Cold Turkey (29 page)

Simon’s chin came up, and his eyes narrowed. “Look, I’ll make this easier for you. Dad.”

I held the hose at the ready, but although Adam’s hands clenched at that epithet, and he twitched all over, he made no immediate move to attack Simon.

“It’s none of your business,” Lowell went on, a touch of smugness creeping into his voice. And his attitude. “But you might as well know. I have accomplished a couple of things.” His lip curled. “More than you ever have.”

“Like jail time?” sneered Adam.

“How about a doctorate from Yale in political science? And I contribute articles to national political magazines. Regularly.”

Adam’s fury faded to an expression more akin to someone who had just been hit over the head with a bag of wet cement. “You went to college? To Yale?”

“Yeah. You should be glad I don’t mind that my future wife’s only going to Stanford. And there’s more. Brody was trying to blackmail me, you know. He thought—and he was right—that I’d rather people didn’t know I inherited thirty-seven million from my mother’s side of the family.”

“Thirty…” Adam mouthed the word, not able to make a sound.

“Why—why is that worth blackmail?” I demanded, stunned myself.

Simon gave me a derisive look. “Some people would say it’s easy to preach communism and poverty when you’ve got a trust fund to fall back on. I’d give it away if I could, but I can’t. But I do give away the quarterly checks. That’s how Brody found out. He audited the homeless shelter.”

“Peggy’s?” I sounded as weak as I felt. Thirty-seven million?

He nodded. “I hadn’t covered my tracks as well as I’d thought. Once he’d traced the donation to me, he started digging and found out the whole. So what do you make of that? Dad.” He turned back to Adam. “I can afford to take care of Nancy.”

Adam stared at him with that blank face of shock. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He turned back to his truck. “Got to go to work,” he managed. He shook his head. “The police are leaving, and someone’s got to play guard.” He climbed in. Without ever once looking at Simon, he backed out of the drive, maneuvered until he faced the direction from which he’d come, and departed down the hill.

“Why didn’t you tell him, before?” I demanded as the racket of the engine faded. “Think of all the upset you could have spared Nancy.”

He tilted his head. “You really don’t get it? I wanted Nancy—and both her parents—to accept me for what I am, not for my bank account. I want her on my terms. And now I’ve got her. So to hell with her parents.” He nodded toward the post. “Tell your aunt I’ll keep checking on it. And I’ll get to her insulation later. Right now,” and his smug grin returned, “I’m going to go see Nancy.” He jumped into the old van, waved at me, and backed out.

I stared after him. Thirty-seven million. And he wanted to give it away. I agreed that nonprofits and other good causes could use a good chunk of it. But all? My admiration for Simon’s principles swelled. But his attitude? I slogged back through the rain, pondering the man. Along with all that money, he also had a violent streak. And a desire to control people. I hoped Nancy was making a wise decision.

I found Gerda in the kitchen, already dressed, scrambling egg substitute and toasting whole grain bread. It smelled wonderful. I thrust my worries aside and settled at the table, sipping the tea my aunt shoved in front of me.

“What was all that ruckus down at the gate about?” She scooped up Clumsy, who had just jumped on the table, and deposited him on the floor.

I explained what had occurred in general terms, but—and it took a severe struggle—I kept the news about Simon’s fortune to myself. I knew my aunt too well. She wouldn’t be able to resist telling Peggy, and probably Ida Graham, as well. Then Sue Hinkel would get the word, and it would pass to every patron who visited her salon. It was Simon’s dirty—if platinum-lined—secret. It was for him to tell or keep quiet as he chose, no matter how hard it was for me to keep from blurting it out.

In less than ten minutes, we had finished our rapid meal, cleaned up the dishes, and headed down to the garage. Gerda opened the door, then froze in a dramatic posture just inside the threshold.

“Hurry up, I’m getting wet!” I complained, still at the base of the stairs.

“Tedi Bird is out of your car!” Gerda whispered.

