I went around, and between us we managed to get the limp body into a semi-upright position on the seat. I handed Sarkisian one side of the seat belt. He took it solemnly and fastened the man in place. Adam spoiled it by tilting to one side and slowly collapsing.
Sarkisian sighed. “I’m going to drive him home. Would you mind following, then giving me a lift back here to the Jeep?” He stepped back and frowned at the man. “His daughter tells me he’s been constantly ready for a fight—and a drink—ever since his wife left him. But only since then?” He raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember him being like this before, if that’s what you’re asking. But…”
“Yes?” he prodded when I stopped.
I shook my head. “Brody hadn’t been hit, had he? Only stabbed?”
“Only?” The sheriff actually grinned.
“You know what I mean. No head bashing. No bruising. Just a quick stab. If Adam had been drinking and out for a fight and encountered Brody…” I shrugged. “When he’s drunk, Adam seems to think with his fists. If he wanted a weapon, he’d grab something heavy, not something sharp.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So he’d need a reason for killing Brody that didn’t involve him getting mad. Well.”
“And since Lucy left, it seems that anything and everything makes him mad.”
He slammed the door shut. “Let’s get him home so you can go back to baking pies.”
“Gee thanks,” I muttered, and slid through the mud back to my car and that damned sleeping turkey.
Chapter Twelve
I followed the truck up the Fairfields’ drive a scant six minutes later and pulled to a halt a few feet away from it. The rain had started up again, and I’d forgotten to close the latches on what I was beginning to think of as my flip-top. I jumped out, rammed them into place, then ran to the door to knock. Nancy must have heard the engines because she was already there, peering out and looking frightened.
“Has something happened?” she demanded as I drew near.
“He’s just drunk,” I assured her.
She tensed, and the worry and strain etched their lines on her face. “Where was he?”
“Simon’s,” I admitted. “He’s drunk, too. I made sure he was all right before we left.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “And Dad—neither one got hurt?”
“Oh, they’ll probably both have a few bruises in the morning, but nothing to worry about.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t see how I can ever get Dad to accept Simon when they keep fighting like this.”
“A grandchild?” I suggested, then could have bitten my tongue when I saw the arrested look in her eyes. It had been a flippant comment, not meant to be taken seriously. If she had, if I’d given her the idea… “That wouldn’t work,” I declared with considerable force. “He’d probably murder Simon—” I broke off. Damn, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I kept saying the wrong thing.
I hurried over to the truck in time to help Sarkisian boost Adam to the ground. The man was groaning, but not yet awake. We sandwiched him between us, draping one of his arms over each of our shoulders, and half walked, half carried him to the house. Nancy opened the door wide and stepped aside, her expression a mingling of resignation and dismay. After a brief discussion, we dumped him on the sofa and left Nancy covering him with blankets.
“That’s a hell of an example to set for a kid like her,” the sheriff said as we headed for my car. He opened the passenger door, then pulled back. “What the…”
A rustling of feathers sounded from the backseat, but I don’t think the turkey actually woke up. “It won’t get out,” I explained as I scrambled inside, out of the rain.
“Pick it up and heave it,” the sheriff suggested.
I made an expansive gesture toward it. “Be my guest. You’re more than welcome to try.”
He regarded it speculatively, then reached out. The moment his hands closed around the plump body, all hell broke loose. Sarkisian jerked back, releasing the bird. “It bit me!”
“Join the club,” I sighed, and started the engine.
“Damned bird.” The sheriff lowered himself into the other bucket seat.
“At the rate it’s going, that’s going to be its official name.”
He shook his head. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy told me you’d decided to hold a Name-the-Turkey contest.”
“She decided,” I stuck in quickly, not wanting to carry any of the blame for that rotten idea. I put the car in gear and backed in a sweeping curve.
Owen Sarkisian remained quiet while we negotiated the newly paved driveway, all the while sucking the beak-inflicted wound on his wrist. As we turned onto the road, he spoke at last. “Lowell always seems to have sufficient money, doesn’t he?”
