Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Do I hear a second?” snapped White.

  Crowley nodded his head. “I second the motion.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened in surprise as she hurried to scribble it all down in her notebook. The board usually followed Cathy Anderson’s recommendations, and she’d urged obedience training and neutering. She hadn’t even mentioned destroying the dog.

  “You can’t do this!” shouted Nolan, jumping to his feet. In the front of the room, Ellie Martin was whispering frantically in Cathy’s ear.

  “Could I add something?” asked Cathy as Ellie placed her hand on Nolan’s shoulder to restrain him. He got the message and sat back down, but his knee jumped as he nervously tapped his foot.

  “Out of order,” said White, shaking his head. “Do we have any discussion?”

  “I’ll start,” said Crowley. “The way I see it, a dog starts with chickens and the next thing you know he’s got a taste for blood and he’s after everything that moves. Nip it in the bud, before he attacks a little child. We can’t have this sort of thing going on in our town—predatory beasts going after our children.”

  “I think we’re jumping the gun just a bit here,” said Marzetti. “This is the first time the dog’s come to the board’s attention, and let’s face it: We have plenty of dogs we see three or four times before we vote to have them destroyed. It’s always been a last resort. I think we should give the dog another chance. We don’t need to go around destroying people’s pets. I mean, the dog is his property, after all, and he’s got a right to it.”

  Bravo, thought Lucy, wondering how she’d found herself agreeing with Marzetti’s conservative logic. On the margin of her notebook she jotted down 1:1. So far it looked as if the ayes and nays were tied.

  Sandy Dunlap was next.

  “I, of course, want to make sure that children are safe in our town, and I did see a special on 60 Minutes about dog bites. Did you know it’s the second major cause for emergency room visits in the United States for children?” Sandy Dunlap pursed her lips and nodded, making her blond curls bounce. “And of course, I have to agree with Mr. Crowley that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

  Lucy started to add a second stroke to the ayes.

  “But we have no proof that Kadjo is really vicious. I mean, there’s a big difference between chickens and people. My old dog, Harold—what a sweetie—why, he’ll chase a rabbit or a squirrel but he wouldn’t dream of biting a person.”

  Sandy gave a big sniff and blinked. “I know how awful I’d feel if something happened to Harold—I think we have to give Kadjo another chance.”

  Lucy added the stroke to the nays instead.

  “What about you, Collier?” asked the chairman. “Are you voting to put the dog down?”

  “Wh-a?” Bud Collier blinked.

  “You moved to put the dog down. Is that how you’re voting?”

  “I moved to put the dog down?” Collier scratched his head. “I must have been mistaken. She says the dog’s an old fellow who wouldn’t dream of biting anybody. I don’t want to put him down. I vote no.”

  Lucy let out a big sigh of relief and put another stroke with the nays.

  White threw his hands up in the air. “That’s three nos. The motion doesn’t pass.”

  Nolan stepped forward to retrieve the photograph of Kadjo.

  “Not so fast,” said White, shaking a finger at him. “Be warned: The board won’t be as lenient next time. You can be sure of that.”

  Nolan didn’t respond, but Lucy noticed he had clenched his fists. Ellie Martin reached out to touch his sleeve and he suddenly grabbed the picture and marched out of the hearing room. Ellie hurried after him.

  “Meeting adjourned!” declared White, banging down the gavel.

  Adjourned for now, thought Lucy, as she closed her notebook and tucked it into her purse, but she’d be awfully surprised if this was the end of the matter. She had a feeling the board would be seeing a lot more of Curt Nolan.

  And maybe, she thought, as she crossed the town hall parking lot to her car, just maybe, it was time Pennysaver readers learned exactly how their board of selectmen actually operated.

  CHAPTER 2

  Next morning, at the Pennysaver office, Lucy stared at the blank screen of the computer. Somehow, writing about the dog hearing wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be.

  Yesterday, as she had driven home in a fury of righteous indignation, the words and phrases had flown through her head and she’d practically had the whole story written when she pulled into the driveway of the restored farmhouse on Red Top Road she shared with her husband, Bill, and their three daughters. Toby, her oldest and the only boy, was a freshman at Coburn University in New Hampshire.

