“Tobias’s ex-wife is in town,” she said.
I felt my stomach churn. Tobias was Buttercup’s handsome resident vet; he and I had been dating for about six months. We hadn’t seen each other as much lately. Not only was he covering for a nearby vet who was on vacation, but his practice had been expanding, and he’d been short on free time. I missed him. From what Quinn had told me, Mindy Flynn was gorgeous, successful, and charming. I wasn’t sure why she and Tobias had divorced, but I knew it was still a sore spot. Could he still be carrying a torch for her?
“She got in yesterday; apparently she’s here looking for a weekend home.”
“Entertainment law must be lucrative,” I said, looking down at the eggs in the pan. They suddenly seemed much less appealing. Tobias hadn’t said anything about his ex-wife coming into town. Did he know?
“I saw her coming out of the vet hospital yesterday,” Quinn added, answering my unspoken question. “I don’t want to upset you, but I thought you should know.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we hung up, my stomach feeling a bit queasy. A moment later, I dished a bit of scrambled egg into Chuck’s bowl. It was a good thing I’d already taken him out, or he might have had an accident out of excitement. I put the rest of the cooked eggs in a bowl and stuck them in the fridge; after the conversation with Quinn, I’d lost my appetite.
It was a short, picturesque drive to Peter Swenson’s organic farm, Green Haven. His hobbit-like rammed-earth house was decorated for the season, looking warm and welcoming with red candles in the windows and a homemade cedar wreath adorning the wooden door.
Peter was out tending to his goats when I pulled up next to his fry-oil-powered truck, whose sides had been painted with a beautiful mural of his farm. He ambled over as I got out of the pickup, greeting me with a smile.
“Hey there, Lucy!”
“Hi, Peter!” I said, smiling at the lanky, bearded young man. He wore what appeared to be a hand-knitted hat and a tie-dyed sweatshirt, and his rubber boots were caked with mud.
“Hey, Lucy. What happened to you?” he asked, squinting at the lump on my temple.
“Someone was digging down by my creek last night. I interrupted him—or her—before they pulled up my whole peach orchard, but they messed up my dewberry patch and uprooted two trees.”
“Messed up your head, too, it looks like,” he said, walking over and peering into my eyes. “Any headaches? Dizziness?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “And don’t worry; my pupils are the same size.” I’d checked for the obvious signs of concussion before leaving the house.
“I’d take it easy, if I were you,” he said.
“I will,” I said. “As soon as I find out who did it.”
“It’s a small town,” Peter said. “I’m sure it won’t be a secret for long.”
“It won’t be—not if I have anything to do with it,” I said. “Quinn said there are treasure hunters in Buttercup. Know any?”
“Just ask Bubba Allen, and he’ll talk your ear off about the old treasure legends,” he said.
“I’ll ask him at the market tonight,” I said.
“Will Quinn be there?”
“Of course,” I said, grinning. That meant Peter would be there, too; they were smitten with each other.
“Anyway,” he said, blushing, “you’re here for goats, aren’t you?”
“That’s the theory.”
“Follow me,” he said.
Together, we walked over to the enclosure where the two floppy-eared goats were housed. As we approached, they poked their noses through the fence. “Hi, girls,” I said in a soft voice. One was brown, and the other was mottled with a pattern of white, brown, and black patches that reminded me of a calico cat. To my delight, they came over and nuzzled my hand; one of them even licked me, then sampled the sleeve of my jacket.
“How are you going to get them home?” Peter asked, glancing back at my pickup truck.
“I was hoping you could help me figure it out.” I’d been meaning to come up with a plan but had spent so much time preparing for the cold front that I hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I have a few crates you can borrow,” he told me.
“That would be great. They’re so sweet!” I said, reaching out to touch a velvet nose. I was rewarded with a warm lick.
“This one’s Hot Lips,” Peter said, stroking the goat who had licked me; she was the one with the mottled coat. “The smaller brown one is Gidget.”
I laughed. “Terrific names. You must have watched a lot of reruns as a kid.”
“I did,” he confessed, looking a bit sheepish. “Did you put extra fencing on the pasture like we talked about?”
“Just finished it last week,” I said.
“If you thought Blossom was bad about getting out, wait till you see what these gals can do,” he warned me. “They go through fences like water, and they love fresh salad. I lost two rows of lettuce last spring when they learned how to unlatch the gate.”
I blinked at him. “They what?”
“They’re smart,” he said. “They figure things out.”
“Good to know,” I said, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into. Running Dewberry Farm was rewarding, but the learning curve was steep, and I was only just keeping up with the mortgage payments.
“It’s worth it, though,” he said. “By the way, I ran into Mary Jane Heimer the other day and told her you were thinking of making goat milk soap. She offered to let you come make some with her, if you’re interested.”
“That would be terrific,” I said, “but I won’t have milk for a few months!” Both goats had been bred; I wouldn’t be milking them until they had their kids, in February.
“I’ve got some frozen—you can use that. In fact, I think it needs to be frozen if you’re making soap. If you’ll wait here, I’ll toss it in a cooler and bring it out to you.”
