What the cluck its murde.., p.1
What the Cluck? It's Murder, page 1
WHAT THE CLUCK? IT’S MURDER
JACQUELINE VICK
Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline Vick
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-945403-37-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-945403—30-9 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
A Note from the Author
A Preview of A Scaly Tail of Murder
Book Club Questions
About the Author
ONE
“You can’t make me.”
I took a hurried step back from the source of my fear, stumbling over my own feet in the rush. The solid chest of Detective Martin Bowers broke my fall. He hooked his arms under mine to help me catch my balance.
Normally, I’d enjoy physical contact with the handsome police officer, currently off-duty. However, my attention remained on the black eyes that locked onto me in an unblinking stare. It didn't take a pet psychic, which I was, to tell those eyes held more than contempt. They held murder.
The eyes belonged to the snow-white face of a Leghorn hen, and she showed no signs of the happy, aw shucks attitude of Foghorn Leghorn, one of my childhood cartoon heroes.
Why on this beautiful early afternoon in March was I, Frankie Chandler, reluctant communicator with all things furry or feathered, facing off with a vicious hen?
It goes back to my best friend Penny’s wedding cruise last fall. There had been laughter, tears, and a few murders. Not that the murders were part of the agenda. They just happened, and I discovered the first body below my stateroom balcony.
Penny tattled to Detective Bowers in Wolf Creek, Arizona, and she made it sound as if I was a damsel in distress. That irritated me to no end, as Martin Bowers had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t handle the embarrassment of dating a pet psychic. The clincher came when he, while holding my hand, got caught up in one of my psychic experiences with an angry feline, and he didn’t like it.
Baby.
Anyway, he responded to Penny’s request for a White Knight and joined the cruise a few days later, and in between finding corpses and searching for the kitty who held the key to solving the murders, Bowers and I had a few friendly moments. At the end of the cruise, the normally stoic detective approached me in an unusual state of nervousness to ask for another chance at romance. Or maybe it was a first chance since we had never made it to an actual date.
That was the good news. For balance, there had to be bad news. Bowers also wanted me to meet his sisters. All seven of them.
Yes, seven. After the death of his mother, Bowers had been raised by a week's worth of sisters who doted on him as if he were the pearl without price. The invitation to meet his guardians, the guardians who would hate me for stealing their
little brother away, was as enticing as a naked run through a minefield. I expected disapproval in the form of tight-lipped silence and sarcastic comments. Maybe a voodoo doll. Still, it was important to him, so after a few months of dating—I mean honest-to-goodness dating with dinners and goodnight kisses and things normal couples do—I finally gave in.
Now I was paying for my moment of weakness. Here I stood on June’s ten-acre farm in Cave Bear, Arizona, almost paralyzed with fear. Maybe not a farm. More of a homestead. It was a lot of land with some cows, horses, several sheep, a few goats, and these damn chickens.
Bowers' eldest sister, June, was the only sibling I’d met so far, and though she intimidated me the way Sister Ellen did in high school English class, she seemed nice. So far. Maybe she was waiting for her six backups to arrive.
In response to my reaction to the angry chicken, Bowers rested his hands on my shoulders and chuckled. “It’s a hen, Frankie. Not a pit bull.”
Craning my neck sideways to address him without losing site of the bird, I said, “Bully breeds are snuggly, friendly pups unless someone’s abused them. This—this hen wants me dead.”
He sighed at what he considered unnecessary drama. “June said there’s a gap in the western fence. I’m going to take a look. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. You’ll be done by then. You should be done by then.” He sighed again. “There’s no earthly reason you won’t be done by then. You’re only collecting eggs.”
I was momentarily distracted by the thought of Bowers, wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and brown leather work boots, doing physical labor. Normally he’s performing sedate activities like interviewing suspects or writing reports, but here in the wilds of the Arizona desert, his tall, lean body would be lifting heavy bags of feed, or shoveling hay to the horses. Maybe working up a sweat that would make his dark, wavy hair curl. Perhaps, while chopping wood, he might get hot and need to remove his shirt. I sucked in my breath. Outdoors-man Bowers might be the only highlight of this weekend.
“Tell you what.” I picked up the basket and shoved it toward him. “Why don’t you steal their young and I’ll go look at the hole in the fence?”
“No can do.”
The violent image of what the wannabe mother intended to do to me had left an impression. I stamped my foot, which was a prissy move, but I was one notch below terrified. “Why not?”
“First, how much experience do you have fixing fences? Second, and more important, there aren’t any young to steal. The eggs haven’t been fertilized. Animal husbandry 101. No rooster, no chick.”
