She looked at the clock. She had time, if she hurried. But where could she get eggs? The stores were closed for the holiday, everybody was at the game, including Ellie. But not Bitsy Parsons, she realized. Members of the Revelation Congregation didn't celebrate holidays. Maybe she could call Bitsy and ask her to get a dozen eggs cooking. They'd probably be almost done by the time she got there. It was worth a try, she thought, consulting the phone book. But when she dialed, there was no answer.
No matter, she decided. Bitsy was probably outside tending to her little flower and egg stand. She'd leave a message. It was worth a try, anyway, she decided, packing up the trays of undressed potato salad. If worse came to worst, she could serve one tray plain while she cooked up the eggs in the home ec room at the school and dressed the second tray.
She was not going to get frantic about this, she told herself as she headed over to Bitsy's. It was only potato salad. It wasn't a life and death situation. And the drive to Bitsy's was beautiful, taking her along Shore Road with its incredible ocean views. Bitsy had certainly lucked out when she came into possession of the family property. It was perched on a rocky bluff high above the water and she had been heard to joke that on a clear day she could see straight to England. She couldn't, of course, but on certain crystal-clear days it seemed a distinct possibility.
Lucy took a deep breath of the ozone-scented air when she got out of the car, then leaned back in and honked the horn.
“Coming, coming!” called Bitsy, hurrying out of the house and drying her hands on a dish towel. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Lucy.
“Did you get my message?” asked Lucy, running towards her.
Bitsy stepped back. “Message?”
“On your answering machine,” said Lucy, impatiently.
“No. I didn't notice,” said Bitsy, blinking nervously.
“Well, I need eggs and I need 'em fast. Any chance you could hard-boil a dozen for me, while I wait?”
Bitsy looked puzzled. “Are you really here for eggs, Lucy Stone?”
“Of course,” said Lucy, growing frustrated at Bitsy's dallying. “Why do you think I came all the way out here on the Fourth of July?” Then Lucy remembered that Bitsy was reputed to have a crush on Calvin Pratt. Could he possibly be paying her a call? Is that why Bitsy seemed so nervous? “Listen,” said Lucy, “I know all about . . .”
“I'll get the water started,” said Bitsy, cutting her off. “You go on and get the eggs.”
That was all Lucy had to hear, she was off and running for the hen house. She yanked the door open, startling a few chickens who rushed out the little door for the safety of the run. Only one or two stubbornly broody hens remained on their nests and Lucy decided she would avoid them. There were plenty of eggs in the other nesting boxes. One on the bottom, in fact, seemed to have nearly a dozen. She bent down, not looking up when she heard Bitsy enter.
“Are you finding enough?” asked Bitsy.
Lucy turned to answer, but never had a chance to speak. She was out like a light before she knew what hit her.
Chapter Twenty-three
L
ucy didn't want to wake up, so she kept her eyes screwed tight shut. She had a pounding headache and if she could only go back to sleep she wouldn't have to deal with it. Or the pain in her shoulders and arms. The arm she was lying on was asleep and if she moved it, if she rolled over onto her other side, she might be able to get back to sleep. But she couldn't move her arms. That's when she realized she was tied up.
Eyes wide open, she discovered she was lying in the sawdust litter on the floor of Bitsy's chicken house. The chickens didn't seem to mind this strange creature in their midst; one was perching on her foot. Lucy shook her foot as well as she could, considering a rope was neatly looped around both ankles and dislodged the bird, who ruffled its feathers in protest before hopping up onto a perch. The occasional clucks of the chickens had an oddly soothing effect, but Lucy didn't want to be soothed. She needed to get out of there before whoever did this to her came back to finish the job.
Who had done it? Had Bitsy conked her on the head and tied her up? It seemed impossible. Bitsy was a little homebody who loved her chickens. She was a faithful member of the Revelation Congregation, a sect that Lucy did not necessarily agree with on doctrinal points but which held its members to the highest standards of conduct. Members didn't smoke, drink, dance or play cards, but they apparently did conk people on the head and tie them up. Lucy couldn't believe it. Just thinking about it made her headache worse.
