The Hen of the Baskervilles (3 page)

“Good,” I said. “About the conscious part, anyway. Oh, and maybe you could send Horace over when he's finished with the bantam forensics,” I added, before he hung up.

“Now I'll never w-w-win,” the boy was sobbing.

“We don't know that yet,” I said. “We need to put all the pieces of this pumpkin in something.”

The bystanders gazed at the huge mound of pulp and seeds.

“Like what?” one of them asked. “A swimming pool?”

I was calling my tent volunteer. As I heard the ringing through my phone, a trilling musical noise arose from one of the bystanders. A woman in jeans, wearing a t-shirt with the FFV logo of the Future Farmers of Virginia, reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and then looked up to meet my eyes as she said “Hello.”

“We need some containers for the pumpkin,” I told her. “Keep everyone away from it until Vern and Horace are finished. Meanwhile I'll get Randall to deliver some steel drums—I'm sure they have them or can get them over at his construction company. When they arrive, weigh them on whatever you're going to use to weigh the pumpkins, and then get some volunteers to help you load all the pumpkin debris into the drums.”

“Will the judges accept a pumpkin in pieces?” she asked. “Or in a bunch of cans?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “But before we ask them to consider doing so, we need to save every bit of this poor boy's pumpkin. Before something starts eating it.” And another thought hit me. “For that matter, it's also evidence and needs to be collected no matter what the judges decide. So Deputy Vern will be here in a few minutes. He can supervise the collection, and when the police are finished with it, we'll see if we can get the judges to accept it.”

“Okay.” She sounded glum, and appeared to be studying the size of the pumpkin mound with dismay.

“After all, the kid had to work hard enough to grow it,” I said.

“Work hard?” She frowned slightly. “I'd have thought the vine did most of the work.”

“Not with a pumpkin this size,” I said. “They have to start the seeds indoors early so the seedlings can get big by the time the last frost is over. Then they plant them and hand-pollinate them. And once a likely looking pumpkin sets, they have to go around every day plucking all the other blossoms and fruit so the plant puts all its energy into the one pumpkin. And I gather growing a half-ton pumpkin takes at least half a ton of water and fertilizer. And after all that work for months, this happens.”

“Mercy,” she said. “I never knew it was that involved. We'll get every speck up; don't you worry.”

Vern arrived just then, and I turned the case of the pummeled pumpkin over to him. I needed to find Randall and warn him that we were having a rash of problems.

Okay, two was a small rash. But the day was young.

 

Chapter 3

I ducked out of the produce tent and strode rapidly through the fair, tossing off hurried greetings to all the friends I met. I finally spotted Randall over near the front gate, shaking hands with a lanky man in khakis and a navy sports jacket.

“There you are!” Randall was in a jovial mood. “We were just talking about you. This fair wouldn't even be happening if not for Meg. Any real work gets done, she's probably done it.”

The reporter probably thought Randall was flattering me. Randall and I both knew he was only telling the truth. Not that I particularly blamed Randall, who also had a town and a construction company to run.

The reporter and I shook hands and exchanged names and pleasantries.

“So, getting back to my questions,” the reporter said, turning toward Randall. “This isn't just a county fair, then?”

“No, it's a statewide agricultural exposition,” Randall said. “This is our second year.”

“What inspired it?” the reporter asked.

“The possible demise of the Virginia State Fair,” Randall said. “Oh, I know it's not really dead now, but last year when we started planning our first event, the nonprofit that was running the official fair was in bankruptcy, and no one knew if there'd be a fair that fall. And we thought that was a shame, so we organized our own event. And since it wasn't officially the state fair, we decided to call it the ‘Un-fair.'”

The reporter chuckled at that, as most people did.

“And you kept on with your plans even after the state fairgrounds and the right to hold the state fair were sold after all?”

