Authors: Leslie Meier

Turkey Day Murder (10 page)

BOOK: Turkey Day Murder

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Clarice was examining her fingernails, which were polished bright red.

This was going to be tough, thought Lucy.

“I suppose you'll be using the house for vacations and weekends?”

“Actually, we're thinking of moving here year-round.”

“Really?” Lucy was surprised. “Don't you have jobs in the city?”

“Clarice works in fashionâshe designs displays for outfits like Guess and Banana Republic,” said St. John, a note of pride in his voice. When he continued, his voice had dropped and he was practically mumbling. “I used to work for a big construction outfit, Mulligan, but I'm between jobs at the moment.”

Lucy recognized the name immediately; she knew Mulligan Construction had designed the plans for the casino. Before she could ask about it, Clarice jumped in.

“St. John wants to write a book.”

“A writer!” exclaimed Miss Tilley. “What's it going to be about?”

“He's not sure yet,” said Clarice. “But it's sure to be a bestseller, whatever he writes.”

Just then Bill appeared with a tray of wineglasses and passed them around. Lucy waited until he had pronounced a toast and then she fled.

“I have a few things to do in the kitchen,” she said.

When she got there, she discovered that Bill had started cooking the potatoes, and they were ready to mash. That was good, she thought, guessing he wouldn't be able to keep the combatants in the living room apart for long. But when she started to whip the potatoes, she discovered the centers weren't quite cooked. No matter how high she turned the electric beater, stubborn lumps remained. She finally gave up and spooned the mess into a dish, plopping a big lump of butter on top. She tucked the potatoes in the oven, then went to peek in the family room, where the younger set, college kids included, were watching a video.

“Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she said, noting with surprise that the news was well received.

“I'm starving,” confessed Matt.

“Mom makes great stuffing,” said Toby. “And wait till you taste her gravy.”

Lucy beamed at him and smiled at the girls. She was pleased to notice that Amy and Jessica had changed out of their usual jeans and had dressed up for the occasion in attractive dresses complete with panty hose and heels.

Back at the stove she pulled the turkey pan out of the oven and set it on the counter, perched on a trivet so as not to burn the countertop. With one oven-mitted hand, she held the pan, and with her other hand she began loosening the turkey with a spatula. Plenty of greasy juice had cooked out of the turkey, which was great for the gravy but made the tricky task of getting the twenty-five-pound turkey onto the platter awfully difficult. Making matters worse was the fact that the bird had become firmly adhered to the pan. No sooner would she get one part loosened than she discover another stuck to the pan.

Finally, after poking away at the bird for what seemed an eternity, she thought she could risk lifting it onto the platter. She jabbed a fork into the breast and slid her biggest spatula under the bird and attempted to lift it. Halfway between pan and platter it slipped and crashed back into the roaster, showering her with greasy juice before the whole thing, pan and bird, slid off the tipsy trivet onto the floor.

Lucy slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Lord knows she wanted to scream and wave her arms and stamp her feet, but that would only attract attention, which was the last thing she wanted to do. She was alone in the kitchen. She was the only one who knew what had happened. She was going to keep it that way.

“Mom?”

It was Sara, staring openmouthed at the turkey on the floor.

“Don't say a word to anyone, or I'll kill you.”

Lucy wrapped a dishtowel around the bird and wrestled it onto the platter.

“You can't serve that. It was on the floor.” Sara was shaking her head.

“Oh, yes, I can,” growled Lucy. “Now go back to the TV room and act as if nothing is the matter.”

“But, Mom,” protested Sara.

“Go! Now! And remember: One word and you die!”

After Sara disappeared into the family room, Lucy began mopping up the grease that had spilled from the pan and covered the floor. As she wrung out the mop she wanted to cry, watching her beautiful golden turkey juice swirling into the soapy water. Finally, the floor was clean and she turned her attention back to the dinner.

So far she had mashed potatoes (lumpy) and turkey (dusty). No matter, there would be plenty of other food. She slipped the brown rice casserole into the microwave. Then she popped a pan of sweet potatoes into the oven to warm beside the mashed potatoes. She dumped a couple of packages of frozen baby peas into the steamer and set it on a back burner behind the double boiler filled with creamed onions.

There was no question of making gravy; the juice was gone. She found a couple of cans of pork gravy in the cupboard and emptied them into a saucepan, adding a little soy sauce to darken the pale glop. She gave the spoon a lick, grimaced, and splashed in some cooking sherry. Maybe it would help.

