by Reid, Penny
Ashley snorted again, but this time her shoulders shook with unabashed laughter. Both Drew and Jackson, I noticed, watched her with rapt interest, slightly dazed smiles on their faces.
“You are exactly thirteen years old, Ashley Winston,” Billy grumbled, ignoring our advice and continuing to pluck at the wing.
“And you are too stubborn and serious for your own good, William Winston,” my sister tossed back at him good-naturedly. “Stop being an old man and have some fun for once. Live a little.”
“Now who’s meddling?” I said under my breath, earning me a glare from Ashley.
“Live a little? By plucking chickens?” Billy’s questions were monotone and likely rhetorical.
Beau, a big grin on his face, opened his mouth as though to respond, likely with another tasteless observation. Thus, I lifted my voice and spoke over him, “After we’re done here, Billy, I’ll need your help getting these birds into the freezer at the church. I don’t have the trunk space in my Geo.”
“Can’t, Cletus.” Billy removed several more wing feathers, tossing them into the paper bag between his legs. “I have a meeting in Knoxville tomorrow midmorning. I’ll need to head home in a bit to get some sleep. But you can take my truck if you want.”
“I do want. Thanks,” I said, shifting my attention to Beau. “That means you’re helping me load and unload.”
“Fine, as long as I can take a nap after in your room at the homestead.” The redhead spoke around a yawn.
The homestead to which Beau referred was our family ancestral home, an old Victorian farmhouse with a wraparound porch Jethro was in the perpetual process of restoring for his pregnant movie star wife and their future seventeen children. Set several acres backing up to the Great Smoky Mountain National Forest, the house was worth restoring.
“What? Why sleep in my room?” I wiped the knife I was using off on a towel and searched the tabletop for the sharpener. Cutting all those heads and feet were making it dull.
“Your room is darker,” he said, like the matter was settled.
“But your room is empty of people whose name is Cletus, and my room is not.” Finding the whetstone, I slid it along the edge of the knife, frowning my most ill-tempered frown at my brother. Beau’s old room, which he used to share with his surly twin Duane before Duane ran off with his lady love to Italy, was untouched on account of Beau and Shelly having all but moved in together just before Christmas.
Seemingly unperturbed, Beau spoke around another yawn, “My room doesn’t have custom blackout shades on the windows. You want me to help you move the chickens in Billy’s truck? Fine. Then I sleep in your room after—where it’s dark—and you sleep in mine.”
“What about Shelly?”
“Shelly’ll go back to her place right after we finish here and can take the GTO. You don’t need more than me to help load up those chickens, and she needs her sleep. That okay, Shell?”
“Fine by me.” Beau’s tall, taciturn lady friend was using the lung scraper on a big, fat hen. She didn’t seem too happy about spending hours she’d usually be sleeping cleaning out chicken innards, but I suspected that had more to do with her soft heart toward animals than anything else. She fostered dogs, birds, cats, anything that needed fostering, and though she sought to hide it, I could sense the scene when she arrived upset her.
I didn’t get a chance to press the bedroom/sleeping arrangements issue with Beau because Ashley said to no one in particular, “What I find interesting is the method of death.”
“Whose death?” Roscoe glanced at Ashley.
“The chickens.” She gestured to our surroundings with her chin. “Seems like a weird way to kill birds you aren’t planning to eat. Chickens, bless their hearts, are idiots. You have to work hard to keep them alive. Even just leaving the door to the coop open overnight would be enough to kill most, if not all. Find a stray dog, let it in the coop, and you’re pretty much guaranteed to kill every bird inside, and no one will even suspect anything. Why strangle them?”
“Unless the bird murderer wanted to send a message.” Jackson piped in.
“In a very strange and risky way? Like, it takes time to catch and strangle several dozen birds. And why strangle? Why not decapitate?”
“What do you mean?” Boone asked, looking up from his notepad.
