I pictured someone’s tabby run amok, but she clarified. “Sometimes mountain lions come down from the hills. It’s sad.”
“Didn’t the dogs raise a fuss?”
“Dunno. Usually they do.”
The lambs had polished off two bottles each and Ramona pushed them away, their fat little tummies bulging. “Enough for now,” she said. “Off you go.”
We gathered the empty bottles. “Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “Sorry I couldn’t offer you a more proper welcome. Just can’t put off these little ones when they’re hungry.”
We walked up a rocky path from the corral to the house, an unpainted wood and stone structure nestled into a curve in the rocky hillside. A small garden area contained some well developed vegetables—tomatoes, beans, and the leafy tops of potato plants—but the flower beds near the cottage were filled only with the bare sticks of last year’s annuals.
“I’ve still got some coffee,” Ramona said. “We could sit a minute and have a cup.”
Inside, the cottage consisted of a main room with a combined living and kitchen area. Doors on the far wall presumably led to bedroom and bathroom. The cottage’s dominant feature was a stone fireplace on the wall opposite the front door. Its opening was nearly large enough to garage a compact car. A battered coal scuttle sat to one side and an unruly pile of logs graced the other.
The living area contained an oak-framed sofa whose faded frame looked like it had been out in the weather for a few seasons before being brought back into service. The nubby gray fabric on the cushions showed snags and a couple of rips large enough for white stuffing to poke through. A wooden end table made of logs, a small television set, and a floor lamp with a fringed 1940s-era shade were the only other furnishings, if you didn’t count the stack of magazines that held an egg-smeared plate and a dirty coffee mug.
On the kitchen side of the room, there was a folding card table with two chairs. Built-ins consisted of a metal one-piece cabinet with sink and a tiny four-burner stove. A slope-shouldered refrigerator hummed noisily in the corner. On the plus side, a window above the sink gave an unbroken view of the spectacular Highland countryside. The odor of burnt coffee filled the room.
“Oh, no,” Ramona exclaimed. “Guess I left this on.” She pulled a metal coffeepot from one of the stove burners. A low gas flame glowed bluely. She turned, embarrassed. “Sorry. Maybe some tea, then?”
I sensed that my accepting a cup of tea would be important to her, after the disaster with the coffee. “Sure. That would be nice.”
“The place comes furnished,” she explained in answer to my unasked question. “We really do have nicer stuff than this at home. But when you’re renting only for a summer, it hardly seems worth the bother to bring a lot.”
She rummaged through pans under the kitchen sink and came up with a small kettle.
“Where’s home?” I asked, trying to stay on neutral ground.
“Near Aberdeen. We live with Ian’s parents. They’ve got a few acres and a guest house out back. We’ve got that. But Ian’s father runs his own sheep on his land and it’s not really enough to support ours too. We’ll do a season here, then sell them in the fall.”
“Oh, I’ve only got tea bags,” she apologized. “Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s all I ever do at home,” I answered truthfully. “Most Americans probably can’t tell the difference.”
She pulled out two mugs, inspected them for cleanliness and took two bags from a canister that I noticed was otherwise nearly empty. I turned away, pretending to admire the stonework on the fireplace, while she put water on to boil and discreetly stacked the dirty dishes that had covered the table.
“So what part of America are you from?” she asked, working to keep a conversation going.
I told her a bit about New Mexico and Albuquerque. I didn’t mention the private investigation business. “My husband and I are here to do some helicopter work for a friend who’s—”
The door opened abruptly and Ian walked in, stomping his boots on the stone step outside first.
“Oh, hello,” he said, startled at finding me in his house.
“Ian, you’ve met Charlie,” Ramona said.
“Yes. We’ve met.” He leaned his shepherd’s crook against the wall.
“We’re about to have tea,” she said. “Will you have some too?”
He pulled back his sleeve and stared at his watch. “We’ve got the show in thirty minutes.”
“Heavens, is it that late already?”
