The Hen of the Baskervilles (20 page)

“Only practical if we got ones that are good layers,” I said. “Which these aren't. I asked.”

“So people keep these for … um … roasting or whatever?” Michael glanced over at the cages and looked uncomfortable, as if the chickens could tell we were talking about their suitability for human consumption. “Because I'm not sure I'd really like eating something that's been like a pet. I know it's completely citified of me, but…”

He shrugged.

“I feel the same way,” I said. “And my vision of myself as a chicken farmer does not include going out into the barnyard with a little ax. And in case you're worried about these chickens, don't be—according to the owners, no one eats Sumatrans. They're more feather than meat.”

“Then what are they good for?” Michael asked. “I don't mean that in a philosophical sense, because obviously they add beauty to the world, and have the same right to their place in the sun as any other creature, but farmers tend not to keep animals around unless they're either tasty or useful. If Sumatrans aren't tasty, what do people do with them?”

“Show them,” I said. “And hold cockfights with them in benighted parts of the world where that's still considered a sport. But here, they are pampered pets and show creatures. Same with those.”

I pointed to one of the Yokohamas across the aisle.

“They don't lay eggs at all?” Michael asked.

“No, not that one,” a nearby farmer said. “That's a rooster.”

“I meant the breed,” Michael said. “Do they not lay eggs at all?”

“If they didn't, we'd have a hard time keeping the breed going.” The farmer chuckled at his own joke. “But with a heavy layer, like a Rhode Island Red, you get four, five, even six eggs a week. With one of these ornamental birds, you might get one egg, and it'd be small.”

A sudden thought struck me.

“I'm not sure we want heavy layers,” I said. “I mean, do we really want to live entirely on scrambled eggs and omelets?”

“You'd need a few hundred of these to do that,” the farmer said. “You thinking of adding a few chickens to your spread?”

“Only thinking,” I said. “But if we did, we probably wouldn't want heavy layers. We'd need chickens that are friendly enough not to peck the boys. And stoic enough that they won't freak every time they see Spike. Chickens who can thrive under free-range conditions, because we're not going to shut them up in a coop all day. And look pretty wandering around the place without a lot of grooming. If they also lay enough eggs to make us more or less self-sufficient in the scrambled egg department, even better. But I don't want to be sneaking around leaving baskets of foundling eggs on people's doorsteps.”

“Lot of women sell the eggs for pin money,” the farmer suggested.

Pin money?

“Meg's a blacksmith,” Michael said. “She doesn't have time to fool with selling eggs. And you probably don't have time to research chickens, either,” he added to me. “I'll figure out which ones fit your specifications and you can make the final decision.”

Final decision? How had we progressed so fast from me coveting a few ornamental fowl to setting up a free-range chicken flock in the backyard? Had Michael, too, been coveting chickens? Or was he trying to be very accommodating to my whims to pave the way for new extravagances in the llama department?

I was turning to follow him and sort this out when my phone rang.

“Ms. Langslow?” It was the chief. “Any chance you could drop by the fair office for a couple of minutes?”

I heard Horace's voice in the background.

“It's impossible!” he was shouting. “I'm through with it.”

At least I thought it was Horace. But I couldn't remember the last time he'd actually lost his temper.

“Is this about the information I just gave you?” I asked. “About Paul Morot?”

“No, something else entirely,” the chief said. “We could use some help dealing with a situation.”

I was opening my mouth to recite the long list of other things I ought to be doing when I noticed a stirring in the crowd. Mr. and Mrs. Bonneville were back, still wearing their lugubrious black clothing. And they seemed to have picked up another reporter.

“I'm already on my way,” I said. “Let's talk more about chickens later,” I added to Michael. “Don't let the boys steal any of those chicks. And be careful next door—there are some equally adorable ducklings.”

