Turkey Day Murder by Leslie Meier

war club is missing.”
    Lucy’s hand tightened on the receiver. This could be a big story. “Are you sure?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure. When I handed it over to Chris White I made him promise to bring it right back to me as soon as the pep rally was over. We agreed on a meeting place—by the ticket booth—and I was there right on time. In fact, I was early and I stayed for an hour, but there was no Chris. I went back to the museum, thinking he might have misunderstood and gone there instead, but there was no sign of him. I called his house and his mother told me he wasn’t home yet and she didn’t expect him until late because it was the night before the big game.”
    â€œDid you call the police?”
    â€œOf course I did. And they picked up Chris, drunk as a skunk.”
    â€œOn the night before a big game?”
    â€œNot just him. Most of the team!”
    â€œNo wonder we never win.”
    â€œMore to the point, there was no sign of the war club. Chris said he was approached after the pep rally by someone who offered to return the club for him and he handed it over.”
    â€œI can’t believe he did that,” said Lucy. “Did he know the person?”
    â€œApparently not. But he did say he looked like an Indian, with long black hair and a bear claw necklace.”
    Lucy sighed. “That sounds like Curt Nolan.”
    â€œExactly,” said Rumford.
    â€œAre the police looking for him?”
    â€œThey are, but so far they haven’t had any luck. He wasn’t home and nobody seems to know where he is. For all we know, he could have left the country.”
    â€œI wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” said Lucy, who had learned as a reporter that there were always at least two sides to any story. “We don’t really know much for sure. It’s not even certain that it was Nolan who took the club.”
    â€œOh, I’m certain,” said Rumford.
    Lucy didn’t like his tone. He sounded as if he were ready to act as judge, jury, and executioner.
    â€œWhat now?” she asked.
    â€œWell, I’d hoped to get the news out. Ask for anyone who has any information about the club or Nolan to contact the police.” He paused. “But you say it’s too late.”
    As much as she hated it, Lucy knew she had to tell him, even though it meant the Pennysaver would lose a scoop.
    â€œYou could call the Portland paper,” she said. “And the TV station. Why not try the Boston Globe? ”
    â€œYou think they’d be interested?” Rumford sounded doubtful.
    â€œI’m certain they will,” said a resigned Lucy.
    As she hung up, she thought of Ted. He’d be furious that he’d missed such a big story, but that was the problem with publishing only once a week. It meant you lost out on news that happened the other six days of the week.
    There was really no point calling him with the bad news, she thought, as she started cleaning up the mess she’d made preparing the casserole. He’d find out soon enough.

CHAPTER 10
    O n Thanksgiving day, Lucy woke up a half hour before the alarm was set to go off. It was a luxury she was unaccustomed to: time to herself. Careful not to disturb Bill, who was sound asleep beside her, she rolled on her back and stretched. Then she tried to work up some enthusiasm for the long day that stretched ahead of her.
    Truth be told, Thanksgiving had never been her favorite holiday, consisting as it did of football and food. Food that she had to cook and dishes—lots of dishes—that she had to wash. This year she’d been able to summon up more excitement than usual, but that was because Toby was coming home.
    She sighed. Somehow Toby’s homecoming hadn’t gone at all as she’d expected. He and his friends seemed interested in using the house only as a place to sleep and leave their stuff. Yesterday, much to her irritation, after she’d gone