by Ellen Riggs
Kellan leaned against Florence’s stall. The old blind mare still took a nip at him now and then and usually he was more cautious. “You shouldn’t be working so hard,” he said. “Not tonight. That was quite an ordeal.”
“It sure was, which is why I needed to be out here. It was either this or find less healthy distractions.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how healthy it is to suck in toxic fumes all the time.”
“Did you know a horse produces nine tons of manure in a year?” I asked. “Over a lifetime, it’s—”
“Never mind. I get your point. No more lectures.”
“You’ve had quite an ordeal today, too,” I said. “Worse than mine.”
“Yeah, but ordeals are my job. I have a high threshold for them, whereas you’re still in training.”
“It has been a bit much. I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge of ordeals in this town.”
He laughed and we both seemed to relax in the same moment. “Can I give you a hug?” he asked.
“Can you handle the risk of passing out?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can. Just let me ease in slowly. It’s like sinking into a steaming geyser.”
“A geyser? Now that is flattering.”
“A hot spring then. Sulphurous, yet therapeutic.”
I slipped into his arms and he squeezed me good and tight. “You say the sweetest things.”
“I know. I got training on that in Ordeal School. People who handle ordeals for a living don’t always show their best side at home.”
Pressing my face into his chest, I mumbled, “I like all your sides. Even the lecturing side. I know you worry about me.”
He kissed my hair a little gingerly but the sentiment made up for it. “There’s a lot to worry about. You always seem to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The animals lead me to the strangest places. Today I went from that terrible scene at the pond to being courted by a TV network. You could be hugging the brand new star of Faraway Farm.”
All the effervescence left the air leaving only… fumes. I had taken the joke too far.
Kellan took a step back and leaned against the stall again. “You’re not. They’re not. This is an open investigation.”
“I’m not, don’t worry. And what kind of investigation? Criminal?”
“I’d prefer not to comment,” he said. “But I suppose Keats will tell you anyway. Or worse, he’ll lead you places I don’t want you to go.”
“So… Vivian didn’t just fall into that pond.”
“It appears not. She was definitely pushed.”
I covered my face with my hands for a second and then split my fingers to peek at him. “Please tell me it wasn’t Wilma.”
“That has yet to be determined. Wilma—or a pig just like her—was at the scene. You saw the glove. It’s likely she’ll poop purple tomorrow because Vivian’s other glove was missing, too.”
“Were her injuries consistent with a pig attack?”
“I’m not sure exactly what injuries are consistent with a pig attack,” he said. “But I’m leaning toward a human assailant. Vivian had a contusion on the back of her head. Probably never saw it coming. My best guess at this point is that she was trying to catch the pig when someone caught her.”
“Oh no! I hate to think of her grappling with Wilma alone and leaving herself vulnerable to another attack.”
“You know how these things go, unfortunately. The pig opened the door and someone was waiting to walk through it.”
“But who would want Vivian Crane dead?” I asked. “I mean, she was a bully, and probably stepped on a few people on her way up. But who would take it that far?”
“Too soon to say. No sign of her phone. We spent the day examining every stick and snowflake in the area but there wasn’t much to go on. There appeared to be some boot prints but they’d been obscured and ended in a stream. Keats did his best, I’ll give him that.”
“He showed you the pig food?” I asked.
“Yeah. Clearly, Wilma isn’t going to starve. Her tracks ended in a stream, too. By that time, she was leaving chunks of food behind. The pig was actually full up.”
“I’ve never seen her turn down food. Never. She was starved in her youth and vowed never to be hungry again. Who would be feeding her, and why?”
“We’ll find out. In the meantime, Keats practically cried when she took to the water and we lost her scent.”
“That’s his Achilles heel,” I said. “He just can’t do water.”
“No complaints about his contributions. He was a big help and I appreciated his freelancing with me today.” Florence made her move and snatched his fuzzy-flapped police-issue hat. His half-hearted attempt to reclaim it proved how tired he was. “And I appreciate that you trusted me with your pets when you probably needed them yourself.”
“I had Jilly, thank goodness. How did Percy do?”
“Spent most of the day on my shoulder, much to the merriment of my team.”
“I’m sorry. Percy prefers to conserve his energy, especially in snow. He lets Keats do the heavy lifting and then sails in to show him up when needed. I should have brought him home.”
“Nah. Lightening the mood wasn’t a bad thing,” he said, smiling. “We’ve had a heavy few months in the department of ordeals.”
“So true. I hoped the new year would end that.” I opened the door to the horse stall and recovered Kellan’s hat. Or at least most of it. “I’ll give this a wash and Mom can stitch it back up for you. She’s brought her machine over and set up a studio in the best suite.”
His smile vanished. “Is Dahlia living here now?”
“The inn is under subtle siege. She’s moving things in bit by bit till I call her on it. And I will, when there are guests in need of that suite. For the moment, I don’t mind that much because Jilly has a calming influence on her and Daisy and Poppy are here a lot, too. Many hands make light work with Mom.”
