Hiram cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I can understand. I know how women can be when it comes to their hearts and all. But, well, doggone it …” He sputtered his words. “I … well … I—I fancy you, and, well … dang it, I’m pretty darn used to getting my way.”
“You’re not going to pout are you?”
Too late. He’d backed away on the couch. His arms were folded tightly against his chest. His lips were drawn down.
Oh boy. Now I was starting to remember why I gave up on men, and dating.
We were stuck in an awkward silence when the back patio doors flew open and Willy stormed out, holding Veenie up by the back collar on her blouse. She was kicking her little tennis shoe-clad feet in the air. Her ankle monitor was twinkling blue in the evening light. She was shouting some unladylike things at Willy as she kicked at the night stars.
Willy had a firm grip on her, the sleeves of his black hoodie rolled up to his elbows so you could see his hairy, hammy forearms bulging. He was still wearing his dark shades so you couldn’t see his eyes, but his face was sweating, his forehead screwed up tight with determination.
Hiram leapt up and stormed toward Willy. “What in the Sam Hill are you doing?” he asked. “She’s my guest. Put her down.”
Willy deposited Veenie in a chair next to me. She was still spitting and clawing even after he let her go. “He broke my bones! My right arm done snapped like a chicken bone!” Veenie held her arm up and wiggled it all rubbery-like in the air. “Call the law! Elder abuse!”
Willy stepped into the firelight and hurried to explain himself. His face was red as rhubarb. He was a little short of breath. “I caught her … in your office … going through your desk, boss. She stuffed these in her pants.” He held out a fistful of hundred-dollar bills and waved them in the air. “She was busy robbing you blind, near as I could tell.”
Veenie objected. “It’s my meds. I forgot where I was. I was drunk on my prescriptions. You tell them, Ruby Jane. I get like this from time to time. My screws pop.”
Veenie did get “like this” from time to time, but as far as I knew it was all a part of her natural-born nosiness. Her meds had nothing to do with it.
Hiram eyed me, waiting for an explanation, as Willy stood with his back to the fire, his beefy arms folded across his chest. Neither of them looked like they were buying the medical excuse. “She’s a thief,” Willy sneered. He waved the dollar bills more wildly.
I piped up. “God’s truth, Veenie’s brain is going soft. Some days she’s fine, but some days … well, her brain is near as soft as the center of a Twinkie. Doctors say it’s a lack of oxygen. Bad heart. Poor circulation. Something like that.” I was trying to think fast, but truth was, between the plentiful supply of beer at supper, the firelight, and the testosterone that was swirling around, my mind felt muddled. And while I’d sent Veenie into the house to snoop on Hiram, I had no notion why she’d raided his private stash of cash. I reckoned the best I could do was to contribute to the confusion, try to reel Hiram along.
Seeing the confusion on my face, Veenie clutched her heart and flailed around on the patio like an old catfish yanked out of water. She flopped back in a chair and made a chitter-chatter squealy sound like a dying chipmunk. She looked like she might kick off to the Holy Hereafter any minute now. Personally, I found the whole thing very convincing.
Hiram rushed over and poured a glass of water for Veenie. He kneeled by her side and checked her pulse while she gulped water. He helped her sit up, asked if she needed an ambulance. “I can have one here in a jiffy,” he promised.
Veenie sat up and said no, she was fine. The spell was passing. She just had to catch her breath.
Things seemed to be settling down when sirens cut the darkness. Red and white lights strobed the night sky. An engine roared, and a police car careened around the back corner of Hiram’s mansion. The car slid to a halt in the wet grass by the edge of the patio. The door on the cruiser sprung open and Boots Gibson unfolded from the car, his weapon drawn. He strode without hesitation straight toward Hiram and me on the patio.
Chapter Twenty-One
Boots stopped in front of Veenie, his weapon still drawn. His sunburnt forehead was as rippled as a washboard. “You’re in violation of parole!” he barked. “I’m taking you in.” He gestured downward with his pistol toward Veenie’s blinking blue ankle bracelet.
