Part 25 (1/2)

I decided to call Leslie. I didn't know what all was implied by ”fresh chicken,” but it was thoughtful of her to think of us. Ray and Danny had enjoyed the eggs.

I checked my cell phone log and found her phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.

”Leslie, it's Jolene. I was just in Talbots. The a.s.sistant manager said you were looking for me.”

”Hey, Jolene. I've got fresh chickens in a cooler for you. I realized the other day that I hadn't done enough to thank you and Celeste. I knew you were interested in the eggs, so I figured most of your chickens had come from the grocery store in the past, too. I know the store labels often say 'fresh' but fresh really means killed and plucked today.”

”Killed” brought all sorts of undesirable pictures to mind. I liked the sound of ”plucked,” though. I wondered about all the chicken's innards, but was too afraid to ask.

Leslie continued, ”I have two whole roasters for you and Ray and one for Celeste. I can bring them back into town tomorrow, or you and Ray can stop by today and pick yours up if you have time.”

I didn't want to admit that I had nothing but time, or that Ray wasn't allowed to visit her farm anymore. ”Ray's working, but I can stop by this morning, if that works for you.”

”Good. I'll put a pot of coffee on.”

As I drove toward the Flynn farm, it occurred to me that no one had ever given me a gift like this before. Candy and baked goods, yes. Ca.s.seroles when my parents died. But never an uncooked chicken. I supposed amongst farming families this type of gift was more common and appreciated, even welcomed if they didn't raise chickens of their own. I wondered if it would taste better than the ones from the grocery store. With any luck, Ray would cook the chicken for me. It would taste better if he did. Of course, I wouldn't be inviting Erica and Maury over to dine with us, not with the way Erica felt about chickens.

The thin gray dog the size of a miniature horse greeted me in Leslie's driveway as I stepped out of the Lexus. I took a step away from the car. The dog positioned itself between me and the house. I waited, never one to brave an unknown dog.

The thought flashed through my mind that maybe I shouldn't have come out here. But that was silly. Leslie had invited both Ray and me. She was a friend. But her grumpy dog was another story.

I avoided eye contact with it and tried to stay calm. I didn't want it to sense my fear.

Leslie appeared in the side doorway seconds later. Once again, she wasn't wearing her wig. She had on her old Carhartt overalls and a green plaid s.h.i.+rt. ”Come on in, Jolene.”

I stepped around the dog. It growled.

I glanced at Leslie for support.

”Rufus. Quiet. Go in the barn.”

The dog slinked off, tail between its legs.

Leslie hugged me and offered to hang up my coat. I watched as she threw it on a wall hook next to her Carhartt jacket. I hoped my coat wouldn't smell like manure when I put it on later.

I stepped over the piles of dirty and worn boots in the hall beyond the entryway and followed her into a sunlit kitchen with a picture window overlooking the barn and fields.

”I was putting a fresh pot of coffee on. Sit down.” Leslie gestured to the oval oak table in the middle of the kitchen.

I hadn't planned on staying long, but the kitchen seemed welcoming enough with its blue and white tiled floor and bright yellow walls. Spotless, too. I took a seat at the table.

She pulled a couple of coffee cups from the cupboard. ”We can take our coffee in the sunroom when it's ready.”

I could see a wide doorway and hints of foliage beyond it at the far end of the cheerful kitchen. Something smelled earthy and warm. I also smelled apple pie.

”I've got a pie in the oven to go with the coffee.” She opened a white foam cooler that sat on the counter, a cooler very much like the one we'd found Jessica James' arm inside days ago. ”Wait 'til you see what I've got in here.”

I cringed, fearing she'd pull out a severed limb. Ridiculous since these coolers were common everywhere and used for food, fis.h.i.+ng, and ...

Leslie pulled out a naked, headless chicken.

”O-o-o-h.” My heart started beating again. I tried to smile appreciatively.

Leslie squinted at me. ”What's the matter?”

”Nothing. I'm just used to buying chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s.”

”Not a roaster?”

I shook my head. ”Are you sure that's a chicken? It's huge.”

Leslie fluffed up with pride. ”We don't even give them growth hormones.”

Yet another side to farming that I knew nothing about. I decided not to ask.

She slapped the chicken down on the cutting board. ”I can chop it into pieces. You can use the b.r.e.a.s.t.s now and freeze the rest. Just make sure you eat some of it fresh today.”

”Okay.” I could bake a chicken breast. That was not beyond me.

Leslie pulled open a kitchen drawer. She took out a cleaver with a blade approximately four inches by eight inches. She started to sharpen it.

The blade zipped in and out of the sharpener, making a slight grated noise. For some reason, my hands started to sweat. ”Is that what you use to chop chickens?”

Leslie continued to sharpen it. ”It's a Chinese cleaver. It can chop anything. Chicken, beef, vegetables. It can go right through bone.”

A visual of this cleaver hacking Jessica James into pieces flashed through my head.

Perspiration broke out in my armpits. I thought I might be sick. I fumbled for my purse, trying to think of an excuse to leave.

Leslie ran her finger over the blade. ”There. It's ready.” She held it out to show me, twisting the blade from side to side. It caught the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window and blinded me.

I closed my eyes and tensed.

The cleaver dropped with a whack. I opened my eyes to see Leslie push the right wing of the chicken to the side of the cutting board. She raised the cleaver again.

I looked away, chiding myself. I had no reason to fear this woman. She had offered me a fresh chicken in friends.h.i.+p, for Pete's sake.

A check secured with a magnet to the stainless steel refrigerator caught my eye.

I glanced at Leslie, who continued to whack away at the poor defenseless chicken.

I stood up and leaned to get a better look at the check.

It was made out to The Cat's Meow and dated for the Sat.u.r.day of Jessica James' disappearance. Peter Flynn was scrawled in bold letters on the signature line.

”He still owes me.”

I turned to find Leslie gesturing to the check with the meat cleaver. She missed my chest by inches.

Alarmed, I dropped in my chair.