A Biscuit, a Casket

by Liz Mugavero

  Petunia’s bright green eyes stared at her in alarm from the counter, where an overturned vase leaked old water all over the counter. The cat once again streaked away. Scruffy’s barks accelerated in volume until Stan raised her voice. “No, Scruffy!”

  The dog quieted, but her tail vibrated with excitement as she turned in circles, looking for the cat.

  “For crying out loud.” Stan sighed, grabbed some paper towels off the roll, and mopped up the mess. She disposed of the towels, made sure the cat’s food hadn’t been soaked, flicked off the light.

  And realized that Henry wasn’t there.

  “Oh, no!” She raced to the door, which stood open. She’d forgotten to shut it behind Samson. Samson had strolled back in, but there was no sign of Henry.

  “Henry!” She left Scruffy inside and shut the door behind her, hurrying down the steps. “Henry, come!”

  Nothing.

  Then, from a distance, she heard him barking. Where was he? The sound echoed through the quiet farm. She paused, trying to pinpoint it. The cow area? She fished her iPhone out of her back pocket and turned on her flashlight app. Rounding the side of the building where she’d seen the light earlier, she paused. Maybe she should announce herself.

  “Hello? It’s Stan, just looking for my dog,” she called.

  No response. The worker was either out of earshot, or had no idea what she was saying. She pushed open the swinging half door leading into the cow area. A couple hundred sets of eyes landed on her. She raised her hand in a wave. “Sorry, ladies.”

  The cows seemed unimpressed. Stan supposed she would be, too. They didn’t get excited about much. How could they when they spent their days in pens and being milked? She felt sad for them. Being a cow probably wasn’t much fun. Stan scanned the room. It looked like an uneventful night in the barn. Some cows rested on their mats. Others stood, tails swinging in a lazy arc. She shined her flashlight in the empty pens. No Henry. She turned to go, then stopped. Turned back. Shined her light on the corner pens.

  They were empty.

  Where were the sick cows? They had been in here all week. Roger specifically said they’d have to stay quarantined for at least another week.

  She illuminated the other small pens with her light to see if maybe they’d been moved to another empty pen, creeping closer to peer inside them. Maybe they were on the ground, resting.

  Then something dull and hard cracked against the back of her knees. Her legs buckled under her. She pitched forward into an empty pen, slamming face first into a pile of straw and cow manure.

  Chapter 28

  Through the numbing pain in the back of her knees, Stan heard the clatter of something being thrown to the ground. Despite the aching pain in her legs, she pulled herself into a defensive ball and covered her head, anticipating another blow, and held her breath.

  She prayed it wasn’t Hal’s killer back looking for the next victim. Or the guy from Bruno’s with the hole in his throat, here about their “arrangement.” That thought left her ice cold. Then she heard running feet, heading away. Still holding her breath, she waited. Straw poked her in the eyes and tickled her nose. The cows shuffled, unsettled, wondering what all the ruckus was about while they tried to sleep.

  She had to get out. Now. And she had to find Henry. She lifted her head an inch or two and risked a glance around her immediate area. The dim lights afforded her a decent view, and she didn’t see feet or anything else suspect. She should try to get up. But what if her knees were broken? Or messed up enough that she couldn’t run? She stretched one leg out. It hurt, but it worked. She wiggled her foot. Did the same with the other. When she was convinced she’d be able to stand reasonably well, Stan braced her hands in the straw and shoved herself upright, wincing. Her phone was in the hay somewhere, but how long would it take to find it? The assailant might have a partner, and she didn’t want to risk anyone coming back to look for her.

  Throwing caution to the wind, hoping perhaps Amara or another neighbor might hear her, she shouted.

  “Help! There’s an intruder! Somebody call the police!”

  Dead silence from outside. Then, suddenly, angry barking.

