Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  “The horses,” Mr. Darby said.

  “Oh, horses!” Caroline exclaimed. “Such noble animals.”

  Even a stranger could tell the difference in Mr. Darby’s expression now.

  “We have twelve black Frisians,” he said. “Magnificent animals. Would you like to see them?”

  “Oh, could we?” Caroline asked. “That would be a wonderful start for our tour!”

  Mr. Darby nodded, and we followed him to the center barn. Like the other two, its exterior was painted a flat, medium gray with glossy black woodwork. It might be sophisticated, but it wasn’t the most cheerful color scheme in the world. Mr. Darby began pointing out something about the structure of the barns that he thought we’d find interesting.

  “Meg?”

  I turned to see Rob scuttling out of the goat barn.

  “She’s in there,” he said, pointing behind him. “Ordering Sammy and Horace around. I should probably leave before she sees me. I wouldn’t have volunteered if I’d known she would be hanging around all the time.”

  “You and me both. Look, why don’t you serve as gatekeeper?” I fished around in my tote and pulled out a copy of the volunteer list. “Given what happened to her dog, Mrs. Winkleson is even less willing than usual to leave her gate open. So go down there right now. Call up to the house and tell whoever answers— it won’t be her, obviously— that you’re on duty and they can leave the gates open. If anyone on this list wants to come in, let them. Anyone else shows up, call me to ask if it’s okay.”

  He hesitated.

  “It’s about as far from Mrs. Winkleson as you can get,” I added. “She never condescends to go down to the gate. Why would she, when she has an intercom?”

  “Okay.” He took the list and hurried over to his car. Well, it was a quarter of a mile, and he did need someplace to shelter if the rain got intense.

  “And if anyone shows up to help with the search for Mimi, that’s okay, but take their names.”

  “Roger,” he called, as he pulled out.

  He was already out of sight by the time it occurred to me to ask him to take Spike with him. Ah, well. Since Spike tended to erupt into frantic barking at the sight or smell of another dog, he could be my secret weapon for finding Mimi. If she was out here.

  I caught up with Caroline and my grandfather just as Mr. Darby opened the door to the horse barn wide enough for them to enter. A blast of arctic air greeted us.

  “Damn,” Mr. Darby said. “She’s been in the barns again.”

  The interior of this barn appeared to be painted completely black. All I could see were a few gleams where various bits of metal reflected the light from the door. Then Mr. Darby flipped the light switch and we could see again.

  Half a dozen glossy black horse heads appeared over stall doors, and several of the animals whickered. Mr. Darby set down the bucket he’d been carrying, strode over to a thermostat on the wall, and adjusted the temperature.

  “I gather the Frisian is not an arctic breed,” I said, shivering slightly.

  “Keeps turning the thermostat down to what she likes,” Mr. Darby muttered. “She’ll give the poor things pneumonia one of these days. Grab a couple of those horse blankets, will you?”

  Dr. Blake was scribbling in his notebook. I handed him Spike’s leash and went to fetch the horse blankets— thick, wool blankets in a subdued black and gray plaid.

  “I gather they’re stabled here for safety, with so many strange people coming and going,” Dr. Blake said.

  Mr. Darby was slipping inside the first stall.

  “Actually, it’s more because of the weather today,” he said. “They catch cold easily.”

  “Let’s hope tomorrow’s a sunny day, then,” Caroline said. “So the rose show attendees can see the horses running free in their pasture.”

  “No chance of that,” Mr. Darby said. “She has me keep them indoors when it’s sunny, too. The sun could bleach out their coats. Hand me a blanket, would you?”

  “Is that bad for the horses?” I asked, as I dutifully passed a horse blanket over the top of the stall door. “Like sunburn for a human?”

  “Horses could care less,” he said. “Bad for her color scheme, though. They don’t bleach out to gray. They turn a sort of rusty red. She hates that.”

  “Don’t you ever let them outside?” Dr. Blake asked. I could hear a note of outrage creeping into his voice, and shot him a warning look. We wouldn’t gain anything by accusing and antagonizing Mr. Darby.

