Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  “I thought you guys were on the early patrol,” I said.

  Two of them shifted uneasily, but the third just shook his head.

  “We’re going to keep watch from here,” he said. “No sense prowling up and down the whole fair. From what I hear, chicken thief’s got his comeuppance.”

  “You think he deserved to die for stealing a few bantams?” one of the others asked.

  “No,” the first one said. “But sounds like that wasn’t the only thing he got up to.”

  “He’s getting a bum rap, if you ask me,” the third one said. “She’s the one who stole the chickens.”

  “His wife?”

  “No, the girlfriend. And she tucked her tail between her legs and ran home, so we don’t need to worry about her.”

  “She was the one who wanted the chickens,” the first one said. “And maybe she egged him on to do it. But if you think she did it herself, you’re crazy. No way she’d pull it off.”

  “She prefers to delegate,” I put in.

  “That’s it,” the first one said, nodding. “She doesn’t do what she can delegate. And she doesn’t have anyone around here to delegate to anymore, so the birds are safe.”

  “And our pigs,” the third one added.

  “And we aim to keep them that way,” said the second.

  “You did hear that there was another theft in the chicken tent late this afternoon, didn’t you?” I asked.

  They paused to consider that for a few moments.

  “Could be an inside job,” one said. “You might want to see if they have the birds insured.”

  “Or maybe it was a friend of that Riordan guy,” another said. “Someone who didn’t want to see him blamed for the thefts. What better way than to stage another theft that his dead friend couldn’t possibly have pulled off?”

  “Yeah, death’s the ultimate alibi,” the first one said.

  “It was another chicken theft, right?” the third asked. “Seems pretty clear to me the thief’s after chickens.”

  “They’re a lot easier to steal than pigs or cows,” the first said.

  The other two nodded and mumbled agreement.

  I was annoyed but after talking with them for a few minutes, I could tell that they’d been working on the contents of the cooler for a while. Better to have a few sober patrols than a whole herd of drunks careening around the fair. So I bit back both the recriminations I wanted to hurl at them and the pep talk I’d considered administering. I turned off my flashlight, wished them a good evening, and moved on.

  I ran into another group of volunteers taking an extended coffee break in one of the vacant tents by the food stands. Another bunch were playing poker near the front gate. It was bridge at the back entrance to the chicken tent, and a tape of A Prairie Home Companion show at the front entrance. More beer drinkers and a Monopoly game outside the duck and goose tent.

  I had to admit, things seemed peaceful. Of course, things had seemed that way last night, up to the point when Brett had been murdered. And this had been my original idea. Instead of having the patrols wander around, station them at every entrance to every building we wanted to protect and couldn’t lock up tight. Maybe I should have stuck to it. The pig farmers weren’t going anywhere, and they weren’t going to let any unknown person pass.

  I felt a little better.

  But no sleepier than before.

  So I continued to prowl. We’d chained and padlocked the arts and crafts barn and the farmers’ market barn, so I tested all the padlocks. And then I continued making the rounds, checking to see that there was at least one wide-awake volunteer at the front and back doors of each barn and tent.

  It suddenly occurred to me that while the barns were solidly built, with no windows and only the two doors, the tents were … well, tents. Wouldn’t it be possible for someone to slip into a tent by ducking under the side, or maybe even cutting a slit in the canvas?

  I was passing the chicken tent when this thought occurred to me. I nodded to the volunteers, who were singing along with Garrison Keillor, and turned down the narrow space between the chicken tent and the duck and goose tent.

  Of course, maybe the chicken tent wasn’t the best place to test, because the volunteers here should logically be on high alert. The pig farmers might be complacent, but the chicken owners had just had a graphic demonstration that their birds were highly vulnerable. Maybe I should test someplace else.

  But I was here already. So I stopped at the middle of the tent side, or as close to it as I could calculate. As far as possible from the volunteer guards on either end. I tested the canvas.

  It wasn’t fastened down, and it was loose. Loose enough to crawl under?

  I got down and tried. It was a tight fit, but I made it.

  I stood up inside the tent, fully expecting to be pounced on by volunteers from one or both entrances.

  Nothing happened.

  I could hear an occasional cluck or squawk, and one soft human snore, over to my right.

  So much for relying on the guards at the tent entrances. The tents were vulnerable, unless some of the owners had decided to set up an ambush for potential thieves. I had to stifle a giggle at the thought of the Bonnevilles, still wearing their elaborate mourning, crouching in the dark behind the bantam cages in hopes of pouncing on the returning chicken thief.

  I stepped a little farther into the tent, still expecting—or at least hoping—that someone would tackle me or shine a flashlight beam into my eyes.

  Nothing. The tent was—well, not empty, but there was, as the saying goes, nobody here but us chickens. And, judging from the snores, maybe one tired chicken farmer who’d been trying to keep watch inside and fallen asleep.

  Or was there someone else here? I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I stepped carefully into the nearest area of deep shadow and stood, breathing as quietly as I could, listening.

  Was I only imagining soft footfalls at the other end of the tent, barely more than a rustling on the straw that covered the ground?

