But however enchanting the moon garden might be by night, right now it was a soggy, muddy morass filled with a great many trees tall enough to block my view of the barns. I got turned around several times and found myself heading back to the house.
Then I stumbled out of a grove of trees into an open area and saw something that made my jaw drop.
Chapter 15
I was in a small field, surrounded on three sides by woods and on the fourth by a fence that I hoped would turn out to be the goat pasture. In the middle of the field an area about half an acre in size was completely enclosed with a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Floodlights and speakers were mounted on all four corners and at intervals along the four sides of the enclosure. Other mechanical devices whose purpose I couldn’t even guess hung on the fence or were arranged around the perimeter of the fence. The whole thing looked like something you’d find on the grounds of a penitentiary rather than a farm.
“You lost?”
I started, and turned to see Mr. Darby standing behind me.
“Very lost,” I said. “I’d appreciate a steer in the direction of the barns. But first, what’s that? The cell block where she keeps any brightly colored flora or fauna that invade her farm?”
“You’re not far off,” he said. “That’s where she keeps all her rose beds.”
“Is she that afraid people will steal her prize roses?”
“It’s not really people she’s worried about,” Mr. Darby said. “It’s the deer and the goats. To goats and deer, roses are like chocolate, caviar, and champagne, all rolled up into one, remember? You should have seen the time she saw one of the goats out here eating all her Black Magic roses. I thought for a moment we’d be eating goat stew that night. She had the contractors out the next day to build all this.”
From his tone, I gathered he shared my belief that the rose enclosure was a hideous eyesore.
“I’m going to take a peek inside,” I said.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“I can look through the fence,” I said. “Unless that’s verboten.”
“Careful, then.” He shrugged, as if disavowing any responsibility for the consequences of my nosiness. “She’s not dead keen on human intruders, either. And I don’t have a key. She doesn’t let anyone else inside, except maybe sometimes one of the garden staff, with her looking over their shoulders every second.”
“Still, no harm in just looking in through the fence,” I said. I figured if Mrs. Winkleson saw me and objected, I could claim I thought I saw a glimpse of white fur among the plants.
I stuck my face right up against the chain link, the better to see her roses. Even if you could forget about the surrounding fortifications, no one would ever call her rose garden pretty. For one thing, it was a little monotonous. Four long rows of precisely pruned bushes sported uniformly white flowers. I imagine if you got closer, you’d probably see enough subtle variations in size, shape, and texture of the white blossoms to make them interesting, but from where I stood they all blended into one. A rose factory.
The most interesting part of the whole enclosure was in the far corner, where there was a much smaller collection of roses. Many of them bore deep red or purple blooms, presumably Mrs. Winkleson’s potential entrants for the Winkleson prize. And also her breeding stock. Here and there I saw bushes sporting plastic bags over some branches, so I gathered Mrs. Winkle-son was trying to develop her own black roses. I knew from Dad’s efforts that you used the bags when you were cross-pollinating, to keep stray insects from contaminating the results with unwanted pollen.
I followed the fence around to the corner where the red roses lurked so I could peer in and check Dad’s competition.
“She’s got some awfully dark roses,” I said. A couple of the bushes bore buds that were almost black, and she had plenty of roses in deep velvety reds. Even a few that I’d almost call purple.
“They drive her bonkers, those roses.”
“Why?” I asked. “She’s got some lovely ones. Very dark ones.” Not as dark as some of Dad’s I thought. Then again, I didn’t know whether his best roses had survived the depredations of the deer.
“Yeah, pretty dark, but the darn things are still a long way from coal black,” he said. “You should see her out here sometimes, swearing at the roses, like she thought she could order them to turn black.”
“She probably does think that,” I said. “But if her roses are anything like Dad’s, swearing at them won’t do any good.”
“More likely to do harm.”
“Oh, are you a believer in talking positively to your plants?” I asked. “I have a cousin who swears she can double a plant’s growth rate by regularly talking to it in a warm, encouraging fashion.”
“That’s interesting,” Mr. Darby said, though by his expression I suspected interesting was his euphemism for wacko. “What I meant was that sometimes she gets so worked up that she rips a plant or two up, roots and all. White ones that aren’t pure white enough. Dark red ones she’s bred that aren’t turning out as dark as she wants.”
“Self-defeating,” I said, shaking my head.
“And then the next day she drags one of my gardeners in there to replant it,” he said. “Which doesn’t always work too well. They’re delicate things, roses.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
A sudden clap of thunder made both of us start, and then we both pulled up the hoods of our rain parkas as the heavens opened. We stood hunched against the downpour for a minute or two. I could see petals falling from some of the roses.
“This isn’t doing the roses any good,” I said. “But I suppose she’s already cut the ones she’s planning to exhibit tomorrow.”
Mr. Darby shrugged.
“No doubt,” he said. “Like I said, she doesn’t let anyone else mess with the roses. I’d best be getting on. Got a lot of work to do. When you’re finished inspecting the roses, you can head that way to get back to the barns. Over the fence, turn right, and mind the goats.
