Swine and Punishment (Bought-the-Farm Mystery 7)

by Ellen Riggs

  Eric was already ensconced on the leather couch in the family room beside Poppy. Given the delicate nature of the dinner party, I’d enlisted Daisy to extract Mom for the night. There had been many a shrill protest and ultimately I’d threated to withdraw her front suite privileges if she didn’t go graciously. Mom was a good asset in some situations, but her smart mouth was a hazard. Poppy wasn’t much better, but she’d been duly warned and was motivated to make things right.

  Jilly poured another two whiskey sours from a tall, icy pitcher. It was my favorite cocktail. Tangy freshly squeezed lemon juice put my brain on high alert, though too much of a good thing would have the opposite effect. Her private recipe was always a hit with our gentlemen guests, which is why Jilly had chosen it. Normally she cut cocktail hour short, but tonight the pitcher tipped again and again.

  By the time we adjourned to the dining room, cameras were forgotten. Poppy’s normally sassy expression had been shuttered by discomfort, but she managed a stiff smile after a puckery dose of lemon. Several drinks in, however, Ray still hadn’t let on that he had any special familiarity with Poppy. The way she shook out her linen napkin told me that annoyed her. And when she followed by rearranging the cutlery, I guessed it hurt, too.

  Jilly dished out huge servings of her classic beef stew, a hit not only with Edna, but nearly every man alive. I dove in with gusto but Poppy just pushed a pearl onion around her plate. If Ray noticed, he didn’t let on. But I think he’d stopped noticing much after the second whiskey sour.

  “How are you guys doing?” Jilly asked, with a winsome smile. “We’ve been worried about you over there.”

  She was a knockout in a dress I hadn’t seen since her single days in Boston. It had always been a business asset and I was pleased she’d dressed for success. I’d only managed a quick shower and change into dress pants and cashmere. Still, it felt good to remind them I wasn’t always the farmer cartoon they’d imagined.

  “Okay. We’re okay,” Ray said. “I mean, a little rattled, if I’m honest.”

  “Worried the killer pig will come over to finish you off, too?” I said. “Or the ghosts and aliens?”

  He laughed. “None of that. I guess maybe I agree with you that a human could be behind this, and until that gets sorted none of us will feel safe.”

  “If it’s true, wouldn’t the violence be specific to Vivian?” I asked. “I heard she rubbed a few people the wrong way.”

  Ray shrugged. “We’re in reality TV. We rub people the wrong way for a living.”

  “Including you, Ivy,” Eric said, shoveling stew like it was his last meal. “You seemed mad enough about the show to do something drastic.”

  “I was mad. Until I realized how much good the show could do for me. For this place and my animals and my family.”

  Poppy flicked the pearl onion right off the plate. It rolled across the tablecloth and onto the floor. Keats was sitting watch beside me, but he certainly wasn’t going to let that go to waste. I had to signal Poppy to grab it before he could. Like so many tasty things, onions were toxic.

  “You mean you realized the mayor was going to make your life difficult if you didn’t give in,” Eric said.

  This guy made Ray look like a prince. I hoped Poppy at least took solace from the fact she’d fallen for the nicer louse.

  “That too,” I said. “But the mayor’s attention obviously meant I couldn’t do anything drastic.” I lifted a nice piece of beef and smiled. “Dating the chief of police makes homicide harder to pull off, too. At least I assume, having never tried.”

  “You don’t have to try with a vicious pig,” Eric said. “You can stand back and let the animals do your dirty work.” He rubbed one hand over his bald head. “And it was dirty.”

  Jilly stood and served Eric a second helping of stew. “We know a little something about post-traumatic stress disorder,” she said, patting his shoulder.

  He flinched as if she’d sent a bolt of electricity through him.

  “It’s probably better to believe it’s the pig,” I said. “Then you know there’s no malice. Vivian was in the wrong place at the wrong time with an animal that was quickly turning feral.”

  “But what if it wasn’t?” Ray said to Eric. “Someone could come after us, too.”

