Engagement and Espionage: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #1

by Reid, Penny

  Her hands faltered as I devoured her collarbone and neck, preparing to lower to my knees, lift her skirt completely, take a bite out of that ass, spread her wide. My mouth watered.

  But then her phone rang, and I froze.

  Reba McEntire’s, “I’m a Survivor” chirped between us. That was her mother’s ringtone, the woman had programmed it into Jenn’s phone.

  Squeaking, fumbling for the device, Jenn’s face was briefly illuminated by the small swath of light just before quickly rejecting the call.

  “Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time completely undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper at world-record speed.

  Her phone buzzed. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed and chimed two more times. Then it rang again. Reba.

  Cursing, Jenn pulled the phone from her pocket, once again her face illuminated, murderous rage in her eyes. Her finger moved to the power off button. She blinked, hesitating. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she gasped.

  “Cletus!”

  Something about her tone, like she was horrified, and maybe a little afraid, cut through the heavy haze of lust inertia, and my hands stilled. Shaking myself, it took me a few moments to realize she was showing me the phone screen, and another few to bring the content of the text messages into focus.

  Momma: Jennifer Anne Sylvester, pick up your phone. If you’re with Cletus, I need his help. Please.

  Momma: ALL THE CHICKENS AND ROOSTERS ARE DEAD! PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE!

  Momma: I’m calling you in a second, pick up the phone. Mr. Badcock’s chickens are dead. All of them. I got here and he’s running around, deranged, yelling about his dead chickens! I called the police and they’re on their way. Please, please, please pick up the phone!

  At some point, I must’ve taken the phone from Jenn and stepped away, because I glanced up upon reading the messages for the third time, finding the phone in my hand and Jenn fixing her skirt.

  “This is nuts.” Her big eyes searched mine imploringly. “Who could have done this?”

  I shook my head, having not yet managed to fully shift head gears—you know, from that head to the one on my neck—and my gaze dropped to the wet patch on the front of her dress just visible in the swath of light. My erection throbbed.

  So we’re . . . not having sex?

  “Why? Why would they do it? And WHO?” She snatched her phone back, her tone bewildered, distracted, and distraught. She was distraught because of the dead chickens, like any normal person would be.

  I was distraught also, but my distress had nothing to do with farm animals.

  “We have to go.” Jenn grabbed my hand and began walking toward the direction of the hall. Meanwhile, it took me until her hand found the door handle to realize my zipper and belt were still undone.

  “This is crazy.” She paused as I zipped up, her tone halting and distracted. “Poor Mr. Badcock. And those poor chickens.” A sound of distress escaped her throat. “This is terrible.”

  It was terrible.

  And I was going to hell.

  Because all I could think was, Talk about a cock block.

  * * *

  “How’d they die?”

  Jackson James glanced at me. “According to Mr. Badcock, cervical dislocation.”

  “You mean they were strangled?” I asked. We stood shoulder to shoulder in Mr. Badcock’s living room, Officer Jimmy Dale in the kitchen, pouring himself coffee while Officer Fredrick Boone hunted for clues outside.

  Jackson tilted his head back and forth. “More or less.”

  “I see.” I made a fist, narrowed my eyes. “A chicken choker.”

  Jackson James immediately scrunched his face, his chin falling to his chest in a clear attempt to hide his laughter. Mr. Badcock lived in one of those houses that might also claim log cabin status, the rooms segmented with curtains or furniture instead of interior walls. I could see Officer Dale from where I was standing, also trying not to laugh.

  “Talk about a clusterflock,” I added, nodding at the assertion.

  Jackson covered his mouth with his hand and Dale did the same.

  Me? I wasn’t in any danger of laughing. I never laughed at my own jokes, even if they were as funny and timely as this one.

  But Jenn . . . Uh oh.

