Meg Langslow 17 - The Good, the Bad, and the Emus

by Donna Andrews

  “That’s us up at the Biscuit Mountain Farm.” Annabel had returned with the lemonade. “Cordelia and me.”

  “Your family owned the farm.”

  “Not by then.” She shook her head. “After the factory went out of business, my grandfather didn’t see any use in keeping it. Some sheep farmer bought it. Name of Virgil Eaton. Cordelia and I never lived there. We just went up to see it one day and my father had his camera with him. Always liked that picture.”

  “So you grew up here?” I took a seat in one of the wing-back chairs and sipped my lemonade.

  “Me here, and Cordelia next door, until her father died,” she said. “Wish we’d held on to the other house, too.”

  “The one where Theo Weaver lives?”

  She nodded.

  “We kept it for years,” she said. “Uncle Moss and Aunt Morgana lived there. But they both died and their kids had left town, and twenty years ago Weaver offered Papa a fortune for it. We should have known better.”

  She shook her head as if blaming herself for not spotting her neighbor’s homicidal tendencies from the start.

  “How did the sheep farm become an emu ranch?” I asked, to distract her from what appeared to be a recurring source of bitterness.

  “When Mr. Eaton decided to retire, he turned the farm over to his son,” she said. “Hosmer had grown up with sheep, and wasn’t keen on them. He decided to raise emus. It was all the rage back in the nineties.”

  “And he couldn’t make a go of it,” I said, nodding. “I hear it’s a lot of work.”

  “He made a go of it just fine for seventeen years,” she said. “Up until two years ago. Hosmer had nothing against hard work. Just sheep. It was the recession that did him in—that and the fact that the bank wouldn’t work with him. Just about every business in downtown Riverton got a loan or had their loan terms renegotiated, but not the emu farm. It’s as if the damned bank wanted it to go under.”

  “What puzzles me is why this Mr. Eaton just turned the emus loose,” I said. “What a jerk!”

  “He wasn’t a bad man.” She sounded a little puzzled at my vehemence. “Just caught in an impossible situation.”

  “Why didn’t he try to sell them?” I asked. “And for that matter, why didn’t the bank sell them after they repossessed the property?”

  “He tried, and the bank tried,” Annabel said. “It doesn’t work the same as cattle or sheep. With them, you only have to raise the animals and sell them to a wholesaler or a meat packer. You might not get the price you want, but there’s a whole support system for selling them. With emus, according to what I heard, there are no packers buying them. You have to slaughter them yourself, pluck the feathers, render the oil, tan the hide—it’s messy and labor intensive. Not something I’d like to take on.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “But weren’t there any other emu farmers out there?”

  “Yes, but apparently they had all the emus they could handle. Or at least all they could afford to keep—a lot of farmers were hit hard by the recession. Eaton couldn’t even find anyone who would take them off his hands for free. And once the bank figured out they’d taken ownership of a bunch of hungry livestock with no ready market, they hired a couple of guys to kill the flock and dispose of the carcasses. When Eaton heard that, he snuck back up to the farm and turned the birds loose. Said at least that way they’d have a fighting chance. A pity he didn’t think of offering them to a wildlife sanctuary, but he had a lot going on in his life back then.”

  A clanging sound rang out from outside. My stomach growled as if to answer it.

  “That must be the dinner bell,” she said. “I won’t keep you from it.”

  She stood up and held out her hand for my glass.

  “Thanks for the lemonade,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “By the way, you have any idea who I should thank for the candy?”

  “Candy?”

  “Not you, then? Must be someone from the camp, though.” Seeing my puzzled face, she walked over to a small side table and picked up a box. “This was on my doorstep this morning. With a note that said ‘Thanks for your hospitality.’ No signature.”

