Janice Bennett - Cold Turkey

With peace mostly restored, newcomers who had turned away at the door began to come back in. There seemed a lot of people, a lot of relieved laughing and talking, a lot of milling and filling of plates. Time slipped comfortably by, and everything actually ran smoothly, the only disturbance coming over who would get the last piece of a turkey, artichoke and mushroom quiche that I’d had my eye on, as well. That quarrel ended amicably, with the combatants cutting the slice in half and sharing it, and good will once more filled the cafeteria.

“We just might survive this,” I said to Peggy, then realized she no longer stood beside me. I had no idea how long she’d been gone, it wasn’t as if we were really doing anything other than standing here. I looked down the line but couldn’t see my aunt, either. That explained it. They’d probably retreated to the kitchen together for a break. Or, knowing them, a dish of yams swimming in marshmallows. I considered joining them, but that would leave only Sue behind the tables to receive any new offerings.

So where were the Grahams? I looked around the crowded room and spotted Art and Ida sitting in a corner, eating. When they reported back, I decided, I’d fill a plate for myself. I realized, with a touch of consternation, I’d been waiting for Sarkisian. But he’d never returned from answering that radio call. And that was more than half an hour ago, probably longer. I wondered what could have happened. Not, I prayed, another body.

“Annike?” Art nudged my elbow. “Where did you stow the liqueurs? We’d better trot them out before people start to leave.”

The liqueurs. I stared at him in dismay. “Dave Hatter was going to bring them,” I said. “Oh, God, and we promised everyone they could taste them!” We stared at each other for a moment. “Oh, hell. All right. I’ll go get them. Make an announcement that we’ll have them here within half an hour.” I dragged my purse from under the table, unhooked my keys, and ran for the parking lot.

“And you,” I told the turkey as I climbed into Freya, “are moving out. First thing tomorrow morning.” It ignored me, which was typical.

The rain didn’t even have the decency to let up and make the trip easier on me. I turned onto the road leading to the Still and took the slick curves at a snail’s pace. Adam would no longer be on duty. That meant I’d have to convince his replacement I had every right to take away bottles from the experimental batches. If it were someone I knew, I might have a chance. If it wasn’t…I wouldn’t even let myself think about that. I probably should have asked Gerda to have another word with Hugh Cartwright. With a sigh, I reached a short straight stretch and gave the car a little more gas. The latches holding up the flip-top rattled, but the duct tape I’d slapped over them still held.

The parking lot stood empty. I swore in frustration, then remembered shipping and receiving. I headed down the hill, and to my relief-and surprise-I spotted Sarkisian’s borrowed Honda. No sign of any other car. So where was Adam’s replacement? Unless Sarkisian had somehow gotten stuck with that job. That would delight the sheriff, being reduced to a security guard. Unless he was taking the opportunity to search for that solid evidence he’d been talking about.

And that brought me back to fretting over who, of all those people I knew, could have murdered Brody. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the worry out of my mind. It was terrible, suspecting everyone, knowing nothing for certain. I only hoped I could survive the suspense without throwing a screaming fit. And I prayed, once more, it would prove to have been Dave, acting alone, with none of the others involved.

Well, Sarkisian’s presence provided one bright spot. I’d have no trouble getting the bottles. I might even have help carrying the damned things.

The huge garage-like doors that allowed the paneled trucks to drive inside for both shipping and receiving remained firmly closed, but the smaller entry, which stood at the top of the ramp and led to the catwalk that ran around the bay, stood ajar a few inches. I ran up the ramp, shoved the door wide and stepped inside, out of the cold and wet.

A single fluorescent light cast a dim glow over the cement floor area below. The walkway encircled it, with several offices and storerooms on the side opposite me. One of the doors stood open, and a light showed within. Boxes and handcarts lined the wall below, but no trucks awaited loading. Only Tony’s motorcycle stood in a corner, out of the rain. I stared at it, surprised. Tony? Had he been promoted to night watchman? With his background? Or was he cleaning that office?

I started around the walkway toward the light. No one emerged, even as I rounded the end of the bay and circled back on the other side, nearing the room. “Tony?” I called, “Ow-Sheriff?” I’d nearly called Sarkisian by his first name, and that was something I was not going to allow myself to do. “Anyone down here?”

The light in the room snapped off.

“Tony?” I called again, and was annoyed that my voice sounded a bit shaky. The complete silence was giving me the creeps. Why didn’t he answer? If, in fact, it was Tony in that little office. If not-or for that matter, if it was- My suspicions-and uneasiness-surged to the forefront.

A dark shape emerged, and fear, like a rod of icy steel, shot through my chest and stomach. I held my ground simply because I had frozen where I stood, unable to move.

“Annike?” Adam’s voice. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the dinner?”

“I didn’t see your truck.” Relief flooded over me and I swallowed. I’d let my damned imagination get the better of my common sense. Still, I wanted to get out of here as quickly as I could. With an effort, I focused on the matter at hand. “I forgot about the liqueurs. Dave was going to bring a few bottles. Do you know if he ever set them aside?”

Adam shifted, bringing something on the floor behind him into my line of sight. Something large and dark. Something…

“I’ll check.” He eased himself through the narrow opening.

His movement allowed the dim light past him. A small area of the office’s linoleum floor glistened. Liquid? Then the whole shadowy shape resolved itself into a person-at least, I prayed it was a person and not another body. I could just make out the pepper-and-salt curling hair of Owen Sarkisian.

And that dark, glistening puddle was blood.

The sheriff’s hand twitched. He wasn’t dead, at least not yet. Then a muffled cry sounded, as of someone gagged. It hadn’t come from Sarkisian but from somewhere beyond him, back in the farthest corner. Slowly I raised my head and looked at Adam.

He just stood there, shoulders sagged, shaking his head. “Damn it, Annike, why’d you have to see that?”

“See-see what?” I tried, in that stupid way most people have of trying to lie themselves out of a jam. If I ran, did I have a chance of getting to safety? Of reaching the sheriff’s car and radioing for help for him? Sarkisian…

Adam just shook his head. “I’m sorry, Annike.” He took a step toward me.

I backed away. “Why?” I asked. Keep him talking, if I could just keep him talking, anything to delay his disposing of me…

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you know how much this stuff is worth? I know a guy who’ll give me a hundred fifty bucks a case, seven cases a month. That’ll pay for a lot of the things Lucy wants.”

“But-” I shook my head. Theft was one thing, murder another.

“Brody?” he asked as if reading my mind. “He called me from your aunt’s house, said he had a little business proposition for me. Do you know, he actually wanted me to take twice as many cases? And give him two-thirds of the money? If my buyer could have handled that many, I’d have already been doing it.”