I sprung up and faced Boots. He was drawn up as tall as an oak tree, his cheeks the color of cherries, the white hair shining at the top of his sunburnt ears.
Oh boy. Dickie must have blabbermouthed to Boots about Hiram’s courtship and our little dinner date. I swear that Dickie was a real chatty Cathy. As soon as Veenie and I left town, he probably hightailed it to Pokey’s Tavern for a mess of fried mushrooms and jawed about me and Hiram to the whole town. I bet if I checked the Hoosier Squealer, my picture would be there with the words “Town Hussy” stickered all over it.
I popped up off the patio couch and faced Boots square on. “For the love of God, put that weapon away. You know Veenie’s not trying to skip out on her bail. Besides, Hiram there is the one who paid her bail. And he’s not upset.”
At the mention of Hiram’s name, Boots’s face flushed. He glowed almost as brightly as the cherry on the top of his cop car. “Don’t mess with me, Ruby Jane. Judge said she”—he stopped and shook his pistol at Veenie—“is not supposed to go more than twenty-five miles out of range. I got an alert on my system that said her ankle monitor was moving out of range.”
Hiram puffed up his chest and bounced forward until he was almost standing on Boots’s toes. Boots was more than a foot taller than Hiram, but Hiram stretched his neck up and plopped his white cowboy hat onto his head, hoping to catch up. His face was flushed in the firelight. His silver lamb-chop whiskers were flared out like a dog’s hackles.
Veenie sidled up next to me and whispered, “Those two look like two mules about to fight over an old turnip, and I, er, think you’re the turnip, Ruby Jane.”
Lordie, but I reckoned she’d hit the nail square on the head.
I stepped up to Boots and grabbed hold of the barrel of his pistol.
He stepped back, looking shocked.
Once I had a firm grip on the pistol I turned it toward Hiram. “Sit down,” I said in a tone only a tired, worn out woman nearing seventy could muster. I waved the pistol for emphasis and Hiram retreated backward until his rear end smacked the edge of the couch. He eased down and sat there, quiet-like, his arms crossed, his legs spread.
I lit into Boots. “Judge said Veenie can go twenty-five miles without approval. We only went maybe eighteen miles, at best. That ankle bracelet is blinking blue, not red. Last I checked, long as that doohickey is blinking blue the wearer is legally in range. That right?” I raised my eyebrows for emphasis.
Boots stared down at the patio and mumbled, “Yes. But—”
I spun to face Hiram. “You all right with Veenie being here? You paid her bail, so I reckon you should have a say in this.”
Hiram, who’d been fixing to nail Veenie’s hide to the barn door for raiding the cash box in his office, mumbled, “Sure. Heck, I invited her.”
By this time Boots had calmed, probably realized he’d let his personal feelings drag him into a fairly unprofessional place. I could tell by the hound dog look on his face that his manly pride had taken a beating.
I handed back his gun.
Without a word, he holstered his pistol and strode toward his cruiser. He removed his hat, climbed into his vehicle calmly, turned off the light show, and slid a doughnut around the yard. He headed back toward the road, his red taillights winking like tiny comets shooting across the cornfield.
Everybody sat silent. Hiram strode over to the fire, tossed on a log. He poked at the log, stirring up a cloud of smoke and embers. I looked around the yard, searching for Willy, but he had disappeared. He must have hightailed it inside, or around to the other side of the house, when he heard the sirens. That seemed kind of
odd to me, given how he was supposed to be Hiram’s muscle. He’d strong-armed Veenie when she was piddling with the petty cash, but he ran and hid inside when the law came knocking? Something was not right here.
Hiram cleared his throat, bringing me out of my head. “I’m awful sorry about this,” he huffed. He was standing facing me, his back to the fire, his hands balled into his jeans pockets. The pleading look in his old, watery, blue eyes told me he was being honest. I reckoned none of what had happened with either Veenie or Boots was his idea of a romantic evening. He pushed his cowboy hat as far back on his head as it could go without sliding off. He gave me puppy eyes, or as close to that as any eighty-five-year-old man might muster.