“I mean someone knew what they were doing, breaking their necks. Cervical dislocation isn’t a novice way of killing a chicken. Either the person works in medicine—veterinary or human—and knew enough about anatomy to know where to break, or the person is an old school chicken farmer and has done this before.”
“Why do you say ‘old school’?” Jackson was looking at Ashley with curiosity rather than his typical moony-eyed worship. We all knew he’d only stuck around so he could get a few moments basking in her presence. Jackson James had been ankles over ass gone over my sister since elementary school.
“Most chicken farmers these days use the cone, right? Subdues the bird, keeps them from moving around. But this guy—or lady—didn’t. Breaking the neck is a faster, less messy, quieter way of killing birds, if you know what you’re doing. But it also requires more strength, it couldn’t have been a small person.” While she spoke, she stood, finished plucking her fifth chicken, and walked over to where I was busy at the butchering table.
“Unless they used the broomstick method.” Roscoe also stood, placing his plucked chicken next to Ashley’s.
“What’s the broomstick method?” Jackson asked, and I was reminded that Jackson’s family had never needed to source their own food. His father had been the sheriff of this county for as long as I’d been alive. They’d never had to worry about putting food on the table.
Roscoe reclaimed his seat. “Broomstick method is where you put the bird between your—"
“Do we really need to know?” Billy asked, making a face of distaste.
One thing was for certain, Billy would never be a farmer. The man could get lost in a sparsely wooded traffic circle. He’d never been friends with the outdoors, and he liked his custom cut suits too much to voluntarily dirty his hands with soil and livestock. Don’t get me wrong, he’d do it—like now—if he had to, and he wouldn’t complain either, even though he’d rather be anywhere else.
“No.” Ashley held out her hands to receive another chicken from Drew. “But Roscoe makes a good point. The broomstick method can be done by a smaller person. They wouldn’t need as much strength if they broke the neck that way.”
“Interesting.” Boone scribbled something in his notepad.
“Also, seems like it was maybe someone the birds were familiar with?” Ashley directed this question to Roscoe. “Since several of the chickens were still in their nests instead of fleeing to the yard.”
“Maybe.” Roscoe shrugged. “Or someone who is used to working with chickens and knows how to keep them calm.”
“Why would anyone do this?” Shelly frowned at the dead bird she was cleaning like it had disorganized her toolbox. In the five months she’d been working at the shop with us, I knew there wasn’t much Shelly loathed more than a disordered toolbox.
“That’s a good question.” Billy, finally finished with his second bird, brought it over to the butchering table. “Any ideas, Boone?”
“Hey now. We can’t share thoughts about an ongoing investigation,” Jackson spoke up, and all my brothers rolled their eyes.
“Does Mr. Badcock have any helpers on the farm? Part-time employees?” I directed my question to Boone as—despite Jackson’s temerity—Boone seemed to be the only one taking this investigation seriously.
Officer Dale hadn’t taken it seriously. Before he’d left to escort Diane Donner home and Jennifer to the bakery, he’d said, “Mr. Badcock has both the farm and his birds insured. Investigating this would be a waste of time, he’ll get back on his feet.” Then, nudging me with an elbow, added, “No harm no fowl. Get it?”
In case y’all were wondering, it is possible to tire of bird jokes. Bu
t I digress.
Regardless, on the one hand, Dale was right. Mr. Badcock could always buy and raise new chickens, using the insurance money to see him through. Why should the sheriff’s office spend valuable hours investigating the death of forty chickens and the abduction of twenty-one when there were much more pressing crimes deserving of their attention?
Boone shook his head, frowning at his notepad. “Mr. Badcock said he had some help a few years ago, but not anymore. Just him for the last seven years or so.”
A man and his chickens, alone, for seven years. No wonder he’d carved those crosses for their graves.
Mr. Badcock loved his chickens. The events of the evening had clearly been devastating for him. Jenn had tucked him in before she left for the bakery, promising someone would ensure the chicken maligner—whoever that might be—would be brought to justice.
