by Meera Lester
Abby tossed her pack on the patio table and walked to the exterior electrical plug on the wall next to the slider. Her habit was to plug in the heat lamp in the chicken house on the coldest nights. Her heritage chickens were hardy, and their house was insulated. There was the straw in the nesting boxes and ground corncob two inches deep over the wood floor. Leaning down, Abby retrieved from her patio floor the orange extension cord that stretched across the yard to the chicken house. After plugging it in, she checked to see if the heat lamp had gone on where the hens were now roosting. It had. Light splayed through the small windows into the vapor-enshrouded yard. The place took on a ghostly effect as the fog nearly obscured the bare branches of the fruit trees.
After grabbing her daypack, Abby pulled open the slider and stepped into the kitchen and then made her way to her bedroom. She removed her wool cap and tossed it and the daypack on her bed. She found a ball on the floor and rolled it down the hall to the living room, hoping to divert Sugar’s attention. Sugar watched it but didn’t leave Abby’s side.
“You are going to have to stay inside the house now. I’ll be right back.”
With Sugar barking and pawing at the slider, Abby returned outside and walked to the chicken house. Autumn scents filled the air—eucalyptus, decayed leaves, and wood smoke from the fireplace of a prickly elderly neighbor who lived northwest of her property. The old man refused to use his furnace, insisting in his military certitude that the energy companies were gouging him, and that he’d show them not everybody needed their services. The adage of cutting off your nose to spite your face entered Abby’s thoughts. She wondered if Jake had done something like that to prove a point or provoke a killer.
At the chicken house, Abby located six eggs, all in the first nesting box. She carefully tucked two into each of her jacket pockets. Upon finding the feed canister and the waterer sufficiently full, she began the head count with Mystery, the black Giant Cochin. That hen had hunkered down in the third nesting box, looking like a feather boa with a beak. So Mystery was number one. Looking up, Abby surveyed the top bar. There she counted the two white leghorns, Tighty Whitey I and II. Next to them perched Orpy—the yellow Buff Orpington—the two Silver-Laced Wyandotte sisters, and the Black Sex Link hen, whose bottom vent feathers were always poopy. Beside her were Henrietta and Heloise, the two cute Mediterranean girls. Between them Houdini squatted on the roost. He ruled supreme over this harem. So nine hens and a rooster made ten. But there should be eleven chickens in all.
Missing was the Rhode Island Red layer Abby called Red, notorious for getting herself into trouble. When barely a pullet, Red had overturned a galvanized bucket, trapping herself beneath it until Abby found her two hours later. Now, as Abby leaned into the coop as far as possible, she hoped Red might be in the last nesting box. Spotting the hen snuggled against the back wall and hunkered down deep into the straw, Abby whispered, “And one more makes eleven.” Red made a contented clucking sound. Abby closed the door and locked it.
A loud metallic sound cut through the silence, causing Abby to turn toward the source. The sound seemed to originate from near the stone house on the vacant land adjoining her property. Her thoughts ticked through possible causes of the noise. Minutes passed. Then another gust produced a metallic rustle. The old stone house, as Abby recalled, had a breezeway attaching it to a greenhouse. Corrugated metal sheets over rafters served as a makeshift roof for the breezeway. Likely a sheet of metal had worked away from rusting nails and had pulled loose.
Yes, that has to be it. But it is Halloween night. Someone could be back there. But to check, I’d need the flashlight, and it’s in the house.
As she turned back toward the kitchen patio, twigs snapped a few feet behind her. Spinning around, Abby asked, “Who’s there?” A chill raced up her spine.
No answer came.
Maybe it’s just a raccoon. Or a bract of peppercorns dropping from the tree over the chicken run.
But as she peered into the fog-enshrouded woods, a man stepped forward.
Caught by surprise, Abby’s heart raced. “Who are you? What are you doing back there?” She hoped her cop tone would intimidate the man. She’d left Sugar in the house. At least a chain-link fence stood between them. The stranger on the other side of the fence couldn’t know if she was armed or not. “Answer me,” said Abby, “or I’ll call the cops.”
