Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [19]
“I can’t tell you that. I hope not. Let’s get a paper bag for what’s in here and I’ll take it with me. Then wash out the feeder and put new feed in it.”
Thomas ran into the house, happy to help.
His mother yelled at him as he went, “Grab a couple of plastic garbage bags, too.”
Rich looked at her and she answered his question without its being asked. “For the chickens. I suppose we should preserve them.”
“I’ll take them with me, too.”
Thomas came back with a brown paper bag on his head. Jilly laughed. Rich found it a pleasant sound. They dumped the contaminated feed into the bag and he rolled the top up so it wouldn’t spill over in his car.
Then he reached down to pick up the closest of the dead chickens. First he was surprised by the depth of the bird’s feathers. His hands sank in until he found the small body hiding under all that down. Then he wondered at the lightness of the bird. Fluffier than the pheasants he was accustomed to. And lighter still because it was so quiet. No struggling against him as he lifted it. He wondered if the soul of a chicken were a measurable weight.
After he had filled the bag with the four chickens, he looked at Celia.
She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, What can we do?
He answered her gesture. “You’ll just have to wait and see on the others. I’ll bring this feed in to be tested, and if there’s an antidote, someone will bring it out.”
“What do you think was put in the feed?” She looked at him with swollen eyes. “Why would anyone do this to us?”
“I don’t know. I’d hate to try to guess. Someone from the sheriff’s office will contact you about this.”
Jilly, who had been standing quietly next to her mother, suddenly held up something for him to see. “Lookit what I found.”
Rich looked down and saw a small white bone gleaming in her hand. “Where did you find that?”
“In the chicken coop. In with the eggs.”
Rich took the bone and studied it. He remembered what Claire had said about the culprit leaving a memento. “I think I need to make a call from your house.”
“A story about chickens dying?” Sarah Briding asked him with disappointment and disbelief deep in her voice. Harold knew she had not graduated from journalism school in order to write about chickens. But it was the news of the day. And they needed it quickly, as the paper was about to go to bed.
“Go up to the sheriff’s department and talk to the deputy on the case. I think it’s Watkins. Dig. There might be more to this than you think.” He would see what she found. As he watched her leave the press office, he noted that all of her was in slight disrepair: her handbag dangling from her drooping shoulder, her blond hair pulling out of a loose ponytail, and the hem of her light summer dress falling down in back.
This was a bad business. Sitting at his desk, Harold Peabody worked his forehead with his fingers. He had made a list and he didn’t like the looks of it at all. His role as editor was not to scare the public, but rather to give them the news, warn them if necessary. So he wouldn’t connect it all together for his readership. At least, not yet.
Chickens twirling and dying. Pesticide in their feed. This was the second incident since the break-in at the Farmer’s Cooperative. The destruction of the garden in front of the sheriff’s department, he had decided, could go on the third page. This piece he would put on the front page, but below the fold.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw it was after five. Agnes knew that he was often late for dinner on weekdays. She was in the habit of cooking something that could be held indefinitely in a warm oven or a cold refrigerator. In winter it would be some mishmash of noodles and ground beef and cream of mushroom soup. Summers she often made a cold salad of macaroni noodles, canned shrimp, and peas. Suited him fine.
Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Middle of the summer. The air conditioner in the back window droned on. Nearly ninety out and very soupy. For the holiday, he planned on grilling a chicken;