She had to get out of here and figure out what was going on. Maybe it wasn't Bitsy who had tied her up; maybe it was Calvin or Wesley, or some maniacal stranger who might also have attacked Bitsy. Who might even be doing awful things to Bitsy at this very moment. And who might be saving her for last.
Lucy struggled against the ropes, straining against them in hopes of loosening the knots. She couldn't tie a knot to save her soul, not one that would actually hold against persistent pressure, and she hoped whoever had trussed her up like this was similarly challenged. It hurt her sore muscles to tense them and her efforts to twist loose from the ropes around her wrists seemed only to have the opposite effect of tightening them, and rubbing her skin raw. She let out a huge sigh of frustration and realized her mistake when a cloud of sawdust rose and settled back on her face, causing her to sneeze furiously. She knew she had to get control of herself, so she concentrated on her breathing and gradually her heart stopped racing and the sneezing was replaced with persistently running eyes and nose she could do nothing about.
When she heard the door opening her heart began pounding with fear, a reaction that didn't subside when she recognized Bitsy, holding an evil little hatchet. It was so sharp that the edge gleamed, despite the deepening gloom. How long had she been here, she wondered. From the lengthening shadows she guessed it must be close to seven o'clock.
“Oh, dear,” said Bitsy, standing before her and waving the hatchet. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
“Could you do something for me?” asked Lucy, struggling to keep her voice conversational. “Could you untie me?”
“Oh, silly me,” exlaimed Bitsy. “What was I thinking?”
She immediately fell to her knees and began sawing away at the ropes. Lucy sat up, wiggling her toes and turning her feet in circles to restore the circulation and gently rubbing her tender wrists. She wanted to question Bitsy about what happened but hesitated for fear of setting off some sort of psychological fit. She was beginning to doubt Bitsy's sanity. And she still had that hatchet.
“I'm terribly sorry, Lucy. This was a terrible thing to do,” said Bitsy. “I just panicked when I saw you, but now I see the error of my ways. I spent the afternoon praying and God has told me what I must do.”
“And what's that?” asked Lucy in a small voice, keeping a wary eye on that hatchet.
“I have to accept responsibility for what I did. I have to go to the police and confess. Will you take me, Lucy?”
“Take you to the police station? That's not necessary, Bitsy,” babbled Lucy, giddy with relief. “We all make mistakes. I'm perfectly happy to forget about this. I don't want to press charges.”
“You didn't know?” asked Bitsy, looking down at the blade. “You didn't figure it out?”
“I just came for some eggs,” said Lucy. “Figure what out?”
“That I killed Prudence Pratt.”
The confession hit Lucy like a sledgehammer.
“You
killed Pru?” she stammered.
Bitsy fell to her knees, facing Lucy, and letting the hatchet drop to the floor beside her. “If only I could do it over and take it all back,” she said, sobbing. “I just lost my temperâI literally saw redâand when it was over, Prudence was lying there in the driveway. Dead.”
Lucy reached out and patted her hand. “I'm sure it wasn't entirely your fault. Pru had a way of upsetting people.”
“Oh, I was upset. I've struggled with this for years, you know, and I've struggled to forgive her. Sometimes I even thought I was making progress. I'd see her and Calvin sitting together in church and I'd say to myself, well she's the one he chose. He married her, not me, and that's the way it is. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it, even though it was very painful to see the way she treated him. But he chose her and they were married and marriage is forever in the sight of the Lord and that's all there is to it. So I prayed and prayed for acceptance and to make my life worthy in other ways. Without Calvin. And one day when I was praying it came to me, a revelation, that I should raise chickens. I should forget about pining for Calvin who I could never have and raise chickens instead. So I did. I took all the love I had for Calvin and poured it out into my chickens. My beautiful chickens.”
