“Not a mark.” He backed onto the wet street. The wipers slapped back and forth, streaking more than they cleared.
That didn’t rule her out, though. “Did you happen to go into the kitchen?”
Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah. The door to the garage was through there. Why?”
“Any pies lying around on the counters? Any sign she’d been preparing bread dough? I didn’t smell anything like that, and you know how those aromas can fill an entire house.”
“Yeah.” For a moment, he actually looked wistful. “No. A TV dinner tray in the trash, dirty fork and cup in the sink, but no bowls or pans.”
I regarded his Roman-nosed profile for a moment, then stared ahead through the rain. “For someone who spent the evening getting an early start on Thanksgiving,” I said with a determinedly neutral voice, “she doesn’t seem to have gotten the usual chores done.”
“No cooking, no curiosity about the details of the murder, a warm engine, and mud on her shoes,” the sheriff mused. “Well, looks like my life isn’t going to be boring for a bit.”
* * *
I didn’t get to sleep until well after two in the morning. By that time, Sheriff Sarkisian and his fellow ghouls had been long gone. Aunt Gerda, though, had refused to go to bed. She’d sat before the blazing fire in the living room, three of the cats ensconced in her lap and two curled on her feet, drinking cup after cup of tea and systematically working her way through both the lemon shortbreads and the raspberry chocolate chips. I held the other two cats, and derived considerable comfort from them. I needed it. A yellow tape remained across the study door, a grim reminder we hadn’t seen the last of this mess.
It seemed like I had barely managed to ship my aunt off to her room and crawl into my own bed, when the sound of excited voices roused me. I groaned, considered the matter, and decided that just this once, morning could arrive without my help. I snuggled further beneath the flannel-covered down comforter, trying to cover my ears, but the commotion still reached me. Having the bedroom nearest the living room had always been a pain.
A loud cheep sounded from the covered bird cage, followed by an insistent cry of, “I’m a pest! I’m a pest!”
I rolled over, giving up. “You don’t have to prove it.”
The parakeet answered with a string of noisy chatter, in which I only caught an occasional disjointed word.
A light knock sounded on my door, and it opened a few inches. “Time to wake up,” came Aunt Gerda’s annoyingly bright voice. Too bright. It sounded forced. “The whole Service Club board is here, just waiting for you.”
“Oh, great. A convergence of SCOURGEs. What did I ever do to deserve this?”
That brought a momentary ease to the strain on Gerda’s face. She looked down her powdered nose at me. “Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs,” she corrected once again.
With a sigh, I rolled out from under the warm cocoon and groped in my duffel bag for the bathrobe I’d forgotten to pack.
The clock read twenty minutes before nine, but it felt more like five in the morning. I never was very good at staying up late. I fought back a yawn and dragged on my jeans and a sweatshirt. Vilhelm broke off his cheeping long enough to launch a violent attack on the empty cola can that was his favorite toy. I pulled off his cover, told him to be good, and headed out the door. As I closed it behind me, I heard him heave the can across the cage, then chase after it, scolding all the way.
“Fresh bread for breakfast,” Aunt Gerda called with determined cheeriness as I wandered into the living room.
“Provided anyone’s left you any,” chimed in Peggy. The little woman perched on the edge of the sofa, her narrow head haloed in orange-red curls.
Beside her sat Ida Graham, who invariably put me in mind of a rather frowzy—but lovable—Shetland pony. This morning the plump little woman had tied back her thick gray hair in a ponytail, leaving only a blunt-cut forelock free. The button-front apron she usually wore to work at the mom-and-pop store she ran with her husband covered her roomy jeans and bedraggled sweatshirt. Art Graham, her husband, stood from where he’d been seated on her other side, and I leaned across to shake his proffered hand.
Ida waved the last chunk of yeasty-smelling oat bread at me. “Some welcome home for you, huh, kiddo? Peggy’s been saying you had the sheriff’s whole crew here all night.”
“We kicked them out when we got sleepy,” Gerda assured her with a complete disregard for the truth.
