Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

I threaded my way through all the art panels to the back of the barn, where the entrants in the various fiber arts categories could be found. Now the freestanding panels and tables held examples of knitting, crocheting, tatting, sewing, embroidery, crewelwork, needlepoint, cross-stitch, yarn-making, dyeing, weaving, and, at the back, in a place of honor, the quilt competition. Randall’s carpenters had constructed dozens of wooden frames for hanging the entries, and arranged them in aisles, like the bookshelves in a library. A pair of empty frames hung front and center, to be replaced, after the judging, with the grand prize winners in the junior and open categories. I didn’t see many people around, so I walked down the center aisle of the display, looking right and left.

  In the last side aisle, on the right, I saw a small knot of people, including Mother, gathered around a gaunt, angular woman in faded jeans and a bright turquoise t-shirt. The woman looked ashen, and a couple of tears were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Two of the women were hugging her, one from each side, while Mother was holding both of her hands and patting them as if to soothe her.

  “Courage, Rosalie,” Mother said. “Here’s Meg now. We’ll see what can be done about this.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I was glancing around to see if any of the nearby quilts had been damaged. They all looked fine. But we were standing near a big, empty space. Not the only empty space in the room—quilters weren’t required to have their entries hung until this afternoon. Still, not a good sign.

  “Someone took it.” Rosalie’s voice was thin and quavering. “My beautiful Baltimore Album quilt.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Vern.

  “Vern, we need someone over here ASAP,” I said. “Someone has stolen a quilt from the arts and crafts building.”

  “Dammit,” Vern said. “Not another one. I’ll be right over. And yes, I’ll send Horace when he’s finished with everything else.”

  “And Dad,” I added. “We might need Dad.”

  I saw Mother nodding approvingly.

  “He took the Baskervilles down to the hospital,” Vern said.

  “Baskervilles? That’s the chicken people, then?” The name didn’t sound right to me.

  “Mr. and Mrs. B,” Vern said. “Whatever their name is. But Aida’s got EMT training. I’ll ask her to come over to check out the quilt lady.”

  “The police are on their way,” I told Rosalie, in my softest voice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I came in to make sure it was hanging properly,” she said. “And to make sure they fixed the lights so it would show well. And it was gone.”

  She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink slightly, as if she wanted to curl up in a fetal position. The women at her side kept a tight hold.

  I glanced around. Rosalie’s slot was in the back corner of the barn. The rear entrance was hidden behind the last set of quilt frames, but it was there, and her quilt was about as close to the back door as you could get. Our sneak thief and vandal definitely had a pattern.

  “What kind of quilt was it?” I asked Mother.

  “A Baltimore Album, as Rosalie said.” Mother seemed to think that explained everything. Maybe it did to a quilter. And fortunately, one of the women hovering around her recognized my look of puzzlement and enlightened me.

  “Not a quilter, I take it,” she said. “Baltimore Album is a particular style of quilt, usually done with a white background and a design, often quite elaborate, appliquéd on. I can show you an example.”

  She led me a little farther down the aisle and pointed to a quilt. It was beautiful, intricate, and to my untutored eye, looked like a great deal more work than the average quilt.

  “Of course Rosalie’s was larger—full size, I think—and much, much more complicated. She’s won national ribbons.”

  “It had a pink dogwood theme,” Rosalie sobbed from her place near the empty frame.

  “I think I remember it,” I said. “From my inspection last night.”

  In fact, I didn’t just remember it, I remembered coveting it.

  I pulled out my phone and clicked through the pictures on it until I came to several I’d taken last night. One was of the whole quilt, with branches and pink dogwood blossoms twining in a complex pattern, and the other was a close-up that showed how detailed and intricate each of the hundreds of appliquéd blossoms was.

  “Is this it?” I asked.

  Rosalie glanced up, nodded, and then burst into tears. Okay, apparently our thief shared my taste in quilts.

  Vern arrived, bringing with him Aida Butler, the deputy with EMT training. Someone bustled up with a folding wooden chair and sat Rosalie down in it. Aida took Rosalie’s pulse while Vern squatted down and took over the hand-patting where Mother had left off.

  Mother gripped Rosalie’s shoulder and murmured something in her ear. I could see Rosalie sit up straighter and raise her chin, as if to show a brave face to the world.

  Mother glided over to join me and the other volunteer.

  “I doubt if this would make Rosalie feel any better,” I said. “But she’s not the only victim.” I explained about the chickens and the pumpkins.

  “Shocking.” Mother shook her head sadly.

  The volunteer murmured her agreement. Seeing Mother’s tightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes, I indulged in a brief fantasy of finding the thief and turning him over to Mother. Mother and the assembled quilting ladies.

  “One thing,” I asked. “How much is Rosalie’s quilt worth?”

  “I have no idea,” the volunteer said.

  “It’s not for sale,” Mother added.

  “But if she were to sell it, what would the market price be?” I asked. “In the hundreds?”

  “In the thousands, I should think,” the volunteer said.

  “No question,” Mother agreed.

  “Then when they catch the thief, they can charge him with grand larceny,” I said. “Which in Virginia is anything over two hundred dollars. I wasn’t sure the chickens and the pumpkin qualified, but the quilt definitely does.”

