“And once when she caught me at Sue Hinkel’s, she complained for a good fifteen minutes, nonstop, about how his lawyer had cooked up a way so she wouldn’t get anything in the divorce settlement.”
I frowned. “So, with his death, she’ll inherit everything?” Absently, I scooped up a gray and white armful of Dagmar.
Gerda nodded. “Unless that sister of his has anything to say about it—but knowing Cindy, I’ll bet she made sure of his will. Oh, and don’t forget his insurance policy. I gather that’s a hefty one. Perfect Cindy will be a very wealthy widow.”
I stroked the soft fur. That gave Perfect Cindy, who enjoyed her money very much indeed, an excellent reason for murdering her husband before all his beautiful money escaped her.
Chapter Seven
“Why can’t people be at home the day before Thanksgiving?” I griped after leaving far too many messages on answering machines. “Of course, if I knew someone was about to call asking me to bake a dozen or so pies, I probably wouldn’t answer, either.”
Gerda looked up from the two she had just slid onto her oven’s center shelf. She had called one of the teenagers who helped out in her shop to cover for her while she baked, and the girl had been delighted at the chance to earn a little extra Christmas money by working that afternoon. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Why wouldn’t everyone want to help? It’s fun.”
I paused in my dialing of the next number, then just shook my head and continued. The entire board of the SCOURGEs was like that—if they were behind a cause or an event, they simply couldn’t understand that the rest of the town might regard it with horror. And it was no good trying to disillusion them, either. I’d tried that before, and they just stared at me blankly, then laughed as if I’d told them a joke.
“I know poor Nancy Fairfield isn’t feeling well,” Gerda went on, “but I’m sure Adam will bake a few for you. It’s not as if it’s any trouble, after all. He’d just have to pour the defrosted mix into a pie shell.”
“I’ll put you down for another ten, then. I’d hate to deprive you of the fun.” I hung up—someone had had the sense to disconnect their answering machine, undoubtedly in anticipation of my call. I’d try them again later. “Right now,” I added, since my aunt stared at me in open-mouthed consternation, “I’ve got to get over to the Still. Perfect Cindy never got around to soliciting any liqueurs.”
“For the breakfast?” demanded Gerda.
“The park clean-up crew, and the Dinner-in-the-Park,” I called over my shoulder. “The Still’s probably closing early for the holidays, so I’ve got to run. Why don’t you make a few more pie calls?” I added as I grabbed my purse and ducked out the door. It was already late afternoon. I’d have to hustle if I hoped to find Hugh Cartwright, the Still’s owner, on the premises.
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
I frowned. “So, with his death, she’ll inherit everything?” Absently, I scooped up a gray and white armful of Dagmar.
Gerda nodded. “Unless that sister of his has anything to say about it—but knowing Cindy, I’ll bet she made sure of his will. Oh, and don’t forget his insurance policy. I gather that’s a hefty one. Perfect Cindy will be a very wealthy widow.”
I stroked the soft fur. That gave Perfect Cindy, who enjoyed her money very much indeed, an excellent reason for murdering her husband before all his beautiful money escaped her.
Chapter Seven
“Why can’t people be at home the day before Thanksgiving?” I griped after leaving far too many messages on answering machines. “Of course, if I knew someone was about to call asking me to bake a dozen or so pies, I probably wouldn’t answer, either.”
Gerda looked up from the two she had just slid onto her oven’s center shelf. She had called one of the teenagers who helped out in her shop to cover for her while she baked, and the girl had been delighted at the chance to earn a little extra Christmas money by working that afternoon. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Why wouldn’t everyone want to help? It’s fun.”
I paused in my dialing of the next number, then just shook my head and continued. The entire board of the SCOURGEs was like that—if they were behind a cause or an event, they simply couldn’t understand that the rest of the town might regard it with horror. And it was no good trying to disillusion them, either. I’d tried that before, and they just stared at me blankly, then laughed as if I’d told them a joke.
“I know poor Nancy Fairfield isn’t feeling well,” Gerda went on, “but I’m sure Adam will bake a few for you. It’s not as if it’s any trouble, after all. He’d just have to pour the defrosted mix into a pie shell.”
“I’ll put you down for another ten, then. I’d hate to deprive you of the fun.” I hung up—someone had had the sense to disconnect their answering machine, undoubtedly in anticipation of my call. I’d try them again later. “Right now,” I added, since my aunt stared at me in open-mouthed consternation, “I’ve got to get over to the Still. Perfect Cindy never got around to soliciting any liqueurs.”
“For the breakfast?” demanded Gerda.
“The park clean-up crew, and the Dinner-in-the-Park,” I called over my shoulder. “The Still’s probably closing early for the holidays, so I’ve got to run. Why don’t you make a few more pie calls?” I added as I grabbed my purse and ducked out the door. It was already late afternoon. I’d have to hustle if I hoped to find Hugh Cartwright, the Still’s owner, on the premises.
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
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