Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  “Why do you think someone would want to kill you?” I asked aloud. Not that I doubted there were people who did. Given enough exposure to Genette, I could become one of them myself. But I was curious to hear her take on the subject.

  “All the winemakers and farmers around here hate me,” she said. “They’re jealous of my success, and they don’t want to let someone new into their closed little club. And Brett’s ex-wife, of course. She’ll never forgive me for taking away her husband.”

  Actually, I suspected Molly could forgive Genette quite easily, provided she didn’t also lose her beloved farm.

  “Have you told Chief Burke your concerns?” I asked. “It might help him solve the case.”

  “Oh, yeah, like a hick town cop’s really going to have much luck solving a murder like this.”

  “He spent over a decade in the Baltimore PD’s homicide bureau,” I said. “He knows a few things about solving murders. So I suggest you tell him what you told me.”

  “And just what was that?” The chief had come up behind us.

  “She thinks the killer was after her, not Brett,” I said. “I’ll let her explain it.”

  I strolled back to the fair at a considerably slower pace, and pulled out my cell phone to call Randall.

  “I hear you had quite a time last night,” he said.

  “You have no idea,” I said. “Can the Shiffley Moving Company do a rush job?”

  “How rush?”

  “Today.”

  “I could ask my cousins, but it’d cost an arm and a leg. What’s the rush?”

  “Genette wants to leave. I have no idea if the chief’s going to let her leave town, but there’s no reason not to let her pack up her stuff if she wants. And you have no idea how much morale in the wine pavilion will improve if we can get rid of that hideous booth of hers.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’ll have some men over there within the hour.”

  “And cost is no object; she said so herself,” I added.

  “That’s good, because we jack up the price a bit if we know in advance someone’s going to be a pain in the you-know-what.”

  “And while you’re organizing, we either need to get Chief Burke to release the crime scene or we’re going to need some carpenters to build another gate to the Midway. Actually, I think we need a new gate in either case, because we don’t really want crowds gawking at the old one.”

  “Damn. Hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. I’m on it.”

  I hung up before I realized that I’d just delegated to Randall for a change. It felt good.

  I made it down to the front gate in time to supervise the opening. By nine o’clock, three or four times as many people were waiting as there had been on Thursday, and I could see more cars streaming into the parking lot. Were they coming to see the fair or gawk at the scene of the crime? As long as they paid their admission fees, I didn’t much care.

  I made the rounds, checking up on the various barns and tents. In the farmers’ market, Rose Noire was doing a brisk business in her own potpourri and Molly’s cheese. In the arts and crafts pavilion, there was still a gaping hole in the quilt section where Rosalie’s Baltimore Album quilt should have been.

  “Any news on the quilt?” I asked one of the nearby quilters. I didn’t need to say more than that—we both knew what quilt I meant.

  “Daphne’s optimistic,” she said. “And determined.”

  I winced. I didn’t want to hear “optimistic” and “determined.” I wanted to hear that Daphne had already eradicated all the red mud and horse manure stains and the beautiful Baltimore quilt was on its way back to be hung again in a place of honor.

  “Where’s the owner?” I asked.

  “Rosalie? Not here.” She sounded as relieved as I felt. “Back at the campground in her trailer. Your father prescribed a sedative, and we’ve been taking turns sitting with her.”

  “Good work,” I said.

  In the wine pavilion, the exhibitors were watching with undisguised delight as a posse of Shiffleys disassembled Genette’s booth. I hadn’t seen so much toasting and glass clinking since the last time I attended a wedding.

  Although one of the winemakers who didn’t look quite as cheerful as the rest took me aside.

  “Have you seen Paul Morot today?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “He was hanging around outside all day yesterday, staring at the tent.”

  “He was waiting for Genette to leave so he could come in and ask a few people about jobs,” I said. “Mother was going to give him a signal when the coast was clear.”

  “I heard that,” he said. “And I’m one of the ones he would have talked to. And if I’d known he was looking, I’d have definitely given him a job. But your mother says he was never there when she went to give the signal. And he didn’t come in and talk to anyone—I asked around. And he’s not here today. And not answering his cell phone.”

  “You’re worried something has happened to him?”

  The winemaker frowned as if not sure he wanted to say anything.

  “Look, Paul has a temper,” he said finally. “And he blames Genette for losing his winery.”

  “She wasn’t to blame?”

  “Partly to blame,” he said. “Paul is a great grape grower and winemaker, but he’s a lousy businessman. Not Genette’s fault he was in such dire straits that not being able to buy enough Virginia grapes sent him under. But she was the last straw. And she did buy his farm at a fire-sale price. And yesterday, I heard a rumor that she was going to start bottling her wine under the Fickle Wind label. Give herself a fresh start, because no one who has tasted her swill would ever buy it again.”

  “Can she do that?”

  “If she bought the name along with the physical property, yes,” he said. “And if Paul heard that rumor, it would have made him crazy.”

  “Crazy enough to kill Brett to get back at Genette?”

  “No.” His whole tone changed. “Never. Paul wouldn’t do something calculated like that. But Genette seems to think whoever killed Brett was aiming for her. If Paul heard the rumor, and saw what he thought was her—”

  He shook his head, once more looking worried and uncertain.

