Turkey and Terror: Book 6 in The Diner of the Dead Series

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Frank Senior agreed, pointing his finger eagerly in the air.

  “But, it won’t be Thanksgiving,” Hannah responded. “Not really.”

  “Sure it will.” Sonja leaned forward and grabbed the woman’s hand. “What is Thanksgiving all about, after all?”

  Hannah glanced up at her with puffy eyes, desperation in their wrinkled corners.

  “Gratitude?”

  Sonja nodded and beamed. “Gratitude, thankfulness, family, friends. Those are what matter. We can celebrate those blessings any day of the year, so why not a few days late?”

  For the first time since the body was found almost four hours earlier, Hannah smiled. “You’re right. We can celebrate those things any day of the year.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Franky declared, slapping the table. “We’ll have Thanksgiving sometime in the next few days, whenever we are finally able to talk to your mother, get Hank out of jail, and get all of this settled.”

  “Thank you, Sonja,” Hannah smiled through glistening eyes.

  “I hope it’s only a few days,” Frank admitted, adding his two cents worth to the conversation. “Some investigations can take months, even years.”

  Tilting her head, Sonja glared at her boyfriend for even bringing that fact up. She knew very well and so did he, that investigations were complicated matters, but this wasn’t about the investigation specifically, it was about giving Hannah and Franky some hope for a happy holiday.

  “Oh, but I’m sure that won’t be the case during this particular investigation,” Frank quickly backtracked, hoping to repair what he’d just said. “Usually, big city cases with lots of red tape take a long time.”

  “Ya’ know, Son, I don’t see why ol’ Branson doesn’t just let you help out. You’ve got experience in these matters and your opinion could count for something.”

  “Unfortunately, Dad, this is his territory. He has the right to go about his investigation as he sees fit.”

  “Well, he’s a fool if he doesn’t accept your help.”

  Frank shrugged. “Not much I can do.” Glancing over at Sonja again, he gave her that same look that indicated he very much intended to do something and would do it without telling anyone else.

  “What about you, Sonja?” Hannah pressed, eagerly joining in on the plot. “Haven’t you helped in murder cases before? Why not now?”

  “Mom, if Branson won’t even let me, a sworn officer, help out in the investigation—I highly doubt he’d even give a second glance to a civilian.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back in her chair. “I see what you mean.”

  “But,” Sonja interjected, “that doesn’t mean we can’t at least ask some questions on our own, just so long as we aren’t interfering with the sheriff’s own investigation.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow at his girlfriend, almost as if he thought she was giving too much away.

  “That’s true,” Frank Senior added. “Isn’t that what you’ve always done? Just gone around and did a little footwork yourself?”

  Sonja nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Sometimes, you did manage to interfere with investigations, Sonj’.”

  Franky waved a hand passively at his son. “Hogwash, Frank. You caught the murderers, didn’t you?”

  Frank was quiet a moment.

  “That’s what I thought. So, I agree with Sonja—so long as you’re not disturbing Sheriff Branson, I’d say it doesn’t hurt to ask a few questions.” He folded his arms, satisfied with himself.

  Finally, Frank nodded. “All right. We were already planning on it, but now you two know. So, don’t tell anyone that we’re investigating things without police approval. I wouldn’t want it to come back and bite us in the butt.”

  “That includes you, Ray,” Frank pointed at the man who had remained quiet the entire time.

  “Hey,” he put up his hands defensively. “I won’t make a peep,” he replied, pretending to lock his mouth and throw away the key.

  “He and Hank are good friends,” Franky added. “He wants to see him out of jail as much as the rest of us. Heck, Ray is basically family.”

  Ray nodded in response, smiling. “Your daddy and I go way back. I have my loyalties and they aren’t changing, not one bit.”

  “Right then. It’s decided. Our son and his girlfriend will do some investigating.” Smirking, Franky leaned back in his chair. “And I know the perfect place for you guys to start.”

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  The drive into the heart of Larabee only took about ten minutes, and instantly, upon arriving on Main Street, Sonja couldn’t help but feel like she’d stepped back in time to the old west.

  “This is historical downtown,” Frank commented. “So all the buildings here are either original structures that have been updated or new buildings that are designed to look like and replicate the original town.”

  “Oh, I see. And this is where you grew up?”

  “Yep, at least until I was about twelve. Then my parents and I moved to Haunted Falls for a short period when my dad got a job there. After high school, though, we moved back. It was just fate that I ended up back in Haunted Falls again.”

  “You’re an interesting man,” she teased.

  “Ultimately, this is home more than anywhere else. My parents never sold the ranch when we moved, just had someone else run it for a while. Nowadays, Larabee is kind of a tourist attraction, mostly for older men and women who still enjoy westerns.”

  For Thanksgiving Day, Sonja was surprised to see so many people bustling around the streets. The windows of all the shops were decorated to the hilt with turkeys, cornucopias, leaves, pilgrims, and more, all to celebrate the holiday.

  Some of the items for sale included cowboy boots and hats, western paintings, wood art and burnings, country style house decorations, historic books, and other similar souvenirs. These rustic displays were only matched by the candy, ice cream, and other food related shops along the way.

