The sheriff eyed me with resignation. “What’s your excuse this time?”
“Turkey,” I said.
He grinned. “Sorry, you’re stuck with the thing.”
“I meant a cooked one.” I explained about Gerda’s casting out our dinner, and remembering that Dave hadn’t been able to stay for any pancakes. We all trooped back to my car, where Dave admired the huge white bird in the backseat-currently napping. I think he admired the plate we put together for him even more.
Adam and Sarkisian both took a few pieces from the packet, as well, and as we turned back to the building, the sheriff fell into step beside me. “Know why Hatter ran this morning?”
I shook my head. “Hasn’t he said anything?”
“Nervous as hell when I got here, but he calmed down pretty fast. Apparently I don’t know something he thinks I might.”
“I came by to see if I could get it out of him,” I admitted, thereby winning a triumphant glance from the sheriff.
“I told you-”
“To stay out, I know. But how can I? These are all people I know, who I grew up with.”
“Whom,” he murmured. “Yeah, makes it tough. You never want to believe that anyone you know could be a murderer. You keep hoping to find innocent explanations to all their inconsistencies.”
“Tom always said it’s easier to arrest someone you don’t know, but easier to understand situations when you do know everyone-and everything about them.”
Sarkisian nodded. “If I stay here for long, I’m going to have to split myself into two people-the sheriff and the community busybody.”
That got a smile out of me. “It’s what made Tom so good at his job.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then after a moment said, “And he had you to help. And your aunt.”
“And Peggy, and the rest of the SCOURGE elite. Gossips, all.”
“You don’t like Cindy Brody, do you?” he asked abruptly.
I stopped. We’d reached the lobby, and Dave and Adam had long since gone on ahead. “I don’t really know her all that well,” I said at last. Was he asking if I’d be upset when-if-he arrested her?
“She lied about being at home when her husband was murdered,” he mused. “She’d taken her car out, she had mud on her shoes, and a very strong motive for wanting him dead before their divorce became final.”
“Several hundred thousand motives,” I agreed, “all in nice, spendable cash.” Then I shook my head. “I don’t know. There are a number of people who had both the reason for wanting him dead and the opportunity to kill him.”
His mouth twitched. “But only one of them did it.”
“Not everyone resorts to murder to get out of their problems,” I agreed. “That takes a certain disregard for the value of someone else’s life.”
“Or an extreme desperation to protect one’s own-or someone or something one loves.” He shook his head. “The psychology of murder is never easy.”
He watched while I returned to my car. Once I started my engine-not so much as causing that damned bird to ruffle a feather-the sheriff turned and headed after the other two men into the depths of the Still. I left him to his study of psychology. I had a turkey dinner to deliver.
It received a warm welcome at the church on the outskirts of town, where they never seemed to have enough food to pass on to those suffering through the difficult economic times. I stayed for awhile, helping wherever an extra hand came in useful, then made my way back to Gerda’s, tired, more than a little depressed, and still with that damned bird infesting my beloved car.
The rumble of the garage door caused it to wake up at last. It shifted its wings and eyed me as if selecting the best spot to peck. I pulled into my parking space, rolled up my sleeves, climbed out, pushed the driver’s seat forward, and hauled on the leash.
To my delight, I managed to drag the bird out. It landed on the cement of the garage floor, ruffled its whole body, and dove back to its preferred nest. It settled down with what I would swear was a smug expression, and no amount of cajolery or threats got it to budge again. An attempt to lay hands on it resulted in my getting pecked. Not badly, just a warning.
I knew when I was licked. I located an old shower curtain that Gerda used as an emergency tarp and protected as much of the upholstery as I could. Over this I laid more newspaper and finally left the triumphant bird in peace in its four-wheeled nest in the comfort of the garage. I placed a bucket of water and the plate with the half-eaten pancake on the ground nearby, but my unwelcome passenger showed no interest in getting out for a snack.
With a sigh, I lowered the convertible top, but without much hope the turkey would take the hint and vacate. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I told it, with more than a touch of sarcasm, and headed for the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
A marvelous blend of aromas greeted me as I neared the front door. Cinnamon and nutmeg vied with savory and sage. I thought I detected thyme, as well, but the melding tended to mute individual notes to create a unique symphony. My mouth watered. I hadn’t nibbled any turkey, and I’d had nothing to eat since that pancake grabbed early in the morning. It had been a long and very active day, and I found it hard to believe it was only about two o’clock. I pushed through the doorway and dragged off my coat.
“Where’s my turkey?” Gerda called from the kitchen.
“Safe at the church, as ordered.” Did she regret getting rid of our dinner? Her own fault, if she did, I thought uncharitably.
“Idiot. The uncooked one.” Her head poked around the doorway into the dining room where I draped my wet things in front of the pellet stove.
I sighed. “In its favorite nest.”
Gerda shook her head. “I know how you like birds, but really, Annike, you shouldn’t spoil it so.”
To my frustration, I couldn’t think of a single scathing remark. Instead, I went to inspect what she had just brought out of the oven. A dark lump sat in a baking pan, rather like a loaf of round peasant bread. I sniffed, and my eyes widened. “Smells great.” Then with suspicion, “What’s in it?”
“Zucchini, almonds and tofu, primarily.” She beamed at me. “And it baked up amazingly fast.”
“Good. We need the oven.” I unwrapped one of the no-longer-frozen pie shells and set to work opening one of the tubs of pumpkin filling. I knew we could manage two at a time, if carefully arranged. I made some mental calculations and decided we just might be able to turn out the two dozen I’d assigned to us.
I was just testing the first two for doneness when I heard a car in the drive, followed by slamming doors and footsteps on the stairs.
Peggy opened the door without knocking. “Ready for us?” she called, a lilt in her voice, and she came in, kicking off her shoes into a corner. Her son Bill, short and solid, in his mid-thirties and as good-natured as his mother, followed her inside. He gave me a sheepish grin and handed over the covered casserole dish he held. Peggy placed another on the table. “All meatless,” she assured Gerda.
“So, where’s this turkey of yours?” Bill asked.
I bit back a nasty retort. He was a rare breed of auto mechanic-as honest as he was good. He had never overcharged anyone, and frequently came in under his estimates. He’d kept all our cars operational for the past fifteen years. It would not pay to antagonize him. “Still in my car,” I said without further elaboration.
He shook his head. “Hope you’ve got the seats well covered. Hate to see a classic like that turned into a turkey coop,” he added, thereby winning my unswerving devotion for life.
I beamed at him. “Want it for a mascot for your garage?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “What are you going to name it?”
Several possibilities sprang to mind, but before I could utter the choicest, Peggy squealed. “Ooh! I know! Let’s have a Name-the-Turkey contest! We can announce the winner at the Dinner-in-the Park!”
“No!” I cried, but too late. The idea appealed to my aunt, and while we arranged our meal on the dining room table, they happily made plans for announcing this addition to our weekend activities to the community at large. As
