From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR DONNA ANDREWS AND HER MEG LANGSLOW MYSTERIES
HEN OF THE BASKERVILLES
“The 15th novel in this bird-themed popular cozy mystery series offers more fine-feathered foibles to chuckle over. Andrews’ ever-present humor and detailed animal lore will be familiar pleasures, and the grounded and endearing heroine offers the perfect balance to the silly shenanigans in this neatly plotted potboiler.”—RT Book Reviews
Some like it hawk
“[This] series gets better all the time.” —Booklist
THE REAL MACAW
“As always, Andrews laces this entertaining whodunit with wit, a fine storyline, and characters we’ve come to know and love.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
STORK RAVING MAD
“Meg grows more endearing with each book, and her fans will enjoy seeing her take to motherhood.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
SWAN FOR THE MONEY
“As usual in this hilarious series…a good time is guaranteed for everyone except Meg.”
“Andrews always leavens the mayhem with laughs.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The Meg Langslow series just keeps getting better. Lots of cozy writers use punny titles, but Andrews backs them up with consistently hilarious story lines.”—Booklist
SIX GEESE A-SLAYING
“Fans will enjoy [this] entry in Andrews’s fine-feathered series.”—Publishers Weekly
“Fans of comic cozies who have never read Andrews’ Meg Langslow mysteries have a real treat in store.…Lots of silly but infectious humor and just enough mystery.”—Booklist
COCKATIELS AT SEVEN
“Suspense, laughter and a whole passel of good clean fun.”—Publishers Weekly
“More fun than seven cocktails—and a lot safer, too.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The plot, in true ‘You Can’t Take It With You’ fashion, involves plenty of snakes, as well as the titular cockatiels and assorted exotic birds. The author has a fine sense of pacing and a droll...sense of humor. This is character-driven fiction, and Andrews maintains the action within the confines and sensibilities of her town-and-gown setting.”—The State (Columbia, SC)
THE PENGUIN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
“Deliciously daffy.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Andrews always leavens the mayhem with laughs. So march yourself down to the bookstore or library and check out The Penguin Who Knew Too Much.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch (Virginia)
“Andrews’ eighth Meg-centric mystery moves along like the best beach reads.”—Entertainment Weekly
“The levelheaded, unflappable Meg takes it all in stride…This eighth cozy in the series makes the most of humorous situations, zany relatives, and lovable characters.”—Booklist
“A classic whodunit…wraps suspense, humor, and a screwball cast of characters into a mystery novel with stand-up quality.”—About.com
“Always a treat.”—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Andrews has mastered the art of writing farce with style and wit.”—Mystery Scene
NO NEST FOR THE WICKET
“Fun, lively, charming.”—Publishers Weekly
“Andrews strikes just the right balance between comedy and suspense to keep the reader laughing and on the edge of one’s seat...Fans of this series will no doubt enjoy this installment, while new readers...will be headed to the bookstore for the earlier books.”—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)
“Any day when I start reading about Meg is cause for delight. Ending the book makes me yearn for more than one per year. Hint.”—Deadly Pleasures
“As usual, Andrews is a reliable source for those who like their murder with plenty of mayhem.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Andrews’s talent for the lovably loony makes this series a winner; to miss it would be a cardinal sin.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch
OWLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL
“A loony, utterly delightful affair.”—Booklist
“It’s a hoot...a supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat.”—Publishers Weekly
“Death by yard sale epitomizes the ‘everyday people’ humor that Andrews does so well…for readers who prefer their mysteries light...Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich.”—Rocky Mountain News
“Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story....This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader and enjoy another visit to Meg’s anything-but-ordinary world.”—Romantic Times (starred review)
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARROTS
“Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us We’ll Always Have Parrots…to help us survive February.”—Washington Times
“Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’ gift for deadpan comedy.”—Denver Post on We’ll Always Have Parrots
“Always heavy on the humor, Andrews’ most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date.”—Booklist
“I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”—Deadly Pleasures
“Hilarious...another winner...keeps you turning pages.”—Mystery Lovers News
CROUCHING BUZZARD, LEAPING LOON
