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Bonneville on. She can tell you. She wants to ask you about something anyway.”
    There was a bit of background noise, and then I head a woman say “hello” in an uncertain voice.
    â€œMrs. Bonneville, this is Meg Langslow, from the fair,” I said. “How is your husband?”
    â€œYour father says he’ll be fine.” She had a soft, Southside Virginia accent. “Thank heaven he didn’t have a heart attack. He had— What was that again, Dr. Langslow?”
    â€œA cardiac arrhythmia.” Dad’s voice was faint but audible in the background. “It sometimes presents with chest pain.”
    â€œCardiac arrhythmia,” Mrs. Bonneville repeated. “Your father says we need to run a bunch of tests, and he may need to be on medication, but he should be fine.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I said.
    â€œHave you found our chickens yet?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said. “But our chief of police has come out to take personal charge of the case. We’ll keep you posted.”
    â€œI see.” She didn’t sound happy. And she didn’t say good-bye—she just hung up.
    â€œWell, that’s a relief,” Randall said. “What’s the prognosis on the investigation, Chief?”
    â€œSince I only just heard about this myself a few minutes ago, I don’t rightly know yet,” the chief replied. “Vern’s going to drop by and update me when he can break away.”
    â€œMeg just told the chicken lady that you were going to take charge of the case yourself,” Randall said.
    â€œOnce Vern brings me up to speed, I will.”
    â€œMaybe we should call him and hurry him along.” Did Randall have doubts about his cousin’s detective abilities?
    â€œI’m in no rush.” The chief sat down in the folding chair vacated by the reporter and sighed. “Vern’s working on it, and he’s a good man, and as long as I’m out here I don’t have to pick over those blessed pecans.”
    â€œI understand Vern put out an APB on the chickens,” Randall said.
    â€œFirst time for that.” From the chief’s expression, I suspected it might be the last time if he had anything to say about it. “Can’t say I expect it to be too useful. Putting out an APB on a couple of chickens in a county that must have a few thousand?”
    â€œThese were special chickens,” Randall said. “Heirloom chickens. Bantam Russian Whatsits.”
    â€œOrloffs,” I put in.
    â€œThat’s it,” Randall said. “Not a lot of them in the county—they’re a rare breed. Should be easy enough to spot if they’re running around loose.”
    â€œâ€˜Rare,’” the chief echoed. “So do you think they were stolen because they were valuable?” He had taken out his notebook. Vern looked happier at seeing this concrete evidence that the chief was taking charge.
    â€œThey’re not that valuable in a monetary sense,” Randall said. “Vern asked one of the other chicken people. He seemed to think you could buy a pair for fifty or a hundred dollars. Maybe more if they were champion birds, but these weren’t.”
    â€œThen why steal them?” the chief asked. “Why those chickens in particular?”
    â€œI think it wasn’t how valuable they were but where they were,” I said. “The stolen chickens, the stolen quilt, and the smashed pumpkin were all three at the back of their respective tents or barns. All three of which have rear exits, even if they’re not open to the public.”
    â€œHave to, to keep the fire marshal happy,” Randall said. “So they weren’t specifically after the three things they stole or smashed—just looking to cause trouble?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “Or maybe they were after one of them, and the easy time they had getting to it inspired them to muddy the waters by