“And what if he really tries to butter up the chief by giving him a llama?” I asked.
“No idea,” Vern said. “But it should be fun to watch. Meanwhile, I need to run.”
I stayed through the award ceremony. Harpo, to no one’s surprise, won first place. Zeppo actually came in fifth, which shows how unruly most of the other llamas had been. We led Happy and Zippy, as the boys insisted on calling them, back to the sheep barn in triumph.
“I have to run over to the Caerphilly Inn,” I told Michael. “Fair business.”
“Can you stop off at the chicken tent on your way?” he asked. “To see the Sumatrans and Welsummers in person?”
He seemed so keen that I agreed. So we all four trooped over to the chicken tent. Some of the farmers had set up an incubator, and we arrived just in time for the boys to watch some Leghorn chicks hatching.
“Mommy, can we have them?” Josh asked.
“No, I want big chickens,” Jamie said, pointing at an enormous Brahma rooster.
Michael disappeared while the boys and I were watching the chicks, and then reappeared with two farmers, each carrying a chicken. One was a soft, fluffy black-and-copper Welsummer hen, the other a glossy black Sumatran rooster.
“Mine,” Jamie said, pointing to the Sumatran.
“Good taste,” the Sumatran’s owner said, with a laugh.
“Want that one,” Josh said. For once, they weren’t fighting for the same thing—he was pointing to the Welsummer.
“Either one’s a pretty good choice for a hobby farmer,” the Welsummer’s owner said.
“What do you think?” Michael asked.
What did I think? I thought these guys would have a lot more luck selling chicks to people like Michael and me if they could learn not to use the phrase “hobby farmer.” Couldn’t he have said “small-scale farmer” or “backyard farmer” or something?
I stared back and forth between the two birds, as if pondering our choices, while I sorted through my negative reactions to the hobby farmer thing. Michael and I had five llamas, a vegetable garden fortified behind eight-foot deer fencing, and a fifty-tree semi-organic orchard. We weren’t trying to grow everything we ate. We weren’t selling anything. We just wanted to raise a little fresh produce, and maybe let the boys enjoy a life that was more connected than most to nature and history. Michael was a tenured professor at Caerphilly College, in line to become head of the drama department when the current chair retired. I had a career as a blacksmith that was not only lucrative and satisfying but allowed me the flexibility I needed now that we had a family. We didn’t have time to run a real farm. The orchard and the vegetable garden were an overgrown version of a typical suburban backyard garden patch, and the llamas were just for fun. We were the very definition of hobby farmers.
So why did the term sting so badly?
Probably something I should get used to. Since moving to our converted farmhouse, I’d come to realize how embattled traditional family farms were. The giant agricultural corporations drove prices down to a level small farmers couldn’t match, and developers were always waiting to snatch up choice tracts of land. Maybe hobby farmers were the least offensive alternative. People who bought a few acres—or even a whole lot of acres—not to farm but so they could live in an idyllic rural setting, and then began planting a few fruit trees, and raising a few sheep or cows. Or llamas. I’d never had the feeling that any of the nearby farmers resented Michael and me for buying our house with its few acres. Or Mother and Dad, who had bought the much larger farm next door. In fact, since my parents had bought the farm to save it from developers and rented much of the land to a nearby working farmer at a very low rate, most of the county’s farmers heartily approved of Dad. And at least we weren’t the kind of incomers who moved into a farm community and then began complaining about the smell of manure and honking furiously whenever we had to slow down behind a tractor.
Maybe I should work on thinking of “hobby farmer” as a badge of honor.
“I like them both,” I finally said aloud. “And I’m a little frazzled right now for decision making. Can I mull it over for a little while and let you know later?”
Both farmers nodded. They didn’t seem disappointed.
“It’s a responsibility,” one said. “Raising any of God’s creatures. Best not to take in on lightly.”
They went back to their booths, and Michael and I strolled out of the tent.
“If you prefer one, let me know which,” he said. “I’ll take the heat—tell them you left the decision to me and it was my choice.”
