Cold Turkey (3 page)

“I doubt the new sheriff will like it, either,” I stuck in dryly. “Videotaping the football game just isn’t the same as watching it live.”

“That’s Brody all over, making life as difficult as possible for everyone else. And now, of all times! Honestly, Annike, it couldn’t be worse timing. There’s so much work to do!” She handed over the sleepily blinking Olaf and rose, pacing with restless steps to fill her kettle, a blue and white enameled job made in the shape of a whistling bird. She turned a burner to high. “Get out the chamomile and peppermint, will you, dear? We need something soothing.”

I deposited the cat on a chair, then selected the dried herbs from among the sizable collection in the racks hung on the pantry cabinet door. “Why’s this a worse time than any other for him to be killed?” Was there any good time to be murdered? And just what was it my aunt was hiding?

She looked down her long nose at me. “The Thanksgiving weekend festivities, of course.”

“What on earth does he have to do with them? I mean, no one’s going to cancel anything because of this, are they? We’ve held the community dinner for what, thirty-something years, now?”

“It’s gotten a little more complicated this year.” Gerda brought down her antique blue onion pattern teapot and filled it with hot tap water. The familiar occupations of making tea and discussing town events seemed to calm her. “This afternoon our Event Coordinator quit on us.”

“Why so late in the proceedings? All the work must be done, by now.” I fished in the cupboard for the ever-present tin of shortbread cookies. Lemon, this time.

Aunt Gerda pulled a woven cozy from a drawer and set it beside the pot, then smoothed it with nervous fingers as it lay on the tiled counter. “But that’s why it’s all such a crisis. She didn’t do anything. And I was going to call her up tonight and give her a piece of my mind, and now I can’t.”

“Can’t spare a piece of it, you mean?”

That succeeded in diverting her, at least for the moment. She fixed me with a reproving eye. “Living on your own is doing nothing for your manners, young lady.”

“Thank you. I haven’t been called young in years.”

Aunt Gerda snorted. “You’re only thirty-nine.”

“And counting,” I agreed, pleased with the success of my tactic. “So why can’t you call her? Who is it?”

“Cindy Brody.”

“Ouch.” The kettle’s rumblings took on the first note of a whistle, and I retrieved it from the stove. In the renewed silence, I asked, “Aren’t she and…I mean, weren’t she and Brody getting divorced?”

Gerda emptied the tap water from the pot and began measuring in spoonfuls of loose herbs. “Anyone else would have been over and done with it by now. But that’s Cindy, always complaining and never finishing.” She moved back, allowing me to add the boiling water.

“So Cindy took on the job, and you’re only just now finding out she didn’t do anything? I’ll just bet the SCOURGEs are in an uproar.”

Aunt Gerda directed a pained look at me. “You mean the Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs.”

“That’s what I said. The SCOURGEs. If they didn’t want to be called that, they should’ve been more careful about choosing their name. Are they going to kick her out of the club?”

“Technically, she doesn’t belong anymore, anyway. She moved to Meritville as soon as she decided she wanted a divorce.” Gerda popped the lid on the pot, covered it with the cozy, and set it on a trivet in the middle of the huge pine table.

“Sounds like a ‘good riddance’ on all sides. Okay, so nothing’s been organized. Everyone’s done it all so often before, they can cope anyway, wouldn’t you say?”

“I told you, it’s been expanded a little. We need someone who isn’t already working on something to take charge, and where can we find someone who—” She broke off, a sudden gleam lighting her eyes.

“Oh, no, you don’t! I am not crazy enough to actually chair a SCOURGE project.”

“Of course you are, dear. You’re the very person.” She inspected the pot and poured tea into the blue and beige stoneware mugs I unearthed from a cupboard. Her voice, as she continued, sounded tight. “It’ll let everyone know you’re here to stay, and more than capable of stepping into Brody’s shoes. No, that’s not the best choice of phrases at the moment, is it? Well, you know what I mean. If you’re going to be living here, this is just the thing.”

“Sort of a ‘welcome home’? Gee, thanks. If no one will hire me as their accountant, maybe I can open a business as an event coordinator. Events Unlimited, that’s what I’ll call myself.”

