Or naïve in general, I reflected.
“Someone need an orange squeezer?” Adam Fairfield strode into the kitchen, sober and cheerful. “You didn’t wait for me, Nancy.”
The girl froze. “I didn’t think you’d want to get up so early.”
“And not help?” He ruffled her smooth hair in the way of fathers everywhere, with the universal obliviousness to how much their offspring hated it. He took over with the knife and soon had orange halves piling in a growing mound. And as if that weren’t enough, his presence had one other benefit. Nancy fell silent about her forbidden love.
I warmed toward Adam. When I’d seen him yesterday, he’d still been recovering from too much to drink. Today he seemed calm, in control, not the least angry. More determined, that was it. Maybe he’d spoken to his ex-wife Lucy. Something had certainly had a positive effect on him.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sarah Jacobs hurried in. “Emergency. Someone just got a baby instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.” She looked us over and nodded. “You look the most exhausted,” she told me. “Let me take the pancakes for awhile. You go check out front.”
With relief, I left her to it. I grabbed a plate, piled on a pancake, some scrambled eggs, and a couple of slices of bacon, and went to see what disasters awaited me in the hall.
To my surprise, I found Simon Lowell, once again—or still—in his tattered overalls and plaid flannel shirt, standing on a table as he helped Art Graham erect the platform from where the raffle drawing would be centered. As I watched, Simon pulled a ninepenny nail from his pocket and hammered it through one two-by-four into another. Good with a hammer, I noted, and couldn’t help but wonder if he were equally good with a knife or other tools, such as, oh, just for instance, a letter opener. He looked strong…
I was getting carried away. Had it been Adam Fairfield found dead, I might have had reason to suspect Simon. But he had nothing against Brody that I’d heard of. Yet.
The door opened, and Sheriff Sarkisian sauntered in, eyeing our activity with a better-you-than-me expression. Gerda stopped in mid-pin of a supposedly festive orange garland, winning a yelp of protest from Peggy. My aunt lowered her glasses and peered over their top at the sheriff. “Come to harangue your chief suspect on a holiday?” she demanded.
He held up both hands as if to ward off further accusations. “Just stopped in for breakfast, if you’ll sell me a ticket.”
“The raffle…” began Peggy, ever hopeful.
“The breakfast.” Sarkisian cut her off before she could shift into high gear.
“We should have that set up by now,” Gerda fretted. “Ah, Annike, you’re not doing anything. Just lounging around, I suppose. Come here and take care of this hungry man, will you? I’ve always wanted to give a lawman a ticket, but I’ve got my hands full.”
I found the cashier’s box after considerable searching, in its clever hiding place in plain sight on top of the table beside the front door. Then I only had to find the tickets, which turned out to be in Peggy’s car, since she’d only printed them off her computer late last night. By the time I got back, Simon and Art had drafted Sarkisian to help with the construction. It did my heart good to see those two ordering the sheriff around. I would probably have stood there watching if families hadn’t started to arrive.
I left Ida Graham selling tickets and hurried back to the kitchen, where Adam now squeezed the carton of oranges with cheerful abandon. I’d have a job mopping up after him—unless I could con someone else into that chore. The noise level from the Hall grew steadily, accompanied by the occasional pounding of nails. A radio blared out—briefly, then someone mercifully turned it off. At least I heard a fair amount of laughter, and no complaints had yet reached the cooks.
Nancy returned from her breakfast break and sent me out for another inspection. What I wanted was a phone—and a turkey company that might actually answer a call. What I got was Dave Hatter, looking like he’d come to a funeral instead of a community shindig. His wife, a brown little woman from the top of her straight, feather-cut hair to the soles of her square-toed sensible leather shoes, hovered at his side, not mingling, not even answering the greetings called to them by others already eating.
Dave hesitated only a few steps into the room, looking around. His gaze fell on the rickety platform around which the three men stood shaking their heads, and he drew a step back. I’d swear he actually blanched, but at that distance I couldn’t see well enough to be sure. He muttered something to his wife Barbara and all but bolted for the door. She stared after him, mouth open, eyes wide with dismay.
