Mooved to Murder

by CeeCee James

  He started again, but it was no better. Jasper was not backing down. The dog saw a stranger and wanted him gone. Pronto.

  I waved the officer into the house.

  He began again. “Officer Kennedy sent me to tell you we are done back there. I’m on duty tonight, and I’ll be driving past your place to check on things. I’m sure you’re going to be fine, but let us know if you need us in any way.” He raised an eyebrow. “She also said to tell you that Rosy was in the stall so she went ahead and shut the outside gate. Everything’s buttoned up for the night.”

  Officer Kennedy put Rosy away? I felt guilty for the relief that flooded through me. That cow was my responsibility. I couldn’t let her be the boss. But at least I didn’t have to worry about her tonight. “Okay, thank you very much. And thank her, too.”

  “We were able to get what we needed but until we remove the car, I suggest you stay away from it. It’s full of rust and falling apart. It could be a danger to the little girl.”

  “Of course,” I said, distracted. I had noticed a suspicious carbon smell. Two seconds later the fire alarm went off. “Oh, my gosh!” I yelled and ran back into the kitchen.

  Smoke poured out of the vents in the oven. I turned off the oven, threw open the window, and started fanning the air frantically with a towel.

  The cop had followed me inside a few steps and glanced curiously around the house. “You sure you’re okay?” At least that’s what I thought he said. I couldn’t hear him over the fire alarm. Jasper’s barking seemed to reach a fevered pitch in competition with the alarm.

  “It’s nothing.” I puffed and then smiled reassuringly. In my head I was begging him to go away.

  He seemed to read my mind. He raised his hand in goodbye and then left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Finally, the alarm turned off. Jasper quieted as well, except for a random yip here and there as if to remind the world he was still watching.

  I wandered into the living room and collapsed on the couch, feeling utterly defeated.

  Only one week. I could do this for one week. In grim defiance, I sent Tilly a text to tell her all was well and then slumped my head against the pillow.

  Emma came around the corner looking fresh faced but also with a grin like she’d played a joke on me. I was too exhausted to find out.

  I dragged myself from the couch and back over to the stove. There, I sadly scraped the pizza into the trash can and then searched for a couple cans of Noodle Os. At least I knew she would eat the dinner.

  So far just two days in, and I felt like a complete failure with kids, animals and cooking. But I discovered I was awfully good at finding mysteries.

  And chores. I sure as heck wished I knew how to enlist Freckles to help with some of the farm work. Right about now, I’d take any help I could get.

  It couldn’t get any worse, right?

  Chapter 7

  The next morning the alarm went off accompanied by me sitting straight up in bed. I had had my dream again… my nightmare dream.

  A scent of strawberries still seemed to linger in the air, and my heart galloped like it was trying to escape from a bony jail. The room was unfamiliar, and I clutched at the blankets.

  Slowly the events and memories from over the past few days shifted into place. I slumped back to the pillow and covered my eyes.

  The shiver of shadows and red splotches played behind my closed eyelids. I sucked in a breath and was surprised to feel the tickle of a tear running down my face.

  I rolled over and grabbed my wallet and rifled through its contents. Finally, with a deep exhale, I found what I was looking for—a picture.

  It was of me and my Mom as I sat looking at my profile in a mirror. Mom had on jeans and a flowered shirt, and although she was thinner than she is now, her mid-section suggested extra weight that she had always complained she wanted to lose. I was younger than Emma in the picture. In fact, I didn’t remember the picture being taken. I had very spotty memories before the age of five. I didn’t know that wasn’t normal until I learned most people could remember stuff from back then.

  For some reason, Mom had hated the picture when she saw it and tossed it out. It was her smile, she said, before insisting she didn’t really look like that.

  I’d pulled it from the trash and kept it, finally folding it to fit my wallet when I was a teenager. I needed it with me. It brought me a strange security I couldn’t put into words.

  I studied it now, feeling a slight comfort, before rolling over for my phone.