“I might do that,” I said. “Although right now I don’t know which one I like better. Right now, I covet them both.”
“Let’s get some of each then.”
“If we get both, we’ll need to keep them separate,” I said. “Or we won’t have Welsummers and Sumatrans, we’ll have Welmatrans and Sumsummers.”
“I figured we could keep the Sumatrans in our barn yard, and the Welsummers at the far end of our yard, right across the fence from Rose Noire’s herb garden. She’s keen on the idea—apparently they would eat up bugs and serve as a kind of organic pest control for her crops. And she also likes the idea of organic eggs, and organic chicken manure for the herbs.”
Clearly he’d been thinking about this.
“Want chickens, Mommy,” Josh said.
“Want black chickens,” Jamie said.
“Brown chickens,” Josh countered.
Michael and I simultaneously recognized the signs of impending physical combat and each grabbed a twin.
“Apparently we’re getting chickens,” I said. “Black chickens and brown chickens.”
The boys cheered loudly.
“But don’t tell anyone yet.”
“Okay,” Jamie said.
“Why not?” Josh asked.
“Because if we tell people which chickens we want, someone else might buy the ones we want before we can.”
They both got that, and nodded solemnly.
“I’ll start negotiating on price and quantity and delivery date and whatever,” Michael said.
I left him to it and set out for my car. On my way, I ran into the Bonnevilles, sitting on one of the hay bales that lined the wide walkways, both to provide impromptu seating and to help steer the flow of traffic. Mrs. Bonneville was picking at a small salad. Mr. Bonneville was eating a chili dog. Apparently sorrow hadn’t taken away his appetite. He tried to frown after every bite and wait a decent interval between bites, but clearly he was counting the seconds until he could take his next bite.
“How are you?” I said as I passed them. I meant it as a greeting, not a question.
“Doing the best we can to bear up,” Mr. Bonneville said. Mrs. Bonneville burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but my sympathy for them was definitely wearing thin.
“We heard you were in the chicken tent.” Mrs. Bonneville’s voice had the nasal, stopped-up sound of someone who had been crying recently. “Looking at—chickens!”
“Yes, I was.” I couldn’t quite understand her frown at hearing that. Did she think that no one else should be buying or selling chickens while theirs were still missing? Or was she simply miffed that we were looking at other people’s chickens?
“People were looking at our chickens when we first got here,” she said.
Nostalgia? Or was she suddenly suspicious of everyone who showed an interest in acquiring heirloom chickens—including Michael and me, who weren’t even interested in Russian Orloffs?
“Yes,” I said. “The chief is taking a very keen interest in everyone who showed an interest in your chickens.”
That didn’t seem to mollify them.
“In fact—” I looked around as if making sure no one was near, and took a step closer. “I’m on my way to the Caerphilly Inn to see one of the suspects now.”
“Do you mean—that woman?”
“Genette Sedgewick,” I said. “On
fair business, of course, not police. But while I’m there, I intend to keep a sharp lookout for any signs that she might be hiding any chickens there.”
Where did that come from, I wondered? I tried to imagine anyone sneaking live chickens past the inn’s overzealous staff. The first—and last—time I’d taken Spike there we were followed around the whole time by a staff member carrying a whisk broom, a dustpan, and a little spray can of something called Pee-Off! I took the hint and the Small Evil One never returned. The inn’s entire staff would probably have a collective conniption fit at the very idea of someone bringing in a live chicken.
But the Bonnevilles seemed to like the idea of my proposed search. When I left them, they were both wearing little conspiratorial smiles, and Mrs. Bonneville was attacking her salad with a zest that permitted Mr. Bonneville to finish off his chili dog.
As I drove to the inn, I shoved them out of my mind. I was making happier plans. We could move one of the sheds from our backyard out to the pasture where Rose Noire grew her herbs. The yard was already fenced in to keep Spike from roaming—did we need to subdivide it to protect the chickens from Spike? Or maybe to protect Spike from the chickens—the Sumatran rooster looked pretty fierce. And how soon would we be getting our chickens?
