by Gemma Bruce
“I think Maude will take them. If not, I’ll have to sell them.”
Mel narrowed her eyes at Julie. She seemed angry, but Julie had no idea why. Maybe she was just angry in general. Who could blame her, stuck in the middle of nowhere with Reynolds and Marian for parents?
She tested a smile on the Goth and got no reaction. “Do you go to school at Ex Falls, I mean, Excelsior Falls High?”
“Where else would I go?” said Mel without inflection.
“True,” said Julie. “Junior?”
“Senior,” said Mel, still scowling.
“It’s her half day,” explained Christine.
Julie nodded, not playing hooky today. “Where are you going to college?” She saw immediately from Mel’s expression that she shouldn’t have asked.
“When?”
Julie blinked. When what? Right, the chickens. “Soon. I ... soon.” Why should a girl wearing black lipstick and nail polish, who looked like she’d never been out in the sun, be concerned about Wes’s chickens? “Are you interested in them?”
Mel snorted. “Chickens suck.”
“Mel,” said Christine.
Mel’s eyes snapped at her sister and Julie cut in. “They’re pretty stinky, and it’s a pain in the butt having to get up so early every day, but I have this one, Ernestine, that actually sits in my lap and lets me pet her.” Julie could swear the girl’s eyes lightened. “I’ll miss her and Bill and Hilary, but I can’t exactly take them with me.” Hell, she’d even miss Ulysses, though he reminded her of Donald, the bribe-taker.
“Are you going back to the city then?” asked Christine and immediately her cheeks flooded with color. “It’s none of my business, it’s just—”
“That you talk too much,” said Mel and turned her back on them and slouched back to the kitchen.
“Sorry,” said Christine. “She’s right. But it’s not like I get a lot of new people to talk to.”
“Innkeepers are supposed to be friendly.”
Christine smiled. “Thanks. You’re nice.”
No, I’m not, thought Julie. But at least I don’t have to live in Ex Falls. It’s the least I can do.
A few minutes later, the kitchen doors swung open. A stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a white apron came out, carrying a plate with an aluminum cover.
“Ian,” said Christine.
Ian removed Julie’s salad plate and replaced it with the entrée plate. He lifted the lid and a whiff of rosemary and garlic rose to Julie’s nose.
“This smells wonderful,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said with a slight bow. “Direct from the chef to you.”
“This is my husband, Ian,” said Christine, then asked, “Where’s Mel?”
“Damned if I know. She came barreling through the kitchen and out the back door without stopping. Didn’t know she could move that fast.”
“Oh.” Christine looked toward the closed doors.
“Don’t worry about her. Probably had a date or something.” He patted Christine’s hand and smiled down at her. She beamed up at him.
Julie felt a pang of envy, then pushed it aside and picked up her fork. The pork was delicious. Too bad they couldn’t drum up some more business.
Christine stood up. “I’d better see—”
“Stay off your feet,” he told her and dropped a light kiss on her nose, before taking the aluminum top back into the kitchen.
“Do you feel like company?”
“Sure,” said Julie. It was more interesting than having to eat staring out the window.
“I’m pregnant,” Christine whispered.
Julie looked up to make sure she’d heard correctly.
“I miscarried last year, so we’re not saying anything until we’re sure this one takes. But I’m so excited, I had to share it with someone. I just found out this morning.”
“Congratulations,” said Julie. She lifted her glass and thought, a whole new generation of Reynoldses to carry on the feud. She could imagine eight or ten little Macgregors, dark haired and kilted, wielding swords as they scaled the wall to Excelsior House. And then she realized that there would be no little Excelsiors to fight with.
“And they won’t carry on this ridiculous feud. Hell, nobody even remembers what it was about.” Christine peered at Julie. “Yours won’t, will they?”
“My what?”
“Your kids? Carry on the feud? I thought maybe we could stop it now that Wes is gone and Reynolds has no one to fight with.”
Except me, thought Julie. “Not to worry. I’m not having kids.”
