“Yeah, he’s an idiot,” Vern said. “What do you expect from Clay County? But maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.”
“A blessing?” Horace spluttered.
“Yeah.” Vern glanced over at me. “’Cause it’s sure looking pretty grim for the widow. Time was she’d have walked on killing a low-down cheating skunk like him.”
“Time was,” the chief said. “But these days ‘he needed killing’ isn’t a valid defense.”
“Pity,” Vern said. “But that’s what I mean by a blessing. Maybe, annoying as he is, Plunkett is accidentally doing us a service.”
“Maybe it’s not accidental at all,” I suggested. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks, and he’s screwing everything up out of some kind of crazy backwoods chivalry.”
“Could be,” Vern said, and I could tell he didn’t entirely disapprove of the notion.
“I’m not sure Plunkett has the brains to be chivalrous,” Horace said. “And intentional or not, what if he’s compromising evidence that would clear Ms. Riordan if I actually got to process it before it was contaminated?”
“Either way, her odds of getting off are good,” Vern said.
“And after she got off because all the evidence was tainted, what then?” I asked. “She’d probably have to sell her farm to pay her legal fees, and even if she managed to hang on to it, who’s going to want to buy cheese from a woman they think killed her husband and got off on a technicality?”
“I don’t see why not,” Vern said. “It’s not like she poisoned him.”
“Vern,” the chief began.
“I give up,” Horace muttered.
“Think how it looks for us,” I went on. “For Caerphilly. Nobody will remember that it was a Clay County deputy who screwed up the case. They’ll just think we’re a bunch of hicks who don’t know any better.”
I could see that didn’t set well with Vern.
“You’ve got a point there,” he said. “Horace, next time you see Plunkett doing anything wrong, you tell me and I’ll have it out with him.”
Horace nodded glumly.
“Hey, and at least one thing went right,” Vern said. “The jerk was too lazy to do much work when we were searching the van. Imagine what would have happened if he’d found the gun. ‘Oooh, lookie! A gun! You think it works? Bang!’”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Horace didn’t come right out and laugh, but he smiled and appeared a lot less stressed.
“Look, I get your point,” Vern said. “I’ll do what I can to keep him out of your hair and away from the evidence.”
“And if Plunkett proves completely uncontrollable, I will have a word with Sheriff Dingle,” the chief said. “The terms of our agreement oblige us to include a representative from Clay County in our investigation. They do not oblige us to include Deputy Plunkett.”
“Thanks,” Horace said.
“I’d have done it already,” the chief said. “But I’m afraid anyone they would send as a replacement could be even worse.”
“So I gather Deputy Plunkett would not be your first pick for any job openings that might come up in the Caerphilly Sheriff’s Department,” I said.
“He would not.” The chief frowned and looked at Vern. “And I surely do hope you’re wrong about him wanting to apply.”
“He’s been asking me about the pay and benefits,” Vern said. “They don’t get much of either over there. You know, I think maybe that’s why he’s driving Horace so crazy. He’s trying to look like a good candidate for the job.”
“He thinks the chief is looking for annoyingness and incompetence?” Horace sounded irate again.
“He probably just thinks he’s showing initiative,” the chief said.
“Hustle,” Vern put in.
“He’s an idiot,” Horace said. “But are you going to have a job opening coming up? Because—”
“Speak of the devil,” I interrupted. From my place by the door I could see through one of the trailer’s two windows. And I’d just spotted a familiar hulking form shambling toward the trailer. “Here comes Plunkett.”
“Great,” Horace muttered.
The door slammed open and Plunkett strolled inside.
“Hey there!” he said.
“Good afternoon,” the chief said.
“Afternoon,” Vern echoed. I nodded with as cheerful a face as I could muster, and Horace just tightened his lips.
Either Plunkett didn’t notice the tepidness of his reception or he didn’t care.
“Hey, Vern,” Plunkett said. “Randall was looking for you.”
