The Hen of the Baskervilles (22 page)

“And even if they are, the DNA tests would probably cost several times that,” I said.

“Precisely,” Horace said. “It doesn't make sense to run DNA on a bunch of stolen chickens. But now that we found these Orloff feathers in the dead man's car, they're possible clues in a murder. That's a whole different ballgame.”

“Can you really do DNA tests on chickens?” I asked.

“Absolutely!” Horace said. “Haven't you heard about the DNA testing on the Transylvanian Naked Neck chicken?”

I hadn't, but I'd have lied about that if I'd known he'd regale me with the details all the way back to the front gate. Apparently a breed of fowl with chickenlike bodies, red, naked necks, and small, turkeylike heads had appeared in Transylvania—it would be Transylvania—and was eventually imported to England and the United States. Genetic testing had eventually disproved the theory that the birds were a hybrid of chickens and turkeys—they were, in fact, simply mutant chickens.

By the time Horace had finished telling me about this, we had reached the gate. We spotted the Shiffley Towing Service truck with the sporty little red car attached just outside. And Vern Shiffley was standing nearby.

“You can take over the job of keeping Horace from strangling Plunkett,” I told him. “My boys are showing the family dogs in the Open Dog Show, and I have exactly ten minutes to get over to the show ring. And for the record, for the next two hours, I am not available for anything short of an earthquake.”

“We're cool,” Vern said. “So what's this about mutant chickens?” he asked Horace.

I left them to it and tried to shove the chicken thefts and the murder out of my mind for a time. Which was a lot easier to do now that Horace seemed so optimistic about the new evidence.

 

Chapter 24

The Open Dog Show—also known colloquially as the “Cutest Dog Contest”—was open to any kid, twelve or under, who wanted to show a dog. A few of the entrants were pedigreed dogs who would also compete in the AKC show later in the fair, or sheepdogs who'd be competing in the herding trials. But most were just beloved family pets.

We'd been holding this at the county fair for decades, and it was proving just as popular with the Un-fair attendees. Unfortunately that created a considerable challenge for the judges. Although we didn't come right out and say it, the policy was that every dog who walked won a ribbon of some sort, and the vastly larger pool of entries was taxing the judges' imaginations.

I'd promised to help out with the category brainstorming—two pages in my notebook are already filled with ideas. Luckily I could beg off serving as an actual judge, since my own two sons were contestants.

I applauded wildly with the rest of the crowd when Michael and the boys stepped into the ring, starting off the parade. Jamie was being dragged along by Spike, our eight-and-a-half-pound furball. Spike clearly thought we had chosen wisely in putting him in charge of the parade. His demeanor showed that he had decided to be gracious to the other dogs in his kingdom and refrain from killing any of them, however deserving they might be, until after the parade. Josh was leading Tinkerbell, his uncle Rob's hundred-and-twenty-pound Irish Wolfhound, who got along splendidly with Spike, partly because she was too good-natured and laid back to fight with anyone, and partly because her coat was so thick that she didn't always notice when Spike was biting her.

More children streamed after them, leading, following, or carrying still more dogs. Most of the kids were also accompanied by parents, who could break up any fights that occurred—more often between overeager handlers than the dogs themselves—and deal with any other little crises, like kids suddenly getting stage fright and sitting down in the middle of the ring to cry.

Some of the dogs were wearing costumes. Quite a few four-legged Santas, reindeer, and Easter bunnies scampered by, but also dogs sporting more elaborate outfits, like the small black terrier with four extra furry legs attached to his harness, so he looked like an overlarge and very lively tarantula. The science-fiction community was well represented by a dog with a silvery gray coat and tin foil antennae and a surprising number of dogs in Star Fleet uniforms. Quite a few dogs wore jerseys proclaiming their owners' favorite sports and teams, local or national. A few small dogs wore obviously hand-knitted sweaters, and a few of the larger animals were fitted out with saddles with dolls or stuffed animals as riders.

