Free The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews Page B

got twenty-two volunteers so far,” I said. “I’m going to organize them in mixed teams.”
    â€œMixed how?” Randall asked.
    â€œGeographically and by exhibition category,” I said. “And before you say I’m overthinking this—if whoever did this is an exhibitor, and I assume they’re among the leading suspects, what’s to stop him from volunteering for our patrol?” At least that was what serial killers always did in the mystery books and TV shows Dad loved so much. But I didn’t mention that, because I’d already figured out that it annoyed the chief when people made television-based assumptions about how his department worked.
    â€œInvolving himself in the investigation,” the chief said, nodding. “Not uncommon.”
    â€œHe’d be a fool not to volunteer,” Randall added.
    â€œSo we don’t send two chicken breeders to patrol the chicken tent,” I said. “We send a hog man from Tazewell and an apple grower from Gloucester. Different farm specialties; opposite ends of the state.”
    They both nodded.
    â€œI think we need to concentrate on the east side of the grounds,” Randall said. “Particularly the northeast corner where the Midway is.”
    â€œAre you suspicious of the Midway people?” the chief asked. “Or Clay County?”
    â€œYes,” Vern said, and we all chuckled.
    â€œActually, it’s because we have that eight-foot chain-link fence around the rest of the perimeter.” Randall traced the fairground borders on the map. “South, west, north—all fenced in. But the east side backs up against really dense woods and a lot of swampland. We figured only locals could find their way in from back there, and most of them are already working the fair and don’t need to sneak in.”
    â€œNext year, I think we need to fence in that side, too,” I said. It was an old argument between Randall and me.
    â€œNext year,” Randall agreed. “But for now, I say we concentrate our patrols along the east.”
    â€œActually,” I said. “I was thinking we’d concentrate on the exhibit tents and barns.”
    â€œBecause you think the perpetrator is already inside?” the chief asked.
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “But whether he’s sneaking into the fair or already in, he can’t do any damage if he can’t get at the exhibits.”
    â€œGood point.” The chief nodded.
    â€œBut I’ll set up a few patrols in the northeast corner, too,” I added.
    â€œBefore I go,” the chief said. “Do you have a list of exhibitors?
    â€œMeg can print you a list,” Randall said. “She’s set up a whole database of ’em. Come on—let’s show him.”
    â€œI didn’t set up the database.” I turned on my laptop and opened the file. “It was Rob’s contribution to the Un-fair. One of the perks of having a brother who owns a computer game company.”
    â€œI thought your brother was supremely nontechnical and only came up with the ideas for the games.” The chief was looking over my shoulder at the screen.
    â€œHe didn’t do it himself. He assigned his best database programmer to work with me on it. And I’ve got his help desk on speed dial in case we need anything fixed. What information do you want on the exhibitors?”
    â€œWhat do you have?” The chief reached back and pulled up a folding chair to sit at my elbow.
    â€œWhat doesn’t she have?” Randall said, with a chuckle.
    â€œI’ll show you a sample record.” I called up the last record I’d viewed. “Here’s the people who lost the Russian Orloffs.”
    â€œThe Baskervilles,” Randall said.
    â€œThey’re not—” I began.
    â€œMr. Holmes!” Randall declaimed, in a not-very-authentic British accent. “They were the footprints of a gigantic hen! We