“Twelve. Is there any lunch?” His tone was surly and I felt immediate tension in the room.
“Hey, I didn’t realize it was that late, either,” I hastily interjected. “I better get going.”
“Oh, Charlie, don’t go yet,” Ramona insisted. “Stay for the show. Ian’s a wonder with the dogs.”
I glanced toward him but he had his back to me. Ramona made a dismissive gesture. To him, she said, “Your lunch is in the fridge. I wrapped your sandwich in foil.”
“I should go,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Charlie. Would you like some lunch?”
“No, no. I had a big breakfast late.” It wasn’t true but I didn’t want to put her on the spot and there was no way I’d intrude upon their rather meager supplies.
Ramona took my arm and we walked out the door together. “Charlie, don’t mind Ian. He’s always a bear before he gets fed. And he’s got a lot on his mind recently.” We walked between a dozen or so black and white collies who lay on the ground around the front of the cottage. They all took up the same position—head on paws, nose pointed at the door. Ramona slowed her pace once we’d cleared the dogs. “I need to put out some food for the puppies,” she said. “Come along.”
I followed her into the barn where large plastic bins lined one wall. She raised the lid on one and scooped dry dog food into a flat metal pan. Six puppies wiggled through cracks in the walls at the sound of the food hitting their dish.
“Just a minute.” She laughed at them, then carried the dog food to a five-gallon bucket and dipped milk from it, covering the dry food and swirling the pan until the mixture was evenly distributed.
I watched in amazement as she held the pan at waist level and issued a command. “Puppies, sit!” The pups spread apart and six little bottoms went to the ground. Their bright eyes stared at Ramona as she slowly lowered the pan to the ground in their midst. Their heads followed the progress of the meal and the instant the dish hit the dirt they were all over it.
“They’re not the neatest with their table manners.” Ramona laughed.
Little black and white bodies crawled all over the large pan, into and around it.
“Luckily their mother comes along afterward and licks their bellies and paws clean.”
Sure enough, the mother dog I’d noticed earlier was hovering at the edge of the barn, waiting and watching.
“Oh, I think I heard a car. Watch the pups awhile longer if you’d like.” Ramona wiped her hands on her slender denim legs and headed toward the door.
Through the opening, I could see a family of four emerging from a small car. Within minutes, three more cars had arrived and a small crowd was circulating and petting the dogs, who’d abandoned their post at the cottage. Ramona greeted them all pleasantly and collected money, which I saw her shove into the pockets of her overalls. I glanced at my watch. At precisely twelve-thirty, Ian emerged from the cottage and walked down the long drive to the area where the cars had parked. His countenance had changed considerably over the past half hour.
“Good day, everyone,” he greeted. “Now if you’ll come just over here, we’ll get started.”
I left the barn and joined Ramona. “How much is the show admission?” I asked, reaching into a pocket where I’d stashed some money.
“Oh, stay, Charlie. It’s on the house for you.”
“No. If everyone else is paying, I will too”
“Charlie, I insist. It’s not often we have a friend over. P
lease stay.” I knew a further argument about payment would insult her, so I smiled acceptance and followed her in the direction Ian had led the others.
We stood at the back of the group, who had all taken seats on the sizeable rocks that lined the driveway. Ian stood about twenty yards away, shepherd’s crook at attention, five adult dogs pacing the area with their eyes always on him.
“Each of the dogs has his own set of commands,” Ian announced to the crowd after welcoming everyone. “I use whistles to single out the dog I want. He’ll come to attention then I’ll give him the command to go where I want him. Like this.”
He called out a dog’s name, then whistled a short chirpy sound. One of the dogs, who’d been up in the rocks near the spectators, dashed down the short hill and came to Ian’s side. He gave another whistle, three quick chirps, and the dog raced across the open pasture to a flock of twenty or thirty sheep who were grazing about two hundred yards away. The dog circled the sheep until they gathered together in a neat little bunch.
