“Before you leave,” Vern was saying. “One question occurs to me—have you had your birds microchipped?”
“Microchipped?” the husband repeated. “We—”
He clutched his chest and keeled over.
Chapter 2
“Call 911,” I said as I scrambled to the fallen chicken owner’s side.
“Is he okay?” Vern already had his cell phone to his ear.
“He has a pulse,” I said. “And it seems steady enough. But he’s unconscious. And his face is pale and sweaty.”
Vern was repeating my words into the phone, presumably to Debbie Ann, the dispatcher. I sat back on my heels, took out my own cell phone, and called my father. Although theoretically semiretired from active medical practice, Dad had agreed to act as volunteer medical officer for the fair. Once the fair opened, we’d have EMTs and an ambulance on site, but this early in the day—well, Dad was always an early riser. Maybe he was here already. And there was nothing Dad enjoyed better than a nice adrenaline-laden medical emergency first thing in the morning.
A capable-looking woman knelt down on the man’s other side. She loosened his collar and eased his head into a more comfortable position.
The man’s wife hadn’t made a sound since he’d collapsed—she just stood there, staring and clutching the chicken. The chicken, though, was making enough noise for both of them, at least until a nearby volunteer in a BACKYARD CHICKEN FARMER t-shirt gently eased the poor bird out of her hands.
“Debbie Ann’s sending the ambulance,” Vern said. “Let’s call your dad.”
“I’ve already got him,” I said. “Dad, possible cardiac patient in the chicken tent. Are you here at the—”
“On my way,” he said. “I was just over in the first-aid tent, getting ready for the day.”
The capable-looking woman was taking the man’s pulse with one eye on her watch. The doctor’s daughter in me recognized the unmistakable demeanor of a trained medical professional, so I stood back out of her way. It actually wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before Dad bustled in, carrying his deceptively old-fashioned–looking doctor’s bag, which he’d equipped as a fully functional modern first-aid kit. The local EMTs had occasionally been known to borrow supplies and equipment from him. He waved absently at me and hurried over to the fallen man. After a few moments, he glanced up, gave me a quick thumbs-up, and turned back to his patient.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and took Vern aside for a quick word.
“Evidently Dad thinks he’ll be all right,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Does Randall know about this?” Vern’s cousin Randall Shiffley, in addition to being the mayor of Caerphilly, was the fair’s director.
“Not yet,” Vern said. “He just took off to meet some reporter at the front gate and give him a tour of the fair. I figured it was better to wait until they’d finished.”
“Good call,” I said. “But what if he was planning to bring the reporter here to the chicken tent?”
Vern winced slightly and turned a little pale.
“Yeah, he probably is planning to,” he said. “He’s that proud of all the rare and unusual chickens people brought. Can you figure out a way to get the word to him? I should stay here and handle the situation. It’d help if we can just keep the reporter away till the ambulance gets here. Once Mr. and Mrs. B are off to the hospital things should quiet down a bit.”
“Good idea,” I said. “But find someone who can take care of their remaining chicken while they’re gone. Someone they trust.”
“Can do.”
“By the way, what is their name? We can’t keep calling them Mr. and Mrs. B.”
Vern looked chagrined.
“I didn’t quite catch it,” he said. “And they’re so touchy right now I didn’t like to ask.” He spotted something and his face brightened. “Hallelujah! Here’s the EMTs.”
I stood aside while the EMTs trotted in. Then I left the tent and pulled out my cell phone. Randall’s phone went to voice mail.
“Call me as soon as you get this, even if you’re still with the reporter,” I said.
But I didn’t think it was a good idea to wait until he came back. I decided to look for him.
I glanced around, wondering where to start. I saw a flurry of activity outside the produce barn—four people popped out, then two of them went running off in different directions while the other two popped back inside. I headed that way.
Stepping inside reminded me that I needed to grab some breakfast before too long. Should I feel guilty, thinking about my stomach after the events of the morning? I stifled the thought. Dad seemed to think Mr. B was going to be all right. That was good enough for me.