red. Now it looked like a flashback to a psychedelic bad trip.
Simon gestured toward his vehicle-to use the term loosely. “
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.”
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.
Chapter Six
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.
