A Streak of Bad Cluck (Bought-the-Farm Mystery Book 3)

by Ellen Riggs

  “Enough,” I said, as she dusted my face with loose powder. “Too much ‘try.’”

  “Ivy. Listen to reason. If you look fabulous, he’s less likely to pull that ‘I’m Chief Harper and you must comply’ stuff and remember he’s Kellan, the man who thinks you’re a knockout.”

  “Good point. So I need to stun him with the straight hair and flutter the mascara so he forgets about yesterday’s black ops mission.”

  “Exactly.” She leaned in and sniffed. “No offence, my friend but I’m getting a whiff of swamp, mixed with a slight hint of—”

  “Manure. I know, but there’s no time for a third shower.”

  She spritzed me with her high-end perfume. “This will only mask it, so I suggest you keep a bit of distance. Save that steamy first kiss till next time.”

  “I can totally do that.” I looked over at Keats. “How am I going to manage without my buddy tonight?”

  “Get the shop talk over early and then just follow Kellan’s lead. You can never go wrong by talking about the food, the scenery or the weather.”

  “I feel like I’m sixteen again. Only I wasn’t this nervous back then.”

  “It’s like learning to drive,” Jilly said. “Imagine if you had to get your license now. You’d be terrified, whereas at sixteen you were charging down the highway, fearless.”

  “Good analogy,” I said. “Too bad I’m a terrible driver.”

  The Bone Appetit Bistro was only moderately busy and there was a booth available by the window. I was grateful that the tables were wide because there was less chance of Kellan catching a whiff of my swamp-farmer bouquet.

  “You look nice,” he said, smiling.

  I smiled back. “Good thing you gave me an hour after bringing in the herd.”

  “Keats took the bad news okay?”

  “Surprisingly well. It helped that my mother was there. She’s one of his favorites, as unlikely as it seems.”

  “That dog moves in mysterious ways,” Kellan said, as a woman with a blonde bouffant came to the table with menus. “Maybe we should order before talking about what happened earlier.”

  I looked at the long list of items with kitschy Dog Town themed names and quickly settled on the Doggone Best Burger. Kellan chose the same. I didn’t know if we did that out of expedience, or nostalgia for our high school favorite, Hills Hamburgers, but it kept things simple.

  While we waited for the food to arrive, I told him about the dustup between Gertrude and Morag. He pulled out his notepad, and with every word he scribbled, it felt less like a date. A few frowns and a disgusted snort or two deflated my hopes for romance even further. I summed it all up in a few words. “They were accusing each other of murdering Edna, and threatening to annihilate each other’s reputation in polite society.”

  “Lovely,” he said. “Cutthroat small town politics at their finest.”

  “Do you think any of them did it?” I asked. “I mean, murdered Aggie by mistake?”

  “Anything’s possible. They all had access and it seems they all had motive. Some of those stories I knew, some I didn’t.” He closed his notepad with a firm snap. “And that concludes our business for the evening.”

  “Can I just ask if Edna—”

  “Nope. You forfeited further details when you disobeyed my direct order to trust me to find her.”

  “I just went to feed the cats and one thing led to another.”

  “You went to feed the cats with a hatchet, rope and handcuffs?” He rolled his eyes. “Enough said about that. Let’s talk about the weather.”

  I laughed. “The most popular topic in the farming community.”

  After that, I took Jilly’s advice and followed his lead all the way through dinner. At one point I went on a bit too long about Heidi’s mastitis, but noticed his glazed eyes and recovered pretty quickly. I was starting to feel almost comfortable, which was virtually unheard of for me now without Keats as a buffer. It struck me how dependent I’d become on my dog since his rescue. Getting out on my own occasionally was probably good for both of us. We were the very definition of codependent.

  “What are you thinking?” Kellan asked. While I was lost in thought he’d leaned across the table.

  I leaned in, too. “I was thinking about how nice this is. Thank you.”

