Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  “Love this place,” Alexandra said from her seat next to Cam. “How can you go wrong with goat cheese, roasted peppers, and mushrooms?” She wiped the corners of her mouth and took a sip of beer. Two large pizzas filled the table, with barely enough room for plates, napkins, and glasses.

  “You can’t,” Katie mumbled around a mouthful of same from across the table.

  Cam sipped her glass of Merlot and watched Katie, whose eyes still held a haunted look, despite her apparent appetite. Her dark hair lay limp on her shoulders, and her navy blue turtleneck sweater sported a smear of tomato sauce near her collarbone.

  “Katie, what’s wrong?” Cam asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, but didn’t meet Cam’s gaze.

  Cam glanced at Alexandra, who mouthed, “No idea.” Alexandra’s flaxen hair was tied back in a messy knot over an embroidered Alpine boiled wool jacket that made her look like a grown-up Heidi.

  “Did you hear that my chicks were attacked last night by your friends?” Cam watched Katie.

  “They’re not my friends.” Katie finally looked up. She shook her head. “Cam, they’re not my friends. It’s terrible you lost your chicks. I’m so sorry those guys went to your place. I . . .” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I lost a dozen babies, and a fox was right inside my barn eating a couple of them. I was lucky it didn’t attack me.”

  Katie’s eyes filled but she didn’t speak.

  “You need to tell the police who they are,” Cam urged. “Give them names. Vandalism like that is criminal.”

  Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Dude, I’ve been telling her this all along.”

  “But it’s a different group every time,” Katie nearly whispered. “It’s like a cell. The one I went with, they said they don’t even know the other people.”

  “Okay, but did you tell the police who attacked Wayne’s farm, at least?” Cam asked.

  “Of course,” Katie said.

  Another whoosh of cold air came from the door of the restaurant. A young man ambled in and looked around, then cast a wide, white-toothed smile at their table. Cam realized it was Tam, the guy who had shown up at her farm to volunteer the day before. He approached their table.

  “Hey, guys,” Tam said. “Mind if I join you?” He slid in next to Katie and sat with a straight back, his hands neatly folded on the table.

  Katie shot him a sharp glance, but moved over to give him room.

  “Cam, this is my friend Tam,” Katie said.

  Alexandra laughed. “Sounds like a Dr. Seuss line. Do Cam and Tam like green eggs and ham?”

  Katie gave her sister a wan smile.

  “How’re you doing, Tam?” Cam asked. “It was great to have your help yesterday.”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” Tam said.

  At Katie’s quizzical look, Cam explained, “He came by and mucked out the coop for Volunteer Wednesday.” She reminded herself to add him to the list of people who had been on the farm and to let the police know.

  Katie’s eyes went wide but she didn’t say anything.

  “Hungry?” Alexandra asked him.

  “Actually, I am.” Tam eyed the pizza, slipping out of his jacket. “Got an extra slice or two?” He again wore a U Mass sweatshirt.

  “Sure,” Alexandra said. “This one is veggie, that one has pepperoni.” She gestured.

  His lip curled for an instant, and then relaxed. “I’ll take a slice of the veggie, thanks.” He reached for a slice.

  “We were just talking about the vandalism at Cam’s farm last night,” Alexandra said. “That same radical group hit her place, left her baby chicks out to die.”

  Tam shook his head as he chewed, his brow knitted. After he swallowed, he said, “Terrible. Do they know who did it?”

  “Not that I know of,” Cam said. She glanced out the window at the now-dark night. Shoot. She hadn’t closed in the hens before she left, since she hadn’t thought she’d be out late. At least the chicks were locked up and safe, and if yesterday was indication, the hens would all be a-roost when she arrived home. She helped herself to another piece of the pepperoni.

  “So, Cam, are your chickens certified organic along with the rest of your farm?” Tam asked.

