by Hillary Avis
He frowned. “You think someone used a back entrance of the shed to kill Walt? I don’t think it has a back door.”
“The post office. I’m supposed to pick up the chicks at the back entrance.”
“Ah. That makes more sense.” He grinned and pulled around the corner, edging his vehicle as close as possible near the loading dock where a mail truck was already parked.
“I’ll just be a minute.” I hopped out just as the back door of the post office, marked “Authorized Personnel Only” opened. A woman in a blue USPS hoodie stuck her head out. She had a narrow face and dark eyebrows that made her look angry at first glance, but on second look, her brown wavy hair framed a kind expression. I didn’t recognize her, but she looked young enough that she probably wasn’t even born the last time I lived in Honeytree.
“Leona?” she asked, arching one eyebrow.
I nodded. “That’s me. Are you Stef?”
“Yup. Your peepers are peeping. I resisted the urge to open the boxes, but man, it was hard!” She chuckled. “They’re so cute! We don’t see many shipments of fall chicks. Usually we have a batch around Easter, though.”
I nodded politely, my palms itching to get my hands on those boxes. I knew that the chicks would be fine without food and water for about three days after hatching, but they’d already been in transit for two days, so I was eager to get them home and settled in the barn.
“I want spring eggs,” I explained. “Spring chicks don’t lay until the fall, and then egg production goes down during the winter. You waste a whole laying season if you get spring chicks.”
“I figured you had a farm, with the size of those boxes. Let me grab them for you.” Stef ducked back inside and returned with two large, shallow boxes that had air holes punched in all sides, one stacked on top of the other. “I’ll put them in your car so—” She stopped short as she took in Eli’s SUV and realized it was a sheriff’s vehicle.
“A friend gave me a ride.” I knocked on the back and Eli popped the rear door from the front seat, giving Stef and me a glimpse of the masses of equipment stored in the back. Luckily there was plenty of space remaining for my babies.
Stef gently set the boxes down and I quickly moved the top box so it was sitting flat on the floor of the car, too, so the air holes in the top of the lower box weren’t blocked for the ride home. “Do I need to sign for these?”
Stef wrinkled her nose. “No worries—I’ll initial for you. But, um...most people want to check the chicks in case...well...I don’t want to say it. We’ll call it shipping damage.”
I nodded. As callous as it sounded, I didn’t expect all the chicks to make the trip. I actually ordered an extra dozen to compensate for mortality. I slid my fingernail underneath the tape on the side of the first box, silently apologizing to Tambra for the scar it left in my orange polish. When I flipped open the lid of the first box, I saw what I expected—a tightly-packed huddle of fuzzy golden bodies separated into four quadrants with cardboard dividers. And I also saw what I didn’t expect—several chicks with brown stripes down their backs. I groaned. The hatchery had included “bonus” chicks for cushioning and warmth. Just what I needed in my life, more random chickens.
“What?” Stef asked. “They all look OK to me.”
I pointed to the offending baby birds. “They sent extras.”
“And that’s a problem?” Her expressive eyebrows knitted together.
I sighed. “It means I’m stuck with birds I don’t want. And I already ordered extras in case some died in the mail.” I popped open the other box and saw the same thing—a handful of randomly colored chicks marred my otherwise perfect little flock. “See, I wanted to have four dozen laying hens next spring, so I ordered sixty chicks. And then they included an extra”—I counted quickly—“ten. And the chicks are all healthy. So now I have seventy chicks when I only planned for forty-eight. And the extras are probably all cockerels or some weird heritage breed that only lays twice a week.”
I glared at the boxes, where the chicks were huddling even more closely together, peeping from the influx of cool morning air. It was hard to stay angry at the sight of so many cute little fluffballs, though.
Stef chuckled. “Guess you’ll be having a few chicken dinners. Not the worst thing in the world.”
It was hard to argue with that. I replaced the lids to the boxes and smiled crookedly at Stef. “Sorry to complain. They look great; thanks for the gentle handling.”
