The Hen of the Baskervilles(50)

“Bad about what?” I asked.

“The poor guy’s lying there dead and we were squabbling over his body like … like … I don’t know what. It was shameful. A man’s dead; he should have some dignity.”

“We couldn’t just let them take over,” I said.

“No.” Vern’s jaw was set hard. “No, you did good, keeping that from happening. They’re real slick over there in Clay County at catching poachers and running petty crooks out of town, but they can’t solve this. And if your friend didn’t do it, I don’t want her framed because they’re too stupid to investigate. And if she did do it, I don’t want her to get off because they screwed up the investigation.”

“Understood,” I said. “I feel the same way.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“Maybe it will turn out to be a simple robbery,” I suggested.

“Not likely.” Vern shook his head. “His wallet was there. With a couple hundred in it, not to mention a whole deck of credit cards. Might be car theft. We didn’t find his keys. And the chief put out an APB on his car—a Mazda MX-5 convertible. Bright red. Expensive taste in cars.”

I wondered if Genette had bought it for him or if he’d used money that could have gone to help with Molly’s farm.

We sat in silence for a few more moments, then Vern stood up as if coming to a sudden decision.

“Tell the chief I went over to help the EMTs,” he said. “Have him call me to let me know if he wants to see the gun or just have me turn it over to Horace.”

With that he strode off.

I settled back more comfortably on the bench. After all, I had been entrusted with an official message for the chief. I wasn’t just hanging around being nosy. I was being useful.

I’d been asleep for at least half an hour when the chief gently shook me awake.

“Your friend has a request,” he said.

Molly was standing beside him. And Deputy Aida.

“Thanks for the lawyer’s name,” Molly said. “She’s meeting me down at the jail. Any chance you could do something about my booth? I don’t know when I’ll be back to deal with it.”

“I can find someone trustworthy to do sales,” I said.

“You think anyone will actually want to buy cheese from a murder suspect?” Molly was shaking her head as if she thought she knew the answer. “I was thinking more of just packing it up.”

“On the contrary, the notoriety should send sales through the roof,” I said. “I’m thinking we should raise prices before the word gets out.”

“Yeah, right.” Evidently Molly thought I was kidding. “I’ll leave it to you, then.” She turned to Aida. “I’m ready.”

The chief and I watched as they trudged off toward the front gate.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

“So should you,” I replied. “Or Minerva will have your head.”

He grimaced and nodded.

“I want to stay nearby in case something comes up,” he said. “I noticed a cot here in the closet. I thought I’d bunk down on that tonight, if that’s okay with you and Randall.”

“It’s fine with me, and Randall’s not here to object,” I said. “Be my guest. Vern said to tell you he’ll be over there at the crime scene with the gun he found. I’ll be in the sheep barn if anyone needs me.”





Chapter 20

Morning arrived too soon. Actually, since I’d already seen three hours of morning before going to bed, what arrived too soon was my adorable and way-too-energetic sons.

“Mommy, wake up! Look at the sheeps!” Jamie was crowing.

Josh contented himself with leaning over me, tugging on my shoulder with one hand while eating a particularly juicy mango with the other. Little bits of mango and dollops of the mango juice and mango-flavored drool were raining on my face.

“Josh, can you eat your mango someplace else?” I said, as I sat up and reached for something to wipe my face with. “No, don’t lean over Daddy’s face while you eat it.”

“It’s okay.” Michael sat up, a little baggy eyed from lack of sleep, but as always just as cheerful with the boys as if he’d gotten his full eight hours. “Josh, can you give Daddy a bite?”

“Look at all the sheeps!” Jamie repeated.

“Just sheep,” I said. “Look at all the sheep.”

“Yeah!” Jamie said. “Millions and millions of sheeps!”

“I’m sorry.” Rose Noire was standing just outside our bedroom pen, with half a dozen bags and totes over her shoulders. “I thought you’d be up by now. It’s eight o’clock, and we open at nine today.”