The Hen of the Baskervilles (34 page)

“A winery Genette put out of business,” I said. “It's coming back?”

“The other winemakers seem to have a plan for that,” Denton said. “As far as I could tell, it seems to involve several dozen of them agreeing not to sue her for millions if she sells the vineyard back to its rightful owner for peanuts.”

“Mother will be delighted.” And I made a silent promise that once Morot got on his feet again, I'd buy a case of Fickle Wind's most expensive wine, as a silent apology for suspecting him. “But getting back to your mission—you didn't find any sign of the stolen chickens?”

“If you mean the Russian Orloffs, no,” Denton said. “Nor the Sumatrans.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don't mean to be insulting—before I started working with the fair, I couldn't have told one breed of chicken from another.”

“I still can't,” Denton admitted. “So since I knew sooner or later someone would be asking me that very question, I took the precaution of bringing along a poultry expert when I checked the Ashville property out. Friend of mine who judges chickens at the North Carolina state fair.”

“Well done,” the chief said.

Denton flipped to a new page in his notebook.

“We didn't find any of the chickens stolen here at the fair,” he said. “But according to my friend we found Minorcas, Cochins, Ko Shamos, Silkies, Malays, Frizzles, Burmese, Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots, Rumpless Tufted Araucanas, and Transylvanian Naked Neck chickens.”

“Oh, Horace will be so excited, I said. “About the naked chickens, I mean. He's been reading about them.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” Denton looked up from his notebook and shook his head. “Not a one of them I'd want to give barnyard space to. Most peculiar collection of poultry I've ever seen in my life. Peculiar and in some cases downright ugly. But it got my friend real excited. And then real mad—seems he figured out some of the birds belonged to a friend of his.”

“He recognized the chickens?” The chief sounded skeptical.

“No, he recognized some kind of distinctive leg band the friend puts on his chickens,” Denton said. “Guess Genette figured she'd hidden the stolen ones well enough—out of state and all—that she didn't need to worry about prying the ID bands off. Or maybe she didn't notice they were there. According to the caretaker, she doesn't actually go near the chickens—just drops by every week or two to survey her domain and gloat a bit. And the telltale ID bands were on a bunch of chickens with big, fluffy tufts of feathers all over their feet.”

“The Sablepoots,” I said. “I know someone who had some Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots stolen—by Genette, he thought, although he couldn't prove it. Mr. Stapleton,” I added, seeing the chief's frown. “I gave you his card, remember?”

“Yes, that's his name,” Denton said. “The guy with the distinctive ID bands.”

“And you can find him in the wine tent,” I added.

The chief nodded.

“I'll check with him,” the chief said. “And we should let the Virginia State Police know as soon as possible about her other property—they'll need to liaise with their counterparts in North Carolina.”

“And while all this is fascinating,” I said. “And we're grateful to you for uncovering it, we still don't know what Genette did with the Orloffs and Sumatrans.”

“Genette didn't do anything with them,” said a new voice.

We all looked up to see Vern Shiffley standing in the doorway.

“Do you know who did?” the chief asked.

Instead of answering, Vern turned to someone outside.

“Bring those on in here,” he said.

Two more deputies came in, each carrying a small cage with a pair of chickens in it.

“That's them!” I said. “The Sumatrans and the Orloffs.”

“Where did you find them?” the chief asked.

“I went along when the state police searched Plunkett's farm,” Vern said. “Found these in his barn. I studied up on what the missing chickens looked like, so I was pretty sure these were the ones. We also found a sledgehammer splattered with pumpkin juice nearby, and a pair of pumpkin-stained overalls dumped in his laundry room. I think we caught us a pumpkin-smashing, quilt-spoiling chicken thief!”

“The state police okay with you bringing these back to the owners?” the chief asked. “They don't need them as evidence?”

“They're okay with returning the chickens after their owners have identified them,” Vern said. “A trooper just went over to fetch the owners. We thought we'd do the official ID in your office. And here they come.”

Vern stepped aside, making way for Mr. Beamish and the black-clad Bonnevilles. A tall, stern-looking state trooper brought up the rear.

“It's Anton! And Anna!” Mrs. Bonneville threw her arms around the cage containing the Orloffs.

“I never thought I'd see this day,” Mr. Bonneville said. He put one arm around his wife and, with the other hand, fumbled for his pocket handkerchief.

Anna and Anton clucked excitedly. I couldn't really tell if they were happy to see their owners again or just overexcited by having someone throw her arms around their cage, but at least they didn't sound upset.

“Yes.” Mr. Beamish's manner was more quiet, but in his own way he seemed just as moved. “Those are my Sumatrans. I can't thank you enough.”

He was looking at me.

“Vern found them,” I said.

“Me and the state police,” Vern said. “But we never would have known where to look if Meg hadn't collared that lowlife Plunkett.”

The door opened again and Randall stepped in.

“I've found her,” he said into his phone. “Meg, I need a minute of your time.”

“We're a little busy here,” the chief said. “Is it important?”

“Very.” Randall turned to me. “Are you in favor of terminating our agreement with Clay County and hosting the entire Un-fair in Caerphilly County?”

“For next year?” I asked. “Absolutely.”

“And the rest of this year, too,” Randall said. “I've been on the phone with all the other Un-fair board members already, and if you're in favor, it's unanimous. I've got people standing by to start the move as soon as you cast your vote and the chief gives the okay.”

“Sounds great to me,” I said.

“Provided you leave the area around the murder scene untouched, I see no reason to delay the move,” the chief said.

“It's a go,” Randall said into the phone and hung up. “Between the Shiffley Construction Company and the Shiffley Moving Company, we've got a pretty good crew. And all the Midway people are up for it. And we've got a lot of exhibitor volunteers. Especially the chicken farmers and winemakers. But it's a big job. Chief, can you release Meg to handle a few little things for me? I'd like to get over and supervise.”

