“I forgot to tell you,” I said to Caitie. “Ms. Nelson would like to interview you and take a few pictures for the newspaper. Is that okay?”
“Oh, sure,” Caitie said. She gestured proudly toward her chickens. “Meet Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick. They would love it if you made them famous.” She turned to me. “Thirty-five hundred dollars,” she said.
I blinked. “For what?”
“For twenty eggs, at a hundred seventy-five dollars an egg.” She traced some numbers with one finger on the palm of her hand. “Thirty-five thousand dollars a year, assuming that she doesn’t lay in the winter.”
“Wow,” I said, and regarded the rooster with a new admiration.
“And if you had two hens,” Caitie began.
Tom held up his hand. “Excuse me, ladies, but I have to go. My security team is meeting this morning.”
“You’re in charge of security?” Jessica asked, scribbling in her notebook.
“Right,” Tom replied. “I’m a reserve deputy sheriff. I help the sheriff’s office with event security. The county fair, the rodeo, Fourth of July fireworks, that sort of thing.”
“Tom served two deployments as a Delta Force officer in Iraq and Afghanistan,” I put in. “He’s not likely to tell you, but it’s an important part of who he is. The sheriff’s office is lucky to have him.”
“Delta Force,” Jessica repeated. She gave him an up-and-down glance. “Maybe I could interview you on the topic of terrorist threats here at the fair.”
She was being snarky, but Tom didn’t laugh. “It’s something we take seriously, you know. Anywhere there are crowds, there’s a certain risk. Open carry complicates the situation, too, which is why so many cops hate it. Could be a guy making a political point, or it could be—” He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be glad to talk to you.” He gave her his cell number, said good-bye, and left.
“Sorry,” Jessica said ruefully. “I ought to watch my tongue.”
“That’ll be the day.” I chuckled. “Tom is one of the good guys. I’m glad to have him as a neighbor.”
Jessica got busy with her interview and took a few photos of Caitie with her chickens. Then she noticed the black rooster.
“Jeez,” she said breathlessly. “What is that? Is he yours, Caitie? He doesn’t look real.”
While Caitie explained and I contemplated the economics of rare chicken breeding, Jessica took several photos of the rooster. She had just finished when Caitie’s best friend, Sharon Lincoln, came into the tent and joined us. Sharon is a freckled, feisty, red-haired tomboy. The girls were going to spend the rest of the morning at the fair. Sharon’s mom, Sonia, who was working in the food tent, would be available if they needed a grown-up. After lunch, Sonia was driving them to the Depot to rehearse Little Women, and I would pick Caitie up there after work. Since McQuaid wasn’t home, we were planning to treat ourselves. Girls’ night out at Gino’s Pizza.
I glanced at my watch. It was time I headed for the shop, but I hadn’t forgotten the photo I wanted to show to Jessica. First, though, I gave Caitie a quick hug and told her to have fun at the fair.
“You can call me if you run into any problems,” I told her. “The shop is only fifteen minutes away. You’ve got your phone? Leave it on. I’ll check on you in a couple of hours. Oh, and don’t eat too much junk food. Lay off the soda pop.”
She gave me that long-suffering look that teenage girls bestow on fussy mothers. “I won’t, Mom. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
The girls ran off, and I turned to Jessica. “If you’ve got a minute or two, would you take a look at this?” I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out the photo I’d taken from the bulletin board the day before—the one of the family sitting on the veranda of my building. “The date on the back of this says it was snapped in June 1890, but there are no names.” I thought it might sound a little weird if I told her that I was trying to discover the name of the woman whose ghost was haunting my shop. So I just said, “Do you happen to know if these people are the original owners of my building? Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, I believe.”
Jessica took the photo and studied it, her forehead wrinkling. “I remember seeing a picture of Mrs. Duncan, and I’m pretty sure this is her. She has that Gibson-girl look. The blouse with the big sleeves and all that hair pinned up on top of her head. But Mr. Duncan—Douglas Duncan, I think his name was—was a big guy with dark hair and a beard and mustache. It’s hard to tell from the photo, but this man’s hair looks sort of light colored, and he’s clean shaven. I don’t think he’s the same guy.” She held up the photo. “If you’ll let me keep it, I could check on it for you. I have to go over to the Historical Society on another story. I could have a look through their archives if I don’t find anything at the Enterprise.” She gave me an inquiring look. “Why this sudden interest in ancient history?”
“Oh, just curious,” I said vaguely. “Yes, you can keep it. I’d like to have it back, though.” I glanced at my watch. “Ruby opened up for me this morning, but I’ve got some garden helpers coming in. I’d better get over to the shop.”
“I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Jessica said, tucking the photo into her notebook. “I think I’ll head over to the security office and talk to Tom. Maybe he can point me toward an exciting story or two here at the fair.”
“He’s seen
