Murder Talks Turkey Read online

  We are almost as tight as the black knit sweaters she likes to wear every since she discovered how great her boobs look in Wonderbras.

  I wiped around my eyes with the old towel and thought about the dead robber while Cora Mae worked the gooey mess into a lather on my head. I finished my doughnut.

  Cora Mae checked the dye, then snapped off the pair of latex gloves she wore. “There. Sit for awhile.” She poured more coffee for each of us. “Kitty called from Paradise. Her car broke down.”

  “She’s supposed to be following Tony Lento,” I said. “Our first paying job and she goes for a joyride? Unbelievable. Tell her to turn around and head home once she gets the Lincoln fixed. She beats that car to death with her crazy driving.”

  Lyla Lento had hired the Trouble Busters after her husband forgot to come home one night and couldn’t produce a plausible excuse. It was Kitty’s turn to tail him. Since Kitty was halfway across the state, he’d been loose without supervision for the entire morning.

  It’s tough being the boss.

  “She’s waiting for them to fix her car,” Cora Mae said. “The mechanic said it would be another hour or so. And for your information, she was following him.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “He was, right before she lost him?”

  “Did she call Lyla before taking off?” Tony Lento’s work took him out of town periodically. His wife had expressed reluctance to pay travel expenses.

  “Lyla told Kitty to stick with him this time.”

  The timer went off. I rinsed my hair and towel dried it. “Looks good,” I said putting a lot of compliment in my voice.

  Cora Mae humphed. “What are we getting paid for the Lento job? You’re very closed-mouthed about the fee. I have to think you don’t want to tell me.”

  “Of course we’re getting paid,” I said, dodging the question even though my friend would be ecstatic when she found out. However, Kitty might not be quite as enthusiastic if she learned that we were getting paid in trade. That meant free manicures for all three of us for one year at Lyla’s beauty salon.

  Since Kitty chews her nails down to the quick and mine chip and break, Cora Mae would be the only grateful beneficiary. But it was worth it for the referrals that were bound to come pouring in after we busted Lyla’s husband.

  “Tony Lento is one of Stonely’s finest upstanding citizens,” Cora Mae said. “Lyla must be going through her change. Tony would never cheat on her.”

  “Did you ever hear of a wolf in sheep’s clothing?” I replied. Tony was fortyish, a handsome man with a constant grin that said he knew how terrific he was and he wanted to spread his greatness around.

  “He’s never looked twice at me. That’s how I know.” Cora Mae is three years younger than me. At sixty-three she looks like a million bucks. She eats nothing but salads and wears slinky black pumps and tight tops that display her perky wonderbra-ed boobs. Every man in Tamarack County notices Cora Mae.

  “No way,” I said in disbelief. “He had to have.”

  “Not once.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never.”

  It was good to know that Cora Mae had one holdout. Two, if you counted George. But that sweet man was a daydream for another time. Right now we had work to do.

  I had to figure out how to reconnect with Tony Lento somehow. And Kitty would have to explain to his wife why she lost him. Until she returned from Paradise, I had time on my hands. I hopped into the Trouble Buster truck with Fred, dropped Cora Mae at her house, and headed for the jail. Hopefully, Dickey Snell had some answers by now.

  Chapter 3

  I KNOW TROUBLE WHEN I see it. Blaze’s family car was parked behind Ray’s General Store, next to the small jail building. My son hadn’t been cleared for driving yet. Our family didn’t know if he’d ever work again, let alone drive a vehicle. He hasn’t been the same since the day he woke up in the hospital’s ICU. After over a week on a respirator without blinking an eye, he’d beat the meningitis at its own deadly game. But he wasn’t the same man. His recovery was slower than the syrup dripping from a maple tree tapped before its time.

  Inside the jail, Blaze was hunkered over in a chair with a handheld radio tight between his hands. “I need backup,” he said into it, speaking in a whisper with his lips pressed against the transmitter.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. He didn’t even look up.

  The radio crackled and a voice said, “Who’s playing games on the emergency frequency? If you can’t state your position or your problem, get off.”