  At close range, his smile was electrifying. His hand brushed mine on the table and there was a staticky spark that made me gasp. Kellan just smiled more.

  I was quite sure he was going to kiss me right there in the restaurant, and I was going to let him, smell or no smell. If he liked me, he was going to have to get used to strange fragrances, odd noises and animal hair. He didn’t seem terribly put off. In fact, he leaned in even more, and I… well, I followed his lead, just like Jilly ordered. The table was wide though, so it was getting just a tad awkward when a voice beside us said, “Ivy. Your—uh—chesticle is in the ketchup.”

  I sat back, startled, and glanced down before up. Cori Hogan was not wrong. Jilly’s second favorite sweater and my nicest bra had a heaping helping of my favorite condiment. Kellan grabbed napkins, leaned over to help, and then stopped with his hand in the air.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t,” Cori said, grinning. “It’s a G-rated restaurant.”

  “Cori, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I come for the free fries.” She pointed a gloved index finger at the counter. “Bridget’s the manager here.”

  For the first time, I noticed Bridget pouring drinks and directing waiters. I guess I’d been too entranced to see her before.

  “Kellan, this is Cori Hogan,” I said. “She’s the best dog trainer in Dorset Hills, from what I’ve heard.”

  “You heard right,” she said. “And you’re one of the few people who gets a passing grade for dog behavior without my intervention.”

  “Interesting,” Kellan said. “Are you aware that Keats herds people and nips their uniform cuffs?”

  She shrugged. “No dog’s perfect. And if he nips your cuffs, officer, maybe it’s because you need to be kept in line.”

  There was a tense moment between them. Or maybe it was only tense for me. Each of them had a little smile.

  “Chief Harper,” he said.

  “I know who you are,” Cori said. “And you know what I do. But we’re both off duty tonight, right?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “So I only have one question for you.”

  She offered a bring-it-on smirk. “Shoot.”

  “Do you take those gloves off to eat your free fries?”

  “Please,” she said, turning to go. “That’s what forks are for, Chief.”

  “I’m not sure I like your new friends,” he said as he pulled in beside my barn.

  “I know. We can’t agree on everything, can we?”

  “No. We just have to agree on enough.”

  His comment sounded slightly ominous, so I didn’t reply. Besides, I was distracted by the three sets of glowing eyes on the hood of my truck.

  Kellan noticed them too as he turned off the lights of his SUV. “What was that?”

  “The cats I mentioned earlier. They’re keeping an eye on me.”

  “More like six eyes. It’s kind of… eerie.”

  “Sure is,” I said, laughing. “There’s something we can agree on.”

  I thought he’d be unnerved by the audience, but he just shrugged and turned in his seat. “If you’re in agreement, I’d like to kiss you goodnight.”

  “Very much so,” I said. “I’m glad you’re not worried about the kits in the cheap seats.”

  “There’s that wit. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  A thrill ran up my spine. “There’s more?” I asked, as he leaned in.

  “You smell good,” he said. “I always think of you when I smell ketchup. Brings back high school.”

  I let him link his fingers through mine. “That may just be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Can we agree to stop talking now?”


  I didn’t technically agree but I did follow his lead, and the conversation ended far better than I could have imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Keats didn’t need to stare me awake the next morning. I’d hardly slept a wink, but for a change there was an almost equal amount of excitement mixed in with my dread about what the day held. The tension at the inn would no doubt continue until there was solid proof that one of the Bridge Buddies had committed a bigger crime than sweeping a good hand of cards off the table. My money was on Morag, simply because a mother’s wrath was likely deeper than a wife scorned. But what did I know? I was neither of those things.

  “It shouldn’t shock me that all of this happened in Clover Grove,” I told Keats as we walked through the wet grass to get to the barn. I could have taken the flagstone path but I enjoyed seeing the double trail we left behind us. Keats and I liked to go our own way most of the time.

  He offered what sounded like a disgusted commentary on the sordid affair, but his tail told a different story. After an evening spent helping my mom minister to the nails of the Bridge Buddies, he was excited to be getting on with things.