“Thank you so much!” As he disappeared into his house, I patted the goats some more, getting to know them. They were sweet—and from what Peter said, their kids would be even more affectionate after I bottle raised them.
Peter reappeared a few minutes later with a battered cooler. “Here you go,” he said. “Say hi to Mary Jane for me.” Mary Jane had lived in Buttercup her whole life and ran her farm pretty much single-handedly. If you wanted to know anything about the old way of doing things, Mary Jane was the woman to call.
“I will,” I said.
“And tell her thanks for the tip on the spider mites last summer,” he said.
“What did she tell you?”
“Liquid seaweed,” he said. “It’s weird, but it worked.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“They love tomatoes,” he warned me.
“How do the goats feel about tomatoes?” I asked.
“They’re not as crazy about them as the mites are,” he said. “But they love lettuce, so keep an eye on them.”
“I’ve been warned.”
Peter helped me get two crates and secure them in the bed of my truck. Then he propped up some plywood to make a ramp and led the goats into the crates. Gidget walked up easily, but Hot Lips seemed reluctant. “She’s always been attached to me,” Peter said. “I gave all of them some probiotics to help them get through the transition, but if you have trouble, give me a call. Better get her home before she hurts herself,” he said, looking worried.
“Any special instructions?” I asked.
“Just follow the directions I e-mailed you,” he said, “and if you have any questions, you can call me anytime. I might come out and visit them sometime, if that’s okay.”
I smiled. “Of course; please come out anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve been doing—and get your advice on a few things, to be honest.”
“Happy to help,” he said, flashing me the smile that had caused many of Buttercup’s teenage girls to swoon.
“I know you and Quinn have been spending a lot of time together, but how are things g
oing out here?” I asked as I headed to the front of the truck.
“The farm’s doing great,” he said, surveying his domain. “I’m thinking of expanding operations.”
“How so?”
“Flora Kocurek’s offered to sell me some acreage. It’s pretty beaten up, but I think I can rehabilitate it.”
“That’s terrific! Sounds like neighborly relations are improving.”
“They are,” he said. “Ever since her mother died, she’s been starting to step out a little bit—trying to do things differently. I shared some of Molly’s friendship bread with her and gave her the starter; I don’t usually eat sugar, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.”
My friend Molly Kramer had been giving out friendship bread and starter as Christmas gifts this year, and from what I’d heard, it was a popular gift. “I haven’t gotten mine yet,” I said, “but I’m looking forward to it. I’m glad you mentioned Flora. We had lunch together a few times in the fall.” I glanced at the goats, making sure they weren’t getting too anxious. “I should probably ring her again sometime soon. I know it was a tough year for her, and the holidays can be difficult sometimes.” Flora’s overbearing mother, Nettie Kocurek, had been murdered over the summer, and it had been a tough adjustment. Now, for the first time in her life, at the age of fifty, she was in charge of a large estate—and having to make decisions by herself.
“She seems to be doing okay,” Peter said, and then his nose twitched. “Do you smell smoke?”
I sniffed. “I do,” I said, turning to look for the source. “Think someone’s burning a brush pile?”
“It smells too much like plastic for that,” he said. “And it’s close.” He pointed to billowing plume of black smoke that looked to be right on the other side of a nearby hill.
“What do you think it is?”
“A house or a car would be my guess,” he said.
“I’ll call the fire department,” I said.
“I’m on the fire department,” he said, sprinting toward his truck. “Call and tell them it’s near Skalicky Road,” he called over his shoulder. “And tell them I’m on my way.”
I notified the fire department, then hesitated as Hot Lips bleated from the back of my truck. Even though the goats needed to get home, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving without making sure Peter didn’t need help, so after a moment’s indecision, Hot Lips, Gidget, and I followed his truck up the gravel driveway and turned left onto Skalicky Road.
Within two minutes, we had arrived at the source of the black smoke.
It was a small white frame house about a hundred yards off the road. Half of it was engulfed in flames, and the fire was spreading fast. As I put the pickup in park, the gingham curtains in one of the windows began to smoke, then burst into flame.
Peter jerked the truck to a stop about thirty yards away and hurled himself out of the cab, racing to the front door of the little house. I parked and leaped out of my own truck, running in the direction of the fire. I could hear the goats bleating anxiously behind me.
“I’m going in!” he yelled. He tried the doorknob, but either the door was locked or the doorknob was too hot. He hurled a kick at the door, but it didn’t open. He kicked it again harder, leaving a dent in the red-painted wood. It buckled and sprang open on the third blow, and a cloud of black smoke issued from the doorway.
“Peter!” I called as he disappeared into the billowing cloud.
There were sirens by now, but they were still in the distance. I approached the little house, frantic for something to do to help, and spotted a faucet attached to a hose. I turned the spigot and pointed the end of the hose at the doorway. A thin stream of water emerged; it sizzled and steamed as it hit the hot interior.
“Peter! Are you okay?”
There was no answer. The flames had now engulfed three-quarters of the wooden house. Should I go in after him? I stepped closer to the doorway with the hose, hoping the water would buy him at least a few extra seconds. “Peter!” I yelled.