“Does he? It doesn’t look like he spends much,” I pointed out. I chose to ignore the quality of that down comforter.
“Mmmm. He’s not extravagant, but have you looked at his barn?”
“No,” I admitted. “Why?”
“He’s been making renovations.”
“Him, too?”
“Isn’t there a species of bird where the male fixes up the nest in the hope of attracting a female?”
I slowed the car and shot him a quick glance.
“From what I’ve been able to tell,” he went on, “Lowell makes no attempt to list or sell houses through his real estate agency. It’s as if the place is a cover for the way he really makes money.”
“But look at him!” I objected. “That’s not someone who values money, not like…” I broke off.
“Like Cindy Brody?” Sarkisian asked. “Don’t worry, you never mentioned her name. I did hear a rumor today about Lowell’s dealing drugs.”
I negotiated a winding turn in silence. “There are always rumors flying around a small town. Simon hasn’t lived here long, and everyone calls him a hippie. Naturally there’d be rumors about drugs.”
“So you’ve heard them, too?”
“Rumors aren’t proof. Besides, have you ever known a drug dealer who sneers at money?” I countered.
“Depends on why he deals, I suppose,” came the prompt answer. “He might believe in the sacredness of the mushroom, or the enlightening power of LSD or Ecstasy.”
“Or the healing power of pot?”
He sighed. “Don’t go there, that’s one hell of a medical and legal tangle.”
I took pity on him and dropped the subject, pleased by his response. It showed he had an open mind, a bit of a luxury for a career law enforcement officer. Instead, I said, “Look at that shack he lives in. You’d think he’d put in insulation if he had any spare cash lying around. And that van of his is about forty years old and is always needing repair.”
“What year is this car?” he asked with far too much innocence.
I shook my head. “Freya is a classic.” And naturally, right on cue, we hit a pothole and those damned latches popped.
“So is that hippie van of Lowell’s,” pointed out Sarkisian, as I caught the canvas top and gripped it. He sat in silence, considering, as we bounced over the bridge. “You suppose drugs were the dirty secret Brody was about to expose about him?”
“A public unveiling, Doris Quinn said, or something like that,” I mused. “Calling him a hypocrite.” I shook my head. “I have no idea.” With that we reached Simon’s, and I dropped Sarkisian at his Jeep and headed for home and more pie baking. The one thing neither of us had mentioned was the strength of the hatred between Brody and Simon Lowell, and the fact that it could well have flared into murder.
I decided, as my alarm wrenched me from sleep the next morning, that getting up before dawn was a habit I’d be delighted to break. I took the time to scramble eggs—after all, I was stuck in the kitchen anyway, shoving pies in and out of the oven. I even went so far as to chop fresh herbs from the pots Aunt Gerda kept in the large glass garden window that overlooked the back deck and pine trees beyond. The mushrooms, fortunately, came in a cardboard carton from the grocery store. I’d never cook one she’d picked herself.
Thanks to the bread making machine we’d set with a timer before going to bed, a heavenly aroma already filled the kitchen when I’d staggered in. By the time the eggs had set and I tipped them out of the pan, the machine was just beeping its readiness. I turned out the fragrant cinnamon oatmeal loaf and tore off a chunk. After all, using a knife before it was cool would have meant crushing it. Much better—and faster—this way.
Gerda drifted in, just in time to appropriate the plate I’d fixed for myself. She sank into a chair at the table, garbed in a fluffy purple bathrobe, sheepskin slippers and a bleary-eyed expression. Hefty inserted his plump tailless body into her lap, and Siamese Olaf pawed at her leg, trying to scramble up. She hoisted him onto a space I would have sworn was incapable of holding so many furballs, but Hefty shifted to make room, and the two settled down to an amicable purr.
I filled another plate and soon had Birgit leaping gracefully onto my lap. Purring wasn’t in her plan, though. She reached out a claw and expertly snagged a piece of egg that contained some diced ham. When I tried to stop her grabbing another, she snarled at me. It was going to be war, it seemed. And the way I felt this morning, I had few doubts that Birgit would come out on top.
