Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  No reason I had to go back there right now. It was going to be a long night. Or maybe a long morning would be more accurate.

  I sat down on the edge of the merry-go-round, against a pole that held a curveting Palomino.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Michael. “I’m fine. Back soon. Love you.” Just in case he woke and got worried. I turned my phone off and then back on again, so I could look at the screen saver—a laughing photo of Michael and the boys. Then I sat back on the edge of the merry-go-round and took deep breaths and waited for my legs to settle down.

  Chapter 36

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”

  I tried not to sound cranky, but I’d been telling people I was fine on and off for hours now. Even the chief, although intent on having me tell him every detail of my encounter with Plunkett, had interrupted his interrogation a time or two to ask if I was sure I was all right.

  Maybe he didn’t believe me. Maybe he was letting me sit here in the fair office, eavesdropping as he wrapped up his investigation, because he thought my knees would buckle again if I tried to leave. Or maybe he approved of my desire to avoid talking to any reporters.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?” Mother actually touched her hand to my forehead, as if concerned that my frantic middle-of-the-night struggle with a cold-blooded killer might have given me a temperature.

  “Dad thinks so,” I said. “He gave me a clean bill of health hours ago. About the only thing wrong with me is lack of sleep, but I’m running on adrenaline now, and I don’t want to go home until this whole thing is wrapped up.”

  “You mean it’s not wrapped up?” Mother turned to the chief with a slight frown. “I thought you’d already apprehended the perpetrator.”

  “We have,” the chief said. “Perpetrators, actually. It appears likely that in addition to Plunkett, who pulled the trigger, Sheriff Dingle will be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, and Plunkett’s cousin, the one who pretended to be the mother of Brett Riordan’s child, will be an accessory after the fact.”

  “‘Appears likely’? You have yet to arrest them?” Mother asked.

  “I think the state police will have done that by now,” the chief said. “Given the jurisdictional complexities of the case, they’re assuming primary responsibility. We’re just tying up a few loose ends to assist them. Meg is free to leave any time she wants.”

  “And I don’t want to just yet,” I said. “I want to be the first to see those loose ends tied up, not the last.”

  “As long as you don’t overtax yourself.” Mother patted my shoulder. “And when you’re free, the entire population of the wine pavilion wants you to know that we have some sparkling wine on ice, ready to toast your service to the industry. We’ll be standing by to pop the corks whenever you’re ready. If you don’t feel up to it till tomorrow, that’s also fine.”

  “Tell them thanks,” I said. “And I’ll see how it goes.”

  Mother nodded, and sailed out.

  “Thank you,” I heard her say outside, presumably to someone who was holding the door for her.

  The someone came in—Stanley Denton, our Caerphilly-based private investigator.

  “Good morning, all,” he said. “I came to make my report.”

  “Report?” I echoed.

  “I assumed you were serious when you asked me to check up on Ms. Sedgewick.”

  “I was,” I said. “But—”

  “If you were investigating her in connection with the murder—” the chief began.

  “I asked him to do it before the murder even took place,” I said.

  “Day before yesterday, as a matter of fact,” Denton added.

  “And it was about chicken thefts she was alleged to have committed before she came to Caerphilly,” I added. “In someone else’s county. I needed to know if she was a danger to the fair.”

  “All right, all right,” the chief said. I was relieved to see that he seemed more amused than annoyed. He indicated one of the folding metal chairs.

  Denton sat down and pulled out his notebook.

  “Meg called me to ask if I could find out whether Ms. Sedgewick owned any property other than her winery,” he said. “Apparently some of the exhibitors suspected that she was stealing their valuable birds and stashing them someplace where no one would think to look for them.”

  He paused there as if waiting for a reaction. Apparently the chief and I were both equally impatient.

  “So, did you find anything?” we asked, almost in unison.

