by Hillary Avis
Lucky Cluck Farm. My farm.
I turned down the freshly graveled driveway, paid for by my recent pullet-egg sales, that ran through the apple orchard I’d inherited when I bought the place. The trees were just coming into bloom, with more of their pink-and-white blossoms unfurling every day. This year’s wet spring promised a bumper apple crop.
The driveway led to the shabby yellow cottage I called home. Just beyond it stood an aging barn that I used as a workshop, garage, and occasional chicken-quarantine unit. And across the driveway from the house was my pride and joy, the heart of Lucky Cluck Farm—my glorious chicken coop. It was so big and deluxe that Eli called it a chicken palace. I’d built it in the fall with help from my friends, and now it was paying dividends in the form of happy, healthy chickens and a cluckload of eggs every day.
It was a good thing, too, because the Rx Café’s order for tomorrow was so big that I’d need every egg to fill it. I went straight from the car to the coop to collect any that had been laid while I was in town. My flock chattered with excitement when I approached and a mass of hens swarmed toward the wire at the end of the run, hoping that I’d throw a handful of treats.
“Not this time, girls,” I said, grabbing a wire basket from a hook on the side of the coop. I opened the door that allowed me access to the back of the nest boxes, and a wave of satisfaction washed over me when I saw that nearly a dozen more eggs had been laid.
Ten of them were the smooth, brown eggs I expected from my flock, but one was a surprising light aqua. I’d planned my operation to include only one type of hen, a super-productive commercial laying breed, but the hatchery had sent me an extra handful of “packing-peanut” chicks along with my layers, so I had several oddballs. This included a few so-called Easter Eggers that laid colorful eggs. I wouldn’t include the blue egg in the Rx Café’s order, but it was surprisingly fun to find colored eggs in the mix.
“Thank you!” I said out of habit, even though I knew the chickens didn’t care. I really was thankful. My flock was young, but they were already productive layers and I was depending on the income to keep the farm afloat. My retirement plan rested on the tiny shoulders of my feathered friends.
Did chickens even have shoulders?
I grinned at the thought as I watched them eagerly press against the wire. No matter how much I fed them, they always acted like they were starving. “I’ll be back later with snacks,” I promised, and gingerly carried the basket of eggs into the house. I left them on the counter and shucked my damp cargo pants in favor of some dry overalls before I tackled the order.
I had a few things to do before the eggs were ready for delivery. Oregon law required that I wash, label, and store the eggs in a particular way to sell to restaurants and stores. While I kept eggs for my own consumption on the counter, unwashed, because the natural “bloom” on the surface kept them from spoiling, I thoroughly washed the eggs I sold in a bleach solution and kept in a second fridge on the back porch to hold them. Right now, that fridge was full to bursting, just in time for Easter brunch at the Rx Café.
I set to work and within a couple of hours, I’d washed the new eggs, labeled the cartons, and assembled the entire order. I gingerly carried a cooler of cartons out to the car and drove achingly slowly through the Curves so I wouldn’t risk bashing the whole order against the sides of the Suburban and destroying all my—and my hens’—hard work. These eggs might as well be gold.
Speaking of which, the golden egg from this morning was still in my pants pocket on the floor of the bathroom, I remembered as I steered the car carefully through town, on high alert in case Scramblers were still out looking for the last remaining eggs. I made a mental note to take the egg out before it went through the wash and destroyed the prize code.
When I pulled up in front of the Rx Café, I was shocked to see that the tiny restaurant was empty of customers. I’d expected it would be packed, given the Scramble crowd and the fact that it was just after noon on a Saturday, prime time for the little café’s breakfast and lunch menu.
I took half the eggs—all I could carry in one trip—through the front door and saw only one table was full. Preston Gilford had papers spread out and was on the phone with someone while he sipped his coffee. I had a sinking feeling that I knew what he was talking about—he was Pastor Cal’s campaign manager and was probably under pressure to cancel or reschedule the week’s appearances in light of Amelia’s death.