Vern nodded and slipped out the door.
“So, remind me,” Plunkett said to the rest of us. “What kind of car was it the dead guy drove?”
“The deceased drove a red Mazda MX-5,” Horace said.
“Little bitty fire-engine red convertible, right?” Plunkett asked. “I think we found it. Want me to bring it in? I can get someone to hot wire it and—”
“No!” we all three shouted in unison.
“Suit yourself.” Plunkett crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, beaming as if he’d done something to be proud of.
“You see,” Horace said.
“Where is the car?” the chief asked.
“Over in the woods, other side of the Midway,” Plunkett said. “There’s an old access road hunters sometimes use. It’s parked on that.”
“Take Deputy Shiffley and Officer Hollingsworth there, if you please,” the chief said.
“Sure thing.” Plunkett levered himself off the wall, popped out the trailer door, and set off at a fast pace.
“Wait!” Horace called. Luckily his kit was nearby, but Plunkett already had a good lead on him. Horace was half running to catch up.
The chief and I followed them out.
“Vern!” The chief waved his arms and, when Vern saw him, pointed at Plunkett and Horace. Vern nodded, but he didn’t immediately give chase.
The chief pulled out his cell phone.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “I’m going with them. If Plunkett tries to pull anything before Vern gets there, I can always threaten him again with moving the Midway.”
The chief hesitated for a few moments, and then probably came to the same conclusion I had reached about Horace’s ability to control Plunkett.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “I’d go myself, but some importunate attorney is demanding to see me. He won’t say why. Did you recommend a lawyer named Twickenham to Ms. Riordan?”
“No, I gave her one of the usual locals. Never heard of a Twickenham.”
“I’d better see what he wants, then. Thanks for helping us placate Horace.”
He strode over toward Vern, looking cranky. Dealing with lawyers, importunate or otherwise, often had that effect on him. I scrambled to catch up with Horace and Plunkett.
Chapter 23
Both Horace and Plunkett were out of sight by the time I left the fair office, so I was on my own. Randall and I had spent a good deal of time tramping through the nearby woods while debating how much of the fairgrounds to fence in. I remembered the dirt access road Plunkett had mentioned—Randall and I had crossed it a number of times and had debated whether to use it for direct access to the Midway—an idea we’d abandoned, not just because of the expense of upgrading it. We were also afraid that if we used it, Clay County would want to set up a second entrance gate, and we didn’t trust them to give us an accurate account of the take.
I headed through the woods and eventually struck the dirt road—not much more than a trail, really. I turned right, since that was more or less the direction in which Plunkett had gestured. I guessed correctly. After a few minutes’ walk, I spotted a flash of metallic red through the trees.
The Mazda. It was parked in a place where the woods drew back from the road far enough that you could park. Though if the gleaming little convertible had been mine I would never have parked it there, where it was almost sure to be scratched if anoth
er car tried to squeeze by on the left. In fact, I would never have driven it down the road in the first place, and I was a great deal less obsessed with pretty cars than most men I knew.
Deputy Plunkett was sitting on the trunk of the car, smoking a cigarette. Horace was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Horace?” I asked.
“On his way, I guess.” Plunkett sounded annoyingly nonchalant. “He fell behind once we hit the woods. Not enough hustle.”
Fell behind! More likely Plunkett had deliberately lost him. I was opening my mouth to tell him what I thought of his actions, when I realized, from the look on his face that he already knew what I thought. And he was enjoying himself. Why give him the satisfaction?
He flicked his cigarette butt onto some leaves and leaned back, crossing his arms and making himself comfortable, watching me.
I strode over and ground his cigarette butt out with a little more force than necessary, all the while imagining his head under my heel. Then I looked at the dense woods around us. Clay County was mostly woods and swamp, and if Horace took the wrong direction, he could wander for hours. Days.