So naturally, I strolled over. “Hi, Barbara. Remember me?”
She refocused to stare at my face.
“Annike McKinley,” I supplied.
“Yes, of course.” Barbara Hatter looked out the door, to where Dave pulled out of the parking lot in their beat-up truck, one of the vehicles I’d seen in the Still’s lot the day before.
“What’s with Dave?”
“He…” Visibly, she pulled herself together. “He only dropped me off on his way to work. He’s guarding the Still over the holiday.”
“Too bad he couldn’t get breakfast, first.” He’d been holding a ticket, as was Barbara, but I didn’t think I ought to mention that at the moment. Dave had panicked and run, not dropped her off. And at a guess, I’d have to say it was because he’d seen Sarkisian. Now, why, I wondered, did the sight of the sheriff send Dave Hatter sprinting from the room like a rabbit pursued?
Dave had looked pleased over Clifford Brody’s death. And now he avoided the sheriff. Maybe Aunt Gerda was going to have some serious competition for the honor of being chief suspect. I couldn’t help but wonder where Dave was while someone was murdering Brody. I only knew he hadn’t been at work, yet.
Adam Fairfield emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a fistful of paper towels. He stretched, looking around the filling room with an expression of benign satisfaction at an orange well squeezed. Abruptly, his affability vanished. I didn’t need to follow the direction of his glower to know he had just spotted Simon Lowell standing on the platform.
“Hey, Lowell!” he shouted over the general din of the crowd. Silence spread through the Hall as everyone turned to stare. “About to make one of your offensive speeches?”
Simon turned around. “Capitalist!” he shouted back, but more as one duty-bound to make such a response than with any real feeling. It hardly paid him to antagonize his girlfriend’s father.
“Coward!” came Adam’s prompt response.
That stopped Simon. “What the hell do you mean by that?” He jumped down from the makeshift platform and stalked toward Adam, swinging the hammer, leaving Art and Sarkisian stuck supporting the beam he’d been about to nail.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Adam called, standing his ground before the approach of the bulky young man. “Anyone told you, yet? Our Simon here’s always sermonizing about the evils of money and the people who have it. And Cliff Brody, who had pots of it, was the only one who ever told him to shut up.”
“Why don’t you try shutting up?” came a shout from the back of the room.
“Knock it off, Fairfield,” called Art Graham.
“We’re trying to have a good time here,” someone else added.
Adam ignored them. “And you nearly had a real brawl with Brody on Monday, didn’t you? I saw it all, the way you argued, and the way you grabbed him. Don’t know what you’d have done next, if you hadn’t seen me watching.”
In three more strides, Simon closed the space between them. He took a swing at Adam—luckily casting aside the hammer, first. Adam, his expression gleeful, slugged Simon in the jaw, sending the younger man staggering backward, barely missing a table from which three children ran with mock shrieks and real laughs. One—a twelve-year-old boy—managed to overturn his plate, dumping a mass of maple syrup-soaked pancakes and sausages onto the floor. More kids laughed, and only the quick action of parents all around the room prevented a bigger mess for the mop-up crew—which I strongly feared would be just me. Apparently, this was entertainment to their liking.
“Enough!” Sarkisian inserted himself between the two men. Simon tried to get in a swing around him, but the sheriff shoved him back. Art stood guard over the dropped beam, both hands supporting the wavering platform.
“Lowell killed Brody?” I heard someone ask behind me.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” answered a man’s voice. “Never know with these political fanatics.”
“It must have been a fanatic of some kind,” agreed a fourth voice.
“And Lowell’s the only fanatic we’ve got around here,” mused another.
I stared behind me. Others were nodding as well.
“I’d be glad if it were that simple,” murmured Ida Graham in my ear. “It’d be a real relief to have this settled. I hate having a murder in our neighborhood—in your aunt’s house, especially.”
“She wasn’t thrilled about it, either,” I said.
Ida patted me on the arm. “This will probably be the solution, kiddo, then we can all get back to normal.”
