Swine and Punishment (Bought-the-Farm Mystery 7)

by Ellen Riggs

Taking the highway to Gertie’s place would have been shorter than the twisty rough ride over the snowy trails but now my priorities had changed. I was willing to sacrifice a few minutes for the small pleasure of jolting Vivian and Becky around. I even hit a couple of logs that I could have easily avoided just to hear the sound effects. Keats gave a little whine and Percy an exasperated yowl but as it turned out, I stalled anyway. I turned the key again, got the truck rolling and then stalled a few yards later. My nerves were showing.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let me drive,” Vivian said, as we started moving once more. “My Mercedes is a stick. There’s no point having a nice car without handling it yourself.”

  Keats mumbled something that sounded like a compliment.

  Vivian glanced over her shoulder at him and continued. “I wasn’t always a star, you know. My granddad was a farmer and I spent summer vacations up to my armpits in corn. This show isn’t the stretch you might think.”

  “I have no opinion either way,” I said, impressed that the lie came out sounding HR sanitized. “I just don’t want to be in the limelight myself.”

  Becky kicked the back of my seat. Accidentally, I’m sure. “You seem to end up in the limelight a lot for someone who claims not to like it.”

  “That’s true, unfortunately,” I said. “I got a pretty serious concussion after rescuing Keats and haven’t fully recovered yet. Might never recover. Sometimes I get myself into situations I wouldn’t have before.”

  “Poor judgment,” Vivian said.

  “Maybe. Or poor impulse control. When I see something wrong, I want to correct it. Immediately.” I gave her a smile. “Jilly’s always asking me to count to ten before doing anything risky.”

  “How far do you normally get?” Vivian said.

  “Two,” I admitted. “On a good day.”

  Keats put one white paw on my shoulder and murmured a warning. About what, I wasn’t sure. Was there something out here I was missing?

  “What’s he worried about?” Vivian asked.

  “Probably about hitting another log,” I said. “Or maybe Wilma.”

  “You two seem to have a code,” she said. “I wish Byron was smart enough to have a code.” She straightened her purple scarf. “I’ve never liked animals, really. Most of them are boring and all of them are dirty.”

  “I bet you could develop a great relationship with Byron,” I said, driving out of the bush about halfway down Gertie’s lane. “He’s a very smart dog.”

  “Please. He’s a plug and a dud. Every shot he’s just lying around with the goat on top of him.”

  “There’s plenty going on under all that fluff.” I slowed in the lane to finish my thought. “You folks asked for my insights and I’ll share one. Developing a relationship with that dog should be your top priority. It would be good for you, good for the dog, and good for the show.”

  “For the show? I don’t think so,” Vivian said. “Reality shows live or die on conflict.”

  “There are plenty of other ways to find conflict on a farm. I bet your viewers would love to see the sweet side of Byron and the rest of the animals. That’s the best thing about farm life for me. I try to form a bond with all of them.”

  “Didn’t work with the pig, did it?” Becky asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Some take longer than others, depending on their past. Or maybe my past.”

  Vivian touched my sleeve. “How do you propose I develop this connection with Byron?”

  “Oh, that’ll be easy,” I said. “Take over his care. Feed him, walk him, train with him. Above all, just spend time with him.”

  “He won’t come inside,” she said. “He gets to the doorway and the brakes come on.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to work with his instincts not against them. Go down to his pasture. Get him a few more white goats to look after.”

  She made a disgusted sound. “I’ll be focusing on cooking and entertaining. That’s more my thing.”

  “Well, you’re doing yourself and the dog a disservice,” I said. “You’ll both miss out on something wonderful. He’s got the ‘it’ factor.’ I felt it.”

  Shooting another look over her shoulder at Becky, Vivian said, “Get hold of a dog I can bond with inside. Find my Keats.”

  I laughed. “Keats doesn’t love being inside, either. He’s a dog who needs to be doing. And I like to be busy, too. That’s why it works. We’re up before dawn and don’t stop till we drop.”

