Janice Bennett: Cold Turkey

“All I said was that I wished one of the pizza places would deliver to the boonies,” he muttered. He accepted the towel Gerda still held out pointedly, and mopped his face. “Where’s the body?”

“At least he doesn’t call it a ‘stiff,’” Gerda muttered to me in a too-loud aside.

“You watch too much TV,” I shot back. “What was that about a drunk?”

“He means Adam Fairfield,” Dr. Jacobs explained. She moved aside to allow the two paramedics and a slightly built, bearded man into the crowded entry hall. The round face of Roberta Dominguez, the police photographer, showed from behind the shoulders of the others. As the crowd shuffled in, muddy puddles formed on the brick-colored tiles at their feet. I shifted my load and collected more slickers and ponchos.

“Adam Fairfield is not a drunk!” Gerda, bristling in her neighbor’s defense, thrust towels at the new arrivals. “He’s just been depressed since Lucy divorced him. That was six months ago,” she reminded me. “I told you all about it, remember?”

“Vividly,” I murmured.

“All right.” Owen Sarkisian added his towel to the collection of wet things I already held. “Technically he might not be a drunk, but he was asleep at his wheel with that battered old pickup of his sticking out into the road, and definitely a few beers or whatever for the worse.”

Sarah Jacob’s gray eyes gleamed. “So why didn’t you run a breath test on him and book him?”

The sheriff avoided her gaze. “He wasn’t actually driving. I’ll stop by in the morning when he’s sober enough to pay attention and put a scare into him, don’t worry. I had a more important matter on my mind.” He directed a questioning glance at me. “Which way?”

Gerda cleared her throat. “I…I’ll show you.” Without meeting my troubled gaze, she made a rapid collection of the remaining towels, dumped the soggy armload on top of the heavy pile I already held, then ushered the investigating team through the living room and down the hall to the study beyond.

Why was Aunt Gerda so afraid? What had been going on around here? Seething at not being able to just shake it out of her, I headed into the huge kitchen, then glared at my burden. With a sigh, I opened my arms and allowed everything to fall to the polished floor. I prodded the heap with the toe of my shoe, then sorted out the slickers which I draped over the backs of chairs. Too much mud clung to the towels just to put them in the dryer. Instead I tossed the lot into the washing machine, then carefully measured in soap and vinegar in lieu of softener before starting it.

I should probably brew a pot of coffee for everyone-provided Aunt Gerda had anything non-herbal in the kitchen these days. I refilled the bird-shaped kettle, poured water into a large saucepan as well, and put them both on to boil.

The room felt cold. That necessitated lighting the pellet stove that stood in the corner of the formal dining room. It wasn’t until I was fiddling with the knobs, adjusting the burn, that it dawned on me I was searching for excuses not to go near the study.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself at last to acknowledge my own shattered nerves. I was too darned sensitive to atmospheres and the emotions of others. I needed a stretch of quiet and solitude. Fat chance. I wondered how long the crime scene investigators would infest the place.

Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped from where I knelt by the stove, spinning about and half rising.

Gerda regarded me with a forced smile. “A bit nervy, there, aren’t we?”

I sank back on my heels. “How’re they doing?”

“Taking forever.” With a jerky movement, she brushed unruly strands of her faded fair hair from her forehead. “Roberta’s going nutty with her camera, like always. She’s taking shots of everything from every possible angle, and they’ve got these numbered cards set up all over the place and little plastic bags, and paper ones, and tweezers. And they’re all wearing surgical gloves.”

“You mean they’re going to analyze every single cat hair? I wish them luck.”

Aunt Gerda stared at the wavering flames as they consumed the compacted sawdust pellets. “They’ve tracked mud all over the rugs.”

“It’ll come out. Come on.” I stood, turned her around, and marched her into the kitchen. The homey aroma of drying herbs surrounded us, comforting in its familiarity. I pressed her onto a chair painted bright blue. “Careful not to lean back. There’s wet rain gear.”

The kettle, which had been rumbling in an agitated manner, gave an experimental whimper which rose to a shrill scream. I scooped both it and the saucepan off the burners and began assembling mugs from one of the oak cabinets. I couldn’t remember how many people had come. Reaction, I supposed.

“Why did this have to happen!” Gerda exclaimed suddenly. “Why-” She broke off, then resumed with suppressed savagery, “He’s dead! Clifford Brody is dead. He’s been murdered. Here, in my house!”

“That just about sums it up.” But it didn’t provide the key I needed to understand her fears. I removed the cozy from the pot and poured my aunt the last of our previous chamomile and peppermint brew, then rummaged in the pantry cupboard for the bottle of emergency rum. I added a healthy dollop and handed it over.

Gerda sipped in silence for almost a minute. “Someone,” she said at last, “came into my house while I was gone, and killed him. I don’t feel safe, here, now.”

“Yes, you are.” I set down the ceramic pot in which I’d placed new herbs and boiling water, and laid a soothing hand over her trembling one. “Tell you what, though. I’ll get you a dog. A great big one with a worthwhile woof.”

Gerda sniffed. “It would scare the cats.” She looked around. “Where are they?”

“Probably hiding under your bed. Or more likely, in it. You know how they are with strangers clomping around. How about if I get you a flock of geese? They’d make even more noise than a dog.”

Footsteps approached down the hall, crossed the living room, and Owen Sarkisian strode into the brightly lit kitchen. He accepted the mug of fresh tea I handed him, and sat at the table across from Gerda. His brow puckered as he stared into his steaming mug.

“Small town.” He looked up and his brown eyes studied Gerda. “Everyone knows everything about each other, I suppose?”

Uneasiness flickered across my aunt’s face, to be replaced almost at once by her determinedly sweet, mildly reproving smile. “That’s a bit of a cliché, don’t you think? Besides, we’re larger than we seem. We have a population of nearly two thousand. Upper River Gulch is a bedroom community for everyone who wants to escape the computer industry during off hours. I would have thought that as sheriff, you’d know that.”

Sarkisian inclined his head in acknowledgment. “But there aren’t many of you who have businesses in town, are there? Dr. Jacobs tells me there’re only nine of you.”

“Eight, now,” I murmured. I measured more herbs into a stainless steel tea ball and set it into the saucepan to steep.

Sarkisian ignored my interruption. “Do you belong to any sort of business association?”

Gerda blinked. “Or course not. That would be too formal. Hugh Cartwright-he owns the Still-suggested it once, but they’re not really part of our little community.”

“The Still? You mean Brandywine Distillery? Why don’t they count?”

“They aren’t downtown. Not in our little district, I mean. And they’re a large business-well, large by our standards. We only count the ones that cluster at the intersection of Fallen Tree Road and Last Gasp Hill.”

Sarkisian nodded. “So there are a total of nine-” he shot a challenging glance at me, “-shops or offices in Upper River Gulch.”