The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews

are searching for the Hen of the Baskervilles!”
    â€œThat would be nice,” I said. “But the hen’s a bantam, not a giant, and their name is Bonneville. Why does everyone keep calling them Baskerville?”
    â€œMaybe because The Hound of the Baskervilles is this month’s One City, One Book selection,” Randall said. “The name kind of sticks in your mind.”
    â€œGetting back to the Bonnevilles.” I turned to the chief. “We have their name, address, phone number, Web site if applicable, what events they’re entered in, whether they’ve won anything—we fill that in later—where they heard about the Un-fair if we know, whether we issued them a camping permit—it’s free to exhibitors, but we want to control who’s there, so they need a permit. Stuff like that.”
    The chief was peering over his glasses at the screen and nodding his approval.
    â€œShow him the map,” Randall said. “I just love the map.”
    I typed in a command and brought up a map of Virginia, speckled with dots.
    â€œEach dot’s an exhibitor,” I said. “The dots off in what should be West Virginia are all out-of state exhibitors. The program is set up so whenever we add an exhibitor to the database, it puts a corresponding dot on the map. We can see where our exhibitors are coming from, and what parts of the state we’re not reaching. I can also show you by category, like just the winemakers, or just the sheep exhibitors, or just the people who have entered the pie contest.”
    As I spoke, I typed in commands and the map changed to show different, smaller configurations of dots.
    â€œCan I get a copy of that?” the chief asked. “Not a paper copy, a copy of the file on your computer.”
    â€œIt’s not on my computer,” I said. “It’s on the server at Rob’s office. I can see if they can give you a copy, or maybe all you’d need is access to the data.”
    â€œAccess would be excellent,” the chief said.
    A few minutes later he walked out with a printout of all exhibitors with their cell phone numbers and a star beside those who were staying at the campgrounds. And back at the station, Debbie Ann had a user name and password for the Un-fair database, since in addition to being the dispatcher she was the one person on the force who really liked computers and knew how to use them.
    Of course, there was no guarantee our thief and vandal was there in my database. But it was as good a place as any to start.
    Randall and I took care of a few fair-related chores—he made a call to harangue his cousin who was supposed to have delivered another batch of portapotties. I turned on my laptop and began sorting the patrol volunteers into unrelated pairs. If I could get the volunteers organized and notified quickly, maybe I’d still have time to join Michael and the boys at the children’s concert.
    Then my brother, Rob, strolled in.
    â€œI thought you were minding the exhibitors’ gate,” I said.
    â€œNeed your expertise,” he replied. “We’ve got some guy who wants to know what to do with his crackers.”

 
    Chapter 11
    â€œCrackers?” I echoed. “I suppose they’d go under baked goods. We don’t have a separate cracker competition.”
    â€œMaybe they fall under bread,” Randall suggested. “What kind of crackers?”
    â€œFlorida crackers.” Rob perched on the edge of my desk. “And I already tried to give him directions to the food exhibits, and he got all steamed up. Says they’re not that kind of crackers and asked if I was a complete idiot.”
    â€œA complete idiot?” I said. “I’ll take the fifth on that. Hang on a sec.”
    I opened up a browser, typed a few words into my search engine, and found the information I needed.
    â€œAha,” I said. “Florida Crackers are a heritage breed of