by J. R. Ripley
* * *
The following morning, having gamely set my alarm for four thirty, I dressed in blue jeans and a budgie-green Birds & Bees shirt. We’d just gotten the new shirts in, and I loved them. The bright green reminded me of the pet parakeet, Nicky, my mother’s mother, Grandma Hopkins, had owned when I was a young girl.
Grandma had explained to me that the pet bird was a male and that one could identify it as such by the blue strip running horizontally at the top of its nose, or cere, as that fleshy lump at the top of a bird’s beak is better known by ornithologists and birders.
The budgie or, more properly, budgerigar, had followed Grandma Hopkins around the house incessantly—and she gave him the run of the place, much to Grandpa’s chagrin.
Grandpa claimed the broken leg he’d suffered had been due to Nicky camping out on the middle step of the stairs the day he took a tumble.
Of course, Grandma said it was his own fault and that Nicky, if anything, had been trying to save him. Grandpa had replied at the very least that the bird had been gnawing at the stair railings again. The melodious and social parrot did have an unfortunate propensity for gnawing on wood, including the stair rails and living room and bedroom furniture.
Nicky’s favorite perch was the kitchen faucet where he was known to catch the afternoon sun on good days. On bad days, he accidentally left bird doo-doo on the living room carpet, and Grandpa chased him around the house while Grandma yelled at them both to grow up.
I grabbed a light jacket, my purse, and keys. There was no time for coffee, but I grabbed one of the remaining mini doughnuts for an energy pick-me-up. That reminded me—I needed to grab the box of cupcakes that my mother had bought late yesterday. Carefully carrying my package, I went downstairs, noticing on the second floor that Esther’s light was on. What could she be doing up so early?
The store was dark and quiet. Too spooky for my taste.
I hurried out to the van and placed the cupcakes on the passenger seat. I turned on the sound system and cranked up the soundtrack to The Lion King, always a good courage boost. Yawning, I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, which was blissfully free of traffic, and headed out to Pack Mulligan’s farmhouse.
To deal with birds of a whole other feather.
I wasn’t used to being up when the stars were still hanging in the sky, but it was a pleasant drive.
I recognized the house from a distance, even though I hadn’t seen it since I was a young girl. The Mulligan farmhouse looked pretty much like I remembered it, perhaps a little more rundown.
A sagging chain-link fence wrapped around the yard. I remembered catching my shorts on it once. That was the day Kim and I had tried to sneak under the fence in an effort to peek in the front window and catch a glimpse of Packard and his dead father. We had failed and seen only a room filled with newspapers and books. There hadn’t been a soul around.
A broad porch hugged the front of the house. The windows were dark. I pulled into the rutted drive and turned off the engine. There wasn’t a soul around now either. There was no sign of Derek’s car or the man himself.
Where was he?
To my far right, I made out the hulking shape of a two-story house and several outbuildings. That had to be Frank Duvall’s place. When I was finished tending to Pack’s chickens, I’d pay a social call on the new widow.
I turned off my headlights and felt the sky fall down upon me. A dark line in the distance marked where the farms ended and the forest began.
I stepped down from the van, feeling suddenly a bit on edge and vulnerable. Perhaps it was my memory of being accosted the other night by Frank Duvall outside Birds & Bees. Perhaps it was just me being silly.
I hurried to the front gate and closed it behind me. With still no sign of Derek, I was glad he’d told me where to find the key. I didn’t relish standing outside alone in such a bleak, desolate spot all by myself. A pair of gnarly, sparsely leaved monkey puzzle bushes struggled for life, buttressing the porch steps. There were no other bushes or flowers nearby. Only weeds.
To the left of the path leading to the house sat a fieldstone wishing well. A thick hemp rope disappeared into the hole. Questioning my sanity for agreeing to come feed a potential killer’s chickens, I placed my fingers on the handle and pushed. At first, the rusty handle refused my efforts, but after a little more pushing and a few choice words, it loosened.
I turned it quickly in one direction, then realized I was going the wrong way. I reversed direction, and after about half a minute, a stout wooden bucket that had seen better days rose from the black hole.
I locked the handle in place and thrust my hand in the bucket. It only took a second to discover a small house key lying alone at the bottom of the bucket. I removed the key, looked at it under the light of the stars, then scurried to the front door. I unlocked the door and went inside. The smell of hickory hit me. I locked the front door behind me and fumbled for a light switch.
A chandelier sprang to life, revealing a parlor that looked nearly like it had the day all those years ago when Kim and I had sneaked a look. There were more newspapers and more books, but the room was otherwise as I had pictured it in my memory, from the furnishings down to the simple braided rug sitting like an island between two blue sofas straight out of the fifties. There was a wood-burning fireplace at the far end. Judging by the pile of wood beside it, this was the source of the hickory smell.
I pulled out the sheet of paper I’d printed out the night before. It was Derek’s email telling me where to find the key to the chicken coop and instructions for feeding and gathering the eggs.
The keys to the chicken house were in the kitchen drawer nearest the back door. I worked my way to the right and turned on the light in the kitchen, a simple room with an old gas stove and a small refrigerator. There was nothing new like a microwave. An old-fashioned coffee urn sat on a folding tray across from a small rectangular table.
