Janice Bennett: Cold Turkey

“I’m not blind. I can see his light through the trees.” Peggy rummaged in the front seat and emerged with a thin, hardback book, which she handed to me. “ Cooking for a Crowd, it’s called, or something like that. Tell Gerda goodnight for me, will you?” She climbed in and, pointedly ignoring Sarkisian, started the engine. Her headlights flicked on, and the old car surged forward around the circular curve of the drive.

“I think I offended her.” Sarkisian shook his head. “‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’”

“‘We should have thought of that before we joined the fo-orce,’” I responded promptly, as in-tune as possible-which isn’t very-not to be outdone when it came to quoting Gilbert and Sullivan.

An appreciative gleam lit his brown eyes, and he almost smiled. For a long moment his considering gaze rested on me. “Everyone around here knows you as Sheriff McKinley’s widow, don’t they?”

“I do have an identity other than that,” I pointed out.

He waved that aside. “I mean- Damn it, I’ve got to break the news to the victim’s wife. What I really need is a police woman, but Jennifer’s the nearest thing I’ve got. She’s nice, I’m not saying she isn’t, but she’s a little too…cheerful, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” I kept my voice steady. “But she’s done the job before.”

“You know Ms. Brody, don’t you?” At my nod, he added, “Then would you come with me?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do-” I broke off before I could add “less.” As one widow to another, I might be able to offer comfort-if Cindy Brody needed any, of which I was by no means certain. But more importantly, I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to be on the inside track of this investigation. If anything turned up that implicated Aunt Gerda, I wanted to know, and to be in a position to present Gerda’s side of the matter to Sarkisian. Besides, it never hurt to place the sheriff firmly in my debt. “Give me five minutes,” I said and ran for the stairs.

Cindy Brody’s house stood at the far end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a peaceful neighborhood of Meritville, Merit County’s principal-but still small-town. A peach-tinted streetlight illumined the rolling rain-drenched lawn with its majestic willow centerpiece, neatly trimmed escallonia shrubs lining a curved cement driveway, and an impressive pseudo-Tudor rising out of an orderly arrangement of raphiolepis and climbing roses. Definitely the upper rent district.

“Hate to see her lease on that,” muttered Sheriff Sarkisian. He slowed the official Jeep and swung onto the cement drive. “I take it accountancy pays.”

“Depends.” I, at least, had never managed to bring in exorbitant wealth in that profession. Maybe my problem was honesty. That was one trait I doubted Clifford Brody had shared.

Sarkisian set the brake and switched off the engine. “Did she want this divorce, or was it his idea?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking her?” I unbuckled my seat belt but found myself in no hurry to climb out into the late November storm.

“I mean,” he said, unlocking his door, “should I be calling a doctor to prescribe tranquilizers for her? Is she going to take this hard?”

It wasn’t my place to prejudice him. I said simply, “I think we can handle it alone.”

“Ahhh.” He gave the sound a wealth of meaning. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

We ran for the shelter provided by the roof’s overhang, and Sarkisian rang the doorbell. A minute passed, and he was just reaching for it again when the squeak of rubber soles on tile reached us. The next moment a light flooded the little porch area, and a brisk alto voice called, “Who is it?”

“Merit County sheriff, Ms. Brody. And Annike McKinley. We’d like to talk to you.”

A key turned in the deadbolt, and the door opened a few inches on a heavy chain. A perfectly made-up face appeared for a fraction of a second, then retreated. The chain rattled, and the door opened wide.

Cindy Brody stood in the full glare of the hall light, all sleek designer jeans from the best shop, sleek designer dark hair from the best salon, and sleek designer body from the best health spa-and possibly the best plastic surgeon. She must be almost as old as me. And looked a good ten years younger.

Cindy nodded briefly to me, her attention focused on Sarkisian. “So you’re the new sheriff.” Her gaze ran over him in an appraising-and openly approving-manner. A slow smile settled on her perfectly reddened mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“Could we sit down?” Sarkisian eased himself a step away from her. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

“What, did you clock my car going over the speed limit or something?” She smoothed down the clinging yellow knit top over the waistband of her blue jeans, then led the way across the Italian marbled entry hall into a living room decorated in shades of white and cream. Draping herself onto the natural-colored sofa, she indicated with an airy wave for Sarkisian to join her. Apparently, I could fend for myself.

I took the chair across a low glass-topped coffee table from our hostess and leaned forward. “It’s your husband, Cindy.”

The woman stiffened. “God, what’s he done this time? I love him, I really do, but I just can’t take any more. I’ve reached the point where that divorce can’t be settled a moment too soon for my peace of mind. What is it, now? Go on, tell me the worst.”

I did. “He’s dead.”

Cindy blinked. “Dead? Oh!” She groped ineffectually over the coffee table, then searched her pocket and dragged out a tissue. She buried her face in this, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded muffled. “Dead! I-I can’t believe it. Dead! Dear Cliff.” After about ten seconds, during which time no one spoke, she looked up. “Don’t tell me he crashed the Mercedes! Oh, please, not the car!”

Sarkisian, who’d been glaring at me, transferred his disapproving look to Cindy. “Not the car.”

“Thank God for that, at least.” She leaned back against the cushions, extended her long legs in front of her, and dabbed at dry eyes with the corner of the tissue. “How did it happen, then?”

Sarkisian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he was murdered.”

“Mur- Oh, no. But who…? I can’t believe it!”

She wailed on, but I didn’t listen. In my opinion, Cindy Brody could use some acting lessons. I’d swear her predominating emotion was satisfaction, not shock, though to her credit, I sensed distress, as well. Or was that just uneasiness?

Definitely unease. And she hadn’t asked how, when, or where her husband had been murdered. The news had come as no surprise to her. She’d known. But how?

I allowed my gaze to travel down Cindy’s jean-clad legs-damn, I’d give anything to be able to squeeze into a size that small-until I hit the ankles. Something brown smeared around the rolled hem at the bottom. Mud? The small expanse of dark blue nylon stockings didn’t offer any clues. I shifted in my seat to get a glimpse of the soles of her running shoes. Mud, all right. Streaked and mostly wiped off, but definitely mud.

Cindy had her face buried in her tissue again, this time adding an artistic sniff. I gestured at Sarkisian, catching his eye. He glanced at me, and I pointed at Cindy’s feet. He signaled me to be still, but checked out the mud for himself. It was a pity there wouldn’t be any readable footprints around Aunt Gerda’s house. The heavy rains had done too thorough a job of saturating the soil and smearing any clues.

Cindy looked up and managed a trembling smile. “It’s very kind of you-of both of you-to bring me the news. I didn’t even know you were home, Annike.”