Death in a Turkey Town

by

Melanie Jackson

Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

Version 1.2 – May, 2011

Copyright © 2010 by Melanie Jackson

Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

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Chapter 1

Cousin Althea and Dale Gordon were engaged. That just goes to show that God is always watching and willing to punish you for pranks and misdeeds. The fact that I have only myself to blame for this strange event is not comforting— but really! Who knew that two such self-absorbed people could actually meet on a blind date and then fall in love? And so quickly. I mean, in less than three weeks. The date had been a joke.

It is fair to say that I am romantically indecisive, however most people wouldn’t rush into marriage plans the way Althea and Dale are. At least, I don’t think they would. I’ll admit that my ex, the pustule David Cooper, had taught me caution and made me rather careful about making impulsive life plans. You would think Althea would have learned something from my misfortune, but no. She and Gordon were love-blind and acting wildly. Well, Gordon was love-blind. I think Althea had wedding madness.

Other than my cousin being a warthog about the wedding, which is hardly new behavior, the harvest season was progressing nicely. Things had gone from gold to red, the pumpkins which had escaped being made into jack-o-lanterns were turned into pies, and there were turkeys running wild all over town. The last thing was a new and unplanned ‘attraction’ and not to everyone’s liking. There had been an accident with a turkey truck that was bringing in a flock of turkeys—pretty bronze ones headed for Caesar’s turkey ranch on the far side of town that bred heirloom species. No one had been harmed when the truck slid off the road at the Hope Falls exit that rainy afternoon, but the wild turkeys, who were a shade less dim than their completely domestic counterparts, had seen their opportunity to escape and had taken it.

Jeffrey Little and I had been on turkey detail for two weeks now. Why rounding up stray turkeys fell to parking enforcement, I do not know. But then many strange things end up in our laps, like costumed public safety shows for children and tourists—same show for both— and organizing the Christmas choir. But ours is not to reason why, so we learned turkey tracking skills through trial and error and now kept dog crates with dishes of turkey mash in our electric carts as we made our rounds, and in between writing parking tickets, we coaxed wayward birds into the dog carriers and transported them out to Caesar Moreno’s farm. So far we had apprehended eleven birds. That left nineteen running loose. In theory. Though there is an ordinance against discharging firearms within the town limits, I had a strong suspicion that some of the recent ‘backfires’ had been from local hunters helping themselves to a free turkey dinner. And maybe from the postman who has been chased several times and threatened to start carrying some heat since his pepper spray didn’t seem to do anything except make him more attractive. At first we got some calls at the station about the noise, but people have gotten blasé.

Blue, my beloved Rottweiler, also rides with me on my rounds. Fortunately she loves turkeys—and I mean that in a philanthropic sense. You know—and the greatest of these is love. Not that she would turn down one that had been dressed, cooked and smothered in gravy, of course. She is a dog, not a saint. But she did not bark or chase the birds I was stalking, so I was sometimes able to coax the dumbest and hungriest birds into the carrier even with Blue there. Seven for me, four for Jeffrey. I think I was trying harder; Jeffrey wanted overtime pay for his efforts. Like Blue, I was doing it for philanthropic reasons.

And I had some help. Our local pumpkin thief, Jacky MacKay, now dissuaded from his criminal ways, was turning his attention to helping the lost birds. Jacky is what many local people call ‘simple’. What he may lack in powers of reasoning and speech has been compensated for in his ability to calm animals. Five of my turkeys had been lured into Jacky’s backyard by my young friend. Once somewhat confined, they were easier to herd—or whatever one does to turkeys. Jacky and I get on fine, in fact we are planning a joint pumpkin garden for next year. This harmony may be because, like Jacky, my brain often goes to places where public transit doesn’t run. Often I ‘know’ things that other people don’t, see things that other people don’t see. I call this gift of deduction Analytico because it sounds scientific. Basically, I put an idea on the scale in my brain and then weigh the probability, rejecting the unlikely in favor of other more reasonable possibilities. My paternal grandmother may have had this talent, too, only she had the dubious distinction of being thought a witch. My dad said she had ‘the sight’. I prefer to think that I am logically intuitive. There is nothing supernatural about what I do. It’s applied statistics, probability and memory.

It might have been better if my dad had gotten the gift of insight instead of me. It probably would have made him a better chief of police, or at least saved his job. Not that I don’t like the new chief, Randy Wallace. After a rocky start, we came to an understanding. He lets me sleuth unofficially and I tell him which football teams will win on the weekends. I suspect, but don’t know for sure, that he supplements his income with betting on the games.

Blue and I had just turned on Joy Street when I heard a voice—a shrieking, mind-ripping sound—calling to me from the house on the corner. I knew who it was and thought about trying to ignore her. But my cart only does four mph on the hill and she was likely to hunt me down on the rising slope, so I opted for dignity and stopped to see what Mitzi Gordon wanted.

Blue sighed heavily as I stopped and I wanted to as well. Mitzi Gordon had moved to town two weeks ago, supposedly to help her son plan his sudden wedding to my cousin (if you could call endless carping ‘helping’). She was a large part of why my cousin was being such a warthog to everyone else these days. Imagine getting engaged one week and having your future mother-in-law landed on you only days later and in a house only a block away. I had not believed that there was anything on the Earth or in Heaven above that could get me to feel sympathy for Lardhead Gordon—a nasty coworker who was incompetent and mean and hated my father and me—but Mitzi had changed my mind. It was genetic destiny, the sins of the father (well, mother) being visited on the children. Gordon probably couldn’t help being a thoughtless lardhead.

That day Mitzi was angry because A) my cousin had failed to return any of her dozen phone calls about the flowers she (Mitzi) had chosen for the wedding, B) Lardhead had failed to return any of her two dozen phone calls about said flowers—Dale Gordon is a terrible coward and only bullies the weak, which neither Mitzi nor Althea were and C) there was a turkey in her backyard and it was messing up the silk flowers she had spray painted gold and left out to dry (for the wedding—which was happening Christmas Eve and with poinsettias, not gold silk roses, and at the Episcopal Church rather than the Methodist one Mitzi liked—and this was okay with me because though I had history with the Episcopalians there had been a change in clergy and the new priest would not remember my brief but colorful attendance as a child).

I assured Mitzi that I A) could take away the turkey right that minute, B) would certainly tell Dale to call her—as soon as he was back from whatever vital law enforcement mission he was on (Dale mans the dispatch desk and only has missions to the break room but I saw no need to mention this) and C) that I would certainly tell Althea all about the gold silk roses when she got home from work. I might even enjoy that part. Althea had not only invited my slut cousin who slept with my ex, she made me sit through three readings of the draft of her wedding poem she had composed to read on HER day when she had a captive audience. She actually rhymed nuptials with voluptuals.  The best verse went:

Later by the falls we kissed

You stepped outside the car

Then closed your handcuffs on my wrist

And said "You’re mine, I must insist."

And perhaps I was also just a little bit miffed that my assigned job in the wedding, as near as I could tell, was to follow the Althea and Dale circus and scrape up any doo-doo left by the elephants—I mean the wedding party (like Mitzi). Or, better yet, to see if the elephant was having digestive problems and to take her away before anything embarrassing happened. This thankless job is called Maid of Honor. At least we were short on time and Althea wouldn’t be able to special order me any particularly hideous dresses she had been eyeballing in the magazines. I had to go with what the bridal shop had in my size. Which turned out to be a simple red sheath originally intended for a twelve year old flower girl who lost her job when her wedding was canceled.

The sparkling turkey had apparently had enough of Mitzi’s skin-ripping voice and was finished trampling the remains of the foxglove by the fence and happily got into the carrier when I opened the door and tossed some grain inside. I was glad that he wasn’t a heavy tom because I might have had trouble loading him into the cart. Since I was nearly off the clock anyway, I headed back to the station to drop off my official vehicle and pick up my car. Usually I ride a bike with a special side car for Blue, but since pulling turkey duty I had been bringing the car instead. It meant riding with the windows down because Blue gets carsick sometimes, but I dressed warmly for work and didn’t mind the fresh air. Turkeys kind of smell.

Caesar’s Turkey Ranch was a fantastic place to visit in spring, summer and fall, if you didn’t think too much about how all those fluffy white and old fashioned black turkeys roaming the green hills all summer were going to end up on the holiday dinner table in just a few more weeks or days (some got a short stay of execution until Christmas).

You might be astonished to learn that turkeys can be surprisingly friendly. The domestic ones are also terribly stupid which is why they would approach me even with Blue in tow, not that Blue doesn’t know her manners. I met a few of the old timers at the fence and obligingly scratched their chests and under their wings while they gobbled at me. Their population was down from my last visit when I had ordered my Thanksgiving bird and I suffered a pang of guilt.

Around us the wind whispered coldly and I noticed that all of the trees were bare. If I were a turkey, I would already be in my warm barn and not standing around in the cold waiting for visitors. But, as I said, they aren’t real bright.

I was the only caller that afternoon because people tended to order early and only return on the week before Thanksgiving, after the necessary bloody deeds were done. A word to the wise, a Caesar turkey costs more than anything you’ll get at the market, but it is worlds more flavorful and therefore very popular locally and with the few visitors who have discovered them while touring our town. The birds are raised on a firm vegetarian diet, certified organic and after the first few weeks living in a barn until they are too large for hawks to pick off (actually it’s a high-tech brooding facility that looks like a barn) they are allowed to roam the hills for the next six months while they develop their flavor. Caesar’s doesn’t have a website and won’t take phone orders, so if you want a turkey then you have to come in and select one. Not that they make you go out and hunt down your own turkey—too much guilt involved for most people— but you fill out a form stating weight and whether you want a tom or a hen, black or white and then make a down payment. You come back the week before Thanksgiving or Christmas and pick up your plucked and boxed bird which is tied up with a big red ribbon. The Morningside Inn gets a surprising amount of business from tourists who come for their Thanksgiving and Christmas turkeys and make a small holiday of it.

It’s understandable why the exotic birds cost more, but the common white birds still run about seven dollars a pound and that made me gulp when I saw the total for my order. But Mr. Jackman was cooking dinner for me and I wanted him to have fun while doing it. I was also wanting to impress Alex. It was our first Thanksgiving together and he was braving his family’s wrath by leaving the Silicon Valley the Tuesday before Thanksgiving to come and spend the holiday with me—and my almost divorced parents, Mr. Jackman and Mrs. Graves (two friends from my writers group, The Lit Wits) and Alex’s maiden aunt, Mary Elizabeth (a Mary Kay saleswoman and from the enemy camp since my mom’s sister sells Avon. Mom’s sister, my Aunt Dorothy and her daughter, the un-beloved Althea, and Dale and his mom would be having their own Thanksgiving, so I didn’t have didn’t have to worry about cosmetic wars breaking out in my living room). Of course, Alex’s family, especially his sister—who could give warthog lessons to Althea—would never forgive me, but happily I had no plans to ever see them again. If Alex and I ever did get married, we were eloping to Las Vegas.

I was assisted in unloading the latest wanderer by Caesar Moreno’s eldest son, Diego. He was grateful that another of the strays had been found and amused at its glittery feet. They were much needed breeding stock and not easy to replace at that time of year. The white turkeys had been engineered for larger breasts and had reached a point where they could no longer breed unassisted. I didn’t ask for the particulars of turkey artificial insemination from the teenage boy, but could understand the appeal of birds that could procreate the old fashioned way.

Diego offered me a reward, a loaf of banana bread that smelled heavenly. I had to decline, even the cup of coffee that went with it. Town employees have a five dollar limit on gifts we can accept from an individual or business in a calendar year and the banana bread went for six dollars in the gift shop. I wished it could be otherwise, because I think at the very least I deserved a steep discount on my holiday purchase, but rules are rules and I only flout them when I absolutely must.

Diego and I discussed how the bronze turkeys were integrating with the black and white locals while he carried the crate to the gate in the wire fence that kept the turkeys off the road. Apparently the new turkeys were not over traumatized by events and were eating well, so there were high hopes that they would be ready to begin breeding.

By then it was full dark and Blue and I were happy to head home to Apollo and Aphrodite. Many dogs don’t care for cats, but Blue is open-minded. Also, she is old and I think both of us were ready for some dinner and a rest on the warm sofa while we watched a bit of the Home and Garden channel. My domestic interest probably wouldn’t last, but for now my Thanksgiving fever was running high and I was gathering decorating ideas. I was even ready to plunk down some serious dollars for flameless candles I had seen on a cable shopping channel. I don’t do real ones—a childhood incident at a funeral home had put me off of them.

Chapter 2

I work every other Saturday, except Christmas—if it happens to fall on a Saturday. This was my week to work and I was taking part of the Sunday shift too because I had had some time off last Halloween and was still making up. The case I had been semi-officially investigating had required a trip to San Francisco and I owed Jeffrey a few days off.

Washington is a confusing street. If you live on the west side then you are on Washington Street. If you cross over to the east side you live on Washington Lane. UPS refuses to deliver to Washington Street. Fed Ex won’t acknowledge addresses on Washington Lane. And just to confuse the issue there are some redundant house numbers.  Wilsons live at 121 Washington Street. Jacobs are at 121 Washington Lane. Every couple of years the matter is brought up before the city council and every year they avoid changing anything because the Lanes and Streets refuse to give up their designations. It’s a polite version of the Hatfields and the McCoys. I am always careful about forms when handing out parking tickets there because I want no part in the feud.

I was concentrating on writing up a ticket for some jerk who had blocked Mrs. Winters’ driveway—she has obvious handicap ramps leading to her porch so only someone really thoughtless or unobservant would block her in— when a strange car pulled up beside me with an abruptness that suggested the driver was possessed of a lead foot.