“Any time, Leona.” Stef jammed her hands in her hoodie pockets. “Good luck with your chicks! Maybe I’ll stop by when I’m on my route to see the little guys.”
“Gals,” I corrected. “And please do. I want them handled as much as possible so they’re not afraid of people, so if you’re into chick-cuddling, you’re invited.”
“I’m into chick-cuddling,” Eli said from the front seat, his eyes twinkling at me in the rearview mirror. I snorted and closed the tailgate, giving Stef a wave as she headed back inside before I opened the passenger door.
“That’s not what I meant.” I slid back into my seat, suddenly conscious of my unwashed hair and baggy cargo pants. Surely, he wouldn’t consider me a chick, anyway. His non-reaction to my hair and makeup efforts yesterday made that pretty clear. What did he say? I looked different. Not pretty. Not even better.
Eli blinked innocently. “What? I love baby animals.”
“Sure you do.” Especially the petite, long-legged kind like Stef—the kind I’d been back in the day. I crossed my arms over my grandma shirt, another reminder that I was more than a little past my prime.
As Eli put the SUV in reverse, I wondered why I cared what he thought, anyway. I’d spent the last few days rebuffing him at every opportunity, and I should be annoyed that he bullied me into accepting a ride to the post office. I wasn’t interested in having a serious relationship ever again, and especially not with some boy I dated thirty years ago. But I had to admit that I was susceptible to him; it had been so long since I’d spent time around a nice man that it was hard not to confuse kindness with romantic interest. What I’d interpreted as Eli’s flirtation was probably just him being a good friend for old time’s sake, and friendship was something I needed.
I glanced over at him as he studiously watched the backup camera. “Thanks for the ride. You’re not so bad, you know.”
“Oh no!” His face registered shock and he slammed on the brakes, jerking my head forward.
Chapter 21
“What is it?” I squinted at the backup camera to see what Eli had been trying to avoid, but nothing was visible on the screen.
He waited a beat before grinning at me. “I think you might like me.”
I pursed my lips and glared at him. “I think you gave me whiplash.”
“I doubt it,” he said merrily as he headed back toward the highway. “I was only going about three miles per hour.”
“Hmph.” I rubbed the back of my neck to make my point and stared out the window as businesses and then houses and then trees flicked by, feeling slightly foolish for showing my hand. It was funny how I was the same person here I’d been in high school—albeit far less likely to squeeze into a pleated miniskirt—as though the intervening decades hadn’t really happened. I felt just as silly, nervous, and self-conscious as I had as a giggly teenager planning for the Homecoming Dance.
What does he mean? Does he like me? Is he just teasing?
Stupid.
The peeping in the back of the SUV intensified as we took the Curves in silence. When we got back to the farm, I was grateful to see the white forensics van parked by the part of my yard cordoned off with crime scene tape. The three guys crawling around the giant pile of dirt meant that I wouldn’t have to endure another awkward conversation with Eli. Between this crime scene and the one next door, he’d be in work mode instead of torture-Leona mode.
“Bye!” I said over my shoulder as I bolted out of the car and went around to the back to collect my babies. I gingerly picked up the fi
rst box, trying not to jostle them as I did so.
To my chagrin, Eli joined me and scooped up the second box with equal care. Apparently he wasn’t as focused on work as he ought to have been, judging from the annoyed look his colleague Blake shot him from over by the van.
“Where to?”
With an apologetic shrug to Blake, I led Eli toward the barn and used my back to slide open the heavy door, careful to keep my little box of fluffs level. The comforting smell of the barn enveloped me as soon as we stepped inside and somehow it seemed that the chorus of peeps grew louder. Maybe the little gals knew they were home.
I set my box on an empty section of workbench behind my shrouded car and cleared a space next to it so Eli could do the same. It was then that I noticed Dr. Speckle’s bucket was empty. Not only had she abandoned the nest, but it looked like all the eggs were gone, too! Had a raccoon gotten into the barn? Just what I needed...nasty rotten eggs strewn everywhere. I stooped to get a better look inside the bucket and gasped in horror.
