Cold Turkey (23 page)

I served our meal, ate mine too fast, at least according to Gerda, delivered my plate to the sink, and reached for my coat.

“Where are you going?” she demanded as I started for the door.

“Just down to Simon’s. He’s my best bet for heavy-duty tools.”

“Can’t you phone him?”

“Don’t ever mention the word ‘phone’ to me again.”

Gerda nodded her understanding. Right now, those hideous instruments loomed over me like ten-ton boulders. I couldn’t imagine what had made me even consider getting a cellular one the other day. They were electronic leashes. You couldn’t escape people.

But I had another reason for getting out of the house right now. Gerda wanted to talk about the murder and the suspects, and I didn’t. I wanted a peaceful drive in my car, all alone. And, I realized as I entered the garage, I had a real chance of it. The turkey was actually out of Freya, getting a drink! If I could get the top up in time…

I couldn’t. It saw me coming and with a mad flapping of wings launched itself into the backseat again. It glared at me as I resignedly raised the top and climbed into the driver’s seat, then nestled down to sleep as the engine roared into life.

A steady drip beat a tattoo on my canvas roof as I pulled out of the garage, and by the time I’d backed around and headed down the drive toward the gate, the rain came down in torrents. That just might make my errand pointless, a silver lining to those charcoal clouds if I’d ever seen one. No one could blame me if the rain stopped us from tending to the park. Everyone would just have to do it some other weekend—preferably when I was out of town.

I turned down the lane toward Simon Lowell’s, then had to slow to a crawl. The rain came down so hard I couldn’t see, in spite of my wipers beating away at top speed. Even the turkey made a few discontented noises. If it gave that damned bird a distaste for my car, this could prove a winning downpour all around.

Except for the dinner. I braked—but gently, since I didn’t want to go into a skid. If this rain kept up—and I knew from long experience that it could—we’d need some huge pavilion tents for the dinner. We’d used them in the past, but not for at least eight years. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I knew, as a certainty, Cindy wouldn’t have bothered reserving any to be on the safe side. Cindy hadn’t bothered doing anything—except getting the wrong kind of bird for the raffle.

There must be some way to get tents, even at this late date. Maybe Simon would have some ideas. After all, he was, at least nominally, a real estate agent.

I turned onto his drive and bumped and sloshed my way through the deep mud-filled ruts. No glow showed through the trees, and my heart sank. I might have come out—and put poor Freya through this obstacle course—for nothing. But then maybe he didn’t illuminate his yard every night. Maybe that had been for Adam Fairfield’s and Sheriff Sarkisian’s sakes.

I rounded the last bend and with relief saw lights in his cabin windows, bright through the cracks in his curtains. Pale gray smoke gushed from his chimney as if he had just lit a blaze. I pulled up as close to his door as I could manage, regretted not having an umbrella, then scrambled out and dashed for the shelter of his meager front porch.

I hammered on the door as hard as I could. He must have heard my car approach—Freya’s hard to miss. Still, it was a full minute before I heard his footsteps crossing the single room. He peered out, and I, unmannerly in the extreme, pushed my way inside. “Sorry. It’s horrible out there.”

He had perforce stepped back to allow my rude entry, and he eyed me with considerable surprise. “What’s up?”

“I need advice. And possibly a favor.”

The glass door of the wood burning stove stood open, and a pile of small sticks and medium-sized branches lay on the stones beside it. I started toward the fire, holding out my hands. It actually wasn’t that cold, but I’d take any hope of getting a bit drier.

Simon shot after me, placing himself in an awkward position between me and the fire. Very awkward, I realized. Two letters, separated from their envelopes, lay on the floor, not completely hidden by his muddy boots.

“Burning letters?” I asked, then realized that could have been a very dumb thing to say. There had been a murder, after all. If Simon had killed Brody, and I saw him disposing of evidence…

His shoulders slumped. “God, I should have known I’d get caught.”

That didn’t sound too threatening, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I took a casual step backward.

He ran both hands through his dark hair, loosening it from the ponytail that hung down his back. “Look, you’re not going to believe me, but honestly, I only received these when I got home half an hour ago.”

Emboldened, I leaned forward to take a closer look. “That’s Clifford Brody’s return address,” I pointed out.

He grimaced. “Yeah. Damn, I’d make a rotten plotter, wouldn’t I? First time I try something stealthy, I get caught.” He flung himself down in the room’s only chair, then sprang up again and gestured me toward it. He crossed his ankles and sank with surprising grace onto the cabin’s cement floor.

“You’re burning letters from Brody?” I remained standing for a moment, but his posture seemed more resigned than threatening, so I settled onto the cushions.

“No point in denying it, since you caught me. It was only some stupid personal matter between us. But I suppose I can’t expect you to keep this from the sheriff, not when your aunt is also a suspect.” He reached over, picked up the sheets, refolded them, and stuffed them back into their envelopes.

He could have tossed them into the blaze—in fact, I expected him to. Then it would have been his word against mine, and even if the sheriff believed me—a possibility of which I could by no means be certain—without evidence it would never stand up in court. As Simon had just pointed out, my aunt was also a suspect. Instead, he rose and carried them to his desk where he pulled out a manila envelope. He dropped in the letters, sealed it, scrawled something across the front, then handed it to me.

“You might as well give them to the sheriff. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” He’d written “To Sarkisian, with love, Lowell”.

“But…” I began.

He shrugged. “No harm in your knowing, I suppose. Brody was trying to blackmail me into helping him buy up prime real estate at a cheap price, and without any agent commissions being paid, in exchange for not divulging a secret about me. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep that secret—er—secret.”

