1 A Cop and a Coop

by Hillary Avis

  “What am I to do then?!” Yelena put her hands on her hips and channeled Disappointed Grandmother so well that I thought she might demand that Sherman bend over to be switched. Sherman reached for his back pocket and, finding it empty of cigarette packs, adjusted his toothpick and ground it between his teeth until it splintered.

  “Why are you getting rid of your chickens?” I asked Yelena, hoping to defuse the tension. “I thought you enjoyed keeping them.”

  Her mouth puckered up like she’d bitten a lemon. “My sister Roza is sick and her husband is worthless, so I’m going back home to care for her. I don’t know how long I will stay, so the birds must go.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

  Yelena shrugged. “We do what we must for our family. And our friends,” she said pointedly. Sherman rolled his eyes and edged toward the back door.

  “Where does your sister live?” I asked, giving him time to make his escape.

  “Canada,” Yelena said. “We emigrated there together with our families—oh, it must have been fifty years ago if it was a day.”

  My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. So much had happened that I’d forgotten about my stupid joke that Yelena had killed Walt, the one that Ruth had taken too far and reported to the sheriff’s office. But maybe Yelena had moved to Honeytree to track down her missing son, and then taken revenge on his supposed killer when I cast suspicion on Walt. I tried to picture Yelena attacking Walt with a weapon, but I just couldn’t picture the adorable babushka in front of me channeling that kind of rage.

  It was probably just a coincidence, I told myself. Canada was a big country. “Whereabouts in Canada?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

  “B.C.,” she said. “A little bit outside Vancouver.”

  Hm, not Toronto. But Joe could have moved there on his own, as an adult. “You said your families came too? Do you have children?”

  A wistful expression crossed her face. “Not anymore. My sister has two girls about your age, though. One is a nurse and the other makes quilts. They’re not the kind for beds, they hang on the walls. Isn’t that strange? Why put in stuffing if it’s not to keep someone warm? But she likes it and she makes a living, so...” Yelena shrugged. “What can I say?”

  “They sound like interesting people,” I said politely. The truth was, I wasn’t interested in her nieces at all. It was her comment about not having children anymore that piqued my curiosity. “You said you don’t have—”

  “This your feather fixer, Leona?” Sherman asked from the back door, holding the bag I’d left on the counter.

  I nodded. “Someone dumped a couple of hens in bad condition in the ditch in front of my place, so I’m trying to perk them up before I find them new homes.”

  Sherman chuckled. “I guess the word’s out that you’re cooking up a chicken farm.”

  A smile cracked Yelena’s weathered cheeks. She clasped her hands gleefully. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” she crowed.

  “What?” I asked. Sherman chuckled; apparently he was in on the joke that I still didn’t get.

  “They’re in the back of my station wagon. I’ll go move them over.” Yelena started around the building and then stopped, turning back to me. “Is your car unlocked?”

  “Yeah, it’s a convertible and the top is down—wait, are you saying...” But Yelena had already disappeared. I stared at the point where her green woolen sleeve had vanished past the weathered gray siding of the feed store. “Did I just volunteer to take her hens?”

  Sherman nodded.

  I groaned. “I’m not even going to ask how many she’s got crammed in the back of her Subaru.”

  “She told me three. But could be more; you know how it is.” He crossed his arms, grinning. “Chicken math.”

  I frowned. “Chicken math?”

  “It’s like, you want six birds, so you buy eight in case a couple die...then one turns out to be a rooster and a secret stash of eggs later, you’ve got a dozen chicks running around and instead of six chickens you have twenty.”

  “Eighty-nine,” I croaked.

  “Pardon?” Sherman cupped a hand to his ear.

  “I’ll have eighty-nine. I wanted forty-eight.”

  Sherman’s eyes twinkled as he gave a satisfied nod. “See? Chicken math. Happens every time. I’ll ring you up if you’re ready?”

  “Dewormer,” I said as I followed him back to the register. “I couldn’t find it.”