  She was holding a small rectangular box wrapped in green paper with a purple ribbon trailing from it. It looked like the same paper and ribbon I’d seen Grandfather pull out of his trash. I bent over so I could read the attached note without touching it. The block-printed letters were also a match. The wrapping paper had been opened on one end, and I could see beneath it the corner of a box of a familiar, inexpensive brand of chocolates.

  “You didn’t eat any of this?” I asked. Although I was pretty sure she hadn’t. The cellophane wrapping seemed slightly loose, but that could have happened when she was tearing the package open. She hadn’t even fully removed the purple paper.

  “Didn’t even open it all the way,” she said. “I have to watch my sugar. I cheat sometimes, but frankly a box of cheap, drugstore candy like this isn’t much temptation.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “I’d thought of asking you to take it back to camp and pass it around,” she said. “But then I realized that whoever sent it would realize I hadn’t liked the gift. So maybe you could take it into town and give it to Anne at the library. She likes to have treats to give the children when they drop by.”

  “I will not be taking this to Anne to give out to the town children,” I said. “And thank goodness I was the one you asked to take it.”

  I explained about the attempt to poison Grandfather and what had happened to the unfortunate to whom he’d given his anonymous gift. Annabel fell silent for a few moments after I’d finished my explanation. She was frowning and staring at the chocolate box.

  “Not sure which I like least,” she said finally. “The fact that someone tried to poison me or the company they tried to poison me in.”

  “Fortunately, the would-be poisoner didn’t know either you or Grandfather very well,” I said. “We need to get this to Chief Heedles.”

  “Fine. You take it. It’s nothing to do with me.” She picked up the box and shoved it toward me. “No, wait.” She jerked the box back. “No need to add your fingerprints to mine.You still have those gloves I gave you?”

  I pulled a lime-green kitchen glove out of my tote and pulled it on before accepting the box.

  “I’ll turn it over to the chief.” I said. “But she’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  “Not sure I’ll feel up to it,” Annabel said. “Gives me a funny feeling, having someone try to poison me. I may have to take to my bed. Call Dwight—Dr. Ffollett, will you? Ask him to come out to see me.”

  She rattled off a number. I pulled out my notebook and scribbled it down.

  “It might be nice to warn him if you’re in need of medical assistance or if you merely want him here to help fend off the chief,” I suggested.

  “Just tell him to come,” she said.

  “Want me to stay and look after you until he does?” I asked.

  “I can manage,” she said. “Go get your dinner.”

  “Call me if you need anything,” I said. I flipped to a blank page in my notebook, wrote down my name and cell phone number, tore it out, and handed it to her. “Or if the campers keep getting on your nerves.”

  She studied it for a second, then nodded.

  “I will,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “And don’t eat or drink anything unless you know where it came from!”

  I tucked the candy box in my tote and left. I could feel her eyes on my back as I walked to my car. She didn’t look so overcome with shock that she needed to take to her bed. More like someone who wanted some peace and quiet in which to figure out who was after her and plot revenge. Or was I projecting how I’d be feeling onto my distant cousin?

  I waited until I was almost back at camp to call Chief Heedles and tell her about the suspicious candy.

  “Keep the thing safe and out of sight,” she said. “And don’t mention it t
o anyone. I’ll be out to collect it as soon as I can.”

  Back in camp, the food truck was turning out steaming pans of lasagna, with or without meat, and huge vats of tossed salad. Michael, Natalie, and the boys were still on their way back, and Dad was still off attending to his poisoned patient. I filled my plate and managed to find a seat at Grandfather’s table—along with the eight or ten volunteers who were currently watching over him. Several were hovering behind him, standing to attention like meerkats on guard, swiveling in unison at every nearby sound or motion. Others were perched on either side of him, sniffing his food and drink and combing through both salad and lasagna attempting to spot foreign objects. Grandfather was having an uphill battle getting enough to eat. So far he was only reacting with mild annoyance, swatting at their hands or snarling orders at them—a clear sign that his brush with death had rattled him. But I could tell he was rapidly approaching the point at which he’d explode and insist that they all get the devil away from him. We needed Grandfather cooperating with his bodyguards, not defying and evading them. Clearly someone was going to need to crack down on the bodyguards. Caroline was still out with the boys. And Sherry the Valkyrie was sitting at the other end of the table, looking on approvingly. She probably didn’t know Grandfather well enough to realize the danger.

