Free The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews

I said. “I can see her with a spoiled little purse dog, but cows and chickens?”
    â€œOnly rare ones. She likes to brag about how rare they are. And she hires people to do the actual work. Usually people who were perfectly happy working for someone else before she offered them double the salary to work for her. I guess it’s a hobby.”
    â€œRaising animals or acquiring other people’s property?”
    â€œBoth,” he said, with a gruff chuckle. “Whiles away the time while she’s waiting for the grapes to grow. For us working vineyard owners, the days are too short, all year long, for all the work we need to get done, but for a hobby owner like her…”
    He shrugged.
    â€œI understand why you’d be worried,” I said. “But I’m not sure what we can do.”
    â€œAsk those poor people who lost their Orloffs if she ever tried to buy them,” he said. “And that kid whose pumpkin was smashed—his father raises Gloucestershire Old Spots—that’s a rare breed of pigs. I haven’t heard she was into pigs, but you never know. Ask him. Ask whoever had her quilt stolen if she raises some kind of rare livestock. Or maybe Genette’s looking to expand and the quilt’s owner also owns some land that borders on hers.”
    â€œOr maybe Genette tried to buy the quilt, in spite of the ‘not for sale’ sign on it?”
    â€œYeah. You’re catching on.”
    I was also catching on to the idea that if someone did knock off Genette, I wouldn’t be the only one needing an alibi. The chief would need a scorecard to keep all the suspects straight.
    And why did the idea of Genette being murdered keep popping into my head? Was it just my way of blowing off a little steam or was I having some kind of premonition?
    â€œThanks,” I said. “Although our chief of police is really the one who should hear about this.”
    â€œMaybe you could pass it along,” he said. “And I’d be perfectly happy to talk to him myself, as long as we do it someplace where she won’t know about it. I don’t want to get on her bad side—I live too close for that.”
    â€œIs yours one of the farms she’s trying to buy out?”
    â€œNot yet,” he said. “Right now, there’s still two farms between me and her. But that could change. Used to be three farms. Here.”
    He handed me a business card.
    â€œMy cell phone’s on it. I’ll be around if your police chief wants to talk to me.”
    With that he nodded and stepped back inside the wine pavilion.
    I fingered his card for a few moments. Then I tucked it in my pocket and headed for the fair office. The chief might still be there. I could fill him in on Stapleton’s suspicions and find out if he and Vern had made any progress solving the chicken thefts. And then maybe I could head for the nearby llama exhibit and say good morning to the boys.
    When I entered I found the chief and Randall Shiffley sitting on folding chairs. Vern Shiffley was pointing to the map of the fair, and the chief and Randall were studying it.
    â€œOh, good—Meg’s here,” Randall said. “Vern’s going to update us on the investigation so far.”
    â€œFor what it’s worth,” Vern grumbled.

 
    Chapter 10
    Apparently Vern had just finished complaining, not for the first time, about his Clay County counterparts.
    â€œNot much we can do about it now,” Vern said. “But I say next year we put the Midway on our side of the border. And I don’t just mean so we can get all the sales tax revenue. Did I tell you I figured out why they never arrested any pickpockets over there at last year’s fair?”
    â€œLet me guess—they just make ’em pay for a pickpocketing license?” Randall suggested.
    â€œNo, but you’re close,” Vern said. “They just beat the pickpocket up a little, empty his