The Day Will Come

by Judy Clemens

  God, it screwed up your life to trust people.

  “So you really don’t think he was kidnapped.”

  He laughed, but without humor. “No. I think Bobby is somewhere the sun shines all the time and he has no responsibilities other than to order his drink.”

  “One concert makes that much money?”

  “Nah. And most of the take is through credit cards anyway. We get some cash, but not enough for… But that doesn’t matter. From what I can see, Bobby’s been taking more than his share for quite some time now.” He smiled sadly.

  “You think the Mafia had anything to do with it?”

  His eyes opened wide. “What?”

  “There was a big show-down on Friday night with the Mafia. Lots of shooting and dead guys. Think he was a part of it?”

  He laughed again, and this time there was an actual smile—a small one—to go with it.

  “No. Bobby wouldn’t mess with them. Real bad guys. When it comes right down to it, he’s a coward. I mean, come on. When he wants to steal massive amounts of money, where does he go? A bank? An anonymous house? Nope. His best friend. He knows I won’t want to turn him in.”

  “And the bomb?” I asked. “He too cowardly to set it?”

  He looked at me, the sad smile lingering. “It didn’t actually go off, did it?” He sighed. “I don’t think it was meant to.”

  I studied Mann’s face, finding kindness in his sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Gary.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  I pushed myself off the chair. “Guess I’d better go see if Jordan needs help loading that equipment.”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  We walked quietly across the stage and up the aisle through the auditorium. Jordan was outside, leaning against the tailgate and waiting for help to load the sound board from the dolly. I looked at him for a moment before stepping up and taking a side. Between the two of us we easily got the big box settled in the truck.

  “Thanks for the tour,” I said to Mann, holding out my hand.

  He nodded and grasped my fingers before turning to Jordan. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Jordan took Mann’s hand, but didn’t reply before heading to the passenger seat of the truck. I sneaked a glimpse at Mann, wondering if he’d noticed the same thing I had.

  The knees of Jordan’s jeans were dirty, black with what could easily have been fingerprint dust.

  Chapter Twenty

  My stomach was growling furiously by the time I pulled into my drive. Jordan and I had stopped by the German-Hungarian club, where the wedding reception would take place, to put the sound equipment in the storage shed before I took him home. He promised he would call Ma to update her on his whereabouts and let her know he hadn’t done anything stupid. I was glad I’d gotten to Ricky’s when I had, so he could give an optimistic—and truthful—report.

  Queenie met me in the drive, her tail wagging. It was nice to have at least one person who had no issues. Person. Dog. Whatever. Her friendship worked for me. I gave her some good scratching before stepping into the house.

  Lucy was taking a break at the kitchen table when I got there, a sweating glass of that good lemonade in her hand.

  “Got any leftovers?” I asked, sticking my head in the fridge.

  “Chicken,” she said. “Want me to make you a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks, I can do it.”

  “Your loss. It’ll taste better if I make it.”

  That would be true.

  “All right,” I said. “Might as well take advantage while you’re here.”

  She popped up from the chair and got busy slicing her homemade bread and slathering it with any number of condiments and fresh veggies, besides the token protein. I took her seat at the table, putting my feet up on the chair across from me. It wasn’t until I was settled that I realized how glad I was to sit and do nothing.

  “So,” Lucy said, “you found Jordan?”

  “I did. Crisis averted. For now.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Where I figured. In Philly, itching to knock Ricky’s block off.”

  She looked up. “You stopped him?”

  “If I hadn’t, the cops probably would’ve. I’m sure someone had their finger on the 911 button.”

  Although I could’ve been wrong. Mustang Man might not have given the go-ahead for police involvement. If that was the case, it really was good I got there when I did.

  Lucy shook her head. “Poor Jordan. If only he’d let his family share some of the burden.” She looked at me in a way that I was sure was supposed to send a message.

  “Telling everyone about your problems doesn’t make them go away,” I said.

  She went back to the sandwich. “No, but it allows others to offer comfort.”

  “Fat lot that does when your heart’s broken.”

  She looked at me again, and seemed about to say something.

  “That sandwich done?” I asked.

  She used a chef’s knife to cut it into two thick triangles, bursting with tasty layers. “It’s done.” She brought it to the table and tossed a bag of chips down beside it. “Something to drink?”

  “I can get it.”

  “I’m up. Want lemonade?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. Thanks. You expecting a tip?”

  She grinned. “Just your secrets, when you’re ready to tell them.”

  She plopped a glass down in front of me and left.

  Damn loving Mennonite woman.

  I ate my sandwich, glaring at the fridge, which hadn’t done anything except be in my line of vision. By all rights I should’ve been glaring at the phone, since I knew I should be using it to call Nick. But if I didn’t look at it, it couldn’t send me silent reprimands, right?

  Right.

  By the time I finished eating, I was beginning to smell whatever it was Lucy had stuck in the crockpot that afternoon. Even with that sandwich, the smell still made me hungry.

