Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(8)

“I see.” I made a fist, narrowed my eyes. “A chicken choker.”

Jackson James immediately scrunched his face, his chin falling to his chest in a clear attempt to hide his laughter. Mr. Badcock lived in one of those houses that might also claim log cabin status, the rooms segmented with curtains or furniture instead of interior walls. I could see Officer Dale from where I was standing, also trying not to laugh.

“Talk about a clusterflock,” I added, nodding at the assertion.

Jackson covered his mouth with his hand and Dale did the same.

Me? I wasn’t in any danger of laughing. I never laughed at my own jokes, even if they were as funny and timely as this one.

But Jenn . . . Uh oh.

“It’s not funny,” she whispered harshly, stepping close to both of us and pausing on her path back to Mr. Badcock. “Someone losing their life’s work and livelihood is not something to laugh at.” Jenn turned her glare of disappointment fully on me, and it hit me like a punch to the stomach. “How would you feel if—if someone broke all your tools and you couldn’t fix cars?” Her glare cut to Jackson. “And you. Shame on you. You’re here to help. Have some respect for the badge you wear.”

“Sorry,” Jackson whispered tightly, his cheeks now tinged pink.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I nodded solemnly, clearing my features of expression while an odd sensation slithered into the vicinity of my chest. I had a notion that the sensation was guilt, but since I rarely succumbed to it, I couldn’t be sure.

“Where am I going to store all these chickens?” Mr. Badcock’s wayward anguish drew our collective attention to where he sat on the floral-patterned sofa. He held his forehead in one of his hands, the other gripped a baseball cap to the knee of his threadbare overalls.

Jenn and I shared a look—one which I knew meant she’d deal with me later—just before she turned on her heel and crossed to Mr. Badcock. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand over his gripping the hat.

“There, there, Mr. Badcock. We’ll—we’ll figure something out.”

“Sixty-one chickens is a lot of feathers,” Jackson said just loud enough that I could hear.

This wasn’t a joke, and his point was a good one. Plucking all those chickens without the aid of modern machinery was going to take a while, anywhere from five minutes to a half hour, depending on who was doing the plucking. Regardless, the task was much too cumbersome for Mr. Badcock to attempt on his own.

And it had to be done soon if he wanted to salvage the meat. An idea formed . . .

“Mr. Badcock, I think I might be able to provide some assistance.” I walked over to where Jenn was kneeling, and she turned her head, giving me a sidelong glare.

She hadn’t yet forgiven me for the chicken choking comment. Nevertheless, I would prevail in her good graces. Eventually.

“Huh? What?” The poor man glanced at me, blinking his confusion.

“Now, us Winstons, we know how to pluck chickens. My sister, Ashley, can pluck a chicken in two minutes flat. Why don’t I call my kin, and we’ll converge on your abode this evening. I’ll even have my brother Beau bring over our dipping pot and outdoor stove.”

“What’s that for?” Jackson asked from behind me. “You planning to make chicken soup?”

I slid my gaze to his and let him see my displeasure before answering, “No. Jack. You dip the bird into boiling water for a few seconds, to make the plucking easier.”

“But that only solves half the problem.” Mr. Badcock fretted, his face a grimace. “I don’t have freezer space for sixty-one birds.”

“There’s only forty.” Officer Boone’s young voice interrupted from the propped open front door. He was holding a notepad in his right hand, a pen in his left. I didn’t know he was left-handed.

“Forty?” Jenn stood and tilted her head to the side. “Forty what?”

“Forty dead chickens.” Boone looked to Jackson, who was technically the senior officer on the scene. “I only found forty chickens.”

“Someone stole twenty-one of his chickens?” Dale asked, bringing the coffee cup to his lips. “Why not just take them all?”

“Y’all can talk this over at a later date.” I lifted my voice. “Right now, we need to get the forty chickens outside plucked and frozen if we want to salvage the meat.”

“Like I said, Cletus.” Mr. Badcock rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t have space for that many chickens—not for sixty-one, not for forty.”

“How many do you have room for?” Jenn asked softly.

He wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Maybe ten. I’m ruined.”

A charged hush fell across the room as we all stewed in Mr. Badcock’s despair, Diane Donner’s voice cresting and then fading away. I assumed she was outside talking to someone on the phone, not carrying on a one-way conversation with forty dead chickens.

Jenn’s eyes locked with mine, hers pleading and full of expectation, giving me the sense she expected me to swoop in and save the poor man from ruin. But what could I do? We didn’t have freezers at the auto shop, and—

Wait a minute.

I snapped my fingers. “Beau just fixed up two industrial-sized fridges that can also be converted to freezers. He donated them on behalf of Genie’s bar to the church.”