Chickenlandia Mystery

by Daisy Pettles

  Some dusty part of my mind told me that Rhea Dawn was Hiram’s daughter-in-law, married to his only son, Phus, who was active in the business. I’d seen pictures of Rhea Dawn and Phus on the news cutting ribbons at construction sites for Krupsky’s egg houses around the Midwest. If what I’d heard through the corn tassels was true, Phus wasn’t much for work. Also, he liked to trade in his wives every few years for newer, shinier models. Rhea Dawn wasn’t yet thirty, and darn near as shiny as a jewelry box. But she had a stern way about her. Her mouth was small and grim, like she was used to bossing people around; and not all that shy about it either.

  I nodded yes, that we were from the Shades Agency.

  “We’re private eyes,” Veenie squawked as she admired Rhea Dawn’s shoes. “Say, I’d love some girly kicks like that, but my feet are kind of wide and flat, like a pair of Twinkies. They make those in triple E?”

  Rhea Dawn frowned at Veenie, then turned on her kitten heels and led us down a side hall to the break room. A bank of soda, snack, and cigarette machines lined the far wall. Formica tables and folding chairs were scattered around. Rhea Dawn motioned for us to sit at a table by the coffee machine as she consulted her clipboard.

  “Which one of you is which?” she asked. Her eyes, which were shielded by fancy rimless glasses, darted back and forth, studying us.

  Veenie stuck out a hand. “Lavinia Goens. Folks call me Veenie.”

  “You ever work in a factory?” Rhea Dawn asked, ignoring Veenie’s offer of a handshake.

  “Loads of ‘em,” Veenie said. “During the war I was the fastest bottle capper at the Coke plant over in Bedford.”

  “Which war was that?” Rhea Dawn asked.

  I could tell by the look on her face that the Civil War might have been her first guess. Rhea Dawn was a real spring chicken, probably thought Veenie and the rest of us oldsters had arrived in Pawpaw County in a covered wagon.

  “Nam,” said Veenie.

  Rhea Dawn sighed and shuffled through half an inch of paperwork on her clipboard. “You have any more recent experience? I didn’t get a resume on either of you ladies.”

  I explained to Rhea Dawn that Hiram wanted us to float around the farm, see if we could nose out who was stealing from him before the situation got severe.

  “I know that,” she snapped, “but I’m head of operations. I have to place you somewhere. You have to fit in.” She eyed Veenie, who was wearing a zebra-striped poncho and her red cowboy boots. Like most days, Veenie was dressed in a Goodwill outfit that made her look like she might be not just from a different generation, but from a different planet.

  “We’ve worked our whole lives,” I said. “Plunk us anywhere. We’ll slide right in.”

  Rhea Dawn took an extra-long cigarette out of a silver monogrammed case and lit it using a fancy bejeweled lighter. “Fine. We always need help on the shipping line.” She exhaled. “And in the barns. What do you know about chickens?”

  “I know they taste good,” Veenie offered.

  “She’s afraid of chickens,” I said to Rhea Dawn, thinking that piece of information might come in handy before she threw Veenie in with half a million grumpy fowl.

  Veenie folded her arms across her chest. “Am not.”

  I rolled my mental eyes.

  Rhea Dawn stubbed out her cigarette and pressed her fingers to her forehead like we were already giving her a mule-kick of a headache. “Fine. I’m splitting you two up so you can see as much as of the production process as possible.” She eyed Veenie. “We’re thinking the thieves might be working in the loading dock, dispatch, or receiving. You know how to drive a forklift?”

  Veenie’s eyes sparkled. “Course I do.”

  “Great.” She handed Veenie a name tag and a map of the place. “Go into the locker room.” She pointed to a sign that read “Ladies Lockers” in the hallway behind her. A line of women were slowly disappearing into the room via one door, then streaming out another door further down the hallway wearing white smocks and paper booties. “Once you’re in the locker room, suit up in paper booties and a work smock. We run a clean operation here. When you’re suited, report to the foreman, Jimbo. He’ll be out on the loading dock.”