  “It’s not funny,” she whispered harshly, stepping close to both of us and pausing on her path back to Mr. Badcock. “Someone losing their life’s work and livelihood is not something to laugh at.” Jenn turned her glare of disappointment fully on me, and it hit me like a punch to the stomach. “How would you feel if—if someone broke all your tools and you couldn’t fix cars?” Her glare cut to Jackson. “And you. Shame on you. You’re here to help. Have some respect for the badge you wear.”

  “Sorry,” Jackson whispered tightly, his cheeks now tinged pink.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I nodded solemnly, clearing my features of expression while an odd sensation slithered into the vicinity of my chest. I had a notion that the sensation was guilt, but since I rarely succumbed to it, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Where am I going to store all these chickens?” Mr. Badcock’s wayward anguish drew our collective attention to where he sat on the floral-patterned sofa. He held his forehead in one of his hands, the other gripped a baseball cap to the knee of his threadbare overalls.

  Jenn and I shared a look—one which I knew meant she’d deal with me later—just before she turned on her heel and crossed to Mr. Badcock. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand over his gripping the hat.

  “There, there, Mr. Badcock. We’ll—we’ll figure something out.”

  “Sixty-one chickens is a lot of feathers,” Jackson said just loud enough that I could hear.

  This wasn’t a joke, and his point was a good one. Plucking all those chickens without the aid of modern machinery was going to take a while, anywhere from five minutes to a half hour, depending on who was doing the plucking. Regardless, the task was much too cumbersome for Mr. Badcock to attempt on his own.

  And it had to be done soon if he wanted to salvage the meat. An idea formed . . .

  “Mr. Badcock, I think I might be able to provide some assistance.” I walked over to where Jenn was kneeling, and she turned her head, giving me a sidelong glare.

  She hadn’t yet forgiven me for the chicken choking comment. Nevertheless, I would prevail in her good graces. Eventually.

  “Huh? What?” The poor man glanced at me, blinking his confusion.

  “Now, us Winstons, we know how to pluck chickens. My sister, Ashley, can pluck a chicken in two minutes flat. Why don’t I call my kin, and we’ll converge on your abode this evening. I’ll even have my brother Beau bring over our dipping pot and outdoor stove.”

  “What’s that for?” Jackson asked from behind me. “You planning to make chicken soup?”

  I slid my gaze to his and let him see my displeasure before answering, “No. Jack. You dip the bird into boiling water for a few seconds, to make the plucking easier.”

  “But that only solves half the problem.” Mr. Badcock fretted, his face a grimace. “I don’t have freezer space for sixty-one birds.”

  “There’s only forty.” Officer Boone’s young voice interrupted from the propped open front door. He was holding a notepad in his right hand, a pen in his left. I didn’t know he was left-handed.

  “Forty?” Jenn stood and tilted her head to the side. “Forty what?”

  “Forty dead chickens.” Boone looked to Jackson, who was technically the senior officer on the scene. “I only found forty chickens.”

  “Someone stole twenty-one of his chickens?” Dale asked, bringing the coffee cup to his lips. “Why not just take them all?”

  “Y’all can talk this over at a later date.” I lifted my voice. “Right now, we need to get the forty chickens outside plucked and frozen if we want to salvage the meat.”

  “Like I said, Cletus.” Mr. Badcock rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t have space for that many chickens—n
ot for sixty-one, not for forty.”

  “How many do you have room for?” Jenn asked softly.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Maybe ten. I’m ruined.”

  A charged hush fell across the room as we all stewed in Mr. Badcock’s despair, Diane Donner’s voice cresting and then fading away. I assumed she was outside talking to someone on the phone, not carrying on a one-way conversation with forty dead chickens.

  Jenn’s eyes locked with mine, hers pleading and full of expectation, giving me the sense she expected me to swoop in and save the poor man from ruin. But what could I do? We didn’t have freezers at the auto shop, and—

  Wait a minute.

  I snapped my fingers. “Beau just fixed up two industrial-sized fridges that can also be converted to freezers. He donated them on behalf of Genie’s bar to the church.”

