by Ellen Riggs
Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn things around. I took another deep breath and closed my eyes. Normally my best friend, Jilly Blackwood, would step in when I lost my tact, but she wouldn’t be here to visit for another few weeks. I’d just have to channel my inner executive—the one who’d hired and fired hundreds of people for a large corporation.
“Lloyd, I’m sorry about my tone. I’m just so anxious about all of this.” I gestured from the big red barn to the paddock, where two Holstein heifers leaned over the fence watching us. “There’s so much riding on the launch of my inn. Obviously I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Animal Services.”
Lloyd didn’t even look up from his device. His big fingers moved with surprising speed, until he punched a button with his thumb. A bright orange ticket spit out the bottom, like a neon tongue. The whirring noise it made covered the sound of Keats’s low grumble… or so I hoped. I snapped my fingers and the dog subsided.
“I heard that.” Lloyd tore off the ticket with a flourish. “He growled.”
“He did not growl. He makes mumbling sounds all the time. That’s all.”
“I’m in animal control. I know an aggressive dog when I hear it.”
“Aggressive! Are you kidding me? He’s a border collie. He herds sheep and does agility. He dances on his hind legs while balancing a peanut on his nose.” I moved aside to reveal my sweet dog. “Sit pretty, Keats.”
Keeping his butt firmly planted, Keats sat upright, his white front paws dangling. His blue eye looked a bit eerie as he stared up at Lloyd. Maybe the dogcatcher thought so too, because he took another step back.
“Just keep your dog away from livestock, Ivy,” he said, holding out the ticket.
I refused to take it and it flapped in the breeze. From the paddock, one of the cows let out a long, low moo.
“You’re making everyone sad, Lloyd,” I said. “Won’t you please reconsider?”
“The ticket’s already on record. No going back,” he said. “Take it, or I’ll drop it by the post office and word will get around faster. Your call.”
“The word’s already gotten around, I’m sure. Everyone knows your truck. You’re putting a black mark on my inn before I’ve even opened.”
Walking down the stairs, his shoulders shifted in a shrug. “I have the feeling we’ll meet again before long, Ivy. You take care, now.”
I stepped back inside, slammed the screen door, and then slammed the wooden door for good measure. Outside the boots clomped back up the stairs and I heard the lid of the old metal mailbox creak open and shut. He had probably dumped that ticket inside.
The heavy footsteps moved away and I flipped the bird at the door. The clomping stopped, almost as if Lloyd could sense it. Finally he moved off, and then his tires crunched over the gravel as he pulled away.
Stooping, I gathered Keats into a hug. He didn’t love being squeezed but endured it for me. “The fun’s just beginning, buddy. Get ready for a bumpy ride.”
Chapter Two
I almost enjoyed the 10-minute drive to the Clover Grove Country Store that afternoon. It was sunny and warm, and the smell of green meadows and manure drifted in from the passenger window as Keats stuck his head out and surveyed his new domain. The dog had clearly put his past behind him, and I needed to do that, too.
Our ride was far from smooth, however, because the big black pickup truck that came with the farm had a standard transmission. My older sister Daisy had taught me to drive on a stick when I was 16 but it wasn’t as much like riding a bike as I’d hoped. Sometimes the truck lurched and stalled out—always in embarrassing places, like a four-way stop where people could see me. No doubt it cemented their view that the city slicker should have stayed in her high-rise. But every drive got a little bit better and I liked riding above the crowd. Or as much above the crowd as you could be in an area where everyone seemed to drive trucks.
From the outside, Myrtle’s Store—as the Clover Grove Country Store was more commonly known—looked like it hadn’t changed a bit since I came with my brother and sisters for penny candy long ago. The big green sign with its ornate gold lettering had a quaint charm, and the fresh white paint made it look well cared for. It was well cared for by Myrtle McCain, who’d been running the store for nearly 50 years, after taking over from her dad, and his dad before him. The store was older than Wolff County itself and was something people could rely on in a changing landscape.