“Well,” I said, deciding to make light of it all so we could get on with the job we were hired to do. “I guess the sheriff was just doing his job. Can’t begrudge him that.”
The air was still clearing when Fergus Senior popped out of the house onto the patio. His gold-braided chauffer’s hat was situated tightly on his head. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled, and his face was puffy, like he’d been napping or drinking. His gaze swung around the yard, like he was checking to make sure the law wasn’t still lurking about.
Smart move, I thought, given his checkered history.
“It’s getting late,” he croaked. “Want me to drive the ladies home, boss?”
Hiram eyed me like maybe he was hoping for a certain answer.
I yawned and said it was past our bedtime and that we had a lot of snooping to do first thing tomorrow if we ever hoped to catch up on our cases.
Hiram looked like he was fixing to pout again, but then caught himself and straightened out his face. “Enjoyed the company and the dinner, ladies. How about you all stop by out at my egg houses tomorrow? I’ll be there in the morning reviewing the plans for a new plant over in Ohio. I’ll have Jay Bob take you all around. See what you think about adding more security. Poke around the grounds. See if you can find any clues about our warehouse thief.”
Veenie blurted out, “Er, I think your daughter-in-law Rhea Dawn done took in the welcome mat.”
Hiram snorted. “She’s gone to Kentucky for a conference. You two just walk right in that front door like you own the place and ask for me, you hear?”
Hiram followed us around the house with Fergus and held the limo door open while we climbed in. I let him give me a good night cheek peck; only seemed right. His wrinkled face beamed, and he looked happy as a boy with a new fishing pole when the limo door clicked shut. Hiram stood in his fancy circle driveway and waved at us as the limo rumbled out toward the highway.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Once safely tucked inside the privacy of the limo, I rattled to Veenie about the video Hiram had shared with me of Pam stealing Ginger and Dewey at Chickenlandia.
“Whoa!” Veenie plopped her little feet up on the built-in table in front of us and locked her hands behind her head. She leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Fergus had peeled back the moonroof in the extended cab, letting the night sky spill down across us. “I knew that Pam was a chicken thief!”
I studied the stars. “Where you reckon Dewy and Ginger are?”
“Dunno. Pam was mean as snake spit. Them chickens are probably sweating it out in a potpie by now.”
“But why would she kill them? She’s got oodles of chickens. Wouldn’t she keep them? Breed them? Maybe lock them in a cage and gloat? Pam was the type to enjoy a good gloat. Seems to me they’d be worth studying if they are as good at breeding as everybody claims. Maybe Pam locked them up, put them to work. That would tickle her. Satisfy her mean little heart.”
“I could see her doing that.” Veenie stretched out in the limo as she fiddled with the jukebox in search of tunes. Her ankle monitor twinkled in the darkness. “You think they’re in a cage over at Cluckytown?”
“Might be.”
“But Pam’s dead. And certain folks seem to think I killed her. How we gonna get back into Cluckytown?”
“I dunno.” Feeling tired, I relaxed into the leather seats beside Veenie. It had been a long day. I was feeling tired enough to nod off when I remembered those hundred-dollar bills that Willy had waved around, claiming that Veenie had stolen them from Hiram’s desk. “Why’d you steal Hiram’s money?” I asked.
Veenie popped more buttons on the jukebox before wiggling in her seat and turning to face me. “That wad of cash was a cover-up. I had to kick up a stink when I heard Willy storm into the office after me. I grabbed the cash, waved it at him, and that’s all he saw. All I wanted him to see.”
“You didn’t mean to steal that cash?”
“Shucks, nah, I ain’t no thief, Ruby Jane. You know that.” Her face fell a little, like a deflated balloon. She looked like she was hurt that I’d think so lowly of her.
“I had to think on my feet. Didn’t want Willy to see that I had a hold on these.” Veenie held out her pudgy little hand. A large silver ring glittered off her fingertips.
I squinted to see what was on the ring. It looked to be loaded with old-fashioned keys and a couple of modern white keycards like the ones on the security doors on the breeding barn. “What the—?”
