Murder Talks Turkey by Deb Baker Page A

yourself, George. He’s vicious. Deputy Snell should take him away before he maims some little kid.”
    She stopped abruptly. I could see George trying to get her started again, but she shook him off and turned around. “I forgot something important.”
“What’s that?” I made the mistake of saying.
“I’m not talking to you. Sheriff Snell, listen up. I’m speaking to you, son.”
Dickey blinked to attention.
    Grandma shot a look my way. “You’ll find something interesting,” she said, “buried in fancy pants Kitty’s compost heap. I’m pretty sure it’s your murder weapon.”
We stared at her.
“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I heard them plotting away right here in my kitchen.”
That was the last straw.
    When I had more time, I planned to dig a hole in the backyard just the right size and plant a crab tree over the shriveled remains of one old nasty biddy.

    Chapter 15

    DICKEY SCRUNCHED HIS NOSE AND pulled away the worn piece of carpet that Kitty had placed over the compost heap to help retain heat and speed up the compost process. No-Neck Sheedlo, his partner, planted his wrestler-sized bulk right behind me and crossed his arms. When I looked back at him, he gave me a warning stare.
    Go figure. Like they thought I was dangerous! The air was nippy, with the smell of possible rain or sleet, depending on which way the temperature headed. I zipped my old hunting jacket and pulled up the collar.
    Grandma’s pointed accusation of buried murder weapons had drawn out a curious group—the two local law enforcers, George, my traitorous mother-in-law, Kitty, me, and Fred, who ran back and forth behind No-Neck, aware that something was up and not liking it one bit.
    “We need a pitchfork,” Dickey said to Kitty.
    “Don’t have one,” she lied as smooth as hot oil in a frying pan, which was pretty much where we were at the moment. In the frying pan. “You’ll have to use your hands.”
    “You do it,” Dickey said to No-Neck, who shook his head violently.
    “I’m pulling rank,” Dickey insisted while rank, rotten egg odor assaulted our sensory glands.
    “No dice,” No-Neck said. “You can pull anything you want. I’m not doing it. Might be creatures living down there for all we know.”
Dickey scanned our group.
“Don’t look at me,” George said. “You’re the one who wants to wallow in muck.”
“I told you,” I said to Kitty after analyzing the murky mess. “You need something to sop up the water. It’s out of balance.”
Dickey threw the chunk of carpet down on the ground and rolled up his sleeves.
“Remember those compost worms you gave me for my birthday,” Kitty said to me. “Wait till you see how big they got. Like snakes.”
    I stifled a chuckle at that. Worms turn food waste into rich soil. But you need a special kind. Night crawlers won’t do it. They have to be red wiggler worms. None of them grow as big as a reptile.
    But Dickey didn’t know that. He hesitated.
    “With a compost heap like this,” Grandma said to Kitty, “you should be ashamed to call yourself a Yooper.”
    From the look on my friend’s face, I knew she’d pitch right in and help me bury Grandma when I shared my idea with her. Kitty, though, might want to throw her in the hole alive.
    Dickey dug in, making a face when his hand sunk into the mire. His arm went down and down until even his rolled-up sleeve sunk out of sight. Kitty had really buried the thing deep. When he hit pay dirt I could tell by the gloating expression on his face.
    The rest of us looked on with disgust written all over us.
    He pulled up a dripping, muddy bundle, managing to dip his knee in compost before he stood up.
    I’d remained calm until now. The hunted look in my eyes must have warned George that I was about to attempt an escape through the backwoods, because he wrapped a comforting hand around mine and squeezed in reassurance.
    In spite of all our denials of wrongdoing, Kitty and I ended up on the wrong side of the