The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews Read Free Book Online

quilt to Daphne,” Mother suggested. “At the Caerphilly Cleaners.”
    â€œI’m not sure I’d want to entrust the Baltimore Album to a mere dry cleaner,” one of the ladies said. Clearly she wasn’t from around here.
    â€œDaphne is no mere dry cleaner,” Mother said. “She is a fabric conservation genius.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Around here, it’s generally accepted that if Daphne can’t get it out, God must want you to wear the stain.”
    â€œShe has some tricks for dealing with that horrible red clay,” said a woman I recognized as the head of the Caerphilly Quilting Club. “But let’s make sure Horace’s forensic testing doesn’t involve putting any nasty chemicals on it. When we had that burglary last year, you wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get all that fingerprint powder scrubbed away.”
    â€œAnd before you haul the quilt anywhere, remember that it’s evidence.” I hated to put a damper on the quilt rescue, but I didn’t want them to interfere with Horace’s forensics. “Someone did steal it, possibly the same someone who still has those missing chickens. Let’s make sure the police don’t need to keep it.”
    Horace was quick to assure them that fabric wasn’t a very good surface for fingerprints, and he had no need to put any chemicals on the quilt. With the chief’s permission, the quilters bore the quilt away to Daphne’s. Four of them insisted on helping carry it, each holding one corner of the folded bundle, and their slow pace and solemn faces made them look alarmingly like pallbearers.
    â€œIs that true, or did you just not want to upset the quilters?” I asked Horace as we watched them depart.
    â€œWell, they’re doing some really interesting things in Scotland with vacuum metal deposition to get fingerprints off fabric,” he said. “But it’s still in the early stages yet. And probably impossible to clean off. Still, it would be interesting to try.”
    He sounded wistful. Lately I’d noticed that Horace often seemed disappointed at the relatively tame forensic challenges small-town police work had to offer.
    â€œWell, we’ll all keep our eyes open for some more fiber evidence,” I said, patting him on the back. “Evidence that no one cares so much about.”
    I dropped by the produce tent and sent the pumpkin owner and his father out for lunch at the Un-fair’s expense while two Shiffleys from the Shiffley Construction Company loaded the remains of the pumpkin into the barrels. Eight huge barrels by the time they finished.
    â€œWe just going to leave these here?” one Shiffley asked.
    â€œBecause this stuff’s already starting to stink,” the other pointed out.
    â€œYes, it will rot, and I have no idea if that will increase or decrease the weight,” I said. “Can we put the stuff on ice?”
    â€œWould take a lot of ice,” the first said. “Cousin of ours has a refrigerated truck. We might be able to borrow that for a few days.”
    â€œFabulous.” I left them to handle it.
    Time for me to return to my rounds. Luckily there weren’t too many more buildings to visit, and I was guardedly optimistic that by now, any other thefts or vandalism would have been discovered and reported.
    And no, there weren’t any other incidents. By the time I reached the last building, I realized it was getting close to opening time. I stopped by a food stand that was already cooking Italian sausages, one of my favorites. I wolfed one down, and made a mental note to come back and have another when I had the time to really enjoy it. Then I headed for the front gate.
    I had a little time left, so I decided to run a personal errand. I strolled into the farmers’ market, a huge barn with booths for farmers and craftspeople who wanted to sell their goods as well as enter them into