“Run for it!” I exclaimed, and pushed forward. But we were beaten to the vehicle by a beak. The turkey scrambled into the backseat, then settled with a rustle of feathers.

“She likes car rides,” Gerda announced with fond delight. “What a clever bird.”

“I can think of more appropriate adjectives.” I raised the top, climbed in and started the engine. That Damned Bird positively radiated contentedness.

Unbelievably, the school custodian awaited us at the door to the cafeteria. He let us in, handed the keys to Gerda with orders not to leave the place unattended, and took himself off. Gerda and I walked in and looked around.

“Serving tables right there, beside the kitchen?” I suggested. Might as well keep it as easy as possible.

“Hmmm.” Gerda strolled toward the opposite end with its raised stage. From there she made a tour of the outer perimeters, eyeing the current decorations, which consisted of the artwork of the primary grades.

“Here I am,” sang Cindy Brody from the door. “But where is everyone else?”

I blinked. Of all the SCOURGEs, she was the last I would have expected.

“I brought tablecloths,” she added.

“How wonderful,” declared Gerda. She even sounded like she meant it. “Let’s get them spread.”

They proved to be made of heavy paper, some orange, some yellow, some white. “Just like candy corn.” Cindy beamed. “Ida told me to bring some of that, too, to scatter across the tables.”

“Good idea.” I was going to have to do something wonderful for Ida when this was all over. Like not give her That Damned Bird. “Bring any tape?”

Cindy hadn’t, but Sue Hinkel, who arrived only minutes later, had. Peggy brought some, too, and Ida and Art arrived laden with a crock pot of hot cider for the workers and construction paper for cutting out table decorations. Even Simon came, bringing a quiet Nancy with him.

“Dad’s over at the Still,” she confided, “or he’d be here, too.”

Actually, I got the impression everyone was glad of an excuse to band together. So many of them were suspects in the murders—and they knew that all too well. They worked with gusto, creating stand-up paper constructs of pilgrims and turkeys for the center of each table, laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny, talking in brittle, cheerful voices, everyone sitting close together instead of spread out.

Only I remained quiet, my head aching again. I’d forgotten to take a pain pill that morning, I realized. But I could only blame part of it on that accident the other night. Mostly, as I looked around the room at these people I knew so well, it wrenched at me to think that one of them might be a murderer.

Gerda. It was a struggle, but I made myself recognize that Brody had cheated her and she was not one to take something like that lying down. But Gerda, as a murderer, only worked if I added Peggy into the equation. Those two working together could probably pull off strange and terrible things. And Peggy could well have needed both Brody and Dave Hatter dead if she were up to more than minor embezzling at the Still.

But if Peggy were guilty, she didn’t need Gerda’s help. She had her own devoted shadow, a strong young man who swore he would do anything for his benefactress. And that might include murder, with or without her knowledge.

Then there was Cindy, determined to have lots of money, which gave her one of the oldest and best motives in the world for wanting her husband dead before the divorce became final. But would she have killed Dave Hatter? That only made sense if he’d guessed too much about Brody’s murder.

My gaze fell across Nancy, which made me think of her father, Adam Fairfield, not present at the moment. No real reason to kill Brody—unless Adam had been up to something at the Still. That might also provide the reason for Dave’s needing to die before he could reveal something.

Then I came to Simon Lowell. The sheer idea of being blackmailed might have mattered more to him than the contents of the blackmail. He might well have hated Brody every bit as much as rumor hinted. But if he killed Dave, again it could only be because of what Dave had learned about Brody’s death.

For that matter, Dave himself had seemed a likely candidate for Brody’s murder. What if Sarkisian were wrong and Dave really had killed himself? I clung to that possibility. That would clear everyone else, that would tie everything up neatly. And tomorrow we could try to go back to normal.

“Why so quiet?” Gerda called to me from a little way down the table.

“Just thinking. Why don’t we put That Damned Bird in the corner over there? A bit of realistic decoration.”

“Hah!” Ida, one of the few free of suspicion in either murder, grinned at me. “You’re just trying to get rid of your aunt’s new pet.”

