A Roost and Arrest

by Hillary Avis

  AFTER PICKING OUT OUR campsite, Ollie and Dylan wasted no time building a fort out of sticks, ferns, and long lake grasses while Ruth and I set up the tent and a makeshift kitchen. Boots watched us scurrying around from her carrier, bumping impatiently against the wire door.

  “Do you think I should let her out?” I scanned the campsites around ours to check for dogs or other dangers, but I didn’t spot any. The mid-week crowd was mellow. There were even a few spots around us open, which was why we’d managed to score a campsite that backed up to the lake itself.

  Ruth shrugged as she shook out a yellow-and-white checked tablecloth over the picnic table. “Why not? She doesn’t run off at the farm, so I don’t see why she’d run off here.” She popped open the cooler and produced a mason jar full of snapdragons and Shasta daisies and set it in the middle of the table, then stood back to admire her handiwork.

  I grinned. Of course, Ruth brought flowers on a camping trip. She was always thinking about “the vibe.” I, on the other hand, would have packed a can of beanie weenies and bag of marshmallows and called it a day. But Ruth would have forgotten the campfire tinder. That’s why we were a good team, I reflected as I popped open the chicken carrier. We had heart and smarts, both of us, but different kinds.

  Boots hopped out and immediately spied a black beetle crawling in the dust beside the fire ring. She pecked at it and missed, then stretched her neck and stabbed with her beak again, following the beetle as it made a panicked dash for the fire ring rocks nearby. Boots cackled as she chased it down, the delight in her tone unmistakable.

  I squinted at Ruth, who was watching the whole scene along with me. “You know, you were right. Camping was a good idea.”

  She tilted her head to take in the boys, who were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder under their little stick-shelter. “I hope so. I hope when we get back to reality tomorrow, it’ll feel less upside down. For their sake.”

  “Still haven’t heard from their dad?”

  Ruth pulled her phone out of her purse and checked it, then held it up above her head and turned in a circle. “Do you have any bars?”

  I checked mine, too. “One. But that’s usually a lie. I bet I can’t even get a text through.”

  “Mine says no service.” She clicked it off and stowed it back in her bag. “Shoot.”

  “I thought you wanted to get away from it all,” I teased.

  A grin spread across her face. “You’re right, I did. Let’s go play in the water.”

  We set up our folding chairs in the shallows and spent the rest of the glorious afternoon soaking our feet in the lake while Ollie and Dylan—both of whom I’d thoroughly coated in sunblock after slathering my own tender skin from head to toe—splashed and played in the water. Minnows darted around my toes as dragonflies dipped to touch the surface of the water, then lit on the grasses and cattails that grew along the lakeshore. Boots sprawled out on the sandy beach, fluffing her feathers in the dirt as she sunbathed. The summer sun was still so bright that it hardly even felt like evening when our growling bellies told us it was time for dinner.

  “I hate to break up their fun. They rarely get along so well,” Ruth said as she watched the boys take turns trying to skip rocks on the surface of the water. Neither one of them could get more than a single bounce, but they were encouraging each other with plenty of uninformed advice.

  I stood up and folded my chair. “You stay here and supervise. I’ll get the fire started before we try and herd the cats.”

  “You sure?” Ruth squinted up at me from underneath her sun hat.

  I nodded. “I think my sunblock has worn off, anyway.”

  Boots followed me the twenty yards back to the campsite, peering into the fire ring as I built a small triangular structure out of kindling and then grabbed the newspaper to crumple up for tinder. But when I unfolded it and saw the front page, my heart stilled.

  A huge headline read “MISS HONEYTREE SLAIN.” The rest of the page was filled with an enormous picture of the pageant court. McKenzie posed in the center cradling an enormous sheaf of roses, her tall crown sparkling even in the black-and-white newspaper photo. Jillian stood stiffly on her left in a smaller tiara, an insincere smile pasted on her face as she stared directly into the camera. Tambra beamed on McKenzie’s right, her proud gaze directed at the two girls instead of the photographer.

