The Turkey Tussle (The Morelville Mysteries, #9)

by Anne Hagan

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “Who all played?” I held out my trowel hand in question and played dumb for a second time.

  “Well, let’s see...” He rubbed his chin and thought for a few seconds then answered, “Mathis, Drew usually, me, sometimes Chuck Knox, Owen Lafferty from time to time, and a couple of other guys on and off, when they had the funds – Dale Walters was one of those, as I recall, but all the names escape me now. Except for Dale, who was just a friend amongst the group, they were all rig and pump jack workers just like me and the Laffertys.”

  “No Brietlands, Lamperts, or Quinns; any of the guys from the big oil families?”

  “Hell no!”

  His vehemence now took me by surprise.

  “They were off founding the County Country Club and such things. They didn’t play cards with their drillin’ rig workers. They sure as hell didn’t consider any of us – what do you call it these days? A contemporary? Or some such nonsense like that just because we were trying to score ourselves. We were just their workers and, if we hit good, we were competition.”

  That gave me another angle to consider but I decided to save it for my own research. Instead I asked him, “The deputy you mentioned before; Ackerman, right? Did he investigate the murder?”

  “Oh, he showed up right quick when the call went out but it was the Sheriff and the Coroner that eventually got around to coming down and asking all the questions.”

  “Who was the Sheriff back then?

  “Sweeney. Vincent Sweeney, as I recall.”

  “Any idea where I can find him now?”

  He looked at me narrowly. “Ol’ Sweeny had a heart attack and died years ago. Why?”

  “And the Deputy?”

  He shrugged and looked away as he mumbled, “Damned if I know. He’d be in his late 60’s early 70’s now probably. He was still wet behind the ears back then. Don’t know if he stayed with the force or even if he still lives in the county somewhere.”

  He shot me a look. You’re sure you’re not more interested in the murder than in the oil stuff?

  He had me there. “I guess you didn’t know,” I bluffed, “but I’m a retired federal agent.” He didn’t need to know I’d worked for Customs. “I’ve always been a bit of a true crime buff. It’s an interesting story, to say the least.”

  I turned back to planting bulbs then as he made to get up, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

  “Keep your head down,” he said as I was leaving.

  “Why is there something else I should know about all this oil business?” I was alarmed.

  “Naw, big storm supposed to be comin’ tonight with high winds. They’re sayin’ the temperature isn’t going to drop low enough to make it sleet or even snow, just make it nasty out. Would have been a muddy mess to plant these after that.” He swept his arm out to indicate the flower bed I’d finished for him. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Thank you for all the information you gave me about the oil business. I really appreciate it.”

  I checked the time as I pulled away. I wasn’t sure where to begin looking for Chuck Knox but I knew where I could probably find Dale Walters if I hustled. If his odd ball curiosity, junk and antique shop was open at all, I figured he’d be there for another half hour or so. I knew that he carried some intricately carved pieces from time to time and a little inkling in my head kept taking me back to Eunice mentioning carvings and Hannah’s dream about them.

  I turned back out of the village and drove up the state route to Walter’s shop.

  His parking lot was as dusty and pockmarked as ever. There was a car parked down near a loading bay door but, other than it being there, the place looked deserted. Still, the little open sign was hanging on the glass door and it looked like someone had attempted to wipe it free of dust recently.

  Trying the door, I found it open and Dale inside, moving toward me in a half-pained sort of gait as a bell over my head jangled to alert him.

  Not knowing the man that well, I decided to play a little coy with him, at least, at first. “Mr. Walters?” I asked.

  “Dale, please Dana. How can I help you today? Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “I’m pretty good with names and faces...” He trailed off unexpectedly and gave me an odd, unblinking sort of look.

  Dale was an eccentric sort of person known around the village and even to his face as ‘Dingy’ or ‘Dingy Dale’. I didn’t let his stare put me off. “Several months back you sold my mother Chloe a pretty intricately carved white tail deer lamp that’s now in Mel’s den.”

  “I remember it well. A gorgeous piece, it was.”

  “Uh, yes. It is. I’m here because I’m looking for a similar carved gift for a friend, something detailed and one of a kind, like that lamp. When your name came up in conversation the other day, I remembered your carvings and your shop.”

  “I thought I felt my ears burning,” he said as he grinned and waggled a finger at me.

  I laughed. “That’s an expression Mama always uses but, not to worry, it was actually only Faye and I talking and she was doing a little reminiscing about back in the day. Then, a few days ago, I was talking with her mom at the nursing home where she’s living and carvings came up again.” I paused a beat and waited for his reaction. He looked interested in what I had to say but nothing more. Instead, he asked after Eunice.

  “She has good days and bad days,” I said, echoing her nurse. Her memory isn’t what it used to be. Short term, she’s got virtually nothing but she does have some decent recall of the past, especially the distant past.”

  He shook his head, his face a mask of sadness. “It’s such a shame how that happens to people. Unfortunately or, perhaps fortunately for Eunice, it’s probably not a bad thing. She’s had a rough go of it ever since Drew died.”

