with any real feeling. It hardly paid him to antagonize his girlfriend’s father.
“Coward!” came Adam’s prompt response.
That stopped Simon. “What the hell do you mean by that?” He jumped down from the makeshift platform and stalked toward Adam, swinging the hammer, leaving Art and Sarkisian stuck supporting the beam he’d been about to nail.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Adam called, standing his ground before the approach of the bulky young man. “Anyone told you, yet? Our Simon here’s always sermonizing about the evils of money and the people who have it. And Cliff Brody, who had pots of it, was the only one who ever told him to shut up.”
“Why don’t you try shutting up?” came a shout from the back of the room.
“Knock it off, Fairfield,” called Art Graham.
“We’re trying to have a good time here,” someone else added.
Adam ignored them. “And you nearly had a real brawl with Brody on Monday, didn’t you? I saw it all, the way you argued, and the way you grabbed him. Don’t know what you’d have done next, if you hadn’t seen me watching.”
In three more strides, Simon closed the space between them. He took a swing at Adam-luckily casting aside the hammer, first. Adam, his expression gleeful, slugged Simon in the jaw, sending the younger man staggering backward, barely missing a table from which three children ran with mock shrieks and real laughs. One-a twelve- year-old boy-managed to overturn his plate, dumping a mass of maple syrup-soaked pancakes and sausages onto the floor. More kids laughed, and only the quick action of parents all around the room prevented a bigger mess for the mop-up crew-which I strongly feared would be just me. Apparently, this was entertainment to their liking.
“Enough!” Sarkisian inserted himself between the two men. Simon tried to get in a swing around him, but the sheriff shoved him back. Art stood guard over the dropped beam, both hands supporting the wavering platform.
“Lowell killed Brody?” I heard someone ask behind me.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” answered a man’s voice. “Never know with these political fanatics.”
“It must have been a fanatic of some kind,” agreed a fourth voice.
“And Lowell’s the only fanatic we’ve got around here,” mused another.
I stared behind me. Others were nodding as well.
“I’d be glad if it were that simple,” murmured Ida Graham in my ear. “It’d be a real relief to have this settled. I hate having a murder in our neighborhood-in your aunt’s house, especially.”
“She wasn’t thrilled about it, either,” I said.
Ida patted me on the arm. “This will probably be the solution, kiddo, then we can all get back to normal.”
Suddenly, Simon gave a barking, mirthless laugh. “This is ridiculous.” He waved a hand at Adam. “He’s not worth the effort.” He returned to the platform, picked up the dropped end of the beam, then stared pointedly at Art Graham until the grocer hoisted the other end into position. Sarkisian remained where he stood for several long seconds, glaring at Adam Fairfield, then returned to the platform as well.
“You don’t object to your husband working with someone you think is a murderer?” I asked Ida.
The woman shook her head. “I only said it would be a good solution. And for that matter,” she added as she turned away, “Brody could have provoked a saint.”
I headed back to check on the cooks and found Nancy standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her bacon fork like a weapon. Tears hovered on her eyelashes, and as I approached, she turned away, back to the frying pans. The next batch of sausages came out burned, and I don’t think she even noticed.
Adam returned to the oranges, and Nancy swiveled on her stool so that her back faced him. A number of people seemed to think Adam’s reasoning about Simon might be correct. And now it seemed that Nancy, who ought to know Simon better than anyone else did, believed it was possible, too. I tried hard to put aside the stereotypes of hot-headed communist students. Simon Lowell wasn’t a student. For that matter, being a real estate agent hardly seemed like a job for someone with his political and social ideology.
I returned to the front and spotted Peggy and Gerda standing in a corner, stuffing raffle tickets into a huge glass bowl. Tony Carerras, lithe, dark and tattooed, stood ready to help. They all looked up as I approached, and Tony stepped back, out of the way but hovering near at hand like a faithful dog. A Doberman or Rottweiler, perhaps. One that kept up a growl just under its breath. And displayed all its teeth.
“It’s going very well, dear,” said Gerda, though without a trace of pleasure in her voice.
Peggy folded another ticket and rammed it in with the others. “I don’t see why anyone has to investigate Brody’s death. Everyone is better off without the nosy old snoop.”
Tony nodded, but said nothing. His gaze challenged me to contradict Peggy, or even say something nasty to her. Like “hello”.
“Hush!” Gerda looked around, and her expression changed from worry to consternation. I didn’t have to look behind me to guess who had crept up.
“Any trouble between you and Clifford Brody, Ms. O’Shaughnessy?” asked Sheriff Sarkisian.
Tony’s hackles rose, but he kept his mouth shut. At least he transferred that unsettling glare of his from me to the sheriff, who seemed not to notice.
Peggy peered over her glasses at Sarkisian. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mrs. O’Shaughnessy would never hurt anyone!” Tony took a protective step closer to Peggy.
Sarkisian studied the young man for a moment, then turned back to Peggy. “Brody oversaw your work at Brandywine Distillery, didn’t he?” A lesser detective would have inserted a wealth of meaning into the question, but the man actually made it sound like no more than casual conversation.
Peggy bristled nevertheless. “I didn’t like him, but I don’t know anyone who actually did, except that sister of his.” Tony nodded agreement.
“So what did you do about him?” Sarkisian managed to sound fascinated.
“Subtle things.” She cast him a suspicious glance, then shrugged. “I made things hard for him to read. Or I’d take a few shortcuts in notations. All perfectly legal, and much easier for me, but it made it harder for him to double-check every entry.” She pressed her lips together, squeezing out a smile at what was probably a fond and malicious memory. “Petty, I know, but vastly satisfying.”
“You don’t murder someone just because they irritate you,” I pointed out. “Sounds like Peggy had a much better plan in irritating him right back.”
Sarkisian’s gaze transferred to me. “You’re thinking he might have wanted to murder her, instead?”
I met his gaze, and with surprise recognized his amused appreciation. I supposed a sense of humor was mandatory for anyone in law enforcement who wanted to keep their sanity. Tom had certainly had one. He’d married me, after all. “Irritation isn’t a motive for murder,” I said, just to make sure he’d gotten the point.
He studied me for a long moment, then turned with exaggerated surprise toward Gerda and Peggy. “Did either of you two hear me invite Ms. McKinley here to join in the investigation?”
“Yes,” said Gerda promptly. “You asked her to go with you to see Cindy, didn’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but to my delight he apparently found nothing savage enough to say that was still polite enough for the ears of two aging ladies. I grinned at Aunt Gerda and made a motion with my finger, chalking up one point for our side.
“Annike!” yelled Sue Hinkel, interrupting my moment of triumph. “Get over here and help me sell tickets! There’s a line!”
I looked from Sue and the small crowd around her, to the glass bowl stuffed with raffle tickets. The turkey still hadn’t arrived.
Gerda stiffened, straightening to her full and rather impressive height. Peggy gasped, and around us a circle of hushed expectancy rippled outward until no one was talking in our immediate vicinity. I turned around, bewildered, then spotted the petite, elegant figure of Doris Brody Quinn, Clifford’s sister, just inside the door.
Gerda strode toward her, quivering in anger. I reached out to grab her arm, but Sarkisian caught me. I glared at him, but he shook his head, and his grip tightened on my wrist.
“You have some nerve, showing your face here,” Gerda breathed, not loud, but with amazing menace.
“Nerve?” murmured Sarkisian. “Because she should be in mourning?”
Peggy sniffed. “Because of the way she and her brother conned poor Gerda. It’s a deliberate provocation, her coming to a Service Club event.”
I closed my eyes. Why, I wondered, had no civic-minded soul thought to strangle Peggy before now?
