The Hen of the Baskervilles(77)

Much as I wanted the chief to find some evidence that would clear Molly, I didn’t want them to arrest Genette instead.

“She didn’t do it,” I muttered to myself.

I was glad no one heard me and expected me to justify the statement, because I couldn’t have—not in any logical way.

I pulled out my notebook and was looking to see if there were any urgent tasks that had fallen by the wayside while I was at the inn when my cell phone rang.

It was Randall.

“Meg, could you come over to the chicken tent?” he said. “We’ve had another theft.”





Chapter 29

Back at the chicken tent, I found Randall introducing the chief to a familiar-looking farmer.

“Mr. Beamish here tells me his chickens were stolen this afternoon,” Randall said, by way of introduction to me and the chief.

“This afternoon?” I echoed. “But weren’t there— Oh, no!” I suddenly realized who Mr. Beamish was. “Not the Sumatrans!”

Mr. Beamish nodded sadly.

I realized I was feeling this a lot more personally than the theft of the Bonnevilles’ bantams. Perhaps because I didn’t remember actually seeing the missing Orloffs. But I’d seen the Sumatrans. I’d admired the proud elegance of the rooster’s long tail feathers. I’d stroked the hen’s soft feathers. I’d wondered if they would be the parents of the chicks Michael was arranging to buy. The Sumatrans were a lot more real to me.

“Sumatrans?” the chief said.

“Black Sumatran chickens,” Mr. Beamish said. “The ones I was showing Meg and her husband earlier today.”

“Showing you why?” the chief asked me.

“Michael and I were thinking of raising a few chickens,” I said. “And what better place than the fair to see all the available breeds and talk to the owners to find out what kind would suit us.”

Which sounded a lot more grown-up than “I had a sudden crazy impulse to own some chickens, and since Michael was feeling guilty about all his serial llama purchases, he seized my impulse and ran with it.”

“So someone stole the chickens you were thinking of buying?” the chief asked. I had to admit, if it was a coincidence it was a long one.

“Not the actual chickens,” the farmer said.

“We were going to buy some chicks,” I added. “From Mr. Beamish’s flock.”

I suddenly wondered how big a flock he had. They were ornamental chickens, bred for show—would he have that many more at home to make new chicks? Even if he did, he’d almost certainly brought his best chickens to the fair.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Mr. Beamish nodded sadly.

“But how did they get stolen in the middle of the afternoon?” the chief asked. “Didn’t anyone notice someone walking out with a pair of chickens under his arm?”

“People walk out of here with chickens all the time,” Mr. Beamish said. “Every time there’s a chicken judging over at the show ring. Weren’t many people here when it happened, so maybe no one noticed the thief was walking out with someone else’s chickens. Most everyone was over at the show ring watching the competition. Youth division. All the FFV and 4-H kids showing the poultry they’ve raised. Our kids are grown, but I remember how proud they were when they showed their animals, so the wife and I went over to swell the crowd. Most of the other chicken people did the same. Thief must have known that.”

Mr. Beamish was staring at the empty cage that had so recently held his beautiful Sumatrans. Around us, I could see that just about all the other people in the tent were either watching us out of the corner of their eyes or flat out staring. Just then Vern showed up. He glanced at the chief’s face and didn’t say anything.

I could guess why the chief looked so thunderous. He always took it personally when any crime occurred in Caerphilly. And it was more than likely that whoever stole the chickens was hoping that the chief wouldn’t have the resources to mount a full investigation on top of the already ongoing murder case. And that would anger the chief even more, because it was partly true. Investigating the thefts on top of the murder was going to be a stretch. And if you added in the possibility that the killer had also committed the chicken theft, in a deliberate attempt to distract the chief’s forces from the main goal …

It probably didn’t help the chief’s mood that the black-clad Bonnevilles were lurking nearby like crows hovering over a choice new bit of roadkill, with smug looks on their face as if it didn’t exactly displease them to see someone else suffering as they had.

“I’ll get Horace over here to do a thorough workup of the crime scene,” the chief said finally. “And we’ll start taking statements from the other occupants of the tent. All of them,” he said, glancing up at Vern.