Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery (4 page)

“Yeah, I know. We better find out who she was—beyond Gordon’s ex-wife. And if she was important enough to be missed. If she’s the mother of six and teaches the blind we are probably screwed even if we find the killer and carry out a public execution.” The Chief sounded gloomy. I also noticed that he used the word ‘we’. One likes to feel included, but not in media dealings.

“Mothers of six don’t have bodies like that. Nor do they drive Corvettes. Well, not as a rule,” I said trying to cheer him up. “And she married Gordon. For six whole weeks. If we’re lucky that will have put her off marriage altogether.”

Bryce grinned. The Chief wanted to, but he managed to stop himself.

“Rounds, Reagan, glove up and start checking the perimeter. Look for shell casings.” He waited until they had moved away and then spoke softly. “I want you there when I talk to Gordon. In fact, it might be best if you questioned him yourself. Officially.”

“Not for all the money on earth.” The insubordinate words came without thought. “He’s engaged to my cousin. If Althea thinks I’m pointing fingers at her fiancé a month before the wedding you’ll have another homicide on your hands. Besides, he is just starting to trust me. I’m likely to get more out of him if I stay in the background and listen sympathetically.”

The Chief pondered and ran a hand over Blue’s ears. He would probably have to question Gordon himself, though milking rattlesnakes would be more appealing. The others, however, couldn’t be trusted to do a thorough job though.

“Okay. For now. When does Alex arrive?” This was not polite chit-chat. Alex was a former cop and investigates cyber crimes. He has helped the department before. That the Chief knew he was coming was a bit of a surprise, but as I have mentioned, we are a small town and some of the guys gossiped.

“Tuesday.”

“Do you think he’d be interested in our problem?” Meaning was he willing to work without pay or public thanks.

“Probably. So long as it doesn’t get physical. He was not happy about what happened in San Francisco.”

“No one was,” the Chief said and patted my shoulder. I used to resent these shows of affection, taking them for condescension. Because I am quite short, a lot of people treat me like a child. But I had gotten used to the odd pat and understood the Chief used them when he didn’t know what to say to me. He felt a lot of guilt for letting me investigate a case when he had known there was the potential for danger. I didn’t blame him for what happened and had wanted to do it since we weren’t getting help from the other counties where suspicious deaths had occurred and it seemed the only chance to stop the killer before he struck again.

“We’ll get the medical examiner on this right away just to confirm that it was a twenty-two that killed her. Any thoughts on where to start looking for the gun?”

“I hope not,” I muttered, patting Blue on the head and starting for my car. It was my half day, but I now had plans for the afternoon so I was going home to bed to get what extra sleep I could.

Chapter 4

Monday brought unwelcome confirmation that a green rental car had been at the Motor Inn (but was now gone and the signature and address in the guest book were illegible) and that the bullet used to finally and permanently separate Gordon from his ex-wife was indeed a twenty-two. So, unable to put it off, I swung by Aunt Dorothy’s house on my lunch hour and bullied mom into showing me where Aunt Dot kept her gun.

The only problem with this plan—aside from upsetting my mother—was discovering that the gun appeared to be missing from the bedroom closet. For a moment I wondered if Mom was deliberately misleading me, but dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. My mother’s voice was throbbing with indignation that I would even think that Aunt Dot could shoot anyone and she was going to prove how wrong I was. Her shock at the empty space in the closet was real. If only that counted for something, but it didn’t. Because Aunt Dot wasn’t the one who was looking genuinely shocked, nor was Althea. And my aunt—unlike Mother—is an excellent marksman and has been known to take after squirrels and gophers and other ‘pests’ that bothered her garden, so I was not so fast to dismiss the idea that she might do something dumb to ensure her daughter’s happiness. Particularly if she suspected that Silly Gordon was responsible for the prank that had hurt Althea.

But I decided not to say this to Mom, who doesn’t like to admit that Althea came by her temper honestly. Instead I pointed out that everyone knew that Althea had an irritable disposition made worse by the stress of planning a wedding and that it would be proactive to rule out this possible suspicion before gossip began to spread and made her have a nervous breakdown.