“What is it?” Eli dropped down beside me.
I could barely answer. “The eggs. They’re...”
“Hatched? Ah, here they are!” Eli stood and peered behind the bucket, chuckling as he nudged aside a pile of empty coffee cans to reveal a clucking, scratching Dr. Speckle and at least a dozen multi-colored, wobbly chicks. Behind her, Alarm Clock arched a concerned neck toward us to ensure we weren’t there to molest “his” babies. Eli licked his lower lip as he scanned the group, counting. “I get fourteen. You?”
I confirmed his count and fell back onto my seat in the barn dust and groaned. “Eighty-six!”
“You ready to bail on this whole place, huh?” Eli grinned at me.
“No, I mean now I have eighty-six chickens. Sixty that I ordered—sixty that I thought would turn into forty-eight—but between the packing-peanut chicks and these barnyard mutts and their parents, now I have eighty-six.” I wanted to cry. Eighty-six chickens and the coop wasn’t even started.
“You seem a little overwhelmed. Why don’t I give you a hand getting these little ones settled?” Eli reached down to pat my shoulder, but I shrugged him off and struggled to my feet, dusting off the seat of my cargos.
“I’m fine. This will be fine.” I jutted out my chin and willed my words to be true. “I just have to wrap my head around it. I wanted a chicken farm, right? And the universe is saying, ‘Here you go. Start farming.’”
“Be careful what you wish for.” Eli winked at me.
“Hey, that’s my line.”
He ducked his head, grinning. “If you change your mind...”
“I know, I know.” I waved him out and set to work clearing out the remaining few items from the back corner of the barn. Then I swept out the inside of a large stock tank and put a layer of straw in the bottom. I hung a heat lamp so it warmed one end of the tank, added food and electrolyte-laced water to the opposite end, and then the makeshift brooder was ready for the babies.
I moved the first box of chicks to the floor and gently ferried the chicks two-by-two into their new habitat. Right away, they scrambled around exploring the tank, discovering the food and water by quite literally stumbling into it. The chicks I’d ordered all looked pretty much identical—pale golden with faint red stripes down their backs. They’d grow into petite, efficient layers who didn’t eat much and produced a large, quality egg every day like clockwork.
The half-dozen “bonus” chicks in this box were another story. They were every color of the rainbow—black, light yellow, brown with racing stripes, even pale gray—and some stood a head taller than the rest of the flock. I didn’t know if they were male or female, nor if they were layers, meat birds, or dual-purpose—a fancy word that just meant a chicken that grew too slow to be an efficient meat bird and didn’t lay enough to make it worth the feed. I’d already decided that dual-purpose wasn’t for me—I wanted the predictable numbers and quality that came with the layers bred for commercial production—but here I was with two-dozen wildcards, ten from the hatchery and fourteen from the dear Dr. Speckle.
“I’ll feed you until I find you new homes,” I said, rising to fetch the remaining box of chicks. If enough of them were female, I might even be able to sell them and recoup my investment in the chicks; so-called “started pullets” could fetch five or six times the cost of a day-old chick.
I emptied the second box of peeping pompoms and then went to deal with the barnyard brood. I felt a little guilty stealing the babies from their parents, but they’d be safer and better-fed in the brooder with the other chicks. The first few were easy to grab, but as their frantic cheeping rose, like any good mother hen, Dr. Speckle squawked and flapped at me, trying to deter my thieving talons. As far as she was concerned, I wasn’t a concerned caretaker, I was just a hawk with an orange manicure.
And Alarm Clock wasn’t there to play either. Like a swirling storm of feathers, he hurled himself at me, spurs-first. I put the chicks down and grabbed the lid of the garbage-can-cum-feed-bin just in time to use it as a shield. The angry rooster glanced off but returned for a second pass, Dr. Speckle on his heels. As the remaining babies scattered around me, I realized that I’d have to contain the parents before I could pilfer their brood.
