Murder On Phillips Road

On a cool Thursday afternoon in late November the worst of crimes occurred. Cold-blooded murder. Lucy was lying dead in the yard, legs thrust skyward, covered in mud. Her eyes were glazed over with the flicker of life having taken the last train to dead town.

Staring into her cold eyes, I made a solemn oath. As the community patriarch, I’d solve this fiendish mystery, bringing Lucy’s killer to justice, no matter how long it took. It was the least I could do for Lucy, a beloved member of the peep.

I consider the usual suspects. The two blond-haired blue-eyed preteens. Sure, they looked innocent enough, but they had rap sheets as long as my arm. And they’d killed before.

The nine-year-old girl had struck first, about a year ago to the day. hugging Bea around her neck until it broke. She received leniency in the name of love.

The boy was a different story. He had lazy tendencies and in a rush to lock up for the night, had dropped a door on Arthur’s back, breaking it. Death wasn’t instantaneous. Arthur languished for two days before succumbing. Again came the leniency, as it was ruled an ‘accident’ albeit, involuntary manslaughter would have fit the bill.

But the Hansen and Gretel lookalikes had strong alibis for this current caper. They were in school when Lucy’s murder took place. Unlikely suspects due to a twenty minute bus ride. The strong alibi defense foiled a quick resolution. But I’d made an oath. A solemn one at that. I’d not be deterred.

I’d already eliminated three of the 32 possible suspects in our tight-knit community. Myself, of course, because I was fairly certain I hadn’t done it. Plus the two mischievous children were out.

Bea and Arthur had been Rhode Island Reds, coincidentally just like Lucy. Problem is, I don’t believe in coincidences. A possible serial killer was on the loose. I needed to move quickly before another hen died.

Yes, Lucy was a chicken. In fact, we have . . . sorry, had twenty-six chickens, named after famous artists, authors, and actors, such as Pablo, Picasso, Mona, Lisa, Twain, Heinlein, and such.

Lucy herself was ruled out, because I’ve never seen a ‘chicken suicide’ before. My suspect pool was shrinking. I mulled over the final human, the wife, inspecting her face; lingering at her high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and sensuous red lips . . . wait . . . where was I?

Oh yes, checking the wife’s face. Dry like a freshly changed Depends. No tears immediately eliminated her. She adored the birds and even if she’d accidentally killed one, she’d have been a waterworks mess. All humans were clear.

The twenty-four hens were mentally interviewed, which mostly involved a deep stare. and were quickly disregarded as well. They were a group of layers and sitters, determined pacifists really, with no stomach for killing.

During the interviews my remaining Rhode Island Red, Desi, eye-balled me hard, cocked his head, and let out some clucks. I don’t speak avian, but I sensed the bird was seeking justice, adding to the building pressure of solving this fowl crime.

I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I felt Desi was subtly cocking her head towards the rooster. Ghengis Khan ruled the coop with an iron fist. His rampant sexual appetite was legendary, with the backs of several hens bearing scars from his beak pinning them to have his way.

As for us people types, he waged war daily, often stalking and attacking the youngsters. He was an ambush master, sneaking up behind the unaware and would jump waist high, before launching a blistering assault with his talons.

I’ve had to kick him off a child more than once and hit him with a shovel when he came after me. Ghengis has held a grudge ever since.

But murder? No way. He’d never kill one of his harem. Twenty-five hens were hardly enough to satisfy his voracious mating needs. Begrudgingly, I eliminated him from the suspect pool.

That left three possibilities; Bumble, Jello, and Mrs. Sparkly Bubbles. The suspect pool was more of a hot tub at this point. Seems I’d have this case resolved before dinner.

Who am I fooling? I enjoyed a delicious chicken Marsala (shame on you for thinking what you just thought), before creating charts and graphs concerning the guilt or innocent of Mrs. Sparkly Bubbles.

Hours of deep study and consultation with my research partner, Mr. Googs, revealed Mrs. Sparkly Bubbles could not have possibly committed the crime. The hamster was cleared due to inadequate size proportions.

Jello the cat? She’d suffered great bullyism at the claws of the chickens. Initially she tried to eat one, but the brood ganged up, beating the feline down, causing her to flee. Ever since, she’d given the birds a wide berth.

Perhaps she caught Lucy alone and exacted murderous revenge? Highly unlikely since birds of a feather flock together.

The final suspect was our beloved Goldendoodle, Bumble. Named after a famed 1960’s animated Christmas yeti, she was equally misunderstood.

Sure, Bumble had chased the chickens on numerous occasions, but merely pinned them and shoved her nose up their butts after catching them. Harmless canine tomfoolery, if you ask me! Certainly she bore no guilt in this crime.

I pulled the red feathers from her teeth so I could better interview Bumble and clear her of this nasty business. The dog ran past me and grabbed the deceased bird in her mouth, tossing Lucy’s carcass into the air, sending her flopping across the muddy yard.

“Bumble!” My alpha male pack leader voice rang firm. The Goldendoodle immediately lowered her head, peeking up at me with shame-riddled eyes, her tail disappearing between her legs.

There was no mistaking Bumble’s guilty posture. Crated for two hours may seem like a lenient sentence to you, dear reader, but she’s so cute and fluffy!

I sat on the front steps smoking a San Cristobal while sucking on a Captain and Coke, mulling over the rigors of homestead detectiving.

Da Vinci and Marley, my Brahmas, sauntered by giving me appreciative nods. Yeah, that’s why I do what I do. Chicken Coop Case #3, murder in the hen yard, solved. Justice was served.