by Linda Lovely
I paused long enough to rummage through my glovebox for the clicker that automatically opened and closed the wrought iron gate. I hit the button and nothing happened. Dang. Batteries must be dead. We usually left the gate open.
Figuring Eva had my back, I exited my Prius and walked around it to punch in a code on a gizmo mounted on a pole near the gate. The gate groaned as its two wings slowly stuttered closed. I smiled. Now the protesters would have to make a determined effort to trespass. With the gate secure, I hopped back in the car and drove down the graveled drive to my usual parking spot in front of our cabin.
Eva walked briskly toward me. She’d abandoned her hoe but not her shotgun.
“Saw the Ardon Chronicle vulture pestering you for a quote,” Eva muttered. “Hope you didn’t lambast him with some of your cheesy swearwords. Let’s go to the barn where they can’t spy on us. Maybe that’ll convince them to call it a day. Our guard dogs will let us know if they try anything stupid. Imagine they’ll leave soon now that they’ve gotten the media attention they crave.”
“Going inside is a really good idea.” I shivered as I rubbed my arms. “It was so pleasant yesterday. The temperature’s dropping fast. I watched a few snowflakes melt on my windshield. Maybe the wind chill will send the loonies scurrying. Even that reporter was swiping at a runny nose. Bet he doesn’t stay much longer.”
“Let’s hope word didn’t leak out that your yoga buddies are coming over.” As Eva led the way to the barn, she didn’t loosen the grip on her shotgun. “This is just a gabfest with your friends, right? No actual yoga?”
“Right,” I answered. “Just like you weren’t doing any actual hoeing. Can’t say I’ve ever seen you with a hoe in any of our gardens, let alone pulling a single weed.”
“And you aren’t likely to see it. The gardens—including your dad’s poison patch—were Lilly’s bailiwick. Now they’re yours. That garden just offered the best vantage point to keep an eye on those pusillanimous polecats while I nonchalantly went about my chores.”
I laughed at Eva applying Gabby Hayes’ choice description of cowards to Nickles’ True Believer troops. I used to love sitting between my aunts and watching the old-timey Westerns they adored. Of course, back then I believed popcorn was the perfect TV-watching treat so long as it was coated with enough butter to leave a salty film of grease on my stubby fingers.
“Not sure you convinced the True Believers you were tilling the garden. Looked more like you were trying to beat a rattlesnake to death.”
Eva snorted. “Well, just be glad I don’t have pictures of you as a young whippersnapper trying to hoist your chubby behind on a pony. I’ve seen three-legged varmints that were a sight more graceful.”
I smiled. “I think my chubby handicap might’ve had something to do with you and Lilly letting me eat chocolate sundaes for breakfast.”
We entered the barn and collapsed on side-by-side hay bales. My ribbing ended abruptly when I saw how tired Eva looked. My goat yoga brainstorm was adding unintended stress.
The True Believers were targeting Udderly because I’d insisted goat yoga would be a fun farm outreach—and I’d had the bad luck to find two Temple congregants dead—one who’d eaten my killer desserts.
“How long before your yoga buddies arrive?” Eva asked. “Would be nice to get a little work out of you today.”
“They’ll be here about four o’clock,” I answered. “Mimi’s pharmacy shift ends at three and she had errands to run afterward. Jayla, Fara, and Mollye had no problems adjusting their schedules to meet then.”
“Good,” Eva answered. “Plenty of time for you to muck out the stables while I make a batch of cheese. We can meet back at the cabin for a late lunch. With any luck the goons at the gate will be long gone by then.”
I needed to trade the preppy “I’m innocent” attire selected for my meeting with the sheriff for work clothes. I snuck out the rear of the barn and trotted down a path that led to our cabin’s back porch. The round-about trail couldn’t be seen from our front gate.
After a quick change of clothes and a little loving on my pup Cashew, I trudged over to the barn to complete one of my least favorite farm tasks.
By the time I finished, I was famished and couldn’t wait to chow down. This time I left the barn via the front entrance. Excellent. Not a single True Believer loitered outside our gate. I slipped my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and checked messages. I opened Paint’s text message first.
