Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  “Maybe not such a coincidence,” I said. “The thief was after unusual birds. Rare or heritage birds. And I get that—I wasn’t having Michael look at plain old reliable Leghorns or Rhode Island Reds that would produce more eggs than we could use. I was coveting fancy ones. So it might be just a coincidence that the thief stole one of the same fancy breeds that caught my eye.”

  “Or it might be a deliberate attempt on the part of someone to muddy the waters,” the chief said. “You and Michael found the body. Now some chickens from a breed you were interested in are stolen.”

  “You think someone’s trying to frame us?”

  “If they are, they’re doing a pretty lousy job of it. Maybe someone who has a grudge against you, taking advantage of the situation.”

  “Or maybe someone trying to put pressure on you to take the chicken thefts more seriously,” I suggested.

  “You’re thinking of the Bonnevilles?” the chief asked. “Are you suggesting they might be capable of stealing someone else’s poultry to draw greater attention to the chicken theft aspect of this case?

  I thought about it for a moment and then responded with the sort of elaborate shrug that said, “I wouldn’t out it past them.”

  He sighed.

  “I already noticed that they didn’t seem particularly sympathetic to their colleague’s plight,” he said.

  “And doesn’t a daring daylight theft sound rather like an inside job?”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “But don’t confront anyone.”

  I nodded.

  “By the way,” I asked. “Have you located Paul Morot?”

  “The winemaker you mentioned as having a grudge against Genette? You think he might have had something to do with this chicken theft?” The chief”s tone was clipped, as if he was very close to telling me to mind my own business.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But he spent much of yesterday hanging around there.”

  I pointed to the trash cans where I’d first spotted Morot.

  “I thought you said he was lurking outside the wine tent.” I saw that he was flipping back through the pages of his notebook.

  “He was watching the wine tent,” I said. “But from a distance. He was actually lurking there, by the trash cans.”

  “A lot closer to the chicken tent than the wine tent.”

  I nodded.

  The chief stared at the trash cans for a few moments. Then he scribbled in his notebook, nodded to me, and ducked back into the tent.

  I stood there for a few moments, thinking. Did I really suspect Morot? Or did I only want to find that someone—anyone—other than Molly was guilty?

  I realized that I was probably blocking traffic. I stepped back and sat down on a hay bale. I pulled out my notebook and flipped through the pages, looking for something to do. Actually, I could see plenty of things that needed doing, but none that was urgent. None that I cared about enough to get up and do them.

  Clearly I needed cheering up. I got up, put my notebook away, and headed for the llama exhibit.

  As I’d hoped, Michael was there, showing off the llamas. In fact, the llama pen was crowded with not only Harpo, Zeppo, Chico, and Gummo but also the third-, fourth-, and sixth-place llamas from the morning’s judging. There were also a few alpacas in the pen, and beneath the JOY OF LLAMAS! sign someone had hung a smaller, hand-lettered sign that read AND ALPACAS!

  “What about the vicuñas and guanacos?” I asked. “Don’t the other camelids deserve a mention?”

  “We don’t have any vicuñas or guanacos at the fair,” Michael said. “Thank goodness. I spent all morning making peace between the llama people and the alpaca people. Don’t stir them up again.”

  “Okay, on a more practical note, where’s Groucho?” I asked. “And where are Josh and Jamie? And what happened to the second-place llama—sulking because Harpo beat him?”

  “Groucho is back in the pen—the boys are helping Rob groom him for the costume contest tonight,” Michael said. “And the second place winner is female, so we don’t want her here with all the guys.”

  I nodded my agreement. The male llamas all got along together famously as long as you didn’t introduce any females. Apparently having a female in the same pen or pasture—or even within sight—set the male llamas’ hormones racing, and they would spend all of their time fighting with each other and hovering over the female. Before we’d found this out, Michael was planning to buy a female llama, and we’d had long debates over whether to name her Minnie Marx, Margaret Dumont, or Mary Livingstone, after the Marx Brothers’ cousin who married Jack Benny. But now we’d put off adding any lady llamas until we could set up a separate barn and pasture for them. The longer that project stayed on Michael’s to-do list, the happier I’d be.

