Murder Most Fowl by Edith Maxwell Page B

under eight, I think.” Cam steered the truck onto Wayne’s road, and five minutes later she and Felicity were bumping along the dirt entrance to the poultry farm.
    â€œDo you think the police are going to let us in?” Felicity asked.
    Cam pulled the wheel left to avoid a pothole. “If they don’t want us there, we can go out for a beer.” She glanced at Felicity, who smiled, nodding.
    â€œUh-oh,” Cam said a minute later. Once again a Westbury police car was parked crosswise at the end of the drive, but this time several news vans and other vehicles were parked on the near side of it. Ruth stood, feet apart, arms folded, speaking to a clutch of what looked like reporters, with camera people standing behind them.
    Cam pulled to the side of the road and parked. “Wonder if Ruthie will let us through?”
    â€œNo way to find out except by trying,” Felicity said in her trademark bright tone. She opened her door and jumped out.
    Cam climbed out, too, and nearly had to lope to keep up with Felicity’s short, fast stride. When they reached the group, they slowed.
    â€œThe family is not available for interviews at this time,” Ruth was saying. “And, as I said, official news of the investigation will come from State Police Detective Peter Pappas. You’ll be notified, and it’ll probably happen at the Essex County DA’s office, not here. People, just go home, okay? Let Ms. Laitinen and her family grieve in peace.” Ruth caught sight of Cam and Felicity and beckoned them over.
    Felicity slipped by the right edge of the phalanx of news crews with Cam close behind. A clutch at Cam’s elbow made her whirl.
    â€œYou’re Cam Flaherty, aren’t you?” A slim, neatly coiffed, and perfectly made up female reporter gazed at her. “You had a murder at your own farm last year. Would you care to comment?”
    Cam shook her head and extracted her arm.
    â€œLeave these folks alone,” Ruth said. “They’re friends of the family.” She held out her arm and ushered them beyond the police car even as another reporter called out a question.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Ruth asked Cam in a low voice.
    â€œWe came to help with the chores,” Felicity answered. “Megan said it was fine. We don’t have to go in the house at all. But it’s a lot of work, and Greta won’t want to be out there feeding, watering, and collecting eggs.”
    â€œCan we?” Cam asked, raising her eyebrows.
    Ruth let out a breath. “Let me check.” As she’d done earlier in the day, she moved a few steps away and spoke into the mike on her shoulder, then turned back. “It’s okay. But only the chicken house and the barn. And don’t touch anything you don’t have to.”
    â€œWhat’ll we do with the eggs?” Cam asked. “We can wash them, assuming there’s a sink in the barn, but once they’re clean they need to be refrigerated.”
    â€œJust leave them in the barn,” Ruth said. “I’ll ask Greta what to do with them later.”
    Cam thanked her before she and Felicity began the walk down the hill to the chicken house. Cam glanced toward the farmhouse. What had Dasha uncovered earlier? She turned back toward Ruth.
    â€œDo you know if Pete checked the thing Dasha found under the bushes earlier?”
    Ruth shook her head. “No idea what you’re talking about. What thing?”
    â€œIt was about the size of a pen but not a pen. I left it there and texted Pete about it.”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask him.”
    â€œI will.” Cam turned away again. The red-splashed side of the long chicken house faced north, so snow still lay in the shadows and the air tasted more of winter than of impending spring. She pulled her work jacket closed at the neck and took long strides to catch up with Felicity.
    Felicity slowed before they reached the door. “I