“I wouldn’t want you to upset them right now,” Horace said. “After all, the DNA testing will only become necessary if there’s any dispute over ownership of the missing birds after they’re recovered.”
The phrase “after they’re recovered” was definitely to the Bonnevilles’ liking and we left them smiling for the first time since the fateful first night of the fair.
“Perhaps we should tell Mr. Twickenham to hold off for a bit,” I overheard Mrs. Bonneville saying to her husband as Horace and I left. “It does seem as if the fair management is making a reasonable effort.”
I made a mental note to ask the chief what Mr. Twickenham had wanted. Probably fodder for suing the Un-fair. I hoped not, but then again, if they tried, I would have the pleasure of saying “I told you so” to Randall, who had protested about spending the time and money to have an attorney draft all the release forms we had exhibitors sign. Not that the forms would keep the Bonnevilles from suing us, but they might at least make it harder for them to prevail in court.
“Do you really think we have a chance of recovering them?” I asked, when we’d left the tent.”
“No idea,” Horace said. “Except that we have a much better chance of recovering them now than we did before. There’s only so far we can afford to go to investigate a chicken theft. It’s not even grand larceny unless the birds are worth a hundred dollars apiece.”
“And even if they are, the DNA tests would probably cost several times that,” I said.
“Precisely,” Horace said. “It doesn’t make sense to run DNA on a bunch of stolen chickens. But now that we found these Orloff feathers in the dead man’s car, they’re possible clues in a murder. That’s a whole different ballgame.”
“Can you really do DNA tests on chickens?” I asked.
“Absolutely!” Horace said. “Haven’t you heard about the DNA testing on the Transylvanian Naked Neck chicken?”
I hadn’t, but I’d have lied about that if I’d known he’d regale me with the details all the way back to the front gate. Apparently a breed of fowl with chickenlike bodies, red, naked necks, and small, turkeylike heads had appeared in Transylvania—it would be Transylvania—and was eventually imported to England and the United States. Genetic testing had eventually disproved the theory that the birds were a hybrid of chickens and turkeys—they were, in fact, simply mutant chickens.
By the time Horace had finished telling me about this, we had reached the gate. We spotted the Shiffley Towing Service truck with the sporty little red car attached just outside. And Vern Shiffley was standing nearby.
“You can take over the job of keeping Horace from strangling Plunkett,” I told him. “My boys are showing the family dogs in the Open Dog Show, and I have exactly ten minutes to get over to the show ring. And for the record, for the next two hours, I am not available for anything short of an earthquake.”
“We’re cool,” Vern said. “So what’s this about mutant chickens?” he asked Horace.
I left them to it and tried to shove the chicken thefts and the murder out of my mind for a time. Which was a lot easier to do now that Horace seemed so optimistic about the new evidence.
Chapter 24
The Open Dog Show—also known colloquially as the “Cutest Dog Contest”—was open to any kid, twelve or under, who wanted to show a dog. A few of the entrants were pedigreed dogs who would also compete in the AKC show later in the fair, or sheepdogs who’d be competing in the herding trials. But most were just beloved family pets.
We’d been holding this at the county fair for decades, and it was proving just as popular with the Un-fair attendees. Unfortunately that created a considerable challenge for the judges. Although we didn’t come right out and say it, the policy was that every dog who walked won a ribbon of some sort, and the vastly larger pool of entries was taxing the judges’ imaginations.
I’d promised to help out with the category brainstorming—two pages in my notebook are already filled with ideas. Luckily I could beg off serving as an actual judge, since my own two sons were contestants.
I applauded wildly with the rest of the crowd when Michael and the boys stepped into the ring, starting off the parade. Jamie was being dragged along by Spike, our eight-and-a-half-pound furball. Spike clearly thought we had chosen wisely in putting him in charge of the parade. His demeanor showed that he had decided to be gracious to the other dogs in his kingdom and refrain from killing any of them, however deserving they might be, until after the parade. Josh was leading Tinkerbell, his uncle Rob’s hundred-and-twenty-pound Irish Wolfhound, who got along splendidly with Spike, partly because she was too good-natured and laid back to fight with anyone, and partly because her coat was so thick that she didn’t always notice when Spike was biting her.