A good thing I wasn't a judge, because midway through the procession one of the entries distracted me—a bloodhound, dragging behind him a tiny boy dressed as Sherlock Holmes, complete with Inverness cape, deerstalker hat, and pipe. I found myself wondering if we could use bloodhounds to track down the missing chickens. Would they be able to follow the scent of an individual chicken, as they could with humans? Or would they simply lead us to the nearest collection of chickens? I had no idea, but I jotted down the name of the bloodhound's owner, and was busily strategizing how to suggest the idea to the chief in a way he'd find helpful rather than annoying when the sight of Michael and the boys stepping back into the ring jolted me back to the here and now, just in time to begin applauding the first of the winners.

I didn't envy the judges' their job, but in the end, they came up with awards for all 143 dogs, and with the exception of a few children too young or too tired and cranky to care, most of the handlers went away beaming.

Tinkerbell had won the Most Enormous Dog ribbon hands down, and Spike's Fiercest Guard Dog award was certainly well deserved. We were celebrating back at the sheep barn with a round of chocolate ice creams and liver treats when my phone rang.

“Hey, Meg.” It was Randall. “The boys have got Ms. Sedgewick's stuff all packed up. We know she's supposed to be over at the Caerphilly Inn, but she's not answering her cell phone and we're not quite sure what to do next.”

“If you want to ship the stuff, you can look up her address in the exhibitor database,” I said. “No, Jamie, don't eat the liver treat. It's yucky.”

“Well, yes,” Randall said.

“Not yucky,” Jamie said.

“Whether or not it's yucky, it belongs to Spike. Sorry,” I said to Randall. “Want me to come over and look it up for you?”

“Actually we're not sure we should do anything more until we have a signed contract,” Randall said. “Preferably with a substantial deposit. The boys have been hearing a few things about Ms. Sedgewick. Not popular with her creditors, it seems.”

“Interesting,” I said.

But did it have anything to do with the murder? Probably not. Wasn't it usually the people who borrowed money killing off their creditors to avoid paying? And whether or not she owed money elsewhere, I was pretty sure Brett didn't have any to lend her.

“You think maybe she's not as rich as she lets on?” I asked aloud.

“Could be. More likely she's just one of those rich people who's careless with other people's money. The ones who say, ‘What's the problem? You know I'm good for it,' and never think that other people might need the money to make their rent and car payments.”

“So you want some of your money up front,” I said. “That makes sense. What's the problem? Go over to the inn and let her know that her stuff's not going anywhere without a deposit.”

“We were wondering if you could tackle her,” Randall said. “Worked pretty well before.”

“If she's not answering her phone for you, what makes you think she will for me?”

“But she's just over at the Caerphilly Inn. It's only a couple of miles down the road. You could pop over there, get the contract signed, and be back in a flash.”

“Have you actually met Genette?” I asked. “Do you really think—”

“Okay, okay,” Randall said. “It'll be a major pain, but you're the one person I can think of who might be able to pull it off, and it'll help the fair as well as the Shiffley Moving Company, and we'll all owe you. Big time.”

It was the last part that sold me. The Shiffleys didn't quite have a monopoly on construction and repair work in Caerphilly, but damn near. And while being Randall's friend got us slightly better deals and noticeably faster service than most residents, I liked the idea of Randall feeling he owed me. The odds were high that something would need to be repaired or replaced in our Victorian-era farmhouse before his gratitude faded.

And there was always the chance that while I was there I could learn something that would help clear Molly. The chief could hardly object if I happened to learn something useful while performing a completely harmless fair-related task.

“Okay,” I began. “I can go over there—”

“Not now!” Michael interrupted. “We have to get ready for the llama show.”

“—immediately after the llama show,” I finished.

“Awesome,” Randall said. “I'll send Vern over to the show ring with the paperwork.”

So much for any hope of a quiet afternoon.

Michael, meanwhile, had finished his ice cream and begun fussing over the llamas.

“Don't let Jamie drip chocolate on Harpo,” he said. “I spent all morning shampooing and blow-drying him.”

Harpo was a white llama—at least after a thorough bath. A couple of times a year, when we showed him, his coat actually gleamed impressively snow white, and the rest of the year he served as a reminder of why gray, brown, and black were more practical colors for farm animals.

