Jordan brightened. “Can they get in the chicken coop?”
“I should think so, depending on how well built the coop is, of course.”
“Rickety,” said Jordan, thoughtfully.
“Try overfeeding him,” said Victoria. “That’s humane.”
Jordan smiled faintly.
“Perhaps you could convince Mr. Willoughby to sell Chickee to Delilah Sampson. She’s planning to start a chicken farm.”
“The woman who bought the old Hammond place?”
“She lives at least three miles from you.”
Jordan stood up and brushed off his hands. “You’ve given me a great idea, Mrs. Trumbull. Thanks.”
Victoria watched him fasten on his helmet, get on his recumbent bicycle, and peddle off, wondering what it was she’d set in motion.
Jordan planned his rooster-napping with care. If he were to approach the pen, Chickee would crow and continue to crow until silenced. He would have to lure the Willoughbys—husband, wife, and three small children—away for an hour or so.
Jordan had sent the family, anonymously, a movie pass good for this Saturday’s matinee.
Saturday was a gorgeous day when Jordan would ordinarily have ridden his recumbent bike into the State Forest on the bicycle trail. Instead, he waited at home. The matinee was at two o’clock. At one-thirty, Mrs. W. and the two older children went out through their front door, the door that always set the rooster off. The door slammed. Chickee crowed. Ashpine’s Jack Russell barked.
Jordan waited for Mr. Willoughby and the youngest. But the wife buckled the two kids into their seats in the SUV, got into the driver’s seat, and took off.
What about Mr. W. and Sweetie Pie?
Jordan took a couple of cold bottles of Sam Adams out of his refrigerator, slipped out his side door, and went over to the Willoughbys. He could see Mr. W. through the glass panes in the door, sitting in his Barcalounger watching TV along with the youngest child, who had taken all the clothes off her doll and was marching the naked doll along a line of wooden blocks.
Jordan knocked. Mr. Willoughby looked up, heaved himself out of the Barcalounger, and opened the door.
“Chickee bothering you again?” he asked, lifting up his T-shirt and scratching his exposed belly.
“I thought you might like a cold beer,” said Jordan, holding the two bottles out. “Peace offering.”
Willoughby examined them. “Don’t much like Sam Adams. My beer’s Bud.”
Jordan looked around. “Where’s the wife and kids?”
“The movies.” Mr. Willoughby pulled his shirt down and yawned. “Guess I’ll try one of the Sam Adams after all.” He held out a hand and Jordan passed over a cold bottle.
Jordan shifted from one foot to the other, waiting to be asked to have a seat. “Movies?”
“Someone sent a movie pass.”
Jordan held out a bottle opener.
“Don’t need it.” Mr. Willoughby twisted off the bottle cap and settled back in his Barcalounger.
Jordan seated himself on an overstuffed ottoman and used the opener on his own beer. “Didn’t you want to go?”
“Hate the movies,” said Mr. Willoughby. “Saturday is nothing but damned kid stuff.” He gestured at his daughter, who was staring at Jordan, her thumb in her mouth, the naked doll held by one foot. “Anyhow, Sweetie Pie here’s coming down with something. Got the sniffles.”
Jordan, careful about his own health, wheeled the ottoman backwards, away from the child.
“What’s on your mind?” Mr. Willoughby tipped his bottle up and poured a portion of the contents down his throat. He examined the bottle. “Bud’s better.”
“Just wanted to be neighborly,” said Jordan politely. “Mend fences, so to speak.”
“Yeah? Mend fences by siccing a goddamned lawyer on me. Thanks a lot, pal.”
“That seemed the way to keep things from getting personal,” said Jordan. “Let the lawyers work it out.”
“Nothing to work out. My kids have a pet chicken. West Tisbury’s agricultural. Chickens are agriculture. What’s your beef? Don’t like the country? Move back to the goddamned city. We was here first, asshole.”
Jordan rose to his feet with dignity, leaving his untouched beer behind. He pushed his glasses, which had slipped partway down his nose, back into place with his third finger, and walked out of the Willoughbys’ house.
He heard Mr. Willoughby’s laugh and the word “asshole” repeated as he shut the door carefully behind him.
