Both Peggy and Bunny reach the turkey simultaneously. Rather than arguing over who goes first, they somehow both end up on the mechanical beast—Peggy in front, gripping the handles with white knuckles, and Bunny behind her with her arms wrapped around Peggy’s waist, and her expression suggests some major regret.
“Looks like we’ve got a double rider situation, folks!” the announcer crows. “Let’s see if these ladies can tame the wild turkey, or if the wild turkey tames them!”
The mechanical bird lurches to life, spinning in a lazy circle before suddenly jerking to the left. Peggy whoops like she’s at a rodeo, while Bunny’s face cycles through every emotion known to mankind, finally settling on a mixture of terror and grim determination.
“Look at Granny go!” someone in the crowd shouts.
“Which one?” someone else calls back. “There’s like seventeen grandmothers on that thing!”
Oh, good grief. Okay, so they’re spinning so fast it sort of does look as if there’s seventeen. But to imply that Bunny is old just might get the man killed.
Clarabelle leans toward me with her eyes never leaving the spectacle. “I’m torn between being embarrassed to know them and wishing I’d joined them.”
“Wait for it,” I murmur, taking another sip of wine. “In about thirty seconds, you’ll be grateful to be at this table with your dignity intact.”
Sure enough, the mechanical turkey executes a move that can only be described as possessed by vengeful spirits. It bucks, spins, and drops simultaneously, sending both women airborne. They hang suspended for a moment, like a Renaissance painting of souls ascending to Heaven, before gravity remembers it has a job to do.
Peggy somehow lands on her feet, arms raised in triumph. Thank the Good Lord in Heaven.
Bunny, however, is less fortunate. Her descent is broken by a large man in overalls who looks both surprised and not entirely displeased to suddenly have a lapful of a blonde in a designer dress.
The crowd goes absolutely wild. Money changes hands—apparently, there had been betting on their survival time—and the announcer declares them Queens of the Wild Turkey.
My phone pings amid the chaos, the screen lighting up with a text from Killion. I open it to find a picture of Cricket and Rookie at his place, snuggled by the fire in a portrait of domestic tranquility.
Cricket has commandeered a throw pillow, while Rookie clutches Jolly Beary to his chest like a child with a favorite teddy. To their left sits a stack of boxes—moving boxes, if I had toguess. Probably full of baubles he’s bought to gift to Venetta for Christmas.
I still can’t get over the fact I caught the two of them in Moonlit Meadows. Near my cabin. Together last night.
I press my lips tight, fighting back the urge to text something I might regret. Like,Should I return the Christmas gift I bought you, or would Venetta like it?
Instead, I tap out a simple message. I’ve made a decision about whether or not I want to see him tonight.
I hit send, slip my phone back into my pocket, and turn my attention back to Oliver. Whatever Killion is up to, it can wait. Right now, I’ve got a murder to solve and a mechanical turkey to avoid.
Oliver looks uncharacteristically solemn as he watches Bunny and Peggy make their triumphant return to our table, accepting high-fives and congratulations from strangers along the way.
“Ladies,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible above the din of the restaurant. “I have a confession to make.”
Clarabelle immediately perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “A confession? Those are my favorite kinds of sentences.”
Oliver’s silver hair catches the neon light as he leans forward, his expression grave. “I knew Vivian Maple better than I’m letting on.”
“How much better?” I ask with every nerve in my body suddenly on high alert.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something there that looks remarkably like grief.
“She was my ex-wife.”
KILLION
The Perky Pumpkin Café glows with warm light against the gray November night, its windows frosted with hand-painted fall leaves and miniature turkeys wearing Pilgrim hats.
Inside, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mingles with cinnamon, nutmeg, and whatever secret blend of spices they use in their signature pumpkin pie. The café buzzes with the gentle hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the occasional bark or meow from the pet-friendly section where families and their furry companions enjoy the cozy atmosphere.
Rookie sits at my feet with his golden head resting on my shoe and his eyes fixed on Hattie’s slice of pie with the laser focus of a predator tracking prey. Cricket has claimed the empty chair next to Hattie, perched regally with her tail wrapped around her paws, and it would seem she’s chairing this meeting.
Our furry friends seem perfectly at ease. Hattie and I, not so much.
