The Hen of the Baskervilles(61)

It took me half an hour to locate Horace and lead him back to the Mazda. When I found him, he was babbling anxiously on his cell phone, apparently begging Debbie Ann to send search parties. I took the phone away from him and assured Debbie Ann that I could probably find our way back to the car and from there to civilization. Then I calmed Horace down, mainly by pointing out how much Plunkett would enjoy seeing him angry or upset. By the time we arrived back at the Mazda, he was calm, if a little grim.

“Get off the damned car,” was all he said to Plunkett.

Horace was still working on his examination of the car’s exterior when Vern Shiffley showed up.

“Heard some of you folks got lost in the trackless forest,” Vern said.

I winced.

“I wasn’t lost,” I said.

“Me neither,” Plunkett said, smirking.

“You were supposed to be guiding Horace, and you misplaced him,” Vern told Plunkett. “The way I see it that means you were as good as lost, too. I heard you were trying to hire yourself out as a hunting guide this fall. Anyone asks me for a recommendation, I’ll steer them to Meg here instead.”

Plunkett glowered. Vern sauntered over to the car.

“I’m good by myself,” Horace said. “Thanks.”

“Not butting in unless you want me to,” Vern said. “Just watching. Always interesting, seeing an expert work.”

He patted Horace’s shoulder, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Sorry.”

Horace nodded.

Plunkett ambled over so he could watch, too. I thought of heading back to the fair, but having successfully managed to find the car, and then Horace, and then the car again, I didn’t want to risk spoiling my reputation as a fearless tracker, so I stayed put and after calling Michael to get an update on the boys, I found a vantage point from which I could watch the search.

Vern was pretty good at keeping out of Horace’s way. Plunkett wasn’t, but I had the feeling that annoying Horace—and the rest of us—was exactly what he wanted to accomplish. Horace wasn’t rising to the bait, and I could tell that was spoiling Plunkett’s good mood.

Horace was still working on the front seat and the two deputies were watching through the open back doors when suddenly—

“Ah-ah-choo!”

Deputy Plunkett sneezed vigorously all over the backseat of the car, without even bothering to cover his nose and mouth.

“Watch it, will you?” Vern said.

“You’re contaminating my crime scene,” Horace complained. He was staring at the backseat of the car as if appalled at all the alien DNA that had just landed on it.

“Not to mention contaminating the rest of us,” Vern said. He had pulled out his handkerchief and was mopping his face—apparently Plunkett had spattered him as well. “Keep your germs to yourself.”

“It’s not germs,” Plunkett said. “It’s these damned chicken feathers.”

He held up one hand to display a couple of black-and-brown feathers, and then began shaking his hand as if trying to brush them off.

“Did those come from inside the car?” Vern asked.

Horace just closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Yup,” Plunkett said. “Right here in the backseat.”

“Vern, can you put them in this. Please.” Horace’s voice was shaking slightly. He held out an evidence collection bag. “Collect them all and put them very carefully in this bag.”

“You think they have something to do with the murder?” Plunkett asked.

Horace made an untranslatable noise.

“Maybe the murder,” Vern said. “Maybe the chicken theft. Which could be related to the murder, for all we know. Let’s not get careless.”

Plunkett shrugged. He tried to help with the feather gathering, but Vern shifted to put his body between Plunkett and the car. Plunkett shrugged and returned to leaning against the side of the car. Horace didn’t take his eyes off what Vern was doing.

“Meg,” Horace said. “What color were the missing chickens?”

“The Russian Orloffs?” I said. “Black and brown. The rooster had long black tail feathers.”

Horace reached down with one gloved hand and picked up a long, curled black plume. We all stared at it for a few seconds.

“Do the Riordans raise chickens on that farm of theirs?” Vern asked.

“I know Molly doesn’t,” I said. “But Brett hasn’t been living there lately. He’s been over at Genette’s farm. I have no idea what livestock she raises.”

“Have the people who owned the missing chickens taken the cages home?” Horace asked.

“No, they’ve turned them into a shrine for the missing birds,” I said.