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focused on briefing the volunteers in charge of each building and left it to them to bring all the exhibitors up to speed. At least I hoped I could safely leave it to them. We had to strike a difficult balance, making people aware of the thefts and vandalism without upsetting them so much they’d pack up and leave.
    I was a little worried, at first, that the volunteers would overreact. But most of them caught on right away. Recruiting for the patrols actually helped encourage people, and a surprising number of people signed up. I was collecting dozens of names and cell phone numbers to work from.
    I even managed to convince Bill Dauber to hand over running the chicken tent to a different volunteer.
    â€œJust until the Bonnevilles either calm down or leave,” I said.
    He actually looked relieved and hurried off to his new assignment, guarding the far end of the parking lot.
    I had finished with all three poultry tents and the pig, sheep, and cow barns and was briefing the volunteer in charge of the horse barn when I made a depressing discovery.
    â€œI might have another theft for you,” one horse breeder said. “Someone stole one of my horse blankets.”
    â€œYou’re sure it couldn’t have just been misplaced?” I asked.
    He looked at me over his glasses with his lips pursed disapprovingly.
    â€œI have special blankets made for all my horses,” he said. “With their names embroidered on them. Costs a pretty penny, and I’m careful about keeping track of them.”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Just asking. So what happened?”
    â€œI got the horses settled into their stalls last night,” he said. “With the blankets on, in case it got cool. Sometimes does in September. There was a stable boy on duty here in the barn, but he must have napped. Anyway, I came in this morning and found someone had taken away Mosby’s blanket and replaced it with an old quilt.”
    I felt a slight chill when I heard those words.
    â€œCould you show me?” I asked.
    My tone of voice must have satisfied him that I was taking his loss seriously. He led me down the row of stalls. We were in the draft horse section of the barn. Here and there, the enormous heads of Shires, Clydesdales, and Percherons hung out over the stall doors, watching us go by.
    The horse owner led me to a stall containing a beautiful gray Percheron. He patted the horse’s nose, then opened the stall door and led me in.
    â€œSee?” He pointed to the Percheron.
    Wrapped around the enormous horse was a quilt. A very familiar-looking quilt. I pulled out my camera and compared the photo I’d taken last night of Rosalie’s quilt with the fabric draped over the Percheron’s rump. Yes, it was the same quilt. And still beautiful, in spite of all the mud stains. Or were some of them manure stains? Maybe I should hope they were. Since moving to the country, I’d found that manure was one of the easiest stains to treat. But our reddish yellow Virginia clay …
    I pulled out my cell phone and called the chief.
    â€œWe’ve had another theft,” I said. “And I’m afraid I’ve found the missing quilt.”

 
    Chapter 6
    Some misguided soul told Rosalie what was going on and she showed up at the barn while Horace was still doing his forensic examination of the scene. She didn’t react well to the sight of her poor, mistreated quilt. In fact, she reacted so badly that after a telephone consultation with Dad, Deputy Aida hauled her down to the Caerphilly Hospital to be looked after.
    â€œI doubt if she’ll need to be admitted,” Aida said in an undertone to me while Mother and the quilting ladies helped Rosalie into the back of the cruiser. “But you know how good your father is with hysterical patients.”
    â€œWe must do something,” one of the quilting ladies said, as they watched Rosalie’s departure.
    â€œLet’s take the