Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “Come, we have a ride to Begorah Farms. The rest of your group is already waiting at the wagon.”

  When we walked back to the parking lot, the three limos were just pulling out. Sir Haughty and Sylvia were standing next to a large wooden wagon half filled with bales of hay. A young, husky, dark-haired man stood near the front, adjusting the harnesses on one of his two large brown draft horses. He was about five feet six inches, with the thick, muscular neck of a professional wrestler. The horses seemed to know they would be working soon and shuffled anxiously in place, their long tails whisking back and forth. Just behind the horses, the wagon featured a very high seat mounted on a slender metal band bent into a diamond shape. The four large spoked wheels were painted yellow and the rest of the wagon was red, but most of the paint on both parts was peeled away. Zickman spoke briefly to the driver, letting him know the party was now complete. “Everyone, this is Tevaughn Dunleavy. His farm is about a mile from the O’Sheas. He said he’d take us there, and then treat us to dinner after we’ve finished our business there.”

  Billings and I greeted Mr. Dunleavy with handshakes. “You’re very kind, sir,” I added. Mr. Dunleavy had a very firm handshake. Though he looked heavy, it was clearly not flab. It might become so with age, but he was only in his late twenties, I would guess.

  Zickman stole the translating duties from Badger. “Before we climb aboard, is anyone allergic?”

  Nitro raised his hand to shoulder height. “I’m afraid I am. My medication usually works pretty well, but I’d rather not test its limits.”

  “Can you climb up into the seat? You can ride up there with the driver.”

  Nitro looked at me. “Can I climb?” With no problem, he backed up, got a running start, and put his left foot on the reach, his right foot on top of the front wheel, and propelled himself into the seat. It bounced up and down with his weight.

  “Anyone else?” The Chembassador asked. “It would be a tight fit, but it’s rather a lengthy ride and I don’t want anyone too uncomfortable.”

  There were no other takers. The rest of us gathered at the rear of the wagon, where the tailgate hung open. One at a time, we climbed in, finding seats on bales of slightly damp hay. Badger took a seat close to the front, where he could practice his Irish with the driver. There were also five or six grocery bags of various produce the driver had picked up at the market. Apples, carrots, some small melons and gourds of some kind. I sat across from Badger and watched as Sir Haughty, Roxy, and Sylvia found places. Billings hopped up, turning immediately to help the twins, who also received a polite boost from Zickman. Finally, Zickman himself climbed up last, and the driver came to put up the tailgate. “Begorah Farms!” said Dunleavy happily. “Cheese please!” He gave an informal salute and latched the gate. A moment later he was sitting next to Nitro on the bouncy driver’s seat, the reins in his hands. With a gentle word and a flick of the reins, the horses began pulling and the wagon rolled westward over the gravel to another dirt road. We left the Farmer’s Market behind.

  Billings passed around the bag of strawberries, then crumpled the empty bag and stuffed it in a pocket. “Chembassador Zickman,” I asked, “how long has it been since you’ve been to Begorah Farms?” I felt like I was moving backwards in time. All signs of civilization dropped away as the terrain grew hilly and rugged. The wagon swayed back and forth as the wheels tried to find the ruts in the road. We seemed to at least leave the rain behind, as the drops tapered off and stopped, though the sky remained cloudy.

  “About two months,” Zickman responded, his face a bit worried. “I delivered the commission letter from President Glenarrow myself. Patrick was so excited he hugged me. It was to bring in more money than he and his wife would see in more than a year.”

  “The cheese vendor got his Durrus about a month ago. And Mr. O’Shea was killed about two weeks ago. So the poor woman has been alone for a fortnight? Didn’t she call the police and report him missing?” Sylvia was smooshing her brown bag as flat as it would go. She stuffed it into the inside pocket of her vest and zipped up a little further. I wondered what it was. It clearly wasn’t ripe, juicy plums or other fruit.

  Zickman thought about it. “I haven’t been told, but I’ve also been away from my office for several days.”

  Agnes gasped. “Look!” She pointed ahead of us, where a bright clear rainbow spanned the sky.

  “Oh my God, it’s gorgeous,” said Avis. She snuggled next to Billings, “Don’t you think it’s gorgeous?”

