Dorita had been dropping hints that she was just getting started.
We couldn’t wait to see what she’d do for Thanksgiving.
We were happily munching away when somebody at the front of the diner started laughing and pointing out the window. Pretty soon there was a small crowd, all pushing and shoving to get a look.
I saw the mayor run full-tilt by the window, then he veered out to the middle of Main Street. We watched as he gesticulated madly, officiously throwing up his hands like a traffic cop to stop the cars speeding along there. A few of his staff trailed behind him. I recognized them all except for one new guy who had recently been hired. He wore a bright shirt and a black hoodie. The mayor pointed to the sky, yelling. “Y’all get that danged thing down now. It’s gonna cause somebody to crash!”
“What in the world is that man doin’?” Aunt Jewel’s church lady friend Bertrice Mays popped up in the booth behind us.
Jewel frowned. “Hell if I know!”
“Language, Jewel!” Bertrice snapped.
“Stuff it, Bertrice,” Jewel said under her breath.
Somebody yelled, then a giant inflatable turkey floated by—an animated turkey popping in and out of a pumpkin. The turkey was holding a “Happy Turkey Day, Y’all” banner. As it bounced by, it played “Turkey in the Straw.”
“Check it out! That thing’s seriously as big as a classic Buick Roadmaster!” Jeremy said.
The mayor—a squatty little man with a smarmy moustache and toupee—was an idiot of the highest order, with an ego bigger than Texas. We ignored/tolerated him for the most part, but some outright despised him. Not long ago, there had been rumors of theft from funds in his office, but nothing had been proven.
Dorita Pflukheimer trotted along behind the mayor. “Y’all catch that turkey! We need it for the festival!” she screeched.
“Would you look at that! There goes Dorita,” Jewel said, tsking a bit.
Finally, the mayor and his minions wrestled the turkey to the ground and they hauled it down Main in the direction of the park.
Bertrice shook her head. “Well bless their hearts.”
Dorita dragged into Do-Lolly’s, fanning herself and swabbing her brow. A mop of white curls fine as angel hair wisped out from under the sides of the feed store gimme cap she wore. “Whew! I thought my turkey was a goner there for a minute.”
She explained how she had loaned the inflatable to the committee to use during the festival. After it was over, she planned to install it on her lawn. She took her seat and things got quiet after a bit.
I shook my head. “If all we have to worry about this year is a runaway inflatable turkey, we’ll be doing well.” I was thinking about a previous year when there had been that unfortunate incident (i.e., death) at our annual Giving of Thanks community picnic and All-Faiths Gathering. Then, last year, Jeremy and I had been kidnapped and went through hell-and-back trying to reclaim a misplaced pork loin that Aunt Jewel had bought for the picnic.
Jewel said, “I just want a nice quiet Thanksgiving with no shootings, no poisoned food, no kidnappings, no bank robber clowns cross-dressed as women and no nekkid chefs.”
“Yes,” I commented. “And no purloined pork loins.”
Jeremy nodded. “And how. It seems like the last three Thanksgivings here have been cursed. For lack of a better term.”
Maybe it was that chiliburger I’d had (with extra onions), or the sight of that flying inflatable turkey, but later that night I couldn’t shake off a strong premonition of doom.
And once again, it came true.
*
The next morning, I was sitting in the back garden under the pergola with Aunt Jewel, admiring my skill at growing roses. She had her laptop out on the table, surfing the Internet. We’d been talking about what to fix for Thanksgiving dinner.
“I tell you what,” she said, “This year, I’m going the easy route. No big roasted turkeys, no endless side dishes of creamed vegetables nobody eats. Instead of roasting a huge bird, I’m going to make a pan of my famous Southern Style Turkey and Dressing, and serve it with my signature relish tray. It’s just too hot to roast anything.”
I’d rather have Aunt Jewel’s turkey and dressing more than just about anything. As we say, “Yankees stuff, but Texans dress”—our holiday poultry, that is. Aunt Jewel’s dish is a big ol’ pan of cornbread dressing (cooked in the pan, not in the bird) loaded with giblets, boiled eggs, pieces of boiled turkey or chicken, poultry seasoning and lots of celery and fresh sage from my herb garden. It made the best leftovers, especially served in a brown ‘n serve roll with cranberry sauce. My mouth was watering already. Happy place!
