by Ellen Riggs
“I won’t claim to speak cat fluently,” Cori said. “But I know that Keats not only respects that cat, he also likes him. I’d go so far as to say they have a common purpose.”
Keats ignored my warning and made a faux rush at Percy. I expected a scream from Evie but she stood at exactly the right moment for the cat to drop to the soil. Percy shot off like a rocket with the dog in pursuit.
“And that common purpose is chaos?” I asked.
Cori beckoned her friends and then shook her head. “I’m not going to spoon-feed you, Ivy. Hannah picked you to run her farm because you’re supposed to be some kind of genius, with a genius dog. Now you also have a genius cat. Put your ego aside and figure it out.”
“Ego! You have some—”
She held up a glove. “I have no ego when it comes to animals. I let them teach me, and mostly you do, too.”
I let my hackles drop. “I guess.”
“Observe. Open your mind.” She led the posse down the trail. “Maybe you’ll stay well ahead of the next murderer.”
“Don’t even say that,” Jilly called after her. “You’re jinxing us.”
“Just saying what we all know,” Cori said. “Ivy’s calling isn’t just the farm… it’s solving crime. The trick is to stay more than one step ahead of the criminals.”
“You got that right,” I said, following her, with Keats and Percy kibitzing around my boots.
“Now we’re speaking the same language,” Cori said, offering a black wool thumbs-up over her shoulder.
Chapter Eight
“Ivy. It’s Mom.”
Normally my mother didn’t bother identifying herself. She knew full well that my phone offered an ominous clash of cymbals whenever she called. It was the best ringtone ever, although it startled the more jittery livestock.
Luckily, she didn’t call often. I had trained her well back in my HR grim reaper days, when I didn’t have time for shenanigans. My thinking was that there were five other siblings to share the conversational load, since I carried most of the financial load of maintaining Mom’s apartment and thrift store needs. Lately, she called more but was usually easily deterred by a casual mention of manure or animal behavior that she found offensive. On the other hand, she could now show up at the farm in person and her visits caused more damage than a simple phone call. I would have to revisit my strategy to take the new circumstances into account.
“I know it’s you, Mom. The cymbals clashed. I heard thunder, too. There’s a storm coming.”
“This is no time for your little jokes, Ivy,” she said. There was something different about her tone. Less cocky. “We need to talk.”
I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Jilly and I had put in a long day after the Rescue Mafia meeting and were planning to crack open a bottle of wine with a late dinner. Jilly was sautéing chicken and vegetables to serve over pasta with some pesto she’d made in a huge batch to freeze. With more time on her hands, she had started putting up preserves like the homesteaders. By spring, she’d have a signature line available to tickle guests’ taste buds and memories long after their stay at the inn.
“It is pretty late, Mom,” I said. “Isn’t it a date night?” I put the phone on speaker so that Jilly could share the pleasure of the jab and parry that characterized my chats with Mom. “Isn’t every night a date night?”
“They do improv at The Tipsy Grape,” Mom said. “Maybe the crowd there would appreciate your wit more than I do.”
Normally Mom enjoyed sparring with me. She said I was the only one of her kids who gave her much of a challenge. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You sound a little edgy.”
“You’d be edgy too if you knew what I found in the salon just now.”
“What are you doing in the salon? It’s nearly ten p.m.”
There was a long sigh at the other end. “I’ve been working hard, Ivy. I care about this venture. A lot.”
I glanced at Jilly and she raised I-told-you-so eyebrows.
“I know you do, Mom, and I think the salon’s going to do great. It isn’t safe to be there that late alone, though.”
I expected an argument—a reminder that Clover Grove wasn’t a den of iniquity like Boston. Instead there was a long pause. Maybe she was considering all the recent threats to my safety, to the farm and even the family. Not long ago they’d called a family meeting to ask me to sell the farm and take up a safer job in town. Luckily that dark cloud passed and no one mentioned it again. They seemed to accept the futility of asking me to give up my passion in life. Nothing would part me from my duty to my animals. It sounded like tempting fate to say that out loud too often, however, so I let stony silence speak for me.
“I shouldn’t have come alone,” Mom said. “You’re absolutely right.”
It wasn’t often I heard those words from my mother. Dahlia Galloway was extremely confident in her own opinions, yet tonight, her voice sounded tentative.
“But you did, and now something’s changed your mind,” I prompted.
“I didn’t intend to, but I was in the neighborhood. I had a date with a new gentleman from Dorset Hills.” She picked up steam. “I use the term ‘gentleman’ loosely because he was anything but. First, he was late. Second, he was extremely handsy for a first date. And third, he expected me to go Dutch on the tab.”
“Unspeakable.” I grinned at Jilly. “Boot him from your rotation immediately, if not sooner.”
“Ivy, have you been drinking?” Mom asked.
“No, but I was about to start. We have a nice bottle of wine here. So if you don’t mind…”
“I do mind. I mind very much.”
Now there was a distinct quaver in her voice. Dahlia Galloway didn’t quaver. Ever. When my dad left her with six young kids to raise on her own, she didn’t quaver. When one of us got into big trouble—usually Poppy—she didn’t quaver. I bet she didn’t even quaver while giving birth. Yet tonight, she was at her new salon quavering. Something was definitely wrong.
