The Hen of the Baskervilles(7)

Maybe the reporter was a country fan, since he opted for the backstage tour. He and Randall strolled off. I waited till they were out of sight, then called Randall’s cell phone.

I was in luck. This time he answered.

“Don’t let on it’s me,” I said.

“Good to hear from you,” he boomed. “I expect you have some news for me?”

“Someone stole two bantams from the chicken tent last night,” I said. “And someone smashed one of the contenders for biggest pumpkin. No idea yet if it was the same someone.”

There was a pause.

“Good to hear it.” His voice was artificially hearty.

“I take it the reporter is listening.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Vern is already working on the case,” I said. “And I suspect Chief Burke will be here soon, and my cousin Horace is doing forensics. Normally I’d say it was overkill doing forensics on what will probably turn out to be misdemeanors, but this could really hurt the fair.”

“I completely agree with you,” Randall said. “Keep up the good work, and call me if you need anything.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have your foreman deliver some steel drums to clean up the pumpkin debris,” I suggested. “There’s at least half a ton of it, and maybe if we save it all, the kid who grew it can still compete in the contest. And Vern asked if we could round up a few volunteers to search for the missing chickens.”

“That’s a yes,” he said. “Catch you later.”

I made my call to the Shiffley Construction Company and then took a deep breath. What next? Should I go back and check the progress of picking up the pumpkin debris and calming down the kid? Should I call Dad to see how Mr. and Mrs. B. were doing? Should I perhaps go back to the fair office, where I had a database of all registered entrants in my computer, and figure out what their name really was?

I should probably check in all the other tents and barns to see if there were any more thefts or vandalism. And was it too early to call Michael to find out how the boys’ breakfast had gone without me? And—

My phone rang.

“Meg, dear.” Mother. “Can you come over to the arts and crafts pavilion?”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’ve had an incident,” she said. “In the quilt section.”

“What kind of incident?”

“You’ll see, dear.” She hung up.

I swore under my breath. Knowing Mother’s penchant for euphemism and understatement, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what she’d call in “incident.” After all, she was in the habit of calling the Civil War “the late unpleasantness.” I didn’t quite break into a run, but I wasted no time getting to the arts and crafts barn.





Chapter 4

I stepped into the arts and crafts barn and looked around. All seemed quiet at first. To my left were the entrants in the various art categories—the walls and a number of freestanding panels were already nearly filled with paintings, drawings, and photographs, while tables housed sculptures, wood carvings, and ceramics. To my right were the food exhibits—jars of pickles, jams, jellies, apple butter, pumpkin butter, and every other kind of nut and fruit butter imaginable. A bank of glass-doored refrigerators stood ready to hold the homemade dairy butters, yogurts, cheeses, and other perishables, most of which hadn’t arrived yet. The delectable scent of fresh baked bread was already wafting from the bakery tables, where loaves and rolls had begun to appear in anticipation of this afternoon’s bread competitions, junior division—to be followed on subsequent days by the open bread competition; the junior and open cake and cookie events, junior pies, and on Saturday afternoon, the highly contested open pie event. A fair number of people were delivering foods, arranging the foods that were already there, or just strolling up and down, gazing at the tables and sniffing appreciatively. I made a mental note not to bring the boys here unless they’d been well and recently fed, so they’d be less likely to nibble any of the exhibits.

I threaded my way through all the art panels to the back of the barn, where the entrants in the various fiber arts categories could be found. Now the freestanding panels and tables held examples of knitting, crocheting, tatting, sewing, embroidery, crewelwork, needlepoint, cross-stitch, yarn-making, dyeing, weaving, and, at the back, in a place of honor, the quilt competition. Randall’s carpenters had constructed dozens of wooden frames for hanging the entries, and arranged them in aisles, like the bookshelves in a library. A pair of empty frames hung front and center, to be replaced, after the judging, with the grand prize winners in the junior and open categories. I didn’t see many people around, so I walked down the center aisle of the display, looking right and left.