“No need,” said the stranger. “I’m poking around for a place to park my RV.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not buying that.” Abby took her phone from her pocket. Who chooses a dark and foggy night to look for space to park an RV? She didn’t recognize this guy, and for all she knew, he could be Jake’s killer. This was not a good situation, and she needed to get out of there, like, yesterday.
“No, no. Now, hold on a minute. It probably sounds like I’m making this up, but I’m not. Call the owners. They are old friends of mine. They’ll tell you.” The man waded through the grass, which had come up since the rains began. He stopped walking toward her when he was about a foot from her on the other side of the sagging metal fence.
“You must be Abigail Mackenzie. I was told a lady farmer lives where you do. Almost always home. The owners said you would let me cut across your farmette to get back here if I couldn’t get in any other way.”
“So, how did you get in?” Abby demanded.
“I climbed over the metal entrance gate on the other side.”
Abby sized him up. He wore a deer hunter’s jacket, cargo pants, and an SF Giants ball cap.
“Last name’s Brady. Folks just call me Henry. The RV is for my hunting trips. It won’t be here all the time.”
“Well, why would it be here at all?”
“My wife and I are divorcing.”
Great. Abby didn’t exactly get a warm, fuzzy feeling from Henry. And she sure didn’t like the idea of him taking up residence in an RV on the back side of her property. This situation seemed downright weird. “You’re not going to be living in it, are you?”
He chuckled. “Ah, no. I’m staying with friends while I look for a place large enough to accommodate all my mounted trophies.” His voice sounded husky, like he had the thickened vocal cords of a middle-aged smoker.
“Trophies? Like what?” Abby wasn’t a fan of hunting animals for sport. But more importantly, she wanted to keep him talking while she tried to figure out if he posed a threat to her or was just some rather odd character who had chosen Halloween night to inspect a friend’s property.
“Elk, bear, moose. Some are full size, not just the heads.” He seemed proud.
Abby cringed. So, you kill for blood sport. Probably own a few guns. She’d heard enough. “Why didn’t you come out here during the daylight?”
“Who says I didn’t? I’ve been here for a while, poking around in the old stone house. I guess you know someone’s busted the lock on the back entrance door and there are bullet holes in those heavy sliding glass doors on the eastern side. I’ll let the owners know they need to screw shut the doors and get a new padlock.”
“Yeah,” Abby said. “And as soon as possible.” She didn’t want to show her surprise or deep concern. She hadn’t heard any shots fired back there. Not ever. But then again, she sometimes went to town, so it was possible there had been intruders. This new threat accelerated her rising anxiety.
“So if I park my RV on the concrete pad I found in the stand of oaks and oleander bushes over there, I think it’ll be out of your view. You won’t even know it’s here.”
Oh, trust me, I’ll know. “So, you won’t be parking it here tonight?”
“Nope. Got to get that gate unlocked and need a key for that. The owners aren’t in town to give it to me.” Henry rubbed his forehead beneath the bill of his cap. “Say, you don’t happen to have a spare gate key, do you?”
“No. I don’t. Look, usually I wouldn’t mind chatting, but I hear my dog. I’ve got to go.” Apprehension took over, and Abby spun toward her barking pooch. As soon as she got back to her h
ouse, she intended to text the property owners and get the lowdown on Henry. Maybe he had their permission, but if he didn’t, they needed to know about it. He could be a frigging squatter, for goodness’ sake.
“Sure,” said Henry. “Nice to meet you.”
Yeah. Her phone vibrated, but Abby wasn’t about to answer it within earshot of this guy. The caller could wait until she had returned to the safety of the house. The phone kept vibrating. Stopped and then started again.
“Hang on, hang on,” said Abby to no one in particular. “Whoever you are, you can wait.” Inside the kitchen, Abby locked the patio door. She closed the vertical blinds at the slider and those at the garden window over her sink. After putting the eggs in the half-full carton in the fridge, Abby shrugged out of her jacket and checked her phone. She’d missed three text messages from Kat.
She slid her finger across Kat’s contact number and soon heard Kat’s familiar voice picking up. “So . . . what’s with the text bombing?” Abby asked, not yet over her annoyance and apprehension with the RV man.
