Cold Turkey

Chapter Five

The driveway leading to the Fairfields’ place opened off the main road about a quarter mile below Peggy O’Shaughnessy’s house. As I drew closer, I could see that Adam had made some improvements since I’d been home last. Actually, quite a few. I was really impressed. It’s not easy to make a country property look like anything but a haven for weeds.

He had transformed the entry into a magnificent array of flowering shrubs and boulders, with a covering of shredded bark and a brick border. A brilliantly white post and rail fence stretched to either side. Vinyl, not wood, I realized. No more whitewash, termites or rot. The old broken gate that had hung on rusted hinges was history, as well. In its place gleamed black wrought iron, complete with spikes tipped in gold. It stood open, the two halves drawn back so they lined the asphalt that had not been there the last time I stopped by. I took a closer look as I started up the drive. An electric gate. The brick posts from which it hung also supported a control box, complete with an intercom.

More of the flowering shrubs and shredded bark lined the full length of the drive. It wasn’t a short one, either, leading a good hundred yards up a hill. Someone-and I wagered it was Adam Fairfield himself-had put in a tremendous amount of back-breaking labor. And a tremendous amount of money, as well. And all in an attempt to get his wife back, I supposed. If he’d done all this when she’d begged for it… But that was exactly like Adam, applying bandages after the patient had bled to death.

Adam’s white Chevy pickup truck stood in front of the garage, probably where John Goulding left it last night. My gaze moved on to the house, and I slowed to a stop, impressed. It had received a new coat of paint, bright yellow with white trim. Raised brick planting beds surrounded the foundations, as yet unplanted. New shrubs lined a recently added brick walkway, though as yet no flowers filled the empty areas. That would probably wait until spring-or until Lucy returned to tend that herself. I hoped she would. So much effort deserved some reward. And I hated to see couples who’d been together for so long break up. You had to give Adam credit for trying. I hoped Lucy would.

I climbed out and walked toward the door, which opened as I neared it. Nancy Fairfield looked out, her dark, curling hair-natural, no need for a perm, here-framing her pale face and delicate features. A bulky fisherman knit sweater topped a long corduroy skirt that hugged her slender hips, and she wore sheepskin-lined boots that added an inch to her five foot four. With her eyes rimmed with red, as if she’d been crying, she looked frail and fragile.

“You should be lying down!” I blurted out. Not the most encouraging greeting, perhaps, but she really looked drained. She had started her senior year at Stanford, only to develop pneumonia two weeks into classes. She’d spent almost three weeks in the hospital before being sent home to recuperate. From the looks of her, she might not be able to resume her studies in January, as Gerda had said she’d planned.

“Just got up from the sofa.” She managed a wan smile. “I’m doing better.” She stepped back and waved for me to enter the hall.

The renovations hadn’t reached the interior yet, which remained comfortably cluttered and shabby. I looked around, trying to remember the last time I’d visited here. More than a year ago, long before Lucy had packed up and moved out. It still felt like her, warm and friendly.

A loud thud sounded from somewhere above us, and we both glanced up. “He’s getting the pot out of the attic,” Nancy explained needlessly.

“Your dad’s been doing a lot of work.” I sat in the large, padded chair she indicated. To my relief, she sat down in another.

“Everything Mom always wanted,” she agreed. Her lower lip trembled. “A bit late, though.”

“She might appreciate the gesture,” I suggested. “It’s a rather impressive one.”

“God, I hope not!” Tears started in her eyes. “They just weren’t meant to be together. Not like-” She broke off.

“Not like you and…” I racked my memory. What was the name of that guy Gerda had told me Nancy was seeing? Someone her father hated- Lowell, that was it. “You and Simon Lowell?” I finished.

Nancy blinked rapidly, then dabbed with a handkerchief at the moisture that slipped down her cheeks. “And Dad just can’t see it!” she cried with the voice of youth throughout the ages. “Just because Simon’s a little unconventional.”

