Gobble, Gobble Murder

Book 0: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

For Lucy Stone, Thanksgiving in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, is more than just gathering friends and family in gratitude. It’s also about catching a killer or two . . .

Turkey Day Murder
Tinker’s Cove has a long history of Thanksgiving festivities, from visits with TomTom Turkey to the annual Warriors high school football game and Lucy Stone’s impressive pumpkin pie. But this year, someone has added murder to the menu, and Lucy intends to discover who left Metinnicut Indian activist Curt Nolan deader than the proverbial Thanksgiving turkey . . .
 
Turkey Trot Murder
Besides the annual Turkey Trot 5K on Thanksgiving Day, Lucy expects the approaching holiday to be a relatively uneventful one—until she finds beautiful Alison Franklin dead and frozen in Blueberry Pond. As a state of unrest descends on Tinker’s Cove, Lucy is in a race to beat the killer to the finish line—or she can forget about stuffing and cranberry sauce . . .

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Release date: September 29, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Cozies

Print pages: 402

Sample

“Look at that face. I ask you. Is that the face of a cold-blooded killer?”

In her usual seat in the second row, part-time reporter Lucy Stone perked up. Until now, she’d been having a difficult time paying attention at the Tuesday meeting of the Tinker’s Cove Board of Selectmen, even dozing off for a few moments during the town assessor’s presentation of the new valuation formulas.

Lucy studied the face in the photograph Curt Nolan had propped up on an easel in the front of the hearing room, allegedly the face of a multiple killer: big brown eyes; an intelligent expression; a friendly, if somewhat toothy, smile. He didn’t look like a mass murderer to her—he looked like a plain old mutt.

“Kadjo’s not just some mutt,” continued Curt Nolan, his owner and advocate at the dog hearing. “He’s a Carolina dog. I went all the way to North Carolina to get him from a breeder there. He’s descended from the dogs that accompanied humans across the Bering land bridge from Asia to America thousands of years ago. He’s a genuine Native American dog.” He paused for emphasis and then concluded, “Why, he’s got more right to be here than you do.”

That comment was aimed at Howard White, chairman of the board of selectmen, who was chairing the dog hearing. White—a tall, thin, distinguished-looking man in his early sixties—didn’t much like it and glared at Nolan from behind the bench where he was sitting with the four other selectmen as judge and jury.

This was more like it, thought Lucy, studying Nolan with interest. Most people, when called before the board for violating the town’s bylaws, exhibited a remorseful and humble attitude. Nolan, by contrast, seemed determined to antagonize the board members, especially Howard White.

Even his clothing declared he was different from the majority of people who resided in the little town of Tinker’s Cove, Maine. Instead of the usual uniform of khaki slacks, a button-down shirt, and loafers, which was the costume of choice for board meetings, Nolan was wearing a fringed leather jacket, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. His glossy black hair was brushed straight back and tied into a ponytail with a leather thong. A second leather thong, this one decorated with a bear claw, hung from his neck. His face was tanned and deeply creased, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors in the sun.

“We’re not interested in the animal’s bloodlines,” growled White. “We’re here to decide if he’s a threat to the community. I’d like to hear from the dog officer.”

Cathy Anderson stepped to the front of the room and consulted a manila folder containing a few sheets of paper. Lucy had struck up an acquaintance with Cathy over the years and knew she hated speaking in public, even in front of the handful of citizens who regularly attended the selectmen’s meetings. Cathy flipped back her long blond hair and nervously smoothed the blue pants of her regulation police uniform. That uniform didn’t do a thing for her well-upholstered figure, thought Lucy.

“The way I see it,” said Cathy, taking a deep breath, “the problem isn’t the dog—it’s the owner.”

Hearing this, White exchanged a glance with Pete Crowley. Crowley was a heavyset man who tamed his thick white hair with Brylcreem so that the comb marks remained permanently visible. Also a board member, Crowley was Police Chief Oswald Crowley’s brother and a strict law-and-order man.

“Mr. Nolan has refused to license the dog,” continued Cathy, “in clear violation of state and town regulations. He also lets the dog run free, which is a violation of the town’s leash law. If the dog was properly restrained we could avoid a lot of these problems.”

Crowley beamed at her and nodded sympathetically.

“Can I say something?” Nolan was on his feet. Without waiting for permission from White, he began defending his pet. “Like I told you before, Kadjo is practically a wild dog. He’s closely related to the Dingo dogs of Australia and other wild breeds. He needs to be free—it’d be cruel to tie him up. And licensing him? That’s ridiculous! We don’t license bear or moose or deer, do we?”

