She passed the farm every day on her way to work and had seen the little turkey chicks grow into big, table-ready birds. Table-ready was just about the nicest thing you could say about the beasts, she thought, remembering that even as chicks they hadn’t been cute. There was something prehistoric about turkeys, with their naked necks and long scaly legs, and she was only too happy to see that the pens that once held the birds were empty and the barnyard was quiet. O’Brien’s turkeys had gobbled their last gobbles and were sitting in the refrigerator case, plucked and trussed and ready for roasting.
The farm store was quiet with only a few early-morning customers. Lucy wasn’t in a hurry so she browsed, checking out the various turkey-related items the store offered. There were oversized turkey platters, basters, roasting pans, and packs of the O’Brien’s own brining mix. There were also the usual T-shirts picturing a handsome Tom turkey in full display as well as aprons, dish towels, and pot holders. There were little onesies for babies, proclaiming BABY’S FIRST THANKSGIVING in big orange letters, with either a cartoon version of a tom or a hen with chicks. There were even turkey suits for pet dogs.
Lucy couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the onesies, wondering if Toby and Molly might be planning to have a second child now that Patrick was getting older and they were more financially secure. She was admiring the little piece of clothing and dreaming of having a little grandbaby girl when a woman’s voice broke into her reverie.
“Those are so adorable!” shrieked the woman in a voice that was much too loud.
Lucy turned to acknowledge her and recognized Eudora Clare, smartly dressed in a short fur jacket and carrying a huge Louis Vuitton bag that contained a tiny Yorkshire terrier. All that was visible of the dog was a little face with bright eyes, and a plastic pumpkin barrette attached between its ears.
“They certainly are,” said Lucy. “I only wish I had a little grandbaby so I could buy one.”
“Don’t you know anyone who’s expecting?” asked Eudora, examining one of the little garments with an expensively gloved hand. “I do.” She laid the onesie over one arm and stroked it as if it was a pet cat, “but I don’t know if she’s expecting a hen or a tom.”
“In that case, I’d go with the hen and chicks. They’re cuter,” said Lucy, who had noticed that while Eudora’s face was smooth as a baby’s bottom, evidence of a face lift, her wrinkled neck boasted wattles that a turkey would be proud of.
“I really shouldn’t get her anything,” said Eudora, stroking the onesie so hard that Lucy feared she would rub the design right off. “The mother, I mean. Face it, these presents are really for the mother and this one is nothing but a husband-stealing slut.”
Lucy realized Eudora must be talking about Mireille, and was surprised she’d consider buying a gift for the woman she believed had broken up her marriage. Some of the allegations from the lawsuit ran through Lucy’s mind and she couldn’t believe Eudora was ready to forgive and forget.
“Of course,” continued Eudora, spitting out the words, “it’s not the baby’s fault that her mother is a conniving little gold digger, and now that Ed and Allie are gone, the baby will be my only link to Ed.” She turned and stared at Lucy with tear-filled eyes. “Isn’t that right?”
Lucy felt uncomfortable being put on the spot and wondered if Eudora was somewhat unstable, perhaps even on some sort of medication. “I suppose you have photos and videos and memories. . .”
“It’s not the same as a living person,” said Eudora, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue in such a way that she wouldn’t smear her heavy eye makeup. “That baby will have Ed’s DNA. It might even be a boy and look like him.”
“You have a son,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Tag’s not Ed’s,” Eudora said, crumpling the tissue in her hand. “I had him with my first husband. Ed adopted him, but he’s nothing like my Ed.”
“It’s hard to let go of the past,” said Lucy, “but you have to think of the family you do have, your son and husband.”
“But don’t you think I have a responsibility to this little mite? It’s quite likely that a slut like you-know-who will be an unfit mother. What would happen then? Imagine, my Ed’s child in foster care, abused and neglected.” Eudora pressed her botoxed, glossy orange lips together. “It would be up to me. I would have to adopt the child. I would name him after Ed . . . Edward, Junior . . . or Edwina, if it’s a girl.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Lucy, eager to get away from Eudora but somewhat concerned about her welfare. She was no psychologist, but this seemed extremely abnormal.
Fortunately, just as Lucy was looking around, hoping Eudora’d been accompanied by her husband or son, Jon Clare appeared, carrying a bulging shopping bag with the O’Brien’s Turkey Farm logo.
“You mustn’t chew this poor woman’s ear off,” he said, attempting to take Eudora’s hand. “I’ve got the turkey—it’s a beauty—and we can go home now.”
“I’m not a child,” hissed Eudora, yanking her hand away and stuffing the onesie into the Louis Vuitton bag, causing the dog to yip in protest. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Have a nice day,” said Lucy, seizing the opportunity to make her escape. She crossed the store to the counter and placed her order, then watched as the squabbling couple made their way out of the store to a large Cadillac Escalade. As she watched Jon holding the bag with the shoplifted onesie while Eudora settled herself in the car, Lucy wondered if she should report the theft.
“This is a nice twenty-two pounder,” said Carolyn O’Brien, grunting as she hoisted the heavy bird onto the counter and slid it into