I made my way to the counter and a petite, olive-skinned woman with cropped black hair motioned for me to come behind the counter into the open kitchen. Sara, the owner and chef here at the Rx Café. She wore a black-and-white striped apron over her black linen button-down shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal a proliferation of tattoos on both arms. She took the eggs from me and set them on the counter.
“Lunch rush is over already?” I asked.
“If there was one.” Sara grimaced. “There’s a rumor floating around that Amelia Goodbody got food poisoning at breakfast. It’s been deserted in here since word got out that she died. They think she got salmonella from the eggs.”
“Did she even eat eggs?” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping she’d ordered the biscuits and gravy.
Sara nodded. “Three, scrambled. I remember because she specifically said not to bring any potatoes or toast because she’s doing some low-carb diet. All she had was eggs.”
Of course. My eggs. I had a bad feeling that this problem wasn’t just going to go away.
“Hopefully they’ll get over it,” I said, feeling a little sick myself. “Even if she ate bad eggs, salmonella takes hours to make you sick. You don’t just keel over. Everyone knows that.”
“Do they, though?” Sara motioned to the deserted café. “It doesn’t seem like they know that to me.”
“I’ll go grab the rest of your order,” I said, eager for a breath of fresh air outside, and started to head toward the door.
Sara caught my arm. “No, don’t. I’m sorry, Leona—I have to cancel the order. The only way I’m going to make back today’s earnings is if I totally change the brunch menu tomorrow. It’s going to be all waffles and pancakes.”
“Those take eggs, too!” I protested, panic rising in my chest. “Waffles use a ton of eggs.”
“I already placed a new order with the grocery store.” She bit her lower lip apologetically.
“You’re paying retail for eggs?! I’m charging you half of wholesale, Sara—you’re going to destroy your profit margins if you switch to grocery store eggs!” My voice rose until even Preston took notice, setting down his phone and rising to his feet.
“Are we having a problem, ladies?” He ran a hand over his hair—he was definitely the kind of guy who got a trim every three weeks—and straightened the lapels of his light gray suit with a habitual movement as he waited for an answer.
“No problem here!” Sara chirped, bustling past me to refill his now-empty coffee cup. “Can I get you anything else?”
He shook his head and sat back down. Punching a button on the screen of his phone, he resumed his conversation. “Sorry about that,” he said into the phone. “I just needed to take care of something. I assure you, the pastor will deliver his sermon tomorrow. Amelia would have wanted it that way. Everyone should come out and show their support.”
Sara slid the carafe back onto the warmer and rejoined me. “It’s just temporary, until this whole thing blows over. In a couple weeks, customers will trickle back in. Then I’ll be able to order from you again and it’ll be no harm, no foul.”
It’d be no harm, no fowl if my farm went under, but there was nothing I could do about that. I sighed. “I understand. Hopefully once Amelia’s cause of death is determined, the Honeytree rumor mill will have new grist and they’ll leave us out of it!”
“Hear, hear,” Sara said, nodding.
I picked up the eggs from the counter and slowly walked out of the café. As I passed Preston, I noticed he’d ended his call. I paus
ed by his table. “I’m so sorry about Amelia,” I said. I swallowed. I wanted to tell him that I’d done my best for her, that I’d closed her eyes and stayed with her, but I couldn’t figure out a way to do it without it sounding weird. “Give my condolences to the pastor.”
Preston flashed me a sad smile. “Why don’t you join us for Easter service tomorrow and tell him yourself?”
“I’ll think about it,” I lied through my teeth on the way out the door.
I had solid plans to sleep in tomorrow, and my closet had solid plans to never hold a dress or a pair of pantyhose again, let alone an Easter bonnet.
Chapter 4
I sat in the Suburban for a few minutes bumping my forehead gently against the steering wheel. What in the world was I going to do with the dozens of eggs I had in the back? Maybe the diner would take them. When I was little, the owner, Ed Wynwood, had bought his eggs from my dad. Maybe the old Landers reputation was still intact at the Greasy Spoon even though it was now run by Ed’s son, Ed Junior.
