Page 2 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
Kitty laughed, a sweet, melodic giggle.
“No need to change your plans. We’ve had a talk about safety, and Huck’s not going to go out when the mountain lion is around. Did you forget the sensors?”
Of course I didn’t forget the sensors; I’d installed the damn things. A network of motion detectors and cameras surrounding the estate, ready to alert both Kitty and me to any danger. Even though she hated guns, I’d made sure she knew how to shoot, and she’d protect Huck almost as fiercely as I would.
I slowed to a stop outside Casa del Gato and waited for the gates to open. The Cathouse. We’d named it for a joke because the house had once belonged to Dick Steele, aka the Prince of Porn, but Casa de Perra would have been more appropriate, seeing as we had three dogs and no cats. As soon as the gate rolled far enough to the side, I inched my SUV forward, heading for the nearest carport…then stopped short as a pair of turkeys ran across the courtyard. The turkeys were followed by Marcel, who was wearing chino shorts, a pale pink golf shirt, a single loafer, and a panicked expression. Marcel was our home help, but in reality, he thought of himself as a mini dictator. We kept him around because he could cook. Like Huck, he’d been prepping for Thanksgiving since Halloween, and if he mentioned cranberries or nutmeg one more time, I was going to line his collection of pumpkins up in the yard and use them for target practice.
“Uh, I’m gonna have to call you back.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Nothing to worry about. I think our Thanksgiving dinner just escaped.”
“Huh?”
“How can a pumpkin lasagne escape?” Huck asked.
“Love you, speak later.”
“Close the gate,” Marcel shrieked. “Close the gate!”
I hit the button as Jezebel strolled around the corner, shaking her head in bemusement.
“If the turkeys run into the desert, wouldn’t that be a positive?” I asked. “I mean, not our problem anymore.”
Marcel paused, hands on his knees as he sucked in air. “No, no, no, they’d get sunstroke.”
“Aren’t you planning to cook them?”
“They were supposed to come pre-prepared. That’s what I ordered.” The nearest turkey putt-putted in alarm, which only seemed to agitate Marcel further. “That’s what I freaking ordered!”
“Relax, I’ll take care of it.”
I retrieved my .22 from the car’s centre console, screwed on the silencer, and stepped out into the sunshine. The turkeys had disappeared around the side of the house, heading for the pool area.
“Can turkeys swim?” Jez asked.
“How should I know?”
“Didn’t you used to live on a farm?”
“It wasn’t a real farm. Dad just used to pretend it was for tax purposes.”
He’d made his money through lawyering, investing in the stock market, and making shrewd real estate deals, not by working the land. Rex Roebuck hadn’t been fond of getting his hands dirty.
Sin sprinted out the front door, waving a taser. “Don’t shoot the turkeys!”
Ah, the vegetarian had arrived.
“You’re going to tase them instead? I’m not sure that thing is designed for use on a bird.”
Although a cardiac arrest would partially solve the problem.
She scrunched her lips to the side, considering. “Good point. We should have a defibrillator on standby.”
“Fried turkey for dinner, anyone?” Jez asked. “Who’s gonna make the gravy?”
Barbie leaned out of an upstairs window. Barbie wasn’t her real name, of course, the same way mine wasn’t Dusk, but we rarely called each other Kendall and Phaedra. Our nicknames were part of our identity now.
