3.5 Roasted in Christmas River

by Meg Muldoon

  I’d figured something out from our conversation.

  I’d figured out what happened to Jack Daniels the turkey.

  Something had clicked when Meredith asked if my car accident had knocked something loose.

  The accident.

  I went into the kitchen, placing the unsold pies back into the fridge, saving them for someone else who actually needed them.

  Chapter 23

  I was sprucing the kitchen up before heading back home when I heard the front door bell jingle that old familiar jingle.

  I dusted my hands off on my apron and then went out to see who it was.

  I hadn’t been expecting him.

  He was wearing a faded Seattle Mariners baseball cap and a little wool jacket that looked like it had seen better days. Outside, I noticed his shoddy bike chained to a post out on the sidewalk.

  The boy dug his hands deep into his pockets, and stood in the middle of the empty dining room uncomfortably. He looked like a hungry, homeless dog. Like he might just bolt at any minute if I made any sudden movements.

  I slowly walked out from behind the dividing doors.

  “Hi, Frankie,” I said, smiling warmly. “Are you here to see me?”

  He didn’t respond. I saw his knees buckle a little, like he was close to making a run for it.

  I realized I’d have to say something quick if I had any chance at making him stay.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” I said. “I was just finishing up my day. You know how many pies I’ve baked in the last 24 hours?”

  His jumpy expression seemed to soften, and then he shook his head.

  “How many?” he said softly.

  “Over 200.”

  His eyes grew a little wide.

  “That’s a lot,” he said.

  “Don’t my feet know it,” I said, smiling.

  He cracked one back for a second, but then it faded quickly. I saw him swallow hard.

  He was nervous.

  “You know, when I was your age, there was nothing I wanted more than a pet,” I said, coming around and taking a seat at one of the booths. “I begged my mom for a dog, and when she said no to that, I begged her for a cat. She said no to that, too. I started asking for anything – a gerbil, a rabbit – you know, I even asked for a ferret once. Can you believe that? A ferret. Have you ever seen those things? They’re downright mean.”

  Frankie took off his cap. He slowly walked over to the booth, taking a seat across from me.

  “But you know, she kept saying no to a pet. You see, my family didn’t have much money. My dad had left us a couple of years before and my mom was doing her utmost to make ends meet, but it can be so hard.”

  An expression of understanding came across his face.

  “I never got a pet when I was a kid,” I said. “But you know, I think that was okay. I have a dog now. And I love him all the more because I always wanted one. It’s like when you’re a kid, you don’t—”

  I stopped mid-sentence as Frankie’s little face broke and his eyes began to water. A few seconds later, tears were streaming down his little, chubby cheeks.

  “She was going to kill it, Ms. Peters,” he said, his voice quivering. “She was going to kill Jack!”

  Chapter 24

  I got Frankie a Kleenex and put a hand on his sobbing shoulders, seeing clearly now just what had become of Jack Daniels the turkey.

  That night, the animal that had rushed out in front of my car when I was crossing through downtown, causing me to crash into the row of mailboxes, hadn’t been a raccoon or a skunk or a coyote.

  It had been Jack Daniels.

  He’d broken free of his pen: with a little help from a friend.

  In some ways it was ironic: here Deb had been devastated that she wouldn’t be able to give her kids the Thanksgiving they deserved. But meanwhile, Frankie hadn’t wanted that kind of Thanksgiving. What he wanted more than anything was for Jack Daniels to be saved.

  The boy finally took matters into his own hands, cutting the wiring around the bird’s pen and setting him free into the cold, November night.

  “I knew…” he started saying, in between sobs. “I knew I had to save him. My mom was going to kill Jack. So I stole the wire cutters from my dad’s old toolbox in the garage. I thought the only way I could save Jack was to let him go. That has to be better than being dead, right?”

  He wiped at his runny nose with the back of his jacket sleeve.

  “I didn’t mean to make my mom cry,” he said. “I didn’t want her to be sad.”

