The Hen of the Baskervilles (24 page)

“Randall says get her to sign on the last page and initial all the places where he put those little ‘sign here' sticky things. The total amount and the deposit are by the signature line, and get a credit card number if you can't get a check.”

“Or cash,” I said. “I assume cash would also be acceptable to your cousins at the moving company.”

“Cash would be the best,” Vern agreed. “But most people don't carry a grand or two on them, so we'll settle for what we can get. Don't forget the date of expiration—”

“And the security code, yes,” I said. “I do a lot of credit card sales when I'm at craft fairs. I can handle it.”

“So what did the black widow lady want?” Plunkett asked. He had parked both arms on the bleacher behind him and was leaning back, making himself comfortable.

“Ms. Riordan wanted to thank me for finding her an attorney,” I said. Which was true—it just wasn't all of the truth.

“Her lawyer should work on getting as many women as he can on the jury,” Plunkett said. “Older women. And fat ones. A jury full of dumpy wrinklies would understand why she shot the cheating dog. And maybe she won't fry.”

“Plunkett, that's—” Vern began.

“Actually, I think most Virginia executions are by lethal injection these days,” I said. “But if Molly actually goes on trial, I'll give her lawyer your thoughts on the jury-selection process.”

Plunkett looked disappointed, as if he'd have enjoyed seeing me leap to Molly's defense or revile him for his sexist thinking. I smiled blandly at him, and he looked downright annoyed.

Vern caught on and stifled a grin. And changed the subject.

“So do I hear you're buying some fancy chickens?” he asked.

“Thinking about it,” I said. “After all, we've got the space. We've even got at least one shed that started life as a chicken coop. Why not?”

“Get yourself some Rhode Island Reds,” Plunkett suggested. “Decent layers, and they're mighty fine meat birds.”

“Actually we're looking more for ornamental birds who'll produce a few eggs,” I said, wincing a little. “Michael thinks either Sumatrans or Welsummers.”

“So Michael's in favor of it, too?” Vern asked.

“It was my idea,” I said. “But I think he's encouraging it so he won't feel as guilty when he asks if he can buy another llama. Which I suspect he's working up to. He's been paying a lot of attention to crias here at the fair.”

“To what?” Vern asked.

“Crias. Baby llamas.”

Plunkett snorted as if he found the whole thing ridiculous. We ignored him.

“Don't worry,” Vern said. “Michael's probably only checking out the crias on account of our project to get the chief a llama for Christmas.”

“Are you serious?” I said. “And do you really think the chief wants a llama?”

“Absolutely,” Vern winked at me when he said it, and glanced over at Plunkett. Who couldn't exactly swivel his ears like Jim Bob the donkey, but was definitely paying attention. “And Minerva won't let him spend the money. Says it's an extravagance. But she can't exactly object if his loyal staff give him one, can she?”

I had a sudden vision of how the chief would react if anyone actually gave him a llama and had trouble fighting back an attack of the giggles.

“There's Michael now,” Vern said.

“Daddy!” Josh cried.

“Zippy!” Jamie shouted.

While the twins waved and shrieked, the rest of us watched in breathless silence as Michael led Zeppo over the course Harpo had completed so brilliantly. To my astonishment, Zeppo was alert and focused. He breezed through the obstacles as well as Harpo had—maybe better.

“This one's not as funny as some of the others,” Plunkett remarked.

“That's because this one is doing it right,” I said.

Maybe I jinxed things by saying that. Michael and Zeppo had reached the point where Zeppo was supposed to stand in the little circle while Michael picked up one of his hooves. Zeppo stood. Michael bent down and carefully picked up the hoof.

Zeppo squealed and fell over as if pole-axed. Then, he began flailing around, scratching his back on the ground, raising great clouds of dust and waving all four legs in the air in his delight. It took Michael a good five minutes to get him on his feet again.

“So much for our hopes of a one-two victory in the obedience trials,” I said, shaking my head.

