Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  When she got to the office, Phyllis was bursting with news. “Lucy!” she exclaimed, “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “Martians landed?”

  “No! Jason Sprinkle and Link Peterson have been arrested for torching the pub.”

  “That was quick,” she said, glancing at Ted.

  “Those two are not the brightest bulbs in the pack,” he said. “At first they claimed they were out of town, but the cops have witnesses who saw them at the harbor just before the explosion. There’s even video from the harbormaster’s shed of them leaving the parking lot moments before the explosion. The chief told me they’re saying they didn’t notice the blaze, and that’s why they didn’t call for help. Little bastards insist it was Hank DeVries who did it.”

  “There’s no way he could’ve done it. I took him to rehab in New Hampshire on Saturday,” said Lucy.

  “Next thing they’ll be saying Santa Claus did it,” said Phyllis.

  When Lucy called Bill to give him the news, he wasn’t convinced that Link and Jason were the arsonists. “They’re not bad kids. I can’t believe they did it. They knew I was in the building. I spoke to them in the parking lot. They asked me what I was doing working for those Mexicans and I told them I’d probably be needing help and asked if they’d be interested in some work. I figured even they could do demo.”

  “Looks like they did it for free,” said Lucy.

  Bill chuckled. “I don’t think so. They seemed pretty interested in the fifteen dollars an hour I offered to pay them.”

  “Who else was down there?” asked Lucy. “Did you see anyone?”

  “Yeah. Lots of people. It was Saturday afternoon and there was lots of activity. Even some tourists.”

  She heard the doorbell ring and Bill ended the call, saying someone was at the door and so far they had received six loaves of banana bread, but only one with chocolate chips, which he was eating.

  “I should take out an ad,” she told Ted and Phyllis. “No more banana bread, please!”

  When she fired up her computer, she wondered if Link and Jason had actually seen the arsonist, but mistook him for someone else. When you thought about it, you realized there were a number of fair, tall young men in town.

  That impression was confirmed that evening when she was driving home from work. Lucy was approaching the stop sign at the intersection of Main and Summer streets when a speeding car shot right through, causing her to brake abruptly. She was thinking it was a good thing she hadn’t been going too fast, and strained to see who was the reckless driver. At first she thought it was Hank, then remembered he was supposed to be in rehab in New Hampshire and also that he certainly wouldn’t be driving a shiny new Audi. It was probably Tag Franklin, she decided, wondering if he could possibly be the arsonist who firebombed the pub. He seemed a more likely suspect than Link and Jason, if he subscribed to his adoptive father’s anti-immigrant views. But it was also a terribly dangerous thing to do, and why would he risk blowing himself up, or getting caught and going to jail? All indications were that he had a cushy lifestyle as the pampered offspring of wealthy parents.

  When she reached home she saw a MINI Cooper parked in the driveway and figured that Bill had yet another visitor. Poor guy, he certainly wasn’t getting much rest, she thought, opening the back door and finding Rev. Marge standing in the kitchen.

  “I was just leaving,” she told Lucy. “But Bill and I worked it out that the youth group will come on Friday afternoon to clean up your yard.”

  “Great,” said Lucy. “We really appreciate the help.” Her eyes were traveling over the kitchen table and counters, which were loaded with every imaginable form of baked good.

  As Bill had told her, there were indeed six loaves of banana bread, as well as three loaves of cranberry bread, numerous Bundt cakes, plastic containers of cookies, even a few pies. The freezer, too, was loaded to bursting with homemade soups and casseroles.

  “I don’t know what to do with all this,” she said. “Can you use some for coffee hour at the church?”

  “Coffee hour is all set,” said Rev. Marge. “Why don’t you take it to the jail?”

  “The jail? Will they take donations of food?”

  “Sure,” said Rev. Marge. “As long as there’s no saws or chisels inside.”

  “Not that I know of,” said Lucy, chuckling.