  “Damn it all!” Grandfather exploded. “Are you trying to save my life or starve me out!”

  “Makes you understand why all those Renaissance kings and potentates were so quick to shout ‘off with his head,’ doesn’t it?” I asked. “Of course they had food tasters. Anyone want to volunteer for that?”

  Everyone fell silent. But a couple of them were frowning as if they might be actually considering the idea.

  They probably were. Grandfather might be one of the most difficult, exasperating people on the planet, but he managed to inspire an almost fanatical loyalty in the members of Blake’s Brigade. Probably because they knew that beneath his sometimes bombastic exterior was a man who genuinely loved animals and had spent his life trying to protect them.

  “Look, I know everyone in camp wants to protect Grandfather—” I began.

  “Almost everybody,” someone put in. “Don’t forget the poisoner.”

  “But the more the merrier doesn’t apply in this case,” I went on. “Grandfather, how many guards do you think would be reasonable?”

  “Am I allowed to suggest none?” he growled.

  After a few minutes of debate, we settled on two. I took down the names of the volunteers on hand, chose two of them to continue the current shift, and got the rest signed up for four-hour shifts that would last throughout the night. And put out the word that anyone who wanted to take a shift tomorrow should see me in the morning.

  Almost all of the off-duty guards either settled down to eat their own dinners or went back to their tents to nap before coming on duty. One or two kept up the meerkat imitation, but they did so less annoyingly, from a distance. Grandfather seemed to be in a much better mood. Sherry did not. I suspected from her surly glances at me that she felt I’d usurped one of her responsibilities. Well, tough luck.

  I was hoping to get some clue about how Grandfather planned to locate the emus in the morning, but all he said was that he had scouts out working on it. So instead I ended up listening to him and some of his stalwarts swapping stories about past expeditions. Sherry the Valkyrie drank in every word, but didn’t contribute anything to the conversation. I felt a little sorry for her. However essential it was to achieve total compliance on the photo release front, it didn’t give you any bragging rights afterward. Then again, I suspected from what Caroline had said that Sherry’s motive for joining the brigade wasn’t so much a love of wildlife as a desire for revenge on rapacious mining corporations. Maybe she was just as happy in camp organizing things as the rest of the volunteers were out in the woods communing with nature.

  In the middle of dinner, Dad arrived with the good news that Fred was expected to survive, and the less cheerful news that he was expecting the toxicology results to show that Fred had ingested aconite.

  “A good thing he was sipping that Scotch in his coffee rather than drinking it neat,” he said. “Or it could have turned out much worse.”

  After dinner, Grandfather announced that he was going to work on writing up his report on the expedition, and retired into his trailer. I suspected he was actually tired out and in need of an early night. About the time the catering trucks had finished packing up and were driving away, promising to return in time for breakfast, Chief Heedles arrived.

  “Mind coming with me over to Miss Annabel’s?” she said.

  “Sure,” I said. “But it’s late, you know. Past ten. I’m not sure she’ll let us in, even if she’s still up.”

  “Not sure she’ll let me in, you mean.” We got into her car and she started the engine. “Especially considering that on my way here I spotted Dr. Ffollett’s car in front of her house. I know if I ask to see her he’ll tell me she’s taken a sedative and gone to bed. And I can imagine how she’d react if I flashed my badge and forced my way in. Hang on a sec.”

  She had just turned from the dirt road onto the highway. She pulled her car over onto the shoulder and stopped. We were out of sight of anyone in camp and not yet visible from Miss Annabel’s house.

  “Want to give me that candy box now?”