Veenie dangled the ring. “Found a master set of keys to Krupsky’s egg houses in his office desk, so I up and borrowed them. I reckon the only way we’re going to find out what happened to Pam is if we kick open the doors at Krupsky’s, have a look-see at what he’s hiding. My kicker isn’t as good as it used to be”—she flexed the foot that featured the ankle monitor—“so I figured a set of keys might come in handy.”
Hot dog. Krupsky had just invited us back into his hen houses, and Veenie had the keys to all the secret nooks and nests. Despite all Hiram’s protests, Pam had been at Krupsky’s for a reason. She’d died there. And her death had been no accident. She was connected to Krupsky somehow, and that connection had killed her. Hiram had proven to me that he wasn’t a chicken thief, but nothing he’d said or done had cleared him of Pam’s murder. Like it or not, he was the one who’d benefit the most from Cluckytown being auctioned off.
“Great job!” I said to Veenie as I popped open a pair of cold ones and handed one her way. Finally, this case was starting to bend our way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Veenie and I were slurping a quick breakfast of stale cornflakes and hot coffee the next morning when the glass on the kitchen door rattled. I looked up to see Boots, pointy hat on head, hands cupped around his eyes, peering in, pecking on the window glass.
He shot me a wave, and I motioned him in as Veenie rolled her eyes and murmured, “Oh boy, your boyfriend’s back.”
Boots plopped down in a kitchen chair and removed his hat, setting it carefully on the table. He fingered the edges. “I’m here to apologize,” he blurted out. He didn’t look me in the eye. Instead he toyed with my salt shaker, rolling it in his palms, staring at it like it was the object of his apology. He was trying to save face, and that softened my old heart.
I poured him a cup of perked coffee, straight-up black like he enjoyed it, and waited as he took a couple of big gulps and cleared his throat again. “It’s forgotten,” I assured him. “Never happened. You were doing your job. I know how serious you take the law, it being your sworn livelihood and all.”
He perked up. “Darn tootin’. You and Veenie take advantage of me and our friendship sometimes, you know.” He sniffled. “I guess that’s normal enough, seeing as how we grew up together and all, but the law is the law. It’s my sworn duty to uphold it.”
I thought he was going a bit overboard now, but decided to hold my tongue, let the whole thing blow over. My grandma Titsy always said most battles weren’t worth losing an eye over. She also said when it came to men, a woman had to give them a little space to blow off every now and then or else they might just blow up completely. Boots could have a temper. I’d seen it a time or two. And I didn’t have the time or energy right now to scrape his manly pride off my kitchen ceiling.
Eve
n Veenie seemed to feel for Boots. She promised she’d stay within her twenty-five-mile limit, like the law required.
We all just sort of shook on the whole thing and went right back to being friends.
Boots updated us on the forensics on Pam’s death. “She was murdered,” he reported. “Back of the head. One quick blow. Real hard. Blunt instrument. Died instantly. No sign that she was run down by a forklift. Body showed a little postmortem trauma, but she was dead as a rock by the time Veenie hit her with that forklift. Probably been dead for about twelve hours before you and Veenie even arrived on the scene.”
“That settles it!” cawed Veenie. “No way I could have cracked Pam’s head, as thick as it was. Told you I didn’t run her down. She rolled out of them egg boxes like a rotten tater. Somebody whacked her, stuffed her into them boxes. They made me the patsy!”
Boots twisted his lips. “Does seem unlikely that you were involved given the facts and all. But don’t go thinking I’m letting you off. That’s the job of the judge. I can’t be taking sides or showing you any special favors.” He drained his coffee cup and stood up. Spying my messenger bag loaded up on the kitchen table and noticing that I was wearing my windbreaker, he asked where we were headed.
“Out,” I said as I rinsed our coffee cups and set them carefully in the drainer.
He got the message that I was not welcoming his sunburnt nose in my business and moved quickly toward the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob and turned to face me. “I got two tickets to the Chickenlandia BBQ chicken dinner. I was thinking maybe we could go together. I mean, unless you got other plans … or something.” He hitched his thumbs in his utility belt and stood firm, his eyes locked on me.
Chickenlandia Mystery Page 14
