Cold Turkey (25 page)

She arrived in Hans Gustav a short while later, not the least ruffled at having to collect me from a hospital. “The sheriff was really quite capable,” she pronounced as she saw me tenderly into the passenger seat. For her, this was highest praise.

“How did he get home?” It felt like heaven to just lean back against the head rest. Then she handed me a thermos of tea, and as I opened it, and the heavenly aroma of chamomile, honey and rum reached me, I called down loud and glorious blessings on her head.

“He’d apparently called ahead. Whoever was on night duty swung by and picked him up. He really looked a mess, with all those bandages on his face, and he kept reassuring me you were going to be fine.”

“Oh, yeah. All set for a fun-filled day in the park,” I agreed.

Gerda sighed and looked up at the sky, which showed an annoying tendency not to rain. “It’s going to be dry enough to work,” she agreed without enthusiasm.

“Oh, damn, I never got the decorations,” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, we’ll call over to the Still. Dave or Adam or Tony or someone will cart them over.”

Any hope I had of being put on sick leave for the remainder of the weekend faded. Apparently it was back to work at once. “Did That Damned Bird survive?” I asked.

“It was a bit distraught, but I settled it down with a pancake.”

I lowered the thermos from which I was about to take a swig. “Do you mean you made pancakes, for a turkey, at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Four,” Gerda corrected me. “And it helped. It ate, then settled right down. And you can have the leftover batter when we get home.”

Leftovers from the turkey’s breakfast. “I’m honored,” I muttered, and swallowed some of the tea.

I not only got breakfast, but a short nap, as well, before I had to drag myself down to the park. By unspoken mutual consent, Gerda collected her keys. Freya—and That Damned Bird—were going to get the day off. I wished I could, too, but that would be too much to hope for.

I trudged down the redwood stairs—no more than damp after hours without rain—and opened the door to the garage. But instead of climbing into Hans Gustav, I went to inspect my beloved Mustang. Top down, turkey in rear seat, no dented fenders or torn metal or scratches or other signs of damage. All normal except for the driver’s side window, where the impact of my head had broken the supposedly safety glass and left an amazing amount of blood. No wonder I’d had so many stitches and now had a skull that throbbed like it had been hit by a car. It had. The true miracle lay in the fact that with all that slick, curvy road and rocky hillside, I hadn’t hit anything except myself. It could so easily have been me slamming into that guard rail, careening over the edge of that gully, bouncing from boulder to boulder to land in that raging river…

I patted the trunk of my car. That jarred the flip-top’s rear mechanism, which rose and fell with alarming ease as I tested it. The top latches wobbled when I touched them. Maybe I could tie the soft top in place. Or fasten it with duct tape. With a sigh, I turned back to Hans Gustav. On the whole, Freya and I—and That Damned Bird—had come out of last night’s affair pretty lightly.

Gerda watched me as I climbed into her passenger seat, but didn’t say a word. I was glad she hadn’t been there. It was going to be bad enough explaining away the bandage that covered half my face to every inquisitive SCOURGEie.

Gerda backed out of the garage in a sweeping curve to face the winding drive. “You know, Annike,” she said as we bounced through a pothole and out the gate, “I did set a trap for Brody.”

I froze. Not now, I moaned silently. My head wasn’t clear enough for this. “Please, don’t—” I began.

She interrupted me. “I know you’ve been hearing rumors, and I know I denied it, but—well, I don’t know why I was making such a big deal out of it. Stubbornness, I guess. It’s really pretty silly. All I did was copy all my financial records and take them to a second C.P.A. I wanted to compare what the two had to say about my investments, what they came up with for deductions. If there was a serious difference, I might have had a case for some criminal proceedings, or a lawsuit, or something.”

I considered this. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” And for Gerda, amazingly sound thinking.

My eccentric aunt spared me a glance from the road. “You think so?” She sounded relieved. “I was so afraid the new sheriff would think it too stupid to be possible and decide I was lying.”