  Behind the three women swam a sea of faces, most of them blurred by movement as they wandered through the Fourth of July festival. But one stood out from the crowd, mostly because he was a head taller than everybody else and standing stock-still, so the photographer had perfectly captured his unmistakable, Greek-god profile. Archer Clark, McKenzie’s secret boyfriend who’d sworn he hadn’t attended the festival, was staring intently at the two beauty queens. And he didn’t look happy.

  Boots leaned over and pecked at McKenzie’s crown, poking a hole in the newsprint. I jerked it out of her reach and carefully folded the front page up and stowed it in my bag. Nudging Boots out of the way, I crumpled the rest of the newspaper and got the fire started so it could burn down enough to cook over.

  As I watched the flames lick the paper and ignite the kindling with a crackle, I couldn’t help but wonder—why had Archer lied about going to the festival? Even if McKenzie had asked him to stay away, he had every right to be there. He could have enjoyed himself alongside his friends, playing games, drinking a beer, and dunking Doc Morrow. Enough people attended the festival that he could have avoided McKenzie all day, anyway.

  But it was pretty obvious from the photo that he hadn’t avoided her. Quite the opposite.

  He sought her out.

  He stared at her.

  And then he lied about it.

  There was only one reason I could think of that someone would do that. And it wasn’t a nice reason.

  Chapter 12

  I waited until the boys were fed, s’mored, and tucked into their sleeping bags with Boots’s carrier nestled between their pillows before I showed Ruth the page I’d saved from the newspaper. She scanned it in the flickering firelight while I swatted bugs that kept landing to feast on my exposed arms. I pulled on my hoodie, partly to shield myself from the lake mosquitos and partly because the temperature had taken a nosedive now that the sun was down.

  “Tambra doesn’t look tense,” Ruth finally said. “I thought she might have been harboring a grudge against McKenzie, but I don’t see it here. She just looks happy.”

  I nodded. “Notice anything else?”

  Ruth squinted. “Well, if anything, Jillian seems a bit off. She’s usually so relaxed and chatty and confident. I hardly recognize this girl. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the disappointment of losing?”

  “Look at that.” I leaned over and pointed to Archer. “That’s the guy McKenzie was secretly dating.”

  Ruth frowned. “That’s the Clark kid, right? How do you know he’s the one?”

  “I met him yesterday. He’s the boys’ swim instructor. Turns out, Ollie’s actually the one who caught him kissing McKenzie, not Tambra. Anyway, at the pool, Archer told me that he didn’t go to the Fourth of July festival because McKenzie asked him to stay away.”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows as she squinted at his image on the paper. “Well, he was definitely there.”

  “Exactly. Why would he lie about that?” I propped my feet up on the fire ring and watched the sparks float upward into the black.

  “Maybe he saw what happened,” Ruth said after a minute of listening to the fire crackle. “Like, maybe he was creeping on McKenzie, but then saw her get into it with Tambra and freaked out. Lied about being there so he didn’t have to deal with the memory of what he saw.”

  “You seem pretty sure Tambra shot her.”

  Ruth sighed and handed the paper back to me. “It’s not that I’m sure. It’s just that all the evidence points there. The Prius getting scratched up. The timing—Tambra went to her car during the big finale, when nobody else was paying attention to the parking lot. The
gun.”

  I snapped my fingers and sat forward in my camp chair. “The gun. I almost forgot. Do you know if Tambra has more than one?”

  Ruth frowned. “I don’t think so. As far as I know, she just has the little pink purse gun.”

  “Then she didn’t have it with her that night, Ruth! I saw the list of stuff the state police took from her house during their search, and the gun was on it! If they found it in her house, it wasn’t with her on the Fourth.”

  Ruth nodded slowly. “You know, she was carrying a different purse than usual. A little sparkly one shaped like a flag. Maybe it didn’t have room for everything.”

  I looked at her, my heart suddenly racing. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I’m not going to let Tambra rot in jail, that’s for sure,” Ruth said staunchly. “If she didn’t have her gun, she didn’t shoot anyone, even accidentally.”