  At dinner, Bill and the girls had laughed when she described the meeting.

  “You should have seen the look on Howard White’s face when Bud Collier changed his mind,” she’d told them as she dished out the ravioli. “I’ve never seen anybody look so furious.”

  “What does Kadjo look like, Mom?” asked Zoe, who was in first grade and could almost read all by herself, even though it was only November. At the library, she always went for the dog stories.

  “Kind of like Old Yeller in the movie,” said Lucy.

  “Old Yeller died.” Zoe sighed and picked up her fork.

  “I can’t believe they were really going to kill Kadjo,” said Sara, who was in fifth grade and was a member of Friends of Animals. Last summer she had volunteered at their shelter, caring for orphaned baby birds and other injured wildlife.

  “If you ask me, maybe they should have,” declared Elizabeth, who was a senior in high school and a contrarian on principle. She speared a chunk of lettuce with her fork and took a tiny bite. “He killed twelve chickens, after all. What about them?”

  “Killing the dog wouldn’t bring back the chickens, would it, Mom?” Sara’s round face was flushed with the effort of reaching across the table for the breadbasket. “It would just be killing another helpless, innocent animal. And Kadjo is a special dog, an endangered breed.”

  “I don’t know if endangered is the right word,” said Bill, giving Sara a pointed glance as he passed her the bread. “If they’ve survived all these years, they’re hardly in danger.”

  “Just because they’ve done okay up to now doesn’t mean they’re not endangered,” insisted Sara, holding out her plate for seconds. “They’re losing habitat. People are building houses where there weren’t any—there’s less and less room for wild animals.”

  “There’s going to be less and less room for the rest of us if you don’t stop eating like that,” said Elizabeth, who had limited herself to four raviolis and a large helping of salad. “You’re going to get fat, like that man on TV last night.”

  “He weighed 1100 pounds,” said Sara, defending herself. “I only weigh one tenth of that.”

  “Right,” said Elizabeth, rolling her eyes in disbelief.

  “That’s enough.” Lucy then repeated what had become her mealtime mantra: “It doesn’t matter how much you weigh—what’s important is feeling healthy and having enough energy.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Lucy, how’s that story coming?” demanded Ted Stillings, editor and publisher of the Pennysaver and her boss, intruding on her thoughts and snapping her back to the present.

  Lucy shook her head, to clear her mind, and looked at the computer screen. It was still blank. As much she wanted to write the truth about the meeting, she was finding it hard to overcome her old habit of reticence. “Discretion is the better part of valor” had been one of her mother’s favorite expressions, and Lucy had grown up believing that, if you couldn’t say something nice about someone, you didn’t say anything at all.

  But she was a reporter, she reminded herself. She had an obligation to tell the truth. She straightened her back and took a deep breath, as if she were preparing to dive off the high board into a deep pool. Then she began tapping at the keys, picking up speed as she went and qui
ckly filling up the screen.

  Kadjo, a Native American dog, narrowly escaped the fate that overtook his human companions when Selectmen voted 3:2 to spare his life.

  “Lucy, I think you need to tone this down a little bit,” suggested Ted, after she had sent the story to him for editing.

  “No way, Ted.” Having taken the plunge, Lucy was in no mood to compromise. “I wrote it just the way it happened. Nolan didn’t get a fair shake. Listen, I’ve covered a million dog hearings and they always give everybody a second or even a third chance. I think they were discriminating against Nolan because he’s Indian—I really do.”

  Ted tapped the mouse and scrolled through the story again.

  “Look here. You’re sure you want to say that Bud Collier ‘roused himself from his usual afternoon nap’? Let’s cut out that phrase, okay?”

  “Ted.” Lucy had set her teeth. “He sleeps through every meeting. Every one. People have a right to know.”

  Ted shrugged. “He’s been on the board for twenty years or more and keeps getting reelected. He must be doing something right.”

  “Ted! People vote for him because they don’t know he sleeps through the meetings. How are they going to know if we don’t tell them?”