Suddenly, Simon gave a barking, mirthless laugh. “This is ridiculous.” He waved a hand at Adam. “He’s not worth the effort.” He returned to the platform, picked up the dropped end of the beam, then stared pointedly at Art Graham until the grocer hoisted the other end into position. Sarkisian remained where he stood for several long seconds, glaring at Adam Fairfield, then returned to the platform as well.
“You don’t object to your husband working with someone you think is a murderer?” I asked Ida.
The woman shook her head. “I only said it would be a good solution. And for that matter,” she added as she turned away, “Brody could have provoked a saint.”
I headed back to check on the cooks and found Nancy standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her bacon fork like a weapon. Tears hovered on her eyelashes, and as I approached, she turned away, back to the frying pans. The next batch of sausages came out burned, and I don’t think she even noticed.
Adam returned to the oranges, and Nancy swiveled on her stool so that her back faced him. A number of people seemed to think Adam’s reasoning about Simon might be correct. And now it seemed that Nancy, who ought to know Simon better than anyone else did, believed it was possible, too. I tried hard to put aside the stereotypes of hot-headed communist students. Simon Lowell wasn’t a student. For that matter, being a real estate agent hardly seemed like a job for someone with his political and social ideology.
I returned to the front and spotted Peggy and Gerda standing in a corner, stuffing raffle tickets into a huge glass bowl. Tony Carerras, lithe, dark and tattooed, stood ready to help. They all looked up as I approached, and Tony stepped back, out of the way but hovering near at hand like a faithful dog. A Doberman or Rottweiler, perhaps. One that kept up a growl just under its breath. And displayed all its teeth.
“It’s going very well, dear,” said Gerda, though without a trace of pleasure in her voice.
Peggy folded another ticket and rammed it in with the others. “I don’t see why anyone has to investigate Brody’s death. Everyone is better off without the nosy old snoop.”
Tony nodded, but said nothing. His gaze challenged me to contradict Peggy, or even say something nasty to her. Like “hello”.
“Hush!” Gerda looked around, and her expression changed from worry to consternation. I didn’t have to look behind me to guess who had crept up.
“Any trouble between you and Clifford Brody, Ms. O’Shaughnessy?” asked Sheriff Sarkisian.
Tony’s hackles rose, but he kept his mouth shut. At least he transferred that unsettling glare of his from me to the sheriff, who seemed not to notice.
Peggy peered over her glasses at Sarkisian. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mrs. O’Shaughnessy would never hurt anyone!” Tony took a protective step closer to Peggy.
Sarkisian studied the young man for a moment, then turned back to Peggy. “Brody oversaw your work at Brandywine Distillery, didn’t he?” A lesser detective would have inserted a wealth of meaning into the question, but the man actually made it sound like no more than casual conversation.
Peggy bristled nevertheless. “I didn’t like him, but I don’t know anyone who actually did, except that sister of his.” Tony nodded agreement.
“So what did you do about him?” Sarkisian managed to sound fascinated.
“Subtle things.” She cast him a suspicious glance, then shrugged. “I made things hard for him to read. Or I’d take a few shortcuts in notations. All perfectly legal, and much easier for me, but it made it harder for him to double-check every entry.” She pressed her lips together, squeezing out a smile at what was probably a fond and malicious memory. “Petty, I know, but vastly satisfying.”
“You don’t murder someone just because they irritate you,” I pointed out. “Sounds like Peggy had a much better plan in irritating him right back.”
Sarkisian’s gaze transferred to me. “You’re thinking he might have wanted to murder her, instead?”
I met his gaze, and with surprise recognized his amused appreciation. I supposed a sense of humor was mandatory for anyone in law enforcement who wanted to keep their sanity. Tom had certainly had one. He’d married me, after all. “Irritation isn’t a motive for murder,” I said, just to make sure he’d gotten the point.
He studied me for a long moment, then turned with exaggerated surprise toward Gerda and Peggy. “Did either of you two hear me invite Ms. McKinley here to join in the investigation?”