Christine frowned. “But you and—you would have beautiful children.”
Julie nodded and bit into her pork.
Back at home, Julie put on Wes’s jacket and cap and went to let the chickens out. Bill and Hillary immediately fluttered up to Smitty’s back and the three of them wandered off to the far end of the clearing.
“Not too far,” she warned Smitty and sat down on the steps to wait for Ernestine. Ernestine didn’t come.
Jilted, thought Julie and looked around the yard to see what the hen was up to. She didn’t see her. Maybe she’d decided it was too cold to leave the cozy, if smelly, roost. Smart chicken. Julie climbed up the hill to the gazebo just to make sure she was all right.
The gazebo was empty. Julie walked along the row of nesting boxes, peering into the deepest recesses of straw. She checked the perches and corners and shadows, but didn’t find Ernestine.
The first rumble of panic set in. She’d probably just missed her outside. Julie hurried down the ramp. But when her excursion through the brood turned up no Ernestine, she really began to worry.
“Ernestine,” she called. A few feathered heads looked up but went right back to scratching and rolling in their daily dirt bath. “Ernestine!”
Julie checked the perimeters of the yard, beneath the juniper bush, even in the shed. Ernestine had returned to the gazebo after the morning outing. She couldn’t have gotten out.
She quickly counted heads. Everyone accounted for—except Ernestine.
With increasing worry, Julie began to search farther afield, around the front of the house, down the driveway as far as the fishing pond. She called her name, made clucking noises, crawled on her hands and knees to see under shrubs. Finally she ran back up the hill toward the woods.
Smitty, his attention caught by Julie’s unusual behavior, came trotting up, Bill and Hillary along for the ride.
“Smitty,” said Julie. “Ernestine is missing.” She looked at Bill and Hillary. “If only chickens could talk.”
She searched the gazebo again, walked farther into the woods, poked under rocks and behind trees until the sun began to set and her fingers were numb from the cold. She herded the others back into the gazebo. Did another head count. And still there was one missing bird. Damn. Ernestine would freeze if left out overnight. Was it possible that she’d gotten into the house?
Julie closed the latch, checked it a second time, and checked the exterior of the gazebo for possible escape routes. Then she went inside. Smitty followed her from room to room, while she looked under beds, behind chairs, even rooted around in closets. And still no Ernestine.
She should call Cas. And say what? “I’d like to report a missing chicken.” They didn’t even start looking for missing people until forty-eight hours had elapsed.
Had she wandered off? Been stolen? Someone could be sitting down to dinner tonight with a roasted Ernestine on the table.
Julie took a flashlight and went outside to search again. All she got for her trouble were some unhappy hens, a few angry squawks and a couple of pecks that weren’t pure affection.
By ten o’clock, she had to concede that Ernestine was truly missing. And though she didn’t know all that much about chickens, she did know how to conduct a search. And she’d been thorough.
She opened a beer, sank down on a kitchen chair, and rested her forehead against the cold bottle. Smitty put his paws in her
lap and leaned his head against her, while she absently scratched behind his ears.
Finally, Julie stood up, knocking Smitty to the floor. She couldn’t interview the witnesses, but she could reconstruct the timeline.
She began pacing, laying out the events of the day. “Ernestine was here this morning. I counted heads when I put them back in the gazebo and everyone was there. Then I came inside and got dressed. Surely one of us would have heard someone in the chicken coop.” She stopped in front of Smitty. Smitty tilted his head. “I know. You would have heard something and started barking.” She started pacing again. “Then I went into town for lunch.”
She stopped again. “Arrgh.”
“Grrr,” echoed Smitty.
“Did something happen while I was gone?”
“Arf,” said Smitty and thumped his tail twice.
“Of course, it did. Duh.” Because after lunch, she’d come straight into the house, let Smitty out and then went out to the chickens. And Ernestine was gone. “Damn. Double damn.” She sank back into a chair. “And I had just told Mel and Christine that I was going to sell the flock. It’s instant karma. How could I ever sell Ernestine?”
