The Hen of the Baskervilles(56)

“You’re worried something has happened to him?”

The winemaker frowned as if not sure he wanted to say anything.

“Look, Paul has a temper,” he said finally. “And he blames Genette for losing his winery.”

“She wasn’t to blame?”

“Partly to blame,” he said. “Paul is a great grape grower and winemaker, but he’s a lousy businessman. Not Genette’s fault he was in such dire straits that not being able to buy enough Virginia grapes sent him under. But she was the last straw. And she did buy his farm at a fire-sale price. And yesterday, I heard a rumor that she was going to start bottling her wine under the Fickle Wind label. Give herself a fresh start, because no one who has tasted her swill would ever buy it again.”

“Can she do that?”

“If she bought the name along with the physical property, yes,” he said. “And if Paul heard that rumor, it would have made him crazy.”

“Crazy enough to kill Brett to get back at Genette?”

“No.” His whole tone changed. “Never. Paul wouldn’t do something calculated like that. But Genette seems to think whoever killed Brett was aiming for her. If Paul heard the rumor, and saw what he thought was her—”

He shook his head, once more looking worried and uncertain.

“You think he did it? Or could have done it?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Not unless he was really mad, and didn’t even realize it wasn’t Genette he was attacking. And I hear it was a shooting—that also doesn’t sound like Paul. Strangling her or picking up something and whacking her, yes, but going out and buying a gun? No.”

“He could have already had the gun,” I said. “A lot of farmers do, for protection.”

“Usually it’s a shotgun for varmints,” the winemaker said. “Yeah, it’s possible he already had a gun. But I can’t imagine why he’d bring it here.”

“Unless he was planning to use it,” I suggested.

“And that I don’t believe he’d do,” the winemaker said. “Look, I don’t think Paul did it, and I sure as hell hope he has a solid alibi. But your police chief should know about this, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks. The chief will probably want to talk to you directly.”

“I’ll be here.” He handed me a business card and went back to his booth. Another winemaker came over to him, glass raised as if toasting. He picked up a glass with a splash of wine in it, clinked glasses with her, and sipped, but his smile was forced.

I waited until I was outside to call the chief with his name, cell phone number, and booth number. And then I went on with my rounds.

At least the Bonnevilles weren’t haunting the chicken tent looking like refugees from a goth convention.

“If you ask me, I think they felt a little embarrassed when they realized there’d been a murder, and them making such a fuss about a bunch of birds,” one of the chicken farmers said.

“I doubt it,” another said. “Dr. Langslow came over and scared them to death about how serious Mr. Baskerville’s condition could be.”

“Bonneville,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” she said. “Anyway, they’re over at the hospital getting those medical tests done. Should be back this afternoon, looking like a pair of crows.”

The mood of the tent had improved considerably in their absence. The chicken owners and sightseers were still darting and clumping about like hens in a barnyard, but now it was a happy sort of frenzy.

For the first time I had a chance to take a good look at the exhibits. And I had to admit that some of the chickens were quite handsome. The Sebright Bantams, for example, with their beautiful plumage, each glossy white feather outlined in black, making them look like walking monochromatic stained-glass windows. The black-and-white Yokohamas, who were pheasant-shaped with sleek, elegant white tails easily as long as their bodies. And the Sumatrans—similarly shaped, though with slightly less extravagant tails, and the most amazing glossy black plumage. Or was I seeing a hint of iridescent beetle green in the black when the light hit the feathers just right?

I was bobbing around in front of a cage of Sumatrans, trying to find an angle at which I could confirm that elusive flash of green, when Michael strolled up with the boys in tow.

“Something wrong with those chickens?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Except that they’re insidious. I covet them.”





Chapter 22

Josh was making a beeline to the display of newly hatched chicks in the center of the tent, oblivious to everything else. Jamie toddled over and gave my leg a forceful hug before scrambling in his brother’s wake. Michael looked at the Sumatrans and then back at me.