“He’d approve,” I assured her. “Go ahead and tell him.”

Gerda cast me another sideways glance. “He was awfully nice last night.”

I nodded, then wished I hadn’t. The pain was almost as bad as the dizziness.

To my surprise, the SCOURGE elite had beaten us to the Park. Peggy ran up to the car as Gerda pulled up to the curb, practically bouncing on her toes in her eagerness. “You poor dear!” she cried. “Why don’t you sit just where you are. You can oversee the rest of us from here.”

I came as close to beaming at her as I could manage under the circumstances. “What a wonderful idea.”

She peered into the back of the Pathfinder. “You didn’t bring her! Really, Annike, how could you forget? We’re going to start the Name-the-Turkey contest today.”

“She won’t get out of my car,” I reminded her. “Anyway, you’re too late. I’ve already given her a name.”

Gerda, who had gotten out and joined Peggy, straightened to her full and very impressive height. “You named my turkey?” Menace sounded in every word.

“Well, you always say that animals have to earn their names, don’t you?”

“What are you calling her?” demanded my indignant aunt.

“That Damned Bird.” I faltered over the middle word, but finished strong.

“That Damned Bird,” repeated Peggy, tasting the name in her mouth. “T.D.B. for short?”

“T.D.…” Gerda broke off. She and Peggy stared at each other, grins spreading across their faces. “Tedi Bird!” they proclaimed almost in unison.

I groaned and leaned my head gently against the rest.

“Need more pain pills?” Sarkisian’s sympathetic voice interrupted my bout of self-pity.

“Tedi Bird!” Peggy told him, beaming. “Isn’t that a wonderful name?”

He looked to me for an explanation. I gave it to him. He didn’t laugh, but I could see it was a struggle.

Peggy eyed him with a frown. “You look like you’ve been in a pretty bad fight.”

“You should see the rocks,” he told her with a straight face—probably because it hurt too much to smile. “They got the worst of it.”

“They got hit with the Jeep,” I added.

When Peggy and Gerda had strolled off to join Ida and Art Graham, he leaned a hand against the door, and all trace of humor ebbed from his eyes.

“How do you feel?” I asked. “You haven’t had any sleep, either, I’ll bet.”

He waved that aside. “Look, I’m really sorry, Ms. McKinley. I never should have gotten you involved last night. If I hadn’t, if you’d just left with those damned holiday decorations…”

Remorse from Sarkisian was more than I could take. “Then who knows what would have happened if you’d hit that trap first. You might have gone over in a different spot, and the Jeep might not have caught on those rocks…” I broke off and closed my eyes. I’d have nightmares over last night.

“Well, we all got out of it pretty well. Even the Jeep wasn’t totaled, though I won’t be able to drive it for a week or so. Thought for sure it would have bent or mangled the frame or something else important, but amazingly it didn’t.”

We were silent for several minutes, watching Adam Fairfield pruning a hedge. Simon Lowell pulled a short ladder out of the back of his van, set it up beside a tree and mounted it. Art Graham brought over a box of banners and handed one up. Ida, Peggy, Sue and Gerda hung oversized inflatable Christmas balls on lower branches of the other trees. Adam must have brought the decorations. I called down silent blessings on his head. Now, if he’d brought the bottles of liqueur, as well, I’d be forever in his debt.

“Can you think of any reason why Dave Hatter’s fingerprints might have been all over the inventory sheets?” Sarkisian asked, breaking across my reflections.

I blinked, changing gears from the peaceful park scene to the murder investigation. “He might have delivered them,” I said, then realized that sounded ridiculous. “He’s the night watchman. Maybe it’s part of his job to check inventory.”

“These were the original papers, the records kept by the bottlers. The ones Ms. O'Shaughnessy used to enter onto the computer.”

I bit back my first thought, that Dave might have altered a few figures and stolen a few bottles. That didn’t make much sense. Employees could take home all the failed experiments they wanted.

