The Hen of the Baskervilles by Andrews Donna

Author:Andrews, Donna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter 21

A few minutes later I was clean and dressed but very far from in a good mood.

“What now?” I muttered, as I half strode, half ran toward the wine pavilion. Its red-and-white–striped exterior seemed incongruously cheerful this morning.

Since in addition to not telling me what the problem was, Mother also hadn’t told me precisely where it was, I headed for the entrance closest to Genette’s booth. Good call. As soon as I walked in, I could see that Genette’s booth was in disarray, with half of its contents missing and the other half askew. But before I wasted too much time wondering what kind of misguided burglar would target her booth with so many better vineyards all around her to choose from, Genette stood up behind the chrome and Plexiglas counter. She was holding one of her little decorative tangles of barbed wire in her left hand and staring at it reproachfully, while sucking a small bleeding wound on her right hand.

“This is impossible!” she wailed.

If anyone else in the tent had uttered such a cry of despair, they would have been surrounded instantly with sympathetic ears and helping hands. I glanced around to see that everyone in the nearby booths was studiously busy.

I strolled over to Dorcas’s booth.

“We thought someone should know,” she said, sotto voce. “On the one hand, we’re all thrilled at the idea of being rid of her. But if she’s the killer and is going on the lam…”

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the chief.

“Yes?” He sounded annoyed, but not necessarily at me.

“I wouldn’t interrupt you, except I thought you might be interested in the fact that Genette Sedgewick seems to be packing to leave,” I said. “The new girlfriend of your murder—”

“I know who she is,” he said. “Blast! She’s not local, is she?”

“No,” I said. “She’s from … I can’t remember where—near Culpeper? Or maybe near Charlottesville? Near something with a ‘C’. Not Caerphilly, though, and it’s at least an hour away, whatever it is.”

“Don’t try to detain her. But keep an eye on her till I can get there.”

“Roger.” I hung up and looked around for something to do that would keep me unobtrusively busy near Genette’s booth. Just then she spotted me.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, as if she’d been searching for me for hours. “I need help!”

“Lucky you,” Dorcas murmured, as I strolled away from her booth toward Genette’s.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Genette.

“I need to leave,” she said. “And I don’t have anyone to help me take down my booth and pack my stuff.”

She stood there, blinking slightly, and pouting, but no longer anxious. Instead, her face wore a look I’d seen often enough on the faces of my nieces and nephews, and lately even my own little sons: the trusting yet slightly petulant look of someone who has handed her problems over to the proper authority and expects to have them solved.

And solved now. As I stood there, almost admiring her nerve, I could see her foot was beginning to tap.

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