Read The Hen of the Baskervilles Online
Authors: Donna Andrews
The Hen of the Baskervilles
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To Sally Fellows, the perfect reader
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Acknowledgments
Thanks, as always, to everyone at St. Martin's/Minotaur, including (but not limited to) Matt Baldacci, Anne Brewer, Hector DeJean, Kymberlee Giacoppe, Lauren Hesse, Andrew Martin, Sarah Melnyk, Matthew Shear, and my editor, Pete Wolverton. And thanks again to the Art Department for yet another fabulous cover.
More thanks to my agent, Ellen Geiger, and the staff at the Frances Goldin Literary Agency for handling the boring (to me) practical stuff so I can focus on writing, and to Dave Barbor at Curtis Brown for taking Meg abroad.
Many thanks to the friendsâwriters and readers alikeâwho brainstorm and critique with me, give me good ideas, or help keep me sane while I'm writing: Stuart, Elke, Aidan and Liam Andrews, Renee Brown, Erin Bush, Carla Coupe, Meriah Crawford, Kathy Deligianis, Laura Durham, Suzanne Frisbee, John Gilstrap, Barb Goffman, Peggy Hansen, C. Ellett Logan, David Niemi, Alan Orloff, Valerie Patterson, Shelley Shearer, Art Taylor, Robin Templeton, Dina Willner, and Sandi Wilson. Thanks for all kinds of moral support and practical help to my blog sisters and brother at the Femmes Fatales: Dana Cameron, Charlaine Harris, Dean James, Toni L.P. Kelner, Catriona McPherson, Kris Neri, Hank Phillipi Ryan, Mary Saums, Marcia Talley, and Elaine Viets. And thanks to all the TeaBuds for years of friendship.
Meg's mother's sojourn in the wine pavilion was made easier by Ellen Crosby's expert advice. Anything I got wrong is obviously something I failed to ask her about.
I originally planned to set this book at the official Virginia State Fair, and spent many happy hours there absorbing all the local color. I had no clue that by the time I sat down to write, the fair would be in financial peril and perhaps in danger of disappearing. While Meg and Randall Shiffley probably aren't too keen on having the competition, I am delighted that, at least for the time being, the fair, under its new ownership, is going strong. Long may it continue!
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Contents
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Chapter 1
I woke up to find three sheep staring pensively down at me.
I stared back, wondering how they'd gotten into Michael's and my bedroom. And whether they'd been there long enough to cause a cleanup nightmare. And why they were staring at my hair, which might be dry and in need of conditioner, but in no way resembled hay. Andâ
I finally realized that the sheep hadn't invaded my home. In fact, you could argue that I was invading theirs. I was sleeping in a pen in our local fair's sheep and llama exhibition barn. Sleeping solo, without my husband, Michael, at my side and our twin two-a-half-year-olds down the hall. I'd probably awakened because one of the sheep had baaed. I should turn over and get some more sleep beforeâ
“Meg?”
Not coming from the sheep. I sat up and shoved the sleeping bag as far down as it would go. Then I looked around. I didn't see anyone. It was only just starting to get light outside, as I could see through the sides of the barn, which was actually a lot more like a giant carport, all roof and no walls. The sheep were looking over the fence between their pen and the one in which I'd been sleeping. I turned a little farther, and saw that our family's five llamas, in the pen on my other side, were also watching me with the keen interest llamas always took in human behavior.
Maybe I'd imagined the voice.
“Meg?”
I turned all the way round to see a small, meek-looking man standing in the aisle between the rows of pens. He was wearing a green and yellow John Deere baseball cap and a green t-shirt that said
KEEP CALM AND JOIN 4-H.
Presumably a farmer.
I glanced at my watch. It was 6:33
A.M.
This had better be important.
“Can I help you?” I asked aloud.
“Having trouble finding some chickens,” he said.
I waited to hear more, but he just stared back at me.
“That could be because this is the sheep barn,” I said, in the careful, calm voice and very precise pronunciation that would have revealed to anyone who knew me that I was not happy about being awakened by someone too clueless to read his fair map. “If you're looking for chickens, you should try the chicken tent. You can find itâ”
“I know where the chicken tent is.” He sounded offended. “I'm the volunteer monitor for it.”
“Oh! I'm so sorry.” I peered at him as if I needed glasses, though actually my eyesight was still pretty close to twentyâtwenty. “I'm not at my best in the morning.” Especially not before dawn. “You said you're having trouble finding some chickens? What chickens?” When I'd gone to bedânot all that long ago, actuallyâthe chicken tent had been half full of birds brought in by farmers who were arriving early to the fair.
“Pair of bantam Russian Orloffs,” the farmer said. “Owners came in this morning and had a conniption fit when they found them missing. They think they've been stolen. Could just be that they left the cage unlatched or something, but I figured you'd want to know about it.”