  “At night,” Mr. Darby said. “All night, if they like, as long as the weather’s not bad. It’s quite a sight to see them galloping up and down the pasture under a full moon.”

  He finished fastening the blanket around the first horse, handed it a carrot from his pocket, and left the stall. I followed him to the next stall and handed over another horse blanket when asked. My grandfather was strolling down the line of stalls, peering into each one with an intentness that might have annoyed Mr. Darby if he’d noticed. Fortunately he was too busy blanketing the horses against the artificial winter Mrs. Winkleson had created. Spike scampered along at Dr. Blake’s heels, being rather better behaved than usual. Perhaps he was just entranced by all the fascinating new smells the barn had to offer. I was about to warn Dr. Blake not to let Spike roll in any manure, but then I realized that unless Spike got into a stall immediately after one of the horses had produced some, he probably wasn’t going to have the chance. The barn was cleaner than most of my house. Did Mr. Darby do it all, or did he have an army of stable boys hidden out of sight somewhere?

  In spite of the presence of the horses, the barn seemed more of a show place than a place where animals really lived and breathed. Maybe it was the absence of the usual clutter of bridles, combs, buckets, pitchforks, horse medicines, and other equine paraphernalia. All those things were probably here, hidden behind the pristine, glossy-black doors of the cabinets built into the walls at intervals, but I was too busy to grab one of the black wrought-iron cabinet handles and see. Luckily, Caroline was trailing behind, poking into all of them.

  “Domestic animals aren’t my specialty,” Dr. Blake said, as we were finishing up the last horse. “Is this business of keeping them indoors all day typical?”

  “Typical?” Mr. Darby said. “No. Silly, but not unheard of. She’s not the only horse own er who worries more about frivolities like color than essentials, like proper feed and medical care. But at least she doesn’t nickel and dime me on what they need. As long as the horses are still coal black and beautiful, she could care less what she spends on them. I can get the best feed, have Dr. Rutledge out as often as they need him. When we found some jimson weed in their pasture, she let me call a service in to clear it up. She’s peculiar as all get-out, but not stingy.”

  “That’s good,” my grandfather said. “And you certainly have a first-rate barn.”

  Mr. Darby nodded.

  “If I could just keep her away from the thermostat, I could rest easy about the horses,” he said.

  Just about the horses? Did that mean there were other animals he didn’t rest easy about? I could tell from the look on his face that my grandfather wanted to ask the same question.

  “So you have to work hard to keep the horses from getting pneumonia,” Dr. Blake said, finally. “Any worries about the other animals?”

  Mr. Darby scowled.

  “Tell you the truth, I wish to hell I could keep her away from the goats.”

  “Away from the goats?” I repeated. “What’s she doing to them?”

  Mr. Darby sighed.

  “Long story,” he said. “Easier if I show you.”

  He led the way back to the other end of the barn, retrieved his bucket, and went out into the courtyard again. Caroline strolled along beside him and was peppering him with questions about the horses. I reclaimed Spike from my grandfather and fell into step beside him. We seemed to be going the long way around. Why not just walk through the goat barn, instead of circumnavigating it? But perha
ps he was trying to stay out of Horace and Sammy’s way. Or, for that matter, away from Mrs. Winkleson.

  As we walked, I gave Rob a quick call.

  “Everything okay out at the gate?” I asked.

  “Everything’s great,” he said. “Nothing out here but black sheep. I feel right at home. Oh, here comes the first car. Oops, false alarm. It’s just the stalker again.”

  “Stalker?”

  “Some guy who came by and slowed down as if he was going to turn in, and then when I stepped out to greet him, he sped up again and went on. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he didn’t just do the same thing on his way back.”

  “Maybe he’s one of my volunteers,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

  “Middle-aged white guy in a blue Lexus. Got a really long nose, like Pinocchio after he’s told a few whoppers.”

  That didn’t ring a bell, but I didn’t know all the rose growers that well, much less their vehicles.

