Cold Turkey (17 page)

Peggy, aided by her shadow Tony, dragged a trash bag from around the back. Together they heaved it into the bin. Together, they just about had the strength. She said something to him and he nodded, waved, and strode toward his motorcycle. Peggy hurried toward her car.

Sarkisian headed her off. “Never got a chance to ask you where you were Tuesday afternoon,” he said. “Around four to six o’clock.”

Peggy hesitated. “Didn’t you? You asked so many questions.” She shot a glance at Tony, who had mounted his bike and donned his helmet. He started to roll the thing toward her, as if in response to some unheard plea, but she waved him away. He hesitated, then kicked the motor into life and shot out of the lot.

“You said you were at home when you heard the sirens going up to Ms. Lundquist’s,” he persisted. “How long had you been there?”

“Oh.” Again, she hesitated. “Not long. I—I’d been in Meritville. At my son’s garage. He’s a mechanic, you know. I do his bookkeeping for him.”

“That’s what you were doing on Tuesday?”

“Not then, no,” she admitted. She didn’t meet his steady gaze. “I just dropped in to say hi, and stayed talking.”

“Meritville’s a long way to go to just to drop in.” Sarkisian kept his tone purely conversational.

She raised her pointed chin. “You obviously aren’t a mother.” And on that unanswerable note, she stalked to her car, climbed in and drove off.

Sarkisian watched her go. So did I. I’ve known Peggy most of my life, and thought I knew her well enough to know when she was being evasive or downright lying. And that, I would swear, had been a downright lie. But why? I honestly could not believe she would have killed Brody—at least, not in Gerda’s house. She was too good a friend to leave my aunt to face the resulting mess. But could she, I wondered, have killed him on a furious impulse? What if she’d gone over to Gerda’s and found him there alone poring over my aunt’s financial records? Was she, in fact, capable of murder? It upset me to realize I couldn’t be certain. Most people, I knew, if threatened sufficiently, might be capable of killing. You just never knew, even about yourself, until you were pressed to your very limit.

Cindy stood beside her sporty little Mazda but showed no inclination to climb in. She sighed in an exaggerated manner. “It’s going to be strange, with just me for Thanksgiving dinner,” she called to me.

“Then you shouldn’t have sent your friends home,” I muttered, but too softly for anyone to hear. For that matter, I wasn’t all that sure there ever had been any friends.

Gerda caught my arm. “Don’t invite her,” she hissed.

I grinned. “We’re having a vegetarian meal,” I called. “But if you’d like…”

Cindy shuddered. “I’m not into tofu.”

Actually, I quite liked the stuff. Normally. But not when it replaced something I’d been dreaming about for weeks.

“Well,” Cindy went on, “I suppose I’ll have to try to prepare some sort of meal.” She looked sideways at the sheriff, who had just walked away from Simon Lowell’s psychedelic van.

Was she angling for sympathy from the sheriff? Or an invitation to join him? “What about all that food you were preparing for your guests?” I demanded.

Cindy shot me a glare, which she masked with an artificial laugh. “I’d even stuffed my turkey, but I’ve been having second thoughts about it. After all, Gerda is always lecturing about the bacteria in a pre-stuffed bird.”

I doubted any such bird existed. To Cindy’s patent annoyance, Sarkisian helped me pack the remaining pie filling into my trunk. I couldn’t tell if she was making a play for him or merely trying to charm him into believing her incapable of murdering her cheating, money-hiding husband. But I’d begun to develop a pretty fair opinion of Sarkisian’s intelligence—his bullshit detector, as he called it.

And so we sailed out of the Grange lot at last. Unfortunately, I had to stop a short block later to take Gerda to the store, but while she made her selections, Ida set to work on the phone. Art busied himself ringing up my aunt’s purchases, and Ida assured me she’d have a list of filling deliveries for me by the time I got home.

