Murder Talks Turkey by Deb Baker Page B

jailhouse bars, arguing about whose fault it was. We arrived at the obvious conclusion—it was the killer’s fault and if we could weasel out of here, we’d hunt him down like the rabid skunk he was and haul him in, dead or alive.
    George had gone off with Fred to figure out how to get us released, but his chances of success on a Sunday were slim to none. He also had the dubious pleasure of driving Grandma to her final destination.
    “Don’t take her back to my house,” I’d raged right in front of her. “Give the battle axe to Mary and Blaze. She’ll never step foot in my home again. Let her destroy their lives for awhile.”
    Grandma boo-hooed into her embroidered hanky, but I didn’t let her get to me. I had handcuffs on at the time and wasn’t feeling overly generous.
    “Obstructing justice at the very least,” Dickey said, shaking his know-it-all weasel head from the other side of the jail bars. “Murder one at the most.”
“You have no right to hold me,” I said for the umpteenth time. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“Me either,” Kitty chimed in.
Dickey turned to No-Neck. “Let’s bring in Blaze and hear what he has to say. That was his firearm they buried.”
    While Dickey and No-Neck were gone, Kitty and I tried to escape through the ceiling tiles like we’d seen on television, but our efforts were wasted. In the movies the keys to the jail cell would be left dangling a distance away and a dog would bring them over. In our case, there wasn’t a key in sight and Fred was with George anyway.
    By the time Blaze walked into the jail with Dickey right behind him, we’d exhausted all means of escape but had come up with a workable plan, as unsavory as it was.
    We were going to give up an innocent man to protect the multitudes. My son had pulled fast ones on me more than once or twice, but I couldn’t help feeling like a big smelly rat. Hopefully, the end would justify the means. I kept reminding myself that Blaze was used to jail bars from the free side. He most likely wouldn’t mind sitting tight on the other side for a day or two.
    Our idea was to convince Dickey that we had been covering for my son, that his mental illness had something to do with the parking lot murder.
    As it was, Blaze helped out without even knowing about our covert plan to finger him.
    “Ma!” he exclaimed when he saw me behind bars. He whirled on Dickey. “Release her right this minute. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“The evidence says otherwise,” Dickey said.
Blaze fixed him with a glare.
“Where’s Mary?” I wanted to know, relieved that Blaze’s wife wouldn’t have to witness the shameful actions I planned next.
“Grandma Johnson showed up at our house,” Blaze said.
    “The poor old lady is distraught,” Dickey said. “She’s been evicted from her own home. Mary’s trying to calm her down. She has her hands full, so Deputy Sheedlo stayed to help her.”
    Kitty watched me closely for a signal and I understood that it was up to me; it was my family and she wasn’t about to make the first move. What I wanted to do was give Dickey another sample of Blaze’s mental state then …I couldn’t think about it anymore, or I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.
    “Blaze,” I said, with shifting eyes, so he knew I was talking around the others. “It’s here.” I pointed my head and eyes at Dickey. “Your fortune. He’s had it all along.”
    “My money?” Blaze turned red.
    “And your Glock.” I put on the finishing touch.
    “You have my weapon?” Blaze roared at Dickey, jabbing an angry finger at him. “I knew it was you, stealing my stuff. Give everything back. Where’s my Glock?”
    His eyes swung to the desk where the evidence bag lay. He had that far away look he gets when he relives his war. Once he enters his own private universe, it’s hard to call him back. Before I knew it, he lunged for Dickey’s sidearm.
    I hadn’t seen that coming. I expected to implicate Blaze in