  “Just make sure no one gets in unless they’re on the list or cleared with me,” I said. “And if the stalker comes by again, try to get the license plate. Remember, there’s been a dognapping and—”

  “I know, I know. I tried to read the license plate when he came by just now, but it was so caked with mud I couldn’t. But if you like, I’ll call the chief.”

  “Do that,” I said.

  “Roger.”

  I breathed a little easier.

  “This is the way to the goats?” Dr. Blake was asking Mr. Darby. He sounded a little impatient.

  “Some of ’em, yes,” Mr. Darby said. “Yesterday we moved the rest to another pasture for the weekend, so your flower show could use their barn. Same with the cows. Left a few down here for show and took the rest up where they won’t be in anyone’s way.”

  “Is it a problem, them not having the barn for shelter?” Caroline asked.

  “There’s a shed over there they can use for shelter if the rain gets heavy.” He pointed to a weathered gray structure in the distance. “Almost as good as the barn for them,” he said.

  “Almost,” I repeated. “But not quite. Sorry we’re inconveniencing you and them. In fact, if now’s a bad time, we could look at the goats later.” Actually, I was less worried about Mr. Darby’s time than about what could be happening back in the barn where my volunteers were supposed to be setting up for the show. Had I left them alone too long? Of course, Sammy and Horace, the only volunteers on hand at the moment, were fairly reliable, but how were they coping with Mrs. Winkleson chivvying them? Then again, now was a better time to help Dr. Blake and Caroline— and make my small contribution to the search for Mimi— than later, when things got busier.

  “No problem,” Mr. Darby said. “Today’s not such a busy day.” Was he implying that yesterday, when he’d had to move the cows and goats out of our way, was? Or that tomorrow, with the hordes of people, would be? Or was I just too ready to read reproach into his melancholy tone? And was it just melancholy or was there a little anxiety as well? Was there something about the goats he didn’t want us to see? No, he didn’t sound defensive or angry. Just sad. After several weeks of talking to him about various rose show-related problems, I wasn’t sure if sad was his most common mood or his whole personality.

  “So how many goats do you have?” my grandfather asked.

  “Twenty-three in this pasture,” Mr. Darby said. “And—”

  The handle of the bucket clinked just then, and Spike began barking furiously at it.

  “Hush,” I said. Spike subsided into soft growls. I watched Spike closely, but he seemed to be focused on the bucket, and not anything else in the vicinity.

  “You might want to keep him away from the goats,” Mr. Darby said, as we neared the fence. Ahead, I could see a pasture, with half a dozen shaggy black-and-white goats peering expectantly through the fence, as if waiting for dinner.

  “He’s on a leash,” I said. I tightened my grip on the loop, just in case. “And his bark is really worse than his bite. Or were you worried that they might trample him?”

  “Not really,” Mr. Darby said. “Actually—”

  Spike lunged forward as far as the leash would permit and erupted into a frenzy of short, sharp barks. His bark was remarkably deep for an eight-and-a-half-pound furball.

  When they heard him, the half dozen goats loitering near the fence turned as if to run. Then all but one keeled over as if an invisible bowling ball had slammed into them. They lay on the ground with their legs held rigid and straight out, looking for all the world like wooden toys knocked over by a careless child. The last goat remained upright, but froze in place. I suspected he was as rigid as the others, but had the good luck or good balance to remain upright.

  “Shut up, Spike,” I snapped. “Look what you’ve done.”

  Chapter 11

  Spike actually shut up, as if he was just as startled as I was.

  “Myotonic goats!” my grandfather exclaimed. “Fascinating!”

  He ambled over to the fence and peered down at the prostrate goats with far greater interest than he’d shown when he’d thought they were mere color-coordinated yuppie farm accessories.

  “What’s a myotonic goat?” I asked. I was relieved to see that the goats were coming around, shaking their heads and starting to scramble to their feet. The one who had remained standing started walking, stumbling a bit with the first few steps, but quickly returning to a normal gait.

  “Also known as Tennessee belted fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said. “Or wooden-leg goats.”

  “Or stiff-legged goats,” Caroline put in. “Nervous goats. Sometimes Tennessee scare goats.”

