The Trouble with Chickens

  The Trouble with Chickens

  A J.J. Tully mystery

  DOREEN CRONIN

  illustrated by

  KEVIN CORNELL

  For Lillian, John, Vince, and Marge

  —D.C.

  For Kim, who holds my hand

  —K.C.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1 - Chicken Breath

  Chapter 2 - Introductions

  Chapter 3 - Chicken Missing

  Chapter 4 - Poppy and Sweetie

  Chapter 5 - Chicken Scratch

  Chapter 6 - Chicken Tears

  Chapter 7 - Inside Job

  Chapter 8 - Detour

  Chapter 9 - Vince the Funnel

  Chapter 10 - Funnel Vision

  Chapter 11 - Why Me?

  Chapter 12 - Come on Down!

  Chapter 13 - Rehearsal

  Chapter 14 - All in the Timing

  Chapter 15 - Covered in Dirt

  Chapter 16 - Dog Day Afternoon

  Chapter 17 - Dog in the Can

  Chapter 18 - Encyclopedia Chickannia

  Chapter 19 - Show and Tell

  Chapter 20 - RHBWR

  Chapter 21 - Rescue

  Chapter 22 - Inside Out

  Chapter 23 - Reward

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Chicken Breath

  It was a hot, sunny day when I met that crazy chicken.

  So hot that sometimes I think the whole thing may have been a mirage.

  But mirages don’t have chicken breath, mister.

  She was a short, tired-looking bird with a funny red comb on her head.

  It looked about as useful to her as a spoon is to a snake.

  Her eyes were tiny and black, and set so close to each other they practically touched.

  I’d be surprised if the right eye could report back seeing anything other than the left eye.

  Chickens make me nervous.

  Can’t keep ’em quiet.

  We stared at each other for an awkward moment.

  I nodded to tell her to move on.

  She picked up her left foot carefully, not sure whether she should back out of my sweltering doghouse.

  As her foot hung in midair, she lowered her pointy white head and very deliberately said . . . nothing.

  A phone rang.

  A car backfired.

  A blender roared.

  And that crazy chicken didn’t blink.

  She was one tough bird.

  Chapter 2

  Introductions

  My name’s Jonathan. Jonathan Joseph Tully.

  J.J. for short.

  I spent seven years as a search-and-rescue dog.

  The quiet life in the country where Barb, my trainer, lived was my reward for all those years of service.

  Some reward.

  I could track the six-day-old scent of a lost hiker and pull a fat guy out from under a pile of rubble, but I couldn’t get that crazy chicken out of my yard.

  Her name was Millicent.

  I called her Moosh, just because it was easier to say and it seemed to annoy her.

  She had two little puffy chicks with her.

  She called them Little Boo and Peep.

  I called them Dirt and Sugar, for no particular reason.

  Moosh had got the word that I knew how to solve problems.

  Boy, did that chicken have problems.

  “I’ll pay you in chicken feed,” said Moosh.

  That was the chicken’s first problem.

  I don’t work for feed.

  “No dice,” I replied.

  Dirt and Sugar were bathing in my water bowl.

  “I’ll pay you in feathers.”

  That was the chicken’s second problem.

  “I already got a pillow,” I grumbled.

  Dirt and Sugar were playing in my food bowl.

  Crazy chicks.

  I was losing patience.

  “I’ll work for a cheeseburger. Take it or leave it.”

  Moosh’s tiny chicken head cast a huge, pointy shadow against the side of my weather-beaten doghouse. She took a step away from me, turning her head to glance at Dirt and Sugar. Those two feather balls jumped out of my water bowl and rolled around in the grass. They looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, but their mom sure did.

  A passing cloud offered some uncertain shade from the sun.

  Moosh’s big, pointy chicken shadow finally moved.

  “Done,” said Moosh.

  “Well done,” I cracked.

  I thought she smiled, but it’s tough to tell with a beak.

  Chapter 3

  Chicken Missing

  Moosh paced back and forth.

  Dirt and Sugar followed behind her.

  As Moosh took a step forward, Sugar fell into line right behind her. I expected Dirt to do the same. For some reason, she waited two beats, then got into line.

  Dirt left enough space in between herself and Sugar to park a squirrel.

  I’m no chicken expert, but something wasn’t right.

  “Who’s missing?” I asked Moosh.

  The truth was somewhere between her brain and her beak.

  I wasn’t sure it would survive the trip.

  “Spill it, Moosh,” I grunted.

  She was getting on my nerves.

  Dirt and Sugar stepped out from behind their mother.

  They were half yellow, half white—like fuzzy popcorn kernels with feet. They were new enough to this world to be spitting up eggshell. Their eyes were wide and young, and close-set like their mother’s.

