She opened her mouth, but for a good five seconds nothing came out. Then she turned to the counter, snatched a tissue from its box, and hid behind it. “I-I burned them. I mean, after hearing about dear Cliff…” Her voice trailed off, and her reproachful gaze accused the sheriff of opening raw wounds. She managed an artistic sniff. “And I’ve been so busy, what with my guests arriving, I’m only just now getting around to making more.”

“Where are they?” Sarkisian managed to sound no more than mildly curious. “Your guests, I mean.”

“Sightseeing,” came her unencouraging answer.

Seeing what sights, I wondered? Merit County wasn’t exactly a tourist Mecca. And at this time of year, everything dripped, even when it wasn’t raining.

Cindy checked the oven-only a single pie within-then leaned against the counter eyeing me with displeasure. “What did you want?” I told her, and her frown deepened. “I gave Peggy all the notes.”

“Must have missed a few,” I assured her, and hoped I was right. The prospect of not being able to find the pie filling haunted me. Or maybe that would be a positive thing. We’d have to call off the contest. There just might be a silver lining in there, after all.

Cindy went to a small desk in the living room, dragged open the second drawer, and pulled out a handful of papers. She leafed through them, then stopped, her brow creasing. “Oh.” She detached several. “Sorry, they got mixed up with other things. This what you need?”

The top paper bore the label “turkey raffle,” and I saw the names of several suppliers. One was even circled and checked off. I took them with relief. “Thanks.”

“Then I’ll let you get on with it. You must both be busy today.” She headed for the front door. “Really, Sheriff, you’ll have to talk to my lawyer. I honestly don’t know a thing about wills or divorce settlements or insurance. I leave all that up to him. But speaking as a poor widow, I hope Cliff left me something.”

“Ms. Brody,” Sarkisian began.

Cindy let out a big sigh. “Look, Sheriff, if you really want to solve my husband’s murder, why don’t you talk to Sue Hinkel, the hairdresser in Upper River Gulch.” She cast a sideways glance at me and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, covering her mouth as if she honestly thought only Sarkisian would hear her next words. “About Gerda Lundquist.”

She ushered us out the door. The rain had reduced to a drizzle, now, but the wind whipped it cold and stinging into my face. I dashed for my car. To my surprise, Sarkisian beat on the passenger side window as I climbed in. I reached across and pulled up the lock.

He slid inside. “You ‘just happened’ to come here?”

“Look, I really-”

“Okay, I believe you.” He drummed his fingers on the dash. “How well do you know Ms. Brody?”

“To talk to, but only to do the polite, not about anything personal. She joined the SCOURGEs after I moved to San Francisco.”

“What about her financial sense? Is she really as clueless as she says?”

I hesitated. “My aunt might know.”

“From what I’ve already heard, Ms. Brody is pretty sharp.”

“So why are you asking me?”

He gave me an enigmatic look. “Beats tearing the office apart looking for that key.”

With that he got out, locking the door after himself. I watched him climb into the Jeep and back out of the driveway. He waved before shifting into first, and I watched the tail lights as he headed away.

I sat there for a long minute, eyes closed, mentally running through the lists. Coffeepot, check. Grange Hall, check. Key, no check. Turkey would just take a phone call to confirm. Pancake breakfast…

I started the engine. The pancake mix should have been delivered to the Grange by now, along with the bacon and eggs and the rest of the perishables. And they would all be sitting on the front steps in the pouring rain with no one to rescue them. The fact I’d been trying to make the arrangements for the Hall wouldn’t rescue ruined mix or salmonella-bearing sausage.

I headed Freya toward the long stretch of road leading back to Upper River Gulch. The fields spread toward the foothills on either side, plowed in neat rows, boasting crops or vines currently devoid of berries or leaves. On the whole, it looked dank and dreary. The radio played in the background, as low as it could go and still be heard over the engine’s roar, but I barely noticed it. I was too busy seething over Perfect Cindy’s trying to thrust Aunt Gerda back to the forefront of the investigation. That woman knew damned well the financial ramifications of both divorce and widowhood. For that matter, Gerda probably had heard a few shrewd rumors about Cindy’s knowledge and maneuverings. I’d ask her as soon as I dragged myself home tonight.

