Turner stepped backward and wheeled toward the brunette. “You’re kidding! You left that rooster in the hands of Lulu the Clown!”
The brunette opened her eyes wide. “I didn’t know.”
Another volley of flashes went off, this time directed at Amy.
“Are you taking this down?” Turner asked the nearest cop. “Lulu the Clown had every reason to hate Rhode Island Red. She lost her job to him…”
The man with the minicam switched on his battery pack. The reporter from the news grinned at Amy. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You were replaced by a chicken?” He turned to Jake. “And you hired Lulu the Clown to take care of him?”
A belligerent look came into Jake’s eyes. “No, she was replaced by a rooster.”
Brian Turner elbowed his way through the crowd. “I think this looks very suspicious. I’m not usually one to point fingers, but I want that rooster back, and I think Lulu the Clown knows where he is. I think she should be interrogated or searched, or something.”
Jake reached toward Turner, accidentally jostling Amy. The food basket slipped from her hand and landed with a loud
Everyone in the room stared at the clear plastic container of soup nestled next to a tray of biscuits.
Turner’s face turned white. “Wait a second… is that… That’s chicken soup!” he gasped. “I know chicken soup when I see it!”
Amy narrowed her eyes. “That’s right. It’s chicken soup. So what?”
“So, it could be
One of the reporters made a gagging sound. The police officers looked horrified.
Amy glared at Turner. “Rooster soup? That does it! You bullied me off the set without even letting me say good-bye to my viewers, and I couldn’t do anything about it, but you’re not going to bully me here.” She poked her finger into his chest for emphasis.
“Listen up, mister, I’m a decent human being, and I don’t cook chickens that don’t belong to me. And what’s more-”
Turner jumped away from her. “Look at this,” he shouted. “She’s out of control. She’s made soup out of my television star. She should be locked up. Arrested for… um-”
“Rustling?” someone offered with a snicker.
“How about beaking and entering?”
Jake made a great pretense of looking at his watch. “Time to do veterinary business, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now.” Reporters and photographers made no attempt to stifle their chuckles as they packed up their equipment. The police smiled and mumbled polite good-byes. The brunette and Brian Turner remained.
Amy’s eyes widened. “I got this chicken at the supermarket.” She turned to Jake. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Jake was having a hard time keeping his composure. His face had turned red with suppressed laughter. He nodded an assurance to Amy and stared at the toes of his shoes. He was distressed that someone had broken into his office and stolen a sick animal, but he couldn’t ever remember being involved in anything so ludicrous.
Amy caught Jake’s mood and felt the laughter bubbling in her own chest. They thought she’d made chicken soup of Rhode Island Red! It was an outrageous idea.
She turned to Turner and smiled brightly. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”
Turner threw her a look of disgust, then strode from the office, almost knocking the brunette over. She teetered on three-inch heels and nervously chewed on a long, bright-red fingernail. “Gee,” she said, “this is awful.”
Jake immediately sobered himself and went to comfort the woman. “I’m really sorry Miss… um.” He couldn’t remember her name. Veronica something.
“Veronica Bottles,” she prompted.
Jake blushed and nodded. “Miss Bottles. I sincerely hope you get your rooster back.”
“This was my big chance to get into television. I don’t know if they’ll keep me without him.”
“Maybe you could get a substitute,” Amy suggested. “You could go back to the farmers’ market and pick out another Rhode Island Red.”
Veronica seemed cheered by that thought. “Yeah,” she said hopefully, “there are probably lots of dancing roosters around. And they all look alike. No one would even have to know it wasn’t the original Red.”
Amy and Jake exchanged glances as Veronica sashayed out the door. “She’s not without charm,” Jake said, grinning.
Amy punched him in the arm.
At five o’clock an embarrassed detective showed up at the clinic with a request to examine Amy’s garbage. “A formality,” he said. Someone had filed a complaint, and he was forced to follow through on all leads. He didn’t have a warrant, and Amy didn’t have to comply, he explained. He was sure the drumsticks in her garbage would be much too short to fit the description, and Amy would be exonerated.
Amy looked at Jake. Nothing was said, but the unspoken communication between them was clear. This was getting serious, he thought. This wasn’t funny anymore. They actually suspected Amy.
“It’s okay,” Amy said to the detective. “My garbage isn’t incriminating. You can paw through it to your heart’s content.”
Jake removed his blue veterinary smock. “Let’s get this over with, now. There are only a few appointments left, and Allen can handle them.”
Amy sent him a look of gratitude. She had nothing to hide, but she was frightened all the same. She’d never had anything to do with the police, never even received a traffic ticket. Now she was in the middle of a possible murder investigation.
Suddenly she realized she didn’t have complete faith in the system to protect the innocent. It hurt her to think that someone had accused her of harming an animal; and, what was more, she felt victimized and sullied by the police request that she display her garbage. It lent a certain amount of credibility to the ugly charge.
Half an hour later, Amy sat at the kitchen table with her chin propped up by her hand. Jake sat in a similar position, and the detective kneeled on the floor. Two days’ worth of trash had systematically been strewn onto clean newspapers. Just as they’d all known ahead of time, there had been no feathers, no sign of a butchered bird, no large rooster thighbones, only supermarket packaging.
“I’m really sorry about this,” the detective said. “It was a matter of routine.”
Amy helped scoop up the garbage and stuff it into a large plastic bag. “No problem. Would you like some iced tea?”
The detective declined; he washed his hands and left. The house seemed depressingly quiet. A cherrywood mantel clock ticked somberly in the living room. A bowl of fruit had been placed in the middle of the little table, and Jake stared at it as if mesmerized. Finally, he spoke. “Who do you suppose took that damn bird?”
Amy stood against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. “You think it could have been a prank? Vandalism? Someone broke into the office and thought a rooster would be a fun thing to steal?”
“That’s one possibility.”
Amy raised her eyebrows. “Another possibility?”
“Who knew the bird was there?”
“A lot of people,” Amy said. “Everyone who works at the clinic, everyone in the waiting room when the bird was brought in, everyone they talked to…”
“Okay, who knew the bird was there, and might have had a motive for taking it?”
“You aren’t thinking of playing detective, are you?”
Jake looked offended. “It isn’t as if I haven’t any experience. I watch a lot of television. I saw
She studied him for a moment. “You have any ideas?”
“I don’t like Turner. Besides, he was too fast to point an accusing finger at you.”
Amy agreed. “But why would he want the rooster?”
“Could be a publicity stunt. Could be the change in format isn’t going as well as he’d like.”