“How much longer?” It was Bill. There was a note of desperation in his voice.

“It was your idea to invite them,” she said, glaring at him. “You can't imagine what I've been going through in here.”

Bill wasn't moved. “You think it's been a picnic out there?”

Lucy laughed. “Just a few more minutes.”

Finally, everyone was seated at the table. Zoe recited a simple grace and Bill began carving the turkey.

As she surveyed the table, Lucy crossed her fingers and took a deep breath. The turkey didn't seem any the worse for its fall to the floor. She didn't think anyone would notice (and she had wiped it off with paper towels). As for the rest of the meal, well, she couldn't guarantee it would taste good but it sure looked good.

Bill stood and raised a glass. “To the cook!”

“Hear, hear!” chorused St. John.

Lucy tossed back her glass of wine and held it out for a refill.

“What did I tell you?” Toby asked Matt. “Doesn't my mom make great gravy?”

“I've never had anything like it,” said Matt. His mother would have been proud of his tact.

“It's certainly unusual,” said Clarice, furrowing her perfectly plucked brows.

“More stuffing, anyone?” asked Lucy.

“Yes,” said Miss Tilley, taking the bowl of potatoes. “How about you?” She had turned her beady eyes on Jessica. “No wonder you're so thin. You're only eating celery. Here, have some mashed potatoes. Put some meat on your bones!”

Jessica's eyes widened in horror as Miss Tilley waved the bowl of potatoes in front of her. Looking somewhat green, she rose and fled from the table.

“I'll see if there's anything I can do,” said Matt, following her.

“And you?” Miss Tilley had turned her basilisk gaze on Amy. “At least you're not all skin and bones, but what is that muddy stuff you're eating?”

“It's delicious. It's brown rice and carrots.”

“You can't live on that! You need protein.” Miss Tilley plunked a drumstick on Amy's plate. “Try this.”

Amy studied the burnt offering for a moment, then shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said, leaving the table.

“What's the matter with her?”

“She's a vegan, for Pete's sake.” Toby pushed his chair away from the table and left the room.

“They don't eat turkey in Las Vegas?” Miss Tilley didn't understand.

“No. It's vee-gan. They don't eat animal products,” explained Clarice.

Miss Tilley stared at the drumstick. “Oh, dear.”

“You certainly have a knack for clearing a room,” said Lucy. “At the rate you were going, I was beginning to wonder if anybody would be left for dessert.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” said St. John. “Pumpkin pie is my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” said Miss Tilley, eyeing him with new appreciation. “I had my doubts about you, Sinjin, but you're all right!”

CHAPTER 12

A
ll in all, Lucy thought Thanksgiving dinner had gone pretty well.

“There were a few tense moments, but it never actually came to blows,” she told Bill the next morning as they sat at the kitchen table, taking advantage of the fact that the kids were all sleeping in to enjoy a second cup of coffee by themselves.

“Not even one fatality,” said Bill, grinning.

His joke reminded her of Curt Nolan's death and she guiltily remembered her promise to Miss Tilley.

“I have to go in to work,” she said, staring out the window at the fog-filled yard.

“What about the kids?”

“Zoe's going to spend the day with Sadie, and Elizabeth and Sara are going to the food pantry to sort out the stuff from the canned goods drive.” She paused. “As for the others, I don't know and I don't care.”

Bill put his hand over hers. It felt warm and good. “I know you're upset about Toby.”

“Don't I have the right to be upset?” demanded Lucy. “King Lear was rightâan ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent's tooth. I can't believe he's acting like this.”

“I can,” said Bill. “Don't you remember what it was like when you first went away to school and didn't have to ask your parents for permission anymore? You could come and go, and there was nobody to ask you what the hell you thought you were doing. Nobody to tell you what you could and couldn't do. You just started getting used to all that freedom when, all of a sudden, it was Thanksgiving and you had to go back home.”

“I remember,” said Lucy, thinking of how she used to dread the holidays when she was in college. For the first time, she wondered how her parents had felt. Had she hurt them as much as Toby was hurting her?

“Just a few more days,” said Bill, standing up and putting on his jacket. “They'll be gone Sunday.”

“You're right,” said Lucy, stroking his beard when he bent down to kiss her good-bye.

“Lucy, thank goodness you're here,” said Ted, when Lucy finally arrived at the
Pennysaver
a half hour late. “I was afraid you weren't coming, what with the holiday and all your company.”

