by Ellen Riggs
A Streak of Bad Cluck
Ellen Riggs
A Streak of Bad Cluck
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Copyright © 2020 Ellen Riggs
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-989303-51-1 eBook
ISBN 978-1-989303-52-8 Book
ASIN B0859PBQZL Kindle
ASIN TBD Paperback
Publisher: Ellen Riggs
www.ellenriggs.com
Cover designer: Lou Harper
Editor: Serena Clarke
2006181656
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter One
The white tuft on Keats’ tail fanned as he trotted ahead of me to the barn. He’d already been awake for an hour, sitting beside my bed in the darkness and willing me to get the day started. Since our move from the city to Runaway Farm, the dog’s switch was permanently stuck in the “on” position. There was always something a brilliant, busybody border collie needed to be doing, and it all started with staring me awake before dawn. Sometimes I wondered if he could see into my dreams, because he frequently interrupted nightmares that continued to haunt me. As grateful as I was to leave those behind, most days I was as tired as Keats was energized. Corporate life hadn’t prepared me for all this activity.
By the time we got this far, Aladdin, the resident rooster, had typically declared the day officially open for business. Today we beat him. That was a small miracle, surpassed only by the miracle trailing after me in pink floral pajamas. Jilly Blackwood, my best friend, almost never entered the barn or henhouse and she wasn’t a morning person. I could only assume she was worried about me, after my recent brush with death. Make that brushes with deaths. Plural. I wanted to tell her that I was coping just fine but that would only convince her I was in complete denial. It wasn’t denial. I’d been through a lot, but my years as an HR exec had taught me how to compartmentalize. The compartment containing the trauma mainly opened at night to release nasty little demons into my dreams.
“You didn’t need to come,” I said, as Jilly yawned audibly. Our breath streamed out into the chilly late October air. Aside from Keats’ patches of pristine white fur, not much else was visible in the dim light. “I’ve got the egg run covered.”
“Keats thought otherwise,” she said. “He scratched my door to wake me up.”
“Really? Keats, that was rude and unnecessary.”
The dog turned and his eerie blue eye winked. He liked to run a tight ship and today he wanted all hands on deck.
“He’s just looking out for us,” Jilly said. “I’m anxious about the new guests arriving and I’m sure he is, too. Aren’t you, Ivy?”
“I’d be a fool not to be.” I veered to the right and then circled the barn. The henhouse was on the far side, where the conditions were perfect for a flock of nearly 40. I couldn’t take credit for knowing that. I’d bought this hobby farm and inn for a song from Hannah Pemberton, the heiress who’d owned and loved it dearly before me. When she got called away to run her family’s business in Europe, she’d chosen me to take over based on my rather dramatic rescue of the know-it-all sheepdog prancing ahead of us. “Our first guests were a nightmare and this group won’t be much better.”
“Well, they couldn’t be worse,” Jilly said. “Seriously. It’s highly unlikely that anyone in the Clover Grove Bridge Club will murder someone during a weekend stay.”
I sighed. “You wouldn’t think so. But I wouldn’t have thought it possible that Runaway Farm would see two murders in barely two months.”
“True.” Jilly puffed a little as she tried to keep up. I knew the path better and was also picking up speed with the discussion of murder. “The Bridge Buddies have been around forever, right? If they were going to kill each other, they’d have done it by now.”
“I’m sure they’ve been tempted,” I said. “From what I hear, each member has something on the others. That’s how they maintain the balance of power.”
“Lovely,” Jilly said. “Sounds like the relaxing vibe we want at the inn.”
Reaching the door to the henhouse, I turned and smiled. “Maybe we’ve been doing friendship all wrong, Jilly. The Bridge Biddies have staying power.”
“Bridge Biddies! Did you make that up?”
“All credit to my mom,” I said. “She’s still bitter after they drove her out of her favorite hair salon. I’ll let her share the sordid tale when you’re swapping beauty tips. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve become her favorite daughter. Which is saying something when she has five.”
“Your mom’s a hoot,” Jilly said, laughing. “I like her.”
My mom, Dahlia Galloway, was most certainly that. In a town filled to the brim with eccentrics, she was known as “a real character.” That took effort.
The sudden hoot of a barn owl made us jump and turn. It was already a little brighter and I could see the dusty gravel driveway unfurling beyond us. The distant crunching of footsteps reached my ears.
Standing on tiptoe, I squinted. “Who is that?” I watched a figure pick up speed to reach the turnoff to the trail that ran between all the neighboring properties. It was like a bush highway, generally used on four-wheelers or a tractor. “I recognize that gait, although she’s really hoofing it. It’s Edna Evans.”
“Why on earth is an eighty-year-old wandering around out here before first light?” Jilly asked. “It’s not safe. She could fall.”
