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Justin had never been a part of the Turkey Toss in Roseland, so as we waited for the event to kick off, I gave him a brief history of the annual turkey giveaway. As volunteers, we sat in metal chairs behind a folding table that had been set up in front of Hutchinson Law Offices.
“You ever had a reason to visit this building?” I asked.
He shook his head. “And I kind of hope I don’t, if you get my drift.”
I grinned. “Back in the thirties and forties, this was known as the Hutchinson Dry Goods building. In those days, farmers came to Roseland with their cotton money on Christmas Eve, if they got to do any Christmas shopping at all. One year, the merchants on this side of the street got together and decided they needed a way to lure folks downtown on Christmas Eve, so Mr. Hutchinson came up with the idea of tossing turkeys off the roof.”
Justin cut his eyes at me. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Would I do that?”
“Yeah, I think you would.”
I snickered. “You’re probably right, but I’m not pulling your leg right now. They really did have a turkey giveaway, and they really did toss live turkeys off the roof of this building.” I shuddered. “Poor things. If you go by the Daily Trib sometime when Jen is there, she can show you an old photo of it.”
“Wow.” Justin seemed at a loss for words. “That’s got to be the craziest turkey story I’ve ever heard.”
I beamed. “Yeah, we’re pretty proud of it. But I’m glad the turkeys aren’t live anymore.” Then I looked in the direction of the turkey van. “Listen, if you’re ready to help”—I handed him a stack of plastic bags—“start separating these and get them ready for frozen-turkey bagging.”
A van from the town’s utility company rolled to a stop in front of the offices. Their team of volunteers followed, piled out of three SUVs, and unloaded the coolers. Within five minutes, they’d set up folding tables in front of the building and unloaded all the turkeys. Based on my past experience, it was a safe bet that within thirty minutes, the turkeys would be tossed in front of the old Hutchinson Dry Goods building once again—but from street level.
Shareta, who seemed to be showing up everywhere that fall, was head of the Turkey Toss committee. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt depicting a cartoon turkey and had accessorized with cute dangling turkey earrings.
She walked over and gave me a hug. “I see you convinced your friend to help this year.” She smiled at Justin.
I gave her the side-eye. “With you in charge, I was afraid not to.”
“Smart girl.” She surveyed the table in front of Justin and me. “If you guys are okay with bagging the turkeys for the first shift, I’ll leave you to finish setting up.”
“We’re good.” I clasped my leather-gloved hands. I’d told Justin to bring his gloves, too, so that his hands wouldn’t freeze, which was the only job hazard when volunteering at the Turkey Toss. The weather was glorious, with sunshine and temps in the high sixties, but frozen turkeys were frozen turkeys, no matter what the weather was like.
Sooner than I’d expected, the starting whistle blew—a turkey call, in honor of the event—and we were off.
The first hour of the Turkey Toss each year was reserved for those referred by one of the local nonprofits. Like a golden ticket in a Wonka Bar, those orange slips of paper ensured that the recipient left with a turkey and extra treats provided by Roseland’s civic clubs. That year’s goodies were homemade pumpkin pies and jugs of apple cider.
“Have a happy Thanksgiving,” I told the first smiling face in line. Justin joined in, too, with send-offs of “Have a Happy Turkey Day.”
During a brief lull, he asked if I’d known we had so many needy families in Roseland.
“Oh, sure.” I picked up a pile of plastic bags and prepared to send another few dozen turkeys on their way.
“I wouldn’t have suspected it.” Justin looked embarrassed. “I guess I’ve been so focused on my art and the galleries that I haven’t thought about those who aren’t as fortunate as I am.”
He seemed so sincere, and I was touched. “Well, you’re thinking of them now, so don’t be too hard on yourself.”
A weary-looking blond woman came up. She was holding a toddler’s hand and had a baby wriggling in her other arm—along with the turkey she’d just gotten at a table near ours.
“Here, where are you parked?” I offered to take the bagged turkey from her. “Let me carry this to your car.”
The woman lowered her eyes. “I don’t have a car. I walked here from my apartment.” She gestured toward a public housing unit located behind an old mill.
Justin piped up, “Emma, didn’t you say we take a break for a shift change in about five minutes?”
“Yep.”
