Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  “Absolutely,” Mother said.

  I strolled out of the wine pavilion feeling confident that at least one part of the fair was under control.

  As I stepped out and looked around, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a man following me out of the tent.

  “Can I help you, Mr.—” I glanced through the tent opening at the booth I thought he’d emerged from. Stapleton Wineries. “Stapleton?”

  He didn’t correct me. He glanced furtively in several directions, and then took a step closer.

  “It’s about Genette,” he said, in a voice calculated not to carry very far. “You need to keep an eye on her. She’s sneaky.”

  “I will,” I said. “Both eyes, and both ears. But don’t worry. I think if she turns on the stereo again, someone will notice, and we’ll have grounds to confiscate it. And maybe even kick her out.”

  “I don’t mean the stereo.” He waved one hand dismissively. “Though I have to admit, even if I were a Glass fan, that would be annoying.”

  “Glass fan?”

  “Philip Glass,” he said. “The composer of that music she was trying to destroy your eardrums with. Not my favorite of his compositions, actually. The wife and I have been known to blast that piece out the window on Halloween, to set the mood. No, I mean the pranks.”

  “Pranks?”

  “The chicken thefts. The pumpkin. The quilt. She’s behind it all.”

  “If you have evidence of this—” I began.

  “I don’t have any evidence, but it stands to reason. She was after the chickens.”

  “Seems to me she could afford to buy a few chickens,” I pointed out.

  “She could afford to buy anything she wants,” he said. “But what if someone won’t sell to her? What if she doubles the price a couple of times and an animal’s owner just keeps saying no? It happened to me.”

  “She stole your chickens?”

  “Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots,” he said. “Very rare bantam breed. I had a dozen—I was trying to build up a flock. One day she came over to the vineyard for a visit—God knows why; we’re not friends. And she tried to buy the Sablepoots. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I finally told her that as soon as I got my flock established, I’d sell her some chicks. Didn’t make her happy. She’s into instant gratification. Then a week later, someone stole half of my flock. Including the rooster. Bye-bye future chicks.”

  “And you think she has them?”

  “Couple months later, she held a big party, and one of the things she was showing off was a pen full of Sablepoots.”

  “Yours?”

  “No, chicks. A dozen of them, young enough to have hatched from eggs since mine had been stolen. She claimed she bought them somewhere. Real secretive about where, though, and I can’t find any reputable breeder who recalls selling to her. I’m almost positive she has another farm somewhere with my Sablepoots stashed on it. And who knows what else. But I can’t find it—it’s probably out of state. So she’s building up a prize-winning flock of Sablepoots with stock she stole from me, and I’m still on the waiting list till another breeder has some chicks. A long list.”

  “Sounds … suspicious,” I said. “If she does have another farm where she stashes stolen animals, wouldn’t that be a job for law enforcement?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And our sheriff back home agrees with me, or at least he doesn’t think I’m crazy. But he needs more than just me saying I think she did it. She’s rich, and she’s got political connections. If he tried to do a search on her assets, it would set off red flags. And if he goes after her and doesn’t find anything—well, he likes his job.”

  “So you think she’s expanding to Russian Orloffs?”

  “Could be. She had some Dutch Belteds and Red Polls at her winery spread last time I heard. Cows,” he added, correctly guessing from my expression that I had no idea what species he was talking about. “And then they disappeared. Did she sell them, or move them somewhere else? Someone should look.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken her for an animal fancier,” I said. “I can see her with a spoiled little purse dog, but cows and chickens?”

  “Only rare ones. She likes to brag about how rare they are. And she hires people to do the actual work. Usually people who were perfectly happy working for someone else before she offered them double the salary to work for her. I guess it’s a hobby.”

  “Raising animals or acquiring other people’s property?”

  “Both,” he said, with a gruff chuckle. “Whiles away the time while she’s waiting for the grapes to grow. For us working vineyard owners, the days are too short, all year long, for all the work we need to get done, but for a hobby owner like her…”

  He shrugged.

  “I understand why you’d be worried,” I said. “But I’m not sure what we can do.”

  “Ask those poor people who lost their Orloffs if she ever tried to buy them,” he said. “And that kid whose pumpkin was smashed—his father raises Gloucestershire Old Spots—that’s a rare breed of pigs. I haven’t heard she was into pigs, but you never know. Ask him. Ask whoever had her quilt stolen if she raises some kind of rare livestock. Or maybe Genette’s looking to expand and the quilt’s owner also owns some land that borders on hers.”

  “Or maybe Genette tried to buy the quilt, in spite of the ‘not for sale’ sign on it?”

  “Yeah. You’re catching on.”

  I was also catching on to the idea that if someone did knock off Genette, I wouldn’t be the only one needing an alibi. The chief would need a scorecard to keep all the suspects straight.

  And why did the idea of Genette being murdered keep popping into my head? Was it just my way of blowing off a little steam or was I having some kind of premonition?

  “Thanks,” I said. “Although our chief of police is really the one who should hear about this.”

