Chapter 8
DRAKE
Friday, five days before the festival
I rolled my eyes as I pocketed my phone. Well, if I had to go to the fire station, I might as well walk around downtown and check out this other diner.
But first, the feed store for another coop. Thank fuck Zeke had left his credit card for me to use. This was getting ridiculous.
Since my cowboy hat was still damp, I had to wear the fedora. I disliked wearing it with my cowboy boots, but the good people of Maplewood would just have to deal with today’s Indiana Jones-meets-Texas-twink aesthetic.
I got a long blink from the employee at the feed store, but he helped me readily enough.
He even had a coop that let you slide out the nesting boxes from outside, which would prevent future bloodshed.
It didn’t come with its own run, but he showed me one that could be attached.
Perfect. And since this coop was a lot smaller than the first one, I could put it together all by myself.
Getting the chicken in it, well, that might be another story.
As much as I would’ve liked to have Finn help me again—preferably wearing those running tights, hnggh —he wouldn’t have time between the end of his workday and getting ready to have everyone over for D&D.
Maybe I could bribe Charles to come over after school.
He’d seemed excited about the scones last night.
I could stop by Special Blend and pick up some cookies when I was in town.
I’d need something to bring to D&D anyway.
I’d never been in a fire station before, but one of the big doors was open, showing off a large red fire truck. A ruddy-faced burly guy, probably in his forties, was hosing it down. He shut the water off when he saw me. “Can I help you?”
“Hey, I’m looking for the fire chief. Do you know where I can find him?” I wished Zeke would’ve told me the guy’s fucking name.
He set the hose down. “I’m the fire chief. Patrick Brennan.” He wiped his hand on the back of his pants and held it out to me.
I shook it. “Hi, I’m Drake Derry. Zeke Knight asked me to come by because you’d left him a voicemail about the EMTs at the music festival. He’s out of town and I’m helping with the festival in the meantime.”
“You are? Huh. I’ve been here for over ten years, and I’ve never seen Zeke delegate anything.”
I grinned. “It’s not so much delegation as ordering around.”
He laughed. “Come on in to my office and I’ll show you the coverage we have.
We’re down a person right now, which is why I’m doing the grunt work today.
” He hiked a thumb at the truck. We walked toward the back of the building, and Chief Brennan paused to stick his head in a doorway.
“Eric, finish cleaning the truck. I’ve got a meeting. ”
I heard a faint, “Yes, Chief.” We went down a short hallway. The office was sparsely furnished but spacious. The only decorations were some certificates and commendations on one wall, and photos of firefighters or of the chief with people who looked like politicians on another.
He pulled out a map of the festival grounds, and he’d marked the EMT station on it.
Then he handed me a schedule for the EMTs.
“Like I said, we’re down a person, so while there’ll be at least one EMT on site at all times, last year we were able to have two.
But you can still call 911 and we’ll come. ”
“Got it. Hopefully we won’t have any major problems.” I’d been to enough music festivals to know there’d always be people with minor scrapes or twisted ankles, but true emergencies were rare. I fingered the paper. “Is there any way you can email this to me?”
Chief Brennan blinked at me in surprise. “Sorry, Zeke never checks his email. But sure, if you give me yours, I’ll be happy to.”
Crap, no wonder Zeke had made me come down here in person. He was expecting to get a piece of paper.
I thanked the chief and left the station.
Sparky’s Diner wasn’t far away, only a few doors down from the vet clinic, so I decided to walk and enjoy the day.
Sparky’s also appeared to have started life as a railroad car, but it had been expanded in the back.
The inside, other than being blue, was similar to Red’s, but everything seemed to be in better repair.
I even saw a modern POS system at the counter.
“Hey, welcome to Sparky’s! I’m Ian.” An older guy came out from behind the counter. “Just one today?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Great. You can sit at the counter, or we have a booth open.”
“Booth, please.”
He led me to a booth next to a window. The table beside it was filled with five older women, but they weren’t your run-of-the-mill grandmother types.
They were way too fashionable, for one. I hadn’t seen anyone else in Maplewood who wore a beret and Prada eyeglasses.
One of them was wearing pearls around her neck and a pleated skirt, and another one was wearing skinny jeans and rhinestoned high-tops.
All five of them stared at me as I sat down and put my fedora on the seat next to me. Ian handed me a menu. “Don’t miss the Mabel Meatloaf—it’s our specialty. Can I get you anything to drink?”