  “You think he did it? Or could have done it?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Not unless he was really mad, and didn’t even realize it wasn’t Genette he was attacking. And I hear it was a shooting—that also doesn’t sound like Paul. Strangling her or picking up something and whacking her, yes, but going out and buying a gun? No.”

  “He could have already had the gun,” I said. “A lot of farmers do, for protection.”

  “Usually it’s a shotgun for varmints,” the winemaker said. “Yeah, it’s possible he already had a gun. But I can’t imagine why he’d bring it here.”

  “Unless he was planning to use it,” I suggested.

  “And that I don’t believe he’d do,” the winemaker said. “Look, I don’t think Paul did it, and I sure as hell hope he has a solid alibi. But your police chief should know about this, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “Thanks. The chief will probably want to talk to you directly.”

  “I’ll be here.” He handed me a business card and went back to his booth. Another winemaker came over to him, glass raised as if toasting. He picked up a glass with a splash of wine in it, clinked glasses with her, and sipped, but his smile was forced.

  I waited until I was outside to call the chief with his name, cell phone number, and booth number. And then I went on with my rounds.

  At least the Bonnevilles weren’t haunting the chicken tent looking like refugees from a goth convention.

  “If you ask me, I think they felt a little embarrassed when they realized there’d been a murder, and them making such a fuss about a bunch of birds,” one of the chicken farmers said.

  “I doubt it,” another said. “Dr. Langslow ca
me over and scared them to death about how serious Mr. Baskerville’s condition could be.”

  “Bonneville,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” she said. “Anyway, they’re over at the hospital getting those medical tests done. Should be back this afternoon, looking like a pair of crows.”

  The mood of the tent had improved considerably in their absence. The chicken owners and sightseers were still darting and clumping about like hens in a barnyard, but now it was a happy sort of frenzy.

  For the first time I had a chance to take a good look at the exhibits. And I had to admit that some of the chickens were quite handsome. The Sebright Bantams, for example, with their beautiful plumage, each glossy white feather outlined in black, making them look like walking monochromatic stained-glass windows. The black-and-white Yokohamas, who were pheasant-shaped with sleek, elegant white tails easily as long as their bodies. And the Sumatrans—similarly shaped, though with slightly less extravagant tails, and the most amazing glossy black plumage. Or was I seeing a hint of iridescent beetle green in the black when the light hit the feathers just right?

  I was bobbing around in front of a cage of Sumatrans, trying to find an angle at which I could confirm that elusive flash of green, when Michael strolled up with the boys in tow.

  “Something wrong with those chickens?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Except that they’re insidious. I covet them.”

  Chapter 22

  Josh was making a beeline to the display of newly hatched chicks in the center of the tent, oblivious to everything else. Jamie toddled over and gave my leg a forceful hug before scrambling in his brother’s wake. Michael looked at the Sumatrans and then back at me.

  “Are you hinting that I should bring you fried chicken for lunch?” he asked. “Or did you have in mind a longer term commitment, and you’re coveting those particular chickens? Is it payback time for all the llamas?”

  “I am coveting live chickens,” I said. “Not necessarily those chickens, although those are among the breeds I am coveting. Clearly I have spent too much time with all these chickens. I keep having visions of walking out the back door in the morning and chucking grain to eager beaks. Peeking into the coop at night to gaze on my sleeping flock. And taking the boys out to the barn with little matching baskets to collect eggs. It’s insane.”

  “Sounds perfectly sane to me.” He strolled over a little closer to the chick display and I followed. “We could have chickens. We’ve got the room. We’ve even got the coop. Remember when the Shiffleys were working on our yard, either renovating or demolishing all those run down little sheds that the previous owner left behind? We could convert one of the renovated sheds into a coop. In fact, I think one of them originally was a coop. And chickens would be a lot more practical than llamas.”

  “Only practical if we got ones that are good layers,” I said. “Which these aren’t. I asked.”

  “So people keep these for … um … roasting or whatever?” Michael glanced over at the cages and looked uncomfortable, as if the chickens could tell we were talking about their suitability for human consumption. “Because I’m not sure I’d really like eating something that’s been like a pet. I know it’s completely citified of me, but…”

  He shrugged.

  “I feel the same way,” I said. “And my vision of myself as a chicken farmer does not include going out into the barnyard with a little ax. And in case you’re worried about these chickens, don’t be—according to the owners, no one eats Sumatrans. They’re more feather than meat.”

  “Then what are they good for?” Michael asked. “I don’t mean that in a philosophical sense, because obviously they add beauty to the world, and have the same right to their place in the sun as any other creature, but farmers tend not to keep animals around unless they’re either tasty or useful. If Sumatrans aren’t tasty, what do people do with them?”

  “Show them,” I said. “And hold cockfights with them in benighted parts of the world where that’s still considered a sport. But here, they are pampered pets and show creatures. Same with those.”

  I pointed to one of the Yokohamas across the aisle.

  “They don’t lay eggs at all?” Michael asked.

