Deb Baker - Murder Talks Turkey

“Why don’t I help you to your room?” George said to her. “I can see you need a little rest.”

I held my breath, hoping Dickey wouldn’t pursue her accusation. A quick glance his way told me he wasn’t paying attention. Grandma’s crabbing can close off anybody’s ears.

She grunted, but got up on her spindly legs and let George take her arm. “At least we have one kind heart around here,” she said as they walked slowly down the hall. “Watch that animal when you come back down the hallway by yourself, George. He’s vicious. Deputy Snell should take him away before he maims some little kid.”

She stopped abruptly. I could see George trying to get her started again, but she shook him off and turned around. “I forgot something important.”

“What’s that?” I made the mistake of saying.

“I’m not talking to you. Sheriff Snell, listen up. I’m speaking to you, son.”

Dickey blinked to attention.

Grandma shot a look my way. “You’ll find something interesting,” she said, “buried in fancy pants Kitty’s compost heap. I’m pretty sure it’s your murder weapon.”

We stared at her.

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I heard them plotting away right here in my kitchen.”

That was the last straw.

When I had more time, I planned to dig a hole in the backyard just the right size and plant a crab tree over the shriveled remains of one old nasty biddy.

DICKEY SCRUNCHED HIS NOSE AND pulled away the worn piece of carpet that Kitty had placed over the compost heap to help retain heat and speed up the compost process. No-Neck Sheedlo, his partner, planted his wrestler-sized bulk right behind me and crossed his arms. When I looked back at him, he gave me a warning stare.

Go figure. Like they thought I was dangerous! The air was nippy, with the smell of possible rain or sleet, depending on which way the temperature headed. I zipped my old hunting jacket and pulled up the collar.

Grandma’s pointed accusation of buried murder weapons had drawn out a curious group-the two local law enforcers, George, my traitorous mother-in-law, Kitty, me, and Fred, who ran back and forth behind No-Neck, aware that something was up and not liking it one bit.

“We need a pitchfork,” Dickey said to Kitty.

“Don’t have one,” she lied as smooth as hot oil in a frying pan, which was pretty much where we were at the moment. In the frying pan. “You’ll have to use your hands.”

“You do it,” Dickey said to No-Neck, who shook his head violently.

“I’m pulling rank,” Dickey insisted while rank, rotten egg odor assaulted our sensory glands.

“No dice,” No-Neck said. “You can pull anything you want. I’m not doing it. Might be creatures living down there for all we know.”

Dickey scanned our group.

“Don’t look at me,” George said. “You’re the one who wants to wallow in muck.”

“I told you,” I said to Kitty after analyzing the murky mess. “You need something to sop up the water. It’s out of balance.”

Dickey threw the chunk of carpet down on the ground and rolled up his sleeves.

“Remember those compost worms you gave me for my birthday,” Kitty said to me. “Wait till you see how big they got. Like snakes.”

I stifled a chuckle at that. Worms turn food waste into rich soil. But you need a special kind. Night crawlers won’t do it. They have to be red wiggler worms. None of them grow as big as a reptile.

But Dickey didn’t know that. He hesitated.

“With a compost heap like this,” Grandma said to Kitty, “you should be ashamed to call yourself a Yooper.”

From the look on my friend’s face, I knew she’d pitch right in and help me bury Grandma when I shared my idea with her. Kitty, though, might want to throw her in the hole alive.

Dickey dug in, making a face when his hand sunk into the mire. His arm went down and down until even his rolled-up sleeve sunk out of sight. Kitty had really buried the thing deep. When he hit pay dirt I could tell by the gloating expression on his face.

The rest of us looked on with disgust written all over us.

He pulled up a dripping, muddy bundle, managing to dip his knee in compost before he stood up.

I’d remained calm until now. The hunted look in my eyes must have warned George that I was about to attempt an escape through the backwoods, because he wrapped a comforting hand around mine and squeezed in reassurance.

In spite of all our denials of wrongdoing, Kitty and I ended up on the wrong side of the jailhouse bars, arguing about whose fault it was. We arrived at the obvious conclusion-it was the killer’s fault and if we could weasel out of here, we’d hunt him down like the rabid skunk he was and haul him in, dead or alive.

George had gone off with Fred to figure out how to get us released, but his chances of success on a Sunday were slim to none. He also had the dubious pleasure of driving Grandma to her final destination.

“Don’t take her back to my house,” I’d raged right in front of her. “Give the battle axe to Mary and Blaze. She’ll never step foot in my home again. Let her destroy their lives for awhile.”

Grandma boo-hooed into her embroidered hanky, but I didn’t let her get to me. I had handcuffs on at the time and wasn’t feeling overly generous.

“Obstructing justice at the very least,” Dickey said, shaking his know-it-all weasel head from the other side of the jail bars. “Murder one at the most.”

“You have no right to hold me,” I said for the umpteenth time. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“Me either,” Kitty chimed in.

Dickey turned to No-Neck. “Let’s bring in Blaze and hear what he has to say. That was his firearm they buried.”

While Dickey and No-Neck were gone, Kitty and I tried to escape through the ceiling tiles like we’d seen on television, but our efforts were wasted. In the movies the keys to the jail cell would be left dangling a distance away and a dog would bring them over. In our case, there wasn’t a key in sight and Fred was with George anyway.

By the time Blaze walked into the jail with Dickey right behind him, we’d exhausted all means of escape but had come up with a workable plan, as unsavory as it was.

We were going to give up an innocent man to protect the multitudes. My son had pulled fast ones on me more than once or twice, but I couldn’t help feeling like a big smelly rat. Hopefully, the end would justify the means. I kept reminding myself that Blaze was used to jail bars from the free side. He most likely wouldn’t mind sitting tight on the other side for a day or two.

Our idea was to convince Dickey that we had been covering for my son, that his mental illness had something to do with the parking lot murder.

As it was, Blaze helped out without even knowing about our covert plan to finger him.

“Ma!” he exclaimed when he saw me behind bars. He whirled on Dickey. “Release her right this minute. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The evidence says otherwise,” Dickey said.

Blaze fixed him with a glare.

“Where’s Mary?” I wanted to know, relieved that Blaze’s wife wouldn’t have to witness the shameful actions I planned next.

“Grandma Johnson showed up at our house,” Blaze said.

“The poor old lady is distraught,” Dickey said. “She’s been evicted from her own home. Mary’s trying to calm her down. She has her hands full, so Deputy Sheedlo stayed to help her.”

Kitty watched me closely for a signal and I understood that it was up to me; it was my family and she wasn’t about to make the first move. What I wanted to do was give Dickey another sample of Blaze’s mental state then…I couldn’t think about it anymore, or I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.