Murder Talks Turkey (11 page)

__________

Grandma Johnson had her chompers around a piece of Trenary toast when George and I came inside. Dickey sat next to her, bleeding cat hair all over my kitchen chair. I’m allergic to cat dander. Or maybe it was Dickey himself who caused my attacks.

“Make it quick,” I said to him. “I’ll start sneezing soon.”

He knew that, because it happened every time he came too close in a confined area. You’d think he’d wear something other than that hair-attracting green suit when we had to deal with each other.

“You’re allergic to that no-good, rabid dog of yours,” Grandma said, dunking the toast in her coffee cup and glaring at Fred, who stayed calm through her tirade. He stretched out by the door, close to a fast route of escape. The only sign that he heard was a flick in his left ear.

I handed Grandma a piece of taffy. Her eyes lit up. That should keep her quiet.

“Let’s hear what you have to report,” Dickey said to me. “I spoke with Kitty this morning. She said to come see you.”

I poured coffee refills for everyone and launched into my story about the Orange Gang and about running into Angie Gates at the Gladstone Beach.

“I’m a witness to that,” Grandma said, stiffly around the taffy. “Don’t forget.”

“My mother-in-law saw Angie run away from me,” I agreed. “That’s when the orange sneaker washed up on shore.”

“Are you alleging that the bank teller was involved in the robbery and homicides?” Dickey said.

Why was I bothering with Dickey Snell? He had plenty of book learning, but zero street-smarts. The proof is in the pudding, as Grandma says. Our acting detective was on the premises with his flock of turkey-brained assistants when the robber was killed. Murdered right in front of him and about twenty other locals. What does that tell you about Stonely’s law enforcement officer’s ability to protect its residents?

“Pretty obvious that she’s part of it, don’t you think?” I commented. “I should have had Fred along on the beach. He would have brought her back instead of letting her disappear.”

Dickey’s ears perked up along with Fred’s. “What makes you think she’s disappeared?”

“No reason.” The last thing I wanted Dickey to know was that we had been inside Angie’s house. “Just pondering out loud.”

“Gertie and those two no-good friends of hers broke into a house last night,” Grandma said, after spitting the ball of chewed-up taffy into the palm of her hand. “I heard them plotting on the telephone. Look at what I have to put up with! Living with criminals. And that dog!” She sucked the taffy back into her mouth.

“Why don’t I help you to your room?” George said to her. “I can see you need a little rest.”

I held my breath, hoping Dickey wouldn’t pursue her accusation. A quick glance his way told me he wasn’t paying attention. Grandma’s crabbing can close off anybody’s ears.

She grunted, but got up on her spindly legs and let George take her arm. “At least we have one kind heart around here,” she said as they walked slowly down the hall. “Watch that animal when you come back down the hallway by yourself, George. He’s vicious. Deputy Snell should take him away before he maims some little kid.”

She stopped abruptly. I could see George trying to get her started again, but she shook him off and turned around. “I forgot something important.”

“What’s that?” I made the mistake of saying.

“I’m not talking to you. Sheriff Snell, listen up. I’m speaking to you, son.”

Dickey blinked to attention.

Grandma shot a look my way. “You’ll find something interesting,” she said, “buried in fancy pants Kitty’s compost heap. I’m pretty sure it’s your murder weapon.”

We stared at her.

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I heard them plotting away right here in my kitchen.”

That was the last straw.

When I had more time, I planned to dig a hole in the backyard just the right size and plant a crab tree over the shriveled remains of one old nasty biddy.

Chapter 15

DICKEY SCRUNCHED HIS NOSE AND pulled away the worn piece of carpet that Kitty had placed over the compost heap to help retain heat and speed up the compost process. No-Neck Sheedlo, his partner, planted his wrestler-sized bulk right behind me and crossed his arms. When I looked back at him, he gave me a warning stare.

Go figure. Like they thought I was dangerous! The air was nippy, with the smell of possible rain or sleet, depending on which way the temperature headed. I zipped my old hunting jacket and pulled up the collar.

Grandma’s pointed accusation of buried murder weapons had drawn out a curious group—the two local law enforcers, George, my traitorous mother-in-law, Kitty, me, and Fred, who ran back and forth behind No-Neck, aware that something was up and not liking it one bit.

