Deja Moo

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Dammit, why didn’t I think of that? It’s perfect.”

  Two thirty-something women brushed past us on the brick sidewalk, their arms loaded with shopping bags.

  I sighed. “I should help Leo.”

  “Need anything from the tearoom?” Harper asked. “Soup? Salad? Sandwich?”

  “No,” I said, “but thanks.”

  She watched me walk into the museum. It was packed with tipsy middle-aged tourists, sobering up before their next wine tasting.

  Leo made change for two customers, then turned to stare out the front window. “Why the cops?”

  GD sat on the sill and purred with satisfaction.

  My voice hitched. “Someone blew up my mom’s car.”

  He whistled. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. But she’s okay.” I joined Leo behind the counter and explained about the Wildes.

  “What did the police say?”

  “They sent a cop home with my mom for protection, at least for today.”

  He nodded. “So they think—”

  A woman with a Santa fairy and a hangdog expression approached the register.

  Leo fell silent.

  I rang up the fairy and handed her a black gift bag. “Thank you! Happy holidays!”

  “So they think the killer’s after your mom?” he asked. “This means Bill Eldrich’s death had nothing to do with the college.”

  I wasn’t sure that held true, and that worried me. The whole affair was getting more and more confused. If someone had targeted Bill, what were the odds the killer could round up a gang of gingerbread men to join in on the fun? Worse, what were the odds the entire gang would stay quiet? Someone would crack, and the killer had to know that. And I had a hard time imagining our killer lurking by the cow in a Santa suit on the off chance he’d be there when a bunch of students struck.

  My cell phone rang in my pocket. I checked the screen. Mom.

  “Madelyn, this is your mother.”

  “Are you okay? Has anything happened? Are the police still with you?”

  “Stuck on my sidewalk like barnacles. Now listen, I have to tell you the plan.”

  “Maybe that’s not—”

  “Since I can’t leave without a police escort, and our investigation must remain on the DL, I—”

  “DL? Down low?” Had my mom been watching gangster movies again?

  “I have a solution,” she said triumphantly. “Ladies Aid.”

  “Ladies Aid?”

  “They’re fabulously organized and absolutely trustworthy. Cora has arranged a meeting with Dean Pinkerton for the both of you.”

  “What? When?”

  Cora Gale, her long wrap coat floating in her wake, wafted through the museum door. Her silver hair was piled in a loose bun, and goddess earrings dangled from her earlobes.

  “Now,” my mom said.

  My gaze flicked to the ceiling. Now? Now??? “Thanks for the head’s up. She’s here.”

  “What did I tell you?” my mother said, oblivious to my sarcasm. “Absolutely reliable. I’ll let you go. You don’t want to be late!” She hung up.

  “I see you got those extra hours you were hoping for,” Mrs. Gale said to Leo.

  He colored. “Yeah. Well. Christmas. I could use the cash.”

  I hoped that wasn’t true, since he’d inherited a large sum of money earlier this year. But I was glad the sudden wealth hadn’t gone to Leo’s head. As much as I fantasized about lottery winnings, work was good for the soul.

  Cora scanned the counter. “Where’s your motorcycle helmet?” she asked Leo.

  He turned an even deeper shade of crimson. “Uh …”

  “You didn’t wear it today, did you?” She scowled. “You may think you’re immortal, but if you think I’m going to spend my golden years feeding you through a straw because you were too pig-headed to wear a helmet—”

  His shoulders hunched. “It’s in my top box on the bike.”

  I almost smiled. He might actually listen to Cora’s safety tips. You never knew when a driver could look the wrong way at the wrong time and plow into you—bad news in a car, worse on a motorcycle.

  “Make sure you put it on your thick head when you leave.” She turned to me. “Are you ready?”

  “Um, yes, we can take my truck.”

  She raised a brow. “The truck that broke down the other day and you still haven’t taken to the repair shop?”

