Sissy listened to Ben and Finn leave the building. Her throat felt as though steel fingers were digging in over her larynx. The tears that she’d held in check filled her eyes, blurring her vision. Damn him, damn him, she screamed inwardly. I’m in danger of falling in love with him, and I can’t let that happen. He wants only one thing from me. That’s all they ever want. Before I give it to him, I’ll go to the Shady Lady and buy a damned vibrator.
Sissy dashed the tears from her cheeks, snapped her shoulders straight, and lifted her chin. She wouldn’t blubber over a man as if her heart were breaking. That would be too stupid for words. He couldn’t change who he was, and she couldn’t change, either. She had to get her priorities straight and be sensible.
The first steps toward that were to lock all the doors, turn off the lights, and go to bed. If he tried to hang around tomorrow night after her diners left, she would give him the boot. For the next two weeks, she’d honor her end of their bargain and feed him. But beyond that, she owed him nothing.
* * *
Ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling-dong. Sissy moaned, pulled her pillow over her head, and wondered what insane person would ring her doorbell before daylight. She rolled, wrapping herself in sheets and blankets like a mummy. It felt so warm, and her pillow was plumped just right under her cheek after the repeated fist poundings she’d given it during the night. The doorbell fell quiet. Oh, yeah. She drifted happily back into blackness. Ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling-dong. Her eyes popped back open. It was her cell phone, set to awaken her promptly at five each morning.
With a groan, she elbowed her way free from the tight embrace of blankets and ran to the kitchen, where she charged the device. Aching with weariness, she imagined how good it would feel to sleep for as long as she wanted. Cold air nipped under the hem of her nightshirt. She curled her toes against the icy laminated flooring. A dull ache throbbed in her temples, and she shivered.
Dimly she remembered all the loud noises that had interrupted her sleep during the night. “I hate you, Aunt Mabel!” Sissy rifled through bureau drawers for clean clothing, dashed to the bathroom to turn on the shower, and then ran to the living room to turn up the thermostat. To save money on power, she always turned the heat down to fifty at night. “You’re a mean, cantankerous ghost! I’m not surprised you’re hanging around here. I know where you’re going now! Hell, that’s where! I’d be postponing my journey there, too, if I were you!”
While brushing her teeth, Sissy grumped at her dead aunt each time she rinsed and spat. “You know how long my days are, you old biddy!” Swish, spew, scrub. “Why are you doing this to me? I’m exhausted! And it’s all your fault!” Sissy wrenched off the tap and fumbled for a towel to blot her mouth. “I’ll go bankrupt if I can’t work. Your precious café will be sold during foreclosure and turned into a”—she paused to think of the worst scenario possible—“an adult sex store! How does that grab you? Porn magazines! Kinky toys. Sleazy movies with no plots! Instead of dining booths, there’ll be soundproof closets where men will watch videos of female threesomes. Your bingo and church friends will jaywalk and risk being struck by cars rather than walk past the front door! And think of poor Marilyn! If people won’t walk by this place, they’ll stop shopping at her store. I know she was one of your best friends. Everyone likes Marilyn. If you don’t leave me alone, you’re going to be responsible for destroying her business and ruining her life!”
When Sissy checked the shower temp, it was still barely warm. She tapped her bare toe, impatient for the hot water to finally make its way upstairs. Then she stood under the spray and started to feel better. At least her head didn’t ache now, and she could think straight. I didn’t mean it, she apologized silently to her aunt. You’ll never know how grateful I am to you. She gave herself a quick wash, rinsed, and grabbed her red bath towel from its hook. With a few quick rubs, she was dry.
Once downstairs with only the kitchen lights on, she went into the cooler and started grabbing items for lunch prep. Over the last week and a half, she had acquired the habit of doing that before breakfast rush so she could spend her midmornings helping Ben.
Ben. Her hand froze on a large bag of romaine lettuce. The work outside was finished now. She didn’t need to make salad. Putting on her soup of the day could wait. No sandwiches had to be made in advance, so they’d be ready for the grill. She could resume her regular schedule and do this after the breakfast crowd left.
