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brunette and Brian Turner remained.
    Amy’s eyes widened. “I got this chicken at the supermarket.” She turned to Jake. “You believe me, don’t you?”
    Jake was having a hard time keeping his composure. His face had turned red with suppressed laughter. He nodded an assurance to Amy and stared at the toes of his shoes. He was distressed that someone had broken into his office and stolen a sick animal, but he couldn’t ever remember being involved in anything so ludicrous.
    Amy caught Jake’s mood and felt the laughter bubbling in her own chest. They thought she’d made chicken soup of Rhode Island Red! It was an outrageous idea.
    She turned to Turner and smiled brightly. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”
    Turner threw her a look of disgust, then strode from the office, almost knocking the brunette over. She teetered on three-inch heels and nervously chewed on a long, bright-red fingernail. “Gee,” she said, “this is awful.”
    Jake immediately sobered himself and went to comfort the woman. “I’m really sorry Miss…um.” He couldn’t remember her name. Veronica something.
    â€œVeronica Bottles,” she prompted.
    Jake blushed and nodded. “Miss Bottles. I sincerely hope you get your rooster back.”
    â€œThis was my big chance to get into television. I don’t know if they’ll keep me without him.”
    â€œMaybe you could get a substitute,” Amy suggested. “You could go back to the farmers’ market and pick out another Rhode Island Red.”
    Veronica seemed cheered by that thought. “Yeah,” she said hopefully, “there are probably lots of dancing roosters around. And they all look alike. No one would even have to know it wasn’t the original Red.”
    Amy and Jake exchanged glances as Veronica sashayed out the door. “She’s not without charm,” Jake said, grinning.
    Amy punched him in the arm.
    Â 
    At five o’clock an embarrassed detective showed up at the clinic with a request to examine Amy’s garbage. “A formality,” he said. Someone had filed a complaint, and he was forced to follow through on all leads. He didn’t have a warrant, and Amy didn’t have to comply, he explained. He was surethe drumsticks in her garbage would be much too short to fit the description, and Amy would be exonerated.
    Amy looked at Jake. Nothing was said, but the unspoken communication between them was clear. This was getting serious, he thought. This wasn’t funny anymore. They actually suspected Amy.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Amy said to the detective. “My garbage isn’t incriminating. You can paw through it to your heart’s content.”
    Jake removed his blue veterinary smock. “Let’s get this over with, now. There are only a few appointments left, and Allen can handle them.”
    Amy sent him a look of gratitude. She had nothing to hide, but she was frightened all the same. She’d never had anything to do with the police, never even received a traffic ticket. Now she was in the middle of a possible murder investigation.
    Suddenly she realized she didn’t have complete faith in the system to protect the innocent. It hurt her to think that someone had accused her of harming an animal; and, what was more, she felt victimized andsullied by the police request that she display her garbage. It lent a certain amount of credibility to the ugly charge.
    Half an hour later, Amy sat at the kitchen table with her chin propped up by her hand. Jake sat in a similar position, and the detective kneeled on the floor. Two days’ worth of trash had systematically been strewn onto clean newspapers. Just as they’d all known ahead of time, there had been no feathers, no sign of a butchered bird, no large rooster thighbones, only supermarket packaging.
    â€œI’m really sorry about this,” the detective said. “It was a matter