Gerda breathed in the pungent steam from her mug. “Not bad. We’ll work on the name. The first event on the program is the pancake breakfast Thanksgiving morning. As far as I know, Cindy hasn’t bought any of the food or lined up cooks. She did say something about ordering the turkey for the raffle prize, but that’s the least of our problems.”

The faint wail of a siren punctuated these last words. I looked up, met my aunt’s stricken gaze, and tried to smile. “Guess we have to quit pretending this has nothing to do with us.”

Aunt Gerda nodded. Her softly powdered complexion had faded once more, and strain etched itself about her eyes. She swallowed and managed a wavering smile. “Pity. Tea, cookies, and a project. Best medicine there is. Heavens, I should have straightened up the living room. Everything’s in such a mess. Not at all the way I want strangers to see the place.”

“Better not to have touched anything.”

The sirens filled the night. I rose and drew back the hand-woven curtain so I could look down into the yard, in time to see lights swing onto the drive. A minute later the sheriff’s elderly Jeep pulled around the last bend and halted in front of the garage. An ambulance followed, then came a light-colored sedan. Four men and three women climbed out from the collection of vehicles and ran through the rain toward the stairs.

I turned back into the room. “Well, the investigation’s underway.”

Gerda made a rapid attempt to at least tidy the kitchen table. “I suppose you’d better let them in.”

“Gee, thanks.” I opened the door as the first yellow-slickered figure reached the top step.

The man ducked beneath the overhanging roof of the porch and dragged off his rain hat. For a long moment he studied me, his sharp gaze traveling the considerable distance from the top of my dark blonde perm to the begrimed soles of my ancient running shoes. “Ms. McKinley?” he hazarded. “I’m Owen Sarkisian.”

“The new sheriff.” I looked him over even more critically than he’d regarded me. Tallish—perhaps an inch over my own six foot one—wiry build, tightly curling black hair flecked with premature gray, sharp features with rain trickling down a dominant nose. And young. He couldn’t be much over thirty. I didn’t approve.

His eyebrows shot upward, and his mouth broke into a grin that had probably melted a heart or two. “Jennifer warned me I wouldn’t measure up. Okay, let’s get it over with. Yes, I’m from Los Angeles, but no, I don’t plan to use my tough-guy big-city tactics on your beloved little town. I don’t have any. And no, I don’t expect you to believe me. What you can believe is that everyone’s told me no one can do this job as well as your late husband. So take that as already said, okay? Now that’s settled, we’d better get on with what I came for. You’re the one who found Clifford Brody?”

“I did.” He was direct, at least. I moved back to let him into the house. The other people crowded on the steps behind him, still in the rain. They’d drip all over the hardwood floors.

Gerda, her expression determinedly composed, appeared at my elbow, her arms filled with towels. “I want your raincoats so I can hang them in the kitchen. Dry yourselves on these.” Her tone brooked no disobedience.

Sheriff Sarkisian unbuttoned his slicker. I took it from him, eyeing his uniform with a grudging acknowledgment for its crisp creases. Neatness didn’t automatically make him a good sheriff, though. I agreed with popular opinion—no one could do the job better than Tom McKinley. And I’d give anything if he could still be here to do it. Some kid fresh from the city wasn’t my idea of a replacement.

A woman pushing middle age emerged from another slicker, revealing knee-high boots, a burgundy mid-calf corduroy skirt, and a white sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. The light fell across squared features, layered brown hair that curled about her ears, and the friendly countenance of Dr. Sarah Jacobs. She offered an apologetic smile to me. “Some welcome home for you, isn’t it? How’ve you been?”

“Fine—until tonight.” I took her rain gear, as well. “You’re medical examiner, now? Do I offer my congratulations or condolences?”

“Bit of both.” She accepted with gratitude the towel Gerda held out to her and rubbed it vigorously over her face, neck and hair. “Don’t mind the sheriff,” she added. “He’s not usually this edgy. In fact, he kind of grows on you.”

“I’m not edgy,” Sarkisian informed her. “I’m just not used to finding drunks parked in the middle of the road. And I take it I don’t have to introduce you to anyone.”

“Not around here. Small town, remember?”

Sarkisian rolled his eyes. “Is there anybody in this entire county who doesn’t know everyone else—aside from me?”

Dr. Jacobs shook her head. “Only in Upper River Gulch. There’re lots of people in the rest of the county who haven’t come our way.”

“Give it five or ten years,” I told him as I took the doctor’s towel, “and you’ll start to fit in, too. Either that or you’ll go screaming back to your big city.”

“I like small towns,” Sheriff Sarkisian complained. “I came here on purpose.”

Sarah Jacobs patted his shoulder. “We all suffer from fits like that. Don’t worry, it’ll pass, then you can go home to where you don’t have to drive fifteen miles just to find a restaurant or theater.”

“All I said was that I wished one of the pizza places would deliver to the boonies,” he muttered. He accepted the towel Gerda still held out pointedly, and mopped his face. “Where’s the body?”

“At least he doesn’t call it a ‘stiff,’” Gerda muttered to me in a too-loud aside.

“You watch too much TV,” I shot back. “What was that about a drunk?”

“He means Adam Fairfield,” Dr. Jacobs explained. She moved aside to allow the two paramedics and a slightly built, bearded man into the crowded entry hall. The round face of Roberta Dominguez, the police photographer, showed from behind the shoulders of the others. As the crowd shuffled in, muddy puddles formed on the brick-colored tiles at their feet. I shifted my load and collected more slickers and ponchos.

“Adam Fairfield is not a drunk!” Gerda, bristling in her neighbor’s defense, thrust towels at the new arrivals. “He’s just been depressed since Lucy divorced him. That was six months ago,” she reminded me. “I told you all about it, remember?”

“Vividly,” I murmured.

“All right.” Owen Sarkisian added his towel to the collection of wet things I already held. “Technically he might not be a drunk, but he was asleep at his wheel with that battered old pickup of his sticking out into the road, and definitely a few beers or whatever for the worse.”

Sarah Jacob’s gray eyes gleamed. “So why didn’t you run a breath test on him and book him?”

The sheriff avoided her gaze. “He wasn’t actually driving. I’ll stop by in the morning when he’s sober enough to pay attention and put a scare into him, don’t worry. I had a more important matter on my mind.” He directed a questioning glance at me. “Which way?”

Gerda cleared her throat. “I…I’ll show you.” Without meeting my troubled gaze, she made a rapid collection of the remaining towels, dumped the soggy armload on top of the heavy pile I already held, then ushered the investigating team through the living room and down the hall to the study beyond.

Why was Aunt Gerda so afraid? What had been going on around here? Seething at not being able to just shake it out of her, I headed into the huge kitchen, then glared at my burden. With a sigh, I opened my arms and allowed everything to fall to the polished floor. I prodded the heap with the toe of my shoe, then sorted out the slickers which I draped over the backs of chairs. Too much mud clung to the towels just to put them in the dryer. Instead I tossed the lot into the washing machine, then carefully measured in soap and vinegar in lieu of softener before starting it.

I should probably brew a pot of coffee for everyone—provided Aunt Gerda had anything non-herbal in the kitchen these days. I refilled the bird-shaped kettle, poured water into a large saucepan as well, and put them both on to boil.

The room felt cold. That necessitated lighting the pellet stove that stood in the corner of the formal dining room. It wasn’t until I was fiddling with the knobs, adjusting the burn, that it dawned on me I was searching for excuses not to go near the study.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself at last to acknowledge my own shattered nerves. I was too darned sensitive to atmospheres and the emotions of others. I needed a stretch of quiet and solitude. Fat chance. I wondered how long the crime scene investigators would infest the place.

Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped from where I knelt by the stove, spinning about and half rising.

Gerda regarded me with a forced smile. “A bit nervy, there, aren’t we?”

I sank back on my heels. “How’re they doing?”

“Taking forever.” With a jerky movement, she brushed unruly strands of her faded fair hair from her forehead. “Roberta’s going nutty with her camera, like always. She’s taking shots of everything from every possible angle, and they’ve got these numbered cards set up all over the place and little plastic bags, and paper ones, and tweezers. And they’re all wearing surgical gloves.”