The Hen of the Baskervilles (19 page)

“I'll be at my hotel,” she said.

“Which one?”

“The Caerphilly Inn. Actually, maybe I should give you my cell number. Heaven knows if anyone in that wretched place will bother to take a message.”

She rattled off a cell phone number. I pulled out my notebook and managed to jot it down, then scrambled to catch up with her again.

“Let me make sure I've got that right,” I said, and repeated the number back.

“Yes, that's it.”

Was she deliberately trying to lose me? Under other circumstances, I might have been favorably impressed by her long stride and fast pace, especially given the impractical boots. But since I was trying to do her a favor, I didn't appreciate having to run after her.

“I'll try to negotiate as good a rate as possible,” I said, to the back of her head.

“I don't care what it costs. I just want to get out of here.”

We were at the edge of the parking lot now.

“One more thing,” I began.

“What now?” she snapped. “Why won't you just let me leave in peace?”

“I beg your pardon—I thought I was helping you leave.” I realized I had used what my brother, Rob, called my “Mother voice,” a tone of icy precision that left most people in no doubt whatsoever that they had committed some unspeakable faux pas. To my surprise, it actually worked on Genette.

“Oh, yes, and I am soooooo grateful.” She turned around and favored me with a smile that showed a lot of teeth but never got near her eyes.

“Do the workmen need to have any special skills?” I asked. “For example, are your electrical and sound systems complicated?”

“I can't imagine they are,” she said. “Brett set it up, so it can't be that complicated, and taking it down should be even easier.”

“Okay,” I said. “Are all the packing materials there or do you have some back at the hotel? And do you want to come back to supervise or just have the workmen do it?”

“It's all there at the booth,” she said. “And yes, just have them pack it and send it. Do you think I'd ever want to come back here, after someone tried to kill me?”

“To kill you?” This was news. “When?”

“Last night,” she said. “And they got Brett instead, and I need to get out of here before they try again.”

“I can understand how you'd be upset about his death,” I said. “What makes you think they were trying to kill you and got him instead?”

“He was wearing my hoodie.” She yanked her tote open, rummaged in it, and then pulled out a black hoodie with splotches of mustard yellow and bubble-gum pink. She held it up and shook it out to reveal her winery's logo, silk screened on both the front and the back of the hoodie.

“We had them made up for the fair,” she said. “We had them on sale, but I guess people didn't realize it because we haven't sold any yet. I was wearing one yesterday at the booth, and I had Brett put one on so he could wear it around and drum up interest. They must have thought he was me.”

It wasn't a totally ridiculous idea. I remembered seeing them embrace—she'd been wearing heels, like today, and they'd been eye to eye. Brett was bulkier, but it had been a dark and foggy night. The killer could have been mistaken.

“Why do you think someone would want to kill you?” I asked aloud. Not that I doubted there were people who did. Given enough exposure to Genette, I could become one of them myself. But I was curious to hear her take on the subject.

“All the winemakers and farmers around here hate me,” she said. “They're jealous of my success, and they don't want to let someone new into their closed little club. And Brett's ex-wife, of course. She'll never forgive me for taking away her husband.”

Actually, I suspected Molly could forgive Genette quite easily, provided she didn't also lose her beloved farm.

“Have you told Chief Burke your concerns?” I asked. “It might help him solve the case.”

“Oh, yeah, like a hick town cop's really going to have much luck solving a murder like this.”

“He spent over a decade in the Baltimore PD's homicide bureau,” I said. “He knows a few things about solving murders. So I suggest you tell him what you told me.”

“And just what was that?” The chief had come up behind us.

“She thinks the killer was after her, not Brett,” I said. “I'll let her explain it.”

I strolled back to the fair at a considerably slower pace, and pulled out my cell phone to call Randall.

“I hear you had quite a time last night,” he said.

“You have no idea,” I said. “Can the Shiffley Moving Company do a rush job?”

“How rush?”

“Today.”

“I could ask my cousins, but it'd cost an arm and a leg. What's the rush?”

“Genette wants to leave. I have no idea if the chief's going to let her leave town, but there's no reason not to let her pack up her stuff if she wants. And you have no idea how much morale in the wine pavilion will improve if we can get rid of that hideous booth of hers.”

“That's different,” he said. “I'll have some men over there within the hour.”

“And cost is no object; she said so herself,” I added.

“That's good, because we jack up the price a bit if we know in advance someone's going to be a pain in the you-know-what.”

“And while you're organizing, we either need to get Chief Burke to release the crime scene or we're going to need some carpenters to build another gate to the Midway. Actually, I think we need a new gate in either case, because we don't really want crowds gawking at the old one.”

“Damn. Hadn't thought of that, but you're right. I'm on it.”

I hung up before I realized that I'd just delegated to Randall for a change. It felt good.

I made it down to the front gate in time to supervise the opening. By nine o'clock, three or four times as many people were waiting as there had been on Thursday, and I could see more cars streaming into the parking lot. Were they coming to see the fair or gawk at the scene of the crime? As long as they paid their admission fees, I didn't much care.

I made the rounds, checking up on the various barns and tents. In the farmers' market, Rose Noire was doing a brisk business in her own potpourri and Molly's cheese. In the arts and crafts pavilion, there was still a gaping hole in the quilt section where Rosalie's Baltimore Album quilt should have been.

“Any news on the quilt?” I asked one of the nearby quilters. I didn't need to say more than that—we both knew what quilt I meant.

“Daphne's optimistic,” she said. “And determined.”

I winced. I didn't want to hear “optimistic” and “determined.” I wanted to hear that Daphne had already eradicated all the red mud and horse manure stains and the beautiful Baltimore quilt was on its way back to be hung again in a place of honor.

“Where's the owner?” I asked.