  “Maybe you could pass it along,” he said. “And I’d be perfectly happy to talk to him myself, as long as we do it someplace where she won’t know about it. I don’t want to get on her bad side—I live too close for that.”

  “Is yours one of the farms she’s trying to buy out?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Right now, there’s still two farms between me and her. But that could change. Used to be three farms. Here.”

  He handed me a business card.

  “My cell phone’s on it. I’ll be around if your police chief wants to talk to me.”

  With that he nodded and stepped back inside the wine pavilion.

  I fingered his card for a few moments. Then I tucked it in my pocket and headed for the fair office. The chief might still be there. I could fill him in on Stapleton’s suspicions and find out if he and Vern had made any progress solving the chicken thefts. And then maybe I could head for the nearby llama exhibit and say good morning to the boys.

  When I entered I found the chief and Randall Shiffley sitting on folding chairs. Vern Shiffley was pointing to the map of the fair, and the chief and Randall were studying it.

  “Oh, good—Meg’s here,” Randall said. “Vern’s going to update us on the investigation so far.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Vern grumbled.

  Chapter 10

  Apparently Vern had just finished complaining, not for the first time, about his Clay County counterparts.

  “Not much we can do about it now,” Vern said. “But I say next year we put the Midway on our side of the border. And I don’t just mean so we can get all the sales tax revenue. Did I tell you I figured out why they never arrested any pickpockets over there at last year’s fair?”

  “Let me guess—they just make ’em pay for a pickpocketing license?” Randall suggested.

  “No, but you’re close,” Vern said. “They just beat the pickpocket up a little, empty his pockets, and escort him to the county line.”

  “I’ll have a word with Sheriff Dingle.” The chief didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.

  “Chief, there’s no talking to
these people,” Vern said. “They’re not in the twenty-first century yet. They’re still trying to find the seventeenth. If we—”

  “I’ll have a word with their sheriff.” Chief Burke’s voice was calm, but I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. “He may not agree with me, but I think he’s well aware that they need to work with us if they want to retain their small but very lucrative piece of the fair. Have we made any progress on the thefts and vandalism?”

  Vern grimaced and shook his head. He had a small notebook in his hand, and he looked down at it and flipped a page.

  “Horace couldn’t get any usable fingerprints off the pumpkin or the cage the chickens were taken from,” he said. “He said there was no use even trying with the quilt. Half the quilters are over at Rosalie’s camper, consoling her, and the other half are mutinous because they think she now has an unfair edge in the competition, even if Daphne can’t get all the mud off.”

  “And they could be right, but that’s not something we can do anything about,” the chief said.

  Vern nodded, and went back to his notebook.

  “Knowledgeable sources in the produce tent say the kid whose pumpkin was smashed was probably headed for a medal,” he went on. “But no one—except the kid—thinks it would have won first prize. Third through sixth, according to my sources. Haven’t heard yet whether the judges are going to let him enter those barrels of pumpkin goop we had collected. And things are pretty crazy in the chicken tent. A few of the exhibitors are threatening to go home, but no one really believes they will before the judging. Still, they’re all running around like—well, like chickens with their heads cut off. No other thefts or pranks, and no idea if those three are related.”

  “I heard a theory that might explain it,” I said. I pulled out Stapleton’s card, handed it to the chief, and relayed what he had told me about Genette.

  “You think there’s something to this?” the chief asked when I’d finished.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “People who know her better than I do seem to think so. Of course, they’re all people who dislike her. Haven’t talked to anyone who likes her, if such a thing exists. But even if Stapleton’s wrong, I bet he’s not the only one saying stuff like this. There are some serious bad feelings down there in the wine tent. You might want to keep an eye on her.”

  “Are you worried that she might be up to something, or that the other exhibitors, who think she’s up to something, might take matters into their own hands?”

  “Either,” I said. “Or both. There’s also the possibility that someone might be deliberately trying to cause troubles that would be blamed on Genette.”

  “I don’t have the manpower to guard Ms. Sedgewick,” the chief said. “We’re already stretched thin patrolling a hundred acres of fairgrounds.”

  “One hundred and twenty, to be exact,” Randall said. “With the possibility of expansion if— Sorry, chief. Force of habit.”

  “Patrolling over a hundred acres of fairgrounds,” the chief went on. “Unless we are reasonably sure that Ms. Sedgewick is either dangerous or in danger, I can’t justify putting a watch on her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No,” I said. “I just meant keep her in mind as you investigate the chicken theft.”

  The chief nodded.

  “So how are your patrols going?” He was looking at Randall.

  Randall looked at me.

  “I’ve got twenty-two volunteers so far,” I said. “I’m going to organize them in mixed teams.”

  “Mixed how?” Randall asked.

  “Geographically and by exhibition category,” I said. “And before you say I’m overthinking this—if whoever did this is an exhibitor, and I assume they’re among the leading suspects, what’s to stop him from volunteering for our patrol?” At least that was what serial killers always did in the mystery books and TV shows Dad loved so much. But I didn’t mention that, because I’d already figured out that it annoyed the chief when people made television-based assumptions about how his department worked.

