Freya responded with her usual rumblings and complainings when I turned the key, but by the time I’d backed out, turned around in the driveway and headed down the rain-slicked hill, she purred at her usual ear-splitting decibel rating. A nasty wind whipped pine needles and oak leaves across my windshield, where the wipers beat a steady tattoo at their fastest pace. And to think I’d come home for a rest. For a moment I recalled my tiny cubicle, my obnoxious boss, the unreasonable clients, my ongoing battle to keep at least the pretence of honesty over the deductions of one account in particular, then weighed it all against heading a SCOURGE project. Seemed pretty evenly balanced, to me. Although the fact that the pancake breakfast raced at me with frightening speed caused the scales to teeter in favor of Hastings, Millard and Perkins, Inc., accountants to the conceited and dishonest.
The road to the Still lay just outside of town. I eased through our tiny business district, passed our one main intersection, then continued down Last Gasp Hill for a quarter mile before turning over the bridge and following the narrow two-lane street that wound along the top of the river gulch. Some twenty feet below, just beyond the metal guard rail, the water churned over the rocks in its rough and ready bed. No one, as far as I knew, had ever tried white water rafting there. Perhaps I’d have to suggest it as a summer excursion to the SCOURGEs. The next moment I changed my mind. Knowing them, they’d be crazy enough to try it, and I really was very fond of them, in spite of their landing me with their Thanksgiving mess.
I rounded the last bend and pulled into the parking lot, which could hold two dozen cars. Only four gathered together near the main door. I considered pulling around back and down the hill to the receiving dock, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. If I got a single bottle, I could consider myself lucky. Hugh Cartwright talked a good line about charitable donations, but I’d never heard of his actually making many. But you never knew.
I turned off the key and climbed out into a whipping wind. Clutching my parka about myself, I ran for the shelter of the front door. To my surprise, it opened. I’d fully expected some security-minded soul would have locked it with so few people in the building.
The wonderful aroma of cranberries reached out and enveloped me as soon as I stepped inside, and for a moment I just stood there, practically drooling. I didn’t remember that as one of their products, but they experimented all the time. Hugh Cartwright didn’t believe in relying on only a few tried-and-true staples, not when there might be a buck to be made by branching out. Success, declared the motto over every employee’s work station, lay in diversity.
The lobby was a small room, boasting a couple of chairs, a couch, several potted plants, the receptionist’s desk-empty-and a few lamps that eased the gloom of the day. One door led to the tasting and sales room. I wandered through the other, which led along a corridor. Here, the cranberry scent became overpowering, sickeningly sweet and cloying.
The main production facilities lay on the downhill side. You could look-if you weren’t acrophobic like me-through a wall of glass down a storey to the floor where one bathtub-like vat lay in the center, more for show than actual use, I’d always suspected. Two rows of cabinets flanked it on either side, topped by copper stills ranging in size from eighty liters all the way up to five hundred, fruit presses, fermentation and maceration tanks, and a number of mysterious-looking stainless steel contraptions. Somewhere down there would be the chemistry labs and, for all I knew, experiments in weaponry for culinary and alcoholic warfare.
On the other side of the corridor, level with the upper storey parking lot, lay offices. I looked around, not seeing anyone, but I could hear the hum of distant machinery. Then came the whine of a forklift and a man’s muffled shout.
“Mr. Cartwright?” I called. My voice sounded loud and echoed hollowly along the empty passage. I turned around in a circle, wondering if I should try to find shipping and receiving, after all.
Metal clanged to the steady rhythm of someone climbing stairs, and in another minute the door to the catwalk that circled the facilities below opened. A head of thick dark hair popped around the edge, followed by a lithe body in jeans and a sweatshirt. Tony Carerras glared at me. “What do you want? We’re closed.”
