Deb Baker - Murder Talks Turkey

“Best to keep you j-walkers in the same vehicle,” George reasoned, rightly. J-walkers being our code for jail breakers. “If you split up, you’ll be twice as likely to be spotted.”

“Not to mention that whoever we’re with will be in hot water.”

“That, too.”

“Thanks for helping, Sweet Cheeks,” I said. “I know I’ve been a lot of trouble.”

“You’re worth every bit of it, Muffin Cakes.”

Kitty rolled her eyes to the heavens, which reminded me that my conversation with George wasn’t exactly private.

“Let’s get dolled up and hit the road,” I suggested to her after reluctantly signing off.

“One more cup of coffee,” Kitty whined. “I’m still sleepy.”

A shotgun blast finished waking us up. Kitty and I stared at each other. “Walter has company,” I whispered, running to the trailer window facing the house. I lifted a corner of an old sheet Walter used for drapes and stuck an eyeball out.

The visitors were focused on Walter’s trigger-happy welcome, so I took the opportunity to raise the window a bit. Kitty inched up behind me.

Dickey and No-Neck were sitting in a gray minivan with the windows rolled down. Dickey stuck his greasy, combed-over head out the driver’s side. “Put that weapon away,” he shouted at Walter. “Why do we have to go through this every time?”

Walter fired another shot into the air. “I told you before and I meant it. Get off my property.”

“I should incarcerate you, Walter. You can’t take potshots at the sheriff.”

Walter cocked his sawed-off shotgun and beaded in. “Come and get me, why don’t ya, ya candy ass.”

Dickey sat back and closed his eyes. I could tell he was wondering what to do next. When he opened them, his head swiveled toward the trailer. I didn’t have time to duck, so I froze where I was.

That particular non-move works with deer. They need scent and motion before they spook. If you stand inside, without moving a muscle, they can be looking right at you and not really see that you’re there. But turkeys can see you right through the glass even if you don’t breathe. Hopefully my deer tactic would work with the acting sheriff.

Finally, Dickey turned his attention back to Walter. “I’m assuming you are a man of your word, so I’ll settle for a few answers,” Dickey said. Walter didn’t blink. “I’m looking for two jail breakers and a missing sheriff’s truck. You haven’t happened to see either of those three items, have you?”

Walter lowered the shotgun and grinned through empty front gums. “If I did see your blame truck, I’d pitch it in the lake.”

“You have a serious problem with authority figures, Walter.”

“Only the live ones.”

Walter stood firm, his feet spread apart, the shotgun cradled in his arms like a baby, while Dickey reversed gears and pulled out backwards.

“Well, Muffin Cakes,” Kitty said to me. “We have work to do.”

I lowered the corner of the sheet and plopped blond curly locks on my head. “After you, Big Ma.

AN EFFECTIVE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR IS like a chameleon. We have to blend with our environment, morph with whatever colors we’re up against, catch the wind and ride it.

So when Angie’s partner-in-crime left her house on Dakota Street in Gladstone and drove over to a fitness center seven miles away in Escanaba, there wasn’t any question in my mind. I was going in after her. Kitty dropped me at the door and roared off to watch the house in case Angie decided to move while her hostess was gone.

If Blaze had been functioning on all cylinders and still in his position as sheriff, I would have asked him to run the car’s plates last night. Calling Dickie was certainly out of the question for obvious reasons. If I wanted to know her name, I’d have to introduce myself.

“Laura DeLand,” she said, accepting my offered hand when I burst in behind her. Laura Delaney had the face of an angel. She should have been modeling in New York or making movies in Hollywood instead of hanging around the sticks.

“I’m thinking about joining the club,” I said. “Will you show me around?”

“That’s my job,” a pip-squeak at the front desk said.

“I’ll do it,” Laura offered, smiling through perfect teeth. “Come on.”

The fitness room was packed with every conceivable type of health nut fanatic. This morning, without realizing it at the time, I had donned the perfect clothes for working out in a gym. I noticed, though, that I was dressed more like the men than the women. Laura and the other females wore spandex – clingy flexing material that showed off every hill and valley. I’d rather dive off the Escanaba River dam head first onto concrete than expose that much of my body to total strangers.

I could see the outline of Laura’s belly button peeking out behind tight fabric. Every guy in the place had his eyes on her. She didn’t seem to notice.

We hit the tread mill. Mine had more bells and whistles than a rocket ship. Laura set me up on a level course and showed me how to slow it down and speed it up. A television screen in front of us was showing the Upper Peninsula morning news.

Mug shots of Kitty and me flashed on, and the anchor said something I couldn’t hear over the machines and chatter. Where in the world did they get such bad photographs? Kitty looked like a post office wanted poster. Instead of sixty-six, I could have been twenty years older than my real age. Dickey had used a picture of me before I changed my hair color to red. One more reason not to change it back.

I wished I had added a little more eye liner and lip liner like Cora Mae had shown me. Someone used a remote to increase the sound. A cute TV6 newscaster was warning all of the upper peninsula that two women were wanted for questioning in a Stonely death. A suspect was behind bars. The escapees might be armed and dangerous.

Grandma Johnson must be swallowing her uppers over this. She never missed the news. It gave her something more to crab about. I could just hear her.

Some wiseacre next to us said, “They sure look deadly, don’t they?”

Someone else tittered. “That big one could do some damage.”

“The little one looks like Aunt Em.”

“Those are the most dangerous ones.”

“Hey,” Laura said to me. “I think I saw one of those women on the beach in Gladstone.”

I pulled my blond curls over my face and strode along on the tread mill at an easy pace. “No kidding,” I answered.

“Really. I was walking with a friend when that smaller woman tried to approach us. My friend started running, saying let’s have a race like the old days. But she looked frightened.” Laura’s forehead crinkled in thought.

“So,” I said, eager to redirect her. “Are you new around here?”

Laura DeLand was one of those people who shared easily. Within a few minutes I knew that she had graduated last spring from DePaul University in Chicago and had landed a job as a reporter with the Escanaba Daily Press .

I slunk a little more under my hair when I heard that. Geez. A reporter! Why couldn’t she work at the paper mill or the Dairy Flo. Just my luck.

I increased the machine’s pace by pressing a button and walked faster, thinking hard. Maybe this whole situation could be turned to my advantage.

As an investigator I have to take what comes my way and put a spin on it, just like a newspaper reporter might do when she’s writing a piece for the paper. “I have a story,” I told her. “If you answer a few questions, I’ll give you something to get you a big raise.”

Laura looked interested.

“Meet me outside when you’re through,” I said, getting off the machine by letting go of the rail and sliding off the back end. It wasn’t the most graceful landing I’ve ever made.