  Then I saw a brief flash of light—probably the beam of a flashlight, turned on so the holder could get his bearings and then off again as fast as possible. It was on my left, near the back entrance of the tent.

  I held my breath and began slipping down the right-hand aisle, which I thought would let me reach the place where the flash had been with the least chance of being seen. As I passed their cages, a few of the chickens roused slightly and clucked or squawked. Rose Noire would probably have advised me to calm them by beaming comforting thoughts about plentiful feed and warm nests. I just tried to walk as softly as I could.

  I had reached the end of the tent where the bantam fowl were kept. I could see well enough now to make out a shadowy form in one corner. A tall form. And oddly shaped. Was the midnight chicken thief a hunchback?

  I heard a slight metallic noise. Someone opening the latch on a cage? And then a faint squawk, soon muffled.

  I stopped, aimed my flashlight at where the noise was coming from, and turned it on.

  Genette. She had frozen when the beam hit her, with a startled look on her face. She was wearing all black—formfitting black leggings, black suede ankle boots, a hooded black jacket, and gauntlet-style black gloves. She even had a snazzy little black suede purse slung over one shoulder. About the only sour note in her outfit was the black plastic trash bag slung over the other shoulder—a bag that was writhing and squawking slightly. In one hand she held a small, copper-colored chicken—probably a Nankin, according to the part of my brain that had been studying chicken breeds so assiduously. She was holding the chicken’s beak closed with her fingers to keep her from making noise, and the poor creature seemed too sleep-befuddled to put up much resistance when Genette moved again and stuffed her into the mouth of the bag.

  “Unhand that chicken,” I said. “And drop the bag.”

  I wasn’t really expecting cooperation, so I wasn’t taken by surprise when Genette turned and fled down the far aisle
. I gave chase. I had the flashlight, and kept the beam down low, so it helped me more than it did her. I could hear her bumping into cages as she ran. About halfway down the aisle, she whirled and threw the garbage bag at me. It missed, but I had to swerve to avoid trampling the chickens in it.

  Near the tent entrance, I finally caught up with Genette and brought her down with a clumsy but effective tackle.

  I tried to pin her to the ground, but she wriggled onto her back and slashed at my face with her nails.

  I punched her in the jaw. Oddly, she screamed before the blow landed.

  “Owwwwww!”

  She curled up into a fetal position. I scrambled to my feet and took a step back, so I was close enough to do something if she made another break for it, but not close enough for her to reach me easily.

  I could feel blood running down my face. I reached up to see how bad the scratches were, and encountered a foreign object stuck into my cheek. I held it up to the light from my flashlight. A fake nail. At least part of it was fake. Maybe there was some real nail stuck to the long clawlike bit of acrylic. I dropped it in distaste.

  “You broke my nail!” Genette keened. “Do you know how much that hurts?”

  At least I think she said hurts. Her voice was muffled, so it could just as easily have been “Do you know how much that costs?”

  “A broken nail can’t possibly hurt you as much as it would have hurt me if you succeeded in scratching my eyes out.” I had pulled out my cell phone. It was hard to dial with the hand that was still holding the flashlight, but I managed. After all, 911 is a pretty short dial.

  “I’m in the chicken tent,” I said when Debbie Ann answered. “I’ve caught the thief.”

  “I’m not the thief!” Genette wailed.

  Just then one of the Nankins who’d apparently escaped from the bag popped into the pool of light from the flashlight, took one look at Genette, and left, squawking.

  “I rest my case,” I said.

  “What’s going on here?”

  A man holding a fistful of Monopoly money in one hand and a flashlight in the other was standing in the aisles.

  “I caught her stealing chickens,” I said.

  “I wasn’t stealing,” Genette said. “I was going to leave some cash to pay for them.”

  “Yeah, right,” the man said. Two more people loomed up behind him.

  “What are they doing here?” one asked.

  “Meg caught the chicken thief,” someone answered.

  “Chicken purchaser,” Genette insisted.

  “‘Chicken purchaser’?” I echoed. “Was there a reason you couldn’t come by in the daytime to discuss the terms of the sale with the owners?”

  “They were so stubborn,” she said.

  “Then I guess they don’t want to sell.”

  “Damn straight we don’t,” one of the volunteers said.

  “Not to her,” another volunteer added.

  “It was idiotic—I was offering them three times what the silly birds were worth. I can’t believe they turned it down.”

  I could, easily.

  “That’s their right,” I said. “Where did you put the Orloffs and the Sumatrans?”

  “I didn’t take any of them,” she said. “I just figured if everyone else was stealing chickens, why not?”

  I was opening my mouth to say how ridiculous that was when Vern Shiffley strode into the tent.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Chicken thief,” I said. “She’s all yours.”

  Chapter 33

  It was a great exit line. Too bad I didn’t actually get to exit after it. I had to explain to Vern how I came to be in the tent and what I’d seen Genette doing. I wouldn’t have minded if I hadn’t known I’d have to explain it all over again when the chief arrived.

  “So what’s your side of the story?” Vern asked Genette.

  “I wasn’t stealing anything,” she said.

  “Then what were you doing here?”

