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.