“I just want it out of my car,” I grumbled.

“What’s the matter, no one in the mood to take it off your hands?” Sarkisian asked.

I looked up, surprised. I hadn’t heard him come in.

“Come to help?” Gerda asked. “There’s an extra pair of scissors.” She held up the blunt-tipped pair, designed for elementary school use, she held.

“And tons of paste, too, I bet. No, I need to borrow Ms. McKinley for a few hours.”

I lowered my head into my hands. “Why me?” I groaned.

“Run along and do your civic duty, dear,” Gerda told me.

Something in her voice told me she would appreciate it if I hurried the sheriff out of there. I glanced at the others. Only Ida and Art seemed unaffected by Sarkisian’s presence. Peggy kept peeking at him and looking away, her shoulders hunched. Even Sue Hinkel looked uncomfortable, which surprised me. Tension was catching.

I rose, dusted off my jeans, and started for the door. “Oh.” I unhooked my keys from where they hung on my purse strap. “Here.” I tossed them to Gerda. “Take That Damned Bird home for lunch. Roast her,” I added as I strode out the door in Sarkisian’s wake.

“Still at war with the turkey?” he asked, all sympathy.

“I suppose I could get used to it, if it would nest somewhere else,” I sighed. “What are we looking for, now?”

“Those inventory sheets. Got to find out if there’s anything screwy about them.”

I groaned. “How far back do we have to check?”

“No idea.” He led me to the Honda, which he’d left on the street. Double parked.

When he started the car, a tape started playing, and we drove to the Still to the accompaniment of the
H.M.S. Pinafore
. He hummed along at first, then I caught a slight echo to the songs in a very creditable baritone. I refrained from adding my own far from creditable alto.

We parked in the main lot, where only Adam’s pickup stood near the door. Apparently a quiet day at the Still. From the backseat Sarkisian produced a heavy-looking briefcase, a bakery bag and a thermos, and we ran through the rain for the entrance.

Adam answered the bell almost at once and flung the door wide. “Saw the car,” he explained. “What’s up?”

“We need to check a few things we didn’t take away with us.”

Adam shook his head. “What, the bare walls? I thought you cleared every piece of paper out of here.”

“That,” sighed Sarkisian, “would have taken more cars than the sheriff’s office possesses.”

Adam accompanied us to the financial office and unlocked the door. Sarkisian laid out the contents of the bag—chocolate chip cookies and quite a few of them at that—and Adam started the office’s coffeepot. While it brewed, he perched on the edge of the table and munched our snack.

Sarkisian shoved the briefcase under the table, then opened the first filing cabinet. After running a finger along labels, he shut it and went to the next drawer.

“Can I help?” Adam asked.

Sarkisian shook his head. “This is more along the line of eliminating possibilities rather than finding something. Grunt work.”

Obligingly, I grunted.

“Ah.” He pulled out a folder. “Here’s where we start, I guess.”

Adam shook his head. “Better you than me.” He took another cookie, poured a cup of black coffee, and headed toward the door. “Got to do the rounds, though God knows why. Might have been of some use if I’d been here with Dave yesterday.”

“Don’t take blame that isn’t yours.” Owen Sarkisian called the sage advice after him.

“Yeah. We all have enough of our own, I guess.” Adam waved with the hand that held the cookie, then drew the door closed behind him with his boot.

Sarkisian set the folder he’d pulled on the table, then took the chair next to mine. “Production records for January,” he said. “I want to know the volume distilled and the number of bottles filled. And yes, I know that rhymed, so don’t make any nasty cracks.”

“Want to start on the apricot brandy?” The stuff in which Dave had drowned… Well, that seemed appropriate. I sifted through pages, checking dates and notes and figures. At last, I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about distilling. You picked the wrong helper.”

He nodded, glum. He’d been doing the same for the cranberry liqueur. He shoved his folder aside and glared at it. “We’ll have to call in an expert and see if they can figure anything out.”