He laughed in apparent relief and slung his arm around me. “I’d better go. There are many miles of paperwork to walk before I sleep. Seeing you for a few minutes will make that more bearable.”
“Seeing you makes everything more bearable,” I said, walking him out to the police SUV.
Offering affection so freely still made me feel dreadfully exposed but it was getting easier. Hiding my emotions was a skill I’d honed since childhood and made me the grim reaper of HR I became. But I could and would change. Ordeal School was making short work of what I thought to be immutable. Well, that and my animals. Full ark, full heart.
He opened the door and started the SUV. Then he got back out to give me a kiss that chased the last of the icy pond’s chill from my toes.
I stood grinning in the headlights as he slid behind the wheel again. That grin turned to laughter as something bright and fluffy landed on his shoulders and he gave a little man-shriek.
“You can get good help,” I said, taking the cat he handed over. “But sometimes they don’t know when to stop.”
“Sleep well,” he said, closing the door. “Dream about staying out of trouble.”
I laughed again. “That is a nice dream.”
Chapter Twelve
Kellan’s headlights merged with another car’s as it drove up the lane. I thought it might be Asher coming to check on Jilly because it was late to be anyone other than family.
A sedan pulled up to the spot Kellan had just left and the window rolled down.
“Mayor Martingale! What a surprise.”
“A welcome one, I hope.” Poking her meticulously highlighted head out the window, she greeted Percy and then Keats when he trotted over from the barn. The white tuft of his tail waved a warm welcome.
“Keats speaks for me,” I said. “We missed you after Christmas.”
The mayor and her husband, as well as her brother and his family, had stayed for several days over the holiday and we’d had a wonderful time.
“You can expect a reunion every
year,” she said. “My niece can’t stop talking about you.”
“How’s it going with the puppy?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen that kid happier. You did a good thing in making that happen, Ivy.”
I smiled. Of all the good things I’d done or tried to do since my homecoming, connecting that teen with a dog was the easiest and most joyful. “She’s a great kid. I can’t wait to see her again.”
“She’s angling to come back sooner now that Faraway Farm is shooting here.”
“Was shooting here. It was short-lived.” I closed my eyes. “Poor choice of words. I’m exhausted.”
“Not surprising. I was impressed by what you did today.”
“You already heard?”
“Heard and saw.”
“Saw? How?”
She pulled her phone out of her purse and then cued something up. Holding the phone out, she let me watch myself walk into a pond while my dog threw back his head and howled. The sound was off but Keats still cocked his head and stared with his eerie blue eye.
“The network emailed the footage during our call today,” she said. “Obviously they’re very concerned about what happened to Vivian Crane.”
“We all are,” I said. “That’s why Chief Harper was just here.”
She lowered the phone and grinned. “I saw he was resuscitating you. It seemed like overkill, since the video showed you making your way out of the pond under your own steam.”
“Very funny.” A flush lit up my body in a not unwelcome wave of heat. “It’s not against the law for the chief to kiss his girlfriend after a long hard day. Especially when she’s had a long hard day, too.”
“Relax, Ivy, I’m just teasing. Obviously you scored some major points by trying to find Vivian when her crew refused. The network is going to contact you directly to apologize.”
“No need,” I said. “Most people would have done the same.”
The mayor laughed. “It sounds like you actually believe that.”
“It’s what I want to believe. Most people in my circle would have tried. It’s such a shame I was too late.” I scuffed at the snow with one boot. “Such a shame I left her alone for a few minutes while I looked for Wilma. My pig. It sounds like they may have had an altercation.”
“I heard about the gloves,” Mayor Martingale said. “But Chief Harper is confident the autopsy will show Wilma isn’t to blame.”
“I sure hope so,” I said. “I mean… I’m sorry about what happened, but I don’t want my pig to be responsible.”
“Either way, Wilma’s going to be on the hook until the matter is resolved,” the mayor said.
“Why? You said it’s not her fault.”
She dropped the phone into her purse and ran her hand through her hair. It fell right back into place because she had the perfect cut, especially for a politician. Somehow, it was easier to trust someone with perfect hair. It suggested they weren’t tossed around by the winds or the ponds the rest of us faced. She had things locked down.
“I’ll be honest because you deserve that from me,” she said. “I need a scapegoat, Ivy. Or in this case, a scape-pig. Two men were murdered in Clover Grove just six weeks ago, and others before that. The townspeople are understandably rattled. As their leader, I need to keep them calm, and if they believe there’s another murderer at large, it’s an uphill battle.”
“A rogue pig is easier?”
“Of course. We’re country folk. Rogue animals are common enough. You can defend yourself against a crazed animal better than a crazed human.”
My breath came out in short gusts that gave away my nerves. “If someone shoots my pig, Mayor, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“No one will shoot your pig. I will convey the message loud and clear that she is to be found and delivered safely into your hands. There will be a very good reward.”
I switched to yoga breathing—in for four, out for four. Keats had positioned himself with his ears in easy reach and I availed myself of them now. “Mayor, that’s all well and good, but I’ll become the scapegoat. The scape-farmer. People will talk about how my loose pig—the one I couldn’t control—killed a TV star.”