Unconventional was putting it mildly, according to Gerda. Everything from his appearance to his politics seemed to upset most of the town. But I didn’t voice that comment. I’d never actually met Simon Lowell, after all. “Probably because he isn’t a third-generation Upper River Gulcher,” I said with an attempt at diplomacy.

Nancy sniffed. “He inherited his place, you know. From a great uncle. Only three years ago,” she added, grudgingly.

“That puts him in the category of summer visitor,” I said.

She didn’t smile. Just goes to show how deep in her misery she was. Normally jokes about newcomers-those who’d lived here for less than twenty years-were met with more jokes.

“I don’t see why he can’t try to get to know Simon,” she declared. “He-”

Steps sounded on the stairs, accompanied by bumps and mutters. Nancy fell silent. Another thud followed, then a minute later Adam Fairfield strode into the room. He looked as if he’d thrown on an old sweater and jeans at random onto his tall, wiry frame. He certainly hadn’t combed his sandy hair. His eyes, normally a mundane shade of brown, were so bloodshot I didn’t see how he could be standing, let alone moving coffeepots. He clutched his head and groaned.

“Hangover?” I asked, more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. It never seemed to me that the pain a person was trying to forget could possibly be worse than the one he inflicted on himself. Adam wasn’t an alcoholic. He drank by choice, not compulsion. And he seemed living-if you could call it that-proof that he’d made a very bad choice.

He nodded, then winced and sank onto an old floral pattern couch. “Your pot’s in the kitchen. You’re welcome to keep it.”

“Meaning you don’t want to haul it back to the attic?”

He grinned, then winced again. “Yeah. Hey, that’s tough about your finding Brody. Rotten thing to happen to you.”

“To him, too,” I pointed out. “How’d you hear?”

“Dave Hatter.”

“Dave…?”

“Night watchman at the Still. Thought you knew him.”

“I do. But how’d he hear? And why’d he call you?”

“Woke me up.” Adam leaned back with a groan, massaging his temples. Could his drinking be self-punishment, maybe, for driving away his wife? “Wanted to share what he thought was good news.”

“Dad’s swing-shift manager, now,” Nancy stuck in with a touch of pride. “Dave reports just about everything to him, even when Dad’s got a night off, like last night. Then Tony called, too.”

That would be Tony Carerras, one-time-or I gathered frequent-time-resident of juvenile hall, now Peggy’s prize protégé. She’d picked him up at the homeless shelter where she donated hours of work, and got Gerda to help her convince the Still’s owner, Hugh Cartwright, to hire the guy as a janitor and general grunt laborer down in shipping and receiving to give him another chance. And one chance he never missed was to pass on any tidbits of gossip, the more gruesome the better.

It wouldn’t be quite accurate to call the Still-that’s Brandywine Distillery-a grapevine. They don’t crush grapes there so much as apricots, cherries, and other varieties of fruit-and a lot of rumors and hearsay. And come to think of it, they don’t really crush them. They ferment them, add flavor, and distribute them.

“Neither one of them knew very much,” Adam opined, “only what Peggy told Tony, which was that you’d been the lucky one to find him. So, give with the gory details. Who done him in?”

“No idea. But I think the new sheriff is eyeing Aunt Gerda.”

“Gerda?” Adam sat up too fast, groaned, and sank his head back against the couch. “I’d laugh, but it’d hurt too much.”

“Peggy’s running a close second.”

That brought a deep chuckle and another groan from him. “God, if old Tom were here-” He broke off. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Oh, I agree,” I said as brightly as I could.

The sound of an engine approaching saved us from embarrassment. A moment later it cut off, and a car door slammed. Correction, a Jeep door. I could just make out the uniformed figure of our new sheriff as he headed toward the brick walkway.

Adam peered out the window. “I’m not home,” he told Nancy.

The girl closed her eyes, then gripped the arms of her chair to leverage herself up.

“I’ll get it.” I pushed her gently back against the cushions, hurried into the hall, reached the door as the first knock landed, and swung it wide.

Sheriff Sarkisian blinked at me, then frowned. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Good morning to you, too.” I bowed him in with a sweeping gesture. “Is that the way you normally say hello?”

