Chicken Culprit Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  From the Author

  Cozy Mystery Series

  Chicken Culprit

  A

  BACKYARD FARMING

  MYSTERY

  BOOK 1

  VIKKI WALTON

  MOREWELLSON, LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Vikki Walton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Morewellson, Ltd.

  P.O. Box 49726

  Colorado Springs, CO 80949

  ISBN:

  978-0-9994402-0-9 (standard edition print)

  978-0-9994402-1-6 (epub)

  978-0-9994402-2-3 (large print)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Front Cover Illustration: DLR Custom Covers

  Interior formatting by Rik: Wild Seas Formatting

  Cast of Characters (in order of appearance)

  Anne Freemont: She seeks solace from her past in her new hometown of Carolan Springs.

  Kandi Jenkins: A naïve and spirited young woman who thinks the best of everyone.

  Ralph Rogers: A man whose temperament and actions cause angry confrontations.

  Stewart Rogers: Ralph’s nephew who’s always turning up unexpectedly.

  Everett Bradley: Town’s police chief filling in as assisting agency for the sheriff’s office.

  Sam Powers: EMT and deputy coroner who befriends newcomer Anne.

  Eliza de French: An Ethiopian woman whose beauty hides an ugly secret.

  Hope Boswell: Doctor and herbalist who’s come home to care for her ailing mother.

  Faith Boswell: Dealing with early onset dementia, she still has what some call second sight.

  Jeff Jenkins: Kandi’s goal-oriented husband who often travels for work.

  Sheriff Carson: A stony wall of shrewd insight into people.

  Sorcha Smith: Bookstore owner who makes every man’s head swivel.

  Trust is like a sheet of paper; once it’s crumpled, it is never viewed the same again.

  Chapter One

  Anne yawned and stretched her hands over her head. She unlocked the kitchen window, taking in a deep breath of crisp Colorado air and sighed loudly. No longer would she have to deal with divorce lawyers or Duke. She could finally live her life as she saw fit.

  Anne surveyed her domain. Even though boxes cluttered every available space, it didn’t matter. What she cared about was that it was all hers. While the work ahead might seem daunting, the prospect of transforming the old Victorian house didn’t deter Anne.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, both hands cradling the mug, before deciding to drink it out on the back porch. Rays of sunshine had risen about the copse at the back of her property, and its golden warmth welcomed the day. Raising the mug to her mouth, Anne took a much-needed sip of the hot morning brew.

  “Stop! Stop!” A woman’s voice carried over from the other yard.

  Anne sloshed coffee onto her chambray shirt. “Shoot!” She set her cup down on the railing. The liquid, now cold, seeped through to her skin.

  “Stop!” The piercing scream came again. This was no couple’s tiff or “you forgot your lunch” yell. Anne lurched down the steps and across the yard, striding over to the stand of lilacs which separated the two yards. As she drew closer, a woman’s high-pitched voice could be heard pleading. A much deeper voice—a man’s—was muffled in contrast.

  Last night’s rain made her flip-flops slip on the spongy ground. She cautiously rounded the stand of lilacs and stared at the scene before her.

  A petite young woman with fiery red hair stood facing a much taller older gentleman. She held something red in her hands. It moved.

  A chicken.

  The man gripped an axe with his right hand. With his left, he reached out and took hold of the chicken’s neck. As Anne watched, open-mouthed, the woman reached up and grabbed the axe handle. The ruddy-faced man stood unyielding, his left hand wrapped securely around the chicken’s neck.

  The chicken didn’t look happy either.

  “Let go, Kandi, before someone gets hurt.”

  The young woman released the axe. “Fine, but you let go of Rusty.”

  Rusty must be the Rhode Island Red Kandi clutched in her left hand.

  “Kandi, I’ve had it. I told you the last time to keep your cotton-picking chickens out of my garden. Now look at what she’s done.” The man released the chicken’s neck and pointed.

  Anne took a few steps into the yard to see where he pointed.

  The torn remains of a gorgeous heirloom Brandywine tomato left no doubt as to the culprit.

  Anne took a few more steps into the yard to make her presence known. The scene made it clear that no one was in danger, except for maybe the chicken.

  “Please, Ralph,” Kandi whimpered, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t get out of the run again.”

  The chicken squawked and struggled to break free from Kandi’s tight grip.

  “You’ve told me this before, young lady.” He reached for the chicken. “Come on, Fricassee. I could use me a plate of chicken cutlets for dinner tonight.”

  “Over my dead body, you will!” Kandi stepped back.

  Valiantly protesting being dinner, the chicken struck out with a poor attempt to peck at the man.

  Anne sneezed.

  The pair turned to face her.

  Discovered, Anne sheepishly stepped further into the yard. She raised her hand in a slight wave.

  “Hi, I’m Anne. I just moved—”

  “You’ve got to help me!” The woman jogged over to Anne and pointed at the man. “He’s going to murder Rusty!” She held the chicken up for display so there would be no doubt who she meant.

  The man advanced toward Anne, still clutching said ‘chicken-murder-weapon-of-choice.’

