The woman who had taken his place read through my description of intended usage, then handed me another handful of papers. These, I was relieved to hear, I didn’t have to fill out. I only had to read them. And follow their instructions to the letter. I was getting good at following instructions and lists, I assured her.
“And the key?” I asked.
This involved another behind-the-counter consultation. “Sheriff’s office,” came the answer at last.
The sheriff’s office lay on the other side of the town square. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, of course, so I set off to slog my way through the drenched grass until I reached the cement path. It was an old-fashioned sort of park, complete with benches and flower beds and even a cannon, though what Meritville had ever used a cannon for was beyond me. In the center of it all stood a gazebo where the last official band to play had been seeing the troops off to World War II. Other bands had made use of the platform since, of course, but mostly it played home to choirs during the holiday season.
The sheriff’s office couldn’t find the key. By now, that didn’t come as a surprise to me.
“I saw it a week ago,” Deputy Goulding assured me.
“Where?” I hoped I didn’t sound as weary as I felt.
“In the key safe, of course. Where we just checked.” He looked like he’d been having the same sort of day I’d been enduring.
I stifled the crack I’d been about to make. “Can you put a team of detectives on it? I need it ASAP.”
A gleam lit his eyes. “I’ll have the sheriff himself handle it. That okay by you?”
“Perfect.” We grinned at each other. What Sarkisian would say might almost be worth hearing. Pity I didn’t have time to hang around. I slogged back to my car, started the engine, cranked up the heater, and got hit by a blast of icy air. It took a good three or four miles before the engine got hot enough to warm me up.
I’d turned onto the narrow highway leading home before I realized I hadn’t the faintest idea where the frozen pumpkin pie filling was located, or how to get over three hundred of the damned things baked in the next thirty-six hours. Nor did I have the name of the company supplying the smoked turkey breast for the raffle on the following morning. With a sigh, I turned my car toward Cindy Brody’s.
As I swung onto her cul-de-sac, almost the first thing I saw was Sheriff Owen Sarkisian’s Jeep parked in the entrance of her driveway. I grinned, though I also felt a touch of pity for the poor man. He’d never believe this was purely coincidence, and I couldn’t blame him. I got out, dashed for the shelter of the porch and rang the doorbell.
A minute passed before I heard footsteps crossing the tiled foyer. Cindy, perfect as always, opened the door. I know it’s catty, but I wished just once I could detect some flaw in her makeup, some bulge in those incredibly small jeans.
For some reason, she didn’t appear pleased to see me. I suspected I wasn’t going to be very popular anywhere for the next few days. “I just have a couple questions for you,” I said quickly, because she looked like she wanted to slam the door in my face.
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Join the club.” She stepped back to let me in, regarding me with an expression of disgust. I’d picked up more than a few splatters of mud hoofing it across the park.
“Mind?” I kicked off my shoes without waiting for her response.
That seemed to satisfy her. With a sigh she made no attempt to disguise, she turned and led the way into the living room.
Sheriff Sarkisian sat in the chair he’d occupied the night before, hands resting on his thighs, elbows sticking out in a belligerent pose. His expression matched it.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I assured him before he could accuse me. “I’ve got more Thanksgiving business. And some of it, for that matter, is going to be your problem.” I enjoyed watching his expression flicker through a number of emotions and finally settle on resignation.
“What?” he demanded.
“The key to the Grange. John Goulding says he saw it last week, but it’s not in the cabinet now. We decided a real detective should take charge of tracking it down.”
His face contorted in an expression that was everything I could have hoped for. “You did, did you?” he managed at last. “Find the key. While I’m investigating this murder.”
“By later this afternoon, please. I have to get into the building.”
“Look.” Cindy frowned at us both. “If that’s all you came about, Annike, why don’t you two go and look for it? I’m in the middle of cooking. In fact,” she added as she strode toward the kitchen, “I’ve got to check a pie.”
