cup after cup of tea and systematically working her way through both the lemon shortbreads and the raspberry chocolate chips. I held the other two cats, and derived considerable comfort from them. I needed it. A yellow tape remained across the study door, a grim reminder we hadn’t seen the last of this mess.

It seemed like I had barely managed to ship my aunt off to her room and crawl into my own bed, when the sound of excited voices roused me. I groaned, considered the matter, and decided that just this once, morning could arrive without my help. I snuggled further beneath the flannel-covered down comforter, trying to cover my ears, but the commotion still reached me. Having the bedroom nearest the living room had always been a pain.

A loud cheep sounded from the covered bird cage, followed by an insistent cry of, “I’m a pest! I’m a pest!”

I rolled over, giving up. “You don’t have to prove it.”

The parakeet answered with a string of noisy chatter, in which I only caught an occasional disjointed word.

A light knock sounded on my door, and it opened a few inches. “Time to wake up,” came Aunt Gerda’s annoyingly bright voice. Too bright. It sounded forced. “The whole Service Club board is here, just waiting for you.”

“Oh, great. A convergence of SCOURGEs. What did I ever do to deserve this?”

That brought a momentary ease to the strain on Gerda’s face. She looked down her powdered nose at me. “Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs,” she corrected once again.

With a sigh, I rolled out from under the warm cocoon and groped in my duffel bag for the bathrobe I’d forgotten to pack.

The clock read twenty minutes before nine, but it felt more like five in the morning. I never was very good at staying up late. I fought back a yawn and dragged on my jeans and a sweatshirt. Vilhelm broke off his cheeping long enough to launch a violent attack on the empty cola can that was his favorite toy. I pulled off his cover, told him to be good, and headed out the door. As I closed it behind me, I heard him heave the can across the cage, then chase after it, scolding all the way.

“Fresh bread for breakfast,” Aunt Gerda called with determined cheeriness as I wandered into the living room.

“Provided anyone’s left you any,” chimed in Peggy. The little woman perched on the edge of the sofa, her narrow head haloed in orange-red curls.

Beside her sat Ida Graham, who invariably put me in mind of a rather frowzy-but lovable-Shetland pony. This morning the plump little woman had tied back her thick gray hair in a ponytail, leaving only a blunt-cut forelock free. The button-front apron she usually wore to work at the mom-and-pop store she ran with her husband covered her roomy jeans and bedraggled sweatshirt. Art Graham, her husband, stood from where he’d been seated on her other side, and I leaned across to shake his proffered hand.

Ida waved the last chunk of yeasty-smelling oat bread at me. “Some welcome home for you, huh, kiddo? Peggy’s been saying you had the sheriff’s whole crew here all night.”

“We kicked them out when we got sleepy,” Gerda assured her with a complete disregard for the truth.

“Yeah, right.” Sue Hinkel leaned back in an arm chair, managing to look like an ad for her beauty shop even with her mouth full of cinnamon roll. Several more stood on a plate on the cedar chest that served as a coffee table. She had pulled back her long red hair-natural, unlike Peggy’s-into a twist, fastening it on top of her head. On her, it looked terrific. But then on Sue, everything looked terrific. Even freckles. For that matter, even cinnamon rolls.

I smiled at the doctor, Sarah Jacobs, who sat curled into an overstuffed chair. “The whole SCOURGE elite squad. Gad, what an honor.”

“Revel in it while you can,” Sue advised with a grin. “We’re about to put you to work.”

“Speaking of which,” Art Graham interrupted, “we’ve got to get back to the store. We left my nephew watching things.”

“He can’t do any serious harm in an hour,” Ida assured her husband, though she didn’t sound all that convinced herself.

“This won’t take very long,” Dr. Jacobs put in. “Everyone’s already gawked at the yellow tape and gossiped all they can about the murder-”

“Yeah,” stuck in Sue, “because you won’t tell us anything juicy.”

“I don’t know anything,” Sarah Jacobs protested. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. As I was saying, all we have to do is initiate Annike into her new job, and that won’t take all of us.”

Sue Hinkel gave an evil chuckle. “Oh, but we wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Watch it, or I’ll get my permanents elsewhere,” I shot at her.

