Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Marian and Andy exchanged glances. Then Marian bustled off, shooing the kids back into the house. Andy hitched up his overalls and studied Lucy.

  “Are you the one who came up with this bright idea?” he asked, hooking his thumbs in the straps of his overalls and looking down at her.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Lucy, watching as Barney returned to the cruiser and drove off with O’Hara, followed by one of the state police cars.

  “O’Hara asked me out here to show me the plans—at least that’s what he said, but things got a little out of hand.” She shuddered and looked at Andy. “What were you all doing? I must have been in the barn with him for half an hour. Didn’t you notice you had company?”

  Andy’s face got a little red and he gave his overalls another hitch. “The boys and me were watching TV, one of them talk shows. It was about moms who steal their daughters’ boyfriends.” He grinned. “It got pretty wild there—pulling hair, fighting. They had to pull a couple of ’em apart.” He shook his head. “They shouldn’t allow stuff like that on TV.”

  Maybe you shouldn’t watch it, thought Lucy as Lieutenant Horowitz approached them.

  “I think we’ve got everything under control here,” he told Andy. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “No problem,” said Andy. “Do you mind telling—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say anything right now,” Horowitz told him. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a few questions for Mrs. Stone.”

  Andy stood his ground for a moment, then realized he was being dismissed. He shrugged and went back to the house, leaving them alone.

  Lucy took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, which was orangey from the setting sun.

  “I thought we had an understanding,” said Horowitz, scolding her. “I thought you were going to stay out of this.”

  “I was. I did,” answered Lucy quickly. “Honest.”

  Horowitz spoke slowly. “O’Hara’s a dangerous man.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Lucy indignantly. “He was going to bash my brains out with a maul.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute,” said Horowitz, fixing his pale gray eyes on hers. “Once we started talking to people at Mulligan Construction, he became our top suspect. Nolan wasn’t the first, you know. O’Hara was involved in the disappearance of a secretary, but there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him. We got a lot of information from a former employee who was planning to move here.”

  “St. John Barth?” asked Lucy.

  Horowitz looked at her curiously. “You know him?”

  “My husband is restoring a house for the Barths, but they changed their minds. They want to sell it.”

  “Barth didn’t want to be anywhere near O’Hara,” said Horowitz by way of explanation. “Barth knew too much about O’Hara.”

  Lucy screwed up her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d had Barth at her dinner table the day of the murder and he’d had the answer. If only she’d asked him.

  “Is something the matter?” Horowitz sounded concerned.

  Lucy shook her head. “I never suspected him, not for a minute.” She shivered, thinking what a close call she’d had. “ls that why Barney came? He knew O’Hara was here?”

  “Not exactly. Your boss called. I guess your conversation with O’Hara was recorded somehow on the message system. When he found out you were meeting O’Hara he was worried about your safety. It seems O’Hara had threatened him earlier today.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I can’t believe I was so stupid. O’Hara wanted me to take another look at the casino plans. He said I should keep an open mind.”

  “You never suspected he had killed Nolan?”

  “No. I had my suspicions.” She paused. “About somebody else.”

  “Ah.” Horowitz put his long fingers together. “So I guess I was right and you were wrong.”

  Lucy grimaced. “I guess.”

  “I hope you’ll keep that in mind in the future,” he said. “Some things are best left to the professionals. Now, go back home to your family and count your blessings, Mrs. Stone. You were very lucky today, you know.”

  “I know,” said Lucy.

  She managed a little smile and he gave her a nod. Then he started across the yard to his car.

  Lucy watched him go for a moment, then called out, “Lieutenant! Just thought I’d let you know there’s a button missing from O’Hara’s sweater—not that it means anything, of course, but it’s worth checking out.”

  “Thank you,” he said, giving her a salute.

  Lucy took a last look at the sky, now a deep purplish blue, and opened the car door. Kudo was waiting for her.

  “Extra rations for you tonight,” she told him. “A whole can of turkey and giblets.”