“Thanks,” I said.
He trudged off heading at right angles to the path he’d pointed out for me, and disappeared into the woods.
I gazed through the chain link for a few more minutes. Were these the bushes that had produced the blooms destined to defeat whatever black roses Dad had left? Or would Dad’s blooms triumph over the regimented inhabitants of Mrs. Winkleson’s rose prison?
I peered closer, trying to read the tags attached to the bushes. A couple of the ones closest to the fence appeared to say “Black Magic.” I couldn’t read any of the rest.
I found myself feeling sorry for the poor bushes, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, blooming unseen and un-smelled, except by Mrs. Winkleson. A sad life.
I was starting to sound like Rose Noire.
I flinched at another sharp clap of thunder, but the rain had started easing off. I turned away and sloshed in the direction Mr. Darby had indicated.
Yes, as I approached the fence, I could see the goats, about two dozen of them. Some were still clustered hopefully around the feeding trough, while the rest were grazing nearby, and a small cluster were horizontal. Perhaps the thunder had startled them. I began climbing over the fence, moving as slowly as possible, to avoid startling them again.
I was halfway over the fence when I heard Spike barking in the distance.
“Blast!” My grandfather’s voice. “Come back, you rebellious cur!”
I hopped down and looked around. First, I spotted Dr. Blake, running slowly toward the fence, with Caroline following about ten feet behind. But they were no match for the Small Evil One. With his leash trailing behind him, Spike made a beeline for the goats.
Most of the goats that weren’t already lying down toppled over immediately. A few managed to whirl and take a few steps away from Spike before they succumbed. Several of the larger goats just froze in place, much like kids playing a game of Statues.
Spike seemed overjoyed with his victory
. To my relief, he didn’t try to bite any of the goats. He just pranced among his victims, head high, tail wagging, uttering an occasional sharp bark of triumph.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Darby appeared out of the woods at my right and began scrambling over the fence.
“I’m so sorry,” I called back to Mr. Darby as I trotted after Spike.
“Not your fault,” he said. “Happens all the time. Dogs. Little kids. Herself with that damned umbrella.”
I was getting close to Spike, and had to watch my step, lest I trip over one of the recumbent goats.
“Perfect example of a maladaptive mutation.” Dr. Blake sounded out of breath, and was leaning heavily on the fence. “In the wild, anything that keeled over at the first appearance of a predator wouldn’t live to reproduce.”
“It’s not their fault,” Mr. Darby said, sounding a little peeved. “They were bred that way.”
“Precisely my point,” my grandfather said. “We humans have taken the goat, one of the most admirably rugged and self-reliant of ruminants, and then deliberately bred it for a trait that’s at best inconvenient for the animal and at worst dangerous.”
“Well, there’s some truth to that,” Mr. Darby said.
“Don’t let them kick that poor little puppy!” Caroline shouted. “Catch him, quick!”
“I’m trying,” I said.
Spike wasn’t seriously at risk, since most of the goats were still horizontal. He wasn’t eager to be caught either, and the longer he eluded me, the harder catching him would be. I chased, he dodged, and then the goats began getting up, which made it easier for him to use them for cover. Some of them were still a little shaky, others recovering more quickly and bounding toward the fence to greet Mr. Darby, who was reaching into his pocket and feeding bits of carrot to them. My grandfather reached over, took some of the carrots from Mr. Darby’s hand, and began feeding the maladapted goats himself.
“It’s the same as how we’ve taken an animal as magnificent as the wolf and turned it into— well, something like that,” he went on, pointing with a carrot at Spike, who was sniffing at one of the larger fallen goats. As if spurred by my grandfather’s words, Spike suddenly leaped away from the goat and began backing toward the fence, growling. I leaned down and managed to grab the end of his leash.
“Even in captivity, you’d think the extreme version of myotonia would be a handicap,” Dr. Blake went on. “The ones that succumb less readily and recover more quickly have a better opportunity to get food.”
“I make sure none of ’em starve,” Mr. Darby said.
“They look very healthy,” Caroline said.
“Yes, of course, but my point is that the myotonia gives them a competitive disadvantage,” my grandfather said. “Some of these goats have had half a dozen carrots by now, and that goat over there hasn’t had any.”
He pointed at the goat Spike had been sniffing. It still lay slightly apart from the rest of the goats, nearer the fence that separated their pasture from the farther one beyond. I took a few steps forward to take a closer look.
“That’s because it’s not a goat,” I said. “It’s a person. And I see blood. Call 911.”
Chapter 16
I tossed the leash to Dr. Blake and ran toward where the figure was lying. Definitely a human form. Probably a small one, though it was hard to judge size since the figure was lying down, curled on one side, and swathed in a voluminous black garment.
“I’m coming,” Caroline shouted. “Remember, I’m a nurse.”