  “I visit there every week as part of my ministry and I often take day-old baked goods from the IGA. Joe Marzetti donates them and I drop them off around back at the kitchen. The gals really love the sweets, especially anything chocolate, but the men like them, too. They get good food, but it’s very plain, institutional cooking. They appreciate the sweets. I think it’s also the fact that somebody is thinking of them and believes they deserve a treat.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Lucy. “There’s somebody there I ought to visit, anyway.”

  “Bless you,” said Rev. Marge by way of farewell.

  Next morning, Lucy ran in the woods despite a chilly drizzle. When she got home she asked Bill to pick a few baked goods to keep while she showered, then she loaded the rest into the SUV and drove off to Gilead and the county complex. She had never gone around back at the county jail as Rev. Marge had suggested, but found there was no problem at all gaining admission to the delivery entrance. A guard was stationed at the gate in the fence, which was topped with razor wire, but when she explained her mission and showed him the baked goods he opened the electronic gate and waved her in.

  She pressed the buzzer at the door marked for deliveries and it was promptly opened by another guard, who summoned several prisoners assigned to work in the kitchen and supervised as they unloaded the goodies. Lucy had visited the prison many times before, but only to visit individual prisoners involved in stories she was covering who were awaiting trial; she had never had much contact with actual convicts. She knew that the prisoners in the county jail were usually serving sentences for lesser offenses, those convicted of serious felonies were sent to the state penitentiary. At first, she was somewhat wary of the men, but gradually realized that these criminals were folks just like the people on the outside, except for the fact that they had made a mistake that got them into trouble. The guys joked as they carried in the foil-wrapped desserts, and made a point of politely thanking her for the donation.

  As she drove around to the front of the jail, she felt the happy glow of knowing that she’d done her good deed for the day. She parked in the visitors’ lot and made her way to the forbidding entrance. There she presented identification and allowed the guard to search her bag, then walked through a metal detector before she was buzzed through a second door that led to the visitor’s room. That area was busy on weekends as family members usually visited then, but on this weekday morning the large room was empty. She seated herself at one of the cafeteria-style tables and waited for Matt.

  When he appeared and saw her she noticed that his face fell in disappointment, and she suspected he had expected to see Zoe, not her mother. He quickly recovered, however, and greeted her with a big smile as he seated himself opposite her on the round stool attached to the table.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “How’s Zoe?”

  “She’s fine. She’s in Montreal, visiting a friend.”

  “Just as well, considering everything that’s happening. I heard about the pub. How is your husband?”

  After telling him that Bill was recovering from his injuries, Lucy asked if he had any ideas as to who might have torched the pub.

  “I heard they arrested two guys, but I haven’t seen them. They’ve been keeping me kind of separate from the others. I think it’s because I’m charged with such a serious crime.”

  “How are they treating you?” asked Lucy.

  “I don’t have any complaints. The guards seem pretty decent. Of course, I haven’t been convicted. I’m still legally innocent. I’ve got a good lawyer and I’m hoping to get out on bail, though I know it’s a long shot.”

&n
bsp; “You seem to be taking all this remarkably well,” said Lucy, struck by his attitude.

  “Well, I know I’m innocent. I didn’t kill Ed Franklin, and I’ve got faith in the justice system. Plus, I’ve got a lot of advantages most people accused of crimes don’t have. I’ve got money and can afford a good lawyer, I’ve got family and friends who support me and believe in my innocence, and I’ve got connections to influential people.” He gave her an apologetic shrug. “The system might be rigged, but it’s kind of rigged in my favor.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “I’m a glass-half-full sorta guy. I doubt I’ll be brought to trial. Dad’s got a private investigator who is working with the lawyer, and I’m sure they’ll turn up something. And Dad’s already working on winning over public opinion. He’s planning a big Thanksgiving dinner for the entire town.”

  “That’s a really good idea,” said Lucy. “But how’s he going to pull it off?”

  “Not problem. Trust me. If he says he’s going to do something, he’ll do it.” Matt paused. “I only hope I get out of here, so I can go.” He licked his lips. “I don’t want to miss my dad’s turkey tacos.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lucy had no sooner walked through the door at the Pennysaver before Ted sent her right back out on assignment. “Pam tells me the ladies at the Community Church have volunteered to help Rey with this Mexican Thanksgiving Feast and she wants me to run a story. Can you go over there and see what’s cooking?”

