Cold Turkey (31 page)

“Of course not. But you lied to Sarkisian about how Peggy’s cigarette lighter got on your desk.”

She said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Oh. Do you think he realized that, too?”

“He doesn’t seem to miss much. So, how—and when—did it really get there?”

She sighed. “I’ve no idea. I don’t remember seeing it, but you know what my desk’s like. You could probably hide an elephant in all that clutter. For all I know, it could have been there for weeks.”

Or it might have been there for no more than an hour.

“Oh, no.” Gerda glared at me. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it right now! She couldn’t—wouldn’t—have killed him. Be reasonable. Why on earth would she be taking out her lighter if she were stabbing him? The sheriff himself admitted there was no smell of cigarettes in the room, so she hadn’t stopped to smoke to settle her nerves.”

That was true. But if Peggy had murdered Brody, she might well have been stressed enough to want a cigarette, taken out both it and her lighter, remembered she was in Gerda’s house, and put the cigarette away again. She was so scattered she could easily have set down the lighter and forgotten it.

We reached the school, so I let the matter drop. We’d arrived only a few minutes later than planned, but Peggy was already in the lot, waiting. I greeted her—I hoped—as if I had not just been considering the possibility that she was a murderer. Apparently she found nothing amiss or suspicious in my manner, and as a threesome we trooped along the hall to the cafeteria. We’d barely opened it and switched on the lights when Art and Ida showed up, followed by Sue Hinkel.

“Dumping all this on you was a rotten thing to do,” Ida told me as we arranged main dishes at one end of the table and salads at the other. Side dishes, drinks and desserts would occupy a second table.

“Damn right,” I agreed.

She grinned. “Well, this is the last event. It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

I nodded. Did that, I wondered, include the murder investigation, too? Damn, Sarkisian was right. I wanted it all to have been a mistake. I loved happy endings. But there wouldn’t be one to this awful affair. Unless—and I clung to this possibility—he’d been wrong, and Dave Hatter had committed suicide after killing Brody. Well, I could dream, couldn’t I?

Peggy disappeared, but came back a few minutes later carrying a boom box. She turned on its radio, and out blared Christmas music. Christmas. On Thanksgiving weekend. I couldn’t face it.

“Can’t they let us finish one holiday before assaulting us with another?” demanded Ida, echoing my feelings.

Peggy switched channels, but the next three she tried also blared Rudolph and Santa Claus at us. She tried again, and this time located a talk show. Her next attempt brought up salsa music, which won by an overwhelming vote. We left it there.

The first of our community diners began to arrive, bearing their own plates and utensils as well as their offerings. The SCOURGE elite squad took up places behind the serving tables, directing the newcomers where to place their casseroles and vegetables and cakes. The variety of foods impressed me, and I could only pray that no one got food poisoning from dishes left out too long, whether here or where they were made.

Nancy arrived with Simon, who still looked smug. She greeted us with a weary smile as they deposited their offering of a cranberry tart on the second table. “Dad’s found someone to spell him at the Still,” she announced. “He’s getting off duty at four-thirty, then he’ll change and come on over.”

“We’ll make sure there’s food left,” Art told her.

Already people filled plates and found themselves places to sit. A few of the smaller kids danced to the music. I heaved a sigh of relief. We just might make it through this. I might survive the weekend.

Nancy and Simon sat at a table near us. She slumped in her seat. She really ought to go home to rest. Apparently Simon thought the same thing. He frowned at her, pushed his plate away and stood up. She shook her head at whatever he told her.

His voice rose. “I said we’re going.”

“But I’ve barely started…”

He took her arm. “Come on. You’re too tired to be here. I’m taking you home.” Leaving their plates where they lay, he hauled her from the room.

I’d been right to think him controlling, and wondered if he’d kept this side of himself hidden from Nancy until now. I could only hope she noticed this disturbing trend in his behavior and thought better of marrying him. And his millions.