  “Oh!” Jenn also snapped, her gorgeous eyes moving from me to Mr. Badcock. “That’s right. And I know those fridges are empty. With the church picnic coming up, they cleaned them out in preparation. Plus, I can store any overflow at the Donner Bakery, in the walk-in. There’s not much space, but I think we can find a few nooks and crannies.”

  Mr. Badcock appeared to be undecided. Or overwhelmed. Or both. “I don’t know—”

  “And you could probably sell a few to Mrs. Seymour, for the picnic. We could spread the word, so folks know to buy their hens from you—for the chicken salad, and fried chicken, and such—instead of the store. And I know my momma will buy some for the hotel. And I’m sure Cletus wants some too.” Jenn glanced at me beseechingly.

  “I do?”

  Her eyes widened meaningfully. I didn’t know precisely what the meaningfulness meant, but I did know—in general terms—I needed to agree with her.

  “I mean, that’s right. I do.” I nodded once.

  Jenn’s features brightened. She exhaled and gave me a small smile. “For some chicken sausage, maybe?”

  Chicken sausage?

  I didn’t grimace, and that was a miracle.

  Chicken sausage was akin to turkey bacon, an abomination.

  Chapter Four

  “When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.”

  ― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

  *Cletus*

  The chickens had been left where they died, scattered all over the inside of the henhouse, several still on their nests, a few out in the yard. As such, the first thing we did was round them up and put them in a pile on a tarp, set to one side of the big, fancy chicken coop.

  Meanwhile, since neither Mr. Badcock nor any of us Winstons owned a scalder, Shelly and Ashley built a wood fire in Mr. Badcock’s bonfire pit, set an iron grill plate about three inches above the highest flame, and heated several gallons of water in our two big lobster pots. This took forever.

  We used the time to set up chairs and tables around the fire and created an assembly line. Drew Runous was the only one I trusted to keep the water at the ideal constant temperature of 149 degrees. Consequently, he got the job of tying up the legs and dipping the chickens in the hot water. He passed them to either Ashley, Roscoe, Beau, or Billy—our four pluckers.

  Since I was well acquainted with the butchering process and didn’t get queasy at the sight of innards and such, the birds were then handed to me. I cut off the heads and feet, cleared out the cavities, and saved the livers for frying and the remaining organs for gravy or stock. I then passed the carcasses and essential bits to Jethro and Shelly for final cleaning and wrapping.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Badcock doesn’t have a motorized plucker.” Roscoe frowned at the chicken he was almost finished defeathering.

  “He only raises them for eggs. I got the impression he never killed one before. He has a gravesite for the ones that have died,” Officer Boone said, flipping through his notepad.

  “A gravesite?” I lifted an eyebrow, certain I’d misheard.

  “Yep. In the past, if one of his hens died, he’d bury them. They all have little crosses. Hand carved.” Boone and I shared a look, and I suspected we were sharing the same thought. Who has time to hand carve crosses for chicken graves?

  “The man really loved those chickens,” Boone added, like he was answering my unspoken question.

  I knew Boone from around town, good fella, fair, smart, best investigator on the force. He was quiet unless he had something of value to say, and I appreciated this about him. He stood outside of the working circle next to Jackson James, but Officer Dale had left, offering to escort the Dragon Lady—er, I mean Jenn’s momma, Ms. Donner—back to her house and Jennifer to the bakery.

  “They’re pretty birds,” Ashley said with a sad sigh, studying the feathers she was plucking. “I should give him some of my hens.”

  “Y’all only have six hens.” This protest came from Roscoe. “And if you give him yours, where are we going to get our eggs for Sunday breakfast?” Of course Roscoe was concerned with Sunday eggs, not Monday eggs, or Wednesday eggs. We only saw him on the weekends as he was still in veterinary school.

  “Roscoe, did you know they sell eggs at the store?” Beau grinned at Roscoe, his infernal blue eyes sparkling even in the middle of the night. My redheaded brother had too much charm and charisma, and I suspected he’d been born with the innate ability to catch starlight and radiate it outward, or some such nonsense. “You just give the grocer your money and they let you take the eggs. A whole dozen at a time if you’re real nice.”

