Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery

by Melanie Jackson

  “One doesn’t ‘go’ gay,” I pointed out. “And other guests are in lingerie too. Maybe it’s a pajama party or something.”

  “I know people don’t ‘go’ gay, but I bet you anything that a Neanderthal like Gordon thinks that way. And I bet that’s why he has never gotten around to bitching about the ex with the other guys. Geez, between his ex and his mom, it is no wonder he is the least charming man in Hope Falls.”

  “Maybe the assistant will claim the body and we can talk to her then. And ask if she was in Hope Falls over the weekend.” I looked at the page again. Were Alex and the Chief right? Was Vicki something more than a personal assistant? Why had she followed Silly to Hope Falls? Was she worried about her friend confronting her ex-husband? Suspicious of a possible rekindled affair? Homicidally jealous? We needed to know a lot more about her, but it wasn’t my job to find her and somehow I just couldn’t make myself care much one way or the other.

  “Boston, are you okay?” the Chief asked. He and Blue both looked concerned and I wondered how long I had spaced out and if I had missed some other question from the Chief while I was wool gathering. “You seem… unfocused.”

  Was I okay? It was true that normally I would not be more interested in polishing silver than solving a mystery. Was I still suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress from my brush with death in San Francisco and refusing to engage with this new case out of fear?

  I didn’t like the idea that events from last month were influencing me, though our past always informs our present to some degree or other (this insight is courtesy of Mrs. Graves). It was one thing for my annoyance at being short to drive me to achieve certain goals. It was something else if I was allowing fear to turn me away from the career I had always wanted.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe I have PTSD. Or maybe I am just worrying about having a big Thanksgiving dinner—a first with Alex. And I’m not that good a cook.”

  “Ah.” The Chief nodded. I thought he might try and pat me, but the Chief isn’t dumb and he was figuring out that I didn’t like being touched in what people thought of as soothing ways. “Well, keep me posted.”

  “Okay,” I agreed and got up to go. Blue followed happily. She likes the Chief but not his office where there tends to be a lot of yelling.

  * * *

  I didn’t write many tickets that day. Maybe people were on their best behavior, but I think that I was also distracted—though not by the murder. As if Thanksgiving wasn’t pressure enough, I had begun to think about Christmas. Vis-à-vis Alex. And finding the right present. I had Grandpa Boston’s fiddle in the back of my closet. The poor thing was voiceless since I don’t play. But Alex does play and I decided that if we were still together at Christmas I would have the fiddle restrung and give it to him. Every instrument should have a loving home. Mom would hate this idea of the fiddle passing out of the family, but I was determined.

  I drove by the nicotine gloom that darkens the saloon door of the Golden Mule from seven a.m.. onward. Smoking is banned in public places—except at the Golden Mule (changed from Golden Ass when the political correctness movement got underway). One can still smoke in The Mule because the clause was grandfathered down to the current owner.

  Though I didn’t notice much of what was going on around me, I was aware of passing Mrs. Oakhurst’s house. The whole porch is decorated with artificial flowers and plastic shrubs that include a few fine specimens of large plastic eggplant. Her fake turf lawn is edged with silk flowers that can be hosed clean if they end up muddied after a storm. Her entire front yard is a miracle of order and color never intended—or arranged—by Nature. As a child I found this festive, now it just seems kind of sad and creepy.

  Lunch time came. I sat with Blue in the park and watched Mr. Johnson paint the trim on his house. He was a notorious cheapskate and refused to hire anyone to do the job for him though he had plenty of money. I knew I should applaud his independence, but his eyesight is failing and he is too vain to wear glasses. He’d gotten out the wrong paint again and was working on his third shade of white/ecru/cream. The house was looking blotchy. His wife, whose eyesight was fine, was yelling at him from inside the house, correctly anticipating his screw-up but not willing to venture out in the cold to help.

