Daughter of Ashes Page 10

  ‘Well, I hear tell that the slogan got terribly mangled when it appeared on billboards all over Mexico. Roughly translated, it said, “It takes a hard man to make a chicken aroused.”’

  I inhaled wine, coughed, then laughed so hard the wine spilled over the rim of my glass and dribbled down my hand.

  Mindy laughed, too, whether at my dilemma or her own humorous anecdote, it was hard to say. ‘As I said earlier, I used to be a contract farmer for Clifton Farms, twelve years, but no more.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked once I’d caught my breath.

  ‘It’s a bum business,’ she said. ‘A chicken house costs around a quarter of a million to build and we were realizing only about nine thousand dollars a year from it.’

  Chicken houses peppered Maryland’s eastern shore – long, narrow structures built like miniature airplane hangars. ‘I’m not much of a businesswoman,’ I said, ‘but that doesn’t sound like a good return on investment to me.’

  ‘It isn’t, unless you’re in it for the long haul. Believe it or not there are over seven hundred contract chicken farmers in Maryland, but I’m no longer one of ’em.

  ‘Do you realize,’ she continued as she snagged two glasses of sangria from a passing server and handed one to me, ‘contract chicken farmers don’t own anything. The newly hatched chicks are delivered, you feed ’em what they send you – you’re not even allowed to know what’s in the fricking feed – and seven weeks later, the chicken catchers come and haul ’em away. You own nothing … well, except for the dead ones.’

  ‘So how does a chicken farmer make money?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘You get paid by the weight gain of the flock.’ She drained her glass of sangria in one long gulp and set the empty glass down on the pedestal table. ‘But it wasn’t just the money, Hannah. I honestly care about the chickens! When my contract came up for renewal, and I balked, Clifton Ames visited me personally. He wanted me to make a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of “improvements” to my chicken houses.’ She drew quote marks in the air with her fingers. ‘“Improvements,” my foot. He wanted me to entirely enclose them.’ She paused, then rocked back on her heels. ‘Can you imagine?’ She waved a server over and snagged another sangria. ‘So I told him to pound sand. My chickens live the way a normal chicken lives, running around outside, scratching in the dirt and eating bugs and grass.’

  ‘So they die happy?’

  ‘Hah! No, they live a long, happy life, for a chicken. I sell eggs. I turned out to be a big disappointment to Clifton Ames,’ she added. ‘Thought he’d put me out of business, force me to sell out like so many other farmers in the county did. But I called the bastard’s bluff,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to eggs, poached, scrambled or fried.’

  As Mindy Silver talked, I’d been following Clifton Ames as he wandered away from the buffet table to the bar and down the dock, shaking hands with partygoers all along the way. In his light blue seersucker suit, white shirt and white shoes, and wearing a white fedora over his snow-white hair, he was easy to track as he wound his way among his more colorfully attired friends and acquaintances.

  ‘He’s limping a little,’ I observed. ‘Looks kind of frail.’

  ‘Hah! Don’t let that fool you. He may be in his seventies but, trust me, nobody … nobody in this county messes with Big Chicken. Ooops,’ she continued, ducking her head. ‘Look out. He’s coming our way.’

  In spite of his doddering gait, Clifton Ames closed the distance between us in four seconds flat. He extended his hand. ‘I have it on good authority that you are Hannah Ives.’

  ‘Guilty.’ I gave him my hand but instead of shaking it he raised it to his lips and planted a damp kiss on the back of it. I suppressed a shudder. He acknowledged Mindy with a nod. ‘Welcome to Tilghman County, Mrs Ives. I look forward to meeting your husband.’

  ‘He’s down at the dock admiring Liquid Asset,’ I said.

  Ames turned his head to look. Something about the man seemed familiar and I realized with a jolt that his profile resembled that of the politician, Jack Ames. Father and son?

  ‘Ah.’ Ames’s white, flyaway eyebrows did a little dance. ‘Much to admire in that. Did you come here by boat?’ he asked, indicating the raft-ups of Whalers, Bayliners and other small craft including a couple of jet skis that bobbed along the dock next to Liquid Asset like baby ducklings.