“We did,” Randall said. “The folks who bought the rights to hold the official Virginia State Fair own a bunch of state fairs and other events. They know how to run a nice fair, I'll give 'em that. I enjoy going there. But they were out of state, and a for-profit company, so last year we weren't sure what their event would look like. We decided there was room for another kind of event, locally run, and with a different focus.”

“What kind of focus?” the reporter asked.

“Heritage animals and heirloom crops,” Randall said. “For example, in the chicken tent, we probably have twice as many different breeds of chicken as you'll find at most events. Here, let me show you.”

Damn.

“I'd wait on that if I were you,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Why?” the reporter asked. I didn't like the slightly sharp tone of his voice.

“Because the chickens have been there all night,” I said. “And the farmers are only just trickling in to clean up. You might want to avoid all the livestock barns and tents right now. Everything's supposed to be clean as a whistle—or at least as clean as barnyard animals get—by opening time.” I glanced at my watch. “Two hours from now.”

“Good point,” Randall said. “Let me take you over to the arts and crafts building. No cleanup needed there. Or would you like to get a backstage tour of the event stage?” He dropped the name of the minor Nashville luminary who would be giving nightly concerts there for the run of the fair. I'd never heard of her, but I wasn't much of a country music fan. Randall, who was, assured me she'd go over big, especially with the over-fifty crowd.

Maybe the reporter was a country fan, since he opted for the backstage tour. He and Randall strolled off. I waited till they were out of sight, then called Randall's cell phone.

I was in luck. This time he answered.

“Don't let on it's me,” I said.

“Good to hear from you,” he boomed. “I expect you have some news for me?”

“Someone stole two bantams from the chicken tent last night,” I said. “And someone smashed one of the contenders for biggest pumpkin. No idea yet if it was the same someone.”

There was a pause.

“Good to hear it.” His voice was artificially hearty.

“I take it the reporter is listening.”

“You're right about that.”

“Vern is already working on the case,” I said. “And I suspect Chief Burke will be here soon, and my cousin Horace is doing forensics. Normally I'd say it was overkill doing forensics on what will probably turn out to be misdemeanors, but this could really hurt the fair.”

“I completely agree with you,” Randall said. “Keep up the good work, and call me if you need anything.”

“If it's okay with you, I'm going to have your foreman deliver some steel drums to clean up the pumpkin debris,” I suggested. “There's at least half a ton of it, and maybe if we save it all, the kid who grew it can still compete in the contest. And Vern asked if we could round up a few volunteers to search for the missing chickens.”

“That's a yes,” he said. “Catch you later.”

I made my call to the Shiffley Construction Company and then took a deep breath. What next? Should I go back and check the progress of picking up the pumpkin debris and calming down the kid? Should I call Dad to see how Mr. and Mrs. B. were doing? Should I perhaps go back to the fair office, where I had a database of all registered entrants in my computer, and figure out what their name really was?

I should probably check in all the other tents and barns to see if there were any more thefts or vandalism. And was it too early to call Michael to find out how the boys' breakfast had gone without me? And—

My phone rang.

“Meg, dear.” Mother. “Can you come over to the arts and crafts pavilion?”

“What's up?” I asked.

“We've had an incident,” she said. “In the quilt section.”

“What kind of incident?”

“You'll see, dear.” She hung up.

I swore under my breath. Knowing Mother's penchant for euphemism and understatement, I wasn't sure I wanted to see what she'd call in “incident.” After all, she was in the habit of calling the Civil War “the late unpleasantness.” I didn't quite break into a run, but I wasted no time getting to the arts and crafts barn.

