Chapter 11
“Crackers?” I echoed. “I suppose they’d go under baked goods. We don’t have a separate cracker competition.”
“Maybe they fall under bread,” Randall suggested. “What kind of crackers?”
“Florida crackers.” Rob perched on the edge of my desk. “And I already tried to give him directions to the food exhibits, and he got all steamed up. Says they’re not that kind of crackers and asked if I was a complete idiot.”
“A complete idiot?” I said. “I’ll take the fifth on that. Hang on a sec.”
I opened up a browser, typed a few words into my search engine, and found the information I needed.
“Aha,” I said. “Florida Crackers are a heritage breed of cows.”
“Cool.” Rob was already pulling out his cell phone and punching numbers. “It’s okay,” he said. “The Crackers are cows. Send him to the cow barn. Right.”
“You could have called with that question,” I said. “Or—wild and crazy idea—gone to look in his truck.”
“I did call, but your phone kept ringing busy,” he said. “Needed a break, anyway. And I wanted to get the scoop on the great chicken robbery. Did the thief get the whole flock?”
“Two chickens are missing,” I said.
“Is that all?” he asked. “Then why do you have Horace going crazy doing forensics? Are they that valuable?”
“They are to the owners,” I said.
“And they’re a rare, heritage breed,” Randall put in.
“What is with all this heritage and heirloom stuff, anyway?” Rob asked.
Talk about giving Randall the perfect opening to talk about his latest obsession. I tried not to giggle.
“Heirloom crops are ones that are in danger of falling by the wayside because they’re not the ones that Big Agriculture finds useful,” Randall began. “Same with heritage animal and bird breeds.”
And speaking of those breeds, I decided it would be useful to print out a copy of a page I’d bookmarked—the American Livestock Breed Conservancy’s list of farm animals and poultry that were a conservation priority. I was tired of being confused when people talked about Sablepoots and Old Spots. And I’d already figured out that the more obscure the animal’s breed, the more annoyed its owner would be if you didn’t recognize it.
“So what’s so special about these heritage animals?” Rob was asking.
“Let me show you one,” Randall said.
He strode out the door and disappeared. Rob had to scramble to keep up. I grabbed my printout and followed along for the entertainment value. From the enthusiasm with which he extolled heritage livestock and heirloom seeds, you’d think Randall was a fifth- or sixth-generation farmer. And some of his family were farmers, but a lot more of them were carpenters, plumbers, electricians, mechanics—just about any skilled trade that would get them out from behind a plow. Randall as the champion of the old-fashioned farm was a new role that still amused me.
He led us to a small pen.
“This,” he said, “is an American Mammoth Jackstock donkey.”
Staring back at us was a large donkey. His coat was black on top, shaded to gray or white on his belly and the inside of his legs, and he had a white nose and pale rings around his eyes. His ears were so large they seemed incongruous, as if someone had stuck a pair of fake bunny ears on a horse. But they were definitely real. One of them swiveled ninety degrees to the right, apparently tracking a sound so faint none of us noticed, and then snapped back to attention facing us.
“I thought donkeys were little,” Rob said. “He’s the size of a small horse.”
“They were bred for size and strength,” Randall explained. “By George Washington and other early colonial farmers. You breed one of these donkeys to a saddle mare and you’ve got yourself a decent-sized riding mule. Breed him to a draft mare and you’ve got a big, strapping work mule.”
“But why go to all that trouble of breeding mules when you’ve already got horses and donkeys?” Rob asked. “Why not just use them? Plus with horses and donkeys you can always make more little horses and donkeys, but mules are kind of a dead end.”
“Mules get the best of both parents,” Randall said. “They’re more patient and surefooted than a horse, and can carry bigger loads. And they’re bigger and stronger than donkeys. And supposedly more intelligent than either horses or donkeys. No offense, Jim-Bob.”