  “This is an emergency,” Blaze said. “I’m behind enemy lines. I need help getting out.”

  “Repeat. What’s your position?”

  “Blaze,” I said. “Give me the radio.”

  He noticed me for the first time. “Oh, Ma, you’re alive. Wait a minute. What are you doing here? There are enemy troops everywhere.” He clunked his head with a beefy palm. “Oh, Jesus, they captured you, too!”

  Blaze had that look in his eyes, the one he gets when his infected brain starts playing tricks on him. Meningitis, our family has learned the hard way, is one of the scariest diseases on the planet. If it doesn’t kill you outright, it robs you of your ability to distinguish between fact and fiction. Blaze spends part of every day in a different world, sliding through muddy fields on his belly, fighting for his life, and searching for a way to escape.

  That’s one of the reasons why his wife Mary stripped the house of weapons. It’s why I got a hold of his Glock.

  Blaze moaned like it was the end of the world, but he let me take the radio from him. I turned it off. “See those keys?” I pointed to his car keys lying on the desk on the other side of his big body. “Hand them to me. We’re going to bust out of here and Fred’s going to help.”

  “If they catch us, we’re dead.” His gaze slid to Fred, who was eye level with my seated son. “What the hell is that animal?”

  “You know Fred. He’s my dog.”

  Blaze scowled, searching his memory for clues.

  Just then, Dickey opened the jailhouse door. Fred has good instincts so he growled. Even showed enough incisor to cause Dickey to take a step back. I patted my dog on the head, praising him for his smarts. “Good Boy.”

  “Why does he have to growl at me?” Dickey wanted to know. “I used to own him.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” I pointed out.

  “Did any of them see you coming in?” Blaze said. “They’ll torture us if they find out.”

  Dickey glanced sharply at me.

  “We’re behind enemy lines,” I explained. My heart ached for my son. I hated to see him this way.

  “I need to talk to Dickey,” I said to Blaze. “Then we’ll go turkey hunting.” That was a lie, but it calmed him down. Yeah, right. Like I’d be caught dead out in the woods with him armed and mentally disabled.

  “You know I dislike being called Dickey,” Dickey said. “If you can’t address me properly and respectfully as Deputy Snell, at least refer to me as Dick.”

  “I wiped your hinder when you were a baby,” I reminded him. “You’ll always be Dickey to me.”

  “Hand me the twelve gauge shotgun on the rack,” Blaze said, pointing at the jail cell, which obviously didn’t include a line of firearms. “I’m going to polish it up before we go.”

  “Not right now, son.” I shifted my attention back to Dickey, who hung his hat on a hook and ran his hands through his hair. Dickey Snell was skinny as a pole, but he made up for it in strut. He had played cops and robbers since he was old enough to walk, and he took the job seriously. No monkey business. Rules and regulations were sacred, whether or not they made any sense.

  “You have to keep Blaze out of the office,” he said, watching Blaze fiddle with a ball of fuzz he’d picked off his sweater. “This is the fourth incident.”

  “It’s like home to him,” I said. “Lighten up. Did you figure out who the robber was?”

  “Kent Miller from the Soo.”

/>   “Our side of the water?”

  He nodded.

  Sault Ste Marie, or The Soo as we call it, is at the northeastern-most tip of the Michigan Upper Peninsula and is connected by a bridge to its twin city on the Canadian side. Pronounced Su Saint Marie (not Salt Sty Marie), its home to the Soo Locks and is located a good two, two and a half hours, from Stonely.

  “What else?” I asked.

  “His wallet was in his pants, he didn’t have any priors, and he was the worst bank robber I’ve ever seen.”

  As though Dickey had any experience with armed robbers. I could have yanked Dickey’s chain by saying that Miller was the worst robber, because the Stonely cops managed to catch him, but I kept quiet. I’m not one to cause a stir.

  “Who shot him?” I said after a reasonable time, when Dickey didn’t offer it up.

