Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [21]
But her sweet Arlette was a prize. Always sunny, smiling. Now, with her tiny fist, she rubbed her head and gave a little weak cry and then smiled at her mother. Bertha kissed the girl on her head where the spoon had hit her.
Bertha set the baby in her high chair and gave her a hard cookie to suck on. Footsteps running above her head told her the children were still playing. She should calm them down. Picking up the platter with the roast, she set it next to Otto’s plate for him to carve and serve.
When she heard the door push open, she turned to see who it was. The gun was what she saw. The gun coming into her kitchen.
She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to pick up her baby. Her last thought was how she had wanted to see them all grow up, her children, her angels on earth.
CHAPTER 7
“I’m an agronomist. Plants I can tell you about. Crops I can tell you about. Chickens, you got the wrong man.” Charles Folger’s voice came over the phone like a blast of cold air. “What am I supposed to do with this chicken? I don’t know nothing about chickens.”
Claire held the phone away from her ear for a moment and wished she didn’t have to deal with this cranky old guy, but it was her job. She contemplated correcting his double negative but didn’t think their relationship would stand up to the complexities of grammar. She needed this man. If he chose to cooperate, he could be a big help. She had sent the other two chickens to the crime lab, but it might be days before she’d hear back. She needed answers soon.
Claire had just received a call from Celia Daniels. Another chicken had died. The distress in the woman’s voice had been alarming.
“We’ll never be able to use these chickens again,” she had said to Claire. “We raise everything organic, and they’ve been poisoned. No eggs, no meat. I don’t know what we’ll do with the ones that survive. We’ll have to start over next year. Who could have done this?”
Trying to be reassuring, Claire had promised answers—even though she wasn’t sure they would be easy to get.
She needed Folger’s cooperation. She imagined him sitting there with a dead chicken on his desk, and a smile lit up her face. Someone had once told her that smiling made the voice sound sweeter. She tried again.
“What I’m really hoping is that you can analyze the feed. I sent you one of the chickens just in case it might help you out.”
She heard Folger grumbling at the other end of the line and imagined his digging through the papers on his desk as if he would find an answer there.
Just then Chief Deputy Sheriff Stewart Swanson squatted down in her line of vision and held his hands in the T position—time out—his signal that he needed her now. He had played football in high school. Claire was sure it had been the best time of his life. Even though he was in his early sixties he could still recite some of his plays.
She needed to wrap up this phone call. “I know you’ll do the best you can. I’ll call you back later today.” Without waiting for an answer she disconnected.
“Yeah?” She looked up at Stewy. He motioned her into his office.
Unlike him to be so secretive about anything, she mused. Following him, she was struck by how broad his back was. Lot of good meat loaf and pie went into maintaining that physique, she was sure. Mrs. Swanson was an acclaimed baker. Even at his age, she wouldn’t want to run into his sheer mass on a football field—or down a dark alley.
He held open the door to his office for her and then closed it behind them. “Claire, just got a call from the newspaper.”
She nodded.
“Harold Peabody. You know him?”
“I know who he is.”
“He just found a note on his counter. A threatening note. He thinks it’s related to the stolen pesticides.”
Claire hoped this editor wouldn’t leave his marks all over the note. “Is it from our guy?”
“I think so.” The sheriff looked at her. “You better go talk to him. He wants to run it in the paper tomorrow.