by Hillary Avis
“Leona!” Eli said, and then, maybe seeing the rising tide of fury spreading across my face at being cut off, added, “Is right.” He looked back at Walt. “You likely saw the murderer that morning. It does no one any good to avoid that simple truth. I need you to tell me every little detail you recall so I can write it up properly. We can do it here or we can do it down at my office, whichever you prefer.”
“What I’d prefer,” Walt said stiffly, his wattles bobbing, “is a little more privacy while we chat.”
He meant me. He probably thought a man would be more friendly to his ornery old misogyny, but I guess he didn’t know Eli very well if he thought that. Eli’d grown up in a house with seven older sisters who made sure to educate him about how to treat women. He was the only guy I knew in high school who carried Tampax in his backpack in case his female friends needed one. I wished I could stick around to see Walt get his comeuppance, but I had a cock in a box in the back of my Suburban who really needed to doodle-doo on down the road.
“It’s fine. I’ve got better things to do, anyway,” I said. I gave Eli a half-wave, half-salute. Let him sort out Walt Sutherland.
“Don’t worry about me; I can walk back to the road,” Eli called after me.
I grinned at him over my shoulder. “Oh, I wasn’t worried.”
Chapter 13
I left Alarm Clock in the car and tried to ignore the sounds of the forensics team at work while I set up a pen for the rooster in the barn. The barn had one of those antique sliding doors that was so rusted up that it took all my strength to get it open. I had to put my back into it, literally, and it squealed and protested the whole way. When I finally wrestled it open, sunlight pierced the dim interior, illuminating the dust that swirled in the air, and I breathed in the scent of a century of farming: machine oil, hay, animal, earth. The faint odor of apples was there, too, residue from previous years’ harvest.
The left side of the barn was outfitted with stables, a work bench stretched along the back wall, and the rest of the space was open. Well, not open—the right side was crammed with junk that Amos Chapman had stored there, whatever wasn’t valuable enough for Ruth and Rusty to sell off or keep after he died: rolls of fencing wire, rusty old tools, empty buckets, half-full paint cans, the tractor that wouldn’t start.
Taking up the center of the barn, directly inside the doors, was my prize possession, a flaming-red convertible Porsche. My fiftieth birthday present to myself. I bought it after I unwrapped Peterson’s present to me—a gift certificate for liposuction at his plastic surgery practice. Needless to say, I felt I deserved the car. Though a convertible was almost pointless to own in rainy Oregon, I just couldn’t give it up, not even when I left every other scrap of my LA lifestyle behind. But the poor car had been sitting here in the barn since I moved in—I hadn’t worked up the guts to drive it anywhere and draw the attention it was sure to bring.
I’d lied to Walt about why I didn’t want chickens in the barn. Sure, I was worried about predators, but the main reason was that I wasn’t keen on chicken poop messing up my paint job. I rummaged in the pile of junk and found a grayed canvas tarp and spread it over the car. That’d keep Alarm Clock from using my side mirrors as a roost until I could finish the coop and move him outside.
One stubborn corner of the tarp kept curling up, though. I needed to weigh it down with something. My eyes lit on a bucket laying on its side nearby and I reached for the handle without really thinking about it. But before I could move the bucket to secure the tarp, something inside it bit me!
I yanked my hand back, instinctively sucking the wound, then inspected my finger for damage. A nice little chunk had been taken out of my right index finger. Whatever critter had taken up residence in there meant business. I picked up a pitchfork and, bracing myself for the worst, stooped to get a better look at my enemy.
Inside the bucket crouched not a snarling raccoon or feral barn cat, but a puffed-up, hissing speckled hen. She flattened herself over her makeshift nest and glared at me with one beady eye, as broody as they come.
Apparently Anne Sutherland had been right—if possession was nine tenths of the law, I did own a chicken who probably had pooped on her porch. Two of them, now. Not for long, though. A broody, barnyard-mix hen fit into my well-laid plans about as neatly as a stray rooster. That is, not at all. She needed to find a new place to live.