“If you long for more ‘fun’ mysteries, à la Janet Evanovich, you’ll love Donna Andrews’s Meg Langslow series.”—The Charlotte Observer
“There’s a smile on every page and at least one chuckle per chapter.”—Publishers Weekly
“This may be the funniest installment of Andrews’ wonderfully wacky series yet. It takes a deft hand to make slapstick or physical comedy appealing, yet Andrews masterfully manages it (the climax will have you in stitches.)”—Romantic Times
REVENGE OF THE WROUGHT-IRON FLAMINGOS
“At the top of the list ... a fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action, and a keen wit.”—Library Journal
“What a lighthearted gem of a juggling act ... with her trademark witty dialogue and fine sense of the ridiculous, Andrews keeps all her balls in the air with skill and verve.”—Publishers Weekly
“Genuinely fascinating. A better-than-average entry in a consistently entertaining…series.”—Booklist
MURDER WITH PUFFINS
“Muddy trails, old secrets, and plenty of homespun humor.”—St. Petersburg Times
“The well-realized island atmosphere, the puffin lore, and the ubiquitous birders only add to the fun.”—Denver Post
“Another hit for Andrews ... entertaining and filled with fun characters.”—Daily Press [Newport, Virginia]
“Andrews’s tale of two puffins has much to recommend it, and will leave readers cawing for another adventure featuring the appealing Meg and Michael.”—Publishers Weekly
“The puffin angle proves very amusing ... an enjoyable flight of fancy.”—Booklist
MURDER WITH PEACOCKS
“The first novel is so clever, funny, and original that lots of wannabe authors will throw up their hands in envy and get jobs in a coffee shop.”—Contra Costa Times
“Loquacious dialogue, persistent humor...a fun, breezy read.”—Library Journal
“Half Jane Austen, half battery acid...will leave you helpless with heartless laughter ... Andrews combines murder and madcap hilarity with a cast of eccentric oddballs in a small Southern town.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Andrews’s debut provides plenty of laughs for readers who like their mysteries on the cozy side.”—Publishers Weekly
At the outset of Andrews’s diverting 15th Meg Langslow mystery (after 2012’s Some Like It Hawk), Meg, the deputy director of a fair in Caerphilly, Va., looks into the disappearance of two rare bantam Russian Orloffs from the fair grounds. Meanwhile, Meg’s friend Molly Riordan’s cheese business may be in trouble because Molly’s husband, Brett, has left her for Genette Sedgewick, a hobbyist winemaker disliked by just about everyone in Caerphilly, and may demand his half of the business. On patrol that night, Meg and fair director Randall Shiffley find Brett with a bullet through his head. Unfortunately, Brett’s head lies over the county line in Clay County. Deputy Plunkett of Clay County manages to contaminate every piece of evidence he touches in the ensuing investigation, with Molly as chief suspect. Fortunately, Meg and friends, with a little help from Jim-Bob, the donkey, succeed in bringing the real culprit to justice, in this enjoyable, if predictable cozy. Agent: Ellen Geiger, Frances Goldin Literary Agency. (July)
Loved for her humor and endearing characters, the award-winning Andrews brings her 15th chuckle-inducing entry (after Some Like It Hawk). This time, things go badly at the fair when a local farmer dies and Meg's friend is accused of the crime.
It isn't bad enough that the fate of the Virginia State Fair is in doubt; now there's fowl play at the alternative "statewide agricultural exposition" Meg Langslow and her daffy friends and relations have organized. It's no big deal that a pair of bantam Russia Orloff chickens have gone missing--unless of course you're the Bonnevilles, the couple from whom they've been pinched (and whom everyone calls the Baskervilles, adding mirthful insult to injury). And it's more of a shame than a felony that someone smashed an enormous pumpkin, made off with an heirloom-quality quilt and slung it over the back of a less-than-pristine Percheron. What really worries Meg isn't pranks like these but the very real possibility that someone will murder vulgar vintner Genette Sedgewick, whose loud music and impossible potables have antagonized everyone in the winemakers' tent, and that Caerphilly County Sheriff Deputy Vern Shiffley will arrest Meg's friend Molly Riordan, who's lost her husband to predatory Genette. Brett Riordan, not his painted doxy, turns out to be the victim of a fatal shooting, but Vern is still intent on arresting Molly, assuming of course that he can win a jurisdictional dispute with Billy Plunkett, the deputy who claims that the corpse is his, since its head is lying in Clay County. Asserting her rights as deputy director of the Un-Fair, Meg (Some Like It Hawk, 2012, etc.) plots a resolution that allows Vern to arrest Molly after all, then works feverishly to free her by finding the real culprit. The plot never exactly thickens, but the fair provides a perfect background for more of the Caerphilly zanies' carnival antics, as long as you don't mind the sideshow upstaging the main event.
