by Ellen Riggs
“She was that,” I said, taking the collars from her and inspecting them.
“I felt the same way,” Jilly said. “I couldn’t understand why my ex chose a woman so different from me.”
“I still don’t understand how any of it happened. Portia stayed with our cats from time to time and it was tough following all her rules, let me tell you. At some point when I was staying with my mom in Dorset Hills, I suppose she took up husband sitting, too.” She sighed. “I guess I was too nice, because he didn’t seem to find her abrasive at all.”
“It’s not about you,” Jilly said. “Don’t believe that for one second. If he strayed with Portia, it’s a flaw in his character, not yours.”
“Thank you.” Dina’s voice was faint, and she seemed to have diminished before my very eyes. Percy was still working the fluff hard, however, and a few more swishes restored her to normal size. “It’s hard not to take it personally.”
“Oh, I know,” Jilly said. “I beat myself up for a long time, too. But I’m here to tell you that there’s life after a cheater. There’s love after heartbreak. And there are good men who will treat you right.”
Dina stooped and lifted Percy. He lolled in her arms like a ragdoll. “You’re very kind, Jilly. And beautiful, too. Asher would be lucky to have you.”
“I agree,” I said. “She totally outranks my brother.”
Dina finally laughed, and we joined in.
“What if Roy comes crawling back now that Portia’s… out of the picture?” I asked. “Stranger things have happened.”
“I know he had regrets already,” Dina said. “But I wouldn’t entertain that for one second. Once a cheater, always a cheater.”
“You mean they’d already broken up?” I asked.
She shrugged, hugging Percy close. I’d never known a cat to endure that kind of embrace. But his paws flexed and his eyes half-closed. I could hear his purr from two yards away.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” she said. The temperature in the shop seemed to drop sharply. “Roy still has his other love, an ATV. If it tips over and crushes him, well, it would make the divorce simpler. All I want is the store and he’s fighting me for it.”
She walked around the counter with Percy still in her arms. As she passed, Keats gave her leg a good sniff. His tail was only about half-mast, which said he wasn’t overly impressed with Dina. Either that, or he was jealous she was falling all over Percy. There was nothing conclusive, however. It was possible to be unlikeable without being a murderer.
Selecting a couple of the collars she’d handed me, I watched as she rang up the total with her right hand. The left continued to cradle Percy, and as she adjusted the purring load of fluff, I noticed she was still wearing her engagement and wedding rings.
Maybe she was just stringing Roy along to keep the divorce from going through. Or maybe she wanted him back more than she let on. Either way, it seemed at odds with her words.
“Do you think Roy might have had something to do with… what happened?” I asked.
She put the collars in a little paper bag and passed it to me before coming around to surrender the cat. That’s when I noticed the gold-handled scissors sitting by the cash register. Someone must have offered a great deal on them because they seemed to be everywhere.
“I would hate to think I was stupid enough to marry a murderer,” Dina said. “A cheater is bad enough.” She set Percy on his paws and he waltzed over to Keats looking quite taken with himself. “But I sure hope the police find out who did it,” she added. “Because I’d like to send them a thank you note.”
Chapter Fourteen
I always hated it when Kellan caught me in the manure pile. I expect most women would feel the same way, and yet it happened to me quite often. When we were getting along well, he tended to drop by unannounced on his lunch hour just to say hello. When things were a little tense, as they were now, he liked to catch me unawares.
Then, too, I spent more time working over the manure than was strictly necessary. Once, I’d fainted from the toxic gas released by stagnant manure and I didn’t want that to build up again. Nor did I want any of the dung explosions I’d read about. It would be a terrible way to buy the farm, as it were. Or to lose the farm for that matter.
So that’s where I was when Kellan drove in the next afternoon. I caught a glimpse of the police SUV as he rounded the bend, and kept shovelling. There was no point running around the barn and pretending I’d been bathing in rose petals.
Keats left his half-hearted pursuit of Percy in the empty pasture and went to round up Kellan.
Literally.
It would have made me laugh to see this broad-shouldered uniformed man hop like an antsy goat had it not been for the disgruntled look on his face that had nothing to do with the dog.
I was in trouble again. And no wonder, really. It was just a matter of how much he knew about my efforts the day before. I reminded myself to confess to no more than strictly necessary.
“Hey,” he said, jerking like a puppet as Keats pulled his strings from behind. “Tell him to stop that nipping right now, Ivy. Do you have any idea what my uniform cuffs look like? There’s only one good leg left in the bunch.”
I leaned on my shovel and smiled down at him. It was kind of nice to have the height advantage for a change. The manure pile was a good seven feet high and equally wide because Charlie hadn’t hauled it off with the tractor for a couple of weeks. “I doubt criminals take that good a look at your cuffs, Chief. If they do, they’re probably not guilty. That’s how I’d view it.”
“You have an interesting way of looking at the law, Ivy. It’s a shame we don’t always agree.”
“Keats, off,” I said. “The chief left his sense of humor in the squad car.”
“Actually, I lost it at the Bingham manor the night of the murder and haven’t found it since.”