  “Involving himself in the investigation,” the chief said, nodding. “Not uncommon.”

  “He’d be a fool not to volunteer,” Randall added.

  “So we don’t send two chicken breeders to patrol the chicken tent,” I said. “We send a hog man from Tazewell and an apple grower from Gloucester. Different farm specialties; opposite ends of the state.”

  They both nodded.

  “I think we need to concentrate on the east side of the grounds,” Randall said. “Particularly the northeast corner where the Midway is.”

  “Are you suspicious of the Midway people?” the chief asked. “Or Clay County?”

  “Yes,” Vern said, and we all chuckled.

  “Actually, it’s because we have that eight-foot chain-link fence around the rest of the perimeter.” Randall traced the fairground borders on the map. “South, west, north—all fenced in. But the east side backs up against really dense woods and a lot of swampland. We figured only locals could find their way in from back there, and most of them are already working the fair and don’t need to sneak in.”

  “Next year, I think we need to fence in that side, too,” I said. It was an old argument between Randall and me.

  “Next year,” Randall agreed. “But for now, I say we concentrate our patrols along the east.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I was thinking we’d concentrate on the exhibit tents and barns.”

  “Because you think the perpetrator is already inside?” the chief asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But whether he’s sneaking into the fair or already in, he can’t do any damage if he can’t get at the exhibits.”

  “Good point.” The chief nodded.

  “But I’ll set up a few patrols in the northeast corner, too,” I added.

  “Before I go,” the chief said. “Do you have a list of exhibitors?

  “Meg can print you a list,” Randall said. “She’s set up a whole database of ’em. Come on—let’s show him.”

  “I didn’t set up the database.” I turned on my laptop and opened the file. “It was Rob’s contribution to the Un-fair. One of the perks of having a brother who owns a computer game company.”

  “I thought your brother was supremely nontechnical and only came up with the ideas for the games.” The chief was looking over my shoulder at the screen.

  “He didn’t do it himself. He assigned his best database programmer to work with me on it. And I’ve got his help desk on speed dial in case we need anything fixed. What information do you want on the exhibitors?”

  “What do you have?” The chief reached back and pulled up a folding chair to sit at my elbow.

  “What doesn’t she have?” Randall said, with a chuckle.

  “I’ll show you a sample record.” I called up the last record I’d viewed. “Here’s the people who lost the Russian Orloffs.”

  “The Baskervilles,” Randall said.

  “They’re not—” I began.

  “Mr. Holmes!” Randall declaimed, in a not-very-authentic British accent. “They were the footprints of a gigantic hen! We are searching for the Hen of the Baskervilles!”

  “That would be nice,” I said. “But the hen’s a bantam, not a giant, and their name is Bonneville. Why does everyone keep calling them Baskerville?”

  “Maybe because The Hound of the Baskervilles is this month’s One City, One Book selection,” Randall said. “The name kind of sticks in your mind.”

  “Getting back to the Bonnevilles.” I turned to the chief. “We have their name, address, phone number, Web site if applicable, what events they’re entered in, whether they’ve won anything—we fill that in later—where they heard about the Un-fair if we know, whether we issued them a camping permit—it’s free to exhibitors, but we want to control who’s there, so they need a permit. Stuff like that.”

  The chief was peering over his glasses at the screen and nodding his approval.

&nb
sp; “Show him the map,” Randall said. “I just love the map.”

  I typed in a command and brought up a map of Virginia, speckled with dots.

  “Each dot’s an exhibitor,” I said. “The dots off in what should be West Virginia are all out-of state exhibitors. The program is set up so whenever we add an exhibitor to the database, it puts a corresponding dot on the map. We can see where our exhibitors are coming from, and what parts of the state we’re not reaching. I can also show you by category, like just the winemakers, or just the sheep exhibitors, or just the people who have entered the pie contest.”

  As I spoke, I typed in commands and the map changed to show different, smaller configurations of dots.

  “Can I get a copy of that?” the chief asked. “Not a paper copy, a copy of the file on your computer.”

  “It’s not on my computer,” I said. “It’s on the server at Rob’s office. I can see if they can give you a copy, or maybe all you’d need is access to the data.”

  “Access would be excellent,” the chief said.

  A few minutes later he walked out with a printout of all exhibitors with their cell phone numbers and a star beside those who were staying at the campgrounds. And back at the station, Debbie Ann had a user name and password for the Un-fair database, since in addition to being the dispatcher she was the one person on the force who really liked computers and knew how to use them.

  Of course, there was no guarantee our thief and vandal was there in my database. But it was as good a place as any to start.

  Randall and I took care of a few fair-related chores—he made a call to harangue his cousin who was supposed to have delivered another batch of portapotties. I turned on my laptop and began sorting the patrol volunteers into unrelated pairs. If I could get the volunteers organized and notified quickly, maybe I’d still have time to join Michael and the boys at the children’s concert.

  Then my brother, Rob, strolled in.

  “I thought you were minding the exhibitors’ gate,” I said.

  “Need your expertise,” he replied. “We’ve got some guy who wants to know what to do with his crackers.”