  Rhea Dawn turned to me. “I’m putting you in the breeding barn. We get a lot of disgruntled turnover there. If someone’s stealing because they’re unhappy, Hiram figures it might be one of them. Jay Bob Burris, he’s our security man, will meet you out there. You’ll have to work to keep your cover intact. Can you lift a twenty pound bag of chicken feed?”

  “Sure can,” I said. My knees wobbled from time to time, but so far my lower back was as twisty and loose as Gumby.

  Rhea Dawn handed me a name tag and a map like Veenie’s, only mine had a different route to my work post outlined in green. I was going to be working a good deal away from the main office. I’d need to hitch a lift on a minibus to get to the breeding barn.

  Rhea Dawn lit another long cigarette, clicked at her cell to read her messages, muttered something to herself, then left us to find our own way. Said she had a mess of paperwork to process before the morning shipments rolled out. “Call me if you need anything,” she threw back over her shoulder. I noticed that she didn’t make that offer very loudly.

  I wondered if I should tell Rhea Dawn about Veenie’s macular degeneration and well-earned lack of a driver’s license. But then decided, what the heck, if Veenie’s forklift driving became an issue, we’d all know soon enough.

  Life was a heap more fun with surprises anyway.

  Chapter Eleven

  The breeding barn was nothing special. On the outside it was your basic white-aluminum pole barn with a concrete floor. The barn doors were flung wide open. Forklifts were buzzing in and out, carrying pallets of boxes and bags of feed. A woman scurried past me, hurrying out of the barn, a squawking black chicken tucked under each arm. I ambled over to a little wooden desk just inside the barn door. That looked to be the check-in post, and I thought I recognized the blond-headed boy who bobbed behind the desk, stamping a pile of paperwork. Turns out I was right.

  Jay Bob Burris sprung up and extended his hand when he saw me coming his way.

  I greeted him likewise. I’d known Jay Bob and his people my whole life. He’d worked as a bag boy at the Hoosier Feedbag all through high school. Polite. Twenty-something. Great head of wavy blond hair. Eyes as blue as heaven. He had a gap between his two front teeth that might have been off-putting on a less handsome fellow, but that just added to his naturally winning personality and big smile. He was a lanky kid, well-known for his dance moves. His mama, Crystal Burris, was the head dance teacher and owner at the Twinkle Toes Tap and Twirl Dance Studio. He and his mama—he didn’t have a daddy, at least not one that Crystal ever cared to claim—lived above the dance studio. Jay Bob had been put to work shaking, rattling, and rolling with the women dance students when he was still in diapers.

  Jay Bob shot glances around me as he greeted me. “Don’t want everybody knowing why you’re here,” he whispered.

  “Appreciate that,” I whispered back.

  “Hiram said you’d be here. I said I’d show you around, help you find your legs.”

  I nodded and followed Jay Bob as he started his tour of the breeding barn and all its activities. He stopped in front of a floor pen. “This is where Hiram’s daughters, Jo and Hira, experiment with all sorts of new breeds. We’re making better chickens every day.”

  After getting an eyeful of the experimental chickens in the floor pens, I decided “better” was definitely in the eye of the beholder. Some of the chickens Jay Bob showed me looked like they had pecked their way out of a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.

  “Those chickens are naked.” I pointed to a pen to my right, which held a pair of featherless chickens. Their skin was baggy and pimply. Their eyes looked big and bright, almost googly. One had a thick, black cluster of fuzzy feathers, but only in two places. Feathers sprouted like a crown on top of her head. Short stubby feathers puffed
out on her upper thighs. She looked like a plump Jane Fonda, wearing a black headband and leg warmers. The other chicken had a few spiny, white feathers—quill stubs really—sprinkled along her wingtips. Both hens looked like they’d been scalded right down to their pimply, pink skivvies. Not pretty. But then, honestly, I’d never found naked people all that enchanting either.

  “We’re creating a proprietary line of hairless all-American chickens,” Jay Bob announced proudly. “Folks in hot climates, like Israel, Saudi Arabia, South America, have been growing chickens like this for over a decade.”

  “You’re raising naked chickens? On purpose?”