  I could have offered some aid or at least a warning that it was going to rain that afternoon and ruin his paint, but sometimes I like a little theater with my meal. And I had not forgotten that he used to turn the hose on us kids any time he suspected that we might be thinking of riding our bikes too close to his precious lawn. Strangers would look at him and his Santa Claus face and think he was a kindly old man. Blue and I knew better. Let him suffer the consequences.

  Blue whined, as though hearing this uncharitable thought.

  Deciding that I was definitely not myself, I resolved to swing by my father’s place and have a chat. Not about the murder. But just to have a visit. Dad’s company was soothing and I needed to do something about my perturbed spirits. Spiteful is not my natural state and I wanted the mood gone before I went home to Alex.

  A stony gray hill and a belt of dense woods separated the old town from the insult of the few fast food restaurants that had sprouted at the edge of the town limits. Hope Falls is less divided into social classes and factions by money, religion or politics than it is by old-timers (mainly fast-food avoiders) and new comers (fast food enthusiasts). This neighborhood was the closest thing we had to an urban blight. The Other Falls Foundation (OFF) had suffered a set-back with the death of Rupert Sellers last year, but he had infected enough people with his vision of a mega-mall tourist Mecca that plans for development were still advancing slowly. Eventually the town council would probably cave and this neighborhood would fall under the juggernaut of ‘progress’.

  Like most places, we are a town of have-mores and have-lesses. The have-a-lot-mores live up the heights of the winding terraced hills that circle around town. The have-a-lot-lesses are mainly located in the semi-flat ravine on the outskirts of the old town. The flats would be a bog if the soil was not so porous. Dad lived in between Olympus and Hades.

  Dad wasn’t home, but Blue and I got out to visit with Old Luke, Dad’s mean-tempered horse which he had rescued from starvation and then somehow never gotten rid of. Luke wasn’t friendly with anyone, but he didn’t disdain the carrot stick I offered and even permitted me a pat or two before backing away.

  My brain still wasn’t willing to grapple with the particulars of the case, but I did have a stray thought that stuck in my head like a tent spike. Silly Gordon was a brash woman, perhaps not entirely likeable. And maybe she had tried to hurt Althea by playing a trick on her. But did these offenses merit an immediate death sentence? Only a certain kind of person would think so…. Was Althea that kind of person? Was Aunt Dorothy? Was Dale Gordon?

  Was I? Could that be why I felt largely indifferent? Did I, at some level, think that she had deserved what happened?

  I pushed away both the thought and the guilt it inspired, but not before one other disloyal observation tickled my brain pan. My mom is generous and loyal and would defend her kin to her last breath. But then she’ll clasp almost anyone to her bosom if they smile and say please. Me, I prefer someone less annoying than Althea tucked up against my heart. Althea isn’t a sensitive person. I mean, I have handbags that show more tact and compassion than my cousin. And Althea had a temper.

  Still, it was a long leap from selfishness to murder. It was sad that I could even think about family this way. In fact, I wasn’t yet prepared to believe any of my kin could be a murderer. But was that because the evidence didn’t suggest it, or did I just not want to face the inconvenience and scandal if someone I knew had killed the unlikable Silly Gordon?

  “Come on, Blue. We need to make sure the park is clear for the pageant and then swing by the apple ranch and pick up some cider. None of that icky sweet apple juice for us. And we have to get our turkey. Alex will be so impressed.”

  Blue woofed
her agreement.

  Chapter 6

  I took Alex with me to the turkey ranch to pick up the course of honor. Being a mostly urban creature, he was fascinated by how affectionate the turkeys were. It was probably a good thing that we were there near dusk and had to get back to town for the pageant, otherwise I might have been obliged to do a complete tour of the facilities. That would mean leaving Blue in the car—the turkey ranch has health rules and regulations to follow and isn’t as lax as the co-op about enforcing them. As it was, he was speechless with wonder at the giant white box with red bow our future dinner came in. Planning ahead for later that evening, Alex also inquired about a loaf of banana bread. Diego threw that in for free, probably seeing it as an indirect opportunity to thank me for the stray turkeys I had saved.

