“You got it, Chief.” Vern was looking a little stern himself as he gazed around at the dozens of people he was about to interrogate. A few of the nearby chicken owners looked anxious. Vern was giving an excellent impression of a man who had too much prime jail space sitting vacant. He pulled out his cell phone and began calling other deputies to help.
“Meg,” the chief said. “Can I speak to you a minute?”
I nodded and followed him out of the tent.
“Who else knew that you and Michael were taking an interest in these particular chickens?” he asked.
“Just about anyone in the tent could have known we were taking an interest in chickens in general,” I said. “We weren’t making a big secret of it. Michael spent quite a bit of time interrogating various chicken owners about their birds, to help us figure out what kind to get. And he’d narrowed it down to two birds—the Sumatrans and another breed called Welsummers. You might want to see if anyone is missing any of those. I have no idea how many people knew we had narrowed it down to those two breeds. I suspect Michael didn’t want to make it too obvious in front of all the other chicken owners which breed we were favoring. You think the thief picked the Sumatrans because we were interested in them?”
“There must be a couple hundred chickens in that tent,” he said. “And the thief picked one of a handful you and Michael were interested in? That’s a devil of a coincidence. And I don’t like coincidences.”
“Maybe not such a coincidence,” I said. “The thief was after unusual birds. Rare or heritage birds. And I get that—I wasn’t having Michael look at plain old reliable Leghorns or Rhode Island Reds that would produce more eggs than we could use. I was coveting fancy ones. So it might be just a coincidence that the thief stole one of the same fancy breeds that caught my eye.”
“Or it might be a deliberate attempt on the part of someone to muddy the waters,” the chief said. “You and Michael found the body. Now some chickens from a breed you were interested in are stolen.”
“You think someone’s trying to frame us?”
“If they are, they’re doing a pretty lousy job of it. Maybe someone who has a grudge against you, taking advantage of the situation.”
“Or maybe someone trying to put pressure on you to take the chicken thefts more seriously,” I suggested.
“You’re thinking of the Bonnevilles?” the chief asked. “Are you suggesting they might be capable of stealing someone else’s poultry to draw greater attention to the chicken theft aspect of this case?
I thought about it for a moment and then responded with the sort of elaborate shrug that said, “I wouldn’t out it past them.”
He sighed.
“I already noticed that they didn’t seem particularly sympathetic to their colleague’s plight,” he said.
“And doesn’t a daring daylight theft sound rather like an inside job?”
“Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “But don’t confront anyone.”
I nodded.
“By the way,” I asked. “Have you located Paul Morot?”
“The winemaker you mentioned as having a grudge against Genette? You think he might have had something to do with this chicken theft?” The chief”s tone was clipped, as if he was very close to telling me to mind my own business.
“I have no idea,” I said. “But he spent much of yesterday hanging around there.”
I pointed to the trash cans where I’d first spotted Morot.
“I thought you said he was lurking outside the wine tent.” I saw that he was flipping back through the pages of his notebook.
“He was watching the wine tent,” I said. “But from a distance. He was actually lurking there, by the trash cans.”
“A lot closer to the chicken tent than the wine tent.”
I nodded.
The chief stared at the trash cans for a few moments. Then he scribbled in his notebook, nodded to me, and ducked back into the tent.
I stood there for a few moments, thinking. Did I really suspect Morot? Or did I only want to find that someone—anyone—other than Molly was guilty?
I realized that I was probably blocking traffic. I stepped back and sat down on a hay bale. I pulled out my notebook and flipped through the pages, looking for something to do. Actually, I could see plenty of things that needed doing, but none that was urgent. None that I cared about enough to get up and do them.
Clearly I needed cheering up. I got up, put my notebook away, and headed for the llama exhibit.
As I’d hoped, Michael was there, showing off the llamas. In fact, the llama pen was crowded with not only Harpo, Zeppo, Chico, and Gummo but also the third-, fourth-, and sixth-place llamas from the morning’s judging. There were also a few alpacas in the pen, and beneath the JOY OF LLAMAS! sign someone had hung a smaller, hand-lettered sign that read AND ALPACAS!