“She might appreciate the gesture,” I suggested. “It’s a rather impressive one.”
“God, I hope not!” Tears started in her eyes. “They just weren’t meant to be together. Not like-” She broke off.
“Not like you and…” I racked my memory. What was the name of that guy Gerda had told me Nancy was seeing? Someone her father hated- Lowell, that was it. “You and Simon Lowell?” I finished.
Nancy blinked rapidly, then dabbed with a handkerchief at the moisture that slipped down her cheeks. “And Dad just can’t see it!” she cried with the voice of youth throughout the ages. “Just because Simon’s a little unconventional.”
Unconventional was putting it mildly, according to Gerda. Everything from his appearance to his politics seemed to upset most of the town. But I didn’t voice that comment. I’d never actually met Simon Lowell, after all. “Probably because he isn’t a third-generation Upper River Gulcher,” I said with an attempt at diplomacy.
Nancy sniffed. “He inherited his place, you know. From a great uncle. Only three years ago,” she added, grudgingly.
“That puts him in the category of summer visitor,” I said.
She didn’t smile. Just goes to show how deep in her misery she was. Normally jokes about newcomers-those who’d lived here for less than twenty years-were met with more jokes.
“I don’t see why he can’t try to get to know Simon,” she declared. “He-”
Steps sounded on the stairs, accompanied by bumps and mutters. Nancy fell silent. Another thud followed, then a minute later Adam Fairfield strode into the room. He looked as if he’d thrown on an old sweater and jeans at random onto his tall, wiry frame. He certainly hadn’t combed his sandy hair. His eyes, normally a mundane shade of brown, were so bloodshot I didn’t see how he could be standing, let alone moving coffeepots. He clutched his head and groaned.
“Hangover?” I asked, more matter-of-fact than sympathetic. It never seemed to me that the pain a person was trying to forget could possibly be worse than the one he inflicted on himself. Adam wasn’t an alcoholic. He drank by choice, not compulsion. And he seemed living-if you could call it that-proof that he’d made a very bad choice.
He nodded, then winced and sank onto an old floral pattern couch. “Your pot’s in the kitchen. You’re welcome to keep it.”
“Meaning you don’t want to haul it back to the attic?”
He grinned, then winced again. “Yeah. Hey, that’s tough about your finding Brody. Rotten thing to happen to you.”
“To him, too,” I pointed out. “How’d you hear?”
“Dave Hatter.”
“Dave…?”
“Night watchman at the Still. Thought you knew him.”
“I do. But how’d he hear? And why’d he call you?”
“Woke me up.” Adam leaned back with a groan, massaging his temples. Could his drinking be self-punishment, maybe, for driving away his wife? “Wanted to share what he thought was good news.”
“Dad’s swing-shift manager, now,” Nancy stuck in with a touch of pride. “Dave reports just about everything to him, even when Dad’s got a night off, like last night. Then Tony called, too.”
That would be Tony Carerras, one-time-or I gathered frequent-time-resident of juvenile hall, now Peggy’s prize protégé. She’d picked him up at the homeless shelter where she donated hours of work, and got Gerda to help her convince the Still’s owner, Hugh Cartwright, to hire the guy as a janitor and general grunt laborer down in shipping and receiving to give him another chance. And one chance he never missed was to pass on any tidbits of gossip, the more gruesome the better.
It wouldn’t be quite accurate to call the Still-that’s Brandywine Distillery-a grapevine. They don’t crush grapes there so much as apricots, cherries, and other varieties of fruit-and a lot of rumors and hearsay. And come to think of it, they don’t really crush them. They ferment them, add flavor, and distribute them.
“Neither one of them knew very much,” Adam opined, “only what Peggy told Tony, which was that you’d been the lucky one to find him. So, give with the gory details. Who done him in?”
“No idea. But I think the new sheriff is eyeing Aunt Gerda.”
“Gerda?” Adam sat up too fast, groaned, and sank his head back against the couch. “I’d laugh, but it’d hurt too much.”
“Peggy’s running a close second.”
That brought a deep chuckle and another groan from him. “God, if old Tom were here-” He broke off. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Oh, I agree,” I said as brightly as I could.
The sound of an engine approaching saved us from embarrassment. A moment later it cut off, and a car door slammed. Correction, a Jeep door. I could just make out the uniformed figure of our new sheriff as he headed toward the brick walkway.
Adam peered out the window. “I’m not home,” he told Nancy.
The girl closed her eyes, then gripped the arms of her chair to leverage herself up.
“I’ll get it.” I pushed her gently back against the cushions, hurried into the hall, reached the door as the first knock landed, and swung it wide.
Sheriff Sarkisian blinked at me, then frowned. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Good morning to you, too.” I bowed him in with a sweeping gesture. “Is that the way you normally say hello?”
He studied me for a long moment, but his gaze gave nothing away of his thoughts. “Just dropped in for a visit, did you?”
“Needed a giant coffee maker. They’ve got the only one in town.”
Sarkisian nodded. “Don’t let me detain you.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” I led the way back to the living room, and his glare burned into the back of my head as he followed.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Adam said, accompanied by Nancy’s murmur of greeting. Apparently he’d decided against a hasty retreat. “Do you want a coffeepot, too?”
“Information.” The sheriff took the seat I had vacated and turned his back on me.
Adam’s brow creased. He grimaced and smoothed his fingers across his forehead. “Don’t have any. Sorry.”
The sheriff glared pointedly at me. I smiled and perched on the arm of Nancy’s chair. He seemed to consider the possibility of telling me to get lost, apparently gave up on it, and turned back to Adam. “I take it you already know what’s happened. Can you remember seeing anything last night that might help the investigation?”
“I didn’t go in to the Still, it was my day off.” Adam shook his head-carefully. “I did some work around the place, but that started me thinking about Lucy-my wife.”
“That’s the only time he ever drinks,” Nancy put in.
“Yeah, and I did, too. Went out at one point to buy some bourbon. Think I went out a second time, too. Then later-God knows when-I set off to visit Lucy. Got all the way down to the road before I realized I was too drunk to drive. I remember trying to back up, to get the truck out of the way so people could get by. Meant to leave it just inside the gate and walk home, but I couldn’t get the damn thing in reverse. So I took a nap, then tried again. Apparently I made it.”
“Nope,” Owen Sarkisian said. “John Goulding drove you home.”
“God.” Adam rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll have to thank him.”
“Can you remember hearing or seeing anything while you were down near the street? Any cars go by?”
Adam concentrated hard. “Something loud. Woke me up.” His gaze focused on me. “That damned Mustang of yours! I heard it again just now, when you came. What’ve you got on it, glass packs?”
“There’s just a bit of a hole in the exhaust system.”
“Again,” Adam put in.
“How about before that?” Sarkisian tried, dragging us back to the investigation.
Adam considered. “I think there was another engine,” he said at last. “Different one. Badly in need of a tune-up.”
Nancy stiffened beside me, but didn’t say anything.
“Thought it was a dream,” he added. “Only one like that around here is that old hippie van of Lowell’s, and there’d be no reason for him to come up this way.”