  Roscoe chuckled at Beau’s teasing, which I noted. Roscoe didn’t chuckle, laugh, or otherwise seem amused by my teasing. I felt confident everyone would agree, my teasing was superior to Beau’s in both comedic timing and poignancy.

  Masking my irritation, I glanced around the circle, my attention settling on Billy and his . . . What the heck was he doing?

  “Have you seen those power plucker attachments for a drill?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jethro, my oldest brother, hold a lung scraper in his grip as though it were a drill. “It’s supposed to pluck a chicken real fast, save you from those nasty pin feathers.”

  I shook my head absentmindedly, distracted by Billy’s slow plucking progress. He was older than me by a year, and the hardest working person I knew—aside from Jennifer—but he’d plucked just one chicken in the last half hour, and not for lack of trying.

  Obviously sensing my attention, Billy asked, “Can I help you, Cletus?” He wore a small smile, but his baritone was as flat as a bookmark.

  “What are you doing?” I continued surveying him from beneath lowered eyebrows and behind narrowed eyes, not disguising my dissatisfaction at his inefficient feather elimination technique.

  He adjusted his grip on the bird and wiped a gloved hand on a towel hanging over his thigh. “Plucking this chicken.”

  “That ain’t chicken plucking,” Roscoe muttered under his breath.

  Loathe as I was to agree with Roscoe, I agreed with Roscoe.

  “Leave him alone,” our sister Ashley called over. “Let Billy figure things out on his own. Besides, his fingers are too big for this kind of work. We’ll get these done, no problem.” She sat between Roscoe and where Drew dipped the chickens. Drew Runous was Ashley’s not-yet-fiancé, and their lack of formal engagement was a source of great turmoil for me, but that’s not pertinent at present. It was warmer over there, but that wasn’t the reason we’d insisted she and Roscoe sit closest to the pots.

  It was a little-known fact that my sister was the fastest chicken plucker in Green Valley, maybe even all of Tennessee, and Roscoe was a close second. This was likely because they used to do it together when we were growing up. Giving them prime spots closest to the pots made the most sense.

  “First of all, you’re supposed to start with the legs, move to the breast, leaving the wings for last,” I instructed Billy.

  “Cletus. Leave Billy alone,” Ashley said again, making an irritated face.

  “He needs to do it right, otherwise he’s just w
asting his time and ours.” I held my sister’s stare, which grew increasingly peeved.

  “Stop your meddling.”

  “But if he would do it right—”

  She made a frustrated sound, turning her attention back to the bird in her own hands. “You think you always know what’s best, and sometimes you don’t. Let him alone and quit meddling.”

  Now I frowned at my sister, getting the sense she wasn’t talking about plucking chickens. Quit meddling? Not likely. She might as well ask me to make a batch of substandard sausage.

  “Let me show you,” Roscoe offered gently, demonstrating on the chicken still in his hands, which was already good and thoroughly plucked. “A hen ain’t going to cooperate if you spend ten minutes plucking the wings. Get your fingers between the legs first.”

  My brother Beau, sitting on Billy’s right, nodded at Roscoe’s advice.

  I lifted my chin toward Roscoe. “Or between the legs and the breasts at the same time, if you got the skill, like Roscoe.”

  “What do you mean? Cooperate? How can I get the hen to cooperate?” Billy affixed a mystified stare on his bird. “The hen is dead.”

  “Listen, the point is, you pluck a bird when it’s wet and hot,” Beau said, giving the dead hen he was holding a saucy looking grin. “Everyone knows that.”

  Ashley snorted, rolling her eyes.

  Ignoring Beau’s miserable attempt at a double entendre, I refocused everyone on the task at hand. “In summary, if you dawdle with the big feathers at the wing, the bird will dry out, and won’t welcome a plucking. And you can’t get it hot, not if you want it to stay raw.”