Janice Bennett - Cold Turkey

Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “But not down the drive?”

“His window looks out over it. No, I cut across the old gravel area and through that empty pasture of Peggy’s.”

“Escape that way often, do you?” the sheriff asked.

Simon shrugged. “A couple times before. Adam Fairfield has a nasty temper, especially when he’s been drinking.”

So both Adam and Simon had been out and about shortly before the murder, and neither one had a solid alibi. Had Adam heard Simon’s van as it left his house? Or had Simon still been out-say, up at Gerda’s-later, when Adam had been parked at the foot of his drive? But as far as I knew, neither one of them had any reason for wanting Clifford Brody dead. If Adam had been the one killed, I might have suspected Simon. And the other way around. But Brody didn’t fit into that little two-man feud.

The sheriff started back toward his Jeep, and Simon and I followed. Simon Lowell seemed nice enough, in spite of his unconventional appearance. But then Upper River Gulch was a town that attracted eccentrics. I ought to know. I’d grown up living with one of the prize exhibits, and I loved her dearly. I only wished I could judge just how far Lowell let his eccentricity take him.

“Coffeepot?” Simon asked as we reached the cars.

Well, it was sort of obvious, with the trunk gaping like that. “Just came from the Fairfields’s house,” I told him.

“How’s Nancy?” His concern sounded genuine, but I couldn’t tell for certain whether his intense interest lay in the girl or what the sheriff and I might have learned from her about his activities.

“She looked tired, but otherwise all right.”

“And what Thanksgiving business brought you here, anyway?” demanded Owen Sarkisian. His affability, so rampant with Simon, evaporated when he turned to me.

“Cindy Brody never arranged to use the Grange Hall.”

Sarkisian regarded Simon with a frown. “You’re a real estate agent, I guess.” He sighed. “All right.” He got into his Jeep and, with a wave for Simon and a glare for me, drove off.

“There’re forms you have to fill out, I suppose,” Simon said as we watched the sheriff vanish around the first bend. “I’ve no idea where you go, though.”

“Don’t you manage it?” That would be just my luck. “You’re the only real estate agent in town.”

“The building is county-owned, and the county officials didn’t approve of me.” He considered. “The key’s probably at the county offices in Meritville. Afraid you’ll have to go there to apply for formal permission to use the building.”

I shook my head. “Never,” I said with feeling, “get involved in any SCOURGE event.” And with that highly inadequate dictum, I climbed into Freya and set off to grovel.

The rain increased to a steady shower as I steered along the curving road out of Upper River Gulch and onto the two-lane highway that led to Meritville. By the time I pulled into the last remaining parking space on a side street next to the county offices, it had built to a steady, pelting downpour. I climbed out and ran for the cluster of buildings. These had been constructed around the turn of the century, with the traditional small-town look I’ve always associated with the Midwest-brown brick and Victorian white trim. They’d been retrofitted for earthquake safety, but as far as I knew, that was the only modification they’d ever undergone. They really were beautiful, even when seen through the rain. At a dead run.

The offices themselves were amazingly well organized. The first thing you saw when you slipped and skidded through the doors on the muddied tiles was a sign listing departments and sub-departments, and beside it a discreet map. It only took me a few minutes to determine that no heading existed for the borrowing of county-owned Grange Halls. I gave the matter some thought while re-perusing the offerings, and finally settled on building permits, where, as I guessed, there were no lines marked for people wanting to know if they were in the right department.

There was only one window, in fact, but only three people ahead of me. It wouldn’t have been a bad wait except for the fact the elderly gentleman second in the queue became furious at whatever the poor clerk told him. That took nearly twenty minutes and three workers to sort out, but at last he took himself off, still grumbling.

By some miracle I had actually come to the right place. I began with a humble apology for leaving the matter so late, which cut the clerk off before he could begin to lecture me. After a conference with his colleagues, he determined that yes, we could use the building. He then produced a stack of forms half an inch thick and shooed me out of line. By the time I’d finished with them, he was on a coffee break, and I had to begin all over again explaining why we were late. I think they enjoyed making my life difficult.