I pulled open the drawer nearest the door and found a small glass dish inside that held a key ring containing several keys. “Bingo,” I said aloud, mostly because all this quiet was spooking me.
I buttoned up my jacket and went out the back door and down the steps leading to the chicken house. Following a beaten path, I found myself winding between a pair of chinaberry trees. There was a small family plot with several gravestones to my left, and I stopped to take a look. I pulled out my phone and waved its flashlight app over the markers. Each grave was a Mulligan, including one for Tyler Andrew Mulligan, Pack’s father.
I couldn’t help smiling at how silly and gullible I’d been as a girl. “So much for murdering his father, then embalming him and keeping him on display in the parlor.”
I felt a hard, icy hand on my shoulder.
26
I shivered and turned. “Derek!”
“Good morning.” His breath came out in clouds.
“You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry.”
I gave him a loving punch in the arm. “You’re late.”
“I slept through my alarm.” His hair was tousled, and he was unshaven and wearing a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a black Wake Forest University sweat shirt. He’d attended law school at Wake Forest. He took my arm. “You have the key?”
I held the key ring aloft.
“Great, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a full day today.”
As we approached the chicken house, the enormity of the thing struck me. “It’s bigger than I would have imagined.”
“Mister Mulligan said there were a lot of chickens.”
I fumbled with the key in the lock while Derek held his phone over it to provide light. “And we’re in,” I quipped. “I think I remember the note saying the light switch was on the wall right about—” I flipped the switch. “Here,” I said rather smugly.
“Wait, don’t—”
A long row of bright lights shot to life.
“Turn on the lights,” finished Derek.
At least that’s what I th
ink he said. The din of the chickens was near deafening because the instant I’d hit the light switch, the chickens had shot to life too.
I clamped my hands over my ears. “What the devil is the matter with them?” I shouted.
Derek laughed. He shook his copy of Pack’s instruction in front of my nose. “You were supposed to turn the lights on gradually.” He pointed to the wall. “There’s a dimmer switch. We were supposed to ease the lights up gently, slowly.”
“Oh!” My hand went to the dimmer. “Maybe if I bring the lights down now!”
“Forget it!” Derek shouted, shaking his head. “Too late for that now, I’m afraid.” He pulled me outside.
I gladly let him. We closed the door behind us. “What are we going to do?”
“Wait for the birds to calm down a bit,” he suggested.
I leaned my back against the door. The sound of the chickens was muffled but not deadened. “Good idea.”
“Come on,” said Derek.
“Where are we going?” My ears were ringing. I’d never heard such a cackling cacophony in all my life.
“I’ve got coffee in the car. By the time we finish drinking it, those monsters will hopefully have settled down.”
“You are an angel!” I kissed him.
We retreated to his Civic. True to his word, two takeout coffees were in the drink holders on the dash. We sat and drank.
“Have you come up with any brilliant new theories as to who killed Mason or Frank?” I asked, cradling my cup in my hands.
“No, you?”
“Not a one,” I was sad to admit. “I might have more ideas if the police weren’t so loathe to share information.”
Derek chuckled. “Like what?”
“Like where was everybody else the night of Mason’s murder?”
“Duvall was supposedly home, if that’s who you’re wondering about.”
“How do you know that?”
“Chief Kennedy mentioned it.”
“It must be nice to be a lawyer.”
“It is,” he replied with a smirk of self-satisfaction. “He also mentioned where Mason’s publicist, Lance, Violet Wilcox, and a half dozen others say they were. But the truth is, anybody could have been hiding in that store. It’s a warren of shelves.”
“In back, too.” I described the storage room.
“See what I mean?”
I nodded. “Which leaves us nowhere.”
“Well . . .”
“What? What is it?”
He turned to face me head-on. “Mason was murdered, stabbed with a pair of scissors—”
“So?”
Derek laid his hand on my wrist. “So let me finish. Before he was murdered, not much before from what we’ve learned, he was poisoned. Not enough to kill him but enough to make him ill.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is: Who else do we know that was poisoned?”
“Frank Duvall.”
Derek nodded, satisfied that he’d made his point. “The same method. Two men were poisoned in a matter of days. What are the odds?”
“Long.” I sipped from my cup, deep in thought. “Mason was drugged with that laxative called bisacodyl. It made him sick, but it didn’t kill him. We know that.” I tapped the dash thoughtfully. “I wonder what poison was used to kill Frank . . .”
“Hold on.” Derek dug his phone from the glove box. He tapped the screen, then read, “A toxin called tetranortriterpenoid, according to Chief Kennedy. I made a note of it.”
“What the heck is it?”
“Beats me.” Derek dropped the phone on the console between us.
It beat me, too. I could see that he wanted to say more but was holding back. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”
Derek ran his hand over his unshaven cheek. “Somebody put that laxative in Mason’s chocolates.”
“That’s been established.”
“Think about it. That somebody wanted to . . .” Derek shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know—annoy him, make him sick?”
“But they didn’t want to kill him.”