  “They are, but it’s so expensive to buy organic feed, I might change that.” At Alexandra’s open mouth looking like it was about to mount a protest, Cam held up a hand. “Hens that are free range, local, and chemical free satisfy the vast majority of my customers, Alexandra. You know that. I wouldn’t change being certified organic for my produce, but if I charged enough for eggs and meat birds to cover my costs, nobody would buy any.”

  “You could disinvest from raising livestock. Have you considered that?” Tam asked, then popped the rest of an end crust into his mouth.

  “I like the girls.” At Tam’s confused look, Cam added, “My hens. They’re funny.”

  “How can you get attached to them if you’re going to kill them later?” Katie asked.

  Tam raised his eyebrows and blinked attentively at Cam.

  “I don’t know if they’ll all go to the slaughterhouse.” Cam sipped her wine. “This is my first year, remember? First half year with chickens, really. I’m still figuring things out.”

  “No worries, Cam,” Alexandra said. “Hey, did anybody catch the podcast of The Moth finals?”

  The discussion from Cam’s younger tablemates washed over her. She didn’t have time to listen to podcasts except while she was working, and then she much preferred to listen to the birds, insects, and other sounds of a working farm. She gazed into the sun-splashed Greek tableau on the wall instead, fantasizing about a future vacation with Pete.

  Alexandra dropped Cam at the farm at a little before seven. Katie had left the House of Pizza with Tam after they’d split the bill four ways, which had been Tam’s idea.

  “How well do you know Tam?” Cam asked Alexandra after they pulled into the drive. Cam rested her hand on the passenger door latch.

  “I don’t really know him. He and Katie have a few classes together this winter. He seems smart. Harmless. Kind of cute, if you like that type.” Alexandra glanced at the time display on the dashboard. “Sorry, gotta run. I’m meeting a friend for a movie.”

  “Have fun. Thanks for the ride,” Cam said, and watched her drive off. The motion-controlled light at the house flashed on as Cam trudged past it toward the barn. Tam’s “type” was definitely not Alexandra’s, if the sweet, scruffy, thoughtful, ever knowledgeable DJ were any guide. But, hey, didn’t they say there was somebody for everybody? And who would ever have guessed that Cam herself would be attracted to a police detective a decade older and few inches shorter than herself?

  She unlocked the barn, the new key in her hand making her feel like she had her own personal security guard. She flipped on the inside and outside lights, then went around the corner to lock up the hens. She should install a motion-controlled light out here, too. She didn’t want anybody prowling around here unseen ever again. At the chicken yard, only Hillary remained still out, so Cam shooed her inside the coop and latched the door. She returned to the barn to check on the remaining chicks.

  “Hey, chickies,” she cooed at the fluff balls as she made sure they had food and fresh water. She reached into the box and stroked each one that would let her. She had no idea if they missed their moms grooming them, but she figured giving the livestock on her farm a sense of well-being had to be good for them. “Do you miss your sisters?” None answered, so she went on, “You’re safe now, girls. Just eat and grow, okay?” She gave the closest one a last stroke. As she straightened, the image of the fox popped up in her brain, the fox with yellow down on its jaws, and she shuddered.

  After locking the barn again, she let Dasha out of the house while she scooped out Preston’s dinner and freshened his water. She added Dasha’s kibble to his dish and ran clean water for him, too. Preston reared up and rubbed his head against her knee, then looked up at her before trotting to his bowl. Cam laugh
ed and leaned down. It was his time to get stroked, his favorite activity while he crunched his kitty kibble.

  At the sound of barking outside, Cam moved to the door but didn’t see the dog anywhere. “Dasha,” she called, stepping out onto the porch. “Come on in, buddy.” His barking pierced the night, sounding like it was coming from the far side of the barn. She called again, but he didn’t appear. What was he barking at? And why didn’t he come?