  “I left something here in my booth, and I had to come back to get it.” She was batting her eyes and trying to look helpless. “Silly me! I guess in the dark I must have wandered into the wrong tent.”

  “Looks more like you cut a slit in the wrong tent and crawled in,” Vern said.

  “I didn’t want to run into any of the other winemakers,” she said. “They all hate me.”

  “Not surprising,” Vern said. “Have you been slicing up the sides of their tent?”

  They went back and forth about that for a few minutes before she changed her angle.

  “You see, I heard a noise in here,” she said. “And I was sneaking in to see if I could catch whoever was in here red-handed. And when I came in here, she was here—stuffing chickens into that bag!”

  She pointed to me with a triumphant look on her face. Vern and I looked at each other.

  “She gets points for gall,” I said. “None for brains.”

  “It’s my word against hers,” Genette said.

  “No, it’s not,” came a hollow voice from behind us. We all started—even Vern—and I think he clapped his hand to his gun when he saw that one of the trash barrels lined up against the other side of the tent had begun to rise straight up into the air.

  Then I realized that the trash can had legs. Short, stubby, black-clad legs.

  Mr. Bonneville heaved the trash can off his head and turned to lift the trash can next to him, revealing Mrs. Bonneville. They were both wearing new-looking black tracksuits.

  “We were staking out the tent,” Mrs. Bonneville said.

  “We had a feeling the thief would come back,” her husband added. “And we saw the whole thing.”

  “From your trash cans?” Genette said. “How could you see anything?”

  Mr. Bonneville picked up one of the trash cans, stuck his hand into it, and wiggled two fingers out of a couple of conveniently cut peepholes.

  “Well?” Vern was looking at Genette.

  Her mouth hung open for a few minutes.

  “Well they weren’t the only ones who were suspicious,” she finally said. “The guy who owns these chickens—he had a quarrel with Brett. And I think he’s the one who killed him. So I came in to kidnap his chickens. I was going to hold them for ransom until he came forward and confessed.”

  She smiled, crossed her arms, and looked very pleased with herself.

  “Of all the—” Vern began.

  “What in blue blazes is going on here?”

  The chief had arrived, accompanied by another deputy.

  “Chicken thief.” Vern knew how the chief appreciated brevity in his officer’s reports. “Caught red-handed by a reliable witness,” he added, indicating me.

  “But I just told you—” Genette began.

  “Yes, I heard your assertions,” the chief said. “Very interesting. I’d like to discuss them in more detail.”

  Genette wilted slightly.

  “Aida, you secure things here,” he said to the deputy at his side. “Take initial statements from Mr. and Mrs. Bonneville and then bring them over to the fair office in half an hour or so. Ms. Langslow, can you come along with us now?”

  So Genette, Vern, the chief, and I trudged over to the fair office. I unlocked it, and we all took seats around my desk. Once we were all in the close quarters of the trailer I realized that Genette had been drinking again. Something with gin in it, by the smell.

  “So, Ms. Sedgewick,” the chief began. “Would you like to tell me how you came to find yourself in the chicken tent at midnight?”

  She looked back at him, frowning slightly, as if puzzled.

  “Maybe I should talk to my attorney first,” she said.

  “That’s your right.” The chief very deliberately put his notebook down on the table, placed his pen on the table beside it, and folded his hands atop the notebook. “If you’re refusing to talk without an attorney present, I can let you call now, and then we’ll take you down to the jail to await his or her arrival.”r />
  “Jail? I’m not refusing to talk to you,” she said. “I just want to talk to him before I talk to you. Where’s my cell phone?”

  She patted several pants and jacket pockets and then, when the cell phone didn’t appear, she unslung the chic little purse and began pawing through it and dumping the contents on my desk.

  The chief watched her over his glasses with a tight-lipped expression. He was drumming his fingers on the table, ever so softly. He probably thought he was concealing his impatience pretty well. Maybe he was to someone who didn’t know him.

  Then his expression changed.

  “Ms. Sedgewick.” Something about his tone made her look up and freeze.

  He reached out with his pen and snagged something from the litter of things that had landed on the desk.

  “What is this?” He was holding a key ring on the end of the pen.

  “My keys.” She sounded puzzled.

  We all stared for a few moments at the small tangle of metal dangling from the chief’s pen. Half a dozen keys, and a miniature beer can.

  The chief dropped the key ring back on the table.

  “Then what is this?” He fished into the litter with the pen and picked up a second key ring.

  “Also my keys,” Genette said. “The first one was Brett’s key chain. That’s mine.”

  “Then why did you say they were your keys?”

  “It was Brett’s key chain, but most of the keys were to my stuff,” she said. “My house, my boat house, my car, my truck.”

  “Why is Mr. Riordan’s key ring in your purse?” the chief asked.

  “I keep it there for Brett sometimes,” she said. “He loses things.”

  “What make is your truck?” the chief asked.

  She frowned slightly as if puzzled by the question.

  “Ms. Sedgewick,” the chief began.

  “A Ford,” she said. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “And your car?”

  “A Mercedes.”

  “This Mazda key would be for Mr. Riordan’s car, then?” He was holding up Brett’s key ring.