“Well, you weren’t answering, and there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“And I just got in. I had to lock up the chickens first. So what’s up?”
“Okay, I’m still at work, so I’ll make it quick,” said Kat.
“I’m listening.” Abby looked up and noticed a honeybee flitting against the overhead light. She grabbed the tea towel from the oven handle. Intent on knocking the honeybee to the floor so she could take it outside, she swung and missed, further agitating the bee. “Arghh! Hold on a minute, Kat. There’s a frigging bee in the light soffit.”
After laying aside the phone and positioning herself under the flitting insect, which seemed to favor the forward left corner, Abby flicked the towel and knocked the tiny creature to the floor. She scooped it up and deposited the bundle outside on the patio. Upon returning to the warmth of her kitchen, Abby locked the door. A sudden realization sent a shiver through her. On such a cold and foggy night, the bees would be inside their hive, trying to keep the queen warm. When she’d left for town, the sun had been out. The bees had been out then, too. She had locked the doors and windows, so how had a bee gotten into the house? Alarmed, Abby held the cell phone to her ear and started rechecking all the locked doors and windows. The RV guy, Henry Brady, had implied that he’d been around the back property during daylight. Had he been inside her house? Abby discounted the idea as quickly as it came, for surely Sugar would have taken the guy’s leg off.
“Sorry. What were you saying, Kat?”
“Just that,” said Kat, “my birthday might be over, but do you think we could still celebrate? I’m looking at the schedule. Today is Saturday. I thought we could grab a bite together next Sunday, on November eight. I’m due for a night off.”
“You got my text yesterday, wishing you a happy birthday, didn’t you?” Abby walked to the living room window to check the lock. It was secure.
“Yes, I did. But I can’t believe I didn’t even get a cookie from my coworkers. None of my peeps remembered except you. So here is my bright idea. I thought we could celebrate together, even if it is after the fact. And you owe me for not introducing me to Chef Emilio, although I’m not so sure I’m interested anymore, now that I’ve already met him in the interview room and Sinclair has put him under the microscope.”
“He’s your suspect?” Abby knew her tone sounded incredulous. Her sixth sense told her they had the wrong guy. The rest of the community knew the immigrant Varela family to be industrious, law-abiding, and tax-paying citizens with high moral values. They were active in the church and volunteered for various community organizations. Lieutenant Sinclair was new to Las Flores. He didn’t know that about the Varelas. He didn’t know the character of Emilio Varela.
Kat cleared her throat. “I told the lieutenant we needed to cast a wider net, but Sinclair says we can’t rule him out. He has a motive and possibly the opportunity, since no one has vouched for Emilio’s whereabouts during the shooting. You didn’t see him in the parking lot, did you?”
“I would have said if I had.” Abby’s mind was spinning. “So Sinclair believes not liking your brother-in-law is a motive. It seems ludicrous to me. Did you find a weapon? I guess you didn’t.”
“Emilio owns one. Claims it was stolen.”
Abby approached the guest bedroom. “I could have told you that. It was stolen right around the time Paola and I took that cooking class several months ago.” Abby checked the last window. It had been pulled back a half a foot. The screen was missing. That’s weird. I don’t remember leaving that window open. But if I did, why did the screen fall off?
Abby tuned out Kat as she considered whether or not the opening was big enough for a person like the RV guy to fit through. Deciding it wasn’t, she reckoned Sugar might have gotten rambunctious and pawed the screen, unseating it. Regardless, she made a mental note to check the ground under the window in the morning. Shaking off her heebie-jeebies, Abby closed and locked the window.
“Right. So, we’ve let Emilio go,” said Kat. “But Sinclair asked him to voluntarily submit a hair sample.”
“Why? Did you find hair at the crime scene?” Abby asked.
“The cap that the canine handler with the sheriff’s department found might have hair in it. The deputy’s dog alerted on the object a little uphill from the murder scene. Didn’t belong to anyone at the party, and none of the staff claimed it. Could be the killer’s.”
“It was a knit cap, right?”