  “I did indeed,” he said. “Ms. Sedgewick owns a farm outside of Ashville, North Carolina, under her maiden name of Janet Hickenlooper. We found livestock there. And a very disgruntled caretaker. People who have secrets to keep shouldn’t treat their staff like dirt.”

  “Did he spill the beans about the stolen chickens?” I asked.

  “The caretaker didn’t know anything about stolen chickens,” Denton said. “He doesn’t like chickens, so he resents that she keeps bringing new batches down to the farm and ordering him to build coops and pens for them. What he really had a lot to say about was Genette’s winemaking operations. Apparently she’s not doing too well at growing grapes on her farm.”

  “I hear everyone had a bad year or two lately,” I said.

  “She hasn’t had a good year since she bought her place,” Denton said. “She’s been regularly buying up grapes and tanks of grape juice from out of state and having them shipped to the Ashville farm. Then the caretaker has to paint over anything that would identify where they really came from and deliver them to her Virginia farm in the middle of the night. He says he’s pretty sure about ninety percent of the grapes she used to make her wine came from out of state. He also hints that her wine’s so bad when she wants to enter a contest, she fills up one of her bottles with somebody else’s wine.”

  “We need to tell someone about this,” I said.

  “I already did.” Denton smiled as if he’d enjoyed doing it. “The Virginia Alcoholic Beverage Control Board, whose rule about what kind of grapes you can use in a Virginia wine she seems to have completely ignored.”

  “And that is not an agency you want to trifle with,” the chief said, with satisfaction.

  “I also dropped by the wine pavilion here at the fair just now and had a few words with a couple of people who are active in the Virginia Winemakers Association. I figured they’d have a vested interest in notifying anyone who gave her a medal that it might not have been fairly won.”

  “I suspect it won’t take them too long to do the notifying,” I said. “Even with pirated wines she hasn’t been doing too well in wine competitions.”

  “So I gathered,” Denton said. “And she’s not too popular with her colleagues, is she? Before I’d even finished telling them the news, they all started popping corks, pouring me glasses of wine, and toasting me. And you, incidentally, for siccing me on the case.”

  “Well, that solves one mystery,” I said.

  “They were also toasting to the return of Fickle Wind—any idea what that is.”

  “A winery Genette put out of business,” I said. “It’s coming back?”

  “The other winemakers seem to have a plan for that,” Denton said. “As far as I could tell, it seems to involve several dozen of them agreeing not to sue her for millions if she sells the vineyard back to its rightful owner for peanuts.”

  “Mother will be delighted.” And I made a silent promise that once Morot got on his feet again, I’d buy a case of Fickle Wind’s most expensive wine, as a silent apology for suspecting him. “But getting back to your mission—you didn’t find any sign of the stolen chickens?”

  “If you mean the Russian Orloffs, no,” Denton said. “Nor the Sumatrans.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t mean to be insulting—before I started working with the fair, I couldn’t have told one breed of chicken from another.”

  “I still can’t,” Denton admitted. “So since I knew sooner
or later someone would be asking me that very question, I took the precaution of bringing along a poultry expert when I checked the Ashville property out. Friend of mine who judges chickens at the North Carolina state fair.”

  “Well done,” the chief said.

  Denton flipped to a new page in his notebook.

  “We didn’t find any of the chickens stolen here at the fair,” he said. “But according to my friend we found Minorcas, Cochins, Ko Shamos, Silkies, Malays, Frizzles, Burmese, Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots, Rumpless Tufted Araucanas, and Transylvanian Naked Neck chickens.”

  “Oh, Horace will be so excited, I said. “About the naked chickens, I mean. He’s been reading about them.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.” Denton looked up from his notebook and shook his head. “Not a one of them I’d want to give barnyard space to. Most peculiar collection of poultry I’ve ever seen in my life. Peculiar and in some cases downright ugly. But it got my friend real excited. And then real mad—seems he figured out some of the birds belonged to a friend of his.”

  “He recognized the chickens?” The chief sounded skeptical.

