Harry’s Christmas Cranberries
1 cup cranberries
1 cup raspberries
1 orange (juice and zest)
¼ port (but I only had sweet sherry and that was good)
2/3 cup sugar
¼ cardamom and ¼ nutmeg
2 Tbs. cornstarch
2 Tbs. warm (not hot) water
In a sauce pan combine berries, juice, zest, sherry, sugar and spice. Bring to boil then reduce to simmer. Cook until cranberries are tender. Mix cornstarch and water and whisk into cranberries until sauce thickens.
It was delicious. I made a note to try it over vanilla ice cream.
The previous night’s visit to the park had reawakened me to the fact of murder being committed in our town, but I was still not feeling motivated to turn any time and thought to solving the crime. I don’t know how to defend this lapse except to say that the turkey smelled delicious and I still had linens to iron—in the bedroom since the living room was crowded. Usually I am dogged when I am on a case, but my sense of duty and taken off like a faithless tom cat after a plump mouse.
Though it was early in the day. Alex began to mix up a tiki bar drink called a Zombie. He had made a special store run for ingredients and had gifted me with a Boston Shaker because I had nothing for making silly drinks. It had three kinds of rum and several fruit juices. It was an excellent icebreaker and even Mom approved since the fruit juice disguised how potent it really is. She helped me set the table and said nothing about Grandma’s tablecloth or the red dishes.
Just when turkey lust had reached its zenith and the last pre-feast olive and gherkin were gone from the relish tray, Mr. Jackman finished the gravy and then called us to the table. It might have been The Zombies’ fault, but I think all of us were fixated on the food and drooling. Even Blue, who usually has excellent company manners, needed a chin blot.
“What is everyone thankful for this year?” Mom asked as we finished grace and began passing the potatoes. She always asks this so I wasn’t taken unaware. Usually I can answer easily and honestly, but what hit me immediately was the fact that if things had gone differently in San Francisco I wouldn’t be here to have this Thanksgiving. That was not something I could say to my mother though. Once in a while I have to lie to my mom. Usually white lies, but sometimes great big whoppers that she should have seen through. In fact, maybe she did see through them. With Mom, it is hard to know. Instead of telling the first truth, I settled for saying that I was thankful that all my friends and family could be with me—especially Alex and his Aunt Mary Elizabeth who I seldom got to see. This was stretching things, but Mary Elizabeth beamed.
“Well, I am just grateful to be here and not in pain. I stand in the shadows that edge the true darkness of old age and am glad for any day I don’t feel it too keenly.” Mrs. Graves is a mystery writer and expresses herself well, though the subject she chose could be a bit of a dialogue depressant. “Frankly, I hate growing old and find it works better if I ignore this reality.”
This I understood. Some realities were better ignored on Thanksgiving. And other days too.
After we pushed back from the denuded turkey carcass and retired to the living room to watch football and nap, I half expected that Dad and Mr. Jackson—and even Mrs. Graves—would find an excuse to pull Alex and I aside and talk about the murder. But nothing was said. And no mention was made of Althea or Gordon or their approaching nuptials. Avoidance of the uncomfortable subjects continued, though I was increasingly aware that we were all thinking of the murder. Except for Mom, who was probably plotting how to get me married so that I would not be lagging behind Althea.
Eventually Mom and Alex went to do dishes. I whipped cream and served pie. We took a walk just at sundown and then my guests began to leave. The last thing Dad said as he leaned in to give me a hug was ‘tomorrow’, and I knew that the holiday was truly over. While others would go out shopping on what the media has started calling Black Friday, Dad and Alex and I would be talking about things more serious.
Silly Gordon’s murder was at last getting the attention her death deserved. That was a good thing, I told myself. Because I was ready to get back in the saddle.
Sometimes it isn’t just Mom I lie to.
Chapter 8
Dad doesn’t often surprise me, but he did that Friday. Alex met me at the station right before lunch and I traded in my official electric vehicle for his gas powered one. Normally I would have taken the cart, but it can’t haul Alex, Blue and me up the hill to Dad’s place.