  I pat him on the shoulder.

  “Honey, the only reason she was sad was because she thought you and your sister would be upset when you found out that there’d be no turkey for Thanksgiving,” I said. “She just wanted you to have a good Thanksgiving.”

  He sniveled some.

  “But, Frankie, why did you lie to Sheriff Brightman about this? He said that you said you saw a homeless man out by Jack’s gate.”

  Frankie brushed at his big fat tears, smearing them across his freckled face.

  “I got scared of getting in trouble,” he said. “I saw that homeless man out there once, and I… I just thought she wouldn’t find out it was me.”

  “It’ll be okay, Frankie,” I said. “But you shouldn’t lie about things like that. Especially when they could get someone else into trouble who hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  He nodded and started inhaling like he was trying to hold something in. But he lost the battle.

  “I’m sorry,” he wailed, a fresh flood of tears running down his cheeks.

  He reached out and hugged me, sobbing into my arm.

  I hesitated at first, having never consoled a crying child in my entire life, feeling like I didn’t know exactly what to do.

  But as Frankie kept crying, I just hugged him back.

  Maybe there wasn’t anything else to it.

  “Shh,” I said. “It’s going to be okay, okay? I’ll go with you to tell your mom about this. I’m sure she won’t be angry. And if she is, then I’ll be there with you.”

  He sniveled some more.

  “You’re a good kid, Frankie,” I said. “You have a heart. Which is something a lot of people don’t have.”

  He let go of me. His cheeks were wet, but the tears had stopped flowing.

  His face lifted a little bit, that pug nose of his scrunching up.

  “You think so, Ms. Peters?”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “Now, I have a secret of my own that I want you to keep. Can you?”

  He looked up at me with questioning eyes.

  “Well, it’s a cure for the snivels,” I said, standing up and taking his hand. “You know what it is?”

  “What?” he asked.

  I smiled.

  “A heaping slice of warm Gingersnap Pumpkin pie,” I said, leading him to the glass case. “What do you say?”

  His eyes got a little big, and then he nodded.

  Chapter 25

  I pulled up to the edge of the woods near downtown, about the same place where Daniel and I had been just a few hours ago.

  I had picked up the Escape from the mechanics earlier. The car looked as though it never plowed through a row of mailboxes, which I was grateful for. The brakes seemed to respond better, and the new studded tires seemed to grip the road with strength.

  It may have been a hefty price tag, but at least the mechanic had done a good job.

  I parked the car and got out. My feet crunched loudly against the frozen ground.

  There was a bite in the air and it smelled like snow. Up above, past the tips of the trees, low clouds were moving quickly across what remained of the icy blue sky.

  I went around to the passenger side, retrieving two large bags. Then I headed into the woods, not completely sure where the camp had been. These woods looked plenty different during the day.

  It was just before 10 a.m. By all rights, I should have been at home, rushing around the kitchen like a mad woman. I should ha
ve been elbow deep in stuffing and turkey guts. But instead, I was out here in the woods, somewhere I probably shouldn’t have been alone, looking for someone.

  I came up to the circle of rocks that held the burned-out remnants of a log.

  I sighed.

  The place looked abandoned.

  They were gone.

  I looked down at the paper bags I was holding. They contained the pecan, pumpkin, and apple pies that I had initially baked for Meredith Drutman. I had brought them out here thinking that they might be put to better use at the homeless camp.

  But I’d been too late. The men were no longer there.

  “Why, what are you doing out here, miss?”

  I nearly dropped the paper bags filled with pies, jarred by the unexpected voice.

  “Oh, geez, I didn’t mean to scare you, miss.”

  I turned around, smiling and shaking my head.

  “No, no,” I said, after I had caught my breath. “I’m glad to see you.”

  He took off his green beanie.

  “You shouldn’t be out in these woods by yourself,” he said. “I mean, most of the guys here are okay. But every once and a while, you get one who’s… well, who’s not a kind spirit.”

