“We heard Brody came out of it unscathed. He didn’t loose a dime of his own! Not one single, solitary penny, that cockroach!” And for Barbara, that was pretty harsh language.
“When did you hear that?” I asked gently. “On Tuesday?”
Barbara stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Honestly, Annike, I’ve been sick about it. I thought Dave…” She shook her head. “He just exploded, then all that anger just melted away, and he was so depressed! I was afraid-” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was afraid he was going to hurt himself.”
Kill himself, she meant. I knelt in front of her, taking her hands. “What happened?”
She sniffed. “It-it was a couple of hours before he had to go to work when he got that call. From-from a friend in Meritville who also lost money in the scheme, though not as much as we did. Dave exploded, then-then he just walked out of the house and got into the truck and drove off, and I didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do. It was only about four o’clock. So I called the Still, and Carrie-she’s the new receptionist,” she added for my benefit, “-she promised to keep an eye out for Dave, then I just waited…”
Waited for the sheriff, or a deputy, or the highway patrol to bring her word of an “accident,” I guessed. God, that must have been an awful evening for her.
“Then Carrie called at last. Dave was a little late, but he hadn’t been drinking or anything-he never does, but I was afraid… But he was all right except for being depressed. Then he heard Brody had been killed, only it didn’t cheer him up, like I thought it would. If anything, he only got more depressed.”
I heard a slow intake of breath behind me and didn’t have to look to know the sheriff had joined us. I rose, but he touched my arm, shook his head, and strolled out the door. I followed.
“So, what are you going to do about the dinner sign-ups?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Apparently he didn’t want to discuss that unsettling bit of information about Dave Hatter, who now apparently had both the motive and the time to kill Brody. I followed Sarkisian’s lead. “Get on the phone, I suppose. It would have been better to have a sign hung on the bulletin board at the post office where everyone goes almost every day.”
“But not over a holiday weekend,” he pointed out, quite unnecessarily. “You look like the best thing you could do would be to go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ve got work to do, first. I’ll sign you up for a casserole, shall I?”
“Do you want half the town down with food poisoning? I’ll bring cans of olives or cranberry sauce.”
I actually smiled. “I’ll hold you to that. And while I’m waiting for my aunt,” I added, the light of battle filling me once more, “I’ll sign up everyone in her store.”
He nodded. “That ought to clear them out fast. Goodnight.” He waved and headed across the street toward the corner where he had left his Jeep.
Next to, I remembered with a sinking sensation, my own car with its resident turkey.
Tonight, before I went to bed, I swore that damned bird would be roosting-or for preference roasting- elsewhere.
Chapter Fourteen
That damned bird stayed right where it wanted to stay. I gave up trying to move it after receiving a few flesh wounds and left it where it sat, a smug expression on its beak, for the night. I admit it. I was just too tired for the fight. Beaten by a bird. Vilhelm, if he knew, would never let me hear the end of it.
It didn’t seem possible, but when I got upstairs and glanced at the chiming clock on the mantel, it claimed it was still a few minutes shy of seven p.m. I would have guessed midnight, at the least. I checked on my poor parakeet and gave him a new seed treat, which renewed his evening cheep session. I sat on the edge of my bed watching him attack his mirror and tell it, among other things, that it was a dirty bird and needed a bath. I’d have to let him out of his cage for a good flap around the room first thing in the morning. At the moment, though, he seemed to be enjoying himself, so I let myself out into the hall, caught two cats trying to let themselves in to visit him, and closed the door. Still armed with Dagmar and Furface, his teeth settled companionably in my wrist, I headed for the kitchen phone.
Peggy, showing amazing insight, either had not returned home yet or was avoiding all calls. She probably had one of those ID things on her phone that let you know either the name or number of the person trying to reach you. I wondered how many of those menaces lurked in Upper River Gulch, and if Gerda’s ID would be a warning not to touch the phone and to unplug the answering machine. I suspected I was getting a lot of that, lately.
But my second call reached Ida Graham. “What a hoot!” she exclaimed as soon as I’d said hello. “Who’d have thought a good old fashioned pie fight could be such fun! Haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” And she’d even stuck around to help clean up the mess. I was impressed. But then, she’s on the SCOURGE elite squad. That has to explain a lot. “So, watcha need?” she went on.
“A phone tree.” I told her about Cindy’s idea of organizing a potluck. “I foresee no main dishes, only a hundred deserts. And with my luck, they’d all be pumpkin pies.”
“Ouch.” Silence stretched while she apparently considered the horrors in store for Sunday evening. “Right. I’ll get calling. We’ve already got a tree set up. We’ll assign things. That’s safer than giving people a choice. And we can sign others up at the park clean-up, remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” I wasn’t likely to forget the clean-up-if it happened, which seemed a bit iffy because of the weather. How did the town get the decorations hung for the assortment of winter holidays if the clean-up event wasn’t held? I wondered if it had ever happened before, or if I’d go down in town history as the first to create this disaster. “At least we’ve got bait to entice the work crew,” I added.
“I don’t come out for minnows or flies,” Ida informed me.
“How about a couple bottles of experimental cranberry orange liqueur?”
“You mean you’ve actually gotten them out of old Cartwright? I am impressed.”
I hesitated. “When you’re making those calls, why don’t you ask for cookies and punch and coffee, as well.” I hung up quickly, grinning at Ida’s groan.
That one call made me feel a lot better. I had no doubts about her efficiency. I turned to tomorrow’s page in Peggy’s book of lists and checked my progress. I’d asked for rakes and trash bags, but I’d forgotten about pruning shears, not to mention hammers and nails for fence repairs. I made a mental review of Gerda’s tool shed, but knowing the toughness and determination of the shrubs around the park, we’d need gas-powered chain saws, not the hand-operated pruners my aunt felt safer using. My best bet would be to find a handyman.
“You off the phone?” Gerda called from the living room. She sat on the bench of her loom but plied the pair of carders on the teased hanks of turquoise wool, blending three different shades into a beautiful mix. She pulled off the first bat and rolled it deftly in her hands into a log-shaped rolag. Clumsy and Mischief curled about her feet, while Furface watched from the privileged vantage point of Gerda’s recliner.
“Want some tea?” I asked.
She considered, then nodded. “I’m too tired for dinner.”
“Well, you’re going to get some, anyway. Omelet okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I pulled the carton of egg substitute from the refrigerator and set to work chopping mushrooms, onions, garlic and herbs. We still had the cinnamon oatmeal bread from breakfast, so I made thick slices, buttered them and shoved them into the oven to broil.
The aromas made me realize how hungry I was. I hadn’t had so much as a single bite of pie that day. Which seemed odd, considering I’d had a couple of facefulls.
Gerda followed her nose and appeared in the kitchen door. Absently she began to pull out plates and silverware. “Poor Dave Hatter. And poor Barbara. How awful it would be for her if Dave killed Brody. And the worst of it is, I don’t think anyone would blame him if he had.”
“Sarkisian would. And so would a jury. None of them lost their life savings because of that jerk.”
“No,” agreed Gerda. “It all seems so unjust. The only bright side is that I don’t think I’m chief suspect anymore.”
I served our meal, ate mine too fast, at least according to Gerda, delivered my plate to the sink, and reached for my coat.
“Where are you going?” she demanded as I started for the door.