Kat’s tone became quizzical. “Is that an assumption you’re making? Or, did you see it and forget to mention it?”
“Well, about that,” Abby said, collapsing on her sofa. “Listen Kat, there’s something I want to—”
Kat cut her off. “Let’s finish up with my birthday request before we move into a conversation about something else, what say we meet up on Saturday night? Early, but after sunset. Say, six?”
Abby didn’t push Kat into a conversation about her struggles with sleeping and the anxiety that she felt nearly all the time now. “That’s fine. Where shall we meet?”
“The Root Cellar. There’s a new headwaiter. The dispatchers can’t stop talking about him. He’s cute. They think I should check him out.”
“Of course they do,” Abby said. “He’s cute. You’re cute. Why not?”
In a voice intensely animated, Kat added, “I know how hard you are working to make a go of that farmette, so you’ll be my dinner date. I’ll pay for both of us. Agreed?”
“No, Kat. I don’t agree. There’s no way. It’s your birthday. I’m not that broke.”
“So we’ll split the bill. End of story,” said Kat. “What was it you were going to tell me about the knit cap?”
“Well, I think I may be recalling—”
“Ah, jeez, Abby, wouldn’t you know? Now I’m being summoned.” Kat muffled her cell and called back to someone in her office. “Be right there.”
“But, Kat, this is important—”
“It’s the lieutenant, so I can’t say no. See you Saturday,” Kat said.
No sooner had Kat clicked off and Abby had made a cup of tea and grabbed her poster paper and picked up her felt-tip pens to work on her incident poster than Sugar began a high-pitched alarm barking. She sprinted to the front door as a knock sounded.
Abby tensed. She turned her incident poster facedown on the table and set aside the pens. After reaching for her grandmother’s yellowware mixing bowl with hand-painted chickens around the rim and filled with candy, she padded in her stocking feet to the front door, with the bowl ensconced in her arm. With trepidation, she placed her hand against the lock. Since she’d moved to the place, she had never once had children knocking on her door on Halloween night. Her farmette was a bit too far from the main action in town. But there was always a first time.
“Please, Abby, can we come in?” called a soft voice on the other side of the door.
Recognizing Luna’s voice, Abby
flipped on the outside light and pushed back the dead bolt. She turned the knob and pushed open the screen door. The Varela sisters, Luna and Eva, stood on the front porch, under the soft glow of the porch light.
“Come in, ladies.” Their troubled expressions told Abby something was very wrong. Setting the bowl back on the table, she asked, “What’s happened?”
Tips for Protecting Chickens during Cold Weather
When the night wind howls and daytime temperatures plunge to bone-chilling cold, make sure you have some extra buckets for water on hand. If the water in the chicken water dispenser is likely to freeze, set out a bucket of warm water. Keep your chickens healthy and happy during cold weather with these other tips.
1. Hang a warming lamp in the chicken house (set a timer so that the lamp goes on an hour after sunset and off an hour before daylight) when the weather turns freezing.
2. Leave the windows slightly cracked open, even on cold nights. Ventilation restriction can result in health problems for chickens due to ammonia buildup in their house.
3. Keep the chickens moving. Throw a layer of loose hay or straw in their run and toss scratch grains on the ground morning and evening to encourage exercise, which will warm them.
4. Ensure the feeder gets filled in the evening so the chickens can eat well before they roost.
5. Offer chickens scratch grains along with their regular feed to keep them busy, so they aren’t pecking on each other, but consider scratch grains as their cotton candy—and no substitute for crumble or pellet food.
6. Don’t let the feeder or the waterer go empty in winter.
Chapter 6
If you don’t know which way the wind is
blowing, ask a farmer.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
The raven-haired, dark-eyed Varela sisters—their youthful faces etched with worry—strolled into Abby’s living room. Abby locked the door behind them. Luna, the youngest sister, barely twenty-three, wore a black rain jacket over dark stretch pants and flats. Eva was the middle sister in the family, between Luna and Paola. Their worried expressions conveyed distress. Abby greeted them with a welcoming smile. Had there been a change in Paola’s condition? Or a break in the case?