Back in his own house, Jordan pondered over a new strategy. If Chickee simply went missing, Willoughby would assume that he, Jordan, was responsible, which would, in truth, be the case.
An airplane flew overhead. Chickee crowed.
Willoughby would retaliate in some gross way.
But suppose some predator were to break into Chickee’s pen and do away with him, the way Victoria Trumbull had suggested, leaving a few feathers and a trace of blood. Jordan smiled for the first time in hours. Skunks, raccoons, and hawks. The Island had plenty of those and they loved fresh chicken. Since Jordan didn’t actually wish to have Chickee killed, he would have to extract Chickee from the coop, then wreck it as though a hawk or skunk had broken into it.
The following morning, Sunday, the Willoughbys left for church, carrying snot-nosed Sweetie Pie wrapped up in a pink bunnyprinted blanket. The door of their SUV slammed shut. Chickee crowed.
Jordan smiled.
He pulled on his deerskin gardening gloves and retrieved the basket of tools he’d prepared the night before after talking with Victoria. Knowing her sense of honor, he’d neglected to tell her his plans. He had shown interest, subtly, he thought, when she told him about the signs of predation.
He’d bought an oven roaster chicken and taken out of the body cavity the paper packet containing neck, liver, and gizzards.
A car went by on the main road. Chickee sent up a cry. Jordan watched the driveway he shared with the Willoughbys until he was sure they were gone, then tiptoed through the scrub oak and across the lane that separated their houses. With a claw gardening tool he would make this seem like the work of a hawk’s talons.
Chickee’s pen was about the size of a coffee table, two feet by three feet and about two feet high. He pried loose the wire over the top of the pen. Chickee strutted back and forth, his comb bright red and standing up straight, his head thrown back, in deafening full cry.
Ashpine’s Jack Russell took up the cry, and the dog’s frenetic barking seemed to be coming closer.
Jordan scattered a few feathers he’d taken from his pillow, and emptied the packet of liver and gizzards into the pen. Chickee stopped crowing long enough to peck at the bloody mess, and Jordan seized him by his feet. Chickee, himself, dropped a couple of feathers in the skirmish, and Jordan thrust the rooster, head first, into a burlap grain bag he’d brought with him for the purpose. As he retreated to his car, an energy-efficient hybrid, he brushed out his footsteps with a branch he’d snapped off an oak tree.
Before he got into his car, he was aware that Bertie had stopped yapping. The dog was trotting toward the wrecked coop. Ashpine didn’t usually let Bertie roam free. There was, after all, a leash law in West Tisbury, and Ashpine seemed obsessive about obeying the law.
Jordan kept an eye on Bertie while he tied the mouth of the grain bag with twine and placed it carefully on the backseat of his car. The dog stopped near the wreckage. His stumpy tail wagged and his tongue hung out in a sort of smile. Jordan wondered briefly if he should take Bertie back to Ashpine’s house, but decided he’d better deal with Chickee first.
The bag writhed, swelled, subsided, and emitted muffled squawks. He slammed the car door shut, got into the driver’s seat, put the car into gear and drove down Old County Road to State Road, turned left, and made his way to Delilah Sampson’s enclave.
CHAPTER 23
At the post-service coffee hour in the parish hall, Victoria approached Mrs. Willoughby, who was holding Sweetie
Pie. “Lovely sermon, wasn’t it?” Victoria held a slice of banana bread in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “I’m so sorry about your mother. When is the funeral?”
“Next week. We can’t believe it, Mrs. Trumbull. She was such a kind, gentle person. Who would want to do that to her?”
“If I can help in any way …”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Willoughby jiggled the little girl in her arms.
“Is this your youngest?”
“Sweetie Pie,” said Mrs. Willoughby, jouncing the girl. Sweetie Pie ducked her head. “Her name is really Lucy. She was named after my mother.” She held a tissue to her daughter’s nose. “Blow! That’s a good girl!”
“Your mother must have enjoyed her. These spring colds can be trying,” said Victoria. “How is your rooster?”
