A Streak of Bad Cluck (Bought-the-Farm Mystery Book 3)

by Ellen Riggs

  “I can’t explain your crazy life, Ivy. But you’re the only one who drives in here.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Along with the cops. Kellan is here quite often. Maybe they’re targeting him.”

  “Very funny.” She picked her way around the truck carefully and pulled her suitcase out of the driver’s seat, swinging it down without difficulty. “I’ll walk to your place while you take care of this. I need to be there when the Bridge Buddies arrive.”

  “Edna, wait. You can’t carry that on your own. Aren’t you tired already after bushwhacking this morning?”

  She turned, and her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know I saw you at my place earlier.” I followed her and tried to take the suitcase. “Why did you take off into the bushes? You could have hurt yourself. It was barely light.”

  The handle slipped out of her fingers and her forehead creased into a tight, folded fan. “What are you on about, Ivy Galloway? People say you’re brain-damaged, but this is the first I’ve seen of it.”

  All my years of interviewing in HR had taught me to look for the “tells.” Even a skilled card player like Edna had them. Her lips puckered as if she’d jerked a drawstring and relaxed just as quickly. Then her throat clenched and her now-empty right hand clenched, too. She was definitely hiding something.

  “I have a few loose screws after my accident, no question,” I said, smiling. “But if you weren’t visiting my henhouse before dawn this morning, I’ll eat your rabbit hat.”

  Again her lips jerked into a tight pucker and her small eyes darted from side to side. “Well, if a woman can’t visit her own hen now and then, perhaps those chickens should come home to roost. When this weekend is over, Sookie will join me. You can keep the others.”

  “Fine with me. I’d prefer you take her than risk sneaking around in the dark and breaking a leg. Besides, you left the henhouse door ajar in your hurry to escape.”

  Now her whole face puckered and flushed till it looked like the apple head dolls they still sold at the fall fair. It took a few seconds before she croaked out, “Is Sookie okay?”

  “Everything’s fine and Charlie’s already put a lock on the door.”

  Taking a step backward, she jerked the suitcase out of my hand so abruptly she broke one of my fingernails.

  “Do not allow a fox in that henhouse before I can collect my Sookie.” She turned to stride away, with that mere hint of a limp. “And once you attend to this flat, I’ll thank you to mix my medicine before your guests arrive.”

  “Your friends, you mean,” I called after her. “The reputation assassins.”

  Adjusting her rabbit hat with her free hand, she kept walking.

  Chapter Three

  While Fred changed the tire in what seemed like an impossibly short time, I continued to search the lane for nails. I’d explained the task to Keats before Fred arrived, so that the mechanic wouldn’t join the ranks of those questioning my sanity. The dog was a quick study, as always, and picked his way carefully up and down the lane. When he discovered a nail, he lifted one white paw in a point and stood perfectly still until I picked it up and dropped it into my clinking baseball cap.

  By the time we were rolling again, I’d collected a couple of dozen.

  “What do you make of that, Keats?” I asked. “Did I just get lucky driving in, or did someone scatter them while we were inside the house with Edna?”

  Keats offered a mumbled commentary that ended with a squeak of a question mark. “I have no idea why someone would want to do that. With the way Edna was talking, she must have even more enemies than I already knew about. There’s probably a club for people who despise Edna Evans for her nursing alone.”

  The dog braced himself on the dash and gave another mumble.

  “No, I don’t think it was about me, regardless of the timing. Unless the Bridge Buddies wanted to keep me from arriving with Edna. Sounds like there’s no love lost there.”

  Pulling up beside the barn, I saw four high-end SUVs. It looked like my guests had preceded me and they hadn’t carpooled. It struck me as odd that none of them drove regular sedans, but maybe vehicles with more height were easier for senior citizens to climb into.

  “All I’m saying is that this feels like a bad omen,” I told Keats, as I turned off the truck. “But maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong before.”

  This time Keats’ commentary sounded indignant. “I didn’t say you’ve been wrong before. Border collies are never wrong.”

