*     *     *     EXCERPT # 1     *     *     *

   The authorities. I had to call the sheriff. But I couldn't bring myself to reach over the body for the phone. Instead, I sidled around to the other side of the desk. This gave me the added disadvantage of a clear view of the man's face, with the open, staring eyes that no longer saw anything. His gray-flecked brown hair, I noted through a daze, remained impeccably styled. Clifford Brody, C.P.A., wouldn't even be caught dead other than perfectly groomed.

   Movement near the hardwood floor made me yelp. One of the cats, the calico Birgit, emboldened by my presence, slunk into the room. I shooed her out, then succumbed to a craven impulse and followed, closing the door firmly behind me. I'd call from another phone. Preferably one at the other end of the house.

   I made it down the hall, through the living room, past the dining room door, and into the country kitchen redolent of herbs. Only a few steps from the royal blue wall phone my knees collapsed, dumping me onto one of the brightly painted wooden chairs set around the ancient pine table. I could use a stiff drink. Aunt Gerda would recommend strong tea, with something for nerves, like oat straw, in it. Call first, I ordered myself. Then I'd search out my aunt's chocolate stash.

   I hauled myself to the phone and punched in from memory the number for the Merit County sheriff's office, then clutched the receiver, trying to order my mind. I couldn't stammer out the incherent gibberish that currently filled my head. Not if I wanted anyone to understand me. Dagmar, the gray and white tabby, wound herself around my ankles, and as the phone rang, I scooped the cat into my arm and cradled her there for comfort. Mine, not hers. She squirmed at the tightness of my hold, and I settled her more contentedly against my shoulder.

   A bright, familiar woman's voice answered with an encouraging, "Sheriff's office."

   Deep breath. "This is Annike McKinley, at--"

   "Annike? Hi, it's Jennifer. Been a long time. You home for Thanksgiving?"

   "Jennifer," I repeated. The woman had been answering the phone twelve years ago, when I first met Tom McKinley, who already had been the county sheriff for five years. Who probably still would be if he hadn't gotten in the way of that bullet during a drug bust seven years ago. Jennifer, who'd been at our wedding, and who'd accompanied the deputy sheriff when he'd come to break the news to me of Tom's death.

   "Are you going to stop by for a visit?" Jennifer's voice sounded cheerfully over the line. "We've got a new guy here, just took over when Sheriff Guzman retired last month. Love to hear your opinion of him. He's--"

   "Jennifer," I managed to break in. "We've got someone--I mean, we've got a body--"

   "Don't tell me, there's a carcass in your kitchen. Someone murdered a turkey, right?"

   "No, an accountant." Except in the case of Clifford Brody, the point could be argued that he was both.

   "An..." Jennifer broke off. "No, don't tell me. Now, why," she muttered, "would a turkey be called an accountant? No, don't spoil it, let me guess the joke."

   "No joke. Listen, I'm serious. It's Clifford Brody. He's dead. And he's here, in my aunt's house."

   "Brody? God, Annike, are you serious? He's dead? Really?" She exhaled in a ragged breath. "Who am I going to get to do my taxes this year?"

*     *     *     EXCERPT # 2     *     *     *    

    An engine sounded in the driveway, and I tensed, to the annoyance of the beasties. Had the sheriff been out on patrol nearby? I waited, listening, and the rumble of the garage door reached me. Aunt Gerda. Thank God, she was back. I rose, dislodging Dagmar and Clumsy, and ran for the front door.

   The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Noises drifted up, of the garage closing, of a car door slamming, then the safety stair light switched on, revealing Gerda's tall figure, wrapped in a purple wool cape. She started up the steps. 

   "Aunt Gerda--" My relief at seeing her faded beneath my need to warn her, not to let her walk in on the horror that waited.

   Gerda waved. "You're home early, dear. What a delight to find Freya in the garage. How did you get away so soon?" She reached the landing and spun about, swirling the damp wool of her cape. "What do you think? I cut if off the loom only three days ago."

   "Great. Get inside, it's starting to rain harder, again. There's...there's a bit of a problem."

   Aunt Gerda stopped one stair below me. Feathers of faded blonde hair emerged from beneath a knitted tam of handspun purple wool. Her blue eyes sparkled as she fixed me with an accusing gaze. "You've lost your job."

   "No. That is, yes, I quit. But that's not what I'm talking about. It's--"

   "You quit? You mean you have another job all lined up? You didn't just walk out, did you?"

   "Yes, I just walked out. I tried to hold on, but--"

   Aunt Gerda sniffed. "You always act before you think, that's your problem. Honestly, a widow of thirty-nine should be beyond throwing temper tantrums. What were you planning on doing with yourself? How will you keep Vilhelm in seed treats and cuttle bones? Well, you'll just have to move back here,won't you?" She mounted the last step and enveloped me in a welcoming hug.

   I returned it with fervor. "Aunt Gerda," I tried once more, only to break off. How did you tell your beloved aunt there was a dead body in her study? One complete with her letter opener rammed through its chest, at that? It wasn't something you just blurted out.

   Gerda pulled back, a gleam lighting her eyes. She lowered her voice. "Maybe it's all for the best. Why don't you set up as a rival to Brody? You're a C.P.A. every bit as much as he is." She led the way into the house. "We'll all be glad to have someone honest and trustworthy for a change. Take a stab at him!"

   I blanched. My throat got a stranglehold on my voice and refused to let it out. Numbly, I accepted the canvas shopping bag Aunt Gerda thrust at me. I checked inside automatically and headed for the kitchen to put away the giant bottle of vanilla, its sole contents. "Funny...funny you should put it that way," I managed at last.

