“How can I know what you have unless you let me see it? Give it to me, and then we can talk about when and what else we might . . .” He let his voice trail off in what he hoped was a tantalizing way.
Later, he was ashamed to think that the girl—who couldn’t be much more than nineteen—was taken in by his half promise. She brought one hand slowly out from behind her back and held out a folded piece of blue stationery, the very same blue, he thought, as the letter he had seen Delia reading on the afternoon of Mr. Simpson’s visit.
“Here ’tis,” she said, handing it to him. There was a soft smile on her lips, and as he took it, she seized his hand, her fingers gripping his. She leaned toward him, her voice low. “So now can we talk about what else—and when?”
Her perfume was almost stifling. He returned the pressure of her fingers, then dropped her hand and stepped back. “This isn’t a good time, I’m afraid.” He pocketed the letter.
“I’ll have it back, then,” she said, her mouth tightening in reproach.
He pretended not to notice. “We’ll talk later,” he said, and once again added, “my dear.” Hearing the hollowness of it, he was ashamed but could not take it back. “It’s late, and my wife is expecting me back at the house. I don’t want her to think that we—”
She pouted. “It’s late because you was so long at Annie Duncan’s house—again.” Her eyes were on his, and her startling directness was as sharp as a slap to his face.
“I was paying the stable rent,” he said.
“You an’ me, sir, we know all about Annie, don’t we?” Greta’s voice was sly, half-mocking, and Adam felt chilled. How much did she know? How could she?
She lifted her chin. “But Annie Duncan’s been a friend to me and I won’t say nothin’ against her. It’s your wife I’ve got my eye on.” Her mouth set crookedly. “She sure rules the roost in your house, don’t she? Gets everything her little heart wants and then some. Thinks she can boss everybody around, make ’em do all she wants done, just by snappin’ her fingers. Orders me to do the wash, scrub the floor, clean up after her sick in the morning, cook the meals, wash the dishes, go out and collect them seeds she wants.” She peered at him through the gathering darkness, her voice tightening. “But maybe not no more. Not after you read what’s in that letter—what never should oughtta been written to another man’s wife.”
Thinking just how dangerous she might be, Adam flinched against the acid venom in the girl’s flood of vindictive words. He had the letter, yes—but she knew what was in it. How would she use that knowledge? And what might she do when he, or Delia, didn’t give her what she wanted?
He knew he had to find a way to deal with her, but he had no idea of what that might be. He was suddenly bone-weary and quite aware that he was a coward. Whatever he had to do could wait until tomorrow.
“I’ll wish you good night, then,” he said stiffly. And in a lower, half-guilty voice, added again, “My dear Greta.”
That pleased her. Her face lightened and she leaned toward him. “Let’s have a little kiss, then,” she said. “To seal our bargain.” She closed her eyes and puckered her lips.
A bargain with the devil, he thought. He bent toward her, brushed his lips against her forehead, and stepped back quickly, out of her reach. “Go home now, Greta,” he said.
She gave him a hooded look. “You read that letter,” she commanded. She pulled her shawl up over her head, turned, and left.
He stood for a moment uncertainly, the letter in his hand, apprehension in his heart. An honorable man might return it, unread, to the person to whom it belonged—his wife. But Adam already knew that he was not an honorable man. And besides, Greta had read it. To deal with the girl, he had to know what she knew.
Full dark had fallen since he had come into the stable, and he fumbled his way to the lantern he knew to be hanging on a hook by the door. He scratched a match against his thumbnail and lit it.
By its flickering light, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Chapter Thirteen
Queen Anne’s lace is a favorite of people who like to forage for edible foods. As a biennial, this wild ancestor of the garden carrot produces leaves and roots in the first year; in the second year, it produces flowers and seeds. You can mince the fresh leaves and add them to salad or soups. The roots are best harvested in the spring or fall of the first year when they are tender; second-year roots become woody. The peeled flower stalk has a carroty flavor and may be eaten raw or cooked. The flower itself makes a flavorful jelly or a pretty garnish. The ground seeds are spicy. However, pregnant women should avoid eating this plant; the root and seeds can produce uterine contractions and cause a miscarriage.