“Tony?” I stifled an uneasy shiver. He looked like the sort you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley-or a brightly lit main street, for that matter. But both Peggy and Gerda swore he was a good soul, despite a few little legal discrepancies in his background. Juvenile records are sealed for a good reason, Peggy averred. Everyone, especially a kid from a rotten background, deserved a second chance. And a third. And a fourth. I think Tony was on his fifth, and that only thanks to the generous-or gullible-nature of Peggy. “I’m Annike McKinley. I’ve come to see Hugh Cartwright. About a donation of bottles he promised.”
Tony looked me up and down with thinly veiled insolence. “Oh, yeah. Ol’ McKinley’s widow.”
“And Gerda Lundquist’s niece.” It never hurt to set a positive item against the fact my late husband had arrested him on more than one occasion.
His smile flashed, bright and startling, showing teeth unexpectedly white and even. “That’s right. She’s okay.” He nodded, his smile broadening. “Well, what you need is ol’ Cartwright, but he ain’t here.” He considered a moment. “I’ll get Dave.” He spun around and vanished.
As the metal stairs clanged under his descending sneakers, I leaned against the wall, relieved by the change in his attitude. And that unexpectedly blinding smile. Maybe Peggy was right about him. And then again, maybe he’d just mastered a touch of charm to get himself out of trouble.
The stairs announced someone coming back up, a slower, heavier tread than before. The sound changed as the climber reached the upper catwalk, then the door opened, and a uniformed figure stood silhouetted against the brighter light. He peered forward. “Hi, Annike.” His voice sounded dull, tired, depressed. He regarded me with an expression that lightened from bleak to merely morose. “I’m night watchman here,” he told me with no enthusiasm.
“So I’d heard. Congratulations.” I’d known Dave Hatter for most of my life, even though he was five years older than me. Two of his younger sisters had been my friends all the way through high school. “Isn’t this a bit early for you to be on duty?”
“Need the overtime.” Despair flickered in his dull gray eyes. His light brown hair looked as if he hadn’t combed it that day, and his shoulders slumped, making him look shrunken, frailer than I knew him to be. I remembered him as wiry and athletic, with only a slight touch of that middle-age spread that comes to us all.
I considered offering him a sympathetic ear, but something in his expression warned me not to intrude. Instead, I waved a hand toward the mysteries below. “Pretty impressive.”
“I could give you a tour,” he offered, unenthusiastic, almost listless. “Nothing much ever happens here.”
“Another time I’d love it,” I assured him, and meant it. The place always fascinated me. “Right now I’ve come about a donation.”
Dave nodded. “The Dinner-in-the-Park. Yeah.” His lip curled. “Still can’t believe you actually got that old skinflint to give you some bottles.”
“Well, he came through with a few, last year,” I said.
Dave snorted. “Yeah, in exchange for some favor, I bet. He can be pretty free with the failed experimental batches, if there’s something in it for him. But I’ll bet he never offered one of the bottles with the Official Seal.” His tone capitalized the words. A single bottle with Brandywine Distillery’s official seal could sell anywhere from thirty dollars up to sixty, depending on the specific product. Those never got handed out gratis.
“Failures are fine, as long as they’re edible. Or do I mean potable?”
“The ones that aren’t, we just pour down the drain.” He turned away, his shoulders sagging even more. “Come on, let’s see what we can find for you.” He gestured for me to follow him through the doorway and onto the catwalk.
The metal grating clanged louder than ever under our combined four feet, but I looked straight ahead instead of down, and pretended I walked on something solid. It didn’t work very well. We rounded the inner corner, descended the open stairs-with me clinging to the railing-then passed through another doorway labeled “New Products”. I found myself in a large room lined with kegs, vats and shelves filled with bottles that bore only a large numbered colored dot in lieu of a label. One wall held a long countertop set at desk height, on which rested four computer monitors and keyboards.
“Experiments and trial batches,” he said. “That lot over there…” he gestured to a fifteen-liter stainless steel keg with several bottles standing on the shelf above, “not up to expectations. Tastes all right, but nothing spectacular. He gave orders it’s to be gotten rid of. Adam says it’s drinkable.”
“Sampled it, did he?”
