The Hen of the Baskervilles

Chapter 1

I woke up to find three sheep staring pensively down at me.

I stared back, wondering how they’d gotten into Michael’s and my bedroom. And whether they’d been there long enough to cause a cleanup nightmare. And why they were staring at my hair, which might be dry and in need of conditioner, but in no way resembled hay. And—

I finally realized that the sheep hadn’t invaded my home. In fact, you could argue that I was invading theirs. I was sleeping in a pen in our local fair’s sheep and llama exhibition barn. Sleeping solo, without my husband, Michael, at my side and our twin two-a-half-year-olds down the hall. I’d probably awakened because one of the sheep had baaed. I should turn over and get some more sleep before—

“Meg?”

Not coming from the sheep. I sat up and shoved the sleeping bag as far down as it would go. Then I looked around. I didn’t see anyone. It was only just starting to get light outside, as I could see through the sides of the barn, which was actually a lot more like a giant carport, all roof and no walls. The sheep were looking over the fence between their pen and the one in which I’d been sleeping. I turned a little farther, and saw that our family’s five llamas, in the pen on my other side, were also watching me with the keen interest llamas always took in human behavior.

Maybe I’d imagined the voice.

“Meg?”

I turned all the way round to see a small, meek-looking man standing in the aisle between the rows of pens. He was wearing a green and yellow John Deere baseball cap and a green t-shirt that said KEEP CALM AND JOIN 4-H. Presumably a farmer.

I glanced at my watch. It was 6:33 A.M. This had better be important.

“Can I help you?” I asked aloud.

“Having trouble finding some chickens,” he said.

I waited to hear more, but he just stared back at me.

“That could be because this is the sheep barn,” I said, in the careful, calm voice and very precise pronunciation that would have revealed to anyone who knew me that I was not happy about being awakened by someone too clueless to read his fair map. “If you’re looking for chickens, you should try the chicken tent. You can find it—”

“I know where the chicken tent is.” He sounded offended. “I’m the volunteer monitor for it.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” I peered at him as if I needed glasses, though actually my eyesight was still pretty close to twenty–twenty. “I’m not at my best in the morning.” Especially not before dawn. “You said you’re having trouble finding some chickens? What chickens?” When I’d gone to bed—not all that long ago, actually—the chicken tent had been half full of birds brought in by farmers who were arriving early to the fair.

“Pair of bantam Russian Orloffs,” the farmer said. “Owners came in this morning and had a conniption fit when they found them missing. They think they’ve been stolen. Could just be that they left the cage unlatched or something, but I figured you’d want to know about it.”

Suddenly I was very wide awake.

“Have you called the police?” I asked as I scrambled the rest of the way out of my sleeping bag.

“Not yet.” He looked sheepish.”Wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Tried to find the mayor, but he’s not around, so I thought I’d tell you. You’re his go-to girl on this fair project, right?”

“Deputy director,” I corrected him, managing not to snarl it. “Call the police while I put my shoes on.” Except for my shoes and socks, I was already dressed. Given the very public nature of my bedroom stall in the sheep barn, I’d decided to sleep in my clothes.

I listened in on his call while rummaging through my baggage for clean socks and donning them and my tennis shoes.

“Hey, Debbie Ann? Bill Dauber. I’m over at the fair. We got us a chicken thief out here.… Uh-huh. Sometime last night.… Right.”

He hung up and tucked the phone back in his pocket.

“Vern Shiffley’s already over here,” he reported. “Debbie Ann will have him meet us at the chicken tent.”

“Great,” I said. “I’d like to be there when he talks to the owners of the missing chickens. What’s their name, anyway?”

“Russian Orloffs,” Dauber said. “Bantam mahogany Russian Orloffs. They’ve got black and dark brown feathers—”

“I meant the owners. What’s their name?”

The farmer looked blank and frowned, as if this were a trick question. My fingers itched to open up my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and add an item to the day’s to-do list: Demote Bill Dauber and find a competent head volunteer for the chicken tent.