“We need a pitchfork,” Dickey said to Kitty.

“Don’t have one,” she lied as smooth as hot oil in a frying pan, which was pretty much where we were at the moment. In the frying pan. “You’ll have to use your hands.”

“You do it,” Dickey said to No-Neck, who shook his head violently.

“I’m pulling rank,” Dickey insisted while rank, rotten egg odor assaulted our sensory glands.

“No dice,” No-Neck said. “You can pull anything you want. I’m not doing it. Might be creatures living down there for all we know.”

Dickey scanned our group.

“Don’t look at me,” George said. “You’re the one who wants to wallow in muck.”

“I told you,” I said to Kitty after analyzing the murky mess. “You need something to sop up the water. It’s out of balance.”

Dickey threw the chunk of carpet down on the ground and rolled up his sleeves.

“Remember those compost worms you gave me for my birthday,” Kitty said to me. “Wait till you see how big they got. Like snakes.”

I stifled a chuckle at that. Worms turn food waste into rich soil. But you need a special kind. Night crawlers won’t do it. They have to be red wiggler worms. None of them grow as big as a reptile.

But Dickey didn’t know that. He hesitated.

“With a compost heap like this,” Grandma said to Kitty, “you should be ashamed to call yourself a Yooper.”

From the look on my friend’s face, I knew she’d pitch right in and help me bury Grandma when I shared my idea with her. Kitty, though, might want to throw her in the hole alive.

Dickey dug in, making a face when his hand sunk into the mire. His arm went down and down until even his rolled-up sleeve sunk out of sight. Kitty had really buried the thing deep. When he hit pay dirt I could tell by the gloating expression on his face.

The rest of us looked on with disgust written all over us.

He pulled up a dripping, muddy bundle, managing to dip his knee in compost before he stood up.

I’d remained calm until now. The hunted look in my eyes must have warned George that I was about to attempt an escape through the backwoods, because he wrapped a comforting hand around mine and squeezed in reassurance.

In spite of all our denials of wrongdoing, Kitty and I ended up on the wrong side of the jailhouse bars, arguing about whose fault it was. We arrived at the obvious conclusion—it was the killer’s fault and if we could weasel out of here, we’d hunt him down like the rabid skunk he was and haul him in, dead or alive.

George had gone off with Fred to figure out how to get us released, but his chances of success on a Sunday were slim to none. He also had the dubious pleasure of driving Grandma to her final destination.

“Don’t take her back to my house,” I’d raged right in front of her. “Give the battle axe to Mary and Blaze. She’ll never step foot in my home again. Let her destroy their lives for awhile.”

Grandma boo-hooed into her embroidered hanky, but I didn’t let her get to me. I had handcuffs on at the time and wasn’t feeling overly generous.

“Obstructing justice at the very least,” Dickey said, shaking his know-it-all weasel head from the other side of the jail bars. “Murder one at the most.”

“You have no right to hold me,” I said for the umpteenth time. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“Me either,” Kitty chimed in.

Dickey turned to No-Neck. “Let’s bring in Blaze and hear what he has to say. That was his firearm they buried.”

While Dickey and No-Neck were gone, Kitty and I tried to escape through the ceiling tiles like we’d seen on television, but our efforts were wasted. In the movies the keys to the jail cell would be left dangling a distance away and a dog would bring them over. In our case, there wasn’t a key in sight and Fred was with George anyway.

By the time Blaze walked into the jail with Dickey right behind him, we’d exhausted all means of escape but had come up with a workable plan, as unsavory as it was.

We were going to give up an innocent man to protect the multitudes. My son had pulled fast ones on me more than once or twice, but I couldn’t help feeling like a big smelly rat. Hopefully, the end would justify the means. I kept reminding myself that Blaze was used to jail bars from the free side. He most likely wouldn’t mind sitting tight on the other side for a day or two.

Our idea was to convince Dickey that we had been covering for my son, that his mental illness had something to do with the parking lot murder.

As it was, Blaze helped out without even knowing about our covert plan to finger him.