Mom looked worried when I mentioned the gossip and she promised to speak to her sister about the gun when she got home from work.

Unable—or unwilling— to do more, I finished my half-shift and then, with shopping list in hand, headed for the grocery store. Murder had happened but Thanksgiving waits for no one.

The market is on Market Street. And if you are willing to risk a bad case of poison oak and a twisted ankle, you can hike down the embankment from my house into their parking lot. Mostly I take the road since my days for childish daring-do are long past. Especially when traveling in the opposite direction, laden with groceries and my elderly dog.

The market on Market is a kind of private co-op, so there aren’t any corporate policies that have to be obeyed. There are probably rules at the health department, but we get around them by slipping Blue into a service dog utility vest. The theory is that she is being trained to be placed with some disabled person.

The co-op shares a small boxy parking lot with four other businesses. Detra’s Dog Spa and Tanning to the west— I have always assumed the tanning was for people, not pooches, but have never actually inquired— Crunchy’s Salad Bar to the east, Dan’s Bath & Tackle—
Finest selection of bath salts and nightcrawlers in Hope Falls
to the south and on the north side, Bill Mason has a drive-thru carwash which is still operational though it has seen better days. On the tax rolls it is called, a bit unoriginally, Mason’s Carwash.  But the sign had blown away some time when I was in high school, during a fierce windstorm, and all that was left was a smaller red and white placard that said: WRONG WAY DO NOT ENTER. Not too surprisingly the place is now called Wrong Way’s. Blue likes the car wash because of the water, but she likes grocery shopping more, so I had no trouble persuading her that the car could remain dirty another day while we went shopping.

I grabbed a wagon and dropped in my canvas totes. The co-op uses old Radio Flyers instead of grocery carts, which are expensive and always being ‘borrowed’ by homeless people. We always cruise the meat aisle first. Tad is the butcher and he usually puts aside a bone or two for Blue.

Bone, bone, bone,
Blue began thinking as we headed for the back of the building. Sometimes I am almost psychic when it comes to understanding my dog.

“Okay, but we are here for other things too.” And since I didn’t like grocery shopping, even for Thanksgiving, I added: “I was thinking of stopping for dinner as a reward. At Mother’s. Would you like that?” I didn’t mean my mom’s place. Mother’s was short for Mother Lode’s, a diner that ran to old fashioned foods like meatloaf and liver and onion. Mother’s is located next to a place called Therapeuticals. It’s an aromatherapy store that sells massage oil and marijuana out the back room. I knew about that because friends told me about it back before I went to work for the police. I was not a customer, though I sympathized with those who were. Medical marijuana may have been theoretically available in places like San Francisco. In Hope Falls it was harder to come by. Dad had known what they did there and I suspected the current chief did too. We all turned a blind eye.

Blue panted an affirmative answer.

Mr. Jackman had made me a list of things to get for him. A lot of dishes he was preparing at home, including some kind of cranberry sauce with vodka. I did pick up the fixings for monkey bread, since Alex likes it and it was easy to prepare the night before, but mostly I stuck to the list.

Since produce and canned goods are only moderately interesting, a part of me was busy eavesdropping on my fellow shoppers as I filled the wagon. Most of the conversation was pretty mundane—turkey or ham, to stuff or not stuff, baste or bag (if they chose turkey). But some of the talk was about the murder. The connection to Gordon hadn’t been made yet, but one of the maids at the Morningside Inn—I recognized Becky Andover’s adenoidal voice—said that there had been a blonde supermodel asking after the dead woman at the hotel and that Becky had had to talk to the police.

My eavesdropping was ended when I ran into Mary Grady. She is the daughter of the town librarian, a member of my writing group (the Lit Wits) and also the secretary for my former fiancé, David Cooper (notorious for having slept with my underage cousin on Thanksgiving, in what was then my married parent’s cloakroom, on my Aunt Dorothy’s sable coat. And getting caught, the moron).

