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.
The vision of clean, sparkling stainless steel countertops, undoubtedly new since my time, greeted us. It smelled of disinfectant and a flowery air freshener that kept puffing its sickly sweet perfume into the room. A large freezer with double doors, and a matching refrigerator, stood against the back wall. I checked the latter for space, was relieved to find more than enough room available, and Gerda and I set about ferrying boxes and bestowing them under the watchful gaze of the secretary. I shoved in the last batch of sausages with a sigh and turned toward the door.
“Not so fast,” called Ms. Wesland. “The pumpkin?”
Oh, yes. The pumpkin. An unwelcome thought crossed my mind. Now that I’d found it, I was going to have to use it. And that meant rounding up cooks. That was another detail Cindy Brody never got around to, conning people into baking, and baking, and baking. Boy, were the SCOURGEs-and everyone else I knew in town-going to be thrilled to hear from me. And then I’d have to visit every one of them to deliver the frozen stuff. Apparently I hadn’t even begun to touch the highlights of this day.
Then another idea struck me, and I turned back to the secretary. “I can’t get the pumpkin into my car unless I can leave the coffeepot here.” I honestly didn’t think I’d get away with it, considering Hans Gustav stood outside, but twenty minutes later I headed for home with Freya’s trunk mercifully closed on the tubs of frozen pie filling.
Gerda followed, saying she needed a break from the store. With both our cars safely in the garage, we headed up the stairs toward afternoon tea-I’d long since missed lunch-and for me, a round of begging phone calls. As I shook out my wet coat before going into the house, I remembered one question I hadn’t had time to ask Gerda.
“How much did Cindy know about Brody’s finances?” I called after my aunt.
“To hear her tell it, everything and nothing.” Gerda’s answer floated out from the kitchen. Already I heard her filling the kettle.
“How so?” I trailed after her into the comfortable room. The calls could wait a few minutes.
“She’s been complaining for months he was hiding his income.” She stooped to detach Furface from his tooth- hold on her ankle, and brought him up to purr in contentment on her shoulder. “And once when she caught me at Sue Hinkel’s, she complained for a good fifteen minutes, nonstop, about how his lawyer had cooked up a way so she wouldn’t get anything in the divorce settlement.”
I frowned. “So, with his death, she’ll inherit everything?” Absently, I scooped up a gray and white armful of Dagmar.
Gerda nodded. “Unless that sister of his has anything to say about it-but knowing Cindy, I’ll bet she made sure of his will. Oh, and don’t forget his insurance policy. I gather that’s a hefty one. Perfect Cindy will be a very wealthy widow.”
I stroked the soft fur. That gave Perfect Cindy, who enjoyed her money very much indeed, an excellent reason for murdering her husband before all his beautiful money escaped her.