Simon, the ladder under one arm, strolled toward us. He gave Sarkisian a nod of greeting. “Well?” he asked. “Interesting reading?”

I stared at Simon, confused, then memory rushed back. “The letters! I forgot…”

“I found them,” Sarkisian assured me. “The envelope was on the front seat of your car, with my name all over it.”

Simon, not meeting the sheriff’s steady gaze, explained about my catching him in the act of destroying evidence. His own words. He was making a joke out of it, but I could tell he was relieved, at the same time. “So, you think that’s enough motive for murder?” Simon finished.

Sarkisian sighed. “It’s been known to happen for less,” he said. “And the phrasing implied these weren’t the first words you and Brody had about blackmail.”

Simon’s jaw tightened. “Look, the guy was getting annoying, I admit it. He had a real talent for getting on everyone’s nerves. But if he revealed my great and terrible secret—well, it would have been a bit embarrassing, I admit that. But I’m not a hypocrite. Just keep that little matter quiet, will you?”

“Unless it becomes necessary to bring it out,” the sheriff agreed at last. Simon, looking much relieved, headed off to decorate another tree.

“All right, what is this terrible secret of his?” I demanded when Simon was out of earshot.

Sarkisian shook his head. “Sorry.”

Oh, well, I hadn’t really expected him to tell me.

“Now, why don’t you—” Sarkisian broke off and looked up. “Felt a drip,” he said, then, “Oh, damn!”

Droplets struck the windshield, harder and harder, until we had a full-on downpour. People grabbed up armloads of tools and ran for their cars. Sarkisian let himself into the backseat of Hans Gustav and watched the chaos resolve itself into an empty park.

Gerda scrambled into the driver’s seat. “I’ll take you home, Annike, then I’ve got to come back to the store. People want videos.”

“I’ll take Ms. McKinley home,” Owen Sarkisian said.

Gerda jumped and turned around. “I didn’t see you, there.”

“Special police camouflage training,” he assured her. “We’re taught how to blend into the backseats of nine different makes of vehicles.” He exited the car and opened the door for me.

Gerda raised her eyebrows at me. I shrugged and climbed out, then eased my way over to the plain white Honda Sarkisian had commandeered as temporary replacement for his Jeep. “Thanks,” I said as I sank into the seat.

“It gets better,” he assured me, and produced a towel from the back. “Even the heater works in this thing.” He started the engine.

I looked back at the park as we pulled away. “We only got it about half decorated,” I sighed.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, “it’s going to be too wet to hold the dinner there, anyway.”

“Great.” I stared out into the downpour, depressed, tired, and sore all over. “I wonder if we can get the school cafeteria?”

He glanced at me. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”

He turned onto my aunt’s street, and we fell silent as we headed up the hill, listening to the beating of the rain and the rhythmic swipes of the wipers. I stared out the side window, my thoughts drifting over the occupants of each house we passed, over the many times I’d hiked up this ever-steepening incline going home from school, over all the things that pop to mind when you’re tired and have handed control over to someone else, even if only for a few minutes.

We passed Peggy’s house just as she emerged from her front door, her arms loaded with several apparently heavy boxes. She could only have just gotten home— She saw the car and ducked back inside.

Sarkisian slowed, then pulled over. “Be right back,” he said, and clambered out into the rain.

I followed. He knelt behind a hedge, looking down the slope into Peggy’s yard. He had a clear view of her door. It opened again, and she peered out. Then she ran the few steps toward her car, opened the trunk and ran back to the house. This time she emerged once more with the boxes. She stowed these in her trunk, returned to lock her house, then directed her searching gaze up the road toward Gerda’s. The way our car had been heading. Apparently satisfied, she climbed into her Pontiac.

Sarkisian darted back to his own car, with me scrambling after him. “What…” I began as I fastened my seat belt.

“We’re going to follow her.” He sounded grim.

“She’d never have scattered those bolts.” But even as I said those words, I knew a moment’s doubt. Desperate people had sunk to doing desperate and terrible things before.