The beady eyes glaring at me sent out a powerful wave of longing that started in my belly and moved to my chest. As the ache intensified, tears filled my eyes. This was followed by a ferocious desire to hurt anyone who might hurt mine. My heart raced as my entire body tensed up in fight-or-flight mode.
Still riding the wave of emotions sent by the chicken, I twisted around, grabbed Bowers’ shirt in my fists and shook him. “She doesn’t agree with you.”
Bowers and I have been through a lot, much of it involving my reactions—and occasional overreactions—to what animals tell me. Even after his first-hand experience with psychic phenomenon, he stubbornly refuses to discuss, acknowledge, or endorse what he refers to, vaguely, as my thing. Naturally, he ignored me.
He kissed my forehead, and with mock solemnity said, “Good luck. When I get back, I hope you’ll have gathered your courage…and the eggs.”
And then he left me alone with the murderous chicken.
I sized up my surroundings in case I had to make a quick escape. The coop was a rectangular wooden building with a cement floor covered in earthy-smelling mulch. This was where the chickens slept and laid eggs and ate from PCV piping that released their food. They even had a water bottle with nipples they pecked at when they were thirsty and a round thingy that held little pebbles to help them break up their food. I shoved this last item aside with my foot to give me a clear escape path.
Several wooden clothes-drying racks leaned against one wall under a high wooden shelf, both providing places for the chickens to roost. Along the opposite wall, half a dozen nesting boxes sat atop a pine box about three-feet tall and ten feet long. It reminded me of the caskets they used in the Wild West.
The nesting boxes consisted of milk crates set on their sides and stuffed with hay. Bowers’ sister had put up little privacy curtains, something I found hysterically funny until I opened one and found the angry chicken inside.
Most of the birds had abandoned the coop and moved to the run outside to scratch for bugs or do whatever chickens did to amuse themselves. Maybe Bowers was right. They didn’t care, so why should I?
I moved down the row of nesting boxes and felt around each one. As I picked up the warm eggs and added them to my cache, the few birds remaining in the coop watched my progress with soft clucks. Too soon, I was back to old beady eyes.
Even though the window shutters kept the warm, spring sun out, and the temperature inside was a cool seventy degrees, sweat trickled down my back.
When June had asked me to perform this chore, I’d foolishly thought, “What an easy way to get into her good graces.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. If I blew this, she would think I was an idiot or, even worse, an incompetent female who’d spent her pampered life avoiding hard work.
That would not happen. Counting today, Friday, I had three days to win over those seven women, and I would not waste this opportunity because of a moody hen.
“Here chick-chick,” I s
Her body stiffened, and she hissed at me. I pulled back my fingers just in time to avoid a peck.
I gritted my teeth. “Look. That egg is just an egg. It’s not a chick, so hand it over.” Then I sent her an image of an egg cracking and no chick inside. I sensed her stiffen.
Reaching out my hand, slowly, I continued to hold eye contact. She stared back without blinking, though she trembled a little. My fingertips touched her feathers, and still she didn’t move. They crept under her, and I splayed my fingers so they could surround the first egg. Gently, gently, I pulled.
“See? That didn’t hurt.”
And then the chicken from hell attacked.
TWO
“What in blazes happened to you?”
I had made my way up the hill from the coop to the back door leading into June’s farmhouse, and I slumped against the door frame of the small cloakroom leading into the kitchen and stared, dazed.
At her question, I looked down at my hands and saw bloody scratches. The sleeves of my favorite blue sweatshirt hung in shreds. “Nothing. I mean, no big deal.” I kept my tone casual, as if I fought chickens every day, because I didn't want to be labeled a problem on my first full day here. “I just need to wash up, that's all.”
June pried the basket of eggs from my fingers and shooed me to the closest of the plain wooden chairs that surrounded a long oak table in the center of the room. The table was large enough to seat a dozen farm hands—or Bowers’ sisters. As I sat and waited, she rummaged through the upper shelf of one of the white cabinets over the countertop.
While she conducted her search, I considered the first of my seven hurdles. She stood about five-feet-five and had a plump, sturdy body and short, curly hair that showed more gray than black. Her wide, expressive mouth made it possible to gauge her mood. Right now, the corners dipped in a frown.
“Was it Lola? I was afraid she was broody.”
“Broody?”
“It means she wants to be a mom. She'll fight to hold on to her eggs.”
She pulled down a first aid kit and beamed at it as if it had found her.
Paranoid Frankie wondered why Bowers' sister hadn't warned me about the broody hen before she sent me to collect the eggs. Did she want to see me fail?