“Are you that Althea’s cousin?”

That Althea. I admit it, I flinched, wondering what my cousin had done to annoy this stranger. It angered me that I was being bothered with it, but I still managed to find a polite voice as I answered.

“That depends—” I said to the blaze of red hair, lipstick and fingernails in an equally red Corvette. I noticed there was a bright orange gift certificate for a free coffee creation on the seat beside her. They gave them out to guests at the upscale Morningside Inn. So she had both bad taste in fashion and the money to back it up.

“Look, you just tell your cousin to think twice—marrying Dale Gordon is a dangerous business. I should know. That bastard broke my heart. He is not good husband material.”

She had my complete attention.

“But why? Is he abusive or—”

“Just tell her to call it off before it’s too late!” The burning bush pulled away quickly. If I hadn’t been in my official electrical vehicle I probably would have given chase and demanded a bit more clarification. As it was, there was no point in trying to catch the Corvette. I could be outrun by an ice cream truck—which is more than a bit embarrassing. Anyway, I knew where she was staying and could get a name if I needed it.

I probably would have to talk to Althea about this, I thought as I finished writing the citation and made note of the pale green car that followed the speeding Corvette at a more reasonable pace. GREEN14. It had been parked in the screen of Benson’s oleander bush up by the corner. I’d seen a couple other vehicles painted this odd color and with the similar license plates and assumed they belonged to the same company. Going ‘green’ had become quite a gimmick with some businesses. The driver was hard to see because of the floppy hat and unnecessary over-sized sunglasses, but I had the impression of someone intent on some grim and secretive task.

I didn’t want to talk to my cousin about what had just happened since I disliked dealing with her even when she isn’t psychotic from planning a wedding, but I could not stand by and let her marry someone who was violent—and probably untruthful since I had heard no mention of a previous wife, and in a small town, you find out these things unless someone goes to a lot of trouble to hide their past.

However, I would talk to Gordon first. The lardhead had a right to explain himself before I ratted him out. And quite honestly, though Althea was being a pain now, I really hated to think what she would be like if anything derailed this wedding. I cravenly decided that I would let sleeping dogs lie for as long as possible.

The town was filling up with visitors. In an effort to maintain goodwill I was carrying out unofficial policy and only ticketing the most egregious offenders. Like the Toyota espousing every popular cause for the last decade parked in the red zone right outside the police station. I just hoped it wasn’t one of the Chief’s relatives. They tended to drive crappy cars and float the parking restrictions.

We don’t usually keep our cell phones on while working since we have a radio that can contact the station and personal calls are discouraged on the job. But since the turkeys had gotten loose, Jeffrey and I started carrying our cells with us so we could talk directly without involving dispatch (we were tired of being the butt of jokes by our fellow officers). My family knows better than to call me on duty unless there is a true emergency, so I was very surprised and alarmed to hear my mom’s voice on the line.

“Chloe! You have to get to the hospital right now.” My heart stuttered and then stopped.

“Is it Dad?” My father’s new career involved sharpening a lot of industrial-sized blades and he sometimes got hurt.

“No—it’s Althea. I’m driving Dorothy to the hospital now.”

“What happened? Car accident?” I wasn’t a big fan of my cousin, but I truly didn’t wish any harm on her.

“No. Someone smeared oil or something all over the stairs at work and she fell down them. She’s hurt her ankle. She is very worried that she’ll have to get married on crutches.”

I exhaled. If Althea was well enough to be thinking about her wedding then she was well enough for me not to worry about. Still, if someone had deliberately done something to the stairs at the dental office where she worked, it needed looking into. And cleaning up. If I called it in, guess who would get assigned the job anyway. And then there would be paperwork. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.

“Mom, I can’t go to the hospital right now, but I am going to swing by Doc Marley’s.” It was off my route, but not by much.

“But no one’s there. The doctor has gone back to Boston to see his daughter for the holiday. The office is closed.”

That was good news. I didn’t have to worry about a patient taking a header down the steep stairs at the front of the building. Like many downtown businesses, Doc Marley’s office was in an old Victorian—which was authentically picturesque but also equipped with authentically steep stone steps and sharp iron railings that could impale anyone unlucky enough to fall to the side of the walkway.

“I need to make sure that it is cleaned up right away. We don’t want anyone else stopping by the office and falling,” I pointed out.

“You’re right.” Mom was grudging, but she agreed.

“Call me once the doctor is through with Althea and let me know how she is.”

“But Althea will want—“

“Althea will want me to figure out who did this to her. This is a nasty prank that could have been a lot more serious.”

Mom couldn’t argue this point. My mother tends to look for the good in everyone, but even she had to admit that Althea was more into vengeance than forgiveness.

“Chloe, while I have you here…”

“Yes?” I knew though before she spoke what was on her mind. Mom had lost something.

“I can’t find my hand trowel—the pretty one with the red handle.”

Aunt Dot had been planting bulbs right before Halloween and she always borrowed Mom’s tools since they were newer. She tended to treat Mom’s gardening tools like rarely used serving pieces and was absent-minded enough to store them with the good silverware.

“Try the china hutch,” I said. “You know Aunt Dot.”

“Oh. Right. I’ll look there. Thank you.”

“Call as soon as you have news. Bye, Mom. Love you,” I added and then disconnected.

I hadn’t noticed any oil on the redhead’s perfectly manicured hands as she jabbed her fingers at me, but a bitter ex-wife was just the sort of suspect that sprang to mind in a case like that. The burning bush and I might be talking sooner than I had planned, though I wasn’t looking forward to it.

It didn’t take me long to reach Doc Marley’s and to see that Althea was correct about there being stuff smeared on the cement stairs. And probably also all over her clothes too. I recognized the substance as WD-40. It’s a great substance, but not underfoot.

I did my best to find some clues, but there was nothing obvious—no discarded can that might have fingerprints on it, no footprints in the dead flowerbed beside the steps. Blue sniffed around, too, but had no more luck than I did. I had a rag in the cart, so I used it to wipe up the worst of the mess and then placed a call to my father. I explained what had happened and asked if he could come over and finish cleaning up when he was done at the flea market. Dad sharpened scissors and knives on Saturdays at the flea market held in the old stables at the fair grounds once the rains begin. He was bound to have some solvent or cleaner with him.

Dad agreed and then asked if there was anything he should bring for Thanksgiving dinner. His words made my nerves trill pleasantly like they do before you get on a roller-coaster. Thanksgiving was less than a week away now and I needed to go grocery shopping and clean house so everything would be nice for Alex.

“Maybe some wine,” I suggested. Dad does a mean barbecue but the rest of his cuisine was as limited and unimaginative as mine. I like baking, the way Dad likes barbecue. But that was all we liked. Neither of us had ever advanced beyond the basics of food preparation since it didn’t interest us.

Deciding to bend a few more rules, I stopped by the hospital and found Gordon in the lobby asking directions to the waiting room. Mom had obviously called him too and he looked frantic. He shouldn’t be there on his shift, but then neither should I. It made for assured mutual silence. And I thought it touching that he cared enough to come.

“Gordon, we need to talk before you see Althea.”

I could see that he was tempted to say something snide, but my being related to his fiancée gave him pause. The old Gordon would have let fly. Now he actually stopped to consider his reply.

“It’s about Althea’s accident,” I added.

He nodded once and allowed me to lead him over to some of those nasty plastic chairs that they have only in hospitals.

I related my run in with the redhead and then asked him point blank if he knew her and if it was true that she was his ex-wife. I didn’t mention my thoughts about who might have spread WD-40 on the stairs. Gordon wasn’t entirely stupid and he would probably think of this once he heard the details of Althea’s fall.

“Yes. It’s true.” He sounded morose. “Oh God. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You were actually married to that woman?” I asked, still kind of shocked at the idea and showing it. Usually I know things, but this one was a bolt out of the blue. A part of me had expected him to deny it, to tell me that the redhead was a loony who had been stalking him.

“Yeah—for about six weeks. Silly and I got married in high school. It took us longer to get a divorce than the whole time we were dating and married.”

“Silly?”

“Short for Sylvia.” He added: “Silly by name and silly by nature.” I didn’t think this quip was original to Gordon and it didn’t fit the woman I had met. Maybe she had changed from when Gordon knew her. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Well, she wanted me to warn Althea away from you.”

Gordon blinked a few times, processing this information with typical lardhead slowness. When he spoke, he sounded baffled and a bit angry. “Really? Why?”

“Dale,” I said, using his first name. “Was there any domestic abuse in your marriage?”

“What?” He looked blank.

“Did you hit your ex-wife?” I asked bluntly.

“No!” Lardhead actually looked revolted. “Of course not! Did she say that? It isn’t true! I only threw out her Avon collectibles when she broke my fishing rods!”

“Okay,” I said mildly. I hadn’t really thought that there was much chance of there being abuse. Gordon is sneaky, not violent. And I was planning on running a check on him anyway. At work and also at home. Alex, who would be there Tuesday, was a cyber crimes investigator. If Gordon had anything fishy in his past, Alex would find it. “Then I’ll let you go up to Althea. She’ll be on the second floor, past the pediatrician’s waiting room.”

“You’re not coming?” He was relieved.

“No. I’ve got to get back to work.” Gordon’s brow beetled as he belatedly considered his own truancy. I said, “If anyone notices just tell them you took an early lunch when you heard your fiancée was hurt. The Chief will understand—someone is manning the desk, right?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Wicks is there.”

That wasn’t so great. Petunia Wicks was a sweet woman but she had never really gotten the hang of our phone system. I crossed my fingers that we had no emergencies that afternoon. We could have riots and looting inside the station before Mrs. Wicks managed to successfully answer a call.

“Well, don’t be long anyway. And don’t worry—Aunt Dorothy and Mom are with Althea. She’ll be fine.”

“Maybe I should call my mother,” he said tentatively.

“Why don’t you wait until you have definite news?” And until I was long gone. “You know Althea wouldn’t want a big fuss made.”

That was a total lie. Althea would want a giant fuss made over her. But not by Gordon’s mother who was likely to arrive with her gold roses and unwanted wedding plans.

“That’s a good idea. Althea wouldn’t want to scare Mom. She’s very sensitive,” he said, relieved to have an excuse to put off the phone call. Poor Gordon. Neither Althea nor his mom were as delicate as he believed.

I patted him on the arm, feeling empathy for his approaching disillusionment.

“Don’t worry. Althea was able to phone for help. She didn’t hit her head, so there is no need to worry about anything except her ankle.” And Althea’s brain damage had been with her since birth. True, she would be cranky until completely healed, but it was best that Gordon know how peevish she could be before the knot was tied. As Gordon already knew, there isn’t an easy out for buyer’s remorse when you’re married. “But you need to warn Althea that your ex is in town. Maybe not this minute since the moms are there and you may want to be private when you tell her, but soon. You don’t want her getting blind-sided with this news and you know how some people gossip.”

People like the lardhead actually and there were a whole lot of people who would be happy to pay him back. I left Gordon gulping like a stranded fish and hurried out of the gloomy hospital and back to my cart where Blue was waiting.

Chapter 3

I have one of my grandmother’s special tablecloths. Mom has always been afraid to use it. For her, tablecloths should either be white damask or else vinyl with childish figures you take on picnics.  This cloth is linen, hand printed, made in Brazil. The colors are a rich wine and eggplant—or aubergine, to those who mistakenly think the textile was made in France. It has gold medallions and assorted gourds around the border and again in the center of the cloth. It is rather like the tablecloths I’ve seen downtown at the kitchen shop that are from Provence. Except the colors are more intense.

I am not a shopper, but a year ago I had stopped by an estate sale and fallen in love with a set of dishes. I had been hiding them since that impulsive purchase. They were fire engine red and square. Mom would hate them, but I was going to use them for Thanksgiving along with Grandma’s tablecloth since for once I was having enough guests to justify putting a leaf in the table and that would lift the cloth off of the floor where it would puddle in a convenient cat size bed if the table was not extended. I had also seen a wonderful arrangement made out of fall leaves and pepper berries instead of flowers in a magazine. The fall leaves were getting scarce thanks to a series of storms, but I still had some creeper on my fence and there were sprigs of fallen pepper berries everywhere. Mrs. Everett had some neat twisted twigs in her yard—Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, she called it. I was sure she would let me have some.

Of course, I would have to polish the silver. Mom had given me all of Grandma’s sterling because it tarnishes instantly and she hates polishing it. So do I, which was why it sat in the back of the linen closet, looking gloomy most of the time. But not this year—I was going all out. Nothing but the best for Alex. Silver polish went on my list of things to purchase.

Dazed at my unaccustomed fit of domestic planning, I decided to retire to bed and meditate on possible pies to bake. The Food Network had shown me several exotic ones. Would my guests actually eat grape or pecan-pear pie?

I was lying under my blankets, surrounded by warm furry bodies and enjoying the soft patter of the rain at the window when the peace was disturbed by a loud crack. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. 11:13. More ‘backfires’ and close by.

Blue whined and I frowned. Had another turkey just gone to the great prairie in the sky? If so, he was traveling alone and unavenged. It was cold and wet out there and I wasn’t going outside again just to give a neighbor another lecture about discharging firearms within the town limits.

I turned off the light.

*  *  *

The call came at six the next morning. Calls before dawn are never good news and dread had me fully awake when I picked up the phone. Awake but not polite. I’ve never had the knack of waking up cheerful.

“What?” I slurred.

“Boston?” It was the Chief. Since he is about the only person who calls me before dawn, he is used to my bad phone manners. “Get down to Courthouse Park. There’s been another murder.”

