Free The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews Page A

pockets, and escort him to the county line.”
    â€œI’ll have a word with Sheriff Dingle.” The chief didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect.
    â€œChief, there’s no talking to these people,” Vern said. “They’re not in the twenty-first century yet. They’re still trying to find the seventeenth. If we—”
    â€œI’ll have a word with their sheriff.” Chief Burke’s voice was calm, but I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. “He may not agree with me, but I think he’s well aware that they need to work with us if they want to retain their small but very lucrative piece of the fair. Have we made any progress on the thefts and vandalism?”
    Vern grimaced and shook his head. He had a small notebook in his hand, and he looked down at it and flipped a page.
    â€œHorace couldn’t get any usable fingerprints off the pumpkin or the cage the chickens were taken from,” he said. “He said there was no use even trying with the quilt. Half the quilters are over at Rosalie’s camper, consoling her, and the other half are mutinous because they think she now has an unfair edge in the competition, even if Daphne can’t get all the mud off.”
    â€œAnd they could be right, but that’s not something we can do anything about,” the chief said.
    Vern nodded, and went back to his notebook.
    â€œKnowledgeable sources in the produce tent say the kid whose pumpkin was smashed was probably headed for a medal,” he went on. “But no one—except the kid—thinks it would have won first prize. Third through sixth, according to my sources. Haven’t heard yet whether the judges are going to let him enter those barrels of pumpkin goop we had collected. And things are pretty crazy in the chicken tent. A few of the exhibitors are threatening to go home, but no one really believes they will before the judging. Still, they’re all running around like—well, like chickens with their heads cut off. No other thefts or pranks, and no idea if those three are related.”
    â€œI heard a theory that might explain it,” I said. I pulled out Stapleton’s card, handed it to the chief, and relayed what he had told me about Genette.
    â€œYou think there’s something to this?” the chief asked when I’d finished.
    â€œI have no idea,” I said. “People who know her better than I do seem to think so. Of course, they’re all people who dislike her. Haven’t talked to anyone who likes her, if such a thing exists. But even if Stapleton’s wrong, I bet he’s not the only one saying stuff like this. There are some serious bad feelings down there in the wine tent. You might want to keep an eye on her.”
    â€œAre you worried that she might be up to something, or that the other exhibitors, who think she’s up to something, might take matters into their own hands?”
    â€œEither,” I said. “Or both. There’s also the possibility that someone might be deliberately trying to cause troubles that would be blamed on Genette.”
    â€œI don’t have the manpower to guard Ms. Sedgewick,” the chief said. “We’re already stretched thin patrolling a hundred acres of fairgrounds.”
    â€œOne hundred and twenty, to be exact,” Randall said. “With the possibility of expansion if— Sorry, chief. Force of habit.”
    â€œPatrolling over a hundred acres of fairgrounds,” the chief went on. “Unless we are reasonably sure that Ms. Sedgewick is either dangerous or in danger, I can’t justify putting a watch on her, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I just meant keep her in mind as you investigate the chicken theft.”
    The chief nodded.
    â€œSo how are your patrols going?” He was looking at Randall.
    Randall looked at me.
    â€œI’ve