  “Why on earth would they do that?” I asked. “You guys are just the cameramen.”

  “It starts at the top and trickles down,” he said. “Like your dung pile.”

  “Then Becky would be next,” Eric said. “And by that time, they’d figure it out.”

  “Guys, guys,” Jilly said. “You’re letting your thoughts run away with you. Classic signs of PTSD. I am quite sure no one wants you dead.”

  Ray tipped the last of the whiskey sour down his throat and then reached for his glass of wine. “You’d be wrong. We get threatened all the time by people who don’t like our shows’ angles.”

  “He’s right,” Eric said. “And we’ve done three shows and half a dozen pilots with Vivian. There’s a lot of unhappy people.”

  “Well, Clover Grove isn’t like that,” I said. The words almost made me choke on a pearl onion and Keats’ ears perked up hopefully. “It’s truly a quaint country town.”

  Ray rolled his eyes. “The Langman sisters chased me with a broom. It’s the first time I’ve been smacked in the backside since I was a kid. There are plenty of real witches in this town.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “The Langmans are quite the characters.”

  “And the vet’s wife… Beverly. Wouldn’t want to meet her in dark alley.”

  “She has a lovely singing voice,” Jilly said. “A star in our Christmas choir.”

  Ray got busy on his wine. “All I’m saying is that people in Clover Grove seem angry enough about the show to chase us out of town. The lady at the bookstore threatened legal action if we didn’t leave.”

  “The network doesn’t seem worried about any of that,” I said.

  “Like they care about the little guys,” Eric said. “They’ll step right over Vivian’s body and keep shooting with you because ratings were good on the premiere.”

  “I did expect them to be more upset about losing their star. They have a long history with her.”

  Lifting his linen napkin, Ray patted his forehead. His arty swoop of hair was limp with sweat. “She was making too many demands. There were meetings on meetings.”

  “And yelling,” Eric added.

  “When you’re successful, it’s normal to want more,” I said.

  “Not that much more. She tripled her salary request for this show. Like it was a tough gig.”

  I laughed again. “She knew something about farming and it is a tough gig. She would have ended up covered in manure. She deserved more money.”

  “She was a—”

  “Ray,” Eric said. “Zip it.”

  Ray made a point of looking around. “I don’t see any cameras rolling, Eric. If I say Vivian rode a broom, no one can prove it.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We understand completely. Jilly and I come from a very cutthroat background.”

  “Both of us were bullied,” Jilly said. “A lot.”

  “That’s why I had zero tolerance for it when I was a manager. It was tough to enforce though. I could never get men to report it. Pride, I guess.”

  Ray and Eric glanced at each other sheepishly. No matter how tipsy, their pride wouldn’t let them report it now. But their look said it all.

  “Since there’s no camera rolling, I’ll admit I’m not broken up over seeing the last of Vivian,” Ray said. “I really wanted to see her turfed and humiliated. Becky too.”

  He sat back suddenly and pressed his lips together. Eric did, too. The atmosphere changed and I knew the information highway had been closed for traffic.

  “More stew?” Jilly asked.

  “No thanks,” Ray said. “It was amazing, but we’ve got to get back to our farm and see how things are going.”

  Our farm… The words sen
t a shot of annoyance through me.

  “Becky is probably nervous alone,” I said.

  “Your killer pig would have its work cut out taking her down,” Eric said, bringing the conversation full circle to Wilma’s supposed guilt. “She’s a fighter. We admire that.”

  “Of course,” I said, getting up to walk them to the door with Jilly.

  Poppy didn’t follow and Ray just gave her a sloppy nod. We waited with them till the cab arrived and helped them load the cameras safely. Keats kept tight herding maneuvers until they were inside the vehicle, even going so far as to jab Ray repeatedly in the shin with his nose. He didn’t seem to notice.

  After they drove off, Jilly said, “Either one of them could have done it. They both feel pretty burned.”

  “Becky too,” I said. “We’ve seen how internal politics can erode people till they’re desperate. The big question is, did someone act alone or were they in on it together?”

