“If you mean the Russian Orloffs, no,” Denton said. “Nor the Sumatrans.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t mean to be insulting—before I started working with the fair, I couldn’t have told one breed of chicken from another.”
“I still can’t,” Denton admitted. “So since I knew sooner or later someone would be asking me that very question, I took the precaution of bringing along a poultry expert when I checked the Ashville property out. Friend of mine who judges chickens at the North Carolina state fair.”
“Well done,” the chief said.
Denton flipped to a new page in his notebook.
“We didn’t find any of the chickens stolen here at the fair,” he said. “But according to my friend we found Minorcas, Cochins, Ko Shamos, Silkies, Malays, Frizzles, Burmese, Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots, Rumpless Tufted Araucanas, and Transylvanian Naked Neck chickens.”
“Oh, Horace will be so excited, I said. “About the naked chickens, I mean. He’s been reading about them.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” Denton looked up from his notebook and shook his head. “Not a one of them I’d want to give barnyard space to. Most peculiar collection of poultry I’ve ever seen in my life. Peculiar and in some cases downright ugly. But it got my friend real excited. And then real mad—seems he figured out some of the birds belonged to a friend of his.”
“He recognized the chickens?” The chief sounded skeptical.
“No, he recognized some kind of distinctive leg band the friend puts on his chickens,” Denton said. “Guess Genette figured she’d hidden the stolen ones well enough—out of state and all—that she didn’t need to worry about prying the ID bands off. Or maybe she didn’t notice they were there. According to the caretaker, she doesn’t actually go near the chickens—just drops by every week or two to survey her domain and gloat a bit. And the telltale ID bands were on a bunch of chickens with big, fluffy tufts of feathers all over their feet.”
“The Sablepoots,” I said. “I know someone who had some Lemon Millefleur Sablepoots stolen—by Genette, he thought, although he couldn’t prove it. Mr. Stapleton,” I added, seeing the chief’s frown. “I gave you his card, remember?”
“Yes, that’s his name,” Denton said. “The guy with the distinctive ID bands.”
“And you can find him in the wine tent,” I added.
The chief nodded.
“I’ll check with him,” the chief said. “And we should let the Virginia State Police know as soon as possible about her other property—they’ll need to liaise with their counterparts in North Carolina.”
“And while all this is fascinating,” I said. “And we’re grateful to you for uncovering it, we still don’t know what Genette did with the Orloffs and Sumatrans.”
“Genette didn’t do anything with them,” said a new voice.
We all looked up to see Vern Shiffley standing in the doorway.
“Do you know who did?” the chief asked.
Instead of answering, Vern turned to someone outside.
“Bring those on in here,” he said.
Two more deputies came in, each carrying a small cage with a pair of chickens in it.
“That’s them!” I said. “The Sumatrans and the Orloffs.”
“Where did you find them?” the chief asked.
“I went along when the state police searched Plunkett’s farm,” Vern said. “Found these in his barn. I studied up on what the missing chickens looked like, so I was pretty sure these were the ones. We also found a sledgehammer splattered with pumpkin juice nearby, and a pair of pumpkin-stained overalls dumped in his laundry room. I think we caught us a pumpkin-smashing, quilt-spoiling chicken thief!”
“The state police okay with you bringing these back to the owners?” the chief asked. “They don’t need them as evidence?”
“They’re okay with returning the chickens after their owners have identified them,” Vern said. “A trooper just went over to fetch the owners. We thought we’d do the official ID in your office. And here they come.”
Vern stepped aside, making way for Mr. Beamish and the black-clad Bonnevilles. A tall, stern-looking state trooper brought up the rear.
“It’s Anton! And Anna!” Mrs. Bonneville threw her arms around the cage containing the Orloffs.
“I never thought I’d see this day,” Mr. Bonneville said. He put one arm around his wife and, with the other hand, fumbled for his pocket handkerchief.
Anna and Anton clucked excitedly. I couldn’t really tell if they were happy to see their owners again or just overexcited by having someone throw her arms around their cage, but at least they didn’t sound upset.