  Cam swore, suddenly chilled to her core. Were the vandals back? Or maybe the fox? There were other predators out there, too—coyotes and the weasel-relative fisher cats, at the very least. She should have taken Dasha out on a leash. And here she was without her truck. She hurried to the kitchen and scrabbled in a drawer until she found the flashlight, then grabbed her phone, too. She was definitely putting up a motion-activated light on the barn tomorrow. With one hand on the door, she turned back, lifted her keys off their hook, and locked the door behind her.

  Hurrying toward the barn, she called Dasha again. His barking ceased, but she couldn’t hear any snarling or sounds of an animal fight. Let him be all right, she prayed to no one in particular. As she reached the building, she heard a car door slam. Cam whirled toward the sound. An engine started up out on the road in front of the field that was the beginning of her neighbor’s property, and not a very well-tuned-up engine. It gave off a knocking sound as its headlights raced away down the hill.

  That was no animal predator. And every residence around here had long driveways with plenty of room to park. Nobody parked on the rural road with its unfinished berms and scraggly underbrush that reached out to scratch car finishes. It had to be her intruder. But who was it?

  She heard panting and turned to see Dasha trotting around the barn toward her.

  Relief washed over her as tears filled her eyes. “There you are. Are you okay, buddy?” She dropped the flashlight, squatted, and rubbed his head with two hands as he watched her. “Who was out there?” She sniffed and wiped her eye.

  He gave a little bark and looked at the house.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  Dasha looked back at her.

  “Yes, it’s dinnertime. And you’re an awesome guard dog.” She stood and gave him one more pet. “Come on.” Cam walked briskly to the house and unlocked the door, letting Dasha in ahead of her. She gazed out at the inky night for a moment. The skies had cleared, and cold stars shone down from their far-off constellations.

  A horrible cry ripped out from the woods at the back of her farm. It was a cry like a baby being tortured, the cry of the fisher cat. Cam shuddered as she turned toward the solace of her warm, lit, lockable home.

  Chapter 22

  Cam poured a glass of wine and settled on the couch with her phone, the animals joining her at opposite ends. She dialed Pete, grateful when he answered. She filled him in on what had just happened.

  “Dasha is the best guard dog,” she added.

  “I’m so glad you both are all right. It might be better to keep him on a leash when you let him out at night, though.”

  Cam winced a little. “I was thinking the same thing.” She wasn’t about to tell him about hearing the fisher cat with its huge clawed paws and powerful jaws. She wasn’t sure Dasha could hold his own with the fierce carnivorous predator even if it was smaller than he was. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault he’s there at all.”

  “I’ll for sure keep him leashed at night from now on. It was kind of unsettling, too, because I don’t even have my truck here. The battery died when I went to go home, so I left the Ford in the parking lot of the funeral home and got a ride with Alexandra.”

  “Not good to be without wheels.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “So you couldn’t see the make of the car that drove away from your place? A license plate or anything?”

  “No, it was dark out. The moon hasn’t risen yet.” She thought for a moment. “But the person must have been trying to get into the barn. Which is now locked up tight, thanks to my calling a locksmith this afternoon.”

  “Good move.”

  “And when they couldn’t get in and Dasha started barking, I guess they sprinted for the car. I’m surprised they made it over Tully’s field without tripping on something.”

  “I thought you said Tully didn’t own it anymore,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, yeah. I can never remember the new owner’s name.” Tully, an old man, had finally died this winter. “To me, it’s Tully’s field. But anyway, I don’t know who would want to get into the barn if not those vandals. And I thought they usually didn’t strike the same place twice.”

  “They haven’t in the past.”

  “I only hope whoever it was doesn’t come back,” Cam said. “So you had to leave the wake today.”

  “I did. But I was starting to tell you that I had a very interesting conversation with Catriona Watson this morning,” Pete said.

  “I wondered about that. She was supposed to meet me for lunch but she never showed.”

  “She wasn’t particularly happy to be called in for questioning.”