Once that decision was made, she turned her attention back to her laptop. Aunt Jewel had decided she would get in on the inflatable lawn ornaments trend. I was surprised since she usually decorated with the painted cutout plywood figures that my Uncle Horace had made before he died.
“Look at this inflatable Santa Claus, Kendra. Ain’t it cute? If I order it today, it’ll be here right after Thanksgiving, just in time to decorate.”
Ugh, I thought. There went my happy place.
Suddenly, there was a rumble and the house literally shook, and the 90-year-old window glass vibrated in the frames. It sounded like one of the ubiquitous freight trains that barrel through Nameless had derailed.
I ran to the sidewalk just in time to see a sunshine-yellow-and-black-hood-striped classic Dodge fly by going at least 60 mph. On a 30 mph limit residential street where many children live.
The car stereo bass blasted and boomed some indecipherable hip-hop tune.
“Turn it down, ass-clown! Are you on your way to a fire?” I yelled as the driver tooted his horn, stomped on the gas, left rubber in the road and boomed on by the house. I could feel my blood pressure spike.
“Damn boom cars!” I sputtered.
“Awesome! 1971, Super Bee, prime condition! Did you see that?” Jeremy exclaimed, sauntering through the gate. “I didn’t know you had it in ya, Kendra.” He plopped down in a chair. He was wearing a t-shirt that said “Gobble til you Wobble,” illustrated with a drawing of a huge turkey wearing an apron and brandishing a spatula. “Well done!” he crowed. “Look at you, rockin’ that old fogey thing! You did everything but shake your fist at him.”
I scowled, took my seat, and tried to get back into my happy place.
Aunt Jewel stared at Jeremy. “What’s with the shirt?”
He jumped up, turned around and posed. On the back, it said “Nameless B.S.”
“Love it, don’t you? The Nameless BBQ Society and Social Club had 500 of them printed to promote their Smokin’ Gobbler Cook-Off, but didn’t bother to proofread. It was supposed to say B.S.S.C. So they’re selling them for half-price.”
That’s Nameless for you.
Then we heard it coming three blocks away—the faint strains of music from Dewey Walters’ ice cream truck. He usually played a tinny bluegrass rendition of the “Blue Danube Waltz.” Today, he was playing “Turkey in the Straw.” It was not an improvement.
“Oh god, not that song again!” I said, clapping my hands over my ears.
Jeremy jumped up, did a little jig and started to sing. “Turkey in the straw, Turkey in the straw! Do-si-do and then see-saw. Then promenade to turkey in the straw!”
“Stop that!” I said and smacked him. I did not want that earworm going through my head all day. The tune was bad enough without lyrics.
He finally sat down. “Well I guess I’ve been properly chastised! You ought not squelch my natural creative nature, though.”
Aunt Jewel pantomimed yanking her hair out. “If all this insane turkey stuff doesn’t end soon, I’ll go stark raving mad! Now I got that danged song in my head. It’s an earworm song! I’ll never get it out!”
“It should die down a bit after next week,” I said. One could hope.
Aunt Jewel turned back to her laptop. “Animated Santa Claus Climbs in and out of chimney. Wow, this thing is 15 feet hig
h!”
Jeremy read over her shoulder. “Acme Inflatables! Your Air-Blown Inflatable Thanksgiving or Christmas Decoration comes with a built-in fan and internal strobe lights to create a glowing nighttime display. Complete with stakes and tethers. Optional music.”
“Just inflate and celebrate! All the best-dressed houses have them!” I mocked.
“Here’s one with an articulated camel!” he crowed.
I gave them The Look. “Go ahead, order what you want,” I said, flapping my hand. “But NO music!”
“Look at this one!” Jewel said. “It’s an elf, and he bends over and pulls… Oh. Never mind.”
Jeremy hooted. “Cheeky monkey!” he crowed. “The neighbors would have an absolute cow!”
“You got that right,” I said. “I don’t think that would go over well with your church ladies, either, just guessin’.”
Jewel nodded. “Probably right about that. On the other hand, do I give a rat’s ass? I do not. It’s my yard and my holiday. Go get my credit card, will ya, sugar? Dorita Pflukheimer isn’t the only one who can have fun with blow-up dolls.”