“Funniest things I've ever seen,” Plunkett said. “Maybe I should get me some llamas. They good for anything apart from the entertainment value? Can't say as I've ever eaten roast llama, but I'd be willing to give it a try. What's it taste like?”

“We've never eaten any of our pet llamas,” I said in my coldest voice. “So I have no idea what they would taste like. We don't grill the dogs, either.”

“Llamas look as if they'd be tough and stringy anyway,” Vern said.

I was opening my mouth to say that while older llamas probably were tough and stringy, the young ones were considered quite a delicacy in the Andes. But then I realized that Vern was probably feeling as protective about the llamas as I was.

“They expensive, these llamas?” Plunkett asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Michael buys them. I just say, ‘Oh, goody, another llama.'”

I was relieved when Plunkett left. Until I saw him at the other end of the stands, chatting with one of the county board members. Looking for allies in his job campaign, most likely. I found him obnoxious, but he could probably turn on a smarmy kind of good ol' boy charm when he wanted. He and the board member seemed to be getting along just fine. Not something I could do anything about now, so I did my best to shove it out of my mind.

“He's job hunting, all right.” Vern was also frowning at Plunkett and the board member.

“And what if he really tries to butter up the chief by giving him a llama?” I asked.

“No idea,” Vern said. “But it should be fun to watch. Meanwhile, I need to run.”

I stayed through the award ceremony. Harpo, to no one's surprise, won first place. Zeppo actually came in fifth, which shows how unruly most of the other llamas had been. We led Happy and Zippy, as the boys insisted on calling them, back to the sheep barn in triumph.

“I have to run over to the Caerphilly Inn,” I told Michael. “Fair business.”

“Can you stop off at the chicken tent on your way?” he asked. “To see the Sumatrans and Welsummers in person?”

He seemed so keen that I agreed. So we all four trooped over to the chicken tent. Some of the farmers had set up an incubator, and we arrived just in time for the boys to watch some Leghorn chicks hatching.

“Mommy, can we have them?” Josh asked.

“No, I want big chickens,” Jamie said, pointing at an enormous Brahma rooster.

Michael disappeared while the boys and I were watching the chicks, and then reappeared with two farmers, each carrying a chicken. One was a soft, fluffy black-and-copper Welsummer hen, the other a glossy black Sumatran rooster.

“Mine,” Jamie said, pointing to the Sumatran.

“Good taste,” the Sumatran's owner said, with a laugh.

“Want that one,” Josh said. For once, they weren't fighting for the same thing—he was pointing to the Welsummer.

“Either one's a pretty good choice for a hobby farmer,” the Welsummer's owner said.

“What do you think?” Michael asked.

What did I think? I thought these guys would have a lot more luck selling chicks to people like Michael and me if they could learn not to use the phrase “hobby farmer.” Couldn't he have said “small-scale farmer” or “backyard farmer” or something?

I stared back and forth between the two birds, as if pondering our choices, while I sorted through my negative reactions to the hobby farmer thing. Michael and I had five llamas, a vegetable garden fortified behind eight-foot deer fencing, and a fifty-tree semi-organic orchard. We weren't trying to grow everything we ate. We weren't selling anything. We just wanted to raise a little fresh produce, and maybe let the boys enjoy a life that was more connected than most to nature and history. Michael was a tenured professor at Caerphilly College, in line to become head of the drama department when the current chair retired. I had a career as a blacksmith that was not only lucrative and satisfying but allowed me the flexibility I needed now that we had a family. We didn't have time to run a real farm. The orchard and the vegetable garden were an overgrown version of a typical suburban backyard garden patch, and the llamas were just for fun. We were the very definition of hobby farmers.

So why did the term sting so badly?

