The Hen of the Baskervilles Read Free Page A

said, keeping my voice low. “Does Randall know about this?” Vern’s cousin Randall Shiffley, in addition to being the mayor of Caerphilly, was the fair’s director.
    â€œNot yet,” Vern said. “He just took off to meet some reporter at the front gate and give him a tour of the fair. I figured it was better to wait until they’d finished.”
    â€œGood call,” I said. “But what if he was planning to bring the reporter here to the chicken tent?”
    Vern winced slightly and turned a little pale.
    â€œYeah, he probably is planning to,” he said. “He’s that proud of all the rare and unusual chickens people brought. Can you figure out a way to get the word to him? I should stay here and handle the situation. It’d help if we can just keep the reporter away till the ambulance gets here. Once Mr. and Mrs. B are off to the hospital things should quiet down a bit.”
    â€œGood idea,” I said. “But find someone who can take care of their remaining chicken while they’re gone. Someone they trust.”
    â€œCan do.”
    â€œBy the way, what is their name? We can’t keep calling them Mr. and Mrs. B.”
    Vern looked chagrined.
    â€œI didn’t quite catch it,” he said. “And they’re so touchy right now I didn’t like to ask.” He spotted something and his face brightened. “Hallelujah! Here’s the EMTs.”
    I stood aside while the EMTs trotted in. Then I left the tent and pulled out my cell phone. Randall’s phone went to voice mail.
    â€œCall me as soon as you get this, even if you’re still with the reporter,” I said.
    But I didn’t think it was a good idea to wait until he came back. I decided to look for him.
    I glanced around, wondering where to start. I saw a flurry of activity outside the produce barn—four people popped out, then two of them went running off in different directions while the other two popped back inside. I headed that way.
    Stepping inside reminded me that I needed to grab some breakfast before too long. Should I feel guilty, thinking about my stomach after the events of the morning? I stifled the thought. Dad seemed to think Mr. B was going to be all right. That was good enough for me.
    Or maybe my better nature was overcome by all the sights and smells in the produce tent. Right in front of me were long tables covered with apples of every kind—red, yellow, and green; large and small, all sorted and labeled with the cultivar and the name of the grower. Nearby were grapes, pears, and plums. And a little farther back—
    I heard a shriek from the back of the tent, followed by loud wailing. It sounded like a child. I knew my own two toddlers were safe at home with Michael, but the sound triggered a familiar stomach-twisting anxiety. People were turning and heading toward it. I scrambled to follow.
    At the very back of the tent were the entries in the largest pumpkin contest. There were already twenty contenders on display, with a few more due to show up today. I had to admit they weren’t the most attractive pumpkins I’d ever seen. None of them were the vivid orange you looked for in a pumpkin, and they didn’t have a typical rounded, wide-ribbed pumpkin shape. They all looked pale, bloated, and slumped. But they were undoubtedly large. The smallest ones looked like overstuffed ottomans, and you probably could have carved small carriages out of the largest few, which one veteran pumpkin aficionado told me probably weighed at least sixteen or seventeen hundred pounds.
    It had made me nervous yesterday every time another giant pumpkin came into the barn, hauled on a trailer behind a pair of tractors, with a dozen burly volunteers to lift it into place. I decided then it was a good thing the giant pumpkins weren’t cute and rounded—at least they weren’t likely to roll onto one of the hapless movers. Most of them looked more likely