The Hen of the Baskervilles(10)

“Fortunately this is the first incident of this kind we’ve had during the history of the Un-fair,” Randall was saying.

“You only started it last year,” the reporter pointed out. “Not much of a history.”

“No, but our record last year was unblemished,” Randall said. “No theft or vandalism at all in the exhibits.”

“No crime at all last year?”

“We arrested a few pickpockets and a few people on drunk and disorderly charges,” Randall said. “That’s about it for last year. And I’m optimistic that our police chief will be able to bring last night’s perpetrator to justice.”

The reporter nodded. But he wasn’t writing down anything about last year’s stellar crime-free record. I tried not to glare at his motionless pen.

“Of course you have a pretty small police force,” he said.

“We’re a pretty small county with a low crime rate,” Randall said. “But we’re partnering with Clay County on this fair, and can also call on their resources. And both our sheriff and our chief of police have very cordial relationships with all the nearby counties.”

Just then the door opened, and Chief Burke peered in.

“Ah—speak of the devil!” Randall stood up to shake the chief’s hand. “Here’s Chief Burke now. Out of uniform, I see?”

I admit, I was also surprised. The chief was normally a stickler for wearing his neatly pressed khaki uniform on duty. He looked almost strange in khakis and a blue polo shirt.

“When I got the call, I was already on my way here,” the chief said. “Bringing my wife’s entries to the pickle and dried flower arranging contests.”

“Not the pie contest?” I asked. “I thought Minerva’s pecan pie was a shoo-in.”

“She hasn’t baked it yet,” the chief said. “Still fussing over the pecans. Got our whole kitchen table covered with pecans, trying to pick out the best ones. And dried flowers all over the dining room table. I had to eat breakfast on the front stoop.”

The reporter was tapping his pen on the desk, clearly impatient with these homey details.

“What can you tell me about the incidents here at the fair?” he asked.

“So far, nothing.” The chief’s voice became all business. “I have my best people working on it. I’m here to supervise the investigation. And we’ll be doing everything we can to apprehend the perpetrator and recover what was stolen.”

The reporter asked the same question again in a couple of different ways, and the chief gave him a couple of different variations on the same answer. Sensing he’d gotten as much as he could hope for, the reporter thanked us and left.

“Off to look for someone who will give him a sensational quote,” I said.

“And odds are he’ll find it,” Randall said.

“But not from me.” The chief frowned. “Or from any of my officers.”

“And not from the Baskervilles,” Randall put in.

“Who?” The chief looked puzzled.

“The chicken owners.”

“They’re named Bonneville,” I said. “And last I heard, they were down at the hospital. Mr. Bonneville clutched his chest and keeled over shortly after they discovered the theft.”

“Any word on how he’s doing?”

I pulled out my phone, called Dad, and hit the speaker button so I wouldn’t have to relay what he said.

“How’s your patient?” I asked. “Did he really have a heart attack?”

“Mr. Baskerville is going to be fine,” Dad said.

“That’s nice,” I said. “But the people whose chickens were stolen are actually named Bonneville. Please tell me that’s who you’re treating.”

“Are you sure?” Dad asked. “They’ve been answering to Baskerville down here at the hospital.”

“That’s because one of them is having something that looks an awful lot like a heart attack and the other is worried out of her mind,” I said. “I have their entry form right here. Bonneville.”

“If you say so.” Dad still sounded unconvinced. “Here, let me put Mrs. Bask—er, Bonneville on. She can tell you. She wants to ask you about something anyway.”

There was a bit of background noise, and then I head a woman say “hello” in an uncertain voice.

“Mrs. Bonneville, this is Meg Langslow, from the fair,” I said. “How is your husband?”

“Your father says he’ll be fine.” She had a soft, Southside Virginia accent. “Thank heaven he didn’t have a heart attack. He had— What was that again, Dr. Langslow?”