We sped on in silence through the gloom of the storm. Any hope I had that she might be going to my aunt’s store faded as she drove right past and turned onto the road to Meritville. “Probably on her way to see her son,” I suggested.
Sarkisian made a noncommittal sound. I found I was beating my fingers on my leg and instead clasped my hands in my lap. Whatever Peggy was up to, it would undoubtedly be scatterbrained, pure Peggy at her most ridiculous, but it would also be innocent. It had to be.
Other cars traversed the rain-drenched road. Sarkisian allowed a blue Dodge pickup to pass us on an empty stretch, making us less obvious in case Peggy checked her rearview mirror. Five minutes later we reached the outskirts of Meritville, where traffic proved almost as heavy as usual. We were no longer the only white Honda on the road.
Sarkisian allowed other cars between ours and the old yellow Pontiac. We made several turns, and once I thought we’d lost her when she beat a light and we didn’t. But Sarkisian made a rapid right turn, cut down the next block and returned to the main street to pull in just two cars behind Peggy’s. I was impressed. The next light we made by the plastic of our bumper. Peggy made a sharp left almost at once, then a block later pulled into a parking lot behind a dilapidated old building that showed signs of recent refurbishment. Sarkisian leaned back in the seat as he watched Peggy pull up beside a rear door and jump out of her car.
“The homeless shelter,” I said after a moment. I hadn’t seen it from this angle before. On the few visits I’d made with Peggy or Gerda in the past, we’d parked on the street.
“The homeless shelter,” Sarkisian agreed. He pulled up just behind the Pontiac, blocking any possibility of its retreat.
She had reached the door, but turned around at the sound of the engine so close. The expression of dismay on her face would have been comical if it hadn’t been tinged with panic. I climbed out into the rain, hurrying to join her for whatever support she might need. Together we huddled under the meager shelter of the back door’s overhang.
“Why so secretive, Ms. O’Shaughnessy?” Sarkisian asked.
“What are you talking about?” She put a brave face on it, but you would have thought we had caught her in the act of committing a crime.
A young man, of the Simon Lowell school of fashion, emerged from the back entrance, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Need help, Peggy?” he asked, then took in the sheriff. “What can I do for you, officer?”
“Was this lady here on Tuesday afternoon?” Sarkisian asked.
The man stared at Peggy, his eyes unfocussed with the effort of memory. “You came over at about four o’clock, didn’t you?” he asked at last. “I remember, you brought all those cans and those sleeping bags.”
“And when did she leave?”
The man considered, then shook his head. “No idea. We were pretty busy. I’ll check around if it’s important.”
“Please do.” Sarkisian waited until the man had returned inside, then joined us in the tiny sheltered space. “Why did you lie, Ms. O’Shaughnessy?”
Her face contorted. “Because where is the point in helping people if you make sure everyone knows about it?” she demanded. “I don’t do this so everyone will say I do good works. I do it because-because it’s important to do.” She shut her mouth.
Sarkisian glanced at me. I gave an almost imperceptible shrug. That might be true. “Does your son object?” I asked.
She hesitated. “He doesn’t know how much time I spend here,” she admitted. “It’s no one’s business but mine.”
“It’s becoming my business,” Sarkisian told me some twenty minutes later when we climbed back into his car. No one at the shelter could remember what time Peggy had left on Tuesday night. It might have been as early as four-fifteen or as late as six. Volunteers don’t punch time clocks, they reminded us. Volunteers were so precious, they were welcomed for however many minutes they could spare. “I still think she’s hiding something,” he added as we headed back toward Upper River Gulch.
I didn’t say anything for the simple reason that I feared he was right. She was too nervous, too upset, just for being caught out in delivering boxes of used clothes. And why had she bothered lying about Tuesday? We all knew she helped out there. It didn’t make sense. I leaned back and closed my eyes and began to drift off to sleep.
The crackling of the radio roused me. Sarkisian answered it, and I heard the voice of Jennifer, the dispatcher.
“Hey, Sheriff? You’re not going to believe it. We’ve got another body.”
Chapter Sixteen
The body belonged to-or at least had belonged to-Dave Hatter. Adam Fairfield had come on duty at two o’clock and found the man lying face down in the bathtub-sized vat. When I’d seen the tank last night, it had stood empty, as usual. Now it almost overflowed with apricot brandy. And body.
I sat on one of the upholstered chairs in the Still’s reception area, shivering. I was tired, my head ached, I was sore all over, and I couldn’t face the fact that someone I’d known most of my life had just ended his own.
Adam Fairfield paced the floor in front of me. “I mean,” he said for perhaps the tenth time, “I’d only just walked in here! No one expects to find-” He broke off. “I can’t believe it.”
“Sit down,” I suggested. His eyes looked too bright, his face flushed, but I would have sworn he hadn’t taken a drink, not even something medicinal to steady his nerves. I wouldn’t have blamed him in the least if he had. I wouldn’t have minded sampling one of the liqueurs myself, right now.
But not, I amended, the apricot brandy. I didn’t think I’d ever touch apricot brandy again.
Adam flung himself into a chair, then out of it again and resumed pacing. “My God, Annike, if you’d seen him, face down, half floating in that stuff…” He shuddered. “Well, I suppose if you’re going to kill yourself, drowning in brandy might not be such a bad way to go.” He sank onto the chair, this time so exhausted he remained where he sat.
“Definitely a touch of class,” I agreed.
Dave Hatter, a suicide. It seemed all too horribly possible, with his depression over losing his life savings. And if he’d killed Brody…I could see where guilt could have driven him to this. I wondered if he’d left a note. Not all suicides did, but Dave struck me as the type who’d feel obliged to explain his actions, to apologize one last time to his poor wife.
His wife. I wondered if Sarkisian would draft me into helping him break the news to a second widow. I’d never really thought Cindy would be upset, so I’d known telling her wouldn’t be an ordeal. But Barbara would be a very different matter. She adored Dave, she would have seen him through whatever troubles had fallen on them. She was probably even going to forgive him for taking the easy way out and leaving her to face the future alone and penniless, with a cloud of shame hanging over her head. I prayed Sarkisian would pick on someone other than me this time.
Adam blinked and looked up as if coming out of his own reverie. “It only sounds classy ‘til you know the details.” He stretched his face into a wolfish grin as if trying to lighten the atmosphere. It wasn’t working very well. “Before he climbed in, he stripped down to his boxers. White ones, decorated with turkeys.”
The idea seemed so preposterous as to be funny, but I felt no inclination to laugh. I shook my head. “He should’ve worn a tux.”
“And the number of bottles it took to fill that vat! He used ones with the official seal on them, did I tell you? Apricot’s one of the most expensive products, too. Cartwright’ll have a screaming fit when he finds out.” He thrust himself to his feet and resumed pacing. “God, I can just see it happening, him pouring each bottle into the vat, then arranging his empties in that smiley face and cross bones.” He shuddered. “Then stripping down, folding each thing he wore, placing them all on the counter in that damned neat pile. Then climbing into the vat, lying face down, and drinking himself into oblivion…”
“What a way to go,” I agreed.
Rumblings sounded from the work floor below. The forensic team must be finishing up. They’d cart away the
