Murder Talks Turkey, page 8
I pulled over.
“Holy Cripes,” Cora Mae said. “The world’s gone black. Dang. What’s wrong?”
“Lights aren’t working,” I said even though it should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain.
Kitty lurched out on her side, and we walked to the front of the truck and stared at the headlights. I kicked the bumper, hoping to jar something back in place. Kitty pounded on the glass.
Cora Mae, our resident electrical engineer, stepped out in her high heels and said, “The bulbs must be burnt out.”
“All of them?” I said. “All the way around the truck?”
She nodded. “Do you have any spares?”
“Nobody carries spare light bulbs around. Besides, that’s not the problem.”
“We’ll have to finish the mission in the dark,” Kitty said. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.” Which was true. In the past, we’d evaded Blaze’s wrath plenty of times by dousing the lights.
“Yes,” I said. “But you were driving then. I’m night blind.”
And that’s how race car Kitty got control of my vehicle. You’d think I’d learn from past mistakes.
We blew through Trenary like a renegade tornado. Cora Mae had a grip on my lower arm so tight I thought her spiky fingernails might sever it from my body. Kitty yelled “yah hoo” when we turned left in the center of town and headed out past the cemetery.
I heard a siren. When I looked behind us I saw lights. None of the commotion was coming from my truck. “Cops,” I said. “Now look what you’ve done! Nothing like calling attention to the fact that our equipment isn’t working.”
“I bet I can outrun him,” Kitty said, but I was ready for her. I held the stun gun up and turned it on. The faint hum convinced her that I meant business. She pulled over. “I’m getting a ticket for sure,” she said. “You should let me outrun him.”
“No way. And you’re the only one in the truck with a valid driver’s license,” I observed.
The state trooper sat in his car for a while before he opened his door and slowly walked up to the Trouble Buster. That gave me plenty of time to stash my illegal weapon on the floor. Stun guns, I’ve been told, are frowned upon by Michigan’s legal system.
Fred, riding in back, recognized the uniform approaching. The traitor wagged his tail in either recognition of a fellow public servant or in gratitude for stopping Kitty and saving our lives.
“In a big hurry?” the trooper said to Kitty, who handed over her driver’s license without being asked.
“I have a female problem,” Kitty said. “I need to find a bathroom right this minute.” Her voice went up a few octaves to let the cop know she was desperate.
“Stay where you are.” He went back to his car with her license.
“That didn’t work,” Cora Mae said. “What next? Should I hit on him?”
“Let’s see what he says first,” I suggested.
The state trooper ambled back to the truck, unconcerned with Kitty’s demanding bodily functions.
“Turn on the vehicle’s lights,” he ordered.
Kitty tried. Nothing.
“Thirty over.” He scribbled something on a pad of paper. “Faulty equipment, unregistered license plate.”
“This is my truck,” I said to prove him wrong in at least one area. “And those are my late husband’s license plates.”
“The plates are registered to another vehicle.”
“That would be the truck I rolled and totaled,” I told him.
“Plates have to be properly transferred.” He ripped off a sheet of paper and handed it to Kitty. He gave me a paper that said I had to go in and prove the lights were fixed. Then he handed me one for the plate switching problem.
“This is outrageous,” Kitty shouted after reading her ticket. “I’ll see you in court.”
“I’m going to follow behind you,” he said, ignoring her outburst. “I want the vehicle parked until the faulty lights are repaired and the truck is properly licensed.”
He sounded just like Blaze.
I expected Kitty to turn the Trouble Buster around and head home. She surprised me. “What’s Angie’s address?” she asked.
I directed her along, making a left turn on the other side of Trenary, with our personal escort right behind us.
Kitty pulled into a short driveway leading to a cracker-box house and turned off the truck. The state trooper eased past us.
The lights were on inside Angie’s house and all the shades were drawn.
We got out of the truck and waved to the cop when he made another pass.
With all the noise outside, I expected Angie to open the door and peek out. But she didn’t.
“What should we do?” Cora Mae whispered.
“Knock on the door,” Kitty said. She boldly marched up the two-step concrete porch and thumped.
Nothing.
Kitty tried the door. “Locked,” she said.
Fred jumped down from the bed of the truck and followed me to the back door, where I rapped twice before realizing the door jamb had been pried loose.
“We’re in,” I whispered to my partners, pulling the sleeve of my hunting jacket down around my fist and opening the door through the cloth. “Don’t touch anything.” I cautiously walked in, listening for sounds, but an empty house has a certain feel to it and this one was empty for sure. Angie and whoever had pried the back door lock were gone.
The ex-teller wasn’t a great housekeeper, but she didn’t have much to work with. Every yellowed shade in the house was pulled down. Every light was blazing brightly. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, the bed in the only bedroom was unmade, strands of hair coated the bathroom counter.