  It rang, and I silently prayed Mom would pick up. She was in Mexico rebuilding homes for an area that had recently been destroyed by a storm. She was my rock and after I grew up and moved away, she became other people’s rock.

  Finally, Mom answered. In a similar way that a certain sweet scent draws out memories of childhood birthday pancakes, her voice immediately grounded me.

  “Hello? Chelsea are you okay?” The phone crackled, indicating she didn’t have the greatest reception.

  “Hi, Mom. What are you doing?”

  “Chelsea, what’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

  “When you call me this early, I know something is going on. I knew you shouldn’t have gone out there to Cedar Falls.”

  I heaved in a breath. Her words nearly caused my emotions to come undone. And, just like a snowball rolling down a mountain, there would be no stopping them once they were released. I squeezed my eyes, trying to pull it together. I was always trying to pull it together. I needed to reassure her that I was okay. Except that I wasn’t, not exactly. Things were falling apart.

  And I’d had the dream again.

  But I knew I couldn’t tell her all that, especially the part about the dream. It would break her heart if she knew I was still dealing with it. She’d had such hope in her eyes when the counselor had told her I was okay. I finally quit mentioning it back in my early teens. I couldn’t do that to her again, especially now that she was so busy with her own life.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, and purposely kept my voice light. “Just getting ready to start my day and wanted to check in with you before things got too crazy around here. I miss you, ya know.”

  “Oh, honey, I miss you, too. I’m so glad things are going well.” Then she began again, her voice filled with suspicion. “How is Emma doing?”

  “She’s good, other than taking great delight in trying to torture me. Are all kids like that?”

  Mom chuckled, which I could barely hear over the buzzing phone line. “Every single one of them that I know.”

  Since I was an only child, I knew exactly who she was shading. “Aww, come on. I was a great kid!”

  “Great, huh? What about the time you spray painted the cat’s tail?”

  I cringed. “I was trying to mark him so the neighbors knew he was ours! They kept saying they had feral cats on their property.”

  “All I know is that poor cat had a blue tail for the longest time. And what about the times I used to send you outside to play and you’d sneak back in through your window to play your video games?”

  Okay. Maybe I wasn’t so great.

  Just then a low moo carried through the air from the barn. I glanced out the window, my every muscle screaming in protest at the sound. It was a misty cool morning, and rain drops from a storm during the night clung to the window screen. I needed to get up and get things ready.

  “Well, Mom, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice. I wish I could talk longer, but I’ve got to get going.”

  “Okay, love. You have a good day and don’t wait so long to call me again, you hear?”

  I promised her. “I love you bunches and bunches,” I said, finishing with our usual saying.

  “Toasted honey bunches,” she shot back. “I’ll be in the city soon, and we can talk longer.”

  I grinned as I hung up. Then, after running my finger over the picture one more time, I folded it back up and returned it to my wallet.
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  I walked over to the suitcase and pulled out a shirt. After a smell test, I threw it on, along with some pants. Then I ran downstairs to put cereal, milk and a bowl out on the table. Emma still wasn’t knocking around yet. In fact, I hadn’t even heard a peep from her room. Not good for the first day of school and my responsibility to get her there. I pounded back up the stairs and knocked on the door.

  “Just a minute!” she called. “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Your breakfast is on the table,” I hollered. I waited a moment to listen. When there was no response, I headed back downstairs. My legs reminded me on each step that I’d skipped leg day. Apparently, for the last twenty years.

  They were getting some use now. At the foyer, I tugged on my boots and shrugged into my jacket. “Hurry up, Emma!” I yelled again, and then headed out to the barn.

  The air was frosty with the rising morning fog and smelled of sweet hay. But I wasn’t feeling peaceful. In fact, I squeezed my hands so tightly that my nails bit tiny crescents into my palm. My brain warned me to be careful of what I could find this time. I stood before the barn door. Count of three. Come on. Let’s do this.