They almost collided with Sarkisian in the doorway. He stepped aside, waving them on with a hand that grasped a can of cranberry sauce. Four more cans peeked out from where he clutched them against his chest with his other arm. I hurried to meet him.

“Find anything out?” I honestly couldn’t contain my curiosity—and fear.

His grim expression answered my question even before he spoke. “Nothing unusual in deposits, and all as it ought to be in checks written. The money—if there ever was any—is well hidden. Or in someone else’s account.”

“How many—” I began.

“I’ve only had time to check the one, so far. Guess how I’ll be spending the rest of the evening. And night, with my luck.”

I nodded. “Have time for some dinner, first?”

“I could use—” The radio crackled at his belt, and he broke off, swearing. He thrust the cans of cranberry at me and strode from the cafeteria.

“A policeman’s lot is not a happy one,” I murmured, and the quote from the
Pirates of Penzance
brought back the memory of only a few nights before when we’d stood in the rain outside my aunt’s house watching Peggy drive off in a huff.

“This the gig?” yelled a determined voice over the babble of small talk that filled the room.

I looked up, jolted back to the present. And a rather unexpected one, at that. A teenager, with spiky purple and orange hair and more piercings than I would have thought the human body could tolerate, stood in the doorway. He clutched the neck of an electric guitar, the body of which rested on his shoulder.

“Where do you want us?” he asked. Conversations broke off as people turned to stare.

“Anywhere but here,” I moaned.

Gerda turned a bemused stare on me. “Did you…”

“No!”

The teenager strode further into the room, followed by four more, all spiky-haired, all in too tight jeans, open vests over T-shirts, and black army boots. One pushed a handcart on which rested the largest set of amplifiers I’d ever seen. Another bore a portable drum set, while a third lugged a keyboard. The fourth carried a bass over his shoulder. Their leader looked around, then headed for the stage with his cohorts following. That all-too familiar sinking sensation attacked my stomach.

“Annike…” Gerda began.

“Not me,” I protested.

The first teenager looked up from where they’d begun to hook up their equipment and surveyed the staring crowd. “Hey, Aunt Cindy! Want to check the bass?”

Aunt Cindy. That explained everything.

Cindy Brody hurried into the cafeteria from the kitchen, beaming. “Go ahead,” she called.

The first notes blasted out the hall. Fortunately they turned the volume down on their own—they never could have heard my screaming for them to do so. Unfortunately, they didn’t turn it down enough. Nor had they tuned up, yet. The resulting cacophony of sound made me whimper.

Cindy strolled over to us. “Isn’t it great having a live band?” she yelled over the din.

“Your nephew?” I inserted as much accusation into those two words as I could muster.

She nodded, but seemed to think I’d just paid her a compliment. “They’re just getting started. I thought this would give them a boost.”

“Did she say ‘boost’ or ‘bust’?” demanded Peggy.

“Have you…have you ever actually heard them play?” Sue Hinkel managed, barely audible over the dis-chords that emitted from the speakers.

Then the band—to use the term in its broadest sense—started the first song, punk rock as expected, obscene lyrics as feared. It was so awful, so off-key and out of sync, I couldn’t decide whether to cry or laugh. I chose the latter and sank against the wall to support myself. I was going to strangle every single member of the SCOURGE elite, beginning with Cindy and going on until I’d killed every last one of them. And then I was going to beg Sarkisian to lock me up in a nice quiet jail cell for some much needed peace. Or maybe I’d plead for a padded cell.

“Do something!” Gerda shouted at me.

Already, several parents gathered up their young children and headed for the door. I couldn’t blame them. But I also couldn’t let the dinner collapse like this. I strode forward, shouting at the band to stop, waving my arms to get their attention. They merely brandished their instruments around wildly in the air and struck even worse-sounding chords. I have nothing against punk rock. I’ve heard some really good bands. But this was stretching the definition of music too far.

