Janice Bennett - Cold Turkey

“All you pie throwers,” came Sarkisian’s shout. He stood in the center of the crowd, his uniform liberally splattered in orange. “You’re the clean-up crew.”

At that moment I think I loved him. At any rate, I could have kissed him if it wouldn’t have meant getting pie filling all over my face. He looked as bad as the rest of them, and I wondered if he’d taken a few pot-or pie-shots, himself.

It always amazed me how fast people vanished whenever there was any real work to be done. In the end, much as suspected, only the most dedicated of the SCOURGEs carried out the mopping up. There was too much mess to rely on the rags we’d brought, so Art ran across to his store and came back with an armload of paper towel rolls. These soon filled the trash bags we’d brought. And then it started to drizzle again. In Upper River Gulch, we don’t let anything as mild as that bother us. We just keep working. It takes a real downpour to drive us inside.

“If it would just rain harder,” Ida Graham declared as she tied off another filled bag, “it might wash the tables.”

“At least it’s making it easier to get this mess off my face,” said Sue. And yes, she even looked good covered in pumpkin custard.

“Where’s Ms. O’Shaughnessy gone to?” Sarkisian picked up another roll of towels but he was studying our few remaining workers.

“Self-defense class,” Gerda told him. “It’s almost five. That’s where most of the women have vanished to.”

Sarkisian’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t heard about that. Good idea.” He glanced at me. “You taken it, yet?”

“Years ago, when Peggy first started teaching it,” I assured him.

That stopped the sheriff. He stared at me, grinning. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy is the teacher? This I’ve got to see.”

“Then you can help lug these sacks down to the school trash bins. The class is in the cafeteria.”

We set forth in the drizzle that threatened to increase to a full-blown storm, hauling the remains of the contest with us. Cars already stood in the school parking lot, and more arrived, swerving around our procession, splattering us with mud to go along with the pumpkin. Women of all ages and shapes, garbed in sweat suits or leotards and coats, raced to get inside the lit cafeteria before the rain really let loose. We tossed the bags into the bin, then Sarkisian strolled after the women. I joined him.

“How many years has she been teaching this?” he asked as he propped a shoulder against the doorjamb.

I looked into the brightly lit interior. “About seven. She’s really good at it.”

Sarkisian nodded. The women finished stretching and paired off, apparently reviewing break-away techniques covered in the previous class. I was impressed. Peggy had added quite a few things since I’d been one of her first pupils. I should probably take it again.

One of the women moved with incredible grace. She wore a knockout leotard outfit in lavender and blues, and threw off her attacker with ease. She shifted her position, taking her turn to do the grabbing, and I realized it was Cindy Brody.

“A woman who can do that,” murmured Sarkisian, watching Cindy’s tenacious hold, “would be quite an adversary. Well up to dealing with someone much larger and stronger.”

“Especially if he weren’t expecting it?” I asked.

The sheriff glanced at me. “Just musing,” he said.

I nodded. We watched as they segued into judo moves, which impressed me considerably.

“I should get her to teach classes to our department,” Sarkisian said. “She really is-“ He broke off as Peggy clapped her hands, and her class, amazingly obedient, stood to attention.

“Let’s review using whatever you can find as a weapon,” she called. Beside her on a table lay a motley assortment of everyday objects, from a running shoe to a pair of glasses. She demonstrated possible uses of each on a volunteer attacker. She set down a purse, which she’d used in a highly unorthodox manner, and her hand hovered over the next item, a letter opener. She shoved it beneath the purse and went on to a key ring.

A sigh escaped the sheriff, and he straightened. He didn’t say a thing, but I could almost hear his thoughts. Peggy was good with weapons and obviously an old hand at seizing opportunity. If she’d walked in, seen Brody sitting there, noticed Gerda’s letter opener… She could have killed him before she’d even thought through the consequences.

The sheriff strode down the covered walkway, and I hurried after him, trying to think of something to say to divert him. “She doesn’t have a motive!” I blurted out at last.

“You mean you don’t know of any,” Sarkisian corrected me. “And I’m not accusing her. There’s just something I’d like to settle for sure so her little display of expertise doesn’t keep haunting me.”

That sounded reasonable. The damned man made most things he did sound reasonable. If you could prove someone innocent to your own satisfaction, then you didn’t waste time and effort wondering about them.