Read an Excerpt
I woke up to find three sheep staring pensively down at me.
I stared back, wondering how they’d gotten into Michael’s and my bedroom. And whether they’d been there long enough to cause a cleanup nightmare. And why they were staring at my hair, which might be dry and in need of conditioner, but in no way resembled hay. And—
I finally realized that the sheep hadn’t invaded my home. In fact, you could argue that I was invading theirs. I was sleeping in a pen in our local fair’s sheep and llama exhibition barn. Sleeping solo, without my husband, Michael, at my side and our twin two-a-half-year-olds down the hall. I’d probably awakened because one of the sheep had baaed. I should turn over and get some more sleep before—
Not coming from the sheep. I sat up and shoved the sleeping bag as far down as it would go. Then I looked around. I didn’t see anyone. It was only just starting to get light outside, as I could see through the sides of the barn, which was actually a lot more like a giant carport, all roof and no walls. The sheep were looking over the fence between their pen and the one in which I’d been sleeping. I turned a little farther, and saw that our family’s five llamas, in the pen on my other side, were also watching me with the keen interest llamas always took in human behavior.
Maybe I’d imagined the voice.
I turned all the way round to see a small, meek-looking man standing in the aisle between the rows of pens. He was wearing a green and yellow John Deere baseball cap and a green t-shirt that said KEEP CALM AND JOIN 4-H. Presumably a farmer.
I glanced at my watch. It was 6:33 A.M. This had better be important.
“Can I help you?” I asked aloud.
“Having trouble finding some chickens,” he said.
I waited to hear more, but he just stared back at me.
“That could be because this is the sheep barn,” I said, in the careful, calm voice and very precise pronunciation that would have revealed to anyone who knew me that I was not happy about being awakened by someone too clueless to read his fair map. “If you’re looking for chickens, you should try the chicken tent. You can find it—”
“I know where the chicken tent is.” He sounded offended. “I’m the volunteer monitor for it.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry.” I peered at him as if I needed glasses, though actually my eyesight was still pretty close to twenty–twenty. “I’m not at my best in the morning.” Especially not before dawn. “You said you’re having trouble finding some chickens? What chickens?” When I’d gone to bed—not all that long ago, actually—the chicken tent had been half full of birds brought in by farmers who were arriving early to the fair.
“Pair of bantam Russian Orloffs,” the farmer said. “Owners came in this morning and had a conniption fit when they found them missing. They think they’ve been stolen. Could just be that they left the cage unlatched or something, but I figured you’d want to know about it.”
Suddenly I was very wide awake.
“Have you called the police?” I asked as I scrambled the rest of the way out of my sleeping bag.
“Not yet.” He looked sheepish.”Wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Tried to find the mayor, but he’s not around, so I thought I’d tell you. You’re his go-to girl on this fair project, right?”
“Deputy director,” I corrected him, managing not to snarl it. “Call the police while I put my shoes on.” Except for my shoes and socks, I was already dressed. Given the very public nature of my bedroom stall in the sheep barn, I’d decided to sleep in my clothes.
I listened in on his call while rummaging through my baggage for clean socks and donning them and my tennis shoes.
“Hey, Debbie Ann? Bill Dauber. I’m over at the fair. We got us a chicken thief out here.… Uh-huh. Sometime last night.… Right.”
He hung up and tucked the phone back in his pocket.
“Vern Shiffley’s already over here,” he reported. “Debbie Ann will have him meet us at the chicken tent.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to be there when he talks to the owners of the missing chickens. What’s their name, anyway?”
“Russian Orloffs,” Dauber said. “Bantam mahogany Russian Orloffs. They’ve got black and dark brown feathers—”
“I meant the owners. What’s their name?”
