“I didn’t go in to the Still, it was my day off.” Adam shook his head-carefully. “I did some work around the place, but that started me thinking about Lucy-my wife.”

“That’s the only time he ever drinks,” Nancy put in.

“Yeah, and I did, too. Went out at one point to buy some bourbon. Think I went out a second time, too. Then later-God knows when-I set off to visit Lucy. Got all the way down to the road before I realized I was too drunk to drive. I remember trying to back up, to get the truck out of the way so people could get by. Meant to leave it just inside the gate and walk home, but I couldn’t get the damn thing in reverse. So I took a nap, then tried again. Apparently I made it.”

“Nope,” Owen Sarkisian said. “John Goulding drove you home.”

“God.” Adam rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll have to thank him.”

“Can you remember hearing or seeing anything while you were down near the street? Any cars go by?”

Adam concentrated hard. “Something loud. Woke me up.” His gaze focused on me. “That damned Mustang of yours! I heard it again just now, when you came. What’ve you got on it, glass packs?”

“There’s just a bit of a hole in the exhaust system.”

“Again,” Adam put in.

“How about before that?” Sarkisian tried, dragging us back to the investigation.

Adam considered. “I think there was another engine,” he said at last. “Different one. Badly in need of a tune-up.”

Nancy stiffened beside me, but didn’t say anything.

“Thought it was a dream,” he added. “Only one like that around here is that old hippie van of Lowell’s, and there’d be no reason for him to come up this way.”

Sarkisian glanced at Nancy. “Know if Lowell was running around last night?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Wait a minute.” Adam’s expression grew thoughtful. “There’s that old barn up the road past Gerda’s. Lowell’s been using it since the spring. He might have been on his way to check his marijuana crop, or whatever it is he grows there.”

“He came by here,” Nancy blurted out.

Adam’s head jerked up, then he groaned and clutched it. “What did he want-or do I have to ask?”

“He wanted Mom’s spaghetti recipe. Said that’s about all he’s capable of cooking.”

Adam snorted. “You’re not to eat any, understand? He’ll probably use an extra brownie ingredient in it.”

Marijuana spaghetti? Well, he might, for all I knew. I’d have to ask Gerda more about Simon Lowell. Or better yet, meet him.

“Anything else?” Sarkisian prompted.

Adam frowned for a minute, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff, at least for the moment. He rose to leave, so I did, too. Much to my surprise, he carried the coffee maker out to my car for me. I unlocked the trunk, and he set it in with elaborate-and I’ll swear sarcastic-care.

It didn’t fit. The diameter proved too big for my car, which I’d always thought had impressive trunk room. I stood there staring at the open lid as the drizzle resumed. My poor car was going to get drenched.

“I’ll get some string so you can tie it down,” said Nancy, who had followed us out. She headed back to the house.

Sarkisian leaned against the side of my car, oblivious to the damp. “Hear what you wanted to hear?”

“That’s not why I came,” I reminded him.

“But it’s why you stayed.”

I opened my eyes as wide and innocent as possible. “I just needed help carrying that thing out.”

He gave me a withering look. “You’re not trying to keep tabs on the investigation?”

“It was my husband, not me, who was sheriff.”

“I know that,” snapped Sarkisian. “Not a single goddamn day passes but someone tells me how Sheriff McKinley would have handled even the most routine task.” He shoved away from the car. “Stick to the Thanksgiving festivities, and I’ll handle the murder.” He stalked off, but only as far as Adam’s pickup. He stooped over and examined the bumpers.

Apparently he found no traces of any fresh dents, because when Nancy returned with the string, he came back and tied down my trunk, then drove off in his Jeep. Probably to Simon Lowell’s. I glared after him, still irritated by his comments, though I knew I was being unfair. I really couldn’t blame him for being resentful of the love everyone felt for Tom. It wasn’t easy taking over from a man who had really belonged here. The interim sheriff-Guzman-had also been a native, but it was Tom people still talked about.

As I started up my car, I remembered another bit of information provided by Gerda. Simon Lowell was a real estate agent, the only one in town, in fact. That meant, by tradition, he managed the Grange Hall. And arranging for the use of that hall, and obtaining its key, was the next item on my list. I honestly felt sorry for poor Sarkisian as I set off after him.