  “Well, I just wanted to give these to your friends,” I said. “The two that were here last night. They helped my husband with a case he was working on. And since it’s Thanksgiving, I’m sure they’d appreciate i—”

  “Larry and Bug are spending the night at the shelter tonight,” he said. “But I’m sure they’d appreciate the gesture.”

  “And what about you, Tobias?” I asked. “Where are you spending the night?”

  He looked down sheepishly and shrugged.

  “Well, I expect here,” he said.

  He looked at me, and he must have noticed the sad expression on my face.

  “Aw, don’t feel sorry for me,” he said. “You see, Bug got lucky cuz one of the other guys didn’t show up last night and lost his bed tonight. I did have a spot at the shelter tonight, but you know, what with it being Thanksgiving, I thought I’d give my spot to Larry. Larry’s got a bum knee. The cold does something awful to it. I jest thought he coulda used that spot more than me.”

  He smiled.

  “‘Sides, I think it’s clearing up a little up there.”

  He looked up at the darkening sky. A cloud passed over the sun and the woods fell into darkness.

  I looked back at him.

  We both knew it wasn’t clearing up. And it wouldn’t be for quite some time.

  “Well, I was wondering if you would do me a favor, Tobias,” I said.

  “Anything for you, miss,” he said.

  “Well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t help me with my Thanksgiving meal this afternoon. You see, pretty much all of it is under control. Everything but the pies. I’m just not sure if they’re up to standard, and, well, I could really use your opinion on the matter if you had the time.”

  His face brightened.

  “Aw, you’re feeling sorry for me,” he said, wringing his beanie between his hands. “You’re a good lady, but you’re being too kind. I’d just be an imposition.”

  “You wouldn’t be imposing, Tobias. For goodness sakes, I’m asking for your help. I need your expertise this afternoon. But if you don’t want to help me, then—”

  “No, don’t misunderstand me,” he choked out, interrupting me. “I’d do anything to help, miss. Just so long as I am actually helping you’s all. I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

  “You would be helping, Tobias,” I said.

  I probed his eyes. They still looked a little unsure, but after a few moments, I could tell he’d made a decision.

  He smiled, his face glowing more than a warm fire on a cold wintry night.

  “Now, c’mon,” I said. “Let’s drop these off at the shelter. Then we’ve got a lot to do when we get home.”

  Chapter 26

  I stood out alone on the back deck, leaning back so I could feel the feathery snowflakes melt against my face.

  The first snowfall of the year dotted the black sky above in beautiful, swirling patterns.

  I took in a deep breath, savoring the fresh, pine-scented air as it flooded my lungs. The sounds of Chet Baker’s trumpet drifted out from the dining room behind me, softly muffled by the atmosphere.

  Though I had changed out of my cooking outfit and into a dress and heels, my nice clothes had still become permeated with the strong aroma of turkey, bacon gravy, sage, and roasted butternut squash.

  But the fact that my new, fancy clothes now smelled like Thanksgiving didn’t bother me none. It was just one of the hazards of being the chef, I guessed.

  I tilted my head back again, looking at the beautiful woods that surrounded our house. White flakes were piling up on the tree limbs that swayed gently in the mountain wind.

  My arms were bare and I should have been cold, but I wasn’t.

  I glanced back inside, getting a clear view through the sliding glass door of our happy Thanksgiving dinner table.

  Everyone dear to me in the world was sitting at that table. Or near it, anyway. Huckleberry was sprawled under Warren’s feet, stuffed to the gills with gravy and turkey. The dog was snoozing soundly, and the pooch had occasionally passed some gas, cracking Warren up to no end.

  I smiled.

  Every dish I’d made had been a hit.

  We’d just finished the big meal and now everyone was enjoying the intermission between dinner and dessert, passing the time with beer, stories and chit chat.