  My face warmed. Had my mother told her that as well? “Er …”

  “We’ll take my Cadillac.”

  I turned to Leo. “It’s pretty busy—”

  “Go,” he said quickly. “I got this.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but my insides twisted with guilt. I hated leaving Leo with the crowd. Given that the mad Robin Hood had switched to bombs, though, maybe me staying away from Leo was a good thing. For him. And the thought of taking action against our attacker made me feel marginally better.

  A bomb. A freaking bomb. At the memory, a quiver of panic squeezed my heart. I forced it down and away.

  I followed Cora around the block to her black Cadillac, parked beneath a barren cherry tree. Unlit twinkle lights twined through its silver and charcoal branches.

  She unlocked the doors and got inside. “I’m thinking of getting a Prius,” she said, “but it seems wasteful to get rid of my Cadillac when it’s still so new.” She pointed. “The button for the seat warmer is there.”

  I turned it on and settled into the buttery leather seat.

  She inched from the curb and cruised down Main Street. “You’re not getting Leo involved in this, are you? A bombing is dreadful business. It’s a miracle no one was killed.”

  I craned my neck at the fast-disappearing museum. “No, ma’am. Though he did tell me he thought Craig Wilde, a student at his college, might have been involved.”

  She frowned. “I certainly hope not. But the alternative, that a cabal of costumed men brutally attacked Bill Eldrich and then set a bomb in your mother’s car, is worse. I don’t suppose the dairy farmers could have conspired to remove the association president?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. Was Bill disliked by the Dairy Association?”

  “It’s difficult being a leader. I was relieved to give up my role as president of Ladies Aid. The job was tremendously rewarding, of course, but the time it took! And all the silly personal conflicts I had to manage. Your mother, fortunately, is well-organized. The ladies respect her.” She drove beneath the San Benedetto arch, and the low buildings gave way to vineyards.

  “But Bill?”

  “Oh, I suppose he was liked well enough. But in any organization, there are always conflicts.”

  “Such as?”

  “It was a tough election. He had a serious fight on this hands for the president spot. His opponent wasn’t a very good loser.”

  Now that was interesting. Maybe a sore loser would be willing to spill some proverbial beans. “Who was his opponent?”

  “Dean Pinkerton.”

  “I see.” Interesting that his name kept cropping up.

  We drove past a billboard, a picture of a green vineyard with an open door set into it. VINEYARD AT YOUR DOOR, the sign proclaimed. And in smaller print: Breathnach Estates. Behind it lay acres of barren and cruelly carved earth. Men in hardhats strolled purposefully about. An earth-mover tore a gash in the ground. Spewing clouds of exhaust, it bumped and turned and unceremoniously dumped the dirt into a gravelike mound.

  “That must be the new agrihood,” I said.

  “Progress. I loathe it. Aside from indoor plumbing and washing machines.”

  “Not to mention heated car seats.”

  “And the Internet.”

  We had it good—something it was all too easy to forget when trapped in the day-to-day grind. Something my m
other and I had almost lost in an explosion. I squeezed my eyes tight for a moment, then opened them and took slow, deep breaths to calm myself.

  We passed a dairy farm, and I wrinkled my nose at the acrid smell of manure.

  We drove another mile, and Cora turned down a rough paved driveway. A black-and-white patchwork of cows lounged in pastures behind white wooden fences. A red barn surrounded by silos like fortress turrets rose from the flat earth.

  “Officially,” Cora said, “we’re here on Ladies Aid business.”

  “Which is …?”

  “We’ve asked Dean to speak to our organization about the benefits of raw milk.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to subtly work your questions into the conversation.”

  I wasn’t, but it was an introduction, and I’d take it. “Don’t say anything about the car bomb.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want to see if he gives anything away.”

  We parked beside a white-painted farm house and stepped from the Cadillac. The sun had begun to sink, and I shivered. I should have brought a thicker jacket.