  She had no sooner spoken than she could have sworn she heard a distant protesting gobble from TomTom in the barn.

  “Did you hear anything?” she asked Kudo as she started the car.

  There was no answer from the cargo area, but she did hear him lick his chops.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was a beautiful spring morning. Lucy had to admit that; who could argue with a cloudless blue sky, flowering apple trees, and gorgeous, lush lilac bushes covered with blossoms that bobbed in the warm breeze? It was the sort of day that lifted your spirits, put a smile on your face and a bounce in your step.

  Nevertheless, her heart was heavy as she drove the familiar route to Andy Brown’s farm. Today the ground-breaking ceremony for the new casino was to take place and she was covering it for the newspaper. Even though she knew the casino would bring jobs and money to Tinker’s Cove, she hated to see the quiet countryside she loved become the site of a gleaming monument to greed and avarice. They called it entertainment but she knew better; gambling was simply another way to separate a fool from his money. Money that would be better spent on shoes for the children and groceries and mortgage payments.

  Looking back over the last few months, Lucy could hardly believe how smoothly the casino project had progressed. One by one the expected obstacles had toppled. The Bureau of Indian Affairs had recently revised its policy on tribal recognition and had granted the Metinnicut people tribal status in record time. The state legislature, where both Democrats and Republicans were eager for increased tax revenue, had voted to approve the casino with little discussion. Faced with what appeared to be an unstoppable juggernaut, the members of the Tinker’s Cove Planning Board had been unwilling to risk embroiling the town in expensive court appeals and promptly issued the necessary approval. In a matter of months the casino project had gone from a set of paper plans to reality.

  She supposed the project’s success would have assured Jack O’Hara the job he wanted so much that he was willing to kill for it. Perhaps he was taking some satisfaction from the fact that the casino would be built, from whatever section of the hereafter he was presently occupying. O’Hara hadn’t been willing to face a trial and the likelihood of spending the rest of his life in jail. Instead, he had managed a spectacular escape and had been shot by pursuing police officers. “Suicide by cop,” they called it, but Lucy suspected O’Hara was betting he could get away.

  As Horowitz had told her, it was St. John Barth who fingered O’Hara in the first place. He had been the last person to see the missing secretary alive, getting in O’Hara’s car, but although he’d told the police, they had never been able to make a case against O’Hara. Barth had left the company, figuring it would be prudent to get as far away from O’Hara as he could. As he had explained to Bill, when O’Hara had turned up in Tinker’s Cove, he didn’t think he could risk an encounter. So he and Clarice had decided to sell the house. Now, with O’Hara out of the picture, the Barths had moved in and St. John was working on a true-crime book about his former nemesis.

  The thought made Lucy smile as she parked the car and climbed out, checking to be sure she had her camera and notebook. As she made her way through the crowded parking lot to the pumpkin field where the casino w
as to be built, she saw the crowd was divided into several groups.

  Holding center stage was Sandy Dunlap, dressed in a red power suit and sporting a chic new hairdo, backed by Mulligan Construction executives and town officials sympathetic to the project. Rumor was she was considering a run for the state legislature, and Lucy had no doubt she’d win. As Ted had pointed out so often, Sandy was a terrific campaigner, but she didn’t have a clue what to do once she got in office.

  The Brown family was also there in force, all dressed in their Sunday best. Lucy wondered if they would stay on in the farm house, next to the casino, or if they’d take the money and settle somewhere else, someplace where there wasn’t a tacky casino spoiling the landscape.

  Also standing with Sandy and beaming approval were a group from the Business and Professional Women’s Association of Tinker’s Cove led by Franny Small. This newly formed group was having a definite impact on town politics, well out of proportion to its small size.

  Last, but not least among the group gathered around the town officials, were Bear Sykes and the Metinnicut people, dressed in traditional Native American clothing decorated with fringe, beads, and feathers.

