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

by Ellen Riggs

  A taller, fluffier shape stepped into the frame of the doorway.

  “Byron! You’re here!”

  I was thrilled to see the two animals together and in good health. They stood side by side staring at us placidly. Neither seemed at all anxious for help.

  “What is going on here? Did you two elope to be together?” I started walking around the perimeter to find a way in. “It wasn’t necessary. I’m open to any kind of arrangement you want. Byron, my farm is your farm.”

  Keats gave a sharp bark in reproof. Nearly all animals were welcome in our ark, but apparently not other dogs. Or maybe just bigger, tougher dogs.

  “We need to welcome him if they’re happy together,” I said. “I won’t stand in the way of Wilma’s happiness.” After a minute I added, “Of course I will need to work things out with the show, but they haven’t put much effort into looking for Byron.”

  Keats grumbled as he followed me along the fence and when I found a spot where the plastic panels overlapped, he stopped me from going in.

  “What?” I stared around and then it hit me. “Someone deliberately trapped these animals here and everyone in a fifty-mile radius probably knows I’ve lost my pig. Ergo… we’ve got a problem.”

  Keats’ tail signaled trouble indeed. It wasn’t an immediate threat because otherwise he’d be puffed and growling. But that didn’t mean we wouldn’t run into the pignapper on the way back through that bush.

  “I can’t leave them here. But I don’t want to face the pignapper alone and put you and Percy at risk. So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll call Gertie and her rifle for backup. I bet she knows a faster way in here and I wouldn’t put it past her to march into Finch and Starling’s living room if necessary. In the meantime, we’re going to start herding these two back to Gertie’s house until she meets up with us. And by ‘we,’ I mean you.”

  He let out a huff of disgust that Percy echoed.

  “Unless either one of you has a better plan, I’m going in.”

  There were no mumbles or meows so I took that as reluctant agreement.

  “Okay, but you two had better stay out here. I don’t trust either of them.”

  Keats whined but I stood firm. He was smaller than the coyotes Byron was bred to kill.

  After leaving a message for Gertie, I pulled the fence aside, walked into the pen and closed the opening behind me. Byron barked once. It was deep, menacing and protective of his herd of one.

  “Byron, you know us. I’ve watched you play with your little goat baby.”

  I advanced slowly and his tail came up equally slowly.

  “I can see you’ve been taking good care of my girl, Wilma. She seems besotted with you. How do I know? She hasn’t mowed you down. And I think—it’s really hard to be sure—but I think she’s gazing at you.”

  Keats whined to tell me to get a move on it.

  “Right. Business. I’ve got to get these two home and I’m not sure how to go about it.”

  I pulled the second gate aside, expecting them to charge into the pen area. They didn’t. Instead, Byron moved in front of Wilma and backed her further into the old barn.

  “Don’t you want to come out? What’s the appeal in this old dump?” I turned on my phone light and peered inside. “Ah. I see. Plenty of food and bedding. Your captors have at least taken good care of you.”

  I signaled Keats and Percy to stay back in case the big dog decided to take issue with them. Then I eased around the two big animals carefully. Keats did as I asked, but naturally Percy ignored me. He jumped over the first gate and the second and slipped right through my feet to run ahead with his tail up.

  The barn was in better shape than it looked from the outside. The walls were sound and the roof okay, at least with a heavy coating of snow. It was probably warm enough with two bodies inside, despite the broken door.

  “Okay folks, let’s go,” I said. “Take a last look at your sweet retreat because it’s back to real life for you.”

  I flicked the light into the back to make sure no animal was left behind. In one of the corners a tarp lay in a heap on the floor. Walking over, I nudged the material aside with my boot.

  Underneath lay a small shovel. I would have assumed it was for mucking out, but all the muck was still here. It was a bit ripe inside from big and bigger poop.

  Percy stepped lightly over the tarp and then started scraping invisible kitty litter over the silver metal.

  Silver metal with rust along its edge.

  Dark rust that had… dribbled?