“Honey, you aren’t going to hatch anything out of those golf balls you probably have under there,” I said to her, chuckling. I reached out to evict her from my bucket, and she lashed out at my hand again, quick as a cobra. This time I had more warning and avoided another brutal peck. She ruffled her feathers, puffing up to completely fill the round opening, and clucked at me indignantly, as though the very thought of disturbing her was a mortal sin. She wasn’t about to give up her clutch—not without drawing blood.
I sighed. “OK, little dinosaur. I won’t steal your egg babies. But as soon you quit the nest, you’re going to the auction house along with Alarm Clock.”
I set up a station for food and water under the workbench and went to retrieve the rooster from the car. Eli pulled up as I slid Alarm Clock’s box out of the back of the Suburban.
“Aw, did you get me a present?” he asked as he walked toward me.
“Why, yes I did.” I smiled innocently and handed him the box. His face lit up and he eagerly pulled open the flaps. Alarm Clock launched out of the box, squawking and beating Eli’s face with his wings until Eli stumbled backward and the rooster landed on the ground, loose feathers swirling around him. The rooster immediately began scratching and pecking in the driveway dust; the morning spent crammed inside a cardboard box had left him hungry.
“Gee, thanks.” Eli frowned at me. I didn’t know why—his question hadn’t been serious, and neither was my answer. Anyway, how was I supposed to know that Alarm Clock would fly out like that?
“You said this farm was a lot for one little girl, so I figured I’d bring in a Y-chromosome to help me out,” I said sweetly. I shooed Alarm Clock toward the barn so I could introduce him to the broody hen. As I headed back inside, I hoped she wouldn’t peck the crud out of him the way she had my finger.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that!” Eli trotted after us, and I rolled my eyes.
“What did you mean, then? Because it sure sounded like you think I can’t handle my business, and I assure you that I can.”
He caught up to me just as I entered the barn and cleared his throat awkwardly. “When I said this was a lot of farm for one woman, I just meant that I wanted to help you with whatever you need. You know, because I’m happy you’re back. You might not have the same nostalgia for our high school days as I do, but honestly, Leona—Honeytree hasn’t been the same without you. I’m sorry if my smart remarks came off wrong, because I know you can do whatever you put your mind to. I mean, look at the life you’ve led!”
Heat rose in my cheeks and then spread down to my collarbones. I didn’t really want to look at my life. Eli could only see it from the outside: the glamor of my former address, the jewelry and European vacations, the TV-ready family. He didn’t know how miserable all of that had made me, and bursting his bubble would be admitting my own failure. I wasn’t ready for that, but Eli’s hangdog expression made me realize I couldn’t keep berating him for extending friendship to me, either. Nobody deserved that kind of treatment.
Nobody deserved this hot flash, either.
I fanned myself, then stripped off my plaid flannel and tied it around my waist. “That’s just it—it wasn’t my life. It was my husband’s and that was my mistake—listening when he told me how to live my life instead of making my own decisions. I won’t make that mistake again. I know that makes me seem prickly, but maybe I just am prickly now.”
“A rose with thorns.” Eli grinned.
I snorted. “I’m a bleeping cactus.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’re great.” Eli stepped toward me and reached out a hand. “Truce? I�
��ll keep offering to help, and you can keep saying no for as long as you want. I won’t hold it against you—as long as you don’t hold it against me for offering.”
I nodded and took his hand. “Truce.”
His eyes lingered on my face as he searched it for something. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it. Then his expression changed to one of curiosity as he looked past me into the barn and dropped my hand. “What’ve you got under here?”
My stomach sank. “Nothing!” But it was too late; he’d already sidestepped me and pulled aside the canvas tarp, revealing my little red convertible.
Eli gave a low whistle as he circled the car. “Nice ride! Have you taken this out on the Flats and put the pedal to the metal yet?”
“Not yet. Every time I try and get a little speed out there, the cops pull me over.” I grinned sheepishly at him.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. You didn’t hear it from me, but the way we’re scheduled, there’s nobody on highway patrol from two to four a.m.” He winked.