  I nodded in polite agreement and changed the subject back. “Can you help me find a nice carving for a gift? I’m not looking for another whitetail though, but something unique similar in style to it. What have you done lately?”

  He smiled a twisted sort of half smile this time. “I don’t actually do the carvings; don’t you remember? A local artisan, who prefers to remain anonymous, does in trade for groceries and a little companionship from time to time. That all came out at the big meeting last year before the Fall Festival...Faye and your mother, um, kind of put the screws to me, then.”

  I kicked myself because I had forgotten. Thinking fast, I decided to play a slightly different angle with him. “That’s right, that’s right and no offense. I just love the piece Mel has. Is the local...guy? Is he still doing them?”

  “From time to time. I have a couple right now...they’re more of a winter project for him you see so I’ll have more come January and February but I assume your timeline is a little shorter?”

  “Yes.” I tried to keep the relief at a limited selection out of my voice. Money wasn’t an issue but I really didn’t want to buy something I had no use for unless it was something maybe my dad or Jesse might like for Christmas.

  “No matter,” he continued. I have a few things that are in stock that might be of interest. Let me show you.” He set off down a narrow pathway around items large and small, some that I recognized and some that I didn’t.

  As I followed along I resolved to use the second angle I’d thought up. “You know Dale, Faye and I weren’t actually talking about carvings when your name came up. We were talking about some of the local lore and about the oil business in particular since her dad was involved in that.”

  He stopped and turned to look at me quizzically. “She must be mistaken then, I was never in the oil business...not even in the farming business. I’m not an outdoors sort at all. At least, not unless it involves picking through discarded junk and making something out of it.” He smiled broadly then and turned back to picking his way through his shop.

  “No, no. I’m sorry...I guess I should start at the
beginning. Faye and I were talking about local history...oil producing history and some of the interesting local color surrounding that. Some backroom poker lore came up.” I paused.

  Dale paused too but did’t turn to me as he pointed and spoke. “How large of a sort of piece are you looking for? Do you see that butler just over there?”

  “Butler?”

  He turned then. “A man’s piece, a valet.”

  I looked where he pointed and admired the intricately carved wood of the stand but shook my head no. “It’s beautiful but it’s not for a suit and tie kind of guy, unfortunately.”

  “Picked that up at an estate sale,” he said. “It just needed a little TLC to shine.”

  “You’ll sell it. I could see a lot of people admiring it.”

  “So you were talking about poker, then?”

  “Yes,” I told him, grateful that he’d changed the subject back himself. “We were talking about the old poker games involving Drew and sometimes Owen Lafferty and their associates and your name was mentioned.”

  He turned to face me completely. “I admit, I’ve always been a card player. Still am. I still play with Chuck Knox, who sometimes played back then, and some other guys but it’s not the same anymore with Terry Ford gone now and Art in hiding over Terry’s drowning and...well, you know.”

  My thoughts flashed back to the community meeting just over a year before. “Were you speaking to Terry Ford back then?”

  He turned away again and picked up a sculpted metal piece which he absently weighed in a hand. “No, not really,” he admitted.

  “You two were sort of on the outs when he died. If I remember correctly, a few of you thought he might be cheating at cards.”

  Dale put the metal piece down and turned to face me. “I never speak ill of the dead. I prefer to remember better times and there were a lot with Terry.”

  He was the second one to tell me that in a day but, like Horace, I knew he’d say more if I prodded him a little. “Did he ever play cards with you back in the old oil days?”

  “Terry? Heaven’s no. Terry was from Tennessee, you know. He’d only been up here the last eight or ten years. He...”

  A phone rang somewhere near the front counter. “Excuse me,” he said as he stepped around me and scurried toward it as fast as the narrow pathway we’d just walked along to get through his wares would allow him to go. His gait was definitely off though. I could tell he was favoring one knee over the other. I wrote it off to age and weather. Heaven knows my own leg was hurting due to my prior injury letting me know a storm was coming.

  My mind was drawn away from my own pain then, to Tennessee where Terry had been from and to the all too brief week Mel and I had spent there. I wandered on aimlessly, touching this and that as I thought about our honeymoon, our talks about going back and our decision to buy property so we could semi-retire there once Mel’s first full term as Sheriff was complete. I’d wanted a quiet place to write whatever I decided to write and she wanted a boat. We both wanted a passel of dogs to love. Now, I wondered whether she’d be convinced to run for a second term and those dreams would be put on hold.

  ‘Probably,’ I told myself as I picked up a vintage picture frame and then put it back down. Things had changed so much in the year since then with my parents retiring and moving to Morelville and with Hannah and Jef now living with us. There was the bakery to think about too. Hannah had it going good but she needed all our help to run it and care for the baby while she was there and in class.

  I shook the cobwebs out of my head and resolved not to dwell on things I currently had no control over. Finding the carved pieces Dale had mentioned just a few feet ahead, on an old tea service trolley, I made for them as I heard him wish someone a pleasant day before hanging up the phone some fifty feet or so back behind me.

  Half turning toward him, I pointed at the three pieces sitting there, a lamp base as Mel had, but this one an intricately carved crane on graceful, long legs, a black bear standing on its hind legs in full roar that seemed to be only a carving and nothing more and, in a departure from nature pieces, an old-time steel worker at the forge done in both wood and metal.