She set the kit on the table. “Why didn't Marty help you?”
Though the question sounded innocent, I wondered if it were a test to see if I would blame her baby brother for my catastrophe. Did Marty ever take the blame for anything?
“He was busy,” I murmured. That sounded neutral, unlike he ignored my warnings and then abandoned me.
Even as Paranoid Frankie chatted nonstop in my head, June bent her gray curls over me and gently checked my wounds with her warm hands. No one with such motherly instincts could wish another person harm. I was foolish to think she might want me to fail.
The methodical tick-tick of the egg timer had a calming effect, and my shoulders relaxed. Only then did I notice the scents of ginger and cinnamon wafting from the oven. Maybe if I sat still, she would reward me with a cookie.
Now that she had assessed the damage, June rooted through the kit. She had her back to the door, so she didn’t see the grim expression on Bowers’ face when he walked in the back door.
“The gap in the fence is—”
At the sound of his voice, she straightened up, and he caught sight of me and gaped.
“What happened?”
My hands flew to my face. “Am I maimed?”
He crossed the room. “Your face is fine.” He gently took my hands and turned them over, assessing the damage while he pressed his lips together in a thin line. June selected a bottle of iodine and some bandages. “Lola's broody. You should have noticed. Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?”
Bowers spread his arms wide. “What? The hen didn’t do anything. How could I have known?”
His voice had a tinge of whine in it, as if he were reverting to his teenage self. I understood. The same thing happens to me when I’m in my mother’s presence.
June gestured toward the basket. “There aren’t nearly enough eggs for a morning collection. The darn bird's probably stealing from the other hens. Do I wait her out and see if she’s serious? Or should I take the eggs and give her some golf balls to lie on?”
She was talking out loud, not asking for our input, but if she expected me to make the exchange, I fervently hoped for the former. She finished her handiwork and gave my shoulder a pat.
“You’ll be fine.”
I held up my tightly wrapped hands. Red splotches of iodine leaked through the white bandages. “I look like Frankenstein.”
For such a stout, no-nonsense farm woman, June’s laughter reminded me of bubbles. She gurgled.
“Your girlfriend’s a card, Marty. And tough. She managed to hold on to the basket. Not one broken egg.”
Maybe I wouldn’t tell her I’d been holding it up as a shield.
As she packed up the kit and returned it to the cupboard, she asked, “Now, what were you saying about the fence?”
Bowers got the grim look again. “Someone cut the wire. Only the bottom two wires.”
June turned around, and I got a peek at the expression I’d see if she decided I wasn’t good enough for her baby brother. “None of my livestock has opposable thumbs, Marty.”
“Exactly. You've had intruders.”
“Is anyone missing?”
By anyone, I assumed she was talking about her chickens, since horses and cows are hard to miss.
She answered her own question. “We’ll have to count the chickens tonight after they’ve roosted.” Her glance rested on me and my Frankenstein hands. “I’m sorry to mess up your vacation like this. You shouldn’t have had to collect the eggs, but after Duane didn’t show up again this morning…. When that man gets off his bender, we're going to have words.”
June had made the same complaint last night when we arrived, so I was up-to-speed on the family drama. Duane Stoddard was the hired help, and his absence was the reason I’d been doing his chores.
According to June, he was the nicest man whose only fault was to disappear occasionally and drink himself silly. I'd never even met the man, but a glance at my hands made me certain he would never be one of my favorite people.
Before I could tell her again that it was no big deal, she glanced at the apple pie-shaped clock over the kitchen sink. “The first wave is due to arrive soon. I’ve got to get dinner on.” She transferred her gaze to me. “I think you said you wanted to freshen up?”
Son-of-a-hen! My shredded shirt and Frankenstein hands might give Bowers' sisters the impression he had met me on a violent crime scene playing the corpse. The timer went off, and June's attention turned to removing the cookies from the oven.
Bowers took hold of my elbow and helped me to my feet. “Come on. I’ll help you upstairs.”
“And can you bring me down the laundry basket? I think it’s on the chair in my room.” June gave her little brother a sweet smile that didn’t fool me. She had specifically given Bowers his old room at one end of the upstairs hallway and sent me to the room at the far end. I swear she patrolled at night to make sure we weren’t up to any shenanigans. I had heard footsteps creaking the floorboards outside my bedroom last night.
“Will do,” he said, and then he steered me to the staircase behind a door in the short hallway off the kitchen.
The stairwell was a narrow passage between two walls, almost claustrophobic, especially after you closed the downstairs door behind you. There wasn’t room to walk side-by-side, so I took the lead, and Bowers followed.