  Henry. Had he cornered the intruder? Would the person try to hurt him? Stan’s money was on the dog, but she couldn’t take a chance. She dove back to the ground, scrabbling around in the straw until, mercifully, her hand closed around her phone. Grabbing it and the metal shovel strewn a few feet away—most likely the weapon used to take her down—she ran out of the barn, then stopped, not sure where to go next. Frantic, she punched 911 into her phone. “You need to send someone to the Happy Cow Dairy Farm in Frog Ledge,” she blurted when a dispatcher answered. “I’ve been attacked!” Ignoring the calm voice asking her if she was injured, she yelled for Henry.

  Nothing.

  Then, in the distance, more barking. Frantic now.

  Stan could still hear the dispatcher, now shouting for her, as she took off running, hoping she’d chosen the right direction. The night was so still and quiet that the sound echoed, leaving her with the unsettling feeling of being in a canyon and not knowing which way was out. She followed the sound farther onto the property, away from the cows, back toward the barn and corn maze. Had Henry chased the intruder out here?

  The cops were probably ten or fifteen minutes away, depending on where they were when she called. If they were at the barracks, she had a long wait. On the other hand, if they were patrolling close by—or if they called Jessie—someone would show up any minute. Stan kept going. She needed to find Henry. She didn’t want to call him away if he had a bead on the bad guy, but she needed to make sure he was okay, and that he didn’t run off and get lost.

  She slowed as she approached the corn maze, hesitant to enter it. There were so many hiding places in there, and after what had happened to Hal . . . She shivered.

  Then she heard a voice behind her.

  “Hey!”

  Whirling around, clenching the shovel as if it were a baseball bat, she found Asher Fink standing a few feet behind her. Where had he come from?

  Asher held his hands up. “What are you doing on this farm?”

  “I’m helping Em out,” she shot back, still wielding the shovel. “What are you doing here?”

  Asher took a step closer to her, hands still in front of him. “I came to look at the feed truck. Emmalee was having trouble with it.”

  “At this time of night?” Stan shook her head, retreating back another step. “I don’t believe you. I think you just tried to take me out in the cow pens. I called the police, FYI.”

  Fink did surprise really well. “Miss, are you hurt? What did you say your name was again?”

  “Stay back,” Stan warned, putting the shovel between her and Fink.

  “Is someone else out here?” Fink asked. “There’s only supposed to be one person on shift right now, and they should be milking. No one should be in the cow pens.”

  Stan hesitated. A little voice reminded her Fink had some menace beneath that seemingly benign beard. Why would he be doing mechanical work at this time of night? He did have a lot of stains on his pants. Hopefully it was grease and not blood. Over her shoulder, she heard Henry barking urgently. It sounded like it was outside the maze, over in the direction of the field where the manure pit sat.

  If Asher was the culprit, who was Henry chasing?

  “Someone just clobbered me. With this.” She thrust the shovel in his direction, causing him to step back. “I surprised someone in the cow pens. I think my dog is chasing the person.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. But I need to find Henry.”

  The night suddenly lit up with flashing strobe lights. The cops had arrived, albeit quietly.

  Asher looked at her. “Are you going to meet them?”

  Stan eyed him warily. “No,” she said. “I’d rather wait here with you.” I won’t be stupid and let you walk away.

  “Hey! We’re over here!” Stan
yelled, brandishing her shovel, eyes never leaving Asher. They didn’t have long to wait before Jessie Pasquale appeared, one hand on her weapon, the other holding her radio as she spoke quietly into it. Didn’t she ever take a day—or night—off?

  Spotting Stan and Asher, taking in the shovel Stan held, Pasquale signed off the radio and stuck it back in its holder. She approached slowly, sizing up the situation.

  “Ms. Connor. Put the shovel down,” she called.

  Stan obliged, tossing it behind her.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” she told Asher. “Who are you?”

  “Asher Fink. I’m a partner farmer.”

  Pasquale moved to him and quickly patted him down. “What’s going on here?”

  “I was in the cow pen and someone knocked me down with the shovel. They took off. I think my dog is chasing them.” Stan pointed to the field.

  “Aren’t you going to pat her down?” Asher asked.

  “No,” Pasquale said. “What kind of dog?”

