1 A Cop and a Coop

by Hillary Avis

  Ruth shook her head. “I was just saying Leona should have you paint a sign for the end of her driveway. She’s going to call it Lucky Cluck Farm.”

  Tambra’s eyes brightened. “Ooh! I’d love that! What a fun project! What do you think about it being chicken-shaped—or maybe egg-shaped?”

  “I’ll leave that decision up to you and Ruth—you’re the ones with artistic taste.” I grinned. “I’ll pay you, of course, but it might have to be after I have some weekly egg customers. Things are going to be tight this winter until my girls start laying.”

  “No way. I won’t take a dime from you. Not after all you’ve done for me.” Tambra blinked away the tears that were welling in her eyes, fanning them with one hand.

  “Me? What have I done?” All I’d done for Tambra lately was sit still while she painted my nails. It was her—and Ruth and Eli and Mike Spence—who’d been helping me. Tambra had touched up the paint on my Suburban so well that you could hardly tell where Anne had scratched it. Eli had worked shoulder-to-shoulder with me to build the coop, using every second of his days off to help me finish it in time. Ruth had organized the pressing party to get the apples processed before they rotted on the branch, and the Spences loaned me the cider press and gave me a family-and-friends deal on the refrigerated transport.

  “You found Joe,” she said simply. “And you figured out who killed him. Now I can finally sleep at night.”

  I swallowed hard, unable to keep from looking at Ruth as pain flashed across her face. I knew it was because she was thinking of her brother in jail. “I’m really sorry, Ruth. I never meant for Rusty to get in trouble—he’s not a bad person; he just thought he was protecting your grandfather.”

  “It’s OK,” she said, reaching out her free hand to squeeze mine. “He should have known better than to cover up a murder, no matter who did it. Family loyalty, loyalty to Anne, whatever...he needs to be accountable for what he did.”

  “I guess so,” I said, shifting uncomfortably and nursing my cider as Tambra nodded beside me. “How long is his sentence?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “That’s not so long,” Tambra said, her freckles glowing in the firelight like sparks from the bonfire. I noticed she’d been wearing less makeup lately, as though she’d come out of hiding along with her secret. She was still plenty glamorous, but somehow she looked more herself, too.

  Ruth smiled sadly. “I hope it’ll do him some good, actually. With Anne going to jail for a very long time, maybe he can stop putting his life on hold for her. I didn’t know the reason why he was so stuck, but I think carrying twenty years of guilt for burying Joe—plus waiting around for Anne’s heart—really paralyzed him. This could be a fresh start for Rusty. Maybe he’ll get his life back on track.”

  I nodded as I clutched my mug and breathed in the calming scent. “He’s a good person. He’ll always have work here if he needs it. I understand if he doesn’t want to, though—not after everything that’s happened here.”

  “That’s up to him, but I kind of hope he doesn’t.” Ruth leaned her head against my shoulder. “It’s nothing against you, Leona. I just have high hopes he’ll end up with a farm of his own someday. I know how empowering it feels to have my own businesses, and I want him to feel that way, too.”

  I totally knew what she meant—I finally felt like I was living the life I was meant to live now that my little farm was off the ground. But I couldn’t help looking past my beautiful coop and up the hill at the rows of blueberry bushes and the white farmhouse beyond, its windows dark and empty. “Speaking of your businesses—do you have any word from the real estate circles on what’s going to happen to the Sutherland U-pick now that Walt’s dead and Anne’s on trial?”

  Ruth’s face brightened. “I do, actually. I meant to tell you! Anne’s family wants to sell to pay her legal expenses, and I got the listing!”

  Tambra reached over and gave Ruth an impulsive hug. “That’s fantastic!”

  “It really is,” I added, joining the hug. “Congrats, Ruth. I hope your commission when it sells is a little consolation for all the ugliness that this whole thing has dug up.”

  She made a face at my pun. “Well, if your new neighbors are terrible, you’ll know who to blame!”

  I threw my head back and laughed. “I don’t think any neighbors could be as bad as a misogynist and a murderer—although I have to say I am going to miss Anne’s pies!”

  “Well”—Tambra’s eyes danced in the flickering firelight—“I have a tiny little confession. I may have stolen Anne’s recipe for fruit-of-the-forest pie. I snuck into her kitchen one bonfire night when I was a teenager and took it out of her recipe box.”

  Ruth’s eyes went wide. “What?! Why?”

