Janice Bennett - Cold Turkey

Peggy disappeared, but came back a few minutes later carrying a boom box. She turned on its radio, and out blared Christmas music. Christmas. On Thanksgiving weekend. I couldn’t face it.

“Can’t they let us finish one holiday before assaulting us with another?” demanded Ida, echoing my feelings.

Peggy switched channels, but the next three she tried also blared Rudolph and Santa Claus at us. She tried again, and this time located a talk show. Her next attempt brought up salsa music, which won by an overwhelming vote. We left it there.

The first of our community diners began to arrive, bearing their own plates and utensils as well as their offerings. The SCOURGE elite squad took up places behind the serving tables, directing the newcomers where to place their casseroles and vegetables and cakes. The variety of foods impressed me, and I could only pray that no one got food poisoning from dishes left out too long, whether here or where they were made.

Nancy arrived with Simon, who still looked smug. She greeted us with a weary smile as they deposited their offering of a cranberry tart on the second table. “Dad’s found someone to spell him at the Still,” she announced. “He’s getting off duty at four-thirty, then he’ll change and come on over.”

“We’ll make sure there’s food left,” Art told her.

Already people filled plates and found themselves places to sit. A few of the smaller kids danced to the music. I heaved a sigh of relief. We just might make it through this. I might survive the weekend.

Nancy and Simon sat at a table near us. She slumped in her seat. She really ought to go home to rest. Apparently Simon thought the same thing. He frowned at her, pushed his plate away and stood up. She shook her head at whatever he told her.

His voice rose. “I said we’re going.”

“But I’ve barely started…”

He took her arm. “Come on. You’re too tired to be here. I’m taking you home.” Leaving their plates where they lay, he hauled her from the room.

I’d been right to think him controlling, and wondered if he’d kept this side of himself hidden from Nancy until now. I could only hope she noticed this disturbing trend in his behavior and thought better of marrying him. And his millions.

They almost collided with Sarkisian in the doorway. He stepped aside, waving them on with a hand that grasped a can of cranberry sauce. Four more cans peeked out from where he clutched them against his chest with his other arm. I hurried to meet him.

“Find anything out?” I honestly couldn’t contain my curiosity-and fear.

His grim expression answered my question even before he spoke. “Nothing unusual in deposits, and all as it ought to be in checks written. The money-if there ever was any-is well hidden. Or in someone else’s account.”

“How many-” I began.

“I’ve only had time to check the one, so far. Guess how I’ll be spending the rest of the evening. And night, with my luck.”

I nodded. “Have time for some dinner, first?”

“I could use-” The radio crackled at his belt, and he broke off, swearing. He thrust the cans of cranberry at me and strode from the cafeteria.

“A policeman’s lot is not a happy one,” I murmured, and the quote from the Pirates of Penzance brought back the memory of only a few nights before when we’d stood in the rain outside my aunt’s house watching Peggy drive off in a huff.

“This the gig?” yelled a determined voice over the babble of small talk that filled the room.

I looked up, jolted back to the present. And a rather unexpected one, at that. A teenager, with spiky purple and orange hair and more piercings than I would have thought the human body could tolerate, stood in the doorway. He clutched the neck of an electric guitar, the body of which rested on his shoulder.

“Where do you want us?” he asked. Conversations broke off as people turned to stare.

“Anywhere but here,” I moaned.

Gerda turned a bemused stare on me. “Did you…”

“No!”

The teenager strode further into the room, followed by four more, all spiky-haired, all in too tight jeans, open vests over T-shirts, and black army boots. One pushed a handcart on which rested the largest set of amplifiers I’d ever seen. Another bore a portable drum set, while a third lugged a keyboard. The fourth carried a bass over his shoulder. Their leader looked around, then headed for the stage with his cohorts following. That all-too familiar sinking sensation attacked my stomach.

“Annike…” Gerda began.

“Not me,” I protested.

The first teenager looked up from where they’d begun to hook up their equipment and surveyed the staring crowd. “Hey, Aunt Cindy! Want to check the bass?”

Aunt Cindy. That explained everything.

Cindy Brody hurried into the cafeteria from the kitchen, beaming. “Go ahead,” she called.

The first notes blasted out the hall. Fortunately they turned the volume down on their own-they never could have heard my screaming for them to do so. Unfortunately, they didn’t turn it down enough. Nor had they tuned up, yet. The resulting cacophony of sound made me whimper.

Cindy strolled over to us. “Isn’t it great having a live band?” she yelled over the din.

“Your nephew?” I inserted as much accusation into those two words as I could muster.

She nodded, but seemed to think I’d just paid her a compliment. “They’re just getting started. I thought this would give them a boost.”

“Did she say ‘boost’ or ‘bust’?” demanded Peggy.

“Have you…have you ever actually heard them play?” Sue Hinkel managed, barely audible over the dis-chords that emitted from the speakers.

Then the band-to use the term in its broadest sense-started the first song, punk rock as expected, obscene lyrics as feared. It was so awful, so off-key and out of sync, I couldn’t decide whether to cry or laugh. I chose the latter and sank against the wall to support myself. I was going to strangle every single member of the SCOURGE elite, beginning with Cindy and going on until I’d killed every last one of them. And then I was going to beg Sarkisian to lock me up in a nice quiet jail cell for some much needed peace. Or maybe I’d plead for a padded cell.

“Do something!” Gerda shouted at me.

Already, several parents gathered up their young children and headed for the door. I couldn’t blame them. But I also couldn’t let the dinner collapse like this. I strode forward, shouting at the band to stop, waving my arms to get their attention. They merely brandished their instruments around wildly in the air and struck even worse-sounding chords. I have nothing against punk rock. I’ve heard some really good bands. But this was stretching the definition of music too far.

Art Graham solved the problem for me. He pulled the plug. Literally. The amplified sound shut off. The so-called musicians stopped one at a time as they realized something was wrong, with the drummer winning the slowest-to-catch-on award by continuing for a good ten seconds after the others had quit.

“Hey, whatcha do that for?” the leader demanded in the sudden and blessed silence.

“Sorry. We’re rated G,” Art explained.

“Yeah. Whatever. Like, it’s up to you. Just so long as we get paid for the whole gig.”

Paid? I looked around for Cindy to demand an explanation, but she had faded away. Probably a strong streak of self-preservation. Definitely, I was going to begin my murder spree with her.

I’d hoped the band would take the hint and pack up, but instead they jumped down from the stage. They fished cards out of their pockets, and it took me a few seconds to realize they actually had the gall to solicit for more gigs among the diners. Most of the recipients either tore or crumpled up the slips of cardboard. No one bothered to put them anywhere for safekeeping.