Lick Your Neighbor (14 page)

2
The Lost Art of Turkey Cookery

Andie ran out of the house to meet her husband as the battered, egg-covered station wagon rattled into the driveway. Dale was out of the car before it even stopped rolling and ran to embrace her.

With his eyes closed Dale crouched down and squeezed his wife tight around the waist, with his head on her stomach. If only he could somehow be absorbed into her body like a slice of peach suspended in Jell-O. Then Andie could deal with all this chaos while he slept comfortably inside her gelatinous warmth.

“I want to go back,” he said.

“Back where?” Andie asked.

“Back into the womb. Let me in.”

“Wrong womb.”

“It’ll do.”

“What happened out there?”

“Ninjas happened,” Randy said, as he struggled to crawl onto the hood of the car.

“Be serious. This is no time for jokes.”

Dale looked up at Andie. “He is being serious.”

With one hard tug, Randy pulled the sword out from the roof, nearly falling off the car as it came free. After he regained his balance, Randy held the sword high and said, “Whoso pulleth out this sword from this Oldsmobile is rightwise king, born of Duxbury.”

“Dale, what the hell is going on?”

Dale let go of Andie and took a deep breath. “There’s no time to explain. Actually, there is no explanation. Where’s Mayflower?”

“By the tree. I went out to make sure those cops took down the noose, and there he was.”

Randy lost his footing and slid off the car roof, nearly impaling himself on the sword when he hit the ground. He popped up quickly as if nothing happened and said, “Don’t worry, sis. We’ll take care of it.”

“Are you coming with us?” Dale asked.

“Oh no.” Andie slowly backed up toward the house. “The backyard is dead to me.”

Randy lead the way as he and Dale crept along the side of the house. Randy held the sword out in front of him, ready to deliver a hit, a very palpable hit, to anything that crossed their path.

“Why are we being so stealthy?” Dale whispered. “He’s dead.”

“While it is true that the dead usually don’t attack the living, it is also true that sometimes, when you least expect it, they do.”

“What?”

“Zombies.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“This is ridiculous,” Dale huffed.

“Are you telling me that after what you saw today that you believe, with utmost certainty, that there isn’t a zombie Mayflower shuffling around your backyard right now? Close your eyes. Close them! Good. Now imagine your yard. What do you see? You see a shed. You see a tree. You see some leaves on the ground. You see a noose. And you see zombie Mayflower staggering around, don’t you? Don’t you!”

“Oh God I do!”

“And what’s he doing?”

“Well, he
was
twirling around and spraying blood out of his mouth like a sprinkler. But now he’s doing a reverse crab walk.”

“And how does that make you
feel
, Dale?”

“Like you should go first.”

With the sword leading the way, Randy and Dale crept around the side of the house and the tree came into view.

As promised, Mayflower’s body was on the ground, leaning limply against the tree. It sat behind the tree, facing away from the house, making it barely visible from where Dale and Randy stood. All they could see was an arm and a leg poking out from behind the tree, but that was enough for Dale.

“So that’s what a dead body looks like. Huh. Fascinating. Welp, I’m outta here.”

“We should get a closer look,” Randy said, grabbing Dale by the arm. “There could be clues.”

“I thought that dead men tell no tales?”

“From this distance we can’t even be sure that he is dead. For all we know he could lying over there with blood spurting out of his eyeballs and in need of assistance. Ready?”

“No.”

Randy pulled a flask out from his jacket. “Me neither. But this will help.”

Randy took a swig and handed the flask to Dale, who sniffed the bottle and had the sensation that his nose hairs were smoldering. Some of them, in fact, were.

“What is this stuff?”

“Bathtub gin.”

“You made it in your filthy bathtub?”

“Of course not,” Randy said, “My bathtub leaks, it would never work. That’s just what it’s called.”

“Fine.”

Dale took in a big mouthful of the gin.

“I made it in the toilet.”

Dale choked as the gin went down his throat, leaving a path of lava-like destruction. “Goddamn you,” he sputtered, “I’ll bury you. I swear I will.”

“Relax. I cleaned the toilet first. With bleach. And no, I didn’t use the toilet when the gin was in there.”

“Where did you piss and shit?”

“In the bathtub of course.”

“Great.”

Randy took another swig. “Onward.”

Randy pointed the sword at the tree and crept slowly forward. Dale followed behind him, so close that he might as well have been riding piggyback.

When they reached the tree, Randy stuck his foot out and tapped Mayflower’s arm once. No response. He tapped twice, this time harder. Nothing. He hauled off and kicked the crap out of the arm over and over again.

“Stop it!” Dale yelled. “He’s obviously dead.”

“Right, right. Of course.”

Randy gave him one more swift kick just to be sure.

“Yep, he’s dead.”

They walked around to the other side of the tree for a full view of the body. Dale and Randy instantly knew what was wrong with Mayflower. He was missing something.

“His head,” Dale said.

Randy crossed himself. “Saint Basil pray for us.”

Dale quickly looked down, away from the blood-soaked opening where the head used to be. But that was a mistake, because then he found himself looking into Mayflower’s lap, which was where Mayflower’s hands carefully cradled his own severed head.

For some unknown and, frankly, disturbing reason, Mayflower’s last expression, forever frozen on his face, was one of pure, unbridled joy.

“Well, at least we know the cause of death,” Randy said.

Dale stumbled back and fell to the ground. “Why the hell is he smiling? He looks like a kid riding in a bumper car.”