Inside, Myrtle’s Store was a curious mix of the old and the new. Some of the shelves held dusty old hardware supplies and fishing gear that may have predated my existence. Behind the cash register, however, hung cell phones, and electric razors and toothbrushes. There was a clear plastic shield over the counter that covered rows of lottery tickets and calling cards. The penny candy had been replaced by racks of chocolate bars, some imported from Europe. Myrtle would order in almost anything you wanted, which is why there was such a haphazard array of products in the grocery aisles.
A couple of years ago, she’d installed a long laminate bar along the wide front window. The stools were rarely empty. Clover Grove residents hoisted themselves up to watch the local traffic and enjoy a good cup of coffee. The makeshift café was meant as a showcase for Myrtle’s granddaughter, Mandy, who was a gifted baker. They rotated through a long list of tasty treats. If you really wanted a lemon square, you came before noon on Tuesday, because they were gone by two p.m.
Myrtle’s silver head was bent over a laptop when I walked in with Keats. “Ivy,” she said, looking up with twinkling blue eyes and a welcoming smile. “You look wonderful.”
That was about as true as what I’d said earlier to Lloyd. My hair was in a ponytail and I hadn’t bothered to doll up for errands. I probably looked as frazzled as I felt.
“Thanks, Myrtle. You look well, too.” In fact, she looked far younger than the 75 years she claimed. Some said she was closer to 80.
“Couldn’t be better.” She got up and leaned over the counter. “But I’m a bit worried about you and your handsome sidekick.”
I expected this but my face flushed anyway. “You’ve heard. Honestly, I forgot how fast news travels in Clover Grove and all of Wolff County.” The name came out as “Woof,” like it did with anyone born and bred here. Pronouncing the “L” instantly showed you were an outsider.
“Oh, honey, don’t you worry about Lloyd Boyce. He’s a fool, but his bark is worse than his bite.”
Lloyd and his colleagues in Animal Services were widely reviled in this pet-loving county. It hadn’t always been that way, but the meteoric rise of a city to our west called Dorset Hills—known for being the best city for dog-lovers—had put pressure on Wolff County. Land prices had gone up because people wanted to buy close to the bigger center. Plus, draconian policies about dog behavior in the neighboring city had led to an increase in “problem dogs” being dumped in Wolff County. Our Animal Services had grown as a result, and their staff were trying to grapple with the effects of being in the shadow of a quirky tourist attraction.
“Edna Evans reported Keats for chasing her chickens,” I said. “All he did was herd them off my property and safely onto hers.”
“Gotta love the border collie drive,” Myrtle said. She peered over the counter at Keats and his mouth opened in a sloppy grin of agreement. “Always had one myself until a few years ago. Can’t keep up anymore.”
I nodded. “This one hardly ever closes his eyes.”
Since I’d rescued Keats as a malnourished adolescent, he’d put on nearly 20 pounds and his coat was now thick and shiny. Now just over a year old, his energy seemed boundless.
“And beautiful eyes they are,” she said. Keats waved his tail, complete with white plume, to signify his approval of Myrtle. He didn’t take to everyone, but she’d made the grade. Looking up from the dog, she reached for the list in my hand. “What can I get the innkeeper today?”
“Strike off whatever you can,” I said. “I’ll get the rest in town.”
My
rtle cocked her head as she read. “Curtain rods… I think there’s a few in the stock room. Definitely have a stainless steel Dutch oven back there, and yes to the portable vacuum. Not sure about the air pump, though.” She looked up. “This could take a bit. Why don’t you have a coffee?”
“Sure. What’s the treat of the day?”
“Apple cheesecake’s the Monday special. A personal favorite.”
“Done.” I headed over to the bar. Two of the five stools were already taken, and I chose the one on the end. “Morning,” I said to the couple down the row. They were probably in their late sixties, with gray hair and matching, oversized glasses. After a quick nod, they went right back to doing the newspaper crossword puzzle.
Mandy came over with my coffee and a slab of cheesecake. She was slender and pale, with dirty blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes like her grandmother’s. “Hey Ivy, you’re going to like this one,” she said.