Art Graham solved the problem for me. He pulled the plug. Literally. The amplified sound shut off. The so-called musicians stopped one at a time as they realized something was wrong, with the drummer winning the slowest-to-catch-on award by continuing for a good ten seconds after the others had quit.

“Hey, whatcha do that for?” the leader demanded in the sudden and blessed silence.

“Sorry. We’re rated G,” Art explained.

“Yeah. Whatever. Like, it’s up to you. Just so long as we get paid for the whole gig.”

Paid? I looked around for Cindy to demand an explanation, but she had faded away. Probably a strong streak of self-preservation. Definitely, I was going to begin my murder spree with her.

I’d hoped the band would take the hint and pack up, but instead they jumped down from the stage. They fished cards out of their pockets, and it took me a few seconds to realize they actually had the gall to solicit for more gigs among the diners. Most of the recipients either tore or crumpled up the slips of cardboard. No one bothered to put them anywhere for safekeeping.

With peace mostly restored, newcomers who had turned away at the door began to come back in. There seemed a lot of people, a lot of relieved laughing and talking, a lot of milling and filling of plates. Time slipped comfortably by, and everything actually ran smoothly, the only disturbance coming over who would get the last piece of a turkey, artichoke and mushroom quiche that I’d had my eye on, as well. That quarrel ended amicably, with the combatants cutting the slice in half and sharing it, and good will once more filled the cafeteria.

“We just might survive this,” I said to Peggy, then realized she no longer stood beside me. I had no idea how long she’d been gone, it wasn’t as if we were really doing anything other than standing here. I looked down the line but couldn’t see my aunt, either. That explained it. They’d probably retreated to the kitchen together for a break. Or, knowing them, a dish of yams swimming in marshmallows. I considered joining them, but that would leave only Sue behind the tables to receive any new offerings.

So where were the Grahams? I looked around the crowded room and spotted Art and Ida sitting in a corner, eating. When they reported back, I decided, I’d fill a plate for myself. I realized, with a touch of consternation, I’d been waiting for Sarkisian. But he’d never returned from answering that radio call. And that was more than half an hour ago, probably longer. I wondered what could have happened. Not, I prayed, another body.

“Annike?” Art nudged my elbow. “Where did you stow the liqueurs? We’d better trot them out before people start to leave.”

The liqueurs. I stared at him in dismay. “Dave Hatter was going to bring them,” I said. “Oh, God, and we promised everyone they could taste them!” We stared at each other for a moment. “Oh, hell. All right. I’ll go get them. Make an announcement that we’ll have them here within half an hour.” I dragged my purse from under the table, unhooked my keys, and ran for the parking lot.

“And you,” I told the turkey as I climbed into Freya, “are moving out. First thing tomorrow morning.” It ignored me, which was typical.

The rain didn’t even have the decency to let up and make the trip easier on me. I turned onto the road leading to the Still and took the slick curves at a snail’s pace. Adam would no longer be on duty. That meant I’d have to convince his replacement I had every right to take away bottles from the experimental batches. If it were someone I knew, I might have a chance. If it wasn’t…I wouldn’t even let myself think about that. I probably should have asked Gerda to have another word with Hugh Cartwright. With a sigh, I reached a short straight stretch and gave the car a little more gas. The latches holding up the flip-top rattled, but the duct tape I’d slapped over them still held.

The parking lot stood empty. I swore in frustration, then remembered shipping and receiving. I headed down the hill, and to my relief—and surprise—I spotted Sarkisian’s borrowed Honda. No sign of any other car. So where was Adam’s replacement? Unless Sarkisian had somehow gotten stuck with that job. That would delight the sheriff, being reduced to a security guard. Unless he was taking the opportunity to search for that solid evidence he’d been talking about.

And that brought me back to fretting over who, of all those people I knew, could have murdered Brody. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the worry out of my mind. It was terrible, suspecting everyone, knowing nothing for certain. I only hoped I could survive the suspense without throwing a screaming fit. And I prayed, once more, it would prove to have been Dave, acting alone, with none of the others involved.