Murder Talks Turkey

Chapter 13

BEFORE WE DID ANY EYE SPYING or illegal breaking and entering, we wanted to make sure the acting sheriff wasn’t slinking around near Angie’s place. Dickey Snell’s truck wasn’t parked at the jail, so the three of us drove past his house in the Trouble Buster.

When Kitty had joined the team, she took over all remaining space inside the truck, so Fred had to ride in the back bed. He didn’t seem to mind, sitting calmly watching the scenery go by. In the beginning I used to worry that he might jump out and get hurt. But he’s a smart dog. It hasn’t happened.

Almost every dog in the U.P. rides in the back of an America-made truck. Fords are popular here. One thing I never did though was put my kids back there. Some people even do that. You see them tooling down the road like they think it’s a fun hay ride. Carrying kids in the cargo area of a truck is legal in Michigan as long as the vehicle is going less than five miles an hour. Can you believe those whacky laws?

The practice was a source of serious frustration for Blaze, who had to scrap more than one kid off the road over the years. Not to mention the parties of hunters, riding around in the back, drinking cheap beer, and falling out on their heads.

Lights were on at Dickey’s house, so I drove past very slowly. “What do you see?” I said to Kitty, who was sitting on the side closest to the curb.

“I can see the top of a head,” she said, rolling down the window and sitting as tall as she could. “That’s Dickey’s greasy comb-over turned toward the television set. Hit it. We’re safe.”

We turned away from the big lights of Stonely. The dark swallowed us up.

I’m not much of a night driver, especially in the twilight that comes right before true darkness. The residents of the U.P. don’t believe in spending their taxes to promote light pollution, so we use our brights to watch for critters crossing the roads.

I had my partners helping me scout for possible problems when something went wrong with the Trouble Buster’s electrical system. The lights stopped working as soon as we turned off US 41 and began to cruise toward Trenary.

I pulled over.

“Holy Cripes,” Cora Mae said. “The world’s gone black. Dang. What’s wrong?”

“Lights aren’t working,” I said even though it should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain.

Kitty lurched out on her side, and we walked to the front of the truck and stared at the headlights. I kicked the bumper, hoping to jar something back in place. Kitty pounded on the glass.

Cora Mae, our resident electrical engineer, stepped out in her high heels and said, “The bulbs must be burnt out.”

“All of them?” I said. “All the way around the truck?”

She nodded. “Do you have any spares?”

“Nobody carries spare light bulbs around. Besides, that’s not the problem.”

“We’ll have to finish the mission in the dark,” Kitty said. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.” Which was true. In the past, we’d evaded Blaze’s wrath plenty of times by dousing the lights.

“Yes,” I said. “But you were driving then. I’m night blind.”

And that’s how race car Kitty got control of my vehicle. You’d think I’d learn from past mistakes.

We blew through Trenary like a renegade tornado. Cora Mae had a grip on my lower arm so tight I thought her spiky fingernails might sever it from my body. Kitty yelled “yah hoo” when we turned left in the center of town and headed out past the cemetery.

I heard a siren. When I looked behind us I saw lights. None of the commotion was coming from my truck. “Cops,” I said. “Now look what you’ve done! Nothing like calling attention to the fact that our equipment isn’t working.”

“I bet I can outrun him,” Kitty said, but I was ready for her. I held the stun gun up and turned it on. The faint hum convinced her that I meant business. She pulled over. “I’m getting a ticket for sure,” she said. “You should let me outrun him.”

“No way. And you’re the only one in the truck with a valid driver’s license,” I observed.

The state trooper sat in his car for a while before he opened his door and slowly walked up to the Trouble Buster. That gave me plenty of time to stash my illegal weapon on the floor. Stun guns, I’ve been told, are frowned upon by Michigan’s legal system.

Fred, riding in back, recognized the uniform approaching. The traitor wagged his tail in either recognition of a fellow public servant or in gratitude for stopping Kitty and saving our lives.

“In a big hurry?” the trooper said to Kitty, who handed over her driver’s license without being asked.

“I have a female problem,” Kitty said. “I need to find a bathroom right this minute.” Her voice went up a few octaves to let the cop know she was desperate.

“Stay where you are.” He went back to his car with her license.

“That didn’t work,” Cora Mae said. “What next? Should I hit on him?”

“Let’s see what he says first,” I suggested.

The state trooper ambled back to the truck, unconcerned with Kitty’s demanding bodily functions.

“Turn on the vehicle’s lights,” he ordered.

Kitty tried. Nothing.

“Thirty over.” He scribbled something on a pad of paper. “Faulty equipment, unregistered license plate.”

“This is my truck,” I said to prove him wrong in at least one area. “And those are my late husband’s license plates.”

“The plates are registered to another vehicle.”

“That would be the truck I rolled and totaled,” I told him.

“Plates have to be properly transferred.” He ripped off a sheet of paper and handed it to Kitty. He gave me a paper that said I had to go in and prove the lights were fixed. Then he handed me one for the plate switching problem.

“This is outrageous,” Kitty shouted after reading her ticket. “I’ll see you in court.”

“I’m going to follow behind you,” he said, ignoring her outburst. “I want the vehicle parked until the faulty lights are repaired and the truck is properly licensed.”

He sounded just like Blaze.

I expected Kitty to turn the Trouble Buster around and head home. She surprised me. “What’s Angie’s address?” she asked.

I directed her along, making a left turn on the other side of Trenary, with our personal escort right behind us.

Kitty pulled into a short driveway leading to a cracker-box house and turned off the truck. The state trooper eased past us.

The lights were on inside Angie’s house and all the shades were drawn.

We got out of the truck and waved to the cop when he made another pass.

With all the noise outside, I expected Angie to open the door and peek out. But she didn’t.

“What should we do?” Cora Mae whispered.

“Knock on the door,” Kitty said. She boldly marched up the two-step concrete porch and thumped.

Nothing.

Kitty tried the door. “Locked,” she said.

Fred jumped down from the bed of the truck and followed me to the back door, where I rapped twice before realizing the door jamb had been pried loose.

“We’re in,” I whispered to my partners, pulling the sleeve of my hunting jacket down around my fist and opening the door through the cloth. “Don’t touch anything.” I cautiously walked in, listening for sounds, but an empty house has a certain feel to it and this one was empty for sure. Angie and whoever had pried the back door lock were gone.

The ex-teller wasn’t a great housekeeper, but she didn’t have much to work with. Every yellowed shade in the house was pulled down. Every light was blazing brightly. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, the bed in the only bedroom was unmade, strands of hair coated the bathroom counter.

“Angie’s moving out,” Kitty said, eyeing up several cardboard boxes lined up along the bedroom wall.

“She was moving in,” Cora Mae said. “That’s what I heard. She’s new to these parts. What do you think, Gertie? Was she coming or going?”

I scanned the interior of the tiny bedroom closet, seeing a line of metal hangers like the ones used by dry cleaning businesses. A few hangers were thrown carelessly on the floor. Other than that, Angie’s closet was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

“Going,” I said with confidence, “in a hurry.”

“Or she would have turned off the lights,” Kitty said.

What I didn’t know for sure was whether or not her exit from her home had been voluntary. The jimmied door concerned me.

Angie Gates, I decided, was running with the wrong pack, a gang of Michigan predators. But whose side was she really on?