Her eyes narrowed as she thought about Mel asking her what she was going to do with the chickens. And Christine saying that Mel and Wes had been close. And how Mel left suddenly in the middle of serving her lunch.
“I wonder,” said Julie, then immediately dismissed the idea. Melanie stealing chickens? Julie bet the most energy the girl ever used was pressing the remote button from MTV to E!
An hour later, Julie and Smitty climbed the stairs to bed, where Julie spent as much time looking out her bedroom window as she did sleeping, waiting for the return of the wayward hen. She was dressed and outside when Ulysses and Bill began their morning serenade. And there was still no Ernestine.
At least, there was no frozen corpse lying at the door to the gazebo. No scratch marks left on the wood as Ernestine gasped her final chicken breaths before succumbing to the frost.
Maybe she would come running out of the woods or from under the house when she heard the shed open and the sound of scratch rolling against the tin pan. But Julie wasn’t surprised that when the pan was empty, Ernestine had still not shown.
She gathered the eggs and returned the chickens to the fenced-in yard early, much to their unhappiness, especially Bill and Hillary who had begun to take their daily rides on Smitty’s back as their due.
She took the eggs into the house, but she couldn’t eat them. This morning she saw them as little Ernestines in the making. She put them in the fridge and made toast with peanut butter instead.
At ten-thirty she heard a truck coming up the driveway. She jumped up, hoping it was Maude, then remembered that the “Pliney boys” came on Thursday to cart away the chicken manure.
She watched them back the truck up to the growing pile of manure and let down the tail gate. She put on her coat and hat and went out to oversee them, per Wes and Maude’s instructions.
Two young, lanky Dan Pliney look-alikes jumped down from each side of the truck’s cab, pulling on heavy rubber gloves. They wore green rubber boots that came up to their knees, and bandannas were tied loosely around their necks. To cover their noses while working, Julie supposed.
They introduced themselves as Brian and Doug, not shaking hands, for which she was grateful. Then she said, “I’ve lost a chicken.”
“Dead?” asked Doug, who was the taller of the two.
“I don’t know. I hope not. She just disappeared.”
Brian nodded. “Foxes.” He stuck his shovel in the pile of shit and tossed the frozen bits into the bed of the truck. Steam rose from the uncovered manure and Julie stepped back to a safe distance to watch and think, Foxes.
They were halfway through the pile when Doug said, “Shit,” and stopped digging.
He ran the tip of his shovel over the top inches of manure, then leaned over and pulled a plastic garbage bag out of the remaining pile. He turned to Julie, holding up the bag. Julie edged back.
“You shouldn’t mix regular garbage with manure. Plastic outgasses and other foreign elements will break down and contaminate the load.”
Julie raised her eyebrows. “Well, don’t look at me. I didn’t put in there.”
Doug shrugged, “Well, Old Man Excelsior never would do it, nor Maude Clemmons.”
“Probably somebody after the funeral,” said Brian.
“Yeah, dumb.” Doug tossed the bag off to the side. It hit the ground with a thud. Julie and the two boys looked at each other.
“Doesn’t sound like garbage does it?” said Brian.
“No,” said Julie taking a cautious step toward it. It sounded like metal. A metal box. She felt her pulse rate kick up. Wes, so help me, if I go through chicken shit and there is no clue in that bag, I’ll search you out when I get to where you are.
“Want me to see what’s inside?” asked Doug.
“No,” said Julie as he drove the point of his shovel into the plastic. “Really, just leave it. I’ll take it to the dump after it airs out a bit.” After I see what’s inside without an audience looking on.
He went back to his manure pile, the bag forgotten.
Julie shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, yearning to say, “Forget the shit, and get the hell out of here.”
At last the boys tossed their shovels into the truck and lifted the tailgate.
Julie pulled out the twenty dollar bill she owed them. She stretched out her hand at the same time Doug stretched out his. He was also holding a twenty.