  Vivian sighed. “I should have taken the other show they offered. About living large on little. But no, I let Becky talk me into this foolishness.”

  “It’s going to break you out,” Becky said. “The network’s undervalued you too long.”

  “You mean it’s going to break me,” Vivian said. “I don’t get paid enough, that’s for sure.”

  I’d called ahead to warn Gertie I was coming, mainly so she’d put something on under her old brown poncho. Happily, she’d found some old sweatpants. Her long gray braid hung over one shoulder, reaching well past her waist. It held your eye—until you noticed the rifle hidden in the folds of her poncho.

  “I didn’t say you could bring friends, Ivy,” she called from the porch as I got out of the truck.

  “For starters, they’re not friends,” I said, as Keats and Percy ran up to greet her. “And I didn’t invite them. They offered to help me find my pig.”

  Gertie laughed. “Our lady of the purple coat is going to trudge through the back forty with you? How much you want to bet you’ll be rescuing her, not the pig?”

  “Apparently conflict makes for good TV, Gertie. So I suppose if Vivian falls into your swamp, ratings will soar.”

  “Very funny,” Vivian said. “This show is about quaint farm life, not wrestling alligators.”

  “There are no alligators in Clover Grove,” Becky said.

  “Untrue,” I said. “My brother rescued one that escaped from a collector. Where there’s one there’s usually more.”

  “Not funny, Ivy,” Vivian said. “Hasn’t your mother told you you’re not funny?”

  “She sure has, but I keep on believing.” I grinned at Gertie. “Anyway, ’gators hibernate so we’re safe from that particular threat today. But there are so many more.”

  “Yeah. Like me,” Gertie said. “I told you TV people that I want nothing to do with you. I told you to stay off my property, or else. Yet here you are, using Ivy to get to me.”

  “It’s only because of the pig sighting,” I said. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise, I promise.”

  “Did the report come from a reputable source?” she asked. “Because few people dare to come out this way now, what with the cops helping me chase off trespassers.”

  I pulled out my phone and studied it. “It’s just from the town’s website.”

  Gertie flung back her braid in disgust. “Ivy, you’ve been played. The TV show is behind this so-called sighting. It’s a hoax to get us involved.”

  “That’s not true,” Vivian said. “You can be sure I’d have dressed for the wilds if I’d been part of this decision. And I do have veto power.”

  “We have wardrobe coming,” Becky told her. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “I’m not waiting for you,” I said. “If Wilma’s out there, I want to find her.”

  “And if Ivy’s not with you, you’re not going,” Gertie said. “I don’t want you roaming on my property unsupervised.”

  “I’ll go ahead with Ivy,” Vivian said. “We’ll stay in touch by phone and you and the crew can catch up.”

  “Great, let’s go,” I said, beckoning to Keats and Percy. I trudged away quickly, hoping Vivian would flounder in city boots that weren’t designed for hiking through bush.

  She kept up better than I expected. In fact, she only took one header on a slick patch, whereas I took three in my expedition-style boots.

  “How exactly are we going to find this pig?” she asked, after about a half mile that felt far longer.

  “Keats
, primarily,” I said. “For a sheepdog, he has a good sniffer. If we find tracks, we’ll know the sighting was legit.”

  “I didn’t engineer that report,” she said.

  “No? You’ll excuse me for doubting because you were pretty quick to jump onto this mission.”

  “Recognizing an opportunity isn’t the same as creating a fake one,” she said. “Besides, if I’d planned it, the camera would be here. All I’ve got now is my phone.”

  “Let’s just find the pig if we can.”

  After a few minutes she added, “This is also an opportunity to get to know each other. I’m interested to know what makes you tick.”

  What ticked was my internal safe as I locked myself down. While her phone was aimed in my direction she’d get precious little access.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “Wilma wants to be on the lam, even in the cold. She won’t be hungry enough yet to wave the white flag. So if she hears us or smells us she’ll go in the opposite direction.”