He patted the donkey’s neck. Jim-Bob took a sideways step closer to Randall and lowered his head slightly, as if to suggest that he wouldn’t say no if someone offered to scratch behind his ears. Randall obliged, and Jim-Bob’s long face took on a dreamy look.
“And they eat less for their size than horses, which is another big selling point with a small farmer,” Randall went on. “A hundred and fifty years ago, your mule was like your tractor and your pickup, all rolled into one. By 1920, there were around five million mules in the U.S., and probably hundreds of thousands of these donkeys that the mule breeders used to produce them. And then along came Henry Ford and the model T.”
Jim-Bob pulled his head back. I wondered at first if he was objecting to Randall’s mentioning the man whose invention had led to the downfall of his breed. Then Jim-Bob stuck his head forward again at a slightly different angle, so Randall could reach the other ear.
“Poor old guy,” Rob said. “I guess with nobody using mules anymore, this guy’s out of a job.” He stepped forward and began scratching the ear Randall had abandoned. Jim-Bob closed his eyes and sighed with delight.
“Lots of people still use mules.”
We glanced around to see a woman with cropped gray hair, blue jeans, and a t-shirt with a picture of a mule and the words MULE PROJECT on it.
“Hey, Betsy,” Randall called.
“The Amish use mules.” Clearly this was Betsy’s favorite topic. “They may use horses for their buggies, but they plow and harvest with mules. And mules are popular for wilderness trekking. In fact, in parts of the world where you can’t take a car, people still use mules for daily transportation. The U.S. Army uses them in places like Afghanistan where the terrain’s too steep to drive or even land a helicopter.”
“Betsy’s one of the people trying to keep the American Jack Mule breed from dying out,” Randall added. “What happens if we discover a whole lot of new uses for mules, and can’t get top-quality ones?”
“She’s protecting the strategic mule reserve,” I said. “I like that.”
“And I aim to go home with all the mules and donkeys I came with,” Betsy said. “You hear me, Randall?”
“Betsy,” Randall began. “We’re just as sick as anyone about the chicken thefts, and we’re tightening up security considerably now. I know you’re worried that someone will steal your stock, but we’re doing our best to guard the animals—”
“No, I’m not that worried about theft,” Betsy said. “My mules and donkeys pretty much guard themselves. Heaven help the poor rustler who goes after them. No, I’m talking about that blond hussy who keeps coming ’round trying to bludgeon me with her checkbook.”
“Genette Sedgewick?” I asked.
“That’s her. She’s been trying to tell me she’s a big supporter of the American Mammoth when she can’t even tell a mule from a donkey,” Betsy went on. “For that matter, she can’t tell a jack from a jenny.”
“I’m afraid I don’t even know what a jack or a jenny is,” Rob said.
“Same as stallion and mare in horses,” Randall put in.
“Okay, I think I could figure that out, now that I know the terminology,” Rob said.
“You’re allowed not to know the terminology.” Betsy’s gruff tone softened a little. “You’re not pretending to be an experienced mule and donkey owner.” She turned back to Randall. “If that woman comes around here again, I might throw her in the pen with Henry, my orneriest mule, and see which one comes out alive.”
Randall glanced over at me.
“You think we could come up wit
h a rule about harassing exhibitors?” he asked.
“I assume by ‘we’ you mean ‘me,’” I said. “I’ll work on it. Do you mean for this year or next year?”
“Next year won’t help me if she drives me crazy this year,” Betsy said.
“It’s our fair,” Randall said. “I don’t see why we can’t put out a rule to cover an unforeseen problem. Not the first complaint we’ve had about her.”
I was already scribbling in my notebook.
“I’ll draft something,” I said. “But frankly, I’m not sure Genette will pay much attention to a rule. Might be a good idea if someone had a talk with her.”
“Great idea,” Randall said. “You can probably get through to her much better in person.”
With that he gave Jim-Bob a parting pat and strode off.
“You walked right into that one,” Rob said.
Betsy snickered.
“Much as I would enjoy reading Genette the riot act, I’m afraid she’s a hard case,” I said. “I’m going to call in expert assistance.”