“Duly noted. Now where’s Alarm Clock?” I looked around my feet for the rooster and then, when I didn’t find him, took in the rest of the barn’s interior. I could hear him clucking softly, so I knew he was close by.
“Look.” Eli nodded toward the other side of the car. I stepped around to get a better view and saw Alarm Clock scratching and dragging his wings in the dust in front of the bucket where the broody hen was still squatting. “I think he’s made a lady friend.”
“Aw, he’s tidbitting. He’s trying to impress her by bringing her a treat. He must have found a bug.” I watched him dance and sing for a moment, my affection for Alarm Clock growing by the minute. One less bug in the barn was fine by me. “What a good boy.”
Eli grinned wickedly at me. I knew he was about to make a joke about how he and the rooster being on the same mission to impress a lady, and I held up my hand to stop him. “Don’t start, Elias Ramirez! What are you doing hanging around my barn, anyway? Don’t you have work to do? File Walt’s statement or something, since I know you’re not doing the digging.”
“What do you mean? I dig! Look at these blisters from yesterday.” He held out his hands and I could see where painful-looking blisters were raised on top of his already-calloused palms. “The forensics team has it under control. I emailed Walt Sutherland’s witness statement from my phone. And I’m here on business, anyway. I need to know how you found out the victim’s name.”
“Joe.” I nodded. “He was a hobo from Toronto.”
He gaped at me. “How in the world did you figure that out so quickly?”
“I told you last night—Tambra recognized the guitar case. I saw her in town and just asked her.” I shrugged. “Is that all? If so, I need to get back to work.”
“Yep, all done. Now I am at your service. Let me help you with whatever you’ve got going on.”
My first instinct was to send him out. I could get the barn ready for two stray chickens and my upcoming shipment of hatchery chicks on my own. But on the other hand, I had a hundred pounds of chicken feed sitting in the back of my Suburban. “Be careful what you wish for. I got a couple of feed sacks in the car—you can haul them in here if you want and then dump ’em in there.” I nodded at two shiny metal trash cans I’d bought specifically to keep pests and moisture out of the food.
“You got it.” Eli saluted and pretend-marched out toward the parking area, lifting his knees high. He didn’t seem to care that half the sheriff’s department was out there watching him act like a goofball. I couldn’t help smiling at his back.
I heard a flapping behind me and turned to see Alarm Clock perched on the leather-covered steering wheel of my Porsche, preening his majestic tail feathers.
“Don’t you crap on my dash!” I rushed toward him and waved my arms until he decided he was better off preening somewhere else. He dove from my steering wheel to the top of his lady friend’s bucket. Of course, that made the bucket wobble, turning her into an angry puffball of doom. Someone was messing with her nest, and she decided that someone was me.
She rocketed out of the bucket, screeching, with a murderous glint in her eye. She went straight for my knees and went at them like they’d personally insulted her. I booted her softly to get her away from me. Clucking, she stormed back to her nest, but Alarm Clock took up the cause, squawking indignantly as he lowered his wings and charged at me. At the last second, he jumped and tried to nail me with his spurs, but I turned so he only grazed the back of my thighs.
I grabbed him while he was still near me and tucked him firmly under my arm. “Nice try, mister. I appreciate that you love your lady already, but I’m the boss around here. Anyway, it was your fault for landing on her bucket, not mine.”
With my free hand, I pulled the cover back over my car so it wouldn’t become his favorite roost. Eli returned with a feed sack on each shoulder, his biceps bulging—I have to admit, I didn’t mind the gun show—and slung them down by the trash cans. He grinned at the rooster under my arm. “Farm girl looks good on you. Those jeans look good on you, too.”
“Don’t get fresh,” I said, self-consciously smoothing my hair in case the chicken kerfuffle had loosened my ponytail and let my obstreperous curls escape. “This guy tried to spur me, and this is the best way to teach him a lesson. I’m going to haul him around until he’s sufficiently humiliated, like he’s a chihuahua in a purse.”