  “Hi. I’m Ralph. Mr. Rogers. I’m your neighbor.”

  Anne struggled not to laugh. She looked from axe-bearing Mr. Rogers to the young woman to the chicken frantic to escape. It wasn’t a good day in the neighborhood.

  “Hi. I’m Kandi. I live over there.” She used the chicken to point across the yard to the next property. “I keep chickens in case you want fresh eggs.”

  While Ralph stood silent, Kandi continued. “Did you move in yesterday? I was so excited when the house sold. Are you—” She tightened her grip on Rusty who squirmed to break free.<
br />
  “Enough.” Ralph’s deep baritone stopped Kandi’s questioning.

  He advanced. The axe’s sharp edge gleamed in his hand.

  Anne stepped back and her flip-flops sucked into the mud. She fought to regain purchase but found only unstable ground. Struggling to remain upright and keep her footing, she spun her arms in a tilt-a-whirl motion.

  Kandi let go of the chicken. Mr. Rogers chucked the axe to the ground and they both reached for Anne.

  Their efforts were in vain. Gravity won.

  Anne landed with a thud in a large mound of fresh, earthy, wet compost. She may have laughed it off at twenty, but falls weren’t as funny as they used to be. She stared up at the two maniacs.

  The man let out a loud laugh. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

  “Very funny.” Anne shifted sideways, placing one jeaned knee in the pile for stability. Wet and cold seeped through her pants. She fought a losing battle as decaying leaves, rotting vegetables, and who knew what else shifted and sunk beneath her.

  Her endeavors to pull free from the muck were getting her nowhere. Exasperation grew. “A little help here would be appreciated.” Her voice rose.

  Ralph held out his calloused hand. Thankfully, sans axe.

  Anne grabbed it. With a firm pull, he yanked her up, swaying a bit as he sought to remain upright on solid ground.

  As Kandi grasped at Anne’s other arm, Ralph turned his head. “Where’s that chicken? Kan-di! It’s in my garden again! I’ll kill it for sure this time!” He dropped Anne’s arm and grabbed the axe from the ground.

  Kandi also dropped Anne’s arm and took off after Ralph.

  Anne’s foot sunk once again in the compost pile, and she fell back into the damp muck.

  Frustrated with this new pair of neighbors, Anne pulled herself up and began crawling out of the compost heap.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Kandi implored. “I promise I’ll make sure she doesn’t get in your tomatoes again. I’ll even go right now and buy you some tomatoes to replace the ones she’s ruined.”

  “Are you nuts? If I wanted store-bought no-taste tomatoes, I’d buy them.” He glowered down at the young woman.

  Kandi bristled. She stretched herself to her full five- foot frame and placed her hands on her hips, Wonder- Woman style. Then, before Ralph could react, she rushed over and scooped up the errant chicken. The young woman sprinted toward her yard, the chicken’s head bobbing with the movement.

  As she rounded the corner, she turned back to the finally upright Anne. “Nice to meet you, Anne!” Kandi waved.

  Anne waved back. A piece of romaine stuck to her hand.

  Oh, joy. What have I gotten myself into?

  Finally freed from the compost quicksand, Anne said goodbye to Ralph. She headed home carrying her flip- flops, now utterly useless. Her shirt was wet. Her pants were wet. Why not her feet too?

  The screen door slapped the frame behind her as she entered the kitchen. She used her hip to shut the main door. Dropping the shoes in a trash bin, Anne quickly shucked off her damp shirt, carrying it with her down the short passage to her bedroom.

  Her muscles ached. Between the moving of boxes yesterday and today’s spill, soreness now made itself known. She pulled out a piece of lettuce—no, arugula— stuck in her hair. Gazing down at her grimy hands caked with dirt, she grimaced.

  Working hands. That’s what Duke—her ex- husband—had called them.

  She thought back to his chiding remarks. “How am I supposed to feel when you don’t even make yourself presentable? Look at Stu’s wife. Now that’s a woman.”

  Anne studied her hands. Gone were the sculpted manicured nails. Turning on the tap, she scrubbed at her hands with the intensity of a heart surgeon. Tears flowed. Her hands, now red from her efforts, throbbed. She stepped back from the sink and threw the nail brush as hard as she could at the bathroom window.

  Unfortunately for her, the bathroom window was closed. She’d shut it when the rain started last night.

  The plastic missile bounced back off the window and hit her on the shoulder. “Ow!” The tears morphed into laughter at her own stupidity.

  Though her stomach rumbled, begging for food, a bath was the first order of business. No telling what had been in that compost muck. She loved compost, worms, and other critters, just not on her person. She bent down and turned on the bath faucet, hoping the hot water had generated enough heat overnight for a long soak.

  A loud knocking on the back door interrupted the process.

  Maybe they’ll go away. Wait—is anything supposed to be hooked up today?

  She begrudgingly turned off the faucet and grabbed the old raincoat she’d worn last night from the back of the shower door. Should that have been a clue of a stormy beginning to her new life?

  She shoved her matted brown hair behind her ears. The postponement of warm water on her sore backside elicited a sigh of disappointment.