The first inkling that something was afoot was all the patriotic bunting along the corral fence and barn that housed Old Luke. Dad was often forgetful about holidays, but even he could not have confused Christmas lights with red, white and blue stripes and stars. Luke was also adorned in some kind of bunting which I could read as we came around the turn and got past the naked limbs of the twisted oak by the old well.
“Oh wow,” Alex said and began to laugh. Old Luke dressed up in a VOTE FOR HENRY BOSTON FOR MAYOR banner. There was one on Dad’s van too. And on Dad, or rather he was holding one up in front of his chest and grinning proudly as Alex pulled to a stop.
“Dad?” I didn’t ask if he was really running for mayor. Obviously he was. “But why?”
“That moron Cody is going to raise taxes again so they go ahead with the stupid OFF renovation nonsense. And he’s putting in another light at the end of Grant Road. I got enough signatures last week and filed. My candidacy is official. We’ll be having a special election in January.”
Andrew Cody was the present mayor, perhaps a moron, and fond of traffic lights which many old timers resented having grown up in the free-for-all days of driving. These same people were the ones opposed to the new proposed new mega-mall. And thanks to the city charter, we can and do have special elections whenever enough residents want them. Which is fairly often as people see no point in waiting around for November to deal with things that anger them.
“I see.” And I did. “So you didn’t want us here to talk about the murder?”
“The murder?” Dad looked blank for a moment. “Oh. No, I figured that you’ve got that covered. I want you to put this on your fence,” Dad said, thrusting his chest banner at me. “Jeffrey is putting signs up all over the trailer park. I want the town blanketed by night fall. The special election is coming up in just a few weeks!”
“But—”
“Here, Alex, you can put these up in Mr. Jackman’s and Mrs. Graves’ yards.” Alex accepted the two foot by two foot signs. Neither he nor Dad seemed to notice the cold wind that was creeping up my spine. There were no clouds, so it wasn’t the weather that was bringing the storm that I knew was about to break over us.
“Do Mr. Jackman and Mrs. Graves know they are getting signs in their yard?” Alex asked mildly.
“They will by the time you get there and will probably even help,” Dad promised. “Now let’s have some dogs. Got them on the grill.”
He meant hotdogs. Alex and Blue looked enthused so I went along with it. I needed lunch anyway. One didn’t need to be psychic to know that it would be a long day.
That afternoon, while at the very edges of my official route which neared Olympus, I heard a distinctive gobble and stopped my cart to listen. Blue looked east and sighed. As I had feared, the gobbling was coming from Tara Lee’s backyard. Tara Lee is the leader of the Lit Wits and a terrifying grand dame of the old school. Have you ever seen a picture of the romance novelist, Barbara Cartland? Well, that is pretty much Tara Lee. And she hates to be interrupted while she is working.
With heavy feet and heart, I exited my vehicle, signing for Blue to stay behind. Tara Lee is one of the people on the planet who does not love my dog. Tara Lee doesn’t love any animals at all.
I approached the door with its gleaming brass hardware. Though decorated with a seasonal wreath which wished me joy, the porch was still imposing enough to make me worry about touching things with dirty shoes or fingers that might mar
the pristine white welcome mat or shiny gargoyle door-knocker. There was no doorbell, which I found to be a bit hostile. It was the gargoyle in the prickly holly wreath or bruising your fist on the hardwood panel.
Fortunately, I heard and smelled the gardener before I disturbed the quiet with the door-knocker of doom. Mr. Costas was a smoker and indulged frequently, even though Tara Lee had threatened to fire him if she found him smoking on her property. The cost of smoking seemed high—half a lung to the Marlboro Man already and the potential to lose a job as well—but such is Mr. Costas’ addiction.