He turned to the woman. “Ma’am, we’ll be happy to give you a ride, if you don’t mind waiting here for a bit. Would that work?”
The woman teared up. “I’d sure appreciate it. We can just wait on that bench right over there, if that’s okay.”
When she and the children walked away, the turkey in her protective custody, Justin was so earnest that he almost made me cry.
“Man,” he said.
“It gets to you, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He bit his lip. “That woman must have really wanted that turkey to walk all the way up here with her kids then be willing to carry all that back home.”
“Kind of gives you a new perspective.”
As the end of our shift neared, Martha Barnes came by and handed us cups of coffee and some banana-oatmeal muffins. They were Courtesy of the Cupcake Café, according to the labels on them.
Justin left to give the woman and her children a ride home. Since I needed to remain on duty at our table, Martha agreed to join him in case the woman was uncomfortable getting into a car with a man she’d just met, volunteer or no volunteer.
I wondered who would relieve us. No new volunteers appeared to be on deck, which was unusual. Volunteers usually competed for the best spots that day. A few minutes later, Caitlyn walked up, but no parents—and mercifully, no Tyler—had joined her.
“Hey. I wouldn’t have expected to see you here with your folks in town. Are you volunteering?”
She frowned. “Yes, unfortunately. I didn’t know I would be expected to come do this on my day off. The mayor called this morning to say I ought to make an appearance on behalf of the city.”
Okey dokey, then.
I handed her a clipboard with a sign-in sheet for the day’s volunteers. “At any rate, I’m glad to see you. And besides, it’s really fun.” I pointed at my colleague over at the volunteer sign-in table. “Shareta has this thing running like clockwork, and if she says you’ll be done at five o’clock, you can take it to the bank that you’ll be out of here by then.”
“That’s good”—Caitlyn looked around—“because I’ve got a ton of stuff to do at home between now and Thanksgiving.”
“Having company over the holidays?”
“Um, no. Just... I just have a lot going on right now.”
“Do you know who’s working your shift with you?”
“Shareta said it’s Trish somebody from the arts council. I was hoping she’d be here by now, since I have no idea what I’m doing.”
I patted her on the arm. “Trish Delgado. And she’ll be here. No worries.”
Caitlyn sighed. Miss Happy Hometown didn’t seem too happy—or too into her town, for that matter.
“Sorry I’m just getting here,” Trish said as she walked up. She took a deep breath and slung her purse under the table. “Was waiting for my new kiln to be delivered, so I had to deal with that before I left.” She turned to Caitlyn. “I hear you’re my partner for the afternoon.”
Caitlyn offered a weak smile. “Looks like it.”
“Great. So here’s what we need to start doing...”
Since Trish was off and running, I wandered over to Shareta’s table and dropped into the empty folding chair beside her. Some clouds had rolled in, but the sun was still out. “Hiya.”
Shareta looked up from the pages of a catalog. “How’d it go?”
“Great! As always, those who got the turkeys seemed very thankful for them, and I love knowing that we’ll help some folks have a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Me too.” Shareta closed the catalog and plopped it on the table. “I’m just killing time now while I wait for the next volunteers to arrive. I need to order some more basket-making supplies, and this catalog has so much stuff I want. Just look at all the gorgeous baskets on that cover.”
I picked up the catalog. “That’s how I feel when I get a new bead catalog in the mail. If I had a million dollars, I still wouldn’t be able to afford all the supplies I want.”
A gust of wind rustled papers, blowing away some brochures and tipping over an empty paper cup. Shareta snatched them up, and I grabbed a blue-and-white Amazon mailer that had apparently been beneath the catalog and fluttered to the ground.
“This yours too?” I asked as I picked it up and noticed the mailing label was missing.
“Yeah. I save those things and recycle them after I peel the label off and—”
I was handing it to her when my hand froze in midair. Shareta stared at the mailer and bit her lip.
“You... you always peel the labels off?” I looked her straight in the eye.
She looked at her lap. “Yeah. I do.”
I took a deep breath. “Why did you send me that résumé?”
To her credit, Shareta didn’t attempt to deny that she had. “Because I knew you’d make sure it got to the right people. Emma, Miranda was a horrible leader. She was incredibly offensive when she talked to me about my baskets, and I’ve worked so hard to be good at my craft.”
That, I understood.