  Walking toward the kitchen, she glimpsed a tall young man standing on the porch. She cracked the back door open. “Can I help you?”

  He pointed to the lilac bushes. “I’m Ralph’s nephew. Stewart. Next door. He’s real sorry about you falling into his compost heap. Last night’s rain made the ground real slippery back there.”

  No kidding. Her clenched fist gripped the coat tightly, but she replied, “No harm, no foul.”

  Foul—fowl. She chuckled.

  His eyebrow raised in question.

  “You see, no foul. This all began because of a chicken, fowl, get it?…Oh, never mind.”

  “Um, okay.”

  His dismissive demeanor rankled. But she didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with her neighbor. She giggled a bit thinking about her lost footing. Oh man, I’m really tired.

  His appraising look left no doubt he thought her a kook. “Anyway…he wanted to give you these as an apology.” He motioned to a crate of beautiful vegetables that sat at his feet.

  Stewart continued, “This is a great place you got here. Good bones. I know you’ll like it. My uncle said you might need some handyman help. I do some carpentry and such. General stuff. Be glad to give you a quote.” He patted the door frame. “You can’t do better than these old Victorians.”

  Anne didn’t respond. Though she felt the same about the beautiful old home, the less she said, the quicker he’d leave.

  “Well, anyway, Uncle Ralph asked me to give that to you.” He motioned in the direction of the box. “Sorry to hear about your fall. Welcome to Carolan Springs.” Turning, he bounded down the steps while fixing a baseball cap back on his head.

  Anne stepped out onto the porch. As she watched, Stewart sprinted beyond the lilacs. Now alone, she picked up the crate and brought it inside to the old oak table. Peeking at the goodies, it didn’t look like anything needed refrigeration. It could wait for her to take her bath.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel out to her drive.

  Did he forget something?

  She buttoned her coat before turning to see the young woman from this morning’s fiasco grinning at her from the open doorway.

  Not waiting for approval, the woman entered the kitchen. “Oh wow, you do look, well…” She colored slightly. “Not to be mean, but you don’t look so good.”

  “Falling into a compost heap will do that to you.” Anne brushed back a stray lock of sticky hair from her face. She looked down at her hand and saw a piece of strawberry. “By the way, good for you for standing up to that guy. Some young people might have been intimidated by him.”

  “Ahh, he’s okay. Plus, I’m twenty-four.”

  “You are? Wow. You look much younger,” Anne quipped.

  “I get that a lot.” Kandi looked around the kitchen. “Don’t you just love this old house?” She laughed a childlike laugh that couldn’t help but make Anne smile. “Oh, of course you do. You bought it!”

  She focused her eyes intently on Anne. “Seriously though. You look, like, bad. I don’t know if you know but the back of your head has, li
ke, what might be a moldy strawberry or some other gross stuff in it.

  Anne shuddered. Suddenly, she was itchy everywhere. “Anyway, I came over because I figure you need help.

  You being old and all.”

  Old and all? Had this twit just called her old? She was only forty for heaven’s sake. Okay, forty-four and a half, but who’s counting?

  She looked at the girl. Innocence radiated from her face. She hadn’t meant to be cruel or mean. She had only been stating a fact. Did she look old? Anne knew that the stress of the last few years had taken their toll. Maybe it had been more than she thought.

  Kandi continued, “I thought you might like some help unpacking after your fall. Plus, I kind of, like, owe you since you saved Rusty.” She glanced at Anne’s raincoat. “Are you going out? I don’t think that’s, like, such a good idea.”

  Before Anne could respond, Kandi rushed out to the back porch and returned holding a basket. “Look!” Like a toddler holding up a present, Kandi extended her arms to showcase a basketful of eggs. “These are from my girls—my chickens. You may not know this about chickens, but these are, like, the best eggs you’ll ever taste. Bright orange yolks. They look like you’ve added cheese to the eggs.” She grinned.

  Kandi glanced at the crate on the table. “Hey, is that, like, some of Ralph’s veggies?” She pulled items from the box. “Um, here are some peppers, onions, and even some of his prized mushrooms. He’s got a secret spot down the trail that leads from his place into the forest. You’ve, like, scored the jackpot.”

  Anne raised a hand to rub her forehead. This woman and all her likes made her head hurt.

  Kandi gazed intently at Anne. “I can see you’re super tired. Yep, what you need is a good homemade frittata. My Jeff says I’m the best cook in, like, the whole county. How about you go take a shower and by the time you’re done, I’ll have the food ready.”

  Anne wanted to strangle the young woman and be done with it. She debated whether Kandi could be a frittata-making serial killer and as her stomach rumbled again, decided she’d chance it.

  “Okay,” she mumbled. Food cooked by someone else, killer or no, sounded divine.

  As Kandi set about pulling items from the box, Anne headed off to the shower. She was tired. More than she realized. As Anne shucked off her coat, a light knock sounded on the bathroom door, causing her to jump. Oh geez, how could she have forgotten to lock her bedroom door? With a complete stranger in her kitchen no less. She must be far more tired than she’d realized.