“How are you?” I said as I passed them. I meant it as a greeting, not a question.
“Doing the best we can to bear up,” Mr. Bonneville said. Mrs. Bonneville burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but my sympathy for them was definitely wearing thin.
“We heard you were in the chicken tent.” Mrs. Bonneville’s voice had the nasal, stopped-up sound of someone who had been crying recently. “Looking at—chickens!”
“Yes, I was.” I couldn’t quite understand her frown at hearing that. Did she think that no one else should be buying or selling chickens while theirs were still missing? Or was she simply miffed that we were looking at other people’s chickens?
“People were looking at our chickens when we first got here,” she said.
Nostalgia? Or was she suddenly suspicious of everyone who showed an interest in acquiring heirloom chickens—including Michael and me, who weren’t even interested in Russian Orloffs?
“Yes,” I said. “The chief is taking a very keen interest in everyone who showed an interest in your chickens.”
That didn’t seem to mollify them.
“In fact—” I looked around as if making sure no one was near, and took a step closer. “I’m on my way to the Caerphilly Inn to see one of the suspects now.”
“Do you mean—that woman?”
“Genette Sedgewick,” I said. “On fair business, of course, not police. But while I’m there, I intend to keep a sharp lookout for any signs that she might be hiding any chickens there.”
Where did that come from, I wondered? I tried to imagine anyone sneaking live chickens past the inn’s overzealous staff. The first—and last—time I’d taken Spike there we were followed around the whole time by a staff member carrying a whisk broom, a dustpan, and a little spray can of something called Pee-Off! I took the hint and the Small Evil One never returned. The inn’s entire staff would probably have a collective conniption fit at the very idea of someone bringing in a live chicken.
But the Bonnevilles seemed to like the idea of my proposed search. When I left them, they were both wearing little conspiratorial smiles, and Mrs. Bonneville was attacking her salad with a zest that permitted Mr. Bonneville to finish off his chili dog.
As I drove to the inn, I shoved them out of my mind. I was making happier plans. We could move one of the sheds from our backyard out to the pasture where Rose Noire grew her herbs. The yard was already fenced in to keep Spike from roaming—did we need to subdivide it to protect the chickens from Spike? Or maybe to protect Spike from the chickens—the Sumatran rooster looked pretty fierce. And how soon would we be getting our chickens?
Our chickens. I found I liked the sound of that.
I got almost the whole way to the inn without thinking about why I was going there, which made for a much more pleasant ride than if I’d fretted the whole way about having to deal with Genette.
Chapter 27
As I trudged from my car to the front door of the inn, my good mood vanished and I began to feel put upon. Dealing with Genette was bad enough, but there was also the always difficult staff of the Caerphilly Inn. The doorman wasn’t bad—it was his job to open the door and bow deeply to anyone who showed up, even unprepossessing people in blue jeans and a Caerphilly College t-shirt with chocolate ice cream stains on it. And he’d been there a while and knew me, so his welcome was almost cordial.
“May we help you, madam?” the desk clerk said. Unlike the doorman, he was new. And not local. Desk clerks never were, here at the inn. Apparently management had decided that they had to import staff to achieve the right blend of elegance and chilly hauteur. I had to fight the urge to look myself over to see if I had suddenly sprouted a crop of facial warts, or if maybe I was trailing a long piece of toilet paper from one shoe.
“I’m here to see Genette Sedgewick,” I said.
The change in the desk clerk’s expression was almost imperceptible, but I could tell her name had not improved his opinion of me.
“On official Un-fair business,” I added. “Ms. Sedgewick is leaving the fair early, and I’m here representing fair management, to arrange for the removal and transportation of her booth and its contents.”
“So Mrs. Sedgewick will be leaving us?” He sounded eager. “Of course, we’re always sorry to see our guests leave,” he added, though I suspected Genette came as close to an exception as anyone ever could. His tone was considerably warmer. Was it because he realized I was a representative of the fair, which was currently paying for half a dozen out-of-town dignitaries to stay here at the inn? Or was it Genette’s departure that made him so cheerful?