“Who do we know who wanted to annoy the professor or take out their frustrations on him somehow?”
I frowned. “Amber Smith.”
Derek nodded once. “I’m afraid so.”
We looked at each other in silence. “And you’re thinking maybe that if Amber poisoned Mason, then she poisoned Frank Duvall, too.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It makes no sense. Why? Besides, she has an alibi for the time of Mason’s murder. She was caught on tape on the other side of town buying eggs in Lakeside Market.”
“Right. Which, assuming the two murders are connected, leads us back to Pack Mulligan,” Derek noted.
“Which leads us back to Pack,” I sighed in agreement. The two murders had to be connected somehow.
“That’s Duvall Farms over there,” I told him, turning my head toward the passenger side window to indicate Frank’s farm, which was growing more visible in the dawn light.
“I heard he had a wife,” Derek said softly. “I wonder how she’s holding up.”
“I was going to call on her when we’re done here. Pay my respects.”
Derek looked at me funny. “I’m not sure she’ll appreciate that this early in the morning. And so soon after Frank’s death.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not. But when Mom heard I was coming out to the Mulligan place to care for his chickens, and knowing that the Duvall farm was next door, she asked me to express our condolences. I promised I would. She even picked up some cupcakes for me to give Mrs. Duvall. They’re in my van.”
“Cupcakes?” Derek’s brow went up in hope. “One would go great with this coffee about now.”
“Sorry, widows only.”
“Too bad.” Turning serious, Derek added, “I barely knew the Duvalls, but give her my condolences, too.”
I said I would. “I wonder if Mrs. Duvall has family with her?”
“I hope so. This is the time a person needs it the most.”
I nodded. I wouldn’t want to be alone at a time like that. “If it looks like no one’s up and about, I’ll come back later. I don’t want to disturb her.”
“That would be wise.” Derek cupped a hand over mine as he said, “Chief Kennedy spoke with her briefly, but out of respect, he’s left her pretty much alone in her time of grief. For now.”
“I would like to know what she thinks about Pack having killed her husband.”
“That sounds like a question for the police to be asking.”
“I suppose.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “What if she did it?”
“What?”
“What if Frank’s wife poisoned him? If the poison was in the coffee, what better person to have done it than his wife?”
Derek was shaking his head even as I made my argument. “I don’t think so. What would be her motive? Frank went into town by himself that morning. Alice Duvall was nowhere near the market.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what Chief Kennedy said. Believe me, I’d love to find somebody to blame for the murders besides Mister Mulligan. Too bad nobody’s been willing to confess.”
“I have a confession of my own.” I was cold, and I was hungry. My stomach growled, and I was starting to lose my resolve concerning the cupcakes in my van. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a chicken farmer.”
“Me either,” Derek replied, smothering yet another yawn. “Thank goodness neither of us has aspirations to be one.” Derek set his empty cup back in the drink holder. “Ready? The sooner we tend to the chickens, the sooner we can get back to town.”
I downed the rest of my coffee in one gulp. “I’m game if you are.”
We returned to the chicken house where, although the chickens had not fallen back into slumber, they were blissfully quieter than they had been twenty minutes before. Maybe they were simply hungry.
Following our written instructions, we had to c
hange out the water in the dish, add a large scoop of chicken feed, and remove the egg.
Times three hundred.
“I saw a pile of egg cartons in a storage room,” Derek said. “I’ll start carrying them in. You snatch the eggs from these little feathered monsters, and I’ll move them to the refrigeration room.”
“Deal.” The henhouse was a good eighty to a hundred feet long with three rows of chicken-wired cells that were roomier than I expected. The floor of the building was covered in straw.
Somehow I had the feeling that the hens would be less annoyed with a woman removing the eggs than a man. As it turned out, the hens didn’t mind me reaching in and stealing their eggs. In fact, I had the impression that most appreciated it.
The eggs had to be placed pointy end down because this was supposed to keep them fresher somehow. I didn’t have the strength to even wonder what sort of biology or chemistry or magic made that work.
And except for the one ornery hen that shot past me, jumped to the ground, and led me on a merry ten-minute chase up and down the chicken coop before I could catch her, it all went rather smoothly.
“That’s the last of them,” I said, brushing my hands against my pants. The miscreant was safely back behind bars or, in this case, chicken wire. “Don’t even think about it,” I warned the red-feathered fowl as she pecked at the latch.
Derek chuckled. I eyeballed him. Red, brown, and white feathers clung to his cotton sweats. “You look like a chicken.”
He sniffed. “You smell like one.”
I took a whiff of my jacket. “Indeed I do.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
Once again, I was quick to agree. I locked up behind us and dropped the key ring in my pocket. We washed and rinsed our hands and arms using the hose outside the door with a big blocky yellow bar of soap that had been stuck to the window ledge. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”
“Who knew taking care of chickens and running an egg farm could be so hard?”
“Pack Mulligan for one.” I swiveled my head. “Oh!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my dozen eggs.” I fished in my pocket for the keys.
“Forget it,” said Derek. He reached his hand under his bulky sweatshirt. “My treat.”
