Chapter Ten: A New Twist in the Case
Iwent looking for Drover and checked all his usual hiding spots: the machine shed, the calf shed, the haystack. He wasn’t there. The runt had given me the slip—and maybe he’d done it in more ways than one.
As I’ve said before, Drover is a special case. Just when you’re convinced that his head is filled with sawdust, he comes up with some slippery move that has the markings of intelligent behavior. It certainly makes a guy wonder.
But slippery moves or not, he remained a prime suspect in the investigation. When you’re going up against Hank the Cowdog, you can run but you can’t walk. It takes more than a few tricks to throw me off the trail. I made a mental note to keep my assistant under surveillance.
I drifted through the corrals, figgered while I was down there I might as well make my rounds and check things out.
I went past the calf shed and slipped through the warped door of the hay barn. As usual, it was dark and smelled of alfalfa hay and . . . hmmm. Near the northwest corner I began picking up a new reading. In just a matter of minutes I had analyzed the smell, separated out the many variables and possibilities, and narrowed it down to one source: skunk.
Very interesting. In fact, VERY interesting. Point One: It’s a well-known fact that skunks have an appetite for eggs and chickens. Point Two: They’re smell enough . . . small enough to enter a chicken house through the little door. Point Three: They have sharp teeth and are quite capable of killing a chicken. Point Four: Having killed the chicken inside the chicken house, they are stout enough to drag the body outside. Point Five: I don’t think there is a Point Five, but four’s plenty.
This discovery had just by George blown the case wide open. I couldn’t have ordered a set of clues that would have worked better than these. Everything fit the M.O. All at once I had a scent, a motive, and a suspect.
Well, I didn’t exactly have a suspect. A quick check of the premises revealed that he was no longer there, but in his scent I had irreguffable proof that he HAD been there, and not so very long ago—say, last night, just after he committed the first murder, and this morning, just before he committed the second.
Yes indeed, things were moving along very well. I slithered out the door and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the glare of the afternoon sun. A plan began to form in my mind. I had one last witness to interrogate, and then all I had to do was wait for darkness to fall. If the killer struck again, I would be waiting for him.
I trotted through the front lot, through the side lot, through the wire lot. I passed the old green outhouse, ran up the hill, and made my way to the chicken house. I found my witness in some weeds near the storage tank, chasing grasshoppers. J.T. Cluck, head rooster, just might have some information I could use.
I came up behind him and waited for him to see me. He was so absorbed in his grasshopper business that he didn’t notice me. Finally I got tired of hanging around. I mean, I have better things to do than wait for a dadgum rooster.
“Hey!”
His head shot up. He squawked, flapped his wings, and jumped off the ground a good ten inches. “Bawk! Help, murder! Oh, it’s only you.”
“That’s right, it’s only me, if that’s the way you want to put it. I’ve got some questions to ask you.”
“All right, fine, because I’ve got some questions to ask you too.”
“Who goes first?”
“I’ll go first.”
“All right, and I’ll go second. Shoot, and don’t waste my time with gossip or insignificant details. And I don’t want to hear about your worthless sons.”
He jerked his head and fixed me with one of his yellow eyes. “Who said my sons were worthless? Just point him out to me and I’ll thrash the lying scoundrel!”
“You’ve said it. Every time I’m around you, that’s all you can talk about.”
“It’s all right for me to say that, but anybody else who says it is going to get thrashed. I have some fine boys.”
“Good.”
“Elsa has done a wonderful job raising them.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“And if they do act a little worthless now and then, it ain’t her fault.”
“Of course not.”
“Because she done her part.”
“What’s your question?”
“What? Oh, my question, yes.” He glanced over both shoulders and moved closer. “How much do you know about grasshoppers?”
“Not much.”
“Well, let me tell you something. I don’t ever recall seeing a crop of grasshoppers that could jump as far as these, and I’ve been studying grasshoppers for many years. If you ask me, there’s something strange going on around here. I think maybe this climate’s changing, makes the grasshoppers harder to catch. It won’t be long until we all starve to death.”
“Maybe you’re getting too old. Had you considered that?”
“Huh? Too old? Who said that! Let me tell you something, mister. I may be getting a little age on me, but that’s only because I ain’t as young as I used to be, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Okay. Are you through?”