“You’re out of order!” White banged his gavel, startling his fellow board member Bud Collier.

Collier, a retired gym teacher, slept through most board meetings, rousing himself only to vote. Lucy often debated with herself whether she should mention this in her stories for the paper, but so far she had refrained. He was such a nice man, and so popular with the townsfolk, that she didn’t want to embarrass him. Nevertheless, she wasn’t entirely comfortable about covering up the truth.

“Ms. Anderson has the floor,” said White, raising a bristly white eyebrow. “Please continue.”

“Thank you.” Cathy glanced at Nolan and gave him an apologetic little smile. “I’d like to call a witness, if that’s all right with the board.”

White nodded.

“I’d like to call Ellie Martin, who lives at 2355 Main Street Extension. Ellie, would you please tell the board members what happened last Monday?”

Ellie Martin stood up, but remained by her chair in the rear of the room. She was a pleasant-looking woman in her forties, neatly dressed in a striped turtleneck topped with a loose-fitting denim jumper. She was barely five feet tall.

“We can’t hear you from there,” said White. “Step down to the front.”

Clutching her hands together in front of her, Ellie came forward and stood next to Cathy.

“Just tell them what happened,” prompted Cathy.

“I don’t want to make trouble,” began Ellie, glancing back at Nolan. “I only filed the report because I want to get the state chicken money.”

“What state money is this?” demanded board member Joe Marzetti. Owner of the IGA and a stalwart of the town Republican committee, Marzetti was strongly opposed to government spending.

“It’s to reimburse people whose livestock has been destroyed by dogs,” explained Cathy. “It’s actually town money mandated by state law—it comes out of the licensing fees.”

“But you said Nolan hasn’t licensed the dog.”

Lucy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Trust Marzetti to find an excuse—any excuse—that would save the town a few dollars.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Cathy. “It’s a state law.”

“Well, if it’s a law, how come I never heard of it?” Marzetti had furrowed his forehead, creating a single fierce black line of eyebrow.

“Well, it hasn’t come up in a long time. Not many people bother to keep chickens or sheep these days.”

“What kind of money are we talking here—how much are the taxpayers going to have to cough up?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“Thirty dollars for a chicken!” Marzetti’s face was red with outrage. “Why, I sell chickens for a dollar nine a pound in my store! That’s ridiculous.”

“Thirty dollars total,” said Cathy. “Mrs. Martin had a dozen hens and she’ll get two dollars and fifty cents for each one.”

“Oh, that’s more like it,” said Marzetti.

“The dog killed the chickens? Is that what this is about?” demanded Pete Crowley, who was growing impatient.

“You’d better tell them,” said Cathy, giving Ellie a little nudge.

“Well, it was like this,” began Ellie. “I was busy inside the kitchen, cleaning the oven, when I heard an awful commotion in the yard outside. I went to look and saw the dog, Kadjo, chasing the chickens. They’re nice little pullets, Rhode Island Reds. I raised them myself from chicks I got last spring. They’d just started laying and I was getting five or six eggs a day. That is, I used to. The dog got every one.” Ellie’s face paled at the memory. “It was an awful sight.”

“Every one?” Sandy Dunlap, the newest board member and the only woman, was clearly shocked at the extent of the carnage. She was also sympathetic. When she’d run for election last May, she’d promised to be sympathetic and she’d stuck to her word. Nobody with a problem got short shrift from Sandy. “That must have been awful. I think the least we can do is vote to reimburse you for the chickens. I’d like to make a motion.”

“That’s not the question,” snapped White. “She’ll get the money. What we’re here to decide is if the dog should be destroyed or banished or what.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Nolan, jumping to his feet. “I haven’t heard anything here about it being my dog. How can you be sure it was Kadjo?”

White banged down his gavel. “Mr. Nolan, I’m warning you.”

Nolan sat down, perching on the edge of his seat.

Lucy gave Nolan points for trying, however. In her opinion, White tended to be something of a small-town dictator.

Ellie smiled apologetically at Nolan. “Curt, you know perfectly well I’d recognize Kadjo anywhere. After he’d finished chasing all the birds, he picked one up in his mouth and brought it over and put it at my feet, like a present. He was real proud of himself. It was Kadjo, all right.”

“Well, Ellie, he was just doing what comes naturally,” said Nolan in a soft voice that made Lucy wonder exactly what their relationship was. “It’s his instinct, you know.”