  “How exactly do you plan to corral her then?”

  “Keats, of course. Percy will help, too. The cat’s a wild card, but also ingenious.”

  “But you said Wilma’s vicious.”

  I turned quickly. “I most certainly did not. Did someone else tell you she’s vicious?”

  “Becky, I suppose. She does her homework.”

  “Well, if the pig’s under attack she’ll take appropriate action, no question. I’m warning you now, in case we find her.”

  “Duly noted. I’ll take appropriate action, too. Just so you know.”

  “Let’s stay quiet,” I said. “The others will join us before long and there will be no hope of surprising Wilma.”

  There was no trail, so we picked our way over logs and rocks following Keats and Percy, who kept ranging ahead and circling back impatiently. There was something out here, I was sure of it. The dog’s ruff rose and settled, rose and settled again, and his ears twitched continuously. For all I knew it could have been a fox or coyote. He’d want to protect me from wildlife.

  Finally he went into a point. He froze in position, one paw lifting over unblemished snow. His eyes stared straight ahead into thick bush. Then his tail stood straight out and puffed.

  “What’s wrong?” Vivian asked. There was a note of alarm in her voice that was either real or very good acting.

  “I don’t know. Something has him spooked. When he does this it rarely ends well, Vivian.” I turned and held up one glove. “Stay here while I investigate with him.”

  “I will not,” she said. “What if whatever it is comes after me?”

  “Whether it’s Wilma or another predator, it’s far more likely to come after the dog or cat, unfortunately.” I covered my mouth. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that they’re small and vulnerable.”

  Percy took his cue and jumped onto my shoulder.

  “I’m coming,” Vivian said.

  “You’re not. Stop running down your phone battery by filming me and give Becky a call.”

  “How long will this take?” she asked.

  “Not long. I’ll be back soon.” I took her phone number and started pushing into the thorny bushes. “Don’t move,” I called back. “But keep moving.”

  “That’s a paradox,” she called after me.

  After that there was silence broken only by the crackle of branches as I shoved my way through the bush in Keats’ wake. Percy flattened himself against me and finally jumped down to make his way alone. It seemed like ages before we finally came out by a fair-sized pond. It had the barest film of ice overtop, which meant there was an underground creek. Seemed like there were secret creeks running all over this area. You had to be a lifer to know the geography.

  “Prints!” I said. “Keats, you’re a genius.”

  Normally he’d take that compliment and mumble with it, but his ruff, tail and ears said we were still in trouble.

  I knelt beside the first set of prints and took a photo. They were about the right size for a plump pig, but with the snow it was hard to tell if the tracks had been made by cloven hooves.

  “Is it Wilma?” I asked.

  Now he offered a mumble in the affirmative. He had a different tone for nearly every animal on the farm and Wilma always got a note of wary respect. Not because he really respected her, but because he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to end him if he got in her way.

  “Which way, then? It looks like she was going in circles.”

  Keats picked his way around a bit and then the paw came up again. This time he looked down and I saw crumbs in the snow. Someone must have sprinkled what appeared to be baked goods around here. Looking closely, I saw lots of fine lines in the fluffy snow that could have been made by a broom as someone covered their tracks. They’d left a trail of snacks for a hungry pig—so many that she didn’t bother taking it all, which she normally did at home.

  “This stinks of a setup,” I said, pulling out my phone. “We’re going to need help. Pronto.”

  He whined in eager agreement.

  After texting Jilly, I pressed Vivian’s number. It went straight to voicemail. As we followed our own tracks back, I tried again and again.

  “Maybe her phone’s dead,” I said. “I warned her not to waste battery.”

  Keats didn’t respond because he was on high alert again and it took all his focus.

  “What now?” I asked.

  This time he actually growled and my hackles came up. Wilma had been loose before—and even rolled me—and he hadn’t been this worried.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” I said, picking up the pace. “The sooner we get out of here, the better. I miss Edna. She’d be packing all kinds of heat.”