  My son looked a bit uncomfortable, but agreed that the rainbow was, in fact, gorgeous. Gorgeous was exactly the right word for what that rainbow was. “Are we allowed to speculate about the leprechaun and his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Roxy, or is that considered occult, too?”

  “It’s not illegal. But it’s considered rude,” she said. “In general, anything stereotypically Irish should be avoided. Although, interestingly, there is a law on the books that if a leprechaun comes to your door you have to share your dinner with him. Or her, I would assume. They can’t all be men.”

  “I think we’re safe on that account. Why is it rude?”

  “Just tacky. They’ve gotten questions about leprechauns for centuries and they’re tired of it. The Irish appear to be very pragmatic, realistic people.”

  “Quite right, Ms. Dubois. Especially in the rural areas. Life is hard out here,” Zickman responded.

  I looked around. The hills were getting greener all the time, and they rolled up and down like a kiddie roller coaster. Small batches of trees seemed to guard flocks of sheep and goats. Some distance from the road there was an occasional farmhouse and barn. Some had simple windmills. There was even one with what looked like a water wheel and mill. One or two people could be seen performing late afternoon farm labor. It looked very peaceful and quiet. But I agreed that it takes a lot of work to live so far from civilization. We in the cities feel so independent, but we’re really not. True independence is far too hard for us. One of the things I learned from my many travels as a member of CURDS is that no matter what you think your problems are there are people you would not trade with for anything.

  “Did they have any children?” asked Agnes.

  Zickman replied, “They had two, actually. Lost them both, I’m afraid. One was born premature, the other died of a fever when he was six.”

  “How awful,” I said. And now here we were, coming to tell her that her husband had been murdered. This was not going to be a good day. I wondered if I accidentally left fifty dollars behind if she would be able to exchange it for euros somewhere. Then I wondered why I didn’t carry a supply of euros, since I was in Europe so often. I badly wanted to do something for her. I would find something, I promised myself.

  Up on the driver’s seat, Nitro sneezed.

  “Dia linn,” said Mr. Dunleavy, putting a supportive hand on Nitro’s shoulder.

  Then, much to our surprise, he shoved hard, pushing Nitro off the wagon. Nitro instinctively curled and rolled as he fell. At the same time, Dunleavy slapped the reins and yelled at the horses, spurring them into a gallop. The wagon lurched and rumbled as we held on to avoid being thrown off. Nitro, getting to his feet, was left in the distance very quickly without any chance of running to catch up.

  Badger, sitting behind, but below the driver, stood in the wagon, holding on to the wall for balance. “Mr. Dunleavy!” He called, saying something more in angry, rapid Irish. Dunleavy ignored him, keeping the horses at a full gallop. The wagon hit a stone in the road, causing Badger to lose his balance. He sat heavily on his hay bale. The cool air rushed past us, the dirt road zooming under the wagon and exiting out the rear in a long brown blur.

  “What’s going on?” Billings yelled at Zickman.

  Zickman, one hand on the wall behind him, the other on the tailgate, looked terrified and mystified. “I don’t know!”

  The wagon bounced so hard I thought the sides would start to fall off. I saw Sylvia’s hand pop up to cover her artificial e
ye, obviously afraid that the jarring would shake it loose. Tiny slivers of hay escaped from the bales and floated away behind us. I tried to see ahead, but our view was totally blocked by the driver’s seat and its occupant. I could barely see the heaving flanks of the horse on the left as they ran. Their hooves pounded on the road. If it had rained harder, the road might have been too muddy for this, but the water table was low and the dry ground had soaked up the rain easily. For a time, the hills subsided and the wagon was able to pick up even more speed on a straightaway. Even a slow curve didn’t cause Dunleavy to slow the horses, though it did make the wagon tilt alarmingly to one side before it finally resettled on all four wheels.

  Billings had had enough. He rose, carefully moving to the front of the wagon. “Billings!” I shouted reflexively. He waved me away, focusing on the driver’s back. Badger moved out of Billings’ way, ready to back him up. His hands were poised to grab Billings’ legs if he fell, and his torso swayed back and forth with the movement of the wagon. He planted his feet apart for better balance.

