PICKED OFF

by Linda Lovely

  It took the detective about a minute to ascertain I was clueless. Fortunately, he hadn’t hooked into the blogosphere speculation that I might be Zack’s killer girlfriend.

  After Detective Nettles asked his last question, I posed one of my own. “Any update on Zack’s condition?”

  “They’re operating now,” he replied. “The pitchfork broke his collarbone and tore muscles and tendons. Luckily it was high enough to miss his lung. Then there’s the concussion. He also broke an ankle. Probably fell wrong. I understand your aunt’s at the hospital with his mom. A deputy is keeping watch to make sure only authorized hospital staffers get anywhere near Zack.”

  He paused. “Ardon’s a small community. My mother taught at Ardon High when Mrs. Strong taught eleventh grade English, and my father bred Udderly’s Great Pyrenees guard dogs. Mrs. Strong and your aunt are good people. We’ll do all we can to catch whoever did this to Zack. We’ll make sure he stays safe.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.” Ardon County might not be a shopping or dining mecca, but it did have its advantages. A tradition of looking out for neighbors was a big one.

  “What’s the prognosis on the head injury?” I asked.

  Nettles shrugged. “He’s in surgery. That’s all I know. The concussion is worrisome. Naturally we’d like to talk to Zack as soon as we can. If we’re lucky, he’ll tell us who did this and we can lock the moron up.”

  When I returned to the squad room, a frowning Paint was pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard, his cell phone tight to his ear.

  Mollye dipped her chin in Paint’s direction. “He finally got through to Andy. Not sure what they’re talking about but based on his footwork, it doesn’t look like happy news.”

  Paint ended his call. “Mason suggested it would be a good idea if some family friends spent the night at Udderly, just in case. He’s leaving a cruiser at the farm entrance, but there are literally miles of unguarded fences for someone to climb.”

  I frowned, puzzled. “Does he think the attacker might come back? Why would he? Zack’s in the hospital, nowhere near Udderly. Or does Mason think the attack was random and a nutcase is still roaming around?”

  Paint squeezed my shoulder. The concern in his dark chocolate eyes reminded me how much I treasured his friendship. “I think he’s worried some of the CAVE men might show up. Then there are the reporters and thrill seekers who might sneak onto the farm,” he said. “Eva told Billy she’s sticking with Carol until Zack’s out of surgery and stabilized. It’s doubtful she’ll be home before morning. I’ll feel a lot better if I know you and Billy aren’t on the farm alone.”

  Paint’s smile was wry. “Brie, do you have any problems with Andy and me bunking at Udderly tonight? Since the sheriff has already asked Andy every question he could think of, he said he can wait until morning to come to the station and sign a statement.”

  “I’d appreciate the two of you staying.”

  His smile telegraphed the hope I’d help him stay alert on guard duty by kissing those fine, mischievous lips. I bit my own lip trying to banish thoughts about how pleasurable that could be—and had been once before.

  “If you’re having a slumber party, I’m in,” Mollye announced. “Shirley always opens Starry Skies on Saturdays. I’d already planned on a late night. Unfortunately, I don’t think Deputy Danny will be the late-night company I was counting on. You guys will have to do.”

  Recalling Mollye’s tendency to steal the sheets and blankets and tuck them under her ample body when she shared my bed, I knew exactly what slumber costume I’d choose. Flannel PJs and thick wool socks.

  Too bad flannel couldn’t compare with the kind of warmth Andy or Paint could provide.

  Wine-soaked cheese balls. I couldn’t quit mulling over Paint’s suggestion.

  Don’t go there, or you’ll never sleep.

  NINE

  As promised, we found a cruiser parked at the entrance to Udderly. Fortunately, it was the only vehicle in sight. No newsies, at least for the moment. Mollye rolled down her window and yoo-hooed. Deputy Danny McCoy immediately opened his door and walked over to the van.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Moll said. “I’m stayin’ here tonight. When’s your shift end? Wanna hop in bed with Brie and me when you’re done?”

  “Mollye!” I rammed my fist into the back of her seat.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Danny’s a one-woman man, and I’m more than enough woman for him. He knows I’m teasing.”