  “You look down,” Michael said.

  “We’ve had another chicken theft,” I said. “Someone stole Mr. Beamish’s Sumatrans.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I feel like going over and apologizing to the Bonnevilles,” I said. “I’m depressed, and the Sumatrans weren’t even our chickens.”

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best,” Michael said. “Maybe we’re rushing into this. We can take a little time, do a little more research, make sure we really want chickens, and that Sumatrans really are a good option. And then—”

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working,” I said. “I’m still depressed. It’s not just the chickens, you know.”

  “Yes, there’s also the whole experience of finding a dead guy at our fair and having one of your friends accused of his murder.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And the chickens were the last straw. I feel so bad for Mr. Beamish. And also guilty, that I’m selfishly worrying if he will have any Sumatran chicks left to sell us. This must be why they warn you not to count your chickens before they’re hatched. Or in our case, bought.”

  “You need something to raise your spirits,” Michael said. “I have an idea—let’s take the boys to the Midway.”

  If he expected me to cheer at the idea, he was doomed to disappointment. I probably scowled instead.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “It’ll take your mind off everything.”

  “You think the boys are up for it?” I asked.

  “They’ve been dying to go since they first saw it,” he said. “And it’s gotten worse since we moved the llama exhibit here, right next to the Midway and they’ve been seeing it all day.”

  “I know they want to go,” I said. “But will it scare them? All the blaring noise and blinking lights? And are there any rides they can ride?”

  “If we go now, while it’s still light, it won’t be as overwhelming. And the Midway has a merry-go-round, and kiddie bumper cars, and a couple of those rides where they can drive toy fire trucks or boats or whatever that don’t even leave the ground.”

  “They’ll want cotton candy and every other kind of junk food.”

  “Yes, but they’ve just had snacks. They will want junk food, but they won’t be able to eat much of it.”

  I suddenly realized that I was feeling a strong and arguably illogical aversion to the Midway. Was my brain associating it with Brett’s murder?

  “If you’d rather not go,” Michael said. “I can probably recruit your brother to help me take them some other time. He loves the Midway.”

  “He would,” I said. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll go. Although I think we probably should take Rob with us anyway.”

  “To provide additional adult supervision, or another playmate for the boys?”

  Always a good question with Rob.

  “A little of both,” I said. “And he can help eat up any surplus junk food.”

  So we collected the boys and their uncle Rob and set out for the Midway.

  Chapter 30

  I realized when we walked into the Midway that, quite apart from its proximity to the scene of the murder, I had a slightly jaundiced view of the place because of what a pain it had
been to set up. Many of the members of the fair organizing committee had been against the whole idea of a Midway—in fact, they’d reacted to the idea as if Randall and I were suggesting that we stage a reenactment of the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah. Clearly they had seen way too many movies in which carnival people were depicted as either psychopathic, homicidal geeks or sinister, irresistible Svengalis. I had to admit, when I started interviewing vendors to find one to run our Midway, I encountered a few outfits that gave me the creeps—but they were outnumbered by the companies that promised a family-friendly carnival experience. Of course, a few of the self-proclaimed family-friendly companies turned out to be a little creepy, too. I didn’t take my recommendation to the committee until I had three bids from firms whose events I’d personally inspected—firms that regularly did church fund-raising events and could provide wads of testimonials from satisfied priests and ministers. Even then, some of the committee members had balked until Randall pointed out that the Midway would be in Clay County, not Caerphilly. Strangely, the committee didn’t seem reluctant to inflict geeks and barkers on our unloved neighbors.

