Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(9)

“Oh!” Jenn also snapped, her gorgeous eyes moving from me to Mr. Badcock. “That’s right. And I know those fridges are empty. With the church picnic coming up, they cleaned them out in preparation. Plus, I can store any overflow at the Donner Bakery, in the walk-in. There’s not much space, but I think we can find a few nooks and crannies.”

Mr. Badcock appeared to be undecided. Or overwhelmed. Or both. “I don’t know—”

“And you could probably sell a few to Mrs. Seymour, for the picnic. We could spread the word, so folks know to buy their hens from you—for the chicken salad, and fried chicken, and such—instead of the store. And I know my momma will buy some for the hotel. And I’m sure Cletus wants some too.” Jenn glanced at me beseechingly.

“I do?”

Her eyes widened meaningfully. I didn’t know precisely what the meaningfulness meant, but I did know—in general terms—I needed to agree with her.

“I mean, that’s right. I do.” I nodded once.

Jenn’s features brightened. She exhaled and gave me a small smile. “For some chicken sausage, maybe?”

Chicken sausage?

I didn’t grimace, and that was a miracle.

Chicken sausage was akin to turkey bacon, an abomination.





Chapter Four





“When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.”





― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms





Cletus





The chickens had been left where they died, scattered all over the inside of the henhouse, several still on their nests, a few out in the yard. As such, the first thing we did was round them up and put them in a pile on a tarp, set to one side of the big, fancy chicken coop.

Meanwhile, since neither Mr. Badcock nor any of us Winstons owned a scalder, Shelly and Ashley built a wood fire in Mr. Badcock’s bonfire pit, set an iron grill plate about three inches above the highest flame, and heated several gallons of water in our two big lobster pots. This took forever.

We used the time to set up chairs and tables around the fire and created an assembly line. Drew Runous was the only one I trusted to keep the water at the ideal constant temperature of 149 degrees. Consequently, he got the job of tying up the legs and dipping the chickens in the hot water. He passed them to either Ashley, Roscoe, Beau, or Billy—our four pluckers.

Since I was well acquainted with the butchering process and didn’t get queasy at the sight of innards and such, the birds were then handed to me. I cut off the heads and feet, cleared out the cavities, and saved the livers for frying and the remaining organs for gravy or stock. I then passed the carcasses and essential bits to Jethro and Shelly for final cleaning and wrapping.

“I can’t believe Mr. Badcock doesn’t have a motorized plucker.” Roscoe frowned at the chicken he was almost finished defeathering.

“He only raises them for eggs. I got the impression he never killed one before. He has a gravesite for the ones that have died,” Officer Boone said, flipping through his notepad.

“A gravesite?” I lifted an eyebrow, certain I’d misheard.

“Yep. In the past, if one of his hens died, he’d bury them. They all have little crosses. Hand carved.” Boone and I shared a look, and I suspected we were sharing the same thought. Who has time to hand carve crosses for chicken graves?

“The man really loved those chickens,” Boone added, like he was answering my unspoken question.

I knew Boone from around town, good fella, fair, smart, best investigator on the force. He was quiet unless he had something of value to say, and I appreciated this about him. He stood outside of the working circle next to Jackson James, but Officer Dale had left, offering to escort the Dragon Lady—er, I mean Jenn’s momma, Ms. Donner—back to her house and Jennifer to the bakery.

“They’re pretty birds,” Ashley said with a sad sigh, studying the feathers she was plucking. “I should give him some of my hens.”

“Y’all only have six hens.” This protest came from Roscoe. “And if you give him yours, where are we going to get our eggs for Sunday breakfast?” Of course Roscoe was concerned with Sunday eggs, not Monday eggs, or Wednesday eggs. We only saw him on the weekends as he was still in veterinary school.

“Roscoe, did you know they sell eggs at the store?” Beau grinned at Roscoe, his infernal blue eyes sparkling even in the middle of the night. My redheaded brother had too much charm and charisma, and I suspected he’d been born with the innate ability to catch starlight and radiate it outward, or some such nonsense. “You just give the grocer your money and they let you take the eggs. A whole dozen at a time if you’re real nice.”

Roscoe chuckled at Beau’s teasing, which I noted. Roscoe didn’t chuckle, laugh, or otherwise seem amused by my teasing. I felt confident everyone would agree, my teasing was superior to Beau’s in both comedic timing and poignancy.

Masking my irritation, I glanced around the circle, my attention settling on Billy and his . . . What the heck was he doing?

“Have you seen those power plucker attachments for a drill?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jethro, my oldest brother, hold a lung scraper in his grip as though it were a drill. “It’s supposed to pluck a chicken real fast, save you from those nasty pin feathers.”