White reached for his gavel, but was interrupted by Crowley.

“Is the dog vicious?” Crowley asked. “That’s what we’ve got to determine. I’d like to hear from the animal control officer.”

“Ms. Anderson—come on now. It’s about time we had your report,” said White.

Cathy Anderson leafed through the thin folder. She gave a big sigh.

“The way I see it, the dog isn’t vicious. He isn’t a problem dog. This is the first complaint I’ve had about him. Kadjo needs a little training and he really ought to be neutered. Frankly, I think that would take care of the problem.”

“Neutered!” Nolan was back on his feet, his face bright red with anger. “That’s outrageous. Besides, he’s a pedigreed dog and I plan to breed him.”

White banged the gavel and glared at Nolan, who promptly sat down.

Watching Nolan, Lucy saw that he was having a hard time restraining himself. He seemed tightly coiled, like a spring, ready to explode.

“A lot of people feel that way but it’s really kinder in the long run. He’ll have a longer, healthier life,” said Cathy. She turned to White. “That’s my recommendation.”

“Thank you,” said White. “Do I have a motion?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” demanded Nolan, unable to contain himself any longer. “Face it. It’s what you’ve been doing to my people for thousands of years. Trying to wipe us out. It’s not enough that the U.S. government has waged a sustained policy of genocide against Native American people for hundreds of years. Now you’re after our dogs, too. You can’t let wild Native American dogs breed, can you? Nope. All you want are Welsh corgis and Scottish terriers and Irish setters—Old Country breeds.”

“Order!” snapped White, banging down his gavel. “You’re out of order, Mr. Nolan. That vote isn’t until next week.”

Suddenly, a little lightbulb went on in Lucy’s head and she understood the tension between White and Nolan. Nolan was a Native American, one of the town’s few remaining members of the Metinnicut Indian tribe, the original inhabitants of the area before European settlers arrived in the early eighteenth century. The tribe had recently applied to the federal government for recognition and had asked the board to endorse their application. That vote was scheduled for next week, and if Lucy had been asked to predict the outcome, she’d have to say the Metinnicuts’ prospects weren’t good with this board, especially White.

“Do I hear a motion?”

Bud Collier roused himself from his nap. “The dog’s vicious. It’s a killer. I move we destroy it.”

Lucy snapped to attention, astonished. This was the last thing she had expected. In similar cases up until now the board had always voted to recommend a course of obedience training, perhaps followed with a probationary period. Collier’s habit of napping had obviously prevented him from getting the correct information, which happened all too frequently. Usually, however, the board members amended his motion if it seemed inappropriate. In fact, Lucy noticed, Sandy Dunlap and Joe Marzetti were looking rather pointedly at Pete Crowley, as if urging him to amend the motion.

“Do I hear a second?” snapped White.

Crowley nodded his head. “I second the motion.”

Lucy’s eyes widened in surprise as she hurried to scribble it all down in her notebook. The board usually followed Cathy Anderson’s recommendations, and she’d urged obedience training and neutering. She hadn’t even mentioned destroying the dog.

“You can’t do this!” shouted Nolan, jumping to his feet. In the front of the room, Ellie Martin was whispering frantically in Cathy’s ear.

“Could I add something?” asked Cathy as Ellie placed her hand on Nolan’s shoulder to restrain him. He got the message and sat back down, but his knee jumped as he nervously tapped his foot.

“Out of order,” said White, shaking his head. “Do we have any discussion?”

“I’ll start,” said Crowley. “The way I see it, a dog starts with chickens and the next thing you know he’s got a taste for blood and he’s after everything that moves. Nip it in the bud, before he attacks a little child. We can’t have this sort of thing going on in our town—predatory beasts going after our children.”

“I think we’re jumping the gun just a bit here,” said Marzetti. “This is the first time the dog’s come to the board’s attention, and let’s face it: We have plenty of dogs we see three or four times before we vote to have them destroyed. It’s always been a last resort. I think we should give the dog another chance. We don’t need to go around destroying people’s pets. I mean, the dog is his property, after all, and he’s got a right to it.”

Bravo, thought Lucy, wondering how she’d found herself agreeing with Marzetti’s conservative logic. On the margin of her notebook she jotted down 1:1. So far it looked as if the ayes and nays were tied.

Sandy Dunlap was next.