Rob and Betsy looked puzzled.
“After all,” I said. “Mother is in charge of the wine pavilion.”
“Awesome,” Rob said. “Can I watch?”
“Ask Mother.”
“By the way,” Betsy said. “We haven’t seen your grandfather this year. He’s been such a supporter of the mule rescue and heritage animals in general. Is he okay?”
She sounded worried—as well she might. Grandfather was well into his nineties, although he was still active as a roving zoologist and gadfly environmentalist, and kept up a travel schedule that would have killed me.
“He’s fine,” I said. “He’ll probably be here by Saturday. He and Caroline Willner from the Wildlife Sanctuary went to Australia with a film crew to do a special on endangered species.”
“Lovely!” she said. “So we’ll be seeing him on Animal Planet again sometime soon?”
“Along with any number of Bulmer’s fruit bats, northern hairy-nosed wombats, and bridled nail-tail wallabies,” I said. “And don’t ask me what any of those creatures look like—I’m waiting to see the footage.”
“Fabulous!” she said. “Give him my best, and tell him we’d love to have him stop by. We’ve just started a Web site for the Mule Project and I’d love to have a picture of him and Jim-Bob on it.”
“I’ll definitely tell him.” The notion of seeing a photo of my stubborn grandfather appearing on the Mule Project Web site had a curious appeal. “I’ll catch you later.”
I gave Jim-Bob a friendly pat on the head and then headed for the wine pavilion. Behind me, I could hear that Rob was still intrigued by the mules and donkeys.
“So is it true that they’re really stubborn?” he asked.
“They can be,” Betsy said. “But mainly because they’re better at sticking up for themselves. A horse will let you ride him to exhaustion or into a dangerous situation, but not a mule or a donkey…”
Hmm. We’d been thinking of getting ponies for the boys. Would small mules be a safer choice?
As I headed for the wine pavilion, I made a mental note to ask Betsy later. Right now, coping with the evil Genette was more urgent.
Chapter 12
Mother was delighted to see me. She was standing beside a booth at the Mediterranean end of the pavilion, delicately sipping from a glass with a splash of white wine in it, while a woman winemaker watched intently, as if Mother’s verdict would make or break her wine’s reputation. For all I knew, perhaps it would.
“Meg, dear.” She held out a glass. “Do try some of this lovely Chardonnay!”
“Later,” I said. “When my taste buds have time to think. Would you like an opportunity to take Genette to task, or shall I do it myself?”
“Ooh,” the Chardonnay’s maker said. “What’s she been up to now?”
“Harassing other exhibitors to sell their livestock to her,” I said. “Anyone who feels harassed by another exhibitor should report it to the fair office, and we’ll deal with it. Repeat offenders can be banned. Permanently.”
Mother smiled.
“Last time I looked she’d stepped out,” she said. “I think I’ll wander down to that part of the tent. Thank you,” she said to the winemaker. “Can you save me a few bottles? In fact, make it a case.”
“Absolutely.”
Mother sipped the last bit of Chardonnay and sailed off.
“I may be the first to report Genette,” the winemaker said. “If she comes back and badgers me again to buy a copy of our customer list. Not that I’m afraid of losing customers to her—not if they taste her wine. But I shudder to think what kind of marketing she’d do if she ever got my customers’ names and addresses. She doesn’t exactly run a very classy operation.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve seen the labels.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the labels.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Her labels sell a lot of my wine. One look at that monstrosity and anyone with a smidgen of taste wants to run away and find something a bit more elegant.”
She pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to me. A wine label. No, actually it was an oversized business card made to look like a wine label on one side. The reverse held her name, address, telephone numbers, e-mail, Web site, and even a small map with directions to her winery.
And the label itself did look rather elegant. There was a white column on either side, with roses growing up the left hand one and grapes on the right. The winery’s name was printed in a very traditional typeface. The colors were bright, but not gaudy. Yes, elegant.