  Danny looked heavenward. He’d been canoodling with Mollye long enough to shrug off most of her nonsense. “We’re all working overtime. Looks like I’ll be parked here the rest of the night.”

  “You poor thing,” Mollye cooed. “Best I can do is say I’ll try and dream about you. Goodnight, Sweetie.”

  Danny backed up his cruiser to give our van enough room to pass. I groaned as we drove past all of the fundraiser detritus. Either the officers hadn’t let the caterers finish their chores or they’d used the chaos as an excuse to boogie on home. Tables. Tents. Chairs. Trash. At least anything that would blow away had been weighted down or put in garbage bags.

  The morning chores were growing.

  Udderly’s Great Pyrenees guard dogs heralded our arrival with a full-throated canine chorus. Each of these fluffy-white giants tipped the scales between eighty- and one-hundred pounds. They were gentle unless they suspected a stranger intended to harm a member of their “family.” That took in all Udderly residents, human and animal. While deciding if a new arrival was friend or foe, they barked up a storm.

  The ruckus brought Andy and Billy onto the cabin’s front porch. Billy held Eva’s shotgun with the business end pointed our way. He leaned the gun against the porch railing as soon as he recognized the Starry Skies van. Andy shushed the dogs, and they instantly quieted. The vet certainly had a way with animals. Did I dare let him whisper in my ear?

  “Glad you’re here,” Billy said. “Come on in. I made a pot of coffee. Let’s catch up fast and hit the hay. Milking and morning chores are just a few hours away.”

  Cashew, my flirty Teacup Morkie, snubbed me. Instead, the furry powderpuff showered affection on Andy, who’d undoubtedly been feeding her treats. His pockets always bulged with them. As soon as we settled around the kitchen table, Cashew hopped in Andy’s lap, licking his fingers to coax them into performing a doggie massage.

  Eva’s cuckoo clock struck one as we sipped our coffee and shared what little we knew.

  “Do you think Zack saw his attacker?” I asked.

  Andy shook his head. “My guess is no. Given the scuff marks in the hay, it looked like someone clobbered him on the back of the head and dragged him into that back stall to hide the body.”

  The comment offered the only addition to what we all knew. Zack remained in surgery with Eva and Carol sitting vigil. If the sheriff had any inkling about the who and why of the attack, he hadn’t shared.

  I’d warned Mollye that any mention of my photo making Facebook and Twitter rounds would be grounds for serious retribution. While I felt certain the men at the table would eventually see those horrid snapshots, I wanted to postpone the embarrassment until some future date when I wasn’t present.

  When the first bars of “Dixie” blared, we all jumped.

  “Sorry.” Paint pulled an iPhone from his jeans’ pocket. Having worn street clothes under his paint-can costume, he’d only needed to peel off an outer layer to be properly dressed for the sheriff’s interrogation. “That’s Mick’s ringtone. Why in Hades is he calling at this hour?”

  Paint moved away to take the call. Given the size of the cabin, there wasn’t much room for privacy unless you went in Eva’s or my bedroom and closed the door. The porch was an option, but unpleasantly chilly.

  “Are you kidding me?” Paint sounded seriously peeved. “You’re asking about Zack to fill out next week’s fantasy football lineup? It�
��s one a.m. Are you nuts?”

  Paint ended the call without saying another word. “Sorry guys. I’ll turn off the ringer.”

  “Who’s this Mick and why is he calling you about Zack and fantasy football?” I asked.

  “He went to Ardon High,” Paint answered. “A grade behind Zack and Andy and me, but he was on our football team.”

  “Yeah,” Andy added. “Mick only made it on the field in the final seconds of a game if our coach decided there was no way we could lose. But to hear Mick tell it, you’d think he was Zack’s go-to receiver. An enterprising local jeweler made up state championship rings for us. Honking big suckers. Mick bought one. After all these years, he still shows it off to anyone he meets. Kinda sad.”