  Tambra shrugged sheepishly. “Same reason I stole Joe’s guitar—it was his favorite. He’d get the dreamiest expression on his face when he had a bite of her baking. Of course, back then I didn’t know it was the baker he loved, not the pie. I thought maybe if I could bake as well as she could, he’d notice me. I never got the chance to try, though, and after Joe disappeared, I felt too guilty to even look at it. Anyway, if you want the recipe, Leona, you can have it.”

  I grinned, my mouth watering at the thought of another piece of that pie. “Cluck yes, I want it. Anne owes me at least one pie for coming at me with a knife, and there’s no way I can collect on that while she’s in jail.”

  “She’ll spend the rest of her life there, if I have anything to do with it,” Eli said. He and Mike and Bob had joined us on the other side of the fire and were warming their hands after the cold work of loading the refrigerated truck. “Speaking of the case, I just got some good news—the guys at the county office identified Hobo Joe. They went through all the missing persons reports from Toronto around that time and found one that was a match. His full name is Joseph Briggs. His family was really thankful to learn what happened to him, and we’re returning his personal effects to them. His guitar and original songs, too.” Eli gave Tambra a sympathetic smile. “His mom wanted me to give you special thanks for keeping his instrument safe all these years.”

  Tambra put her hand to her mouth and nodded mutely. I could see tears shining in her eyes, and I hoped they were of relief knowing that Joe was remembered and loved by his family.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” she finally said, blinking and backing away from the fire, tripping over one of the logs we’d dragged over to sit on. Ruth darted to catch her arm so she wouldn’t fall. “I appreciate you letting me know, Eli. I’m just having a lot of emotions, and I need some time to process. I really am grateful for the closure, though.”

  “Of course,” he said gruffly, disarmed by her vulnerability. I was, too. It was a little uncanny seeing the typically beauty-queen-poised Tambra so undone, and I choked up a little.

  “I’ll come with you, honey,” Ruth offered, and they walked together back toward the house. “I want to pay Boots a visit, anyway.” My little crooked-toe, splay-legged chick was growing up just fine, but she preferred the house to the barn. When I’d moved her and her friends back out with the others, she was miserable, peeping and crying for me all day and night. So I let her back inside. Turns out, I’m a sucker for a house chicken.

  Bob Spence cleared his throat. It seemed the emotions were too much for him, too. “We done here? I want to get this truck of cider down to Roseburg ASAP.”

  I nodded. “Thanks so much, both of you—for the loan of the cider press and the extra muscle. And for the trencher. I can’t believe how much easier it was to dig the foundation than the way I was doing it before. I owe you eggs for life.”

  Mike waved his hand. “Come by the house any time. I want a progress report on how your chickabiddies are doing, anyway.”

  Bob pointed his finger at me. “I’m holding you to those eggs. I remember how good your dad’s eggs were, and I expect yours will be a close second.”

  Six weeks ago, I might have balked at Bob and Mike’s attitudes—they were
telling me what to do, comparing me unfavorably to my father, demanding things from me. This was exactly the kind of paternalism I trying to avoid when I moved to Honeytree and hid out in the cottage to escape the grind of the gossip mill.

  But after all we’d been through together, I wasn’t mad. I knew now that they, like most everyone else in Honeytree and Duma put together, genuinely wanted my success and happiness. They might snicker over the viral video of my appearance on America Today, but they knew the whole story. They knew my father, my land, and my dreams. I wasn’t just a clip, just something to poke fun at. I was part of their community.

  “You got it,” I chuckled. “You’ll get the first dozen and you can let me know how they measure up. Thanks again for all your help.”

  Eli joined me on my side of the bonfire to watch the Spences’ truck head down the driveway and turn toward Duma, where the highway met the freeway that led to Roseburg. He stood so close to me that I had to angle my head to look him in the eye.

  “Thanks for your help, too,” I said.

  “It only took almost getting murdered to accept my help, but at least you got around to it eventually.” He grinned at his own joke.

  “Hey, you weren’t there in the kitchen with Anne; a girl’s gotta help herself sometimes.”

  His jaw dropped. “I was there. I clearly remember telling you not to go in that kitchen!”

  “I know, but you were wrong,” I said smugly. “If I hadn’t gone in the kitchen, we never would have figured out that Anne was the killer.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “I’d never have figured out anything if it weren’t for you. We’d probably never have found Joe’s bones if it weren’t for your ridiculous chicken palace plans.”

