“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.
I got lucky with the first item on the list. The homeless shelter’s source for bulk foods promised me not only all the pancake mix I needed, but sausages, sliced bacon, and dozens of cartons of eggs. They could even supply a crate or two of oranges. When they told me they’d deliver, as well, I nearly swooned with delight. We struck a deal, I gave them directions to the Grange, and promised to meet them there in the early afternoon. Now, if only the rest of my arrangements would go as smoothly, I might survive this SCOURGE scourge, after all.
They didn’t. I spent the next ten minutes going down the list item by item, noting names and numbers of likely prospects, without getting a single phone response from any of them. Then I reached “coffee maker.” Peggy had warned me the night before the Grange’s machine had broken. “Anyone have a coffee machine big enough for the breakfast?” I called to where Gerda still sat in the living room. “Or am I going to have to have everyone bring their own?”
“Let’s see.” Aunt Gerda’s voice trailed off, and a long minute of silence stretched. Then, “Try the Fairfields. Lucy inherited the one from the defunct women’s club. I doubt she hauled it away with her when she left Adam. Maybe Nancy can find it.”
Adam Fairfield, whom Sheriff Sarkisian had found parked part way into the street last night, too drunk to drive. And whom the sheriff had stated his intention of visiting first thing this morning.
If our visits coincided, I just might find out if Adam remembered seeing someone pass his house headed toward Aunt Gerda’s at about the time of the murder. Or if he didn’t, perhaps his daughter Nancy had. I came to a decision. Someone had ruthlessly dumped poor Gerda in the middle of this mess, making her a prime suspect. I took that as a personal affront. I had no intention of letting the wheels of justice inch forward in low gear. I intended to make sure this new sheriff did his job, and did it efficiently. And first on that list would be to see if the Fairfields could offer us anything other than coffeepots.
With renewed vigor, I picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Five
The driveway leading to the Fairfields’ place opened off the main road about a quarter mile below Peggy O’Shaughnessy’s house. As I drew closer, I could see that Adam had made some improvements since I’d been home last. Actually, quite a few. I was really impressed. It’s not easy to make a country property look like anything but a haven for weeds.
He had transformed the entry into a magnificent array of flowering shrubs and boulders, with a covering of shredded bark and a brick border. A brilliantly white post and rail fence stretched to either side. Vinyl, not wood, I realized. No more whitewash, termites or rot. The old broken gate that had hung on rusted hinges was history, as well. In its place gleamed black wrought iron, complete with spikes tipped in gold. It stood open, the two halves drawn back so they lined the asphalt that had not been there the last time I stopped by. I took a closer look as I started up the drive. An electric gate. The brick posts from which it hung also supported a control box, complete with an intercom.
More of the flowering shrubs and shredded bark lined the full length of the drive. It wasn’t a short one, either, leading a good hundred yards up a hill. Someone-and I wagered it was Adam Fairfield himself-had put in a tremendous amount of back-breaking labor. And a tremendous amount of money, as well. And all in an attempt to get his wife back, I supposed. If he’d done all this when she’d begged for it… But that was exactly like Adam, applying bandages after the patient had bled to death.
Adam’s white Chevy pickup truck stood in front of the garage, probably where John Goulding left it last night. My gaze moved on to the house, and I slowed to a stop, impressed. It had received a new coat of paint, bright yellow with white trim. Raised brick planting beds surrounded the foundations, as yet unplanted. New shrubs lined a recently added brick walkway, though as yet no flowers filled the empty areas. That would probably wait until spring-or until Lucy returned to tend that herself. I hoped she would. So much effort deserved some reward. And I hated to see couples who’d been together for so long break up. You had to give Adam credit for trying. I hoped Lucy would.
I climbed out and walked toward the door, which opened as I neared it. Nancy Fairfield looked out, her dark, curling hair-natural, no need for a perm, here-framing her pale face and delicate features. A bulky fisherman knit sweater topped a long corduroy skirt that hugged her slender hips, and she wore sheepskin-lined boots that added an inch to her five foot four. With her eyes rimmed with red, as if she’d been crying, she looked frail and fragile.
“You should be lying down!” I blurted out. Not the most encouraging greeting, perhaps, but she really looked drained. She had started her senior year at Stanford, only to develop pneumonia two weeks into classes. She’d spent almost three weeks in the hospital before being sent home to recuperate. From the looks of her, she might not be able to resume her studies in January, as Gerda had said she’d planned.
“Just got up from the sofa.” She managed a wan smile. “I’m doing better.” She stepped back and waved for me to enter the hall.
The renovations hadn’t reached the interior yet, which remained comfortably cluttered and shabby. I looked around, trying to remember the last time I’d visited here. More than a year ago, long before Lucy had packed up and moved out. It still felt like her, warm and friendly.
A loud thud sounded from somewhere above us, and we both glanced up. “He’s getting the pot out of the attic,” Nancy explained needlessly.
“Your dad’s been doing a lot of work.” I sat in the large, padded chair she indicated. To my relief, she sat down in another.
“Everything Mom always wanted,” she agreed. Her lower lip trembled. “A bit late, though.”