  By the time we got back to the family room, my sister was curled up with Percy on the couch. The cat was kneading her sweater gently and I could hear the comforting purr from yards away.

  “That meal was delicious, Jilly,” Poppy said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever eat stew again.”

  “You will, Pops,” I said, signaling Keats to join them. This was clearly a job for two pets. “Just wait till the right pearl onion comes along.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning I headed out to Gertie’s alone.

  Well, I was never alone with Keats and Percy, of course, but I’d asked the Mafia to take the day off. Cori Hogan and the main crew had put in long hard hours hunting for a pig who didn’t want to be found. I suspected Gertie was right about that, and I also had faith that Wilma would turn up when she was good and ready. That didn’t mean I wanted to stop looking, but I did want to give all the volunteers a day off. At least 20 people had joined the hunt yesterday and no one had found so much as a hoofprint.

  “Is she still out here, buddy?” I asked the dog as he trotted along just ahead of me. “Can you sense her? How about Byron?”

  He looked back with his blue eye and grumbled something cheeky.

  “Fine. I don’t suppose you’d waste your time on a lost cause. You’d be leading me down a different path.”

  The happy pant served as a nod. Exactly.

  “But Gertie says she and Edna covered her entire property yesterday, while Cori and the rest took on the Swenson property. They came up empty.” Keats was moving fast and I had to hurry to keep up. “Will you take it easy, please? If I break a leg or we fall in a secret swamp this will not go well for you.”

  He slowed a little and made a circle around me, either to be rude or to rush me.

  “Not a sheep, Keats. Not a goat. I’m fully capable of going on strike.”

  Percy added to my protest with an exasperated yowl. His legs were much shorter than ours and the deep snow made for heavy going.

  “Climb up, Percy,” I said. “I should have brought your carrier. Keats didn’t let on we’d be taking a major expedition.”

  Once the cat was settled on my shoulder we resumed trekking.

  “If we find her, what am I going to do? I have rope in my backpack but I can’t lasso her. Even Edna couldn’t rope her. I’m going to have to rely on her goodwill.”

  Keats panted a ha-ha-ha.

  “Yes, she’s a grumpy pig but we’re turning over a new leaf, remember? I am going to woo this pig not with food bribes, but understanding. There’s gotta be something that motivates her and I will find it. She’s not happy with her life at Runaway Farm and we both need to do something about it.”

  He yipped a protest, evidently standing behind his own performance as farm manager.

  “I don’t buy it,” I said. “You take more dives at her than the other animals and I bet they’re not all necessary.”

  He yipped again, more shrilly.

  “I’m not saying you’re a bully. Only you know that. It’s more that we both got burned by her and we put up a wall to make sure it didn’t happen again.” I stared around at what seemed like never-ending trees, a blend of leafless deciduous and bushy coniferous of every variety. In summer, this area would be impenetrable. “We need to open our hearts to Wilma. I know you’re just trying to protect me but we’ve got to give pigs a chance. Everyone deserves that.”

  His fluffy tail drooped a little. He wanted to run the farm his way and normally I let him. But with my new mission to dig deep with all of the animals, we’d need to tailor our approach. Even the chickens had their own personalities. I couldn’t indulge every feathered whim but I could do better.

  Keats gave me a questioning look and I shrugged. “Right. It’s not like I have a lot of time on my hands, but Poppy wants more hours. I’ll let her do some of the routine work while I focus on the specialized tasks. Namely communing with the livestock and manure management.” He panted a laugh and I joined in. “The latter keeps me out of trouble.” I stumbled over a log, spun my arms and then squealed as Percy dug in to regain his balance. “Well, more trouble.”

  Keats herded me into an easier “lane” and I decided to let him drive. Sometimes it was nice to gear down and be a sheep and a follower. I didn’t have that luxury often.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked. “Because you don’t even seem to be searching.”

  The dog surged out in front and his white tuft gave an authoritative swish. As a sheep, I would apparently only receive information on a need-to-know basis.