Sarkisian glared at me and rose to follow her.
I traipsed after. “Sorry, I’ve got a few questions for you, Cindy,” I reminded her when she turned her outraged glare on me for my invasion of her culinary domain. “Mmm, smells good.”
Sarkisian propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, and his brow creased as if from an effort of memory. “Weren’t you doing your baking last night?”
She opened her mouth, but for a good five seconds nothing came out. Then she turned to the counter, snatched a tissue from its box, and hid behind it. “I—I burned them. I mean, after hearing about dear Cliff…” Her voice trailed off, and her reproachful gaze accused the sheriff of opening raw wounds. She managed an artistic sniff. “And I’ve been so busy, what with my guests arriving, I’m only just now getting around to making more.”
“Where are they?” Sarkisian managed to sound no more than mildly curious. “Your guests, I mean.”
“Sightseeing,” came her unencouraging answer.
Seeing what sights, I wondered? Merit County wasn’t exactly a tourist Mecca. And at this time of year, everything dripped, even when it wasn’t raining.
Cindy checked the oven—only a single pie within—then leaned against the counter eyeing me with displeasure. “What did you want?” I told her, and her frown deepened. “I gave Peggy all the notes.”
“Must have missed a few,” I assured her, and hoped I was right. The prospect of not being able to find the pie filling haunted me. Or maybe that would be a positive thing. We’d have to call off the contest. There just might be a silver lining in there, after all.
Cindy went to a small desk in the living room, dragged open the second drawer, and pulled out a handful of papers. She leafed through them, then stopped, her brow creasing. “Oh.” She detached several. “Sorry, they got mixed up with other things. This what you need?”
The top paper bore the label “turkey raffle,” and I saw the names of several suppliers. One was even circled and checked off. I took them with relief. “Thanks.”
“Then I’ll let you get on with it. You must both be busy today.” She headed for the front door. “Really, Sheriff, you’ll have to talk to my lawyer. I honestly don’t know a thing about wills or divorce settlements or insurance. I leave all that up to him. But speaking as a poor widow, I hope Cliff left me something.”
“Ms. Brody,” Sarkisian began.
Cindy let out a big sigh. “Look, Sheriff, if you really want to solve my husband’s murder, why don’t you talk to Sue Hinkel, the hairdresser in Upper River Gulch.” She cast a sideways glance at me and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, covering her mouth as if she honestly thought only Sarkisian would hear her next words. “About Gerda Lundquist.”
She ushered us out the door. The rain had reduced to a drizzle, now, but the wind whipped it cold and stinging into my face. I dashed for my car. To my surprise, Sarkisian beat on the passenger side window as I climbed in. I reached across and pulled up the lock.
He slid inside. “You ‘just happened’ to come here?”
“Look, I really—”
“Okay, I believe you.” He drummed his fingers on the dash. “How well do you know Ms. Brody?”
“To talk to, but only to do the polite, not about anything personal. She joined the SCOURGEs after I moved to San Francisco.”
“What about her financial sense? Is she really as clueless as she says?”
I hesitated. “My aunt might know.”
“From what I’ve already heard, Ms. Brody is pretty sharp.”
“So why are you asking me?”
He gave me an enigmatic look. “Beats tearing the office apart looking for that key.”
With that he got out, locking the door after himself. I watched him climb into the Jeep and back out of the driveway. He waved before shifting into first, and I watched the tail lights as he headed away.
I sat there for a long minute, eyes closed, mentally running through the lists. Coffeepot, check. Grange Hall, check. Key, no check. Turkey would just take a phone call to confirm. Pancake breakfast…
I started the engine. The pancake mix should have been delivered to the Grange by now, along with the bacon and eggs and the rest of the perishables. And they would all be sitting on the front steps in the pouring rain with no one to rescue them. The fact I’d been trying to make the arrangements for the Hall wouldn’t rescue ruined mix or salmonella-bearing sausage.