“I, of course, want to make sure that children are safe in our town, and I did see a special on 60 Minutes about dog bites. Did you know it’s the second major cause for emergency room visits in the United States for children?” Sandy Dunlap pursed her lips and nodded, making her blond curls bounce. “And of course, I have to agree with Mr. Crowley that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Lucy started to add a second stroke to the ayes.

“But we have no proof that Kadjo is really vicious. I mean, there’s a big difference between chickens and people. My old dog, Harold—what a sweetie—why, he’ll chase a rabbit or a squirrel but he wouldn’t dream of biting a person.”

Sandy gave a big sniff and blinked. “I know how awful I’d feel if something happened to Harold—I think we have to give Kadjo another chance.”

Lucy added the stroke to the nays instead.

“What about you, Collier?” asked the chairman. “Are you voting to put the dog down?”

“Wh-a?” Bud Collier blinked.

“You moved to put the dog down. Is that how you’re voting?”

“I moved to put the dog down?” Collier scratched his head. “I must have been mistaken. She says the dog’s an old fellow who wouldn’t dream of biting anybody. I don’t want to put him down. I vote no.”

Lucy let out a big sigh of relief and put another stroke with the nays.

White threw his hands up in the air. “That’s three nos. The motion doesn’t pass.”

Nolan stepped forward to retrieve the photograph of Kadjo.

“Not so fast,” said White, shaking a finger at him. “Be warned: The board won’t be as lenient next time. You can be sure of that.”

Nolan didn’t respond, but Lucy noticed he had clenched his fists. Ellie Martin reached out to touch his sleeve and he suddenly grabbed the picture and marched out of the hearing room. Ellie hurried after him.

“Meeting adjourned!” declared White, banging down the gavel.

Adjourned for now, thought Lucy, as she closed her notebook and tucked it into her purse, but she’d be awfully surprised if this was the end of the matter. She had a feeling the board would be seeing a lot more of Curt Nolan.

And maybe, she thought, as she crossed the town hall parking lot to her car, just maybe, it was time Pennysaver readers learned exactly how their board of selectmen actually operated.

Next morning, at the Pennysaver office, Lucy stared at the blank screen of the computer. Somehow, writing about the dog hearing wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be.

Yesterday, as she had driven home in a fury of righteous indignation, the words and phrases had flown through her head and she’d practically had the whole story written when she pulled into the driveway of the restored farmhouse on Red Top Road she shared with her husband, Bill, and their three daughters. Toby, her oldest and the only boy, was a freshman at Coburn University in New Hampshire.

At dinner, Bill and the girls had laughed when she described the meeting.

“You should have seen the look on Howard White’s face when Bud Collier changed his mind,” she’d told them as she dished out the ravioli. “I’ve never seen anybody look so furious.”

“What does Kadjo look like, Mom?” asked Zoe, who was in first grade and could almost read all by herself, even though it was only November. At the library, she always went for the dog stories.

“Kind of like Old Yeller in the movie,” said Lucy.

“Old Yeller died.” Zoe sighed and picked up her fork.

“I can’t believe they were really going to kill Kadjo,” said Sara, who was in fifth grade and was a member of Friends of Animals. Last summer she had volunteered at their shelter, caring for orphaned baby birds and other injured wildlife.

“If you ask me, maybe they should have,” declared Elizabeth, who was a senior in high school and a contrarian on principle. She speared a chunk of lettuce with her fork and took a tiny bite. “He killed twelve chickens, after all. What about them?”

“Killing the dog wouldn’t bring back the chickens, would it, Mom?” Sara’s round face was flushed with the effort of reaching across the table for the breadbasket. “It would just be killing another helpless, innocent animal. And Kadjo is a special dog, an endangered breed.”

“I don’t know if endangered is the right word,” said Bill, giving Sara a pointed glance as he passed her the bread. “If they’ve survived all these years, they’re hardly in danger.”

“Just because they’ve done okay up to now doesn’t mean they’re not endangered,” insisted Sara, holding out her plate for seconds. “They’re losing habitat. People are building houses where there weren’t any—there’s less and less room for wild animals.”

“There’s going to be less and less room for the rest of us if you don’t stop eating like that,” said Elizabeth, who had limited herself to four raviolis and a large helping of salad. “You’re going to get fat, like that man on TV last night.”

“He weighed 1100 pounds,” said Sara, defending herself. “I only weigh one tenth of that.”

“Right,” said Elizabeth, rolling her eyes in disbelief.

“That’s enough.” Lucy then repeated what had become her mealtime mantra: “It doesn’t matter how much you weigh—what’s important is feeling healthy and having enough energy.”

