Murder Most Fowl (16 page)

C
am headed out to do the morning chores as soon as she was awake, dressed, and caffeinated. Yesterday's mild weather had disappeared overnight, and the iron-clad sky had returned. Such was March in New England. It would be as typical for this gloom to disappear and the temperature to double by the afternoon as it would be to get more snow in a couple of hours.

Halfway to the barn she halted. Something didn't look right. The outside wall of the barn had color on it instead of being plain wood. And was the door open? She knew she'd closed the sliding door before she'd left for Town Meeting yesterday. She slid a hand inside the open door and flicked on the light switch. And gasped.

The office door stood open. Red spray-painted letters above the office door read, “ARF. FREEDOM FOR ANIMALS. STOP CRUELTY NOW.” And little yellow and black puff balls dotted the large interior of the barn. Her chick babies.

“Oh, no. You poor things.” She reached down and picked up the closest chick, which shivered in her hand. “Who would do such a thing?”
ARF
were the same letters as at Wayne's, the Animal Rights Front.

She hurried to the door and was about to pull it closed when she glimpsed movement in the far corner where the light barely reached. Were the ARF vandals still here? She stuck her other hand into her pocket, grabbing her phone. If there was ever a time to dial 911, it was now.

She froze as a high-pitched sound came from the same corner, then the sound abruptly cut off. A fox emerged into the light. It trotted straight at her, a bit of yellow fluff in the corner of its mouth.

A chill ran through Cam. She took two slow steps back and watched as the fox stopped to snatch up another chick in its powerful jaws. The chick wriggled for only a brief moment before going limp. The fox gazed at Cam.

Why hadn't she paid attention to that article about what to do if you met a wild predator in the woods? Was she supposed to puff up and look larger? Freeze? She did not want to experience those jaws, those sharp teeth. Keeping her gaze on the fox, she ran her free hand over the wall behind her, but it wasn't the one where she hung her tools. What could she defend herself with? Throwing her phone at the animal wouldn't do much good.

The fox started moving again, but not at her, instead trotting straight out the door. Cam swore and pulled the door closed, making sure it latched securely. So not only had those idiotic radicals put her chicks at peril, they'd also enabled a fox to come in for dinner. That was stopping cruelty?

The chick in her hand kept shivering. The temperature couldn't be above fifty degrees in here, and outside the air had dropped to below freezing. Solar panels powered the radiant heat in the cement floor, but she had it set only low enough to keep the chill off. She carried the chick to the office, picking up a couple more on her way. Their box was upended and the light turned off. Cam righted it, set the chicks inside, switched the heat light back on, and set out to collect the rest, cursing the ARF people as she went.

A few minutes later she shut the office door and counted the chicks. Only twenty-two remained. The rest had either been eaten by the fox or had hidden from it in some of the many hidey-holes that a working barn offered: piles of bushel baskets, the curved tines of a rototiller, sacks of soil amendments, even the extra bags Cam kept around for customers who forgot their own. She'd never find them, and if she did, they were unlikely to survive.

The remaining chicks in the box huddled together in a clump under the light. She petted several of them until they seemed calmer, then set up their food and water in the middle of the box again, swearing aloud at the group who'd invaded her private property and maliciously caused harm.

Oh, no
. They must have left the doors open for the adult hens, too. She blew the remaining chicks a kiss and closed the office door carefully.

Once outside, she rushed around the corner to the coop. Sure enough, red paint splashed the coop roof, and the fence door stood open along with the coop door. But when she peeked inside, all looked well. The girls sat on their roosting bars and slept. She did a quick count. They were all present and accounted for. The PETA splinter activists in ARF apparently didn't know that mature hens much preferred roosting in their customary spots at night over escaping into the dark wilderness. And maybe Cam had surprised the fox early in its foraging for fresh meat.

She latched the fence and pulled out her phone to call the Westbury police again. It was about time she put a lock on the barn, too.

The police said they'd be there shortly, so she waited in the driveway, hands in her work coat pockets. Dasha poked around the yard, relieved himself in the far corner, then joined her in the driveway.

After two officers climbed out of a cruiser a couple of minutes later, Cam showed them the red letters and paint outside the barn and then led them inside.

“You discovered this just now, you say?” the burly male officer asked, gesturing around the main area of barn where they stood. He pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves.

“About half an hour ago,” Cam said. “It must have happened during the night.”

The other officer, a young woman, said, “Were you home all evening?”

“No, I left at about seven last night and didn't get home until ten. I suppose it could have happened while I was out and I didn't notice the paint on the outside in the dark.”

“Tell us what you saw this morning.”

Cam described seeing the chicks all over the barn floor, and the fox with one in its jaws. She watched as the male officer moved methodically around the space, shining a big flashlight into the dark corners and under things like Red, Albert's rusty old rototiller.

“So you have material property loss.” The female officer typed into a tablet with a flying index finger. “We'll need you to estimate the cost, both of the livestock and the cleanup. You didn't see any of the vandals, is that correct?”

“I didn't.”

The male officer walked up with a stiff chick in his gloved hand. “Sorry. Here's one of them. It was under the tiller.” He extended a kind smile along with the tiny body.

“Aw.” Cam received it into her own glove. “Poor thing.”

“Aren't you the one who called in finding a bone recently?” The female officer looked up from her iPad as the man went off examining the barn again.