  “Yes, those are them,” he replied to my indication. “Quite something, aren’t they?”

  I picked up the steel worker and turned the nearly foot square base of the heavy piece in my hands. My dad had worked in the mills around Pittsburgh most of his adult life. He’d started out much as the man depicted had but then he’d apprenticed as an industrial electrician and worked his way up through that trade with union help and the occasional intervention on his behalf. No matter the cost, I knew I probably wouldn’t leave the shop without it.

  “That’s a clock,” Dale said, as he approached again.

  “No! Show me.” I handed the piece to him.

  He depressed a small ridge on the surface of the metal emerging from the forge, just below the muscled arm descending with a heavy hammer. A section of the slag pile below man and forge opened on hidden hinges to reveal the timepiece. It read 3:50 PM.

  I was sold. “I’ve got to have this for my dad. How much?”

  “Uh, 250.00,” Dale said, a little sheepishly. “Your mama convinced me that I wasn’t asking nearly enough for such things.”

  ‘Curse her,’ I thought to myself. “Bad timing on my part, I see,” I said to him.

  “Or very good. It came in just Wednesday. I didn’t figure on it lasting long. Shall I box it up?”

  As I tried to steel myself from looking around the shop I knew to be devoid of other customers, I nodded my consent and then followed him back to the counter. On the way, I resolved to get at least a little useful information out of him for the price I was about to pay.

  Once he’d placed the sculpture clock safely on the counter, I plunged in. “Speaking of card cheats, what about Tanner Mathis? What did you think he was doing to get over in the games, back in the day?”

  Walters seemed to do a double take in his bent over position as he searched under his counter for packing materials. At first, he didn’t answer me but, after several long seconds, when he straightened up holding some foam wrap, he said without looking directly at me, “I won’t speak ill of him either, it’s been a long time that he’s been dead and gone.”

  I was starting to think saying you wouldn’t speak ill of the dead was a Morelville way of hiding something or dancing around subjects you didn’t want to air publicly. Regardless, I forged ahead. “Faye mentioned that she thought you played with all the oil guys too.”

  He gave me a half shrug. “Sometimes...not often.”

  “She said Mathis was killed in her house on Thanksgiving Day.” I shook my head and tried to look properly horrified.

  “It was a tragedy.” He’d gone from chatty to mumbling out clipped answers in the blink of an eye. Now, he wouldn’t look at me but, instead, concentrated on boxing the carving with more care than it really required.

  I raised both my voice a bit and my eyebrows and asked, “You mean, you were there?” and then I tried to feign a shudder. “That must have been awful.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t...well, I was...my 1st wife too, but not for long and before that happened. We were invited but we were going to her folks place for dinner. We, uh, we just stopped in for a few minutes. We...we left when they started calling the kids in for dinner.”

  He changed the subject. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Maybe you’d like a notice when some new pieces come in?”

  I could tell he wasn’t going to say another word about Mathis. I thanked him and started to leave with a lighter wallet and only a little more information than I’d had before.

  Dale followed me right to the door and held it as I maneuvered the largish box out. He looked up at the sky as he stood there.

  “It’s starting to darken. The weathermen say we’re in for a bad one tonight.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I tipped my head at the box as I set it in the back seat. “Thank you.”

&
nbsp; “No, thank you.” With that, he retreated inside.

  As I pulled out of the lot, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught a flash of the open sign being flipped to closed.

  ‘That’s one way to turn a huge negative into a positive payday.’ Dale though as he locked the door. ‘Terry is one thing, but I wasn’t all sorry to see Mathis gone, the blackmailing sorry excuse for a man.’ He shook his head ruefully as he recalled the silly accident that had happened at work that had him collecting insurance from his employer and then, when that ran out, disability. He still felt the occasional twinge of pain in his lower back as he had back then but, younger then, he’d powered through it to make a little bit of extra money driving the Amish where they needed to go occasionally. Mathis had threatened to report him to Social Security unless he gave him a cut, he remembered with disdain. ‘I gave him a cut all right, damn grifter.’

  Chapter 11

  Friday Evening, November 6th

  I listened as light rain fell outside and thunder rolled in the distance. I looked over where Mel lounged in her chair with Boo stretched out across her lap and smiled. They looked so happy and content together. The noise of the thunder seemed to be far enough away that it wasn’t bothering my usually skittish dog.

  Hannah sat on the sofa cuddling with Jef as he took his bedtime sippy cup of milk. I prayed that if the bulk of the storm moved closer, it wouldn’t keep him up. Heeding Bailey’s warning and the stuff Mel heard during her work day, we’d gotten out all the flashlights, checked the batteries and laid them all around so we could get around the house and find our way outside to the generator if we lost power, a common occurrence during storms in our area.

  The rain may not have been coming down hard but it was already pretty windy out and the power had blipped quickly once or twice when the lines were whipped by heavier gusts. I hoped the wind didn’t get any worse because we were almost assured of being without the main power. The generator helped a lot but it had limitations and an extended period using it wasn’t something any of us looked forward to.