Another murder. We hadn’t had a homicide in a decade and now our little town had had two in less than a month.

“On my way.” And I was. The call was as effective as a slap in the face and I was filled with foreboding. I had a very bad feeling I knew who the corpse would be.

Coffey Road is a melancholy street even in daylight. The old trees have passed from pleasantly sheltering and moved to forbidding. The sunlight didn’t dapple here even on the brightest summer day, and even in winter with the limbs bare, it remained a dark corridor for the north wind to travel, though even its voice was muffled by the ancient arbors and tall, dull-colored houses that seemed aloof from the human activity below. People didn’t so much live in these houses as they were swallowed by them. And, I couldn’t quite forget the ghost my Cousin Todd insisted haunted one of the houses there. This was the same Todd who terrified me with tales of alligators under the bed and also with stories about a monster that crept through the stacks at the library and ate children who wandered too far from the librarian’s desk. I hated Cousin Todd. I hated traveling that street too in the heartless hour before sunrise.

Or maybe I just didn’t like parking near the cemetery and the old Burns’ mansion when it was dark since I had met a real monster there. But they were both near Courthouse Park where the pageant organizers had planned their Thanksgiving spectacle and where someone had gotten themselves murdered, so I forced myself to act bravely and like I didn’t feel the physical and spiritual cold all around me. Blue’s presence helped.

I could see by the klieg lights that had been set up that the victim was a red haired female. It spilled around her making it seem her head had exploded. I only knew one person with hair that unnatural color, Dale Gordon’s ex-wife. My heart sank though I had been expecting to see her.

Poor, silly woman, I thought when I reached her. She’s had her heart broken again. This time with a bullet.

“Thoughts, Boston,” the Chief asked softly. I was not allowed to get too close while Bryce processed the crime scenes since I am not an official detective. But the Chief had become a convert last Halloween and was now a true believer in my strange abilities and wanted me to have a first look. The Chief wasn’t the only curious one though, and a couple other officers, Eddie Rounds and Keith Regan, had sidled closer to hear what I might say. They saw me as a freak, but a useful one to be temporarily tolerated.

“Small caliber bullet—maybe a twenty-two,” I said. “She was shot in the chest at close range, but not much bleeding, so death was instantaneous. Her fingernails are intact, so she didn’t have a chance to fight her attacker and maybe mark him. Or her,” I added conscientiously. “Have you told Dale yet?”

“Dale Gordon? No, why would I?” That was a fair question. Gordon was a lousy policeman and the Chief used him only as a last resort.

“Because this is his ex-wife. Her name is Sylvia. She went by Silly.”

The Chief’s jaw hung down. This time I had really impressed him. I decided not to explain my insight at that moment, though I would probably have to tell him about Althea and the vicious prank with the WD-40 because I had a strong hunch they were connected. But I saw no need to mention this in front of Eddie Rounds who is a friend of Dale Gordon’s and a terrible gossip. I reported the messy stuff only to the Chief and my incidental findings were kept off the record.

I thought back to the shot I had heard last night and wanted to kick myself. People had been shooting at turkeys all week, but not late at night when it was cold and raining. Who would be out hunting up a free dinner at that hour?

“She died at eleven-thirteen,” I said. The next part was hard to admit. “I heard the shot. And I ignored it. I thought it was—”

“Someone shooting at the turkeys,” the Chief finished sympathetically. “I heard it too and didn’t give it a thought.”

Eddie also nodded. “I bet a lot of us heard it. Sound carries real good up the canyon.”

I kicked myself once more and then carried on calmly. “She was staying at the Morningside Inn. She had one of their gift certificates in her car—a red Corvette.” I looked around the park and saw it parked illegally by the oleander hedge near the streetlight and pointed. “That’s her car. So, she wasn’t just out for a casual walk in the rain last night. That probably means she was lured here. Check the car for a note, but I’m betting it was a phone call either to her cell or to the Inn. Probably from the pay phone over there.” I jerked my head at the last pay phone in town which was snuggled up next to the Church of Christian Science.

Bryce had joined the circle around me. I didn’t mind. He was a friend of my father’s and already knew what I could do. He also knew when to keep his mouth shut. He was one of the few officers that the Chief trusted.

“I’ll check it out right away,” he said to the Chief. “I need to go over the car too.”

“Check the garbage can first.” I gestured at the receptacle by the bench.

The Chief nodded at Bryce who carefully lifted the wooden lid with a gloved hand, not that it was likely that the old splintering wood had taken any fingerprints. Trash cans in the park were disguised as mini outhouses. Why this was considered aesthetically better than a regular trash can I don’t know, but it was what the town council had decided.

For bad moment I thought we had another body on our hands but a second glance proved the unnerving sight to be a sunhat, wig and sunglasses. Bryce began bagging the items. I resisted the urge to tell him to check the wig for hair fibers. The lab would do that of course.

“The timing sucks,” Bryce muttered. “And I’m going to miss breakfast.”

Yes, it sucked. Another guest of the Morningside Inn murdered. Did guide books have a rating for that? It was a cinch that the chamber of commerce would never mention it, but still word would probably get around. That wasn’t good. Hope Falls relied on tourism and we were approaching one of our biggest weekends. What if tourists took fright and canceled?

The floppy hat being crammed in a bag kick-started my brain and I remembered something else.

“Someone may have been following her. Run the plates on a funny green car, some kind of hybrid, I think.” I recalled the license plate. “GREEN14. It may be a rental. The woman—I think it was a woman— driving it had on a big hat and sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her clearly. Check the Motor Court Inn just in case she’s still in town.”

I drove by the Morningside Inn on my route and hadn’t seen the strange green car there. We have a couple bed and breakfast places, but they don’t advertise and are booked months in advance. If someone wanted a place to stay with short notice, the Motor Court was where they headed.

Bryce nodded some more. He knew my route and therefore my thinking.

“It’s too early to know for certain, but the obvious people to question are the ones who knew her. That would be Gordon and his mother,” I said ever so reluctantly. And my cousin. Maybe. I didn’t know that Silly and Althea had met, but suspected they might have. If Silly could find me by asking locals, she could also find Althea. Mom’s eight p.m. report said my cousin’s ankle was sore from her fall, but that she could drive. And my Aunt Dorothy had a twenty-two rifle. Of course, so did practically everyone in town. It was the preferred gift for many Sweet Sixteens (boys got something more powerful with a scope for hunting, and some of both also got handguns for graduation). I’d look at my aunt’s rifle. If it wasn’t covered in dust and obviously unused I would have to take it in for a ballistics check.

Aunt Dorothy was going to love that. And Mom would be less than thrilled to know I was involved—however tangentially—in another murder investigation. Especially one that concerned the family. I couldn’t really blame her for being upset. The last case had almost gotten me killed.

“I’m going to talk to some people,” I said vaguely, trying to ignore the dread that was forming at the edges of my brain. “Like my dad,” I added, looking at the Chief. Randy just nodded. The rest of the town might still be angry about the change in leadership, but the Chief and my dad got along fine since they both had the town’s welfare at heart.

“That’s good.”

“Any media here yet?” I asked the sky as the sun began to muscle its way past the clouds that packed the horizon. The rain had taken a break but it would return. It always did that time of year.

“No, but local crews are coming for the pageant on Wednesday night. It would be nice to have something solid by then just in case they ask about this,” the Chief said neutrally. “Someone is bound to leak the story to them.”

I looked at Eddie and snorted. Usually I am more polite but I hadn’t had my coffee.

“Yeah, I know. We better find out who she was—beyond Gordon’s ex-wife. And if she was important enough to be missed. If she’s the mother of six and teaches the blind we are probably screwed even if we find the killer and carry out a public execution.” The Chief sounded gloomy. I also noticed that he used the word ‘we’. One likes to feel included, but not in media dealings.

“Mothers of six don’t have bodies like that. Nor do they drive Corvettes. Well, not as a rule,” I said trying to cheer him up. “And she married Gordon. For six whole weeks. If we’re lucky that will have put her off marriage altogether.”

Bryce grinned. The Chief wanted to, but he managed to stop himself.

“Rounds, Reagan, glove up and start checking the perimeter. Look for shell casings.” He waited until they had moved away and then spoke softly. “I want you there when I talk to Gordon. In fact, it might be best if you questioned him yourself. Officially.”

“Not for all the money on earth.” The insubordinate words came without thought. “He’s engaged to my cousin. If Althea thinks I’m pointing fingers at her fiancé a month before the wedding you’ll have another homicide on your hands. Besides, he is just starting to trust me. I’m likely to get more out of him if I stay in the background and listen sympathetically.”

The Chief pondered and ran a hand over Blue’s ears. He would probably have to question Gordon himself, though milking rattlesnakes would be more appealing. The others, however, couldn’t be trusted to do a thorough job though.

“Okay. For now. When does Alex arrive?” This was not polite chit-chat. Alex was a former cop and investigates cyber crimes. He has helped the department before. That the Chief knew he was coming was a bit of a surprise, but as I have mentioned, we are a small town and some of the guys gossiped.

“Tuesday.”

“Do you think he’d be interested in our problem?” Meaning was he willing to work without pay or public thanks.

“Probably. So long as it doesn’t get physical. He was not happy about what happened in San Francisco.”

“No one was,” the Chief said and patted my shoulder. I used to resent these shows of affection, taking them for condescension. Because I am quite short, a lot of people treat me like a child. But I had gotten used to the odd pat and understood the Chief used them when he didn’t know what to say to me. He felt a lot of guilt for letting me investigate a case when he had known there was the potential for danger. I didn’t blame him for what happened and had wanted to do it since we weren’t getting help from the other counties where suspicious deaths had occurred and it seemed the only chance to stop the killer before he struck again.

“We’ll get the medical examiner on this right away just to confirm that it was a twenty-two that killed her. Any thoughts on where to start looking for the gun?”

“I hope not,” I muttered, patting Blue on the head and starting for my car. It was my half day, but I now had plans for the afternoon so I was going home to bed to get what extra sleep I could.

Chapter 4

Monday brought unwelcome confirmation that a green rental car had been at the Motor Inn (but was now gone and the signature and address in the guest book were illegible) and that the bullet used to finally and permanently separate Gordon from his ex-wife was indeed a twenty-two. So, unable to put it off, I swung by Aunt Dorothy’s house on my lunch hour and bullied mom into showing me where Aunt Dot kept her gun.

The only problem with this plan—aside from upsetting my mother—was discovering that the gun appeared to be missing from the bedroom closet. For a moment I wondered if Mom was deliberately misleading me, but dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. My mother’s voice was throbbing with indignation that I would even think that Aunt Dot could shoot anyone and she was going to prove how wrong I was. Her shock at the empty space in the closet was real. If only that counted for something, but it didn’t. Because Aunt Dot wasn’t the one who was looking genuinely shocked, nor was Althea. And my aunt—unlike Mother—is an excellent marksman and has been known to take after squirrels and gophers and other ‘pests’ that bothered her garden, so I was not so fast to dismiss the idea that she might do something dumb to ensure her daughter’s happiness. Particularly if she suspected that Silly Gordon was responsible for the prank that had hurt Althea.

But I decided not to say this to Mom, who doesn’t like to admit that Althea came by her temper honestly. Instead I pointed out that everyone knew that Althea had an irritable disposition made worse by the stress of planning a wedding and that it would be proactive to rule out this possible suspicion before gossip began to spread and made her have a nervous breakdown.

Mom looked worried when I mentioned the gossip and she promised to speak to her sister about the gun when she got home from work.

Unable—or unwilling— to do more, I finished my half-shift and then, with shopping list in hand, headed for the grocery store. Murder had happened but Thanksgiving waits for no one.

The market is on Market Street. And if you are willing to risk a bad case of poison oak and a twisted ankle, you can hike down the embankment from my house into their parking lot. Mostly I take the road since my days for childish daring-do are long past. Especially when traveling in the opposite direction, laden with groceries and my elderly dog.

The market on Market is a kind of private co-op, so there aren’t any corporate policies that have to be obeyed. There are probably rules at the health department, but we get around them by slipping Blue into a service dog utility vest. The theory is that she is being trained to be placed with some disabled person.

The co-op shares a small boxy parking lot with four other businesses. Detra’s Dog Spa and Tanning to the west— I have always assumed the tanning was for people, not pooches, but have never actually inquired— Crunchy’s Salad Bar to the east, Dan’s Bath & Tackle—Finest selection of bath salts and nightcrawlers in Hope Falls to the south and on the north side, Bill Mason has a drive-thru carwash which is still operational though it has seen better days. On the tax rolls it is called, a bit unoriginally, Mason’s Carwash.  But the sign had blown away some time when I was in high school, during a fierce windstorm, and all that was left was a smaller red and white placard that said: WRONG WAY DO NOT ENTER. Not too surprisingly the place is now called Wrong Way’s. Blue likes the car wash because of the water, but she likes grocery shopping more, so I had no trouble persuading her that the car could remain dirty another day while we went shopping.

I grabbed a wagon and dropped in my canvas totes. The co-op uses old Radio Flyers instead of grocery carts, which are expensive and always being ‘borrowed’ by homeless people. We always cruise the meat aisle first. Tad is the butcher and he usually puts aside a bone or two for Blue.

Bone, bone, bone, Blue began thinking as we headed for the back of the building. Sometimes I am almost psychic when it comes to understanding my dog.