“Everybody in town is talking about that rooster. You’d think they’d have better things to talk about. Personally, I’d like to get rid of it. He gives me a big fat headache. But …” she looked at Sweetie Pie, who stuck her thumb in her mouth.
“I understand.” Victoria nibbled her banana bread.
“Besides, you know the way my husband Lambert is.”
“I know he has a reputation for being strong-minded.”
“Stubborn, you mean. The guy next door complained about Chickee. Didn’t even complain, simply asked if Lambert would move Chickee’s pen to the back of our property. Lambert dug in his heels.”
“Oh?”
“Now we’ve got lawyers involved and nobody’s speaking to anybody.”
At this moment Delilah joined them.
“Have you met Delilah Sampson, Mrs. Willoughby?”
“Annie,” said Mrs. Willoughby, offering her hand. “Pleased to meet you. And this is Sweetie Pie.”
“What a darling baby!” Delilah extended a scarlet-tipped finger and tickled Sweetie Pie under her chin.
Sweetie Pie lurched back in her mother’s arms and screeched, “I am not a baby!”
“She’s not usually like this,” Annie apologized. “She’s not feeling good.”
Delilah forced a polite smile and turned to Victoria, her back to Annie and her contagious, squalling child. “I came over to invite you to lunch, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria wiped her sticky hand on the napkin under her coffee cup. Facing Annie Willoughby, she could see her look of distaste as she examined Delilah’s back, from her brilliant red hair to her gold sandals and the flame-colored sateen in between.
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “I’d enjoy that.”
The Willoughbys arrived home from church to a scene of apparent carnage. Bertie, Ashpine’s Jack Russell, was lying half-in, half-out of the wreckage of Chickee’s cage, gnawing on what looked like the innards of a chicken.
Annie Willoughby, the first to realize what had happened, tried to hustle the children into the house.
“What is it, Mommy? I want to see, too,” whined Lambert the Fourth, who was seven.
“Me, too,” said Arnold, who was five.
Lambert the Fourth, or Quat, for short, stamped his feet and rooted himself to the ground in such a way his mother couldn’t tug him loose.
“Why won’t you let me see!”
“You never let us do anything,” echoed Arnold.
“Lambert?” called Annie, her voice on the edge of frenzy, “take care of that dog!”
Sweetie Pie, who’d been napping in her mother’s arms, woke up. “Chickee! I want my Chickee!”
Mr. Willoughby collared Bertie and dragged him to Oliver Ashpine’s house next door, preparing a speech in his mind on controlling his mutt and figuring out how much money he could exact from Ashpine to pay for a new coop and the trauma his kids were suffering. The screen door at the back of the house was locked, but the screen had a flap at the bottom, obviously to let Bertie in and out.
“Ashpine!” Mr. Willoughby bellowed into the kitchen through the locked door. “Where in hell are you?”
No answer.
“Get your ass out here, and pretty goddamned fast!”
No answer.
Mr. W., furious now, wrenched the locked door open and dragged the whimpering Bertie inside. “Ashpine!”
No answer.
He hauled Bertie from room to room searching for his master. “Where in hell is the bastard?”
He found a leash hanging on the back of the screen door and attached it to Bertie’s collar and knotted the other end around the table leg. He then returned to the scene of the crime.
Annie was standing in the door of the Willoughbys’ house, still holding Sweetie Pie. “Lambert, Oliver left a message on the answering machine. He’s in the hospital and wants us to take care of Bertie.”
“I’ll take care of Bertie, all right.” Willoughby’s face turned a purplish red. “I’ll kill the bastard’s goddamned killer mutt.”
At Delilah’s, Victoria looked around. “Where are the chicks?”
“In their new home. Lambert Willoughby has built the nicest pen for me. It will hold both my goats and my chickens.” Delilah fluffed her hair. “And the nicest man called me out of the blue and offered me a rooster. I told him I plan to raise chickens, and he said I would need a rooster.”
“You need only one rooster.”
“He’s bringing me only one.”
“But …” said Victoria, thinking the odds were against two dozen chicks growing up to become two dozen hens and no roosters. She suddenly had an uneasy thought. “What’s the name of the man?”