  Sherman swiped something off a shelf as we passed and handed it to me. It had a picture of a bleating goat on the front.

  “Goat and sheep dewormer?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Works for birds, too,” he said. “No egg withdrawal period. Just watch the dosage—I’ll write it down for you.” At the counter, he flipped over a sheet of paper and scribbled a few numbers in pencil on it before handing it to me. “Don’t mind the stuff on the back. I was just working out the tournament pairing for the bowling league.”

  “You don’t need it?” I proffered the paper.

  He shook his head. “Nah. I passed it off to someone else—I’m thinking of quitting the sport. Too many smokers in the league. Bad for the old willpower. Maybe I’ll take up poker again now that Walt’s spot at the table is open.” He gave me an apologetic grimace and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Sorry—I know you were neighbors with him. I was just thinking out loud. Walt and I used to play cards together back in the day; I’ll miss the old coot, too.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I didn’t miss Walt, but I wasn’t unaffected by his death, either. Like everybody in town, I wanted to know what happened and why. “Any idea who had something against him?”

  Sherman bumped the brim of his cap back with his knuckle as though it’d give him a better view of the situation. “I can’t say, really. I haven’t spent much time with him since I quit playing maybe fifteen years back. He’s always been cantankerous, though. Heck, that’s why I left the Spence game—I couldn’t stand how he and Zeke would get into it every week. So I get why someone would be ticked off at a guy like him, but I can’t understand who’d go so far as to kill him.”

  My ears perked up at the mention of Zeke’s name. “What do you mean, they’d get into it?

  “Oh, just arguing over who owed who and who owed what. Walt would lose his shirt and Zeke would let him pawn his trousers. Then the next week, Walt’d be salty because Zeke sold ’em before he could buy them back. It got to where it wasn’t even fun to be in the game, so I shuffled off to Buffalo and picked up bowling.” Sherman adjusted his hat, settling it onto his head so the brim rested on his impressively bushy eyebrows. “If I wanted to bicker for hours every Saturday night, I’d stay home with Marilyn! Plus, bowling is cheaper.” He winked at me.

  I grinned in spite of myself. “Well, good to know. I’ll be interested to hear what Zeke has to say about it. I think Eli’s already got him on the list to interview.”

  At the mention of Eli’s name, Sherman stiffened, his face growing still and masklike. “That was all a long time ago. You don’t need to go digging up hard feelings. I thought we were speaking as friends or I wouldn’t have said anything. Didn’t realize you were cozy with the sheriff.”

  “We’re not cozy,” I said automatically. “He’s just an old friend.”

  Sherman didn’t soften at my explanation. “Well, Zeke and Walt were old friends, too. Buddies argue now and then, but that’s the end of it.”

  “You don’t know what’s happened between them in the last fifteen years,” I pointed out. “You said so yourself.”

  His frown deepened. “Keep my name out of it, anyway. Have a nice day, now.”

  “Will do.” It was clear he was done with the conversation. As I moved to leave, I noticed a pair of the pillow-top gloves Tambra had recommended hanging on a wire hook near the beef jerky and chewing gum. I grabbed a pair and put them on top of my pile. “Can you add those to my tab?”

  Sherman jerked his head in the affirmative, and I slid m
y purchases off the counter, bracing myself for what I’d find in my Porsche. I didn’t even know if Yelena had her hens in a box or if they were in a wire crate. I quickened my step. While my little car wasn’t fresh off the lot, I wasn’t a fan of chicken turds on my upholstery, either.

  Out in the gravel parking area, I was relieved to see Yelena with a cat carrier in each hand, hefting them into the backseat of my car. She turned to me, dusting her hands and then the front of her wool coat.

  “They’re all yours,” she said, beaming. I dumped the items I was carrying into the trunk and shut the lid.

  “Great.” My blatant lack of enthusiasm was bordering on rudeness, so I quickly added, “Can you tell me more about them?”