I hit the brake to avoid a farm truck whipping onto the road almost on top of me. That jerked me out of my reverie and back to the immediate problems at hand. Such as the fact I’d forgotten to ask Cindy where the frozen pie filling was located. I whimpered, but I wasn’t about to turn around and go back. One of these days, I reflected, I was going to have to break down and get a cell phone. Never mind it would be a leash, never mind people could reach me when I least wanted to be reached. At the moment, it would make my life a hell of a lot easier. I always think of these things too late.

The rain pelted down with renewed vigor as I pulled into town. And there was my trunk, half open, all drenched. I’d have to use the hair dryer on it, I supposed, or the lining would mildew. I was still blaming myself for not having scrounged a tarp from somewhere as I swung into the Grange parking lot and saw Gerda’s bright blue Pathfinder, Hans Gustav, standing in front of the door.

She stood beneath the meager shelter of the porch roof amidst piles of damp-looking bags of pancake mix. “It’s about time you got here!” she shouted as I pulled to a halt. You have to shout to be heard over Freya’s engine. Gerda keeps telling me I’m going to get a ticket for noise violation, but what can you expect when your car is older than you are-and you aren’t exactly young to begin with? “The frozen stuff is defrosting,” she complained as I joined her. “And I have to get back to the store.”

“Sorry. And it’s okay about the defrosting. We’ll be using it in the morning.”

She sniffed. “It should be in a refrigerator. Where’s the key? We need to get all this into the kitchen as soon as possible.”

“No key.”

Gerda placed her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and eyed me with disfavor. “How could you forget the key? Honestly, Annike…”

“No one knows where it is.”

She blinked. Her expression probably reflected the horror I felt over the whole damned affair. “But what about tomorrow? What about-”

“That’s up to our new sheriff,” I said with considerable satisfaction. “He’s supposed to locate it, so you can blame him if everything goes wrong.”

From the arrested gleam in her eye, that apparently appealed to her. Her pleasure lasted only a moment, though. She glared at the sacks and boxes piled-naturally-in front of the door so they would have to be moved before it could be opened-if and when we located the key. “What are we going to do with everything? The bacon and sausage can’t sit out all night.”

True. The rain warmed up the weather, so we weren’t getting the bite of ice we normally got in November. “If only the Fairfields had a giant refrigerator to go along with the giant coffeepot,” I sighed.

“Who…” Gerda began, only to break off with a cry of triumph. “The school! They should have enough room for the perishables.”

She picked up a hefty cardboard box-drenched, of course-and carried it to the passenger side door of my car. I opened it dutifully, then went back to collect another of the heavy boxes. I should have thought to provide towels to protect the seats, I supposed, but today just wasn’t going to be poor Freya’s day. At least even Gerda had to admit my poor car couldn’t shelter the pancake mix, as well. We loaded that into the back of Hans Gustav, and she led our little procession around the block to the rear of the elementary school.

We found Laurie Wesland, who had been the school secretary thirty years ago when I’d been an inmate, sitting at the same desk she’d inhabited way back then. It would have been really eerie if the years hadn’t added a few pounds and changed her hair from brown to silver gray. I think she even still wore the same dress. At least it was the same light green I remembered from my mercifully brief visits to deliver notes or wait for sentencing from the principal.

Ms. Wesland looked up from the papers that littered her desk and peered at us through heavy glasses. I fought back the impulse to stammer an apology for disturbing her.

“We’re from the Service Club of Upper River Gulch Environs,” announced Gerda.

“Oh, the SCOURGEs,” sighed Ms. Wesland, thereby delighting me. “It’s about time. I thought you were going to get that pumpkin out of here by last week at the latest.”

“Pumpkin?” I brightened even more. “You mean it’s here?”

Ms. Wesland rolled her eyes heavenward. “It’s been taking up most of the freezer. Really, if you weren’t going to use the stuff…”

“We are,” I said quickly. “We’ll take it away with us, I promise.”

“But we need another favor,” Gerda stuck in brightly with her usual lack of timing.

Ms. Wesland placed her hands palm down on the cluttered surface of her desk. “Another favor?” she asked in tones of foreboding. Obviously, she’d had prior experience of the SCOURGEs. I hoped she had as little resistance to their persuasion as I had.

Somehow, we smoothed out the details. It involved a free book of tickets for the turkey raffle and a pair of free tickets to the breakfast, but in the end she agreed to not only let us store the perishables in the school refrigerator, but also to show up at the school early on Thanksgiving morning to unlock the kitchen and let us retrieve the stuff. Somewhat reconciled by the deal she had struck with us, she rose and led the way to the small kitchen that fed the three hundred plus students who infested the place.