After verifying that they didn’t serve the sweet version, I ordered an iced tea. Ian left me to look over the menu and went off to get it.
I ignored the whispers, which, as they got louder, seemed mostly made up of “ You ask him!”
Ian came back with my tea, and I decided to take a chance and order the Mabel Meatloaf. When in Maplewood.
After he left, I turned to my audience. “Hello, ladies. Can I help you with something?”
One of the shorter ones, who had white hair and blue eyes very similar to my own, perked up. “We wanted to know if you’re Drake Derry.”
“I am, yes.”
She grinned and straightened in her chair. “We—” she circled her finger to indicate the five of them. “—are the Rocktogenarians.”
I waited, but she seemed to be done speaking. “Um, okay?” Was it a club or something?
They could tell I wasn’t getting it. The one in a tailored pantsuit with her white hair in a chin-length bob put her hand on the first woman’s arm.
“We’re a band. I’m Agnes. This is Rae.” She indicated the one who spoke first. “These are Lydia, Eleanor, and Celia. We’ll be performing at the amateur competition next Sunday. ”
“Oh! I see. What kind of music do you play?” A feeling of dread formed in my belly. Would I have to pretend to enjoy an enthusiastic rendition of some sixties hit like “Please Mr. Postman” sung in off-key quavery voices?
She smiled and spread out her hands. “Whatever we’re in the mood for. Rae here is our punk aficionado, but the rest of us like to branch out a little. And we’ve picked a more mainstream song for the competition of course.”
“Oh, of course.” They had to be pulling my leg. “I like punk. Who are your influences, Rae?”
She smiled. “The Stooges were my first introduction to the punk scene. Or what would become it, I suppose, at that time. Iggy Pop was everything I wanted to be. But then it was the Sex Pistols, Black Flag, Rancid. I love them all.”
Holy shit. “Wow. I’m looking forward to seeing you perform at the festival.”
One of the other ladies, Lydia, I thought, leaned forward. “We hear you’re friendly with that lovely Dr. Hunnicutt.”
“Uh. Sure?” Play it cool, play it cool.
“He’s a wonderful man. Attractive and dependable.”
Rae scoffed. “Drake’s more likely to be interested in what our Finn’s got beneath those scrubs he wears.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to answer. Ian brought them their check, and all five of them looked at their watches. “We have to go, but it was lovely to meet you, Drake. Perhaps I’ll see you at the compound. Zeke and I are friendly.” Agnes stood and walked out like a model on a runway.
I stared after them. She didn’t mean.... Nope, not thinking about it.
I was just finishing my maple cream pie—which to be honest I didn’t care for as much as the maple custard pie at Red’s—when my phone chimed with a text from Alex. We’d exchanged numbers when I’d added him to the access app for the gate to the compound.
A second text came through before I could even click on the first message.
Alex:
I finished the video of Finn’s heroic egg rescue! This version is just for you and Finn. I gave Nova a heavily edited version for the vet clinic’s socials. Don’t worry, I took out all the parts where you two are eye-fucking each other. [link]
Alex:
Also, I named all your chickens. Here’s a gallery of their photos and names underneath. I printed it out and laminated it for you. I’ll give it to you tonight. You can thank me later. [photo]
Deciding to delay watching the video, I opened the photo of the chickens. He’d taken video stills of each of them and labeled them with names. I laughed so loud Ian looked over with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry!” I called.
The chickens had all been named after characters from The Lord of the Rings . The big hen who’d caused so much trouble today was called Aragornette. Her photo was a close-up of her angry face. The other hens were Legolass, Gandalfina, Samantha, Mary, and Froda.
I hoped Zeke liked The Lord of the Rings , because I was so putting that laminated photo on the side of the coop.
I took a deep breath, minimized the volume on my phone, and clicked on the link to the video.
The faint strains of what I thought was the theme song from an old western movie played.
I didn’t know what Alex had done to the video, but he’d made Finn appear to be a hero riding in to save the damsel in distress—me, that is—from the evil chicken.
And multiple times he’d zoomed in on Finn ogling my legs and ass and me ogling Finn’s running tights from the front and back. At least it was mutual.
The music switched to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” as Finn brandished his trusty chair cushion and fended off the marauder. Alex had made the chicken—Aragornette, I supposed I should say—appear almost deadly.