And, foragers, please beware! You must take extra care to be sure that what you are harvesting is wild carrot—not its deadly lookalike, poison hemlock. Crush a few leaves. If they smell like fresh carrot, you’re safe. If they have a foul odor, leave it alone. This is serious stuff, folks, so pay attention. Mistakes with this plant have cost lives.
“Anne’s Flower”
China Bayles
Pecan Springs Enterprise
The telephone beside the bed was ringing. I climbed toward it out of a dream where I was lying flat on my back, smothered under a mound of musty old newspapers, antique photographs, and vintage clothing and furs—which turned out to be Winchester, stretched out beside me, nose to my feet, his tail in my face. Caitie’s cat, Mr. P, was curled up cozily on the other side. I opened one eye wide enough to see the phone, fumbled for the receiver, and lifted it.
“H’lo,” I mumbled between thick lips. “Who’z it?”
But I was hearing the dial tone and it wasn’t the phone that was ringing, anyway. It was the alarm clock, again. I had set it a half hour early, so I would have time to swing past the fairground and tend to Caitie’s chickens before I went to the shop.
“Rats,” I muttered, and killed the alarm. Mr. P jumped down from the bed and went to take care of his morning business. Winchester stirred, sighed, decided that there was nothing in the world that required a basset’s attention at this hour, and went back to sleep.
I fumbled into my clothes, splashed water on my face, combed my hair, and went downstairs to rustle up some breakfast. I had fed the cat and was finishing my breakfast burrito when Winchester made his way downstairs—backward, as is his habit, and slowly, one step at a time, feeling his way with his hind paws. Bassets live life close to the ground and stairs seem to make Winnie feel acrophobic. He was obviously hoping that somebody had already put something in his bowl, and when he saw that it was empty, he collapsed with a despairing sigh, belly and tail flat on the floor, front and rear legs splayed, head down, nose touching his empty bowl. You can be in a hurry, but no matter. When a basset goes flat, no force on earth can budge him until he decides he’s ready to get up.
A cup of strong coffee (yes, coffee is an herb, too) had already set the world more or less right for me. While Winchester’s world is never altogether right, he brightened considerably when I filled his bowl, and even more when I offered him the last bite of my burrito. But when I began to load my laptop and the carton of photographs and clippings into the car, he once again became despondent. He hates facing a long, boring day alone, with nothing to do but nap in McQuaid’s leather recliner and nobody to talk to except that stupid cat.
The sky was overcast as I drove into town, with that pearly half- light that blesses the landscape in the cool hour just after dawn. The summer sun wasn’t scorching everything yet, the air was still sweet and clean, and the morning traffic on Limekiln Road was fairly reasonable. As I drove, I thought about the photographs I had studied the night before and the story they seemed to tell—a tale of two families, although I still wasn’t sure I had sorted them correctly. I wondered what Lori would tell me about the christening dress in the photo I had texted her. And I wondered, half-apprehensively, what the ghost had
left on my bulletin board this morning—and then rolled my eyes at my apprehension.
Assumes facts not in evidence, Your Honor.
Sustained. There had to be a rational explanation for the inexplicable goings-on. I just hadn’t found it yet. I needed to dig a little deeper. Now, in the clear light of day, I was doubly glad I hadn’t mentioned any of this ghost nonsense to McQuaid. He would never let me live it down.
I was so deep in thought that I missed the road to the fairgrounds and had to make a U-turn and go back. It was still early enough that the day’s activities hadn’t gotten under way and the parking lot was almost empty. I was able to park right behind the poultry tent, next to Tom Banner’s burly Dodge RAM pickup. The truck is Aggie maroon (because Tom is a Texas A&M grad and maroon is the Aggies’ team color), with a gun rack and shotgun in the rear window. At first I was surprised to see the truck, but then I wasn’t: as security coordinator for the fair, Tom was probably clocking plenty of overtime.
