“I wouldn’t call a place that GPS can’t find ‘prime real estate.’”
“Of course no one would travel that far into the woods for dinner, no matter how great the food is. But they might stay the night. Roxy needs to start a bed and breakfast if she wants to save her business.”
* * *
That night, Morgan settled in on the sofa with Mr. Whiskers. Bernie insisted she didn’t mind Morgan’s extended stay, and Morgan had become convinced that electricity and hot water were not a mere luxury. She and the cat drifted off.
At first, Morgan thought the low-pitched rumbling that woke her was Mr. Whiskers purring in her ear. Then she realized it was her cell phone, set to vibrate. The rock shop’s number showed on the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Morgan, can you call the vet?” Kendall asked. “I think Adelaide is going to drop her foal tonight.”
She tried to dress quietly, but dropped a cowgirl boot on the floor in her excitement. After a brief explanation to a groggy Bernie, Morgan raced up Hill Street in her Buick. David, Jase, Burke, Kendall, and Ned huddled in the square of light cast through the open barn doors. Moments after Morgan parked, Dr. Alvin McCormick’s mobile veterinarian van pulled up.
“I’m glad to see you’re congregating outside,” Alvin said. “A crowd could upset the mother-to-be. She’s in there, I assume?”
“In her stall,” Kendall said. “I latched the gate to she can’t go into the pasture.”
“Good. Morgan, come with me.”
She followed the veterinarian inside. When Adelaide saw Morgan, she huffed a greeting. Dr. McCormick stepped inside the donkey’s stall and gently poked and prodded, giving Adelaide plenty of reassuring pats.
“How is she?” Morgan asked. “Is the foal coming?”
“She’s close,” Dr. McCormick said, “but it’s not happening tonight.”
Morgan reached out to scratch Adelaide’s forehead, but the cranky donkey jerked her head away.
“Don’t take it personally,” Dr. McCormick said.
“I understand,” Morgan said. “I just went through this with my daughter, but at least she could tell us how she felt.”
“Adelaide is telling us in her own way,” the veterinarian said. “Keep her inside the barn so you can keep an eye on her. Otherwise, she could drop her foal in the pasture somewhere. If she gets into trouble, you might not know right away.”
It was like a repeat of her trip to Sioux Falls. Waiting for a baby to arrive.
“I appreciate you coming out here in the middle of the night,” Morgan told Dr. McCormick. “And for a false alarm.”
“Adelaide and Houdini are the Angel Donkeys. A local treasure. Of course I’m going to do all that I can to ensure Adelaide’s birth goes well.”
Morgan walked outside to deliver the news.
“What’s going on?” Kendall asked. “Is Adelaide in labor?”
“The foal’s not going to arrive tonight,” Morgan said. “Dr. McCormick advised keeping Adelaide indoors for the duration.”
Kendall couldn’t take Morgan’s word for it, of course. He had to consult with the doctor himself. After verifying that he hadn’t been given incorrect information, he headed back to the rock shop. Kurt’s boys accused each other of smelling worse than the donkeys as they headed back to the cabin. As Dr. McCormick packed up his gear and left, Kendall returned to the barn.
“Ned, your parents called,” he said. “They want you home tonight.”
Perhaps Ned’s parents did realize they had a son.
“I’m leaving soon,” Morgan told Ned. “You can ride with me.”
“Hang on, Morgan,” Kendall said. “Allie wants to give Ned cookies to take home.”
The teenager followed Kendall to the rock shop. While she waited for Ned, she and David padded Adelaide’s stall with a thick layer of straw. David gave the donkey a rubdown with a rubber currycomb. When Houdini entered his stall, his brown eyes showed a narrow crescent of white. He was scared. Morgan gave him a rubdown. That calmed him for a few minutes, but then he began pacing tight circles in his stall. He wandered outdoors, then returned.
Finally, no more could be done, short of squeezing Adelaide and forcing the foal to pop out. David draped an arm over Morgan’s shoulders.
“She’ll be okay, Mom. The vet said there’s nothing to worry about.”