“Angie’s moving out,” Kitty said, eyeing up several cardboard boxes lined up along the bedroom wall.
“She was moving in,” Cora Mae said. “That’s what I heard. She’s new to these parts. What do you think, Gertie? Was she coming or going?”
I scanned the interior of the tiny bedroom closet, seeing a line of metal hangers like the ones used by dry cleaning businesses. A few hangers were thrown carelessly on the floor. Other than that, Angie’s closet was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
“Going,” I said with confidence, “in a hurry.”
“Or she would have turned off the lights,” Kitty said.
What I didn’t know for sure was whether or not her exit from her home had been voluntary. The jimmied door concerned me.
Angie Gates, I decided, was running with the wrong pack, a gang of Michigan predators. But whose side was she really on?
Chapter 14
Word For The Day
ADIPOSE (AD uh pohs’) adj.
Containing animal fat: fatty.
Alternate Word
PERT-NER(purt nir) Yooper phrase.
An approximation: not exact
IT SNOWED THROUGH THE NIGHT, just a light dusting but enough for our needs. I could smell the rich aroma of cedar as George and I set out from the house to take our first sauna together. Dry stones gathered from the Escanaba River popped and hissed when George ladled on more water from a scoop in a bucket.
He had built the sauna behind my barn in his spare time with his own hands, cutting cedar planks to just the right lengths and pounding the boards together until the sauna stood tall and ready for social gatherings.
This crisp Sunday morning was as good a time as any to break it in with the man who made it happen.
George peeled off his jeans while I searched the ceiling, pretending to study the “stud” work. Cora Mae would enjoy the pun later when I filled her in.
I wore a pair of Barney’s old sweatpants to cover my adipose thighs and a baggy T-shirt to hide my waistline bulge. When I sneaked a peek, George was pantless and in the process of unbuttoning his flannel shirt. The shirt was long enough to cover his fine buns, but not too long. I caught a glimpse of muscular, man-hairy legs.
What was I doing here watching George undress? What about my life-long commitment to Barney? My husband had visited me in my dreams last night, as he likes to do when I’m worrying about something. Keep on living, he’d whispered, life is short, embrace it and squeeze out every happy moment you can. I tried to get my arms around him, force him to stay with me, but he faded away in the early morning light.
“Are you sure you want to hold me to our agreement?” George said, grinning as he peeled off the shirt, exposing the rest of his body. I hoped if Barney was around, he couldn’t hear my thoughts, because my lifelong partner never, ever looked like this.
“The agreement,” George prodded, while my eyes wandered down to make sure he was holding up his end of the bargain.
I nodded, noting with relief that he wasn’t in his birthday suit. “Swim suits,” I sputtered. “That’s the rule.”
In the U.P. we like to take our saunas wearing nothing at all, except maybe a towel. That’s the old way, and custom is important to us. This morning, I was throwing tradition to the wind and hanging on to caution.
Saunas are an important part of our community. They are healthy for us in mind, body, and spirit. We sweat away impurities and increase our blood circulation without having to lift a finger. In fact, right this minute as George sat down beside me, my pulse went up a notch or two on its own.
“Well,” he said, arching a brow and smiling at me. “Now it’s your turn to get comfortable.”
I was afraid of that.
What was it with males? Had they no modesty at all? I’ve yet to hear of one who wouldn’t shed his clothes at the slightest suggestion.
“I’m feeling a little chilly,” I hedged, as steam rose from the stones and raw heat slapped me in the face.
How could I show him my body? Barney was the only man who ever saw me unclothed. He got to start viewing when I was young, when my body parts were all where they were supposed to be. No varicose veins, no strange little warty things cropping up like weeds, no flab, no gravitational pull reworking my torso.
I couldn’t even suck in my stomach any more, no matter how I tried.
And look at George! Other than a few wisps of gray at his temples, he had managed to maintain fighting trim. He hadn’t carried three babies to term either, I reminded myself. And if he couldn’t handle the sight of me, now was the time to find out.
I snuck another peek and saw him watching me with something new glimmering in his eyes.
“I won’t look,” he said, turning away.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I wore a black one-piece bathing suit under my clothes, one with a flouncy little skirt that Cora Mae said would hide my flaws somewhat. The sweatpants landed in a heap at my feet, joining my shoes and socks. I draped a towel around my middle and pulled my top over my head.
That’s when I saw George staring. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said softly.
I’m sure I blushed bright red, but the dry heat from the newly built sauna masked the embarrassment I was feeling. And I was feeling plenty.
By the time we ran out to roll in the tiny amount of snow on the ground, we were laughing like the old friends we were. And for a brief time, I forgot about Blaze’s medical condition and Grandma’s dementia and mean spirit. Temporarily I forgot about my widowhood and local murders and mayhem. I seized the moment.
____________________
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.