  Paint claimed one of the table’s free seats. “Ever since I set up our Magic Moonshine fantasy football league, Mick drops by the distillery or phones two or three times a week to talk football. He’s a fanatic. Stays glued to a computer studying statistics and scouting reports. Mick seemed worked up more than usual tonight. The jerk wanted to know when I thought Zack would be able to play again. Guess he wanted a head start looking at waivers.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Really? Someone clobbers a hometown football hero, a former teammate, and his first question is when will Zack be back on the field?”

  Andy shrugged. “He’s not the only guy who takes fantasy football seriously.”

  “Gals do, too,” Mollye added. “One of my brothers started a fantasy league for our family. The men play the women. Last year, we won. Was there any doubt?”

  “Is it for bragging rights or money?” Paint asked.

  “The winners get something better than cold cash. The losers have to prepare Christmas dinner while us victors twiddle our thumbs and make snide comments. Year-long bragging rights are the biggest prize. Money would be less painful to lose.”

  “Not for some folks,” Andy responded. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar buy-in to enter some of the weekly fantasy pools.”

  “Does the guy who phoned make those kinds of bets?” I asked. “If I had that much dough at stake, I might make a few desperate calls.”

  Paint shook his head. “I don’t see how Mick could ever scrape together enough money to make a ten-thousand-dollar bet. But I know he’s been gambling and losing. I think he’s up to his eyeballs in hock.”

  I yawned. “When I’m not so tired, one of you needs to explain the appeal of make-believe football. Whatever happened to rooting for a favorite team—an actual, real-life combination of players? And why the heck is it legal to play fantasy football for money when it’s illegal to play poker online for money?”

  “Don’t you know? Fantasy football’s a game of skill, not chance.” Mollye’s eye roll told me she was being facetious. “I don’t get it. Poker takes real skill. Next time we have a slumber party, I’ll deal ’em up and take you boys to the cleaners. Five-card stud suit you?”

  “Hey, don’t be sexist, Mollye,” I objected. “I may not play fantasy football, but I started playing poker as soon as I could count chips. My aunts considered it an essential part of my education.”

  “Deal,” she answered. “We have a challenge. Brie, Eva, and I will arrange a game with you boys and see who wins.”

  “Can we make it strip poker?” Andy grinned.

  Billy shook his head. “The bunch of you can almost match Eva for orneriness. I’m off to bed and I ain’t sharing Eva’s queen with any of you. Find your own bunk. I don’t care where. See you in a few hours.”

  Andy and Paint stood. Andy carried a dozing Cashew to her favored blanket nest for daytime naps. While she usually slept with me, it wasn’t in the cards tonight—poker or otherwise. Mollye could pass as a human Cuisinart steadily churning my blankets and sheets as she thrashed in her dreams. Cashew might be a casualty in that maelstrom.

  Paint pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Okay, Andy, let’s flip. Winner curls up inside. Loser gets that cot in the barn.”

  Andy shook his head. “Not tonight. The barn’s wrapped in crime scene tape. ’Fraid the loser gets the floor. But I choose heads.”

  Paint tossed the coin. Chuckling, he showed the result to Andy.

  “Hey, I’ve got a blow-up mattress in the back of my van,” Mollye said. “You can use it, Andy, but I’m not gonna pucker up to inflate it.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Should I ask why you have an inflatable mattress in your van?”

  “Probably not.” Mollye grinned and tossed her van keys to Andy.

  Paint’s mocha eyes locked on mine.

  Now why did I think of my favorite flavors—chocolate, mocha—whenever the man gazed at me? Sublimation anyone?

  “Maybe we ought to talk Eva into adding a guest bedroom,” he said. “We could build a bump-out right next to your room.”

  “No way, I’m reserving any construction activity for Summer Place. Can’t thank you and Andy enough for helping Dad and me with structural repairs. At least now, I can walk inside without worrying a rotting beam might bean me. But I’ve got miles of drywall to go before it’s a viable bed-and-breakfast.”

  A few years ago, I shared my dream with my aunts. I wanted to renovate a beautiful old mansion and turn it into a B&B that catered primarily to vegans and vegetarians. Shortly before Aunt Lilly’s death, my generous aunts bought Summer Place, a gorgeous but derelict architectural gem. They’d planned to restore the property a bit before they surprised me with it on my thirty-fifth birthday, still two years away. Not how things worked out. When Lilly died, I inherited Summer Place in all its splendid decrepitude.

