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“I have to find Darren Boot,” I said.
“I’ll come with you,” Lula said. “Where’s this Darren Boot live?”
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“By the junkyard. We’ve been there a couple times. He lives with his mother.”
“Now I remember. They’re the ones with the mushroom farm. And the mother dresses up like Minnie Mouse.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
LULA DROVE THE length of Stark Street, passed the junkyard, and after a half mile we saw the rusted mailbox with BOOT painted on it. The rutted dirt driveway led to a bedraggled bungalow that was surrounded by thigh-high grass.
Lula parked, and we got out of the Firebird and set out on the narrow path to the front door. A big white chicken ran across the path in front of Lula.
“Holy heck,” Lula said. “What the hell?”
All around us we could hear grass rustling and chickens clucking.
“This is freaking me out,” Lula said. “I only like supermarket chickens. The naked ones with no feathers. And I prefer them shrink-wrapped and air-chilled and previously fed non-GMO shit.”
I preferred them as frozen and breaded nuggets or else cooked by my mother.
“Watch where you’re walking,” I said. “You don’t want to step on a chicken or whatever it leaves behind.”
“That’s a disgusting thought,” Lula said. “I got on my open-toe fashionista gladiator shoes.”
We reached the rickety front stoop, and I knocked on the door. Minnie Mouse answered on the second knock.
“Mrs. Boot,” I said. “Perhaps you remember me. I’m Stephanie Plum.”
Darlene Boot was sixty-seven years old, five feet two inches tall, and had a shape like an apple. Skinny legs encased in black tights. Short curly gray hair held in place by a red and white polka-dotted Minnie Mouse bow with mouse ears. The dress was straight from vintage Disney. Black top and fluffy red skirt with more white polka dots. Short puffy sleeves. Finished off with bright yellow rubber boots that I’m sure were excellent for walking behind chickens.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I suppose you’re here to repossess Darren.”
“Is he home?”
“No. I’m so sorry. He had some errands to run.”
“What sort of errands?” I asked.
“He was going to the feed store. It’s somewhere across the river. And then he was going to gas up the truck and get some beer. The chickens like a little beer now and again.”
“I see you still got the Minnie Mouse thing going,” Lula said.
Darlene smiled. “Sometimes I wear one of the princess dresses, but I like Minnie the best.”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “You can’t go wrong with Minnie. Do you know you got a lot of chickens running around out there in your front yard? What’s with that?”
“It’s our new business,” Darlene said. “The mushrooms didn’t work out, so we’re trying chickens. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea while you wait for Darren?”
We stepped inside and froze. Wire cages filled with roosting chickens were stacked everywhere, and a bunch of chickens were meandering around, pecking at the furniture.
“These are our egg producers,” Darlene said. “We’re real proud of them.”
“What about the outside chickens?” Lula asked, keeping her eyes on the meandering chickens.
“We sort of lost control over them,” Darlene said. “We thought it would be nice to let them go free-range, but then we couldn’t find the eggs in the grass, and they kept multiplying. I guess you might say they’re feral chickens now.”
