The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews

with them, turn up the volume, and see if sound can kill.”
    â€œIt doesn’t.” The other winemaker shook his head. “Just makes you crazy, and she’s already that. But yeah, you could use the speakers. Just drop one on her. But not here. Do it at that fair she’s putting on next month.”
    â€œWhat fair?” I asked.
    â€œI can’t do it at her fair,” Dorcas said. “Because there’s no way I’m going to her trashy event. Here.” She handed me a mustard-yellow flyer. “I only took one because I thought maybe you folks would like to know about it.”
    The flyer was for something called the “Virginia Agricultural Exposition,” “a statewide celebration of the agricultural riches of the Old Dominion.” It was hard to read and not very professional looking, which probably meant that she’d used the same so-called cutting edge graphic designer who’d done her wine labels and her booth.
    Interesting that at the bottom of the flyer was Brett Riordan’s name and contact information. And he was listed as the chairman of the Virginia Agricultural Exposition Committee.
    I was willing to bet that the real head of the committee was Genette. And that if there was anyone other than her and Brett on the committee, they were her tame minions.
    â€œWhat about a corkscrew?” Dorcas was saying. “One of those big old wrought-iron antique ones that nobody uses anymore except to hang on the wall and look pretty.”
    â€œIf we’re talking antique tools, how about a scythe or a sickle?” the other winemaker suggested. “Doing it with a corkscrew is a lot more work.”
    â€œGood thing we know they’re not serious,” Michael said, in an undertone.
    â€œDo we?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œIt’s the ones who aren’t venting and getting it out of their systems that I’d be worried about,” he said. “Well, now that I’ve taken care of your mother’s chores, the boys and I should be running along. If you need us, we’ll be staffing the llama exhibit.”
    â€œWhat about the children’s concert?” I asked.
    â€œAlready over,” he said.
    â€œOver?” I looked at my watch. “Oh, no. Were the boys too disappointed that I didn’t make it?”
    â€œOld MacDonald had a farm,” Jamie sang.
    â€œThe ants go marching one by one.” Josh countered.
    â€œThey were at first,” Michael said over the increasing din of the dueling songs. “But I told them that Mayor Randall had left you in charge of the whole fair. They were very impressed. Now, whenever they want something to be different, they say, ‘Mommy fix soon.’”
    â€œFix now,” Jamie corrected.
    â€œSo what changes do they want?”
    â€œFree cotton candy,” Josh suggested
    â€œAnd more frequent pig races.” Michael gave me a quick kiss and strolled off.
    I stared at the flyer again.
    â€œMeg, dear.”
    Mother had returned.
    â€œShe’s still not there.” I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen Mother so impatient.
    â€œShe’ll be back,” I said. “Meanwhile there’s something else I wanted to show you. Have you seen this?” I held up the flyer.
    â€œVirginia Agricultural Exposition,” Mother read. “How nice. I’ve never been that fond of the whole Un-fair name. Whoever thought of this name—”
    â€œGenette,” I said.
    â€œâ€”was at least making an effort to come up with an elegant name,” Mother said. “Not, of course a successful effort—too pretentious, but…”
    She shrugged.
    â€œNice recovery.” I handed her the flyer and she studied it. “Nothing that much wrong with the name, but apparently she’s going around trying to convince everyone who’s here to come to her fair instead.”
    â€œActually, it lists Brett Riordan as the contact