Shepherd's Crook

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  “Finally got rid of the spiral bound?” I knew he was forever snagging his cheap notebook wire on his pockets.

  “Oh, yeah.” He held the notebook out and looked at it. “Jo got me one of these awhile back. I like ’em.” I agreed, and he moved on. “So, we’re waiting for the autopsy, and forensics, and we’re doing backgrounds on people, you know, the sheep owners, the dead guy.” He glanced at me. “You know them very well?”

  “Not really. I’ve known Summer and Evan for a couple of years, and I’ve been out to their place quite a few times. Jay and I take herding lessons from Summer. They wouldn’t …” I hesitated, remembering Summer’s angry phone conversation and the obvious nastiness between Evan and Ray. Those memories in turn brought back an argument I had overheard a few months earlier. They apparently had money problems. Summer had wanted to sell some of their livestock and Evan hadn’t.

  Hutchinson looked up. I wanted to let my memory clear before I said anything more, so I changed directions again. “I don’t, uh, didn’t really know Ray. I’ve seen him at the Winslows’ farm and a few events, but that’s it. He was good with the animals, but not big on conversation.” Just say it—he gave you the creeps. Then again, the animals liked him, and that said something. “So are you thinking Ray’s murder is connected to the missing sheep?”

  “Murder?” Hutchinson eyed me, but he didn’t seem too surprised. “Who says it was murder?”

  “No one, but suicide? And here, at a herding event? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Hutchinson pressed his lips together, closed the notebook, and stuck it back in his pocket. “Why don’t we see what the coroner says before we jump to any crazy conclusions? Unless you know something you should tell me.”

  I shook my head and reminded myself that he was a friend, but still a cop. “Have you and the Sheriff’s department sorted out the jurisdiction question?” Summer Winslow had been furious about the city police versus county sheriff question, and I couldn’t blame her. With her sheep’s lives on the line, who cared about a technicality? And even with Ray’s death thrown into the mix, they still needed to find those sheep. Or try. And if this turns into a homicide investigation, they’ll really have to figure out whose it is.

  “We’re teaming up. They’ve formed a ‘joint task force.’” Hutchinson snorted. “We’ll see how that goes.” He pointed toward the eve under the building behind me. A camera I hadn’t noticed before looked back at us. “In the meantime, we’ve got people looking at the videos.”

  “Videos?”

  “They used to store boats in the building, and they had four cameras around the grounds, set on motion sensors at night. They’re still working. We’re hoping they picked something up.” He grinned at me. “You know how helpful pictures can be.” Hutchinson paused, his cheeks reddening again. “Say, Janet, you wouldn’t happen to have Giselle’s phone number, would you?”

  twenty-one

  My mother recognized me only about sixty percent of the time, but she was always happy to see Jay. Granted, she often called him Laddie, and maybe she thought he was Laddie, a Collie who died before I was born. Jay doesn’t mind, and his presence both perks her up and calms her down, so I take him with me to Shadetree Retirement Home as often as possible. He’s a certified therapy dog, and as patient as I am antsy around the residents.

  It’s not that I don’t want to be compassionate. I’m just clumsy about it, and the stress of wondering whether I’ll be spending any given visit with my mother or a stranger inhabiting her body just makes me worse. Clumsy or not, I’d been visiting several times a week since we moved her to Shadetree a year earlier, and I was happy to see how Mom had regained some of her faculties since she started seeing Tony Marconi. As I parked across from the front door, I whispered a request to the universe that this would be a good day for Mom.

  I had bathed Jay the night before—I always do after close encounters of the woolly kind—so he was clean aside from some dry plant matter stuck in his britches. I gave him a quick going over with his brush, then used it to touch up my own wild hair. Too bad Bill isn’t here, whispered Janet Devil. Seeing me use my dog’s grooming supplies on myself makes my brother crazier than usual, so naturally I do it in his presence whenever possible. Fifty years of siblinghood and we’re still pushing each other’s buttons. Oddly, dealing with our mother’s problems over the past months has brought us closer than we’ve been since grade school. I was smiling about that as I checked my murky reflection in the van’s window. Between the wind and the dampness of impending rain, I was a curly mess. I did what I could, tossed the brush back into the van, and went to find my mother.