  Ted chewed his lip. “Okay. You have a point. I’m just going to cut ‘usual afternoon nap’ and put ‘brief nap.’ How’s that?”

  “It’s waffling.”

  “It’s using discretion, and that’s the name of the game in community news.”

  “You sound just like my mother,” said Lucy with a shrug. “It’s your paper. I’m just the hired help.”

  “That reminds me. I have a feature for you with a nice Thanksgiving tie-in. And since you’re so keen on Native Americans these days, you’ll love it. It’s about a woman who makes American Indian dolls and won a prize.” Ted scrambled through a pile of papers on his cluttered desk. “Here it is. Ellie Martin. Lives on Main Street Extension.”

  “That’s the woman at the hearing last night. You know, whose chickens got killed.”

  “I thought her name sounded familiar.”

  “Some coincidence.” Lucy took the press release from the American Dollmakers’ Association and studied it. “She seemed real nice. I’ll give her a call. When do you want it?”

  “To run on Thanksgiving. As soon as you can get it to me. Oh, and Pam asked me to remind you about the pie sale.”

  Pam was Ted’s wife, and this year she was in charge of the pie sale that raised money for the Boot and Mitten Fund. Without the fund, a lot of children in Tinker’s Cove wouldn’t have warm winter clothing.

  “Oh, gosh. I did forget,” said Lucy, remembering that in a moment of foolish optimism she’d agreed to bake six pumpkin pies for the sale. “Now, if you don’t have anything else, I’ve got to run. I promised I’d help Sue take the day care kids on a field trip, and I’m late!”

  * * *

  “I was getting nervous,” said Sue when Lucy pulled open the door to the recreation center basement where the day care center was housed. “I was afraid you’d forgotten about the field trip.”

  Sue Finch, Lucy’s best friend, had convinced penny-pinching town meeting voters to fund the center several years ago, and it had been such a success that now there was hardly a murmer when the budget item came up every year.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” said Lucy, smiling at the group of preschoolers who had gathered around her, eager for attention.

  “Hi, guys. Who’s here?” She went around the group, pointing a finger as she named each child. Harry. Justin. Hillary. “Where’s Hunter? There he is, behind Emily. And who’s this?”

  Lucy had spotted an unfamiliar face: a slight little girl with pale skin and huge black eyes.

  “This is Tiffani,” said Sue. “Today’s her second day with us and I was hoping you’d be her special friend. How does that sound, Tiffani? Will you let Mrs. Stone hold your hand?”

  Tiffani didn’t answer but studied her shoes. Lucy could see a fine little blue vein throbbing at her temple. She gave a questioning glance to Sue, then reached down and took the little girl’s hand. She was surprised when Tiffani didn’t snatch it away, but instead gave her a little squeeze.

  “Okay, gang. Let’s put on those jackets,” urged Sue.

  Lucy helped the kids zip and button their coats while Sue gave last-minute instructions to Frankie Flaherty, her assistant, who was staying at the center with the three infants. When it was Tiffani’s turn, Lucy couldn’t help noticing how thin and ragged her lavender hand-me-down jacket was; the quilted lining was worn through at the elbows and shoulders. It could hardly provide much warmth and was much too big, besides. Making a mental note to tell Pam that Tiffani was a prime candidate for the Boot and Mitten Fund’s largesse, she once again took the girl’s hand and they followed the others out to the minivan Sue had borrowed from the senior center for the trip.

  “All aboard,” cried Sue, cheerfully. “We’re going to see the turkeys!”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Lucy asked, doubtfully. “Andy Brown’s turkey farm?”

  “Where else?” replied Sue, sitting down beside her. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. She glanced at the kids, who were so small that their legs stuck straight out on the adult-sized van seats. “Turkeys can be a little scary, especially when they’re bigger than you are.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sue with a wave of her beautifully manicured hand. “We’ve been learning all about turkeys. When we get back, we’re going to make hand turkeys.”

  “Hand turkeys?”