  Attending the pageant was still not high on my list of favorite things to do on a cold autumn night, but Alex seemed fascinated by the idea and the 4-H would have a booth selling cider so Blue and I were resigned. Actually, Blue was enthusiastic, but she likes crowds more than I do.

  Alex and I elected to walk down to the park. Most of the locals were also on foot. The streets around the park were closed to automobile traffic and the only vehicles with wheels were the horse carriages giving tours of historic downtown for ten bucks a pop.

  We passed Dale and his mom on the way. They were busy arguing on the front porch of Mitzi’s rental about whether the lardhead needed gloves and didn’t see us tiptoeing quickly past the hedge, Alex in an undignified crouch. With Mitzi’s perpetual sour face and piercing voice, I was betting that even her morning coffee tried to flee its cup before her razor lips and tongue could touch it. I tried to imagine sitting down to a meal with her sometime in the future, but couldn’t make the horrible vision form. There was probably no point in trying to get Althea to change her mind about getting married next month though. It would be like swimming through curing cement. I said as much to Alex who only chuckled. Gone was his sleuthing impulse. He, too, was feeling the holiday spirit.

  “I still haven’t met Althea. I gather that your cousin is a little…”

  “Shrewish. And you would think it would keep men from venturing into her grasp, but they just keep coming. She’s very pretty,” I added fairly.

  “They do eventually leave,” Alex pointed out. “Probably at top speed. Except Dale Gordon. Maybe he is right for her.”

  “Eventually they leave, when she throws them out because they fail to live up to her impossible expectations. And they know what she’s like going in. After all, this is a small town. It’s enough to make me lose faith in your gender. Are men really all about the-mountain-is-there-so-I-must-climb-it?” I paused. Alex doesn’t mind if I think things through before speaking. It is one of the things I like most about him. “I just hope Dale survives the experience. I didn’t like the idea of him marrying Althea at first, but maybe she’ll be nicer when she finally has a ring on her finger. Maybe she can protect him from his mom.” And Mrs. Gordon wouldn’t live forever. Her own bile would poison her.

  “Maybe. But I think I should state for the record that not all of us succumb to the lure of the fatal female,” he said virtuously. I thought of his sister but didn’t mention Gwen, who was an older version of Althea. She had her brother wrapped around her manicured hand. Or she had. Maybe his breaking away for Thanksgiving was the beginning of liberation. I chose to feel hopeful.

  We made it to the park and took our place in the crowd. I did my best to keep away from Alex’s aunt, but Mary Elizabeth spotted us and motioned that we should join her. Blue exhaled noisily, saying what I couldn’t.

  There was little time for visiting before the mayor took up the microphone and made an announcement.

  “Greetings, everyone. And the happiest of holidays to you all. Before our pageant begins, we have invited the poet laureate of Hope Falls to read an original verse composed for this occasion. Let’s give a warm welcome to Althea Lewiston.”

  “Good God. She convinced them to make her poet laureate,” I muttered before I could stop myself. Now I knew why Althea hadn’t been with the lardhead while his mother berated him. The diva had probably been rehearsing for her big moment.

  “Is that…?” Alex asked, as Althea carefully mounted the steps onto the stage. She had gotten rid of her crutches and was using a cane studded with rhinestones left over from a long ago theater production of Guys and Dolls. She was wearing an inappropriate spangled gauze dress which had to leave her chilled. Maybe she was basking in so much glory that she didn’t notice the fall dew that was turning to frost.

  I wanted to leave, but the crowd had us hemmed in tight, so we had no choice but to stay and listen to—get ready—Organic Garden Of Emotion. I know this is the title because commemorative copies of the poem were being passed out. And strictly speaking, it wasn’t new. She had been trying out versions of this poem on the Lit Wits for almost a year.