The gardener was happy to let Blue and I in through the side gate and even carried the turkey crate for me. The tom was easy enough to capture. Like the last stray, he seemed drawn to the dead foxglove that rimmed the acres of green lawn and the contact had made him sleepy. Foxglove—digitalis—is a beautiful but poisonous flower that few people grew since it was not a hardy perennial and had to be planted every year. It gets expensive and I don’t want it in my yard since I have Blue and the cats. The turkey seemed unharmed by its brush with toxins though, so I loaded him up and took him to the turkey ranch rather than to a vet. I called Jeffrey on my cell and he agreed to cover my route while I was delivering my feathered passenger.
I thought about the murder as I drove the now very familiar road to the turkey ranch at six miles per hour. At the heart of the mystery was the question of why. Why kill Silly and try to hurt Althea? Assuming the two things were related and my gut said they were. Surely the only thing the two women had in common was Dale Gordon, and though I was no fan of the lardhead’s, I couldn’t see him doing actual bodily harm to either of them.
I had not arrived at an answer by the time I reached the turkey ranch, and one of Dad’s banners hanging by the gate startled me out of my grim and fruitless reverie. Though I had some doubts about my father as mayor— he had been a terrible police chief and was awfully disorganized— apparently others were not as concerned. Dad was popular, an old-timer with old-fashioned values like loyalty and compassion, and a lot of people were angry with the way he had been driven out of office. In part, by the current mayor, Andrew Cody. My own boss, the present chief of police, had been forgiven for taking Dad’s job because he was an out-of-towner and also because Dad had gone out of his way to show the new chief and the town that he bore no ill will for the change.
Diego was delighted to see us and clearly overjoyed that Dad was making a run for office. I guess a disorganized mayor who didn’t interfere in people’s business was a thing devoutly to be wished for. I was thanked profusely for bringing home the wayward fowl and Blue was patted several times before we were allowed on our way back into town. Now at a blistering seven miles per hour since we going downhill.
My thoughts finally turned outward, I saw that overnight—as it should—Santa’s Cottage had sprung up in Courthouse Park along with a plywood Frosty of improbably size and several Christmas trees that stood in front of the reindeer stables that never actually housed any deer, though there was plenty of hay available if any dropped in. We have been fortunate to have the same Santa and Mrs. Claus there my entire life and I waved happily as we passed them.
Extension cords snaked through the grass which was looking rather worse for the wear after the pageant crowds, but the children and parents waiting for a turn with Santa ignored the intrusion of technology into magic because it was nice to have hot chocolate with Santa and twinkling lights on the Christmas trees, even if they were the new cold LEDs that I am not so fond of.
It was hard to believe that a body had lain there just days before. Hard to believe and obscene. It made me hope that the killer wasn’t local and therefore didn’t know that they were committing desecration of a landmark as well as murder.
The day was not through with its surprises. I made it back to the station and discovered that four of our officers were out sick. They had eaten at Mrs. Wicks’ on Thanksgiving and the vengeful spirit of a slain holiday turkey had visited them with food poisoning. No one was in the hospital, which was good, but that meant that everyone else had to pick up the slack for the afflicted. My slack included two things so horrible that I was left breathless with indignation.
One— the arrival of the new Officer Bill costume. It was only discovered after it was signed for and delivery accepted that the artist who had made the papiermache head had made the opening too small and the only person—not out with food poisoning— who could fit in it was me. This was terrible. Blue had hated the old Officer Bill head and howled pathetically every time I put it on. The Chief saw my horror and reassured me that it was only until they got a new head from the artist, which would be the first week of December. Or the second week— at the latest. Right, an artist busy with orders for Christmas was going to redo the Officer Bill head because he was very concerned about public safety programs in the grammar school soon out for Christmas vacation.
Two— Monday was the day when the honor students at the middle school made their annual pilgrimage to the police station and were partnered with a police officer for the day. I had always escaped this duty because no one wanted to be out with a meter maid, and also because we usually had a full, healthy force. This time, the Chief said, I would probably have to take one of the students with me.
