Murder Talks Turkey

Chapter 18

Word For The Day

CREDULITY (kruh DOO’ luh tee) n.

A tendency to believe too readily, especially with little or no proof.

THE ONLY CONSTANT IN MY life early Monday morning was my dog and my word for the day, which I had made up ahead of time and found in one of my pants pockets. I’d lost my home, my family and my new significant other, who I had advised to stay away from me. All lost because of one impulsive, foolish escape act. I should have stayed where I was and talked my way out of jail instead of running like a coward.

Looking around my dilapidated hideout, I couldn’t see what had attracted me to this kind of life. The romance had gone out of the idea as soon as I found myself homeless.

I have to stop impulsively seizing moments.

But I still had my word-credulity.

Angie Gates was hiding something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. After my partners and I had left Herb’s bar, I’d driven down the road and parked. Sure enough, a car pulled into the bar’s parking lot ten minutes later and Angie had driven off in the passenger seat of a small dark sedan. I caught a glimpse of the woman who picked her up.

So much for Angie’s story of leaving her car at a gas station and hitchhiking to Stonely. What a lie! How many others had she told me?

Today I intended to find out.

Kitty, lying next to me in the double bed, woke up slowly, groaning, and stretching. I flung off the covers, let Fred outside, and started coffee in the miniature-sized kitchen. The coffee gurgled and filled the trailer with wonderful aroma while I dressed in sweat pants, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and sneakers.

Last night we had tailed Angie and the driver to a house in Gladstone. Today we would stake out her hiding place and renew our investigation of Tony Lento.

I poured two cups of coffee, let Fred back in to eat his breakfast, and nudged Kitty awake. “Get up,” I said. “You can sleep later.”

“Tony Lento,” she said after sitting down at the table. “Angie’s accusing one of Stonely’s most prominent citizens of grand theft. We better reserve judgment until we have some proof.”

“I caught him cheating on Lyla. That’s not very upstanding.”

“Depends on what’s standing up,” Kitty said, chuckling.

I sipped coffee, feeling my body respond to the warmth of the liquid gold and its caffeine blast. Angie Gates had dropped a bombshell on me last night. Tony Lento, she said, was in the perfect position to steal from the credit union.

“How so?” I’d asked.

“He’s the accountant.”

Well, of course, I knew Tony was an accountant since that was the main reason we had to follow him far and wide all over Tamarack County. He usually handled small businesses. His accounts were spread out. But I hadn’t tipped to his connection with the credit union.

Sue did the bookkeeping, Angie explained, Tony took the financial information forward from there. The teller claimed she knew for a fact he was the thief. He knew she knew and was trying to implicate her, maybe even kill her.

Whether her story was true or not, both Angie and Tony could do with some surveillance. Since Lyla had fired the Trouble Busters, we no longer could get information from her on Tony’s whereabouts.

Kitty yawned, stretched some more, and took big swigs from her coffee cup. “If Angie’s so worried about her health, why doesn’t she take off out of the U.P.?”

“She called into work and told them she had a death in her family. She’s off for the week until she decides what to do. She kept talking about quitting but she hasn’t done it yet.”

“What rotten luck. She just moves in and blam, she’s in the middle of a robbery.”

I thought the same thing.

“How much is she paying us?” Kitty wanted to know, giving me one of those it-better-not-be-in-manicures looks.

“Two hundred dollars.” I didn’t mention that Angie couldn’t produce a down-payment.

“That’s not much dough.”

“No, but we have the same goals. We’re trying to break the case for Blaze’s sake anyway. Wish I could visit him.”

“Maybe we can. Dickey isn’t at the jail every minute.

One of the radios lying on the table sputtered and blew static. George’s voice came through and we chatted about last night and what our plans were for the day, using a slapped-together code.

“Toodles asked me to drive her around,” George said. “And help find Tigger.”

I bet she did. Cora Mae, aka Toodles on the radio, might be my best friend, but when it came to men I didn’t trust her as far as the barn. And she’d had her sights on George for the longest time, only backing off when I made it very clear that he wasn’t available. Cora Mae isn’t known as the Black Widow for nothing.

Tigger was code for Tony, like Tony the Tiger.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d told George just yesterday to stay away from me while I was a fugitive. “I’ll go with you. Toodles and Big Ma can ride together.”

“Best to keep you j-walkers in the same vehicle,” George reasoned, rightly. J-walkers being our code for jail breakers. “If you split up, you’ll be twice as likely to be spotted.”

“Not to mention that whoever we’re with will be in hot water.”

“That, too.”

“Thanks for helping, Sweet Cheeks,” I said. “I know I’ve been a lot of trouble.”

“You’re worth every bit of it, Muffin Cakes.”

Kitty rolled her eyes to the heavens, which reminded me that my conversation with George wasn’t exactly private.

“Let’s get dolled up and hit the road,” I suggested to her after reluctantly signing off.

“One more cup of coffee,” Kitty whined. “I’m still sleepy.”

A shotgun blast finished waking us up. Kitty and I stared at each other. “Walter has company,” I whispered, running to the trailer window facing the house. I lifted a corner of an old sheet Walter used for drapes and stuck an eyeball out.

The visitors were focused on Walter’s trigger-happy welcome, so I took the opportunity to raise the window a bit. Kitty inched up behind me.

Dickey and No-Neck were sitting in a gray minivan with the windows rolled down. Dickey stuck his greasy, combed-over head out the driver’s side. “Put that weapon away,” he shouted at Walter. “Why do we have to go through this every time?”

Walter fired another shot into the air. “I told you before and I meant it. Get off my property.”

“I should incarcerate you, Walter. You can’t take potshots at the sheriff.”

Walter cocked his sawed-off shotgun and beaded in. “Come and get me, why don’t ya, ya candy ass.”

Dickey sat back and closed his eyes. I could tell he was wondering what to do next. When he opened them, his head swiveled toward the trailer. I didn’t have time to duck, so I froze where I was.

That particular non-move works with deer. They need scent and motion before they spook. If you stand inside, without moving a muscle, they can be looking right at you and not really see that you’re there. But turkeys can see you right through the glass even if you don’t breathe. Hopefully my deer tactic would work with the acting sheriff.

Finally, Dickey turned his attention back to Walter. “I’m assuming you are a man of your word, so I’ll settle for a few answers,” Dickey said. Walter didn’t blink. “I’m looking for two jail breakers and a missing sheriff’s truck. You haven’t happened to see either of those three items, have you?”

Walter lowered the shotgun and grinned through empty front gums. “If I did see your blame truck, I’d pitch it in the lake.”

“You have a serious problem with authority figures, Walter.”

“Only the live ones.”

Walter stood firm, his feet spread apart, the shotgun cradled in his arms like a baby, while Dickey reversed gears and pulled out backwards.

“Well, Muffin Cakes,” Kitty said to me. “We have work to do.”

I lowered the corner of the sheet and plopped blond curly locks on my head. “After you, Big Ma.