Chicken Scratch (The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Becki Willis

  Eddie Menger waited for her in front of House 1, looking none too happy to be kept waiting.

  “Hot date last night?” he asked sourly, eying the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  “Something like that.” Madison did not feel the need to explain herself to the surly Service Tech as she went about gathering her supplies. Though normally friendly and helpful, the man seemed to be suffering from his own bout of sleepless nights.

  His expression changed slightly as he studied her new haircut. She had not bothered to style it this morning, so the ends looked blunt and choppy as they scattered in disarray. With uncanny perception into the origin of her impromptu cut, he squinted his eyes and said almost accusingly, “Hear you’re seeing the chief of police.”

  “What?” That grabbed Madison’s attention and her head snapped up. “Where on earth did you hear such a ridiculous thing?”

  “Heard he stopped by your house for a late-night visit.”

  “It wasn’t all that late,” she corrected sharply. “And he stopped by on an official matter, not that I owe anyone an explanation.”

  “Hey, just repeating what I heard.” Eddie held up his hands in surrender, looking more like his usual affable self.

  “Well, you heard wrong,” she sniffed.

  “Got some other news you might like to hear. Sell date for the flock has been moved up, so today’s your last day.”

  “Really?” Madison asked in surprise.

  “Yep. I’ll take care of things from here on out.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.”

  As strange as it seemed, Madison was oddly disappointed. There was something gratifying about caring for the chickens and watching them grow, almost before her very eyes. In the two weeks she had been there, the birds had grown several inches and put on about two pounds. The target weight for the chickens was eight and a half pounds each, but some of the roosters were closer to twelve. It was amazing to see how they grew and filled out, practically overnight.

  “So what happens now?” she asked, almost reluctant to hand over the care of ‘her’ birds.

  “We start selling tomorrow night around ten. Which means tomorrow I have to follow a strict schedule of when to turn off feed lines. We want the birds to empty out the pans as much as possible, but we don’t want their guts full of feed when they get to the slaughter plant. I’ll have to get the houses ready and all the feed and water lines raised so the forklift can get in here when it’s time to catch. The birds came in on two trucks, but it will take at least thirty six when they leave out.”

  “Do you think I’ve done alright?” Madison asked worriedly. “I haven’t hurt the birds, have I?”

  “Actually, the flock looks good. We have a projected weight of 8.75 pounds, so no, you didn’t hurt the birds. We still might even win first place,” Eddie grinned.

  “For Ramona’s sake, I hope so,” Madison said, and truly meant it. Even if she did not particularly like the woman, she knew how difficult it was to lose your husband and to worry about money. A new worry hit her. “Do you think she’ll have trouble selling the farm?”

  “Nah, not at all. Last year one of our growers over in Leon County was killed in a car accident right at the beginning of his flock. New owners were already in place by the next flock.”

  “How long is it between flocks?”

  “Growers keep the birds for nine weeks, then have about two weeks to clean out, set up, and maybe take a few days off. That time varies, depending on the market and the demand for chicken. For instance, in the summer, more people are grilling chicken outdoors and so out-times are shorter. In the fall, turkeys are more in demand, so you might have longer out-times,” the man explained. “Like everything else, it all depends on supply and demand.”

  “So how will Ramona find a buyer for the farm?”

  “Don’t worry, there’s a long list of people just waiting to get into the chicken business.”

  “Really?” Madison asked in surprise. “Why?”

  “It’s a very lucrative business.”

  Knowing that utility bills could run into the thousands, farm mortgages were about twenty times that of most homes, and there were dozens of other associated costs that came with running such a massive operation, Madison wondered about the validity of his statement. She kept silent as he continued.

  “It’s the closest thing you’ll ever have to guaranteed success. Growers sign a thirteen-year contract with Barbour, who agrees to buy the chickens at a guaranteed minimum price. If you make upgrades to your farm and place well in competition, the price goes up. What other business do you know that has a built-in buyer and an iron-clad contract?”

  Madison frowned, recalling something she had heard. “I thought Barbour could pull your contract if they wanted to.”

  “Only if you break the rules. They have contracts, too, with restaurants, supermarkets, and the like. They need the chickens from these farms to meet their quotas, so they’re only going to pull a contract if the grower does something really stupid.”

  “Like raise fighting roosters?” Madison was thinking out loud when she murmured the words.

  Eddie Menger looked at her in surprise. “Well, yeah. Or any other fowl, for that matter. Ducks are the worst offenders, because they go from pond to pond and can spread disease fastest.”

  “Do you know if anyone has already put in a bid for this farm?”

  “Why? You interested in buying it?” he grinned. “It would only cost 1.7 million.”

  Madison’s eyes widened like saucers. “Dollars?” she gasped.

  “No, peanuts. Of course dollars!”

  “Wow, I had no idea,” she murmured, looking around at the long metal barns with new respect. If a person could go in debt that much and still consider this a lucrative venture, it was no wonder there were buyers waiting in line.

  “Regardless of what people say about the industry, we don’t work for chicken scratch,” the man smirked.

  “Apparently not!” Still amazed by the new information, Madison thanked the Tech for all his help over the past two weeks.

