“And hightailing it for the door,” I agreed. “And who could blame them?”
“The raffle?” he suggested.
I grinned. “Right. Then at least I can get rid of that ridiculous bird. Peggy!” The little woman looked up from a plate stacked high with pancakes and scorched bacon. “Time for the drawing!”
I’m not sure everyone in the building realized the full implications of that comment. They might still be under the impression we were going to produce the promised smoked breast from somewhere. Boy, was someone going to be in for a surprise when I handed them the leash.
While Peggy hurried to the repaired platform, I strolled to the door and propped a shoulder against the jamb. Art Graham handed Peggy onto the rickety stand, and Tony hovered nearby, probably to catch her if she fell. It swayed under her meager weight, but nothing worse. Simon Lowell stood by, looking ready to handle damage control if it collapsed again.
“Sheriff!” Peggy waved to him. “Come up here, please.”
He wisely declined to clamber up to her side. Undaunted, she held out the giant glass bowl to him, just over his head, and he fished around inside, finally drawing out a folded ticket. He read the number in a loud voice. I looked around, wondering whom to pity, but even though everyone seemed to be checking their tickets, no one spoke up. I began to wonder if maybe someone just didn’t want to collect their prize. I couldn’t blame them. I’d keep quiet, too.
With a sinking heart, it dawned on me I might have to take that damned bird home with me until I could trace the winner if they weren’t present-or couldn’t be brought to own up to it. “Is there a name and number on it?” I called, clinging to that slim chance.
He turned it over. “No.”
“Read that again, will you?” Adam stood in the kitchen doorway, his ticket in his hand. “Couldn’t hear you over all that sausage and bacon sizzling.”
Hope warmed me. I’d love to hand the turkey over to one of the SCOURGE elite.
Peggy took the number from Sarkisian and read it again, as loudly as she could. An all too familiar squeal erupted from the kitchen. Aunt Gerda emerged, waving the winning ticket. I just leaned there, lacking the willpower to move. Sarkisian, grinning hugely, strode past me.
I caught his arm. “You did that on purpose!”
“Hey, it was a fair drawing. You watched.”
“I don’t know how you did it, but you arranged it!”
Laughing, still protesting his innocence, he escaped into the parking lot. He returned only moments later with the giant white bird tucked under his arm. To the general applause-relieved that it wasn’t them, I’m certain-he presented it to its new owner.
Aunt Gerda stared at the big white bird. The big white bird stared at Gerda. After a long moment, Gerda turned to me. “How do you cook a vegetarian Thanksgiving meal?”
Chapter Ten
You could only describe my mood as foul-or rather, fowl. After exchanging a few choice words with my Aunt Gerda, I stalked off to line the backseat of my beloved vintage Mustang convertible with numerous sheets of newspaper. After arranging a bowl of water on the floor and a plate of pancake scraps on the seat, I stalked back to the Hall to collect the unstrung turkey. To my disgust, it hopped right in, then settled down with all the air of a broody hen going to roost. It left me with a deep sense of foreboding.
I stalked-which was becoming my normal walk-back indoors to dish up the last of the bacon and pancakes to the lingering customers, and wished wholeheartedly that Adam Fairfield would run out of orange juice so we could all go home. And at last, he did pour the last glass, and I forked out the last bits of bacon and trudged with the greasy plate to the sink where Ida Graham and her husband Art had begun to soak the pans.
“Hey, Annike!” Sue Hinkel bounced in to collect a fresh trash bag for one of the big cans in the Hall. “How’re the preparations coming?”
I stared at her, trying to switch gears. “You mean for tomorrow?” I hadn’t finished coping with today, yet.
“Yeah, you remember? The Pumpkin Pie Eating Contest?”
Here I was, up to my elbows in bacon grease, with a gobbling turkey roosting in the back of my car, and Sheriff Owen Sarkisian chuckling every time he looked at me. I took a deep breath.
Sue held up her hands in a defensive gesture. “Hey, just trying to make conversation.”
“Why don’t you try helping?” I demanded, quite unfairly. “You can personally bake two dozen pies, even if it means having to cook them under your salon’s two hair dryers.”
Sue considered. “Might take awhile.”
“Then you better get started.”
“Take it easy, kiddo.” Ida patted my arm.
“I’ve been passing out tubs of pie filling as ordered,” added Sarah Jacobs.
“Not enough of them,” I sighed.
The doctor shrugged. “A lot of people got away before I could catch them.”
“And who can blame them?” I muttered.
“Soon as Art and I finish the pans, we’ll head home and phone all the bakers to see who got filling and who didn’t, then let you know. And we’ll call them again later, just to prod them along. And we’ll keep you posted on the tally.”
I kissed her cheek. “Bless you,” I said, and meant it. “Would you like a turkey? It’s the least I can do,” I added hopefully.
Ida laughed. “Good try, kiddo but Gerda would have a fit.”
I nodded, recognizing the futility of the effort. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try again, though. “Well, thanks for the calls, anyway. The list is at Aunt Gerda’s.” I looked around, knowing I couldn’t leave until the Grange Hall was as spotless as it had been before we arrived. It said so on the papers I’d signed. “I don’t think I can get away yet.”
Peggy looked up from where she was retrieving her purse. “I’ve got to run home,” she said. “My son’s coming over. But I can swing by Gerda’s and pick it up for you. It’ll take less than ten minutes, round trip. No, I’ve got a key, don’t worry. I-” She broke off, her hand flying to her mouth in dismay. She threw a horrified look at the sheriff, who leaned against the table, and ran out.
Sarkisian cocked an eyebrow at me. “She has a key to your aunt’s house?”
“Of course she does,” announced Gerda. She entered the kitchen bearing empty pitchers and dripping the remains of the orange juice on the floor. “Peggy feeds my cats whenever I have to go away.”
“I hope Peggy likes feeding turkeys, too,” I muttered. I could guess what was going on inside Sarkisian’s head. Peggy didn’t like Brody, she could have let herself into Gerda’s house-and locked it up again when she left, the way I found it. Whoever murdered Brody, I realized, had to have a key. Aunt Gerda’s doors won’t lock without one. Where, I wondered, was Peggy while Brody was being murdered?
“Hi?” A woman’s voice penetrated the chaos of the cleanup. “Am I too late for a breakfast?” Cindy Brody, looking gorgeous in a narrow wool skirt, silk blouse, boots and sweater, all in tones of rust and cream and gold, appeared in the doorway behind Gerda. She clutched a handkerchief in one hand. A heavy floral scent hung in a cloud around her.
“Here.” Nancy picked up a plate and forked on one of the few remaining pancakes. “Bacon? Sausage?”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “And another pancake.”
Where, I wondered, did she put it? Not on her hips or thighs, that was certain. Liposuction? Or one of those incredible metabolisms that devoured food molecules before they even entered the digestive system?
Cindy took the proffered plate. “Who gets the money?”
I took it, then snagged a cup of coffee and trailed after her to the table where she sat. I took the chair opposite. “It’s good to see you getting out,” I said, and won a smile from her.
Sarkisian followed and perched on the edge of the table. “Where are your out-of-town guests?” His tone held nothing more threatening than casual curiosity.