  A bulky middle-aged man with light brown hair and deep furrows around his eyes emerged on the porch. His nose was squashed like a boxer’s. He wore a thick forest-green vest over his plaid flannel shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows. He blinked, as if surprised. “Mrs. Gale?”

  She waved. “That’s me. This is my friend, Maddie Kosloski.”

  “Come on in.”

  We followed him inside the farmhouse. In spite of the darkening skies, the entryway seemed to glow. The polished wood floors reflected off the stark white walls hung with antique farm implements—a wooden yoke, a drill spud, a Grim Reaper’s scythe.

  Dean Pinkerton plunked into a chair at a primitive-style dining table. A manual typewriter sat on top of it beside a messy stack of papers.

  “Still writing your poetry?” Cora asked, taking a seat.

  “Why would I stop?” he said. “You’ve heard about the Cowboy Poetry festival in Elko, Nevada?”

  We nodded.

  “I’d like to get a dairyman poetry festival going here.”

  “Do many in the Dairy Association write poetry?” I asked.

  “You’d be surprised. Now about that talk, Cora. How long do you want me to speak for?”

  He and Cora discussed the details, and I examined the photos on the walls of Dean with various dead animals. Holding up a trio of ducks. Kneeling beside a deer … and holding a complicated-looking bow in one hand.

  nine

  Pulse speeding, I looked away from the hunting photos. The man knew how to hit moving targets with a bow and arrow. And farms used to use explosives for removing stumps and such. Could Dean still have some lying around?

  I swallowed. Maybe interviewing a murder suspect near a wall of rusty farm implements hadn’t been the best idea.

  “Maddie?” Cora said.

  “Sorry. What?” I asked.

  “You said you had some questions?” she asked.

  “Um, right,” I said. “I think it might be helpful to discuss people’s objections to raw milk head-on. I heard some members of the Dairy Association objected to your selling the milk?”

  “Crony capitalism!” Dean slammed his meaty fist on the table and we jumped in our seats. The typewriter dinged faintly. “The other dairy farmers don’t want competition, and they’re using force to squash the newcomer.”

  I hunched my shoulders, making myself a smaller target. “Force?”

  His broad face darkened. “What do you think happens if they get their new regulations and I can’t sell my milk? First they’ll fine me, and if I don’t pay, they’ll send armed government regulators to toss me in jail. And all because the other farmers are too lazy to be competitive. That’s the way government works these days—big companies use it to squash the little ones who might cause trouble in the future. Who do you think funds all those political campaigns?”

  “Was the local Dairy Association funding any political campaigns?” I asked.

  His eyebrows pinched together. “The association wasn’t, but you can bet Bill Eldrich was.”

  “Whose campaign was he funding?” I sat up straighter in the wooden chair.

  Dean deflated. “Tabitha Wildes’, for starters. He said it was because her husband was in the association, but I knew better. Having a town councilwoman in his pocket was good for business.”

  In little San Benedetto, that seemed over the top. But if Dean’s business could be shut down, then the stakes were high for him.

  A violet scarf slipped from Cora’s shoulder and she bent to pluck it from the wood floor. “In fairness, Bill and Tabitha have done good things for the local dairy farmers. Lots of small farmers around the state are selling out to developers. That hasn’t happened here, thanks largely to their efforts.”

  “It will,” Dean said, expression gloomy.

  I tried to maneuver us back on topic. “But you’re able to sell your raw milk currently?”

  “With proper labeling,” Dean said, “raw milk is legal in California. But localities can create their own rules. Did you want to pick up your order today, Cora?”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  He ambled from the room.

  “Did you know he hunts with a bow and arrow?” I asked in a low voice and nodded toward the trophy wall.

  She pursed her lips. “No, I didn’t. Do you want to ask him about it?”

  My gaze darted to the farm implements. I honestly didn’t.

  Dean returned with a wire carrier containing four milk bottles. “Here you go.”