  “I’ll ignore that rude comment on my coop.”

  “And Zeke never would have answered questions without your pretty face doing the asking.” He reached out and brushed a smudge of something off my forehead with his thumb and then leaned back to admire his handiwork.

  I made a face. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “That I’m pretty—it just isn’t true anymore. That chick flew the coop a few decades ago. You said it yourself at the park. I look different than I used to. All the lipstick and blusher in the world won’t change that. That’s OK,” I rushed to add, seeing his face fall. “I just wanted you to know you don’t have to pretend. It makes me uncomfortable, even though I know you mean well.”

  He laughed out loud, looked at me, then laughed again. “I never lie, Leona. All I meant at the park was that I prefer you like this. You know, without all that glitter and paint.”

  I looked down at my well-worn overalls and grubby barn shoes. “Like this?”

  “Like this.” He pulled me closer. “Exactly like this. We make a good team.”

  I bit my lip to hold back my smile and stepped a little away. “That’s not what you usually say. Usually you’re telling me go home, stay put, and please don’t run into the kitchen.”

  “OK, I take it back.” He nudged me. “We make a good team—as long as you ignore me, apparently.”

  “Isn’t that our deal? You advise, I ignore? I’m just holding up my end of the bargain,” I said archly, peering up at him. Why was I batting my eyelashes at him? Motherclucker, was I flirting?! I quickly averted my eyes and stared at the bonfire as though I were trying to mine its depths for meaning. As if on cue, a log shifted and cracked, sending sparks up into the night.

  “In that case,” Eli said, sounding bemused, “If it’s my job, I advise you to have breakfast with me tomorrow since I’ll be sleeping over.”

  “Make it lunch,” I said automatically. “You don’t need to camp out in my driveway anymore now that the Flats are officially murderer-free.”

  “I wasn’t planning on sleeping outside.” He flashed me a wicked grin, and I thwacked him gently on the upper arm. He grabbed it in mock pain, staggering back a few steps.

  I crossed my arms and scowled at him briefly, but I couldn’t help breaking into a grin. “Eli Ramirez...I’m going to ignore that.”

  Killer Cast-Iron Casserole

  Try not to drop this on the floor when you’re swinging the pan at a would-be murderer! It’s too yummy to go to waste (and easy to make, too), and it’s a great way to use up eggs if you have too many in the fridge. Some ingredient amounts are given in ranges—use the smaller amount for 8-9” skillets and the larger one for 10-12” skillets.

  Ingredients:

  8-10 EGGS

  4-6 cups shredded hashbrowns (fresh or thawed if frozen)

  1 lb chopped bacon or ground breakfast sausage

  1 yellow or white onion, diced

  1 cup cheddar or gruyere cheese, grated

  Salt and pepper

  Chopped parsley or chives to garnish

  Directions:

  PREHEAT OVEN TO 350 degrees F.

  In a large cast-iron skillet, sauté bacon or sausage over medium heat until fat melts, then add diced onions and sauté until the meat and onions are cooked through.

  Drain excess fat, leaving 3-4 tablespoons in the pan. Over medium heat, add hashbrowns, stir to combine with meat and onions, then cook without stirring until hashbrowns are lightly crisped on the bottom (about 8-10 minutes).

  Turn off the heat and flip over the potatoes. With a spoon or spatula, make evenly spaced “nests” in the hashbrowns and crack an egg into each one. Season each egg with salt and pepper and slide the whole skillet into the oven.

  Bake for 12 minutes. Then sprinkle the baked eggs with grated cheese and return to the oven for 2 minutes or until the cheese is melted. Garnish with chopped parsley or chives and serve for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

  Did you enjoy A Cop and a Coop? Please consider leaving a review! A Flock and a Fluke, Book Two in the Clucks and Clues cozy mystery series, is coming Winter 2020. You can find out when it’s available—and receive behind-the-scenes updates, sneak peeks, and other announcements—when you sign up for Hillary’s Author Updates.

  About the Author

  Hillary Avis lurks and works in beautiful Eugene, Oregon, with her very patient husband and a menagerie of kids, cats, dogs, and chickens. When she’s not thinking up amusing ways to murder people, she makes pottery, drinks coffee, and streams The Great British Bake-Off, but not all at the same time.

  Hillary is the author of several cozy mysteries about smart women who uncover truths about themselves, their communities, and of course any unsolved crimes they happen to stumble across. You can read more about her and her work at www.hillaryavis.com.