“Okay, but we are here for other things too.” And since I didn’t like grocery shopping, even for Thanksgiving, I added: “I was thinking of stopping for dinner as a reward. At Mother’s. Would you like that?” I didn’t mean my mom’s place. Mother’s was short for Mother Lode’s, a diner that ran to old fashioned foods like meatloaf and liver and onion. Mother’s is located next to a place called Therapeuticals. It’s an aromatherapy store that sells massage oil and marijuana out the back room. I knew about that because friends told me about it back before I went to work for the police. I was not a customer, though I sympathized with those who were. Medical marijuana may have been theoretically available in places like San Francisco. In Hope Falls it was harder to come by. Dad had known what they did there and I suspected the current chief did too. We all turned a blind eye.

Blue panted an affirmative answer.

Mr. Jackman had made me a list of things to get for him. A lot of dishes he was preparing at home, including some kind of cranberry sauce with vodka. I did pick up the fixings for monkey bread, since Alex likes it and it was easy to prepare the night before, but mostly I stuck to the list.

Since produce and canned goods are only moderately interesting, a part of me was busy eavesdropping on my fellow shoppers as I filled the wagon. Most of the conversation was pretty mundane—turkey or ham, to stuff or not stuff, baste or bag (if they chose turkey). But some of the talk was about the murder. The connection to Gordon hadn’t been made yet, but one of the maids at the Morningside Inn—I recognized Becky Andover’s adenoidal voice—said that there had been a blonde supermodel asking after the dead woman at the hotel and that Becky had had to talk to the police.

My eavesdropping was ended when I ran into Mary Grady. She is the daughter of the town librarian, a member of my writing group (the Lit Wits) and also the secretary for my former fiancé, David Cooper (notorious for having slept with my underage cousin on Thanksgiving, in what was then my married parent’s cloakroom, on my Aunt Dorothy’s sable coat. And getting caught, the moron).

“Chloe!” Mary hugged me and then patted Blue. “You’re getting ready for T-day?”

“Yep. I have a houseful this year.”

“Is that handsome Alex coming up?” Mary asked.

“Of course,” I answered immediately, knowing she would mention the matter to David. I am not sure he cares any more. For a long while he tried to get me back after the break up, but he had kidnapped me last spring and I had slugged him and made his nose bleed, so things were less cordial now.

“Did you know that the dead woman had an appointment to see David?” Mary lowered her voice and looked serious. “She said it was about estate planning. She wanted to change her will. She sounded really upset when she called.”

“Really? Did she keep the appointment?”

“No. It was for nine this morning.”

“Has David mentioned this to the police?” I asked.

Mary rolled her eyes. Of course David hadn’t mentioned it. David was an arrogant ass who saw no need to assist the police by being a good citizen and volunteering information even in a murder investigation. And he would probably never be called on it because he was friends with the mayor.

“I’ll see that the Chief knows,” I promised, then changed the subject. “Is it just you and your mom for Thanksgiving?”

“No, my uncle and his wife are coming up from Seattle. Uncle Bill just retired.”

“That’s nice,” I murmured, but my brain was already on to other things. Like had Silly’s decision to meet with an attorney been a spur of the moment one, brought on by the unexpected news of Gordon’s marriage? Didn’t it have to be? Why travel all the way to Hope Falls when there had to be attorneys near her? And who inherited under the old will—Dale Gordon? That wouldn’t be good.

More to the point, who had told her Dale was getting married? Not the lardhead. Maybe Mitzi?

Mary and I murmured a few more pleasantries and then I had a last look at my list. Deciding I was done, Blue and I headed for the check-stand. I avoided the one where my cousin, Todd, was working. Todd is a snitch and bully and he had called Blue a ratty old afghan.

I had a long moment as I waited by the magazines, glaring at my cousin, where I thought about trying to pin the murder on him. I wouldn’t really do it, but it’s fun to fantasize sometimes and I was pretty sure that I could engineer a successful frame-up if I put my mind to it.

Standing in line, I saw Marcie and Andrew from church. They had become an item sometime over the summer and I found them less fun to be with than before. I was just as happy to see the farmer’s market end and to put away my ‘Free Hugs’ sign for the winter. I think the idea of offering hugs to people is a nice one and I know that a lot of the older people who are alone really like it, but Marcie and Andrew spent way too much time hugging each other and giggling. I am my mother’s daughter, at least in some ways, and I found their public display to be embarrassing.

Also, our church—and since I am not supposed to talk about this incident, I won’t mention the name—got involved in a bit of war with another church this fall and I refused to take sides. I’ll call the other church Our Lady of the Heart, though that isn’t the proper name either. Anyhow, both churches are on Washington Street. Both are old and beautiful, and both have sign boards where they leave inspirational messages for the public. They had tangled a few times before over minor things. For instance, our church had put out a sign that said: Make a joyful noise unto The Lord. Except no rap music. And the other church had promptly put out a sign saying: Music Night on Saturday. Rappers welcome.

Last September, Father O’Brien had put out a board that quoted a hymn:

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

Then he added:

All animals go to Heaven.

Our pastor, being contentious and willing to argue anything, put out his own sign: Animals don’t have souls. Only people do. Animals don’t go to Heaven. That’s just a song.

Father O’Brien, without citing any scripture, had a new sign out by sunrise. Our God welcomes all animals in Heaven.

Angered and inclined to be pedantic, our pastor fired back at his erring flock who had been seen sneaking into the rival church for sunrise services: Check your scripture! Animals have no souls! And switching churches won’t help your pets.

Having a wonderful time, a giddy Father O’Brien put out a board that said: Free souls for all pets whose owners convert today!

And it worked. Not with the old-timers who had firm church affiliations, but with the godless newcomers and new-agers who loved their pets. Like me. They came to the Father’s church in masses. Donations sky-rocketed.

Now so angry that he had a tic in his eye, our pastor put up another sign: Saying pets can go to Heaven is as dumb as saying trees and flowers go to Heaven! And sinners who fall from the path will burn in Hell!

To which Father O’Brien replied: All trees and flowers go to OUR Heaven—so give it up you heartless Puritan and lose with some dignity.

And then the respective church councils got involved and the signs went back to blessing people and urging them to drive safely and to think of the homeless during the holidays.

I am not sure that I could join Father O’Brien’s church, though he does a lovely service. The scandal in the family would be horrible if I converted and I have some reservations about the rest of the church’s doctrine. But I think that our pastor is wrong in saying animals have no souls. I think Blue and my cats will go to Heaven—a Heaven full of trees and flowers too. And if they don’t then I don’t want to go there either.

Hmph!

Knowing it was bad, I still stopped at Mother’s and ordered the quadruple bypass and a Coke to go. On the menu it’s called The Golden Burger, but everyone knows that a half pound burger with double cheese, bacon, pastrami and a fried egg is nothing so benign. I wasn’t planning to eat it on my own. At least half of it would go to Blue and the cats. We would all need to build up our strength so we could withstand the company and the coming holiday.

Once back in the car, I got out my phone and called the Chief. I didn’t go through the switchboard where Gordon might still be working. When I was sleuthing, it was unofficial and I report only to Randy Wallace. Especially when my sleuthing concerned Dale Gordon.

“Boston, shoot,” the Chief answered absently and I knew he was in work mode.

“I just thought you should know that the dead woman had an appointment at nine this morning with David Cooper. She wanted to change her will.” I felt a slight stab as I added the last bit. For the sake of peace in the family, I really hoped that Dale Gordon was not her current beneficiary. I didn’t want anyone connected with my family to have any motive for killing the ex-wife. “He won’t tell you anything voluntarily. Attorney-client privilege, he’ll say. But there may be a way to find out if he knows anything more.”

“You’re better than Google, Boston. Keep me posted,” the Chief said and then hung up.

Really, he likes me. The Chief just doesn’t care for cell phones.

Back home, I carried the groceries and my burger inside. From the window over the sink, I noticed Miss Tate sitting out in her yard and decided I had better check on her since it was unusual for her to be out after dark. Her nephew looked in almost every evening, but he often worked late. My elderly neighbor was still melancholy about the death of her twin sister. In addition to being sad, she has some rather obsolete reasoning apparatus and a lot of rust had built up inside her skull causing the brain to short-circuit from time to time. I feared that some day the equipment would cease working all together and she would have to go into a home. And that really would be the end of her.

I approached Miss Tate slowly, staying to the walk that was marked by the dim glow of solar lights. She is sometimes fearful when she doesn’t recognize a person. Fortunately, though she often forgets me, she usually remembers Blue. That evening she was staring blankly at the naked elm tree, her brow furrowed with worry or what passes for thought these days.

“Hi, Miss Tate. Kind of cold out, isn’t it?” I knelt down beside her and noticed that she had been out there long enough for a spider to start webbing in her forgotten cane. Blue came and sat on her other side. Miss Tate began to pet her. Her hands were unsteady.

“Did you see the gnome?” she finally asked me, her gaze focusing on my face.

“The gnome?” This was a new one.

“I saw it first from my deck,” she said earnestly. “Ugly things, gnomes. Can’t abide them.”

“And one was on your deck?” The temptation was to dismiss this, but what if there had been a prowler? “Did it try to get inside?”

“No. It went to the dentist’s. Didn’t think gnomes needed dentists.”

I thought about this and then realized that from her back deck she would be able to see Doc Marley’s office on the other side of the canyon. Doc Marley’s closed office.

“Did the gnome actually go into the dentist’s office?” I didn’t ask when this happened because her short term memory was sketchy and her concepts of time were fluid to the say the least.

“No. The gnome was painting the stairs. I didn’t know they did that either.”

“Could it have been me you saw? Or my father?” We had both been at Doc Marley’s cleaning up the WD-40 after Althea’s accident. “Did you maybe see my cousin fall down?”

Her brow furrowed again.

“I just saw the gnome.”

“Was it a girl gnome?” I asked.

“Are there girl gnomes?” she asked back.

She had me there. I tried again.

“What was the gnome wearing?”

“Red sweater, green pants, blue hat.” This sounded unlikely for the fashionable Silly Gordon I had met, but perhaps that was her idea of the proper prank-playing outfit. Of course, I was only guessing that it had been Gordon’s ex who tried to hurt Althea. I liked her for it because it was easy and made sense, but it could have been any number of people. Even an angry kid who blamed her for their dental torture or for being stingy with the packs of sugarless gum they offered as bribes at the office. Though the kids tended to dress better than the adults, not everyone in town was too much of a fashion plate to avoid this hideous color combination. For instance, Jacky MacKay tended to wear bright clothes. Not that he would ever do anything as malicious as spreading WD-40 on the stairs.

Unless someone told him too.

I noticed that Miss Tate was shivering. She was dressed fairly warmly, but she had obviously been outside for a while.

“How about if we go in and have some tea?” I suggested. My dinner would have to wait. “And I will have a look for your gnome and make sure he isn’t still hanging around.”

“That sounds lovely, dear.” It was a struggle for her to rise but I didn’t try to help. Miss Tate preferred to manage on her own. “Do you know how to make tea, dear?”

“I’m a champion tea maker,” I assured her.

“Oh good. I can’t seem to recall how to light the stove.”

“Don’t worry,” I said gently. “I remember how.”

Chapter 5

Alex arrived in town around noon and found me on my route. In a moment of optimism I had had a house key made for him and he seemed happy about being gifted with it.

Blue wanted her share of the hugs from my boyfriend and seemed torn about staying with me or going with Alex when lunch was done. In the end, she chose to stay, but it made me happy that my dog liked Alex that much. We had had a couple rough patches in the past and I sometimes questioned my judgment about men. You’ve maybe heard of putting canaries down a coal mine to look for poisoned air? Well, dogs are as effective in their own way. Since my last great romantic mistake, I’ve begun to watch how people react to Blue and she to them and I am highly suspicious of anyone who dislikes or fears her. Indifference is fine, but a more active negative emotion isn’t good. Some breeds of dogs have fearsome reputations—like Rottweilers—but anyone who goes in hate or terror of my loving dog has some bad kinks in their mental plumbing.

I filled Alex in on the latest news in the investigation and also mentioned my suspicion that the mysterious ‘gnome’ was the one responsible for Althea’s fall. He promised to get started on the online part of the investigation that afternoon. I promised to do some baking when I got home. Alex thinks better when fueled with cookies or monkey bread.

As I drove by the Courthouse Park I noticed that the crime scene tape was down and lights and stage were going up. The show must go on, even if the production sounded dreadful to me—The First Thanksgiving in Hope Falls. There might be some token Indians they could use in the play, but we were short on pilgrims. In fact, Hope Falls had been founded by a con man. Our founder, Oliver J. Hope, fabricated the entire gold rush story that brought settlers to the area. He did this so that he could sell off parcels of useless land at ridiculous profits.  All he needed to do was produce a sizable amount of gold that he claimed to have mined out of the surrounding hills and he was set for life. Parcels of land on Big Quincy Mountain were sold by the square yard in some of the most popular areas. Of course, Mr. Hope retained ownership of the town after selling off chunks of the mountain.  He used it as a base of operations to sell provisions to the miners and as a result became even wealthier. But I bet that they weren’t going to be telling that story. Nor were they likely to mention that Oliver’s sons, Edison and Theodore Hope, did not die of old age in their beds, as commonly reported. One died of syphilis in an asylum and the other was shot to death during a crooked poker game. Now that’s heritage you can sink your teeth into. It wasn’t the stuff of holiday pageants though. Someone was going to have to do a lot of lying in this play and I was glad it wasn’t me. I write fiction, but my fingers would fall off if I had to type anything that untruthful.

I glanced up the mountain, looking for the sky and wondering about the weather and if rain or snow would wreck the pageant or make the roads impassable for tourists. Get out of town a little ways and excepting the few paved roads and an old quarry, the forest is still pretty thick. Alder, fir, madronas all stitched up with wicked berry vines. There are some deer paths, but mostly it is solid green that even the wind has trouble passing through. Usually this does not strike me as sinister, but thinking about the murder and some malicious ‘gnome’ playing tricks in town had put me in an unpleasant state of mind.