Crunching gravel announced the entrance of a vehicle into the rock shop parking lot. Barton parked his battered old truck. Del climbed out of the passenger seat, dressed in his usual fleece vest, flannel shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Barton, young enough to be Del’s son and apparently determined to fill that role, had a scraggly mountain man beard, and wore a rendezvous ribbon shirt and lace up moccasins. The two men looked more suited to the horse and buggy days, except for the top-of-the-line smart phones clipped to their belts. Barton was taking good care of the old cowboy.
“Where is everyone?” Del asked. “I heard half of Golden Springs was at the rock shop.”
“Heard from who?” Morgan asked.
“Beatrice,” Del said. “Has the foal dropped yet?”
Morgan didn’t bother asking how Beatrice had fallen into the loop about a donkey distress call to the vet.
“No,” David said. “It could be any time, though.”
Del had to examine Adelaide for himself. Satisfied that she was all in one piece, instead of the more desirable two pieces, he joined Barton at the fence railing.
“Is someone on watch?” Del asked.
“I’m sleeping in the loft,” David said. “Ned won’t be here tonight, and I might not hear Adelaide from the cabin.”
“I can stay, too,” Morgan said.
“Mom, go back to Bernie’s. You won’t get a decent night’s sleep in the hay loft, or the trailer.”
“That trailer heats up pretty good in summertime,” Del said. “And it freezes in the winter. And that was when the heat and air were working. I’ll have to admit, I’ve gotten pretty used to living the life of luxury at Casa Barton.”
A smile made Barton’s whiskers bristle.
Ned reappeared, a plastic bag that bulged with cookies clutched in his fist.
“I’m ready.”
“I’m taking Ned home,” Morgan explained.
“Mineral Springs Park,” Ned said. “Dad and Mom’s van is in the parking lot.”
In the dim light of the barn, Del’s eyebrows raised several notches. Barton scratched his whiskers and looked anywhere but at Ned. As reclusive as Barton was, taking in Del had probably taxed his social skills to the max. Casa Barton was not taking in homeless hippie families.
“Let me and Barton drop the young man at the park,” Del said. “I don’t like the idea of you being there after dark.”
“Del, really,” Morgan said. “Downtown Golden Springs is as safe as it gets, day or night.”
“You can say that after what happened to Eustace Day?” Del shook his head. “You okay with riding to town with me and Barton?” he asked Ned.
“I don’t mind,” Ned said. “Want a cookie?”
Ned held the bag out to Barton and Del. The kid had mooched cookies from Allie, and was now mooching a ride to town. He was quite the wheeler and dealer.
The birth-watch party broke up. Morgan followed in Barton’s dust as they drove down Hill Street. She tried to be quiet entering the bakery, but the lights were on at Bernie’s. Her friend sat at the kitchen table, her head hung over a mug of herbal tea.
“Bernie, are you okay?”
“My stomach is queasy.” Bernie pushed the mug away. “I tried tea, but it’s not helping.”
* * *
Bernie was no better Thursday morning. She dragged herself out of bed at dawn, determined to start cooking. Morgan tried to convince her to call her doctor, but Bernie was adamant she knew what was
wrong.
“She won’t do anything but tell me to rest,” Bernie said. “I’m just a little tired. I can’t afford to take time off to go to the doctor. I have a business to run.”
“You’re not running a business today.”
Morgan had raised two kids who caught their fair share of colds and flu. She was certain Bernie wasn’t ill. Her extreme diet was to blame, but even so, she was in no shape to work.
“I can’t close the bakery, Morgan. You know how it is. We make all our money in the summertime.”
“Then I’ll help.”
Morgan didn’t know anything about running a bakery and café, but she was good at following instructions. Bernie sat on a stool and directed Morgan. When her two teenage girl part-time employees arrived, they jumped into action. Soon baking bread filled the kitchen with a yeasty smell, soups bubbled in enormous pots, and coffee scented the air. They moved from the kitchen to the café area, Bernie dragging the stool listlessly.
“Thanks, Morgan. I know you have a shop to run, too. I really appreciate your help. We can handle it from here.”