I pulled into the parking lot of the tiny brick building on the edge of town. A giant, spoon-shaped sign on top of the roof was bigger than the building itself. Its bright blue front door still had “Good Eats” painted on it in spindly white letters just as it always had, but someone had definitely repainted it over the years. Though I hadn’t been a regular visitor since I moved back to Honeytree, the Greasy Spoon was still known for its cheap coffee that was a decent substitute for battery acid and the prime rib special on Saturday night.
Inside, I spotted Ed Junior working the flat top, his back turned to the door. He was a burly man with a buzzcut, a remnant of his service in Afghanistan. He flipped a row of pancakes, the back of his bright blue T-shirt stained dark with sweat from his efforts, before he looked up and saw me. He raised his spatula in greeting and used it to motion to the single free table.
“I’d say sit anywhere, but you don’t have many options,” he said. “Jillian will be right with you to get your order.” A harried young woman wearing the same blue T-shirt and a server’s apron nodded to me from across the tiny restaurant where she was dropping off an armful of plates. The Greasy Spoon only had ten or twelve tables, but in contrast with the tables at the Rx Café, they were all packed, barring the tiny two-person table wedged between the coffee station and a chainsaw sculpture of a bear.
I went to take a seat at the one of the three counter stools instead, brushing past a table of other diners who quieted as I walked by. Word was already out that I was the one who found Amelia’s body, I guessed. Their conversation picked back up once I sat down at the counter.
Jillian appeared at my elbow and flipped the coffee cup in front of me right-side-up. “Regular or decaf?”
“No thanks. I just wanted to talk to Ed,” I said. Ed grunted and turned back to the grill, deftly chopping up an order of corned beef hash with the hedge of his spatula. A mouthwatering aroma hit my nostrils and my stomach rumbled. “You got a minute?”
Ed scooped the hash onto a plate and handed it to Jillian. “Sure do, for paying customers.” He gave me a pointed look.
“Decaf,” I said to Jillian, who smiled.
“I’ll be right back with your coffee,” she promised, and wheeled around to deliver the hash to a table by the window. I was impressed with her calm in the face of the crowded restaurant, given that she was responsible for everything but the cooking. She couldn’t be more than nineteen and she had more poise than someone two or three times her age. Me, I realized. She had more poise than me.
“My niece,” Ed said gruffly, following my gaze. “She’s a hard worker. We’re really slammed today.”
“I see that. Any chance you’re running low on eggs? I have a little egg farm and I’ve got a few dozen extra.” That was an understatement. Ed squinted at me skeptically, his spatula in mid-air, so I played my trump card. “Your dad used to buy eggs from my dad. I’m Leona Landers—Davis now, but Landers was my maiden name.”
“You licensed with the state?” he asked. I nodded. “I guess I could use a few more. Give me five dozen.”
Well, five dozen was better than nothing. I jumped up just as Jillian returned with a carafe to fill my coffee mug. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for that as soon as I get back,” I assured her, and bounded out to the parking lot before Ed could change his mind.
When I returned, balancing two flats of eggs, the mood in the busy little restaurant had shifted. All the chattering diners were quiet, their eyes on me as I made my way to the counter. Ed set down his spatula and leaned on the counter, his Basset-hound face serious. Jillian avoided my gaze and darted off to clear a table’s dirty dishes. The clatter of the plates echoed in the silence.
“I don’t think I’ll need those eggs after all,” Ed said slowly.
I felt my cheeks flush. Someone had clued him in on what had happened this morning. I tried to keep my voice steady. “These eggs are fresh as they can be, Ed. I just collected them today. I’ll even throw in an extra dozen for the trouble.”
“I can’t have my customers getting sick.”
“You know as well as I do that food poisoning doesn’t work like that!” I said hotly, blinking back the tears that welled up. “Amelia might have eaten my eggs, but she didn’t drop dead an hour later because of them!”
I heard quiet gasps around me. Even though they’d all been talking about her death—and probably speculating on my involvement—somehow hearing the words come out of my mouth was shocking. What a bunch of hypocrites.