  “Da. They aren’t too old, less than two years. They’re good girls, lay eggs every day. I’m sorry to say goodbye to them.” The corners of her eyes crinkled deeply as she smiled. “Their name is Magda.”

  “That’s the breed?” I asked, squinting at the cat carriers as I attempted to glimpse the chickens inside. I was imagining some rare Russian heritage birds, but Yelena laughed and shook her head.

  “They’re just plain red chickens. It’s impossible to distinguish them from one another, so I call them all Magda. They don’t mind.”

  “I’m going to steal that idea for my flock.” I grinned, imagining the challenge of coming up with distinct names for all sixty of my layers. I wondered if Yelena’s “plain red” hens were the same production breed as mine or if they were an older breed like Rhode Island Reds. Either way, between these three and the two Polish hens, I’d have plenty of eggs to eat during the winter while I waited for the chicks to mature. Maybe I didn’t need to find them new homes, after all. I could have a production flock for egg sales and a personal flock for less perfectly matched eggs.

  Yelena held up her finger as though she’d just remembered something. “I have something else if you don’t mind!” With surprising quickness given her age, she darted to her silver Subaru station wagon and returned with a towel-wrapped bundle that had a black handle sticking out of it. Pressing it into my hands, she said, “It’s for Anne. Will you drop it off for me?”

  “A casserole?” I guessed, judging by the warmth seeping through the towel onto my hands, and the rich, savory scent that rose from the dish a few seconds later and made my mouth water. Then my stomach turned—I’d forgotten that not ten minutes ago, I’d suspected Yelena of murdering Walt in a fit of misguided revenge for her son’s death.

  Yelena nodded. “Potatoes and eggs casserole. Good any time of day, breakfast or dinner. I thought Anne might like it; it’s very hard to cook and eat when you’re grieving. It was my daughter’s favorite—so comforting.”

  She’d said daughter, not son. My shoulder’s sagged in relief. I set the casserole in the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt around the dish. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  Yelena tilted her head, her expression softening as her eyes grew misty. “Yes, she passed away when she was only sixteen. My only child.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. My heart ached at the thought of losing my own daughter at that age. Whatever grudge I held toward Andrea for criticizing my choice to leave her dad evaporated in an instant. It was stupid to let the divorce mean distance from her and the grandkids, too. I should be grateful that I have time left on earth to spend with her, grateful that she thought of me enough to send a silly pink nana shirt from Amazon. I was ashamed of my own ingratitude now that I knew Yelena wasn’t lucky enough to have grandchildren.

  Her eyes came into focus on my face and she smiled kindly at me. “She was born very early and was never very healthy. She had breathing problems. I brought her to Canada to help her but”—she clucked her tongue—“I think it was too late. I should have come sooner.”

  I swallowed and pulled her into a hug. “You did your best, Yelena. You literally crossed the globe and left everything behind to help her get well.”

  She patted my cheeks and then clasped my face and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Aren’t you a good girl? I think she’d have been like you if she’d had a chance to grow up. Well, I’m glad my chickens will live with you so I don’t have to worry about them while I’m gone. I know you’ll find Magda a good home,” she added.

  “I’ll keep them until you get back,” I said impulsively. “They’ll be waiting for you.”

  She waved her hands dismissively. “No, no, that’s too much to ask.”

  I shook my head. “It isn’t too much. It’s just right.”

  Chapter 31

  As I turned out of the feed store parking lot, I spotted Ruth marching along the sidewalk. Her hair was pulled up into a frizzy ponytail and she wore leggings and a Flashdance-style sweatshirt that left one shoulder and a bra strap showing. Cute, but not Ruth’s usual glamorous-hippie style. She looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. I slowed to a stop in the middle of the road.

  “Did you get my message?” I called to her. She pretended not to hear me, her arms pumping faster as she speed-walked toward downtown. I leaned on the horn, letting it blare until she finally stopped and planted her hands on her hips.

  “Yes, I got it! Happy?” Her face twisted with rage—rage at me, I realized with a shock.

