by Hillary Avis
A Roost and Arrest
Clucks and Clues Cozy Mystery Book Three
Hillary Avis
Published by Hilyard Press, Eugene, OR
©2020 Hillary Avis www.hillaryavis.com
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places, events, or organizations is purely coincidental, and all are the creation of the author.
Cover by Mariah Sinclair www.mariahsinclair.com
For permissions contact: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Other Clucks and Clues Cozy Mysteries
Stay in Touch
About the Author
Chapter 1
July 4, Day 1, Monday
The little boy in my passenger seat grabbed a handful of candy out of the bowl and flung it toward the sidewalk. I watched nervously in the side mirror of my red Porsche convertible as a pack of feral children dove into the street to scrabble for the Tootsie Rolls and tiny boxes of Junior Mints.
“Good throw, Ollie,” Jillian said from her perch above the back seat. Recently crowned the runner-up in the Miss Honeytree pageant, she wore a white sash over her glittery blue dress as she waved to the crowd that had gathered to watch this year’s Fourth of July festivities.
Ollie, my friend’s eight-year-old, grinned back at her and flung another handful of candy. This time, one particularly brave little soul darted out in front of the car to snatch a stray piece, and I braked hard, coming to a complete stop. My passengers—who weren’t wearing seat belts—slid forward slightly. It was a good thing the parade was traveling at less than five miles per hour, so they didn’t completely lose their seats.
I waited until the street was clear and eased forward to close the distance between our car and the turquoise ’57 Chevy in front that conveyed this year’s pageant winner, McKenzie Masters. Even from down the block, her crown glittered fiercely in the summer sun.
Ollie had noticed it, too. “How come you don’t get a crown?” he asked Jillian. In the rearview mirror, I saw her face fall momentarily, but then only an instant later recovered her practiced, beauty-queen smile.
“You know how when you play T-ball, one team wins and one team doesn’t?” she asked, as she lifted her arm to wave to the other side of the street.
Ollie snorted. “T-ball is for babies. Even Dylan is in Little League.”
Dylan, Ollie’s six-year-old brother, was acting as the candy dispenser for Miss Honeytree herself in the car in front of us. Judging by the spray of Starbursts and Smarties flying out of the Chevy, Dylan had a pretty good baseball arm for a kid who wasn’t even in first grade. Their mom, Tambra, was also in the car, partly because she was one of the pageant organizers and partly because six-year-olds can’t be trusted with a bowl of candy.
“Little League,” Jillian amended. “Well, I didn’t win this time. But that’s OK because I still had fun! That’s what’s important—having fun and being a good sport.”
“That’s what Mom always says.” Ollie sounded dubious. He clearly preferred winning. Ironically, he got that from Tambra, who excelled at everything she did. She’d won her fair share of crowns and sashes when she competed, and now she mentored local contestants and helped them win, too.
Actually, Tambra was the one who had roped me into being a parade chauffeur in the first place. Though I hated to be the center of attention, she’d convinced me that my red convertible was the perfect complement to Jillian’s blue dress.
“With that girl in your car, nobody will be looking at you anyway,” she’d teased.
I had little doubt that the Chevy was solicited because its turquoise-and-white scheme set off McKenzie’s red number to the best effect. Aesthetics were kind of Tambra’s thing, which came in handy at her day job as a manicurist.
No coincidence, my nails were currently the same color as my car, bright cherry red. Tambra had matched the paint with nail polish swatches before my appointment yesterday to make sure she’d have the exact shade on hand—pun intended. Tambra had everything down to a science, even when it came to her kids. Their outfits always matched. They had their homework done on time. They ate their vegetables. The only thing she couldn’t control was their spirited temperaments. In fact, she’d split her boys between the two cars because, in her words, “kids plus candy equals chaos.”
The sound of fire engine sirens drifted from the back of the line, signaling that the parade route was coming to an end. I glanced over at Ollie’s candy bowl to see how much was left and saw him surreptitiously slip a piece into the chest pocket of his stars-and-stripes button-up. “Take a whole handful,” I suggested.
Famous last words.
An hour later, I was literally chasing a sugared-up Ollie and Dylan around in circles on the high school football field, trying to keep the two of them from mowing down the popcorn vendor while we waited for Tambra. She was only twenty yards away, but fully absorbed in a photo shoot with McKenzie and Jillian. The other Miss Honeytree contestants—the losers—had already taken the group photo and were clustered off to the side, watching the winner and runner-up have their portraits taken by a photographer for the local newspaper.
Speaking of losing, I was definitely losing this game of chase. Thankfully, the boys dashed toward the inflatable castle, a much safer place for them to bounce off the walls, and I took a blessed minute to lean over and catch my breath.
“Leona!”
I raised my head and saw Ruth Chapman waving at me from a blanket she’d spread on the fifty-yard line. With a glance at Ollie and Dylan to make sure they were behaving themselves, relatively speaking, I dragged my sweaty, tired rear end over to her and spread out my little quilt next to hers, sinking down onto it with a sigh of relief.