“Nice,” I said. “May I keep it?”
“Of course.” She held up a handful to show that she had plenty more. “Anyway, it’s not the labels that drive me crazy. It’s how she runs her winery. She tore down a bunch of perfectly lovely, mellow old buildings and put up a bunch of ugly new ones. They look a lot like her booth, actually. Then she put in a helipad. You have no idea what it’s like having helicopters swooping back and forth all the time, raising clouds of dust and frightening the horses. And then she caught on to the idea of using her winery as an event space.” She rolled her eyes as if this were the last straw.
“Aren’t a lot of wineries doing that these days?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Sometimes that’s the only thing keeping us afloat in the bad years. But it doesn’t always set well with the communities we’re located in. So most of us do what we can to minimize the negative impact on our neighbors and the environment and have orderly well-run events. Classy events.”
“That doesn’t sound like Genette’s style,” I said.
“Every weekend is a nightmare.” She was shaking her head and wincing. “Rowdy frat parties and bachelor orgies and wild wedding receptions. Rock bands and fireworks all night. Drunken partyers careening down the roads till all hours. A lot of sirens—police breaking up brawls, ambulances carrying out the casualties.”
“Sounds horrible,” I said. “Can’t the police do anything?”
“They’re trying,” she said. “But she’s got all the money in the world to fight back. It could take years, and all that time she’ll be busy turning a peaceful, rural county into a drunken slum. And making it that much harder for the rest of us who are trying to run our businesses responsibly.”
She shook her head and turned to go behind the counter of her booth, then turned back to me again.
“And in case no one else has said it,” she added, “we appreciate what you and your mother are doing to keep her from ruining the wine pavilion.”
With that she turned to serve another customer.
Another name to add to the list of suspects if anything happened to the much-loathed Genette. I walked slowly down the aisle and found Mother in the Jeffersonian end, where she was supervising Michael’s attempts to rearrange some vines so they climbed more gracefully up a white-painted trellis, and then hung more elegantly over the tables and chairs in a nearby booth. The boys were sitt
ing at the table, clutching enormous wineglasses in their tiny hands. Jamie was holding up his glass, which was filled with red liquid, and peering through it to see what the world looked like with a rosy tint. Josh had just taken a sip from his glass and was swishing it around in his mouth with a thoughtful look on his face, in a spot-on imitation of what I’d seen adult connoisseurs do.
But what were the boys doing swilling down wine?
“Don’t worry,” Mother said, following my glance. “It’s organic.”
The winemaker held up the bottle for me to see—organic grape juice.
“More, please.” Josh held out his glass.
“Genette’s not there,” Mother said. “But I can see her booth from here.”
“Good,” I said. “We really need to keep an eye on her.”
“Why?” Mother forgot about the vines and stepped out into the aisle so she could look at Genette’s booth. “What else is she doing now?”
“Nothing that I know of,” I said. “But these people really hate her. If I were her, I’d keep my back to the wall and I wouldn’t drink any wine I hadn’t poured myself. From a freshly opened bottle.”
“Shh!” Mother glanced around as if afraid of someone overhearing. “Don’t let any of them hear you say that. I can’t imagine any of these nice people poisoning someone with their own wine. Or any other nice wine, before you suggest that.”
“They could use her wine,” I said. “I haven’t heard anyone suggest it was particularly nice.”
“Nice wine.” Jamie said, holding up his glass.
“Find out if any of them make Malmsey,” Michael suggested. “That’s how the Duke of Clarence was killed in Richard III. Drowned in a butt of Malmsey.”
“Is Malmsey wine?” I asked. “I always assumed it was beer.”
“It’s a kind of Madeira,” Mother said as she refilled both boys’ glasses. “And I’m sure none of them would do that, either. If one of them did decide to kill her, I’m sure they could find lots of perfectly suitable methods that don’t involve wine at all. Thank you, Michael; I think that’s fine now.”
Hen of the Baskervilles Page 7