  “If you’ve got a few business cards, I’ll pass them along when I hear of a grower needing help walking houses,” Eddie offered.

  “I don’t have any with me, but I’ll see that you get some.”

  “Well, best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks.” Madison slipped protective plastic boots over her own rubber boots, preparing to go into the first house. “Oh, one more thing. Would it be all right if I called you in a few days, to find out how the birds did?”

  Eddie Menger grinned, understanding her curiosity and sense of ownership. “We might just make a chicken grower out of you yet! You might want to give some serious thought into buying this farm.”

  Madison laughed at the ludicrous thought of anyone loaning her almost two million dollars, guaranteed income or not. Thanks to Grayson, her credit was in shambles. “Like I could ever get that kind of loan.”

  Something in Eddie’s eyes flickered. Sympathy, perhaps? It looked more like the spark of an idea. “Hey, you never know,” he said. “Bankers know a sure thing when they see it. And I have a few connections. If you get serious about it, give me a call.”

  “I’ll call, all right, but just to find out how the birds did.” With an amused shake of her head, Madison waved farewell and started to work.

  Two hours later, Madison wondered why she had felt any remorse at leaving this job behind. Her back ached from picking up hundreds of dead chickens; there were forty-nine in House 5 alone. She had to carry their heavy carcasses to the closest door and set them out to be transferred to the incinerators. She was now hot and sweaty and reeked to high Heaven, but she only had one more house to go.

  Four rounds and she would be done.

  Deciding she would conveniently forget to give her business card to Eddie Menger, Madison knew she did not want ‘walk chicken houses’ on her list of offered services. When she started In a Pinch, she had more in mind sedentary job
s, performed in the comfort of climate-controlled offices.

  Okay, so the chicken houses were climate controlled. Gas furnaces kept the temperature from dropping too low, giant fans and panels of coils they called cool cells kept the temps from soaring too high. Computers controlled them all to the precise second. But it was hardly the same thing, particularly when the air being blown around was full of dust, chicken dander, and feathers. And odor, she added as she readjusted her respirator. The paper filter was designed to keep dust out, doing little to protect her from the noxious fumes in the house. However, it was better than nothing, so she clamped the nosepiece tighter to seal off the tiny gap that allowed the rank odor in.

  Madison made her first round, spotting two dead chickens and stooping to pick them up and put them in her bucket. She noted that the cool cell curtains were up.

  The chicken houses were designed with heavy plastic curtains on one end, banks of huge fans on the other. When the curtains were opened —and especially in the summer, when water flowed over the cool cells— the fans pulled the air through the houses, cooling down temperatures and creating air flow. It was rather ingenious, Madison mused as she crossed the mid-fence and proceeded to the opposite end of the house. As she passed the first of the fourteen fans, she was startled as its fifty-two inch blades opened and it began to spin. She supposed she was still easily spooked, particularly on the fan-end of the houses where she had found Ronny Gleason’s body.

  Three more rounds, and I’m done for good, she told herself.

  Of course, she would have to replace the exercise she was getting here with a new routine; walking so much each day, stepping over three divider fences in each house and lifting the filled buckets provided an excellent workout. Even the sluggish chickens acted as weights for her legs, as she often gave one a free ride while shuffling slowly among them. Today was no exception. She suspected she might even be getting a better workout than normal, because she seemed to be shorter of breath.

  Another round, another five hundred feet closer to her goal.

  As Madison passed the fans again, she thought they seemed especially forceful. Her hair flew around her face in wild abandon, and even her t-shirt pulled in the direction of the fans. Were all the fans usually running at once? If all were needed in January, what must August be like? She wondered about that as she made another lap. Her breathing was becoming more labored and the air felt stale. The struggle to breathe made her head hurt.

  By the time Madison made it to the back of the house again, she felt markedly worse. The pressure was building in her head, causing it to throb. She felt agitated, like someone was pulling on her and weighting her down. Even the chickens seemed upset. They clucked noisily and were flighty, more so than usual.

  “Maybe I need some fresh air,” Madison said aloud. She was near the seldom-used side door, halfway between the middle and back of the house. She pushed chickens out of her path and tried to open the door but found it locked. Hadn’t she just used it yesterday, to set chickens out? Maybe she had accidentally locked it behind her.

  Mindless of the smell, she pulled in a deep breath and tried to fill her lungs. Abandoning the bucket she carried, Madison had the overwhelming urge to breathe in fresh, clean air. She was the same distance to either of the nearest exits, but going forward meant she had to step over the mid-fence. She suddenly doubted if she had the energy to do so, so she turned and headed to the back of the house. She would step outside, fill her lungs, take a small break, and then come back in and complete her last and final round. Ever.

  Wading back through the maze of white feathered birds, Madison realized she had never seen the flock so excited. Even when she found Ronny’s body and Cutter Montgomery helped her shoo the birds away, disrupting their habitat, the fowl had not been this worked up. Birds pecked at one another in anger, several flailed against her legs, some flapped their wings and attempted to fly, and all squawked and cackled at once, creating quite the commotion. By the time she reached the back doors, Madison’s heart was racing, her head was throbbing, and she could hardly breathe.