  “No, he recognized some kind of distinctive leg band the friend puts on his chickens,” Denton said. “Guess Genette figured she’d hidden the stolen ones well enough—out of state and all—that she didn’t need to worry about prying the ID bands off. Or maybe she didn’t notice they were there. According to the caretaker, she doesn’t actually go near the chickens—just drops by every week or two to survey her domain and gloat a bit. And the telltale ID bands were on a bunch of chickens with big, fluffy tufts of feathers all over their feet.”

  “The Sablepoots,” I said. “I know someone who had some Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots stolen—by Genette, he thought, although he couldn’t prove it. Mr. Stapleton,” I added, seeing the chief’s frown. “I gave you his card, remember?”

  “Yes, that’s his name,” Denton said. “The guy with the distinctive ID bands.”

  “And you can find him in the wine tent,” I added.

  The chief nodded.

  “I’ll check with him,” the chief said. “And we should let the Virginia State Police know as soon as possible about her other property—they’ll need to liaise with their counterparts in North Carolina.”

  “And while all this is fascinating,” I said. “And we’re grateful to you for uncovering it, we still don’t know what Genette did with the Orloffs and Sumatrans.”

  “Genette didn’t do anything with them,” said a new voice.

  We all looked up to see Vern Shiffley standing in the doorway.

  “Do you know who did?” the chief asked.

  Instead of answering, Vern turned to someone outside.

  “Bring those on in here,” he said.

  Two more deputies came in, each carrying a small cage with a pair of chickens in it.

  “That’s them!” I said. “The Sumatrans and the Orloffs.”

  “Where did you find them?” the chief asked.

  “I went along when the state police searched Plunkett’s farm,” Vern said. “Found these in his barn. I studied up on what the missing chickens looked like, so I was pretty sure these were the ones. We also found a sledgehammer splattered with pumpkin juice nearby, and a pair of pumpkin-stained overalls dumped in his laundry room. I think we caught us a pumpkin-smashing, quilt-spoiling chicken thief!”

  “The state police okay with you bringing these back to the owners?” the chief asked. “They don’t need them as evidence?”

  “They’re okay with returning the chickens after their owners have identified them,” Vern said. “A trooper just went over to fetch the owners. We thought we’d do the official ID in your office. And here they come.”

  Vern stepped aside, making way for Mr. Beamish and the black-clad Bonnevilles. A tall, stern-looking state trooper brought up the rear.

  “It’s Anton! And Anna!” Mrs. Bonneville threw her arms around the cage containing the Orloffs.

  “I never thought I’d see this day,” Mr. Bonneville said. He put one arm around his wife and, with the other hand, fumbled for his pocket handkerchief.

  Anna and Anton clucked excitedly. I couldn’t really tell if they were happy to see their owners again or just overexcited by having someone throw her arms around their cage, but at least they didn’t sound upset.

  “Yes.” Mr. Beamish’s manner was more quiet, but in his own way he seemed just as moved. “Those are my Sumatrans. I can’t thank you enough.”

  He was looking at me.

  “Vern found them,” I said.

  “Me and the state police,” Vern said. “But we never would have known where to look if Meg hadn’t collared that lowlife Plunkett.”

  The door opened again and Randall stepped in.

  “I’ve found her,” he said into his phone. “Meg, I need a minute of your time.”

  “We’re a little busy here,” the chief said. “Is it important?”

  “Very.” Randall turned to me. “Are you in favor of terminating our agreement with Clay County and hosting the entire Un-fair in Caerphilly County?”

  “For next year?” I asked. “Absolutely.”

  “And the rest of this year, too,” Randall said. “I’ve been on the phone with all the other Un-fair board members already, and if you’re in favor, it’s unanimous. I’ve got people standing by to start the move as soon as you cast your vote and the chief gives the okay.”

  “Sounds great to me,” I said.

  “Provided you leave the area around the murder scene untouched, I see no reason to delay the move,” the chief said.