  Warren and Aileen sat next to my empty chair, looking cozy as two peas in a pod together. My grandfather’s cheeks had turned a bright red on account of the many beers he’d had, but his eyes were dancing with happiness. He looked happier than I’d seen him in years with his Scottish lady at his side. Aileen looked happy too, fitting into the crook of his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Then there was Kara and John, equally smitten, sitting at the other end of the table. Expecting parents, with everything to look forward to in the world this next year. Kara was leaning her head on his shoulder. They were laughing at something Warren had just said. Even Mrs. Billings seemed to be having an okay time, full on peas and her own homemade Brussels sprouts.

  Owen and Chrissy were there too. I thought about how unhappy both of them had been last Thanksgiving. Both alone, both recovering from relationships that had left them devastated and broken inside. Looking at them together now, you wouldn’t have known any of that.

  Then there was Tobias, sitting on the other side of Warren. After getting him to taste test the pies, I’d helped him get fixed up before the big meal. I made him take a hot shower, and Daniel had given him some of his clothes to wear for the big meal. He still looked like Tobias, only much more dapper now. And much fuller, too. That look of hunger in his eyes had dissipated. It was replaced by something like contentment.

  Tiana was there too, and so was her sister: every ounce as nice as Tiana. Warren’s cousins were also there, old and hard of hearing, but kind of spirit. Daniel’s buddy from Fresno and his lovely wife had also made the trip to our dining table. Their beautiful baby was now fast asleep in the guest bedroom.

  Across from Warren sat Deb, Frankie, and his younger sister, Madison, dressed up in their very, very best Sunday school wear. Frankie seemed to be taking a real liking to Warren, staring at him with wide eyes while the old man told story after story after story.

  I smiled, looking at the boy.

  I’d gone with him to tell his mom about what had happened to Jack Daniels earlier. And as I thought, Deb hadn’t been angry with Frankie for letting Jack Daniels out of his cage. She’d just been thankful that the mystery had finally been solved.

  Maybe it had been a little crazy, adding four last minute guests to my Thanksgiving table roster. It was the kind of thing that would have caused most home chefs to lose their mind over. But I didn’t care so much about the extra work. There probably
wouldn’t be any leftovers because of the four additional seats at the table. But as I looked at everyone sitting there, laughing, I realized that that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  There were more important things than food, possessions, and money.

  Like the incessant ramblings of an old man.

  Or the joy of new love between two people.

  Or the feeling you get when you help someone in need.

  Or a smile from a kid whose life hadn’t given him many reasons to smile.

  Frankie broke out giggling at something Warren had said, and I suddenly found that my eyes had grown moist.

  I turned around, turning my back on the cozy, warm scene.

  I thought my heart might just burst if I kept looking at it.

  I stared out, the snowflakes swirling and glimmering in the warm light spilling from the dining room.

  And then suddenly, just for a split second, I thought I saw something just beyond the light, in the darkness of the woods.

  Something short and plump and feathery.

  Something with a red neck and jiggly jowls.

  Something that had no business being in my backyard.

  I rubbed my eyes, then peered into the woods again, doubting what I had just seen.

  I heard a rustling through the sagebrush surrounding the deck, and within a moment, whatever had been there had vanished into the darkness.

  A wild, uncontrollable smile broke across my face.

  Maybe it really had been Jack Daniels there in my backyard. Or maybe it was just my imagination. But either way, it seemed right to me that the bird was out there in the woods somewhere, continuing to live his turkey life on this Thanksgiving, rather than roasted on a table.

  Because Jack Daniels wasn’t just any ordinary turkey.

  He’d brought us all together this Thanksgiving.

  And for that, maybe Jack Daniels deserved his freedom.

  “Look at that snow.”

  A pair of strong arms fell around my shoulders, warming me up more than a cup of cocoa on a December afternoon.

  “Isn’t it special out here tonight?” he said.

  I smiled, my eyes bleary with joy.