“Rosalie? Not here.” She sounded as relieved as I felt. “Back at the campground in her trailer. Your father prescribed a sedative, and we've been taking turns sitting with her.”

“Good work,” I said.

In the wine pavilion, the exhibitors were watching with undisguised delight as a posse of Shiffleys disassembled Genette's booth. I hadn't seen so much toasting and glass clinking since the last time I attended a wedding.

Although one of the winemakers who didn't look quite as cheerful as the rest took me aside.

“Have you seen Paul Morot today?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“He was hanging around outside all day yesterday, staring at the tent.”

“He was waiting for Genette to leave so he could come in and ask a few people about jobs,” I said. “Mother was going to give him a signal when the coast was clear.”

“I heard that,” he said. “And I'm one of the ones he would have talked to. And if I'd known he was looking, I'd have definitely given him a job. But your mother says he was never there when she went to give the signal. And he didn't come in and talk to anyone—I asked around. And he's not here today. And not answering his cell phone.”

“You're worried something has happened to him?”

The winemaker frowned as if not sure he wanted to say anything.

“Look, Paul has a temper,” he said finally. “And he blames Genette for losing his winery.”

“She wasn't to blame?”

“Partly to blame,” he said. “Paul is a great grape grower and winemaker, but he's a lousy businessman. Not Genette's fault he was in such dire straits that not being able to buy enough Virginia grapes sent him under. But she was the last straw. And she did buy his farm at a fire-sale price. And yesterday, I heard a rumor that she was going to start bottling her wine under the Fickle Wind label. Give herself a fresh start, because no one who has tasted her swill would ever buy it again.”

“Can she do that?”

“If she bought the name along with the physical property, yes,” he said. “And if Paul heard that rumor, it would have made him crazy.”

“Crazy enough to kill Brett to get back at Genette?”

“No.” His whole tone changed. “Never. Paul wouldn't do something calculated like that. But Genette seems to think whoever killed Brett was aiming for her. If Paul heard the rumor, and saw what he thought was her—”

He shook his head, once more looking worried and uncertain.

“You think he did it? Or could have done it?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I don't know,” he said. “Not unless he was really mad, and didn't even realize it wasn't Genette he was attacking. And I hear it was a shooting—that also doesn't sound like Paul. Strangling her or picking up something and whacking her, yes, but going out and buying a gun? No.”

“He could have already had the gun,” I said. “A lot of farmers do, for protection.”

“Usually it's a shotgun for varmints,” the winemaker said. “Yeah, it's possible he already had a gun. But I can't imagine why he'd bring it here.”

“Unless he was planning to use it,” I suggested.

“And that I don't believe he'd do,” the winemaker said. “Look, I don't think Paul did it, and I sure as hell hope he has a solid alibi. But your police chief should know about this, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks. The chief will probably want to talk to you directly.”

“I'll be here.” He handed me a business card and went back to his booth. Another winemaker came over to him, glass raised as if toasting. He picked up a glass with a splash of wine in it, clinked glasses with her, and sipped, but his smile was forced.

I waited until I was outside to call the chief with his name, cell phone number, and booth number. And then I went on with my rounds.

At least the Bonnevilles weren't haunting the chicken tent looking like refugees from a goth convention.

“If you ask me, I think they felt a little embarrassed when they realized there'd been a murder, and them making such a fuss about a bunch of birds,” one of the chicken farmers said.

“I doubt it,” another said. “Dr. Langslow came over and scared them to death about how serious Mr. Baskerville's condition could be.”

“Bonneville,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” she said. “Anyway, they're over at the hospital getting those medical tests done. Should be back this afternoon, looking like a pair of crows.”

The mood of the tent had improved considerably in their absence. The chicken owners and sightseers were still darting and clumping about like hens in a barnyard, but now it was a happy sort of frenzy.

For the first time I had a chance to take a good look at the exhibits. And I had to admit that some of the chickens were quite handsome. The Sebright Bantams, for example, with their beautiful plumage, each glossy white feather outlined in black, making them look like walking monochromatic stained-glass windows. The black-and-white Yokohamas, who were pheasant-shaped with sleek, elegant white tails easily as long as their bodies. And the Sumatrans—similarly shaped, though with slightly less extravagant tails, and the most amazing glossy black plumage. Or was I seeing a hint of iridescent beetle green in the black when the light hit the feathers just right?

I was bobbing around in front of a cage of Sumatrans, trying to find an angle at which I could confirm that elusive flash of green, when Michael strolled up with the boys in tow.

“Something wrong with those chickens?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Except that they're insidious. I covet them.”

 

Chapter 22

Josh was making a beeline to the display of newly hatched chicks in the center of the tent, oblivious to everything else. Jamie toddled over and gave my leg a forceful hug before scrambling in his brother's wake. Michael looked at the Sumatrans and then back at me.

“Are you hinting that I should bring you fried chicken for lunch?” he asked. “Or did you have in mind a longer term commitment, and you're coveting those particular chickens? Is it payback time for all the llamas?”

“I am coveting live chickens,” I said. “Not necessarily those chickens, although those are among the breeds I am coveting. Clearly I have spent too much time with all these chickens. I keep having visions of walking out the back door in the morning and chucking grain to eager beaks. Peeking into the coop at night to gaze on my sleeping flock. And taking the boys out to the barn with little matching baskets to collect eggs. It's insane.”

“Sounds perfectly sane to me.” He strolled over a little closer to the chick display and I followed. “We could have chickens. We've got the room. We've even got the coop. Remember when the Shiffleys were working on our yard, either renovating or demolishing all those run down little sheds that the previous owner left behind? We could convert one of the renovated sheds into a coop. In fact, I think one of them originally was a coop. And chickens would be a lot more practical than llamas.”