“She’s probably got her broom for easy takeoff.” Edna, my nearest neighbor, was a retired nurse with a sadistic streak who enjoyed playing me like a fish on a line. It worked, too, despite my excellent HR skills. I knew how to manage people, and since I couldn’t manage Edna, I could only conclude that she wasn’t human.
“Get the jokes out of your system now, so you can keep a straight face later,” Jilly said. “Maybe Edna was doing an inspection before her bridge buddies arrive. Since she recommended holding their tournament here, she probably feels her reputation is on the line.”
“Let’s hear it from the witch’s mouth,” I said, walking to the driveway. “Edna! EDNA!”
She turned to glance in our direction and then plunged abruptly into the bushes. Even in autumn, the vegetation was dense and thorny, but Edna knew the terrain well. My brother Asher, a police officer known for liking everyone except Edna Evans, said she’d been fined by the County half a dozen times for illegal wildlife snares. Regardless, she wore her rabbit fur wrap and accessories with a nonchalance I envied.
There
was a strange noise near my feet. Keats had probably been trying to catch my eye, and failing that, offered his opinion aloud in his odd mumble-talk. Looking down, I saw his ruff was up and his tail was down. That was strange. Not the mumble-talking—he did that all the time—but he didn’t normally waste his hackles on Edna Evans. We were at her house every day delivering the fresh eggs and gourmet food she’d extorted from me before sharing information about the most recent murder, of my former boss from Flordale Corporation.
“Keats seems spooked,” Jilly said. Her green eyes now shone in the bright slash of sunlight creeping over the horizon. “Maybe it wasn’t Edna.”
“Pretty sure it was. She has a bit of a limp,” I said, shrugging as I turned back. “Well, it’s not worth following when I need to pick her up in a few hours anyway. I bet you’re right that she was making sure the grounds were up to her standards.”
Edna was a Bridge Buddy in good standing, but her reputation had suffered after the murder of Lloyd Boyce, the local dogcatcher, on Runaway Farm the week I arrived. Edna had been caught spying and failing to report information to the authorities. She’d pretty much flipped her rabbit accessories at police chief Kellan Harper, but she actually cared about her cronies’ opinion. So now she was trying to get back in their good graces by helping to host a weekend bridge tournament at my inn. The ladies, all seniors, lived in or around town but staying here meant they’d get waited on hand and foot, and would only need to leave their game for bathroom breaks.
“Let’s hurry and get back to the house,” Jilly said. “Keats is spooking me, now.”
We’d both learned to trust Keats’ reaction to humans and animals alike. He had uncanny powers of observation that were typical of his breed, but sometimes it felt like he had an intuition that went far beyond any dog’s. He certainly sensed my intentions even before I knew what I wanted. If he didn’t approve of my plans, he had no problem telling me so, either in his own mumbled language, or by literally herding me where he thought I should go. I wasn’t the alpha leader I should be, but we made a great team.
“It’s hard not to be spooked around here these days,” I said. “But what could be less threatening than a henhouse?”
I reached for the latch on the door and my hand stopped in mid-air. It was unfastened and the door was slightly ajar. The night before, I’d checked the doors at last call, like I always did.
“Do you think Edna was inside?” Jilly said.
“Looks like it. Since I deliver her eggs, I assume she wanted to visit her hens. I guess they were more like pets than she let on.”
A few weeks earlier, Edna had demanded I shut down her own small coop and collect her hens. She’d said the upkeep was too much at her age, although she got around like a woman decades younger.
“This day is getting weird even before it officially starts,” Jilly said.
At that moment, Aladdin unleashed his proud crow at close range, making us jump again.
“Now it’s official,” I said. “I’ll ask Charlie to put a lock on this door today. Edna is welcome to come over in proper visiting hours but I don’t need her creeping around at night and then suing me when she breaks a limb.”
Inside, I switched on the light and we both let out a long sigh. There was something instantly calming about a chicken coop, which is probably why they’d become so popular in Clover Grove. When I left for college, the town was moving away from its agricultural roots, but homesteaders had claimed it in recent years, and the place was all about fresh eggs, goat cheese and soap, and preserved “heritage” vegetables and fruit. Part of me still wanted to roll my eyes, but I was living in a glass house. In fact, I was blessed to live in a glorious renovated farmhouse and inn that exploited guests’ desires to get back to the land for a short time.
I scanned to see if anything looked amiss, but Keats’ ruff had settled and the hens themselves were calm, so I figured all was well. My eyes landed on Edna’s favorite hen, a white silky bantam named Sookie. Edna had insisted on delivering Sookie’s nest box herself, and putting it on a high shelf. Although most of the hens shuffled their spots, Sookie returned to her personal palace every night and left an egg there every morning. I never saw Sookie fight for her spot, although there was many a dustup among the feathered gals for less.