Leaving C-town. Pick U up 4 dinner at 7. OK?
My reply? An enthusiastic “Yes”.
I smelled bacon frying the moment I entered the cabin. BLTs were one of Eva’s favorite sandwiches. I decided to join her. I’d just forgo the B and have an LT with Vegenaise slathered on my bread instead of mayo.
I took my first bite. Juicy. Delicious.
“Did you recognize any of the picketers besides Pastor Nickles?” I asked Eva.
“Unfortunately, yes. The missus was with him. Name’s Jeannie. You’d probably remember if you caught sight of her. It’s a wonder some baking company isn’t using her mug to sell cookies. With that fluffy white hair, she looks like a kindly grandmother. Add in rosy cheeks and those brown doe-like eyes and you’d think she’d never tell a fib or intentionally hurt even a mouse. She plays the sweet-old-lady image to the hilt. Never see her in pants. Always wears 1950s’ era housedresses with frilly lace collars.”
I chuckled. “Didn’t notice her. Too preoccupied—make that spooked—by her husband. I saw him staring at me. It felt like he was looking right through me. How old is he? I figured he must be at least as old as you but—”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you,” Eva scolded. “The reverend is actually a few years older than me. I’m guessing sixty-five.”
I grinned. “I was going to say you looked much younger than him.”
Eva took a drink of goat’s milk. “Sure you were. He does look younger than his years. Think it’s that pact with the devil thing. By rights, he ought to look ten years older than me given how much time he’s spent sucking on cigarettes and guzzling booze. When I arrived in Ardon County as a teen bride, Nickles palled around with my late, unlamented husband. We’re talking forty-plus years ago. Back in the day, the man smoked, drank, whored, stole, and brawled. Then he wrecked his motorcycle and found Jesus.”
My aunt took a large bite of her sandwich. She closed her eyes as if she were in ecstasy as she savored her BLT. I was dying to hear the rest of the story and suspected Eva carefully timed her chewing to hype the suspense. Finally, she patted her lips with a paper towel, our customary stand-in for napkins, and continued.
“Rumor has it that motorcycle accident left Nickles more than a little tetched in the head. Not sure how he and Jeannie linked up, but she tended to him after the accident. Before he’d shed all his casts, Jeannie was pregnant with their daughter, Esther. Their girl is now Toomey’s wife.”
I smirked. “Maybe Nickles just had a splint on some of his parts.”
Eva wagged her finger at me, but her lips snuck up in a smile. “Some folks believe Jeannie has the only brains that exist in that marital union. It’s no secret she writes his sermons. Claims he dictates them and she just transcribes them. I seriously doubt that. I’m convinced Nickles is the woman’s Frankenstein. She pieced his parts back together and the whole kinda looks and acts human but isn’t quite. I think Jeannie can wind him up and point him in any direction she wants.”
Eva meandered over to the cookie jar for dessert. While my aunt seldom deigns to try my vegan entrées, she doesn’t squawk about my baking. Sugar appears to make up for any sins of egg, milk, or butter omission.
“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” she said. “Is Paint headed back tonight? Surprised he took off when it meant missing out on boyfriend days.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” I said. “When you’re looki
ng for investors, they call the tune and the time. Paint texted a little while ago. He’s picking me up at seven for dinner. Hope that’s okay. Billy’s coming over, right? I’d have said no if I thought you’d be alone. Don’t want you to face some torchlight True Believers’ vigil by your lonesome.”
“Right as rain Billy’s coming.” Eva grinned. “And he’s a much better shot than I am. Could snuff out the flame on a torch at fifty yards.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Since Billy and I haven’t seen each other in a while, I’d just as soon you and Paint stay out late.”
Billy, Udderly’s farrier, shoed Hank the horse and Rita the mule. His own shoes found their way under Eva’s bed on a regular but unpredictable basis. Neither Eva nor Billy seemed to have any hankering to marry. They clearly loved each other though. The cabin walls were mighty thin so I couldn’t help but hear every bed squeak. I slipped on headphones whenever the racket started and told myself they were playing on some form of a trampoline. My mind seemed to rebel at picturing the alternative.