  I smiled, thinking about the mansion’s white pillars and green carpeted lawn. A nice change from recurring flashbacks to Zack’s pale face in a puddle of blood.

  “Goodnight, y’all.” Mollye waved as she headed toward my bedroom with its too-small-to-share-with-her queen bed.

  I gave the boys a salute and followed Mollye. “Goodnight, all.”

  I was beat. My eyelids were lead weights. But could I shut my mind down with Udderly Kidding Dairy front and center in a new crime puzzler?

  Did someone try to kill Zack, or was the goal merely to hurt him and end his career?

  I could imagine a CAVE dweller seeking revenge. But while Chester or his buddies were obvious candidates, there were at least two other Ardon County residents who counted themselves among Zack’s enemies. I’d met neither.

  Could this Pam lady actually drive a pitchfork into a one-time sweetheart? For that matter, was Fred Baxter capable of attacking a fit two-hundred-plus pound athlete? If Baxter’s sixteen-year-old son died eighteen years ago, the dad was no spring rooster.

  If Zack had seen or heard his attacker coming, I figured he’d have fought back. The blow to the back of his head argued for a sneak attack. Somehow that made the assault seem both cowardly and impersonal. If revenge was the motive, wouldn’t the attacker want to see Zack’s face? Let him know who was demanding his or her pound of flesh?

  Time to sleep. Tomorrow I’d quiz my friends and do a Google search to see what the internet could tell me about Pam and Fred. Maybe I’d even figure a way to meet them in person. As far as I knew, neither suspect had a quarrel with any member of the Hooker clan. No reason for hostility if I innocently made their acquaintance.

  TEN

  With Billy, Mollye, Andy, Paint, and our part-time Clemson crew all helping, we completed the Udderly morning chores in record time. By nine a.m., we’d also picked up and bagged the evening’s debris and divided the resulting trash bags among the visiting trucks for a trip to the Ardon County dump.

  “Sure you don’t want us to stay?” Mollye asked for the third time.

  “No. Zack’s attacker is long gone. It’s bright and sunny. No place to hide. And I know where Eva keeps her shotgun.”

  “But last I heard you might miss a target glued to the end of your gun,” Andy quipped
.

  I punched his arm. “Luckily, an unknown marauder wouldn’t know that.”

  After they all boogied down the road, Udderly seemed eerily quiet. I poured myself a cup of coffee and settled in one of the cabin’s front porch rockers. I breathed in the crisp fall air, enjoying the peaceful interlude.

  The peace lasted less than five minutes. Before my cup was empty, an old Plymouth clunker bumped down the drive and parked near our retail cabin. The car suggested it wasn’t a reporter. Either a curiosity seeker or a customer who hadn’t bothered to read the store hours posted at the farm’s entrance gate.

  I stood and started walking. I called to the man as he climbed out of his rusty ride, “Sir, sorry but our store doesn’t open until noon. Can you come back then?”

  The man jumped, startled.

  “Uh, sorry, ma’am, I, uh…lost something last night. Thought I’d come by and look for it.”

  He doffed his ball cap and nodded at me—the ma’am in question. His eyes refused to meet mine. Instead they focused on his work boots, the left one excavating a hole with the point of its shuffling toe.

  His fingers worried the edge of his ball cap. He appeared embarrassed. No, cancel that. He looked like a kid caught in church with a comic book tucked inside his hymnal.

  “Afraid you’re out of luck,” I said. “We picked up the grounds this morning and my friends hauled everything to the dump. Hope we didn’t throw away something of value. What did you lose?”

  The silence stretched as I stared at his head’s shiny dome, much whiter than his tanned neck. I decided he spent a lot of time outside, most of it with the ball cap on. A monk-like ring of baby fine blond hair circled his bald pate. Was he ever going to answer?

  “Oh, uh, just a business card,” he finally stammered. “Met someone who said they might buy several truckloads of mulch. Uh, I already forgot his name.”