It was colder'n a well-diggers shovel in the Klondike, so we put on our battery powered socks and turned them puppies all the way up to "extra toasty." Outside, the stars were shining like sequins on a showgirl, and the breath of folks passing by looked as thick as it smelled. My old Buick creaked and backfired like Grandpa at the dinner table. After a spell, we got to the swamp and pulled into the gravel parking lot of Windigate's Bar and Gun Club. Holmes stepped up to the bar and ordered a couple of longnecks from a tired-eyed, white-haired bartender.

"If your beer is as good as your wild turkey, I'll take a case to go," he said.

"Wild turkey?" The old guy seemed confused.

"The birds, man, the birds. I was gabbin' with Hank Baker about a half hour ago. He told me he was part of your wild turkey club."

"Oh, yeah. Gotcha now. Old Hank's about two fingers short of a full shot, if you get my meaning. He got his turkey here, but they ain't turkeys from the gun club. He knows that."

"Oh? So where'd they come from? Not the Piggly-Wiggly, I hope."

"I got a couple dozen of them from a game bird salesman down at Azalea's Farmer's Market and Garden Supply. On the other side of the swamp."

"Yeah? I used to hang out with some folks from over there. What's the guy's name?"

"Willy Bob. Willy Bob Breckinridge. Nice feller, but wears too much Aqua Velva."

"Ah. I don't know him. Anyway, here's to you, barkeep. Thank you kindly for the beer and conversation."

"Let's go find Willy Bob, Bubba." Holmes continued as we headed back toward the Buick. "Remember now, even though we might be huntin' wild turkey, there's also a good kid who stands to be locked up for seven to ten years for doin' nothin' more than bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time, unless we can find out who the real crook is. I got this feelin' the sheriff screwed up again, and we're about to show the world how stupid he is. I love it when that happens."

We drove the Buick down through hunting camps and chicken farms until we got to Azalea's Farmer's Market and Garden Supply. The aroma of Aqua Velva drew us to a large space at the south end of the market, and there we found Willy Bob Breckinridge, a glassy-eyed man who was busy watching a teenage boy pack up an old Ford.

"Howdy," said Holmes. "Cold night."

Willy Bob continued without even looking up at my friend.

"No more wild turkeys left, I see," Holmes continued, pointing to the empty wooden crates.

"It's comin' up on Thanksgiving. They're selling out quick. Come back tomorrow. I'll have more than you can chase around a Peterbilt."

"Nope. Can't wait."

"Then go on down to Bucky's stall. The one over yonder with the Coleman lamp."

"Nah. I was told to ask for you."

"By who?"

"Windigate. At t'other end of the swamp."

"Oh, yeah. Nice feller. I sent him a couple dozen not long ago."

"Yep. Mighty fine eatin' birds, too. Where'd you get 'em?"

The question seemed to flip a switch inside of ol' Willy Bob. You don't normally see a turkey salesman get all worked up like that – especially to a potential customer with money to burn.

"What the hell do you want, man?" Willy Bob puffed himself up like a banty rooster in a roomful of cats. "Don't make me have to come over there."

"I don't believe I mumbled at all. I just want to know where you bought them turkeys you sold to Windigate."

"Well, all's I have to say is to hell with you and your questions! And your little friend with his hands in his pockets, too!"

"It don't make no difference to me, but I'd sure like to know why you got such a burr under your saddle."

"Everybody and his dog's dead grandmother has been buggin' me about them birds. I bought 'em, and I sold 'em, and that's all there oughta be to it. But No! It's 'Where'd you get them turkeys?' and 'Where'd them turkeys go?' and 'You better tell me what happened to them wild turkeys!' The way folks is carryin' on, you'd think I had the last damn turkeys on the face of the Earth!

"Well, sir, I don't know about them other folks, said Holmes like it just didn't make no nevermind. "But the bet's off, that's all. I bet my buddy here five bucks that the bird we ate come from Arkansas. And I know my turkeys."

"Then you just lost five bucks, gizzard lips, because it came from this very county," snapped the salesman.

