The Trouble with Turkeys (Zoe Donovan Mystery Book 2) (2 page)

“Levi has dated dozens of women in the past and he never misses an opportunity to hang out with just the three of us,” I reminded her. “Why should this be any different?”

“I don’t know; there’s just something about the whole Barbie thing that bugs me.”

I had a feeling Ellie’s discontent stemmed more from her changing feelings toward Levi than his current girlfriend, but I didn’t say as much. Levi, Ellie and I have been friends for almost twenty years and during that time we’ve enjoyed an easy friendship free of the tangled emotions that accompany many relationships of the romantic kind. I’ve noticed lately, however, that Ellie’s feelings toward Levi seem to be evolving.

“Barbie seems okay,” I offered. “She’s a bit over the top with her short skirts and tight sweaters, but Levi has dated worse.”

“I know this is none of my business
,” Ellie continued, “and I probably shouldn’t say anything, but Barbie came in for breakfast yesterday morning with that guy who runs the martial arts center.”

“Barbie is a yoga instructor,” I pointed out. “I’m sure that those in the fitness profession share a certain kinship.”

“Maybe, but if you want my opinion
, the woman is a bit too free in her associations. I’m afraid she’s going to break Levi’s heart.”

“Levi’s heart is made of titanium,” I assured her. “If you want my opinion
, he’ll move on to someone new before the end of the month.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It just bugs me the way Barbie flirts with everything in pants even when Levi is with her.
I honestly don’t know why he puts up with it.”

“Levi is a big boy. He doesn’t need you to protect him.
”

Ellie turned to look at the window behind her as Rosie set plates of Lumberjack Pancakes and creamy eggs benedict under the warmer.  “I guess I should get back to work.”

“Yeah, and I really should get going. I’ll call you tonight so we can work out the details for the weekend,” I suggested.

“Okay. Have a good day, and say hi to Jeremy for me.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and tell him that I have a pie for him. On the house,” Ellie added.

“Pie?”

“He came in a couple of days ago looking for a piece of Mom’
s Pilgrim Pie but we were out, so I promised him a pie all to himself when Mom did the baking for the weekend. I’ve been holding one in the back since yesterday, but he never came by.”

“He’s already at the farm. I’ll take the pie for him. I’m pretty sure he’s planning to stay on-site if things work out.”

Ellie boxed the pie as I nibbled on my muffin. Good thing I inherited my dad’s stick-thin figure and überfast metabolism. Two breakfasts in one day was never really a good idea.

Ellie was right about the drive: the trip down the mountain
was
beautiful. A rambling river paralleled the narrow, winding road as the thick evergreen forest gave way to the colorful foothills still painted with autumn colors. I loved the sight of mule deer grazing in a meadow that had long since turned brown as the sun climbed into the sky. Once I’d fully awakened, I found that I was looking forward to my temporary career. I’d never worked on a farm before. The thought of lazy days spent among cows and chickens had a certain nostalgic appeal. My excitement grew with each passing mile, until I pulled onto the dirt drive associated with the address Jeremy had given me and got the shock of my life.

For those of you I have not yet met, my name is Zoe Donovan. I’m a twenty-four-year-old Pisces with a tendency to become overly involved in other people’s problems and a propensity toward contradictory and erratic behavior. I have a big heart and an insatiable drive to rescue those in need. At times I bite off more than I can chew, creating a reality reminiscent of a bad dream, and this, apparently, is going to be a nightmare.

A light snow was starting to fall as I climbed out of my truck and made my way over to the open area where Jeremy was waiting for me. I covered my nose against the stench as I stood ankle deep in turkey dung and surveyed the landscape before me. “How many are there?” I wondered as I viewed the sea of large birds crammed into pens much too small for the task.

“Several hundred at least,” Jeremy answered. “I guess the birds were spread out over the property, but the estate executor had them rounded up and penned so they’d be easier to inventory and transport.”

“Transport?” I hated to ask.

“For processing,” Jeremy verified.

My stomach lurched at the mental image of exactly what
processing
would entail. Don’t get me wrong: I’m an adult, and I do understand where Thanksgiving turkeys come from, but as a devoted animal rescue worker who has spent my entire career saving the lives of the animals in my care, the idea of babysitting a flock of birds scheduled for slaughter left an acidic taste in my mouth that I feared would linger long beyond my presence at the fowl-smelling property (pun intended).

“When you mentioned the job was at a farm, I was picturing cows and horses and maybe a few pigs,” I accused.

“I know,” Jeremy admitted. “I was afraid if I told you about the birds you wouldn’t have come.”

Jeremy was right. If he had told me the entire story, I probably wouldn’t have come. While accepting this particular job goes against everything I believe in, it
had
been my fault that Jeremy lost his means of income, and if babysitting a few hundred turkeys for a couple of weeks would in any way make up for even a portion of the devastation I caused to his life, I guess I could put my feelings aside.

“Thanksgiving is in two weeks. The birds are scheduled for transport in ten days. If everything stays on schedule, we should be finished with the job by a week from Monday.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I had to ask.

“It’s not so much that I want to, but I really need the money,” Jeremy answered. “I didn’t want to mention it—it might have seemed like emotional blackmail, given the circumstances—but Gina just found out she’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant?”

Jeremy had only been dating the demanding model for a short time, and I was afraid it was way too early in their relationship to be dealing with something as life-altering as impending fatherhood. Besides, while I’ll admit that most days I tend to be a bit lax about my appearance, Gina is a diva who cares more about her lip gloss than she does about the people around her. I never really understood why Jeremy was dating her in the first place.