I dropped Aunt Gerda off at the house. But not, much to my growing fury, the turkey. It refused to get out. When I tried to pick it up, it pecked me, drawing blood. Since we were in the garage, and therefore sheltered from the renewing drizzle, I lowered Freya’s top, which toppled back with only the slightest push. Definitely, too much WD-40. Maybe by the time I’d called Ida, the damned bird would have hopped out.

It hadn’t. I made a few more attempts to rid my car of its squatting tenant, then had to admit that for right now, at least, the damned turkey was winning. I put the top up again—which seemed to please the bird—pressed the latches extra hard in the hope they’d hold, and set off on my rounds to deliver the pumpkin pie filling, chauffeuring my unwelcome feathered passenger.

By the time I returned home, I felt a little better. I’d managed to unload almost all the pie filling and obtained promises from everyone that they wouldn’t forget to bake and that they’d see me without fail the following afternoon. A few of them I even believed.

Once more in the garage, that damned bird still wouldn’t vacate the backseat. Disgusted, I gave up—for the moment—and went upstairs.

I found Gerda in the kitchen, standing beside a table filled with foil-wrapped packages. She looked up, arranging her features in her most determined expression. “Take this over to the church for me. They’ll be glad of the extras.”

I sighed. “That’s our dinner, isn’t it?”

“Was our dinner,” she corrected. “I won’t have anyone eating turkey in my house today out of deference to my new pet.”

I told her what she could do with her new pet, loaded myself down with foil packages, and stalked back down the wet steps to my waiting car. I drove off with both turkeys, wondering if I could make them an all-or-nothing deal.

On impulse, I drove right past the church and turned down the road to the Still. Dave Hatter had missed breakfast, he might welcome one of the packets of turkey. And in exchange, I might find out why he ran from the sheriff.

I negotiated the winding road with caution, for the drizzle was increasing to a steady downpour. I pulled at last into the parking lot to find not only Dave’s old Ford truck, but Adam Fairfield’s Chevy, as well. And the sheriff’s Jeep. Had Sarkisian come to ask Dave a few pointed questions? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he, too, had noticed the way Dave had fled the breakfast. The man didn’t seem to miss much.

I pulled into a space as close to the entrance as I could manage, then ran for the shelter of the overhanging roof. The door was locked, but I rang the bell and heard it buzzing from the depths of the building. A few minutes later Dave appeared, trailed by both Fairfield and Sarkisian. To my surprise, everything seemed amicable enough. I was dying to ask questions, but couldn’t figure out how without obviously meddling.

The sheriff eyed me with resignation. “What’s your excuse this time?”

“Turkey,” I said.

He grinned. “Sorry, you’re stuck with the thing.”

“I meant a cooked one.” I explained about Gerda’s casting out our dinner, and remembering that Dave hadn’t been able to stay for any pancakes. We all trooped back to my car, where Dave admired the huge white bird in the backseat—currently napping. I think he admired the plate we put together for him even more.

Adam and Sarkisian both took a few pieces from the packet, as well, and as we turned back to the building, the sheriff fell into step beside me. “Know why Hatter ran this morning?”

I shook my head. “Hasn’t he said anything?”

“Nervous as hell when I got here, but he calmed down pretty fast. Apparently I don’t know something he thinks I might.”

“I came by to see if I could get it out of him,” I admitted, thereby winning a triumphant glance from the sheriff.

“I told you—”

“To stay out, I know. But how can I? These are all people I know, who I grew up with.”

“Whom,” he murmured. “Yeah, makes it tough. You never want to believe that anyone you know could be a murderer. You keep hoping to find innocent explanations to all their inconsistencies.”

“Tom always said it’s easier to arrest someone you don’t know, but easier to understand situations when you do know everyone—and everything about them.”

Sarkisian nodded. “If I stay here for long, I’m going to have to split myself into two people—the sheriff and the community busybody.”

That got a smile out of me. “It’s what made Tom so good at his job.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then after a moment said, “And he had you to help. And your aunt.”

“And Peggy, and the rest of the SCOURGE elite. Gossips, all.”

“You don’t like Cindy Brody, do you?” he asked abruptly.