Gerda had also pointed out the way to Lowell’s land to me on one of my last visits home. It lay farther down the hill from Adam Fairfield’s, on a side lane that paralleled Fallen Tree Road. I bumped along the rutted dirt track that led to his place, bounced across the narrow bridge over the stream, caught my convertible top as the latches popped, then pulled in relative dryness around the curve and through the gate onto a surprisingly well-kept driveway.

Sure enough, the sheriff’s Jeep stood in front of the dilapidated barn, and Owen Sarkisian himself stood on the porch of the ancient cabin beside a young man all curly brown beard, handlebar mustache, and long hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a torn flannel shirt, stained overalls, and soft leather boots with fringe just below the knee. Hippiedom, the next generation, I reflected, enjoying the picture he made.

Sarkisian broke off whatever he was saying to glare at me. I gave him a bright smile as I climbed out of Freya. “I’m innocent!” I called to him, and ignored his snort of disbelief as I refastened the car’s top. “I’ve come on Thanksgiving business, but don’t let me interrupt you. I can wait ‘til you’re through.”

Simon Lowell descended the two steps and strode toward me, hand extended to shake mine. He had a firm grasp, and amusement glinted in his hazel eyes. “If that’s your car, you must be Annike McKinley. Glad to finally meet you. Would you care to join us? We’re about to inspect my van.”

Sarkisian glowered and muttered something under his breath. I thought I caught the words “interfering” and “busybody,” but thought it best not to pursue the matter. He looked more than a trifle irritated with me. I couldn’t blame him. But that didn’t mean I was going to go away, either.

They started for the barn, with me trailing behind. It really was the epitome of picturesque, in a rustic, weathered gray, tumbled-down way. It was exactly the sort of thing that got painted on those PBS shows, where an artist showed you how to turn out a masterpiece in half an hour. I stared up at the broken-hinged upper hatchway where a winch and pulley would once have loaded in bales of hay.

“Something else, isn’t it?” called Simon. He grinned at me and threw open one side of the huge sagging double doors. “Got what you’re looking for right here, I’ll bet, sheriff.”

I hurried to join them-and to get out of the drizzle. An old VW van, about the same vintage as my Mustang, stood just within. At some point, some creative soul, undoubtedly under the influence of something illegal, had taken cans of spray paint and gone to town. I think-but honestly couldn’t be certain-that the original color had been red. Now it looked like a flashback to a psychedelic bad trip.

Simon gestured toward his vehicle-to use the term loosely. “Voilà. One damaged fender. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? Evidence I was up at Gerda’s last night?”

Sarkisian’s face gave nothing away. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

I had to admit, this new sheriff was nothing like a TV cop. He didn’t make accusations-in spite of what Gerda had accused him of last night-he didn’t bully, he just invited people, in a perfectly reasonable tone, to tell their stories. Whether they told the truth or lied their heads off, he didn’t seem to care. He just wanted them to start talking. I waited to see the results.

Such a congenial attitude from an officer of the law threw Simon off balance. With his appearance, his outspoken and unpopular communist politics, and his van, he must have had numerous run-ins, some of them all the way down to the police station, I wagered. He stared at Sarkisian, eyes narrowed, as if trying to penetrate the sheriff’s amiability to the trap he seemed to believe lay beneath. “I didn’t go to her house,” he declared, though Sarkisian had made no such suggestion.

“Just her fencepost?” Sarkisian’s tone held a touch of humor.

Simon eyed him warily. “Yeah, well, I came out beside her driveway. There’re a few new ruts since I used that route last. The one nearest the road ditched me. I was trying to back out, and then suddenly I did, and I was in the post.”

“Just cruising around the back roads to while away a long, rainy evening?”

Simon flushed. “I was leaving the Fairfield’s house in a hurry. I didn’t want to get Nancy in trouble.”

“How would you have done that?” Sarkisian raised his eyebrows a mere fraction of an inch, invitingly.

Simon shrugged. “I’d gone over to see her because she said it was safe, that her father had driven into Meritville to buy more beer or whatever, but apparently he’d only gone down to the Graham’s store. I couldn’t leave until he’d drunk himself into a stupor, or he’d have heard my van.”

“Wouldn’t he have seen it?”

Simon shook his head. “I parked it behind the house, where it can’t be seen from the drive.”

“So you left when her father had fallen asleep? When was that?”

“About five-forty, five-forty-five, somewhere around then. Sorry, can’t be exact. We hadn’t heard a sound from him for awhile, so I thought I’d make a run for it.”