Cold Turkey (2 page)

A bright, familiar woman’s voice answered with an encouraging, “Sheriff’s office.”

Deep breath. “This is Annike McKinley, at—”

“Annike? Hi, it’s Jennifer. Been a long time. You home for Thanksgiving?”

“Jennifer,” I repeated. The woman had been answering the phone twelve years ago, when I first met Tom McKinley, who already had been the county sheriff for five years. Who probably still would be if he hadn’t gotten in the way of that bullet during a drug bust seven years ago. Jennifer, who’d been at our wedding, and who’d accompanied the deputy sheriff when he’d come to break the news to me of Tom’s death.

“Are you going to stop by for a visit?” Jennifer’s voice sounded cheerfully over the line. “We’ve got a new guy here, just took over when Sheriff Guzman retired last month. Love to hear your opinion of him. He’s—”

“Jennifer,” I managed to break in. “We’ve got someone—I mean, we’ve got a body—”

“Don’t tell me, there’s a carcass in your kitchen. Someone murdered a turkey, right?”

“No, an accountant.” Except in the case of Clifford Brody, the point could be argued that he was both.

“An…” Jennifer broke off. “No, don’t tell me. Now, why,” she muttered, “would a turkey be called an accountant? No, don’t spoil it, let me guess the joke.”

“No joke. Listen, I’m serious. It’s Clifford Brody. He’s dead. And he’s here, in my aunt’s house.”

“Brody? God, Annike, are you serious? He’s dead? Really?” She exhaled in a ragged breath. “Who am I going to get to do my taxes this year?”

I let that pass. “Will you get someone out here? An ambulance, and the new guy, and we’ll need a forensic team.”

“Any chance he’s still alive? I mean, did you check for a pulse? Do CPR?”

“No need.” The vision of Brody’s face rose in my mind, all too clear, and I shuddered. More distressing, though, had been that lack of warmth, of any sense of a vital life force… “Just get them out here.”

I hung up, my knees buckled, and I groped my way back to the chair, still hugging the purring Dagmar. Clumsy, the black tom, joined us, scrambling up my leg and onto my lap. The tiger-striped manx Hefty settled on my feet. I closed my eyes, hugged the cats and tried not to think about Clifford Brody.

An engine sounded in the driveway, and I tensed, to the annoyance of the beasties. Had the sheriff been out on patrol nearby? I waited, listening, and the rumble of the garage door reached me. Aunt Gerda. Thank God, she was back. I rose, dislodging Dagmar and Clumsy, and ran for the front door.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Noises drifted up, of the garage closing, of a car door slamming, then the safety stair light switched on, revealing Gerda’s tall figure, wrapped in a purple wool cape. She started up the steps.

“Aunt Gerda—” My relief at seeing her faded beneath my need to warn her, not to let her walk in on the horror that waited.

Gerda waved. “You’re home early, dear. What a delight to find Freya in the garage. How did you get away so soon?” She reached the landing and spun about, swirling the damp wool of her cape. “What do you think? I cut it off the loom only three days ago.”

“Great. Get inside, it’s starting to rain harder, again. There’s…there’s a bit of a problem.”

Aunt Gerda stopped one stair below me. Feathers of faded blonde hair emerged from beneath a knitted tam of hand-spun purple wool. Her blue eyes sparkled as she fixed me with an accusing gaze. “You’ve lost your job.”

“No. That is, yes, I quit. But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s—”

“You quit? You mean you have another job all lined up? You didn’t just walk out, did you?”

“Yes, I just walked out. I tried to hold on, but—”

Aunt Gerda sniffed. “You always act before you think, that’s your problem. Honestly, a widow of thirty-nine should be beyond throwing temper tantrums. What were you planning on doing with yourself? How will you keep Vilhelm in seed treats and cuttle bones? Well, you’ll just have to move back here, won’t you?” She mounted the last step and enveloped me in a welcoming hug.

I returned it with fervor. “Aunt Gerda,” I tried once more, only to break off. How did you tell your beloved aunt there was a dead body in her study? One complete with her letter opener rammed through its chest, at that? It wasn’t something you just blurted out.

Gerda pulled back, a gleam lighting her eyes. She lowered her voice. “Maybe it’s all for the best. Why don’t you set up as a rival to Brody? You’re a C.P.A. every bit as much as he is.” She led the way into the house. “We’ll all be glad to have someone honest and trustworthy for a change. Take a stab at him!”

I blanched. My throat got a stranglehold on my voice and refused to let it out. Numbly, I accepted the canvas shopping bag Aunt Gerda thrust at me. I checked inside automatically and headed for the kitchen to put away the giant bottle of vanilla, its sole contents. “Funny…funny you should put it that way,” I managed at last.

