Read Online Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) by Maggie Pill - Free Book Online
Authors: Maggie Pill
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remembered, but Dale went right to work, lifting several chunks onto his arm. “Good, seasoned stuff,” he said as he hefted it. “At least the wood guy didn’t cheat the old lady.” Taking another piece he urged, “Check on the chickens. You can help with this afterward.”
Buddy followed me to the chicken pen. The rooster eyed me belligerently, but he hadn’t been aggressive last time, so I figured he was simply playing his role. Though the water fount was still half full, the birds had eaten all the food I left and were scratching at the hard-packed ground for bugs. The dog growled when he saw them, and the chickens muttered among themselves, their heads bobb ing in alarm. I spoke firmly to Buddy, who trotted off to the lakeshore, where some Canada geese were gathered. He worked out his aggression by chasing them off, and the clamor they created seemed to please him.
When I opened the gate of the pen with a bucket of feed in one hand, the birds rushed at me, pushing each other out of the way as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Though they weren’t as starved as they appeared to be, the empty trough told the story. No one had fed them since I’d been there two days earlier. Not only had Gail Sherman lied to Retta about having done as her aunt asked, Retta’s visit to the realty hadn’t resulted in action on Gail’s part to remedy the situation.
Dale paused his work on the woodpile to call, “How are things in Chicken World?”
“Better now that they’re fed.” Closing the gate I joined him, glancing around as I went. “This place is as neat as a pin.”
“I noticed,” Dale agreed. “I needed a hatchet to lop off some twigs.” He gestured at the nearest shed. “The tools are outlined on a pegboard so they go right back where they came from.”
“Clara claimed she does everything herself.”
Dale frowned. “You’d think if her mind was going we’d see signs of neglect.”
“I know.” We looked the place over again, searching for signs the owner was failing mentally or physically. Finding none, I became even more determined to argue for taking Clara’s case. Barb was looking at things from her usual, logical point of view, but she hadn’t met Clara. I hoped Retta would take my side.
As Dale went back to work on the woodpile, I remembered the heat lamps Clara mentioned. “Should we put heat in the coop so the chickens don’t get their combs frostbitten at night?”
Pausing the rhythmic clink of setting wood into place, Dale considered. “We’ve got no way to turn it on and off, and we wouldn’t want to start a fire.” He glanced at the bright sky. “I think they’ll be okay without it for a while longer. The coop looks tight, and they can huddle together.”
Since Dale’s the weather expert in the family, I nodded. “Okay. I probably should collect the eggs, though. Looks like no one’s done that in a while.” Hunting up a basket, I began opening the little trapdoors at the sides of the chicken coop. By feeling around I located one egg, then another, and so on. In the week Clara had been gone, the chickens had been busy, laying large, light brown eggs. The hens didn’t seem to mind me taking them but kept up their soft cooing sounds as I filled the first basket. I had to dig up a second one to hold them all, and I proudly showed Dale my treasure trove.
“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, bending to pick up more wood. He’d made quite a dent in the pile, and I set the eggs aside and started doing my part.
“I doubt the nursing home can accept undocumented eggs.”
“There’s likely to be a rule against it.” Dale’s tone said what he thought of rules prohibiting people from eating food fresh from the farm.
“I guess we could give them to the niece,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clunk of wood hitting wood.
He snorted in response. “If she wanted them, she should have come out and helped herself. Looks like she couldn’t care less
Buddy followed me to the chicken pen. The rooster eyed me belligerently, but he hadn’t been aggressive last time, so I figured he was simply playing his role. Though the water fount was still half full, the birds had eaten all the food I left and were scratching at the hard-packed ground for bugs. The dog growled when he saw them, and the chickens muttered among themselves, their heads bobb ing in alarm. I spoke firmly to Buddy, who trotted off to the lakeshore, where some Canada geese were gathered. He worked out his aggression by chasing them off, and the clamor they created seemed to please him.
When I opened the gate of the pen with a bucket of feed in one hand, the birds rushed at me, pushing each other out of the way as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Though they weren’t as starved as they appeared to be, the empty trough told the story. No one had fed them since I’d been there two days earlier. Not only had Gail Sherman lied to Retta about having done as her aunt asked, Retta’s visit to the realty hadn’t resulted in action on Gail’s part to remedy the situation.
Dale paused his work on the woodpile to call, “How are things in Chicken World?”
“Better now that they’re fed.” Closing the gate I joined him, glancing around as I went. “This place is as neat as a pin.”
“I noticed,” Dale agreed. “I needed a hatchet to lop off some twigs.” He gestured at the nearest shed. “The tools are outlined on a pegboard so they go right back where they came from.”
“Clara claimed she does everything herself.”
Dale frowned. “You’d think if her mind was going we’d see signs of neglect.”
“I know.” We looked the place over again, searching for signs the owner was failing mentally or physically. Finding none, I became even more determined to argue for taking Clara’s case. Barb was looking at things from her usual, logical point of view, but she hadn’t met Clara. I hoped Retta would take my side.
As Dale went back to work on the woodpile, I remembered the heat lamps Clara mentioned. “Should we put heat in the coop so the chickens don’t get their combs frostbitten at night?”
Pausing the rhythmic clink of setting wood into place, Dale considered. “We’ve got no way to turn it on and off, and we wouldn’t want to start a fire.” He glanced at the bright sky. “I think they’ll be okay without it for a while longer. The coop looks tight, and they can huddle together.”
Since Dale’s the weather expert in the family, I nodded. “Okay. I probably should collect the eggs, though. Looks like no one’s done that in a while.” Hunting up a basket, I began opening the little trapdoors at the sides of the chicken coop. By feeling around I located one egg, then another, and so on. In the week Clara had been gone, the chickens had been busy, laying large, light brown eggs. The hens didn’t seem to mind me taking them but kept up their soft cooing sounds as I filled the first basket. I had to dig up a second one to hold them all, and I proudly showed Dale my treasure trove.
“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, bending to pick up more wood. He’d made quite a dent in the pile, and I set the eggs aside and started doing my part.
“I doubt the nursing home can accept undocumented eggs.”
“There’s likely to be a rule against it.” Dale’s tone said what he thought of rules prohibiting people from eating food fresh from the farm.
“I guess we could give them to the niece,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clunk of wood hitting wood.
He snorted in response. “If she wanted them, she should have come out and helped herself. Looks like she couldn’t care less
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