  “Stiff-legged goats is probably the most accurate term,” my grandfather said. Had everybody heard about these goats except me? “They don’t lose consciousness, so they’re not technically fainting.”

  “Then what is happening to them?” I asked. The goats seemed fine, and Mr. Darby didn’t seem particularly upset by what Spike had done to them.

  “They suffer from an hereditary genetic disorder called myotonia congenita,” my grandfather said. “Basically, when startled, their muscles lock up temporarily. If they’re not well balanced at the time, they fall over.”

  “It’s not just being startled that does it,” Mr. Darby said. “Any sudden stimulus. Heck, if I give ’em an especially good feed, half of them will keel over out of sheer joy.”

  “Hasn’t anyone tried to fix this?” I said. “Identify the goats with this genetic defect and keep them out of the gene pool?”

  “On the contrary,” Caroline said. “Some breeders have worked hard to keep the trait in the gene pool.”

  “It’s not considered a defect,” Mr. Darby said. “It’s just a feature of the breed.”

  “A useful feature for sheep herders,” my grandfather said. “A lot of them use these goats to protect their sheep.”

  “Like llamas?” I asked. “But if they faint when startled, how do they scare off predators?”

  “Not like llamas,” my grandfather said. “They don’t scare the predators off. They fall down and get eaten, allowing the more valuable sheep to escape.”

  “The ultimate scapegoat,” Caroline said, shaking her head.

  “That’s horrible,” I said.

  “Presumably predators aren’t a problem for these goats,” Caroline went on. “You don’t have many wolves roaming the Virginia countryside.”

  “More’s the pity,” said my grandfather. “We need more natural predators to keep the deer population down.”

  “No wolves,” Mr. Darby muttered. “Just her.” Meaning, I had no doubt, Mrs. Winkleson.

  He leaned over to pour the contents of his bucket into a trough just inside the fence. Five of the goats scampered toward the trough, while one keeled over, possibly startled by the clanking sound the bucket made hitting the trough. From farther off, we could see other black-and-white forms headed our way.

  Spike wasn’t reacting, just watching the goats. I deduced that i
t was only goats he could smell, not another dog.

  “You don’t just let them forage the landscape for their food?” my grandfather asked.

  “Most of it,” Mr. Darby said. “But I give ’em a little feed once a day with a specially mixed vitamin and mineral supplement. Makes up for any soil deficiencies. It’s what Dr. Rutledge recommends.”

  Dr. Blake nodded, and I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t finding anything to disapprove of in Mr. Darby’s care of the goats. If Clarence Rutledge was their vet, they were lucky goats indeed. They certainly looked healthy as they jostled and butted each other to get a good share of the feed. Another one keeled over suddenly, for no apparent reason, but kept on chewing for the whole ten or fifteen seconds it took him to come to and reclaim his place at the trough.

  Maybe Mr. Darby’s lugubrious expression wasn’t due to any problems here at Raven Hill. Maybe he was just a natural Eeyore.

  “I just wish she wouldn’t keep selling off so many of the kids,” Mr. Darby said suddenly, as if he’d been trying to hold the words back and finally couldn’t. “She inspects every single one born, and if they don’t meet her standards, off they go.”

  “Her standard being that they have to be pure black and white?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Off they go where?” my grandfather asked, snapping to attention again.

  “We’ve got a back pasture that’s not technically part of the farm,” Mr. Darby said. “If a kid has even a touch of any color but black and white, we take the doe and kid both up to the back pasture, and once the kid’s old enough to leave the mother, we sell it. Good market for registered fainting goats these days. Same with the Belties who aren’t perfect. If the calves don’t have a well-shaped white belt, or if they’ve got white spots anywhere else or black spots in the belt, off they go to the back pasture till they’re old enough to sell.”

  “At least she waits till they’re weaned,” Caroline said.

  “She wouldn’t if Dr. Rutledge hadn’t convinced her it’s bad for the health of the cows and does to have the natural cycle of motherhood interrupted,” Mr. Darby said. “Pretty clever of him.”