“Edna must adore Sookie if she’s visiting at the crack of dawn,” Jilly said, dropping a casual egg pun into the conversation with a grin. “I guess she’s not all bad.”
“Oh, she’s all bad. If she can hike through the bush in the dark, why have I suddenly become her handmaid, delivering food and picking her up on command?”
“She even dictated the menu.” Jilly frowned at that. She was on leave from her corporate headhunting firm in Boston to run the kitchen at Runaway Inn and didn’t take kindly to being told what to serve. “Right down to monogrammed crème brûlée for dinner tonight.”
“I guess she wants to showcase her eggs,” I said, handing Jilly a basket before starting to collect the coop’s spoils.
“Everyone had special requests,” Jilly said. “One hates cucumber and another red pepper. One can’t eat chicken, and another beef. And none of them can digest legumes. It’s going to be a tough group, Ivy. I’m beginning to wonder if they all will be.”
“Regretting your career change?” I asked, slipping my hand into each nest and gently pulling out eggs. There was something so satisfying about finding a perfect egg under a hen. Perhaps it was childhood memories of Easter, although with five siblings and little money, holiday treats were few and far between.
“Not for a second,” Jilly said. “Despite our misadventures. But I look forward to when you can be more choosy about who you accept into the inn.”
“Me too.” The two murders had left me feeling a little desperate to drum up business. “At least we’ll get more hosting practice.”
My phone rang and I pulled it out of the front pocket of my bibbed overalls with my free hand. “It’s Edna,” I said, checking the display. “How did she get home so fast? She doesn’t have a cell, although she should if she’s going to traipse in the bush.”
“Do not let her get to you,” Jilly said. “We have superb people skills, remember? Let’s dig deep and channel them this weekend.”
“A tall order, my friend.” I pressed talk and then speaker. “Morning, Miss Evans. Why were you—”
“I don’t have time for chitchat, Ivy.” Edna’s voice rang out in the henhouse and Sookie immediately fluttered from her nest to a perch beside me, as if wanting to get closer to her former owner. “This is the event of a lifetime. I hope you’re ready for it.”
“We are. Sookie says hi, by the way. She wants to know—”
“I don’t talk to animals like they’re babies, Ivy Galloway. You’re far too attached to these chickens and it’s going to bite you in the behind one of these days.”
“Peck,” I said. “Chickens don’t have teeth.”
“They can certainly deliver a bite you’ll remember.” There was a loud sigh at the other end. “Do you really have time to debate when the bridge ladies will be there in a few hours? It’s going to be intense, Ivy. You need to bring your A game.”
“Which reminds me,” I said. “Why aren’t you playing in the tourney, Miss Evans?”
“So I can watch over you and that giddy friend of yours. She may be a good cook but your brother could do so much better than a city girl with small town affectations.”
Jilly opened her mouth but I raised a finger. “Edna, please be respectful of my best friend. Besides, it’s really bad form to insult the chef right before your party.” Edna started to interrupt but I persisted. She could insult me—and did regularly—but she could not insult Jilly, my brilliant, kind and loyal friend. “Asher would be lucky to get her.”
“True, I suppose,” Edna said. “Asher would be lucky to get anyone. He’s easy on the eyes but his brain stalled out in fifth grade. You Galloways all have stalling problems. That’s why you can’t drive that tr
uck of yours.”
“Again, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep these comments to yourself, at least until the event is over. I want to make this a five-star experience for your guests and I can’t do that if I’m constantly dodging your arrows, Miss Evans.”
“With that attitude it’s no wonder Chief Harper let the soup cool between you,” she said. “He needs a quiet girl, not someone who’s always flapping like a fussy chicken and poking her beak where she doesn’t belong.”
Now Jilly pressed her finger to her lips. I forced a smile onto my face and into my voice. “It’s so kind of you to think about Kellan’s happiness, Miss Evans.”
“I saw you two dancing around that campfire like randy teens,” she said. “You and that mutt of yours are trying to bewitch him. But he deserves better than a Galloway, and I know you’ll do the right thing and let him find the right girl. He’s a decent man, Ivy, and in case the world hasn’t shown you this, they are few and far between.”
“Miss Evans?” Being polite took all the grit I had. “Why exactly are you calling? I’m set to pick you up in two hours.”
“I just wanted to make sure you have everything I need. Pink grapefruit juice, pulp free. Grey Goose vodka, tangerine flavor. Macadamia nuts, unsalted. Salt makes my ankles swell.”
“No one likes cankles,” I said.
There was a long pause. “I suggest you shelve your so-called wit, Ivy. The Bridge Buddies will not find you at all amusing.”
“Shame,” I said. “Because I’ll find them amusing.”
