Turkey Day Murder

Book 7: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Tinker’s Cove, Maine, 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 dead—with an ancient war club next to his head. The list of suspects isn’t exactly brief. Nolan had a habit of disagreeing with just about everybody he met. Between fixing dinner for twelve and keeping her four kids from tearing each other limb from limb, Lucy has a pretty full plate already. So what’s a little investigation? But if she’s not careful, she may find herself served up as a last-minute course, stone-cold dead with all the trimmings...

Release date: April 24, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 240

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 afternoon 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 were 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. . .