The check-in booth outside the poultry tent was unmanned, except by a team of hungry crows cleaning up a spill of popcorn, and the carnival’s hurdy-gurdy music hadn’t started up yet, although somewhere, somebody was hammering something, loudly. Somebody else was frying breakfast bacon, and the mouthwatering scent of it was sharp on the morning air. The flaps on the canvas poultry tent were closed, and I raised one to duck inside. It would have been totally dark in the tent, but a thin string of overhead bulbs cast puddles of pallid light across the cages. Sensing that a new day was dawning, the birds were beginning to wake up, and the air was filled with the subdued dissonance of poultry voices—chickens, ducks, geese, guineas, with a couple of peacocks adding an occasional screech.
Caitie’s birds were at the far end of Section One, past a long row of chickens that were stretching their wings and wondering where they were and what they were doing there. But when I finally reached Caitie’s two cages, I was stopped, almost in mid-stride.
Dixie Chick was settled in her cage, preening her yellow-gold feathers and clucking contentedly to herself.
The door of Extra Crispy’s cage was open. The cage was empty. Caitie’s rooster was gone. Just . . . gone.
The black rooster—Blackheart—was gone, too.
My heart did a flip-flop. Incredulously, I stared at the two empty cages, then turned and looked wildly around, searching. But that was ridiculous. Chickens don’t unlock their cages and take off for a night on the town.
No. Somebody had wanted those birds—or more likely, that rare rooster. Somebody had stolen Blackheart, and in the process, noticed Caitie’s Cubalaya (he’s an unusually classy-looking bird) and thought he might be worth money, too. I swung around, looking for other empty cages, and saw none. It appeared that the chicken thief had made off with just two birds—the best two. Caitie would be devastated, and it was a sure bet that Blackheart’s owner would be pretty upset, too. After all, that rooster had the potential to produce tens of thousands of dollars a year, doing what he liked to do best.
I stood there for a moment, trying to think. Then I remembered Tom Banner’s truck. I took out my cell phone, pulled up the recent calls, and clicked on Tom’s number, praying for him to pick up fast. He did.
“Yo, China. What’s up?”
“I’m here at the fairgrounds, Tom. In the poultry tent. Where are you? Can you get over here, fast? There’s something you need to see.”
“Something—”
“Chicken theft,” I said tersely. As I clicked off, I noticed a drift of red-orange breast feathers among the cedar-shaving mulch that covered the tent floor. Caitie’s rooster had not been taken without a fight. He had struggled bravely against his kidnapper. And then something else caught my eye, a square of shiny plastic on the shadowy ground under the cages, half hidden under the mulch. I picked it up by one corner, carefully, and was examining it when Tom appeared. He was in uniform with his badge and sidearm, so I knew he was on the job.
He stood beside me, staring at the empty cages. “Damn,” he muttered. “Hell’s bells.” A Delta Force veteran has a more colorful vocabulary, I’m sure. He must have been editing it for me.
“There’s no nighttime security in these tents?” I asked.
But that was a dumb question. I already knew the answer. What’s more, I had read the fine print in the Exhibitor Agreement that I had cosigned with Caitie (a minor, of course), in which we released the management of the Adams County Fair from any and all known damages, injuries, and losses from theft, fire, water, wind, storm, acts of a third party, or for any other cause known to man. Which pretty much covers it. If Caitie and the owner of that valuable black rooster wanted to be reimbursed for their loss, they wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on. For Caitie, of course, that wasn’t the issue. She loved Extra Crispy with all her heart. Right now, she was dealing with one big threat: Kevin’s cancer. I hated the thought that she might have to face another.
“We do our best,” Tom said, sounding resigned. “We hire guys to patrol at night, but they can’t be everywhere. Some of the other tents—the livestock tents, for instance—get more attention, since the animals are more valuable.” He pulled down his mouth. “Guess we didn’t count on somebody exhibiting a rooster that costs as much as a registered heifer.”
I handed him the item I’d found, using just the tips of my fingers, in case the thief might have left prints. “I found this under the cages,” I said. “I’m guessing that Caitie’s rooster gave the guy a hard time.” I bent over and picked up a few of the feathers scattered through the mulch. “I hope he wasn’t too badly damaged—the rooster, I mean.” I hoped the thief got a rooster claw in his eye. He had it coming to him.