“So after hearing from some past exhibitors who didn’t get accepted in the bazaar, I called her the week before to confirm that I got the space I had last year. Not only did she rudely inform me that no, I didn’t, she said I should be grateful I was exhibiting at all. When I got there and learned she’d put a hold on my registration—she wanted to see my baskets before I put them out, if you can believe that—I called her right there from the lobby and let her have it. But you know what she said? She told me not to ‘go there’ with her after we’d had words the week before.”
So, that’s who Savannah overheard Miranda talking to that day.
“By the time she was killed, I’d already looked into her background and knew something wasn’t right. An old friend of mine worked for Happy Hometown’s regional office in New York, and he did a little digging for me. I told Caitlyn about all of this, but she seemed unable to make a decision on it and didn’t know what to do with the information. And after Miranda died, I didn’t want to give the résumé to the police or anyone else in case they thought I was sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“Well, now the police think that about me!”
She placed a hand on my arm. “I know I should have been up-front with you. Can you forgive me?”
Before I could answer, Justin and Martha returned and asked if there was anything they could help us with.
“You were right.” Justin grinned. “This was even more fun than you said it would be. And that woman Martha and I took home? She said her family was almost out of food for the month, so this turkey and pie were lifesavers for her. I’ll run by the grocery store and get some things to drop off at her apartment later today.”
Justin’s heart was even bigger than I’d imagined. No wonder I liked him so much. “That’s terrific.”
“And Shareta”—Justin turned to her—“my hat’s off to you for organizing everything this year. Martha just told me you lobbied hard for more food to give away—and got it. So thanks for all your hard work.”
“My pleasure.”
Justin said he’d go get our gloves and my purse from our table.
Shareta’s smile disappeared. “Are you still mad at me?”
I grimaced. “You could have told me sooner.”
“I know.” She twirled one of her turkey earrings. “Look, next time there’s a murder and I learn something about it, I’ll go directly to you first.”
I huffed. “Next time? There’d better not be a next time.”
Justin arrived with my bag in hand. “Are we good to leave?”
He looked at Shareta, and she nodded.
“And thanks, both of you, for everything.”
I still wasn’t thrilled Shareta had put me in the awkward position of taking that résumé to the police. On the other hand, it was a relief to know that a murderer hadn’t made a delivery to my back door.
Justin and I walked to a nearby parking lot for our cars. He was headed to the grocery store, and I had agreed to meet Carleen for coffee before he and I had a cookout with Jen and Todd.
***
CARLEEN AND I WERE the only ones in the café at A Likely Story, where I’d promised to tell her about my newest jewelry line.
“Now, which one was Ruby, and which one was Doris?” Carleen peered at the two faded images of my great-grandmothers.
“Ruby was the great-grandmother on my dad’s side, and Doris was the one on my mom’s side.”
She traced the worn edges of the photos. “I love old images like these. I don’t even have photos of any of my great-grandmothers, so you’re awfully lucky to have them.”
“I know.” I frowned. “I just wish I could have known them longer.”
Carleen’s brow furrowed. “Do you mean to tell me that you actually knew both of them?”
I swallowed a sip of pumpkin spice coffee. “I have photos of both of them holding me when I was just a baby, but of course I don’t remember those times. Still, I’m glad to have the pictures as proof that we actually knew one another.”
Carleen sighed. “ I love their names. You don’t see very many women with names like Ruby and Doris anymore, do you?”
I agreed. “That’s one reason I decided to name this jewelry line after them.” I held up a bracelet I’d made with vintage charms, buttons, and the jeweled fronts of old clip-on earrings, all in pearly pastel hues.
Carleen reached for the bracelet. “So this is a Doris and Ruby original?”
I shook my head. “Other way around.”
“Ruby and Doris.”
“Uh-huh. That gets them in chronological order, since Ruby was born before Doris.”
“Too bad you didn’t have a grandmother named Pearl.” Carleen smiled, and I was about to ask for her thoughts on the bracelet—it was a little froufrou, even by my standards—when Nichole sidled up to our table.
“Here. And don’t say no.” She plopped a plate full of cookies before us. “I don’t like to sell anything more than a day old at the bookstore, and we’ll be closed tomorrow, so if y’all don’t eat these, they’re getting tossed.”