  I pulled my trusty lime-green glove out of my pocket, put it on, then fished the box out of my tote. The chief pulled out gloves of her own—much more official-looking ones—and studied the box with interest.

  “Dare I hope you were wearing those gloves when she handed it to you?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “But I assume Miss Annabel handled it,” she said. “No reason for her not to. We probably still have her prints on file from when her cousin was killed. At least I hope so. Lord knows how much of a fuss she’ll make if we have to send over someone to fingerprint her again. Let’s go on to the house. Maybe I can interview her through the front door.”

  She started up the car and we drove the rest of the way to Miss Annabel’s house. Dr. Ffollett opened the door as she was parking the car and came dashing down to the gate.

  “She was very upset,” he said. “She’s—”

  “Asleep and under sedation?” the chief finished for him. Dr. Ffollett nodded. “I expected as much. Any chance she told you what happened before she dropped off? Like when she found this box of candy?”

  “Actually, I found it,” Dr. Ffollett said. “People looking for the campground kept knocking on her door, so sometime around ten I came over to fend them off. The candy was lying on her doormat when I got here. She didn’t even know it was there until I brought it in.”

  Was he telling the truth? Or was he pretending to have found the candy so Annabel wouldn’t have to talk to the police? The chief questioned him sharply but he didn’t seem to have any more useful information.

  “Call me if you think of anything else useful,” she said finally. “That goes for Miss Annabel, too. And don’t tell anyone about this. We’re going to keep it quiet for now.”

  Dr. Ffollett nodded solemnly and watched through the gate as the chief and I got back into her car. Chief Heedles seemed to brooding over something as she started the car and headed back to camp.

  “So I should keep quiet about the candy, too?” I asked after a few moments.

  “Please.”

  “So are you planning to get an identical box of chocolates, pass them around, and see who turns pale and refuses to eat any?”

  “It’s a thought,” she said.

  “I could do it, you know,” I said. “I could say she ate a few and gave me the rest for my sons. And I could do it sometime when you’re out at camp so you could watch.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “So do you think Dr. Ffollett’s telling the truth?” I asked after a few moments.

  “Did anything he said contradict what she told you?” the chief asked.


  I thought it over and then shook my head.

  “We may never know,” she said. “Any idea why someone would want to kill both Miss Annabel and your grandfather? Any connection between the two of them?”

  “Apart from the fact that they both want to rescue the emus?” I felt a little guilty about concealing the one other connection I knew about, but I couldn’t see how it could possibly be relevant.

  “If you think of anything,” she said as she dropped me off at the edge of camp. “Or hear anything.”

  I nodded, and watched as she slowly drove off.

  Camp had grown quiet. Grandfather’s Airstream was dark. Two men in lawn chairs sat just outside its door. One appeared to be playing a game on his phone and the other was sipping from a mug and contemplating the increasingly cloudy sky.

  I had to smile when I reached Rose Noire’s tent, which was just across from ours. It had originally been white canvas, but she’d dyed it lavender and invited the whole family to help paint or stencil decorations on it in purple and green paint along with several pounds of gold glitter. Even the boys had contributed, and the tent rivaled the multicolored glory of Caroline’s caravan.

  She was sitting cross-legged in front of her tent, using a flashlight to read a thick book. A stack of other books rested on the ground beside her.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You can’t believe how exciting this is!” she said. “I believe one of the rocks I found up at the emu ranch today is actually a blue kyanite! Look!”

  She held out a book—property, I noticed, of the Riverton Public Library—had she really managed to wangle a library card from Anne in the scant hour she’d spent in the library? Or was she on another of her “information wants to be free” kicks? At least she always returned the books she borrowed without permission.

  I focused back on the book page she was pointing to, which showed a photo of several squarish shards of translucent crystal in sort of a faded blue color, like old denim. Making allowances for the fact that her crystal was slightly damp from washing and that one end of it was stuck into a chunk of white quartz, they did look much the same.