     Gerda paused in the dining room while she dragged off the tam, then fluffed her mangled curls. "I can promise you my business, for one," she continued, her voice still hushed with conspiracy. "And just about everyone else in town will be only too glad to switch over, you'll see." She cast a frowning glance toward the living room and the hall beyond. "I suppose he had to call someone for a ride home. Now I'll have to apologize, but I honestly didn't mean to be gone so long. He is gone, isn't he?"

   "In a manner of speaking." I closed the cupboard. I had to tell her. I drew a deep breath and searched for words gentle enough to break such a terrible shock.

   Gerda trailed me into the kitchen, unfastening the single button at the throat of her cloak. She swept it off and draped it over one of the painted chairs where it could drip onto the hand-loomed rag rug that covered the hardwood floor. She stared at me, her brow creased. "Something's troubling you." She pushed me onto one of the chairs, then settled herself on the other side of the old pine table. "Out with it. What's the matter?"

   I swallowed. "It's Brody. He--" I broke off, startled as Gerda flushed.

   "Did he take my papers away with him?" she demanded. "The nerve of that man! I specifically told him not to. When I get my hands on him..."

   "He's dead." Oh, damn, exactly the way I hadn't wanted to let it out.

   "You bet he is. Just as soon as--"

   "I mean..." I swallowed again. "I mean he already is."

   Aunt Gerda froze, then blinked at me. "Dead? You mean as in...dead? No longer among the living? Funeral time?"

   I nodded. "Funeral time."

*     *     *     EXCERPT # 3     *     *     *

   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 this 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 cliche, 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? Doctor 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 blined. "Of 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."

   "Unless you want to count the school, library, and post office," I offered without looking up from the second pot of tea I prepared. "That makes three more."

   "Thank you, Ms. McKinley. I'm sure I couldn't have figured that out on my own. Now, Ms. Lundquist," he turned back to Gerda, "I just want to make sure I have a few basic facts straight. The victim came here, to your house, at your invitation? So you did know he was here. But then you went out and left him alone?"

   "Yes, but..." Gerda's face drained of blood.

   "I'm just trying to get an overall picture." The sheriff leaned forward, folding his hands on the table and fixing her with a compelling smile. "Why don't we begin with why you asked him to come over, and why you then left."

   "Why I..." As abruptly as Gerda had blanched, stormy color now surged into her cheeks. "You don't believe I did go out! You think I stayed right here and murdered him! You're actually accusing me! Annike, I told you this was going to happen!"

   Sarkisian's eyebrows rose. "That's a pretty strong reaction to a simple question, Ms. Lundquist." His tone invited an explanation.

   Her flush deepened. "I do not have a guilty conscience, so quit implying that I do."

   "Oh, I rarely need to imply anything," the sheriff assured her with a misleadingly gentle smile. "I let people do that for themselves."

   And that, finally and thankfully, rendered my aunt speechless.

*     *     *     EXCERPT # 4     *     *     *

   Before he could voice his next question, lights flashed through the big front window as a car swerved around the curve in the drive. Owen Sarkisian rose, strode into the living room, and pulled back the curtain. "Light-colored four-door sedan," he called over his shoulder. "Old Pontiac, I think." He watched a few seconds longer. "Woman getting out. Short curly hair, it looks like."

   "Peggy," Gerda announced. "That's Margaret O'Shaughnessy. She's my nearest neighbor. You'd have passed her driveway about a quarter mile down the road."

   Sarkisian looked back at Gerda. "You expecting her?"

   "No, but we're always dropping in on each other."

   Light footsteps hurried up the outside steps, and Sarkissian crossed to the front door and swung it open. A moment later, Peggy O'Shaughnessy poked her thin, bird-like face inside, an anxious expression creasing her brow. She stared blankly at the sheriff through her huge wire-rimmed glasses, blinked, then her searching look slid past him.

   "Gerda?" Her voice rose, trilling like a reed flute. "What's going on? I heard the sirens. Are you all right? Annike? Oh, wonderful! We didn't expect you until tomorrow. That wasn't you arriving, was it?" She peered at Sheriff Sarkisian again. "With a young man?" she added, forever hopeful.

   I located an almost dry kitchen towel and presented it to Peggy. The little woman ran it over her flyaway mop of short permed hair, currently an improbable orange-red to hide the gray, then touched it gently to her face, careful not to smudge her makeup. She kicked off her running shoes in a corner, then padded into the kitchen in her bright chartreuse socks, hand-knit from one of Gerda's more outrageous dying and spinning jobs. Settling at the pine table across from her friend, she accepted the cup of tea Gerda proferred.

   "Well?" Peggy demanded. She turned to look at Sarkisian, who had followed her into the cozy room. "Oh." Her face fell. "Not a gentleman friend of Annike's. You're our new sheriff, I take it. What's happened? Did someone try to break in?"

   Sarkisian folded his arms. "You hear or see anything unusual during the last couple of hours? Loud noises? Cars racing past?"

   Peggy slid her glasses down her pointed nose and peered at him over the top. "Why?"

   Sarkisian closed his eyes for a pregnant moment. "Can't anyone just answer a simple question around here? Did you hear or see anything?"

   "Well," Peggy pointed out kindly, "if I knew what you had in mind, it might help."

   "Someone murdered Clifford Brody in my study while I was out," Gerda explained.

   Sarkisian glared at her. "If you don't mind, Ms. Lundquist..."

   "I'm just trying to move things along. There's no point in not telling her, is there?"

   "Maybe you'd like to drive down the middle of your main street shouting it through my loudspeaker," he suggested, exasperated.

   "Why on earth would I want to do any such thing?" Gerda shot back, her expression far too innocent. "Really, don't you think you ought to stop being so frivolous and set about finding out who murdered him?"