"It ain't possible."

"It sure as hell is."

"You're lyin' like butter on grits."

"What the hell's wrong with you? I been around turkeys since my daddy had hair. I'm tellin' you them birds that went to Windigate's Bar and Gun Club came from just up that road yonder." He pointed to a rutted, muddy path.

"Ain't no way I'm gonna believe that."

"Well, why don't you bet me then?"

"I'd just be takin' your money, friend, since I know I'm right about this. But okay. I'll bet you five bucks, too, just to teach you not to be such a hard-ass."

The salesman shook his head and chuckled. "Bring me that clipboard, Junior," he said.

The boy handed over a letter-sized clipboard that held a couple of legal-sized yellow pads, covered with smudges of grease. Willy Bob shuffled through the pages under the glow of the Ford's headlights.

"Now then, Mr. I-Know-My-Birds," he said, "Until you walked in my stall, I was plumb out of turkeys, but by the time I'm done, we'll see that there's still one left. You see here?" He pointed to one of the pages.

"Yeah. So?"

"This is the list of folks I buy my turkeys from. See that there? That says who I get my birds from in Arkansas, and that stuff next to their names tells me what their account numbers is. Now then! Look at this next page. It says at the top, 'Local Suppliers.' How's about readin' that third name out for me? If you can read, that is."

"Mrs. Buckshott, Route 1, Brixton Bayou, Box 23." Holmes read.

"Yep. Now just you shuffle on through that yellow pad until you find Mrs. Buckshott's account page."

Holmes thumbed through the pages and read, "Mrs. Maybell Buckshott, Brixton Bayou, Turkeys-R-Us."

"And what's that written down there at the bottom? Hmm?"

"November 20, twenty-four extra-big wild turkeys at $10.00."

"There ya go. And what next?"

"Um…'sold to Windigate Bar and Gun Club at $15.95.'"

"So, Mister Turkey Man. Ready to eat some crow?"

Hamhock Holmes sighed. He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his back pocket, threw it down on the clipboard, kicked at the gravel with the toe of his boot, and walked away like a man who's just lost a bet. When we got back to the Buick, he laughed until I thought he was gonna bust.

"He was right! There is a turkey left in his shop. What an idiot! Shoot, if I'd have bet him ten bucks, he'd probably have shown me baby pictures of them turkeys," he chuckled. "Well, Bubba, looks like we got this one just about licked. All we gotta figure out is whether to go visit Mrs. Buckshott tonight or wait till morning. It sounds like there's other folks who want to know about those birds, and I reckon…"

He was cut short by the sound of an old Dodge screeching to a halt in front of the market. We looked up just in time to see a little weasel-faced feller climb out of the truck. Breckenridge stormed out of his shop, waving a shotgun and explainin' the facts of life to the guy.

"I've just about had it with them damn wild turkeys," he shouted. "You get your sorry butt the hell outta here, or I swear I'll let this here shotgun give it a push! I'll talk to Mrs. Buckshott if you want, but I ain't about to waste no more time with you. What the hell do you care, anyways? I didn't buy them turkeys from you."

"Maybe not, but one of them turkeys was mine, I tell ya," the little feller was whining.

"Then go get it from Mrs. Buckshott!"

"She said you got it. And it was mine!"

"Well, go tell it to Dr. Phil, 'cause I'm dead flat sick of this! Get on outta here, y'hear?" He rushed toward the little man, who quickly hopped back into his truck and locked the door.

"Hot damn, we are livin' right tonight," whispered Holmes. "Come on! Let's make this little guy one of them offers you can't refuse!"

Before I knew it, Holmes was knockin' on the window of the Dodge.

"What! What do you want?" The guy was shakin' like a Chihuahua in a snowstorm.

"Sorry about that," Holmes said, like he just happened to be hanging out in front of a farmer's market, just for fun. "I heard what you was asking that salesman just now, and I think I can help you."

"You? And just who are you, Mr. I-Can-Help-You?"

"They call me Hamhock Holmes. I'm a nosey sumbitch who knows a whole lot of stuff that other folks don't."