I stopped. We’d reached the lobby, and Dave and Adam had long since gone on ahead. “I don’t really know her all that well,” I said at last. Was he asking if I’d be upset when—if—he arrested her?

“She lied about being at home when her husband was murdered,” he mused. “She’d taken her car out, she had mud on her shoes, and a very strong motive for wanting him dead before their divorce became final.”

“Several hundred thousand motives,” I agreed, “all in nice, spendable cash.” Then I shook my head. “I don’t know. There are a number of people who had both the reason for wanting him dead and the opportunity to kill him.”

His mouth twitched. “But only one of them did it.”

“Not everyone resorts to murder to get out of their problems,” I agreed. “That takes a certain disregard for the value of someone else’s life.”

“Or an extreme desperation to protect one’s own—or someone or something one loves.” He shook his head. “The psychology of murder is never easy.”

He watched while I returned to my car. Once I started my engine—not so much as causing that damned bird to ruffle a feather—the sheriff turned and headed after the other two men into the depths of the Still. I left him to his study of psychology. I had a turkey dinner to deliver.

It received a warm welcome at the church on the outskirts of town, where they never seemed to have enough food to pass on to those suffering through the difficult economic times. I stayed for awhile, helping wherever an extra hand came in useful, then made my way back to Gerda’s, tired, more than a little depressed, and still with that damned bird infesting my beloved car.

The rumble of the garage door caused it to wake up at last. It shifted its wings and eyed me as if selecting the best spot to peck. I pulled into my parking space, rolled up my sleeves, climbed out, pushed the driver’s seat forward, and hauled on the leash.

To my delight, I managed to drag the bird out. It landed on the cement of the garage floor, ruffled its whole body, and dove back to its preferred nest. It settled down with what I would swear was a smug expression, and no amount of cajolery or threats got it to budge again. An attempt to lay hands on it resulted in my getting pecked. Not badly, just a warning.

I knew when I was licked. I located an old shower curtain that Gerda used as an emergency tarp and protected as much of the upholstery as I could. Over this I laid more newspaper and finally left the triumphant bird in peace in its four-wheeled nest in the comfort of the garage. I placed a bucket of water and the plate with the half-eaten pancake on the ground nearby, but my unwelcome passenger showed no interest in getting out for a snack.

With a sigh, I lowered the convertible top, but without much hope the turkey would take the hint and vacate. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I told it, with more than a touch of sarcasm, and headed for the stairs.

Chapter Eleven

A marvelous blend of aromas greeted me as I neared the front door. Cinnamon and nutmeg vied with savory and sage. I thought I detected thyme, as well, but the melding tended to mute individual notes to create a unique symphony. My mouth watered. I hadn’t nibbled any turkey, and I’d had nothing to eat since that pancake grabbed early in the morning. It had been a long and very active day, and I found it hard to believe it was only about two o’clock. I pushed through the doorway and dragged off my coat.

“Where’s my turkey?” Gerda called from the kitchen.

“Safe at the church, as ordered.” Did she regret getting rid of our dinner? Her own fault, if she did, I thought uncharitably.

“Idiot. The uncooked one.” Her head poked around the doorway into the dining room where I draped my wet things in front of the pellet stove.

I sighed. “In its favorite nest.”

Gerda shook her head. “I know how you like birds, but really, Annike, you shouldn’t spoil it so.”

To my frustration, I couldn’t think of a single scathing remark. Instead, I went to inspect what she had just brought out of the oven. A dark lump sat in a baking pan, rather like a loaf of round peasant bread. I sniffed, and my eyes widened. “Smells great.” Then with suspicion, “What’s in it?”

“Zucchini, almonds and tofu, primarily.” She beamed at me. “And it baked up amazingly fast.”

“Good. We need the oven.” I unwrapped one of the no-longer-frozen pie shells and set to work opening one of the tubs of pumpkin filling. I knew we could manage two at a time, if carefully arranged. I made some mental calculations and decided we just might be able to turn out the two dozen I’d assigned to us.