As I approached the fair office, I noticed with approval that Randall's workmen had already installed the new gate to the Midway, about thirty feet farther down the split rail. All view of the old gate was blocked by a giant billboard that proclaimed
MIDWAY!
with a big arrow pointing toward the new gate. The pathway to the new gate cut through the field where we'd been keeping the cantankerous guard goats. They still occupied the far half of the field, behind a new stretch of fence, but in the near half I could see that Randall had arranged some exhibits for the tourists to look at on their way to the Midway. The American Jack Donkeys now occupied one part of the field. A stately trio of American Cream draft horses grazed in the middle part. And the workmen had nearly finished setting up the llama demonstration tent in the last part. I could see the spinning wheel and the loom where some of the llama owners demonstrated the use of llama wool, and two of the llamas were already in the pen behind the tent, peering over the fence to watch the workmen.

I made a mental note to compliment Randall on his ideas, and stepped into the fair office.

Inside, Vern was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and an anxious expression on his face, watching Horace pace up and down the narrow open space in the center of the trailer, at a clip that would have given him a good chance of winning a walking race. The chief was sitting at my desk, frowning slightly.

Both of them looked relieved at my arrival.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I can't work with that man around!” Horace's normally genial round face was scowling.

“Why? What's Vern done?” I suspected it wasn't Vern he was mad at, but decided to play dumb.

“Not Vern,” Horace snapped. “Plunkett.”

“Glad you're not mad at Vern or the chief,” I said.

“Actually, I'm afraid he is,” the chief said.

“Yeah,” Vern said. “'Cause we just told him he had to work with Plunkett. On account of our agreement with Sheriff Dingle.”

“Can't we complain to the sheriff?” Horace asked.

The chief shook his head wearily.

“I wouldn't,” Vern said.

“He needs to know his deputy is a complete idiot,” Horace went on. “How in the world did he get his job?”

“Nepotism,” Vern said. “His mother was a Dingle, and the sheriff is his second cousin, once removed. So there's no use complaining about him. Just work around him, and try to keep him from doing too much damage.”

“How?” Horace asked. “I must have given him a dozen pairs of gloves, and he keeps taking them off and losing them. Which wouldn't matter if he could keep his hands to himself, but every time I turn around he's picked something up bare-handed and started wandering around with it. I'm not sure I have a single bit of evidence he hasn't contaminated. We'll be lucky if any of it makes it into a trial.”

“Yeah, he's an idiot,” Vern said. “What do you expect from Clay County? But maybe that's a blessing in disguise.”

“A blessing?” Horace spluttered.

“Yeah.” Vern glanced over at me. “'Cause it's sure looking pretty grim for the widow. Time was she'd have walked on killing a low-down cheating skunk like him.”

“Time was,” the chief said. “But these days ‘he needed killing' isn't a valid defense.”

“Pity,” Vern said. “But that's what I mean by a blessing. Maybe, annoying as he is, Plunkett is accidentally doing us a service.”

“Maybe it's not accidental at all,” I suggested. “Maybe he's not as stupid as he looks, and he's screwing everything up out of some kind of crazy backwoods chivalry.”

“Could be,” Vern said, and I could tell he didn't entirely disapprove of the notion.

“I'm not sure Plunkett has the brains to be chivalrous,” Horace said. “And intentional or not, what if he's compromising evidence that would clear Ms. Riordan if I actually got to process it before it was contaminated?”

“Either way, her odds of getting off are good,” Vern said.

“And after she got off because all the evidence was tainted, what then?” I asked. “She'd probably have to sell her farm to pay her legal fees, and even if she managed to hang on to it, who's going to want to buy cheese from a woman they think killed her husband and got off on a technicality?”

“I don't see why not,” Vern said. “It's not like she poisoned him.”

“Vern,” the chief began.

“I give up,” Horace muttered.

“Think how it looks for us,” I went on. “For Caerphilly. Nobody will remember that it was a Clay County deputy who screwed up the case. They'll just think we're a bunch of hicks who don't know any better.”

I could see that didn't set well with Vern.