  Organic Garden of Emotion

  by

  ALTHEA LEWISTON

  Sometimes I feel that

  I live in an organic garden of emotion

  Growing lush and fruity

  Amid the rich and peaty loam

  Of my frontal lobes and medulla oblongata

  Although I strive

  To be cheery and don a winning smile

  Reminiscent of a cross section from a stalk of celery

  I often am too sour and bitter

  As is the turnip, radish, or odd rutabaga

  Often, my insides feel all mushy

  As if I am an overripe, organic tomato

  In which case my visage is strained

  As is the ruby red beet

  And my eyes fill with water

  Like the melon with water in its name

  In these times of crisis

  I turn to the carrot, cabbage, and kin

  For comfort and clarity

  Only to find that I too

  Am little more than an emotional vegetable

  Yes, I live in an organic garden of emotion

  Without a hoe

  There was scattered applause and not a little bewilderment when the recitation was done. I don’t know what they were expecting. Something that rhymed with turkey maybe.

  “My God,” Alex breathed with awe. His voice was soft. “She really is as horrible as you’ve always said.”

  “Will your cousin be joining us for dinner?” Mary Elizabeth asked. She tried to look hopeful at this possible circumstance but failed.

  “No. She and her mother will be having dinner with her fiancé’s family,” I answered diplomatically.

  “What a shame,” Mary Elizabeth said, lying politely.

  Seeing a break in the bodies, I towed Alex and Blue toward the 4-H booth where we could get some cider.

  “Hold our places,” I called back to Mary Elizabeth. “We’ll be back with hot beverage. It’s getting colder every minute.”

  And for a wonder, Mary Elizabeth smiled upon me with favor. Apparently apple cider was the way to her heart.

  I lingered as long as I could, but eventually we had to return and watch the pageant. It was a passel of lies, a complete rip off of the most cleaned up versions of the Pilgrims and Indians, but acted out by sincere, young thespians under the cold starry sky, I found myself being moved by the story. I decided that truthfulness was perhaps less important than creating happiness, and apparently the others agreed because there was loud applause at the end of the play.

  Though Hope Falls usually keeps things pretty secular, Reverend Greene, who has a beautiful tenor voice, got up to lead everyone in the singing We Gather Together. There were a few tears among the extreme sentimentalists and I heard some tourists saying that this was so lovely that they would be coming back every year.

  I listened hard, but heard nothing about the murder, not even from the news people who were covering the story for the final three minute wrap up where they put all the happy stories on the ten o’clock news. The Chief would be relieved, I thought. But I felt a
slight pang. Shouldn’t someone have said something? After all, a woman was dead and we were standing in the place where she was murdered.

  Chapter 7

  Mom’s call came precisely at 8 a.m., the earliest hour that Mom can phone in a non-emergency situation and not consider it intrusive. I knew right away what she wanted, but let her ask the question before telling her what she wanted to know because she finds my ‘knowing’ things before she even asks to be extremely disconcerting.

  “… and I can’t find the white compote dish.” This was the one she used exclusively for her creamed onions.

  “Didn’t you use it for John Lang’s funeral?” I asked as Alex rolled over and cracked a questioning eye and Blue sighed in my ear. “Holly has probably just forgotten to return it.” The funeral had been in June. I knew mom would feel okay about asking for her dish now that months had passed, assuming that Holly Lang was at home and not with her kids in Vermont.

  “Oh, of course.” A pause. “See you around ten?”

  She meant would Alex and I be up and dressed and not fornicating by the fire.

  “Sounds good,” I said cheerfully and nearly meant it. Mr. Jackman would be here by then since he was cooking, and that would keep Mom from feeling awkward around my boyfriend. Mom was very happy about the idea of Alex, but not ready to grapple with the idea that we were intimate.

  Dad would also arrive around ten. He liked to watch the parade and bowl games on my larger television. He also liked Alex. It seemed a good thing to let the males bond over pigskin and beer.

  Mr. Jackman, who arrived at nine—and without any worries about Alex and I fornicating—got the turkey in the oven and then made an interesting cranberry sauce innovated by a friend. He wrote the recipe down for me. It involved fruit and sugar, so I figured it was close enough to baking to be safe for me to try. Here it is: