Cold Turkey (15 page)

“Yes,” said Gerda promptly. “You asked her to go with you to see Cindy, didn’t you?”

He opened his mouth, but to my delight he apparently found nothing savage enough to say that was still polite enough for the ears of two aging ladies. I grinned at Aunt Gerda and made a motion with my finger, chalking up one point for our side.

“Annike!” yelled Sue Hinkel, interrupting my moment of triumph. “Get over here and help me sell tickets! There’s a line!”

I looked from Sue and the small crowd around her, to the glass bowl stuffed with raffle tickets. The turkey still hadn’t arrived.

Gerda stiffened, straightening to her full and rather impressive height. Peggy gasped, and around us a circle of hushed expectancy rippled outward until no one was talking in our immediate vicinity. I turned around, bewildered, then spotted the petite, elegant figure of Doris Brody Quinn, Clifford’s sister, just inside the door.

Gerda strode toward her, quivering in anger. I reached out to grab her arm, but Sarkisian caught me. I glared at him, but he shook his head, and his grip tightened on my wrist.

“You have some nerve, showing your face here,” Gerda breathed, not loud, but with amazing menace.

“Nerve?” murmured Sarkisian. “Because she should be in mourning?”

Peggy sniffed. “Because of the way she and her brother conned poor Gerda. It’s a deliberate provocation, her coming to a Service Club event.”

I closed my eyes. Why, I wondered, had no civic-minded soul thought to strangle Peggy before now?

Chapter Nine

Doris Brody Quinn had done the occasion proud. She wore a black suit with a gray lace blouse and a hat with a wisp of black netting for a veil. Her gray flecked brown hair curled softly about her beautifully made-up face, and her brown eyes gleamed with malicious enjoyment. “Whatever can you mean, my dear Gerda?”

Gerda ignored her and turned to Sue Hinkel. In an unnecessarily loud voice, she said, “Don’t accept a check from her. And make sure her cash isn’t counterfeit.”

She turned on her heel, but Owen Sarkisian moved forward into her path. “I think I’d like an explanation from both of you ladies, if you don’t mind.”

Gerda pinned him with a pitying look. “If you believe her, I’ve got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.” She stalked with considerable dignity toward the kitchen.

Sarkisian raised his eyebrows and looked questioningly at Brody’s sister. “Well, Ms. Quinn?”

I’d never seen so much spite as the woman managed in her smile. “I’m afraid Gerda blames her own lack of business acumen on my brother. He tried to warn her, but you may have noticed she’s a trifle headstrong, as well as eccentric.”

“Specifics, if you don’t mind.” Sarkisian matched her smile.

Doris Quinn eyed him with speculation, then smiled in that gossipy way she has. “Well,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was over Gerda’s last business—Upper River Gulch’s sole coffee shop. She ran it into the ground, poor dear, all through mismanagement.”

A sputtering gasp escaped Peggy, but I clamped a warning hand on her shoulder. I wanted to hear this version.

“It was such a nice little place, and it had such potential, if only the right person had charge of it. So I bought it from her before she lost it to bankruptcy, and I built it back up. You ought to come in sometime, you’d love what I’ve done with it.”

“Thanks, I will.” Sarkisian nodded to her and headed back toward the raffle jar, still gripping my wrist. I still gripped Peggy, so we made a threesome. Foursome, actually, since Tony tagged along. I found the kid’s gratitude toward Peggy rather extravagant, but maybe she’d been the first motherly figure to enter his life.

Once out of earshot of the ticket table, the sheriff turned to face us. “Okay, Ms. O’Shaughnessy. Let’s hear the other side of this coffee shop affair.”

Peggy beamed at him. “I knew you had to be smarter than to be taken in by that—that—woman.”

“Oh, I’m rarely taken in by anything,” Sarkisian assured her. “So, what’s Ms. Lundquist’s version?”

Peggy cast him a suspicious glance. “The truth, of course. That swine Brody kept giving Gerda bad advice, then told her she was going to lose the place if she didn’t sell. Then he undervalued the shop and its assets on purpose so his sister could buy it for a song. Poor Gerda took a substantial loss and had to go into debt to buy her current store. She—” Peggy broke off in consternation.

“She what?” The sheriff sounded no more than mildly curious.

“Look,” Peggy declared, arms akimbo, “no matter what you’re thinking, that does not give her a motive for killing Brody. Really, it doesn’t! She wanted him alive to prove to him she could come out on top, in spite of what he did to her.”

“Sheriff?” Doris Quinn appeared at his side. “A word with you?” She drew him several steps away, but still within earshot for Peggy and me. “I’m sure Gerda has a perfectly good alibi for when dear Clifford died,” she stage whispered. “But you will double-check it, won’t you? Not that I’d wish to try to make anyone look guilty, but…” She broke off with that sad, bereaved, pitiable smile that made me itch to dump a cup of coffee over her head.

When she’d strolled off to join the breakfast line, Owen Sarkisian returned to Peggy and me. “I know,” I said before he could open his mouth. “My aunt’s alibi is just driving to a store in Meritville. I wish she’d gotten a ticket on the way.”

“So she’s implying I killed her wretched brother, is she?” Gerda appeared at Peggy’s elbow. “Or is she stating it right out? Horrible woman.”

“I hope she chokes on a sausage,” Peggy declared loyally. Tony nodded, still glued to Peggy’s side.

“That venomous…” Gerda began.

“Annike?” Sue yelled. “Someone to see you.”

A man elbowed his way through the crowd toward us. “You the one who’s gotta sign for the turkey?”

The turkey! I could have kissed him, greasy white apron, stubbly beard and all. Timely interruption and raffle prize, all in one package.

He held out a clipboard, pointed to a line, and I scrawled my name where he indicated. He tucked it under his arm. “Where ya want your bird?”

“Refrigerator, I guess.” I started toward the front door.

The man choked on his laugh. “It’s not gonna like that.”

A sinking sensation of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean?”

He cocked his head at me. “You ordered it.”

“No, someone else did. She ordered a smoked breast, ready for a buffet table.” I said the words slowly, trying to convince myself they had to be true.

A slow, evil grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe you better come outside and take a look, lady.”

Some part of me already guessed the ghastly truth, even before we got to the lot. He hadn’t bothered to pull his truck into a parking place, he’d just left it in front of the door. Probably so he could make a fast getaway. I stared for a long moment, then closed my eyes. “No.”

“‘Fraid so, lady. Where ya want it?”

I looked again. A very large white turkey, currently secured in a wire cage, stared back at me with a malevolent glare. The man let down the back of the truck, dragged the cage to the edge, and opened its door. The bird remained sitting, though now it transferred its glare to him. He reached in, grabbed the end of a leash and gave it a shake. The turkey surged forward, wings expanding as it cleared the cage bars, and landed with a peevish flap on the ground.

“It’s supposed to be smoked,” I said.

The man shrugged. “So stick a cigarette in its beak.” He shoved the leash into my hand, then shooed the unstrung bird toward me. With a wave, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed out of the lot with suspicious speed.

I stared at the bird. It paid me no heed, but looked around, extending its wings and folding them again. It pecked at the ground.

I was going to murder Cindy Brody. At least Sarkisian would have no trouble figuring out who would be responsible for that crime.

I turned around to find Gerda standing in the doorway. “It’s not smoked and wrapped,” she said.

“We already went through that routine,” I sighed.

“Maybe a small dinner jacket and a Sherlock Holmes-style pipe?” suggested Peggy from just behind my aunt.

I gave the leash a gentle tug, and to my surprise, the bird waddled over to join me. It still looked around, extending its neck and lowering it again. Occasionally it darted out its beak to sample a bit of gravel.

“That can’t be good for it, Annike.” Gerda shook her head. “You’d better bring it inside.”

“At least it’s ready for a buffet table.” Peggy grinned at us. “See? It’s hungry.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. If I could possibly rig this contest, I’d make sure Peggy won the damned bird.

Silence, followed by laughter, greeted our arrival inside the hall. The bird shied, flapping its wings, and darted in every direction to the limits of its leash.

“Here.” Art Graham took it from me, and I handed it over with relief. “We’re supposed to have it on display.” He looped the end of the leash around the base of the platform.

“I don’t think—” I began, but too late. The turkey tugged, the platform teetered, and the leash came loose as one end of the structure collapsed. With a terrified squawk, the poor bird attempted to launch its unaerodynamic body into the air, then hot-footed it off between the tables. Children squealed and shouted from all over the room. Several clambered from their chairs and took off in pursuit, laughing and diving after the leash, terrifying the big, white, flapping bird even more.

“Stop!” shouted Sarkisian, but whether to the turkey or the children, I couldn’t be sure. The children, at least, responded. “No one move,” he ordered.

The turkey ran to a corner and stood there, trembling. I made a mental note—again—not to be among the mopping up crew. The distressed bird had contributed to the mess on the floor. I approached it from one side, and Sarkisian from the other. He reached the end of the leash first and picked it up.

“The sheriff just arrested the turkey!” Simon Lowell yelled.

The resultant laughter startled the bird, and it darted about the sheriff’s legs. Sarkisian unwound himself and handed the leash to me, and I only had to tug a couple of times to get the prisoner to come with me.

Outside seemed a haven of peace. I tied the poor thing to a pipe near the door where it could await the raffle in relative quiet. Then it would be someone else’s problem. It stood at the extent of its tether, wings still raised, looking forlorn. I felt certain there was something in the Geneva Convention, and possibly the Sheriff’s Department regulations as well, about food and water for those being held in custody. I reentered the building in search of a couple of dishes, only to be met by Adam Fairfield’s raised voice.

“Your shoddy construction’s always causing trouble,” he yelled. I wasn’t at all surprised to find him facing Simon Lowell once more.

“There was nothing wrong—” Simon began.

“You’re supposed to be an odd-job man,” Adam sneered. “If that platform is a sample of your work, Upper River Gulch had better beware.”

Simon flushed. “At least I don’t do my job drunk. What happened, did Brody catch you swigging the inventory, so you killed him?”

“How dare you imply my home is a brewery,” Gerda declared, quivering with indignation. Or at least pretending to. She inserted herself between the two combatants, effectively breaking up the fight. “That’s where Brody was killed, remember? Now, you’re both acting like a couple of ten-year-olds, and I, for one, have had enough of it.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at them.

Adam turned on his heel and stomped back to the kitchen, presumably to take out his ill temper on the oranges again.

Simon had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, Gerda,” he muttered, and went to repair the platform.

Sarkisian leaned close to me. “I’ve never been to such a friendly little gathering. Are all the Service Club activities such fun and games?”

I nodded. “They live up to their name of SCOURGEs.”

He grinned. “If I’d had an ounce of foresight, I’d have had them declared a public nuisance.”

“Oh, please do!” I whispered back.

“That Lowell really is a rather violent young man, isn’t he?” Doris Brody Quinn inserted herself between us. She gave me a dismissive nod and turned the full force of her gaze on the sheriff. “Do you know, my brother claimed to have found out where Lowell’s money came from.”

“What money?” I asked, reflecting on the single-construction shack he lived in.

She directed a pitying look at me over her shoulder, then turned back to Sarkisian.

“And where is that?” the sheriff asked.

Doris Quinn lowered her voice. “He wouldn’t tell even me. He said he was saving the information for the most public unmasking possible. But someone killed poor Clifford before he could reveal Simon’s dirty secret.” She regarded the sheriff with a touch of triumph, as if she expected him to rush right over and arrest Lowell.

Instead, he merely smiled at her. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s citizens like you, who bring the officials much needed information, who make our jobs easier and solve crimes faster.”