I reached for one with great big chunks of chocolate. “Far be it from me to let your reputation get tarnished.” I took a bite. “Mm-hmm. Delicious, as always.”
Carleen was quick to reach for a cranberry-and-white-chocolate-chip cookie. “You had some of these left over?”
“Business is a little slow this afternoon. Maybe everybody’s at the Turkey Toss.” Nichole wrinkled her brow. “I sometimes wonder if I’ve lost my mind for opening an indie bookstore when everyone’s become so used to buying books online and from big-box retailers.”
Carleen reached for her hand. “I’m thrilled you’ve opened A Likely Story. I shop online just like everyone else, but I adore walking into a bookstore and seeing and touching the books. Not to mention”—she glanced past the café area and at the rest of the store—“you’ve got great gift items here too. Your journals and bookmarks are awesome, and I love that you have all those stuffed animals related to children’s books.”
“Thanks.” Nichole looked pleased. “I’m trying to beef up the gift section, and speaking of bookmarks, Emma, I was hoping you might be able to make some for me.”
I was always open to new business opportunities. “Jeweled ones? What do you have in mind?”
Nichole held up a finger. “I’ll be right back. Just a sec.” She headed to the store’s checkout counter, rustled through some papers underneath, and came back with a printout. “Check out these lovelies.”
I accepted the sheet of paper and whistled. “What great ribbon bookmarks. Look, Carleen.”
I passed her the sheet, and she, too, looked impressed. Short lengths of thick, elegant velvet ribbon had metal clamps attached to the ends, and from the clamps hung charms, beads, and other jeweled bits. In the photo, the bookmarks peered out from a stack of tattered old hardbacks, and the photo itself exuded vintage charm. I’d never made bookmarks like that, but I was sure I could. “So, you want some of these for the store?”
Nichole’s head bobbed up and down. “If you can make them and they’re not too labor intensive. Or expensive.”
They would be easy to make, and they’d also help me use up some of those single charms and baubles that were always left over from projects. “Let me whip up a few and see what kind of time it takes, then I’ll quote you a price, and we’ll go from there.”
“Perfect.” Nichole crossed her arms. “And hey, can I wrap up the rest of these cookies for you two?”
“No, thanks,” I said as Carleen came out with a “Yes.”
Carleen batted her eyelashes. “What? No use pretending I wouldn’t love to have them, because I would.”
While Nichole headed behind the café counter and packaged the cookies, Carleen seemed smitten by the idea of the fancy bookmarks.
“Would you consider making some of those with sterling charms?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Occasionally, I buy these random lots of old silver jewelry that have odds and ends like charms. I’ve never found just the right way to display them, so a bookmark would be a great idea. Could you make the charm detachable?”
I considered that. “If you don’t mind a lobster-claw clasp being attached.”
“After you get some made for Nichole, come see me, and we’ll talk.” Carleen took another sip of coffee. “I bought a batch of silver jewelry from a man who came to the store just this morning. And lucky for me, he offered them for a fantastic price. He struck me as a little arrogant, to be honest with you. Said he has a new girlfriend and hopes to move in with her soon, and he wants to unload a few old family odds and ends first.”
Something in my brain pinged. “You don’t happen to remember his name, do you?”
“Mm-hmm. You might have heard of him, since he’s an artist—Tyler Montgomery. Why?”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “Gus Townsend has a thing for him, and I’ve even seen them out together just this week, but I found out last night that he’s also been seeing Caitlyn Hill.”
“Gus doesn’t know?”
“Apparently not. I hear his artwork is great, and Justin was even thinking of joining forces with him and a few others, including Gus, to stage their own shows. But now...”
“Now you’re worried that this Romeo may be leading the fair ladies astray?”
Carleen was so old-fashioned, but her observation was spot-on. “Exactly. Caitlyn was at the Turkey Toss today and mentioned she’s got a lot going on at home these days. I’m wondering if maybe that was a reference to Tyler moving in.”
Nichole returned with the cookies, and Carleen thanked her before she headed off and greeted a customer. We stood, and Carleen finished the last of her coffee and tossed the cup into the trash can.
I shook my head. “I hope Gus isn’t too upset when she learns about this.” Tyler’s romantic shenanigans were putting a damper on my day.
“Ah, the o’erfraught heart,” Carleen said as we parted.
Indeed.