  “It’s a go,” Randall said into the phone and hung up. “Between the Shiffley Construction Company and the Shiffley Moving Company, we’ve got a pretty good crew. And all the Midway people are up for it. And we’ve got a lot of exhibitor volunteers. Especially the chicken farmers and winemakers. But it’s a big job. Chief, can you release Meg to handle a few little things for me? I’d like to get over and supervise.”

  “Also fine with me,” the chief said.

  “What kind of things?” I was always suspicious when Randall tried to delegate “a few little things.”

  “Well, for one thing, we need to organize a shuttle service from our overflow parking areas,” Randall said.

  “Overflow parking areas?” I echoed. “We’ve never even filled the parking areas we’ve got.”

  “We will today,” Randall said. “People started lining up outside the ticket office hours ago, and that online ticket sale thing you had us set up went wild this morning. Parking lot’s close to full already, so I’ve arranged overflow at a couple of farms along the road from town. And you know my cousin Norbert—the one who runs all those charter busses to Atlantic City? I’ve got him bringing over every bus and van he can round up. But someone needs to pull it all together.”

  “Roger.” I was already scribbling in my notebook. “I guess this answers my question about whether the murders and chicken thefts are going to ruin the fair.”

  “They might have if you hadn’t solved them all so quickly and dramatically,” Randall said. “Which reminds me—I thought you might like to represent the fair management at a couple of ribbon presentations. Biggest pumpkin, for example. After all the time I spent convincing the judges to declare that poor kid’s smashed pumpkin eligible, I want someone from management there to make sure they don’t change their minds at the last minute.”

  “How’d the kid do, anyway?” I asked.

  “Came in fifth,” Randall said. “He thinks he might have made it as high as third if Plunkett hadn’t smashed his pumpkin. And he’s determined to come back even stronger next year.”

  “Good,” I said. “We want him going home energized and determined, not demoralized. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, and someone from the Guinness Book of Records might be calling you,” Randall went on. “There’s no shame losing to this year’s first-place winner. It’s well over a ton and might be a contender for the
new world record. They’re going to try to send someone by to verify it today or tomorrow.”

  “Awesome.” I scribbled more notes. “Any word on the quilt cleanup?”

  “I hear Daphne worked her usual magic,” Randall said. “The judging’s this afternoon, so we’ll find out soon enough if it did the trick. We might want to have someone show up there as well.”

  “Speaking of judging, we need to get Anton and Anna ready, now that they’re back.” Mr. Bonneville picked up the cage containing the Orloffs. “The bantam event is at ten.”

  Mrs. Bonneville walked over and took both my hands in hers.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

  With that, they left.

  “But you can start getting an idea whenever you want,” Mr. Beamish said. “Just tell me when you want your Sumatrans delivered. Eggs, chicks, young birds—you name it.”

  With that he left.

  “You’re going into the chicken business?” the chief asked.

  “Business, no,” I said. “We’re going to expand our hobby farming to include a few chickens.”

  He nodded.

  “Dangerous, having this fair in our backyard,” he said. “Minerva’s got her heart set on some chickens. She likes the idea of having fresh eggs for the grandkids.”

  “We can build you a coop if you want, Chief,” Randall said. “Or a pen for the llama, if you’re going ahead with that.”

  “Llama?” The chief sounded puzzled.

  “Meg.” Randall turned to me. “I’ll send a few men over next week to make sure the coops and pens you already have are ready for your chickens. It’s the least we can do after all you’ve done for the fair. I’m off to supervise—I’ll let you know if I think of anything else that needs doing.”

  He strolled out.

  “We should get back to it,” Vern said. “We have a lead on a possible witness to the theft of the Sumatrans.”

  “And we’ve put a rush on processing the evidence you’ve already delivered to the crime lab,” the state trooper added to the chief.

  “Keep me posted,” the chief said.

  Vern and the trooper headed for the door.