  Jade Templeton, Shadetree’s manager and reigning angel, smiled at me from the far side of the main lounge. She was holding Percy, her Toy Poodle, for a resident to pet. Seeing Percy always twists my emotions in confusing ways. I’m glad he landed with someone who loves him, and if a dog can have a vocation, Percy seems to have one for spending time with lonely old people. The twist comes from the reason he’s here at all. Jade adopted Percy when his owners were murdered. Now, a year later, another man was dead, another dog homeless. I just hoped that Bonnie was alive and uninjured, and that someone would find her soon. I’d had enough of murder. I’d had enough of it months earlier, and yet the specter of violent death was back. Don’t jump the gun, Janet. Ray Turnbull really might have committed suicide.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Jay bumped my knee, and I shook off the dark thoughts in favor of a cheery visit. We can usually find my mother in the atrium, soaking up the sun surrounded by the raised beds of the therapy garden. Mom is the self-appointed head gardener, and the way she runs the operation, you’d think she was overseeing work at Kew Gardens. Bossy as she is, everyone seems to acknowledge that she deserves the job. Whatever else she may forget, the names and needs of all the plants are at her memory’s every beck and call. Today, though, the only person in the atrium was a man I had seen but never met because he was usually sound asleep. He was tucked into a wing chair with a blanket across his lap, a book in his hand, and a walker by his side. I left him to his nap.

  Jay and I struck out for the smaller lounge at the back of the building, and halfway there, Jay started to pull. He always knew where Mom was before I did. And there she was, tucked into a recliner facing the picture window. She was focused on the Fine Gardening magazine in her hands. I might have interrupted more gently, but Jay had no such compunction, and he shoved his nose up under the magazine, grinning and whining at her. She started to laugh, tossed the magazine onto the end table, and bent to kiss my goofy dog.

  “Jay! How are you, sweetheart?” Jay popped his front end into her lap and leaned his head into the cradle of her arms.

  A long breath of relief left me. Mom’s here.

  “Hi, Mom.” I was pulling a red-flowered armchair around to face her when she reached for me. My mother has never been much of a hugger, but lately she’s much more touchy-feely. I wondered if that came from Tony, too. We hugged each other as well as we could with a fifty-pound dog in the way, and I sat down across from her. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Sweetie.” She had a new softness about her, a calm and, odd as it sounds, a glow, as if a quiet fire were burning inside her. “And how are you? All set for the big day? It’s only two weeks now.”

  “Do you want me to get him off you?” Jay was leaning into her lap. Gentle or not, he’s a load even for me, and I’m not frail.

  But she shook her head and kept stroking his cheeks and ears as he squinted in ecstasy. “Have you found a dress yet?”

  Gaaaa. I haven’t worried about dresses in longer than I care to say. My wardrobe is decidedly animal friendly, which means mostly pants of various lengths, stretchy, comfy tops, and running shoes. Admit it, whispered my inner nag, you’re more frightened of dress shopping than you are of rustlers and murderers. Encountering the missing sheep and Ray’s death in a sin
gle thought sent my mind down a path that had nothing to do with clothes shopping.

  Were the events connected? The police didn’t seem to think so, but a link seemed more plausible now. Still, how exactly would the two crimes be connected? If Ray was involved in the theft, why take the sheep from the weekend event? As far as I knew, he had access to them all the time at the Winslows’ farm. Then again, removing sheep in the daytime would be nearly impossible, I thought. Summer’s weaving school and wool shop were on the property, so she was rarely gone. Evan was a graphic designer, and he also worked from home. Ray might have been able to steal the sheep at night since he knew the Winslows’ dogs, but that too seemed foolhardy to me.

