I nodded. Mason Shiffley had been raising Black and Tan Coonhounds for forty years, and still referred to the bitches as “lady dogs.”
“We should have Horace take a look at them,” I said. “There could be clues. Where are they?”
“Mason was so mortified that he didn’t tell anyone,” Seth said. “Just hustled them into his truck this morning, took them home, and sheared them. And then drove himself over to the hospital and checked himself in. Seems he had a heart attack.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“They think so. No thanks to whoever graffittied his sheep. Maybe he’d have had it anyway, but you’ll never convince me that prank didn’t hurry it along.”
Then he chuckled, a little sheepishly.
“I know it’s rotten to laugh,” he said. “But whoever did it painted the words in that glow-in-the-dark neon-pink spray paint. Mason comes out just before dawn to tend the sheep and all he sees are three really bad words glowing in the dark. You ask me, he probably started having the heart attack then and there. He just didn’t give in to it until he’d cleaned up the sheep.”
“And destroyed potentially useful evidence.”
“He may be prim, but he’s thrifty. He’d probably have kept the fleeces so he could separate out the wool that’s still usable.”
“I’ll tell the chief.” I was already pulling out my cell phone to do so. “Keep this under your hat, will you?”
“Can do,” Seth said. “I only found out when Mason and his sheep didn’t show up and we had to find some replacement sheep for the contest. No need for everyone to know. Happened last night like all the rest of the pranks. Everyone already knows there was a prankster out last night. No sense upsetting everyone all over again.”
I agreed, and so did the chief when I reached him.
The day wore on. The competitions had begun. In the quilt and pie barn, pickle judging gave way to jams, jellies, and preserves. The first round of calf-roping ended and the first of the sheepdog trials began in the rodeo ring. The karaoke competition (country music division) was underway on the stage. The dairy cow judging (youth division) started up in the small ring near the cow barn. I tracked down the volunteers who’d be on patrol tonight and told them when and where to report for their shifts.
In the late afternoon I ran into the Bonnevilles talking animatedly to someone I recognized as a student reporter from the Caerphilly College newspaper. Talking and posing with their remaining bantam hen in their arms while the reporter snapped pictures with his iPhone. I tried to pass by unseen, but the reporter recognized me and flagged me down.
“Meg, any official comment from the fair management on this chicken theft?” he asked.
“We are shocked and saddened by this outrage.” I kept my face solemn and frowned slightly. “And you can be sure that the Un-fair will do everything we can to assist law enforcement in bringing those responsible to justice.”
The Bonnevilles nodded as if they approved of my dolorous tone. I stepped over to them and patted them both on the shoulder.
“Courage!” I whispered. Mrs. Bonneville sniffled and lifted her chin bravely. Mr. Bonneville put his arm protectively around her shoulder.
I retreated while the going was good. Unfortunately, the reporter chose to follow me, leaving the Bonnevilles and their hen standing in a small, forlorn clump.
“Seriously,” he said. “Do they think the birds are dead? Is that why they’re in mourning?”
“You’d have to ask them,” I said.
“No thanks.” He shuddered. “I already did, and I wasn’t sure she’d ever stop crying. And Chief Burke just says ‘no comment.’”
I relented.
“The chickens are from a rare heirloom breed,” I began.
“Expensive?”
“For chickens, I expect they are,” I said. “But you should ask a poultry expert. And as you can tell from the size of the one they’re holding, nobody raises them for meat. So there’s reason to be optimistic that the thief took them for breeding purposes, and I have every confidence Chief Burke will recover them.”
He was tapping on his iPhone—taking notes, I realized, in his generation’s replacement for a notepad.
“Thanks,” he said. “Not sure my editor will even think this is worth running—unless she decides my photos of the Baskervilles are good for comic relief.”
With that he dashed off, before I had a chance to correct him on the names. I glanced back and saw that Mr. and Mrs. Bonneville were walking slowly down the pathway toward the chicken tent, looking like a small funeral procession. If they were trolling for attention, it wasn’t working. People were glancing at them out of the corner of their eyes and giving them a wide berth.