  Finally we burst out into the clearing where we’d left Vivian.

  “Darn it, she really did keep moving,” I said.

  Keats charged ahead, unfettered by the thick bush now, and then gave a sharp bark—an announcement.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Across the wide clearing, I saw people emerging. Becky was in the lead. She was pointing this way with one hand, telling the camera crew to get a range of shots. In the other was a leash, at the end of which was Byron.

  “Where’s Vivian?” she called. “I was talking to her and she just cut out suddenly.”

  “Maybe her phone died,” I said. “She was filming me.”

  I walked ahead of them in the direction Keats had taken and soon found him in another point. This time he was facing a different small pond that had even less ice than the previous one. Near the edge closest to me, some chunks of hard snow had broken off from the shore and floated like mini icebergs in the dark water.

  And over one of those mini icebergs hung a ruffled purple scarf.

  Chapter Nine

  “What did you do?” Becky’s shriek was so loud I covered my ears with my gloves over my hat. Keats shrank away from the sound and leaned into my legs. Percy turned to Becky, puffed like an adder, and hissed.

  “Me? I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I left her standing safely with you on the phone and followed a lead about my pig. When I got back, she was gone. You’re seeing all I know.”

  “You left Vivian all alone in the woods? What kind of monster are you?”

  I lowered my gloves. “Becky, calm down. I wasn’t gone long and we don’t know what happened. Maybe she’s still walking in the bush. One thing that won’t help is hysterics. Now, are you or the crew going into the pond, or should I?”

  Becky got on the phone with someone and neither man moved.

  I looked down at Keats, pleading with him to let me know that the wind had just snatched Vivian’s scarf and she’d moved on. He stared up at me with that clear blue eye and I knew the answer.

  Unzipping my parka, I dropped it on the snow and then emptied my pockets. Without another word I stepped into the pond. There was no need to tell Keats to stay. He hated water with a burning passion that surpassed even Percy’s. I was on my own here.

/>   For a second, I thought the cold would stop my heart, but it didn’t. I moved forward feeling the silt sucking at my boots. Plodding toward the floating scarf, I mentally prepared myself to be swept under. That would likely be the end of me, because the crew would probably do nothing but film my demise.

  The water reached my waist. My ribcage. My armpits. But that’s where it stopped. I was able to grab the scarf easily, if you didn’t count how my body was sounding red alerts. I wrapped it around my neck and then waded around, trying to find Vivian’s body.

  Keats started wailing on the shore. It was a loud keening sound in a pitch I’d never heard before.

  “I’m fine, buddy,” I said. Only no words came out of my chattering lips, and he continued pleading with me to come to shore. I did as he asked. If Vivian were here, she would be past saving now.

  The walk back to shore was both easier and more difficult. I couldn’t feel my limbs anymore, and they’d stopped responding to direct orders.

  Staggering out, I reached for my phone and yelled, “Did you call the police?”

  Becky was still on her phone but Ray and Eric shook their heads. I realized she was talking to the network instead.

  I sat down hard in the snow and jabbed at a number on my phone with a finger I couldn’t feel.

  “Kellan. Can you come out to Gertie’s please? Fast.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’ve run into some trouble. Out near where we found the—you know.”

  “The caches?” he asked. “Or the Christmas tree?”

  “Not the Christmas tree. We’re further out than that.”

  “Looking for Wilma?” he asked. “I doubt she got so far so fast.”

  “She did, though,” I said. “At least, I’m pretty sure the prints are hers. It’s possible a wild boar’s been around but Keats says it’s Wilma.”

  “Keats says…?”

  The question came from Becky, not Kellan. He was so used to my quoting Keats that he didn’t question anymore. The producer was leaning over me now.

  “Who’s that?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound like Jilly.”

  “It’s Becky Bower. The production assistant on the Faraway Farm show. I had a report that Wilma had been sighted on Gertie’s property and they volunteered to help. There were five of us, but now only four. Vivian Crane is gone.”