I made myself shake it off. Alex and I were going to have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Everything else could wait.

The day passed slowly. Gordon hadn’t been at the desk when I came into work that morning and he wasn’t there when I signed out for the day.  He was at work though. Someone (and I was pretty sure I knew who since no one else—especially Althea— would have had anything to do with those hideous silk flowers ) had brought in a vase of Mitzi’s gold roses that were now not just sprayed gold but covered in glitter that left a trail of tawdry pixie dust by the telephone and reception desk. That would explain the funny sparkles I had seen all over Dale’s uniform the other day. I leaned over the counter, on the off chance he was hiding on the other side. No Gordon, but he’d left behind sprinkles of glitter that sparkled in ways his personality never would. I followed the trails around the station and they told me that he was visiting his favorite haunts, like the break room and bathroom.

I waited for a few minutes but Gordon didn’t appear at the desk, and I began to wonder if he was deliberately avoiding me. But why would he? Unless…. Was it possible lardhead was getting cold feet about marrying my cousin and afraid I would notice and rat him out before he could join the Foreign Legion or fake his own death? Or was he worried that what happened to Silly could happen to Althea and afraid that I would laugh at him if he voiced this concern to me? Worse, was he somehow involved in his ex-wife’s death and afraid I would see through his alibi (he and Mitzi were playing Scrabble)? Or might he actually be mourning his ex-wife and maybe making funeral arrangements? Nah—not Gordon. Silly probably had family anyway and they would be taking care of things.

And Alex would probably have all these answers by now. He worked fast. All I had to do was go home.

As for Gordon, I decided that maybe he just had an upset stomach and was stuck in the bathroom. I chose not to worry about it. Saying goodnight to Jeffrey, Blue and I left work.

I stopped for a take-out pizza and briefly considered renting a movie from next door. They had been running the holiday sucker trailers on TV for two weeks. But I suspected that the two minute trailers were actually more interesting than the two hour Thanksgiving movies they advertised. Besides, Alex and I had better things to do than watch TV.

We ate dinner and then I started my pies while Alex made up a fire; pumpkin first since that made the holiday official. As I stirred All-Spice into my thawed pumpkin, I took stock and realized that there was still a lot to get done before Thursday (like pick up my turkey) but I was feeling unusually domestic and hopeful that I could pull off the meal without accidents or panic attacks.

The smell of pies cooking was very soothing and I listened to Alex as I chopped apples, but did not dwell on the facts that he was relaying as he researched Silly Gordon.

The second pie, covered in cinnamon-pecan-praline crumbs, was done. I set the timer and then went into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. Firelight edged Alex’s hair and made him glow warmly. I was suddenly without any desire to polish silver or iron linens. There would be time enough for those things tomorrow.

Though I was feeling mellow, Alex was concentrating so hard on what was on his laptop that he was almost doubled-up nose to screen. No hunting dog on point could be more attentive.

“Okay, that’s enough work for tonight. The holidays started when the pies went into the oven,” I said.

“You’re not eaten up with curiosity about this murder?” Alex asked, surprise in his voice.

“Nope.” And I meant it. A woman had been killed, but I hadn’t really known or liked her. And the suspects in the case weren’t people I especially liked either and felt no need to rush out and clear their names when no arrest was imminent. Of course, I wanted to solve the murder eventually. But Friday was soon enough. Tuesday and Wednesday were for pies and pageants. And Thursday was for family, friends and feasting. With Alex. Our last case had turned dangerous and our relationship had all but flat-lined because of it. This was our first time together since San Francisco and Lardhead’s ex-wife wasn’t going to ruin it for us.

I reached for his hand and then stood up.

“We have fifty minutes before the pies come out,” I said. “I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

*  *  *

I woke up the next morning sandwiched between Alex and Blue. Apollo was on my stomach and an eye-roll showed me that Aphrodite was curled around Alex’s head and looking like a bad wig. Aphrodite is loving but she has the weirdest fur I’ve ever seen on a cat. Though in desperate need of the bathroom, I felt ridiculously happy and lingered under the covers for as long as possible.

Blue and I stopped in to see the Chief before starting my rounds and brought him up to date with Alex’s online snooping. The Chief let me use his computer to show him some of the public (legal) things we had found. This was an honor because he didn’t like anyone touching his desk. I didn’t say anything about the gold glitter on the floor. The Chief wasn’t dumb. Either he had called Gordon in to question him, or he could see that someone had been snooping. Not that Gordon would get anything. The Chief believed in passwords and locked drawers.

“This is what we know about Sylvia Gordon—and that was her legal name,” I recapped. “She kept her married name after the divorce, possibly because her maiden name was Love. Parents deceased last year. No siblings, so I don’t know who will make the funeral arrangements. She was a party planner in Seattle. No college and her business was started and is maintained without any loans and she is flush with cash, though the business is small. If there are life insurance policies on her, we haven’t found a record online.”

“Unusual.” I knew he was thinking dark thoughts about blackmail and hoping that if she was extorting money that it was someone in another town who had been her victim.

“I am wondering if Gordon—or his mother—was her backer. Maybe she took a lump sum instead of alimony payments after the divorce? It would be like Mitzi to pay the ex to go away quietly,” I shrugged and the Chief just grunted. Alex would find out eventually if this was the case. “She seems to have collected about two speeding tickets a year and about a half dozen parking tickets a month—which might explain in part why she was not terribly friendly with me.” The Chief grunted again. “No kids and no boyfriend, at least not one that is seen in public. Her parties though rare get— got— a lot of press and she always attended alone or with her catering staff who are all female. She seemed very close to her personal assistant, Vicki Raye. Alex says that the photos of them are suggestive. Look at this one on Facebook.” Two women in masks and scanty lingerie were clinging to each other. One was red haired, the other icy blonde and did rather resemble a supermodel.

“Poor Gordon. A woman marries him and then goes gay.”

“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:

Harry’s Christmas Cranberries

1 cup cranberries

1 cup raspberries

1 orange (juice and zest)

¼ port (but I only had sweet sherry and that was good)

2/3 cup sugar

¼ cardamom and ¼ nutmeg

2 Tbs. cornstarch

2 Tbs. warm (not hot) water

In a sauce pan combine berries, juice, zest, sherry, sugar and spice. Bring to boil then reduce to simmer. Cook until cranberries are tender. Mix cornstarch and water and whisk into cranberries until sauce thickens.

It was delicious. I made a note to try it over vanilla ice cream.

The previous night’s visit to the park had reawakened me to the fact of murder being committed in our town, but I was still not feeling motivated to turn any time and thought to solving the crime. I don’t know how to defend this lapse except to say that the turkey smelled delicious and I still had linens to iron—in the bedroom since the living room was crowded. Usually I am dogged when I am on a case, but my sense of duty and taken off like a faithless tom cat after a plump mouse.

Though it was early in the day. Alex began to mix up a tiki bar drink called a Zombie. He had made a special store run for ingredients and had gifted me with a Boston Shaker because I had nothing for making silly drinks. It had three kinds of rum and several fruit juices. It was an excellent icebreaker and even Mom approved since the fruit juice disguised how potent it really is. She helped me set the table and said nothing about Grandma’s tablecloth or the red dishes.

Just when turkey lust had reached its zenith and the last pre-feast olive and gherkin were gone from the relish tray, Mr. Jackman finished the gravy and then called us to the table. It might have been The Zombies’ fault, but I think all of us were fixated on the food and drooling. Even Blue, who usually has excellent company manners, needed a chin blot.

“What is everyone thankful for this year?” Mom asked as we finished grace and began passing the potatoes. She always asks this so I wasn’t taken unaware. Usually I can answer easily and honestly, but what hit me immediately was the fact that if things had gone differently in San Francisco I wouldn’t be here to have this Thanksgiving. That was not something I could say to my mother though. Once in a while I have to lie to my mom. Usually white lies, but sometimes great big whoppers that she should have seen through. In fact, maybe she did see through them. With Mom, it is hard to know. Instead of telling the first truth, I settled for saying that I was thankful that all my friends and family could be with me—especially Alex and his Aunt Mary Elizabeth who I seldom got to see. This was stretching things, but Mary Elizabeth beamed.

“Well, I am just grateful to be here and not in pain. I stand in the shadows that edge the true darkness of old age and am glad for any day I don’t feel it too keenly.” Mrs. Graves is a mystery writer and expresses herself well, though the subject she chose could be a bit of a dialogue depressant. “Frankly, I hate growing old and find it works better if I ignore this reality.”

This I understood. Some realities were better ignored on Thanksgiving. And other days too.

After we pushed back from the denuded turkey carcass and retired to the living room to watch football and nap, I half expected that Dad and Mr. Jackson—and even Mrs. Graves—would find an excuse to pull Alex and I aside and talk about the murder. But nothing was said. And no mention was made of Althea or Gordon or their approaching nuptials. Avoidance of the uncomfortable subjects continued, though I was increasingly aware that we were all thinking of the murder. Except for Mom, who was probably plotting how to get me married so that I would not be lagging behind Althea.

Eventually Mom and Alex went to do dishes. I whipped cream and served pie. We took a walk just at sundown and then my guests began to leave. The last thing Dad said as he leaned in to give me a hug was ‘tomorrow’, and I knew that the holiday was truly over. While others would go out shopping on what the media has started calling Black Friday, Dad and Alex and I would be talking about things more serious.

Silly Gordon’s murder was at last getting the attention her death deserved. That was a good thing, I told myself. Because I was ready to get back in the saddle.

Sometimes it isn’t just Mom I lie to.

Chapter 8

Dad doesn’t often surprise me, but he did that Friday. Alex met me at the station right before lunch and I traded in my official electric vehicle for his gas powered one. Normally I would have taken the cart, but it can’t haul Alex, Blue and me up the hill to Dad’s place.

The first inkling that something was afoot was all the patriotic bunting along the corral fence and barn that housed Old Luke. Dad was often forgetful about holidays, but even he could not have confused Christmas lights with red, white and blue stripes and stars. Luke was also adorned in some kind of bunting which I could read as we came around the turn and got past the naked limbs of the twisted oak by the old well.

“Oh wow,” Alex said and began to laugh. Old Luke dressed up in a VOTE FOR HENRY BOSTON FOR MAYOR banner. There was one on Dad’s van too. And on Dad, or rather he was holding one up in front of his chest and grinning proudly as Alex pulled to a stop.

“Dad?” I didn’t ask if he was really running for mayor. Obviously he was. “But why?”

“That moron Cody is going to raise taxes again so they go ahead with the stupid OFF renovation nonsense. And he’s putting in another light at the end of Grant Road. I got enough signatures last week and filed. My candidacy is official. We’ll be having a special election in January.”

Andrew Cody was the present mayor, perhaps a moron, and fond of traffic lights which many old timers resented having grown up in the free-for-all days of driving. These same people were the ones opposed to the new proposed new mega-mall. And thanks to the city charter, we can and do have special elections whenever enough residents want them. Which is fairly often as people see no point in waiting around for November to deal with things that anger them.

“I see.” And I did. “So you didn’t want us here to talk about the murder?”

“The murder?” Dad looked blank for a moment. “Oh. No, I figured that you’ve got that covered. I want you to put this on your fence,” Dad said, thrusting his chest banner at me. “Jeffrey is putting signs up all over the trailer park. I want the town blanketed by night fall. The special election is coming up in just a few weeks!”

“But—”

“Here, Alex, you can put these up in Mr. Jackman’s and Mrs. Graves’ yards.” Alex accepted the two foot by two foot signs. Neither he nor Dad seemed to notice the cold wind that was creeping up my spine. There were no clouds, so it wasn’t the weather that was bringing the storm that I knew was about to break over us.

“Do Mr. Jackman and Mrs. Graves know they are getting signs in their yard?” Alex asked mildly.

“They will by the time you get there and will probably even help,” Dad promised. “Now let’s have some dogs. Got them on the grill.”

He meant hotdogs. Alex and Blue looked enthused so I went along with it. I needed lunch anyway. One didn’t need to be psychic to know that it would be a long day.

That afternoon, while at the very edges of my official route which neared Olympus, I heard a distinctive gobble and stopped my cart to listen. Blue looked east and sighed. As I had feared, the gobbling was coming from Tara Lee’s backyard. Tara Lee is the leader of the Lit Wits and a terrifying grand dame of the old school. Have you ever seen a picture of the romance novelist, Barbara Cartland? Well, that is pretty much Tara Lee. And she hates to be interrupted while she is working.

With heavy feet and heart, I exited my vehicle, signing for Blue to stay behind. Tara Lee is one of the people on the planet who does not love my dog. Tara Lee doesn’t love any animals at all.

I approached the door with its gleaming brass hardware. Though decorated with a seasonal wreath which wished me joy, the porch was still imposing enough to make me worry about touching things with dirty shoes or fingers that might mar the pristine white welcome mat or shiny gargoyle door-knocker. There was no doorbell, which I found to be a bit hostile. It was the gargoyle in the prickly holly wreath or bruising your fist on the hardwood panel.

Fortunately, I heard and smelled the gardener before I disturbed the quiet with the door-knocker of doom. Mr. Costas was a smoker and indulged frequently, even though Tara Lee had threatened to fire him if she found him smoking on her property. The cost of smoking seemed high—half a lung to the Marlboro Man already and the potential to lose a job as well—but such is Mr. Costas’ addiction.