  Phyllis, dressed from head to toe in a blaze of autumnal orange, rolled her eyes and groaned at the pun. “I sense a headline: A Recipe for Reconciliation? Cooking Up Cooperation? Stirring Up a Better World?”

  “Those are a good start,” said Ted in all seriousness, “but they need work.”

  “I was joking,” protested Phyllis, again rolling her eyes. “You know”—she turned to Lucy—“he has absolutely no sense of humor.”

  “Oh, I do, believe me,” said Ted. “How else do you think I manage to put up with you two?”

  “Well, I’m outta here,” said Lucy. “I’ll leave you guys to your verbal sparring.” She was at the door when the perfect headline came to her. “How about A Feast for the Season?”

  * * *

  When she reached the church, she was encouraged to see the parking lot was almost full, and when she stepped inside the kitchen, she was met with a wave of delicious odors and a cheerful bustling atmosphere. Rey was clearly in charge, passing out recipe cards and answering questions from cooks who were unfamiliar with the ingredients and techniques. Luisa was there, too, giving a hand.

  “You’re sure this sausage goes in the pumpkin soup?” asked Toni Williams, sounding very doubtful. “It’s very spicy.”

  “That’s chorizo. It’s delicious,” replied Rey.

  “And how exactly do I cut this thing up?” asked Betsy Coolidge, holding up a mango as if it was a hand grenade about to go off.

  “I’ll show you,” said Luisa, grabbing a paring knife. “It’s going to make the most delicious mango salsa.”

  Lucy snapped a few photos of the volunteers, then approached Rey for a brief interview. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Oh, my goodness, everything but the kitchen sink,” he said. “We’ll start with chorizo pumpkin soup, move on to turkey tacos and enchiladas, roast stuffed pork, a variety of salsas, and for dessert, we’ll have flan, bread pudding, and traditional pies like pumpkin and apple. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds delicious,” said Lucy. “Am I invited?”

  “Everybody’s invited,” said Rey with a big smile. “It struck me, when I realized Matt wouldn’t be able to come home for our family feast, that there are a lot of people who are in similar situations—people who’ve lost loved ones, people who are separated from their families by long distances, old folks who’ve outlived their friends. I thought it would be nice to do something for them, give them an opportunity to enjoy a delicious meal along with good fellowship. We’ll even have some music and dancing afterwards so people can burn off some calories.”

  “That sounds great,” said Lucy, who recognized herself in Rey’s description. “You can count on me and Bill. The kids are all away this year and it’s just the two of us.”

  “Great. I’ll see you on Thanksgiving,” Rey said, turning his attention to Angie DiBello who had a couple prickly pear paddles in her hands and a puzzled expression on her face.

  Lucy didn’t want to leave without saying hi to Pam, and spotted her and Rachel in a far corner of the large hall. The two were unpacking groceries from a number of cardboard boxes and arranging them on a long table where the cooks could find them.

  “Thanks for coming, Lucy,” said Pam, as Lucy approached them. “Time is short, Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and we need to get the word out so people will come.”

  “Look at all this food,” said Rachel, setting two huge cloth bags of corn meal on the table. “Rey must have spent a fortune on this stuff.”

  “Where did it all come from?” asked Lucy, who knew that Marzetti’s IGA did not carry prickly pears, Mexican chocolate, and chorizo, or many of the other items she saw on the table.

  “He had it trucked in from some ethnic grocery in Portland,” said Pam, who was looking worried. “I’m just afraid this is all going for naught. Who wants to eat roast pork on Thanksgiving? Or turkey tacos?”

  “I do,” said Lucy. “I’m pretty excited about trying some new foods.”

  “I suspect you might be alone in that,” said Pam. “It’s not Thanksgiving without turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce.”

  “There’s going to be cranberry salsa,” said Rachel.

  “Not the same thing at all,” said Pam, checking the recipe card. “It’s got hot peppers!”