Sissy stood shivering, her mind riveted on how cozy and soft her bed had felt. She could have slept for another hour. Ben would be coming by today only for meals. Her routine at the café could return to normal.
With a sigh, she exited the cooler, her skin now ice-cold and clammy. Glancing around the kitchen, she made note of a half dozen chores she could do before breakfast. She’d let a few things slide while working with Ben. Her cupboards could stand to be reorganized and wiped clean. She could choose to be in a grump because she’d gotten up too early or be in a happy mood because the extra time could be put to good use.
The first thing she wanted to do was feed and water her chickens, mostly because she couldn’t wait to see how they liked their new home now that they were settling in. She’d paid for the remodel and worked to make it happen as well. She went to the storage room, slipped on rubber boots, threw on her jacket, got her flashlight, and grabbed the treat bucket she now kept just inside the back door. Cold air blasted her in the face as she stepped out on the porch. Sliding her foot back and forth over the wooden planks, she tested for slickness and determined that, as frigid as it felt, the temperature hadn’t dropped to freezing. She needn’t worry about slipping and falling.
Torch beam bobbing, she walked to the chicken coop. Sissy smiled as she stepped inside the structure, the ceiling of which was now high enough for even Ben to stand erect. A heat lamp suspended from the ceiling held the chill of predawn at bay. The light didn’t make it hot in the front area, which was good, but it did keep it pleasant.
This was the original coop area, barely recognizable now. Ben had installed gravity feeders. All Sissy had to do was top them off with fresh pellets each morning. In fact, Ben claimed that once Sissy invested in automatic waterers, she’d be able to leave for as long as three days without hiring anyone to feed her flock. More feeders graced a wall in the large wing addition.
Sissy filled the first bank of feeders, chatting with her hens and calling each by name. Well, with so many birds, she couldn’t always tell for sure who was who, but she doubted the pullets took offense. As if the birds knew she was talking to them, they preened on their roosts and cackled back at her.
Sissy noticed a new layer of feathers littering the floor. Did all chickens lose that many when they weren’t in molt? Studying the lineup of hens clustered abreast on the three horizontal roosts, Sissy noted nothing alarming. They looked healthy, if a little sleepy and disgruntled about having their rest disturbed, but she’d felt the same way when her alarm jerked her awake.
She moved into the huge new wing. The illumination of the ceiling heat lamps cast a soft golden glow over the large area. Sissy smiled as she trailed her gaze over the birds perched on the roosts, pleased that they now had plenty of space. So beautiful, she thought. She’d ordered a variety of breeds and loved the colorful assortment of plumage.
In her peripheral vision, she saw a black lump lying on the floor near the feeders. She turned, thinking Ben had forgotten a tool bag. But, no, it was a chicken.
“Silly you, still sleeping on the floor! You have a mansion now.” Sissy walked over to the hen and bent low to give her a pat. Her fingertips met with cold, stiff hardness. Her heart caught. With a light push, she rolled the bird over. Its feet, frozen in death, remained flat against its breast. “No! Oh, no!” With a choked sob, Sissy drew the chicken into her arms. “What happened to you, sweet girl?” Tears filled her eyes. “Did you get sick? Did it get too cold in here?”
Sissy saw another lum
p on the floor, a reddish brown one. Then another—a white one. Still clutching the dead hen to her chest, she turned in a slow circle and saw possibly eight or a dozen other lumps on the floor. Dead chickens. She couldn’t bring herself to count them. Dimly she registered that it wasn’t cold enough to have killed the hens.
She screamed, dropped the dead hen, and ran, not allowing herself to look for more casualties.
* * *
Ben tipped the glass coffee carafe to refill his mug a second time. He enjoyed the quiet peacefulness of predawn. It was a span of minutes when the world around him hadn’t yet awakened to greet the new day, and it gave him an opportunity to just be. He liked to sit at his kitchen table and let his mind wander as he sipped coffee.
