Death in a Turkey Town: A Chloe Boston Mystery by Melanie Jackson

Author:Melanie Jackson [Jackson, Melanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781456575151
Publisher: CreateSpace
Published: 2010-08-22T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

I didn’t write many tickets that day. Maybe people were on their best behavior, but I think that I was also distracted—though not by the murder. As if Thanksgiving wasn’t pressure enough, I had begun to think about Christmas. Vis-à-vis Alex. And finding the right present. I had Grandpa Boston’s fiddle in the back of my closet. The poor thing was voiceless since I don’t play. But Alex does play and I decided that if we were still together at Christmas I would have the fiddle restrung and give it to him. Every instrument should have a loving home. Mom would hate this idea of the fiddle passing out of the family, but I was determined.

I drove by the nicotine gloom that darkens the saloon door of the Golden Mule from seven a.m.. onward. Smoking is banned in public places—except at the Golden Mule (changed from Golden Ass when the political correctness movement got underway). One can still smoke in The Mule because the clause was grandfathered down to the current owner.

Though I didn’t notice much of what was going on around me, I was aware of passing Mrs. Oakhurst’s house. The whole porch is decorated with artificial flowers and plastic shrubs that include a few fine specimens of large plastic eggplant. Her fake turf lawn is edged with silk flowers that can be hosed clean if they end up muddied after a storm. Her entire front yard is a miracle of order and color never intended—or arranged—by Nature. As a child I found this festive, now it just seems kind of sad and creepy.

Lunch time came. I sat with Blue in the park and watched Mr. Johnson paint the trim on his house. He was a notorious cheapskate and refused to hire anyone to do the job for him though he had plenty of money. I knew I should applaud his independence, but his eyesight is failing and he is too vain to wear glasses. He’d gotten out the wrong paint again and was working on his third shade of white/ecru/cream. The house was looking blotchy. His wife, whose eyesight was fine, was yelling at him from inside the house, correctly anticipating his screw-up but not willing to venture out in the cold to help.

I could have offered some aid or at least a warning that it was going to rain that afternoon and ruin his paint, but sometimes I like a little theater with my meal. And I had not forgotten that he used to turn the hose on us kids any time he suspected that we might be thinking of riding our bikes too close to his precious lawn. Strangers would look at him and his Santa Claus face and think he was a kindly old man. Blue and I knew better. Let him suffer the consequences.

Blue whined, as though hearing this uncharitable thought.

Deciding that I was definitely not myself, I resolved to swing by my father’s place and have a chat. Not about the murder.

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