  Stan told her.

  Pasquale pulled her radio back out and repeated the story in cop speak, and requested an ETA on her backup. The garbled voice on the other end spit something back that Stan couldn’t quite catch, but seemed to satisfy Pasquale. “Call Roger Hardy, too,” she said. “Tell him to get out here ASAP.” She hung the radio on her belt. “Mr. Fink, come with me,” she ordered. To Stan, “Stay here and wait for my backup.”

  What was wrong with this woman? “No way,” Stan said, incensed. “It’s my dog chasing the guy. And I was the one who ate manure when I got knocked down in the cow pens.”

  Finally, a change in expression. Stan seemed to be the only one who could make that happen, and it usually meant Pasquale was exasperated. Today was no different. She set her jaw, raised one eyebrow. Her brilliant red hair was, as usual, pulled back in a ponytail, leaving her face vulnerable to every expression.

  But Pasquale was smart. Instead of wasting time arguing with Stan, she turned to Asher. “Let’s go.”

  Stan shrugged, picked her shovel back up, and followed.

  The barking got louder as they headed deeper into the farmland. She wanted to run ahead looking for Henry, but Pasquale would probably Taser her in the back if she tried it. Or even shoot her.

  She followed them through the field to the long, dilapidated barn near the manure pit. The building had been the old barn, long before the farm expanded, and now it housed some of the machinery. And from the sounds of it, Henry was in there. With company.

  Pasquale got to about one hundred feet from the door, then held up her hand. “Both of you wait here,” she said, then noticed Stan holding the shovel. “I thought I told you to put that down.”

  Stan shrugged. “Added protection.” She made no move to let it go.

  Pasquale shook her head almost imperceptibly and approached the barn door.

  “Wait,” Stan said. “Let me go with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “My dog is in there! I don’t want you to hurt him. He sounds angrier than he is.”

  Pasquale hesitated.

  “I’ll stay behind you. I even have my own weapon.”

  The look Pasquale gave her could’ve downed one of the cows. “Come on,” she said, and stalked to the barn door. Used her foot to nudge it open and peered inside. Henry’s barking became more frantic.

  “Police!” Pasquale yelled. “Get your hands up and move where I can see you!”

  Nothing. Just barking. Then, from a few feet away, what sounded like sobbing and begging. It took Stan a minute to realize she wasn’t hearing English. Pasquale entered the barn, gun drawn.

  “I said get out where I can see you.” Without turning, she said to Stan, “Call the dog.”

  Stan stepped in behind her to see Henry, hackles raised, barking so hard he probably had a sore throat by now. Sure enough, he had someone cornered—a short, skinny Latino boy who looked like he was about to lose his dinner.

  It was Enrico, the missing farmhand.

  Chapter 29

  They were all still in the barn when Roger arrived five minutes later.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, barging in. His mouth dropped as he took in the scene. “Enrico?”

  The boy, who looked like he was going to have a nervous breakdown, began babbling in Spanish. Pasquale frowned. “English, please.”

  “He doesn’t know much,” Roger said.

  Pasquale turned to Roger. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Saturday. He had Sunday off and never showed up Monday.”

  “So as far as you’re concerned, he shouldn’t be on the farm tonight.”

  Roger looked at Enrico. “Did you come back to work?”

  Enrico hung his head, shook it slowly.

  “What did you come here for, then?” Pasquale asked.

  Enrico looked at her blankly.

  Pasquale motioned for the kid to come forward. He did, hesitant, his hands still up, sweat beading on his forehead. Next to Stan, Henry growled. Pasquale pulled her radio out of her belt and gave her location, asked where her backup was.

  “Arriving now. Just asking the cows for directions,” the voice on the other end of the radio crackled back, and sure enough, a minute later two troopers strode in. Stan didn’t recognize either. Trooper Lou must have had the night off.

  “Either of you speak Spanish?” Pasquale asked.