  Just before Billings could reach him, Dunleavy rose and leaped from the speeding wagon, landing in a sizeable pond as we passed it. We heard the splash, saw the scummy water chase after the wagon and miss. We didn’t see him get out of the water, and then we were over another hill. Billings stood for a moment, one hand on the seat, staring at the reins dragging on the ground. He’d been horseback riding once when he was eight, in a sturdy saddle, and on a horse that never got above a canter. But he couldn’t hesitate any longer. “Whoa!” He shouted in a commanding voice. “Whoa!” The horses ignored his order and kept going. Moving slowly, he climbed onto the driver seat, glancing with disappointment at the trailing reins.

  The horses ran on.

  Avis, seeing her fiancé risking his life, shouted, “Billings! Don’t you dare fall!”

  Her sister added, “Be careful!”

  The rest of us hung on. I wondered how far we’d already come, and if we would ever find Nitro again.

  Billings wasn’t on the driver seat for long. He knew he had to get onto one of the horses. He placed one booted foot on the center of the doubletree, still holding onto the seat for balance. He needed to make absolutely sure of that footing before he let go of the seat. It was all going to depend on the moment he let go and tried for the horse’s back. There was a good chance the horse was not going to like a stranger doing that. He waited, getting a feel of the movement of the horse, judging the distance, then finally let go, launching himself off the doubletree and briefly grasping the backstrap to pull himself forward onto the back of the horse. As expected, the horse balked, slowing the wagon a bit, but then careened off the road to the right and onto the grassy hill, pulling the wagon through a field of mustard-colored gorse and sideways into a low slope. He grabbed hold of the mane, twisting his hand deep into the hair as the wagon started to tilt. A couple apples fell out of the grocery bag and started rolling around on the floor of the wagon.

  With his other hand, Billings began stroking the horse’s neck. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell he was talking to the animal, trying to calm it. Just when we thought the wagon was going to spill us all over, the horses straightened and we went over the hill, but they were slowing down. A minute or two later he got them to drop into a canter, then a trot, a walk and then the wagon came to a full stop about half a mile from the actual road. The moment we stopped, Zickman reached for the latch to lower the tailgate and we all jumped off the wagon to solid ground, breathless from the wild ride. “What the hell?” I gasped, putting my hands on my knees as I consciously calmed myself.

  Zickman was looking behind us, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  Sir Haughty grabbed as many apples as he could carry as he got off the wagon and hurried up to the horses. I vaguely remembered from his personnel file him spending some time as a stable boy in his younger days. Not a rider, but a devoted groom. Billings had climbed off, remaining at the horse’s head, still actively petting and speaking to it. Going to the other horse first, Sir Haughty offered the animal an apple. It whinnied and nodded its head, but eventually took the apple. Both horses were slick with sweat. Sir Haughty moved to the other, much calmer horse and also gave it an apple, then proceeded to pet and soothe first horse. He had another set of apples on hand.

  Meanwhile, Avis, Agnes, Sylvia, Roxy and Badger were spreading out trying to get our bearings. They had their phones out, accessing their GPS. “I have Nitro’s STD. He’s just over four miles back that way.” Badger pointed the direction we had come. That was only four miles? I thought.

  “Guys!” Sylvia was standing at the top of the next hill, looking down. I walked over, then almost fell. She put an arm out to stop me. Below us was a sudden drop off about fifteen feet deep. The other side of the hill was a massive excavation where long buried stone walls were being exposed. It stretched nearly to the horizon to the right, and back to the road on the left. The road was just a thin strand of brown along the edge. My right hand covered my mouth to hold in a gasp as I saw us flying over, all of us thrown and scattered among the fossilized rock, the wagon broken into pieces, the horses smashed into distorted lumps of flesh. There were echoing sounds of alarm as the others joined us on the ridge.

  “Mr. Dunleavy did not want us to get to Begorah Farms,” said Sylvia.

  I wiped the horrifying mental pictures out of my head and turned away. “Chembassador Zickman, do you know the way?”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes on the excavation, no doubt imagining the same thing I just had.