Bitsy gestured with her hand and oddly enough, Lucy saw that at least half a dozen of the birds had gathered around Bitsy, as if listening to every word.
“They're amazing chickens,” said Lucy.
“Oh, thank you, Lucy. I certainly think so.” Bitsy patted the nearest chicken on the head, and stroked its feathery breast. “People tend to underrate chickens, but I've found that my birds are quite intelligent and, well, empathetic. They seem to sense when I'm troubled and try to comfort me. They'll lay extra big eggs, for example. And that clucking noise they make is so lovely. I've tape recorded it and play it when I have trouble sleeping.”
“What a good idea,” said Lucy, utterly convinced that Bitsy had lost her marbles. Every single one.
“I've always fed my chickens extremely well. Not just feed from the store but cracked grains for variety and lots of greens. They love them and it makes the egg yolks so yellow, and keeps the birds healthy, too. Some friends told me I should enter them in the county fair, so a few years ago, I did. And one of my birds won second place. And I really tried to be happy with second place even though Prudence's chicken won first place. I know envy is wrong, we're not supposed to covet our neighbor's chickens and I didn't. I honestly didn't because Pru's chickens are mean and don't have the same loving personalities that my chickens have. And I'd rather have a sensitive second-place chicken than a mean first-place chicken that pecks at all the other chickens.”
“Absolutely right,” agreed Lucy, observing the little group of chickens that were clustered around Bitsy. A couple were even sitting in her lap.
“Then last year, one of my hens produced a clutch of chicks, and one of them was really eyecatching right from the beginning. She was a Buff Orpington, and that's a handsome breed to start with. They're kind of strawberry blond. Very pretty chickies. And this one was really kind of a Miss America of chickens. Just perfect. Everything you want in a Buff Orpington. Breasty and fluffy and pretty, with clear, bright eyes and a curvaceous beak and a coquettish little comb. So pretty. I named her Mildred, after my cousin who was a Miss Maine runner-up in 1982.”
Lucy looked around the hen house, trying to identify Mildred, but in the growing gloom all the chickens looked pretty much the same to her.
“Now I know that saying about not counting your chickens before they're hatched and I believe it, I mean, there's a lot that can happen to a chicken. Dogs. Skunks. Raccoons. Disease. But I must say that Mildred seemed to thrive. She was a delight, and I was beginning to hope that she'd win the blue ribbon at the fair. I was just hoping, you understand, and taking good care of her. And praying. Not that she would win, because that would be wrong, but only that she'd have a happy, fulfilling life.”
“Which one is Mildred?” asked Lucy.
“Bitsy's face whitened and she pressed her lips together. “She's gone.”
“I'm so sorry,” said Lucy.
“Prudence stole her. I didn't notice she was gone right away, because I was out all morning getting names on the petition about those nudists and then I stayed in town for the noontime prayer service. I had some nice salad greens for the hensâDot Kirwan has the produce man at the market save them for meâso I went out to give them their treat and that's when I discovered Mildred was gone. I went over to my neighbors to ask if she'd seen anyone and she described Prudence's car, and then I remembered she left the petition drive when I got there and she wasn't at noontime prayer either. So I went over to her house and challenged her and she didn't even bother to deny it. She just looked at me in that mean way she has and asked if I'd like to have some lunch. She'd just cooked up some chicken fricassee, she said, and I knew she was referring to Mildred.”
“Oh, dear.”
“That's when I saw red. Everything went red. And I got in my truck and she was standing there in front of me, smacking her lips over the chicken hash and I just put my foot down on the pedal and the truck vroomed ahead and she was there and then she wasn't.”
Lucy didn't know what to say so she simply reached out her hand to pat Bitsy's knee.
“Will you take me to the police station now, Lucy?”
“Whenever you're ready.”
“I'm ready,” said Bitsy.