The woman who had taken his place read through my description of intended usage, then handed me another handful of papers. These, I was relieved to hear, I didn’t have to fill out. I only had to read them. And follow their instructions to the letter. I was getting good at following instructions and lists, I assured her.

“And the key?” I asked.

This involved another behind-the-counter consultation. “Sheriff’s office,” came the answer at last.

The sheriff’s office lay on the other side of the town square. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, of course, so I set off to slog my way through the drenched grass until I reached the cement path. It was an old-fashioned sort of park, complete with benches and flower beds and even a cannon, though what Meritville had ever used a cannon for was beyond me. In the center of it all stood a gazebo where the last official band to play had been seeing the troops off to World War II. Other bands had made use of the platform since, of course, but mostly it played home to choirs during the holiday season.

The sheriff’s office couldn’t find the key. By now, that didn’t come as a surprise to me.

“I saw it a week ago,” Deputy Goulding assured me.

“Where?” I hoped I didn’t sound as weary as I felt.

“In the key safe, of course. Where we just checked.” He looked like he’d been having the same sort of day I’d been enduring.

I stifled the crack I’d been about to make. “Can you put a team of detectives on it? I need it ASAP.”

A gleam lit his eyes. “I’ll have the sheriff himself handle it. That okay by you?”

“Perfect.” We grinned at each other. What Sarkisian would say might almost be worth hearing. Pity I didn’t have time to hang around. I slogged back to my car, started the engine, cranked up the heater, and got hit by a blast of icy air. It took a good three or four miles before the engine got hot enough to warm me up.

I’d turned onto the narrow highway leading home before I realized I hadn’t the faintest idea where the frozen pumpkin pie filling was located, or how to get over three hundred of the damned things baked in the next thirty-six hours. Nor did I have the name of the company supplying the smoked turkey breast for the raffle on the following morning. With a sigh, I turned my car toward Cindy Brody’s.

As I swung onto her cul-de-sac, almost the first thing I saw was Sheriff Owen Sarkisian’s Jeep parked in the entrance of her driveway. I grinned, though I also felt a touch of pity for the poor man. He’d never believe this was purely coincidence, and I couldn’t blame him. I got out, dashed for the shelter of the porch and rang the doorbell.

A minute passed before I heard footsteps crossing the tiled foyer. Cindy, perfect as always, opened the door. I know it’s catty, but I wished just once I could detect some flaw in her makeup, some bulge in those incredibly small jeans.

For some reason, she didn’t appear pleased to see me. I suspected I wasn’t going to be very popular anywhere for the next few days. “I just have a couple questions for you,” I said quickly, because she looked like she wanted to slam the door in my face.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Join the club.” She stepped back to let me in, regarding me with an expression of disgust. I’d picked up more than a few splatters of mud hoofing it across the park.

“Mind?” I kicked off my shoes without waiting for her response.

That seemed to satisfy her. With a sigh she made no attempt to disguise, she turned and led the way into the living room.

Sheriff Sarkisian sat in the chair he’d occupied the night before, hands resting on his thighs, elbows sticking out in a belligerent pose. His expression matched it.

“I didn’t know you were here,” I assured him before he could accuse me. “I’ve got more Thanksgiving business. And some of it, for that matter, is going to be your problem.” I enjoyed watching his expression flicker through a number of emotions and finally settle on resignation.

“What?” he demanded.

“The key to the Grange. John Goulding says he saw it last week, but it’s not in the cabinet now. We decided a real detective should take charge of tracking it down.”

His face contorted in an expression that was everything I could have hoped for. “You did, did you?” he managed at last. “Find the key. While I’m investigating this murder.”

“By later this afternoon, please. I have to get into the building.”

“Look.” Cindy frowned at us both. “If that’s all you came about, Annike, why don’t you two go and look for it? I’m in the middle of cooking. In fact,” she added as she strode toward the kitchen, “I’ve got to check a pie.”

Sarkisian glared at me and rose to follow her.

I traipsed after. “Sorry, I’ve got a few questions for you, Cindy,” I reminded her when she turned her outraged glare on me for my invasion of her culinary domain. “Mmm, smells good.”

Sarkisian propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, and his brow creased as if from an effort of memory. “Weren’t you doing your baking last night?”