TWENTY
After lunch I worked on Udderly Kidding’s accounting books until Mollye’s van pulled in. I put away the paperwork and hustled to greet her. I was surprised to see all my fellow yoga buddies tumble out of her van.
“Hi, Brie,” Fara said. “Jayla drove by Udderly at lunchtime and saw you had a sizable True Believer delegation. She suggested we meet in the Bi-Lo parking lot and carpool in case the picketers were still on duty.”
“Yeah,” Mollye waved a hand dismissively at her yoga pals. “These wimps know I’m already on the True Believers’ unsaved and unsavory list. No reason for any of them to be singled out for retribution.”
“Hey, you know that’s not true,” Mimi objected. “If we were afraid of them, we wouldn’t be here to plan the launch of goat yoga.”
I saluted the group. “You’re all brave and good friends and probably freezing your buns off. Come on in. Want something hot to drink? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?”
While I waitressed, Mollye yoo-hooed for Eva.
“Where’s Eva?” she asked when my aunt didn’t answer. “The True Believers haven’t kidnapped her, have they? Do we need to search for a remote cult hideout that specializes in brainwashing?”
“Oh no, you’re not talking me into a field trip to some crazies’ hangout again. Besides I can’t imagine anyone brainwashing Eva,” I answered. “The True Believers lost their picketing enthusiasm once the Ardon Chronicle reporter vamoosed and snowflakes dusted their cars. Eva’s taking advantage of the picketing lull to run errands and drop by to see Mom and Ursula.”
I sat down, cupping my hands around my own mug of piping hot green tea. “Between Charleston meetings, Paint found time to edit the goat yoga video. Though my aunt calls us contortionists, I think you all look terrific—agile and graceful. Of course, the baby goats still steal every scene. When they bounce, they look like furry pogo sticks. Want to see?”
I screened the edited footage for the ladies. No one asked to see the shots Paint left on the digital cutting-room floor—Susan Young’s tirade and Eva’s goat milk counterattack. Those images would sit tight in my Dropbox folder in case we ever needed to prove what really happened. I had no doubt the extremists would describe the incident quite differently. Everyone applauded Paint’s cinematography efforts.
In short order, we decided classes would start late February when we expected Udderly’s newborn population to swell. Each class would be limited to fifteen students. A thirty-dollar fee would include yoga instruction, after-class goat cheese snacks and smoothies, and keepsake digital photos for every participant.
Mollye banged a knife against her cup to command the floor. “Udderly Kidding should get half the money,” she began. “Brie and Eva are providing the facilities, the kids, the treats, and taking the brunt of the devil-worshipper heat.”
Mollye looked over at Jayla. “As our instructor, I recommend you get 29 percent. I mean there wouldn’t be any ‘yoga’ in goat yoga without you. That leaves 21 percent, which splits nicely into thirds for the class helpers—Fara, Mimi, and me.”
“I can live with that,” Jayla said. “Everyone else think it’s fair?”
Nods of approval all around ended the discussion. Goat yoga wouldn’t make any of us rich. Eva’d washed her hands of the “hot mess” the minute I suggested it, leaving all related decisions up to me.
“How are we going to get the word out?” Mimi asked. “Social media, radio, the newspaper, advertising?
“I’ll set up a Facebook page for Udderly Goat Yoga,” Fara volunteered. “Not a biggie. I already set one up for our mortuary.”
“I’ll expand Udderly’s website to include a goat yoga section,” I said. “We already accept credit payments for cheese orders. I’ll just add the yoga class as another ‘product’.”
“I’m all for advertising immediately,” Mimi said. “Showing those baby goats at play should counteract any evil propaganda the True Believers dish out.” She paused. “Is anyone concerned about blowback at work?”
Mollye frowned. “When those crazies first called me a witch, curiosity actually increased Starry Skies traffic and sales. It never dawned on me that their ire might hurt some of you in the pocketbook. D’you suppose the reverend might order his flock to boycott Ardon Mortuary?”