“I don’t recall. Something biblical, I think. Aesop, or something. I wonder where Lee is?” She pushed a buzzer next to the refrigerator, and in a few moments, Darcy appeared.
“Can I help you, madam?”
“Where’s Lee?”
“I believe you gave her the morning off.”
Delilah checked her watch. “It’s quarter to twelve now.”
“Yes, madam. Is there something I can do for you?”
Delilah turned away. “I want to see her when she comes in.”
“Certainly, madam.” Darcy glanced at Victoria, who smiled, and he left.
“Let’s go into the conservatory, Mrs. Trumbull. I can’t imagine what Lee’s doing, taking off this morning.”
Victoria followed her down the long hallway into the orchid-filled plant room, and settled into a wrought-iron garden chair. She’d been standing during the coffee hour and was glad to sit.
“I can’t imagine what’s got into her,” Delilah said, sitting on the sofa across from Victoria. “She’s usually trustworthy. Yesterday afternoon she took a personal call and was quite mysterious about it.”
Victoria waited politely for the rest of the story.
Delilah stretched her arm along the back of the sofa. “I’m very lenient with my staff, but one thing I can’t stand is having them make personal calls on my time.”
“You have such a lovely view,” said Victoria. “I can see the water tower on the mainland.”
“I’m sure her taking time off today had something to do with that call yesterday”
“What call?” said Henry, who strode into the conservatory at that moment. “I need a drink. Can I fix one for anybody else?” He ambled over to the wet bar across from the orchids.
“Lee, darling. She got a mysterious personal call yesterday afternoon, and then asked for this morning off.”
“Church,” said Henry, pouring scotch into a glass. “Tell Darcy to come in here, will you?”
Delilah raised her eyebrows at Victoria and whispered, “Lee’s not a churchgoer.” She jingled the silver bell.
“Scotch, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Henry. “Bourbon, sherry, white wine?”
“White wine,” said Victoria. “Thank you.”
“Madam, you rang.” Darcy appeared suddenly. Henry turned abruptly, spilling the drink he was pouring.
Delilah smiled. “Reverend True wants to speak to you.”
“Sir,” said Darcy, bowing.
“Who the hell are you?” s
aid Henry. “Who sent you? Where did you come from?”
“Mrs. Sampson’s agency sent me, sir.”
“Miss Sampson,” said Delilah.
“She’s Mrs. True, when she’s not acting,” Henry snapped.
“Yes, sir,” said Darcy.
“You didn’t answer me. Who are you, anyway?”
“Mrs. Sampson’s, that is, Mrs. True’s, chauffeur, sir.”
“The hell you are. You knew my pilot, didn’t you?”
“The pilot looked familiar, sir, but I’d mistaken him for someone else.”
“How did you get out of jail so quickly? A murder rap is serious stuff.”
“The sheriff had no reason to detain me, sir.”
Henry held his drink in his right hand and pointed his forefinger at Darcy. “I don’t like you, whatever your name is. I don’t trust you, and if you were working for me, instead of my wife, I’d fire your ass.”
“Oh, Henry. Stop it!” said Delilah.
Darcy bowed. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Goddamned right, that’s all. Watch your goddamned step. ‘Will that be all, sir?”’ he mimicked.
Darcy backed out of the room.
“What’s the matter with you, Henry, making a scene like that in front of my guest?” Delilah paused. “Jealous, that’s what. You’re jealous.”
Henry handed a glass of wine to Victoria, who thanked him.
“goddamned banty cock. Nothing to be jealous about.”
“By the way,” said Delilah, “I’m expecting a Mr. Jericho.”
“Jericho?”
“Some name like that. He’s bringing me a rooster.”
At which point, Lee entered. “A Mr. Rivers to see you, ma’am.”
Victoria sat up straight and set her wineglass down.
“Show him in, please, Lee. And I want to talk to you later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jordan Rivers, usually nattily dressed in pressed chinos and crisp shirt, straggled in, his shirt partly unbuttoned, and his chinos exuding a strong barnyard smell. He dragged a swollen burlap feed bag behind him and the contents of the bag squirmed, squawked, and flapped.
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