Janice Bennett - Cold Turkey

His mouth twitched. “But only one of them did it.”

“Not everyone resorts to murder to get out of their problems,” I agreed. “That takes a certain disregard for the value of someone else’s life.”

“Or an extreme desperation to protect one’s own-or someone or something one loves.” He shook his head. “The psychology of murder is never easy.”

He watched while I returned to my car. Once I started my engine-not so much as causing that damned bird to ruffle a feather-the sheriff turned and headed after the other two men into the depths of the Still. I left him to his study of psychology. I had a turkey dinner to deliver.

It received a warm welcome at the church on the outskirts of town, where they never seemed to have enough food to pass on to those suffering through the difficult economic times. I stayed for awhile, helping wherever an extra hand came in useful, then made my way back to Gerda’s, tired, more than a little depressed, and still with that damned bird infesting my beloved car.

The rumble of the garage door caused it to wake up at last. It shifted its wings and eyed me as if selecting the best spot to peck. I pulled into my parking space, rolled up my sleeves, climbed out, pushed the driver’s seat forward, and hauled on the leash.

To my delight, I managed to drag the bird out. It landed on the cement of the garage floor, ruffled its whole body, and dove back to its preferred nest. It settled down with what I would swear was a smug expression, and no amount of cajolery or threats got it to budge again. An attempt to lay hands on it resulted in my getting pecked. Not badly, just a warning.

I knew when I was licked. I located an old shower curtain that Gerda used as an emergency tarp and protected as much of the upholstery as I could. Over this I laid more newspaper and finally left the triumphant bird in peace in its four-wheeled nest in the comfort of the garage. I placed a bucket of water and the plate with the half-eaten pancake on the ground nearby, but my unwelcome passenger showed no interest in getting out for a snack.

With a sigh, I lowered the convertible top, but without much hope the turkey would take the hint and vacate. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I told it, with more than a touch of sarcasm, and headed for the stairs.

A marvelous blend of aromas greeted me as I neared the front door. Cinnamon and nutmeg vied with savory and sage. I thought I detected thyme, as well, but the melding tended to mute individual notes to create a unique symphony. My mouth watered. I hadn’t nibbled any turkey, and I’d had nothing to eat since that pancake grabbed early in the morning. It had been a long and very active day, and I found it hard to believe it was only about two o’clock. I pushed through the doorway and dragged off my coat.

“Where’s my turkey?” Gerda called from the kitchen.

“Safe at the church, as ordered.” Did she regret getting rid of our dinner? Her own fault, if she did, I thought uncharitably.

“Idiot. The uncooked one.” Her head poked around the doorway into the dining room where I draped my wet things in front of the pellet stove.

I sighed. “In its favorite nest.”

Gerda shook her head. “I know how you like birds, but really, Annike, you shouldn’t spoil it so.”

To my frustration, I couldn’t think of a single scathing remark. Instead, I went to inspect what she had just brought out of the oven. A dark lump sat in a baking pan, rather like a loaf of round peasant bread. I sniffed, and my eyes widened. “Smells great.” Then with suspicion, “What’s in it?”

“Zucchini, almonds and tofu, primarily.” She beamed at me. “And it baked up amazingly fast.”

“Good. We need the oven.” I unwrapped one of the no-longer-frozen pie shells and set to work opening one of the tubs of pumpkin filling. I knew we could manage two at a time, if carefully arranged. I made some mental calculations and decided we just might be able to turn out the two dozen I’d assigned to us.

I was just testing the first two for doneness when I heard a car in the drive, followed by slamming doors and footsteps on the stairs.

Peggy opened the door without knocking. “Ready for us?” she called, a lilt in her voice, and she came in, kicking off her shoes into a corner. Her son Bill, short and solid, in his mid-thirties and as good-natured as his mother, followed her inside. He gave me a sheepish grin and handed over the covered casserole dish he held. Peggy placed another on the table. “All meatless,” she assured Gerda.

“So, where’s this turkey of yours?” Bill asked.

I bit back a nasty retort. He was a rare breed of auto mechanic-as honest as he was good. He had never overcharged anyone, and frequently came in under his estimates. He’d kept all our cars operational for the past fifteen years. It would not pay to antagonize him. “Still in my car,” I said without further elaboration.

