“Can’t see the face under the bill of the cap,” Tom said, squinting. “From the hair, though, looks like a woman.”
“Doesn’t look like a woman to me,” I said. “See those broad shoulders? Could be a long-haired guy.” But what I could clearly see was that the person was wearing a black T-shirt with white lettering: This Ain’t My First Rodeo. I noticed that an exhibitor’s badge was clipped to the shirt—important detail. I glanced at the cages. The roosters appeared to be snoozing.
The thief had come prepared. Carrying a small plastic crate with a wire door, Ain’t My First Rodeo stopped in front of Blackheart’s cage, unlatched the door, and swiftly reached inside. In one motion, he grabbed the sleeping bird by the feet, dragged him out, thrust him into the carrier, and fastened the door. He was turning to leave when he paused in front of Extra Crispy’s cage, bent over for a closer look, and then decided to take him, too.
The second snatch didn’t come off as easily as the first. Extra Crispy had been awakened when Rodeo boosted Blackheart. When the thief reached for him, he hopped away, aiming a barrage of furious pecks at the guy’s bare hand and wrist. Rodeo jerked his hand back, then—angrily—cornered the rooster and grabbed him by his tail. He was successful this time, although feathers flew as Extra Crispy, wings flapping wildly, struggled with all his might against his abductor. That was when Rodeo lost his exhibitor’s badge, although he didn’t appear to notice. He was busy shoving the second rooster into the crate with the first. A moment later, he was out of the picture, and the camera clicked off.
But it had given us what we needed: proof that the badge belonged to the jerk who stole those chickens. “How fast can we get Gibbons’ address from your database?” I asked. “It won’t take him long to discover that Caitie’s rooster isn’t all that valuable—except to her, of course. I don’t want to find my daughter’s chicken in the frying pan when we get there.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “When we get there?” he asked warily.
“Damn straight,” I said. “That’s Caitie’s pet rooster. I have to make sure she gets him back, alive. Let’s find that address, Tom. Maude Porterfield lives about six blocks from here.” Maude is a justice of the peace, and in Texas, justices have the authority to issue search warrants. “On the way to Gibbons’ place, we can stop at her house and get a warrant. The exhibitor’s badge and this video give us plenty of probable cause.” I scowled at him. “And if you think you’re doing this on your own, think again. You’re not leaving me behind. Now, hurry up. With any luck, we can catch Maude before she heads for court.”
“Mmm,” Tom said, frowning. “Well, in the interest of quick action—” He took out his cell phone and called the main office at the fairgrounds. “It’s early. Let’s hope Susanna is at her desk.” After a moment, he said, “Hey, Suze. I need a quick address check on an exhibitor. Can you pull up that file for me, fast?” After a moment, he said, “Name, Dana Gibbons. Exhibitor ID: 20245.” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. There was a pause, then he said, “1116 County Road 12. Got it. Phone number?”
Another pause, while he scribbled quickly. He flipped the notebook closed and tucked it back in his pocket. Into the phone he added, “Thanks. Yes, actually there is a problem. Gibbons made off with a couple of birds from the poultry tent last night. One of them is a rooster that’s apparently pretty valuable. You might let Charlie know that I have an ID and a video on the thief and am on my way to get a search warrant for the address you just gave me. I’ll check back with him later.” He clicked off the phone.
“Charlie?” I asked. Obviously, fair security was very well organized.
“Charlie Powell. He’s in charge when I’m out.” He took his vehicle keys out of his pocket. “Put that carrier in the bed of my truck. And bring your computer. Porterfield may want to look at that video before she issues the warrant.”
I moved fast. Of course, we had no way of knowing whether Gibbons had taken the chickens to his house or somewhere else. But we had to start somewhere. And there was no point in going anywhere without a warrant.
Maude Porterfield, who presided over my marriage to McQuaid, may well be the longest-serving justice of the peace in Texas. She has been on the bench for over fifty years and knows everything there is to know about her job. This morning, we caught her sitting down to a plate of pancakes, wearing a red tracksuit with black racing stripes, her white hair still in curlers and her cane hooked over the back of her chair. She hadn’t put her hearing aid in yet, so we had to ring the doorbell several times before she came to the door.
But while Maude may be one of Pecan Springs’ older citizens, she is one of the sharpest. She put in her hearing aid, listened to Tom’s story, looked at the exhibitor’s badge, and watched the video on my laptop.
“What do you reckon this feller wants with those chickens?” she asked, peering at the screen over the tops of her glasses.
“He might want that black rooster for breeding,” I said. “Caitie said somebody on eBay was asking a hundred and seventy-five dollars an egg. This guy may already have a black hen—or know where he can get one.”
“Or steal one,” Tom muttered.
“Jiminy crickets,” Maude muttered. “I’ve been on this earth longer than Noah, but I’m always surprised by the things some folks will get up to.” She reached for her pen. “Better include ‘vehicles,