“Mom, tell me,” I said, softening my tone. “You went to the salon, and then what happened?”
“I was just going to take some measurements for shelving. We’re expecting a big shipment of product later in the week and there’s no room upstairs. But when I opened the door to the basement, well…”
Her voice drifted off.
“What? You saw a mouse?”
“Worse.” Her voice was muffled, as if she’d covered her mouth with her hand, or one of her many artful scarves. “Much worse.”
“A rat?”
“Worse, Ivy. Much worse.”
“A snake?”
“No, not a snake.” Her voice quavered more. “That would be bad, though.”
“Mom, just tell me. We could play this game all night.”
“You need to come over. Right now.”
“I am not coming over to deal with your vermin issue. That’s why you added a son to your bouquet of daughters. Just because I’m a farmer doesn’t mean I like dealing with pests.”
“But you’re an expert with—uh—problems like this.”
“Problems like what?” There was a note of alarm in my voice and Jilly came over. Keats leaned into my right leg and Percy swished back and forth against my left.
“With… dead things. You’ll know what to do. I know you will.”
I started to pace across the tiles of the large kitchen. Jilly followed me, and Keats followed her, and Percy came last. “Okay, now I’m officially worried, Mom. Tell me exactly what’s died in the salon.”
“It’s so sad, darling. Tragic. I can’t speak of it. Please come over right now.”
I stopped walking and Jilly crashed into me from behind. “Are you… crying?”
There was a pause, as if she were checking. She’d taught all of her girls that crying betrayed weakness, and I became so accomplished at concealing my emotions people joked my tear ducts were stitched shut. Repression was an excellent skill for HR.
“Yes, I think I am cryin
g.” She sounded surprised. “Bring some tissues, darling.”
I went to the door to collect my coat off a hook. “You have tissues. You’re in a salon.”
“Chintzy single ply that will make my eyes puff. I told Iris we need quality tissues.” Her voice sounded a little stronger already. “Jilly, you wouldn’t offer your guests anything less than a three-ply, would you?”
Jilly looked startled at being caught out eavesdropping on the conversation, but she rolled with it, as always. “Dahlia, I’ll bring you the best tissues money can buy. What else do you need?”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re such a dear.” Mom sniffed loudly. “Bring the wine you were about to pour. I think we’re all going to need it.”
Mom was sitting in her barber’s chair in the darkness when I pressed my nose to the glass at Bloomers. She was so still and small that she looked barely more than a child. But when my eyes adjusted, I saw she held her phone in one hand and a straightedge razor in the other.
“What is going on?” I muttered, glancing from Jilly, who shrugged, down to Keats. The dog’s ruff was up and his tail was down, which was the opposite of his normal demeanor when visiting Mom.
“She doesn’t look too fussed,” Jilly said, while I tapped gently on the glass. “I mean, other than the straightedge.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “And Keats does, too. There’s more to worry about here than a dead rat, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no,” Jilly said. “The last thing we all need is more trouble.”
Mom’s teeth showed as she slid out of the chair and walked across the salon. There was a hint of the usual spring in her step, as if she were on her own personal runway. I suppose she was, now. “On the other hand, she’s sort of smiling. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
“You don’t think…?” There was a note of vague horror in Jilly’s voice. “No. That’s crazy.”
“What?” I asked. “Are you worried about her date? The handsy cheapskate?”
My best friend nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry for even raising it.”
“Don’t be. I wondered the same thing. Maybe he followed her here and she… did something desperate.”
“But then she wouldn’t be smiling,” Jilly said, as Mom unlatched the door. “Would she?”
“Mom works in mysterious ways. But so far, the only thing I’ve known her to kill is traffic signage and other obstacles in Buttercup’s path.”
The door cracked open and Mom beckoned us in with her phone, while the straightedge fell to her side and got swallowed in the folds of her A-line blue wool dress. The handsy cheapskate hadn’t earned her signature red and never would.
“Girls, come in,” she said. “Hurry. You, too, Keats.”
Once we were inside, she locked the door behind us and then clicked briskly to the back of the salon. We followed in a single file—me, Jilly and then Keats—just as we had at home, only without Percy, who’d only upset Mom more.
“Mom, out with it. You’ve left us in suspense long enough. I could barely keep Buttercup on the road, I was so flustered.”
“Buttercup can tell when you’re distracted,” Mom said. “The most belligerent car I ever owned. But we put up with so much for beauty, don’t we?”
“Quit stalling, or I’m calling a family meeting on the spot and Daisy can deal with you.”
“No!” The façade dropped away. “I don’t want Daisy to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”
“Please tell me you didn’t slash the handsy cheapskate,” I said.
“What?” She turned to stare at me, and in the dim light at the rear of the salon, her hazel eyes were pools of darkness. “I didn’t slash anyone, Ivy Rose. How could you even think such a thing?”
“Well, you were talking about dead things and you’re holding a straightedge. Forgive me if I put two and two together and mentally murdered your bad date.”