He stopped at the end of the building, still beneath the roof’s protective overhang, and pulled his phone from his belt. A call to the office got him the number he wanted, and a moment later I heard the ringing. Peggy’s son Bill answered, and Sarkisian identified himself. “This’ll just take a second.” He sounded friendly. “Your mother finally confessed she wasn’t really with you at the time Brody was being murdered. If you’ll just confirm that for me?”

Even I could hear the heavy sigh. “Thank God for that. I hated her lying about it, and I hated knowing I’d have to back her up on it. But if she’s told you the truth, that means you don’t suspect her anymore. That’s great.”

They hung up, all joviality, and I felt like a rat.

“So she lied,” Sarkisian said, mostly to himself. He turned and looked over his shoulder, back toward the cafeteria.

“All that means is that you scared her, and she didn’t have a real alibi,” I said.

“I scared her?” Sarkisian regarded me with a frown.

“You know what I mean,” I told him. “Lots of perfectly innocent people get frightened by authority figures, especially police and sheriffs. It doesn’t mean they’re guilty.”

“I know, just the way they were brought up.” He gave me a smile he probably hoped was reassuring. “I got my degree in psychology, so I know enough to know I don’t know a hell of a lot. So let’s look at this as an intellectual exercise. What possible motive-hypothetical motive-could Ms. O’Shaughnessy have for killing Brody?”

I wasn’t going to let him trick me into saying anything, the way he had Bill O’Shaughnessy. I eyed him with distrust. “Can’t think of a thing.”

He regarded me with disapproval. “You’re too intelligent for that. She’s the bookkeeper for Brandywine Distillery, and Brody was their accountant. That meant he oversaw her work. What if she wasn’t doing a good job?”

“She is good,” I said at once. “I’ve looked over some of her work when she asked me to.”

He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“I’m a C.P.A.,” I admitted, in the tone of voice one might use to confess to some heinous crime, like being a politician.

“Ah. So her work is good. Good enough to hide a few little alterations?”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing. This is hypothetical. What-hypothetically-if she were embezzling? Brody might have caught some discrepancy. That wouldn’t have been just a firing offence. It would have meant serious jail time.”

I glared at him. “She’s not the one renovating her property.”

“A retirement nest egg?” he suggested.

“She wouldn’t,” I snapped, but with more certainty than I could feel. The fear of not having sufficient funds for retirement haunted most people. Every once in a while the news carried a story about some poor old soul whose savings hadn’t gone far enough, reducing them to homelessness and starvation. Not to mention the nightmare of long-term healthcare. I didn’t know how well Peggy had prepared, and she had reached the age when the worry could easily become paranoia.

“Let’s rule it out,” Sarkisian decided. “I’ll get a warrant for the Still’s books, then the matter will be settled and I can forget about it.”

“Other people have motives, too,” I reminded him. “Look at Brody’s wife, and all she stands to gain by his death-or lose in a divorce! Or Adam Fairfield’s jealousy over Brody dating his ex-wife. Or Simon Lowell, and whatever Brody was about to reveal about him. Or Dave Hatter-” I broke off. He acted suspicious, but I’d yet to uncover a motive for him.

“Or your aunt?” Sarkisian suggested with a touch of sweet innocence. “He cheated her badly, and she was going to lay a trap for him.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

He grinned. Apparently that was exactly what he’d been hoping for. “Let’s rule out any funny business with the Still’s books, all right?”

I sighed and nodded, not that I had any say in the matter.

I turned back to the cafeteria. Let him do what he would. I had other worries to attend to. I didn’t want to spend the whole evening on the phone, and this was a golden opportunity to catch a lot of people before they could escape. We’d managed to survive the pie-eating contest, but we still had the park clean-up and decorating lurking for us tomorrow. Pumpkin pie filling might no longer smear across the tables and benches, but the hedges needed trimming, branches needed pruning before they fell in a winter storm, the trash can holders needed repair, and a dozen other chores awaited us before we could start hanging the colored lights and waterproof banners.

Sarkisian followed me, apparently wanting to see who else might be adept at wielding a letter opener. To my surprise, everyone seemed to be finishing up inside. A short class because of the holiday, probably. We watched while Peggy reminded them once again of the major points they had covered, then all the participants headed for their coats and purses.