“Everything you bake is an automatic yes for me, Mandy,” I said. “I’ll put on 10 pounds before the inn even opens.”
She gave me a shy smile. Back in school, Mandy rarely spoke, but discovering her baking genius had given her confidence.
I took a bite, chewed and then closed my eyes in bliss.
“Should we put it on the list?” she asked.
“Heck yeah,” I said. “My guests are going to keep coming back for this alone.”
“Have you lined up any customers yet?”
“Not yet, but I won’t start putting the word out till everything’s just right. Daisy says I’m a control freak, and she’s not far wrong.” I took a sip of coffee, staring at Mandy over the brim. “Your boyfriend gave me a ticket this morning.” I nudged Keats with my foot. “More specifically, he gave Keats a ticket.”
Color rushed up Mandy’s throat and into her cheeks. “Lloyd isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Really? He said you were seeing each other.”
“We’ve chatted a few times when our bowling leagues met up in Brenton, that’s all.” She leaned in so the crossword couple couldn’t hear. “His divorce isn’t even final.”
“Okay, well that’s a relief. I was worried you’d take his advice to sell the store and leave town. You know I’m counting on your baking to help build my name.”
“Sell the store? Of course not.” She turned to the counter but Myrtle was nowhere in sight. “I promise to keep Runaway Farm in baked goods for many years to come.”
As soon as Mandy walked away, the older couple looked up from their crossword. They both had plump, kind faces. The woman pointed at Keats with her pencil. “Is this the dog Lloyd Boyce targeted this morning?”
I nodded. “Unauthorized herding of a neighbor’s chickens.”
I expected her to laugh but her eyes filled with tears. “Lloyd killed my dog, you know. Sweetest shepherd cross you could ever meet.”
Her husband patted her shoulder. “Don’t get yourself upset, now, honey. It’s been years.”
“Feels like yesterday.” The woman swallowed hard. “I’m Margie Hodgson and this is my husband, Fred. I left our dog Gunner tied up outside the butcher shop and someone reported that he snapped at a child who poked him with a stick. There was absolutely no evidence but Lloyd Boyce rolled up in his van, snagged Gunner in a noose and dragged him away.” She lifted her heavy glasses and swiped at the tears with her sleeve. “I will never forget that heartrending howl as long as I live. And I will never forgive that man.”
“Margie.” Fred Hodgson squeezed her hand to get her attention. “What’s a five-letter word for Batman’s nemesis?”
“Joker,” Margie said. “Idiot. Loser. Lloyd.”
“Sounds about right.” The voice came from behind and I spun on my stool to see a tall woman with dark eyes and immaculately flat-ironed brown hair. Her jacket was high end, although it probably had some years on it. “That’s my ex-husband you’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I had an unfortunate encounter with Lloyd this morning.”
“I had an unfortunate eight years with Lloyd.” Her laugh had a bitter edge. “I’m Nadine Boyce, soon to be Tanner again. You must be Ivy Galloway. I heard about what happened.”
I stood, careful not to step on Keats, and shook her hand. “Sounds like everyone has.”
“I helped your sister Daisy buy her house,” Nadine said, seamlessly slipping a business card into my hand. “If Lloyd drives you out, give me a call.”
“Lloyd will never drive me out of Runaway Farm, but thanks.”
Nadine smiled over her shoulder as she walked into the grocery aisle. “I hope not, but you wouldn’t be the first. Keep a close eye on that handsome dog of yours.”
When I looked back, the Hodgsons had slipped away. Maybe they didn’t want to be anywhere near Lloyd’s ex. I glanced out the window in time to see them wave from the parking lot and raised my hand in return.
“Myrtle!” A man stood at the counter and bellowed. “Hello! Myrtle!”
She hurried out of the back room, flushed from the effort of digging up the items on my list. Running a place like this had to be hard on a woman of her age.
“Why hello, Brian. You look wonderful today.”
Okay, now I knew it was a polite lie because Brian looked way less wonderful than I did. He was probably only a few years older than me, yet his beard was graying. His hair was thinning and he’d tied what was left in a scraggly ponytail. That was never a good look on a man, in my opinion.
