long-term healthcare. I didn’t know how well Peggy had prepared, and she had reached the age when the worry could easily become paranoia.
“Let’s rule it out,” Sarkisian decided. “I’ll get a warrant for the Still’s books, then the matter will be settled and I can forget about it.”
“Other people have motives, too,” I reminded him. “Look at Brody’s wife, and all she stands to gain by his death-or lose in a divorce! Or Adam Fairfield’s jealousy over Brody dating his ex-wife. Or Simon Lowell, and whatever Brody was about to reveal about him. Or Dave Hatter-” I broke off. He acted suspicious, but I’d yet to uncover a motive for him.
“Or your aunt?” Sarkisian suggested with a touch of sweet innocence. “He cheated her badly, and she was going to lay a trap for him.”
I clamped my mouth shut.
He grinned. Apparently that was exactly what he’d been hoping for. “Let’s rule out any funny business with the Still’s books, all right?”
I sighed and nodded, not that I had any say in the matter.
I turned back to the cafeteria. Let him do what he would. I had other worries to attend to. I didn’t want to spend the whole evening on the phone, and this was a golden opportunity to catch a lot of people before they could escape. We’d managed to survive the pie-eating contest, but we still had the park clean-up and decorating lurking for us tomorrow. Pumpkin pie filling might no longer smear across the tables and benches, but the hedges needed trimming, branches needed pruning before they fell in a winter storm, the trash can holders needed repair, and a dozen other chores awaited us before we could start hanging the colored lights and waterproof banners.
Sarkisian followed me, apparently wanting to see who else might be adept at wielding a letter opener. To my surprise, everyone seemed to be finishing up inside. A short class because of the holiday, probably. We watched while Peggy reminded them once again of the major points they had covered, then all the participants headed for their coats and purses.
I stepped inside the door. “Hey, everyone,” I shouted. A few stopped talking. Most ignored me.
“Attention, please!” called Peggy, and got instant results. “Annike has an announcement.” As one, the room’s occupants turned to stare at me.
I straightened, aware I looked a mess. Nothing like people staring at you to make you realize you hadn’t seen a comb in hours and that your clothes were still covered in pumpkin custard. “Tomorrow is the annual park clean-up,” I began, starting with something easy and obvious.
“What if it rains?” called someone.
“It’s supposed to pour,” added another.
“Got to be prepared in case it doesn’t,” I said. “We need trash bags, rakes, and some refreshments…”
“Pumpkin pie do?” called someone, and got a round of laughs. After that, no one paid any more attention to me.
“Good try,” Sarkisian said, shaking his head.
I grimaced. “With my luck, it’ll be bright sunshine, and not a single person will show up. I…”
But Sarkisian was no longer listening to me. Why should he be any different? I followed the direction of his gaze and saw that Cindy Brody had donned a wrap-around skirt, boots, and a sweater coat I lusted for.
She strolled toward us, smiling at Sarkisian. “Good evening, Sheriff,” she said. “I see Annike made you help with the pie contest.”
“A civic honor,” he assured her.
“I’d blow a raspberry if I knew how,” I muttered.
His mouth compressed, forcing back a grin. The next moment he was all business again. “We got the lab report back on the mud from your tires,” he said, still all charm and friendliness. “It matches the mulching around Gerda Lundquist’s drive.”
Cindy’s mouth dropped open. “But… Mulching is mulching. You buy it in bags. I mean, there must be hundreds or even thousands of yards around Meritville and Upper River Gulch with the same stuff.”
“You were at Ms. Lundquist’s on Tuesday night.”
“I wasn’t! Why would I go there? I was getting ready for my guests.”
“No signs of cooking in your kitchen, a streak of dried mud on your shoes, your car engine was warm, and that mud on the tires. Enough to justify the testing.”
Cindy looked to me for help.
“It’s okay, Cindy,” I assured her. “He’s trying to eliminate suspects. Just tell him why you went to Aunt Gerda’s so he doesn’t have to waste time worrying about you.”
A shaky sigh escaped her. “God, I’m actually glad to be able to tell someone. I hated lying, but the widow is always the chief suspect, and I couldn’t have borne that. I mean, how did I know you wouldn’t be like those horrible policemen in stories, always shouting and never listening?” She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“So why did you go?” He managed to sound purely sympathetic.
“I was going to give Gerda a few notes I’d found about the weekend activities, but no one was home. I could see the light from her study, so I went around to check if she’d locked the glass doors there, or if I could just leave the stuff on her desk. Only when I got there-” She broke off, looking ill.
“What happened?” Sarkisian prompted.
“The desk light was on, and I saw my husband in the chair. And there was so much blood…”
“About when was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think,” the sheriff suggested. “Were you listening to your car radio on the way over?” She nodded. “Any news or traffic reports?”
“News,” she said after a long minute. “It started just before I reached the intersection, so I switched stations.”
“And which one were you listening to before?” he asked. She named it, and he nodded.
“They do the news three minutes past the hour and half-hour, to match their call number,” I said.
He nodded again. “Five-thirty, six, or six-thirty?”
She considered. “Five-thirty, I guess.”
“So, giving you time to drive up to Ms. Lundquist’s, knock on the door, go around the deck to the study… About five-forty,” he decided. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“About twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, before I got there,” I said. “We wouldn’t have passed each other.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Brody. That helps a great deal.”
She smiled, but worry still lingered in her eyes. “You believe me?”
His eyebrows gave a humorous quirk. “No reason not to.”
This time, her smile looked genuine. She started off.
“Cindy!” I called, remembering another problem that I had shoved to the back of my mind. “I can’t find the sign-up list for the pot-luck dinner.”
She looked back. “Oh, there isn’t one. I just told everyone to bring whatever they felt like!” She waved and hurried toward the parking lot.
“Just bring…” I felt sick.
“Sure. Good plan.” I could hear the grin in Sarkisian’s voice. “You can bring a turkey.”
I turned on him, searching for words, but the arrested expression on his face gave me pause. “What is it?” I asked.
“Is that Lucy Fairfield?” He nodded toward another woman who had just climbed out of a car parked along the street.
It was indeed Adam’s ex-wife, her dark shoulder-length hair all becoming curls, minimal makeup, and looking as gentle and pretty as always, even wrapped in an old raincoat. She hurried toward the cafeteria. “How’d you recognize her?” I demanded.
“Don’t you look at pictures in people’s houses?” he countered.
I stared at him, impressed. Maybe this sheriff wouldn’t turn out so badly after all. Or maybe he would. This investigation was far from over.
He strode forward to intercept Lucy. “Ms. Fairfield?” He introduced himself. “Can I have a word with you?”
