now come together in an odd-looking dance. I stared at them for a long moment. “They’re fighting!”
“If you can call it that,” Sarkisian said.
“What…?” I began.
“Drunk,” the sheriff said succinctly. “Both of them.”
“Aren’t you going to stop it?”
He shrugged. “They’ll stop on their own, soon enough.”
I could see his point. Both men looked bruised and muddied, and their breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Simon had one arm slung over the fence to support himself while he took an ineffectual swing at Adam Fairfield. Adam had collapsed over a rail and now could muster only enough energy to wave a feeble arm in Simon’s direction.
Sarkisian gave a short nod. “That’s about enough,” he announced in a loud voice. “Either of you want to explain?”
“That damned hippie!” Adam paused, struggling for breath. “Been preachin’ at Nancy again. Damn comm’nist philos’phy.” He took a staggering step toward Simon but collapsed in the sheriff’s arms. Sarkisian propped him against the fence.
“Apparently,” Simon said with the careful enunciation of one who knows his speech is slurred, “she packaged up their leftovers-”
“Every single one of ‘em,” nodded Adam.
“And took them down to the church.”
“I like turkey san’ches,” Adam mumbled. “An’ b’rittos and cass’roles. Wan’ a court order. Keep ‘im an’ ‘is sub- subvers-”
“Subversive ways,” Simon interjected with the superiority of one who could still pronounce it.
“S’right. Keep ‘im ‘way from m’girl.”
“Well, you can come down to the office in the morning,” Sarkisian told him. “An-Ms. McKinley?” He jerked his head toward Simon.
I nodded and took the real estate agent by the arm.
He responded by pulling it free and draping it around my shoulders. “I’d be delighted if you escorted me inside.” Leaning heavily on me, he started for his one-room cabin.
“Are you going to be all right?” I asked when I’d gotten him through the door. The place felt cozily warm. Not at all what I expected from the shabby exterior.
He looked around, then nodded solemnly. “Go straight to bed. My apologies for your seeing me like this.” He staggered across the small room and fell face first onto the narrow bed.
After a moment’s consideration, I dragged off his muddy boots, then reached for a flying geese patterned quilt. To my surprise, it proved to be a duvet cover encasing a thick down-filled comforter. Very warm-and very expensive. I pulled this over him, and he muttered something that might have been “thank you”.
I looked around and found the place unexpectedly neat. A pile of split logs and branches lay in a cast-iron hoop beside a massive stone hearth. Inside of this stood a wood burning stove, a modern necessity in such a fire trap as this. The blaze within had reduced to a low burn. I checked the flue, opened the door and banked the fire for the night. After readjusting the air flow, I stood back and looked around. Everything looked safe enough. I let myself out and walked back to where Owen Sarkisian tried to boost the unconscious Adam into the passenger seat of his Chevy.
The sheriff looked up as I approached. “Want to pull from the other side?”
I went around, and between us we managed to get the limp body into a semi-upright position on the seat. I handed Sarkisian one side of the seat belt. He took it solemnly and fastened the man in place. Adam spoiled it by tilting to one side and slowly collapsing.
Sarkisian sighed. “I’m going to drive him home. Would you mind following, then giving me a lift back here to the Jeep?” He stepped back and frowned at the man. “His daughter tells me he’s been constantly ready for a fight-and a drink-ever since his wife left him. But only since then?” He raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember him being like this before, if that’s what you’re asking. But…”
“Yes?” he prodded when I stopped.
I shook my head. “Brody hadn’t been hit, had he? Only stabbed?”
“Only?” The sheriff actually grinned.
“You know what I mean. No head bashing. No bruising. Just a quick stab. If Adam had been drinking and out for a fight and encountered Brody…” I shrugged. “When he’s drunk, Adam seems to think with his fists. If he wanted a weapon, he’d grab something heavy, not something sharp.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So he’d need a reason for killing Brody that didn’t involve him getting mad. Well.”
“And since Lucy left, it seems that anything and everything makes him mad.”
He slammed the door shut. “Let’s get him home so you can go back to baking pies.”
“Gee thanks,” I muttered, and slid through the mud back to my car and that damned sleeping turkey.
Chapter Twelve
I followed the truck up the Fairfields’ drive a scant six minutes later and pulled to a halt a few feet away from it. The rain had started up again, and I’d forgotten to close the latches on what I was beginning to think of as my flip-top. I jumped out, rammed them into place, then ran to the door to knock. Nancy must have heard the engines because she was already there, peering out and looking frightened.
“Has something happened?” she demanded as I drew near.
“He’s just drunk,” I assured her.
She tensed, and the worry and strain etched their lines on her face. “Where was he?”
“Simon’s,” I admitted. “He’s drunk, too. I made sure he was all right before we left.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “And Dad-neither one got hurt?”
“Oh, they’ll probably both have a few bruises in the morning, but nothing to worry about.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t see how I can ever get Dad to accept Simon when they keep fighting like this.”
“A grandchild?” I suggested, then could have bitten my tongue when I saw the arrested look in her eyes. It had been a flippant comment, not meant to be taken seriously. If she had, if I’d given her the idea… “That wouldn’t work,” I declared with considerable force. “He’d probably murder Simon-” I broke off. Damn, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I kept saying the wrong thing.
I hurried over to the truck in time to help Sarkisian boost Adam to the ground. The man was groaning, but not yet awake. We sandwiched him between us, draping one of his arms over each of our shoulders, and half walked, half carried him to the house. Nancy opened the door wide and stepped aside, her expression a mingling of resignation and dismay. After a brief discussion, we dumped him on the sofa and left Nancy covering him with blankets.
“That’s a hell of an example to set for a kid like her,” the sheriff said as we headed for my car. He opened the passenger door, then pulled back. “What the…”
A rustling of feathers sounded from the backseat, but I don’t think the turkey actually woke up. “It won’t get out,” I explained as I scrambled inside, out of the rain.
“Pick it up and heave it,” the sheriff suggested.
I made an expansive gesture toward it. “Be my guest. You’re more than welcome to try.”
He regarded it speculatively, then reached out. The moment his hands closed around the plump body, all hell broke loose. Sarkisian jerked back, releasing the bird. “It bit me!”
“Join the club,” I sighed, and started the engine.
“Damned bird.” The sheriff lowered himself into the other bucket seat.
“At the rate it’s going, that’s going to be its official name.”
He shook his head. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy told me you’d decided to hold a Name-the-Turkey contest.”
“She decided,” I stuck in quickly, not wanting to carry any of the blame for that rotten idea. I put the car in gear and backed in a sweeping curve.
Owen Sarkisian remained quiet while we negotiated the newly paved driveway, all the while sucking the beak-