Eli nodded as he pulled the strings that opened the top of the feed bags. “There’s nothing more humiliating than being a lapdog.” With a smirk, he hoisted the first bag of feed and poured it into the trash can, then did the same with the second. The lids clanged shut and he dusted his hands before looking at me expectantly. “What’s next?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Speaking of lapdogs...”
The look on his face—it was like someone pulled the slot machine lever, emotions whirling past as he decided whether to be amused or offended.
“I’m kidding,” I added, and he relaxed. “I think I’ve got it from here. I just need to clean out this place a little to make room for my chicks until I can get the coop finished.”
He glanced around the barn, taking in the dusty piles of junk that surrounded my Porsche. “Well, if you change your mind...”
“I have your number,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back to negate the lie. It wasn’t really a lie. I mean, the crumpled ticket with his scribbled cell number was probably still on the floorboards of the Suburban.
“Well. Goodbye, then.” He looked embarrassed as he left. Maybe he realized that his goon squad was going to tease him mercilessly about his earlier caper to the car. I didn’t dwell on it; what did I care what Eli was thinking? I wasn’t like Anne Sutherland, scurrying away at the merest hint of a man’s displeasure. I was the boss of this place.
Chapter 14
Under my arm, Alarm Clock clucked softly. As an experiment, I set him down, and he went straight to work, scratching in the dust on the floor, not a hint of aggression toward me. “That’s more like it.”
I scooped a handful of all-flock from the can and filled the food dish under the work bench for him and the hen. She really needed a name, now that I thought about it. I squatted down so I could see into her bucket and get a better look at her beautiful speckled feathers. She puffed up, ready to take a beakful out of me, if necessary, and tucked one of her eggs more securely underneath her breast. Broody hens had such a split personality, tender with their babies and evil with everyone else.
“More Dr. Jekyll, please, and less Mr. Hyde.” The instant the words were out of my mouth, I snapped my fingers. “That’s it. We’re calling you Dr. Speckle.”
The hen muttered unappreciatively and huddled over her eggs, so I let her be and stood to assess the space. The barn had electricity, thankfully, though the outlets were few and far between. I needed one for the brooder plate that would keep my chicks warm until they grew enough feathers to self-regulate their temperature. I loc
ated a good outlet in a back corner and set to work moving the true junk—it was mostly junk that I’d inherited from Amos—out behind the barn. I’d haul it off to the dump when I had the time.
Most of the stuff was old building materials, stuff left over from completed projects, or maybe projects that were never started. Folks that grew up during the Depression stockpiled everything useful, from rolls of used baling twine to empty feed sacks, and Amos Chapman was no exception. He’d stashed about twenty coffee cans full of washers, screws, and nails, too. I decided to keep those—it was a supply to last a lifetime.
I moved them over to the shelves above the work bench. The pile of two-by-four offcuts went into the wheelbarrow until I could decide what to do with them, and the forgotten tools crammed into the corner—a blunted old shovel and a metal rake—I decided to hang on the wall. I tapped in a couple of nails from the hoard into a post and rested the shovel between them.
It was only then, once the shovel was hanging on the wall, that I noticed the handle was stained with something dark. It looked as though the substance had dripped from the shovel’s rusted blade down onto the wooden shaft where it had soaked in, leaving black streaks. I swallowed hard.
Could it be...blood?
My ears started to ring. I backed out of the barn as quickly as I could and crashed directly into a brick wall.
Or at least, it felt like it.
“I think your gears got stuck in reverse.” Eli chuckled as he extended a hand to help me up off the ground. I ignored it and scrambled to my feet, my face on fire.
“Sorry I ran into you. I got a little spooked.” I brushed my hand over my face and regretted it instantly as I felt the grit of barn dirt smudge across my forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“I found something you should see.” I led him into the barn and pointed at the shovel hanging on the post. “Tell me that’s not a bloodstain.”