He grunted at Myrtle. “Did my package come?”
She shook her head. “I told you I’d call you the second it did. Don’t I always keep my word?”
His shoulders slumped. “No. You didn’t bring in the Vegemite like you promised.”
Myrtle laughed. “It’s coming. Hold onto your kangaroos.”
He smiled and the mood lightened instantly. “Call me,” he reminded her, turning to go. “Don’t leave that package unattended for one second, okay? It’s valuable.”
“Promise repeated,” Myrtle said. As he turned, she glanced over at me and rolled her eyes.
Brian had to step around a tall, heavy-set man on his way out. The guy was hard to miss, with his shaved head and tattoos creeping over his collar. Even from my spot at the window, I could see a bright yellow serpent twisting up and around the man’s ear. There was a hint of red where the tongue darted out that made me shudder. When I worked in HR, I’d struggled to put my bias against tattoos aside in hiring. They were so common now, but to me, tattoos locked people down as who they had been, rather than who they could become.
“I’ll take a cup of tea,” he told Myrtle. His voice was low but surprisingly pleasant. “And the treat of the day, whatever it is.”
Myrtle nodded. “Coming up, Graham. You staying?”
“On the run,” he said. “Gotta get the shop open and make a few people scream.”
She laughed. “One day I’ll get you to tattoo a little sheepdog on my shoulder. What do you think?”
“Sure. For you, there are painkillers.”
His grin was unexpectedly warm, but the minute he turned to go it faded and all I could focus on was the snake again. Until I noticed the blue scorpion on his eyebrow.
I was anxious to get going but Myrtle was still juggling a stream of customers. One rather elegant older man in a nice sports jacket came in for a package of cigars. She handed them to him with the usual smile, and said, “Here you go, Arthur. Staying for coffee today?”
Arthur glanced in my direction and his eyes dropped to Keats. “Not if you’re letting dogs in here, now. Isn’t that against bylaws for a restaurant?”
“It’s not a restaurant,” Myrtle said smoothly.
I swivelled on my stool to face him squarely and said, “This is a service animal.”
Arthur raised one salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
His tone raised my hackles, and that in turn raised Keats’. I didn’t have to look down to know because it had happened before. The dog see
med to know what I felt almost before I did.
“I do say.” I smiled to take the edge off the comment. “This dog is best in class.”
It was true that Keats was best in class in beginner herding, but our therapy dog classes had been less notable. He had his own notions about how to provide emotional support and mostly that meant keeping me too busy to think. It was a valid plan and worked for the most part.
Arthur gave a little smirk. “Well, I’m not sharing counter space with a dog showing its fangs.”
“He is not!” I didn’t dare look at Keats. I was 100 percent sure his fangs weren’t showing and I wouldn’t give this guy the pleasure of showing doubt.
“Fine, I just don’t want dog hair in my cheesecake.” He accepted the container Myrtle handed him. “You and Fido have a good day, now.”
I glared after him as he slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes.
“Never mind Arthur,” Nadine Boyce said, coming back and perching on the stool beside me. The grocery basket she set on the floor at her feet held a quart of milk, cheese, tinned chickpeas and what looked like a box of rat poison. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
“That’s what people say about Lloyd,” I told her.
“Well, that’s a polite lie,” Nadine said, smiling. “Lloyd’s bite will leave you festering and in need of amputation. At least that’s how I’m handling it.”
I couldn’t help smiling back. “I know divorce is never easy, especially in a small town.”
Nadine nodded, shifting to let Myrtle collect the newspapers the Hodgsons had left in their hurry to go. “You’ve really got to think things through before you make the cut. It can get ugly fast.”
I looked over my shoulder, wondering if she knew Lloyd had lined up her replacement already. Mandy had disappeared into the back room, possibly embarrassed to have so many people dissing Lloyd. But if she wanted to date the dogcatcher, she was going to need thicker skin.
“It sounds like your business is thriving,” I said, to change the subject. “I absolutely love Daisy’s house and she couldn’t be happier.”