  Confidently, I walked back to the wagon and gathered the reins from under the wheels. The horses were nibbling the gorse. Most of the sweat had already evaporated. Their sides twitched and their tails swung to shake off flies. I wanted to give them water, but we had none. They’d have to get their moisture from the apples. It would help that we weren’t going to make them run like that again. “Anyone know how to drive this thing?”

  “That’s stealing,” said Roxy. “It doesn’t belong to us.”

  “Salvage,” Badger argued back. “He was prepared to lose it over the cliff. It’s forfeit.” After a brief pause, he added, “Anyone want a gourd?”

  We stood around a moment longer before Zickman took the reins from me. The others quietly piled into the back of the wagon. I was thankful that it hadn’t received debilitating structural damage. We were going to need it. “First things first,” I said, climbing up to where Nitro had been. “We go back and find Nitro. Then we find out what the heck’s going on at Begorah Farms.”

  Nixing Day

  Chapter One

  Once again our group, this time with Nitro included, stood atop a hill. We’d gotten out of the wagon to give the horses another rest and some more apples as we looked over at the next slightly lower, less severe, slope. The top had been leveled, providing a large area for building a settlement. Instead of looking at an excavation from above, we were looking over at a charred ruin that not long ago had been a productive dairy farm.

  When we took the wagon back down the road at a trot, we had found Nitro walking slowly toward us, his cell phone in hand as he periodically checked our signals. When he saw us coming, he pocketed the phone, stepped to one side of the road and hooked a thumb into the air. We stopped. “We don’t pick up hitchhikers,” I said. “It’s dangerous. Are you a serial killer?”

  “I eat Lucky Charms every morning,” he lied.

  I vacated the seat next to Zickman for Nitro and gently lowered myself into the wagon, taking a hay bale right behind him. Zickman guided the horses through a wide U-turn and we headed off into the sunset, debating whether Lucky Charms was too stereotypical or too occult to be mentioned. We arrived at the remains of Begorah Farms about twenty minutes later. The horizon was hot pink and orange, contrasting with the dark ruins of the farm. A few interior walls of the house remained standing. The barn was almost totally leveled.

  Slowly, we walked down the hill and up towards the farm,
leading the horses with the reins. We got to level ground and parked the wagon. Zickman stayed with the rig while the rest of us approached the ruins. I swear it looked like Sylvia was actually using both eyes as she scanned everything. “Nitro, Roxy, check the house,” I said. There was a corral, the fence still mostly intact though severely blackened. “Billings, Agnes and Avis, perimeter. Badger, pictures. Sylvia and I will take the barn.”

  Barely more than an outline on the ground, most of the barn was rubble. I swallowed thickly as Sylvia and I gently picked through it looking for evidence. Thankfully, we didn’t find any charred animal remains. “Where did the livestock go?” I asked Sylvia.

  “As long as they went,” she said. “The ruins are cold. The fire was at least three days ago. What?”

  She’d caught me staring at her. “Sorry. Still not used to the eye. And looking at the new you makes me feel better.”

  “From this side it’s easy to forget about it.” She crouched down and lifted some charred boards. “I can tell it’s there if I really think about it. Pitchfork. What’s left of it.” She tipped up the metal tines, then let them drop. She stood, surveying the floorplan, and walked to the rear. There the burned wood looked different. It was like a scale model of Stonehenge out of vertical planks. Even burned, you could tell they were rough-hewn, not sanded or painted. It was meant to be a temporary structure. Using hand gestures, she estimated the measurements. “The cheese press. This is where he made the Big Block of Cheese. This is probably where Patrick O’Shea died.”

  “The evidence would have been destroyed in the fire.”

  “If there was Uber here, that would be destroyed, too.”

  “Two for the price of one.”

  We were losing the light. I produced my flashlight and turned it on, examining the cheese press up close. “The more I think about it, the more sure I am that Uber is involved here.”

  “Why? The stuff at the Farmer’s Market was clean. The Big Block was clean. The only evidence would be that of foul play, and it could easily be jealousy. You heard Zickman. The commission was quite large.” She also deployed her flashlight, panning it across the floor. “You might even be wrong about Dunleavy being responsible for this.”