I was about to follow him in when he appeared in the doorway, clutching a woman’s body in his arms. He stumbled down the steps and laid her on the ground, then turned back.
“Peter! No!”
“There’s a dog,” he told me, and ran back in. He emerged just as the roof caved in, a small black puppy limp in his arms.
“Is there anyone else?” I asked as I helped him away from the fire. The woman he had rescued lay prone on the bleached winter grass, unmoving. My stomach lurched with recognition; it was Krystal, the missing waitress from the Blue Onion.
“I was too late,” he said as I reached to take her pulse. Her skin was waxy and stiff under my fingers. “If I’d only come a bit earlier . . .” he said, his voice filled with guilt.
“It wouldn’t have helped,” I told him, feeling my skin prickle.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s cold,” I told him. “It wasn’t the fire that killed her.”
Take her to the vet,” Peter said, thrusting the unconscious dog into my arms. “We can’t do anything for Krystal, but this puppy’s still alive.”
“What about the goats?”
“They’ll be okay,” he said, “but this one needs medical attention. I’ll stay here until help comes.”
“You won’t try to go in again?” I asked as another part of the roof fell in with a shower of sparks.
He shook his head grimly. “I’m just going to try to make sure it doesn’t spread,” he said, stamping out a coal smoldering in the tall grass.
“Be careful,” I said, and hurried to the truck, where I laid the limp puppy on the front seat as Gidget and Hot Lips pounded their hooves in the crates behind me.
Tobias met me on the stone walkway in front of the Buttercup Veterinary Hospital. His face filled with concern at the sight of the little black puppy.
“Poor thing. Bring her back,” he said, and I followed him inside to the exam room.
“What happened?” he asked as he took the puppy from me and laid her on the exam table, then pressed a stethoscope to the little dog’s chest.
“Fire on Skalicky Road,” I said. “We found Krystal Jenkins dead.”
He looked up at me, startled. “That’s awful. Was anyone else there?”
“I think she was alone. I mean, I hope there wasn’t anyone else in there.”
Tobias grimaced as he pulled back one of the puppy’s eyelids. “I’m glad you got this little girl out, at least. She’s pretty wheezy, though. Keep an eye on her; I’ll be right back.”
I kept both hands on the little body as he hurried out of the room and returned a moment later with an oxygen canister; I could feel her young lungs laboring for breath beneath my hand, and watched with trepidation as Tobias fitted a mask over her small muzzle.
“You think she’ll make it?”
“I hope so,” he said. “There are only a few surface burns”—he pointed out raw spots on her paws and muzzle—“but I’m guessing her airways and lungs are pretty damaged from smoke inhalation.” He grimaced. “I don’t like that she’s unconscious, but I’m glad you brought her to me right away.”
I winced.
He put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “I’ll do what I can for her; it’ll be a watch-and-wait kind of thing, I’m afraid.”
“Poor baby,” I said, touching her silky ear.
“She looks a little dehydrated, too; I’ll set her up with some IV fluids.”
“What kind of puppy is she?” I asked.
“Looks like a Lab mix,” he said, stroking her head. The tenderness in his strong, calloused hands tugged at my heart.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“I’ve got appointments here for the rest of the afternoon,” he said, “so I can keep an eye on her, and I’ll take her home tonight and watch her there. Once she’s ready to go, though, she’ll probably need a lot of care.”
“I’m happy to do it,” I said. “I hope she’ll pull through.”
<
br /> “It’s still early to say,” he said, “but I like to be optimistic.” He glanced at me as he reached for a bag of saline solution. “So you were the one who found poor Krystal. She was young . . . what, twenty-five or so?”
“I think so,” I said.
“So sad. I hope she didn’t suffer too terribly.”
“The thing is,” I said, “she was already dead when the fire started, I think. She was . . . cold.”
“Did you tell Rooster that?”
“I’ll tell him when I see him,” I said, “but you know how he is.”
Tobias sighed. Neither of us had high opinions of Sheriff Rooster Kocurek.
Tobias hooked up the tubing and reached for a razor. “Watch out, Lucy.”
“There’s no possible way Rooster could connect me to what happened,” I said. “I was at Peter’s when the fire broke out, and besides, she was already long gone when we got there.”
“If there’s any hint of foul play, I’ll bet he swings by to ‘talk’ to you,” Tobias predicted. “Hold on to her paw for me, will you?” he asked as he deftly shaved the little puppy’s front leg, then swabbed it with antiseptic before inserting the IV. I kept both hands firmly on the puppy’s body, but she didn’t even twitch.
“Now what?” I asked.
“I’ll give her some bronchodilators; that’ll help the wheezing.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Let me get her through the critical time first,” he said. As he examined the burns on her paws, there was a thudding sound from outside.
“One of the goats doesn’t seem too happy,” I said.
“You should get them home before one of them breaks a leg.”
“That’s all I need,” I said, glancing out the window at the crates tied to the back of the truck. “I probably should drop off the goats and go back to where Krystal was found in case there are any questions.”
“Be careful,” Tobias warned. “And as for the goats . . . I hope you added some new fencing.”
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 2