Ruth patted my hand, her dark blue eyes sparkling under her mane of chestnut curls. I noticed she’d dyed her gray streaks blue and red in honor of the holiday. A part-time hairdresser and part-time realtor, she’d been my full-time best friend since childhood. I’d spent thirty-five years away from Honeytree, but during that time, we’d never lost touch. When I moved back, humiliated and broken from my divorce, our friendship had picked up right where it had left off. Real friendships were like that.
I raised my eyebrows when I saw the huge picnic she’d laid out. “Wow, you brought a spread. Did you plan to feed the whole town?”
“No, just you.” She snickered and nudged a container of grapes toward me. “Oh, that reminds me! I made deviled eggs with the extra dozen you sent home with me!” She dove into the little cooler next to her and triumphantly produced a Tupperware container, holding it out to me like a prize. I accepted her offering, sampling one of the creamy, garlicky eggs inside.
“Nice,” I mumbled around my mouthful. “I like the capers.”
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br /> Ruth nodded, satisfied with my reaction. Then she snatched the container of eggs out of my hands and replaced it with a paper plate holding a piece of triple-berry pie, waiting expectantly for me to try it.
“You’ve been busy,” I said as I dug into the pie. Ruth could cook a meal, but she wasn’t usually so dedicated in the kitchen. She didn’t have a husband or family to feed, so her cooking was more of a special occasion kind of thing. Not that our nation’s birthday wasn’t a special occasion, but I wondered why she was going to all the trouble when we could just eat frybread and hot dogs from the festival vendors.
Ruth dished herself a serving of pie, too, and took a huge bite, savoring the flaky crust and sweet-tart blueberries, blackberries, and strawberries. “Don’t you just love it? I swear, if you bottled summer, it would taste exactly like this. I wish it was the Fourth of July every day. I think it’s my favorite holiday.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Seriously? Don’t get me wrong, the pie is great,” I added hurriedly, not wanting to deter her from making any future pies should she have the urge. “But is it really better than Christmas?”
“Totally. Think about it.” She motioned with her plastic fork to the cheerful families milling around the festival booths set up in the wide strip between the football and baseball fields. “Everyone gathers together, but nobody has to bring gifts. There are beautiful lights at night, but you don’t have to take them down and store them in your garage afterward. There’s a parade, just like at Christmas, but the weather is nice so you don’t freeze your a—”
“Leona!” Tambra shouted from over where the local newspaper was still trying to get a wide shot of all the pageant participants. “Where are the boys?”
I froze, the pie turning to lead on my tongue. I’d forgotten to keep my eye on them for the last few minutes, which meant they could be...anywhere. I scanned the bouncy castle, the last place I’d seen them, but it was empty—closed while the operator took a break, a sign posted in front informed me.
My heart thudded, panic ringing in my ears, and I jumped to my feet, swallowing the pie as I scoured the high school grounds for any glimpse of Ollie and Owen and their matching, flag-print shirts, outfits that any other day of the year would have made them stand out from the crowd. On the Fourth of July, they might as well have been camouflage.
“I’ll go get them!” I yelled to Tambra, who gave me a thumbs-up and turned back to her glittering girls. I grimaced at Ruth. “Oops. I think we lost her kids.”
“Don’t rope me into this. I’m just the pie lady, not the babysitter!” Ruth ate the last bite of pie off the plate I’d abandoned. “Go on. I’m sure they’re just off causing trouble. Probably trying to rig the drinking fountain so it won’t shut off or something. That’s what they did last time I brought them over here to run off some steam around the track.”
“I thought you were the pie lady, not the babysitter.”
“I’m not—usually. But when Tambra’s babysitter falls through, she brings them to work. They crash around like baby dinosaurs. It’s either take them outside or they’re going to destroy my salon.”
Ugh. Who knew what trouble they’d unleash on the festival. “Save my spot until I get back?”
“Of course. I’m camping out here all day. No way I’m giving up the best fireworks spot on the field.”
I power-walked the length of the festival booths, breathing in the scent of fried dough and barbecue and listening to the ding-ding-ding of the winner’s bell at the games booth as I scanned for the kids’ towheads. I passed the dunk tank, where Doc Morrow, Honeytree’s interim mayor, was up on the seat getting pummeled by the softball team. For the third time in as many minutes, he hit the tank of cold water, gasping and swiping his soggy, steel-gray combover out of his eyes. I grinned, but only for a moment—the boys weren’t in the crowd around the tank.
I hoped the two of them were still together. I ducked behind the row of pop-up tents that shaded the novelty vendors, the ones who sold sunglasses and foam lizards on a string and tall, felt, Uncle-Sam hats. A smile spread across my face as I spotted two little heinies clad in stars and stripes poking out of the bottom of one of the tents’ backdrops.
“Gotcha!” I crowed, dragging them out by the waistbands of their shorts.
“Hey, lady!” Of them, a tiny blonde girl with two pigtails scowled at me. “That’s not nice!”