The bell above the door tinkled as the first customer of the day entered. Beatrice Stonewall approached the front counter like a general storming a battlefield, if generals ever wore sensible white deck shoes, navy blue Capri slacks, and red and white striped knit blouses with three-quarter sleeves. Her steel gray hair stood at attention.
“I’m here for the cupcakes.”
“There are cupcakes in the display case,” Morgan said. “Which kind do you want?”
“Not those,” Beatrice said. “The ones I ordered.”
“For Erwin Sylvester’s rally?” Bernie asked.
“Um, yes.” Beatrice looked at Morgan, her eyes unwavering. “All’s fair in love and war, as they say.”
Erwin Sylvester used that quote just before he attacked Kurt in the street. Morgan felt her temper bubbling as vigorously as the beef vegetable soup. She held her tongue, remembering that Anna had intended to recruit Beatrice to spy on Erwin’s campaign. The woman couldn’t very well let on that she was on an espionage mission. Not with customers lining up behind her.
“I’ll get the cupcakes,” Bernie said.
She slid off her stool. Her descent didn’t end until she was on her side on the floor. Beatrice hurried around the pastry display case as Morgan knelt beside Bernie.
“Should I call 911?” Darlene, a short, thin teenage girl asked.
“I’m fine.” Bernie’s voice was breathy. “I just felt light-headed for a moment.”
She struggled to stand.
“Call Dr. Drewmoore,” Beatrice told one of the girls.
“Please don’t make a fuss,” Bernie said.
With Beatrice and Morgan’s help, Bernie clambered to her feet. She let Morgan steer her into the kitchen.
“You girls know what to do?” Beatrice asked.
“Yeah, we’ve got it.” Emma was the taller of the two teen girls, with strawberry blonde hair and a chunky build.
“Where can I get an apron?” Beatrice asked.
Doctor Drewmoore arrived from his combination home and clinic just a few blocks away. Morgan let him in the kitchen door.
“Bernie, you’re white as a sheet. I need to get you to the clinic. Morgan, is your car out back? I walked over.”
Minutes later, Rolf met them at the small clinic, which occupied one side of the first floor of the old Victorian house. Henry Drewmoore was semi-retired, for the most part treating only minor emergencies and a few old patients. Morgan and Rolf had tea with Patty Drewmoore in the kitchen while they waited for the prognosis.
“Beatrice and the girls are running the bakery,” Morgan said. “They don’t have to do much more than serve what’s already been cooked.”
“Good,” Rolf said. “It would be a real disaster if all that food got ruined.”
Patty Drewmoore did an admirable job of keeping Rolf distracted with small talk. Even so, he drummed his thick fingers on the kitchen table. Rolf glanced toward the clinic a dozen times before Doctor Drewmoore opened the door. He closed it behind him, preventing any idea Rolf may have had about rushing to Bernie’s side.
“She’ll be fine,” Doctor Drewmoore told Rolf. “She needs to make an appointment with her primary care physician as soon as possible. Her blood sugar is low. Is she on a diet?”
Rolf frowned. “I’ll say. She’s starving herself for the wedding.”
“That’s not until December, right?” the doctor asked.
Rolf nodded.
“She won’t survive until then unless she starts eating,” Dr. Drewmoore said.
“I tried to tell her that,” Rolf said. “I don’t want to marry a skinny mini. I love her just the way she is. If I have to call off the wedding to keep her from killing herself, that’s what I’ll do.”
Morgan hoped they worked it out. They were perfect for each other. She excused herself to check in with Beatrice and the teens. They seemed to have Bibi’s Bakery under control, so Morgan headed up Hill Street to the Rock of Ages.
The shop hadn’t attracted this many customers since the Angel Donkey craze a few months back. Then Morgan noticed the bumper stickers on several vehicles.
Area 51. Roswell, New Mexico. I Believe. The images were of aliens, Sasquatches, and fairies. Morgan suspected the shop was not full of rockhounds and prospectors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Customers surrounded Del, Ned and Kendall. Morgan waded in to help. The problem wasn’t with ringing up sales. That would have been a pleasant way to spend the morning. Customers begged for the exact location of the naked aliens.