  “Oh, sure. Chickens get real hot in the sun. They blow up from the heat because they don’t have much in the way of sweat glands. Temperature gets above eighty-five and they pop like feathered firecrackers. Up north, here, featherless fowl make the best broilers. No need to pluck them. Saves processing time, and that saves money.”

  Jay Bob noticed the look on my face and assured me that the chickens didn’t mind. “It’d be like me or you running buck naked on a beach. They get to feel all cool and breezy in their private places. No lice. No molting. Besides, they don’t even know they’re supposed to have feathers.”

  The Jane Fonda chicken came up to me and squawked and scratched in a circle around at my feet. She eyed me with her giant googly eyes like I might be her long-lost mama. I felt a maternal urge to take the little thing home with me, knit her some chicken shorts. I could keep her in the house as a pet. I reckoned that wouldn’t set so well with Veenie, though.

  A man elbowed in next to Jay Bob. He looked a bit like Hiram, same blue eyes and thin nose, but he was half a foot taller and had a pooch belly that told me he was a middle-aged man who thoroughly enjoyed his taters and gravy.

  Jay Bob introduced us. “This is Hiram’s son, Josephus, Phus for short. He handles marketing.”

  Phus grabbed my hand and shook it until my wrist almost snapped. He had the same kind of enthusiasm about him as his dad, but his mouth was grimmer. He wore a white knit polo shirt with a flag pin, pleated black dress slacks, white patent leather shoes, and a matching white leather belt like the kind they sold in the expensive Gentleman’s Shop on the courthouse square in Bedford. Unless I was mistaken, Phus also sported a toupee. The top of his head was as fluffy and blond as a peep, but the sides were thinner and white. His eyes ran up and down me like he was inspecting a piece of poultry. “You my new mama, then?”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. I sucked on my lower lip, not quite sure what to say.

  “Just joshing with you,” Phus said, poking my ribs with his elbow. “You’re one of them lady detectives Daddy hired. Right?”

  I nodded, eager to change the subject. “You got any theories about who might be stealing from you?”

  “Wish I did. We got three hundred employees. Bound to be a bad egg or two in the bunch. You got any ideas?” he asked me, hands on hips. He eyed me again, like maybe he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me.

  “Just got here,” I said. “Still nosing around. What do you keep over there?” I pointed to a black glass wall on the far side of the barn. A double-wide steel door equipped with a series of button locks and scanners broke up the wall. The area was heavily protected by security cameras, the round white kind that had blinking black glass eyes and motion detectors that followed you no matter which direction you headed. Several wall signs made it clear that that glassed-in area was “Restricted Access: Lab Personnel. Keep Out.”

  “That’s where the magic happens,” Phus gloated. “Genetics lab. My little sisters, Jo and Hira, run the place. They got us all kinds of patents.”

  Clearly I was behind the times when it came to chickens and eggs. Like most folks, I was still trying to cipher where brown eggs came from. I was pretty sure it wasn’t from Hispanic chickens, like Veenie kept telling me. I’d tried keeping backyard fowl for eggs after my husband died, but neither of my kids took to farming. My daughter, Joyce, who was college educated and lived in a fancy subdivision up in Bloomington these days, took one look at the chickens I’d stuffed into the garage and screamed so loudly the neighbors rushed over to check on us. Doc Scarborough had to give her one of those relaxing shots they give crazy people to calm her down. She made it perfectly clear that chicken farming was not in keeping with her plans to better herself and kick aside her hillbilly heritage. My son, Eddie, was a tenderhearted musician. He set the chickens free the very first night we had them. Foxes ate every single one of them before I could round them up again. That had pretty much ended my backyard farming adventures.

  Phus asked if I wanted to see the lab. Meet his sisters.

  I said sure, because it looked to me, given the security and all the locks, that the breeding lab and its secrets might be the most valuable thing in the whole operation.