  After all that time driving around the state and inspecting other people’s midways, I’d had my fill of carnival life. Not to mention all the time I’d spent on our setup day, meeting, greeting, and surreptitiously vetting the Midway barkers and vendors. I assumed even the most family-friendly outfit occasionally hired some bad apples, and I wanted to make sure none of them ended up at our fair. A few of the barkers and ride operators were a bit rough around the edges, but they seemed honest enough. And Randall and I hoped that between my vetting of the personnel and his safety inspection of the rides, we could defuse any complaints by those anxious committee members.

  “I just won a hundred dollars,” I told Michael, about two minutes after we walked through the new gate.

  “Where?” Michael said. “I didn’t see you stop at a booth.”

  “There,” I said. “And there.”

  I pointed to a refreshment stand where one of the members of our fair organizing committee was buying giant balls of pink and blue cotton candy for her grandchildren, and then to a nearby booth where another committee member was attempting to shoot revolving targets with a toy gun.

  “Cotton candy!” Jamie was tugging on my hand and pointing.

  “I want a teddy bear,” Josh was saying, tugging Michael’s hand in the opposite direction, toward the target booth.

  “Nice to see the committee members out supporting the fair,” Michael said. “But where’s the hundred dollars coming from?”

  “Randall,” I said. “Cotton candy first, then we’ll see if Daddy can win a teddy bear,” I added to the boys. “Those are two of the three committee members who tried so hard to veto the idea of a midway in the first place.” I told Michael. “I made Randall a bet that before the fair was out, we’d catch at least one of them over here.”

  “Cool.” Rob pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll get a few photos of them in case Randall doesn’t believe you. Can you get me some cotton candy, too?”

  “I’m just getting some for the boys right now,” I said. “Chances are there will be leftovers.”

  “Leftover cotton candy?” Rob sounded incredulous.

  “They have small stomachs,” Michael said. “And they’re easily distracted.”

  “At least I hope they will be,” I muttered, as I handed each boy a mountain of blue cotton candy

  “Okay, I’ve e-mailed the photos to Randall,” Rob said.

  “Teddy bears now?” Josh said through sticky blue lips.

  “Teddy bears now,” Michael said.

  To the boys’ astonishment, it was Mommy rather than Daddy or Uncle Rob who proved good enough with the toy guns to win teddy bears. The men redeemed themselves at the ball toss, winning a brace of garishly colored plush snakes.

  And there was enough leftover cotton candy for Rob. Also leftover funnel cake, corn dogs, snow cones, kettle corn, soft pretzels, buttered popcorn, caramel apples, and lemonade. On average, the boys would have about two bites of each new food before getting distracted by something else and handing over their treasures to one of their entourage. Even Rob looked relieved when Michael suggested that we take a rain check on ice creams.

  In between snacks, the boys slid down the inflatable slides, bounced on the Moon Bounce, careened around the bumper car rink, and rode on the Pirate Ship, the Kids’ Scrambler, the Kiddy Swing, the Tubs of Fun, the Whip-o-Whirl, the Flying Elephants (purple, no less), and the Lady Bugs. But their favorite—and mine—was the merry-go-round. I rode a couple of times, but mostly I stood, camera in hand, waving as they all flashed by and trying for the perfect greeting card moment.

  At some point I realized that Michael had been wiser than me—seeing the Midway through the boys’ eyes was cheering me up. I loved watching them absorb all the new sights, sounds, and smells.

  We finally gave in to Josh’s pleas to go on the Ferris wheel—Jamie sensibly wanted nothing to do with it. And neither did Josh once the car swung up about six feet into the air to load the car after ours. In his defense, he was rather overdue for a nap. To avoid a major meltdown, I handed him down from the car to Michael. It was probably against the safety rules, but given the volume of his shrieks, the Ferris wheel operator didn’t object to this quick solution to the crisis. Then, while Michael and Rob whisked the boys back to the sheep barn for milk and naps, I took a solo ride on the Ferris wheel. I told Michael that I didn’t want to disrupt everyone else’s ride any further by making the operator let me off, but I was also eager for a little peace and quiet. I hoped I wouldn’t change my mind when the Ferris wheel actually began moving at full speed, but the first slow, jerky revolution, with the operator stopping to unload and reload each car, was surprisingly peaceful.