  Another group was also waiting for the ceremony to begin, but these people had grim expressions on their faces and had arranged themselves in front of a Mulligan Construction bulldozer. Jonathan Franke was there, holding a placard that read, Bet on the environment, and so was Fred Rumford, holding a traditional deerskin drum. Ellie was absent, Lucy noticed, speculating that she would have found herself in an awkward position, having to choose between her loyalty to the tribe and her relationship with Jonathan.

  There was a squeal from the microphone as Sandy began speaking and thanked everyone for coming.

  “This project has not been without controversy,” she continued, getting a few chuckles from the crowd, “but change is always controversial. Today we are embarking on a new adventure, which we hope will bring unprecedented prosperity to our community—to our whole community.”

  Everyone, except the protesters, applauded. They remained stubbornly in place, in front of the bulldozer.

  Sandy raised her hand and the machine roared into life, she lowered her hand and it began rumbling forward, making the first cut in the field. The protesters stood their ground until the last minute. Then they scattered for safety to the sidelines, where they stood in a ragged row. Fred Rumford began beating his drum slowly, as if for a dirge.

  Lucy had snapped some pictures and was moving among the crowd, collecting quotes, when it suddenly became much quieter. The slow drumbeats continued but the bulldozer had stopped and was idling in the middle of the field. The operator had jumped down and could be seen on his knees, pawing at the dirt.

  Rumford passed his drum over to Franke, who continued the slow beat, and ran out to join the bulldozer operator. He, too, knelt and began gently brushing away at the soil. When he stood up his solemn expression had been replaced with a huge smile.

  “We have archaeological remains,” he exclaimed, and the protesters erupted into joyful cheers.

  “What does that mean?” asked Sandy, looking puzzled.

  “That means everything stops. Right now. We have to call the state archaeologist, who will determine if the site is historically valuable and should be preserved.”

  A little worried furrow appeared between Sandy’s brows.

  “You can’t do that!” exclaimed Andy Brown. “This is my land and I say we’re going ahead.” He tapped the bulldozer operator on his shoulder. “You, get back up on the machine. Let’s go.”

  The fellow shook his head. “Sorry. No can do.” He tilted his head toward Rumford. “He’s right. It’s a state law. We have to wait for the archaeologist.”

  “How long will that take?” demanded Andy impatiently.

  The fellow shrugged. “A couple of weeks maybe.”

  “And then we can go ahead with the casino, right?”

  “Wrong.” It was Rumford, looking as if he’d stumbled on the Holy Grail. “These are human remains, very old remains. And Metinnicut pot shards. If I’m right, and I’m sure I am, this is a gravesite dating from 1400 or earlier.”

  “So what? There’s stuff like that all over the farm. Arrowheads, bits of this and that—I don’t know what all.”

  “There are?” Rumford could hardly contain his delight. “All over, you say?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “This is a priceless archaeological resource!” Rumford was bouncing on his toes. “It can’t be touched! It’s one of a kind! It will have to be excavated and researched! Do you know how rare this is? It’s fantastic! It’s what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”

  “What about the casino?” insisted Brown.

  “There’s no question about that. You’ll have to find another site for the casino.”

  Brown glared at him angrily, then stomped off to confer with the Mulligan executives.

  Bear Sykes approached Rumford. “You say these are the remains of my ancestors?”

  “I’d bet my life on it,” said Rumford. “Heck, I’m going to stake my career on it. This land holds a wealth of information about the Metinnicut people.”

  Sykes nodded. “It is good,” he said and began clapping his hands and singing a traditional chant. He was soon joined by other members of the tribe, and Franke picked up the beat on his drum. Someone produced a tightly knotted bundle of sage leaves and lighted it; fragrant smoke rose heavenward.

  Lucy took a deep breath and savored the sharp scent of the burning herbs. She surveyed the field filled with friends and neighbors and looked beyond to the budding trees that rimmed the field. She looked up at the blue sky, where a single dark cloud had formed directly overhead blocking the sun. Then she thought of Curt Nolan.