I headed Freya toward the long stretch of road leading back to Upper River Gulch. The fields spread toward the foothills on either side, plowed in neat rows, boasting crops or vines currently devoid of berries or leaves. On the whole, it looked dank and dreary. The radio played in the background, as low as it could go and still be heard over the engine’s roar, but I barely noticed it. I was too busy seething over Perfect Cindy’s trying to thrust Aunt Gerda back to the forefront of the investigation. That woman knew damned well the financial ramifications of both divorce and widowhood. For that matter, Gerda probably had heard a few shrewd rumors about Cindy’s knowledge and maneuverings. I’d ask her as soon as I dragged myself home tonight.
I hit the brake to avoid a farm truck whipping onto the road almost on top of me. That jerked me out of my reverie and back to the immediate problems at hand. Such as the fact I’d forgotten to ask Cindy where the frozen pie filling was located. I whimpered, but I wasn’t about to turn around and go back. One of these days, I reflected, I was going to have to break down and get a cell phone. Never mind it would be a leash, never mind people could reach me when I least wanted to be reached. At the moment, it would make my life a hell of a lot easier. I always think of these things too late.
The rain pelted down with renewed vigor as I pulled into town. And there was my trunk, half open, all drenched. I’d have to use the hair dryer on it, I supposed, or the lining would mildew. I was still blaming myself for not having scrounged a tarp from somewhere as I swung into the Grange parking lot and saw Gerda’s bright blue Pathfinder, Hans Gustav, standing in front of the door.
She stood beneath the meager shelter of the porch roof amidst piles of damp-looking bags of pancake mix. “It’s about time you got here!” she shouted as I pulled to a halt. You have to shout to be heard over Freya’s engine. Gerda keeps telling me I’m going to get a ticket for noise violation, but what can you expect when your car is older than you are—and you aren’t exactly young to begin with? “The frozen stuff is defrosting,” she complained as I joined her. “And I have to get back to the store.”
“Sorry. And it’s okay about the defrosting. We’ll be using it in the morning.”
She sniffed. “It should be in a refrigerator. Where’s the key? We need to get all this into the kitchen as soon as possible.”
“No key.”
Gerda placed her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and eyed me with disfavor. “How could you forget the key? Honestly, Annike…”
“No one knows where it is.”
She blinked. Her expression probably reflected the horror I felt over the whole damned affair. “But what about tomorrow? What about—”
“That’s up to our new sheriff,” I said with considerable satisfaction. “He’s supposed to locate it, so you can blame him if everything goes wrong.”
From the arrested gleam in her eye, that apparently appealed to her. Her pleasure lasted only a moment, though. She glared at the sacks and boxes piled—naturally—in front of the door so they would have to be moved before it could be opened—if and when we located the key. “What are we going to do with everything? The bacon and sausage can’t sit out all night.”
True. The rain warmed up the weather, so we weren’t getting the bite of ice we normally got in November. “If only the Fairfields had a giant refrigerator to go along with the giant coffeepot,” I sighed.
“Who…” Gerda began, only to break off with a cry of triumph. “The school! They should have enough room for the perishables.”
She picked up a hefty cardboard box—drenched, of course—and carried it to the passenger side door of my car. I opened it dutifully, then went back to collect another of the heavy boxes. I should have thought to provide towels to protect the seats, I supposed, but today just wasn’t going to be poor Freya’s day. At least even Gerda had to admit my poor car couldn’t shelter the pancake mix, as well. We loaded that into the back of Hans Gustav, and she led our little procession around the block to the rear of the elementary school.
We found Laurie Wesland, who had been the school secretary thirty years ago when I’d been an inmate, sitting at the same desk she’d inhabited way back then. It would have been really eerie if the years hadn’t added a few pounds and changed her hair from brown to silver gray. I think she even still wore the same dress. At least it was the same light green I remembered from my mercifully brief visits to deliver notes or wait for sentencing from the principal.