I wanted to yell at Plunkett. In fact, I wanted to hit him, and I don’t just mean a girly little slap. I fantasized, just for a few moments, how satisfying it would feel to land a good, solid punch on his nose. I’m taller than most women, strong for my size due to my blacksmithing, and thanks to a few years of martial arts training and a childhood of sparring with hordes of rowdy cousins, I was no slouch at self-defense. Plunkett might be surprised how good a punch I could land. And I was sorely tempted to surprise him.
Just then I heard a faint shout in the distance. It sounded like someone yelling for help.
“Guard the car,” I said. “Don’t touch it, don’t drive it, and don’t leave.”
It took me half an hour to locate Horace and lead him back to the Mazda. When I found him, he was babbling anxiously on his cell phone, apparently begging Debbie Ann to send search parties. I took the phone away from him and assured Debbie Ann that I could probably find our way back to the car and from there to civilization. Then I calmed Horace down, mainly by pointing out how much Plunkett would enjoy seeing him angry or upset. By the time we arrived back at the Mazda, he was calm, if a little grim.
“Get off the damned car,” was all he said to Plunkett.
Horace was still working on his examination of the car’s exterior when Vern Shiffley showed up.
“Heard some of you folks got lost in the trackless forest,” Vern said.
I winced.
“I wasn’t lost,” I said.
“Me neither,” Plunkett said, smirking.
“You were supposed to be guiding Horace, and you misplaced him,” Vern told Plunkett. “The way I see it that means you were as good as lost, too. I heard you were trying to hire yourself out as a hunting guide this fall. Anyone asks me for a recommendation, I’ll steer them to Meg here instead.”
Plunkett glowered. Vern sauntered over to the car.
“I’m good by myself,” Horace said. “Thanks.”
“Not butting in unless you want me to,” Vern said. “Just watching. Always interesting, seeing an expert work.”
He patted Horace’s shoulder, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Sorry.”
Horace nodded.
Plunkett ambled over so he could watch, too. I thought of heading back to the fair, but having successfully managed to find the car, and then Horace, and then the car again, I didn’t want to risk spoiling my reputation as a fearless tracker, so I stayed put and after calling Michael to get an update on the boys, I found a vantage point from which I could watch the search.
Vern was pretty good at keeping out of Horace’s way. Plunkett wasn’t, but I had the feeling that annoying Horace—and the rest of us—was exactly what he wanted to accomplish. Horace wasn’t rising to the bait, and I could tell that was spoiling Plunkett’s good mood.
Horace was still working on the front seat and the two deputies were watching through the open back doors when suddenly—
“Ah-ah-choo!”
Deputy Plunkett sneezed vigorously all over the backseat of the car, without even bothering to cover his nose and mouth.
“Watch it, will you?” Vern said.
“You’re contaminating my crime scene,” Horace complained. He was staring at the backseat of the car as if appalled at all the alien DNA that had just landed on it.
“Not to mention contaminating the rest of us,” Vern said. He had pulled out his handkerchief and was mopping his face—apparently Plunkett had spattered him as well. “Keep your germs to yourself.”
“It’s not germs,” Plunkett said. “It’s these damned chicken feathers.”
He held up one hand to display a couple of black-and-brown feathers, and then began shaking his hand as if trying to brush them off.
“Did those come from inside the car?” Vern asked.
Horace just closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Yup,” Plunkett said. “Right here in the backseat.”
“Vern, can you put them in this. Please.” Horace’s voice was shaking slightly. He held out an evidence collection bag. “Collect them all and put them very carefully in this bag.”
“You think they have something to do with the murder?” Plunkett asked.
Horace made an untranslatable noise.
“Maybe the murder,” Vern said. “Maybe the chicken theft. Which could be related to the murder, for all we know. Let’s not get careless.”
Plunkett shrugged. He tried to help with the feather gathering, but Vern shifted to put his body between Plunkett and the car. Plunkett shrugged and returned to leaning against the side of the car. Horace didn’t take his eyes off what Vern was doing.
