The Hen of the Baskervilles (18 page)

“Of course. I'll get Horace and Sammy to help me carry everything over.”

“Horace is doing forensics, and Deputy Sammy's probably been up all night helping with the investigation,” I said. “I can send Rob over.”

“I'll ask your mother to recruit some help,” Rose Noire said. “Not that Rob wouldn't do his best, of course, but—”

“Understood,” I said.

“You'll be busy,” Michael said. “Would you like me and the boys to drop by for lunch? I can bring I-C-E C-R-E-A-M.”

“Okay,” Rose Noire said. “And—”

“Want ice cream now!” Josh exclaimed.

We all stared at him. He finished the last bit of his mango and held out the pit for one of us to take.

“He's not really learning to spell.” I took the mango pit and tucked it into the trash bag. “He just always wants ice cream.”

“Let's hope so,” Michael said. “Because when they learn to spell, it's really going to hamper adult conversations. More mango, Josh?”

“Mango ice cream,” Josh corrected.

“Mango ice cream later,” Michael said. “Just mangoes for breakfast.”

Josh frowned for a moment, then took the mango slice Rose Noire was holding out.

“Can I have it?” Jamie asked.

Rose Noire held out a second mango slice, but apparently Jamie was coveting sheep. He ignored the fruit. He was pressed against the side of the pen, hugging one of the sheep.

“Those are Mr. Early's sheep,” I said.

“Want sheep!” Jamie sounded on the verge of tears. Josh regarded him with curiosity.

“No idea why he's so gung ho for sheep all of a sudden,” I said. “It's not as if he doesn't see them all the time.”

“Don't worry,” Michael told Jamie. “The sheep are coming home with us after the fair.” It was only a small lie. Either Seth Early's fences were unusually porous or his sheep had taken lessons from Houdini. Some of them spent more time in our yard than in their own pasture.

“My sheep!” Jamie exclaimed.

“Come on, Bo Peep,” Michael said. “Let's go get some breakfast, and then you can lead the llamas to their pen.”

Rose Noire scurried off. Michael grabbed a couple of the bags she'd been toting and led the boys off, still trailing bits of mango.

“Dog show at noon,” he called over his shoulder. “I know between the fair and the M-U-R et cetera you'll be busy, but don't miss that.”

“Roger,” I called back.

“Ms. Langslow?”

I looked over to see a gray-haired man in overalls and a work shirt standing just outside the pen.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“You're the fair's deputy director, right?”

I nodded, and stood up, trying to look official, in spite of the mango bits.

“I just wanted to know what you were doing about all the chicken thefts.”

“
All
the chicken thefts?” I echoed. “We had one report yesterday that two Russian Orloff bantams were stolen during the previous night. I haven't heard of any more chicken thefts—have you?”

“No,” he said. “But two stolen is two too many.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I know how I'd feel if anyone even tried to steal our llamas.” I gestured to the pen where Groucho and the guys were happily watching our conversation. The farmer eyed them and moved a few inches farther away. Maybe he'd heard all the stories about llama spit.

“I heard there were other problems,” he said.

I sighed.

“You could say that,” I said. “We had a murder last night.”

“I heard about that.” He didn't sound particularly alarmed. “Over at the Midway, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, what do you expect? Bunch of carnies, and in Clay County at that. But no more animal thefts?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But are you sure you'd have heard?” He was looking anxious again.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the police station. I used their regular number, not 911, but I still got Debbie Ann, the dispatcher.

“What's the problem?” she asked.

“No problem,” I said. “If I had a problem, I'd call 911. I just wanted to see if you'd heard about other incidents here at the fair last night.”

“Other than the murder, you mean?”

“That's right.”

“No. No other incidents.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Not that I'd expect any,” Debbie Ann went on. “With the whole fairgrounds swarming with police all night.”

“I agree.”

“In case you're curious, your friend's lawyer just arrived, and the chief sent a deputy down to Richmond to take the gun to the crime lab. It's not looking good.”

I winced. So much for hoping the real culprit, or at least another strong suspect, had turned up while I was asleep.

“Thanks.” I hung up. “No other thefts,” I said to the farmer.

“Thanks,” he said. “I don't want to take any chances with my livestock. I've got Red Wattles.”

I admit, I glanced at his neck, which was red and wrinkled but largely wattle-free, before catching on.

“I see,” I said. “Red Wattles … they're hogs, right? A heritage breed?”

“That's right.” Something that could probably be classified as a smile crossed his face. “Sweetest-tempered hogs I've ever raised, and you should taste the bacon.”

I tried not to show my reaction. I was no vegetarian and I'd lived in a farm community for years now, but I was still occasionally surprised—and a little put off—by how matter-of-fact some farmers were about eating their livestock. And I had come to feel particularly sorry for pigs. People might keep chickens for the eggs, sheep for wool, and cows for milk, but if anyone had invented a nonlethal job for pigs, I hadn't heard of it.

“Randall says it's a shame so many of the heritage breeds are so neglected,” I said aloud.

“And your fair's doing a good job of getting them some attention,” the man said. “I aim to win me some medals here this weekend—long as no one steals my hogs.”

“We'll do our best to keep them safe.”

He nodded, touched one finger to the bill of his cap, and strode off.

I couldn't decide whether to be appalled or relieved at his reaction to the murder. Appalled, I decided, on general principles, but it certainly would be less trouble for the fair if his reaction was typical. Somehow I didn't think it would be.

I leaned back against the side of the pen, then sat up again when one of the sheep snuffled at my hair. I didn't feel rested, but I didn't think there was any way I could go back to sleep. And as Rose Noire had pointed out, the fair would open all too soon.