“Go right ahead.” Blackmail? Since he’d told me so much, yet sealed up the letters, I wondered if they contained that secret. Probably. I felt the temptation to steam open the envelope but knew I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want anyone prying into my secrets—not that I’d managed to collect any worth blackmailing me for. Obviously other people led more interesting lives than I did.

He threw the handful of branches onto the fire and closed its door, then adjusted the air flow before turning back to me. “So,” he declared with that forced brightness people adopt to cover an embarrassing pause, “you said you needed advice? Want to buy some property?”

“On a night like this? No, I need to know where I can get those big pavilion tents for the park dinner.”

“Ouch. On a Friday night, Thanksgiving weekend.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Ouch,” he repeated. He was silent for a long minute, then shook his head. “I know the party supply place in Meritville can get hold of them, but I think it takes a week or so to get them shipped. And even if it didn’t, they’d be closed now, with no way to reach anyone.” He fell silent again, then at last shook his head. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “That’s what I was afraid of. Emergency backup arrangements should have been made weeks ago.”

“Cindy Brody,” Simon said, and we nodded in unison. “Well, I’d offer to let you use my place…” He gestured around the decidedly unspacious cabin.

“Thanks all the same. Well, maybe it’ll clear up.” I paused, and the pelting of the rain on the roof made its point. “Oh, well.”

“Oh, well, is right. Anything else I can do for you? What brought you out? You could have just called about the tents.”

I explained about needing to get away from phones, then told him about the need for a chain saw.

“I’ll bring tools if you’ll bring a break in the weather,” he offered.

That seemed to sum it up. Thanking him, and armed with his envelope, I left. I didn’t really want to go home, yet. And there was still one matter I hadn’t taken care of. If, on the slim chance I really did bring a break in the rain, we had to hang the Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa decorations. And, unlike the frozen pumpkin, I knew where the town stored them. At the Still. And since both Adam Fairfield and Dave Hatter would be on duty at the moment, I might as well head over there, remind them about the promised bottles of liqueur, and see if I could pick anything up now. Maybe I could leave the turkey in exchange.

Pine and redwood needles littered the road to the distillery. I inched along the hazardous curves, the river roaring in its gulch not that far below. It must be rising steadily with all the rain. With a sigh of relief, I spotted the glow from the parking lot lights and rounded the last curve with more confidence.

Several cars stood in the lot, including Sheriff Sarkisian’s Jeep. That surprised me. What I didn’t see was Adam’s pickup. I continued along the road and turned down the hill that led to the lower level with the shipping and receiving dock. After all, I hoped to receive a trunk-load of decorations. But the odds of being able to ship out a turkey seemed pretty slim. Maybe the Still would like to adopt it as a mascot. I could but try.

And there was Adam’s pickup, parked next to the loading dock. I pulled in beside him, glared at my unwelcome passenger and climbed out into the downpour. I ran up the cement ramp toward shelter and in a few moments rang the bell.

Several minutes passed before Dave Hatter appeared. “What are you doing here?” he demanded with less than enthusiasm.

“Came for the holiday decorations. We need them for the park tomorrow, remember?”

“Rain’s not going to let up.” But he stepped aside and let me in.

“That’s the ticket,” I said cheerfully. “Think positive but prepare for the worst. What’s going on around here?”

“A full-scale police investigation.” He sounded glum.

“Has something happened?” I looked around, fearing to see some vandalism, some damage. My gaze met only the clean emptiness where trucks pulled into the dock. Tony Carerras’ motorcycle parked near the massive roll-down doors, and a few crates stood at one end, neatly sealed with the distillery’s name and logo stamped on the cardboard, but that was about it.

“The sheriff’s looking at the books.”

So, he hadn’t wasted a minute getting that warrant.

“Might as well come on up,” he added. “He’ll want to know you’re here.”

“I’ll bet,” I murmured, but followed Dave through the door that led to the storage area.

Tony was there, sweeping. He stared at me but made no response to my wave, merely turning back to his work. Then we passed through to the production floor, where a middle-aged woman wandered around in a white lab coat checking instruments and making notes on a clipboard.

“The current experimental batches,” Dave explained as we mounted the iron grate stairs to the office level, with their glass windows looking down on the rows of copper stills and the single bathtub-sized vat.

I nodded, looking straight ahead, anywhere but down.

The accounting office was one of the few that didn’t overlook the production floor. It held two desks, a wall of filing cabinets, another of shelves partly filled with binders of completed financial records, a table piled with purchase orders, inventory printouts, memos, and every other bit of paper Peggy had yet to process, and four people. Adam Fairfield and Sarkisian stood to one side, watching the plump, fiercely concentrating Roberta Dominguez at work with her official cameras. Her accomplice, a man of medium build, black hair and a handlebar mustache he obviously spent hours tending, dusted for fingerprints.

The sheriff turned as we entered and snorted. “I should’ve known you’d turn up.”

“She came for the holiday decorations,” Dave explained. “I thought you ought to know she was here.”

Sarkisian nodded, his gaze lingering on me. Abruptly he turned back to the two technicians. “Almost done?”

“Just this last one,” said the photographer.

Sarkisian waited, Roberta Dominguez finished, and she and the other man packed up their equipment. “All yours,” she said as they loaded themselves down with their cases of gear. “We’ll take people’s prints downstairs,” she added as they left. At the sheriff’s signal, Adam and Dave followed them.

I eyed the mess that remained. “Did they fingerprint everything?”

Sarkisian nodded. “So now it’s safe to touch.”

“Well, have fun.” I turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Decorations?”

He looked at his shoes, then up at me. “I don’t know anything about bookkeeping.”

I nodded in a sympathetic manner, a touch of unholy glee starting deep within me. “That’ll make it a lot harder for you.”

He glared at me. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”