“I had to drop the girls off,” she said, giving her damp jacket a shake and hanging it up. “Any progress on Nolan's murder?”

“Nope. The state police are holding a press conference later this morning. Maybe they'll have something to announce then.”

“I'll go,” offered Lucy eagerly. She could think of a million questions she'd like to ask the police.

“That's okay,” said Ted. “I can handle it. I want you to start working on Nolan's obit.”

“Not the obit,” groaned Lucy. She hated writing obituaries. It was the worst part of working for a newspaper.

“I've already got some information from the funeral home,” said Phyllis, trying to be helpful.

Lucy gave Ted an evil look. “I don't suppose you'll be happy with that, will you? You'll want quotes.”

“Just a few,” said Ted in an apologetic tone. He knew how hard it was to call up grieving survivors and ask them to talk about a lost loved one.

“A lot of people didn't like him,” began Lucy.

“You can say that again,” cracked Phyllis.

Lucy clucked her tongue and continued. “Do you want me to get negative quotes, too?”

“Sure,” said Ted, turning back to his computer. “But I think you'll find people don't like to speak ill of the dead. Curt's probably a lot more popular dead than he was alive.”

“Maybe I'll use that for a lead,” said Lucy in a sarcastic tone. She turned on her computer and waited for it to boot up. “You know Fred Rumford called me Wednesday night? He was all upset that Chris White hadn't returned the war club. I was worried we were missing a big story.” She sighed. “It's funny how things turn out, isn't it?”

“I can't believe that Chris was so irresponsible,” said Phyllis. “That war club is priceless.”

Lucy and Ted, both parents, laughed together.

“Doesn't surprise me,” said Lucy, remembering Nolan's reaction that day at the library when he'd seen Zoe carrying the club. “Maybe Nolan saw Chris fooling around with it or something. He always said the club belonged with the tribe instead of in the museum. Didn't the cops follow up? Why didn't they question him on Wednesday and get the club back?”

“They tried to,” said Ted, “but he wasn't home. There was even an APB out on him but there was no sign of him until he turned up dead.”

“You mean they think Nolan absconded with the club?” Lucy was puzzled. “But that makes no sense because he brought it back with him to the game.”

“Maybe he didn't take the club,” said Phyllis. “Maybe the murderer took it.”

A thought occurred to Lucy. “Maybe nobody took the club at all. Maybe Rumford had it all the time.”

“But that would make him the murderer,” said Ted.

“Maybe he is,” said Lucy, remembering how angry he was that day outside the library.

“
Professor
Rumford?” Phyllis was incredulous.

“Why not?”

“I don't think you're on the right track, Lucy,” said Ted, checking the clock. “But you've given me some good questions for the press conference.” He got up and reached for his jacket. “You'll have that obit done when I get back?”

“No problem.”

After he'd gone, Lucy stared at the blank computer screen wondering who to call. Ted was right: Nobody would want to be quoted saying what they really thought of Curt Nolan. Certainly not Howard White or any of the other members of the board of selectmen. All she'd get from them would be a lot of hypocritical double-speak and she didn't have the stomach for it. Andy Brown? He was Nolan's boss, after all. But he was out of town.

Reluctantly, she decided there was nothing for it but to call Ellie Martin. She dialed Ellie's number quickly before she could change her mind.

“Hi, Ellie,” she began, speaking in a soft voice. “This is Lucy Stone. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Curt.”

“Thank you, Lucy.” Ellie's voice sounded distant, as if she were very far away instead of just a few miles down the road.

“I'm working on Curt's obituary for the
Pennysaver.
I wonder if you could tell me a little about him.”

“I don't know. . . .”

“You knew him better than most people,” coaxed Lucy. “Don't you want people to know what he was really like and to remember him that way?”

“I do.” Ellie paused. “People didn't understand him, even people in the tribe. You know, I think that, if he'd lived in the old days, when the tribe was still strong, he would have been a shaman or something. He would have been a great leader. There would be legends about him. He saw things differently from other people. He saw behind appearances to the way things really are.”

As she wrote Ellie's words down Lucy wondered if Ellie had given her the motive for Nolan's murder. Had he seen something that made him dangerous to someone? Had he known something that the murderer wanted to keep secret?

“Can you think of a particular example?”

“Well, he was very committed to his Indian heritage. It was more important to him than anything else. And it had to be the truthâwhat he understood to be the truth. He didn't like it when people tried to pretty up the facts, like saying Native Americans lived in harmony before the white men came. He'd say that was nonsense, that the tribes used to make war on each other.” Ellie paused. “I don't think you should put that in the paper.”

