Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

only six-seater outhouse in the county, according to old Doc Shafer, our local historian. It was built back in Great Grandpa Yoder's time, but even Doc Shafer can't figure out why so many seats were needed.
     
     
Between the outhouse and the barn lies the chicken coop. Really, it is a large, fenced-in hen yard with a wooden structure housing the laying boxes. At any given moment there are likely to be as many as six to eight hens sitting on the boxes doing their thing. At least that can be explained.
     
     
I know all my chickens by name, but my favorite is Pertelote, a Rhode Island Red of great dignity. Pertelote is too old to lay anymore, but the nesting instinct still beats strong within her feathered breast. From time to time she usurps the nests of lesser hens, and if left undisturbed, hatches the adopted eggs herself. Despite the fact that Pertelote has gotten a bit cranky with advancing age, she is an excellent mother to her foster chicks, whatever their race. In fact, Pertelote had recently raised a brood of Leghorns, and I was experimenting with her on a small clutch of duck eggs, of which she seemed rather fond. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to find Pertelote out in the hen yard.
     
     
"Go back to your eggs," I admonished her, "or Freni will fricassee you." It wasn't an idle threat either, because Freni has had her eye on Pertelote's plump rump for a year or two, even though shoe leather would be more tender than a chicken Pertelote's age.
     
     
Of course Pertelote ignored my warning, and I made a mental note to check on her surrogate eggs when I had time. Duck eggs are, after all, larger than chicken eggs, and an old thing like Pertelote might find the task of straddling them day in and day out a bit wearing.
     
     
Anyway, it took me a couple of minutes to get back to the barn, so I guess I'm responsible for what happened while I was gone. Steven, alias Bugsy, had managed to pull the pitchfork out of the beam, and in doing so, out of Don. It hadn't been Steven's intent to pull the fork out of Don, it had simply been an accident, one of which no one seemed to disapprove. The sight of Don impaled like a shish kebab concerned folks more than did the damage they might cause him by removing the fork. Don now lay prone at the base of the beam, although the pitchfork was nowhere to be seen. Almost as startling to me as Don's new position was the fact that his face had gone from white to gray.
     
     
"What on earth happened?" I demanded, elbowing my way through the crowd.
     
     
"We had to get him off the post," said a cameraman who I think was named AI. "He was still alive, you know."
     
     
"He couldn't have been!"
     
     
"But he was," said one of the makeup girls. Her name I knew. It was Heather, one of those ubiquitous plant names so popular in the seventies. Although just a child herself, this Heather looked like she was about to give birth to a whole field of Heatherettes.
     
     
I just shook my head. He was definitely dead now. I'm no expert, but I've seen pot roasts with more life in them than Don had at that moment.
     
     
"He spoke," said AI. "We all heard him say something."
     
     
"What?"
     
     
"I don't know," said Heather. "Something." She started to cry.
     
     
"I think it started with 'M,' " said AI.
     
     
"He was probably calling for his mother," I explained, although it was hard to imagine Don Manley ever having had a mother. Even if she were still alive, the San Diego Zoo would probably not release her without a lot of red tape.
     
     
Steven spat on his hands, and then rubbed them on his pants. Apparently he had gotten blood on them while unpinning Don. "Did you make the call?"
     
     
The sounding siren of Hernia's one squad car answered for me. A few seconds later, the Bedford paramedics pulled up as well.
     
     
-7-
     
     
"But you've known me my whole life!" I protested.
     
     
Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus rotated his head slowly in my direction. For some reason, he'd been