The farmer looked blank and frowned, as if this were a trick question. My fingers itched to open up my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe and add an item to the day’s to-do list: Demote Bill Dauber and find a competent head volunteer for the chicken tent.
“Baskerville, or Bensonville, or something like that,” he said finally. “Hobby farmers, not longtime chicken folks, or I’d know them. Want me to wait for you?”
Probably his subtle way of asking how much longer I’d take to get dressed. I’d have been on my way already if I hadn’t been trying to untie a stubborn knot in one shoelace. Served me right for just kicking them off and crawling into my sleeping bag last night.
“No, you go on back,” I said. “I’ll be right along.”
He nodded and dashed out. I finished with my shoe and started to follow. But as I was about to leave the barn, I turned to glance around, wondering how many people had overheard our conversation. If someone really had stolen the missing chickens, it would upset the rest of the exhibitors. Not just the chicken owners, but everyone who’d brought animals.
The pen where I’d been sleeping was in the front right corner of the barn. From it I could look out over the small sea of pens. The aisles running between them—either up and down or across the barn—were empty. About a third of the pens were filled with small clumps of sheep. Here and there, I could spot the taller forms of alpacas or llamas—the latter being the hated rivals against whom our beloved family llamas would be competing here at the fair. Scattered throughout were pens where the animals’ owners had set up camp, both to keep watch over their livestock and to save the expense of a hotel room. The few humans I could see were still peacefully curled up in their sleeping bags, cots, or folding recliners.
Dauber hadn’t been loud. So with luck, no one else here had heard us, and maybe tongues wouldn’t start wagging before I found out what was going on. Through the open sides of the barn, I could see the goat barn to the left of us and the pig barn on the right—downwind, thank goodness, at least for the moment. All peaceful looking. Maybe the problem was confined to the chicken tent. After all, chickens were a lot more portable than sheep, goats, cows, pigs, or horses, and thus a lot easier to steal.
I ducked back into the pen long enough to scribble a quick note to Michael, who was coming in this morning, bringing our sons, Josh and Jamie—we’d decided to give the boys one more peaceful night at home before plunging them into the excitement of the fair. Then, after placing the note very visibly on top of my sleeping bag, I hurried to follow the volunteer.
The animal barns and poultry tents surrounded a large open area where the farm equipment manufacturers had parked their displays of tractors and other large machinery. To my left was a sea of John Deere equipment, all of it painted in the company’s distinctive trademark forest green. To the right I could see at least half an acre of the equally distinctive orange of Kubota. Beyond the sea of green I could glimpse a few splashes of Caterpillar yellow. A couple of farmers with towels over their shoulders and shaving kits in their hands were standing in the pathway, calmly discussing the finer points of a piece of Kubota equipment that looked like a cross between a tractor and an overgrown hedgehog. I didn’t see anyone else around. I nodded good morning as I passed the mechanical hedgehog fanciers.
From across the field, I could hear the crowing, honking, and gobbling that meant the occupants of the poultry tents were waking up. But no human shrieks and wails. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I followed the path between the green and orange toward the chicken tent.
Any optimism vanished when I entered the tent. I saw no loose chickens, only chickens safely in cages or in the arms of their owners—more of both fowl and humans already than there had been last night. But the whole tent seemed more like a busy barnyard where a flock of particularly lively chickens was foraging. No, make that where a bunch of foraging chickens had suddenly been frightened by a fox. People dashed up and down the aisles, carrying cages or individual birds. Other people merely darted about aimlessly, gathering in clumps to talk, scattering when anyone new came near, then clumping again nearby.
But they all seemed to steer clear of the far corner of the barn. I could see the tall form of Vern Shiffley, the senior deputy who was in charge of the police presence at the fair. He was talking to someone.
Two someones, as I could see when I finally shoved my way through the agitated flock of chicken owners. Presumably the Baskervilles or Bensonvilles or whatever their names were—the owners of the missing fowl. Both were short and round and rather nondescript. The man was wearing khaki pants and a beige shirt. The woman wore a flower-print dress in shades of beige and pale pink so muted that it looked faded even though I suspected it was brand new. She was holding a small brown and black chicken and stroking it absently.
“Hey, Meg.” Vern waved me over. “Meg Langslow’s the assistant director of the fair,” he said to the couple.