“Not DOLLS, Aunt Jewel. Inflatables.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Grumbling under my breath, I did as she asked. I didn’t even want to know which one she bought. How bad could it be? One of these days, I’ll learn my lesson and drop that question from my vocabulary.
*
Aunt Jewel was exhausted by all the surfing, and suggested we all meet at Do-Lolly’s for dinner. Sometimes it seems like all we do is eat in this town. But there wasn’t much else to do as far as recreation was concerned. That’s why everybody was so hopped up about the Thanksgiving festival.
Lolly walked by and greeted us. She was tired, distracted and disheveled.
“What’s up, Lolly? You look a bit scraggly,” Jeremy said.
He frequently worked at the diner to support his community theatre habit, and orders were always higher during his shifts there, owed to his use of interesting costumes and voices. I’m not sure anybody else could get away with calling her “scraggly.”
“I’m all wore out from helping my staff unload one hundred frozen turkeys. Each of those suckers weighs 20 lbs.” She cocked an eyebrow at Jeremy. “It seems that you conveniently arranged your shifts so you wouldn’t have to work this morning.”
He grinned. “I’ll make it up to you. I have a new costume to try out at work tomorrow night.”
“Why all the turkeys?” Jewel asked.
“The diner used to be the meat market way back in the fifties,” Lolly explained. “We have the largest walk-in freezer in town. I volunteered to store the turkeys until the event on Saturday. I had no idea I’d have to unload them, too! I had to build some rickety temporary shelves using boards and big cans of green beans.”
She shooed Jeremy over and plopped down. “I’m exhausted already!” She pulled a wrinkled news clipping from her pocket. “Here’s all the info on the festival. The Frozen Turkey Toss is the main event,” Lolly said. “This newspaper just cracks me up. Listen to this. ‘When hauling home your Thanksgiving turkey, have you ever wondered how far you could fling it? Here’s your chance! For only $10 you get three chances to hoist and heave a frozen 20 pound turkey. A prize goes to the person who propels their poultry the farthest.”
“Well, I swan!” Jewel exclaimed. “Bless your heart. No wonder you look scraggly.”
“It’s all for a good cause; otherwise, I would have told them to stick their turkeys where the sun don’t shine.”
Jewel nodded. “I hear that, sister!”
“Here’s more. They’re having a turkey egg hunt for all the little gobblers, a Little Miss Puritan pageant, a parade. And then there’s the Smokin’ Gobbler BBQ Cook-Off.”
“I hope they ordered new shirts,” Jeremy said.
“And then there’s the Tilly the Turkey Raffle. They are copycatting other small Texas towns this year and have chosen a huge turkey as a mascot. One of the local farms donated a prize hen they named Tilly. They’re going to raffle her off to the highest bidder. Both of the events already brought in quite a bit of money, and it’s all for new books for the public library.”
As one of the local authors in town, I was all for that. For such a small town, we have a wonderful library. They even have a few of my books on the shelves, for which I was eternally grateful.
“What else is happening? I’m not sure I want to go unless there will be a lot of food,” Jeremy said.
Lolly laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. They have numerous food vendors signed up. No one will go home hungry. Other groups are sponsoring booths, too—the garden club, the Wiccans, the Lion’s Club. Like that.”
Aunt Jewel munched on some excellent deep-fried sweet potato fries. “All this sounds great, lots of fun to be had by all, blah, blah. But I’ll probably stay home out of the traffic. I do not like the idea of them rafflin’ off that turkey. Don’t seem right. Other places have their mascot turkeys, like Ruby Begonia in Cuero, Texas. They bring them back year after year, until they go molt off and die.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Tilly!” Lolly said. “You know she’s gonna end up in somebody’s big ol’ vat of smoking hot peanut oil.”
I nodded. For some reason, deep-fried turkeys had become very popular in Texas. All the stores sell huge propane burners and jugs of peanut oil between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Jeremy nudged me and whispered, “Ya know, somebody oughta save that poor bird. Somebody needs to bird-nap that turkey, keep her out of the deep fryer. You in?”
“Are you CRAZY?? Don’t look at me. No way. I’ve been in enough trouble with the sheriff lately.”