“Chloe!” Mary hugged me and then patted Blue. “You’re getting ready for T-day?”

“Yep. I have a houseful this year.”

“Is that handsome Alex coming up?” Mary asked.

“Of course,” I answered immediately, knowing she would mention the matter to David. I am not sure he cares any more. For a long while he tried to get me back after the break up, but he had kidnapped me last spring and I had slugged him and made his nose bleed, so things were less cordial now.

“Did you know that the dead woman had an appointment to see David?” Mary lowered her voice and looked serious. “She said it was about estate planning. She wanted to change her will. She sounded really upset when she called.”

“Really? Did she keep the appointment?”

“No. It was for nine this morning.”

“Has David mentioned this to the police?” I asked.

Mary rolled her eyes. Of course David hadn’t mentioned it. David was an arrogant ass who saw no need to assist the police by being a good citizen and volunteering information even in a murder investigation. And he would probably never be called on it because he was friends with the mayor.

“I’ll see that the Chief knows,” I promised, then changed the subject. “Is it just you and your mom for Thanksgiving?”

“No, my uncle and his wife are coming up from Seattle. Uncle Bill just retired.”

“That’s nice,” I murmured, but my brain was already on to other things. Like had Silly’s decision to meet with an attorney been a spur of the moment one, brought on by the unexpected news of Gordon’s marriage? Didn’t it have to be? Why travel all the way to Hope Falls when there had to be attorneys near her? And who inherited under the old will—Dale Gordon? That wouldn’t be good.

More to the point, who had told her Dale was getting married? Not the lardhead. Maybe Mitzi?

Mary and I murmured a few more pleasantries and then I had a last look at my list. Deciding I was done, Blue and I headed for the check-stand. I avoided the one where my cousin, Todd, was working. Todd is a snitch and bully and he had called Blue a ratty old afghan.

I had a long moment as I waited by the magazines, glaring at my cousin, where I thought about trying to pin the murder on him. I wouldn’t really do it, but it’s fun to fantasize sometimes and I was pretty sure that I could engineer a successful frame-up if I put my mind to it.

Standing in line, I saw Marcie and Andrew from church. They had become an item sometime over the summer and I found them less fun to be with than before. I was just as happy to see the farmer’s market end and to put away my ‘Free Hugs’ sign for the winter. I think the idea of offering hugs to people is a nice one and I know that a lot of the older people who are alone really like it, but Marcie and Andrew spent way too much time hugging each other and giggling. I am my mother’s daughter, at least in some ways, and I found their public display to be embarrassing.

Also, our church—and since I am not supposed to talk about this incident, I won’t mention the name—got involved in a bit of war with another church this fall and I refused to take sides. I’ll call the other church Our Lady of the Heart, though that isn’t the proper name either. Anyhow, both churches are on Washington Street. Both are old and beautiful, and both have sign boards where they leave inspirational messages for the public. They had tangled a few times before over minor things. For instance, our church had put out a sign that said:
Make a joyful noise unto The Lord
.
Except no rap music
. And the other church had promptly put out a sign saying:
Music Night on Saturday. Rappers welcome.

Last September, Father O’Brien had put out a board that quoted a hymn:

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

 Then he added:

All animals go to Heaven
.

Our pastor, being contentious and willing to argue anything, put out his own sign:
Animals don’t have souls. Only people do. Animals don’t go to Heaven. That’s just a song
.

Father O’Brien, without citing any scripture, had a new sign out by sunrise.
Our God welcomes all animals in Heaven
.

Angered and inclined to be pedantic, our pastor fired back at his erring flock who had been seen sneaking into the rival church for sunrise services:
Check your scripture! Animals have no souls!
And switching churches won’t help your pets
.

Having a wonderful time, a giddy Father O’Brien put out a board that said:
Free souls for all pets whose owners convert today!

And it worked. Not with the old-timers who had firm church affiliations, but with the godless newcomers and new-agers who loved their pets. Like me. They came to the Father’s church in masses. Donations sky-rocketed.