The two turned their eyes toward me without appreciably moving their heads. I almost flinched under their mute, accusing stares.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I said. “Vern, what can we do to help?”
“Any chance you could round up some volunteers to help us search for the chickens?” Vern said.
“Absolutely.” I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I call my trusty planner and to-do list, and began scribbling some notes on who to enlist. Then I noticed Bill Dauber, the tent volunteer, standing at my elbow. No, he was standing a little behind me, as if he didn’t want to be seen.
“Organize a search,” I told him, in a low voice.
“Roger!” He dashed off, as if glad to have an excuse to leave.
“They could be miles from here by now,” the man said. The woman sniffled and the chicken she was holding squawked and struggled—I deduced that the woman had tightened her grip.
“They could, and we’ll be doing what we can to track them down,” Vern said. “But whoever did this took the chickens, not the cages. For all we know, it could have been a prank. Maybe someone just set them loose. Or maybe someone did steal them, but it can be hard holding on to one riled up chicken—and this guy was trying to carry two? I’d say there’s a good chance one or both will turn up if we do a good search nearby.”
I hoped if they did turn up they’d still be alive. Should I have some knowledgeable person check the fried chicken stand to see if any of their supplies were a little too fresh?
“How did they manage to steal the chickens?” I asked aloud.
“We had only two officers patrolling the whole fairground last night,” Vern said. “We figured since it was only farmers here at night it wouldn’t be a high-crime area. Unfortunately, it would be pretty easy for someone to watch until they knew the pattern of their patrols and then elude them.”
“But we had a volunteer who was supposed to be here in the tent all night,” I pointed out.
“He was here.” The husband of the bantam-owning couple, his voice unexpectedly fierce. “He slept through the whole thing.”
“Mr. Dauber had himself a lawn chair over near the tent entrance,” Vern said. “Looks like he made himself a mite too comfortable and dozed off. My best guess is that the chicken thief slipped in through the back entrance.”
No wonder Dauber had been so eager to leave.
“Your best guess,” the man echoed. “Have you done any forensics?”
Vern winced slightly, no doubt wishing himself back to the day when CSI and other TV cop shows hadn’t made “forensics” a household word.
“You forget, we’re just a rural sheriff’s department in a small and very cash-poor county.” Vern’s accent suddenly sounded a lot more country than usual. “We have to call in someone to do forensics, and it’s hard to justify it for anything less than a murder.”
From the way the wife was looking at him, I suspected she was almost willing to provide the murder.
“What about Horace?” I asked. “He’s in town for the fair.”
“If you think he’d be willing,” Vern said.
I was already dialing his number while Vern turned to the couple to explain.
“Horace Hollinsgsworth, Ms. Langslow’s cousin, is a veteran crime scene analyst from York County,” he said. “With luck, she can talk him into doing the forensics for us.”
Luck was with us. Horace was awake and very eager to be of service, probably because another cousin, Rose Noire, was panicking that she hadn’t prepared enough stock to sell in her organic herbal products booth and had recruited him to help.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked.
“If I never tie another little pink ribbon on another little purple flowered bag of stuff that makes me sneeze, I’ll die a happy man,” Horace said. “Beats me why people pay money for a bunch of dried weeds. But don’t tell Rose Noire I said that.”
“If she asks, I’ll tell her you reluctantly agreed to help out for the good of the fair,” I said.
“I’ll be right over.”
I relayed this good news to Vern.
“That’s great!” He turned back to the couple. “Now, folks, I don’t want you to touch anything until Mr. Hollingsworth gets here. Do you have someplace else you can keep your other chicken?”
I spotted Mr. Dauber, who was buttonholing people to recruit them for the search and assigned him the additional task of finding a new cage for the forlorn fowl, who seemed in ever-increasing danger of being hugged to death. Given how fast Mr. Dauber scrambled to follow my orders, I deduced he was feeling guilty about his failure to protect the bantams. As well he might. And it probably wasn’t a bad idea to put some distance between him and the red-faced, scowling husband of the couple who owned the bantams.
“Before you leave,” Vern was saying. “One question occurs to me—have you had your birds microchipped?”
“Microchipped?” the husband repeated. “We—”
He clutched his chest and keeled over.
Copyright © 2013 by Donna Andrews