  I put my dishes in the dishwasher and faced the phone, wicked as it seemed. Willard would probably appreciate an update, with the information I’d gotten out of Mann. That is, if that weirdo Alexander hadn’t already paid a visit to Club Independence since I’d ID’d Walker, the security guy, as being at the concert.

  Willard answered the phone himself.

  “Gladys out for lunch?” I asked.

  “Dentist appointment. They had an opening and moved her up in the schedule. I assured her I could answer the phone politely, if the rest of the gang was out of pocket. What can I do for you?”

  “Your pal Alexander pay a visit to Gary Mann yet?”

  “He’s not my pal, and I have no idea. I just got your information about Walker to him a couple of hours ago.”

  “I think Bobby Baronne is your mad bomber. And he might’ve killed Genna, too.”

  Silence on his end. “Explain.”

  “He’s been stealing money from the club for months. Mann doesn’t know why. He just figured it out on Friday, when he discovered Baronne packing up to leave.”

  “To go where?”

  “No idea. That’s why Mann had his security guy, Walker, call in sick. He was supposed to keep an eye on Baronne, because Mann was sure Baronne was leaving and taking all the money with him. I saw where Genna was killed—”

  “A room in a back hallway, right?”

  “Right. With an exit to the back alley, where Baronne parked. I think she saw him taking off, and he killed her.”

  I could practically hear Willard’s brain whizzing. “How would she know he was leaving for good? It’s not like the hallway was off limits.”

  I let out a huff of air. “I don’t know. Maybe she saw him carrying a bulging bag with money sticking out of it. You’re the cop, you figure it out. I’m just the messenger here.”

  “A messenger with theories.”

  “So sue me. Will you pass it on to Alexander?”

  “Sure. You think he set
the bomb, too?”

  “Why not? It seems too far-fetched to have a thief, a murderer, and a bomber in the building on the same night, unless it’s the same person.”

  “You could be right. But we do still have those phone calls between Jordan and Baronne.”

  “Which, as I mentioned before, were most likely about arrangements for the concert. Come on, Willard, why would Jordan throw away everything for some guy he hardly even knows?”

  “You’re sure about that? That he hardly knows him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll throw your information in the mix. Thanks, Stella.”

  “You’re welcome. Now go get the son of a bitch.”

  I hung up and looked at the clock. Time to make the doughnuts.

  I met Lucy in the barn, where Zach had also shown up.

  “You have other things you need to do?” I asked Lucy.

  She looked at me. “You mean things for the wedding?”

  “Or whatever. It is only three days away, you know.”

  “Oh, I know. You’re the one who has something to do.”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “Did it.”

  She froze. “You got something to wear?”

  “Not yet. But it’s coming.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  “Geez. Have a little faith.”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “So, you guys working,” Zach said, “or am I in this on my own?”

  “Smart ass,” I said to him.

  He smiled.

  “You’re serious about milking?” Lucy asked.

  I waved her toward the door. “If Zach is here, I’m fine. As long as he keeps his mouth shut.”

  Zach had the gall to laugh at that.

  “I mean it, buster,” I said.

  “Right,” he said. “Like you’re really as tough as you look.”

  I stopped in my tracks, watching as he walked down the aisle, slapping the cows on their rumps.

  I used to be tough. At least I thought so. Until that damn love bug had bitten me in the ass.

  I dragged the feed cart into the parlor and began throwing grain into the cows’ bins. And prayed the phone wouldn’t ring.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The phone stayed silent, and I woke before my alarm the next morning. I got dressed and went downstairs to grab a quick breakfast and head outside.

  Since I’d awoken a few minutes early, I walked to the back of the yard and gazed across the field, breathing in the morning air. Corn stalks pushing through the ground proudly displayed their now five inches of height in the early light. They would’ve been taller if we’d had any rain. Studying the sky, I couldn’t see we’d be getting any precipitation in the day to come.

  The developments beyond my fences shined in the dawn, their windows sparkling and their aluminum siding sending bolts of reflected light every which way, despite the dust. I’d managed to keep my farm, the land, the house. But the privacy I’d once known—years ago, now—was gone. There was probably some guy in a business suit staring out his kitchen window at me while he sipped his cappuccino, ready to begin his daily trek down to Philly. And here I was, this crazy farmer lady holding out so the developments couldn’t creep one more foot in my direction. They were way too close as it was.

  I ran through milking on auto-pilot, but kept the cows in their stalls, having scheduled the hoof-trimmer for that morning. We’d take the cows out one by one for the guy to check their feet, and let them go only when we knew they were healthy.

  The trimmer rolled in around eight-thirty with his portable hoof trimming equipment. Lucy and Queenie met him on the drive, and I unlocked the paddock gate for him to pull inside the fence. I saw his hair first, a shock of white above his leathery face. His teeth were the next thing I could see through the windshield, since they matched his hair.

  “Ms. Crown,” he said, leaning out of the driver’s window.

  “How you doin’, Al?”

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain.” He parked, his trailer just clearing the gate, and hopped down from the truck. He smiled, looking around at the barnyard and Lucy, who smiled back. “Your farmhand lady here tells me she’s getting married this weekend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But she’ll still be working here.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  He gave a hearty laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. “Shall we get started, then? I’m sure the last thing she wants to be doin’ her wedding week is digging crap out of cows’ hooves.”