  They both shook their heads. She rolled her eyes. “Fantastic. He’s gonna have to cool his heels until we get a translator.” Pasquale stepped forward and fastened loose handcuffs on the kid. Stan almost felt bad for him, despite the throbbing pain in the back of her legs. He looked more scared than she’d felt when she hit the ground.

  She tried to reach Emmalee on her cell, to no avail. Pasquale was tied up with the kid, so she and Asher went with Roger back to the cow pens.

  “What happened, Stan? Why were you here?” Roger asked.

  “I had to come back and feed Samson and Petunia. Em left for a few days.”

  “Yeah, she left me a message.” Roger looked grim. Stan could barely keep up with them as they hurried across the dark grass.

  “So I was leaving and heard a noise outside. Saw a flashlight. Then Henry took off. I checked the cow pens and got whacked.”

  Roger looked at Asher. “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “I was in the back barn with the door shut. I didn’t want to disturb anyone while I worked on the engine.” Asher, despite his monotone voice, looked troubled. “What was that boy doing, Roger?”

  Roger didn’t answer. He went into the barn and straight to the sick pens. Cursed.

  “I noticed when I came in,” Stan said. “That’s when I got hit.”

  “Noticed what?” Asher asked.

  “The two sick cows. They’re not here,” Roger said. He went into the main barn, moved slowly down the row of cows, looking at each of them. A few minutes later, Stan heard him call to Asher. They both hurried over.

  Roger pointed at one of the cows. “That’s one. She was in the sick pen.”

  Stan looked from one to the other. “So what does that mean?”

  “If they’re back in the general population, they’d get milked next shift,” Roger said. “And then the whole supply would be tainted.”

  Chapter 30

  Party day. Stan groaned and pulled her pillow over her head. Saturday. Over a week since Hal’s murder, and things were crazier than ever, especially after the scene on the farm last night. After Roger’s discovery, the cops had brought Enrico down to the barracks. No one had been able to reach Em. Stan hadn’t heard a word since. Would charges against Tyler be dropped now? Had Enrico murdered Hal? First kill the farmer, then taint the milk supply?

  Her legs ached. She hoped it wouldn’t hamper her ability to throw this party. Her business’s reputation depended on it. She had to finish icing the cake, which waited in the freezer. She hoped it was big enough. Benny was expecting five to seven friends,
in addition to her own dogs. They were all, according to Benny’s mom, looking forward to the party at one o’clock. She also had to bake a couple extra batches of treats.

  Then she sat straight up, panic coursing through her veins. Costume party. She had no costume for Henry or Scruffy! She was a horrible pet parent. The other dogs would make fun of them, and they would be miserable in their own house. What was she going to do?

  She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Char. “I need doggie costumes,” she said when Char answered.

  “Doggie costumes? For when?” Char asked.

  “This afternoon. It’s Benny’s party, and it’s here at my house. My own dogs don’t have costumes and I haven’t frosted the cake yet! This is going to be terrible. I’m going to get a bad review and no one will want me to do another party for them.” She was on the verge of tears, but Char’s rational, soothing voice of reason took over.

  “Honey. This isn’t like you, to be so worried. Your party is going to be lovely!”

  “What about the costumes, though? And how’s my mother? I didn’t make dinner with her last night. There was . . . some excitement.”

  “Excitement? What kind?”

  “I need to deal with costumes first,” Stan said, not wanting to get sidetracked.

  “I don’t have any, but I bet Betty could help. She does costumes for the local theater company.”

  “Betty from the library?” Wow. The people of Frog Ledge led their share of double lives. “When does she find time to do that?”

  Char chuckled. “Oh, Stan, honey, people find time to do what they love. You of all people know that, don’t you? Anyway, call her. Maybe she can dig up something from one of the plays. They must have some doggie outfits in their repertoire. Then call me back and tell me the gossip.”

  Stan hung up and called Betty while she brought the dogs down to go outside. No answer on the cell. She checked the clock. Nearly nine on a Saturday. Betty was probably in her office at the library. Sure enough, she answered on the first ring. “Frog Ledge Library, Betty speaking,” she chirped.