Ed grimaced sympathetically. “I’m sorry—but I just can’t take the chance.”
“Come on,” Jillian said softly beside me, touching my shoulder lightly. “I’ll walk you out.”
I knew she was trying to save me from further humiliation, this woman young enough to be my daughter. Heck, maybe my granddaughter if I’d come from a different kind of family. I followed her out, nodding thanks as she held the door for me. She tailed me out to my car.
“I don’t think any place in town is going to take those,” she observed, nodding to the eggs in my hands. Her eyes widened when I opened the back and she saw how many more flats of eggs were in the cooler. I stowed the two flats I carried and turned back to her.
“You can see my dilemma,” I said drily.
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Listen. If you’ve got the cold storage, hang on to them for a few days. It’ll be a lot easier to sell them once the hubbub has died down and people are eating eggs again. By next week, everybody will have forgotten that they’re afraid of salmonella poisoning and will be back to two eggs over easy, white toast, ’browns.”
“So you believe me?” I searched her face to see if she was teasing me, but her wide hazel eyes were frank and sympathetic.
“I do. I think you’re right—there’s no way Amelia Goodbody died of food poisoning an hour after breakfast. But once you say the word ‘food poisoning’ in a restaurant, suddenly everyone has stomach cramps. Just bide your time.”
“Bide my time,” I repeated.
Jillian nodded and tilted her head as she looked at me. “And stop throwing tantrums in public,” she added with a grin.
“Did Eli Ramirez tell you to say that?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Came up with it myself. I better get back inside. The customers are revolting.” She grinned at her own joke and left me in the parking lot.
I shook my head. Here I was with a car full of eggs that nobody wanted to eat, taking advice from a teenager. But I guess even teenagers are right sometimes. These eggs would be fine in the fridge for weeks. Soon enough, Amelia’s death would be explained and my eggs would be exonerated. Then I’d have plenty of eager customers. In fact, I might even sell more eggs from the pent-up demand.
Satisfied, I headed home and unloaded the eggs back into their special fridge on the back porch. I’d just finished the task and gone inside to make myself a very late lunch when I got a call from Ruth.
“You won’t believe what’s goin
g on in town,” she said. I heard the hum of the big hair dryer in her salon in the background, where one of her clients was probably swaddled and reading a magazine.
“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I will. Everyone’s talking about how Amelia died because she ate my eggs for breakfast. The Rx canceled my order,” I said, my voice cracking like an eggshell.
“Well, there’s that.” She paused.
There’s that? What else was there? “Spit it out, Ruth!”
“You know Aaron?”
I racked my brain, trying to think who she was referring to.
Ruth made a frustrated noise. “Aaron Alpin. The paramedic who gave Amelia CPR?”
I vaguely remembered the pair of first responders. The woman had been kind to me, but the man? I couldn’t even conjure up his face, just the top of his head as he leaned over Amelia’s body. An involuntary shudder ran through me as I remembered the way she looked there in her pretty blue dress, staring sightless at the sky.
“Leona?”
I jerked to attention, remembering Ruth on the other end of the line. “Sure, the paramedic. What about him?”
“He’s sick. Really sick. Sweating, dizzy.”
I gasped. “That flowered raincoat lady—she said Amelia had those symptoms at breakfast this morning!”
“Tammy Jenson, yeah. I do her hair. I was thinking the same thing,” Ruth said. “Eli took a report from her while I was there, so he knows, too. I talked to him about it when I went to ask him about the ambulance that tore down Main Street. That’s when he told me that they took Aaron to the hospital in Pear Grove.”
“So Aaron caught whatever she had when he gave her CPR? Some kind of germ?” I frowned. It’d only been about six hours since I found Amelia’s body. That wasn’t enough time for him to get sick if she had a contagious disease. The only thing that worked that fast was...ugh, food poisoning.
“Not a germ, Leona. Eli thinks”—she lowered her voice—“Eli thinks she might have been poisoned.”
