“What’re you working on?” I demanded, resuming my seat.
Peggy looked up, her bright green eyes positively gleaming. “Lists. You’re just the one to take over our little Thanksgiving festivities, dear. I’m so glad Gerda talked you into it.”
“You mean I had a choice?”
Peggy just beamed at me. “Don’t worry, I’ve been making notes of everything we’re going to need for the Pancake Breakfast.” She included the two paramedics in her determined smile. “Such a wonderful time, we’ll all have. You’ll be so glad you came. Now,” she turned back to me. “The coffee maker at the Grange Hall is broken, so you’ll have to find another one. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”
“Find a coffee maker big enough to serve a couple hundred?” I stared at her. “Oh, sure. No problem. Where?”
Peggy waved a vague hand. “That’s up to you, dear. You’re in charge. I’ll just run along and find the list for you, shall I? It’s a long one, and the breakfast is only the morning after next. So much to do.”
“For me,” I muttered.
Peggy gathered her things and wrapped around her neck the long, trailing ends of a dusty rose scarf Gerda had knitted for her the previous Christmas when Peggy’s hair had been a less volatile shade. “Would you like the recipe book now? It’s just down in my car. And it tells how much of everything you’ll need.”
“Might as well.” I appropriated someone’s rain hat and slicker and followed my aunt’s friend out the door.
The wind whipped about me, freezing after the warmth of the house. Only a light rain fell now, and overhead a star flickered in and out of sight as the clouds surged past. Maybe the weather would clear by the time I had to start running my errands.
Peggy headed down the stairs, only to come to an abrupt halt on the landing. She peered over the railing to where a search light was trained on her car. “Whatever is that sheriff doing?” she demanded, and ran down the last steps. “Young man, that is my car, I’ll have you know. What are you looking for?”
Sarkisian straightened, his expression bland. “Dented fenders.”
“Dented- Are you suggesting I’d knock over Gerda’s fence post and not tell her? The idea!”
“You think the murderer did it?” I picked my way through the puddles to join them beside the old Pontiac.
“It was knocked down real recently, that’s all I’m sure of.” He ran his hand over his dripping hair.
“Well?” Peggy demanded, her voice as icy as the wind. “May I take my car, or did you find some scratch and now intend to impound it?”
He stepped back, gesturing her toward the aged sedan. “No recent damage. Go ahead. Just be careful going out the gate. Ramirez is prowling around.”
“I’m not blind. I can see his light through the trees.” Peggy rummaged in the front seat and emerged with a thin, hardback book, which she handed to me. “
“I think I offended her.” Sarkisian shook his head. “‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’”
“‘We should have thought of that before we joined the fo-orce,’” I responded promptly, as in-tune as possible- which isn’t very-not to be outdone when it came to quoting Gilbert and Sullivan.
An appreciative gleam lit his brown eyes, and he almost smiled. For a long moment his considering gaze rested on me. “Everyone around here knows you as Sheriff McKinley’s widow, don’t they?”
“I do have an identity other than that,” I pointed out.
He waved that aside. “I mean- Damn it, I’ve got to break the news to the victim’s wife. What I really need is a police woman, but Jennifer’s the nearest thing I’ve got. She’s nice, I’m not saying she isn’t, but she’s a little too… cheerful, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I kept my voice steady. “But she’s done the job before.”
“You know Ms. Brody, don’t you?” At my nod, he added, “Then would you come with me?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do-” I broke off before I could add “less.” As one widow to another, I might be able to offer comfort-if Cindy Brody needed any, of which I was by no means certain. But more importantly, I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to be on the inside track of this investigation. If anything turned up that implicated Aunt Gerda, I wanted to know, and to be in a position to present Gerda’s side of the matter to Sarkisian. Besides, it never hurt to place the sheriff firmly in my debt. “Give me five minutes,” I said and ran for the stairs.
Chapter Four
Cindy Brody’s house stood at the far end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a peaceful neighborhood of Meritville, Merit County’s principal-but still small-town. A peach-tinted streetlight illumined the rolling rain-drenched lawn with its majestic willow centerpiece, neatly trimmed escallonia shrubs lining a curved cement driveway, and an impressive pseudo-Tudor rising out of an orderly arrangement of raphiolepis and climbing roses. Definitely the upper rent district.
“Hate to see her lease on that,” muttered Sheriff Sarkisian. He slowed the official Jeep and swung onto the cement drive. “I take it accountancy pays.”
“Depends.” I, at least, had never managed to bring in exorbitant wealth in that profession. Maybe my problem was honesty. That was one trait I doubted Clifford Brody had shared.
Sarkisian set the brake and switched off the engine. “Did she want this divorce, or was it his idea?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking her?” I unbuckled my seat belt but found myself in no hurry to climb out into the late November storm.
“I mean,” he said, unlocking his door, “should I be calling a doctor to prescribe tranquilizers for her? Is she going to take this hard?”
It wasn’t my place to prejudice him. I said simply, “I think we can handle it alone.”
“Ahhh.” He gave the sound a wealth of meaning. “Let’s get it over with, then.”
We ran for the shelter provided by the roof’s overhang, and Sarkisian rang the doorbell. A minute passed, and he was just reaching for it again when the squeak of rubber soles on tile reached us. The next moment a light flooded the little porch area, and a brisk alto voice called, “Who is it?”
“Merit County sheriff, Ms. Brody. And Annike McKinley. We’d like to talk to you.”
A key turned in the deadbolt, and the door opened a few inches on a heavy chain. A perfectly made-up face appeared for a fraction of a second, then retreated. The chain rattled, and the door opened wide.
Cindy Brody stood in the full glare of the hall light, all sleek designer jeans from the best shop, sleek designer dark hair from the best salon, and sleek designer body from the best health spa-and possibly the best plastic surgeon. She must be almost as old as me. And looked a good ten years younger.
Cindy nodded briefly to me, her attention focused on Sarkisian. “So you’re the new sheriff.” Her gaze ran over him in an appraising-and openly approving-manner. A slow smile settled on her perfectly reddened mouth. “What can I do for you?”
“Could we sit down?” Sarkisian eased himself a step away from her. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”
“What, did you clock my car going over the speed limit or something?” She smoothed down the clinging yellow knit top over the waistband of her blue jeans, then led the way across the Italian marbled entry hall into a living room decorated in shades of white and cream. Draping herself onto the natural-colored sofa, she indicated with an airy wave for Sarkisian to join her. Apparently, I could fend for myself.
I took the chair across a low glass-topped coffee table from our hostess and leaned forward. “It’s your husband, Cindy.”
The woman stiffened. “God, what’s he done this time? I love him, I really do, but I just can’t take any more. I’ve reached the point where that divorce can’t be settled a moment too soon for my peace of mind. What is it, now? Go on, tell me the worst.”
I did. “He’s dead.”
Cindy blinked. “Dead? Oh!” She groped ineffectually over the coffee table, then searched her pocket and dragged out a tissue. She buried her face in this, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded muffled. “Dead! I-I