He studied me for a long moment, but his gaze gave nothing away of his thoughts. “Just dropped in for a visit, did you?”

“Needed a giant coffee maker. They’ve got the only one in town.”

Sarkisian nodded. “Don’t let me detain you.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” I led the way back to the living room, and his glare burned into the back of my head as he followed.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” Adam said, accompanied by Nancy’s murmur of greeting. Apparently he’d decided against a hasty retreat. “Do you want a coffeepot, too?”

“Information.” The sheriff took the seat I had vacated and turned his back on me.

Adam’s brow creased. He grimaced and smoothed his fingers across his forehead. “Don’t have any. Sorry.”

The sheriff glared pointedly at me. I smiled and perched on the arm of Nancy’s chair. He seemed to consider the possibility of telling me to get lost, apparently gave up on it, and turned back to Adam. “I take it you already know what’s happened. Can you remember seeing anything last night that might help the investigation?”

“I didn’t go in to the Still, it was my day off.” Adam shook his head-carefully. “I did some work around the place, but that started me thinking about Lucy-my wife.”

“That’s the only time he ever drinks,” Nancy put in.

“Yeah, and I did, too. Went out at one point to buy some bourbon. Think I went out a second time, too. Then later-God knows when-I set off to visit Lucy. Got all the way down to the road before I realized I was too drunk to drive. I remember trying to back up, to get the truck out of the way so people could get by. Meant to leave it just inside the gate and walk home, but I couldn’t get the damn thing in reverse. So I took a nap, then tried again. Apparently I made it.”

“Nope,” Owen Sarkisian said. “John Goulding drove you home.”

“God.” Adam rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll have to thank him.”

“Can you remember hearing or seeing anything while you were down near the street? Any cars go by?”

Adam concentrated hard. “Something loud. Woke me up.” His gaze focused on me. “That damned Mustang of yours! I heard it again just now, when you came. What’ve you got on it, glass packs?”

“There’s just a bit of a hole in the exhaust system.”

“Again,” Adam put in.

“How about before that?” Sarkisian tried, dragging us back to the investigation.

Adam considered. “I think there was another engine,” he said at last. “Different one. Badly in need of a tune-up.”

Nancy stiffened beside me, but didn’t say anything.

“Thought it was a dream,” he added. “Only one like that around here is that old hippie van of Lowell’s, and there’d be no reason for him to come up this way.”

Sarkisian glanced at Nancy. “Know if Lowell was running around last night?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Wait a minute.” Adam’s expression grew thoughtful. “There’s that old barn up the road past Gerda’s. Lowell’s been using it since the spring. He might have been on his way to check his marijuana crop, or whatever it is he grows there.”

“He came by here,” Nancy blurted out.

Adam’s head jerked up, then he groaned and clutched it. “What did he want-or do I have to ask?”

“He wanted Mom’s spaghetti recipe. Said that’s about all he’s capable of cooking.”

Adam snorted. “You’re not to eat any, understand? He’ll probably use an extra brownie ingredient in it.”

Marijuana spaghetti? Well, he might, for all I knew. I’d have to ask Gerda more about Simon Lowell. Or better yet, meet him.

“Anything else?” Sarkisian prompted.

Adam frowned for a minute, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff, at least for the moment. He rose to leave, so I did, too. Much to my surprise, he carried the coffee maker out to my car for me. I unlocked the trunk, and he set it in with elaborate-and I’ll swear sarcastic-care.

It didn’t fit. The diameter proved too big for my car, which I’d always thought had impressive trunk room. I stood there staring at the open lid as the drizzle resumed. My poor car was going to get drenched.

“I’ll get some string so you can tie it down,” said Nancy, who had followed us out. She headed back to the house.

Sarkisian leaned against the side of my car, oblivious to the damp. “Hear what you wanted to hear?”

“That’s not why I came,” I reminded him.

“But it’s why you stayed.”

I opened my eyes as wide and innocent as possible. “I just needed help carrying that thing out.”

He gave me a withering look. “You’re not trying to keep tabs on the investigation?”