  No one else would pull it off, though. I was sure of that. Nell, the Winslows’ English Shepherd, had the run of the place, although I had no idea whether she was loose outside at night. Still, she would hear intruders even if she were inside. And then there was Luciano, Summer’s hundred-pound Maremma. He’d been raised with the flock and was very protective, and although he loved Summer, he was none too fond of anyone else. Summer always secured Luciano in the barn before any dogs other than Nell were allowed near the sheep, but Summer had mentioned more than once that he was loose with the flock at night. Trying to get past him really would be suicidal. So it made sense that the theft took place away from their farm. The question now was whether Ray was involved, or whether he found out something and died for his trouble. And the bigger question—did he commit suicide, or did he have some help? His swollen, twisted fingers suggested a struggle, although I couldn’t picture how fighting could cause that kind of damage. Had someone broken his fingers on purpose?

  Hutchinson had mentioned security cameras, and by now the coroner might have an opinion about manner of death. I’d have to remember to call Hutch when I got home, although I knew he might not tell me much. I was pondering how I might wangle the information out of him when I noticed my mother watching me, a bemused smile on her lips and one eyebrow raised.

  “Janet, dear,” she said, leaning across Jay to pat my knee, “shopping for a dress won’t kill you.”

  twenty-two

  Mi Pueblo was not directly on our route, but they have the best chili rellenos in northeastern Indiana, and the drive gave me a chance to drop off flyers about Bonnie at some vet clinics on the southeast side of Fort Wayne. I didn’t need the menu, but the picture of the margarita grande on the table display was calling me. I’m not much of a lunchtime drinker, but dress shopping seemed like a pretty good reason to make an exception.

  “Don’t you dare,” said Goldie.

  Stop reading my mind. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Right.” She closed her menu and set it aside. “Any news about the missing sheep?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “Nothing about Ray, either.”

  “Ray?”

  Our server took our order, and then I answered Goldie. “Ray’s the man who …” I almost said “hanged himself,” but changed it to “died.”

  “Do you think he had something to do with stealing the sheep?” Goldie shook about half a cup of Cholula green pepper hot sauce into her salsa, turning it brown and making my salivary glands go into overdrive. She dipped a corn chip, held it in front of her mouth, and went on. “Do you think that’s why, you know, the suicide? Remorse, maybe?”

  I waited, ready to slide my ice water her way, as she popped the hot salsa into her mouth. No reaction. Goldie scooped up another chipful and said, “Good salsa, once you jazz it up a bit.”

  “Let me try that,” I said, dipping a chip into the brown mix. “I thought that green stuff was really hot.”

  Goldie spoke while I taste tested her salsa. “It’s very sad, and it seems like an odd place to, you know …”

  She seemed to be waiting for me to finish the thought, but I was busy trying to breathe, and the water I gulped just spread the fire down my throat and into my chest cavity. Goldie pushed the chip basket toward me and told me to eat a couple, plain. Our food arrived, and I forked up a mouthful of rice. It soaked up some of the heat, and the fire in my esophagus sputtered and died back to a warm glow. I excused myself and scurried off to splash cold water on my face.

  When I got back, we picked up the conversation, and as usual, Goldie knew what I was going to say before I said it.

  “You don’t think it was suicide, do you?” She made it sound like more of a statement than question.

  Don’t I? “I’m just not sure it makes sense. But I don’t know why I think that,” I said, pausing to bunch the pieces of my thoughts into a usable bundle. “That’s not true.” I told her about Ray’s injured hand, and added, “I didn’t really know Ray, didn’t know anything about his life.”

  “What does Hutch think?” Goldie and Detective Hutchinson had gotten to know each other over a box of kittens back in the fall. He had adopted Pixel’s and Totem’s sister, a little calico he called Amy.

  I shrugged. “He’s waiting for the autopsy, I suppose. I decided not to say too much until I knew more. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

  Goldie patted her napkin against her mouth, folded it, and laid it on the table. “I hope someone finds his dog soon. Poor little thing.”

