The Hen of the Baskervilles Read Online Free PDF

kind,” I said. “He can't dispose of it as easily as a few chickens. Not without getting caught.”
    â€œI only hope she took some pictures of it,” the quilter said. “To document it. It might help the police find it.”
    â€œIf she didn’t, I did. I was running around with my phone camera last night, taking some local color shots for the Web site. Tell Vern I’m going to e-mail my pictures of the fugitive quilt to Debbie Ann down at the station.”
    â€œGood,” Mother said. “Now run along. I’ll stay here with Rosalie, and I’m sure you have things to do.”
    Yes, I did.
    I sent the photos off. Then I called Randall.
    â€œAre you still with the reporter?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œSorry to interrupt, then, but there’s been another theft. This time a valuable quilt. I think we need to warn the exhibitors. And if you ask me, it’s no longer practical to keep that reporter from finding out. Too much has happened. We should break the news to him, putting our spin on it, before he hears it from some other source.”
    â€œI agree,” Randall said. “And I think we should enlist the assistance of the press. Meet me at the fair office.”

 
    Chapter 5
    The fair office was a large converted trailer that, when it wasn’t fair season, served as a mobile field office for any large projects Randall’s construction company took on. It had phones, electricity, and an Internet connection—at least most of the time, and when those failed there were always Shiffleys available nearby to get them going again.
    I got there first, and by the time Randall and the reporter arrived, I had already printed out a copy of my master exhibitor list. And figured out that owners of the stolen chickens were actually named Bonneville.
    â€œâ€”several officers patrolling the grounds last night,” Randall was saying as he entered. “But we’re going to double the police presence tonight.”
    â€œYou think that will help?” the reporter asked.
    â€œMeg is also organizing some of the exhibitors to do voluntary patrols.” Randall was offering the reporter one of our folding chairs.
    I was? Okay, I guess now I was. Or maybe Vern’s suggestion of a few volunteers to hunt for the chickens had morphed into full-fledged patrols. I flipped to the right page in my notebook and scribbled a few more notes on my plan for the volunteer patrols.
    â€œIt’s a big area to cover,” the reporter said.
    â€œIt certainly is,” Randall agreed. “A hundred and twenty acres.”
    He indicated the wall where we’d posted a map of the fair. It was vaguely shield shaped, a little like the state of Ohio. On the southern side, where Ohio bordered Kentucky and West Virginia, were the entrance gates. If you turned left after you came through the gates you’d reach the amphitheater where all the music and other talent performances would take place. To the right was the big show ring where the rodeo events and major animal competitions would be held. The arts and crafts barn, the vendors’ barn, and the wine pavilion were all in the center, where Columbus would be.
    The exhibitors’ campgrounds and parking lots were in the upper left corner—past the amphitheater—while the animal barns, tents, and sheds filled most of the upper right corner—past the show ring. Beyond the agricultural area, in the very upper right area of the map was the Midway. That part was shaded pink instead of green like the rest of the map, because it was across the border in Clay County.
    â€œFortunately this is the first incident of this kind we’ve had during the history of the Un-fair,” Randall was saying.
    â€œYou only started it last year,” the reporter pointed out. “Not much of a history.”
    â€œNo, but our record last year was unblemished,” Randall said. “No theft or