“It was my husband, not me, who was sheriff.”

“I know that,” snapped Sarkisian. “Not a single goddamn day passes but someone tells me how Sheriff McKinley would have handled even the most routine task.” He shoved away from the car. “Stick to the Thanksgiving festivities, and I’ll handle the murder.” He stalked off, but only as far as Adam’s pickup. He stooped over and examined the bumpers.

Apparently he found no traces of any fresh dents, because when Nancy returned with the string, he came back and tied down my trunk, then drove off in his Jeep. Probably to Simon Lowell’s. I glared after him, still irritated by his comments, though I knew I was being unfair. I really couldn’t blame him for being resentful of the love everyone felt for Tom. It wasn’t easy taking over from a man who had really belonged here. The interim sheriff-Guzman-had also been a native, but it was Tom people still talked about.

As I started up my car, I remembered another bit of information provided by Gerda. Simon Lowell was a real estate agent, the only one in town, in fact. That meant, by tradition, he managed the Grange Hall. And arranging for the use of that hall, and obtaining its key, was the next item on my list. I honestly felt sorry for poor Sarkisian as I set off after him.

Gerda had also pointed out the way to Lowell’s land to me on one of my last visits home. It lay farther down the hill from Adam Fairfield’s, on a side lane that paralleled Fallen Tree Road. I bumped along the rutted dirt track that led to his place, bounced across the narrow bridge over the stream, caught my convertible top as the latches popped, then pulled in relative dryness around the curve and through the gate onto a surprisingly well-kept driveway.

Sure enough, the sheriff’s Jeep stood in front of the dilapidated barn, and Owen Sarkisian himself stood on the porch of the ancient cabin beside a young man all curly brown beard, handlebar mustache, and long hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a torn flannel shirt, stained overalls, and soft leather boots with fringe just below the knee. Hippiedom, the next generation, I reflected, enjoying the picture he made.

Sarkisian broke off whatever he was saying to glare at me. I gave him a bright smile as I climbed out of Freya. “I’m innocent!” I called to him, and ignored his snort of disbelief as I refastened the car’s top. “I’ve come on Thanksgiving business, but don’t let me interrupt you. I can wait ‘til you’re through.”

Simon Lowell descended the two steps and strode toward me, hand extended to shake mine. He had a firm grasp, and amusement glinted in his hazel eyes. “If that’s your car, you must be Annike McKinley. Glad to finally meet you. Would you care to join us? We’re about to inspect my van.”

Sarkisian glowered and muttered something under his breath. I thought I caught the words “interfering” and “busybody,” but thought it best not to pursue the matter. He looked more than a trifle irritated with me. I couldn’t blame him. But that didn’t mean I was going to go away, either.

They started for the barn, with me trailing behind. It really was the epitome of picturesque, in a rustic, weathered gray, tumbled-down way. It was exactly the sort of thing that got painted on those PBS shows, where an artist showed you how to turn out a masterpiece in half an hour. I stared up at the broken-hinged upper hatchway where a winch and pulley would once have loaded in bales of hay.

“Something else, isn’t it?” called Simon. He grinned at me and threw open one side of the huge sagging double doors. “Got what you’re looking for right here, I’ll bet, sheriff.”

I hurried to join them-and to get out of the drizzle. An old VW van, about the same vintage as my Mustang, stood just within. At some point, some creative soul, undoubtedly under the influence of something illegal, had taken cans of spray paint and gone to town. I think-but honestly couldn’t be certain-that the original color had been red. Now it looked like a flashback to a psychedelic bad trip.

Simon gestured toward his vehicle-to use the term loosely. “Voilà. One damaged fender. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? Evidence I was up at Gerda’s last night?”

Sarkisian’s face gave nothing away. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

I had to admit, this new sheriff was nothing like a TV cop. He didn’t make accusations-in spite of what Gerda had accused him of last night-he didn’t bully, he just invited people, in a perfectly reasonable tone, to tell their stories. Whether they told the truth or lied their heads off, he didn’t seem to care. He just wanted them to start talking. I waited to see the results.