 

Chapter 4

I stepped into the arts and crafts barn and looked around. All seemed quiet at first. To my left were the entrants in the various art categories—the walls and a number of freestanding panels were already nearly filled with paintings, drawings, and photographs, while tables housed sculptures, wood carvings, and ceramics. To my right were the food exhibits—jars of pickles, jams, jellies, apple butter, pumpkin butter, and every other kind of nut and fruit butter imaginable. A bank of glass-doored refrigerators stood ready to hold the homemade dairy butters, yogurts, cheeses, and other perishables, most of which hadn't arrived yet. The delectable scent of fresh baked bread was already wafting from the bakery tables, where loaves and rolls had begun to appear in anticipation of this afternoon's bread competitions, junior division—to be followed on subsequent days by the open bread competition; the junior and open cake and cookie events, junior pies, and on Saturday afternoon, the highly contested open pie event. A fair number of people were delivering foods, arranging the foods that were already there, or just strolling up and down, gazing at the tables and sniffing appreciatively. I made a mental note not to bring the boys here unless they'd been well and recently fed, so they'd be less likely to nibble any of the exhibits.

I threaded my way through all the art panels to the back of the barn, where the entrants in the various fiber arts categories could be found. Now the freestanding panels and tables held examples of knitting, crocheting, tatting, sewing, embroidery, crewelwork, needlepoint, cross-stitch, yarn-making, dyeing, weaving, and, at the back, in a place of honor, the quilt competition. Randall's carpenters had constructed dozens of wooden frames for hanging the entries, and arranged them in aisles, like the bookshelves in a library. A pair of empty frames hung front and center, to be replaced, after the judging, with the grand prize winners in the junior and open categories. I didn't see many people around, so I walked down the center aisle of the display, looking right and left.

In the last side aisle, on the right, I saw a small knot of people, including Mother, gathered around a gaunt, angular woman in faded jeans and a bright turquoise t-shirt. The woman looked ashen, and a couple of tears were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Two of the women were hugging her, one from each side, while Mother was holding both of her hands and patting them as if to soothe her.

“Courage, Rosalie,” Mother said. “Here's Meg now. We'll see what can be done about this.”

“What's wrong?” I asked. I was glancing around to see if any of the nearby quilts had been damaged. They all looked fine. But we were standing near a big, empty space. Not the only empty space in the room—quilters weren't required to have their entries hung until this afternoon. Still, not a good sign.

“Someone took it.” Rosalie's voice was thin and quavering. “My beautiful Baltimore Album quilt.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called Vern.

“Vern, we need someone over here ASAP,” I said. “Someone has stolen a quilt from the arts and crafts building.”

“Dammit,” Vern said. “Not another one. I'll be right over. And yes, I'll send Horace when he's finished with everything else.”

“And Dad,” I added. “We might need Dad.”

I saw Mother nodding approvingly.

“He took the Baskervilles down to the hospital,” Vern said.

“Baskervilles? That's the chicken people, then?” The name didn't sound right to me.

“Mr. and Mrs. B,” Vern said. “Whatever their name is. But Aida's got EMT training. I'll ask her to come over to check out the quilt lady.”

“The police are on their way,” I told Rosalie, in my softest voice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I came in to make sure it was hanging properly,” she said. “And to make sure they fixed the lights so it would show well. And it was gone.”

She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink slightly, as if she wanted to curl up in a fetal position. The women at her side kept a tight hold.

I glanced around. Rosalie's slot was in the back corner of the barn. The rear entrance was hidden behind the last set of quilt frames, but it was there, and her quilt was about as close to the back door as you could get. Our sneak thief and vandal definitely had a pattern.

“What kind of quilt was it?” I asked Mother.

“A Baltimore Album, as Rosalie said.” Mother seemed to think that explained everything. Maybe it did to a quilter. And fortunately, one of the women hovering around her recognized my look of puzzlement and enlightened me.

“Not a quilter, I take it,” she said. “Baltimore Album is a particular style of quilt, usually done with a white background and a design, often quite elaborate, appliquéd on. I can show you an example.”

She led me a little farther down the aisle and pointed to a quilt. It was beautiful, intricate, and to my untutored eye, looked like a great deal more work than the average quilt.

“Of course Rosalie's was larger—full size, I think—and much, much more complicated. She's won national ribbons.”