  I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I was at the Christmas Cow right after it burned. My mother was guarding it. I stepped on a wooden arrow, but the arrow that killed Mr. Eldrich looked like it was made of metal or something.” I nodded to the photos on the rough wood wall. “I see you hunt. Do you need different kinds of arrows for different kinds of bows?”

  He stilled. “Is that why you’re here? You think I shot Bill?”

  Gulp. Maybe. “No, of course not.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” He folded his arms over his broad chest. “And I don’t appreciate getting sandbagged.”

  “No one’s sandbagging you,” Cora said. “Everyone knows it was a student prank gone wrong. Of course Maddie’s upset. It was her mother, our president, who was in the crossfire. It was lucky Fran wasn’t killed. And flaming arrows! Can you imagine?”

  He grunted. “Anyone can make a flaming arrow. You can get instructions off the Internet.”

  “Bill wasn’t killed with a flaming arrow,” I said. There hadn’t been scorch marks around his chest wound. Just lots of blood. I rubbed my jaw. If it had been an accident gone wrong, I realized, he would have been hit by a flaming arrow just like the cow was.

  “I didn’t kill Bill Eldrich.”

  “If we thought you’d killed him,” I said, “we wouldn’t be here.” Or at least sensible Maddie wouldn’t. “And I’d be asking you questions like, where were you at the time the Christmas Cow was burnt?”

  Dean glared.

  “I’m only curious about the arrows,” I said weakly. I should have known getting his alibi wouldn’t be that easy. “That’s all.”

  “I was home in bed when the cow was set on fire. As to the arrows, it isn’t a question of wood or carbon. It’s about the weight. If you’re hunting, you need an arrow with six to eight grains per pound of draw weight—that’s the weight your bow can pull. For target practice, you can go lighter.”

  “Target practice … Aren’t those archery targets usually set on straw?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Usually.”

  And straw was what the cow had been made of. The cow had been target practice.

  Bill Eldrich had been hunted.

 
Cora returned me to the darkened sidewalk in front of the museum. The iron streetlamps had flicked on, illuminating its brick facade.

  I walked inside, and Leo and I dealt with a flurry of last-minute sales.

  “Learn anything?” Leo asked as he made change.

  “Mmm,” I said, and wrapped a delicate green fairy. Dean had looked like a great suspect, and he hadn’t given us an alibi. I suspected he didn’t have one. According to Cora, he was single, so there was no wife to vouch for his presence in the early a.m.

  Handing a nurse in blue scrubs a black gift bag with the fairy inside, I ushered her from the museum. I flipped the sign to Closed.

  “Is that everyone?” I asked.

  “I think so.” Leo strode from behind the counter and checked the other rooms. “Yep.” He returned to the counter. “We’re alone.”

  “Thanks for taking over this afternoon. You can head out. It’s my turn to clean up for the night.”

  “Thanks.” He grabbed his motorcycle jacket off a hook in the wall and hesitated. “Maybe I should wait.”

  “For what?”

  He just looked at me.

  “Oh. No, it’s fine. You go.”

  He stood for a moment, shifting his weight, then nodded and slipped out the door.

  GD cat howled from his perch on top of Gryla’s papier-mâché cave.

  I braced my fists on my hips. “I know you like him better. But he can’t hang out with you all night.”

  GD dropped from the cave and prowled toward me.

  The bell over the door jingled, and I stiffened. I hadn’t locked the door? Maybe the museum was under a curse. “I’m sorry. We’re …” I turned and trailed off.

  Detective Slate leaned against the counter. “Bad timing?” His navy business suit was slightly rumpled, and I wondered if he’d been on a stakeout.

  “No.” Relieved, I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “Hi, Detective.”

  “I think by now you can call me Jason.”

  “Okay, Jason,” I said, pleased. “Have you learned anything new about the bomb?”

  “No, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. But nobody’s taking this lightly. We’ll find whoever’s responsible. Maddie, are you sure you’re all right?”