Murder Talks Turkey by Deb Baker

black one-piece bathing suit under my clothes, one with a flouncy little skirt that Cora Mae said would hide my flaws somewhat. The sweatpants landed in a heap at my feet, joining my shoes and socks. I draped a towel around my middle and pulled my top over my head.
    That’s when I saw George staring. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said softly.
    I’m sure I blushed bright red, but the dry heat from the newly built sauna masked the embarrassment I was feeling. And I was feeling plenty.
    By the time we ran out to roll in the tiny amount of snow on the ground, we were laughing like the old friends we were. And for a brief time, I forgot about Blaze’s medical condition and Grandma’s dementia and mean spirit. Temporarily I forgot about my widowhood and local murders and mayhem. I seized the moment.
    __________

    Grandma Johnson had her chompers around a piece of Trenary toast when George and I came inside. Dickey sat next to her, bleeding cat hair all over my kitchen chair. I’m allergic to cat dander. Or maybe it was Dickey himself who caused my attacks.
    “Make it quick,” I said to him. “I’ll start sneezing soon.”
    He knew that, because it happened every time he came too close in a confined area. You’d think he’d wear something other than that hair-attracting green suit when we had to deal with each other.
    “You’re allergic to that no-good, rabid dog of yours,” Grandma said, dunking the toast in her coffee cup and glaring at Fred, who stayed calm through her tirade. He stretched out by the door, close to a fast route of escape. The only sign that he heard was a flick in his left ear.
    I handed Grandma a piece of taffy. Her eyes lit up. That should keep her quiet.
    “Let’s hear what you have to report,” Dickey said to me. “I spoke with Kitty this morning. She said to come see you.”
    I poured coffee refills for everyone and launched into my story about the Orange Gang and about running into Angie Gates at the Gladstone Beach.
“I’m a witness to that,” Grandma said, stiffly around the taffy. “Don’t forget.”
“My mother-in-law saw Angie run away from me,” I agreed. “That’s when the orange sneaker washed up on shore.”
“Are you alleging that the bank teller was involved in the robbery and homicides?” Dickey said.
    Why was I bothering with Dickey Snell? He had plenty of book learning, but zero street-smarts. The proof is in the pudding, as Grandma says. Our acting detective was on the premises with his flock of turkey-brained assistants when the robber was killed. Murdered right in front of him and about twenty other locals. What does that tell you about Stonely’s law enforcement officer’s ability to protect its residents?
    “Pretty obvious that she’s part of it, don’t you think?” I commented. “I should have had Fred along on the beach. He would have brought her back instead of letting her disappear.”
    Dickey’s ears perked up along with Fred’s. “What makes you think she’s disappeared?”
    “No reason.” The last thing I wanted Dickey to know was that we had been inside Angie’s house. “Just pondering out loud.”
    “Gertie and those two no-good friends of hers broke into a house last night,” Grandma said, after spitting the ball of chewed-up taffy into the palm of her hand. “I heard them plotting on the telephone. Look at what I have to put up with! Living with criminals. And that dog!” She sucked the taffy back into her mouth.
    “Why don’t I help you to your room?” George said to her. “I can see you need a little rest.”
    I held my breath, hoping Dickey wouldn’t pursue her accusation. A quick glance his way told me he wasn’t paying attention. Grandma’s crabbing can close off anybody’s ears.
    She grunted, but got up on her spindly legs and let George take her arm. “At least we have one kind heart around here,” she said as they walked slowly down the hall. “Watch that animal when you come back down the hallway by