“Here I am,” sang Cindy Brody from the door. “But where is everyone else?”

I blinked. Of all the SCOURGEs, she was the last I would have expected.

“I brought tablecloths,” she added.

“How wonderful,” declared Gerda. She even sounded like she meant it. “Let’s get them spread.”

They proved to be made of heavy paper, some orange, some yellow, some white. “Just like candy corn.” Cindy beamed. “Ida told me to bring some of that, too, to scatter across the tables.”

“Good idea.” I was going to have to do something wonderful for Ida when this was all over. Like not give her That Damned Bird. “Bring any tape?”

Cindy hadn’t, but Sue Hinkel, who arrived only minutes later, had. Peggy brought some, too, and Ida and Art arrived laden with a crock pot of hot cider for the workers and construction paper for cutting out table decorations. Even Simon came, bringing a quiet Nancy with him.

“Dad’s over at the Still,” she confided, “or he’d be here, too.”

Actually, I got the impression everyone was glad of an excuse to band together. So many of them were suspects in the murders-and they knew that all too well. They worked with gusto, creating stand-up paper constructs of pilgrims and turkeys for the center of each table, laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny, talking in brittle, cheerful voices, everyone sitting close together instead of spread out.

Only I remained quiet, my head aching again. I’d forgotten to take a pain pill that morning, I realized. But I could only blame part of it on that accident the other night. Mostly, as I looked around the room at these people I knew so well, it wrenched at me to think that one of them might be a murderer.

Gerda. It was a struggle, but I made myself recognize that Brody had cheated her and she was not one to take something like that lying down. But Gerda, as a murderer, only worked if I added Peggy into the equation. Those two working together could probably pull off strange and terrible things. And Peggy could well have needed both Brody and Dave Hatter dead if she were up to more than minor embezzling at the Still.

But if Peggy were guilty, she didn’t need Gerda’s help. She had her own devoted shadow, a strong young man who swore he would do anything for his benefactress. And that might include murder, with or without her knowledge.

Then there was Cindy, determined to have lots of money, which gave her one of the oldest and best motives in the world for wanting her husband dead before the divorce became final. But would she have killed Dave Hatter? That only made sense if he’d guessed too much about Brody’s murder.

My gaze fell across Nancy, which made me think of her father, Adam Fairfield, not present at the moment. No real reason to kill Brody-unless Adam had been up to something at the Still. That might also provide the reason for Dave’s needing to die before he could reveal something.

Then I came to Simon Lowell. The sheer idea of being blackmailed might have mattered more to him than the contents of the blackmail. He might well have hated Brody every bit as much as rumor hinted. But if he killed Dave, again it could only be because of what Dave had learned about Brody’s death.

For that matter, Dave himself had seemed a likely candidate for Brody’s murder. What if Sarkisian were wrong and Dave really had killed himself? I clung to that possibility. That would clear everyone else, that would tie everything up neatly. And tomorrow we could try to go back to normal.

“Why so quiet?” Gerda called to me from a little way down the table.

“Just thinking. Why don’t we put That Damned Bird in the corner over there? A bit of realistic decoration.”

“Hah!” Ida, one of the few free of suspicion in either murder, grinned at me. “You’re just trying to get rid of your aunt’s new pet.”

“I just want it out of my car,” I grumbled.

“What’s the matter, no one in the mood to take it off your hands?” Sarkisian asked.

I looked up, surprised. I hadn’t heard him come in.

“Come to help?” Gerda asked. “There’s an extra pair of scissors.” She held up the blunt-tipped pair, designed for elementary school use, she held.

“And tons of paste, too, I bet. No, I need to borrow Ms. McKinley for a few hours.”

I lowered my head into my hands. “Why me?” I groaned.

“Run along and do your civic duty, dear,” Gerda told me.

Something in her voice told me she would appreciate it if I hurried the sheriff out of there. I glanced at the others. Only Ida and Art seemed unaffected by Sarkisian’s presence. Peggy kept peeking at him and looking away, her shoulders hunched. Even Sue Hinkel looked uncomfortable, which surprised me. Tension was catching.

I rose, dusted off my jeans, and started for the door. “Oh.” I unhooked my keys from where they hung on my purse strap. “Here.” I tossed them to Gerda. “Take That Damned Bird home for lunch. Roast her,” I added as I strode out the door in Sarkisian’s wake.