  “It seems really busy,” she commented.

  “That’s because it’s the annual Harvest festival. Obviously, the harvest actually happened in September and October, but the celebration has always been on Thanksgiving Day.”

  Sonja didn’t admit it, but she knew nothing about ranching, farming, or harvests. However, she took the moment to enjoy all the sights as they went by.

  “The bulk of the celebration takes place in Gunsmith Park.”

  “Gunsmith?”

  “Yeah, there are lots of metal sculptures there of old western heroes, all with their guns drawn of course. We’re about to pass it here on the left,” he said, pointing up toward the open space. “Usually, after the Turkey Bowl, my dad, mom, and I would drive up to get kettle corn, funnel cake, and watch the events.”

  “What sort of events?” Sonja inquired.

  “Well, there’s the three-legged race, the egg toss, the horse race down Center Street, and of course, cooking and craft competitions. Some years my mom enters a pie, but usually, she just enjoys watching.”

  “Wow, it sounds like something out of a movie.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “It’s just life out here.”

  “Maybe I could make a waffle pie and enter it next year.”

  “Next year?” He raised an eyebrow at his girlfriend, obviously slightly shocked by the statement. “I suppose you could.”

  The park came into view and Sonja was instantly greeted by the crowds of people all gathering to buy food, souvenirs, and to participate in events. She spotted multiple booths she was interested in and wished she had the time to look around at everything, including a booth with classic native shawls, a booth with turquoise jewelry, and even a booth of all cast iron cookware. The private investigation, however, hindered much of the joy that the holiday would normally bring, but maybe after interviewing Emmy at the Sinful Saloon she could take a quick glance.

  Right near the entrance of the park, she spotted one booth with a
n assortment of bows, arrows, knives, and even tomahawks.

  “Later in the day, they have contests for guns, and bows, and knife throwing,” Frank commented, noticing his passenger’s interest in the booth. “A lot of people decide to join the competitions at the last minute and can buy their equipment there, but those events are held at a field further out of town, you know, to prevent accidents."

  “Makes sense.”

  “Hank and Ray usually compete in one or all of those events.”

  A moment later they drove up to the front of the Sinful Saloon. More than anything else in the downtown area, the saloon looked like it could have just uprooted itself from a western film and then plopped down right there in the middle of Wyoming.

  The sign on the front was carved out of wood and in a fitting font, done in an old, familiar style. Each letter was individually nailed onto the side of the balcony overlooking the street.

  Stepping inside, Sonja was in awe by the majesty of the decorations. Colored glass light fixtures, made to look like gas lamps, hung from the ceilings and walls. Large and decorative paintings of landscapes with ranchers and cowboys adorned the walls. A twisting staircase led up to a balcony, all the banisters made from real hardwood. Patrons sat around at tables eating brunch.

  The scent of freshly cooked bacon, potatoes, and biscuits completed the experience.

  A large and slightly tinted mirror sat behind the bar, flanked by rows and rows of colorful bottles, and that was where Emmy stood. She looked slightly frazzled, her hair sticking out in spots, and wore the same clothes she had on at the Turkey Bowl.

  “Hey, Emmy,” Frank called out, lifting a hand in greeting.

  Looking up, the saloon owner nodded a fairly grim greeting. “How do ya’ do, Frank?”

  “As well as can be expected.” He took a seat at the bar and Sonja followed suit.

  “If you’re looking for your grandmother, she just left.”

  At this, Frank instantly perked up, sitting straight. “She was here?”

  “Had been here most of the morning after she found out about that Paulson character. She ordered the breakfast platter and a beer and then sat here for a few hours.”

  “Did she have more than one?”

  “Two, maybe three? I don’t exactly remember. It’s been a hard morning.”

  “Could you tell me which direction she went?”

  Emmy pointed toward the front window. “She was heading back to the hotel, just through the park.”

  “Thank you,” he spoke eagerly, hopping up from his chair in one leap. “I’ll be back as soon as I make sure she’s safe.” Patting Sonja on the shoulder he bolted from the Saloon and out into the crowds of the festival.

  “You’re not going along?” Emmy asked, looking at the girl in front of her. “You’re Sonja, right?”

  Nodding, the young woman reached out a hand. “That’s right. Sonja Reed, fellow restaurant owner.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “I own The Waffle Diner and Eatery in Haunted Falls, Colorado.”

  “I see,” she replied. “I think I’ve heard of that one actually.”

  “Probably because of Frank,” she shrugged knowingly.

  “Maybe not. I’ve heard from some travelers that the waffles you serve are the best they’ve had.”

  Nodding happily at the thought of her little diner growing in popularity, Sonja smiled. “We try.”

  “Well, if I ever get on up to Colorado, I’ll have to look it up.”

  “I appreciate that.” Picking up a menu, Sonja only felt it courteous to order something. “What do you suggest?”

  “You’re sticking around?”

  “I’ll just wait for Frank here, let him handle his family problems on his own.”

  “Ah.” Emmy nodded with a warm smile. “That makes sense.” She pointed at the menu. “I know it isn’t exactly traditional, but the southwestern style eggs benedict is one of my favorites.”