“Didn’t you see a hawk grab one?” Del asked Morgan. A barely suppressed grin pushed his bushy gray mustache up on one side.
“Ahh!” A man slapped his hands to the sides of his face in horror. “A hawk? That stupid bird is going to bring the wrath of an alien civilization down on us all!”
“You said one,” a woman said. “There are more?”
She pulled her smart phone out of a canvas bag plastered with a fluorescent orange Area 51 logo. She brought up a website, turning the screen to Morgan. The artist’s depiction of an alien was similar to the popular image of skinny limbs and a large, elongated head with oversized eyes, but instead of green or gray, this one was cream-colored.
“You’ve seen Ata.” Loose brown curls coiled from the woman’s scalp, trembling with every passionate word. “I can see the truth in your eyes.”
“No,” Morgan insisted. “I haven’t seen an Ata.”
Whatever that was. Lorina had used the word leprechaun. Ned broke ranks, giving in to the pressure of a dozen anxious people clamoring for details.
“When I saw it,” the teen said, “it didn’t resemble that picture at all.”
The words were out before Morgan could stop Ned.
“That’s not what you said at the campfire last night.” The speaker had more of the look of a hippie than an Area 51 fan, with scruffy whiskers, shaggy hair, and a tie-dyed T-shirt. “What you described sounded exactly like that.” He jabbed a finger at the curly-haired woman’s phone.
Ned’s face flushed. “I didn’t say it was an alien.”
That explained the renewed interest in the rock shop. Morgan frowned at Ned, but his attention was on the woman.
“Where are they?” the woman asked. “We need to know!”
The last thing Morgan wanted was a bunch of crazies invading her pasture.
“First, there is nothing out there,” she said. “And second, if there are tiny people running around the hills, they’d be scared away by a bunch of big people looking for them.”
“It’s time,” the woman said. “They’re seeking us out. You can’t hide the truth!”
If little alien people wanted to be found, they’d do better marching down Main Stree
t than creeping around the weedy pasture where hawks could pick them off. The seekers huddled around the aspen bench, discussing the convergence of constellations.
Morgan considered running them out. They were annoying her regular customers.
Then a man in a gray-green robe popped his bald head through the door, sending the cowbell clanging. Wiry brown whiskers trailed down the front of the robe halfway to a rope belt.
“I saw one!”
The crowd rushed out the door. Morgan chased after them. Ned darted ahead of the crowd, racing to the fence. Del hustled to his side with remarkable speed and stood guard, his arms crossed over his fleece vest. Under that vest, he usually carried a handgun in a shoulder holster. Morgan hoped he didn’t have to use it to defend the donkeys. From the direction of the cabin, Morgan saw Kurt’s son Burke heading toward the excitement.
“First contact!” someone yelled.
The phrase rippled through the dozen alien hunters, repeated in hushed tones like a prayer.
“First contact.”
The woman with the Area 51 tote bag approached Del, her hands pressed together in a submissive gesture.
“Sir, we need to talk to the little ones.”
“The only ‘little ones’ in here are a pair of endangered donkeys.”
Adelaide and Houdini didn’t exactly fit the endangered species act, but a zoning ordinance had at one time attempted to banish future donkeys from the rock shop property. Still, his words seemed to slow the crowd. Burke trotted closer, aiming his phone their way, obviously playing filmmaker.
“One of the donkeys is pregnant,” Morgan added. “If you go out there, she could miscarry and lose the foal.”
Adelaide was safe in her stall, but the crowd didn’t need to know that.
“What’s a foal?” one person asked. “Is that another word for alien?”
“No, it’s a baby donkey,” Ned answered. “Get back!”
They didn’t obey the teenager’s order, but at least they no longer seemed intent on trampling down the fence.
“The jack is very protective,” Del said. “We can’t be held responsible for injuries if anyone crosses that fence.”
Stone Cold Blooded (A Rock Shop Mystery) Page 17