Dave shrugged. “Why not? He’s swing-shift supervisor, he can do pretty much what he wants. Long as the bottles aren’t labeled, they’re fair game, I guess. So, want some?”
I eyed it with suspicion. They bore bright blue circular spots with “1-A” written on them. “What is it?”
“Cranberry orange. You can taste it first, if you like. From what I’ve been hearing,” he added with a sudden twisting of his lips that was almost a smile, “you could use a stiff drink. Or did you celebrate Brody’s death like the rest of us?”
“Not celebrate, exactly. It wasn’t fun, finding him.”
“Your poor aunt.” He shook his head, but nothing could diminish his obvious pleasure at Brody’s untimely-or was that timely?-demise.
I cast him a speculative glance. “At least you have nothing to worry about from that new sheriff. You’d have just come on duty when Brody was murdered.”
Dave hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t get here until almost seven, usually.” He sounded reluctant, as if he didn’t want to admit it even to me. As if he wanted to give himself an alibi? Why-unless he had some cause to want Brody dead and thought himself a suspect.
I studied his slumped shoulders, his morose demeanor, the undercurrents of anger and frustration. Something was seriously wrong with the man, but if it had to do with Brody, wouldn’t his problems be over, now? Or had he killed him?
Well, if Dave had gotten himself into some trouble here at the Still, Peggy O’Shaughnessy might know something about it. She did the books here. And Peggy involved herself in everybody’s life. If Peggy knew someone, even on a business footing, she ferreted out everything there was to know about them.
“Well?” Dave asked. “How many you need? There’s some peach almond, too,” he gestured toward a row of bottles with orange spots, “but you might want to warn people first, about that one.”
I considered. “Sounds good to me. A few bottles of each, maybe? Think that would be all right?”
He shrugged, obviously not caring. “Sure. Saturday for the clean-up? Then a few more for Sunday’s dinner? I’ll bring them over.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
I hurried after, thanking him as we remounted the clanging stairs. I’d have felt better if the bottles were actually in my possession, but if Dave said he’d bring them, that meant a few less items for me to lug around. And in spite of his offering them with such certainty, he might have to get approval before handing them out. I thanked him again at the front door and heard him lock it behind me as I turned to sprint for my car.
Once safe inside, I checked my lists. Other than phone calls about pies, I was doing pretty well. Which meant I could take a few minutes off and turn my attention to Cindy Brody’s catty comment about Sue Hinkel having some information about Aunt Gerda.
I eased Freya out of the parking lot and felt the tires slide on the drenched road. If I weren’t careful, we’d hydroplane right through that flimsy metal barrier, over the edge of the gulch and end up in the river. I crept along, grateful no one else was trying to negotiate this stretch of sharp curves.
It took me a good ten minutes to reach the bridge, then we were over it and headed toward our one set of stop signs and our miniature downtown. I turned onto Fallen Tree Road, then pulled into one of the empty spaces in front of The Salon, Sue Hinkel’s domain.
She really had done an amazing job on the place. It had been a very tiny house, vintage 1920, all tiny rooms, sagging front steps, and windows with half a ton of putty holding the panes in their warped frames. But Sue had given the exterior a coat of white paint, added a safety railing to the shallow steps, and generally made the best of a bad situation. She’d managed to make the interior country casual with a hint of haut coiffure, or whatever the term would be. All in the brass, glass, and aspidistra, according to Sue. I could see her through the window, standing at one of her shop’s two stations, red hair swept into a cluster of very becoming curls, garbed in a light green smock and a calf-length forest green wool skirt that covered the uppers of her high-topped platform boots. Very chic. I really envied her the knack.
I opened the door, and the string of Tibetan temple bells that hung from it jingled, musical and not the least jarring. The aroma of flowers and herbs greeted me, nothing perfumey or chemical for Sue unless it was absolutely necessary-such as my perms. Whenever possible, she used only the finest natural products.