“I helped, Daddy,” Josh said.

“You did, indeed,” Michael said. “You were both a big help.”

I tried to imagine this and then decided not to.

“May I help, too?”

I glanced over to see Molly standing just outside the pen.

 

Chapter 25

I hurried over to give Molly a hug. She was wearing sunglasses. I wasn't sure whether she was trying to pass incognito, or hiding the signs that she'd been shedding tears over Brett's demise.

“How are you doing?” I asked, in an undertone.

“Lousy,” she said, in an equally low tone. “I just want to not think about it all for a while. Looking for something to distract me.”

“Distractions are us,” I said. “If you want to keep an eye out to see that none of the four-legged occupants of the pen get anywhere near the ice cream, I'd appreciate it,” I said. “Chocolate would be bad for the dogs, and we just washed the two llamas.”

“Only the two?”

“Just Zeppo and Harpo,” I said, pointing at them. “We're showing them off in the obedience trials in a few minutes. Groucho and Chico will be in the conformation trials tomorrow.”

“And the fifth one? Gummo, I assume, in keeping with the Marx Brothers theme. Nice names.”

“Of course the boys, who are a lot more familiar with
Snow White
than
Animal Crackers,
usually call them Grouchy, Zippy, Happy, Chicky, and Gummy. Gummo is old, and half blind,” I added, pointing to where he was hanging over the fence, eyes focused on where my voice was coming from. “He's just here for the company. They're very social creatures, and he'd pine away if we left him home all alone.”

“Poor old Gummy.” She reached out and stroked his nose. I considered warning her that most llamas didn't like to be touched. But Gummo was a lot more touch tolerant than most llamas, and maybe she'd find patting his soft brown nose comforting.

“That's why we have the herd,” I said aloud instead. “Michael got Groucho, and the poor thing was lonely. I held out a while, hoping Groucho would come to accept us as his herd, but I finally gave in and said yes to another llama. I'm still not quite sure how we got from two to five.”

“That reminds me,” Michael said. “I've narrowed the selection down to three chicken breeds. Let me show you.” He began fumbling in his pocket for something, which would have been a lot easier if he wasn't still holding the llama brush in one hand and the hair dryer in the other.

“Narrowed what down?” Molly said. “Here, let me help with that.”

She took over the brush and hair dryer and continued where Michael had left off, gently teasing Chico's soft brown fleece to maximum fluffiness. Michael watched for a few moments. Then, satisfied that Molly understood the job, he pulled out his cell phone and turned it on.

“Okay, I rejected these.” He showed me a picture of the elegant black and white Yokohama rooster. “Apparently they require a lot of grooming to look anything like this one does. I think the Sumatrans are a better bet. The tail's not so extreme, and the black feathers wouldn't get dirty as fast. Although I am also rather taken with the Welsummer.” He showed a picture of a black and reddish copper rooster whose tail, though smaller than the Sumatrans, was still full and arched.

“I like both,” I said.

“I was rather tempted by the Rumpless Araucana.” He showed me a picture of a chicken that was a bit nondescript except for peculiar tufts of feathers on either side of the head, looking rather like Victorian muttonchop sideburns. And unless he'd taken the picture at a particularly odd angle, the bird didn't have a tail at all.

“Yuck,” I said. “Let's stick to either the Sumatrans or the Welsummers.”

“The Araucanas lay pale blue eggs.” Michael sounded rather wistful, as if suddenly realizing a long-felt yearning to own chickens that laid pastel eggs.

“The others just lay white eggs?” I asked.

“Well, no,” he said. “The Sumatrans do. But the Welsummers lay bronze eggs. Sometimes speckled.”

“Get both,” Molly suggested. “Sumatrans and Welsummers. You can keep one kind at your place and the other at your parents' farm.”

“I like her style,” Michael said. “Speaking of style, I think Zeppo is ready, and just in time. Let's lead them over to the show ring.”

“I should go.” Molly sounded disappointed. Evidently she hadn't come entirely for distraction. She'd probably been hoping to talk to me when Michael and the twins and the llamas weren't underfoot.