  “And I’m thinking this kid needs to start talking.” I stared down at the image of Archer, his scowl unmistakable. “If he saw what happened that night, he needs to come clean about it.”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to make him.” Ruth chuckled. She got up and grabbed two more wine coolers from the ice chest and popped their caps before handing one to me. “You know what this means though, right? You’re going to have to tell Eli about all the sleuthing you’ve been doing.”

  I slumped in my chair, hiding my face in my arm. “No, don’t say that! Can’t you tell him?”

  Ruth giggled and took a swig of her bottle. “I’m three strawberry daiquiris in. I don’t know if I can keep all the details straight. Plus, I think he’ll forgive you anything, Leona.”

  “He hates it when I meddle, though.” I sighed. I knew she was right. I had to tell him. But this was going to be quite the way to express my gratitude to him for watching my flock. “What am I going to say? ‘Hi, thanks for the favor, sorry I’ve been questioning witnesses and oh, by the way—here’s a possible new suspect based on evidence that I pilfered out from under the nose of the state police’?”

  “You should definitely say that. Exactly that. Just make sure you’re wearing some lacy lingerie when you do.” Ruth’s eyes gleamed wickedly in the firelight. Those three strawberry daiquiris surely had something to do with it.

  I rolled my eyes at her—she knew I didn’t own any nice lingerie, anyway. “Eli will never see in the inside of my bedroom—”

  “Never say never,” Ruth interrupted.

  I held up my finger. “As I was saying...he never will, but if he did, you can bet the lights would be off. He wouldn’t be seeing any lace.”

  “What about leather?” Ruth snorted at her own joke, partially inhaling her swallow of wine cooler and sending her into a coughing fit.

  I smacked her gently with the back of my hand when she finally recovered. “I don’t want him counting up the stretchmarks I’ve sprouted since the last time he saw me with my clothes off. I think Reagan was still president.”

  Ruth snorted. “Honey, he’d be counting his lucky stars, not your stretchmarks. Anyway, I don’t think you need to worry about him being mad at you for meddling. It isn’t even his case. Plus, he’s putty in your hands even when you’re wearing dirty jeans.”

  “All my jeans are dirty.” I brushed my thighs and sure enough, little puffs of dust curled upward.

  Ruth snickered. “Exactly. And he still checks you out every time you walk by.”

  “He does not.” I rolled my eyes, my cheeks growing hot in spite of my skepticism. “He’s probably just staring in disbelief, like ‘how in the world did that cute little cheerleader I knew in high school turn into that?’”

  “A goddess, you mean?” Ruth shot me an impish look.

  “The goddess of gravity, maybe.” I shimmied to demonstrate all my wobbly bits and how far they’d fallen in the last forty years.

  Ruth stood up, staggering a bit as she took her empty bottle to the paper bag we’d stowed under the picnic table for recycling. She giggled as she grabbed onto the edge of the table for support. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay another night? This is fun, Leona. Admit it. You’re having fun.”

  “Not as much fun as you,” I said, grinning back at her. “You’re having so much fun, you can barely walk.”

  “I’m going to crash, I think.” Ruth yawned widely, her cheeks were pink from the heat of the campfire. “When the goddess of gravity starts playing tricks on you, you know it’s time for bed. But we get up early enough, we can squeeze in some lake time before checkout.”

  “We can’t, actually.” I shrugged helplessly when Ruth pushed her lower lip into an exaggerated pout. “Tomorrow’s Thursday, remember? I have to get back early to prep for the farmer’s market. But I promise, we can drink wine coolers by the fire at home.”

  Ruth pointed at me as she stumbled toward the tent. “You promised. Remember that.”

  I nodded. I stayed by the fire a little longer, until it burned down enough that I felt safe leaving it unsupervised. I needed the time alone to resurrect my courage. As much as I needed to get home early, I feared this would be the last time Eli did me any favors.

  Chapter 13

  July 7, Day 4, Thursday

  In the morning, we didn’t even eat breakfast before we left the campsite. We bundled the drowsy kids into the Porsche, folded up the tent, and hit the fast food drive-thru in Pear Grove on the way back to Honeytree. Ruth and I got XL coffees, the kids got yogurt parfaits, and Boots got little pieces of hash browns that Dylan fed through the wire door of her carrier. I wasn’t thrilled about the kids eating in the car, but these are the kinds of sacrifices we make for the ones we love.