  Lucy grinned. “There’s worse things.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Name me three.”

  Her forehead puckered, like she was really considering it.

  Al laughed again. “Well, bring me the first victim.”

  I went into the barn and brought out Minnie Mouse, a rope around her neck to lead her forward. She did fine until she got to the mouth of the chute, where she balked. Couldn’t blame her, really, for not wanting to walk into the claustrophobic tunnel. It seems like nothing—a little ramp leading up to a platform—but the sides are close and there’s no space to move once the cow gets in. Not somewhere I’d enter willingly, that’s for sure.

  “C’mon, baby,” I said. “In you go.”

  Al clucked his tongue, murmuring quietly under his breath, and Lucy spoke sweet nothings from Minnie’s other side. Gradually Minnie’s eye-rolling stopped, and she took a hesitant step into the trimming table.

  “Good girl,” I said. “Few more steps.”

  She got there eventually, and we locked her head into the equipment. When she was steady, Al pushed a button and the chute made a gentle flip, so Minnie was lying flat, like she was in bed. Her nervousness came through in her foot, which snapped back and forth like a whip, but Al was a veteran, and it didn’t take him long to get her legs secured.

  He took his time checking her over, cleaning manure and straw out from her hooves and checking for hairy wart, a contagious virus that produces a crack in the hoof. When he deemed her healthy, he ground her hooves to a comfortable level—the equivalent of clipping her toenails—and she was done. A push of the button turned her upright, and she was soon trotting happily away to the pasture, done with her yearly foot check.

  Next.

  “You hear the latest trimming story?” Al asked as we persuaded Ariel into the chute.

  “Nope,” I said.

  He locked Ariel in and pushed the button, dipping her sideways. “Farmer down toward Lancaster hired a new fella for his hoof check. Guy ground twenty cows down too far before they realized what he was doing. Foundered ’em, right down to the flesh, almost. Farmer had to put ’em all down.”

  Lucy gasped. “That’s terrible!”

  “Insurance pay for it?” I asked.

  Al shook his head. “Guy wasn’t bonded, and don’t have the resources to pay the damages himself. Farmer can issue a judgment against him, but you can’t get something from nothing.”

  “At least he won’t be killing more cows,” Lucy said. “Nobody’s gonna hire him after that.”

  Al absently flicked a wad of dirt in my direction, and I dodged it.

  “You know the guy?” I asked.

  “The trimmer? Nah. Guess I won’t now, neither. Better not show his face ’round there again, I’ll say. Or anywhere else, for that matter.” He looked up at Lucy. “Whyn’t you go get the next one, honey? I’ll be done here in a jiff.”

  “You got it.”

  And so went our morning. Stories, cows who didn’t want to go willingly into the chute, and, fortunately, only a few Al had to administer healing remedies to. As I watched Al work, I thought of Nick. Nick, who like some of these cows had something insidious inside him, betraying his body, changing possibilities for the future. I wondered if the doctors checking him out knew what they were doing, or if they’d screw up somehow.

  “You all right?” Lucy asked.<
br />
  I glanced at her, feeling my taut muscles, and realized I must’ve looked like I was in pain.

  I jerked my chin. “Just thinking.”

  Al chuckled. “That can be a problem, can’t it?”

  I looked down at him. “That farmer down your way hired the crooked hoof trimmer on good faith, and the guy let him down. Betrayed that trust. When you get someone to take care of your animals, they need to follow through, not kill half the herd. The guy should be held responsible for what he did. Financially. Not just morally.”

  “Uh, okay,” Lucy said. She watched me the way Tess had at the bridal shop, like I was a rabid raccoon who’d wandered onto the farm at night to raid the garbage.

  “That’s why you check references,” Al said. “Kid hadn’t hardly worked anywhere before. The farmer had heard he was trying to get started and wanted to help him out.”

  “Probably also wanted to save a few bucks,” Lucy said.

  Al snorted. “Ain’t that right.”

  “Not that you quality guys charge too much,” Lucy added.

  Al smiled, and kept on cleaning. “This girl’s good to go. Bring me the next un.”

  Lucy went to bring another cow while Al and I turned Mulan upright and freed her. Belle marched right into the chute like the matriarch she was, and didn’t balk when the trim table laid her down.

  “Like what’s going on down in Philly,” I said.

  Lucy shook her head. “What?”

  “At Club Independence. Bobby, the office guy and supposedly the owner’s best friend, takes off with the club’s money, leaving his friend to fend off the cops and the tax man. Plus, he probably set the bomb that evacuated the place during the concert.”

  “You mean he wasn’t kidnapped?” Lucy asked.

  “Gary Mann doesn’t think so. He thinks Baronne’s been stealing money for months, and finally took off on Friday.”

  “The cops know this?”

  “I called Willard.”

  “What you talking about?” Al asked.

  I looked down at his white head. “Friends. Betrayal. Like Lucy here, going off to marry another one of my best friends.”