“Well, we could say he was committed to the cause of restoring and preserving Metinnicut heritage and culture,” suggested Lucy.

“That's good.”

“I guess we could say he valued the traditional ways, but not everyone approved of his unconventional and sometimes controversial tactics.”

“I'm going to miss him,” said Ellie, her voice breaking.

“Are you taking care of his dog?”

“Kadjo? Yeah. He really misses Curt. He won't eat. He keeps looking down the driveway, waiting for him.”

“Are you going to keep him?”

“Oh, Lucy, I wish I could but I don't see how. Not if I want to raise chickens again next spring. You can't change dogs once they've got the taste. Sooner or later I'm going to have to give him up, and I guess it might as well be sooner before I get too attached to him. I called the dog officer but she wasn't too hopeful about finding a home for him. She says he's got a bad reputation.”

“What happens if she doesn't find a home for him?”

“They'll destroy him.”

“That's horrible!”

“I know.” Ellie was sniffling on the other end of the line. “Would you be interested in taking him? You've got a big place and you don't have any neighbors to speak of. How about it? He's an awfully nice dog.”

Lucy remembered Kadjo. She'd often seen him sitting in the cab of Curt's truck, usually grinning, with his ears pricked up, waiting for his master's return.

“Okay,” she said, then thought better of it. What would Bill say? “Well, maybe. I guess I'd better take another look at him.”

“Come on over. Anytime.”

“In an hour?”

“Sure.”

Lucy pounded out the obit and headed over to Ellie's. By the time she got there, she had made up her mind. As much as she would like to save Kadjo, she didn't really think she could take him. So far the family's only experience with pets had been a few assorted cats through the years, and after Elizabeth was diagnosed with asthma, they hadn't had any pets at all. Lucy had suggested getting a dog a few times but Bill had always nixed the idea. “Too expensive,” he'd say. “Too dirty.” If she pressed the point, she thought she could probably convince him to accept a small dog, like a Jack Russell terrier or a poodle, but Kadjo was enormous. Eighty or ninety pounds at least. Furthermore, he did have a reputation as a problem dog. She knew perfectly well what Bill's reaction would be if she brought him home and she didn't want to have to deal with it. So when she knocked on Ellie's kitchen door, she had resolved to say she was very sorry, but she would not be able to take the dog after all.

“Hi, Lucy. Come on in.” Ellie waved her arm at Bear Sykes, who was seated at her kitchen table. “You know my uncle Bear. He was at the meeting the other night.”

Lucy hesitated for a minute. She didn't want to intrude on a family meeting.

“Sit down,” said Bear. “Take a load off your feet. I see you running all over town, chasing the news. I bet you could use a break.”

Lucy laughed. “I sure could.”

Bear's black hair was combed back from his face, and he was wearing a beaded choker under his plaid flannel shirt. His skin was ruddy, and with his high cheekbones and curved beak of a nose, Lucy thought he looked very much like the stereotypical Native American.

“Coffee?” asked Ellie. “How about a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be great,” said Lucy.

Ellie put the kettle on and joined them at the table. She smiled but didn't say anything. Neither did Bear. The silence stretched on and Lucy felt she had to speak.

“I'm awfully sorry about Curt,” she said. “I didn't know him well, but I know you'll miss him.”

Bear glanced at Ellie. “Ellie was a lot fonder of him than I was,” said Bear, picking up a spoon and stirring his coffee. “He had a big mouth.”

“He did a lot for the tribe.” said Ellie, defending him. “He made people proud of their heritage.”

“I'll give him that,” said Bear. “But the trouble with Curt was he didn't know when to stop. Wouldn't compromise. I could've killed him at the meeting the other night when he started talking against the casino.” Bear slapped his fist on the table. “I mean, here we've worked so long and come so far, and he has to start throwing a monkey wrench in things. When we all stand together, folks are a lot more likely to take us seriously. But if it seems like we aren't agreed on what we want, well, then they're not going to stick their necks out for us. That vote could have gone either way, you know. We got lucky with that Dunlap woman.”

The kettle shrieked and Ellie got up to make the tea.

“What do you think your chances are for federal approval?” asked Lucy.

“A lot better now that Curt isn't spouting offâthat's for sure.”

Ellie passed Lucy a cup of tea, then sat down. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

BOOK: Turkey Day Murder

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