Drawing in the steam from his coffee, he relaxed on the spindle-back kitchen chair and resumed staring at the darkness that huddled close against the window over the sink. My time, he thought, flexing his shoulders to awaken his muscles for the work that awaited him. He had no idea what the day might bring—and he didn’t care. For now, he wanted to enjoy the sensation of being in a suspended dimension where no one existed but him.
His cell phone rang. The sound obliterated his sense of isolation. He briefly considered not answering. Who in his right mind dialed someone up at this hour? An automated telemarketing computer, possibly, but he was in no mood to interrupt his morning ritual by listening to a recorded message about a trip he’d just won.
Still, it could be important. A family emergency, maybe. Sighing, he drew the phone from his pocket and stared at the lighted screen. He didn’t recognize the number and almost sent the call to voice mail. Then he remembered that his mom had gotten a new phone. She might have changed her number.
“Hello, this is Ben,” he said.
“They’re dying!” a woman shrieked.
Ben winced and moved the device an inch from his ear. “Who is this?”
“They’re dying, Ben! I did something wrong! I fed them something bad. Something! At least twelve are dead!”
“Sissy? Is that you?”
He heard a sniff and gulp. “Yes. Yes, of course it’s me! Who else do you know with chickens?”
“You need to calm down, honey.”
“Calm down?” A strangled noise came over the air. “My babies are dying, right and left, and you tell me to calm down?” Her voice was so shrill it sliced through him like a well-honed knife. “Please, will you come? Please, Ben. Maybe you can do something before all of them die!”
Ben wasn’t as confident in his ability to save the day as she was, but he could tell she might soon bypass mere panic and move into full-blown hysteria. “Of course I’ll come. Are you in the coop?”
“No! I ran back into the café to get your cell number. Thank God I forgot to throw it away last night. Please hurry!”
She’d intended to throw his number away? That stung. “Listen, Sissy. Stay out of the coop. I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’s unlikely, but it could be avian flu.” Ben had read recently about an isolated incident of bird flu in Crystal Falls, and off the top of his head, that was one of the things he could think of that might kill a number of chickens suddenly. Housed in that new insulated coop, the chickens couldn’t have frozen to death, and they’d all looked fine to him yesterday. “I’m not familiar with avian flu—whether it’s contagious to humans or not. Just to be safe, stay away from the flock until I can assess the situation.”
“Oh, God! What’s avian flu? Hurry, Ben. Please, please hurry!”
Chapter Eight
Ben sent his truck hurtling through the predawn darkness, gripping the wheel so tight his fingers hurt. Ignoring stop signs on the deserted roads, he kept a sharp eye out for other vehicles. With any luck, if a cop spotted him bending the speed limit by over twenty miles an hour, it would be his brother Barney, and he could talk his way out of it. As if. Barney went by the book.
By the time he parked next to Sissy’s coop, dawn was sending pale fingers over the mountains and lighting the valley. In the dim glow of the porch light, he saw Sissy waiting outside for him, her compact body huddled in a puffy jacket with her arms crossed over her chest. Her shoulders jerked with what he guessed were sobs.
He swung out of his truck with Finn trying to follow close on his heels. “Hey, Sissy!” he called out. “You stay there, okay?” Nearly shutting the door on the disappointed dog’s nose, he started toward the coop and then stopped dead in his tracks as something occurred to him. “Did you pick up any of the dead chickens?”
She answered with a nod. He was too far away to see her face clearly, but he felt certain she was crying. Damn. It wasn’t smart to love chickens. Sometimes they died young, the victims of predators, egg binding, and other things.
“Then go inside,” he yelled. “Throw your jacket straight into the washing machine. Then scrub all your exposed skin with antibacterial soap. Okay? I know you’re upset, but you have to protect yourself just in case they’ve got something contagious.”
“Oh, Ben!” she wailed. “What if I fed them something that’s killing them?”