“With each different whistle command, I can make the dog do what I want him to,” Ian announced. “For instance, he’ll circle to the right.” Chirp-chirp.
The dog circled the flock, going to his right around them. Ian produced a different whistle sound, a three-toned ooh-ooh-ee, and the dog changed direction and circled to the left. One quick chirp and the dog stopped in his tracks and lay down.
“I’ll have him bring the flock to me,” Ian said. A two-toned ee-ooh and the dog was up again, maneuvering the twenty sheep across the pasture to Ian. When they reached the patch of beaten earth where he stood, the dog backed away and the sheep stopped.
“Now we’ll have two dogs take them back.” He shouted the names of two other dogs and they came to attention. Again, a series of whistles brought them circling the sheep and the flock retreated about a hundred yards until Ian whistled the dogs to gather them into a bunch.
I looked around at the faces of the audience. All registered amazement as Ian continued to put the dogs through several series of moves. He called up one of the pups we’d just been feeding.
“This pup is fifteen weeks old. He’s been in training since he was four weeks,” Ian told the group. “He can’t work with full-grown sheep yet, but he’s learning his commands.”
He whistled for the pup to run out to the flock and return, which the little guy did admirably before Ian commanded him to lie down with the other grown dogs. Then he ordered one of the two dogs who were still guarding the flock to bring a single sheep to him.
“The Scottish Blackface is mostly raised for its wool,” he said. He grabbed the sheep unceremoniously, wrapping his arm around its chest and plopping it into a sitting position. With Ian’s strong arm under its armpits, so to speak, the sheep went nearly limp and Ian picked up a pair of shears and proceeded to shear about half its body with a few deft moves.
“Anyone else want to give this a try?” he asked, looking out into the crowd.
We all became suddenly shy, no one wanting to be the guinea pig for something we all knew must be much harder than it looked when Ian did it. When no one stepped forward, he quickly finished the clipping and released the sheep. He balled up the wool, which had come off the animal as one neat pelt, and tossed it onto the ground.
“Selling wool has become a losing proposition for us here in Scotland,” Ian said. “The government dictates the price we can get. My cost to raise a sheep, feed it, shear it, and ship the wool is higher than the price I sell it for. A lot of shepherds have been in the business for generations, but are having to get out now.” Sparks flared in his eyes and I could tell he was just getting warmed up on the subject.
I glanced toward Ramona and caught the quick head-shake she sent toward Ian. Don’t preach, she seemed to be warning him.
“All right, folks,” her perky voice said. “Come with me to the fenced area. We have some other demonstrations and you can feed some of the animals if you’d like.”
Everyone scrambled off their rock seats and followed her, glad to avoid the sermon they’d nearly received. I lingered, watching Ian pick up his tools and the ball of wool. He stomped off toward the barn while the crowd trailed behind Ramona.
This was the second angry outburst I’d heard from Ian on the subject of the government’s unfairness toward the sheep industry. Perhaps the third considering his voice was probably one of those I’d heard outside our window Tuesday morning. Did that anger extend to a personal vendetta against one member of the Scottish parliament—Robert Dunbar?
Chapter 11
Ian appeared to have shed his anger once again when he came out of the barn and joined the tourists. I stood by for a little while as he demonstrated how the youngest puppies are taught herding techniques using ducks. I had to laugh as I watched some of the little collies work around ducks that were larger than themselves.
Ramona mingled among the visitors, smiling and chatting, making up for some of Ian’s taciturn ways. I caught up with her during a free moment. It looked like the tourists would be staying awhile. I decided I’d question Ian another time about being at the edge of the woods during the fire in the crofter’s hut.
“I better be getting home,” I told Ramona. “Tell Ian I really enjoyed the dog show. And do plan to come over to our place for a visit sometime.”
“Sure, Charlie, I will.”
Drake was still out when I returned to the cottage and I realized this was the first afternoon I’d had to myself in a couple of weeks. I stretched out on the sofa with the clan book Sarah had loaned me. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed and began taking notes on the Davidson Clan history. Somewhere around four o’clock I must have dozed off because I came awake with a start when Drake opened the door at six.