  We arrived back at Lucky Cluck Farm when the dew was still wet on the grass and the caffeine hadn’t quite kicked in. My flock crowded toward the door of the run. Eli hadn’t let them out yet; he was probably still asleep next door.

  Dylan yawned as he moved his backpack into Ruth’s car with fingers still greasy from the fast food hash browns. “Can we take Boots with us?” he begged, tugging at my sleeve. “We’ll bring her back.”

  “No chickens at the salon,” Ruth said, rubbing her forehead. She was still crabby about leaving so early, and I suspected she was a little hungover, too. Those wine coolers didn’t drink themselves.

  “We’ll keep her outside!” Ollie clasped his hands under his chin, begging.

  “You don’t have any clients today, anyway, right?” I smirked at her and she shot me a dark look.

  “You’re not helping.”

  I grinned. I wasn’t trying to help, but I probably should have been. “Sorry, boys, Boots wants to stay here with her chicken friends.”

  Dylan and Ollie groaned in unison as I ushered them into Ruth’s car.

  “Can we come visit her again sometime?” Ollie asked. “Like when Mom gets back?”

  “Of course you can.” I swallowed and buckled Dylan’s seatbelt. I hoped I wasn’t lying. I hoped Tambra would be around for the rest of their childhoods.

  “It really was fun,” I said to Ruth. “Thanks for doing all the food and stuff.”

  “Half of it’s still in the cooler,” she groused. “I have a whole Ziplock bag full of cracked eggs I was going to scramble for breakfast. Plus, Boots laid an egg under the picnic table.”

  “Make them for lunch! Eggs are great for lunch. I eat them for—”

  “Every meal. I know.” She smirked at me and shut the door of her car. Ollie and Dylan waved from the backseat as she turned the car around in the driveway.

  I pushed up the sleeves on my hoodie and checked the time on my phone. Nine o’clock. I had two hours to prep for the farmer’s market—just enough time if I got to work right away. I tucked my phone under my chin and grabbed Eli’s tent out of the Porsche, setting it on the porch before I pulled the car into the barn.

  While I was in there, I refilled the food and water in the brooder pens. My new chicks were a month old now and most of them were in the awkward phas
e where they were two-thirds feathers and one-third fluff, their legs too long and their heads too big for their bodies. They still needed a heat lamp at night—I had it on a timer—but it had already shut off for the day so they could get used to the outside temperatures before I introduced them to the big coop in a couple weeks. They were already getting pretty crowded in the brooder, so I might have to move them over even sooner.

  I finished tending the chicks and was about to cover the Porsche with her canvas tarp when I realized that my Suburban was still in town—or maybe at Edison & Sons, if Terry hadn’t been able to fit it in Tambra’s driveway. I checked my phone again. No message from Gary about the car, but there was a new text from Eli.

  “Be right over.”

  He must have been awake when Ruth and I got back, after all. I looked out the open barn door and saw him already striding toward me, looking utterly ridiculous. A blue bathrobe flapped around his legs, and he didn’t seem to be wearing much more than a pair of boxers underneath. Well, barring the white socks he had pulled up nearly to his knees and a pair of work boots with the laces dragging, like he hadn’t had the time to tie them.

  I liked to say that Eli could be a body double for George Clooney, but in this getup, he looked more like a double for George Costanza. I suppressed a giggle and called to him, “Where’s the fire?”

  He held his phone up, pointing to the screen. When he drew closer, I saw it showed a picture of... I tilted my head to the side. What was that? It looked like...

  Boobs.

  Specifically, my boobs, a perfect view down the neck of my shirt, framed by the open zipper of my hoodie. And judging by the name at the top of the screen, I’d accidentally taken the picture and texted it to him while I was moving the camping gear out of the car. Not a butt-dial, but a double-chin dial.

  Mortified, I snatched the phone out of his hands, frantically swiping the message until I could hit “delete.” I handed the phone back to him and said coolly, “That never happened.”