  The cow mooed again, insistently. She wanted food, and she wanted it fast. Before I could count to three, my instincts kicked in. I swung the barn door open, like ripping a bandaid off.

  Warm straw-scented air and a bunch of blinking eyes greeted me.

  I took care of the goats first. They were insistent and their bleating was nearly deafening. I opened their side door, and they about knocked me over to say hi. The buck lifted his lip and bleated a hello before scampering out the door. Daisy, the other one, butted up against my hand a few times, very insistent for some more attention. I rubbed her ears and face and then nudged her to one side so that I could fill their troughs with water and pellets. Then I ran for the wheelbarrow and pitchfork to clean the pen.

  That finished, I trundled the dirty bedding out the back of the barn door to the refuse pile and then brought in fresh straw.

  After spreading it around in the goat pen, I shut the stall door and stared at the one on the other side. There was no more delaying it. It was time to start on the cow.

  I approached Rosy a little apprehensively. Her eyes were large and wide as she regarded me in return. I needed her to scoot back so I could get in her stall and open her gate. I took a step closer and reached for the stall door.

  “Mooooo!” she hollered, shaking her head and letting me get a good look at her horns. I squealed and tripped backwards. Good grief, I needed to get a grip! Cows do moo!

  Feeling a little more forceful, I approached the cow’s stall again. “That’s enough of that, Rosy. You have to scoot back. You want your breakfast, don’t you?”

  She did a double long blink, lifting puppet-length white eyelashes, but otherwise didn’t move diddly squat. I reached over the fence and tried to nudge her shoulder.

  It was like pushing against a furry brick wall. Frustrated, I tried to assess the situation. The cow wasn’t going to move. Yet, I still had to somehow open her outside gate.

  A brilliant idea hit me. I seized a rake. Carefully, I rested the metal prongs on the stall door and eased the handle past her, aiming for the latch on her gate. I wiggled it, standing on my toes, my arms screaming as I struggled to reach.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  Finally, the latch dropped, and the door swung open. Rosy turned toward the sunlight and slowly lumbered in that direction out to the field. Moving fast, I opened the stall door and shut the gate behind her.

  She was out! Heaving a sigh of relief, I grabbed the pitchfork and started scooping out the used straw into the wheelbarrow. After dumping it and freshening her bed, I fed the bunnies, and then walked over to the hay bales under the shed roof.

  It was time to load the outside feeder. There was only a half of a bale left. In all the commotion yesterday, I’d forgotten that I’d meant to call the feed store about the delivery.

  I loaded the remaining hay into the wheelbarrow, and, with heaves and grunting, I trundled it to the metal feeding cage. Rosy met me as I forked the hay over the fence and into the cage. She pulled off a tuft while I was sweating buckets and feeling as weak as a wet paper bag. I still had to fill the watering trough. Thankfully, this one had a spigot that ran right into the metal tub.

  I reached through the fence and turned it on, listening to the splashing sound of it pooling in. As it filled, I leaned against the fence, trying to look like a professional farm girl. In reality, I was hanging onto the fence so I didn’t topple over.

  Rosy tore another mouthful off and munched thoughtfully, stray hay blades moving into her mouth bite-by-bite like stiff spaghetti. We stared at each other, she and I. She was clearly unimpressed with my farm girl act. Finally, I was able to turn the water off and wearily head back inside.

  I walked into the kitchen to discover Emma sitting at the table scarfing down a bowl of cereal. There was a piece of toast popped out of the toaster and waiting to be buttered. The sight of her up and eating should have pleased me except for the large orange towel wrapped around her head.

  “What’s that?” I asked, after washing my hands. I poured myself a mug of coffee. I needed to drink a gallon to have any chance of regrouping here.

  “Hair’s wet,” she said, not taking her eyes off of the cartoon movie which could be seen playing on the TV in the other room.

  “Why’s it wet?” I took a scalding sip and nearly spit it out.

  “Washed it.”

  I frowned as I wiped my mouth. “You took a shower?”

  She shrugged, eyes still glued to the mouse being chased by a cat. I leaned over and pulled on the towel.