“Oh? How so?” Turning, I dug deep into the manure. I had a feeling where this was going and it was likely to stink more than the cow flaps.
The dog stood down, but Kellan turned his back to the fence and leaned against it to ward off sneak attacks. Keats liked to wait till the conversation got exciting, which it often did, and then lunge for the win. No matter how many times he did it, Kellan was shocked. I put that down to his being an only child. You couldn’t survive a family like mine without learning to keep one eye open for an ambush.
“Let me describe it,” he said. “We’d already spent several hours at Bloomers dealing with the situation there. Then I enlisted your brother to come with me to assess the cat situation. Animal Services couldn’t take any immediate action, but I wanted to make sure everyone was fed and happy. Because I knew you were worried.”
“I sure was,” I said, shovelling faster. “Those poor cats, stacked up like mismatched china on the dining room table.”
Kellan crossed his boots, settling into the story. “Imagine my astonishment to find not a single cat in the Bingham manor.”
“None at all?” Shovelfuls of manure were flying at random now and it was good he’d moved quite far away. “How odd. I saw dozens upon dozens there only a few days ago.”
“Not one remained, at least that Asher and I could find, and we covered the house from top to bottom. Your brother even scooted under the beds and behind the furnace for a look-see. It was good of him when the whole place reeked of cat urine.”
“So clearly the cats had been there before that. I hadn’t imagined it.”
“Oh yes. There were litter boxes by the dozen and bowls of food that still looked untouched.”
I put my foot on the spade to shove it in deep and expose a new layer. “That’s so strange. Do you think Portia had evacuated all of them before… what happened?”
“Possibly. What do you think?”
“If Portia had any idea things were heading south, I know she would have thought of her cats first. She truly cared about them.”
“It would have been heavy work for one woman to catch and mo
ve that many cats in just a day or two, no?”
“For sure. But she probably had a contingency plan. Maybe after she saw me snooping she put it in action.”
“Ivy.” His tone changed and I knew that the uniformed cat was tired of playing with his mouse. “Stop playing with manure and look at me.”
I did as he asked. “This work is not a game, Kellan. More farmers die from manure asphyxiation than from lightning strikes every year.”
He pushed off the fence and came toward me. “Is that even true? Is a single word you’re saying today true?”
Crossing my arms over the spade handle, I grinned. “I don’t know if the lightning part is true but it sounded good, right? As for Portia, I fully believe she had a contingency plan.”
“More sidestepping of the proverbial cow flap,” he said, glaring up at me.
“Is there a proverb about cow flaps?” I asked. “Is that even true?”
He shook his head and smiled at last. “Just tell me what really happened to those cats. You sent the chief of police on a fool’s errand in the middle of a murder investigation. I think you owe me an explanation.”
Turning, I walked down the steps I’d carved into the manure pile. Jilly called it my stairway to heaven because she knew I found this chore extremely therapeutic. It was true. Whatever crap life flung at me I could work it out on this dung pile, knowing I’d ultimately transform something toxic into fertilizer, out of which beautiful things could grow.
“Do I look like a debutante?” I asked, during the descent. “It might be the closest I’ll ever get to a runway.”
“You’re something else,” he said, grinning now. “It’s very difficult to stay mad at you.”
“Good. Because I don’t know what happened to the cats and I would never have knowingly sent the chief on a fool’s errand.”
He tilted his head skeptically. “I’m sure you have a good idea, being so well connected to the rescue underworld.”
I shrugged. “I’ve heard nothing. Zero. Zilch.”
“If we work with the assumption that Portia didn’t expect to meet her maker that night, it means that somehow the house got emptied in about three hours. No single person could do that.”
“It does sound like a Herculean task.” I scuffed at the dirt with one boot to avoid meeting his eyes.
“Give me your phone,” he said.
“It’s in the barn. I’ve dropped it in the manure too many times.”
“If I went in there to get it, would I find a text telling Cori Hogan about Portia?”
“No, you would not.” Now I crossed my arms. “And don’t you need a warrant for that?”
“I do not need a warrant to get a straight story out of my girlfriend, no.”
I met his eyes at last. “No fair. You can’t use the G-word against me.”
“A guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do if his crap-shovelling woman is doing evasive maneuvers.”
Now my heart started jumping around like the baby goats in the next pasture. I was “his woman,” which was even better than girlfriend, in my opinion. It was just a matter of time before we extracted “crap-shovelling” from the sentiment.
“Fine. I’ll tell you. I didn’t text Cori, but Jilly called her on the way home. When you mentioned Animal Services we were worried. These cats don’t deserve to end up caged in the pound or euthanized. But I didn’t expect Cori’s rescue team to take care of it immediately, if that is indeed what happened. They won’t tell me anything about it because of you.”
“Understandable. Because I could have them all arrested for disturbing a crime scene.”
“Mom’s salon was the crime scene.”
“We don’t know exactly what happened where. And we may never know because it probably took at least 10 of them to work that fast. You can be sure plenty of stuff got moved around as they chased down cats.”