He shook his head. “Hope you’ve got the seats well covered. Hate to see a classic like that turned into a turkey coop,” he added, thereby winning my unswerving devotion for life.

I beamed at him. “Want it for a mascot for your garage?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “What are you going to name it?”

Several possibilities sprang to mind, but before I could utter the choicest, Peggy squealed. “Ooh! I know! Let’s have a Name-the-Turkey contest! We can announce the winner at the Dinner-in-the Park!”

“No!” I cried, but too late. The idea appealed to my aunt, and while we arranged our meal on the dining room table, they happily made plans for announcing this addition to our weekend activities to the community at large. As long as they planned it, it was fine as far as I was concerned. If they tried to foist anything else onto me, though, they were going to find out just how loudly I could yell “no”.

Bill wandered into the living room, turned on the television, and began switching channels until he found the pre-game show. He stretched out in my aunt’s recliner in a typically male fashion, prepared to watch as much football as he possibly could.

Holiday filled the house. Wonderful aromas wafted through the air, of pumpkin spices and green bean casseroles and mashed potatoes and Gerda’s savory concoctions. The sounds of the football game drifted in from the living room, and working beside me, Gerda and Peggy talked happily of recipes and knitting. It was all so homey and comfortable, an absolute delight after the craziness of the last couple of days. A respite, I knew. It wouldn’t last for long. But I intended to make the most of it while I could.

The growing number of pies on the counter proved a constant reminder of the horrors still in store for me, and soon had me searching out every possible surface on which to set them to cool. We had barely sat down to eat when Ida Graham called with the bad news that one of the pie bakers had been called out of town on a family emergency. The family had dropped their filling and shells off at the store, but now I had to find someone else to bake a dozen of the damned things. Surely three hundred, the number we’d decided on for the morrow’s event, would be far too many. Surely we could cook a few less.

Ida laughed at me. “Good try, kiddo, but we’ve got well over a hundred people signed up for it.”

“Can’t we make them bring their own?” I tried, but Ida merely laughed again and hung up on me.

Great. I no longer had much appetite for my dinner. I pulled out another batch of pies, shoved in the next, and felt stumped. Maybe I could call Sarkisian, get the key for the Grange Hall, and use their ovens to bake. And why hadn’t I thought of that earlier?

I called the sheriff’s department and reached some poor soul low on the hierarchy who’d gotten stuck with working the holiday. He promised to get my message to Sarkisian somehow, but didn’t sound too hopeful. The sheriff, we agreed, was probably out trying to unravel the tangled motives surrounding Cliff Brody’s death.

Well, I could only wish Sarkisian luck. There were far too many people whose lives Brody had disturbed, far too many who were only too relieved to see him dead. And the problem was that I liked all of them. They were part of my life. I returned to the table and the perplexing question of who else I could con into baking pies.

“Can’t we eat just one?” Bill asked, eyeing the grouping I’d set to cool on the sideboard. “What’s Thanksgiving dinner without pumpkin pie?”

“A lot easier,” I sighed.

Gerda directed a forgiving look at me. “Of course we can spare one. I wonder,” she added, “if my turkey would like some?”

“He’d splatter it all over my car!” I protested.

“Nonsense,” said Gerda. “That poor bird has a great deal to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I’m going to give it a slice.”

“You and that beastly bird-” I began, when it dawned on me there was another beastly bird I hadn’t heard anything from. I sprang up and hurried to my room, to be greeted by Vilhelm calling, “I’m a pest! Let me out!”

“Later,” I promised him, even though his demand was addressed to his favorite cola can as he threw it around the cage. Water and seed levels both fine, Vilhelm in good spirits. Relieved, I returned to the table to speed our guests on their way.

Bill was standing in front of the television, shoveling in pie, watching some poor player get smeared on the snow-dotted grass. The ball bounced free, but the pile of players remained where they lay. Bill grinned at me. “Great game.”

“Got another one for you. It’s called, ‘how many pies can you bake?’”

“At least a half dozen more,” Peggy assured me. “That’s on top of the dozen I already promised.”

“I’ll miss a chunk of the game if we leave now,” Bill complained.

“Look, you could stay here if we had another oven, but we don’t.” I plucked the empty plate from his hand.