The Hen of the Baskervilles(2)

“Baskerville, or Bensonville, or something like that,” he said finally. “Hobby farmers, not longtime chicken folks, or I’d know them. Want me to wait for you?”

Probably his subtle way of asking how much longer I’d take to get dressed. I’d have been on my way already if I hadn’t been trying to untie a stubborn knot in one shoelace. Served me right for just kicking them off and crawling into my sleeping bag last night.

“No, you go on back,” I said. “I’ll be right along.”

He nodded and dashed out. I finished with my shoe and started to follow. But as I was about to leave the barn, I turned to glance around, wondering how many people had overheard our conversation. If someone really had stolen the missing chickens, it would upset the rest of the exhibitors. Not just the chicken owners, but everyone who’d brought animals.

The pen where I’d been sleeping was in the front right corner of the barn. From it I could look out over the small sea of pens. The aisles running between them—either up and down or across the barn—were empty. About a third of the pens were filled with small clumps of sheep. Here and there, I could spot the taller forms of alpacas or llamas—the latter being the hated rivals against whom our beloved family llamas would be competing here at the fair. Scattered throughout were pens where the animals’ owners had set up camp, both to keep watch over their livestock and to save the expense of a hotel room. The few humans I could see were still peacefully curled up in their sleeping bags, cots, or folding recliners.

Dauber hadn’t been loud. So with luck, no one else here had heard us, and maybe tongues wouldn’t start wagging before I found out what was going on. Through the open sides of the barn, I could see the goat barn to the left of us and the pig barn on the right—downwind, thank goodness, at least for the moment. All peaceful looking. Maybe the problem was confined to the chicken tent. After all, chickens were a lot more portable than sheep, goats, cows, pigs, or horses, and thus a lot easier to steal.

I ducked back into the pen long enough to scribble a quick note to Michael, who was coming in this morning, bringing our sons, Josh and Jamie—we’d decided to give the boys one more peaceful night at home before plunging them into the excitement of the fair. Then, after placing the note very visibly on top of my sleeping bag, I hurried to follow the volunteer.

The animal barns and poultry tents surrounded a large open area where the farm equipment manufacturers had parked their displays of tractors and other large machinery. To my left was a sea of John Deere equipment, all of it painted in the company’s distinctive trademark forest green. To the right I could see at least half an acre of the equally distinctive orange of Kubota. Beyond the sea of green I could glimpse a few splashes of Caterpillar yellow. A couple of farmers with towels over their shoulders and shaving kits in their hands were standing in the pathway, calmly discussing the finer points of a piece of Kubota equipment that looked like a cross between a tractor and an overgrown hedgehog. I didn’t see anyone else around. I nodded good morning as I passed the mechanical hedgehog fanciers.

From across the field, I could hear the crowing, honking, and gobbling that meant the occupants of the poultry tents were waking up. But no human shrieks and wails. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I followed the path between the green and orange toward the chicken tent.

Any optimism vanished when I entered the tent. I saw no loose chickens, only chickens safely in cages or in the arms of their owners—more of both fowl and humans already than there had been last night. But the whole tent seemed more like a busy barnyard where a flock of particularly lively chickens was foraging. No, make that where a bunch of foraging chickens had suddenly been frightened by a fox. People dashed up and down the aisles, carrying cages or individual birds. Other people merely darted about aimlessly, gathering in clumps to talk, scattering when anyone new came near, then clumping again nearby.

But they all seemed to steer clear of the far corner of the barn. I could see the tall form of Vern Shiffley, the senior deputy who was in charge of the police presence at the fair. He was talking to someone.

Two someones, as I could see when I finally shoved my way through the agitated flock of chicken owners. Presumably the Baskervilles or Bensonvilles or whatever their names were—the owners of the missing fowl. Both were short and round and rather nondescript. The man was wearing khaki pants and a beige shirt. The woman wore a flower-print dress in shades of beige and pale pink so muted that it looked faded even though I suspected it was brand new. She was holding a small brown and black chicken and stroking it absently.