“Yeah, right.” Sue Hinkel leaned back in an arm chair, managing to look like an ad for her beauty shop even with her mouth full of cinnamon roll. Several more stood on a plate on the cedar chest that served as a coffee table. She had pulled back her long red hair—natural, unlike Peggy’s—into a twist, fastening it on top of her head. On her, it looked terrific. But then on Sue, everything looked terrific. Even freckles. For that matter, even cinnamon rolls.
I smiled at the doctor, Sarah Jacobs, who sat curled into an overstuffed chair. “The whole SCOURGE elite squad. Gad, what an honor.”
“Revel in it while you can,” Sue advised with a grin. “We’re about to put you to work.”
“Speaking of which,” Art Graham interrupted, “we’ve got to get back to the store. We left my nephew watching things.”
“He can’t do any serious harm in an hour,” Ida assured her husband, though she didn’t sound all that convinced herself.
“This won’t take very long,” Dr. Jacobs put in. “Everyone’s already gawked at the yellow tape and gossiped all they can about the murder—”
“Yeah,” stuck in Sue, “because you won’t tell us anything juicy.”
“I don’t know anything,” Sarah Jacobs protested. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. As I was saying, all we have to do is initiate Annike into her new job, and that won’t take all of us.”
Sue Hinkel gave an evil chuckle. “Oh, but we wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Watch it, or I’ll get my permanents elsewhere,” I shot at her.
Sue grinned, shaking her terrific red hair which miraculously didn’t come loose. “I’ve got a monopoly here in town. Even Perfect Cindy won’t let some butcher from Meritville touch her. And don’t try to pretend you’ll go to San Francisco. Gerda’s already told us you’ve come home to stay.”
“She has, has she?” I directed a darkling glance at my aunt, who had just emerged from the kitchen. “Then since I’m here, maybe she’ll feed me a real breakfast.”
“Later, dear. Here’s some tea.” Gerda handed over a steaming mug. “Chamomile, with a touch of St. John’s wort and wood betony to make you less grouchy.”
“Make it up by the pot,” I advised, and sank onto the only vacant seat, the bench from my aunt’s loom. “Okay, what’s the consensus of the convergence?”
“That you’ll do a wonderful job.” Peggy O’Shaughnessy leaned forward with a rustle of papers as she brandished the notebook containing her lists. “We’re going to have more fun than ever this year.”
“Who is?” I murmured.
Sue Hinkel selected another roll. “We are. You are another story.”
“Make it one with a happy ending.” I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, let’s hear the worst. What have you got planned?”
“You’ll enjoy every minute of it,” Peggy assured me.
“You have to. That’s on her list,” Sue stuck in.
Peggy shot her a repressive look, then turned back to me. “And it’ll give you a chance to tell a whole lot of people you’re taking over from Brody.”
I peered at the corner of the page I could see. “Is that on your list, too?”
Orange and white tail held high, Furface strolled into the living room. Before I could get my feet to safety, he latched his teeth onto my ankle, purring as he did so. I detached him with care. He’d never yet drawn blood, but there was always a first time. Still purring, he settled his considerable haunches on the loom’s treadles, and six of the eight harnesses shot upward by varying degrees. They lowered a little as the cat curled into his impression of an overweight furry brick. He regarded the crowd with unblinking eyes.
“First,” pronounced Peggy, ignoring both Furface’s and my interruptions, “is the pancake breakfast on Thursday morning. That’s culminating in a turkey raffle, as you already know.” She lowered her wire-rimmed glasses down her narrow nose and peered at me. “You haven’t bought any ticket books for yourself, yet, have you? Don’t worry, I’ve got a few more in my bag.”
“Later,” I said quickly. “Breakfast and raffle, Thursday morning. What’s next?”
Peggy consulted her notes. “That would be Friday at one, and the First Annual Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest.”
“A pie eating contest.” I looked around the circle of SCOURGEs in disbelief. “The day after Thanksgiving when everyone’s been stuffing themselves? For heaven’s sake, why?”
“You weren’t here for the Third Annual Harvest Festival Pumpkin Growing Contest,” Gerda told her. She dragged a kitchen chair into the room and stationed it near a basket of freshly dyed turquoise wool. “It was an overwhelming success. In fact, it’s the sole reason for the pie eating contest. We didn’t know what else to do with all the pumpkin, and it seemed such a waste to throw it out.”