  Sugar cocked her head, stepped out from behind her popcorn sister, and motioned with one tiny wingette for Dirt to stay behind. A ladybug flew into the doghouse and crawled across the floor, oblivious to the chicken tension building in the room.

  I growled.

  Sugar peeped.

  I growled again.

  Sugar took a step closer, bracing herself against the water bowl.

  “Poppy and Sweetie are missing,” she whispered.

  She may have looked fluffy and new, but this chick had already learned that life outside the shell was not all it was cracked up to be.

  Chapter 4

  Poppy and Sweetie

  Poppy and Sweetie.

  Their names annoyed me too.

  But it wasn’t time for more nicknames.

  Nicknames are only cute when your mother knows where you are.

  I had Dirt and Sugar take me to the last place they saw Poppy and Sweetie. It was just outside the chicken coop.

  I told the fluffy family to stand still. I didn’t have any of Poppy’s or Sweetie’s belongings to sniff, but I had their siblings.

  Close enough.

  I had no idea how hard it might be to track the scent if I found it. On the job we call it “probability of detection,” POD for short. With no personal effects to sniff and no experience tracking poultry, the probability of detection in this case was low—very low. But now was not the time to burden a chicken mother’s heart with a low POD.

  There’s an easy way to do a search and a hard way.

  The easy way is early in the evening with a cool breeze and a steady partner.

  The hard way is high noon with a crazy chicken clucking in your ear and two feather balls riding your tail.

  This search was gonna go the hard way.

  I had to give it to Moosh straight.

  “Humans have a knack for finding themselves in places where they don’t belong—dark woods, cold snow, and deep canyons. Lucky for them, they stink. But I don’t know from chickens—so don
’t get your hopes up.”

  Moosh took a deep breath. She knew the score. In the harsh sunlight her comb had lost its bright red luster.

  It was Fourth of July weekend, and the air was heavy. I got down as low as I could. The earth will hold on to your smelly secrets for a long, long time. And it will give them up to any dog who comes sniffing. Problem is, it gives up all its secrets at once. You have to be able to sniff through them to find the one you need. Bare feet. Barbecue sauce. Blueberries. It didn’t take long to pick up what I thought was a chicken trail.

  I followed it around the edge of the yard, under a pile of rotting wood, past the barn, and then across the open field.

  For all I knew, it could have been a chicken sandwich.

  Then something hit me in the eye. Hard.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were right behind me.

  When I looked up, I got hit again.

  It was rain. Hard rain.

  The kind of rain that makes grown men wear funny boots.

  I called off the search.

  Sugar was in my face.

  “Listen, mutt, my brother and sister are missing, and you’re worried about getting wet?”

  She was so close to me, I could have bitten her in half.

  “Get lost,” I mumbled.

  “Make like a sponge, mister.”

  I had to hand it to Sugar—she was as tough as her mother.

  Chapter 5

  Chicken Scratch

  The sky turned from gray to green to black.

  If the rain hadn’t already washed off the scents of Poppy and Sweetie, it seemed the wind would have blown it away.

  After a short stroll in the hard rain, I decided to get back to my warm bed.

  I had had enough of this little chicken adventure.

  It was time for a nap, after all.

  The trouble with doghouses is they don’t have doors.

  Moosh, Dirt, and Sugar were just a few minutes behind me.

  “You smell like wet dog,” said Sugar.

  “I am a wet dog,” I grumbled.

  “Is this the ‘search’ part or the ‘rescue’ part?” asked Sugar.

  She reminded me of a splinter I’d had once—it bothered me, and I was in a much better mood when it was gone.

  Before I could answer her, Moosh waved a note in front of me.

  “I found it in the chicken coop,” cried Moosh.

  I tried to grab the note out of Moosh’s beak.

  That thing was sharper than it looked.

  I gave up my hold on the note.

  Two things were clear: Whoever had left that note had fast feet and a head full of big words.

  Chapter 6

  Chicken Tears

  Moosh paced back and forth.

  Sugar and Dirt followed behind her in the same oddly spaced line as before.

  I stood in front of Moosh and brought her little chicken parade to a halt.

  Sometimes your gut can tell you more than your nose. This was one of those times.

  I could see from the look in her eyes that Moosh was thinking about trying to get past me.

  I bared my teeth and moved in closer.

  That changed her mind.

  I’ve never backed down from a staring contest in my life, but her eyes were so tiny and close-set, it was making me cross-eyed.

  I was breathing in what she was breathing out.

  Her left foot was bouncing up and down, like she was standing on a hot plate.

  She looked down at the note, then she looked down at Dirt and Sugar. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were filled with tears.

  I’m no stranger to tears.

  The sad truth about search-and-rescue work is that there isn’t always a rescue.

  So I’d seen plenty of tears before.

  But I had never seen chicken tears.

  I hope I never see them again.