“An exhibitor’s badge!” Tom exclaimed. “Looks like this jerk is such an amateur that he left us his business card.” He read the name on the clip-on badge. “Dana Gibbons. Exhibitor 20245. Must have dropped this when the rooster objected to being abducted. Damn lucky, huh, China? We’ve got a name—I can get the address from the fair’s database.”
“Hang on a sec.” I pursed my lips. “I’m not saying it’s not evidential, but that badge could have been dropped anytime yesterday.” Even the dumbest defense lawyer would pop up with that claim in a New York minute, unless— And then I thought of something. “However, we may have a witness.”
Tom frowned. “A witness?”
“Up there.” I pointed at Caitie’s chicken cam, mounted about six feet up on the nearest tent pole, aimed down at the cages.
“Shit,” Tom said reverently. “Forgot all about that. I never thought, when we put it up there—”
“Neither did I,” I replied. “But I’m glad it’s there. With any luck, we may get a glimpse of Dana Gibbons, whoever she is.”
“She?” Tom said, startled. “I thought Dana was a guy’s name.”
“She, he, whoever.” I headed for the camera. “Maybe this will tell us.” A minute or two later, I had taken it down and retrieved the thumb drive. But Tom and Caitie hadn’t tested the camera when they put it up. It’s finicky sometimes. Maybe it hadn’t been working.
Tom frowned. “We’re going to need a computer to read that.”
“My laptop is in my car. And let’s take this.” I reached under the cages for the carrier we’d brought the chickens in.
“Why the carrier?” Tom asked.
“Because I want to get those roosters back,” I said. “And they don’t automatically perch on your shoulder, like a trained parrot.” Actually, Extra Crispy would, but I didn’t know about Blackheart. If we managed to retrieve the roosters, I didn’t want to be the one to lose a twenty-five-hundred-dollar bird.
“Sorry, wasn’t thinking,” Tom acknowledged ruefully. “Come on, let’s go. I’d sure as hell like to catch this guy before that reporter friend of yours gets wind of this story.”
I raised my eyebrows, but I understood his concern. A theft like this could get the f
air a very public black eye. We went out to the parking lot and I opened the laptop on the hood of my Toyota, where we could both get a good look. I held my breath for the few moments it took to boot the machine and bring up the thumb drive. I was relieved when a surprisingly clear color image of Caitie’s two cages appeared, with Blackheart’s cage just visible to the left. We could see Jessica and me, and Caitie running off with Sharon, and Tom leaving, then Jessica and me leaving. And so it went all day: the motion-sensor image turned on as people walked past the cages or when the birds themselves moved, eating, drinking, preening themselves, or stretching their wings. It turned off when there was no movement.
Tom and Caitie had installed the camera early the previous morning. The tent had been closed for the night at seven p.m., so the camera had recorded some ten hours of movement. I fast-forwarded through it, watching as the day ended, the tent was closed, the overhead lights dimmed (but didn’t go out), and the birds settled down for the night. I kept on fast-forwarding, until just after midnight a blurry, bulky figure appeared out of the darkness. I froze the image, and we peered at it.
“Can’t see the face under the bill of the cap,” Tom said, squinting. “From the hair, though, looks like a woman.”
“Doesn’t look like a woman to me,” I said. “See those broad shoulders? Could be a long-haired guy.” But what I could clearly see was that the person was wearing a black T-shirt with white lettering: This Ain’t My First Rodeo. I noticed that an exhibitor’s badge was clipped to the shirt—important detail. I glanced at the cages. The roosters appeared to be snoozing.
The thief had come prepared. Carrying a small plastic crate with a wire door, Ain’t My First Rodeo stopped in front of Blackheart’s cage, unlatched the door, and swiftly reached inside. In one motion, he grabbed the sleeping bird by the feet, dragged him out, thrust him into the carrier, and fastened the door. He was turning to leave when he paused in front of Extra Crispy’s cage, bent over for a closer look, and then decided to take him, too.
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