  “You know. The kids trace their hands on a piece of paper. Then the thumb is the head and they color in the rest of the fingers for the turkey’s tail.”

  “I remember when Toby made one in kindergarten,” said Lucy, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He was so proud of it.”

  “Do I detect a touch of empty-nest syndrome?” Sue peered at her. “ls Toby coming home for Thanksgiving?”

  “He’s coming Tuesday, right after classes, and he’s bringing his roommate, Matthew. What about Sidra?”

  Sue’s daughter had graduated from college a few years ago and was living in New York City, where she was the assistant producer of Norah Hemmings’s daytime talk show. Her engagement had just been announced.

  “Not this year. She’s going to his folks,” Sue snorted, fidgeting with the silk scarf she’d tucked in the neck of her tailored tweed jacket. “They’re not even married and it’s starting already.”

  Lucy smiled. “Do I detect a touch of jealous mother-in-law?” she asked.

  “Touche,” said Sue, smoothing her neat pageboy and staring out the window at the passing fields and trees. “I’m just not used to the idea of her being engaged, much less married.”

  “It must be hard,” acknowledged Lucy. “I can’t believe how excited I am that Toby’s coming home. I really miss him. It’s like there’s this big, gaping hole at the dinner table.” She laughed. “Actually, I guess he took the bottomless pit with him. For the first time ever, I have leftovers.”

  Sue chuckled and turned to check on the kids. “You know,” she said as she settled back in her seat, “you have to expect some changes in Toby. You never get back exactly the same kid you sent away.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Lucy. “But that’ll be nice: seeing how he’s grown and changed.”

  “Sure,” said Sue, giving her hand a little pat. “Okay, kids, we’re almost there. Now, who can sing with me? ‘Over the river and through the woods,’ ” she began.

  “‘To grandmother’s house we go!’” screamed the kids.

  * * *

  They were still singing merrily when they arrived at the turkey farm. When Andy Brown had taken over his father’s failing dairy farm, a lot of people in Tinker’s Cove had thought he was crazy. He had proved them wrong, however, and had turned the farm into a local attraction. In spring the place was filled with lambs and bunnies and chicks and he held Easter eg
g hunts. In summer he sold fresh fruit and produce. In September it was apples and cider, and by October the fields were full of pumpkins and a dilapidated old barn had been transformed into a House of Horrors. Now, in November, some of those Easter chicks had matured into a flock of Thanksgiving turkeys.

  “Hi, kids, I’m Farmer Brown,” said Andy, greeting them at the bus. “Welcome to the farm.” As usual, he was dressed in overalls and sported a bright red bandanna.

  “Good morning, Farmer Brown,” chorused the kids, prompted by Sue.

  They all climbed out of the van and gathered in the barnyard, which separated the farmhouse from the barn. A parking lot was off to one side and beyond that stood a cluster of equipment sheds.

  “Are you here to see the turkeys?” Andy asked.

  “Yeah!” said Harry.

  “And what’s the noise a turkey makes?” Andy had shown lots of school groups around the farm. He knew the routine.

  The kids all began making gobbling sounds, the boys vying to see who could be loudest. Tiffani was the only one who remained quiet, standing silently beside Lucy.

  “I guess you all know that turkeys are called gobblers,” said Andy. “Come on. Follow me!”

  Lucy took Tiffani’s hand and they followed the rest of the group across the barnyard and around the barn. There, in a huge pen dotted with A-frame shelters, were several hundred white turkeys. It was an awesome sight.

  “Wow!” said Sue. “Turkeys are bigger than I thought.”

  “And noisier,” said Lucy, listening to the din. She was aware that Tiffani had slipped behind her, only taking occasional peeks at the turkeys.

  “And smellier—phew!” said Harry, making them all laugh.

  Studying the turkeys, Lucy decided they were remarkably ugly animals. The males were enormous and sported long, fleshy combs that dangled across their beaks, hanging down one side. Wattles, in lurid shades of blue and pink, dangled from their necks and a large tuft of course black hair sprouted from each male’s chest. Their scaly, reptilian feet had sharp spurs in addition to their three-clawed toes.