  “Oh,” I said, dropping the tarp and backing away. I turned, and then turned back. Outside, Keats’ whining escalated to a sharp yelp.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I called, although it was so not okay. “What do I do? I can’t just leave it here. What if it’s gone by the time the police arrive?” I bent over and carefully scooped up the shovel, careful to keep it wrapped in the tarp. “How am I going to handle all this and the animals?”

  I took another look around, scanning again and again. There was something else… I felt it. And Percy, who was now scaling the wall to reach the rafters, apparently agreed. I was impressed with his athleticism and let him do his thing while I urged the big dog and the pig to go outside.

  Neither one budged. Stockholm syndrome struck again.

  “Wilma, please,” I said. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I want you back at Runaway Farm. You are very special to me and I’m sorry if I haven’t always shown that. I’m willing to hear you on whatever changes you’d like to make to your living arrangements.”

  She still didn’t move, so I tucked the tarp under my arm, took a huge risk and knelt in front of her. Staring into her piggy eyes, I said, “Please come home.”

  The pig was an immovable force. She didn’t even blink.

  Standing, I turned and tried another tack. “Byron, or whatever your name was before the show gave you a new one, I need your help. Wilma belongs at Runaway Farm, not stuck out in the bush. And you do, too. That TV set is not a home and they don’t value your breed for what it is. And frankly, I could use a dog like you.”

  There was another yelp outside and it sounded indignant.

  “I’ve got some big personalities at my farm and with all the new additions—and the freelance gigs we take on—there’s too much work to go around. If you could take over Drama Llama and the thugs, as well as keeping Wilma happy, I would be honored to have you forever.”

  Whether or not I got through to him, or he just decided it was time to move, was hard to say. Either way, the big dog started walking and when he did, Wilma followed like a meek kitten.

  Meanwhile, my not-so-meek kitten was up in the rafters yowling at me but I couldn’t turn back now. The smaller ship was sailing back to the ark and I wanted to stay afloat.

  “Percy, leave it,” I called. “We’ll come back, I promise.”

  Keats gave me a baleful look as the big dog passed without so much as acknowledging his existence. Clearly I’d misjudged the threat to my greatest asset.

  “I’m so sorry, buddy. I was afraid he’d lump you in with the coyotes. But now you can bring everyone home. You guide Byron while he guides Wilma. Got it?”

  Keats mumbled a surly confirmation and I pulled the gate aside.

  “Please, boys, don’t let Wilma slip away. I know she likes you, Byron, but she’s a fickle beast. I’m afraid this was just a convenient fling because you were trapped together.”

  Percy took the lead, Byron followed the cat, and Keats came behind, slashing back and forth in an arc. I came last, cradling the shovel and trying not to think about what it meant or how it got there. A shudder racked me anyway. If this had been used two days ago to shove Vivian into the pond, then someone would undoubtedly reclaim it at some point. If that happened while my parade was in progress, I stood to lose some or all of the participants.

  Keats stopped and went into a point while the others kept rolling.

  “What is it?” My heart kicked
up even more. “The shovel owner?”

  Cocking his head, Keats evaluated and then dismissed the threat. As he loped after the others, I heard the roar of a vehicle. It couldn’t be the killer or Keats wouldn’t leave me.

  “It must be Gertie on her ATV,” I said. “Bad idea in these conditions. She could get thrown.”

  She hurtled into sight, long braid lifting and curling like a heavy snake under her helmet. Her ride today wasn’t an ATV, however. It was a sleek red snowmobile.

  My throat tightened as I pictured the animals scattering. Gertie slowed to a crawl, however, and Wilma continued to move along nicely.

  “Hop on,” Gertie yelled over the motor. “Let’s get this crew to hustle.”

  I did as she said, balancing the shovel in the tarp between us. Percy left his place in the lead and jumped onto my shoulder.

  “Don’t go too fast, please,” I said, “Or Percy will fly off.”

  “Not too fast, not too slow,” she said, turning. “Here, hold this, will you?”

  She tried to pass me her rifle but I demurred. “Keep it, Gertie. There’s a chance you might need it.”