“Still at war with the turkey?” he asked, all sympathy.

“I suppose I could get used to it, if it would nest somewhere else,” I sighed. “What are we looking for, now?”

“Those inventory sheets. Got to find out if there’s anything screwy about them.”

I groaned. “How far back do we have to check?”

“No idea.” He led me to the Honda, which he’d left on the street. Double parked.

When he started the car, a tape started playing, and we drove to the Still to the accompaniment of the H.M.S. Pinafore. He hummed along at first, then I caught a slight echo to the songs in a very creditable baritone. I refrained from adding my own far from creditable alto.

We parked in the main lot, where only Adam’s pickup stood near the door. Apparently a quiet day at the Still. From the backseat Sarkisian produced a heavy-looking briefcase, a bakery bag and a thermos, and we ran through the rain for the entrance.

Adam answered the bell almost at once and flung the door wide. “Saw the car,” he explained. “What’s up?”

“We need to check a few things we didn’t take away with us.”

Adam shook his head. “What, the bare walls? I thought you cleared every piece of paper out of here.”

“That,” sighed Sarkisian, “would have taken more cars than the sheriff’s office possesses.”

Adam accompanied us to the financial office and unlocked the door. Sarkisian laid out the contents of the bag-chocolate chip cookies and quite a few of them at that-and Adam started the office’s coffeepot. While it brewed, he perched on the edge of the table and munched our snack.

Sarkisian shoved the briefcase under the table, then opened the first filing cabinet. After running a finger along labels, he shut it and went to the next drawer.

“Can I help?” Adam asked.

Sarkisian shook his head. “This is more along the line of eliminating possibilities rather than finding something. Grunt work.”

Obligingly, I grunted.

“Ah.” He pulled out a folder. “Here’s where we start, I guess.”

Adam shook his head. “Better you than me.” He took another cookie, poured a cup of black coffee, and headed toward the door. “Got to do the rounds, though God knows why. Might have been of some use if I’d been here with Dave yesterday.”

“Don’t take blame that isn’t yours.” Owen Sarkisian called the sage advice after him.

“Yeah. We all have enough of our own, I guess.” Adam waved with the hand that held the cookie, then drew the door closed behind him with his boot.

Sarkisian set the folder he’d pulled on the table, then took the chair next to mine. “Production records for January,” he said. “I want to know the volume distilled and the number of bottles filled. And yes, I know that rhymed, so don’t make any nasty cracks.”

“Want to start on the apricot brandy?” The stuff in which Dave had drowned… Well, that seemed appropriate. I sifted through pages, checking dates and notes and figures. At last, I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about distilling. You picked the wrong helper.”

He nodded, glum. He’d been doing the same for the cranberry liqueur. He shoved his folder aside and glared at it. “We’ll have to call in an expert and see if they can figure anything out.”

“Hugh Cartwright will throw a fit. He’ll say you’re giving his secrets to the competition.”

“To hell with Hugh Cartwright.”

I hadn’t seen Sarkisian so annoyed before. I carried both folders back to the filing cabinet and replaced them. “Let’s see what’s in your briefcase, then let’s call it quits for the day.”

He dragged it out from under the table and clicked it open. “Those reports that had Hatter’s prints.”

I took a handful. They contained the same sort of information as the ones in the file folder, except these were the hand-written originals, not the printed copies that came out after Peggy entered the data into the computer. I noted the different handwritings, the different entries, the scribbles and corrections, the-

“Sarkisian?” I studied the page I held. “Look at this, will you?”

He leaned over, frowning as he tried to make out the numbers. “Someone changed the final figures.”

I nodded. “Same color, but different pen.”

He shot me a penetrating look, then checked again. “The number of finished bottles went down by…” he peered more closely. “Twelve, it looks like. Hmmm. Not eleven or thirteen. A neat dozen. One case. Interesting.” He turned to another sheet, another product. “My, my. Same thing happened here, too. Twelve bottles fewer than first recorded.”

“I wonder how many bottles could have been produced from the amount of raw materials,” I mused.

Our gazes met, and he began to grin. “A case of each product, do you think? Selling this stuff-it’s pretty damned pricy, I’ve noticed. Selling it on the side could generate quite a tidy little income.”