Deb Baker - Murder Talks Turkey

I could hear country music playing inside. Angie looked lost-young and afraid.

When we stepped out, she saw us right away and started hurrying away.

I realized she might not recognize me with the blond-bombshell hair and black trench coat. “It’s me,” I called. “Gertie Johnson.”

Angie hesitated then turned and approached cautiously.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

“I ditched it and hitched a ride from a gas station in Gladstone.” She came toward us. Cora Mae had pepper spray in her hand, ready for action at the slightest wrong move. My stun gun was two fingers away. “I need your help,” she said.

“In case you haven’t been watching the news, I have troubles of my own.”

“You’re an investigator. I want to hire you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Private, please.” She eyed my red-bunned partner.

Cora Mae, never too interested in our company’s business end anyway, went into the bar to hang with Kitty. Angie and I sat in Walter’s truck. My minirecorder was on.

“I don’t know the guy who tried to rob the credit union,” she said. “I don’t know the other guy either. I want to get that straight right away.”

I nodded to encourage her.

“I saw you pull one of the shoes out of the water,” she said. “But you have to believe me.”

“Why do you care what I think? What does it matter? I’m persona non grata with the local law.”

“Like I said, I need your help. Those shoes I threw in the water had been planted in my house, in the basement. Someone’s trying to implicate me in the robbery, or the murder behind your truck, or something. And I’m scared.”

Angie, or Shirley, really did look frightened. “What’s your real name?”

“Angie.”

“Why the fake ID?”

“Like I said, I’m running scared. Fake IDs are a dime a dozen. I’ve had them since I turned sixteen. Used to get into bars long before I was legal. Whoever’s after me won’t be looking for Shirley.”

“Why would someone be looking for you?”

“I pushed the emergency button that brought the cops, remember?”

“So someone wants revenge?”

“I guess. I was packing up some of my things last night when I heard a noise at the back door like someone was breaking in. I went out a window and ran away as fast as I could.”

“Where are you staying now?”

“I won’t tell you. But it’s someplace safe.”

“Okay. Let me get this straight.” I watched a local stagger from the bar. “You want me to find out who is setting you up?”

“No,” she said, watching my face for a reaction. “I know who it is. But I need you to prove it.”

Word For The Day

CREDULITY (kruh DOO’ luh tee) n.

A tendency to believe too readily, especially with little or no proof.

THE ONLY CONSTANT IN MY life early Monday morning was my dog and my word for the day, which I had made up ahead of time and found in one of my pants pockets. I’d lost my home, my family and my new significant other, who I had advised to stay away from me. All lost because of one impulsive, foolish escape act. I should have stayed where I was and talked my way out of jail instead of running like a coward.

Looking around my dilapidated hideout, I couldn’t see what had attracted me to this kind of life. The romance had gone out of the idea as soon as I found myself homeless.

I have to stop impulsively seizing moments.

But I still had my word-credulity.

Angie Gates was hiding something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. After my partners and I had left Herb’s bar, I’d driven down the road and parked. Sure enough, a car pulled into the bar’s parking lot ten minutes later and Angie had driven off in the passenger seat of a small dark sedan. I caught a glimpse of the woman who picked her up.

So much for Angie’s story of leaving her car at a gas station and hitchhiking to Stonely. What a lie! How many others had she told me?

Today I intended to find out.

Kitty, lying next to me in the double bed, woke up slowly, groaning, and stretching. I flung off the covers, let Fred outside, and started coffee in the miniature-sized kitchen. The coffee gurgled and filled the trailer with wonderful aroma while I dressed in sweat pants, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and sneakers.

Last night we had tailed Angie and the driver to a house in Gladstone. Today we would stake out her hiding place and renew our investigation of Tony Lento.

I poured two cups of coffee, let Fred back in to eat his breakfast, and nudged Kitty awake. “Get up,” I said. “You can sleep later.”

“Tony Lento,” she said after sitting down at the table. “Angie’s accusing one of Stonely’s most prominent citizens of grand theft. We better reserve judgment until we have some proof.”

“I caught him cheating on Lyla. That’s not very upstanding.”

“Depends on what’s standing up,” Kitty said, chuckling.

I sipped coffee, feeling my body respond to the warmth of the liquid gold and its caffeine blast. Angie Gates had dropped a bombshell on me last night. Tony Lento, she said, was in the perfect position to steal from the credit union.

“How so?” I’d asked.

“He’s the accountant.”

Well, of course, I knew Tony was an accountant since that was the main reason we had to follow him far and wide all over Tamarack County. He usually handled small businesses. His accounts were spread out. But I hadn’t tipped to his connection with the credit union.

Sue did the bookkeeping, Angie explained, Tony took the financial information forward from there. The teller claimed she knew for a fact he was the thief. He knew she knew and was trying to implicate her, maybe even kill her.

Whether her story was true or not, both Angie and Tony could do with some surveillance. Since Lyla had fired the Trouble Busters, we no longer could get information from her on Tony’s whereabouts.

Kitty yawned, stretched some more, and took big swigs from her coffee cup. “If Angie’s so worried about her health, why doesn’t she take off out of the U.P.?”

“She called into work and told them she had a death in her family. She’s off for the week until she decides what to do. She kept talking about quitting but she hasn’t done it yet.”

“What rotten luck. She just moves in and blam, she’s in the middle of a robbery.”

I thought the same thing.

“How much is she paying us?” Kitty wanted to know, giving me one of those it-better-not-be-in-manicures looks.

“Two hundred dollars.” I didn’t mention that Angie couldn’t produce a down-payment.

“That’s not much dough.”

“No, but we have the same goals. We’re trying to break the case for Blaze’s sake anyway. Wish I could visit him.”

“Maybe we can. Dickey isn’t at the jail every minute.

One of the radios lying on the table sputtered and blew static. George’s voice came through and we chatted about last night and what our plans were for the day, using a slapped-together code.

“Toodles asked me to drive her around,” George said. “And help find Tigger.”

I bet she did. Cora Mae, aka Toodles on the radio, might be my best friend, but when it came to men I didn’t trust her as far as the barn. And she’d had her sights on George for the longest time, only backing off when I made it very clear that he wasn’t available. Cora Mae isn’t known as the Black Widow for nothing.

Tigger was code for Tony, like Tony the Tiger.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d told George just yesterday to stay away from me while I was a fugitive. “I’ll go with you. Toodles and Big Ma can ride together.”