I thought I recognized the black garment on the fallen figure as a rain cape, quite possibly the one Mrs. Winkleson had been wearing all morning as she strode around barging into things and ordering people around. I wondered, briefly, if we were panicking over a cloak someone had dropped in the pasture. No, there was a foot sticking out from under the black fabric, with a thick ankle and a familiar-looking sturdy black shoe on the end of it. I plopped to my knees beside the figure and scrambled for her wrist to check for a pulse.
“Emergency!” I could hear Dr. Blake shouting into his cell phone.
What was Mrs. Winkleson doing out here in the pasture? No time to waste figuring it out. She had no pulse. But she was still warm— normal body temperature as far as I would tell. My mind raced to figure out what Dad’s instructions would be. Chest compression, probably.
“No pulse,” I said over my shoulder to Caroline.
“We should do CPR, then,” she said. “Turn her over.”
“Dammit, I don’t know,” my grandfather was saying on his phone. “Looks like a dying nun to me. No, dying. D-Y-”
I reached to turn Mrs. Winkleson on her back and realized there was a complication. A pool of blood was spreading out from under her, and she had something sticking out of her back. Caroline knelt down beside me and tugged at the object. It didn’t budge.
“My secateurs,” I said aloud.
“Hang on, Debbie Anne,” my grandfather said to the dispatcher. “Meg’s saying something. Who did you say it was, Meg?”
“Pull those out and turn her over,” Caroline said. “I can do the chest compression, but I can’t budge those.”
I gulped, then grabbed the secateurs and pulled, hard. The secateurs came out. I didn’t see a lot of blood come out with them. Was that a good sign or bad? I wondered, as I rolled Mrs. Winkleson over on her back. Not good, I decided, from the look on Caroline’s face. She started rhythmically pumping on Mrs. Winkleson’s chest. I stood up and stepped back to give her room.
“Someone used my secateurs to stab Mrs. Winkleson in the back,” I said. I could hear my grandfather repeating my words into the phone.
Mrs. Winkleson’s face was covered with blood and mud, and there was an enormous amount of blood on her clothes and the ground— Caroline’s hands were red, and the knees of my jeans were soaked. But I didn’t see a lot of new blood flowing from the wound. Even in the short time since I’d turned her over, the rain had begun to dilute and wash away the existing blood.
She was facing toward the barns, I noticed.
“They’re sending an ambulance,” Dr. Blake shouted. “I’m calling your father.”
Suddenly I noticed Mrs. Winkleson’s hands. Her left hand had fallen back behind her head, as if she were waving to someone, but her right hand, which had flopped out to the side when I turned her, was clutching something white. White and red, actually. A bloodstained piece of paper.
I reached down to secure the paper, but just as my hand touched it, an enormous hairy goat head swooped down and chomped on it with large, yellow teeth.
“Hey! Stop that!” I said, smacking the goat on the nose. The goat turned to flee and keeled over after a few steps. Unfortunately, he continued chewing vigorously, and swallowed just as I reached him.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Darby said, racing over. “Did someone hurt Elton?”
“You mean the goat— he’s fine,” I said. “But he just ate some evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand, and the goat ate it.”
“Well, you can’t blame Elton for that,” Mr. Darby said. “As I told you before, paper’s like candy to them.”
“Can’t you make him cough it up?” I asked. “He can’t have digested it yet.”
“They’re fainting goats, not puking goats,” Mr. Darby said, sounding rather cross.
I went back where Caroline was still briskly administering CPR to the victim. I checked Mrs. Winkleson’s hand and found she was still holding a corner of the paper. I gently teased it out.
“What does it say?” my grandfather asked.
“ ‘Or else,’ ” I read.
“Or else what?”
“Or else, period,” I said. “It’s just the lower right hand corner of the paper. That’s all that’s left.”
“No signature?”
“No.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“It’s typed.” I s
howed him the paper.
“Well, that’s not much help,” he said. “You shouldn’t have let that goat eat the rest of it.”
Luckily we were interrupted before I could answer.
“Meg! What’s up!”
I turned to see Dad climbing over the fence.
“She’s been stabbed,” I shouted back. “Caroline’s doing CPR.”
“Oh, dear!” Dad was over the fence now. He turned back to take his black medical bag from Chief Burke, then trotted toward us while the chief climbed over the fence more slowly, as if he already knew that Dad’s medical effort was doomed to failure and his own investigative work about to begin. Or maybe it only seemed that way to me because I’d seen how badly off Dad’s latest patient was.
The chief turned to me.
“You found the bo— the victim?”
“Actually, Spike found her,” I said.
“I can’t very well question him, can I? What happened?”
“Mind if I sit down?” I suddenly realized that my knees were shaking.
I walked over and sat down on one end of the goats’ trough. The chief followed me over and took out his notebook. He scribbled furiously as I told him how I’d found Mrs. Winkle-son. Then, at his request, I did an instant replay of my entire morning. I turned over the small scrap of paper I’d pried from Mrs. Winkleson’s hands and he pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket and put them on before taking it and peering at it over his glasses.
As we talked, both of us watched the effort to save Mrs. Winkleson— first by Dad and Caroline, and then by the EMTs who arrived with the ambulance.
Swan for the Money Page 10