  “If you catch him,” the volunteer muttered.

  “I have a great deal of faith in Chief Burke and his men,” Mother said.

  “Especially now that this is grand larceny and they can more easily justify the expense of the investigation,” I said.

  “And once they catch the thief they can really let him have it,” the volunteer muttered. From her tone, I suspected she’d approve of making quilt theft a hanging crime.

  “There’s also the fact that Rosalie’s quilt is one of a kind,” I said. “He can't dispose of it as easily as a few chickens. Not without getting caught.”

  “I only hope she took some pictures of it,” the quilter said. “To document it. It might help the police find it.”

  “If she didn’t, I did. I was running around with my phone camera last night, taking some local color shots for the Web site. Tell Vern I’m going to e-mail my pictures of the fugitive quilt to Debbie Ann down at the station.”

  “Good,” Mother said. “Now run along. I’ll stay here with Rosalie, and I’m sure you have things to do.”

  Yes, I did.

  I sent the photos off. Then I called Randall.

  “Are you still with the reporter?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Sorry to interrupt, then, but there’s been another theft. This time a valuable quilt. I think we need to warn the exhibitors. And if you ask me, it’s no longer practical to keep that reporter from finding out. Too much has happened. We should break the news to him, putting our spin on it, before he hears it from some other source.”

  “I agree,” Randall said. “And I think we should enlist the assistance of the press. Meet me at the fair office.”

  Chapter 5

  The fair office was a large converted trailer that, when it wasn’t fair season, served as a mobile field office for any large projects Randall’s construction company took on. It had phones, electricity, and an Internet connection—at
least most of the time, and when those failed there were always Shiffleys available nearby to get them going again.

  I got there first, and by the time Randall and the reporter arrived, I had already printed out a copy of my master exhibitor list. And figured out that owners of the stolen chickens were actually named Bonneville.

  “—several officers patrolling the grounds last night,” Randall was saying as he entered. “But we’re going to double the police presence tonight.”

  “You think that will help?” the reporter asked.

  “Meg is also organizing some of the exhibitors to do voluntary patrols.” Randall was offering the reporter one of our folding chairs.

  I was? Okay, I guess now I was. Or maybe Vern’s suggestion of a few volunteers to hunt for the chickens had morphed into full-fledged patrols. I flipped to the right page in my notebook and scribbled a few more notes on my plan for the volunteer patrols.

  “It’s a big area to cover,” the reporter said.

  “It certainly is,” Randall agreed. “A hundred and twenty acres.”

  He indicated the wall where we’d posted a map of the fair. It was vaguely shield shaped, a little like the state of Ohio. On the southern side, where Ohio bordered Kentucky and West Virginia, were the entrance gates. If you turned left after you came through the gates you’d reach the amphitheater where all the music and other talent performances would take place. To the right was the big show ring where the rodeo events and major animal competitions would be held. The arts and crafts barn, the vendors’ barn, and the wine pavilion were all in the center, where Columbus would be.

  The exhibitors’ campgrounds and parking lots were in the upper left corner—past the amphitheater—while the animal barns, tents, and sheds filled most of the upper right corner—past the show ring. Beyond the agricultural area, in the very upper right area of the map was the Midway. That part was shaded pink instead of green like the rest of the map, because it was across the border in Clay County.

  “Fortunately this is the first incident of this kind we’ve had during the history of the Un-fair,” Randall was saying.

  “You only started it last year,” the reporter pointed out. “Not much of a history.”

  “No, but our record last year was unblemished,” Randall said. “No theft or vandalism at all in the exhibits.”

  “No crime at all last year?”

  “We arrested a few pickpockets and a few people on drunk and disorderly charges,” Randall said. “That’s about it for last year. And I’m optimistic that our police chief will be able to bring last night’s perpetrator to justice.”

  The reporter nodded. But he wasn’t writing down anything about last year’s stellar crime-free record. I tried not to glare at his motionless pen.

  “Of course you have a pretty small police force,” he said.

  “We’re a pretty small county with a low crime rate,” Randall said. “But we’re partnering with Clay County on this fair, and can also call on their resources. And both our sheriff and our chief of police have very cordial relationships with all the nearby counties.”

  Just then the door opened, and Chief Burke peered in.

  “Ah—speak of the devil!” Randall stood up to shake the chief’s hand. “Here’s Chief Burke now. Out of uniform, I see?”

  I admit, I was also surprised. The chief was normally a stickler for wearing his neatly pressed khaki uniform on duty. He looked almost strange in khakis and a blue polo shirt.

  “When I got the call, I was already on my way here,” the chief said. “Bringing my wife’s entries to the pickle and dried flower arranging contests.”

  “Not the pie contest?” I asked. “I thought Minerva’s pecan pie was a shoo-in.”

  “She hasn’t baked it yet,” the chief said. “Still fussing over the pecans. Got our whole kitchen table covered with pecans, trying to pick out the best ones. And dried flowers all over the dining room table. I had to eat breakfast on the front stoop.”

  The reporter was tapping his pen on the desk, clearly impatient with these homey details.