“Stranger danger!” her little buddy screeched as he twisted around trying to free himself, his face reddening until it matched his freckles. “You’re not my mom!”
A woman my age poked her head out of the tent to see what was going on. I let go of the kids and their elastic waistbands snapped back, making them screech again. Now it was my turn to blush. “Sorry. I was looking for someone else. I saw their shorts and—” I made a stupid motion with my hands, as though that explained or excused why I’d practically kidnapped these two.
Ugh.
“Keep your hands off my grandkids,” she snapped, herding them back into the tent while keeping a wary eye on me to make sure I didn’t try to snatch them again.
“Of course. Happy Fourth!” I finished lamely. Oh well, at least they weren’t from town, but instead from the group of vendors that traveled around selling at all the summer festivals in the region. I didn’t have to worry about running into them down at the grocery store. I already had enough of a reputation as a local loudmouth; I didn’t need to add kid-snatcher to the rumors that swirled around me and my little farm.
“Missing something?” A familiar voice rumbled behind me. I turned and saw Eli Ramirez, the county sheriff assigned to patrol Honeytree and the surrounding area. He also happened to be my next-door neighbor, my high school boyfriend, and my...well...my very, very good friend, if you know what I mean. These things are always a little complicated when you live in a small town.
He had one of the boys on each side of him, holding their small, grubby hands in his large, tanned ones as he grinned at me from behind his mirrored shades. “I found them throwing rocks through the fence into the pool.”
“You went down to the pool?!” I screeched at them. That meant they’d gone all the way to the back of the baseball field, opened the gate, walked down the hill, and crossed a parking lot all on their own.
Ollie shrugged at me. “We go there all the time.”
“Yeah, we take swimming lessons,” Dylan piped up, blowing his wispy, blond bangs out of his eyes. He had a telltale ring of bright pink sugar around his mouth. Somehow, they’d gotten their hands on some cotton candy during this escapade, too.
I put my hands on my hips and pursed my lips. “That doesn’t matter. You were supposed to stay with me.”
“No, you were supposed to stay with us.” Ollie smirked at me.
Eli chuckled. “Kid has a point.”
“Don’t encourage them,” I said, holding my hands out to the boys. They took them and I gave their hands a gentle squeeze as I shot Eli a grateful smile and mouthed a thank you. “You guys really scared me. You can’t run off without telling people where you’re going.”
Dylan stopped and tugged his hand away from mine, turning his face upward so he could look me in the eye, his lower lip quivering. “Is Mom mad? Are we going to get in trouble?”
I kneeled down so we were eye-to-eye and put a reassuring arm around his shoulders. “She’s not mad. But I wouldn’t mention it to her, or she might be.”
At me, I didn’t say.
Chapter 2
Distracted by the remains of Ruth’s pie, the boys parked on the picnic quilt until Tambra finally finished up her Miss Honeytree duties and joined us, kneeling on the edge of the blanket so her shoes wouldn’t track dirt onto it.
“Thanks for watching the boys,” she said to me.
“I did my best.” Admittedly, my best wasn’t very good, but at least Eli had been there to save my bacon. There was no need to worry Tambra by telling her how far Ollie and Dylan had managed to stray under my not-so-watchful eye.
“I wish I was a chameleon so I could keep one eye on them and one eye on the pageant girls at the same time,” Tambra continued. “I swear, I don’t know which is worse.”
I grinned as Dylan began running around the blanket, the tips of his fingers brushing our backs as he made lap after lap around us. “Surely the kids.”
“You’d think so, but it turns out that twenty-year-old women don’t like listening to their elders.”
“You’re hardly an elder!” Ruth snorted. “You’re not even forty. Wait until you’re our age, then you might qualify.”
I made a face. “Speak for yourself. I’m not an elder, either.”
Ruth laughed out loud. “Look again. You’re a grandma. And you’re wearing culottes. They don’t even make those anymore.”
I looked down at my cropped, high-waisted denim pants and flat sandals. I’d thought it was a pretty cute combo when I picked it out this morning, but now I was second-guessing myself. “They do make them! I just got these.”
“They’re in, actually,” Tambra said, digging in the cooler for a can of seltzer and handing it to me to pop for her so she wouldn’t damage her long, silver nails. “You know how fashion always comes back around.”
“See?” I raised an eyebrow at Ruth as I handed the open can back to Tambra. “I’m still cool.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not an elder,” Ruth said. “We can be both, you know.”
I nudged Ollie, who was now wrist-deep in a bag of corn chips. “What do you think? Can old people be cool?”
He squinted at me for a long second, considering the question as he munched a chip. Then he said, “Yeah. I mean, Santa is pretty cool.”
Ruth guffawed. “You’re exactly as cool as Santa, Leona.”
“We totally hang out,” I deadpanned. “Me and the Claus, chilling at the North Pole.”
Dylan skidded to a stop in the grass behind his mom. “Wait, you know Santa? Can you take me to his house?”
Tambra shot me a look. “Way to go,” she muttered between her teeth. “Now he’s never going to let it rest.”