  Today I got wise and looked up even before unlocking the henhouse. Sure enough, the tricky trio was sitting on the roof in the dawn gloom and staring down into my flashlight’s beam.

  “Again?” I said. “You don’t need fresh chicken for breakfast. Jilly told me you ate six tins of tuna between you last night. And she’s poaching you a salmon for breakfast. She says you deserve it more than our guests.”

  If they were excited or grateful they didn’t show it. Several cats had cycled in and out of our family home as I was growing up but none had stayed long enough for me to grow truly accustomed to their ways. Mom claimed to be allergic to pets, when really she was just allergic to more work. I guess with six kids and a string of crappy jobs that was understandable, although I resented her for it at the time. Now I realized I was born a pet-lover and those urges were thwarted and sublimated. Maybe if I’d had the dog I always wanted I wouldn’t have ended up so miserable in corporate life.

  On the other hand, without that misery, I wouldn’t have found Keats, got conked in the head and landed here. So, maybe it was time to cut Mom some slack. No need to go overboard, but I could release some old grudges. Especially after she threw herself into the breach with the Bridge Buddies last night. I knew that was her way of apologizing for what she’d said at the family meeting, so I’d forgive her for that, too.

  “I learned to speak dog pretty fast,” I said now, to the dog who taught me. “I guess I could learn cat, too.”

  Unlocking the henhouse, I flashed the light at the trio again. “You can’t come in. My chickens are strictly off limits. But I will do my very best to understand what you’re trying to tell me about Ed—”

  Panther let out a growling yodel that drowned out the word.

  “About your former benefactor,” I said. “But you need to respect the sanctity of my henhouse.”

  Keats growled too, but as he stared up at them with his blue eye, the sound died in this throat.

  “Take it easy on my dog, too,” I said. “He’s got a job to do. I need him at the top of his game—not freaking out because you’re ambushing him.”

  Keats wagged an enthusiastic endorsement.

  “Otherwise, you are welcome to be cats of leisure. I’m fine with giving you a free ride here, although I wouldn’t say no if you decided to evict the vermin.” I pulled open the henhouse door. “I don’t really want to know about your strategies, though. I try to run a humane operation here.”

  The cats didn’t move as I went inside with Keats and switched on the lights. Aladdin jumped off his perch with a big commotion, as if embarrassed to be caught asleep on the job.

  “It’s okay, handsome,” I said. “You’ve got a few minutes to get your game face on. I beat the dawn again.”

  I walked out into their fenced pen to make sure there were no tears in the heavy gauge double screening. It would take a real panther—or a human with tools—to gain access, but it paid to check. Everything looked in good order, but the cats had come to crouch on top of the outdoor pen.

  “Off,” I said, flicking my hand with the light. “Chickens may not be rocket scientists but they know a triple threat when they see one. And guess what happens with stressed hens? No omelettes for hungry guests. The hens’ happiness is paramount. You’ve got the run of the entire farm, so go have fun.”

  They disappeared from view and I watched their silhouettes against the sunrise as they raced off on official cat business.

  Keats practically heaved a sigh of relief beside me. His tail fanned happily as he escorted Aladdin out first to greet the day. As the rooster did his thing, I walked among the rows of nest boxes, gently rousing the ladies. They rose, one by one, fluttering sleepily and making the peeping noises of contented fowl. I was coming to know some of the vocal cues of my animals and they were a helpful shortcut in figuring out how to meet their needs.

  I collected the eggs, grateful for the ritual that forced me to stay present, at least for half an hour. Keats escorted them out to the yard, but Sookie was in no hurry. Of all the hens, she was the most determined to stay put and hatch that egg. I hated to do it, but some days I had to pick her up and transport her outside by hand.

  “One day, Sookie,” I said. “Next spring you can raise some chicks. I promise.”

  Her clucks turned into a flapping protest and for the first time she tried to give me a savage peck.

