Cold Turkey by Janice Bennett Page B

long?”
    Sarkisian swung himself into the Jeep. “Checking her car. The hood felt warm.”
    I worked that out as I climbed in beside him. “Warm but not hot. So she’s been out, but has been home for a while. Any dents on any fenders?”
    “Not a mark.” He backed onto the wet street. The wipers slapped back and forth, streaking more than they cleared.
    That didn’t rule her out, though. “Did you happen to go into the kitchen?”
    Sarkisian’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah. The door to the garage was through there. Why?”
    “Any pies lying around on the counters? Any sign she’d been preparing bread dough? I didn’t smell anything like that, and you know how those aromas can fill an entire house.”
    “Yeah.” For a moment, he actually looked wistful. “No. A TV dinner tray in the trash, dirty fork and cup in the sink, but no bowls or pans.”
    I regarded his Roman-nosed profile for a moment, then stared ahead through the rain. “For someone who spent the evening getting an early start on Thanksgiving,” I said with a determinedly neutral voice, “she doesn’t seem to have gotten the usual chores done.”
    “No cooking, no curiosity about the details of the murder, a warm engine, and mud on her shoes,” the sheriff mused. “Well, looks like my life isn’t going to be boring for a bit.”
    * * *
     
    I didn’t get to sleep until well after two in the morning. By that time, Sheriff Sarkisian and his fellow ghouls had been long gone. Aunt Gerda, though, had refused to go to bed. She’d sat before the blazing fire in the living room, three of the cats ensconced in her lap and two curled on her feet, drinking cup after cup of tea and systematically working her way through both the lemon shortbreads and the raspberry chocolate chips. I held the other two cats, and derived considerable comfort from them. I needed it. A yellow tape remained across the study door, a grim reminder we hadn’t seen the last of this mess.
    It seemed like I had barely managed to ship my aunt off to her room and crawl into my own bed, when the sound of excited voices roused me. I groaned, considered the matter, and decided that just this once, morning could arrive without my help. I snuggled further beneath the flannel-covered down comforter, trying to cover my ears, but the commotion still reached me. Having the bedroom nearest the living room had always been a pain.
    A loud cheep sounded from the covered bird cage, followed by an insistent cry of, “I’m a pest! I’m a pest!”
    I rolled over, giving up. “You don’t have to prove it.”
    The parakeet answered with a string of noisy chatter, in which I only caught an occasional disjointed word.
    A light knock sounded on my door, and it opened a few inches. “Time to wake up,” came Aunt Gerda’s annoyingly bright voice. Too bright. It sounded forced. “The whole Service Club board is here, just waiting for you.”
    “Oh, great. A convergence of SCOURGEs. What did I ever do to deserve this?”
    That brought a momentary ease to the strain on Gerda’s face. She looked down her powdered nose at me. “Service Club Of Upper River Gulch Environs,” she corrected once again.
    With a sigh, I rolled out from under the warm cocoon and groped in my duffel bag for the bathrobe I’d forgotten to pack.
    The clock read twenty minutes before nine, but it felt more like five in the morning. I never was very good at staying up late. I fought back a yawn and dragged on my jeans and a sweatshirt. Vilhelm broke off his cheeping long enough to launch a violent attack on the empty cola can that was his favorite toy. I pulled off his cover, told him to be good, and headed out the door. As I closed it behind me, I heard him heave the can across the cage, then chase after it, scolding all the way.
    “Fresh bread for breakfast,” Aunt Gerda called with determined cheeriness as I wandered into the living room.
    “Provided anyone’s left you any,” chimed in Peggy. The little woman perched on the