The woman who sat in the chair broke off whatever she was saying, turned to look at me, and waved in a friendly fashion. I waved back, but I had no idea who she was. Short and slender, she wore mud-splattered jeans and leather lace-up boots. The arms of an old flannel shirt protruded from beneath the voluminous pink and gray protector draped over her clothes. An earthy green mud pack slathered across her face, and all I could determine of her features consisted of a generous mouth with protruding teeth.
Sue grinned at me. “How’re you coping?”
I sank onto the spare salon chair. “Got you down for a dozen pies.”
Sue snorted. “Fat chance.” Then her gaze rested on my face and turned thoughtful. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I look that bad?” I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or merely depressed. But if it got the pies baked, maybe it was worth looking like something one of the cats left half-chewed on the rug.
“Did you just drop in to give me the good news, or is there something else I can do for you?” She picked up a cloth and wiped off a thick layer of the herbal green muck from her client’s face. The well-known features emerged of Judy Wharton, who ran the feed store along with her husband Gregg.
“When you have a few minutes,” I said.
Judy seemed to take that as her cue, and picked up where she had left off on her stream of local gossip. I was surprised at how many names I didn’t recognize, but then considering the litany of troubles attached to them, it was probably just as well. I let it roll over me, and came to the conclusion that chairing a SCOURGE project might not be the worst fate, after all. Just goes to show how gullible I was feeling. By the time Sue rinsed off the last of the mud and had added clarifying lotions and moisturizers, I felt myself well acquainted with all the newcomers to our tiny community.
Sue whipped off the towel that had protected Judy’s hair, revealing a highlighted brown blunt cut. She set to work restyling, producing her usual wizardry, completely transforming her customer. Delighted, Judy Wharton left, leaving a generous tip-and a promise to bake a dozen pies, if I’d drop the stuff by her house later that evening. I assured her that nothing would stop me, and meant it.
Sue turned to me with a grin. “So what’s up? Besides pies.”
“What was going on between my Aunt Gerda and Clifford Brody?” I demanded, not wasting words.
“What makes you think-”
“Cindy Brody told Sheriff Sarkisian that you could tell him all about it. Hasn’t he been here, yet?”
Sue’s face sobered, and she perched on the stool behind her small desk. “No. Hasn’t your aunt said anything to you?”
“I want to hear it from someone else.” Actually, I just wanted to hea
r any of it.
Sue sighed. “It’s a long story, but you know how she didn’t really trust him?”
I nodded. I’d never found out why. Gerda clammed up the minute anyone mentioned his name.
“Well, you know how creative your aunt can be.”
“Devious, you mean,” I interjected.
Sue fought back a grin. “Honestly, she should be the one to tell you. It really doesn’t feel right…”
The musical bells announced the opening of the door. I looked up to see Owen Sarkisian standing there, regarding me with all the delight of a gardener who has just found a warren of gophers in his prize vegetable patch. “What the hell are you doing here, Ms. McKinley?” he demanded in that resigned voice I was beginning to know, if not love.
Sue and I exchanged guilty glances.
“I thought I told you to stay out of official business. But when I saw your car out front, I knew you were meddling again.”
I held up my hands in a defensive gesture. “It’s no such thing. I’m here for…” I looked around, seeking inspiration, and spotted it in the jars and other debris lying around from the last victim. “A mud pack,” I finished. “It always helps me relax.” Actually, that was true. I just never seemed to have time for one anymore.
“A mud pack,” Sarkisian repeated. An evil gleam lit his eyes. “Go ahead. Don’t let me interrupt.” He folded his arms and looked expectant.
There was nothing else for it. Sue draped one of the pink and gray protectors over me and fastened it behind my neck, then wrapped my hair in a towel. After warming the mud, she smeared it over my face. The scent soothed my nerves, but Sarkisian’s chuckle of appreciation at what he thought to be my suffering set them back on edge.
“I don’t usually allow observers,” Sue informed him.
“You wouldn’t make me miss this, would you?” A touch of malice sounded in his voice. “But I guess it would be a shame if you had to go through this for nothing, Ms. McKinley. Okay, Ms. Hinkel, I guess I’m here for the same reason she is,” he indicated me.
Cold Turkey Page 9