“I am. Do you know if they figured out if it was human or not?”

The officer shook her head. “We'll need to call in the crime scene and evidence teams again. You must be real popular with the staties by now.”

If only she knew. Cam smiled to herself.

“Who's been in this barn lately?” The female officer looked up from her tablet.

“Who hasn't? I mean, I have volunteers every Wednesday. My customers come in to pick up their shares. And then, of course, your people only two days ago.”

“I'll need the names of the volunteers and the regular customers, then. Numbers and addresses if you have them.”

“I have a list on the computer in the house. Okay if I print it out for you? Or e-mail it?”

“Perfect.” She handed Cam a business card, pointing at the e-mail address.

“I'll be back in a minute, then.” At the officer's nod, Cam pulled open the sliding door and slid it shut after her. She turned toward the house and halted at the sight of a news van in her driveway. Wonderful.

The same female reporter who had accosted her on Sunday at Wayne's farm now walked toward her, a camera person behind her already filming. The reporter, in a trim red jacket and black pencil skirt, smiled and extended the microphone to Cam.

“We hear there's been an animal rights action here at Attic Hill Farm, Cameron Flaherty. When did you discover it, and how much damage did you suffer?” Her perfect red lipstick glistened as she waited with an expectant open mouth.

Cam glanced behind her at the safety of the barn and then back at the reporter. “I discovered it this morning. A number of my baby chicks died from the cold, and from a fox that got into the barn. Plus, as you can see, there's red paint everywhere.” She ran a hand through her hair. Had she even remembered to brush it this morning? “I don't consider it ethical treatment of animals to set loose a few dozen chicks into a cold barn, chicks that have enough trouble regulating their body temperature even with a heat light.”

“Did you see any of the vandals? Did they accost you?” The woman's low voice was tinged with drama bordering on excitement, and her gaze bored into Cam's eyes.

“No. I wasn't home when it happened.” Cam cleared her throat. “Listen, I need to do something in the house. The police are in the barn and—”

“As you can see, local farmer Cameron Flaherty is upset by her . . .” The reporter turned to the camera with the barn as backdrop and addressed her prospective audience, not Cam.

Cam left her to it and made her way to the house, fuming inwardly. Who wouldn't be upset?

 

The same evidence team van as on Tuesday was in the driveway when Cam came back out twenty minutes later. It had taken her a while to pull together the customer list and then mark the volunteers on it before e-mailing it to the officer. She'd also taken a moment to call down the list of locksmiths in the phone book until she found Bill at Bill's Locks, who said someone would come out that afternoon. Cam knew she should be able to install locks, but it would go faster and be more secure if she hired a professional, even though her bank account wouldn't like it. She wanted to call Katie and ask if she knew anything about this. The police were waiting for the list, though.

Blessedly the news truck was gone, but a blue Prius had replaced it and a man with a notebook in one hand had his other hand on the barn door.

“Can I help you?” Cam called as she strode toward him.

He turned. “Cameron Flaherty?”

“That's me.”

The man, who stood a few inches shorter than Cam, extended his free hand, which Cam shook.

“Ken Wallace. Reporter for the
Boston Globe
.” Curly red hair peeked out from a black watch cap, and a green tie was knotted at his throat. “I'd like to interview you, if I might.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She examined it to make sure he was who he said he was, then slid the card into her pocket.

“I'm Cam. Do you have press credentials?”

“Of course. Here.” He extended a card in a clear plastic sleeve.

Cam read it and handed it back. “Okay. Ask away. It's kind of refreshing to have an actual print reporter here instead of the sound-bite folks.”

“TV?”

“Exactly.”

“So this vandalism apparently is by the same people as at the Laitinen Poultry Farm on Sunday.”

“The Animal Rights Front. ARF. A ridiculous acronym, if you ask me. Wait, don't quote me on that, okay?”

He laughed. “I promise. And I agree.”

“The police are still in the barn, trying to find evidence of the people who did it.” She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder.

“What damage did you suffer, besides this red paint?” He gestured to the barn wall beside them.

Cam repeated the story of the chicks that were set free and how many she'd lost.

“A fox was inside the barn?” He drew a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something in his notebook.

“Yes.”

“They're dangerous, aren't they? I've seen videos of them attacking.”

“You bet they are. Mr. Wallace—”

“Please, call me Ken.”

“Ken, I don't know the exact agenda of this group, but you can quote me as saying that it is not ethical treatment of tiny defenseless birds to let them loose in the cold and leave the door open to a fierce predator.”

He smiled and nodded. “Preaching to the choir, Cam. But that's a good quote, thanks. Do you also have adult hens?”

“I do. Want to see them? Get ready to laugh—they're funny.” She led him around the barn to the coop. Hillary came running to the fence, and half the rest of the hens followed.

Ken laughed. “It sounds like they're gargling.”

“I know, right?” Cam smiled at the girls.

“No rooster?”

“I had one named Ruffles. But a fox killed him only a couple days ago.”

He glanced over at her. “Did you know Wayne Laitinen?”

Cam gazed at the reporter, the smile sliding off her face, but he appeared merely curious and doing his job, not after sensationalism. “I did. He was a decent man who was kind to every living being he encountered, from humans to hens. When he had to slaughter his chickens, he took them to the one slaughterhouse that plays calming music during the killing, and he sold the meat at an affordable price. He died way too young.”