  “Did she tell you what happened? What she meant by that comment of hers?” Cam tapped her fingers on her wineglass.

  “She said there was an accident. Fionnoula died.”

  “That’s what Paul said, too.”

  “Paul Underwood? I was looking for him this morning, too, but he wasn’t answering his phone.”

  “Exactly. I talked with him tonight when I was leaving the wake and he had just arrived. When I told him what Catriona said, he said it was true. And that Wayne was about to go public with the news. He said it would have ruined his life.”

  “Possibly true,” Pete said. “That group reported neither the death nor the accident. We can’t press charges unless it’s murder, and we need more information to decide that. If it wasn’t murder, it’d be manslaughter at most, and that has a statute of limitations of six years. But if news got out about how a friend of theirs died, even accidentally, I can imagine it would not do good things for Paul’s reputation, or Catriona’s.”

  “Did you find out what the accident was?”

  “Catriona clammed up at that. I’m still hoping, though.”

  “How are things with your commander?” Cam asked. “Tomorrow’s the end of the week.”

  Pete groaned. “As much pressure as always. Ivan isn’t helping.”

  “I ran into him at the wake, too. He basically warned me off the case.”

  “Great.”

  “Does he know we’re, you know, seeing each other?”

  “I think so. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Pete reassured her. “Me talking with you about the case? Not so much.”

  Cam caressed the phone with her finger. “I wish this was all over. I wish we could just hang out again. I miss you.”

  His voice turned gruff. “I miss you, too.”

  At seven the next morning Cam pressed the number for SK Foreign Auto. She had to get her battery replaced, pronto, and she knew Sim opened early. The mechanic agreed to go to the funeral home and jump-start the truck if Cam would meet her there.

  Cam pulled on coat, gloves, and a knit cap. She locked up the house and dragged her bicycle out of the barn. At least the sun was out today, although the outside thermometer read only forty degrees. Fifteen minutes later, having coasted downhill nearly all the way into town, she sat behind the wheel of the Ford with the door open, the bike in the back, and the engine blessedly running thanks to one red cable and one black that ran between the engine compartment and Sim’s mobile battery unit.

  “Rev it a few times,” Sim instructed. Her short dark hair was spiked, as usual, and she wore her usual black, although today’s leather jacket looked like it was the auto mechanic version, not the punk band look Sim often sported.

  Cam pressed the pedal. A running engine was the best sound, ever.

  Sim set to work disconnecting the jumper cables.
“Follow me to the shop,” she called to Cam when she was done, then let the Ford’s hood drop. “It’ll only take me a few to swap in a new battery, and I have one of the right size all charged up.”

  Cam waved her agreement and soon stood in the auto shop down the road. Sim leaned under the open hood of the truck and worked on the battery connections. The place had a gritty smell of metal and oil and rubber. Two racks of tires hung high on one wall, and mote-filled light filtered in through windows in the garage doors.

  “Coffee and donuts in the office if you want.” Sim pointed with a wrench.

  “That sounds perfect.” Cam went through the small door, reemerging with a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a chocolate cake donut in the other. She leaned against a metal workbench holding a big red toolbox with its lid open. Shelves above the bench held rows of small boxes and cans of oil. A snapshot of Sim, head down, playing a drum set with both hands and feet, was pinned to the lowest shelf.

  “Exactly what the doctor ordered,” Cam said. “How have you been?”

  “Great. Band has a gig coming up at the Kit Kat Lounge in Haverhill tomorrow night, if you’re not busy.” Four small silver rings marched up the edge of her right ear and another one adorned her left eyebrow.

  “I might be able to do that.”

  “Bring that detective of yours,” Sim added, glancing up with a grin.

  “That could be a problem. He’s on this murder case. If it isn’t solved soon, he definitely won’t be free. And might get demoted, too.”

  Sim heaved the battery out and carried it to a cart, then wiped her hands on a red rag she pulled from her back pocket. She cocked her head at Cam.