“My date was no gentleman, but as far as I know he’s currently back in Dorset Hills with the dollars he saved.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions like that. There’s been so much trauma recently. Jilly and I both have PTSD.”
“It’s crazy how murder crosses our mind so readily now,” Jilly said. The relief in her voice was obvious, too.
When I looked down at Keats, however, he was still very much on alert. His ears were forward, his ruff up, and his tail stuck straight out, like a bottlebrush. Normally that only happened when there was an imminent threat.
Mom started to walk again and I said, “Wait.” I thought about reaching out and remembered the straightedge. One sudden move and my livestock could be orphaned. “Something is wrong here. Very wrong.”
“I know, darling. That’s what I was trying to tell you on the phone.”
“Keats is worried. We’re in danger.”
Mom raised her blade. “Hence the weapon. But there’s safety in numbers.”
“Dahlia, please,” Jilly said. “My heart can’t handle this kind of stress anymore.”
“I think you two can handle this better than anyone else,” Mom said, flinging open the basement door. “Flashlights, please.”
We all turned on our phone lights in the same instant and aimed them down the stairs. At the bottom someone lay face down in such an awkward position that I knew it was her final resting place even before I saw the gold-handled scissors sticking out of her back.
“Oh no.” My voice was raspy and barely more than a whisper. “You stabbed Portia Parson.”
Chapter Nine
Mom turned on me so fast her light blinded me. “I did no such thing. How dare you suggest I am capable of murder? Again! Once was insulting enough, Ivy.”
“This is the third time, actually,” I said. “Because you keep threatening people.”
“I set boundaries, that’s all.”
“Well, you set a big boundary with Portia and now she’s dead in your salon. Did she come back to get her haircut evened out and fall backward onto your scissors? That would have been a spectacular move.”
“Worthy of an Olympic gymnast,” Jilly whispered.
Keats mumbled something and I looked down at him. His ruff had settled and his tail was at half mast. Whatever the threat, it had passed.
“I have no idea how this happened,” Mom said. “And for the record, our scissors are just where we left them.” She gestured to the two workstations. “Someone came armed, apparently.”
“What did you do after you found Portia?” I asked.
“Like I told you, I came in to measure for shelving. Nothing at all seemed amiss so I moved some boxes around and cleaned for a bit. Then I opened the basement door, flicked on the light and saw… that.”
“Then what did you do?” I asked.
“I turned off all the lights and huddled by the door with my straightedge. Then I called you.”
“Mom, the murderer could still be downstairs. Didn’t you call 911?”
“There’s no one here,” she said. “Look at Keats.”
Even my mom was relying on my dog to assess our safety.
“But there could have been then. And instead, you called me and placed a special order for deluxe tissues.”
She waved one manicured hand. “People react to stress in strange ways. It was clear to me that nothing could be done for Portia by that point. Is it so terrible I wanted you by my side when I confronted this issue?”
“Wouldn’t your police officer son be the better candidate for this particular job?”
“Not when you’re the expert in being wrongly accused of murder,” she said. “And I’m quite sure that Kellan Harper will do just that when you call him. I want you to use your skills to handle him.”
I signalled Jilly to call 911 and turned to stare at my mother. “What skills would those be?”
“It’s a curious mix of human resources and detective work, I suppose,” Mom said. “I have no idea where you got them.” Her smile finally reappeared
. “Also, you have influence over Chief Harper.”
“I can’t stand in the way of him doing his job, Mom.”
She waved again. “Please. You do that all the time. Now you need to do it for me. And for Portia. Whatever her shortcomings—and she had plenty—she didn’t deserve to end up down there.” She gestured to the stairwell with her straightedge. “Like that.”
“Put that thing down right now before someone else gets hurt,” I said. “Like Jilly, Keats or me.”
“Of course.”
She didn’t move, which confirmed my suspicion that she was in shock. “Come and sit down, Mom.”
“I—I don’t think I can. I’m feeling…” Her voice drifted off. Mom had never been terribly in tune with her feelings and now she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what was roiling inside.
“Scared?”
“Maybe. Yes, I suppose so. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“It most certainly does.” I carefully pried her fingers off the straightedge. “I’ve never seen you so rattled. You’re probably in shock.”
“Whoever killed Portia may have been after me, Ivy.”
I carried the blade with two hands as Jilly guided Mom over to the barber chair and eased her into it. It took a pretty firm push to get her seated again. Once she was down, Keats rested his long muzzle on her lap, angled slightly to give her the full benefit of his sympathetic brown eye. His tail fanned gently for the first time since she’d called earlier. Mom’s fingers dropped to his ears and almost instantly her breath evened out.
“I doubt anyone was after you,” I said. “You have your share of detractors, but I’m sure Portia has far more. And no one could have mistaken her for you. She’s twice your size.”
“True.” Her voice sounded stronger. “And that dreadful hair.”
“Made more dreadful by her interrupted haircut after you threatened her.”
She glared at me. “Talk like that isn’t going to get me the justice I deserve, Ivy. This is my salon and Portia was in here after hours. She obviously had her own key because the door was locked when I got here.”
