Read Online Murder Most Fowl by Edith Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edith Maxwell
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the parking lot from the post office. And that was about it for downtown, except for a barber shop, an insurance company and, a little farther down, SK Foreign Auto, her friend Simâs car repair shop.
Cam approached Church Street, appropriately named as it was flanked on one side by the Catholic Church and on the other by the Congregational. Alexandraâs idea that Katie might be out somewhere communing with livestock flashed in Camâs brain. She jerked the wheel and veered sharply to the left off Main Street. The car behind her blasted its horn. Cam ducked her head and waved a sheepish hand as she headed downhill on Church Street toward the bridge over the Merrimack River. On the other side of the river was Randallsâ, the llama farm, on the outskirts of the city of Haverhill. When Katie had helped out building the coop for Camâs rescue hens last fall, sheâd mentioned how much she loved the graceful big-eyed South American beasts. Maybe Katie was finding peace communing with the llamas.
The sun angled low on the wide river as Cam drove over the historic Rocks Village Bridge, which looked like it was built by a giant playing with an Erector Set. Cam smiled to herself. Sheâd overheard a local at town meeting refer to it as the Mother-in-Law Bridge because someone was reputed to have tossed his mother-in-law off it into the Merrimack. In a few more minutes she arrived at the farm, which advertised its own pork, grass-fed beef, honey, maple syrup, and hay.
She parked in the lot, empty now that the farm store was closed because it was March. The Randall corn maze was a big draw in the fall, and in the winter they sponsored horse-drawn sleigh rides. But this month in New England, otherwise known as mud season, was a slow time at farms that had branched out into the entertainment business to make ends meet. Cam grabbed her phone before she set out in search of the llamas, and Katie, too. She supposed it wasnât a good sign that no cars were parked in the lot, but for all she knew, Katie didnât have a car. She and Alexandra had ridden bicycles that time last fall when the volunteers built the coop.
Making her way around the edge of the fenced-in field, Cam was glad for her muck boots. It was definitely mud season. The fence led up a gentle slope, with woods to Camâs left, the bare bark of the deciduous trees black and ominous. Sheâd better find the llamas soon. If Katie wasnât here, Cam didnât want to be outside in an unfamiliar setting after sunset, with the temperature dropping quickly to a more seasonable chill.
She crested the hill and spied several tall necks sticking up in a clump of furry bodies a dozen yards away. Inside the fence surrounding the field, a tall-backed woman sat cross-legged as if in meditation. She faced the animals but had her back to Cam. A rainbow-striped knit cap covered her head, with two dark braids trailing out of it down her back. She looked a lot like Katie.
Cam thought about calling Pete or Alexandra, but it would be dark soon. She thought she could talk Katie into coming with her and then they could make the call. Cam examined the fence, on which leaned a mud-spattered bicycle. The four-foot-high welded wire barrier didnât appear to have an electrified top. She pulled her sleeves over her hands just in case before clambering over the top and nearly caught her toe in the fencing on the way down, ever ungraceful. As she approached the woman and the llamas, a white one turned its head and regarded Cam with dark eyes that drooped at their corners. Katie turned her head, too, and then slumped as if deflated.
âHey, Katie.â Cam squatted next to her.
Katie pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. âWhat are you doing here?â
Cam gazed at the llamas, who watched her now from their position with all four legs tucked underneath them. âBeautiful animals. They seem to like you.â Sheâd never been
Cam approached Church Street, appropriately named as it was flanked on one side by the Catholic Church and on the other by the Congregational. Alexandraâs idea that Katie might be out somewhere communing with livestock flashed in Camâs brain. She jerked the wheel and veered sharply to the left off Main Street. The car behind her blasted its horn. Cam ducked her head and waved a sheepish hand as she headed downhill on Church Street toward the bridge over the Merrimack River. On the other side of the river was Randallsâ, the llama farm, on the outskirts of the city of Haverhill. When Katie had helped out building the coop for Camâs rescue hens last fall, sheâd mentioned how much she loved the graceful big-eyed South American beasts. Maybe Katie was finding peace communing with the llamas.
The sun angled low on the wide river as Cam drove over the historic Rocks Village Bridge, which looked like it was built by a giant playing with an Erector Set. Cam smiled to herself. Sheâd overheard a local at town meeting refer to it as the Mother-in-Law Bridge because someone was reputed to have tossed his mother-in-law off it into the Merrimack. In a few more minutes she arrived at the farm, which advertised its own pork, grass-fed beef, honey, maple syrup, and hay.
She parked in the lot, empty now that the farm store was closed because it was March. The Randall corn maze was a big draw in the fall, and in the winter they sponsored horse-drawn sleigh rides. But this month in New England, otherwise known as mud season, was a slow time at farms that had branched out into the entertainment business to make ends meet. Cam grabbed her phone before she set out in search of the llamas, and Katie, too. She supposed it wasnât a good sign that no cars were parked in the lot, but for all she knew, Katie didnât have a car. She and Alexandra had ridden bicycles that time last fall when the volunteers built the coop.
Making her way around the edge of the fenced-in field, Cam was glad for her muck boots. It was definitely mud season. The fence led up a gentle slope, with woods to Camâs left, the bare bark of the deciduous trees black and ominous. Sheâd better find the llamas soon. If Katie wasnât here, Cam didnât want to be outside in an unfamiliar setting after sunset, with the temperature dropping quickly to a more seasonable chill.
She crested the hill and spied several tall necks sticking up in a clump of furry bodies a dozen yards away. Inside the fence surrounding the field, a tall-backed woman sat cross-legged as if in meditation. She faced the animals but had her back to Cam. A rainbow-striped knit cap covered her head, with two dark braids trailing out of it down her back. She looked a lot like Katie.
Cam thought about calling Pete or Alexandra, but it would be dark soon. She thought she could talk Katie into coming with her and then they could make the call. Cam examined the fence, on which leaned a mud-spattered bicycle. The four-foot-high welded wire barrier didnât appear to have an electrified top. She pulled her sleeves over her hands just in case before clambering over the top and nearly caught her toe in the fencing on the way down, ever ungraceful. As she approached the woman and the llamas, a white one turned its head and regarded Cam with dark eyes that drooped at their corners. Katie turned her head, too, and then slumped as if deflated.
âHey, Katie.â Cam squatted next to her.
Katie pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. âWhat are you doing here?â
Cam gazed at the llamas, who watched her now from their position with all four legs tucked underneath them. âBeautiful animals. They seem to like you.â Sheâd never been
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