  She remembered the day he died, how his sightless eyes had looked up at the sky. Today, if he was up there, perched on that cloud and looking down on the human comedy in Andy Brown’s pumpkin field, he must surely be smiling. As she watched, a gleam of bright light broke through the cloud. It split apart and the sun shone brightly once again.

  A Lucy Stone Thanksgiving

  Lucy Stone has cooked the same Thanksgiving dinner for years. In fact, it’s the same dinner she remembers her mother and grandmother cooking when she was a little girl. Lucy has inherited her mother’s china, and her grandmother’s crystal and linen, and uses them to set the table. She takes great pleasure in taking them out for the holidays—she even enjoys ironing the linen tablecloth and napkins!

  The menu is simple: New England home cooking based on recipes from The Fannie Farmer Cookbook. Lucy has the eleventh edition, which was published in 1965, and doesn’t think much of the newer versions.

  For a centerpiece, Lucy arranges colorful fall leaves on her best white damask tablecloth and piles fresh fruit and vegetables on top. The arrangement varies from year to year, depending upon what’s available, but she likes to use apples, pears, and Concord or Fox grapes, punctuated with tiny pumpkins and squash. She doesn’t use tropical fruits such as oranges and bananas, believing that only native-grown New England produce is appropriate for Thanksgiving. A scattering of mixed nuts in their shells completes the arrangement, which the family nibbles on after the meal. When the children were younger, Bill used to make little boats out of the walnut shells, continuing a tradition from his own childhood.

  Five kernels of dried corn are placed at each place setting. That was the daily ration allowed to each of the Pilgrims during their first difficult winter in Plymouth Colony, and it is a reminder of the hardship they endured so they could enjoy the freedom we take for granted today.

  Appetizer

  Lucy tends to agree with her mother, who always maintained appetizers were too much trouble and only spoiled people’s appetites, anyway. Sometimes, though, she does serve shrimp or oysters before dinner.

  Shrimp are served chilled, on ice, with cocktail sauce and lemon slices.

  Oysters are served raw, on t
he half shell, also with cocktail sauce.

  Soup

  What? And make more dishes to wash?

  Main Course

  Roast turkey with bread stuffing (Sensitive about her weight, Lucy now mixes chicken broth, instead of water and butter, with either Pepperidge Farm or Arnold stuffing.)

  Giblet gravy

  Mashed potatoes

  Sweet potatoes or yams (the canned kind, heated in the oven while she makes the gravy)

  Creamed onions (white onions from a jar in white sauce)

  Petite peas (frozen, not canned)

  Condiments (These are served in crystal dishes Lucy inherited from her grandmother.)

  Cranberry sauce (whole berry)

  Celery with pimento-stuffed olives

  Sweet pickle mix (the kind with cauliflower and tiny onions)

  Dessert

  Mince pie (Lucy always uses a jar of Grandmother’s brand mincemeat.)

  Apple pie (Macintosh or Cortland apples)

  Pumpkin pie (A good way to use up pumpkins left over from Halloween)

  Coffee, fruit, and nuts

  TURKEY TROT MURDER

  For all the Turkey Trotters,

  Especially

  Greg, Ben and Abby, Matt and Sam,

  Andy and Mandy,

  Em and Ari, Leon and Debi

  PROLOGUE

  It was all over the morning TV news—the season’s first killing frost. It came later than usual, probably due to global warming. That was the theory, anyway. But come it did, finally, coating each blade of grass with sparkly white rime, sealing automobile windows with a thick layer of frost, reducing late green tomatoes to black mush, and changing chrysanthemum plants, whose color had faded weeks before, into shriveled black stumps.

  Alison Franklin didn’t notice these changes, but she did sense the sharp nip in the air as she stepped out onto the flagstone patio of her father’s house in Maine. She zipped up her fleece jacket and jogged down the long drive to begin her morning run. She usually went one of two ways. One route took her along scenic Shore Road with its ocean views and the other wound through the woods on old logging roads and circled around Blueberry Pond. A cold northeast breeze was blowing off the water so Alison chose the more sheltered woodland path.