  Jay Bob excused himself, saying he had to do his morning security rounds, while I followed Phus to the glassed-in security area. Phus pulled a string of keys and white scan cards out of his pocket and fingered several until he found the one he was looking for. He swiped it across an electronic eye on the steel door and the door slid slowly open. Inside, the place was as cool as a walk-in refrigerator. Giant rotary fans hung from steel beams. They made a racket like air conditioners about to go on the blink. A black lab workbench occupied the center of the room. Two tall women, both with buzz-cut silver hair, perched on high swivel stools opposite each other around the workbench. One had her eye pressed to a microscope. The other was hunched over a set of beakers and slides. A row of white eggs sat in a rack between the two women.

  The women, who I took to be Hiram’s twin daughters, Jo and Hira, didn’t seem to notice that we’d entered the room. Phus walked up to the woman who was studying the beakers and gave her a playful one-two punch to the upper arm. Her name tag read “Jo Krupsky.”

  Jo looked up, clearly annoyed.

  “Sis,” he barked, “this is one of those lady detectives Daddy hired to look into the thieving.” He eyed me like I was supposed to say my name, so I did.

  In response, Jo took an eyedropper and squeezed blue liquid from it into a petri dish while sticking the other hand out for me to shake.

  I said, “Pleased to meet you,” and shook her bony hand.

  “Same,” she grunted while keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the petri dishes, which were turning an odd shade of blue.

  The other woman, Hira, I assumed, looked up from her microscope. Jo and Hira were identical copies of each other: fifty-something, and tall and spindly, like their mama, Marjorie. No jewelry. No sparkle. Flat chested as telephone poles. All muscle and brain. Both wore neatly pressed denim OshKosh bib overalls and matching blue-checkered, short-sleeved shirts. They had their daddy’s buzz-cut silver hair. No way I could have told them apart in a line up.

  I expected Hira or Jo to say howdy and offer to show me around the lab, but they did not. Hira buried her right eye deeper into her microscope. Jo fiddled with her glass petri dishes, swirling them around in her palm in an effort to work in the blue stain she’d dropped onto the glass. I reckoned women who earned their doctorates in chicken genetics weren’t given to idle gossip, so I didn’t take their lack of a proper greeting too personally.

  I asked Jo if anything had been stolen from the genetics lab: equipment, experiments, trade secrets.

  She grunted, “No,” while continuing to fuss with staining her slides.

  I spied a glassed-in area in the back of the lab that appeared to hold some chicken pens and live fowl. The glass walls were half frosted so I couldn’t see inside the boxed area completely. A door sealed the area off, probably helped keep the room climate-controlled. “Those chickens back there special?”

  Jo looked up from her work and blinked at me. “Experiments,” she said before ducking her head back down and fiddling with her line of petri dishes. She shoved a pair of petri dishes into what looked to be a tiny oven, punched in a code, and snapped the oven door shut.

  Phus confir
med that nothing had been taken from the lab. “I think all we got going on here is some petty thieving. I told Daddy we could handle security, but he seemed unusually interested in bringing you all into the picture.” Phus eyed me up and down again like he was trying to figure out what was so special about me. He looked skeptical.

  Personally, I reckoned I was a catch, especially with my new do, but Lord, I had enough troubles dealing with my own odd relations. I didn’t need to get mixed up in whatever craziness the Krupskys had boiling over in their Bunsen burners.

  Phus began rattling on with a canned tour of the breeding barn. He walked me over to the giant freezers that lined the back wall, explaining that all their equipment was state of the art, a lot of it from China. They had a carnival of fancy, shiny equipment, most of it lit up with tiny twinkling lights that shone like Christmas decorations. Whole place seemed more like a lab at NASA than an egg farm. I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the whirling and blinking when Phus’s cell phone crowed—he had a rooster as a ring tone. His face scrunched up and he said “what?” a lot to the caller, then “really?” followed by a “damn that is not what I wanted to hear this morning.”

  As he clicked off his phone, he asked me if I’d brought another lady detective out with me.

  I said yes, but she’d been assigned to the loading dock.

  “Forklift driver?” he asked, his lips twisted in an odd way.

  I nodded.

  “Shoot!” he muttered.

  “What?” I asked. “What’s up?”

  Phus was headed to the door now. He was walking fast. He motioned for me to follow. His sisters seemed not to notice how upset he was, or even that we were still in the lab. Their silver heads stayed bowed over their experiments.