Sue grinned, shaking her terrific red hair which miraculously didn’t come loose. “I’ve got a monopoly here in town. Even Perfect Cindy won’t let some butcher from Meritville touch her. And don’t try to pretend you’ll go to San Francisco. Gerda’s already told us you’ve come home to stay.”

“She has, has she?” I directed a darkling glance at my aunt, who had just emerged from the kitchen. “Then since I’m here, maybe she’ll feed me a real breakfast.”

“Later, dear. Here’s some tea.” Gerda handed over a steaming mug. “Chamomile, with a touch of St. John’s wort and wood betony to make you less grouchy.”

“Make it up by the pot,” I advised, and sank onto the only vacant seat, the bench from my aunt’s loom. “Okay, what’s the consensus of the convergence?”

“That you’ll do a wonderful job.” Peggy O’Shaughnessy leaned forward with a rustle of papers as she brandished the notebook containing her lists. “We’re going to have more fun than ever this year.”

“Who is?” I murmured.

Sue Hinkel selected another roll. “We are. You are another story.”

“Make it one with a happy ending.” I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, let’s hear the worst. What have you got planned?”

“You’ll enjoy every minute of it,” Peggy assured me.

“You have to. That’s on her list,” Sue stuck in.

Peggy shot her a repressive look, then turned back to me. “And it’ll give you a chance to tell a whole lot of people you’re taking over from Brody.”

I peered at the corner of the page I could see. “Is that on your list, too?”

Orange and white tail held high, Furface strolled into the living room. Before I could get my feet to safety, he latched his teeth onto my ankle, purring as he did so. I detached him with care. He’d never yet drawn blood, but there was always a first time. Still purring, he settled his considerable haunches on the loom’s treadles, and six of the eight harnesses shot upward by varying degrees. They lowered a little as the cat curled into his impression of an overweight furry brick. He regarded the crowd with unblinking eyes.

“First,” pronounced Peggy, ignoring both Furface’s and my interruptions, “is the pancake breakfast on Thursday morning. That’s culminating in a turkey raffle, as you already know.” She lowered her wire-rimmed glasses down her narrow nose and peered at me. “You haven’t bought any ticket books for yourself, yet, have you? Don’t worry, I’ve got a few more in my bag.”

“Later,” I said quickly. “Breakfast and raffle, Thursday morning. What’s next?”

Peggy consulted her notes. “That would be Friday at one, and the First Annual Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest.”

“A pie eating contest.” I looked around the circle of SCOURGEs in disbelief. “The day after Thanksgiving when everyone’s been stuffing themselves? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“You weren’t here for the Third Annual Harvest Festival Pumpkin Growing Contest,” Gerda told her. She dragged a kitchen chair into the room and stationed it near a basket of freshly dyed turquoise wool. “It was an overwhelming success. In fact, it’s the sole reason for the pie eating contest. We didn’t know what else to do with all the pumpkin, and it seemed such a waste to throw it out.”

“Why didn’t you donate it to the homeless shelter, or the church?”

“We did.” Peggy beamed at me. “And they were very happy, but neither of them had much freezer space. So they cooked up what they could use and gave the rest back.”

“A lot of rest back,” stuck in Ida Graham. “We’d intended to can it, but no one’s had any time.”

“Pumpkin pies,” I muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope they’ve already been baked?”

“Much too much.” Gerda picked up several locks of the uncombed wool and began to tease them with rapid-or nervous-movements of her fingers. Amazingly, only the black tom Clumsy helped, batting at the brightly colored fluffs she set aside ready for carding. “Cooked, turned into pie filling and frozen, but that’s it.”

“Great.” I caught the corner of Peggy’s list. “Only one event for Friday? Good. What about Saturday?”

Art Graham stretched out a long arm and took one of the few remaining rolls. “That’s the same as always. The Clean-Up-the-Park project. Fourth Annual this time around, isn’t it, Ida?” he asked his wife.

Ida nodded. “Not that it really needs it since we put in the trash cans and conned the Boy Scouts into mowing and pruning. Thank heavens for community service requirements for ranks.”

“Can’t we just skip it, then?” I looked from one to the other of them, and my budding hope faded.

“Tradition,” Art Graham said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to give up any of our little traditions.”

“It’s only been done three times before!”