“Ma!” he exclaimed when he saw me behind bars. He whirled on Dickey. “Release her right this minute. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” Dickey said.

Blaze fixed him with a glare.

“Where’s Mary?” I wanted to know, relieved that Blaze’s wife wouldn’t have to witness the shameful actions I planned next.

“Grandma Johnson showed up at our house,” Blaze said.

“The poor old lady is distraught,” Dickey said. “She’s been evicted from her own home. Mary’s trying to calm her down. She has her hands full, so Deputy Sheedlo stayed to help her.”

Kitty watched me closely for a signal and I understood that it was up to me; it was my family and she wasn’t about to make the first move. What I wanted to do was give Dickey another sample of Blaze’s mental state then …I couldn’t think about it anymore, or I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

“Blaze,” I said, with shifting eyes, so he knew I was talking around the others. “It’s here.” I pointed my head and eyes at Dickey. “Your fortune. He’s had it all along.”

“My money?” Blaze turned red.

“And your Glock.” I put on the finishing touch.

“You have my weapon?” Blaze roared at Dickey, jabbing an angry finger at him. “I knew it was you, stealing my stuff. Give everything back. Where’s my Glock?”

His eyes swung to the desk where the evidence bag lay. He had that far away look he gets when he relives his war. Once he enters his own private universe, it’s hard to call him back. Before I knew it, he lunged for Dickey’s sidearm.

I hadn’t seen that coming. I expected to implicate Blaze in the dead guy’s murder and get either Kitty or myself released, so we could track the killer down as fast as possible and save the other two. Things weren’t going as planned.

Blaze was fast for a big man. He had Dickey weaponless with his hands in the air in no time at all. “Throw me the keys,” he hissed at him, never taking his cop-trained eyes off of Dickey. “Nice and slow. One-handed. Don’t make me use this.”

Before we knew it, the tables had turned. Dickey was behind bars, Blaze was searching for his millions, and Kitty and I had commandeered Dickey’s sheriff’s truck.

“Now what?” Kitty shouted from the shotgun seat. “We’re in big trouble. We just broke out of jail and stole a law enforcement vehicle.”

“We’ll ditch the truck,” I said, making things up as we went along. My investigation service was good training for what lay ahead. “Don’t touch any thing. We’ll wipe it down and deny we ever took it.”

“What will Dickey do to Blaze?”

“Let’s stop at my house and pick up supplies,” I punted. “Then we’ll call Mary. She’s good at negotiation, she’ll figure it out. By the time she talks Blaze back from the war zone, we’ll be good and gone.”

“I was supposed to start my new job,” Kitty said. “I can’t believe it. We’re in such big trouble.”

She said the same thing at least six times before we pulled into my driveway, scattering guineas every which way. Then I spotted Fred, which gave me a brief moment of pure joy. George must have dropped him off before driving off to save us from the jail. I hated the thought of trying to explain the latest circumstance to George, so I didn’t mind that he was gone.

Fred ran a cautionary loop around us, dodging hens, while I banged a hole in my barn with the front of Dickey’s trunk. Things weren’t going as planned. Not one bit.

Chapter 16

BEING ON THE RUN ISN’T as romantic as I used to imagine. For starters, we had to figure out where to go—someplace not too far away so we could still work the case, but not too close so we would stay out of jail. Cora Mae’s house was out as a place of refuge. So was almost everyone else’s that we knew. I couldn’t involve my baby Star or Red or Ed, who were trying to scrape by at the bar.

I considered taking Grandma as a negotiating tool and threatening to dispose of her if Dickey didn’t let Blaze go. But I’d rather drink Drano than spend three minutes with that evil woman.

I stuffed a suitcase with necessities in two seconds flat, then we raced by Kitty’s house for her belongings.

No sign of trouble so far, no law vehicles in sight. Blaze must still be holding Dickey in lockup.

We ended up on Walter Laakso’s rutty gravel road, kicking up dust with Fred riding between us. I dodged as many holes as possible but we still arrived a little rattled up inside.

Walter Laakso is suspicious of every single governmental body and totes a sawed-off shotgun filled with buckshot. That’s why his place would be the perfect hideout. He’s also nearsighted, so Kitty and I had to go through the standard ritual.