“You've got a point there,” he said. “Horace, next time you see Plunkett doing anything wrong, you tell me and I'll have it out with him.”

Horace nodded glumly.

“Hey, and at least one thing went right,” Vern said. “The jerk was too lazy to do much work when we were searching the van. Imagine what would have happened if he'd found the gun. ‘Oooh, lookie! A gun! You think it works? Bang!'”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Horace didn't come right out and laugh, but he smiled and appeared a lot less stressed.

“Look, I get your point,” Vern said. “I'll do what I can to keep him out of your hair and away from the evidence.”

“And if Plunkett proves completely uncontrollable, I will have a word with Sheriff Dingle,” the chief said. “The terms of our agreement oblige us to include a representative from Clay County in our investigation. They do not oblige us to include Deputy Plunkett.”

“Thanks,” Horace said.

“I'd have done it already,” the chief said. “But I'm afraid anyone they would send as a replacement could be even worse.”

“So I gather Deputy Plunkett would not be your first pick for any job openings that might come up in the Caerphilly Sheriff's Department,” I said.

“He would not.” The chief frowned and looked at Vern. “And I surely do hope you're wrong about him wanting to apply.”

“He's been asking me about the pay and benefits,” Vern said. “They don't get much of either over there. You know, I think maybe that's why he's driving Horace so crazy. He's trying to look like a good candidate for the job.”

“He thinks the chief is looking for annoyingness and incompetence?” Horace sounded irate again.

“He probably just thinks he's showing initiative,” the chief said.

“Hustle,” Vern put in.

“He's an idiot,” Horace said. “But are you going to have a job opening coming up? Because—”

“Speak of the devil,” I interrupted. From my place by the door I could see through one of the trailer's two windows. And I'd just spotted a familiar hulking form shambling toward the trailer. “Here comes Plunkett.”

“Great,” Horace muttered.

The door slammed open and Plunkett strolled inside.

“Hey there!” he said.

“Good afternoon,” the chief said.

“Afternoon,” Vern echoed. I nodded with as cheerful a face as I could muster, and Horace just tightened his lips.

Either Plunkett didn't notice the tepidness of his reception or he didn't care.

“Hey, Vern,” Plunkett said. “Randall was looking for you.”

Vern nodded and slipped out the door.

“So, remind me,” Plunkett said to the rest of us. “What kind of car was it the dead guy drove?”

“The deceased drove a red Mazda MX-5,” Horace said.

“Little bitty fire-engine red convertible, right?” Plunkett asked. “I think we found it. Want me to bring it in? I can get someone to hot wire it and—”

“No!” we all three shouted in unison.

“Suit yourself.” Plunkett crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, beaming as if he'd done something to be proud of.

“You see,” Horace said.

“Where is the car?” the chief asked.

“Over in the woods, other side of the Midway,” Plunkett said. “There's an old access road hunters sometimes use. It's parked on that.”

“Take Deputy Shiffley and Officer Hollingsworth there, if you please,” the chief said.

“Sure thing.” Plunkett levered himself off the wall, popped out the trailer door, and set off at a fast pace.

“Wait!” Horace called. Luckily his kit was nearby, but Plunkett already had a good lead on him. Horace was half running to catch up.

The chief and I followed them out.

“Vern!” The chief waved his arms and, when Vern saw him, pointed at Plunkett and Horace. Vern nodded, but he didn't immediately give chase.

The chief pulled out his cell phone.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “I'm going with them. If Plunkett tries to pull anything before Vern gets there, I can always threaten him again with moving the Midway.”

The chief hesitated for a few moments, and then probably came to the same conclusion I had reached about Horace's ability to control Plunkett.

“I'd appreciate it,” he said. “I'd go myself, but some importunate attorney is demanding to see me. He won't say why. Did you recommend a lawyer named Twickenham to Ms. Riordan?”

“No, I gave her one of the usual locals. Never heard of a Twickenham.”

“I'd better see what he wants, then. Thanks for helping us placate Horace.”