Apparently, Aunt Jewel overheard, because she nodded. “She has. Another parking ticket and Lyndell will lock her in the hoosegow and throw away the key.”
Sheriff Lyndell Tinker was Aunt Jewel’s boyfriend. He was a nice guy, half good ol’ boy and half sophisticate, literate and kind. They made a great couple.
Come to think of it, I thought getting locked inside for a while might not be a bad thing. I was way behind on my current writing project, a collection of Texas ghost stories.
*
The day of the event, I convinced Aunt Jewel to ride with me. I figured we’d stroll through, eat a bit, then get the heck out. We met Jeremy at the entrance.
A loud speaker played “Turkey in the Straw.”
“I will scream if I ever hear that song again! Aren’t there any other Thanksgiving songs?” I asked.
There were at least forty vendors with booths lined up in the park. “Look at all this food!” Jeremy said. “More turkey than you can throw a stick at. You got your deep-fried turkeys, your grilled turkeys, your rotisserized turkeys, your turduckens, and now you got your BBQ turkey.”
“Don’t forget the turkey tamales,” I said as a roving turkey tamale seller passed by.
“I heard those turkduckens were eliminated from the turkey BBQ cook-off last year,” Aunt Jewel added.
Jeremy nodded. “True, but then the DuckMeisters Club threw a hissy and got it included for this year’s festival,” Jeremy explained.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I think about turkeys and ducks getting together.”
I changed the subject. “What about the vegetarians and vegans? I don’t see any deep-fried turkey-flavored tofu.” I wasn’t a vegetarian, but believed in equal rights for non-animal eaters. I liked a good slice of roasted turkey any day, but the smells were already making me queasy.
We passed a crudely lettered sign that said WICCAN GRATEFULNESS GATHERING. A dozen hippy types were sitting in a circle on the ground, warbling “We gathering together to ask Gaia’s blessing…”
Jeremy smiled. “Well, there ya go. Another Thanksgiving song to add to your list.”
We had just waded through a huge crowd of families glommed up around a Turkey Egg Hunt booth. One tiny tot wore a t-shirt that said, “Food Coma Survivor,” and her pregnant mom wore a “Turkey in the
Oven” shirt.
“Somebody’s cleaning up with t-shirt sales,” I commented. A dog dressed as a turkey trotted by.
The chaos was a bit overwhelming. I’d be glad when the event was over. In another hour, I could go home and veg out.
Somebody yelled, “Stop that man! He’s got a knife!”
Or not.
I saw someone running toward us. Jeremy and I grabbed Aunt Jewel and we hit the ground. I heard two rifle shots. I squinted up and saw Dorita Pflukheimer’s giant inflatable turkey go zooming through the air over the treetops.
A skinny man raced by, brandishing a plastic knife and holding a metal cash box. He wore an orange t-shirt and black hoodie with bright tail feathers attached. He disappeared into the crowd. I believed I’d seen him somewhere before.
Sheriff Tinker came barreling out of the crowd after him. “Outta my way! Somebody grab that man! Stop, thief!”
“I’ll go see if I can help,” Jeremy said, as he jumped up and dashed in the direction of the chaos.
After a few moments, the sheriff appeared again, out of breath and agitated. He helped us to our feet.
“What’s going on?” Jewel demanded. “That bonehead came whizzin’ by here like a bat outta hell. Was somebody shooting?”
The sheriff nodded. “The thief cut the tethers on that damned inflatable turkey and we had to shoot it down. It was headed for all the propane fryers! One did get turned over, but the volunteer fire department’s handling it.”
“Why on earth would somebody cut the turkey loose?”
“We think it was a distraction so he could steal the money from the Turkey Toss booth,” Lolly said as she came running up, gasping for air. “If I ever get my hands on that jack-ass, I’ll murder him… Oh, hey sheriff. Just kiddin’. I am thoroughly pissed, though. He got away with a couple hundred dollars.”
“We’ll get him, sooner or later,” the sheriff promised. “He can’t hide in that costume for long.”
We were just catching our breaths and debating about going home when Dorita Pflukheimer came whizzing by in a Day-Glo orange t-shirt and purple high-tops. Her formerly white hair was dyed. Her shirt advertised the Full-O-Pep Feed Store and it said, “Let’s Get Stuffed.”
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 9