“Hey, Lucy, how’s that story coming?” demanded Ted Stillings, editor and publisher of the Pennysaver and her boss, intruding on her thoughts and snapping her back to the present.

Lucy shook her head, to clear her mind, and looked at the computer screen. It was still blank. As much she wanted to write the truth about the meeting, she was finding it hard to overcome her old habit of reticence. “Discretion is the better part of valor” had been one of her mother’s favorite expressions, and Lucy had grown up believing that, if you couldn’t say something nice about someone, you didn’t say anything at all.

But she was a reporter, she reminded herself. She had an obligation to tell the truth. She straightened her back and took a deep breath, as if she were preparing to dive off the high board into a deep pool. Then she began tapping at the keys, picking up speed as she went and quickly filling up the screen.

“Lucy, I think you need to tone this down a little bit,” suggested Ted, after she had sent the story to him for editing.

“No way, Ted.” Having taken the plunge, Lucy was in no mood to compromise. “I wrote it just the way it happened. Nolan didn’t get a fair shake. Listen, I’ve covered a million dog hearings and they always give everybody a second or even a third chance. I think they were discriminating against Nolan because he’s Indian—I really do.”

Ted tapped the mouse and scrolled through the story again.

“Look here. You’re sure you want to say that Bud Collier ‘roused himself from his usual afternoon nap’? Let’s cut out that phrase, okay?”

“Ted.” Lucy had set her teeth. “He sleeps through every meeting. Every one. People have a right to know.”

Ted shrugged. “He’s been on the board for twenty years or more and keeps getting reelected. He must be doing something right.”

“Ted! People vote for him because they don’t know he sleeps through the meetings. How are they going to know if we don’t tell them?”

Ted chewed his lip. “Okay. You have a point. I’m just going to cut ‘usual afternoon nap’ and put ‘brief nap.’ How’s that?”

“It’s waffling.”

“It’s using discretion, and that’s the name of the game in community news.”

“You sound just like my mother,” said Lucy with a shrug. “It’s your paper. I’m just the hired help.”

“That reminds me. I have a feature for you with a nice Thanksgiving tie-in. And since you’re so keen on Native Americans these days, you’ll love it. It’s about a woman who makes American Indian dolls and won a prize.” Ted scrambled through a pile of papers on his cluttered desk. “Here it is. Ellie Martin. Lives on Main Street Extension.”

“That’s the woman at the hearing last night. You know, whose chickens got killed.”

“I thought her name sounded familiar.”

“Some coincidence.” Lucy took the press release from the American Dollmakers’ Association and studied it. “She seemed real nice. I’ll give her a call. When do you want it?”

“To run on Thanksgiving. As soon as you can get it to me. Oh, and Pam asked me to remind you about the pie sale.”

Pam was Ted’s wife, and this year she was in charge of the pie sale that raised money for the Boot and Mitten Fund. Without the fund, a lot of children in Tinker’s Cove wouldn’t have warm winter clothing.

“Oh, gosh. I did forget,” said Lucy, remembering that in a moment of foolish optimism she’d agreed to bake six pumpkin pies for the sale. “Now, if you don’t have anything else, I’ve got to run. I promised I’d help Sue take the day care kids on a field trip, and I’m late!”

“I was getting nervous,” said Sue when Lucy pulled open the door to the recreation center basement where the day care center was housed. “I was afraid you’d forgotten about the field trip.”

Sue Finch, Lucy’s best friend, had convinced penny-pinching town meeting voters to fund the center several years ago, and it had been such a success that now there was hardly a murmer when the budget item came up every year.

“I got here as soon as I could,” said Lucy, smiling at the group of preschoolers who had gathered around her, eager for attention.

“Hi, guys. Who’s here?” She went around the group, pointing a finger as she named each child. Harry. Justin. Hillary. “Where’s Hunter? There he is, behind Emily. And who’s this?”

Lucy had spotted an unfamiliar face: a slight little girl with pale skin and huge black eyes.

“This is Tiffani,” said Sue. “Today’s her second day with us and I was hoping you’d be her special friend. How does that sound, Tiffani? Will you let Mrs. Stone hold your hand?”

Tiffani didn’t answer but studied her shoes. Lucy could see a fine little blue vein throbbing at her temple. She gave a questioning glance to Sue, then reached down and took the little girl’s hand. She was surprised when Tiffani didn’t snatch it away, but instead gave her a little squeeze.

“Okay, gang. Let’s put on those jackets,” urged Sue.

