The Hen of the Baskervilles Read Free

mind?” I asked.
    â€œIf I never tie another little pink ribbon on another little purple flowered bag of stuff that makes me sneeze, I’ll die a happy man,” Horace said. “Beats me why people pay money for a bunch of dried weeds. But don’t tell Rose Noire I said that.”
    â€œIf she asks, I’ll tell her you reluctantly agreed to help out for the good of the fair,” I said.
    â€œI’ll be right over.”
    I relayed this good news to Vern.
    â€œThat’s great!” He turned back to the couple. “Now, folks, I don’t want you to touch anything until Mr. Hollingsworth gets here. Do you have someplace else you can keep your other chicken?”
    I spotted Mr. Dauber, who was buttonholing people to recruit them for the search and assigned him the additional task of finding a new cage for the forlorn fowl, who seemed in ever-increasing danger of being hugged to death. Given how fast Mr. Dauber scrambled to follow my orders, I deduced he was feeling guilty about his failure to protect the bantams. As well he might. And it probably wasn’t a bad idea to put some distance between him and the red-faced, scowling husband of the couple who owned the bantams.
    â€œBefore you leave,” Vern was saying. “One question occurs to me—have you had your birds microchipped?”
    â€œMicrochipped?” the husband repeated. “We—”
    He clutched his chest and keeled over.

 
    Chapter 2
    â€œCall 911,” I said as I scrambled to the fallen chicken owner’s side.
    â€œIs he okay?” Vern already had his cell phone to his ear.
    â€œHe has a pulse,” I said. “And it seems steady enough. But he’s unconscious. And his face is pale and sweaty.”
    Vern was repeating my words into the phone, presumably to Debbie Ann, the dispatcher. I sat back on my heels, took out my own cell phone, and called my father. Although theoretically semiretired from active medical practice, Dad had agreed to act as volunteer medical officer for the fair. Once the fair opened, we’d have EMTs and an ambulance on site, but this early in the day—well, Dad was always an early riser. Maybe he was here already. And there was nothing Dad enjoyed better than a nice adrenaline-laden medical emergency first thing in the morning.
    A capable-looking woman knelt down on the man’s other side. She loosened his collar and eased his head into a more comfortable position.
    The man’s wife hadn’t made a sound since he’d collapsed—she just stood there, staring and clutching the chicken. The chicken, though, was making enough noise for both of them, at least until a nearby volunteer in a BACKYARD CHICKEN FARMER t-shirt gently eased the poor bird out of her hands.
    â€œDebbie Ann’s sending the ambulance,” Vern said. “Let’s call your dad.”
    â€œI’ve already got him,” I said. “Dad, possible cardiac patient in the chicken tent. Are you here at the—”
    â€œOn my way,” he said. “I was just over in the first-aid tent, getting ready for the day.”
    The capable-looking woman was taking the man’s pulse with one eye on her watch. The doctor’s daughter in me recognized the unmistakable demeanor of a trained medical professional, so I stood back out of her way. It actually wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before Dad bustled in, carrying his deceptively old-fashioned–looking doctor’s bag, which he’d equipped as a fully functional modern first-aid kit. The local EMTs had occasionally been known to borrow supplies and equipment from him. He waved absently at me and hurried over to the fallen man. After a few moments, he glanced up, gave me a quick thumbs-up, and turned back to his patient.
    I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and took Vern aside for a quick word.
    â€œEvidently Dad thinks he’ll be all right,” I