“It was an accident.” Jeremy blushed, a response I’d never before witnessed in the twenty-year-old heavy metal drummer, who sported a nose ring and a neck tattoo. “Gina doesn’t want the baby. She wanted to end the pregnancy but finally agreed to go through with it if I would raise the baby and pay for all her expenses, up to and including any cost associated with returning her body back to supermodel status.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking Jeremy’s hand. “You should have said something. I had no idea.”

“With everything that’s happened, I figured you had enough on your mind. I didn’t want to concern you with my problems. Besides, I was embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” I smiled in an offer of support. “I admire what you’re doing.”

“I feel good about my decision. It’s the right thing, but I need money, a lot of it. I’ve looked for other means of employment, but so far I haven’t had any luck. Besides, I can earn as much with this short-term job as a regular gig would pay in two months. So about the job . . . ?”

“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed.

“Thanks.” He hugged me. “I know this position is the worst, but it’s only for a couple of weeks at the most and I should make enough to pay this month’s rent and give Gina some money.”

“Are you and Gina still seeing each other?” I wondered.

“No, we broke up. Our relationship is strictly financial at this point.”

I wasn’t sorry to hear that Jeremy and Gina had parted ways. It would have been nice if Jeremy’s baby had both a father and a mother, but Gina was as self-involved and flighty as anyone I’d ever met. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture her as a mother, loving or otherwise.

“So when is the baby due?” I hoped Jeremy would have adequate time to get his financial situation worked out before taking on the task of single fatherhood.

“Not until the end of April, but Gina was quite adamant about my having enough money saved up to pay for whatever procedures she might require as soon as the baby’s born. She has a contract for a shoot in Thailand in June.”

“Gina is young,” I said encouragingly. “Chances are her body will bounce back without an inordinate amount of coaxing as long as she watches her diet while she’s expecting.”

“Let’s hope so. The spa she frequents when she needs to drop a few pounds costs almost a thousand dollars a day.”

“Seriously?”

Jeremy shrugged. “You’ve seen her. Yes, she was blessed with enviable genetics, but she works hard for her body. I was actually surprised she was willing to go through with the pregnancy under any conditions. She’s been really great, considering. If I want to be a father, I need to step up and make some money. I really feel like this gravy job is a sign that I’m doing the right thing.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about the care and handling of turkeys?” Perhaps I should have asked this fairly obvious question before agreeing to this crazy idea.

“Not specifically,” Jeremy admitted. “We’ve had birds at the shelter, and I have a contact who knows about the bigger birds. I suppose we can figure it out as we go along.”

Terrific.

“I talked to Oliver, and he agreed to let you commute to the farm every day and go back home every evening if I agree to stay on-site,” Jeremy informed me.

Jeremy had previously explained that Oliver Tisdale was the very unpleasant son of the recently deceased. While I wasn’t looking forward to the daily commute, I much preferred returning to my boathouse up the mountain to staying on the property with hundreds of turkeys sentenced to death.

“We just need to go over to the house so you can fill out some paperwork,” Jeremy said. “It won’t take long, and then you can go. I can handle things today.”

I took one final look at the beautiful birds whose days were numbered, then followed Jeremy. Based on the size of the two-story house, which was set apart from the weathered red buildings that housed the birds, I guessed there was money to be made in the raising and harvesting of the epicenter of the holiday meal. The home was laid out like a giant U with a double-wide entry in the center and a beautiful and peaceful garden with a large pool and a cascading waterfall in the rear. Jeremy led me through the double doors, which opened into a grand entry with a wide hallway in the center, as well as narrower hallways to the left and right.

“The main living area is straight ahead,” Jeremy informed me. “We’re supposed to meet in the library.”

Charlie and I followed Jeremy down the hallway to the left. There were windows overlooking the farm and colorful foothills on the right, with closed doors on the left. The library was an impressive room, with dark paneling, hand-carved moldings, a cozy fireplace, an inviting seating area, and hundreds of books lined on hardwood shelves. It was connected by an open door to a large, office-type conference room in which eight people were sitting around a long, rectangular table, arguing about who was and who was not worthy of a portion of the proverbial pie.

“I guess we’ll have to wait for them to finish,” Jeremy whispered, as we peered through the window separating the library from the conference room
.

“So those are the heirs?” I asked.

“Afraid so.” Jeremy took a seat next to me from which we could observe the circus from a distance. “I have to say they’re an interesting group.”

“You’ve met them?”

“A few.”

“So fill me in.” I couldn’t help but be curious about the eclectic group who, based on the argument I’d witnessed thus far, appeared to be coldhearted leeches.

“The older gentleman at the head of the table is Mason Perot, the late Charles Tisdale’s attorney,” Jeremy said. “Like I mentioned before, he’s drawn up a fairly specific contract as to our duties and compensation that you’ll need to sign before you leave.”

The attorney was a diminutive man of portly stature. He was an odd-looking fellow with a perfectly smooth, bald head and round glasses that covered protruding eyes. It occurred to me that he looked a bit like Mr. Magoo of the classic cartoons I’d watched as a child. I hoped he wasn’t as dim-witted as his cartoon look-alike or this was going to be a very lengthy negotiation.

“To his right is the man who first contacted me, estate executor and Charles’s eldest son, Oliver Tisdale,” Jeremy continued.

Oliver reminded me of a crane or some other gangly bird. His eyes were cold and his countenance controlled as he studied the other people seated around the table while they argued over who should and should not be privy to the substantial estate. His intense stare and lifeless expression gave me a chill that worked its way up my spine and then settled at the base of my throat.

“Who’s the woman to Oliver’s right?” I asked.