“Hey, what’s this?” he teased. “Sleeping on the job?”
“Um . . . no job for me today. I’ve taken a lazy afternoon off.” I stretched and pulled myself off the sofa. “How about you? Did everything go okay at the airport?”
“I stayed in and made phone calls. We didn’t have any flights scheduled out to the rig, luckily.”
“Any word on Meggie?” I asked as I opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of White Zinfandel we’d opened a couple of days earlier.
“She’s back at home, with her mother fussing over her. The doctors told her she had a mild concussion. They kept her overnight and let her out first thing this morning.”
“They weren’t worried about that long period of unconsciousness?” I asked, pouring two glasses of wine.
“I asked her that. Apparently the doctors didn’t think she’d probably been out that long. We may have come back right after the intruder left.”
We raised our glasses in a quick toast. I tried vainly to remember every detail about the Air-Sea offices when we’d come in from our own eventful flight. Had there been any strange cars around? Anyone who didn’t belong, lurking? I just couldn’t pull up an image.
“Anyway,” he said, “Meggie should be back at work in another day or two. Brian had called her and talked her into not quitting her job.”
I scanned the contents of the refrigerator for dinner ideas while we talked. “Are we both flying tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan. We’ll take both ships and keep an eye on each other.” He watched as I took a couple of chicken breasts out and stirred up a marinade for them.
Thirty minutes later, over dinner, I filled him in on my day with Ian and Ramona Brodie. We also mapped out our flight plans for the next day, then went to bed early.
By ten o’clock the next morning, my JetRanger was tracking about a quarter mile behind Drake in the Astar as we approached Platform 14. A total of ten rig workers rode with us, all genial fellows as far as I could tell when we’d picked them up at their dockside offices an hour earlier. I didn’t get any sense of the hostility that pervaded the atmosphere on Platform 6 a couple of days ago.
Drake set his craft down at the far edge of the landing pad, leaving t
he more sheltered section for me. I guided the JetRanger into its spot and set the skids gently on the concrete pad. My passengers waited expectantly for the thumbs-up before opening any of the doors, and I gave the signal as soon as I’d repeated instructions for correctly releasing the sometimes tricky latches.
The crew chief for this platform was a short, stocky man with a florid face and a dark fringe of hair showing beneath the rim of his hard hat. Two deep furrows between his black eyebrows testified that he was permanently mad about something. I wondered if the union problems at the other rigs extended to this one as well. I couldn’t see why not. I braced myself as he stomped toward my door, clipboard under one arm, hard hat butting the air as if he were a human battering ram.
He looked up at the same moment I opened my door. “Girl pilot, eh? All right. Manifest for the return.” His gravelly voice came from somewhere deep inside his compact body, probably about in the region of his navel. Each sentence came out as a short bark, the way a Rottweiler would sound if he spoke English.
He shoved a sheet of paper into my hands and backed away, his eyes on the rotor blades, which dipped lower as they slowly wound down. I watched him circle at a respectful distance and walk toward Drake’s aircraft with a similar list in hand.
I pulled gently at the rotor brake and locked down my controls. Stepping out of the aircraft, I looked around at the rig. Everything appeared to be business as usual. No malevolent stares, no brandishing of weapons. None of the crew seemed to give us a second glance. So, was this a non-union rig or had these guys not yet received the word that they were at war with us?
Nevertheless, Drake and I took turns stepping inside for bathroom breaks while the other stayed outside, puttering around nonchalantly but keeping vigilant. Finally, our returnees were ready and we loaded up for the return trip. We had two more of these crew changes to do today, ferrying men from shore to the rigs and those coming off their shifts back home. A certain number of men rotated in and out each day, to keep continuity, but there were a couple of days of the week when the traffic was extra heavy and required both our aircraft.
Competition Can Be Murder Page 6