  Dickey straightened the lapels on his green jacket. “That’s yet to be ascertained. You’re the only one who witnessed the shooter.”

  “I was on the floor of the credit union,” I said. “The guy on the roof wore the same kind of clothes we all wear.” I glanced at Dickey’s Joe Friday clothes. “The same as most of us, anyway. Jeans, brown jacket with a big hood bunched up at the back of his neck, black gloves.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  I sighed and thought back. “He was across the street, too far away for facial details.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking. Let me think.” I snapped my fingers. “Okay, I know. He was wearing a black Kromer.”

  Dickey glared at me. “That’s your contribution? A Kromer? Everybody in the U.P. owns one.”

  I glared back. “You now have more information than you had before. You can’t even keep your deputies under control or you’d know who it was. You’re lucky to have what I just gave you.”

  “A Kromer.” Dickey shook his head.

  A Kromer is a special hat designed by George “Stormy” Kromer, a railroad engineer who lost his hat so many times he modified an old baseball cap with earbands that wrapped around the sides of the cap and tied in the front. In cold or windy conditions, the bands could be untied, wrapped around the ears, and tied under the chin. Michigan loggers and hunters have been wearing them for years.

  “Which one of your Keystone cops,” I fairly shouted at Dickey, “was wearing a Kromer?”

  “I’ll continue to interrogate residents until I find out.”

  Fred sat down on my foot. With a little effort, I pulled it out. “How’s the teller?”

  “An ambulance transported her to Escanaba. The hospital is keeping her overnight for observation. She’s the one who sounded the alarm.”

  This Kent Miller really was a dumb bank robber. Not only did he have identification in his pocket and orange sneakers on his feet, he left the teller behind the counter with the alarm button, and he filled his pillowcase with play money.

  “What’s the teller’s name,” I asked.

  “Confidential, Mrs. Johnson. This is official law enforcement work. Please take your son and your old dog home.”

  Fred stared at Dickey, and a soft but audible growl tickled his throat. What a dog!

  “I’d like to send flowers to the injured woman,” I punted. “I need her name to do that. If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to talk to someone in the emergency room.”

  Dickey pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it with a sigh. “Angie Gates,” he said.

  “The case is closed, right?” I asked. If Blaze had been well and handling the case, he’d be all done. The distant glare of retirement had blinded my son, and he put most of his energy into making it to the social security line without breaking a sweat.

  “An outside auditor is ascertaining the credit union’s cash. I demanded a full accounting. This investigation isn’t over until I have all the pertinent facts and feel comfortable with those facts.” I have to say this for him, he didn’t give up easily. There was more to learn than we knew at the moment. I was sure of it.

  Fred plopped his head on the desk, causing Blaze to leap from the chair. “Get me a rifle! There’s a bear in here.”

  “Time to go,” I said, steering Blaze out the door, to my truck, and coaxing him in. Fred rode in the back bed to keep my son from overreacting. We drove through our small town, headed south and turned, passing my house and following the gravel road that led to Blaze’s trailer home.

  His wife Mary was at the kitchen table, sobbing her eyes out.

  “What did they take?” Blaze demanded, when he saw her. “I knew it. The minute I turned my back. Did they get the money?”

  “I can’t take it one more minute,” Mary sputtered. “He wanders around day and night. I can’t keep track of him.”

  Blaze stormed down the hall.

  “He’ll be back in a minute,” she said, “telling us someone stole his money.”

  “Someone stole my five million dollars,” Blaze hollered.

  “I moved the hiding place,” Mary shouted back, then turned to me with sad, puppy dog eyes. “See? It was a mistake to bring him home so soon.”

  “He’s better than he was,” I said.

  “That’s not saying much.”

  “All you need is a good night’s sleep,” I suggested. “Why don’t you go visit your daughter at college? Go away for a few days and rest. I’ll take Blaze home with me.”

  What was I saying? I could hardly handle what I had, let alone watch over my son.

  Mary sniffed. “Really?” Her eyes shined with hope.

  “Go pack,” I said to her back end.