  His mouth dropped open and his tongue lolled, and I shared the laugh. “We’ll get through this, buddy. Let’s just hope these ladies don’t decide to murder my reputation just for sport. I doubt I’d offer enough challenge for the brightest women in town.”

  The guests had apparently just arrived because they were gathered on the wide front porch around Jilly. Edna was standing off to one side and her suitcase was sitting on the porch swing. She was wringing her hands, but I doubt anyone noticed but me. The others were chattering like birds that gathered before flying south for the winter. There were four gray heads with almost identical fluffy bouffants. I’d expected eight, but sprinkled among them were two dark male heads, a highlighted blonde and a petite brunette that barely reached shoulder level.

  “Strange,” I said, getting out of the truck. “Maybe they have chauffeurs.”

  Walking up the front stairs with Keats, I gave everyone my best innkeeper smile. “Welcome to Runaway Farm and Inn,” I said. “I’m Ivy Galloway, and this is my wonder dog, Keats. You’ve obviously met Jilly Blackwood, my best friend and chef extraordinaire. Some of you know me, some of you don’t, so I’d love it if we could do a quick round of introductions before you get you inside and settled.”

  The bridge club chair, Gertrude Boxton, stepped forward with her right hand outstretched. “I’ve known you since you were a wee mite,” she said. “Although I could never tell you Galloway girls apart. Every last one of you looked the same. It was as if Dahlia had you cloned to avoid the wear and tear of pregnancy.”

  “I don’t blame her if she did,” Joan Snelling said. “I had three children before I moved to the spare room and put a lock on the door.”

  Everyone laughed, and I joined in although Joan herself wasn’t smiling. She had very few lines on her face, although I knew they were all around 80. I guess her expressions didn’t change often enough to leave a trail.

  “I wish I’d thought of that,” Annamae Muir added, taking her turn. “Five was one too many.” She tipped her head and gave me a smile that looked more authentic than all the others combined. “The youngest is my favorite of course. I’m sure that’s true in your family as well.”

  Before I could answer, the last woman stepped forward. Morag Tanner was tall and almost masculine in her austerity. The others still had a bit of pepper in their salty hair, but Morag’s was snow white and I knew it took work to keep it that way.

  “Oh come now, Annamae,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone knows Asher Galloway is Dahlia’s favorite. In fact, everyone in hill country has a weakness for that handsome young man. I’ve been trying to pair my granddaughter up with him. He needs to settle down with a nice, local girl.”

  The others murmured agreement.

  I glanced at Jilly. Her face had flushed to the roots of her cascading blonde curly hair and her eyes dropped to her striped apron. Behind her, Edna Evans gave a chuckle with a hint of malice. Her eyes met mine with a silent “I told you so.”

  “As far as I know I’m not cloned,” I said. “Mom says my delivery was like passing a set of broken china.”

  The four women winced, no doubt remembering their own childbirth ordeals. Edna, on the other hand, smirked.

  “Well, you’ve certainly made that push worthwhile, Ivy,” Gertrude said. Her blue eyes were all the brighter for her pale skin. These women spent most of their time inside playing cards and it showed. Maybe that’s why they all looked significantly younger than Edna. Either th
at or her nasty feats had caught up with her.

  Money never hurt either when it came to keeping age at bay. These women could afford the best products, spa visits and maybe even a tuck here and there, if they could tear themselves away from their games. If so, vanity didn’t show in their wardrobe selections. All wore black pants, a white shirt and a maroon jacket with the bridge club emblem stitched into the breast pocket.

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” Joan said.

  “Very well,” Annamae echoed.

  “Some people have all the luck,” Morag added.

  I wondered if they always spoke in this precise order. Maybe that was in the club’s founding rules.

  “I have been lucky,” I replied. “Wrong place wrong time, initially. Now that’s reversed.”

  “Rescuing that dog was terribly risky,” Gertrude said.

  “Dangerous,” Joan said.

  “Terrifying,” Annamae added.