Around eleven-thirty I dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt and left Gerda in charge of the baking. If I wanted to make sure we had sufficient pies to start the contest, I’d have to collect them and take them to the park myself. After stacking the first load we’d cooked yesterday into a large cardboard box, I made my careful way down the outside stairs. I let myself into the garage, and there was that damned bird, tucked cozily in its nest in Freya’s backseat. It had kicked the newspaper into a shredded heap, making itself more comfortable. It had also—obviously and messily—made a considerable foray around the garage at some point since I’d seen it last, but I’d leave the cleaning up for Gerda. It was bad enough I had to house and chauffeur the damned thing. I wasn’t going to mop up after it, too.
The sky actually looked like it might clear for a little. At least we wouldn’t have to worry about rain—yet. But the pie eating contest wasn’t scheduled until one o’clock, which gave the weather a good hour and a half to gather its resources for a torrential downpour that would cancel the event. I liked to think positive.
I skipped Peggy’s house—I could count on her to show up on time—and went to the next neighbor’s. By my fifth stop, I’d filled what little space remained in the car. Relieved—who’d have known Upper River Gulch denizens could be so reliable?—I headed for the park.
To my surprise, a car already stood at the curb. Sue Hinkel opened the door as I pulled up behind her. “What took you so long?” she called, and waved toward the backseat of her Honda sedan. “Two dozen pies, as ordered.”
“Bless you,” I said, and meant it.
Art Graham emerged from his store, which stood diagonally across the street, his arms loaded down with the red and white checkered plastic tablecloths the town used for the seven picnic tables scattered around what we lovingly called our park. Actually, the expanse of grass, trees and shrubs wasn’t much bigger than a normal square lot—which is what it was. A corner lot located at the intersection of our two major cross streets. Hey, we’re a small town. We take what we can get.
“Gerda opening her store today?” Art asked as he reached us. “We want to unwind with a movie tonight.”
“Just let her know,” I assured him.
We didn’t bother trying to move the tables. We just spread out the cloths, then stacked the pies down the center of each. Art and Ida Graham would bring over paper plates for the contestants, and knives to cut the pies into chunks. We all agreed forks probably wouldn’t be necessary, but they’d bring a few of those, as well, just in case someone proved fastidious.
Peggy pulled up in her dilapidated old Pontiac, but it wasn’t a box of pies she unloaded from the passenger seat. She dragged out a plastic bag, set it on the ground and produced a bright orange T-shirt from the top. She held it up. In large black letters it proclaimed “Pumpkin Pie Chef.”
“For the bakers,” she called. She stuffed it back into the sack and carried the load over, then handed one to each of us. She already wore hers, over her thick hand-knitted sweater.
Well, why not? I reflected. Might as well get into the spirit of the thing. I dragged on mine—she’d gotten all extra larges, so those of more petite proportions, such as herself, could wear them over sweaters or coats. Art displayed his proudly, beaming. It fit a bit tightly, but he didn’t care. Sue—naturally—looked terrific in hers. I began to feel a little more cheerful. Nothing like group camaraderie to lighten the heart.
“How’s the turkey?” Peggy asked, thereby shattering my mood.
“See for yourself.” I stalked off to her car to collect the pies I could see in the back. I heard her making cooing noises behind me and turned to see her tapping on the window. The turkey glared at her balefully.
“Oh, isn’t she sweet?” Peggy sighed with an incredible lack of insight. “I’ve already come up with a couple of names for the contest.”
“What contest?” demanded Sue, but fortunately I didn’t have to hear the answer, as several more cars pulled up, and people began calling greetings to each other. I left the Name-the-Turkey contest to Peggy.
I had to give the SCOURGEs credit, they showed up. No matter how ridiculous the event perpetrated by their elite squad, the rank and file members turned out in force to support them. I don’t know if that constituted stupidity on a massive scale, or if they’d decided it was easier to humor the lunatic fringe. At any rate, people appeared bearing pies, Peggy handed out shirts, and I began to feel like it might not be a major disaster after all.