Our chickens. I found I liked the sound of that.
I got almost the whole way to the inn without thinking about why I was going there, which made for a much more pleasant ride than if I’d fretted the whole way about having to deal with Genette.
Chapter 27
As I trudged from my car to the front door of the inn, my good mood vanished and I began to feel put upon. Dealing with Genette was bad enough, but there was also the always difficult staff of the Caerphilly Inn. The doorman wasn’t bad—it was his job to open the door and bow deeply to anyone who showed up, even unprepossessing people in blue jeans and a Caerphilly College t-shirt with chocolate ice cream stains on it. And he’d been there a while and knew me, so his welcome was almost cordial.
“May we help you, madam?” the desk clerk said. Unlike the doorman, he was new. And not local. Desk clerks never were, here at the inn. Apparently management had decided that they had to import staff to achieve the right blend of elegance and chilly hauteur. I had to fight the urge to look myself over to see if I had suddenly sprouted a crop of facial warts, or if maybe I was trailing a long piece of toilet paper from one shoe.
“I’m here to see Genette Sedgewick,” I said.
The change in the desk clerk’s expression was almost imperceptible, but I could tell her name had not improved his opinion of me.
“On official Un-fair business,” I added. “Ms. Sedgewick is leaving the fair early, and I’m here representing fair management, to arrange for the removal and transportation of her booth and its contents.”
“So Mrs. Sedgewick will be leaving us?” He sounded eager. “Of course, we’re always sorry to see our guests leave,” he added, though I suspected Genette came as close to an exception as anyone ever could. His tone was considerably warmer. Was it because he realized I was a representative of the fair, which was currently paying for half a dozen out-of-town dignitaries to stay here at the inn? Or was it Genette’s departure that made him so cheerful?
“You’d have to ask Chief Burke that,” I said. “No one connected with the murder is being allowed to leave just yet.”
“Ah.” He hid his disappointment reasonably well. “So unfortunate about poor Mr. Riordan.”
“Was he staying here, too?” Not that I had been planning to pry, but he had opened the subject.
“He wasn’t a registered guest,” the desk clerk said. He stopped just short of saying, “Thank goodness!”
“But as a friend of Ms. Sedgewick, he might have come to visit her.”
“Yes,” the desk clerk said. “Although we would have no real way of knowing,” he added, as if afraid I’d start questioning him on Brett’s movements. “Ms. Sedgewick is staying in one of the cottages. Very secluded. Guests in the cottages often find it more convenient to go straight from the parking lot to the cottage, without coming through the lobby. Particularly those who are … less accustomed to the amenities of valet parking.”
So much for finding useful evidence from the desk clerk. Although he’d probably gone farther than he should in saying Genette was in one of the cottages. There were only three, each named after a Virginia-born president—Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. Presumably if the inn ever expanded, Monroe, Harrison, Tyler, Taylor, and Wilson could expect their own cottages, too, but for now finding Genette would only require knocking on three doors.
“I’m sure the chief understood why you can’t give him any information about Mr. Riordan,” I continued. Actually, from the look on his face, I suspected the chief hadn’t been all that understanding. “I’ll go see Ms. Sedgewick. You said the Jefferson Cottage, right? I know the way.”
“The Madison,” the desk clerk said quickly. “But Ms. Sedgewick is not in her cottage at the moment. Madam will find her in the restaurant.”
His voice dripped disapproval. I’d heard rumors that occasionally, when guests did not meet their standards, the inn banned them from the restaurant and ordered them to confine themselves to room service. Was Genette about to suffer this humiliation?
I thanked him and crossed the lobby to the entrance of the restaurant. On those few occasions when Michael and I had splurged to eat at the inn’s restaurant, the maître d’ invariably kept us waiting well past our reservation time. And eyed our best clothes as if they only just barely met his standards. Luckily he wasn’t there at the moment, so I could invade his domain uninvited.