  “At your service.” Revving the machine, she moved out in front and said, “Hit it, Byron. And you hold the line, Keats. There are plenty of sardines at my place for everyone.”

  Circling like a skilled cowhand, she helped drive everyone slowly, surely and safely back through the bush. Finally we passed under the arch into her yard and sent the animals into the barn.

  Another snowmobile sat off to one side, covered in snow. A hint of blue paint showed through.

  “His and hers,” she said. “Saul loved hitting the skidoo trails in winter but I never had the heart after he passed. Glad they still run.”

  “Thank you, Gertie,” I said, as she closed the barn door and latched it. “I hope you don’t mind if I invite Chief Harper over for a chat. Plus Charlie’s coming with the trailer to pick up Wilma and Byron.”

  Pulling off her helmet, she smoothed her gray hair, right to the end of her long braid. “Always glad to see Chief Hotstuff,” she said, letting Keats and Percy escort us to the house. “And Charlie Forbes is a fine man. Much too good for your mother’s stable of fools.”

  I laughed as I followed her inside. “I’ve told him so myself, but there’s no accounting for taste. Wilma’s fallen for Byron, for example.”

  “Well, he’s a handsome dog, no question about that. He also has a good head on his shoulders. I can’t imagine the last month has been easy for him with that crew and getting loose in the woods.”

  As she put on the kettle, I sat at the kitchen table, carefully settling the tarp-wrapped shovel at my feet.

  “That old barn belonged to the Kinkaid family, right?” I said. “Martha mentioned it when we were talking about the Swenson-Milloy feud.”

  Gertie nodded, pulling a couple of packets of instant cocoa out of the cupboard, plus half a dozen tins of the promised sardines. “Haven’t thought about it, let alone seen it, for years. The Pefferlaws aren’t particularly warm so Saul and I kept to our side of the divide.”

  “I’ve never met them,” I said. “Can you think of any reason they’d steal Wilma and Byron? Someone had set up a pen to hold them hostage.”

  “Finch and Starling are quirky,” Gertie said, twisting the key of a sardine tin. “I mean, the names say it all, right? Birdbrains.”

  I laughed. “I figured those were just their homesteader names.”

  “Exactly. They’re private, which I understand, but I get a bad vibe from them.” The electric kettle switched off and she peered at me through a cloud of steam as she poured water into the cocoa. “I’m hardly one to judge when I take pride in my own eccentricity.” Stirring the cocoa, she added, “I wasn’t always that way, though.”

  “You were put in an awkward situation with all those treasure hunters,” I said. “Maybe the Pefferlaws struggled with that, too. But I still don’t see what they’d want with my pig.”

  She set the mug of cocoa in front of me and perched on the chair opposite. “That reality TV show has a lot of people rattled. They sent their cameras everywhere, scouting. People with something to hide were scared.” Taking a sip, she fanned her mouth. “Minnie and I didn’t have much of a reputation to lose.”

  I tried to sip the scalding cocoa and failed. “Minnie?”

  “My rifle. My best friend. Becky and her minions beat it out of here pretty fast when I introduced her.”

  “So you’re thinking that Finch and Starling may have tried to undermine the show by stealing the production’s dog and the pig from the farm that inspired it?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” she said. “After we get rid of the chief, how about you, Minnie and I take a drive?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gertie didn’t mind that Keats stood on her poncho while we drove over to see the Pefferlaws later. I felt less welcoming of her pet, Minnie. The rifle sat at her feet, and she had shoved the seat back to make room for it.

  “Is he always that supercilious?” she asked.

  “Supercilious? Kellan? No, you know that.” I thought about it for a second. “Only when he’s annoyed at me for putting myself—and others—in danger.”

  “Sure, he is. Mr. Haughty McSnobalot.”

  The voice came from the back seat and I turned to toss Edna Evans what I hoped was a withering stare. The problem with being a blank face expert is that I didn’t have a vast repertoire of expressions to draw on in situations like this.

  “He has good reason to be worried about my wandering out in the bush, Edna. Turns out there’s a shovel-wielding murderer around.”

