I looked around and found the place unexpectedly neat. A pile of split logs and branches lay in a cast-iron hoop beside a massive stone hearth. Inside of this stood a wood burning stove, a modern necessity in such a fire trap as this. The blaze within had reduced to a low burn. I checked the flue, opened the door and banked the fire for the night. After readjusting the air flow, I stood back and looked around. Everything looked safe enough. I let myself out and walked back to where Owen Sarkisian tried to boost the unconscious Adam into the passenger seat of his Chevy.
The sheriff looked up as I approached. “Want to pull from the other side?”
I went around, and between us we managed to get the limp body into a semi-upright position on the seat. I handed Sarkisian one side of the seat belt. He took it solemnly and fastened the man in place. Adam spoiled it by tilting to one side and slowly collapsing.
Sarkisian sighed. “I’m going to drive him home. Would you mind following, then giving me a lift back here to the Jeep?” He stepped back and frowned at the man. “His daughter tells me he’s been constantly ready for a fight-and a drink-ever since his wife left him. But only since then?” He raised his eyebrows at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember him being like this before, if that’s what you’re asking. But…”
“Yes?” he prodded when I stopped.
I shook my head. “Brody hadn’t been hit, had he? Only stabbed?”
“Only?” The sheriff actually grinned.
“You know what I mean. No head bashing. No bruising. Just a quick stab. If Adam had been drinking and out for a fight and encountered Brody…” I shrugged. “When he’s drunk, Adam seems to think with his fists. If he wanted a weapon, he’d grab something heavy, not something sharp.”
Sarkisian nodded. “So he’d need a reason for killing Brody that didn’t involve him getting mad. Well.”
“And since Lucy left, it seems that anything and everything makes him mad.”
He slammed the door shut. “Let’s get him home so you can go back to baking pies.”
“Gee thanks,” I muttered, and slid through the mud back to my car and that damned sleeping turkey.
Chapter Twelve
I followed the truck up the Fairfields’ drive a scant six minutes later and pulled to a halt a few feet away from it. The rain had started up again, and I’d forgotten to close the latches on what I was beginning to think of as my flip-top. I jumped out, rammed them into place, then ran to the door to knock. Nancy must have heard the engines because she was already there, peering out and looking frightened.
“Has something happened?” she demanded as I drew near.
“He’s just drunk,” I assured her.
She tensed, and the worry and strain etched their lines on her face. “Where was he?”
“Simon’s,” I admitted. “He’s drunk, too. I made sure he was all right before we left.”
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “And Dad-neither one got hurt?”
“Oh, they’ll probably both have a few bruises in the morning, but nothing to worry about.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t see how I can ever get Dad to accept Simon when they keep fighting like this.”
“A grandchild?” I suggested, then could have bitten my tongue when I saw the arrested look in her eyes. It had been a flippant comment, not meant to be taken seriously. If she had, if I’d given her the idea… “That wouldn’t work,” I declared with considerable force. “He’d probably murder Simon-” I broke off. Damn, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? I kept saying the wrong thing.
I hurried over to the truck in time to help Sarkisian boost Adam to the ground. The man was groaning, but not yet awake. We sandwiched him between us, draping one of his arms over each of our shoulders, and half walked, half carried him to the house. Nancy opened the door wide and stepped aside, her expression a mingling of resignation and dismay. After a brief discussion, we dumped him on the sofa and left Nancy covering him with blankets.
“That’s a hell of an example to set for a kid like her,” the sheriff said as we headed for my car. He opened the passenger door, then pulled back. “What the…”
A rustling of feathers sounded from the backseat, but I don’t think the turkey actually woke up. “It won’t get out,” I explained as I scrambled inside, out of the rain.
“Pick it up and heave it,” the sheriff suggested.
I made an expansive gesture toward it. “Be my guest. You’re more than welcome to try.”
He regarded it speculatively, then reached out. The moment his hands closed around the plump body, all hell broke loose. Sarkisian jerked back, releasing the bird. “It bit me!”
“Join the club,” I sighed, and started the engine.
“Damned bird.” The sheriff lowered himself into the other bucket seat.
“At the rate it’s going, that’s going to be its official name.”
He shook his head. “Ms. O’Shaughnessy told me you’d decided to hold a Name-the-Turkey contest.”
“She decided,” I stuck in quickly, not wanting to carry any of the blame for that rotten idea. I put the car in gear and backed in a sweeping curve.
Owen Sarkisian remained quiet while we negotiated the newly paved driveway, all the while sucking the beak-inflicted wound on his wrist. As we turned onto the road, he spoke at last. “Lowell always seems to have sufficient money, doesn’t he?”
“Does he? It doesn’t look like he spends much,” I pointed out. I chose to ignore the quality of that down comforter.
“Mmmm. He’s not extravagant, but have you looked at his barn?”
“No,” I admitted. “Why?”
“He’s been making renovations.”
“Him, too?”
“Isn’t there a species of bird where the male fixes up the nest in the hope of attracting a female?”
I slowed the car and shot him a quick glance.
“From what I’ve been able to tell,” he went on, “Lowell makes no attempt to list or sell houses through his real estate agency. It’s as if the place is a cover for the way he really makes money.”
“But look at him!” I objected. “That’s not someone who values money, not like…” I broke off.
“Like Cindy Brody?” Sarkisian asked. “Don’t worry, you never mentioned her name. I did hear a rumor today about Lowell’s dealing drugs.”
I negotiated a winding turn in silence. “There are always rumors flying around a small town. Simon hasn’t lived here long, and everyone calls him a hippie. Naturally there’d be rumors about drugs.”
“So you’ve heard them, too?”
“Rumors aren’t proof. Besides, have you ever known a drug dealer who sneers at money?” I countered.
“Depends on why he deals, I suppose,” came the prompt answer. “He might believe in the sacredness of the mushroom, or the enlightening power of LSD or Ecstasy.”
“Or the healing power of pot?”
He sighed. “Don’t go there, that’s one hell of a medical and legal tangle.”
I took pity on him and dropped the subject, pleased by his response. It showed he had an open mind, a bit of a luxury for a career law enforcement officer. Instead, I said, “Look at that shack he lives in. You’d think he’d put in insulation if he had any spare cash lying around. And that van of his is about forty years old and is always needing repair.”
“What year is this car?” he asked with far too much innocence.
I shook my head. “Freya is a classic.” And naturally, right on cue, we hit a pothole and those damned latches popped.
“So is that hippie van of Lowell’s,” pointed out Sarkisian, as I caught the canvas top and gripped it. He sat in silence, considering, as we bounced over the bridge. “You suppose drugs were the dirty secret Brody was about to expose about him?”