Sighing, I turned to lean against the fence, too. “I didn’t expect that to happen, Kellan. I hoped they’d get the cats out of the pound after they were seized, that’s all. I thought Edna deserved a chance to weigh in on homes for her particular cats when she got home.” I tried to catch his sleeve as he started pacing. “I wasn’t deliberately undermining your authority. It just worked out that way.”
He stopped pacing. “And how about your early morning visit to Miss Bingham over at Sunny Acres? Were you in the neighborhood?”
“She’s over eighty, Kellan. She deserved to hear the bad news from a friend.”
“You two are not friends.”
“On the contrary. She’s coming for dinner in a few hours.”
“You just met her this week and now she’s coming for dinner?”
“What can I say, we hit it off. We’re kindred spirits.” I grinned at him. “You’re welcome to join us. Jilly’s making something special.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got plenty of work to do solving this murder. There’s still a few people to interview that you haven’t gotten to first.”
“Really? Who?” I tried a disarming smile with a hint of fluttering eyelashes. “I’ve got some time after I finish this manure management session.”
“Like I’d tell you,” he said, shaking his head.
“I really don’t like your tone, Chief. You might want to sweeten it up a bit.”
“Well, you might want to stick to manure management and stay out of my investigation.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
The question came too late. An orange missile launched from the dung pile, struck between Kellan’s shoulder blades, and bounced off. There was a flurry of black, white and orange paws as the two animals scampered off in the direction of the barn.
I covered my mouth for a moment and then said, “I’m sorry. That was extremely rude. I’ll have a word with Percy.”
“You do that. And I’ll have more words with you later, Ivy.”
Kellan turned to walk away with dignity. I wanted to call after him about the four little manure paw prints on his back, but Jilly was always telling me to practice more restraint and now was as good a time as any to start.
Chapter Fifteen
Miss Bingham was overdressed for the barn in her midnight blue brocade dress but she’d insisted on the grand tour, leaving no pasture unexplored. It was slow going with the walker and the rough terrain, but I admired her tenacity. I hovered behind her constantly, arms at the ready, but with a little extra help here and there, she did very well.
“Dear, it was so kind of you to invite Michael and Caroline at the last moment,” she said. “My nephew pops in and out of town on a moment’s notice and I never know how to plan. It’s not like I can host him at the manor. Normally he takes me for dinner, spends the night at a hotel and then flits off again. They’re staying a little longer this time because Michael knows how upset I am about Portia.”
“He’s retired, I assume?” I asked, letting Keats lead us to his favorite livestock in order. The goats had been first and I knew that the camelids would be last. After Drama Llama’s recent stunt, he’d fallen even below Wilma, the aggressive sow, in Keats’ pecking order. He could outrun and outmaneuver Wilma. Drama had proven a worthy adversary.
“Michael left a good job at a bank a couple of years back to pursue other business ventures. He wanted freedom to wander a bit with Caroline. They’ve never had children and seem to enjoy their footloose life.”
“I suppose they used to stay with you at the manor?” I asked, easing the walker over the flagstones.
“Actually, no. They’re not pet lovers, I’m afraid. Caroline’s allergic to cats. Michael finds them sly.”
“They are sly,” I said, telling her about what Percy had done to Kellan earlier.
Miss Bingham laughed delightedly over the story. “Oh, I wonder who had the nerve to tell the chief about the paw prints down at the station.” The fluffy orange cat was frolicking around, chasing leaves and invisible mice. “Percy is quite a character.”
Keats fell back to pant up at her, clearly jealous. “It’s okay, buddy,” I said. “You’ll always be my favorite.”
He mumbled something back in a disgruntled tone.
“Well, you’ve been told,” Miss Bingham said. “Someone’s nose is out of joint.”
“Percy’s changed the dynamics around here,” I said. “Plus I’ve been running around a fair bit to see what I can find out about Portia.”
I filled her in on my discoveries and she clucked in disapproval. “I had no idea about any affair between Portia and Roy Macintosh. Do you think it’s even true?”
“Hard to say, yet. But if Dina thinks it’s true, that’s what counts, I guess.”
A gray sedan came down the lane and it struck me that I didn’t see many regular cars anymore. Clover Grove was full of pickup trucks, along with some odd cars of character, like Buttercup. This was just a sensible, serviceable sedan that I would have seen by the score in Boston.
The couple that got out was equally sensible looking. I remembered Michael Bingham from the launch party for the salon, where he’d been pleasant to me and attentive to his aunt. He was wearing a nice sports jacket and wool slacks, which you didn’t see often in Clover Grove either. There was little left of his gray hair, but he hadn’t held onto it desperately, either.
Hazel introduced me again to Michael and then to his wife, Caroline, who had a soft voice and a sweet expression. She, too, was overdressed, in a puff of floral chiffon that screamed Chez Belle.
“Come up to the house,” I said, surrendering Hazel’s care to Michael and walking ahead with Keats. “My best friend and chef is cooking up a splendid fall feast for us.”
Jilly did the honors of showing the guests around the inn. I always considered the inside her domain and the outside mine. It was a beautiful division of labor that exploited our strengths and made us appreciate each other more every day.