When Alarm Clock made another move, this time aiming for my ankles, I clamped the garbage can lid down on top of him, pinning him until I could clasp him firmly under one arm. Dr. Speckle clucked and called her babies, shoving them beneath her wings to keep them safe from my predation. With an apology, I popped Alarm Clock into an empty bucket and shut the lid on it. Then I gently shooed Dr. Speckle into her old nest, making sure all the chicks followed her inside.
She trilled and fussed over them until they were all safely underneath her, and once they were settled, I lifted the whole shebang into the stock tank. “Gotcha!”
I dusted my hands and let Alarm Clock out of his bucket. He seemed properly chagrined and pretended to be very interested in pecking at the dust around my feet. I debated whether to leave him loose in the barn with so many chicks—from my research, I knew that occasionally a rooster would kill babies that weren’t his—but Alarm Clock had been so gentle and protective of Dr. Speckles’ hatchlings that I was pretty sure he’d accept the new babies as his own. Plus, he’d deter any thieves—human or otherwise—that might enter the barn.
I set an alarm on my phone to check on the chicks in a few hours and headed back to the house to clean up and have another cup of coffee. But as soon as I shut the barn door, I saw Eli wave to me. I pretended not to see him and made a beeline for the porch, but he jogged ahead and met me at the bottom of the stairs.
“No,” I said.
He looked hurt. “You didn’t even hear what I had to say.”
“Are you done, need any help, blah blah blah.” I made a talky motion with my hand.
“Wrong.” He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, arranging his face into the picture of professional detachment. “Actually, ma’am, I’m here to inform you that we’ll clear out of your yard by tomorrow morning. Our investigation on your property is wrapping up.”
My jaw dropped and I gripped the porch post in surprise. “I thought you were going to dig up the whole yard. It was supposed to take a week, minimum!”
“We’ve expended about as much effort as we can. County’s pulling the team off this case now that a more pressing investigation is underway.” His eyes slid toward the fence and beyond to the Sutherlands’ property.
“But they could be related,” I protested, although why I was arguing for the sheriff’s department to continue clucking up my yard was beyond me. I should have been thrilled. I should have been thinking about how to get my coop finished before the bad weather started.
He sighed. “Our chances of solving a fresh case are about a thousand percent higher than solving a twenty-year-old cold case. It’d be one thing if we’d investigated Joe’s disappearance back then, but we didn’t, so we have almost nothing to go on. It’s just a mat
ter of practicality. Better to catch a murderer who’s operating in the present than one who killed in the past. Heck, Joe’s killer might be dead already—but we know Walt’s is alive and well.”
“Guess I’ll have to get back to building my coop.” I forced a smile, even though the thought of any killer alive and well in my neighborhood was unsettling to say the least. I’d have to console myself with the fact that my coop-building schedule would only be delayed a few days instead of a few weeks. Then again, if I employed some power tools, I might not be behind schedule at all. Suddenly I felt wide-awake, no coffee necessary.
I poked Eli in the arm. “Can you move your vehicle, please? You’re blocking me in.”
A frown darkened Eli’s expression. “Why do you need the car? I thought you were going inside the house.”
I crossed my arms defiantly, annoyed that I had to explain myself. It was my dang car and my dang driveway, and I could drive up and down it all day for kicks if I wanted to! “If you must know, I’m going to borrow a trencher from Mike Spence so I can get working as soon as your guys clear out tomorrow. Not that it’s any of your business.” Eli’s face lit up and I groaned. “Why are you happy about that? Don’t tell me that you’re—”
“Coming with you!” he finished triumphantly.
“No thanks, I’ve had enough supervision for one day.”
“For once, this isn’t about you. I need to talk to Mike Spence, too, about Walt’s poker connections. We’ll save gas. It’s better for the environment!”
This man was impossible. Any time we had a conversation, my eyes felt like they were permanently on the “roll” setting. “Fine, but move your rig anyway. I’m going to drive.”
“Sorry, I’ve gotta drive my official sheriff’s vehicle while on official business.” He shrugged, clearly not sorry at all.
I shrugged right back at him. “Guess you’ll have to keep up with me, then.”