Such a congenial attitude from an officer of the law threw Simon off balance. With his appearance, his outspoken and unpopular communist politics, and his van, he must have had numerous run-ins, some of them all the way down to the police station, I wagered. He stared at Sarkisian, eyes narrowed, as if trying to penetrate the sheriff’s amiability to the trap he seemed to believe lay beneath. “I didn’t go to her house,” he declared, though Sarkisian had made no such suggestion.

“Just her fencepost?” Sarkisian’s tone held a touch of humor.

Simon eyed him warily. “Yeah, well, I came out beside her driveway. There’re a few new ruts since I used that route last. The one nearest the road ditched me. I was trying to back out, and then suddenly I did, and I was in the post.”

“Just cruising around the back roads to while away a long, rainy evening?”

Simon flushed. “I was leaving the Fairfield’s house in a hurry. I didn’t want to get Nancy in trouble.”

“How would you have done that?” Sarkisian raised his eyebrows a mere fraction of an inch, invitingly.

Simon shrugged. “I’d gone over to see her because she said it was safe, that her father had driven into Meritville to buy more beer or whatever, but apparently he’d only gone down to the Graham’s store. I couldn’t leave until he’d drunk himself into a stupor, or he’d have heard my van.”

“Wouldn’t he have seen it?”

Simon shook his head. “I parked it behind the house, where it can’t be seen from the drive.”

“So you left when her father had fallen asleep? When was that?”

“About five-forty, five-forty-five, somewhere around then. Sorry, can’t be exact. We hadn’t heard a sound from him for awhile, so I thought I’d make a run for it.”

Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “But not down the drive?”

“His window looks out over it. No, I cut across the old gravel area and through that empty pasture of Peggy’s.”

“Escape that way often, do you?” the sheriff asked.

Simon shrugged. “A couple times before. Adam Fairfield has a nasty temper, especially when he’s been drinking.”

So both Adam and Simon had been out and about shortly before the murder, and neither one had a solid alibi. Had Adam heard Simon’s van as it left his house? Or had Simon still been out-say, up at Gerda’s-later, when Adam had been parked at the foot of his drive? But as far as I knew, neither one of them had any reason for wanting Clifford Brody dead. If Adam had been the one killed, I might have suspected Simon. And the other way around. But Brody didn’t fit into that little two-man feud.

The sheriff started back toward his Jeep, and Simon and I followed. Simon Lowell seemed nice enough, in spite of his unconventional appearance. But then Upper River Gulch was a town that attracted eccentrics. I ought to know. I’d grown up living with one of the prize exhibits, and I loved her dearly. I only wished I could judge just how far Lowell let his eccentricity take him.

“Coffeepot?” Simon asked as we reached the cars.

Well, it was sort of obvious, with the trunk gaping like that. “Just came from the Fairfields’s house,” I told him.

“How’s Nancy?” His concern sounded genuine, but I couldn’t tell for certain whether his intense interest lay in the girl or what the sheriff and I might have learned from her about his activities.

“She looked tired, but otherwise all right.”

“And what Thanksgiving business brought you here, anyway?” demanded Owen Sarkisian. His affability, so rampant with Simon, evaporated when he turned to me.

“Cindy Brody never arranged to use the Grange Hall.”

Sarkisian regarded Simon with a frown. “You’re a real estate agent, I guess.” He sighed. “All right.” He got into his Jeep and, with a wave for Simon and a glare for me, drove off.

“There’re forms you have to fill out, I suppose,” Simon said as we watched the sheriff vanish around the first bend. “I’ve no idea where you go, though.”

“Don’t you manage it?” That would be just my luck. “You’re the only real estate agent in town.”

“The building is county-owned, and the county officials didn’t approve of me.” He considered. “The key’s probably at the county offices in Meritville. Afraid you’ll have to go there to apply for formal permission to use the building.”

I shook my head. “Never,” I said with feeling, “get involved in any SCOURGE event.” And with that highly inadequate dictum, I climbed into Freya and set off to grovel.