  “Reckless,” Morag said, with the finality of a gavel coming down. “Dahlia must have used up the common sense on the rest of the family.”

  If they were trying to get under my skin, they’d have to work harder than that. “Oh come now, Morag. You know full well there are more reckless Galloways than me.” It was true, too. My sister Poppy in particular was a wild child who’d kept the town talking for decades.

  “You used to be so quiet,” Gertrude said. “I wondered if you were right in the head. Then you got that fancy-pants job in the city and I realized you got all the brainpower the others lacked. But then you spun things around again with one reckless move. You could have lost everything, Ivy.”

  “Instead I gained it.” I gestured to the beautifully renovated century-old farmhouse. The extension at the back of the house had a more modern design with plenty of large windows.

  “I don’t know what Hannah Pemberton was thinking,” Gertrude said.

  “Or drinking,” Joan began, but I cut the cycle short.

  “She was thinking I would adore her animals and protect them with my life if I had to,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’ve had to.”

  “You didn’t have to, you chose to.” The voice came from the porch swing, where Edna had now perched beside her suitcase. “You could have just left everything to the police. In fact, I heard Chief Harper ask you himself to leave things alone. Instead you put yourself in harm’s way again and again.”

  My eyes met Jilly’s and although her own color was still high, she gestured toward her diaphragm. Deep breaths, I told myself. The Bridge Buddies had come prepared to try me in the court of Clover Grove public opinion and there was likely no winning.

  Well, if I couldn’t beat them at their own game, I knew I’d better get them to the tables we’d set up in the family room as soon as possible. Once they focussed on their true passion in life, they’d likely abandon their assault on mine.

  “Jilly’s made a lovely buffet lunch you can eat in the family room as you prepare,” I said. “I know why you’re really here and that’s not to make small talk about my peccadilloes.”

  “Peccadilloes,” Annamae echoed. “That’s such a funny word, isn’t it?”

  She covered her mouth, realizing even before Morag turned that she’d spoken out of order.

  “I just have one question,” I continued. “I see some unfamiliar faces. Gertrude, could you please introduce the other guests?”

  Through this entire conversation, four people had remained utterly silent, as if commanded never to speak.

  Gertrude hesitated for a moment before gesturing to the lanky man beside her. He appeared to be about 30, with a wispy beard that probably couldn’t be coaxed to do more. “This is Ricardo Lima.”

  Joan introduced Solomon Dean, an older gentleman with an aggressive gray beard, a smooth bald head, and eyes that twinkled like Charlie’s, my silver fox farm manager. Annamae sounded girlishly bashful as she introduced the fortyish blonde, Stacy Willis. And Morag wasn’t bashful at all as she nodded to her companion, Kimberly Stetts, a woman who was probably around 60, with a similar serious, masculine air about her.

  I thanked them and let Jilly and Keats herd them inside. Edna hung back, no doubt waiting for me to take care of her suitcase.

  “What’s with these mystery guests?” I asked, once everyone was out of earshot. “I expected eight Bridge Buddies. Have you lost some club members recently?”

  Edna gave me a “duh” look that didn’t quite suit an octogenarian’s face. “Ivy, do you know nothing at all about bridge? I would have thought you’d at least do some research before your guests arrived.”

  A pinprick of shame bloomed in my chest. Normally I would do that type of research, but it was struggle enough to get the latest episode of murder cleared up and cover the basics of innkeeping and farm management.

  “You’re right, Edna,” I said, sensing it was something she couldn’t hear often enough. “I should have done my homework. Especially when games of chance have never been my strong suit.”

  “Again, that statement shows how little you know. Bridge is far from a game of chance. As I said earlier, it’s all about strategy, and some of the most brilliant minds in the world compete just to get into elite bridge clubs. In big cities, you need references, proof that you’ve studied under a master, and an impressive audition. The best players have tutors so they never stop learning.”

  “Ah, so the four strangers are bridge tutors?”

  Edna gave a cluck that was the equivalent of “duh.” Checking to make sure everyone was safely inside, she whispered, “Don’t be so naïve. Those people are their partners.”