I didn’t hide my grimace. This likely meant two things. First, Blue wouldn’t be able to ride with me. There wasn’t room in my official vehicle. And also I would have a whining kid dragging around with me making snide comments about my job. If I was very unlucky I’d end up having to go on another turkey hunt, which was a whole lot harder without Blue and could even get undignified if the turkey headed for bushes and mud. Rodney Dangerfield thought that he got no respect— ha!
Fortunately, Alex had intended to head home Tuesday but suggested that morning that he stay a while longer. I didn’t ask how long a while he had in mind. I was just happy that he wanted stay longer than the usual extended weekend.
My last unpleasant surprise was waiting by the locker room door. Promotions had been posted. I had gotten a tiny raise, but lardhead had not gotten his, and the public relations job he had applied for had gone to Eddie Rounds. I wondered how long it would be before Althea found out. Mitzi, too, and if she would start vilifying her neighbor for stealing her son’s job. She would, I was certain. As near as I could tell, Mitzi hadn’t heard the one about speaking no evil, and Eddie Rounds lived within egg-throwing distance from her. For a moment I considered seeking out Dale and commiserating, but there wasn’t much I could say. Eddie was the better choice for the public relations job and the Chief had made the right call. Feeling a bit cowardly, I left through the back door so I wouldn’t have to pass Dale at the front desk.
“Ready to go, Blue?” I asked as I pulled out my bike. The day had been nice so I rode my bike with sidecar to work. Blue prefers it.
Like mushrooms after a rain, Dad’s signs were springing up all over town and warring with the first of the Christmas lights. There were even some that were handmade. It seemed every other yard had one and there was a giant banner hanging out at Jeffrey’s trailer park. I wondered how busy Alex had been and if anyone had noticed my boyfriend helping Dad. I didn’t need for the Chief to tell me that he was both amused and appalled at this development and that I should keep my head down and my mouth shut about election matters while on duty. The current mayor was going to be very, very unhappy and would be only too pleased to cause trouble for me if I said or did anything partisan during work hours.
I told myself to be civic-minded and consider what was best for the town, but sometimes parental relations are difficult. Particularly if you don’t really know what’s best anyway.
Chapter 9
Alex had not been completely consumed by Dad’s campaign, though he was beginning to look and sound more like an aid-de-camp than a cyber-crimes investigator. He had not neglected his investigations entirely though and it was sounding more and more like the blonde super-model was both Silly’s girlfriend and also a pu
blicity nightmare for the small company. The woman had a temper and a tendency to let fly with both slaps and bad language. She sounded like a good candidate for murderer, but where had she found a gun? Alex could find no record of a gun permit in her name. The lady also seemed to have gone off radar. I consoled myself that this was being handled by official channels and finding her wasn’t my problem. My job was to find someone not involved in Althea’s wedding to take the fall for Silly’s murder.
A light snow came that night leaving a downy comforter that lasted until mid-morning. The weather man predicted brief clearing, but another storm was coming and this one would have thunder and lightning. Have you ever noticed that ozone has a taste? My teeth were beginning to ache and I could taste copper on my tongue as I walked into the station. I heard the mayor in the Chief’s office and scurried by as quickly as possible. Blue also did her best to make herself as small as she could. I spent my half-day doing my best to avoid the mayor, who was out belatedly hanging up campaign posters. The rush printing job must have cost him a fortune and he scowled in a way that would have surprised many of his supporters.
I tried to enjoy my last day of relative freedom. Monday I would have some smart aleck student in tow and I was dreading it. As I often do when needing an oasis of calm, I headed for the book store.
Becky’s Books is that rarest of creatures, an independent book store. Almost extinct in some larger cities and towns, they can still be found in some isolated locations too small for malls or Wal-mart. It didn’t attract as many people as the coffee house, but I always found it a good place to browse and collect gossip and Becky didn’t mind if I brought Blue. I hesitated before entering though because Dale Gordon was inside and perusing the true crime section at the front of the store. Nothing wrong with that—I read a lot of true crime too—but Dale Gordon was not a reader. Nor did he have Althea by his side.
Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery Page 6