Gerda paused in the dining room while she dragged off the tam, then fluffed her mangled curls. “I can promise you my business, for one,” she continued, her voice still hushed with conspiracy. “And just about everyone else in town will be only too glad to switch over, you’ll see.” She cast a frowning glance toward the living room and the hall beyond. “I suppose he had to call someone for a ride home. Now I’ll have to apologize, but I honestly didn’t mean to be gone so long. He is gone, isn’t he?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I closed the cupboard. I had to tell her. I drew a deep breath and searched for words gentle enough to break such a terrible shock.

Gerda trailed me into the kitchen, unfastening the single button at the throat of her cloak. She swept it off and draped it over one of the painted chairs where it could drip onto the hand-loomed rag rug that covered the hardwood floor. She stared at me, her brow creased. “Something’s troubling you.” She pushed me onto one of the chairs, then settled herself on the other side of the old pine table. “Out with it. What’s the matter?”

I swallowed. “It’s Brody. He—” I broke off, startled as Gerda flushed.

“Did he take my papers away with him?” she demanded. “The nerve of that man! I specifically told him not to. When I get my hands on him…”

“He’s dead.” Oh, damn, exactly the way I hadn’t wanted to let it out.

“You bet he is. Just as soon as—”

“I mean…” I swallowed again. “I mean he already is.”

Aunt Gerda froze, then blinked at me. “Dead? You mean as in…dead? No longer among the living? Funeral time?”

I nodded. “Funeral time.”

“Well.” Gerda stared into space for a long moment, digesting the information, then rose and crossed the kitchen to the pantry cabinet. She dragged open its door, drew out a brightly painted enameled tin canister, and deposited it on the table in front of me. As she pulled off the lid, the odor of raspberry chocolate chips wafted forth.

It left me queasy, but caffeine was caffeine, and chocolate doubly so, with other added benefits. I picked out a single chip from the trove, but couldn’t bring myself to eat it.

Gerda popped a neat dozen into her mouth. When she had dealt with these, she turned back to me. “It’s unsettling, certainly, but I never liked him, you know. It’s not a devastating blow to me, or anything like that. Why are you making such a fuss over it?”

My frayed nerves stretched a little further. “Maybe because I found him. Funny, you know, how finding a corpse in your aunt’s study has an unsettling effect on you.”

“Finding… In your aunt’s study?” She surged to her feet. “You mean here? Now? He’s here?”

I nodded.

“Of all the nerve!” Aunt Gerda turned on her heel and stormed from the kitchen.

I caught up to her halfway through the clutter of wool baskets in the living room. “You don’t want to go in there.”

She slowed, but didn’t stop. “I suppose it’s too late to tell him off,” she agreed. “But we can’t just leave him there. Have you called anyone? The paramedics?”

“The sheriff.”

That stopped her. “What do you want him for? Or was it just habit?”

“Necessity. He didn’t exactly have a heart attack, I’m afraid.”

“He didn’t? Was it an accident?” Gerda stared at me, aghast. “Oh, please, tell me it wasn’t an accident! That damned sister of his will sue me for everything I’ve got, as if she hasn’t managed to cheat me out of a good deal of it, already!”

A vision sprang into my mind, of Brody’s body lying across the desk with the letter opener protruding from his chest. “I suppose you’ll be delighted to hear it’s murder?”

“You’re sure? There’s no chance of it being an accident? No,” she added as she pulled away from my restraining hand. “I want to see for myself.”

She marched down the hall and shoved open the door into the study. For a long moment she stood just over the threshold, unmoving. I waited outside my own room, hugging myself, feeling the sort of chill that threatened never to let go.

“What a god-awful mess,” Gerda declared at last. “How…” A long moment of silence followed, then she turned to face me, her complexion unnaturally pale. “That’s my letter opener,” she managed to choke out.

I hurried to catch her arm. “You shouldn’t have looked at him.”

She shook herself free. “Annike, did you hear me? That’s my letter opener!” Her voice rose on a note of hysteria. “He was stabbed with my letter opener!”

“I noticed.”

She looked over her shoulder. “We’ve got to get rid of him. He can’t be found here, not like that. We’ll have to take him somewhere, leave him…”

“No we won’t.” I got a firm grip on her and led her resolutely back toward the living room. “He stays right there ‘til the sheriff arrives. I’ve already called him, remember?”

Gerda cast me a frantic, baleful glare. “How could you do such a thing to me! Well, we’ll just get rid of my letter opener, then.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort. That’s tampering with the evidence. Now, come back in the kitchen. We both need a strong cup of tea.”

Gerda dug in her heels. “Annike, you don’t understand! If he’s found like this, I’ll be arrested! You don’t know what’s been going on. Unless we do something, right now, before it’s too late, I’m going to be convicted of murder!”