  “I’d like to come, but I’m not sure Bob and I will be welcome,” said Rachel. “Bob’s defending Link and Jason, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Lucy, “but I’m sure you’ll be welcome. Rey will understand. He knows how the system works. Everybody’s entitled to legal representation whether they’re innocent or guilty.”

  “That’s the thing,” said Rachel, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Link and Jason still insist they’re innocent, that if it couldn’t have been Hank DeVries, it’s someone who looks a lot like him, but Bob’s not buying it. He thinks they probably did it, but they didn’t act alone. He suspects they were egged on by someone else to firebomb the pub, but they won’t say who.”

  “That’s not like Link,” said Lucy, thinking that he and Jason may have grown up but were still behaving like naughty children, relying on the bully’s tried and true tactic of blaming others for their own misdeeds.

  “A lot of people are saying it was Rey himself,” said Pam.

  “No way,” said Lucy. “I know for a fact that Rey wants to rebuild. He’s hired an architect and he wants Bill to be the contractor. And look at this dinner. He wouldn’t be doing all this if he wasn’t sticking around. He wants to be part of the community.”

  “Bob thinks Zeke Bumpus was involved,” said Rachel.

  “There’s a big difference between talking hate speech and committing hate crimes,” said Pam.

  “I heard someone say that it’s not so much what people say as what people hear,” said Lucy. “Maybe Jason and Link misconstrued something Zeke said.”

  “I don’t think that gets him off the hook,” said Rachel. “He still bears some responsibility.”

  “I wonder what Zeke’s got to say about that,” mused Lucy, planning to give him a call. But first she had to make her escape from the kitchen where her friends seemed to expect her to put down her notebook and camera and pick up a knife and a cutting board. “I wish I could stay and help”—she gave an apologetic shrug—“but I’ve got to take Bill to see the bone doctor today.”

  She made the call to Zeke while driving back home to pick up Bill.

  As she expected, he vehemently den
ied any involvement in the firebombing.

  “America for Americans is strictly nonviolent. We’re sort of a National Association for the Advancement of White People, and we follow Dr. King’s strategy of passive resistance.”

  Lucy found this claim hard to swallow. “But some of the statements you’ve made do seem to encourage violence. It seems pretty suspicious that the pub was firebombed after your anti-immigrant demonstration.”

  “America for Americans held a demonstration and put up a billboard, all activities that are protected by the Constitution. We didn’t have anything to do with the explosion at the pub—no how, no way.”

  “But some folks might have taken your anti-immigrant rhetoric a step too far,” said Lucy.

  “Well, that’s their problem, not mine. And what about folks like you, in the media?” he continued, challenging her. “Time after time I’ve seen my words twisted just so you guys can sell more newspapers.”

  Lucy knew this was an argument she couldn’t win. Just as patriotism was said to be the last resort of scoundrels, blaming the media seemed to be their first, knee-jerk reaction. “So, for the record”—she spoke slowly and carefully—“you insist that America for Americans had nothing whatever to do with firebombing the old pub?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Zeke, “but I’ll be amazed if you print that.”

  “Prepare to be amazed,” said Lucy, ending the call as she reached the top of Red Top Road and turned into her driveway.

  Bill was ready to go, waiting for her at the kitchen table where he’d been doing the word jumble in the morning paper. “Any idea what c-l-e-t-t-e-u could be?” he asked as he got to his feet.

  “Lettuce,” said Lucy, not missing a beat. “How’s the arm?”

  “Fine, thanks to the Vicodin, once it’s in the sling, and I don’t move it or bump it,” said Bill.

  Lucy knew he was putting on a brave front. She’d seen how badly bruised his arm and shoulder were, and how painful it was for him to get dressed and undressed. He couldn’t wear anything that involved raising his arm, like a pull-on T-shirt or sweater, and instead chose shirts that buttoned. Even so, he couldn’t shove his broken arm into a sleeve but had to carefully slide it on, inch by painful inch. Getting dressed was no longer a quick matter of automatically throwing on a few garments but was a slow process that left him white-faced and exhausted. He couldn’t even tie his shoes and, too proud to ask for help, had switched to a pair of casual suede slip-ons.