  Moosh’s tears finally got the best of her. Her beak began to quiver.

  The note fell to the floor.

  I had what I needed.

  I didn’t want to hold her precious note, anyway.

  I wanted to sniff it.

  Sure enough, it reeked of one thing—the same chicken scent I had been following before the storm.

  The trail was right under my nose.

  Chapter 7

  Inside Job

  Behoove.

  Rendezvous.

  Twilight.

  I’ve been lowered from a helicopter, strapped to a snowmobile, and flown first-class to France to find a backcountry skier lost in the Alps.

  Not once did anyone find it necessary to use the word behoove.

  My bet was that a chicken the size of a golf ball wouldn’t find it necessary either. That note might have been covered in Poppy’s and Sweetie’s scents, but I was sure it wasn’t covered in their words.

  Behoove.

  Rendezvous.

  Twilight.

  They were “inside” words. Words you only learn inside, where there are things like comfortable chairs and fresh lemonade.

  Out here, with the chickens and the dogs, we don’t behoove.

  I don’t have a problem with big words.

  But there’s a time and a place for them. A muddy note in a chicken coop didn’t seem like the right place.

  Outside, the rain had gone from a storm to a standstill.

  I had been so busy thinking about that note that I hadn’t noticed the quiet.

  There wasn’t enough breeze to ruffle a feather.

  Moosh was staring at the note. I watched her eyes scan the page over and over.

  “What does it mean?” asked Moosh.

  I wasn’t sure who she was asking.

  Sugar spoke before I could.

  “It means we need to be in the chicken coop by six thirty.”

  Sugar’s head wasn’t filled with feathers, that’s for sure.

  I was going to have to keep my eye on her.

  Right after my nap.

  “Wake me up at six twenty-five.”

  Chapter 8

  Detour

  Our shadows were long and thin as we headed over to the chicken coop for our rendezvous.

  Dirt and Sugar were covered in mud and wet grass and napping in my empty food bowl.

  It looked like an Easter basket gone horribly wrong.

  “It’s time, it’s time,” Moosh clucked. “We have to get to the chicken coop. C’mon, c’mon.”

  “Go on ahead, Moosh. I’m gonna keep an eye out from here.”

  I had a hunch I should stay outside the coop.

  I had a hunch once about a roast-beef sandwich I found in an alley in Detroit. It didn’t smell quite right, but I was hungry. I ignored the hunch and ate the sandwich. I woke up three days later with an IV needle jammed into my front paw courtesy of the Detroit Animal Clinic.

  That was one bad sandwich.

  The same little voice I had ignored in Detroit was now telling me to stay outside.

  I stayed outside.

  Moosh was not completely convinced that I wasn’t gonna ditch her as soon as her back was turned.

  I wasn’t completely convinced myself.

  “Go on, Moosh,” I repeated.

  Dirt gave her mom a little tug and led her into the coop.

  Sugar stuck around just long enough to throw me a dirty look.

  I threw it back.

  I was walking away to find decent cover when the scent hit me square in the face.

  I may have actually tripped over it.

  It was the same scent that was all over the note.

  The rain hadn’t washed away the chicken scent after all.

  But it didn’t lead to the chicken coop.

  It led to the house.

  Moosh shot her head out of the coop. “It’s six thirty-three—where are they? Where are they? Where are they?”

  I had to put my paw over her face to can the clucking.

  Once again, I noted her sharp
beak.

  “Moosh, we got a new development here.”

  I held her beak closed with my paw and explained the scent trail leading right up to the house.

  “Mmmrrrnneee,” she mumbled.

  I let go of her beak.

  “It can’t be,” she said again.

  “Noses don’t lie,” I answered.

  “But what about the note?” she asked.

  “Decoy,” I grumbled.

  “But it doesn’t make any sense . . .”

  Before she could finish her sentence, a dark shadow appeared in the window. The shades were drawn, but you could clearly make out the silhouette.

  There was no mistaking that silhouette.

  Vince the Funnel.

  Chapter 9

  Vince the Funnel

  Vince was thirty-seven pounds of shiny brown mutt.

  He had a long, skinny build, beady eyes, and a giant white funnel around his neck.

  He looked like a cross between a dachshund and a lamp.

  We had met the very first day I’d arrived here at Barb’s country house.

  I had nodded at him that morning almost two weeks earlier.

  It was a gesture of goodwill.

  He didn’t nod back.

  Fine by me.

  I didn’t need any new friends.

  I could, however, have used a lamp.

  Up to now, I had never exchanged a word with Vince the Funnel.

  He spent his time inside.

  I spent my time outside.

  I preferred to keep things that way.

  But a deal is a deal, even if you make it with a crazy chicken.

  What little I did know about Vince, I knew from a distance and from the grapevine.