  Wet bluish hair cascaded out. I gasped. “Emma! What did you do?”

  “Colored it,” she said simply. She had the decency to look a little nervous this time.

  “I can see that. What did you use?”

  “My soccer hair dye.”

  “Go get it,” I demanded.

  She rolled her eyes but trudged to the pantry where the trash can was kept. Rifling sounds could be heard. Moments later, she came out carrying a dripping container.

  I rushed over to retrieve it from her and held it over the sink to read. “Good for eight washes!” it screamed from inside a star icon.

  Well, the good news was that it wasn’t permanent. The bad news was that there was a bus coming in about ten minutes. Exactly how long did a hair wash have to be to count as one?

  “Get over here,” I said, bringing her to the sink. She couldn’t reach the faucet so I dragged a chair to the counter. She knelt on it while I ran warm water over her hair.

  Blue did go down the drain, but not enough. I grabbed the closest thing, dish soap, and squeezed some in my hand. Did people use this stuff in kid’s hair? I shrugged. It was soap. I was desperate, so I scrubbed.

  Her hair was soon hidden under a thick blue lather. The clock on the wall ticked, stressing me out. I rinsed her hair, only to discover it was just as vibrant as ever.

  Even worse, my hands were now blue as well.

  “Mother of a Sunday biscuit!” I yelled. I snatched up a towel and gave her the quickest toweling down possible. Then after another panicked glance at the clock, I carried her into the bathroom where I plied exactly two minutes fifteen seconds worth of hair dryer heat. Finally, I brushed her hair as fast as possible while trying not to hurt her, and then scooped it back into a ballerina twisted bun.

  One more feverish glance at the clock had me grabbing her jacket and her hand, and my purse. We ran down the driveway where I could see the bus approaching in a cloud of dust.

  “Here, take this,” I said, sliding out a ten dollar bill from my wallet. I had no idea if it was enough for lunch but I hoped so.

  “Cool!” she said, her eyes bright with excitement. “And I’ll swap you this!” She pressed something in my hand.

  “What is it?” I stared down curiously.

  The bus rumbled up, and the
door opened with a hiss and a clang.

  “It’s something I found in the field yesterday!” she shouted, before bounding up the metal stairs.

  I watched with my mouth hanging open before vaguely waving as the bus lumbered out of sight, carrying the blue-haired sprite with it.

  Now what was this weird thing she’d given me?

  Chapter 8

  It was a weird heavy hook. But in studying it, my blue hands popped out like neon signs, reminding me that I had an interview later. I scrubbed them, even using the plastic scour pad. But the action of having completely dried seemed to make the stain deep set because it wasn’t budging.

  Sighing, I grabbed my phone and searched for the number for the feed store. While it rang, I reached for the hook and rolled it over in my hands.

  “Hello? Farm and Feed. How can I help you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m staying out at Tilly Miller’s place, and we were supposed to get a load of alfalfa hay. It never showed up, and I’ve pretty much run out.”

  “Oh, how strange. Just one moment.” I was placed on hold to be treated to a fabulous selection of elevator music. My stomach churned from hunger, and I reached for the piece of the now cold toast from the toaster. Chewing it reminded me of a piece of leather. I popped in a fresh piece of bread, noting the dark circles under my nails. Nails that had once been carefully manicured. I pinned the phone down against my shoulder as I fished the butter and jelly from the fridge, contemplating my new life as a farm girl.

  The lady returned. “I’m sorry. It shows that it was delivered yesterday morning.”

  My toast came up, but I didn’t grab it. “Uh, no one showed up from the Farm and Feed. Of course, we had a really strange day yesterday.”

  “Actually, it seems to be kind of strange here as well. I wish I could ask him, but our delivery guy hasn’t shown up to work today.”

  “Really? What time was he supposed to be at my place?” I asked, pacing. Behind me, like a shaggy shadow, Jasper stayed at my heels. His nails clicked with every step.