  ‘No, the engine is on the fritz,’ I explained with a rueful grin. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘There you are!’ a familiar voice chirped. Caitlyn was back. She looped her arm through mine. ‘I found your husband. He sent me off to look for you. He says he’s hungry, and would you be kind enough to join him for dinner.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said, feeling guilty for abandoning Mindy with Clifton Ames, although based on our conversation, I was confident she could handle it. ‘Mindy, Mr Ames, it’s been fun talking to you.’

  ‘Good luck, Caitlyn,’ Mindy called after us as Caitlyn led me away through the crowd.

  Caitlyn glanced back at her friend. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’

  ‘Good luck with what?’ I wanted to know, matching my steps with hers.

  Caitlyn leaned her head closer to mine. ‘Kendall’s about to make some announcements. Stick around and see who’ll be going to Cancun this year.’

  I stopped short. ‘You?’

  Caitlyn grinned and thumbed her chest. ‘Top agent! And don’t you forget it!’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Anger is a weed; hate is the tree.’

  Saint Augustine, Sermones, 3, 58

  Halfway across the garden, Caitlyn released my arm and paused. ‘So, what were you and Mindy talking about?’

  ‘Chickens,’ I said.

  ‘Ah. No way that wouldn’t have come up!’

  ‘Am I correct in assuming that Clifton Ames, the Chicken King, is the father of Jack Ames, the politician?’

  ‘You got it. Jack is Clifton J Ames the third. The J stands for Jackson. At one time Cliftons one, two and three were all kicking around the county, so to avoid confusion he’s always gone by his middle name, Jack.’

  ‘Jack stopped by our place the other day. Said he was there to help out with the busted water pump, but sort of accidently-on-purpose left me with a brochure. Just in case I happened to miss the placards his minions have already strewn all over the countyside.’

  ‘And if you watch TV, he’s all over the local stations, too. He’s the current county council president,’ Caitlyn explained. ‘A real horse’s patoot, in my humble opinion. Once, just once, I’d like to hear what a candidate would do for us. Is that too much to ask? But, noooo. It’s all how horrible the other guy is. In this case, the other guy is the incumbent, Joseph Collier. Decent sort, Congressman Collier, but old, a bit out of touch.’ She tapped her temple with an index finger. ‘You know.’

  Paul was waiting for us at the bar, standing guard over two glasses of Viognier. ‘That’s no excuse to vilify the man, though,’ Caitlyn said, taking the glass from Paul and having a sip.

  ‘Vilify who?’ Paul wanted to know.

  ‘Joseph Collier. He’s served his constituents well.’

  ‘Is Jack Ames here?’ I asked.

  ‘You bet.’ Caitlyn scanned the crowd, which had grown by at least fifty percent since we’d arrived. She pointed. ‘Over by the pool, talking to Doc Greeley.’

  We watched Jack bid farewell to the doctor and glad-hand his way through the picnickers. ‘He’s always “on,” isn’t he?’

  ‘With both headlights.’

  ‘How come Jack isn’t going into the family business?’ I asked after a bit. ‘You’d think his father would be disappointed.’

  ‘Jack has a younger brother and sister,’ Caitlyn explained. ‘Annette has an MBA from Harvard and she’s incredibly sharp, so my money’s on her to take over when the old man dies. The younger brother, Colin, is something of a screw-up. The only thing he’s ever done for the family is produce four grandchildren.’ She g
estured with her wine glass. ‘There’s one of them now. See that guy horsing around on the high dive? That’s Tad.’

  Wearing a neon-yellow Speedo the size of a Band-Aid, Tad was balancing on his hands at the end of the diving board. As I watched, he launched himself into the air, flipped twice and dove cleanly into the water. Three teenage girls observing from poolside squealed, flipped their hair and clapped their appreciation.

  ‘Show-off,’ Caitlyn muttered. ‘You met Tina, the daughter, when she handed you your nametag at the gate.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Caitlyn said, tilting the rim of her wine glass in my direction. ‘I think that Clifton J Ames the Second had political aspirations of his own, but his old man wouldn’t hear of it. It was cluck-cluck chickens or hit the road. Cliff’s donated a ton of money to his son’s campaign chest. If what I read in the paper is true, Jack is outspending Collier by ten to one.’ She took another sip. ‘Like Joseph P Kennedy, you know. Ames won’t be happy until his son is in the White House.’

