I was a little late getting back to the trailer park, but it turned out to be a good thing. I ran into a big man in a trench coat buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was wandering around, trying to find Space 221B. I told him to follow me.
"Mr. Hank Baker, I reckon," Holmes said, rising from the LazyBoy to greet his visitor as if he was the King himself. "Please. Sit yourself down over there by the space heater. Hey there, Bubba! Looks like you got here just in time!"
"Now then," Holmes continued, Is this your Mama cap, Mr. Baker?"
"Uh, yessir. It's mine alright. I'd just about given up any hope of ever seeing it again."
He was a large man with a rounded belly, a big ol' head, and he looked real smart. He had an I-read-the-encyclopedia-for-fun look to him, like a big-city librarian. His nose and cheeks were red, even though they'd been close to the heater more than long enough to take the chill off. His hand shook a little as he reached for the cap, which proved Holmes was right about the man's drinking habits. He spoke slow and real deliberate like, thinking about the words he was gonna use before he used 'em. He seemed to be a good man, a book-learned man, but one whose tank of good luck was runnin' on fumes.
"We've had this stuff for a couple days," Holmes said, "because we sorta figured we'd see some kind of notice from you sayin' where to send it. I can't for the life of me figure out why you didn't bother to get the word out."
The man let out a little shame-faced laugh. "I don't have the money I used to," he mumbled. "I assumed the skinheads that jumped me at the store got away with my cap and my bird. I didn't see the point of throwing good money after bad putting flyers all over town trying to get them back."
"That makes sense, I suppose. Oh, by the way, we ate the bird."
"You ate it?" Baker's eyes got real big, and he rose up out of his seat until gravity took over and pulled him back down.
"Yep. It's all we could do, since there weren't enough room in the fridge for the bird and the beer. But don't get all worked up about it. That turkey on the coffee table is about the same size and killed fresh today. It ought to do fine, don't you think?"
"Whew. Yes, that there bird'll do mighty fine," Baker said with a sigh of relief.
"Of course, we did save the giblets from your own bird, if you still want 'em."
"Giblets?" The man busted out laughin'. "I don't really care for giblets, although I wouldn't mind stuffing them down the throats of those skinheads that caused all this trouble in the first place. No, thanks. If it's all the same to you, I'll be mighty happy just to have that fine turkey on the table over there."
Holmes looked my way and shrugged.
"Here you go, then. The hat and the bird are yours," he said. "By the way, where did you find that first-class turkey? I'm a bit of a fowl man myself, and wouldn't mind huntin' the woods where you bagged that one."
"Well, sir," Baker said as he stood up, put the Mama cap on his head and cradled the new gobbler in his arms like it was a blue ribbon bird dog. "There's a few of us who hang out at Windigate's Bar and Gun Club, down by the swamp. This year, Old Man Windigate started up a Wild Turkey Club. It only cost a few dollars a week, and included an occasional taste of the other Wild Turkey, if you know what I mean. Club members were promised a fresh bird for Thanksgiving. I paid my dues, drank my whiskey, and the rest you know already. Thank you kindly, Mr. Holmes, for gettin' me out of the doghouse with Mama."
With a tip of his cap, he tripped on a worn spot in the rug, stumbled out the front door, and walked away with his pride and his peace offering for Mama.
"So much for Hank Baker," Holmes said as he closed the door. "He don't know squat about the Garfunkel. You hungry, Bubba?"
"Not really."
"Then let's pass on the pizza for now and check out this clue while the swamp water is hot."
"Works for me."