The gardener was happy to let Blue and I in through the side gate and even carried the turkey crate for me. The tom was easy enough to capture. Like the last stray, he seemed drawn to the dead foxglove that rimmed the acres of green lawn and the contact had made him sleepy. Foxglove—digitalis—is a beautiful but poisonous flower that few people grew since it was not a hardy perennial and had to be planted every year. It gets expensive and I don’t want it in my yard since I have Blue and the cats. The turkey seemed unharmed by its brush with toxins though, so I loaded him up and took him to the turkey ranch rather than to a vet. I called Jeffrey on my cell and he agreed to cover my route while I was delivering my feathered passenger.

I thought about the murder as I drove the now very familiar road to the turkey ranch at six miles per hour. At the heart of the mystery was the question of why. Why kill Silly and try to hurt Althea? Assuming the two things were related and my gut said they were. Surely the only thing the two women had in common was Dale Gordon, and though I was no fan of the lardhead’s, I couldn’t see him doing actual bodily harm to either of them.

I had not arrived at an answer by the time I reached the turkey ranch, and one of Dad’s banners hanging by the gate startled me out of my grim and fruitless reverie. Though I had some doubts about my father as mayor— he had been a terrible police chief and was awfully disorganized— apparently others were not as concerned. Dad was popular, an old-timer with old-fashioned values like loyalty and compassion, and a lot of people were angry with the way he had been driven out of office. In part, by the current mayor, Andrew Cody. My own boss, the present chief of police, had been forgiven for taking Dad’s job because he was an out-of-towner and also because Dad had gone out of his way to show the new chief and the town that he bore no ill will for the change.

Diego was delighted to see us and clearly overjoyed that Dad was making a run for office. I guess a disorganized mayor who didn’t interfere in people’s business was a thing devoutly to be wished for. I was thanked profusely for bringing home the wayward fowl and Blue was patted several times before we were allowed on our way back into town. Now at a blistering seven miles per hour since we going downhill.

My thoughts finally turned outward, I saw that overnight—as it should—Santa’s Cottage had sprung up in Courthouse Park along with a plywood Frosty of improbably size and several Christmas trees that stood in front of the reindeer stables that never actually housed any deer, though there was plenty of hay available if any dropped in. We have been fortunate to have the same Santa and Mrs. Claus there my entire life and I waved happily as we passed them.

Extension cords snaked through the grass which was looking rather worse for the wear after the pageant crowds, but the children and parents waiting for a turn with Santa ignored the intrusion of technology into magic because it was nice to have hot chocolate with Santa and twinkling lights on the Christmas trees, even if they were the new cold LEDs that I am not so fond of.

It was hard to believe that a body had lain there just days before. Hard to believe and obscene. It made me hope that the killer wasn’t local and therefore didn’t know that they were committing desecration of a landmark as well as murder.

The day was not through with its surprises. I made it back to the station and discovered that four of our officers were out sick. They had eaten at Mrs. Wicks’ on Thanksgiving and the vengeful spirit of a slain holiday turkey had visited them with food poisoning. No one was in the hospital, which was good, but that meant that everyone else had to pick up the slack for the afflicted. My slack included two things so horrible that I was left breathless with indignation.

One— the arrival of the new Officer Bill costume. It was only discovered after it was signed for and delivery accepted that the artist who had made the papiermache head had made the opening too small and the only person—not out with food poisoning— who could fit in it was me. This was terrible. Blue had hated the old Officer Bill head and howled pathetically every time I put it on. The Chief saw my horror and reassured me that it was only until they got a new head from the artist, which would be the first week of December. Or the second week— at the latest. Right, an artist busy with orders for Christmas was going to redo the Officer Bill head because he was very concerned about public safety programs in the grammar school soon out for Christmas vacation.

Two— Monday was the day when the honor students at the middle school made their annual pilgrimage to the police station and were partnered with a police officer for the day. I had always escaped this duty because no one wanted to be out with a meter maid, and also because we usually had a full, healthy force. This time, the Chief said, I would probably have to take one of the students with me.

I didn’t hide my grimace. This likely meant two things. First, Blue wouldn’t be able to ride with me. There wasn’t room in my official vehicle. And also I would have a whining kid dragging around with me making snide comments about my job. If I was very unlucky I’d end up having to go on another turkey hunt, which was a whole lot harder without Blue and could even get undignified if the turkey headed for bushes and mud. Rodney Dangerfield thought that he got no respect— ha!

Fortunately, Alex had intended to head home Tuesday but suggested that morning that he stay a while longer. I didn’t ask how long a while he had in mind. I was just happy that he wanted stay longer than the usual extended weekend.

My last unpleasant surprise was waiting by the locker room door. Promotions had been posted. I had gotten a tiny raise, but lardhead had not gotten his, and the public relations job he had applied for had gone to Eddie Rounds. I wondered how long it would be before Althea found out. Mitzi, too, and if she would start vilifying her neighbor for stealing her son’s job. She would, I was certain. As near as I could tell, Mitzi hadn’t heard the one about speaking no evil, and Eddie Rounds lived within egg-throwing distance from her. For a moment I considered seeking out Dale and commiserating, but there wasn’t much I could say. Eddie was the better choice for the public relations job and the Chief had made the right call. Feeling a bit cowardly, I left through the back door so I wouldn’t have to pass Dale at the front desk.

“Ready to go, Blue?” I asked as I pulled out my bike. The day had been nice so I rode my bike with sidecar to work. Blue prefers it.

Like mushrooms after a rain, Dad’s signs were springing up all over town and warring with the first of the Christmas lights. There were even some that were handmade. It seemed every other yard had one and there was a giant banner hanging out at Jeffrey’s trailer park. I wondered how busy Alex had been and if anyone had noticed my boyfriend helping Dad. I didn’t need for the Chief to tell me that he was both amused and appalled at this development and that I should keep my head down and my mouth shut about election matters while on duty. The current mayor was going to be very, very unhappy and would be only too pleased to cause trouble for me if I said or did anything partisan during work hours.

I told myself to be civic-minded and consider what was best for the town, but sometimes parental relations are difficult. Particularly if you don’t really know what’s best anyway.

Chapter 9

Alex had not been completely consumed by Dad’s campaign, though he was beginning to look and sound more like an aid-de-camp than a cyber-crimes investigator. He had not neglected his investigations entirely though and it was sounding more and more like the blonde super-model was both Silly’s girlfriend and also a publicity nightmare for the small company. The woman had a temper and a tendency to let fly with both slaps and bad language. She sounded like a good candidate for murderer, but where had she found a gun? Alex could find no record of a gun permit in her name. The lady also seemed to have gone off radar. I consoled myself that this was being handled by official channels and finding her wasn’t my problem. My job was to find someone not involved in Althea’s wedding to take the fall for Silly’s murder.

A light snow came that night leaving a downy comforter that lasted until mid-morning. The weather man predicted brief clearing, but another storm was coming and this one would have thunder and lightning. Have you ever noticed that ozone has a taste? My teeth were beginning to ache and I could taste copper on my tongue as I walked into the station. I heard the mayor in the Chief’s office and scurried by as quickly as possible. Blue also did her best to make herself as small as she could. I spent my half-day doing my best to avoid the mayor, who was out belatedly hanging up campaign posters. The rush printing job must have cost him a fortune and he scowled in a way that would have surprised many of his supporters.

I tried to enjoy my last day of relative freedom. Monday I would have some smart aleck student in tow and I was dreading it. As I often do when needing an oasis of calm, I headed for the book store.

Becky’s Books is that rarest of creatures, an independent book store. Almost extinct in some larger cities and towns, they can still be found in some isolated locations too small for malls or Wal-mart. It didn’t attract as many people as the coffee house, but I always found it a good place to browse and collect gossip and Becky didn’t mind if I brought Blue. I hesitated before entering though because Dale Gordon was inside and perusing the true crime section at the front of the store. Nothing wrong with that—I read a lot of true crime too—but Dale Gordon was not a reader. Nor did he have Althea by his side.

Squinting through the glass, I managed to read the title of the book in his hands: “Wicked Plants: The Weed That Killed Lincoln’s Mother”. There was more in tiny print but I couldn’t read it.

After my first snort of laughter at the idea of Dale actually offing his mother, I began to sober. Murder and murderers were not something to laugh about, especially not when there might be one walking the streets of Hope Falls.

I went back to my vehicle without venturing inside. My brain was spinning like a centrifuge, throwing ideas out as it separated the gold from the dross. This notion taking shape wasn’t a clue yet, it was too amorphous, but it told me the direction to travel. Reluctantly, I decided that I would have some lunch with Alex—supposing that Dad could spare him—and then drop in to see my cousin and talk about… things. Like where Aunt Dorothy’s gun might have gotten to. I didn’t really suspect Althea of killing Silly Gordon, but the gun needed to be found so we could rule her and Aunt Dorothy out, and obviously Mom wasn’t going to press the point.

Alex had time for lunch, but only barely. Greatly distracted by Dad’s enormous to-do list, I got only half a sandwich and a casual hug. But just before I left Hope Falls Park something else happened. It wasn’t deliberate and I think that for a moment Alex wasn’t even aware of what he said, but then you could see the light dawn as he replayed his final sentence: Love you, sweetie. I’ll be home by five.

Stunned, I didn’t know what to say back so settled for telling him not to get cold or let Dad work him too hard. I was so shocked by his casual declaration that I didn’t even notice that Blue remained with Alex and the bag of sugar cookies.

Damn. He’d gone and used the L-word. I felt happy and dismayed and panicked.

My life is pretty streamlined since my close call with the cheating pustule, David Cooper. It had been challenging to make a place for Alex and that had worked out because he was usually two states away. Boyfriends take effort. Like constant and discrete hair removal and they eat twice as much as any regular friend. Of course, there is enjoyable stuff too. Alex and I had fun and were a good fit professionally, but was I really ready for anything else? Was he— really?

Maybe it was hypocritical—okay, it was hypocritical—but it seemed okay to feel love as long as we didn’t talk about it or make any long-term plans.

I drove on autopilot. My cousin was at home—darn it—so I stopped. It took me a moment to gather my wits and to push thoughts of Alex away.

“Come in! I’m going crazy anyway,” Althea said less than graciously. As if her problems had anything to do with me.

“Hello yourself,” I said back. The living room was awash with bridal magazines, many of them torn to pieces. I suspected that they were ones with unwanted suggestions from Gordon’s mother. A few stray sparkles of gold glitter on the covers confirmed this hypothesis.

“That woman! That…. whose wedding is it anyway? Who’s the bride—just tell me that!”

Given Mitzi’s sheer horribleness, I began to belatedly wonder what had become of Mr. Gordon. Dale never mentioned him. Had he impregnated Dale’s mom and then wisely headed for green—and quieter—pastures?

“Are Gordon’s parents divorced?” I asked Althea as I found a place to sit. “Will his father be at the wedding?”

“No. His dad died about ten years ago—thank heavens I won’t have to deal with a second wife. I can just imagine the seating chart. The only way this is going to work is if I make Mitzi eat in the limo.” She had wedding on the brain. Better that than death, I supposed, but if I were in her shoes I would be giving the matter of Silly’s murder at least a little thought.

“That’s sad. Was he ill?” I tried to look concerned.

“No.” Althea’s voice grew harsh. “He drank. He also smoked in bed. One night he did both together and paid for it.”

“Oh dear. Mitzi was lucky not to have been hurt.”

Althea didn’t look like she agreed with this statement, but she had had advanced training as a hypocrite and I saw it kick in. This is a family trait and allowed her to—barely—refrain from saying what she really thought.

“She was playing bingo that night,” was all Althea said.

“I guess a dead husband would explain why she is so close to her son. Were there other children?”

“No.” This was becoming Althea’s favorite word. This time, the nuance was bleak. Unable to help herself she added: “She’ll be with us for every damn holiday between now and the day she dies. And it will be worse when we have kids. Dale and I are going to start a family right away, you know.”

This was scary. The lardhead and the narcissist were going to have children. I couldn’t think why, but I guess even black widow spiders have offspring.

I made myself pat her shoulder. Althea had annoyed me from birth and I had always wanted some payback for her torment, but not her unhappiness until the end of days (or at least the end of Mitzi Gordon’s days).

“Maybe Mom and Aunt Dot can get her interested in some clubs and things,” I said. “Doesn’t your mom still belong to that shooting club?”

“They’re trying, but she never gets asked back to a second meeting. How she could offend anyone at the rifle range with all those guns going off, I will never know—but she did it. Even when people wear earplugs, she annoys them. The gun club would have been perfect for her too.”

So Mitzi knew how to shoot a gun.

“Did your mom loan her the twenty-two?” I asked point-blank. There was no point in being subtle. “It seems to be missing.”

“Yes, and she managed to drop it in the lake.”

“The lake? But how? Why?” I asked with what I think is pardonable exasperation. “Althea, this is really not good. We need that gun.”

Althea shrugged.

“She decided to try some practice shooting on her own. So she borrowed Gordon’s canoe and paddled out to Gazebo Island.” The gazebo that had once graced this unpopulated little up-thrust of wooded rock in Hope Falls Lake was long gone, but the name remained. “On the way, she somehow managed to drop the rifle over the side.”

“Huh.” This was a very suspect story and I think Althea knew it, but angry as she was at her mother-in-law to-be, she wouldn’t say anything else.

“Let’s have some tea,” she suggested. “And I can put a slug of something in mine. My ankle is killing me.”

I trailed my limping cousin into the kitchen, wondering if we should drag the lake. I couldn’t blame Althea for being annoyed since I also found Mitzi trying. But it probably wouldn’t hurt her to do a little more suffering in silence, and loyalty isn’t a bad thing in marriage, I thought. Though it was making my job harder.