  “What can you tell me about the incidents here at the fair?” he asked.

  “So far, nothing.” The chief’s voice became all business. “I have my best people working on it. I’m here to supervise the investigation. And we’ll be doing everything we can to apprehend the perpetrator and recover what was stolen.”

  The reporter asked the same question again in a couple of different ways, and the chief gave him a couple of different variations on the same answer. Sensing he’d gotten as much as he could hope for, the reporter thanked us and left.

  “Off to look for someone who will give him a sensational quote,” I said.

  “And odds are he’ll find it,” Randall said.

  “But not from me.” The chief frowned. “Or from any of my officers.”

  “And not from the Baskervilles,” Randall put in.

  “Who?” The chief looked puzzled.

  “The chicken owners.”

  “They’re named Bonneville,” I said. “And last I heard, they were down at the hospital. Mr. Bonneville clutched his chest and keeled over shortly after they discovered the theft.”

  “Any word on how he’s doing?”

  I pulled out my phone, called Dad, and hit the speaker button so I wouldn’t have to relay what he said.

  “How’s your patient?” I asked. “Did he really have a heart attack?”

  “Mr. Baskerville is going to be fine,” Dad said.

  “That’s nice,” I said. “But the people whose chickens were stolen are actually named Bonneville. Please tell me that’s who you’re treating.”

  “Are you sure?” Dad asked. “They’ve been answering to Baskerville down here at the hospital.”

  “That’s because one of them is having something that looks an awful lot like a heart attack and the other is worried out of her mind,” I said. “I have their entry form right here. Bonneville.”

  “If you say so.” Dad still sounded unconvinced. “Here, let me put Mrs. Bask—er, Bonneville on. She can tell you. She wants to ask you about something anyway.”

  There was a bit of background noise, and then I head a woman say “hello” in an uncertain voice.

  “Mrs. Bonneville, this is Meg Langslow, from the fair,” I said. “How is your husband?”

  “Your father says he’ll be fine.” She had a soft, Southside Virginia accent. “Thank heaven he didn’t have a heart attack. He had— What was that again, Dr. Langslow?”

  “A cardiac arrhythmia.” Dad’s voice was faint but audible in the background. “It sometimes presents with chest pain.”

  “Cardiac arrhythmia,” Mrs. Bonneville repeated. “Your father says we need to run a bunch of tests, and he may need to be on medication, but he should be fine.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Have you found our chickens yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But our chief of police has come out to take personal charge of the case. We’ll keep you posted.”

  “I see.” She didn’t sound happy. And she didn’t say good-bye—she just hung up.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Randall said. “What’s the prognosis on the investigation, Chief?”

  “Since I only just heard about this myself a few minutes ago, I don’t rightly know yet,” the chief replied. “Vern’s going to drop by and update me when he can break away.”

  “Meg just told the chicken lady that you were going to take charge of the case yourself,” Randall said.

  “Once Vern brings me up to speed, I will.”

  “Maybe we should call him and hurry him along.” Did Randall have doubts about his cousin’s detective abilities?

  “I’m in no rush.” The chief sat down in the folding chair vacated by the reporter and sighed. “Vern’s working on it, and he’s a good man, and as long as I’m out here I don’t have to pick over those blessed pecans.”

  “I understand Vern put out an APB on the chickens,�
�� Randall said.

  “First time for that.” From the chief’s expression, I suspected it might be the last time if he had anything to say about it. “Can’t say I expect it to be too useful. Putting out an APB on a couple of chickens in a county that must have a few thousand?”

  “These were special chickens,” Randall said. “Heirloom chickens. Bantam Russian Whatsits.”

  “Orloffs,” I put in.

  “That’s it,” Randall said. “Not a lot of them in the county—they’re a rare breed. Should be easy enough to spot if they’re running around loose.”

  “‘Rare,’” the chief echoed. “So do you think they were stolen because they were valuable?” He had taken out his notebook. Vern looked happier at seeing this concrete evidence that the chief was taking charge.

  “They’re not that valuable in a monetary sense,” Randall said. “Vern asked one of the other chicken people. He seemed to think you could buy a pair for fifty or a hundred dollars. Maybe more if they were champion birds, but these weren’t.”

  “Then why steal them?” the chief asked. “Why those chickens in particular?”

  “I think it wasn’t how valuable they were but where they were,” I said. “The stolen chickens, the stolen quilt, and the smashed pumpkin were all three at the back of their respective tents or barns. All three of which have rear exits, even if they’re not open to the public.”

  “Have to, to keep the fire marshal happy,” Randall said. “So they weren’t specifically after the three things they stole or smashed—just looking to cause trouble?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe they were after one of them, and the easy time they had getting to it inspired them to muddy the waters by going after the other two.”

  The chief sighed.

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t make our job any easier,” he said. “Not knowing which of the items was the real target.”

  “Or whether the fair itself was the real target.”

  We contemplated this for a while.

  “Maybe when you figure out the time line of the incidents you’ll get a clue,” Randall said.

  “Doubt it,” the chief said.

  “And finding the time line’s going to be tough,” I added. “Because it all happened overnight.”