  ‘What are Jack’s chances?’ Paul asked.

  Caitlyn didn’t even pause to consider. ‘I think he’s a shoo-in.’ After a moment, she added, ‘I have a new system. I call it punitive voting.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, only half listening. Jack was chatting up a dowager and it was fascinating to watch her fluff up, like a Westminster show dog, under his admiring gaze.

  ‘Indeed. Wear a cowboy hat twenty-four seven? Ten points off for that. And photo ops with your wife and four kids, that’s a major deduction – fifteen points. Five more off if there’s a dog.’ She studied me over the rim of her wine glass, her green eyes serious. ‘And when it comes to bad toupees, I am brutal.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘I think you’re going to be my new best friend, Caitlyn.’

  Eventually, Paul and I left Caitlyn to her own devices and headed off to the buffet table. We were standing at a table chatting with Doc Greeley, tucking into our roast beef, fried chicken and crab cakes when Kendall stepped up on the stage, took over the microphone and silenced the band. After thanking everyone for coming, and for all the good wishes they had expressed for the recovery of her son, Rusty (in that order), she announced the winner of the salesperson of the year award.

  It was not Caitlyn Dymond.

  In all the hooting and hollering and backslapping going on among the family of the winner, a relatively new guy to the firm, or so I gathered, Paul leaned over and said, ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Caitlyn’s going to be crushed,’ I said, feeling desperately sad for my friend. ‘She was confident she’d win that award.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘You know what they say about counting chickens before they’re hatched.’

  I gave him a look. ‘Do you think losing the sale of the Wicomico house counted against her?’

  ‘After my recent conversation with Kendall, nothing would surprise me. She’s a slick businesswoman.’ He linked his arm through mine. ‘C’mon. I’ll tell you all about it when we get home.’

  A few minutes later I glanced around the lawn, the pool and the dock, looking for our hostess but not seeing her, so we finished our wine and made our way through the clusters of partygoers to the reception desk. ‘I’m so sorry, but we need to leave,’ Paul told the young woman I now knew as Tina. ‘Have you seen Kendall?’

  Tina’s face fell. ‘But you’ll miss the fireworks!’

  ‘Regrettable, but necessary, I’m afraid. But we wouldn’t dream of leaving without saying goodbye and thanking our hostess.’

  ‘The last time I saw her, Uncle Jack had her cornered. Probably twisting her arm for campaign support.’ She winked.

  ‘I’d feel really awkward leaving without thanking her,’ Paul repeated.

  ‘No worries.’ The girl smiled. ‘She’ll never notice.’

  When we turned to go, Tina stopped us with, ‘Wait a minute. There’s a bag here with your name on it.’ While she rummaged around under the skirted table, I noticed that Dwight and Grace’s nametags had disappeared. Had they been claimed and we’d simply missed running into them among the crowd, or had somebody, realizing the couple probably wouldn’t be attending, thoughtfully taken the nametags away?

  I was about to ask Tina when she chirped, ‘Here you go!’ and handed each of us a gold-and-green shopping bag, the handles tied together with curled gold ribbon.

  At first, I thought it was a bag of the usual swag. Mine contained a coozie from a local independent insurance agency, a ball cap embroidered ‘JD’s Surf ‘n’ Turf,’ a ginormous beach towel that would tell the world how much I enjoyed drinking Budweiser beer, and a keychain – it floats! – from Merchant’s Marine. Under the towel, at the bottom of the bag, I uncovered a white box about the size of a hardback novel bearing the Apple logo. IPad mini was printed on the side. ‘Gosh,’ I said, turning the box over and over in my hands. ‘Is this a mistake?’

  Next to me, Paul muttered, ‘Jiminy Christmas. I’ve got one, too.’

  The young woman grinned. ‘Everybody gets an iPad mini. Cool, huh?’

  I was too stunned to speak. I looked at Paul; he looked at me. ‘Better than a flat-screen TV,’ I said.

  ‘Much.’

  As I tucked the iPad back into my bag I became aware that the combo had stopped playing. In the sudden quiet, a man began to bellow, ‘Help! Help! Somebody call nine-one-one!’