“Chickens normally won’t eat things that are bad for them.” Ben’s chest squeezed at the raw pain threading through her words. And what he’d just told her was mostly true, with his chickens, at least. “Whatever it is, I’m almost certain it isn’t your fault. Go on, now. Clean yourself up, and hurry. Don’t forget the antibacterial soap.”
Sissy nodded, swiped her sleeve across her nose, and vanished into the building. For a second, all Ben could think of was the germs that she’d just rubbed against her mucous membranes. Then he forced himself to head toward the coop. With luck, whatever was killing the chickens wasn’t contagious to humans.
In the front section, all the chickens looked fine. He stepped close to the roosts to get a better look. They still appeared to be in good health to him. Then he stepped into the new wing and stopped in his tracks. He counted fourteen dead chickens, and another one, huddled near the feeders, looked as if she might be dying. What the hell? Ben bent over a dead hen. He studied it and then rolled it over with the toe of his boot. Nothing. No sign of injury.
He quickly exited the coop and strode across the yard to the porch. Inside the building, he found Sissy in the laundry room, which was located in the back storage section. Drying her arms, she turned toward him. Her eyes looked red and swollen. She sniffed, swallowed hard, and asked, “Well, what killed them?”
Ben tried to ignore the quaver in her voice. “I don’t know. I need some disposable gloves and a plastic garbage bag. I’m going to take one of the dead ones to the vet and let him make the diagnosis.” He saw her soft mouth twist and quickly added, “Sissy, this isn’t your fault. Trust me. If it was something you fed them, a whole lot more would be dead.”
She walked to the kitchen, her posture stiff and her movements jerky. She plucked two disposable gloves from a box with a dispenser opening at the top. Then from under the sink she fetched a white garbage bag. Handing the items to Ben, she said, “It’s so early. I doubt the vet’s office is open.”
Ben nodded. “It isn’t. I’ll seal the”—he nearly said specimen, but decided it was too impersonal—“the dead hen in the plastic bag and put her in the bed of my truck where she can’t contaminate the cab. Then I’ll go home and get my chores done before I go in. I’ll call before eight and let them know I’m coming.” He puffed air into a glove before stuffing his fingers into it. “I’m surprised you have these in my size. My mom says all the guys in our family have bear paws for hands.”
“I keep boxes in all sizes.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I bought them when I was still thinking about hiring help.” A crease appeared between her finelydrawn, dark eyebrows. “I should have had you wear some last night.”
Ben drew on the second glove, wondering if she was in a mild state of shock. Her worrying right then about health regulations seemed off-kilter to him. �
��Next time, I’ll be sure to ask for some. I did scrub up good, though, before I handled any food.”
She stared at the plastic bag he held. “Wh-what should I do with all the other d-dead ones?” Her lower lip trembled, and it yanked his heart out.
“Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of that. There’s plenty of food and water for the rest of the chickens, so don’t go back in there until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Tears welled in her big blue eyes. “But, Ben, I want to give them a proper burial. They’re my little friends.”
Ben thought of reminding her that the ground beneath the surface was undoubtedly frozen and any grave would probably have to be chiseled out with a pick and shovel, but he took another look at her stricken expression and changed his mind. Aloud, he said, “Okay. If the vet says that’s safe, I’ll help you get it done.”
* * *
At eight, Ben’s truck was parked in front of the Caring Hands Veterinary Clinic. Because the vet tech, Cassidy Peck, didn’t yet know what disease the bird might be carrying, Ben was admitted through the back door of the clinic and ushered into an examining room with all speed. An attractive young lady with black hair and gorgeous blue eyes, Cassidy greatly resembled her brother, Chris, who co-owned Peck’s Red Rooster with his wife, Kim.
“I can bring you a cup of coffee,” she offered before exiting the room.
“I’m fine. I already got my morning jolt of caffeine. Thanks.”
After the door closed behind her, Ben laid the plastic bag on the examining table and sat on a straight-backed chair in the corner. He half expected to be left waiting for at least thirty minutes, but Jack Palmer surprised him by entering the room almost immediately. Ben stood.
Mulberry Moon Page 12