Butchering Ashley’s latest fully plucked chicken, I didn’t attempt to mask my frown at the memory of her words. Jenn didn’t make promises lightly. If she promised Mr. Badcock the culprit would be discovered, then she meant it.
Even if she’d have to solve the crime herself.
Chapter Five
“Tereza's mother never stopped reminding her that being a mother meant sacrificing everything.”
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
*Jenn*
After I left Mr. Badcock in Cletus's very capable hands, I did my best not to dwell on Cletus's very capable hands.
I’d felt guilty on the drive to the bakery. I’d felt guilty as I made the last of the special orders. And I felt guilty now as I cleaned up, yawning every two minutes.
When my momma's call had interrupted Cletus and me at the community center, part of me—a part I didn't understand, and akin to the part responsible for the daydreams about Cletus Winston on repeat for the past few months—wanted to ignore her texts. My first feeling upon reading them had been resentment, and my first thought had been, Why are you calling me? It’s not like I can revive chickens!
Though the cleaners had already been by at 3:00 AM, I wiped down the counter again with a sterile solution as the first rays of sunlight peeked in from the high windows at the back of the bakery kitchen. I still felt like a terrible person for my initial callousness and selfishness. Nevertheless, resentment lingered like a virus.
It had quieted while we were at Mr. Badcock’s, formulating a plan to help him, but with each completed special order and closed bakery box, the bitterness had ballooned, it had become life-sized, a blowup doll, and I’d been mentally wrestling my feelings.
Which was probably why, when my mother showed up tracking mud on the floor after the sun had fully risen in the winter sky, sending beams of sunlight through the panes of glass and illuminating the sparkling clean interior of the kitchen, I surrendered to the blowup doll of bitterness.
“All those orders finished yet?” she asked, fluffing her hair while taking the mud on a walk from the back door to the island prep station.
“You have mud on your shoes,” I said, not kindly.
She widened her eyes at me, rimmed with impeccable eyeliner and shaded with hues of blue and green. “Well, it is wet and muddy outside.”
“You’re cleaning that up.” I pointed to the tracks behind her while simultaneously marching to the broom.
She sputtered. “I—what? Jennifer!”
I shoved the broom handle at her and her meticulously painted pink lips. She’d had enough time to carefully apply her mask of makeup, but I hadn’t slept. Last night backstage at the community center had been my first chance to be alone with Cletus in ages where one of us wasn’t near exhausted, and she’d clearly taken her time this morning picking out accessories that matched her outfit.
She looked stunning, and I looked how I felt, which was like I’d spent half the night wrestling with a blowup doll come to life—and not in a good way.
Forced to accept the broom to keep it from hitting her in the head, my mother gaped at me. “My goodness! What has gotten into you?”
Not Cletus. Cletus hasn’t gotten into me. AND THAT’S THE PROBLEM!
I pressed my lips together, knowing I couldn’t say that. My relationship with my mother had improved over the last several weeks. She no longer commented on what I looked like, at all. No passive-aggressive remarks when I dyed my hair brown, no silent looks of reproach when I wore jeans or yoga pants. I still didn’t wish to discuss such matters with her.
Tutting, she set the broom against the counter and came to stand next to me. "How you doing, baby?"
"I'm . . . okay."
"Did you get any sleep?"
I said nothing because I didn’t wish to snap at her. I hadn't slept on a Friday night in over a month.
"Jenn, you need your rest. Busy time is over, you should take the day off and get some sleep today. Blair Tanner can stock the bakery case."
“Take the day off?” What was she talking about? I glanced around at all the special order boxes that were finished and packaged. I'd worked eight hours already and she wanted me to take the day off?
Her eyes followed mine and she ducked her head a little. "I guess, take the rest of the day off."
"Momma—"
"Honey, don't fight me on this.” She lifted a hand to rub my back. “You’ve earned it.”
I stepped away from her. "I wasn't going to fight you. I was going to tell you that I can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Not sleeping. Working so many hours. I can't. I'm exhausted."