“Has Mitzi been here?” I asked, studying the way the canister sparkled.

“Not that I know of. I don’t encourage her to come.” Althea sniffed.

Maybe Dale had been by and that was how the gold glitter had gotten in her kitchen and all over her tea canister.

Only Dale didn’t like tea. He had, in fact, many times expressed his view about the kind of girlie men who drank tea.

And he had been reading a book about poisonous plants.

“Don’t!” I said as Althea reached for the canister. The words were out before I thought.

“What?”

“Don’t touch the canister. Do you have any cooking tongs? I want to look inside.” Althea has always been bitchy to me, but she didn’t doubt that my ‘intuition’ was almost always right. She opened a drawer by the oven and pulled out some serving tongs. Her gaze was alarmed.

“What is it?”

I carefully lifted the lid, grateful it wasn’t a wire bale kind of jar and looked inside.

“That looks like foxglove,” I said softly. Althea peered beside me.

“Is it?” she sounded more perplexed than worried. “These herbal teas all look like potpourri to me. I only drink them because I need to lose weight.”

“That’s digitalis—heart medicine. Enough of it could kill you. Or Mom and Aunt Dot,” I added, feeling a blast of sudden rage. “Get me a plastic bag. I am sending the canister in for a fingerprint check and will have the tea analyzed.”

I turned to my cousin whose own face had gone white.

“What?” she whispered.

“Listen to me. Maybe this is another joke—like the stairs. But this one could do more than get you hurt. Or the moms. You need to be careful from here on out. You need to make sure that your mom—and mine— are careful too. Lock the doors any time you are out. No eating any cakes left on the doorstep or in your car. No accepting candy that arrives in the mail without a return address. No touching edible engagement gift whose cards have fallen off. If something looks at all off—food wise—any wise, don’t touch it. Call me. Or Dale.” I made myself add that, though at the moment the glitter on the canister rather incriminated Althea’s fiancé. Unable to leave it, I added: “But if you call Dale at the station it will make it official, so you need to think before you do that.”

Althea nodded, still looking about the same shade as her enormous and tasteless wedding gown. She fetched a plastic bag for me and I wrapped the canister and then got out my phone. I didn’t know who to call first. Dad and Alex were together—with my dog! But I needed to get the canister checked for prints and the tea to the lab right away, and the only one who could do that outside of channels was the Chief. That meant that he got the first call.

“Where are the moms?” I asked Althea.

“Book club at the library. They’ll be there until three.”

“Okay, start tearing the kitchen apart. Put on those rubber gloves. Throw out anything that’s open and put aside anything else that has glitter on it. I am counting on you to explain things but not terrify them. I doubt there is anything else wrong in the kitchen. This is just in case, okay? We need to be smart, not scared. Can you do this?”

Althea nodded and I stepped outside to make my call.

Chapter 10

No fingerprints on the canister. I didn’t expect there to be, unless we were dealing with an idiot madman who never watched television and didn’t know to wear gloves. The Chief looked grim as I shared the news—all the news, Althea’s first injury, the missing gun and my seeing Gordon reading about poisons in the book store. He was unhappy, but he didn’t question my reasoning and got the tea off for analysis immediately. The Chief asked if I knew which gardens in town had foxglove and I could think of two—Mitzi’s and Tara Lee’s, but I pointed out that anyone could take digitalis from their yards or get plants at the garden center.

Lastly, I confessed that I seemed to be unable to investigate the case properly because I was too involved with many of the suspects and maybe because I was still shaken by what had happened in San Francisco. The Chief, who is usually tactful, actually laughed at me. He said I was doing more than fine and get back out there and find the murderer.

I called Alex as soon as the Chief and I were done and asked if he and Dad could meet me at home. Dad suggested the coffee shop instead, so he could press the flesh, but I told Alex that this was about the murder and we needed to speak in private. After he relayed the message, Dad agreed to meet at my place and help finish up the leftovers.

Dad and Alex were no more thrilled with my news than the Chief had been and Dad even decided to go visit my mom after we finished dinner. I didn’t encourage him to linger because I could see he was concerned about my mother and I wanted him to make sure that Althea had impressed the moms with how important it was to be careful. The trouble with living your whole life in a place where bad things rarely happened was that you didn’t have the ability to be truly suspicious.

Over pie and coffee—not tea; it would be a while before I drank tea again—Alex and I discussed motives and means. We had five suspects so far, though in my heart I refused to believe that Althea or Aunt Dot would kill anyone, let alone risk hurting my mother by planting poison in the tea in the kitchen they all shared.

I had thought the horrible day over and done with, but the Chief called just before ten with the news that Eddie Rounds was dead. He had died in his own garage while his wife was off visiting her sister. Apparently the car he was repairing had fallen off the jacks and crushed him. The Chief didn’t add that Eddie Rounds had just gotten the job that the lardhead wanted, but we were both thinking it. Dale Gordon now had two strikes against him.

I hung up the phone and turned to Alex. I thought again of Althea and her long-awaited wedding and begin to feel ill. There would be no nuptials if Gordon was arrested for murder. My words were calm as I mentioned this to Alex, but I was have fits on the inside.

“There’s no consistency,” Alex said quickly. “The WD-40 on the stairs was a stupid way to try and kill someone. I think that was a prank.”

“The gun wasn’t a prank though. It worked most efficiently.”

“Yes. But the digitalis might be a prank. Or at least, it is a chancy way to try and kill someone. I’ve been reading about it and it is more likely that tea would have made someone ill. Unless they had a heart condition. Does Althea have anything wrong with her heart?” he asked.

I did not make any jokes about hearts made of flint.

“No, but my aunt does.” I remembered something and sucked in my breath. “Aunt Dot grew foxglove this summer. I must have blocked it out. Damn! I told the Chief I shouldn’t be investigating this!”

“You can’t remember everything, Chloe. And no one is better qualified than you.”

“Actually, I pretty much can remember everything,” I muttered, feeling shaken. What was up with me?  Could this really be the end of my career as a detective?

We were silent for a moment. Alex did not suggest that I call the Chief and relay my latest memory.

“The car jack collapsing could be an accident,” Alex said.

“Maybe, but if it isn’t, I think we have to put this in the direct and efficient category rather than on the list of pranks.”

“Yeah.”

“So, two pranks on my cousin and Althea is still alive. Two serious attempts at murder—maybe—and two dead. Are they even related? I just can’t see the pattern yet.”

I sighed. Blue sighed.

“Come on. I’ve run my brain up against the wall too many times today and so have you. Let’s go to bed.” Alex took my hand. Neither of us said anything about being in love. We did things about it, but the discussion was postponed.

*  *  *

The next day was as bad as I expected it to be. There was a pall over the station as funeral arrangements for Eddie Rounds were being made. And there were so many officers still sick with food poisoning that I got stuck with the student no one wanted, a detective wannabe with a video camera. Worst of all, I had to leave Blue with Alex. I always thought better when Blue was with me. Without her I was all tangled thoughts and nerves.

The Chief, guessing at my degree of unhappiness at having a little shadow along for the day, introduced Frederica Barnes and I personally. He then explained that the day contained further horrors. In the midst of life we are in death, or something like that, but that didn’t mean that I was spared the earthly suffering of having to take my honor student with me to the grammar school to explain crosswalk safety to the kindergarteners. Officers Bill’s last appearance had caused a playground-wide panic, so the principal was understandably nervous to see me. But this time I didn’t have Dale Gordon along to make matters worse and Frederica and I were able to escape thirty minutes later without a single tear being shed in the kindergarten.

“One down and one to go.” I was feeling more cheerful. The new Office Bill head was lighter than the old one and didn’t smell of cat urine.

“I didn’t know that they made police officers do things like this,” was all Frederica said. Then, with a flash of pity: “Don’t worry. I won’t put this on youtube.”

“Thanks.”

Mercifully, Frederica was fairly quiet, possibly because she was obsessed with documenting everything about her day for her blog with her digital camera. I decided that we could kill two birds with one stone and both continue my investigation and give Frederica something to photograph besides cars. I explained that I was trying to identify which homes in town had foxglove in their gardens.

A chance to actually detect something made the rather plain girl light up like a Christmas tree. The only problem was that she didn’t know what foxglove looked like. Since the three choices for plant identification were my mom’s place, Tara Lee’s, or Mitzi Gordon’s, I went with Mom first. But when we arrived I discovered that all the plants had been ripped out of the yard. Maybe because the snow had blackened them, but most likely because of the tea Althea and I had found in the kitchen.

I chalked tires as we wended our way to Mitzi’s place. Mitzi Gordon or Tara Lee, it really was the devil and the deep blue sea. But Tara Lee was outside my usual route, so if Mitzi was home I had a back-up plan of visiting the library and showing Frederica foxglove in a gardening book. Fortunately, I saw Mitzi walking away with Gordon as we rounded the corner and we were able to sneak into her yard and shoot some video of the foxglove. Only one clump remained. It was hidden by some frost-bitten chrysanthemums. Monday seemed to be the day for people to rip out their deadly flowers.

I didn’t like that Dale wasn’t at work on a week day. If the Chief had suspended him, pending the results of the lab test on the tea and perhaps processing of the new crime scene—and the Chief would have to investigate the death of Eddie Rounds as a possible homicide— I was likely to be hearing from a very unhappy Althea. Like there was anything I could do about it, but that wouldn’t stop her from yelling at me. Worse, the station was likely to be attacked by an enraged Mitzi. The Chief would probably think I was the right person to cool her down too.

“Uh oh!” I said, making a sharp, illegal U-turn to avoid being stopped behind the mayor at the long stoplight on Main. I had hoped that maybe he would have cooled off after a couple days of being in a snit about my dad’s challenge, but his backseat was stuffed full of campaign posters and I could see him yelling at someone on his cell.

“Who was that?” Frederica asked, righting herself. She got points for not criticizing my driving.

“The mayor.”

“You don’t like him?” she asked.

I looked over and saw her filming me. Great.

“I like him fine.” The pale face was skeptical. “It’s just that my dad is running against him for mayor and tempers are riding high.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully and went back to peering out the side of the cart. She was being diligent about looking for foxglove even though it was a largely futile endeavor. The season was past and there were no more easily identified flowers.

By lunch time we had only found one new front yard with foxglove in it. Mrs. Adams was my retired fifth grade teacher. She is peppery and screechy because she is hard of hearing, but uses a walker and avoids all places with stairs, and besides she has never shown any disposition to poisoning her neighbors. I needed a better suspect to take to the Chief if I was going to turn suspicion away from my family.

My phone shrieked as we neared the cemetery on Joy Street and I flinched. My ring-tone is a toucan’s screech that rivals nails on chalkboard for annoying sound. A quick look confirmed my hunch that it was Althea calling. I opted not to answer.

“I can fix that for you if you don’t like it,” Frederica said. The child was very observant.

“Good.” I handed her the phone. “I’ve tried and tried and nothing works.”

“Do you like ‘Adam-12’?” she asked, and in that moment won my heart. I had had the greatest crush on Kent McCord who played Officer Jim Reed on Adam-12. “Or maybe ‘Hawaii Five-O’? They don’t always have all the old shows.”

“Either.” Hell, shotgun blasts would be an improvement over that bird.

“Oh look—‘George of the Jungle’.”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t professional.”

The girl nodded seriously and punched more buttons.

Frederica, Alex and I met for lunch at Other Falls Park. Alex had stopped at the Italian deli and came bearing a fortifying lunch and my dog. I felt a little silly being filmed with Blue but I didn’t let it stop our joyous reunion.

Blue and the sandwich were the good things that Alex brought. The bad part was the news that Dale Gordon had a twenty-two.

My phone rang again, only this time it played the theme from “Get Smart”. I guess our first choices hadn’t been available.

“Althea again,” I said and then looked over at Frederica. “Camera off, okay? I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation on film.”

“Okay.” Frederica looked gratified to be taken into my confidence.

“I think lardhead has been suspended. Or at least told to take some vacation. And that has to look real bad to everyone when we are as short-handed as we are. There will be a presumption of guilt. And if this derails the wedding Althea will kill me.”

“Even though it may be Gordon who has played these pranks on her?” Alex asked.

“Look, she’s bought her dress, booked the caterer, and made a down payment on her flowers and cake. Gordon could turn out to be a cannibal and she wouldn’t care at this point as long as he made it to the altar.”

“Then I guess we had better keep digging. What’s on for this afternoon?” he asked.

“Officer Bill is going to visit the nursery school. You?”

“I’m handing out flyers at the town dump. It’s hazardous waste recycling day and your dad is going to be making a speech.”

“I just hope the mayor doesn’t have the same idea. It would look bad if they came to blows.” I knelt and hugged Blue. Frederica did the same. Blue didn’t mind. “Well, take care of my dog. I’ll see you around five?”

“Definitely. Bye for now.” His lips brushed my cheek. Though I was relieved at his decorum, I was also maybe just the tiniest bit disappointed that he didn’t say anything about loving me again.

Chapter 11

Officer Bill had no bad history with the nursery school and the children actually wanted to hug him and sit in his lap. Frederica immortalized this happy moment and I was okay with that because I would have proof that I don’t always frighten people with Officer Bill.

Feeling a little guilty and worried that maybe Althea had called for some reason other than to chew me out, we took a drive by my mom’s place. Half way down the block, Theresa Booker hailed me and I stopped to see what she wanted. Her kitten, Lucky Seven, had climbed up the elm tree in the front yard and couldn’t get down. In other places they call the fire department for this kind of thing, but not in Hope Falls.