  “I’ll have that then.”

  “Coming right up.” Leaning over she yelled the order into the kitchen.

  “Emmy,” Sonja started in, prepared to ask questions now that they’d broken the ice. “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

  “What’s that?” The handsome woman took a seat on a stool behind the bar. “You don’t mind me sitting?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I wish I had a stool for me at my restaurant.”

  “Good. Go ahead and shoot.”

  “Did you mention that Hank works here?”

  She nodded. “He does in the evenings. He says he likes the extra cash and I’m glad to have him. We’ve been friends for some time now.”

  “And he worked last night?”

  “He was supposed to. He never arrived, unfortunately, which makes it all the worse for him in this murder case.”

  “Have the cops verified the time of the murder?” Sonja pressed, wondering if maybe Emmy, being a bar owner and all, knew something.

  “Not that I know of.” She leaned in closer to Sonja, placing her elbows on the counter. “Hank claims he took Willow Road to get here last night,”

  “Willow Road?”

  “It’s an unpaved back road that goes by a bunch of old farms. His car broke down, which is why he never showed up.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’ve never known Hank to be one for lying,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  “And you told the police?”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice, and when they found out, it was just one more clue on top of all the others that pointed to Hank.”

  “I see,” Sonja muttered quietly.

  “Hey, why are you asking all this?”

  “Well, I sort of have an interest in detective work. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.” She didn’t mention how she was always thrown into these investigations, a little unwillingly at times, because she either found the body or a ghost threatened to haunt her if she didn’t. “I’ve helped Frank solve several murder cases in Haunted Falls.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” she gasped. “You’re a private eye?”

  “Not exactly, no. Like I said, it’s more of a hobby.”

  “For me, too,” she replied. “Everyone calls me a busy-body, but as a saloon owner, I hear a lot of interesting things, and I’ve given my fair share of tips to Sheriff Branson. In fact, he will often come to me if he’s in need of information.”

  Sonja liked the sound of that. If they could get Emmy on their side, then they would have a lot of help in the information department.

  “Frank and I are wanting to look into this murder, clear Hank’s name if at all possible.”

  Emmy raised an interested eyebrow, accompanied by a smile. “I’m definitely in. I want to help out any way I can. I know Hank couldn’t have committed that murder.”

  “Alright, then. Tell me everything you know about Hank and the murder victims.”

  “Hank is easily one of the gentlest men I’ve ever met. He’s brilliant with the customers and so soft spoken, too. Although, if you get him riled up enough he can be quite the hothead.”

  “Has he ever missed a shift before?”

  “Rarely. The only other time was when he was sick with the flu. Otherwise, he’s one of my best workers. I wish he could work for me full time and not just part-time, but it seems that horses are in his blood—he has to work with them.”

  “I see. What about the two murder victims?”

  “What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “Well, first about Deputy Baker. How well did you know him?”

  “We were acquaintances. He came in here almost every night for dinner. He didn’t have any family here, lived on his own. I assumed he came here for company.”

  “How sad.”

  Emmy shrugged. “I suppose, but Baker usually seemed fairly content with life.”

  “Even up until the very end?” Sonja pressed.

  At this, Emmy’s face scrunched up in deep thought. “Now that you m
ention it, he did seem a little stressed leading up to his death.”

  “How so?”

  “He was worried about a case at work—a cow theft. The sheriff closed the case, claiming the cow had wandered off, but that didn’t satisfy ol’ Baker. No, he seemed to think there was something sinister involved.”

  “Sinister?” Sonja said with a hint of excitement in her voice. She was finally getting somewhere.

  “Let me give you a little background. Before he came here and joined the force, Baker had studied sociology in college. I guess his emphasis and his senior thesis all focused on the occult. Religious sects, communities, stuff like that.”

  That was exactly what Sonja had suspected. “And he believed in the occult?”

  “Whether he believed in it or not didn’t really matter. He knew that truth or no truth, people were capable of doing crazy things if they thought they could talk to the dead, gain special powers, raise demons—”

  The amateur sleuth felt her heart pound in her chest at the mention of summoning demons.

  “I think Baker really believed that cow was stolen to be used in some sort of occult ritual. Claimed he had evidence to point to it, but the Sheriff didn’t think it was significant enough to mean anything.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Oh, carvings of symbols in trees in the woods. Pentagrams drawn in the dirt. Branson just brushed all of this off, claimed it was just local kids fooling around trying to scare each other.”

  “But the Sheriff didn’t study occult sociology. He should have put more credence in Baker’s assessment,” Sonja argued, defending the dead deputy.

  “Doesn’t matter. Sheriff Branson is a good man, but also a stubborn one.”

  “I see. Maybe Baker got too close, saw something he wasn’t supposed to. He might have just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Emmy shrugged. “I would believe it.”

  “What about Larry? What do you know about him?”

  “I don’t know much about that fella’. All I know is he’s come in here on occasion, whenever Frank’s grandmother, Martha, is here in town. Larry often gets drunk and then annoys the other customers. I’m just glad he never actually lived here.”