Probably something I should get used to. Since moving to our converted farmhouse, I'd come to realize how embattled traditional family farms were. The giant agricultural corporations drove prices down to a level small farmers couldn't match, and developers were always waiting to snatch up choice tracts of land. Maybe hobby farmers were the least offensive alternative. People who bought a few acres—or even a whole lot of acres—not to farm but so they could live in an idyllic rural setting, and then began planting a few fruit trees, and raising a few sheep or cows. Or llamas. I'd never had the feeling that any of the nearby farmers resented Michael and me for buying our house with its few acres. Or Mother and Dad, who had bought the much larger farm next door. In fact, since my parents had bought the farm to save it from developers and rented much of the land to a nearby working farmer at a very low rate, most of the county's farmers heartily approved of Dad. And at least we weren't the kind of incomers who moved into a farm community and then began complaining about the smell of manure and honking furiously whenever we had to slow down behind a tractor.

Maybe I should work on thinking of “hobby farmer” as a badge of honor.

“I like them both,” I finally said aloud. “And I'm a little frazzled right now for decision making. Can I mull it over for a little while and let you know later?”

Both farmers nodded. They didn't seem disappointed.

“It's a responsibility,” one said. “Raising any of God's creatures. Best not to take in on lightly.”

They went back to their booths, and Michael and I strolled out of the tent.

“If you prefer one, let me know which,” he said. “I'll take the heat—tell them you left the decision to me and it was my choice.”

“I might do that,” I said. “Although right now I don't know which one I like better. Right now, I covet them both.”

“Let's get some of each then.”

“If we get both, we'll need to keep them separate,” I said. “Or we won't have Welsummers and Sumatrans, we'll have Welmatrans and Sumsummers.”

“I figured we could keep the Sumatrans in our barn yard, and the Welsummers at the far end of our yard, right across the fence from Rose Noire's herb garden. She's keen on the idea—apparently they would eat up bugs and serve as a kind of organic pest control for her crops. And she also likes the idea of organic eggs, and organic chicken manure for the herbs.”

Clearly he'd been thinking about this.

“Want chickens, Mommy,” Josh said.

“Want black chickens,” Jamie said.

“Brown chickens,” Josh countered.

Michael and I simultaneously recognized the signs of impending physical combat and each grabbed a twin.

“Apparently we're getting chickens,” I said. “Black chickens
and
brown chickens.”

The boys cheered loudly.

“But don't tell anyone yet.”

“Okay,” Jamie said.

“Why not?” Josh asked.

“Because if we tell people which chickens we want, someone else might buy the ones we want before we can.”

They both got that, and nodded solemnly.

“I'll start negotiating on price and quantity and delivery date and whatever,” Michael said.

I left him to it and set out for my car. On my way, I ran into the Bonnevilles, sitting on one of the hay bales that lined the wide walkways, both to provide impromptu seating and to help steer the flow of traffic. Mrs. Bonneville was picking at a small salad. Mr. Bonneville was eating a chili dog. Apparently sorrow hadn't taken away his appetite. He tried to frown after every bite and wait a decent interval between bites, but clearly he was counting the seconds until he could take his next bite.

“How are you?” I said as I passed them. I meant it as a greeting, not a question.

“Doing the best we can to bear up,” Mr. Bonneville said. Mrs. Bonneville burst into tears.

“I'm so sorry.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but my sympathy for them was definitely wearing thin.

“We heard you were in the chicken tent.” Mrs. Bonneville's voice had the nasal, stopped-up sound of someone who had been crying recently. “Looking at—
chickens
!”

“Yes, I was.” I couldn't quite understand her frown at hearing that. Did she think that no one else should be buying or selling chickens while theirs were still missing? Or was she simply miffed that we were looking at other people's chickens?

“People were looking at our chickens when we first got here,” she said.

Nostalgia? Or was she suddenly suspicious of everyone who showed an interest in acquiring heirloom chickens—including Michael and me, who weren't even interested in Russian Orloffs?

“Yes,” I said. “The chief is taking a very keen interest in everyone who showed an interest in your chickens.”

That didn't seem to mollify them.

“In fact—” I looked around as if making sure no one was near, and took a step closer. “I'm on my way to the Caerphilly Inn to see one of the suspects now.”

“Do you mean—that woman?”

“Genette Sedgewick,” I said. “On fair business, of course, not police. But while I'm there, I intend to keep a sharp lookout for any signs that she might be hiding any chickens there.”