  “Partners!” I stared at her while imagining 80-year-old Gertrude in a compromising position with young Ricardo. “Oh. Well, that seems a bit strange.”

  “It’s not strange at all in the bridge world. Although I concede it’s probably rare in Clover Grove. That’s why I suggested holding the tournament out here at your farm. There’s no one around to ask impertinent questions. We can’t afford gossip.”

  “No, I can certainly see that. The Bridge Buddies are all married.”

  “As are their partners, I believe.” Edna crossed her arms. For the first time I noticed she’d removed her rabbit accoutrements in favor of the maroon bridge club jacket, which clashed with her floral print dress. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  My own brow felt as furrowed as hers had been earlier. I blamed Flordale Corporation for stealing my youth. Sometimes I looked at my fresh-faced sisters and wondered if I looked like the oldest. The clone that was wearing out before its time.

  “Well, I’m not one to judge,” I said at last. “Extramarital affairs are nothing new to me. There were plenty of shenanigans like that in my old company. I just didn’t expect my inn to turn into a bridge club love shack.”

  “Love shack!” Edna’s voice rose.

  I pressed my finger to my lips and then continued. “It’s all fine between consenting adults. But now I understand why you wanted to sit this game out.”

  “Consenting adults? What are you on about, Ivy Galloway?”

  “There’s quite an age gap between Gertrude and Ricardo. Stacy is half Annamae’s age as well, but whatever. I’m certainly no ageist, Miss Evans, but I can’t help wondering if money is changing hands.”

  “Of course it is,” she hissed. “Partners like these don’t come cheap and they charge a pretty penny. They’re elite pros, make no mistake.”

  I was starting to feel uncomfortable. Though far from a prude, the idea of paid arrangements like this under my roof when husbands were a short drive away made me shake my head.

  “Stop shaking your head like that,” Edna said. “You’ll injure your brain even more. If you want to work in hospitality, you need to adjust to surprises like this. You get paid for your discretion.”

  I switched from shaking to nodding. “I guess I will need to adjust my expectations. I wanted to market the sweet farm experience, not the illicit tryst experience.” Setting the suitcas
e down, I stared at Edna. “Just to make perfectly sure I understand you… Ricardo is a gigolo hired by Gertrude for a recreational weekend?”

  Edna’s purse string mouth had gone slack, and then her lips smacked together before words came out. “Ivy Rose Galloway. If you’re suggesting what I think you are, I will wash your mouth out with soap. In fact, I will dip your brain into disinfectant with my own bare hands.”

  Her gnarled fingers twitched as if itching to get on with it.

  “You’re the one who said they’re having secret extramarital affairs with paid partners,” I said. “That sounds like gigolo territory to me.”

  Her eyes closed and her lips puckered again. Then she covered her mouth and her shoulders started shaking under her maroon club jacket. “Oh my goodness,” she said, at last. “I don’t know whether to thank you or kick you for the images running through my mind right now. Morag and Kimberly. Oh my, oh my.”

  I had never heard Edna Evans laugh before. There had been plenty of snickers and guffaws at my expense, but never a true belly laugh. She braced herself against the house and let it rip. It was a good minute before she stopped long enough for me to ask, “What’s so funny?”

  “Ivy, you stupid girl, these are bridge partners. Professionals who pair with a club member and increase the level of play. Sometimes they sit in while the club members rest. I can’t afford a ringer’s fees, which is why I’m not participating in this tournament. We’ve only been able to hold these events out of county in the past, to avoid looking pretentious and extravagant. Your farm gives us the privacy to play higher stakes bridge near home.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know?” I said, heaving a sigh of relief. As much as I didn’t want to judge, I also didn’t want to be the keeper of sordid secrets for the town. I was fine with keeping my lips sealed about paid bridge ringers.

  “You spent a decade in Boston,” Edna said. “I thought you’d be more worldly.”

  “Well, you were a public health nurse,” I said. “I thought you’d be more worldly about cross-generational affairs.”