Murder Talks Turkey

scrawny legs. They circled Fred, pinning him in the center of the group and pecking his toes. He howled.

Last year, my first squawking flock consisted of six little guys, fluffy day-old keets with orange legs. They weren’t all little “guys,” since they’ve multiplied several times. They like to hide in tall grasses with their broods, depriving me of fried eggs. Instead, I get more of them to feed. It doesn’t seem fair.

Guineas coined the term “free-range.” Nothing can keep a guinea confined. They come and go as they please, roosting in trees or the barn, and they eat up weed seeds and bugs. Guineas like to dine on Japanese beetles and deer ticks. I’ve even seen one peck and swallow a yellow jacket and go on hunting like nothing unusual happened.

They have their faults, though. With a machine-gun-like alarm call, they are the noisiest creatures on earth.

And they hate Fred.

He howled again while I waded in, swinging my arms and legs, parting a path to the truck where the enormous black coward was only too happy to hide. I had to leave the driveway at a rolling crawl to keep from running my guineas down.

Ruthie’s Deer Horn Restaurant was on Highway M35, across from the railroad tracks. The train ground to a screeching halt as Fred and I stepped down from the truck.

“Hey, Otis,” I called to the train conductor, who liked to stop at Ruthie’s for coffee and tall tales. Otis Knutson’s appearance meant Carl should be along shortly. Sure enough, Carl pulled in with George, and they watched me tie Fred to a post in the front of the restaurant where he could keep me in his sights.

My dog dislikes waiting in the truck by himself. When we’re at Ruthie’s, he settles for hanging around outside as long as I bring him a treat afterwards.

The four of us took seats at the counter, lined up like a row of turkey targets. Ruthie swung out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee in her hand. She poured a round without having to be asked.

In the U.P. we take our coffee seriously.

The men ordered mounds of eggs and bacon and potatoes. I stuck with the coffee since all those doughnuts had sunk to the bottom of my stomach like lead weights. Spending a thoughtful moment covertly eyeing George’s hunky body, I had to stop sucking doughnuts.

George winked. I smiled at him, feeling shy and self-conscious. Then we told Otis and Carl about the robbery and the dead guy at the dance. Carl, who lives about a mile from me, already knew most of it. Otis hung on every word. So did Ruthie.

When we finished, Otis leaned his tall, slim body forward and slapped the counter. “Holy Wah! What a story! Too bad Blaze is laid up. He’d get ’em.”

I didn’t mention that Blaze had been more interested in slinging his feet up on the desk than chasing criminals – that he chalked most everything up to kid pranks. And that was at his best, when his brain was at peak capacity.

Ruthie went into the kitchen and came out carrying three brimming plates. She set them down in front of the men.

“Where has Dickey been?” I asked.

Ruthie answered. “He has his nose to the ground like a bloodhound. He’s accused every one of us by now. He had the nerve to suggest I might know more than I’m telling. Deputy Snell isn’t welcome in my restaurant until he apologizes.”

“Otis is right,” Carl said. “We need Blaze back quick.”

“Ruthie,” I said. “When we were lying on the floor in the credit union, I saw the shooter on the roof. I’m sure the man George and I found behind my truck was the same guy.”

“Was he wearing orange shoes?”

“What?” I had only been able to see the guy from his waist up.

“I saw someone on the roof, too,” she said. “Well, part of him. Remember, I was ahead of you in line. When I went down on the floor, I could see the bottom half of someone walking on the roof.” She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and slung it over her shoulder. “He had on orange shoes just like the robber.”

“Did you tell Dickey?” I asked.

“Sure I did. He wanted to check my closet to see if I had some. I tell you, I better not see him around my restaurant.”

Orange shoes. This was the goofiest case!

George spoke up, “The guy behind Gertie’s truck didn’t have any shoes on at all.”

“I’ll be,” I said. I hadn’t noticed that small detail. Probably because I was so worried about the murder weapon belonging to me. I’d completely missed the dead guy’s lack of footwear.

I had to get a break in this case soon. I didn’t want to wait around for any more shoes to drop.

____________________

After feeding Fred a piece of George’s bacon, I headed toward June Hopala’s place over on Peter Road. June wasn’t inside the credit union during the holdup, but she worked there part-time and I wanted to ask her some questions about Dave Nenonen, the manager, before I interrogated him.

At the moment, he was on my short list for criminal involvement. Money was missing from the vault, and Dave had the easiest access.

I’d run the scenario through my head enough times. I had a theory of my own, and it was holding water.

Somebody took the money before the robber even entered the building, took it days, maybe weeks or months before. That Somebody started getting worried. Eventually the money would be discovered missing, which the mastermind should have thought of in the first place. So Somebody planned a fake robbery. Kent Miller was supposed to escape with the pillowcase filled with play money. Everyone in town would think the thief had taken the hundred thousand dollars, when really Somebody had taken it.

Except the plan went south. Everything was working out fine until Dickey’s deputy squad showed up. Then the rooftop shooter plugged poor Kent, and the hoax was up. Somebody must be really worried by now. The money was discovered missing and dead bodies were falling like meteor showers.

The real thief couldn’t be Kent or the guy in the parking lot. They were pawns. The king, or queen, still was on the move. The little guys had been extirpated. How convenient was that?

Yes, Dave was on my suspect list, but I had a small problem with that. Why would Dave leave Angie behind the counter with her finger right next to the alarm button? If he stole the money, he’d want the robber to get away with the hoax. He would have made sure Angie didn’t use her lethal finger. Yet she had. He hadn’t tried to stop her.

And why would a stranger on the roof take out the robber instead of letting Dickey handle it? Unless he was afraid his frantic partner inside would finger him. Did Kromer man have the loot? Was he killed for it?

I hoped I’d have a clearer picture after talking to June.

Fred and I pulled into June’s driveway. Fred started howling as I walked up to her neat and tidy little house- whitewashed with a cute picket fence and daffodils poking through the thawing ground.

I’d called ahead, so she was expecting me.

“Come on in,” she called out with a warm welcome. “Have some taffy. I can’t thank you enough for giving me your recipe. It’s a family favorite. Hope you write your cookbook soon.”

I wanted to say I’d have plenty of time to work on it from prison.

June seated me in her living room. That meant I was special company. A plate of taffy waited for me on the coffee table.

I peeled waxed paper from a piece and plopped the taffy in my mouth while June watched with a smile. I couldn’t help humming, a family trait we had no control over. The hum just happened on its own when we sampled something really delicious.

June took a piece.

We chewed for awhile.

“My daughter-in-law brought her kids over,” June said after finishing her taffy. She rolled her tongue along the front of her teeth to dislodge the last sticky morsel. “They got a kick out of making it. They pulled and pulled.”

“It’s great family fun,” I agreed.

I made taffy when the kids were growing up. We’d cook it to the right temperature, cool it slightly in long slabs, then grease our hands with butter and tag-team pull it. The first pull involved the entire taffy batch and two strong