  Tina shot to her feet. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, just what we need!’ and vanished around the corner of the house, punching numbers into her cell phone as she ran.

  Without waiting for Paul, I took off after the girl.

  There was a commotion at the end of the dock. As the desperation in the man’s voice began to register, the guests stopped what they were doing and turned. A few, like me, began to run toward the water.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Caitlyn. She had appeared next to me, gripping a wine glass, swaying unsteadily. She grabbed my arm and held on tightly. ‘Damn!’ she said. She stuck the tip of her little finger between her lips, sucked on it. ‘Broke a nail. Just look!’

  When she held out her hand, I could see that the Stars and Stripes that had been waving gaily o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave from her fingernail was now just The Stripes. ‘Paid a fortune for that manicure,’ she grumped, fanning her fingers, examining the remaining nails one by one, checking for further damage. Suddenly she looked up and slurred, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Shhhh,’ I told her. ‘Somebody’s in trouble.’

  As we clustered on the grass at the head of the dock, the uniformed staffer I’d seen earlier manning the bar on the Chris Craft was struggling in chest-deep water, moving sluggishly, holding someone up. I recognized the scarf first, then the platinum hair fanned out around her head, swirling in the water as the young man staggered to shore and laid his burden on the grass. Kendall Barfield.

  ‘So, Kendall took a swim!’ Caitlyn snorted. ‘Serves the lying bitch right.’

  ‘Caitlyn, behave!’ I hissed.

  ‘She as good as promised me …’ Caitlyn began, but I cut her off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.

  As we watched, the staffer knelt next to Kendall’s body and pulled several weeds out of her hair, almost tenderly.

  ‘Out of my way!’ someone yelled. Doc Greeley charged down the dock, arms flailing from side to side, scattering the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. ‘And someone call nine-one-one, for Christ’s sake.’

  Doc Greely fell to his knees next to our hostess, felt for a pulse and checked her breathing. But, I knew, from the way Kendall’s eyes bulged, red-rimmed, staring at nothing, by her swollen tongue and how deeply the scarf bit into her neck, that Kendall Barfield had hosted her last picnic.

  Within minutes, the paramedics arrived, but there was nothing they could do either. They placed her body on a gurney and covered it with a blanket. As they slotted the gurney into the back of the ambulance, the tail end of Kendall’s beautiful scarf slipped out from under the blanket.

  FIFTEEN

&
nbsp; ‘On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.’

  Alexander Pope, ‘Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady,’ 1717

  After Sheriff Andy Hubbard and two deputies arrived, nobody was allowed to go home until somebody – perhaps Tina, the young woman in charge at the gate – pointed out that there was a complete guest list.

  The main gates to the Barfield estate had been closed, and an officer posted at the end of the dock to prevent anyone who’d come to the party by boat or jet ski from leaving the same way. Paul and I had been herded into the area near the bandstand, supernaturally quiet now, the instruments returned to their cases, the musicians sprawling in lounge chairs around the swimming pool, smoking and talking quietly.

  Only the police and the bartenders were busy.

  ‘What were you and Kendall taking about?’ I asked Paul as we drank club soda with lime and waited for official instructions.

  ‘She was apologizing for the snafu over the Wicomico house,’ he said. ‘Laid the confusion right on Caitlyn’s doorstep. Blamed it on her failure to communicate. Caitlyn’s always going off half-cocked, it seems. This has happened before – she wonders why she even keeps the woman on, yadda yadda yadda.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ Paul replied. ‘All the time she was talking to me, I was studying her eyes. I’d seen that look before, on the faces of midshipmen trying to explain why their papers were going to be late.’

  As Paul talked, I’d been scanning the yard. For the first time, I noticed the security cameras – on the top of the main gate, on the corners of the house near the downspouts, behind one of the cabanas overlooking the swimming pool, in a tree aimed at the dock. I pointed at that one, my heart hammering. ‘They’ll see you talking to her, Paul.’

  ‘But they’ll also see that it was an entirely friendly conversation.’ Paul smiled, then put on his Humphrey Bogart voice, ‘I’d do just about anything for you, sweetheart, but bumping off a pesky real estate agent isn’t one of them.’