I threaded my way through the tables in the cavernous and dimly lit room. My feet sank into the thick, soft carpet and seemed to make little swishing noises as they emerged. Thanks to the heavy drapes, lush upholstery, and fabric-covered walls, those little swishes were the only noise I heard until I drew near the table where an elegant gray-haired waiter was murmuring the specials into the waiting ears of the three wine judges.
I paused by the table to exchange muted greetings with the judges, and then continued on. Three tables farther down, at the very back of the restaurant, in a corner almost completely lost in the shadows, I found Genette.
She was dressed in black, or at least dark colors. It was hard to tell in the near blackness. And she was wearing oversized dark glasses.
“Ms. Sedgewick?”
She lifted her head, peered up at me, then removed the sunglasses and peered some more. Her face looked tear streaked, and she was squinting as if she ought to be wearing corrective lenses.
“Meg Langslow,” I explained. “From the fair.”
“Yeah. Siddown.” Her voice was overloud and startling in the dim hush. As I took a seat opposite her I could see the waiter and the wine judges casting curious glances our way.
Genette fumbled blindly among the various items on the table until she found a highball glass. She picked it up with a shaky hand, gulped down the remaining inch or so of whatever liquid it contained, and set it down carelessly on the table, clinking against the silverware.
Genette was soused.
“Waiter,” she called in the overloud voice of the very, very inebriated. The waiter arrived at our table with surprising speed, as if eager not to have her call again.
“’Nother Scotch,” she said. “Nosso many rocks.”
The waiter frowned and glanced at me.
“Nothing, thanks,” I said.
He blinked disapprovingly, as if he’d really been expecting me to say, “No, I think she’s had enough.” I smiled back, declining to do his dirty work for him. He murmured something and slid noiselessly away.
“Ms. Sedgewick, it’s about your booth,” I said.
“I tol’ you,” she said. “Pack it all up.”
“We did.”
“Break much?”
“I arranged to have it packed by a reputable professional moving company,” I said. “In the unlikely
event that they break anything, their fee includes insurance. I came to ask what to do with it all.”
She stared back, uncomprehending.
“Do you have a truck into which they should load your stuff?” I spoke as slowly and distinctly as I could. “Or would you like for me to arrange to have it all delivered to your farm?”
“Who cares?” she said. “Not the truck. No one to drive it. Send it all. Whatever.”
It took forever, but I got her signature on the paperwork from the Shiffley Moving Company, and then on a very large check. The waiter was nowhere to be found, which was probably just as well. I suspected another whiskey would send Genette into oblivion, and I was grateful to the waiter for postponing his arrival until I’d finished with the signatures. Of course, since she was drunk as the proverbial skunk, I wasn’t sure any of the paperwork would hold up to legal challenge. I’d let Randall figure out how to deal with that.
I tucked the check and the contract into my purse and pondered what to do next. Common sense suggested that I should hurry back to the fair. But it might be a lot easier to get information out of her in her current inebriated condition. I was trying to figure out how to ask a few leading questions—something slightly more subtle than “Did you have an argument with Paul Morot? Or maybe with Brett himself?”—when a figure loomed up beside us.
“’Bout time,” Genette said. But it wasn’t the waiter returning with her refill. It was a young woman—not much more than a girl, really—in jeans and a t-shirt. Clearly the maître d’ wasn’t guarding the entrance to his cave very well today—normally denim was a sure way to get turned away at the door.
“Hussy!” the young woman shouted. “Murderer!”
Genette just stared back at her.
“You couldn’t stand that he was leaving you for me,” the young woman said. “You had to get rid of him.”
Genette put down her drink, took off her sunglasses, and blinked, clearly startled.
“Wha’?” she asked.
“He wanted to be with me and the baby!” the young woman shrieked. “He was going to marry me as soon as he was free! And you couldn’t stand it, could you?”
The Hen of the Baskervilles Page 19