  She pushed her weight against the door, anticipating the fresh air beyond. To her surprise, she bounced off the door and almost fell down. Shaking her dazed head, she pushed again. Locked! The handle wiggled, however, so she twisted it one more time and tried her best to open the door. It budged the tiniest of bits, but there was too much pressure to make her efforts successful.

  That was when it dawned on Madison what was happening. High pressure! All the fans were running —they normally did not, she was certain of it now— and were sucking the air from the house. The displaced oxygen was making it difficult to breathe. The pressure of the air was zapping her energy and making her feel heavy and leaden. The fans were pulling a vacuum on the house, making it impossible to open the doors with the escalating pressure.

  Madison’s throbbing mind stumbled through a few scenarios, none of them comforting. If Ramona got the high pressure alarm, she would more than likely ignore it, at least the first few times it called. She might eventually call Barbour Foods or perhaps Eddie Menger directly. Assuming he had cell phone service, would he be anywhere in the area? Where had Eddie said he was headed next? Even if Barbour sent someone else out, it might take them an hour or more to get here.

  Madison knew she did not have hours. Already the lack of oxygen in the air was making her nauseous and weak. Even the chickens knew something was wrong. She looked around feverishly, hoping to see something that would offer her salvation. A glance at the ceiling showed ceiling seams beginning to pucker. She recalled what Eddie said about sucking the roof in.

  “Think, Madison, think!” she demanded, rubbing her pounding forehead.

  There was too much air being pulled from the house. If she could get to the control room she could turn off some of the fans, but there was no way she could manhandle the doors. That meant she had to stop the airflow from within, even though all the switches were outside the house.

  She looked around again, wondering if there was any way she could jam one of the fans. Blades that big would merely chop up anything she threw at them, even if she had something to throw. Which she did not.

  Relief washed through her when she spotted the plugs. Each of the fans was plugged into electrical outlets near the ceiling, but their cords were long and within reach. Madison stumbled over chickens as she pushed her way toward the fans and began jerking on the thick cords. One by the one, the huge blades stopped spinning. She went down the row, disabling every cord she could reach. She was across the house and jerking down cords from the other bank of fans before she felt the pressure in the house subside. With an audible cry of relief, Madison bumbled her way toward the door, tripping once on a chicken and falling to her knees before making it out.

  This time, the door swung easily open and she stepped outside into the gloriously fresh air.

  And this time, she was not going back inside.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  With a warped sense of déjà vu, Madison called 9-1-1 to report the incident. Once her lungs filled with fresh air and her mind was functioning again, she realized someone deliberately turned on all the fans, knowing she was inside.

  Officer Perry came to her aid. Madison vaguely remembered the man from her youth. If memory served her correctly, he was the one who threatened to send her and Genesis to jail if they did not climb down from the water tower immediately. They obeyed, but not before finishing their scrolled version of “Seniors ‘95” in bright neon pink.

  After taking her statement, the policeman mentioned dusting for prints, even though it was a long shot. Between truck drivers, Barbour personnel and Madison, he determined there were too many people with access to the control room to isolate a particular set of prints. He then promised to visit neighbors and ask if they noticed anyone coming or going from the farm, but Madison knew it was merely a token effort on his part.

  The best she could do was go up to big house, knock o
n the door until she woke Ramona from her early afternoon nap, collect her final paycheck, and smile through her teeth as she thanked the woman for the opportunity to serve her. It was all Madison could do to keep from running back to Granny Bert’s car and peeling out of the driveway.

  Once she was a modest distance from the house, she firmly pressed the accelerator and exited the Gleason Farm in a trail of dust.

  If she ever set foot back on the property again, it would be too soon for her liking.

  “Tonight, we are celebrating,” Madison announced to her family. It was a splurge she could barely afford, but if she ever deserved a night out, this was it. “Genny is meeting us at the restaurant. Everyone ready?”

  “I am.” Blake was the first one out the door. “I’m starving.”

  “Have you seen my phone?” Bethani searched beneath couch cushions as she spoke.

  “It’s usually attached to your ear,” her mother remarked dryly from the doorway.

  “Oh, I remember. I left it on the bed. Be right back!” As she scampered off to get it, she passed her great grandmother in the hall. “Looking hot tonight, Granny Bert!” the teen giggled as she rushed past her.

  “I don’t know what happened last night at the Aikman’s, but it did wonders for her attitude,” Granny Bert commented.

  “She does seem happier, doesn’t she?” Madison smiled after her daughter, belatedly noticing the difference.

  Not that she hadn’t been understandably preoccupied with other matters today, like the fact that someone had once again tried to do her harm. Much more of this, and she was going to take it personally.

  Her grandmother nodded. “She’s been downright pleasant, almost like the girl we used to know and love.”

  Granny Bert drove the short distance to Juanita’s, the only Mexican food restaurant in The Sisters other than the opened-again, closed-again mobile taco truck that often roamed the streets. It was a Saturday night and New Beginnings was closed, so the only other restaurant in Naomi was busy. It also had something to do with their excellent food and the fact that tonight was karaoke night.