"Of course you're exhausted.” She made that tutting sound again, her smile sympathetic. “You keep insisting on going to the jam session on Friday nights. If you didn't go, you could get some sleep and—”
I lifted a hand, my resentment now the size of a hot air balloon. "The problem isn't the jam session."
She stared at me, long and hard, before asking quietly, "I suppose that means I'm the problem?" Her chin wobbled, vulnerability in her voice. This was a new version of my mother, one I’d never seen before I’d revealed that my father had been cheating on their marriage for years with his secretary. It had been unsettling to watch her go from being the strongest, most stubborn and focused person—good and bad—to someone who cried at the flip of a switch.
I never knew when something I might say would leave her in tears, and I hated it. I hated seeing her brought so low by my undeserving father.
Firming her lips, she breathed in harshly through her nose. “I’m not a mind reader, honey. If there’s a problem, you gotta let people know so they can fix it.”
Covering my face, I turned away and muttered mostly to myself, "I feel so guilty and I shouldn’t. I said I was going to set boundaries, and what did I do? I just kept on, just like before, working overtime."
"I pay you time and a half for overtime,” she reminded gently. “If you want a raise—”
"It's not about being paid! It's about having a life.” I spun back to face her. “I want to have a life. I want to go to the jam sessions on Fridays and sleep on Friday nights. Being there for Cletus is important to me."
My mother studied her nails, her voice turning brittle, wobbly. "Men just take and take, Jennifer."
"Not all men.” My heart twisted, thinking about Cletus last night, standing in the hallway of the community center, looking disappointed—so disappointed—and I absolutely hated that I’d let him down. Again.
My mother snorted, rolling her eyes heavenward. "I guess we'll see."
"This isn't about Cletus. This is about me and what I want."
"And you want to stop baking Saturday special orders?” Her features grew pinched. “Well then, we might as well close down the bakery."
I drew myself up to my full height, angled my chin, set my hands on my hips, and blurted, “I need help! Can’t you understand that? Can’t you see that?”
The blowup doll of bitterness promptly deflated, leaving me feeling spent and . . . like a failure.
But needing h
elp was the real issue, wasn’t it? Mr. Badcock’s dead chickens weren’t the problem. My momma interrupting Cletus and me last night with frantic phone calls, the constant barrage of special orders, the holiday season—none of that was the problem. In retrospect, anyone could see the truth. My momma should’ve seen it. I needed help!
So why did admitting it make me feel like a failure?
Her head tilted to the side, splitting her attention between me and the broom handle leaning against the counter. “You need help with the cleaning? I’ve told you a hundred times, you can leave it for first shift.”
“No.” Tears pricked behind my eyes and I sighed tiredly. “I need help with everything. I need someone to pick up the eggs from Mr. Badcock, and someone to do the dairy run with Miller Farm, and someone to get the honey from Old Man Blount, and someone to talk the Hills into saving the best preserves and berries for us, and all the other suppliers. I need someone to keep them happy so I can bake and keep our customers happy.”
"What? What are you talking about? That's what you do?" She reared back. “Have you been driving to all those places?”
"Yes. Every week since the fall. I can't get it all from the same place like I used to. Since Nancy Danvish retired—”
“Ugh! Don’t talk to me about Nancy Danvish. That woman.” Her lips curled into a sneer, her eyes mean. “Do you know what Scotia told me last week? Nancy Danvish is working with your father!” She paused here for effect, nodding rapidly. “That’s right. They’re putting together some sort of business venture to compete with me, with my lodge.” Lifting her hands, she hooked her fingers and made air quotes, “A ‘boutique farming experience bed and breakfast’ sort of thing. Can you imagine? Who is going to want to stay on a farm for their vacation?” Sudden tears sprung to her eyes, and she heaved a watery breath. “Will this torment never end?"
This was usually the point of the conversation where I backed down and consoled this new version of my mother, agreed with her that my father had done her wrong—was still doing her wrong—and that she could always count on me.