Lucy helped the kids zip and button their coats while Sue gave last-minute instructions to Frankie Flaherty, her assistant, who was staying at the center with the three infants. When it was Tiffani’s turn, Lucy couldn’t help noticing how thin and ragged her lavender hand-me-down jacket was; the quilted lining was worn through at the elbows and shoulders. It could hardly provide much warmth and was much too big, besides. Making a mental note to tell Pam that Tiffani was a prime candidate for the Boot and Mitten Fund’s largesse, she once again took the girl’s hand and they followed the others out to the minivan Sue had borrowed from the senior center for the trip.

“All aboard,” cried Sue, cheerfully. “We’re going to see the turkeys!”

“Is that where we’re going?” Lucy asked, doubtfully. “Andy Brown’s turkey farm?”

“Where else?” replied Sue, sitting down beside her. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“I know,” said Lucy. She glanced at the kids, who were so small that their legs stuck straight out on the adult-sized van seats. “Turkeys can be a little scary, especially when they’re bigger than you are.”

“Nonsense,” said Sue with a wave of her beautifully manicured hand. “We’ve been learning all about turkeys. When we get back, we’re going to make hand turkeys.”

“Hand turkeys?”

“You know. The kids trace their hands on a piece of paper. Then the thumb is the head and they color in the rest of the fingers for the turkey’s tail.”

“I remember when Toby made one in kindergarten,” said Lucy, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He was so proud of it.”

“Do I detect a touch of empty-nest syndrome?” Sue peered at her. “ls Toby coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“He’s coming Tuesday, right after classes, and he’s bringing his roommate, Matthew. What about Sidra?”

Sue’s daughter had graduated from college a few years ago and was living in New York City, where she was the assistant producer of Norah Hemmings’s daytime talk show. Her engagement had just been announced.

“Not this year. She’s going to his folks,” Sue snorted, fidgeting with the silk scarf she’d tucked in the neck of her tailored tweed jacket. “They’re not even married and it’s starting already.”

Lucy smiled. “Do I detect a touch of jealous mother-in-law?” she asked.

“Touche,” said Sue, smoothing her neat pageboy and staring out the window at the passing fields and trees. “I’m just not used to the idea of her being engaged, much less married.”

“It must be hard,” acknowledged Lucy. “I can’t believe how excited I am that Toby’s coming home. I really miss him. It’s like there’s this big, gaping hole at the dinner table.” She laughed. “Actually, I guess he took the bottomless pit with him. For the first time ever, I have leftovers.”

Sue chuckled and turned to check on the kids. “You know,” she said as she settled back in her seat, “you have to expect some changes in Toby. You never get back exactly the same kid you sent away.”

“Oh, I know,” said Lucy. “But that’ll be nice: seeing how he’s grown and changed.”

“Sure,” said Sue, giving her hand a little pat. “Okay, kids, we’re almost there. Now, who can sing with me? ‘Over the river and through the woods,’ ” she began.

“‘To grandmother’s house we go!’” screamed the kids.

They were still singing merrily when they arrived at the turkey farm. When Andy Brown had taken over his father’s failing dairy farm, a lot of people in Tinker’s Cove had thought he was crazy. He had proved them wrong, however, and had turned the farm into a local attraction. In spring the place was filled with lambs and bunnies and chicks and he held Easter egg hunts. In summer he sold fresh fruit and produce. In September it was apples and cider, and by October the fields were full of pumpkins and a dilapidated old barn had been transformed into a House of Horrors. Now, in November, some of those Easter chicks had matured into a flock of Thanksgiving turkeys.

“Hi, kids, I’m Farmer Brown,” said Andy, greeting them at the bus. “Welcome to the farm.” As usual, he was dressed in overalls and sported a bright red bandanna.

“Good morning, Farmer Brown,” chorused the kids, prompted by Sue.

They all climbed out of the van and gathered in the barnyard, which separated the farmhouse from the barn. A parking lot was off to one side and beyond that stood a cluster of equipment sheds.

“Are you here to see the turkeys?” Andy asked.

“Yeah!” said Harry.

“And what’s the noise a turkey makes?” Andy had shown lots of school groups around the farm. He knew the routine.

The kids all began making gobbling sounds, the boys vying to see who could be loudest. Tiffani was the only one who remained quiet, standing silently beside Lucy.

“I guess you all know that turkeys are called gobblers,” said Andy. “Come on. Follow me!”

Lucy took Tiffani’s hand and they followed the rest of the group across the barnyard and around