  “None of that, lady.” I set her down quickly outside. “Keats, take the protective mama to Aladdin so that she can fall in love all over.”

  He did that while I collected the feed and refreshed the water. Soon the flock was getting on with their day, leaving Keats and me to get on with ours.

  After the rest of our chores, I said, “Into the truck, buddy. There’s something I need to put behind me and today’s the day. Otherwise I may spend it mooning over Kellan, when there’s still a murder to solve.”

  The truck stalled twice during the drive, and I wasn’t too surprised. I was nervous, no question about that. Flashbacks of my run-in with Lloyd Boyce’s killer escaped from wherever they were normally stored and raced around my mind unleashed. That was the main problem with driving stick, I decided. You had to focus so much on the task that it left the mental fortress unattended. Too long and I was seriously undermined.

  Keats rested his white paw on mine as I shifted gears, and that steadied me. Normally he’d be up on the dash trying to steer but as always, he knew when I needed an extra injection of his special magic.

  As we approached the country store, I saw that the old sign I’d known all my life had been replaced. The new one looked quaint without tipping over into kitsch. Where it had once read “Myrtle’s Country Store,” today it said, “Mandy’s Country Café.”

  Mandy McCain opened the doors at seven but she was normally there by five to start baking. When the breeze was right, I could smell her sweet work from the farm.

  The coffee smelled even better as I walked inside with Keats. In the past month, Mandy had been gradually having the place renovated. The grocery rows had been cut back to make room for half a dozen round café tables that supplemented the coveted row of stools at the window.

  A pretty, old-fashioned glass case sat beside the cash register, holding pedestal dishes with layer cakes, several pies, and platters of Mandy’s popular squares.

  “Morning, Ivy,” she said, as she arranged apple oat bars on a tray. In harvest time, apples were the region’s dominant theme, followed closely by pumpkin. “Apple bar with your coffee?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Breakfast of champions.”

  Her eyes didn’t quite meet mine and I knew she was as unnerved as I was about what had happened with her grandmother, Myrtle. It wasn’t Mandy’s fault and I knew that, but she hadn’t been fully forthcoming, and withholding information had nearly gotten me killed. Still, I unders
tood the extenuating circumstances and was determined to put this tension between us to rest. I’d always loved this store, and with the changes she was making, I could love it again. For the past month I’d mostly had baked goods delivered so that I could avoid going in. Worse, I’d been letting Jilly do more of the baking, which was work she didn’t need. It didn’t make sense when desserts were Mandy’s gift.

  “I’ll have it here,” I said. “With a large coffee, please.”

  Mandy’s hand shook a little as she set a mug on the counter. She had been painfully shy in our school days, and while that was easing now, she was never going to be a social butterfly.

  There was no one else in the store, so when she delivered the warm oat square, I invited her to join me. Keats sat like a statue beside me, exuding disapproval. He wasn’t giving up a grudge that easily.

  Mandy perched on the edge of a hoop backed chair, ready to take flight at the first sign of tension.

  “Mandy, I—”

  “Ivy, I—”

  Our voices overlapped and we both laughed. I raised my hand to go first. “All I want to say is, ‘water under the bridge.’ We’re both good people and I hope we can be good neighbors and friends during a long life here in Clover Grove.”

  We could be part of a new age of true community as the Bridge Buddies and their ilk eventually moved on to greener pastures.

  Tears filled Mandy’s blue eyes and spilled down her pale cheeks. “I’m so happy to hear you say that. I’ve felt terrible over what happened and didn’t know what to do. You know how awkward I am.”

  I reached out and patted her hand that sat on the table. “What I know is that you’re making this place yours with grace and confidence. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “I’m trying,” she said, pulling the tie out of her fine, dirty blonde hair and shaking it loose. “It’s been tough. A lot of people boycott the place because of what happened, but I’m counting on the smell of baked goods to draw them back in.”

  “It worked on me,” I said, smiling. “Your hair looks amazing, by the way. You’ve had a makeover.”