“What’s that for?” asked Julie.
“For the manure. Twenty bucks a load, big or little. It’s what we always paid Wes.”
“You pay to cart shit away?” asked Julie incredulously as she slowly pocketed both twenties.
“Every month,” said Doug, and he and Brian climbed back into the cab.
Julie waited until the truck was out of sight and the sound of its engine had faded away. Then she turned to the garbage bag. “This better be worth it,” she said, and minced through the bits of manure to where the bag lay in a heap. She kicked it with her foot. It rattled. Lifted it up with her toe. Lightweight, so no pieces of silver. She took the ends of the bag between her fingers and, holding it at arms length, carried it toward the house.
She left it by the back steps while she got scissors from the kitchen, then cut it open. A metal box showed through the slit in the plastic. Julie gingerly stuck her hand inside and lifted it out.
Then she pulled off her gloves and pressed the catch with trembling fingers. The lid popped open and she nearly dropped the box in her surprise. Inside was a small manila envelope, just the size to hold a safety deposit box key.
Clumsily with anticipation, she tore it open. Pulled out a thin piece of yellow note paper, folded once. She shook it. No key. But maybe the name of a bank was printed inside.
She unfolded it. Scanned it for a name. And found ... another riddle. “God damn it, Wes.”
Half a riddle is better than none, but two clues together will be much more fun. Live and let live, or settle old scores, whichever you choose, the choice will be yours.
PS. Get Cas to tell you the one about the chicken, the horse, and the Harley.
The paper fell from Julie’s fingers and her mouth went dry. No doubt about it. Wes expected her to consult Cas. Which meant he knew Cas would still be here. And that meant he’d probably planned the whole thing.
“This is my legacy?” She was more confused than ever. What could the treasure have to do with settling old scores? And which old scores did he mean? The feud? Reynolds? Cas? The town?
Hell, she didn’t care about old scores. She cared about the treasure and this clue didn’t lead her any closer to it. Because she needed the other half of the riddle. Cas’s half. She didn’t want to need his half. She didn’t want to need him. But it looked like this was one choice that wasn’t hers.
Chapter 13
&
nbsp; Cas looked up from his desk when the station door opened. He recognized the orange plaid hunting jacket and the hat with earflaps and his breath caught. Across the room, Edith’s mouth opened as Julie pulled off the hat and rich auburn hair tumbled out. Cas stood up.
“I’d like to speak to the sheriff,” Julie said.
Edith’s look of astonishment changed into a smile. She pointed toward Cas’s desk.
Julie turned around. The cold had chafed her cheeks and her hair curled around nearly translucent skin. And Cas thought. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
He glanced at Edith before saying, “What can I do for you?” sounding as close to a civil servant as he ever would. But he couldn’t sustain it when Julie’s eyes flashed and she stepped toward him.
“Ernestine is missing.”
Cas blinked. “Ernestine?”
“My chicken,” she said, leaning across the desk and looking exasperated, but very kissable.
Cas pulled his eyes from her mouth and managed to say, “Your chicken.”
Julie let lose a huge sigh. Okay, she hadn’t forgiven him for whatever had driven her off in the first place, but at least now he had an excuse to be near her. Her coop had been robbed after all. He’d have to go out and investigate, ask questions, finagle a way to get her into the Jacuzzi ... .
“Are you listening? I can’t find Ernestine.”
“Uh, right,” said Cas, sitting down and reaching for a pencil. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday morning. And I counted heads when I put them back in the gazebo—coop. Everyone was there. And now she’s gone.” She raised her fist and Cas flinched.
She shook a handful of papers at him, then slapped them on the desk. “Wes doesn’t have a printer and I left mine in New York. I had to do them by hand.”
Reward was hand-printed across the top of each page, with a description of a Rhode Island Red and the offer of fifty dollars for information that led to her return.
“Do I need a permit to post them around town?”
Hell if he knew. He glanced over to Edith who had lost all interest in her magazine and was staring unashamedly at them.