  We were waiting for our change when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Tom. I’m not big on taking calls in social situations, but he rarely calls me during the day, so I thought it might be important. Goldie excused herself and I answered.

  “The realtor just called,” Tom said. “The people who looked at the house on Saturday want a second look.”

  “And you’re in a cleaning frenzy?”

  “It’s not too bad,” he said. “I’ll just shovel the bones and toys into a box and take the dog bed out to the van, and Drake and I will get out of here.” No one said anything for a moment, and then Tom said, “So this is good. Maybe we’ll get an offer.”

  We. My tummy did a little flip-flop. It was his house, not ours, but he had been speaking of us as a “we” for months. I was committed to Tom and I knew I could trust him in a pinch, but I’d been on my own so long, I wasn’t sure I could share living quarters well with anyone who didn’t walk on all fours.

  “That’s great. I guess we’ll know soon.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’m going to drive out to Collin’s place and take another look around for Ray’s dog. I’ll drive around the area. There’s an old barn about half a mile down the road, might be a place she’d hide.”

  “So you knew Collin Lahmeyer owns that place?”

  “Well, yeah.” He sounded a bit surprised at the question. “I told you he’d bought some property. He wants to put up a dog-training facility.”

  My complete inability to recall Tom telling me that gave me pause. Ever since Mom started having memory problems, I’ve worried about my own mental future. Then again, maybe he only thought he had told me, or maybe I hadn’t heard him. I let it go, and told him that I had dropped off flyers at both shelters and several veterinary offices.

  “You’re still nervous about this, aren’t you?”

  “Not nervous. I just hope we find her soon,” I said. “I found a coyote kill out there this morning. That’s not a good thing for a little dog.”

  “Not Bonnie. Us.”

  Yes, I’m terrified. “No, I’m not.”

  “It will be great, Janet.”

  A quarter hour later, Goldie and I walked into Pamela’s Bridal and Formal Wear. I had suggested Macy’s or Kohl’s, but Goldie insisted on something a bit classier. “You’re only going to do this once, Janet. Get something special to wear.”

  Get something expensive, you mean. “I’ll probably never wear it again.”

  A bubbly blonde was approaching from the back of the store, a big “what can I sell you” smile on her face. Goldie elbowed me and said, “Stop grumbling.”

  “Hello, ladies. I’m Cand
ace. How may I help you?” The way she looked at my jeans and not-so-new sweater suggested that I might be beyond help.

  “We’re just looking,” I said.

  Goldie peered over her glasses at me and turned to Candace. “She needs a lovely, special dress.”

  Candace pressed her hands into prayer position and said, “Lovely! Mother of the bride?”

  I tried not to look at Goldie, but couldn’t help myself. She had her chin tucked toward her chest, her lips pursed, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. We both burst out laughing, and Candace took a step backward, a little wrinkle furrowed between her well-groomed brows.

  “No, dear,” I said. “I’m the daughter of the bride.” Could be worse, I thought. I could be the bride.

  twenty-three

  Tom was almost vibrating with excitement when he picked me up bright and early Tuesday morning. He had three dog crates in the back of his van—two big ones side by side for Jay and Drake, and a medium for his yet-unnamed puppy girl. Hers was snugged up to theirs at a right angle, just behind the front seats. I smiled at a plastic caddy full of cleaning supplies—a spray bottle of water, another of diluted Dawn, a third of no-rinse dog shampoo, several elderly hand towels, a roll of paper towels—resting on a clean crate pad next to the puppy crate. Leave it to Tom to be prepared for a carsick baby dog.

  Jay hopped into his crate, wiggling his nubby tail, and Drake thumped back at him. I stuck my fingers between the bars of Drake’s crate and he pushed his velvety muzzle against them. “Brace yourself, old man,” I said. He cocked his head and lifted the base of his ears as if to say Why would I do that?

  “There’s coffee in the thermos.” Tom leaned over and kissed me, handing me a travel mug in the same motion. “And breakfast in the cooler.”