  Especially as I neared the top of the wheel, where I could get a panoramic view of the whole fair, teeming with ant-sized people. I could see mosquito-sized cows being led around the show ring by ant-sized farmers in overalls. On the distant stage an aphid-sized kilted bagpiper was marching up and down. The John Deere and Kubota equipment exhibits looked like a collection of child’s toys, with a flock of overall-clad termites swarming around them. Closer at hand, in the Midway, people didn’t quite look like ants, of course. More like Barbie and Ken dolls. And all of them, ants, aphids, termites, and dolls, were swarming busily but peacefully.

  Well, with the possible exception of a booth almost at my feet, where a Ken-sized Deputy Plunkett and the G.I. Joe–sized operator of a ringtoss were having some sort of altercation. Not a shouting match—I saw the ringtoss operator look around as if for eavesdroppers, and then lean closer before saying something to Plunkett.

  And just then the Ferris wheel swooped into motion. I lost sight of Plunkett and the barker. For the first couple of revolutions, I tried to find them again, but I realized the effort was making me uncomfortably dizzy. So I leaned back and tried to push Plunkett out of my mind to enjoy the ride.

  And I did enjoy it, but as soon as the Ferris wheel operator released me from my car, I threaded my way through the Midway to the ringtoss. Plunkett wasn’t there, and the operator was doing a lively business, so I decided not to interrupt him. But I spotted Plunkett approaching a food concession a few booths down the row. I watched for a few moments as Plunkett stared up at the menu and then spoke to the man behind the counter. The man called something over his shoulder, then handed Plunkett a can of Pepsi. Plunkett leaned against the booth, popped the can open, and took a long swallow.

  Curiously, I hadn’t seen any money change hands.

  I strolled up to the booth and ordered a fresh-squeezed lemonade and slid two dollar bills across the counter to pay for it.

  “Lemonade, Sam,” the man said.

  A high school kid plucked a lemon out of a nearby bin, deftly sliced it, and began rotating the first half on a juicer. The fry cook lifted an Italian sausage from his grill, laid it on a bun, and then slathered on layers of green pepper str
ips and translucent onion slices. One of my favorites. My mouth began to water, and I made a mental note to call Michael and ask if I should bring dinner back from the Midway.

  But not just yet. I turned to Plunkett.

  “Afternoon,” I said. “Nothing much happening with the murder investigation?”

  Plunkett, who had just taken an enormous bite of his sausage, shook his head.

  “Suspect’s out on bail,” he said, when he’d chewed and swallowed his first bite. “And we get some time off. Only for the weekend. Monday, the crime lab in Richmond should get back to us about the evidence we sent down there.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Good? You really think anything they find down in Richmond is going to get your friend off?”

  “I just meant it’s good that you’re all getting a break,” I said.

  It could be true. I hoped that Horace and Vern and the chief were getting a little time off to enjoy themselves. At least if they were still putting in long hours, they’d been able to rid themselves of Plunkett for a while by pretending to be taking some time off. They’d probably find that as relaxing as actual time off.

  “Yeah, ’bout time we got a break,” Plunkett said. “Of course, not all of us are slacking off,” he added. “I’m still working on the case. Got an angle of my own I want to follow up.”

  “An angle you’re not telling Chief Burke about?” I asked.

  He frowned and took a bite of his sausage—a little hastily, as if to give himself time to think. As he chewed, I could see him studying me. I had the feeling he was trying to sort out how well the chief and I knew each other, and whether I was one of the people he needed to win over to get hired in Caerphilly.

  “I said an angle,” he said, when he’d finished chewing and swallowed. “If I had any kind of evidence, of course I’d take it to the chief. But right now, for all I know it could only be a wild idea. Lot of people bothering him with wild ideas, so I’m looking for some evidence before I tell him mine.”