Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery (7 page)

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.”