Suddenly I was very wide awake.
“Have you called the police?” I asked as I scrambled the rest of the way out of my sleeping bag.
“Not yet.” He looked sheepish.”Wasn't sure if I was supposed to. Tried to find the mayor, but he's not around, so I thought I'd tell you. You're his go-to girl on this fair project, right?”
“Deputy director,” I corrected him, managing not to snarl it. “Call the police while I put my shoes on.” Except for my shoes and socks, I was already dressed. Given the very public nature of my bedroom stall in the sheep barn, I'd decided to sleep in my clothes.
I listened in on his call while rummaging through my baggage for clean socks and donning them and my tennis shoes.
“Hey, Debbie Ann? Bill Dauber. I'm over at the fair. We got us a chicken thief out here.⦠Uh-huh. Sometime last night.⦠Right.”
He hung up and tucked the phone back in his pocket.
“Vern Shiffley's already over here,” he reported. “Debbie Ann will have him meet us at the chicken tent.”
“Great,” I said. “I'd like to be there when he talks to the owners of the missing chickens. What's their name, anyway?”
“Russian Orloffs,” Dauber said. “Bantam mahogany Russian Orloffs. They've got black and dark brown feathersâ”
“I meant the owners. What's
their
name?”
The farmer looked blank and frowned, as if this were a trick question. My fingers itched to open up my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and add an item to the day's to-do list:
Demote Bill Dauber and find a competent head volunteer for the chicken tent.
“Baskerville, or Bensonville, or something like that,” he said finally. “Hobby farmers, not longtime chicken folks, or I'd know them. Want me to wait for you?”
Probably his subtle way of asking how much longer I'd take to get dressed. I'd have been on my way already if I hadn't been trying to untie a stubborn knot in one shoelace. Served me right for just kicking them off and crawling into my sleeping bag last night.
“No, you go on back,” I said. “I'll be right along.”
He nodded and dashed out. I finished with my shoe and started to follow. But as I was about to leave the barn, I turned to glance around, wondering how many people had overheard our conversation. If someone really had stolen the missing chickens, it would upset the rest of the exhibitors. Not just the chicken owners, but everyone who'd brought animals.
The pen where I'd been sleeping was in the front right corner of the barn. From it I could look out over the small sea of pens. The aisles running between themâeither up and down or across the barnâwere empty. About a third of the pens were filled with small clumps of sheep. Here and there, I could spot the taller forms of alpacas or llamasâthe latter being the hated rivals against whom our beloved family llamas would be competing here at the fair. Scattered throughout were pens where the animals' owners had set up camp, both to keep watch over their livestock and to save the expense of a hotel room. The few humans I could see were still peacefully curled up in their sleeping bags, cots, or folding recliners.
Dauber hadn't been loud. So with luck, no one else here had heard us, and maybe tongues wouldn't start wagging before I found out what was going on. Through the open sides of the barn, I could see the goat barn to the left of us and the pig barn on the rightâdownwind, thank goodness, at least for the moment. All peaceful looking. Maybe the problem was confined to the chicken tent. After all, chickens were a lot more portable than sheep, goats, cows, pigs, or horses, and thus a lot easier to steal.
I ducked back into the pen long enough to scribble a quick note to Michael, who was coming in this morning, bringing our sons, Josh and Jamieâwe'd decided to give the boys one more peaceful night at home before plunging them into the excitement of the fair. Then, after placing the note very visibly on top of my sleeping bag, I hurried to follow the volunteer.
The animal barns and poultry tents surrounded a large open area where the farm equipment manufacturers had parked their displays of tractors and other large machinery. To my left was a sea of John Deere equipment, all of it painted in the company's distinctive trademark forest green. To the right I could see at least half an acre of the equally distinctive orange of Kubota. Beyond the sea of green I could glimpse a few splashes of Caterpillar yellow. A couple of farmers with towels over their shoulders and shaving kits in their hands were standing in the pathway, calmly discussing the finer points of a piece of Kubota equipment that looked like a cross between a tractor and an overgrown hedgehog. I didn't see anyone else around. I nodded good morning as I passed the mechanical hedgehog fanciers.
From across the field, I could hear the crowing, honking, and gobbling that meant the occupants of the poultry tents were waking up. But no human shrieks and wails. That was a good sign, wasn't it? I followed the path between the green and orange toward the chicken tent.
Any optimism vanished when I entered the tent. I saw no loose chickens, only chickens safely in cages or in the arms of their ownersâmore of both fowl and humans already than there had been last night. But the whole tent seemed more like a busy barnyard where a flock of particularly lively chickens was foraging. No, make that where a bunch of foraging chickens had suddenly been frightened by a fox. People dashed up and down the aisles, carrying cages or individual birds. Other people merely darted about aimlessly, gathering in clumps to talk, scattering when anyone new came near, then clumping again nearby.