“Why didn’t you donate it to the homeless shelter, or the church?”
“We did.” Peggy beamed at me. “And they were very happy, but neither of them had much freezer space. So they cooked up what they could use and gave the rest back.”
“A lot of rest back,” stuck in Ida Graham. “We’d intended to can it, but no one’s had any time.”
“Pumpkin pies,” I muttered. “I suppose it’s too much to hope they’ve already been baked?”
“Much too much.” Gerda picked up several locks of the uncombed wool and began to tease them with rapid—or nervous—movements of her fingers. Amazingly, only the black tom Clumsy helped, batting at the brightly colored fluffs she set aside ready for carding. “Cooked, turned into pie filling and frozen, but that’s it.”
“Great.” I caught the corner of Peggy’s list. “Only one event for Friday? Good. What about Saturday?”
Art Graham stretched out a long arm and took one of the few remaining rolls. “That’s the same as always. The Clean-Up-the-Park project. Fourth Annual this time around, isn’t it, Ida?” he asked his wife.
Ida nodded. “Not that it really needs it since we put in the trash cans and conned the Boy Scouts into mowing and pruning. Thank heavens for community service requirements for ranks.”
“Can’t we just skip it, then?” I looked from one to the other of them, and my budding hope faded.
“Tradition,” Art Graham said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to give up any of our little traditions.”
“It’s only been done three times before!”
“Think of it as pre-holiday decorating,” suggested Sue Hinkel. “We’ll be stringing the lights and hanging the banners, even if we don’t turn on the electricity or unfurl anything for another week. This way, the park’s ready for the dinner, and the heavy Christmas and Hanukah and Kwanzaa work gets done, too, and we only have to gather the workers once.”
Gerda peered over the top of her glasses at me. “Never turn down anyone who volunteers to work, dear.”
I snagged the last cinnamon roll from under Sue’s nose. Store-bought, of the cellophane and plastic container variety. Not even heating in the microwave had induced them to give off any heavenly aromas. With a sigh, I bit into it. “What are you bribing them with?”
Ida Graham gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Got it in one, kiddo. Hugh Cartwright promised to come through with a trial batch of one of his new liqueurs. That, and the pie leftovers.”
“Which brings us to Sunday afternoon’s Thirty-Sixth Annual Community Dinner-in-the-Park,” Peggy announced. “See? We told you it wouldn’t be all that hard. And I’ve made lists of everything you need to do.” She proffered her notebook.
I accepted it and leafed through the first few pages. My sense of uneasiness grew. “Nothing’s checked off.”
“Gee,” Sue murmured.
I looked from one to the other of the SCOURGEs. Not one of them met my gaze. “Nothing’s checked off!” I repeated.
“We told you,” Peggy said with exaggerated patience. “Cindy was supposed to assign jobs to people. She didn’t.”
I flipped back to the first page. “The breakfast is set for tomorrow morning.”
“Check out the first item.” Sarah Jacobs leaned across and tapped the sheet. “The one about reserving the Grange Hall? Guess who never got around to it.”
“Great. But they’ll know we’re counting on it. Won’t they?”
Peggy sprang to her feet, disturbing the calico Birgit who’d been snoozing on the cushion behind her. “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all, dear. Just a couple hours on the phone, and everything will be settled. Now, we’ll run along and let you get to work. Gerda, you should dye another batch of wool that color. It’ll make the most heavenly sweater. Gotta dash, I’m going to be late to the Still. You wouldn’t believe the number of invoices and purchase orders I have to process every day.”
The SCOURGEs evaporated from the room, leaving me clutching the notebook with its myriad detailed notes. At least I wouldn’t have to figure out what needed to be done. I only had to do it. Great.
I took time out for a hasty bowl of low-fat granola—homemade, of course, from Aunt Gerda’s own recipe. It was the only cereal she stocked in her pantry cabinet. Then I headed for the kitchen phone to begin the round of placating and begging calls. At that moment, my old hated accounting firm began to take on the golden glow of fond remembrance.