Randy squatted down to examine the body. “It must have happened quick. Judging from his expression they probably snuck up on him from behind, when he was right in the middle of something truly wonderful. Form the looks of that grin I’m guessing he was engaged in the purest, simplest, and oldest form of love known to Man. Self love. Or ticklewigglejigglepickle, as the laymen call it. Lucky bastard. What a way to go.”

“Why would they dump the body here?” Dale asked.

“It’s either a threat, another set-up, or both.”

“No. No way. This is too much. No one’s going to believe I chopped a man’s head off.”

“They already believed you hung a turkey, Dale. And if there’s one thing man has no trouble believing in, it’s another man’s capacity for evil.”

Randy was right
, thought Dale. What would he tell the police if they questioned him? That four men with beaks killed Mayflower? The initial shock of seeing a corpse in his backyard faded, replaced by the realization that he was in serious trouble.

Randy placed his hand on Mayflower’s shoulder and said, “For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. May you cross over safely, and may you not come back to this world to eat my delicious brains as a zombie. Amen.” He then patted Mayflower’s chest, and– “What’s this now?”

Randy reached under Mayflower’s jacket, into the inner pocket, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book no bigger than his hand. The book’s binding was holding on for dear life to the stained yellow pages.

Randy flipped open to the title page.

The Art of Turkey Cookery:
Made PLAIN and EASY
which far exceeds any Thing of the Kind ever yet Published
BY A LADY

By Desire Minter

“Why would Mayflower be carrying around a turkey cookbook?”

Dale, still lost in thought, muttered to himself. “Maybe he was killed early this morning. I was in jail, and then at work, so I have an alibi.”

Randy put the book into his own jacket pocket and took a close look at the spot where Mayflower’s head used to sit. The wound looked very fresh. “This was a recent kill.”

“So the only alibi I have is you and four guys with beaks. I’m cooked.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I want to check something.”

Dale handed Randy his phone.

“What’s the number for Duxbury Elementary?”

“It’s in my contacts.”

Randy dialed.

“Hello, can I speak with Mr. Jenkins please? Mayflower Jenkins.”

“I’m sorry but he’s not here today. Can I take a message?”

“This is, uh, his brother calling.” Randy winked at Dale. “Do you know where he is? I’m desperate to reach him and he’s not at home. We’ve, uh, had a death in the family.”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, he called in this morning and said he couldn’t make it in today to give his annual Thanksgiving talk to the kids. Said he had an urgent meeting with Dale Alden, one of the parents here at the school. In fact I’m looking at the Alden boy right now out the window. He’s wearing a turkey costume and he appears to be pretending to die in super slow motion. It’s really quite dramatic.”

“I see. Did Mayflower say anything else?”

“I believe he mentioned something about a sword. Oh yes, I remember now. Mr. Alden stole a very valuable sword, a collector’s item, from Dr. Jenkins, and he was going to get it back.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yep. Dr. Jenkins was very upset about it all. He said that Mr. Alden had been acting funny lately, and Mr. Jenkins was worried that Alden would use the sword for no good. I do hope this Alden character doesn’t give Mr. Jenkins a hard time.”

“Me neither. Thank you for your time.”

Randy hung up.

“What?” Dale asked. ”What did they say?”

“Mayflower didn’t go to the school today. He called in and said that you stole a sword from him and that he was going to go get it back from you.”

“
What
? Why the hell would he lie?”

“Maybe someone forced him to make the call. You’d say a lot of things if you had a sword to your throat.”

Dale’s eyes went wide. “The Assassins. They planted that sword on us. That’s what they were after. They didn’t want to kill me at all. They wanted to frame me for Mayflower’s murder. Just like they framed me for Gus! Give me the phone.”

“Who are you going to call?”

“The police. I’m reporting this. If they want to arrest me, so be it. I’ll take my chances with the criminal justice system.”

Randy held the phone back. “You’re a fool. The police will look for the simplest, most logical explanation. And right now that’s you, not mysterious enemy ninjas with beaks.”

“They don’t have witnesses, so it’s all just hearsay anyway. Give me the damn phone.”

“No. We need to get to the bottom of this Auwaog thing. It’s your only hope to seal the chaos crack.”

“Are you nuts? Look at what happened to the guy who started messing around with all this stuff in the first place. His head is in his lap, Randy! And the only reason why I’m still alive is because I don’t know anything about this Auwaog stuff. So I’ll keep my ignorance, thank you very much, and my head too.”

“I see.” Randy squinted his eyes and stroked his chin.

“So what you’re saying is that the pleasures of ignorance are as great, in their way, as the pleasures of knowledge?”

“You’re quoting someone. You know how I know? Because what you just said was intelligent, and you, are an imbecile.”

“It’s all right, Dale. I understand. You’re afraid to go through the looking glass. Well, have fun rotting in jail with the rest of the ignorant cowards in this country.” Randy turned and walked away.

Every man has a snapping point. For some, it lies after eighteen straight hours of relentless police interrogation. For Dale, that point lay just north of finding a turkey and an old man murdered in his backyard and a brother-in-law calling him a coward.

“Fine!”

Randy turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Fine what?”

Dale giggled unnvervingly. “Fine, lets get to the bottom of this.”

“Good man. Glad to have you back on the side of knowledge and reason and holy crap!”

Dale was holding Mayflower’s severed head up to his face by the hair. “I have an idea. Why don’t we just ask Mayflower himself? Problem solved! Hey! Wake up! Rise and shine, asshole! My dickhead brother-in-law here and I have a few questions for you. Question number one. What the hell did you get me mixed up in? Answer me! Answer me you son-of-a-bitch!”