  “No, not that one,” a nearby farmer said. “That’s a rooster.”

  “I meant the breed,” Michael said. “Do they not lay eggs at all?”

  “If they didn’t, we’d have a hard time keeping the breed going.” The farmer chuckled at his own joke. “But with a heavy layer, like a Rhode Island Red, you get four, five, even six eggs a week. With one of these ornamental birds, you might get one egg, and it’d be small.”

  A sudden thought struck me.

  “I’m not sure we want heavy layers,” I said. “I mean, do we really want to live entirely on scrambled eggs and omelets?”

  “You’d need a few hundred of these to do that,” the farmer said. “You thinking of adding a few chickens to your spread?”

  “Only thinking,” I said. “But if we did, we probably wouldn’t want heavy layers. We’d need chickens that are friendly enough not to peck the boys. And stoic enough that they won’t freak every time they see Spike. Chickens who can thrive under free-range conditions, because we’re not going to shut them up in a coop all day. And look pretty wandering around the place without a lot of grooming. If they also lay enough eggs to make us more or less self-sufficient in the scrambled egg department, even better. But I don’t want to be sneaking around leaving baskets of foundling eggs on people’s doorsteps.”

  “Lot of women sell the eggs for pin money,” the farmer suggested.

  Pin money?

  “Meg’s a blacksmith,” Michael said. “She doesn’t have time to fool with selling eggs. And you probably don’t have time to research chickens, either,” he added to me. “I’ll figure out which ones fit your specifications and you can make the final decision.”

  Final decision? How had we progressed so fast from me coveting a few ornamental fowl to setting up a free-range chicken flock in the backyard? Had Michael, too, been coveting chickens? Or was he trying to be very accommodating to my whims to pave the way for new extravagances in the llama department?

  I was turning to follow him and sort this out when my phone rang.

  “Ms. Langslow?” It was the chief. “Any chance you could drop by the fair office for a couple of minutes?”

  I heard Horace’s voice in the background.

  “It’s impossible!” he was shouting. “I’m through with it.”

  At least I thought it was Horace. But I couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually lost his temper.

  “Is this about the information I just gave you?” I asked. “About Paul Morot?”

  “No, something else entirely,” the chief said. “We could use some help dealing with a situation.”

  I was opening my mouth to recite the long list of other things I ought to be doing when I noticed a stirring in the crowd. Mr. and Mrs. Bonneville were back, still wearing their lugubrious black clothing. And they seemed to have picked up another reporter.

  “I’m already on my way,” I said. “Let’s talk more about chickens later,” I added to Michael. “Don’t let the boys steal any of those chicks. And be careful next door—there are some equally adorable ducklings.”

  As I approached the fair office, I noticed with approval that Randall’s workmen had already installed the new gate to the Midway, about thirty feet farther down the split rail. All view of the old gate was blocked by a giant billboard that proclaimed MIDWAY! with a big arrow pointing toward the new gate. The pathway to the new gate cut through the field where we’d been keeping the cantankerous guard goats. They still occupied the far half of the field, behind a new stretch of fence, but in the near half I could see that Randall had arranged some exhibits for the tourists to look at on their way to the Midway. The American Jack Donkeys now occupied one part of the field. A stately trio of American Cream draft horses grazed in the middle part. And the workmen
had nearly finished setting up the llama demonstration tent in the last part. I could see the spinning wheel and the loom where some of the llama owners demonstrated the use of llama wool, and two of the llamas were already in the pen behind the tent, peering over the fence to watch the workmen.

  I made a mental note to compliment Randall on his ideas, and stepped into the fair office.

  Inside, Vern was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and an anxious expression on his face, watching Horace pace up and down the narrow open space in the center of the trailer, at a clip that would have given him a good chance of winning a walking race. The chief was sitting at my desk, frowning slightly.

  Both of them looked relieved at my arrival.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I can’t work with that man around!” Horace’s normally genial round face was scowling.

  “Why? What’s Vern done?” I suspected it wasn’t Vern he was mad at, but decided to play dumb.

  “Not Vern,” Horace snapped. “Plunkett.”

  “Glad you’re not mad at Vern or the chief,” I said.

  “Actually, I’m afraid he is,” the chief said.

  “Yeah,” Vern said. “’Cause we just told him he had to work with Plunkett. On account of our agreement with Sheriff Dingle.”

  “Can’t we complain to the sheriff?” Horace asked.

  The chief shook his head wearily.

  “I wouldn’t,” Vern said.

  “He needs to know his deputy is a complete idiot,” Horace went on. “How in the world did he get his job?”

  “Nepotism,” Vern said. “His mother was a Dingle, and the sheriff is his second cousin, once removed. So there’s no use complaining about him. Just work around him, and try to keep him from doing too much damage.”

  “How?” Horace asked. “I must have given him a dozen pairs of gloves, and he keeps taking them off and losing them. Which wouldn’t matter if he could keep his hands to himself, but every time I turn around he’s picked something up bare-handed and started wandering around with it. I’m not sure I have a single bit of evidence he hasn’t contaminated. We’ll be lucky if any of it makes it into a trial.”