I heaved myself to my feet and pulled together a few things. A change of clothes, and my toilet kit. It occurred to me that I'd never found time for a shower yesterday, and maybe I should do something about it before things got too busy.

I stepped out of the barn and looked around. To my right, I could just make out that the gate where we'd found Brett's body was still cordoned off with crime scene tape, with a uniformed deputy guarding it. No rubberneckers as far as I could see. The few people who were out seemed intent on getting somewhere. To one or another of the barns mostly, with a few people scurrying toward the exhibitor bathrooms.

I headed that way myself.

I was still trying to rinse the last bits of soap off myself—why did it seem so much harder in cold water? And why had I let Randall overrule me on the question of installing a hot-water heater for the showers?—when I had to step out of the shower again to answer my phone.

“Meg, dear.” Mother. “You might want to drop by the wine pavilion.”

She hung up before I could ask why.

 

Chapter 21

A few minutes later I was clean and dressed but very far from in a good mood.

“What now?” I muttered, as I half strode, half ran toward the wine pavilion. Its red-and-white–striped exterior seemed incongruously cheerful this morning.

Since in addition to not telling me what the problem was, Mother also hadn't told me precisely where it was, I headed for the entrance closest to Genette's booth. Good call. As soon as I walked in, I could see that Genette's booth was in disarray, with half of its contents missing and the other half askew. But before I wasted too much time wondering what kind of misguided burglar would target her booth with so many better vineyards all around her to choose from, Genette stood up behind the chrome and Plexiglas counter. She was holding one of her little decorative tangles of barbed wire in her left hand and staring at it reproachfully, while sucking a small bleeding wound on her right hand.

“This is impossible!” she wailed.

If anyone else in the tent had uttered such a cry of despair, they would have been surrounded instantly with sympathetic ears and helping hands. I glanced around to see that everyone in the nearby booths was studiously busy.

I strolled over to Dorcas's booth.

“We thought someone should know,” she said, sotto voce. “On the one hand, we're all thrilled at the idea of being rid of her. But if she's the killer and is going on the lam…”

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the chief.

“Yes?” He sounded annoyed, but not necessarily at me.

“I wouldn't interrupt you, except I thought you might be interested in the fact that Genette Sedgewick seems to be packing to leave,” I said. “The new girlfriend of your murder—”

“I know who she is,” he said. “Blast! She's not local, is she?”

“No,” I said. “She's from … I can't remember where—near Culpeper? Or maybe near Charlottesville? Near something with a ‘C'. Not Caerphilly, though, and it's at least an hour away, whatever it is.”

“Don't try to detain her. But keep an eye on her till I can get there.”

“Roger.” I hung up and looked around for something to do that would keep me unobtrusively busy near Genette's booth. Just then she spotted me.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, as if she'd been searching for me for hours. “I need help!”

“Lucky you,” Dorcas murmured, as I strolled away from her booth toward Genette's.

“What's wrong?” I asked Genette.

“I need to leave,” she said. “And I don't have anyone to help me take down my booth and pack my stuff.”

She stood there, blinking slightly, and pouting, but no longer anxious. Instead, her face wore a look I'd seen often enough on the faces of my nieces and nephews, and lately even my own little sons: the trusting yet slightly petulant look of someone who has handed her problems over to the proper authority and expects to have them solved.

And solved now. As I stood there, almost admiring her nerve, I could see her foot was beginning to tap.

“You'd like to hire someone to help you?” I said. “I can ask around and see if—”

“‘Hire someone'?” she echoed. “Don't you have bellhops who can do that for me?”

“No,” I said. “Hotels have bellhops. We have an all-volunteer staff who are already pulling double shifts, thanks to the thefts and the vandalism and the—other unfortunate events.”

At the last minute I stopped myself from actually uttering the word “murder.” After all, however much I might disapprove of her relationship with a man who was still legally married to one of my friends, she had lost someone very close to her. Or at least someone whose usefulness she'd miss.

Unless, of course, she'd killed him. In which case, wouldn't she be suffering from guilt and anxiety?

I didn't see any signs.

“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “How am I supposed to get my stuff home?” She threw up her hands in a gesture that smacked more of annoyance than despair.

“How did you get it here in the first place?” I was curious to hear how she'd answer.

“Brett handled all that,” she said. “And now that he's gotten himself killed, what am I supposed to do?”

Gotten himself killed. Talk about blaming the victim. I was tempted to turn on my heels and leave her to handle her own problem. But I realized that getting her out of the pavilion would have an immense positive effect on the other winemakers' morale. And I could steer the business to Randall's cousin who owned the Shiffley Moving Company.

“As I said, we don't have staff to handle load-ins and load-outs,” I said aloud. “That's clearly stated on the exhibitor's contract. Ordinarily, there would be nothing I could do. But given the unusual circumstances, I would be willing to help by seeing if I can find some workmen you can hire to pack for you.”

“When can you have them here?”

“I have no idea.” I realized my voice was sounding a little testy. And decided I didn't much care. “
If
I can find anyone, I'll let you know when they'll be able to come. You're welcome to make the arrangements yourself if you prefer.”

She muttered something. I didn't catch more than a few words, but most of those would have been bleeped out on TV.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“That would be satisfactory,” she said, with a superficial smile. “At least I haven't already checked out of that wretched hotel.”

With that she picked up her purse and an overstuffed black tote and turned to leave.

“Where can I reach you if I find someone willing to do the work?” I called after her.

No answer. I gave chase.

“Heading for the parking lot, I think,” I said to Mother as I passed. “Let the chief know.”

I caught up with Genette well before she reached the parking lot. She was walking fast—half running, really—but I was an inch or two taller, in better shape, and not hampered by stylish pointy-toed boots with four-inch heels.

“If you want me to contact you if I find some workmen, you need to tell me where,” I said.