“Think of it as pre-holiday decorating,” suggested Sue Hinkel. “We’ll be stringing the lights and hanging the banners, even if we don’t turn on the electricity or unfurl anything for another week. This way, the park’s ready for the dinner, and the heavy Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa work gets done, too, and we only have to gather the workers once.”

Gerda peered over the top of her glasses at me. “Never turn down anyone who volunteers to work, dear.”

I snagged the last cinnamon roll from under Sue’s nose. Store-bought, of the cellophane and plastic container variety. Not even heating in the microwave had induced them to give off any heavenly aromas. With a sigh, I bit into it. “What are you bribing them with?”

Ida Graham gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Got it in one, kiddo. Hugh Cartwright promised to come through with a trial batch of one of his new liqueurs. That, and the pie leftovers.”

“Which brings us to Sunday afternoon’s Thirty-Sixth Annual Community Dinner-in-the-Park,” Peggy announced. “See? We told you it wouldn’t be all that hard. And I’ve made lists of everything you need to do.” She proffered her notebook.

I accepted it and leafed through the first few pages. My sense of uneasiness grew. “Nothing’s checked off.”

“Gee,” Sue murmured.

I looked from one to the other of the SCOURGEs. Not one of them met my gaze. “Nothing’s checked off!” I repeated.

“We told you,” Peggy said with exaggerated patience. “Cindy was supposed to assign jobs to people. She didn’t.”

I flipped back to the first page. “The breakfast is set for tomorrow morning.”

“Check out the first item.” Sarah Jacobs leaned across and tapped the sheet. “The one about reserving the Grange Hall? Guess who never got around to it.”

“Great. But they’ll know we’re counting on it. Won’t they?”

Peggy sprang to her feet, disturbing the calico Birgit who’d been snoozing on the cushion behind her. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all, dear. Just a couple hours on the phone, and everything will be settled. Now, we’ll run along and let you get to work. Gerda, you should dye another batch of wool that color. It’ll make the most heavenly sweater. Gotta dash, I’m going to be late to the Still. You wouldn’t believe the number of invoices and purchase orders I have to process every day.”

The SCOURGEs evaporated from the room, leaving me clutching the notebook with its myriad detailed notes. At least I wouldn’t have to figure out what needed to be done. I only had to do it. Great.

I took time out for a hasty bowl of low-fat granola-homemade, of course, from Aunt Gerda’s own recipe. It was the only cereal she stocked in her pantry cabinet. Then I headed for the kitchen phone to begin the round of placating and begging calls. At that moment, my old hated accounting firm began to take on the golden glow of fond remembrance.

I got lucky with the first item on the list. The homeless shelter’s source for bulk foods promised me not only all the pancake mix I needed, but sausages, sliced bacon, and dozens of cartons of eggs. They could even supply a crate or two of oranges. When they told me they’d deliver, as well, I nearly swooned with delight. We struck a deal, I gave them directions to the Grange, and promised to meet them there in the early afternoon. Now, if only the rest of my arrangements would go as smoothly, I might survive this SCOURGE scourge, after all.

They didn’t. I spent the next ten minutes going down the list item by item, noting names and numbers of likely prospects, without getting a single phone response from any of them. Then I reached “coffee maker.” Peggy had warned me the night before the Grange’s machine had broken. “Anyone have a coffee machine big enough for the breakfast?” I called to where Gerda still sat in the living room. “Or am I going to have to have everyone bring their own?”

“Let’s see.” Aunt Gerda’s voice trailed off, and a long minute of silence stretched. Then, “Try the Fairfields. Lucy inherited the one from the defunct women’s club. I doubt she hauled it away with her when she left Adam. Maybe Nancy can find it.”

Adam Fairfield, whom Sheriff Sarkisian had found parked part way into the street last night, too drunk to drive. And whom the sheriff had stated his intention of visiting first thing this morning.

If our visits coincided, I just might find out if Adam remembered seeing someone pass his house headed toward Aunt Gerda’s at about the time of the murder. Or if he didn’t, perhaps his daughter Nancy had. I came to a decision. Someone had ruthlessly dumped poor Gerda in the middle of this mess, making her a prime suspect. I took that as a personal affront. I had no intention of letting the wheels of justice inch forward in low gear. I intended to make sure this new sheriff did his job, and did it efficiently. And first on that list would be to see if the Fairfields could offer us anything other than coffeepots.

With renewed vigor, I picked up the phone and dialed.