  “Who happens to be down one shovel right now,” Edna said. “Good thing I showed up when I did. Here I thought Gertie and I would just shoot some tin cans and I find you’re off on an adventure. Without me. A card-carrying member of your dream team. Who’s just happened to save your life a few times.”

  “It wasn’t deliberate,” I said. “Jilly isn’t here either and she predates you.”

  “Fine. I take back my comment about Kellan. Or maybe not. He’s always snooty with me.”

  I continued to direct some withering into the rearview mirror and ended up stalling the truck.

  “Edna. You know better than to disparage my boyfriend. People get fired for less.”

  “You’ll have to settle for giving me whiplash,” she said. “Supercilious. Disparage. What’s with the big words, ladies? Are you trying to outclass me? Because I’ve got an arsenal of those, too. But I try to keep it simple.”

  She thumped the back of the passenger seat—the throne she now considered rightfully hers. Gertie hadn’t consulted and it was hard to argue with Minnie. At least Edna had left her gun at the house. I wondered what the cab driver had thought as he ferried her there in her camouflage outfit accessorized with a suspiciously large kit bag that rattled with empty baked bean cans. No wonder she’d been declining meal service from Jilly lately. The air in here might just get a little sour.

  I turned the key again. “How about we all do a restart so that we can be conciliatory with the Pefferlaws? How about that word, Edna?”

  “Nice would work just as well,” she said.

  “And be just as unlikely,” Gertie said. “Edna and I don’t do nice. We shoot up bean cans and long for better targets.”

  Both women chuckled and peace was restored.

  “I’m sure Finch and Starling have more delicate sensibilities,” I said.

  “Hippies,” Gertie said. “They try to live off the grid.”

  “Flower children,” Edna added. “There will be tie-dye.”

  “Live and let live,” I said. “I’m basically a homesteader myself on a larger scale. People in glass inns can’t throw stones.”

  “No, but we can,” Gertie said. “Edna and I remember a time when this town had common sense.”

  “And culture,” Edna added. “I fully supported the Clover Grove Culture Revival Project. What’s happened
to that, Ivy?”

  “Temporarily derailed by Faraway Farm,” I said. “The mayor’s interest in supporting us flagged when showbiz came knocking.”

  “Typical politician,” Gertie said. “More concerned about cash than quality.”

  “I like Meryl,” I said. “She’s a good aunt to Bronwen and that goes far in my books. But she does seem a little blinded by the spotlight.” I turned into the Pefferlaws’ lane. “I suppose she thinks she’s doing the best for this town.”

  No one answered the door of the farmhouse when we knocked. I snapped a photo with my phone to show Martha Kinkaid later. I visited her often at Sunny Acres Retirement Villa, which had done much to cleanse bad memories from the place. Keats and Percy pretty much had free run and they brought a lot of smiles to the residents.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  We turned and I felt Minnie twitch against my back. A dark-haired man came up behind us with a short-haired brindle dog that was almost as large as Byron and far more fearsome. Keats’ signals all shot into the red zone and I didn’t blame him when I saw the dog’s fangs.

  “Well, hi there,” I said. “I’m Ivy Galloway and you probably know Gertie Rhodes and Edna Evans.” Bending, I picked up Percy and popped him onto my shoulder for safety. “This is Percy and my sheepdog is Keats.”

  “That’s about fifty words too many considering you didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Why are you taking pictures of my house?”

  I amped up the mollifying smile. This was one hostile homesteader and it didn’t take much to rile my companions. At least the human ones. “I’m a friend of Martha Kinkaid, whose family built this house. I thought she’d like to see a photo, that’s all.” I made a show of looking around. “You’ve kept it up so beautifully.”

  “Spoken like a greasy politician,” he said. “I expect you’ll run for office someday.”

  “What a terrible thing to say, Finch Pefferlaw,” Gertie said, trying to step in front of me. “You’ve met me and you’ve met Edna Evans. Do you really think we’d be friends with someone like that? Or would we be more likely to shoot them? Use your head.”