Fara shook her head. “Dad and I talked it over. As long as our goat yoga sessions aren’t held inside our mortuary, he saw no problem. Remember, it was one of our cleaning ladies who blabbed about our goat yoga practice. That means Reverend Nickles and the Quinns are well aware I’m an evil goat worshipper. That didn’t stop Harriett’s folks from asking us to arrange her funeral. Her body will arrive at our mortuary as soon as the autopsy’s complete.”
“Are you surprised the Quinns chose your funeral home?” I asked.
Fara shrugged. “Not really. Not much local competition. After the law marched Chester Finley off to prison, the older Finleys retired to Florida and sold their mortuary to a Hispanic couple. Many of the True Believers are such white supremacists they’re not keen on being touched by anyone who isn’t white as a sheet.
“The Fisher Crematorium is the only other local burial option” she added. “That’s who’s handling Karen’s cremation. Karen’s folks are Baptists so they haven’t been indoctrinated by Nickles’ suggestion that intact corpses get preferential treatment at the pearly gates.”
I grimaced, thinking about Harriett’s post-autopsy remains. If the Quinns subscribed to such nonsense, I feared their daughter’s autopsy would cause them additional grief. Did they know the organs were returned to a body after examination?
Mimi, my fellow green tea enthusiast, jumped in with a question for Fara. “Did the Quinns say how long it’ll be before Harriett’s body’s released?”
“Autopsies only take two to four hours,” Fara answered. “If there’s a multi-day hold up, it’s because a bunch of bodies are queued for autopsy. Don’t know if the morgue’s busy right now, but, if it is, Harriett got bumped to the front of the line. The Quinns were told the autopsy would be completed tomorrow. Harriett should arrive at our facility in the morning.”
Fara’s answer switched my morbid train of thought onto a new track. “Are the Quinns planning a visitation?”
“Yes, late Friday afternoon. On Saturday we’ll deliver the casket to the church for the actual funeral.”
I took a deep breath. Good to know what places to avoid Friday and Saturday. For the foreseeable future it seemed prudent to detour around any place the Quinns and their fellow worshippers might congregate.
Mollye glanced my way. “Time for this gathering of great minds to do a little brainstorming about what—and who—caused Harriett’s death. I have my sources.” She winked. “Overheard Danny talking with another deputy. The sheriff seems convinced both Karen’s and Harriett’s deaths were accidental.”
“What?” Fara interrupted
. “Wasn’t Karen strangled?”
“Yes, and she was naked. But now Sheriff Mason suggests it’s because Karen got her knots mixed up,” Mollye explained. “We’re assuming erotic asphyxiation.”
“What?” Fara said. “You never told me Karen died having sex.”
“We don’t know that,” I protested. “We just know she was in the closet, naked, with a scarf around her neck.”
“Apparently, some folks believe a little choking enhances their climactic pleasure,” Mollye’s tone had become almost professorial. “If they happen to be flying solo, it’s called auto-erotic asphyxiation. As a safeguard, they tie knots in their nooses that loosen automatically if they fall unconscious and let go the end that’s looped over something like a closet rod. But if they’re bad with knots…”
“Ugh,” Fara said. “That doesn’t sound like Karen. Do you buy it?”
Mollye shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s also a way to kill someone and make it appear an accident. Just like food poisoning.”
“That brings us back to Harriett,” I said. “Has the sheriff totally dismissed the possibility someone other than the two of us could have doctored the desserts?”
Mollye frowned. “Looks that way. He believes the poisoning is accidental. I don’t. Someone killed Harriett on purpose, and it sure wasn’t either of us.”
Jayla walked over to the coffeepot for a refill. “So you know somebody who wanted Harriett dead?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Mollye answered. “Actually more than one somebody. During the past six months, Harriett handed out a scathing review to Farmer Fred’s Organic Eggs and another stinker of a thumbs-down to Gussies’ Grass-Fed Beef. Both businesses have since gone under.
“I worked the merchant rumor mill a bit this morning. Farmer Fred (a.k.a Fred Adams) and Gussie (a.k.a Gertrude Danson) both blame Harriett’s blogs. They say she launched her smear campaigns after they refused to pay blackmail.”
My jaw fell open. Mollye’d given me no hint she’d launched her own investigation.