“Naw, I’m just getting warmed up.”
“No, I think you’re through. It’s my turn.”
He glared at me. “Kind of grabby, ain’t you?”
“Just doing my job. Now, I’ve got some questions.”
“Fine. Ask me anything, anything at all. Ask me about grasshoppers or indigestion, I’ve had terrible heartburn lately.”
“I don’t care about indigestion.”
“That’s the whole trouble with this younger generation, they just don’t care about anything.”
“I presume you’re aware that two of your pullets have been murdered.”
“ Of course I’m aware of it. What kind of fiend do you think I am?”
“I’m working on the case and I need some facts. You got any facts for me?”
“Yes sir, I sure do.” He tapped me on the chest with his wing. “Fact Number One: If you don’t get enough gravel in your craw, you’re going to get heartburn. Elsa’s been telling me that for years, but I get so busy with other stuff that I can’t remember to peck gravel, just can’t be bothered with it.”
“Never mind the gravel. I want facts about the murders.”
“What murders? Oh, those. You know what I think?”
“No. Why don’t you tell me?”
“I think we’ve got a fiendish, bloodthirsty, killing murderer on the loose, is what I think. Who else would kill a couple of pullets?”
“I’ve got a lead on a skunk. You smelled any skunks lately?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who can smell a skunk in a filthy chicken house? I have to live in filth because these danged kids . . .”
“Have you seen any skunks? Have you seen anything . . .” All at once I noticed the shape of J.T.’s drumsticks. “Let me ask you something, J.T.”
“Go on, ask me anything. My life’s an open book, I got nothing to be ashamed of.”
“When a chicken gets older, does the meat lose its flavor?”
“Oh yes, very definitely, and that’s why nobody ever eats old roosters, see. Yes, we get a little age on us and that meat turns tough and stringy. You’d just as well try to eat a roll of binder’s twine.”
“I see.”
“Very tough, very stringy, not much flavor. Now with an old hen, you can take and boil an old hen with some dumplings and she’ll turn out all right. But an old rooster, no sir.”
“I see.” I ran my tongue over my lips. “And . . . pullets? What about pullets?”
“Oh, they’re just about the best eatin’ around. Now you take this meat up here around the chest. On a pullet that meat’s nice and tender and juicy and . . .”
“And larruping good?”
“Yes sir, larruping good, that’s what they tell me.”
“And uh, how about the uh . . . drumsticks on a pullet?”
“Just excruciatingly good. Tender as a woman’s heart, juicy as apple pie . . .” He blinked his eyes and stared at me. “What’s wrong with your mouth, son?”
“Huh?”
“You got water coming out of your mouth. You’re drooling all over yourself.”
I turned away and wiped my mouth. “No, that’s not drool. It’s uh . . .”
“Sure looked like drool to me. Turn back around here and let me look at that again.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not drool. It has nothing to do with drool.”
He dropped his voice. “You can’t fool me, son.”
Very slowly I turned my head around, until our eyes met. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you can’t fool the head rooster. You’re drooling at the mouth, and I know what that means.”
“Oh yeah? Well uh . . . what does it mean?”
I could hear my heart pounding in my . . . well, in my chest. For some reason, I dreaded his next words.
J.T. leaned toward me and whispered, “You’ve been eatin’ grasshoppers!”
Just for a moment I felt dizzy. Then it passed and I took a deep breath. “How did you know that?”
“Simple deduction and years of experience. Grasshoppers spit tobacco juice, right? Which means they chew tobacco, right? Which means that when you eat a grasshopper, you’re eating his tobacco juice, right? Well sir, that tobacco juice makes a guy drool at the mouth. I know because I’ve done it many, many times.”
“It’s very clever of you to figure that out.”
“And I’ll tell you something else.” He put his beak right in my face. “That stuff will give you the most incredible heartburn you ever had in your life. Now take my advice and don’t go slippin’ around eatin’ grasshoppers anymore.”
I wiped my mouth and regained my composure. “As a general rule I don’t take advice from chickens, but in this case I’m going to make an exception.”
“You could do a lot worse, believe me.”
I started backing away. “Well, I think I’ve . . . uh . . . learned something from this interrogation, and if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“See you around, son.” He waved a wing. “And don’t forget your gravel—every morning and evening.”