  She was already running down the hall.

  Chapter 4

  GRANDMA JOHNSON HAD ATTEMPTED TO heat up frozen pasties while I was gone. How many times have I asked her to stay out of the kitchen? A hundred times, at least, and that’s just this week.

  Grandma is my ninety-two-year-old mother-in-law. After Barney died, I went through a typical grieving process, starting with anger and moving slowly through despair. Two years later, I’m still angry with him for leaving me alone to deal with his mother.

  The worst part is, she moved in with me, and I can’t get rid of her. It’s still a mystery why she picked me, since we’ve never gotten along. Personally? I think she’s plotting to drive me insane.

  “’Bout time you showed up,” she snapped “The oven is broken.” She pointed at the dishwasher. “My pasties are wet and soggy. Ruined!”

  Grandma has been known to serve raw chicken to a table of guests. And she’s been known to blow out the stove’s pilot light and turn the burners on, causing deadly fumes to waft through the house. My home is going to explode one of these days, if I don’t get her into a nursing home.

  “I’ll fix it,” Blaze offered, bending and squinting at the dishwasher. “Where’s the chain saw?”

  “What are you doing here?” Grandma Johnson said. “I thought you were in a POW camp.”

  Barney’s mother has hardening of the brain arteries, just enough to be dangerous. The next several days of living with her and Blaze would be more exciting than I could possibly handle alone.

  “Cora Mae,” I said into the phone, after I had deposited the two kooks at the kitchen table with canned chicken noodle soup and saltines. Grandma was right for a change. The pasties hadn’t been dishwasher safe. They were ruined. “Can you come and stay with me? It’ll only be a couple days.”

  “Fat chance,” my best friend said. “I know you have Blaze over there.”

  “How did you find out so fast?”

  “Scanner. Blaze announced it over the airwaves.”

  I turned around and sure enough, he was in the next room on the radio, whispering coordinates to some imaginary ally. The police scanner Cora Mae gave me last year popped and crackled. We stopped talking on both ends of the phone line and listened in. I recognized Dickey Snell’s voice. He puffed and pontificated and coded this and ten-somethinged that. “That’s Blaze Johnson compromising the emergency channel again. Can someone remov
e him from the radio?”

  Once Cora Mae and I realized Dickey had nothing useful to say we went back to business.

  “I can’t come over,” Cora Mae continued, “but Kitty’s back and-

  “I’ll be right there,” I heard Kitty shout from Cora Mae’s side of the phone.

  Within minutes she was slamming through the front door. “Tony Lento got away from me this side of Paradise,” Kitty said, making herself at home at the kitchen table next to Grandma Johnson and Blaze, who had returned to his chair for more army rations.

  “Hell,” Blaze said, picking at a cracker.

  “No, I said Paradise,” Kitty answered.

  “I like Climax best,” Grandma Johnson said, forgetting her table manners. She giggled.

  “That’s under the bridge,” Kitty reminded her. “Quite a ways from Paradise.”

  “What was Tony doing in Paradise?” I asked.

  “Business, I guess. You’re next up to watch him. His wife says he’s going turkey hunting in the morning.”

  “Lyla took me over behind Bear Creek. He has a ground blind set up.”

  “Do you want company?”

  “I’ll manage as long as you can watch Blaze and Grandma.”

  “It must be icky for you, taking care of these two alone,” Kitty said, using the alternate word for the day, falling right into my trap.

  ____________________

  Icky!

  I laughed out loud all the way to Escanaba. Kitty and I were in a big-word contest. She had a way of infiltrating my word of the day notes to discover my next word and then flaunting her assumed superior vocabulary abilities in my face by using the word first. Or, she’d use a humungous word and expect me to challenge her with an even larger word.

  Those days are over. I made a “mistake” and left this week’s words where she could easily find them. However, she has her mitts the alternate list, which is nothing like the real word list. Icky was today’s alternate word.

  The last thing I said to her before I left her in charge of Blaze and Grandma was, “Boondoggle.”