“Meg,” Horace said. “What color were the missing chickens?”
“The Russian Orloffs?” I said. “Black and brown. The rooster had long black tail feathers.”
Horace reached down with one gloved hand and picked up a long, curled black plume. We all stared at it for a few seconds.
“Do the Riordans raise chickens on that farm of theirs?” Vern asked.
“I know Molly doesn’t,” I said. “But Brett hasn’t been living there lately. He’s been over at Genette’s farm. I have no idea what livestock she raises.”
“Have the people who owned the missing chickens taken the cages home?” Horace asked.
“No, they’ve turned them into a shrine for the missing birds,” I said.
“Vern,” Horace said. “Can you hold down the fort here? Secure the car and arrange to have it towed back to town, to the impound lot? Or you could tow it as far as the fair gate and I’ll get back here as soon as I can to finish up and go with it to the lot.” Vern nodded. He was already pulling out his cell phone to call his cousin who ran the local towing service.
“I need to go to the poultry barn.” Horace picked up the bag containing the feathers and trotted off down the road. I took off after him.
“What are you planning to do?” I asked when I caught up. Which I did fairly quickly—I had the longer stride and was in better shape.
“Identify these feathers.”
“Okay, I guessed that much,” I said. “Maybe I should have said ‘Where are you going?’ Because this is the long way, you know. We could save time cutting through the woods.”
“I’d rather take the long way,”
“It’ll take hours.” Okay, I was exaggerating, but only a little. “Follow me.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t argue. After what Plunkett had done to him, I was flattered that Horace followed me into the woods, and didn’t begrudge him his sigh of relief when we broke out of the trees again and spotted the pie and quilt barn dead ahead. Once inside the fairgrounds, he took the lead. We dived into the poultry tent and Horace almost danced with impatience as we shoved our way through the crowds until we reached the part of the tent where the Bonnevilles’ chicken cages were.
“Here we are,
” I said.
Behind the cages, almost invisible behind the huge black bows, were the Bonnevilles.
“Are these the cages that your stolen chickens occupied?” Horace asked.
“We’re leaving them here as a memorial,” Mr. Bonneville said. Mrs. Bonneville just sniffled.
“There are feathers here,” Horace said. “Have any other chickens been in these cages?”
“No,” Mr. Bonneville said. “And no other chickens ever will. We plan to keep them as a shrine.”
“Awesome,” Horace said. He fished an evidence bag out of his pocket and reached for the door of the cage.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Bonneville cried. “Those few forlorn feathers are all we have left of Anton Chekhov and Anna Karenina.”
“Anton Chekhov?” Horace repeated. “Anna Karenina?”
“They’re Russian Orloffs,” I explained. “Hence the Russian names. Horace is our crime scene technician,” I told the Bonnevilles. “If you want the feathers as keepsakes, Horace can return them after our investigation. But right now, he needs to collect them. Unless you have a problem with our borrowing the feathers to help our efforts to recover your missing chickens.”
Putting it that way quelled their objections, and they cooperated enthusiastically with Horace’s attempts to pick the cages clean.
“Now,” Horace said, when he’d finished. “Do you recognize these feathers?”
He held up the evidence bag containing the feathers we’d collected in Brett’s car.
“They’re not the ones you just collected from Anton’s cage?”
“We found these in another location,” Horace said.
The Bonnevilles waxed sentimental over the feathers, particularly the long tail feather. “It could be Anton’s,” Mrs. Bonneville said. “It’s just like his.” But they ultimately admitted that the most they could say was that there was nothing about the feathers to prove that they weren’t from their Orloffs.
“This other chicken,” Horace said finally, pointing to the diminutive black-and-brown bird occupying the third cage.
“Agrippina Vaganova,” Mrs. Bonneville said.
“Is she related to the stolen ones?”
The Hen of the Baskervilles Page 16