Not thrilled to be making the climb with the wind on the rise, I nevertheless made the scramble up the swaying tree and rescued the unhappy ball of fluff. At this point it was a quarter to five and I was feeling like I had paid my dues to the community.

Weariness did not stop me from noticing that there was some fluid puddled under Althea’s car as we drove past the house.

“Damn it. I have to stop.” I looked at Frederica. “Wait here.”

I jumped out of the car and ran up to the porch. There was more glitter on the doormat. Althea peered at me through the peephole when I knocked and then opened the door. I could see Gordon huddled on the sofa, looking miserable. I guess they were facing the first withered tomato in their organic salad bowl of love.

“Something is leaking from your car and it isn’t window cleaner.” I didn’t know brake fluid from motor oil but it all seemed like stuff one shouldn’t drive without.

“What?”

“Call Dad and have him take a look. Don’t drive the car until he says it’s okay.” I looked Althea in the eye and made sure she understood what I was implying.

“You want to come in?” She sounded shaken.

“I don’t want to get glitter on my shoes and track it home. It gets on the cats and then they lick themselves.” This was true but not the biggest reason I wanted to avoid my cousin. I believe in rallying around when there is a family crisis but Gordon wasn’t family yet and I couldn’t think of any way to cheer him up.

“Maybe I should get a cat,” Gordon said morosely from the depths of the sofa. “Or a dog. No one else will talk to me.”

Maybe you should change your name and join the French Foreign Legion, I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.

“Chins up, guys,” I said with as much optimism as I could muster. “We’re going to get this straightened out. Just give it a little more time”

Gordon remained morose but Althea looked a little better. I waved and then hurried back to my cart before she could ask for details on the investigation.

“I have a cousin too,” Frederica said. “She shaves her head so she can show off her spider tattoos.”

“Family,” I answered in commiseration. “But what can you do?”

At that point I was more than ready for the day to be over, but of course it wasn’t. I got to the end of the block and found the mayor ripping down my father’s campaign posters and stomping all over them as he shrieked some really profane things.

“Shouldn’t you do something about that? That’s vandalism, isn’t it?” Frederica asked. Her camera was pointed at the mayor, who turned at that moment and saw me. Instead of looking guilty, he flashed me the finger.

“I should, but I can’t. He’ll have me fired.” We watched him stomp over to his car—illegally parked across someone’s driveway— then peeled away with a screeching of tires. The camera followed him. “So, tell me about your blog. Do a lot of people read it?”

“The blog is good. I have twelve hundred subscribers. But I think putting this on youtube would be even better. The only thing is my pc is in for repairs so it might be a few days before I can post it.” Frederica looked up at me. “Unless you have a computer I can use.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Will your parents worry if you’re late getting home?” I asked.

“No. But I’ll call them anyway. They don’t make a big deal about it but they always worry that I’ll turn out like my cousin.”

“Okay then.”

I knew that I shouldn’t let Frederica post this video. Or at least I shouldn’t help her post it. But seeing the mayor ripping up my father’s signs had made me angry. My dad, though a lousy police chief, had as much right to run for mayor as anyone else. There might not be much I could do for Althea right now, but I could help my dad.

Having a child around is a responsibility and one of the main things to do is feed them when they are hungry. I was out of turkey but still had a nice stash of pie and cookies. A quick call arranged for a pizza to be delivered.

Alex arrived just as Frederica was ready to upload her files. Feeling a bit punchy after a day with my father, or maybe just curious about my guest, he asked to see the whole day’s video. Some of it was fun. I liked seeing Blue and I together, and I was proud of Officer Bill not making the children cry. I was less thrilled at seeing my backside as I clambered up the Booker’s elm tree after their kitten. Fortunately Frederica had done some panning around and—

“Stop it!” I shouted. “Go back. Look at Althea’s car!”

Frederica did something and the picture froze and then went back to my mom’s house.

“It’s the gnome,” I said. “And it’s a girl.”

“And not the supermodel,” Alex said. “The backside is ah… too bony.”

“Look at her shoes. That’s glitter. I think that’s…”

“Mitzi Gordon,” Alex finished. “What is she doing?”

“Cutting Althea’s brake-lines, I bet. Did you talk to dad after he went to Althea’s?”

“No.”

I had my phone out.

“Dad! What was wrong with Althea’s car?” I had my confirmation and turned to grin at Alex and Frederica. “Thanks, Dad. Oh—I have a present for you. We’ll show you tomorrow. No, better than an invitation from the Daughters of the Gold Rush. Talk to you later. Bye.”

I looked at Frederica who was smiling hopefully.

“This is important?” she asked.

“You may have cracked a murder case,” I told her and was pleased when her rare smile bloomed. “I’ve got to call the Chief.”

The Chief was pleased with the news since this was a solid lead, but insisted on seeing the video for himself. Frederica and Alex between them had no trouble mailing him the clip and he was able to watch it while I waited on the phone. I think that they also uploaded some things to YouTube and Frederica’s blog.

The pizza arrived while I was pacing and Alex got the door and paid for it. He dished me up a slice but I was too excited to eat.

“Are you ready to make an arrest?” the Chief asked. “You’ve earned the right.”

Was I ready?

I thought of Dale Gordon and my cousin, Althea. On the downside, I would be arresting Dale’s mom. But, on the bright side, we were arresting Dale’s mom and getting her out of the picture. Dale might not forgive me, but Althea would.

“Okay. Shall we meet at Mitzi’s house—uh, you are going to be there, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you aren’t going to call Dale first, are you?”

“Do you think I’m nuts?” And the Chief hung up the phone.

“Want to come help me arrest someone?” I asked Alex and Frederica. “You can wait in the car.”

Chapter 12

The Chief was waiting outside Mitzi’s house and looking a bit like a grizzly bear in his overcoat. The temperature had dropped enough that his breath had gathered around him in a white cloud.

The craven part of me that had hoped for a reprieve was disappointed to see lights on in the bungalow and the shadows of some TV program bouncing around the drapes. Blue whined, sensing my reluctance. I patted her head and got out of the car, then I smiled at Alex and waggled a hand at Frederica and Blue in the backseat.

“Back soon,” I promised.

“Who is that with you?” The Chief asked as I joined him on the sidewalk.

“Alex, Frederica and Blue,” I admitted.

“Your honor student?” The Chief goggled and then shook his head.

“It’s her film that gave us the lead and she wanted to be here at the end. Her parents said it was okay.” I didn’t tell him that she was still filming.

The Chief kept shaking his head. He was still doing it when we climbed onto the porch and rang the bell.

Mitzi threw the door open.

“Well, it’s about ti—oh. What do you want?” The voice wasn’t welcoming but it wasn’t completely hostile either.

“May we come in?” I asked gently. “I’m sorry that it’s so late but this couldn’t wait for morning.”

Mitzi’s eyes got round and her face paled.

“Dale! Is he….”

“Oh no,” I said reassuringly. “It isn’t anything that bad. Dale hasn’t been hurt or arrested.”

The Chief stared at me. I can’t blame him. But I had begun to believe that in Mitzi’s world, where Dale was the center of the universe, this was actually the truth. Being arrested herself was better than hearing her son was injured.

“Well, good. Come on in. I’ll just turn down the TV.”

We entered slowly. The chemical smell was overpowering. The carpets, furniture and even the walls were spattered with gold glitter. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of gold roses all over the room along with several cans of spray paint.

“Take a seat. I’ll make some tea.”

“Not for me,” I said. Then, taking the bull by the horns—since the Chief seemed to have been struck dumb. “Digitalis can be poisonous.”

“Don’t I know it. Finished my old man off,” she said cheerfully. “Thought that bastard would never die.”

The Chief shifted his weight. He had been prepared for violence and hysteric denials, not an unrepentant Alice in Wonderland.

“Your husband? He was a tea drinker?” I asked.

“Yes, but it was fire that got him in the end. He smoked in bed.” She flopped onto the sofa.

“Always dangerous,” I agreed. “Why have you been playing tricks on Althea? You don’t want her dead, do you?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill Althea,” Mitzi said, affronted. “I just wanted her to be… more receptive to my help with the wedding. And she needs to lose some weight. She’s been snacking and putting it on in the caboose. She’ll have an ass as big as Texas if she doesn’t do something about it. I told Dale that digitalis is good for weight control.”

And for causing congestive heart failure.

“Receptive how?” The Chief asked, finally taking part in the conversation.

“If she were under the weather a bit then she would have to let others help more with the wedding.”

“I see.”

“I wouldn’t hurt Althea. Why I even got rid of that horrible Silly when she came back to make trouble.” I blinked and looked toward the Chief. He nodded. Mrs. Gordon wasn’t just a killer, she was bug-munching mad. “Went to the trouble of buying a wig and hat and everything for a disguise though I had to throw them away after.”

“You got the wig so you would look like Silly’s girlfriend?” I suggested.

“Girlfriend! That’s unnatural, you know. She turned Silly away from my Gordon.”

I nodded, thinking that I sure didn’t want to be the one to tell Gordon about his mother. I did want to be the one to tell Althea though. Maybe she would rethink that having kids thing.

“I’m sure that Dale and Althea appreciate your concern,” I lied. “But you do know that it was illegal, right?”

“Yeah, no discharging firearms within the city limits. Dale told me. That’s why I was going out to the island.”

“And that’s why you threw my aunt’s gun in the lake?” I asked, knowing we should Mirandize her before she said anything else, but feeling fairly sure that she would never stand trial.

“Well, I couldn’t tell which was hers and which was Gordon’s and I didn’t know which one I had used, so it seemed best to get rid of both of them.”

“Sensible,” I said. “A bit of a pain to retrieve though. Especially if the lake freezes over.”

“Sorry about that. Shall I get my coat now?” she asked. Mitzi had never sounded more reasonable.

“That might be best. It’s really cold out tonight.”

“You’ll call Gordon?” she asked.

“Right away,” I promised.

“Well, okay then. You should have let him arrest me though—a collar would look good on his record. And he is expecting this to happen.”

Yep. Bug-munching mad.

Chapter 13

“But chief, it wasn’t my idea to put the mayor on youtube. And I sure didn’t tip off the local news station about the vandalism.” I defended myself since we were standing out where everyone could hear us. Eddie Round’s funeral had been that morning and everyone was needing a distraction. It helped the mood some that Eddie hadn’t been murdered by Mitzi Gordon. It meant that Dale could come back at the end of his vacation and not be cold-shouldered. “And I can’t help it if the mayor is going around ripping down my dad’s posters in front of witnesses. What did you want me to do? Confiscate her camera?”

All heads turned toward the Chief.

“Kids! I suppose she wants to be a detective now.” He lobbed the conversational ball back at me. The Chief wasn’t touching my assertion that our current mayor was a hot-headed jerk though I knew he shared my view.

“No. You’re in luck there. She has decided to be an investigative reporter,” I assured him. “She thinks police work is too constrictive and stifles initiative and creativity.”

And back to the Chief.

“Well, thank God for small favors.” This sounded heartfelt. The Chief turned away and then paused at the door to his office. “The wedding is still on then? In spite of Mrs. Gordon being in a psych ward?”

“Yes. Althea and Gordon are still determined to tie the noose.”

“Knot. The expression is ‘tie the knot’.”

“Not if you know my cousin,” I muttered just loud enough to be heard. Blue woofed approval and I heard some snickers. “Well, I’ve got to get going. I’m taking Alex to the airport.”

“He’ll be back for Christmas?” the Chief asked and sounded like he actually cared.

“That’s the plan.”

*  *  *

Our ride to the airport was quiet but not uncomfortable. I had the feeling that I was going to miss Alex, but he’d be back the week before Christmas and I was already making plans.

The case had tied up nicely. Vicki Raye, Silly’s girlfriend, had gone off to her parent’s house to mourn for a week and then set about harassing Silly’s lawyer about probating the will so she could own the party planning business free and clear. I thought it was good she had left town or Mitzi might have done something to her as well.

Gordon got some bonds from the will, but they wouldn’t be enough to pay his mother’s attorney fees if she ever got out of the home for the criminally deluded and had to stand trial. Mitzi wouldn’t be getting out though. I was pretty sure about that.

I was convinced by the time we arrived at the departures sign that Alex was going to leave that little incident of the L-word unmentioned, but should have known that he wouldn’t back away. He waited until luggage was unloaded. We were in a drop-off zone, which was enforced rigorously, but Alex found the time to kiss me hard and then say distinctly: “I do love you and I won’t take it back. So deal with it.”

I gasped. I gaped. I stuttered as he walked away. He was almost to the sliding doors when I shouted over the loudspeaker: “Well I love you too! And I won’t take it back either!”

He didn’t turn around though so I wasn’t certain he had heard me. And that was okay. I was sure I could come up with a better declaration if I had a little more time to think about it.

“Scoot over, Blue,” I said, opening the car door. “You know I can’t let you drive.”

About the Author

Melanie Jackson is the author of 23 novels.  If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at www.melaniejackson.com.

The Chloe Boston Mystery Series:

Moving Violation

The Pumpkin Thief

Death in a Turkey Town

Murder on Parade

Cupid’s Revenge

Viva Lost Vegas

Death of a Dumb Bunny

Red, White and a Dog Named Blue

The Butterscotch Jones Mystery Series

Due North

Big Bones (Summer of 2011)

The Book of Dreams Series:

The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis

The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian

The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny

Club Valhalla

Devil of Bodmin Moor

Devil in a Red Coat

Halloween

Knave of Hearts

The Curiosity Shoppe (Sequel to A Curious Affair)

Nevermore: The Last Divine Book

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13