  I put the Porsche in park in the middle of the lane and hit the emergency flashers. “Why the heck would I be happy?”

  Ruth marched over to my side of the car just as a truck came up behind me, and I watched nervously in the rearview as it swerved into the oncoming lane and navigated around us both.

  “Maybe we should get out of the street,” I said.

  “Of course, you always know what’s best.” Ruth’s voice was defiantly sarcastic.

  I rolled my eyes. “Just get in the car. I’ll give you a ride wherever you’re going.” I wasn’t sure she was going to take me up on it, but after a moment of consideration, she walked around the front. She waited impatiently as I moved the casserole to the floorboards and then got into the passenger seat.

  “I had to sell my car to raise Rusty’s bail,” she explained. “I was just heading down to the sheriff’s office to pay it.”

  I flipped a U-turn and drove the speed limit toward downtown so we’d have more time to talk. “You know I didn’t mean for Rusty to get in trouble.”

  “Oh, Rusty got himself in trouble when he buried that hobo instead of calling the cops! But to accuse my grandpa of killing a man? Really?!” She whacked me on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He didn’t even eat meat; did you know that? Because he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting a living creature for his own benefit. He didn’t kill Joe.”

  My mouth dropped open in protest. “I didn’t say he did—Rusty said that! Your brother’s the one who was so sure your grandpa killed Joe over stealing the telescope that he buried a dead body to protect him! Maybe you just didn’t see the angry side of Amos because you didn’t spend as much time on the farm.”

  “He was principled,” Ruth said, crossing her arms over her seatbelt. “Not angry. I told you not to throw people under the bus unless you know what you’re talking about. It’s damaging!”

  I pulled the car up to the curb and looked over at her, hoping the hard shell she’d developed would crack a little and let me in. “Amos Chapman doesn’t have a reputation to protect anymore. He’s gone.”

  “His family name isn’t!” she blazed. I could feel the anger snapping out of her and sizzling along her curls like electricity. “The Chapmans might not have their orchard anymore, but they still live here. They still exist! You can’t point fingers unless you know for sure what happened. And you don’t know, Leona! You don’t.” Her voice cracked at the end of her sentence and her eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, welled with tears.

  “Oh, don’t cry, Ruthie.” I reached out and squeezed her forearm. “I just want to help. I promise, I didn’t make any accusations against your grandpa. Eli just happened to be there when R
usty confessed to burying Joe. He said your grandpa probably killed him, but that doesn’t mean he did. He was just giving Eli his best guess, but that doesn’t mean he was right. Like you called Eli about Yelena, right? It’s no different.”

  “No.” She held up one finger to correct me. “I called Eli because I thought he should know that Yelena might be from Toronto. Not because I thought she killed anyone.”

  “Come on now—isn’t that the same thing? It just feels different because Yelena’s not your family. She’s from Vancouver, by the way, not Toronto. And she didn’t have a son—she had a daughter.” I swallowed hard, thinking of my own family and how we were spread so thin across the country. It didn’t feel healthy to be so far apart from Andrea and the twins. Yelena was doing the right thing, rushing to her sister’s side, and Ruth was in the right, too, as she so staunchly defended her grandfather and brother. “I get that you’re mad. I’m sorry for buying your farm, I really am. I should have found a way to help you keep it instead. You’re my best friend, and I can’t stand it if you’re angry with me.”

  Ruth sighed and used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You saved our butts by coming in with cash. Nobody else could get a mortgage for the place because of its condition. Oh my word, what is that smell?”

  The Magdas in the back had been so quiet that I’d forgotten all about them until that moment. “I have Yelena’s hens in the backseat, and I think they pooped their temporary coops. I’m keeping them until she gets back.”

  Ruth’s head swiveled toward me. “Where’s she going?”

  “Her sister’s sick; she’s going up to Vancouver to help.”

  “Kind of convenient that she’s running away to Canada right after Walt gets killed, don’t you think?”