“Also fine with me,” the chief said.

“What kind of things?” I was always suspicious when Randall tried to delegate “a few little things.”

“Well, for one thing, we need to organize a shuttle service from our overflow parking areas,” Randall said.

“Overflow parking areas?” I echoed. “We've never even filled the parking areas we've got.”

“We will today,” Randall said. “People started lining up outside the ticket office hours ago, and that online ticket sale thing you had us set up went wild this morning. Parking lot's close to full already, so I've arranged overflow at a couple of farms along the road from town. And you know my cousin Norbert—the one who runs all those charter busses to Atlantic City? I've got him bringing over every bus and van he can round up. But someone needs to pull it all together.”

“Roger.” I was already scribbling in my notebook. “I guess this answers my question about whether the murders and chicken thefts are going to ruin the fair.”

“They might have if you hadn't solved them all so quickly and dramatically,” Randall said. “Which reminds me—I thought you might like to represent the fair management at a couple of ribbon presentations. Biggest pumpkin, for example. After all the time I spent convincing the judges to declare that poor kid's smashed pumpkin eligible, I want someone from management there to make sure they don't change their minds at the last minute.”

“How'd the kid do, anyway?” I asked.

“Came in fifth,” Randall said. “He thinks he might have made it as high as third if Plunkett hadn't smashed his pumpkin. And he's determined to come back even stronger next year.”

“Good,” I said. “We want him going home energized and determined, not demoralized. I'll be there.”

“Oh, and someone from the Guinness Book of Records might be calling you,” Randall went on. “There's no shame losing to this year's first-place winner. It's well over a ton and might be a contender for the new world record. They're going to try to send someone by to verify it today or tomorrow.”

“Awesome.” I scribbled more notes. “Any word on the quilt cleanup?”

“I hear Daphne worked her usual magic,” Randall said. “The judging's this afternoon, so we'll find out soon enough if it did the trick. We might want to have someone show up there as well.”

“Speaking of judging, we need to get Anton and Anna ready, now that they're back.” Mr. Bonneville picked up the cage containing the Orloffs. “The bantam event is at ten.”

Mrs. Bonneville walked over and took both my hands in hers.

“Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

With that, they left.

“But you can start getting an idea whenever you want,” Mr. Beamish said. “Just tell me when you want your Sumatrans delivered. Eggs, chicks, young birds—you name it.”

With that he left.

“You're going into the chicken business?” the chief asked.

“Business, no,” I said. “We're going to expand our hobby farming to include a few chickens.”

He nodded.

“Dangerous, having this fair in our backyard,” he said. “Minerva's got her heart set on some chickens. She likes the idea of having fresh eggs for the grandkids.”

“We can build you a coop if you want, Chief,” Randall said. “Or a pen for the llama, if you're going ahead with that.”

“Llama?” The chief sounded puzzled.

“Meg.” Randall turned to me. “I'll send a few men over next week to make sure the coops and pens you already have are ready for your chickens. It's the least we can do after all you've done for the fair. I'm off to supervise—I'll let you know if I think of anything else that needs doing.”

He strolled out.

“We should get back to it,” Vern said. “We have a lead on a possible witness to the theft of the Sumatrans.”

“And we've put a rush on processing the evidence you've already delivered to the crime lab,” the state trooper added to the chief.

“Keep me posted,” the chief said.

Vern and the trooper headed for the door.

As they left, they let someone else in.

“Grand Central Station,” the chief muttered.

I was starting to agree, but then realized I was glad to see this new arrival.

“Molly!” I said. “Did you hear the news?”

“I'm so glad you're all right,” she said, giving me a fierce hug.

“And that we found out who really killed Brett,” I said.

Molly looked over at the chief.

“Yes,” he said. “We're satisfied that you had nothing to do with your late husband's murder. I'm sorry for any additional stress our investigation caused at what I'm sure was already a difficult time.”

“You were doing your job,” she said. “And I can understand why you suspected me.”

“So what's the prognosis with your farm?” I asked.

“I think one way or another I'll manage to keep it,” she said. “Thanks in no small part to you and your family.”

“Not sure what help I was,” I said. “It's not as if you need a divorce lawyer anymore.”

“No, but the guy your mother recommended also does family property law, and he can represent me if anyone tries to claim a part of the farm.”

“Like Brett's family,” I suggested.

“Precisely,” she said. “And I bet they will. And my lawyer says they won't have a leg to stand on.”

“Of course, paying the lawyer to get rid of them will take money,” I said.

“And paying the attorney I had to hire when I was arrested,” she said. “Not to mention settling Brett's debts. Most of which were incurred while he was living the high life with Genette, so it doesn't seem quite fair that I should be the one to pay them, but trying to fight it would take more money than just paying them. Between one thing and another, I'm going to have a lot of expenses in the near future, so thank goodness your brother came up with such a good idea.”

“Rob had a good idea?” I said. “I mean, he has lots of them, but most of them involve shooting aliens or driving race cars through lava, or whatever else people do in his company's video games.”

“Apparently he's been learning a lot about the financial world while running his company,” Molly said.

I nodded, and tried not to look alarmed. The last time Rob had taken an interest in the financial side of Mutant Wizards, his computer gaming company, his treasurer had nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to undo his meddling.

“It all started because your cousin Rose Noire sold all the cheese I'd brought,” she said. “So I had nothing left to sell—what a great problem to have! And she said some people were asking if they could place an order to be shipped later, which sounded good to me, but we didn't want to take more orders than I could fill in the next few weeks. So while I was figuring out how much cheese I had at home and how much I could have ready within the next month or so, your brother was there, and that was when he had his idea.”