Now she blew out a steamy sigh. “I know, and I’m sorry, but you know well that they already talk. It’s just one more story to add to your already thick file.”
“That’s not fair!”
“It most certainly isn’t,” she said. “Not when you’ve done so much to resolve crime in this area. You’ve put your own life on the line time and again—so often that I’ve put your name forward for a good citizenship award. That will help with public perceptions, I’m sure.”
“No one cares about things like that. They’d rather believe negative press.”
“Give me a little credit for understanding how human nature works, Ivy. And understanding this town. I’ve lived here a long time.”
“I know. With all due respect, stories like this will affect my livelihood. People won’t come to the inn if they think they’ll be next to die under Wilma.”
“They will, though. How many guests have I sent you in recent weeks?”
“A dozen or so. And thank you.”
“I’ve recommended Runaway Inn to several upcoming meetings and conventions. A year from now you’ll be turning guests away.”
“That seems too good to be true from where I stand now,” I said. “And a year’s a long time to live on hope.”
“Well, there is a faster way…” Her eyes sharpened in the reflection from the dashboard. “If you’re open to it.”
Keats mumbled a warning and I felt the reverberation through my fingertips.
“I’m open to any of your ideas,” I said. “As long as they don’t involve that TV show.”
“Ivy, I’m sure you can see how much it would help your inn—your animals—if you said yes to the network. It wouldn’t take much work on your end.” She gestured behind her. “They can move the sign to your lane. Faraway Farm. It has a lovely alliteration and that’s exactly what you should do: get as far away from your reputation as you can. This show will completely rebuild you in the public’s perception.”
My laugh came out as a harsh bray somewhat reminiscent of Bocelli the donkey. “Again, with all due respect, it feels like this has more to do with politics than my farm. The show could bring business to Clover Grove, I’m sure. It would put us on the map and help us compete with Dorset Hills for tourist dollars.”
She shrugged. “It’s all politics. You know that. I’m sure it was also true in your corporate life.”
“Which I left, after having the soul sucked out of me.”
“Your soul is very much intact and the animals here are the proof of it. Look at that dog. He’d do anything for you.” Her white teeth flashed and I realized she’d gotten veneers since being elected. “Even star in a TV show. Keats is already a celebrity and the network is willing to pay him a regular actor’s wages. Think about what the money could do to maintain this ark of yours.”
“It’s not about money.”
“It’s always about money,” she said. “One way or the other. Money and politics. Politics and money. The key is finding a balance between them you can live with.”
“That’s not in my personal equation. Rescuing Keats forced me to take stock of my life and I ended up here, working with animals. Shoveling manure. Saving the odd life if I can. My philosophy, what I truly believe at my core, is that my service and integrity will carry me through without having to compromise my integrity.”
She gave me a pitying look. “That’s naïve, Ivy.”
“No one’s called me naïve in a long time, Mayor.”
I snapped my fingers at Percy, who was crouching to make a leap at the mayor’s window. Tempting as it was, I didn’t want him to deliver one of his special 10-claw scalp massages as he landed. The mayor was doing what she thought was best for the town, no matter the cost to me. That’s what got her elected. But I didn’t need to go along for that ride. There
were other ways to make Clover Grove great that didn’t involve reality TV.
“Let’s talk more tomorrow,” she said.
“Thanks for coming by. I’ll be back hunting for Wilma tomorrow.”
“Just think about what I said. And in the meantime, if there’s anything you and your Dream Team can do to resolve the situation with Vivian, you’d have town council’s gratitude.”
“The chief of police has that well in hand, I’m sure,” I said.
“I wish I could trust him as you do. I have more faith in Keats, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t say that. Kellan is wonderful at his job.”
“Spoken like a woman defending her boyfriend. If you believed that, you wouldn’t interfere with his cases.”
Keats moved into position under my hand again and infused me with enough calming energy to see she was manipulating me. Normally I wouldn’t need my dog to show me that, but the relationship complexities were still fairly new territory.
“Mayor Martingale, it sounds like you don’t know me at all. I interfere because I want to. Keats and Percy and I have an insatiable curiosity and energy to burn.” I smiled down at the dog. “All that said, I have complete faith in Chief Harper. He just gets answers in different ways—ways that don’t jeopardize the public as mine might. At least, that’s what he tells me.”
She put the car in gear and started rolling backward. “Try putting that curiosity to work for Vivian. For the town. You have my full support.”
If I had her full support, she wouldn’t be scapegoating my pig or me. But I wasn’t surprised. My naïveté about how the world worked vanished long ago. Sometimes it seemed like I was born jaded and the only things reversing that were Keats and the farm. Salvation could be found in manure and the producers of it.
“Bye now,” I called. “I’m going back to my dung heap.”
“Oh, Ivy,” she called back. “You’ll need to watch what you say if you hope to last on that show.”
“Careful,” I called. “There’s a—”
