Don’t go into Thanksgiving cold turkey! Take a few minutes out to laugh and relax by reading a free sample of Mary Mackey’s comic Thanksgiving mystery story “Fowl Play” just published by Untreed Reads Press in the anthology The Killer Wore Cranberry: Room For Thirds.
by Mary Mackey
You don’t expect mass murder in Nowhere, Alaska. That’s one of the reasons I moved up here from Oakland, California where homicide is so common there’s a Facebook Page for the victims. But mass murder it was, and not just mass murder committed by some guy who had come down with a bad case of cabin fever and shot his wife, kids, and the family dog. Three-quarters of the population of Nowhere had been systematically eliminated by someone who had caught his victims by surprise just as they were sitting down to their Thanksgiving dinners.
If three-quarters of the population of Oakland had their throats slit while they were heaping sweet potatoes topped with miniature marshmallows on their plates, you’d hear about it on CNN thirty seconds later. But Nowhere only has thirty-two residents tough enough to stay put in the fall when the big game hunters and Snow Geese fly back to the Lower Forty-Eight.
I say “fly” because the only way you can get in or out of this town is by plane. That had always suited me just fine since after I was fired from the Oakland Police Department for sexual harassment, I decided to become a hermit.
At the moment, however, I was doing some serious rethinking about that decision. One of the survivors of the Nowhere Thanksgiving Day Massacre had to be a homicidal maniac, and since no one in his or her right mind would voluntarily spend winter in a place where you have to wear a fleece facemask when you take out the garbage, that meant almost everyone in town but me was a suspect.
I first heard about the murders from my neighbor Moonfire Edithsdaughter. Moon is a self-styled witch who smokes herself into oblivion every night on homegrown weed when she isn’t out chanting at the aurora borealis. She is also a woman of substantial girth, which is a major advantage in cold weather, so despite the fact that the snow was thirteen feet deep and more was coming down so hard you’d smother in it if you opened your mouth, she showed up at my door like Paul Revere.
“They’re all dead,” she said as she stamped the ice off her boots. “Dead as the turkeys on their dining room tables.” Then she threw up her arms and began a witch-like shrieking that sounded like cats being trampled by cattle. . .
To read the rest of “Fowl Play” and buy The Killer Wore Cranberry: Room For Thirds from Untreed Reads Press, please click here
Thank you for visiting my Blog. You’re invited to come back next week for more. —Mary Mackey