  “In my humble opinion, I do need to know,” I said. “Am I walking all the way to Dorset Hills? Because I should probably let Jilly know my whereabouts.”

  He kept right on trotting.

  Slowing, I got out my phone to check our coordinates. It felt like we’d walked miles… because we had walked miles. More if you counted the level of difficulty.

  “Looks like we’re close to the Pefferlaws’ property line,” I said. “I know it’s even rougher terrain than Gertie’s, and I don’t love the idea of us being here on our own. If you think Wilma’s out this way how about we round up a team and come back later?”

  He still kept right on trotting.

  “Keats! I can see that you’ve locked onto a target and are ignoring your herd, but sheep are people, too.”

  He turned with a blue-eyed stare that practically barked “duh.”

  “That is no way to lead, buddy. I’m sending you for more training at Ordeal School.”

  Percy gave an odd little meow in my ear. It wasn’t part of his usual vocal repertoire.

  Think, he seemed to be saying. Think.

  “Ah, so that’s why I’m being treated like a particularly dense sheep? Do I already know the answer?”

  Percy gave a purr-meow that was used only on special occasions, generally to urge me toward the cupboard containing the cat treats.

  I spun right around to check our surroundings. Still I saw nothing but trees—the same trees, only different. The only difference, I supposed, was that these belonged to the Pefferlaws. The couple had arrived early in the homesteading rush and snapped up the land at a bargain price. Real estate had skyrocketed since then, especially for such a big property, so they’d done well.

  “I’ve never crossed paths with Finch and Starling,” I said. “Which is odd, considering how many community events I’ve attended lately. Finch and Starling sound like made-up homesteader names, don’t they? I bet it’s more like Reginald and Constance.”

  Keats granted me a laugh and kept on trucking.

  Something twinkled in my memory and I tried to catch a glimpse of it. “Who owned this land before the homesteader birds? I think I know this. Percy?”

  A purr-meow egged me on.

  “Someone mentioned this recently. Around Christmas. Ah! I’ve got it. Martha Kinkaid! She told me her family basically got forced off this land during the feuding between the Swenson and Milloy families. They moved into town and boarded their livestock at Runaway Farm.”<
br />
  Percy delivered a head butt that was harder than necessary.

  “One concussion was enough, thank you very much, Percy. I’m thinking as fast as my neurons will fire.” A few more yards brought the answer. “The old barn. She said there was an old barn back here where her dad hid a neglected cow and calf belonging to the Swensons. He was one of the original rescuers. But when old Frank found out, the Kinkaids weren’t safe here anymore.”

  Keats turned to give me the full benefit of both eyes. Bingo!

  “Okay, it sounds like Wilma may have taken refuge in this old barn. Now that would be one smart pig, Keats.”

  He gave a grumble and moved faster.

  “And one brilliant dog for figuring that out. Let’s get her.”

  I picked up my boots and hurried, knowing there was an end to this everlasting forest. One day the township would buy up this land and turn it into subdivisions, I supposed. At least if Faraway Farm brought the glory the mayor hoped.

  It may have been 10 minutes but felt like an hour before we finally saw a glimpse of red through the trees. Sure enough, there was a very old, dilapidated barn.

  “Seriously? This wreck is preferable to the stellar accommodations at my farm? Wilma must hate us if she’s chosen to shack up here.”

  When we got a little closer, however, I realized Wilma may not have made the choice at all. The only thing new about this place was the portable fencing surrounding it. Had the Pefferlaws stolen my pig? That didn’t seem like the homesteader way. Many kept communal henhouses and gardens. Sharing is caring, some said.

  “Wilma?” I called. “Are you there?”

  The barn door was hanging loose and there was a white plastic fence across the opening. After a few minutes, my big pig ambled into view.

  From where I stood she looked fine. Better than fine. She came as close to smiling as that pig ever had. The food must be very good here, because the company obviously wasn’t.

  But that’s where I was wrong.

  Wilma finally had company she liked.

  Chapter Eighteen