A Biscuit, a Casket (14 page)

“Do they eat grass, too? Is the grass safe?”

“Yes, ma’am. The grazers eat the grass, you know, the ones I told you about who aren’t
lactating? They head down that hill back there onto that pasture and graze away. No
one else ever goes back there, so the grass is pristine. They love it.”

“So how many people work here?” she asked. She hadn’t seen anyone else on the farm
since they’d started their tour.

“We have nine employees. The feed guy, someone who raises the calves, a few milkers,
a few pushers—”

“Pushers?”

“Corralling the cows in and out of the milking area. Got a mechanic, part time. He
mows the lawn, too, does general maintenance work. The rest of the guys work twelve-hour
shifts. There’s a four-hour overlap. Or should be.” He glanced at his watch again
and then looked around the farm, the annoyance apparent on his face. “Most of our
workers are good. Enrico is—was—our best guy. Speaks some English but he knows cows.
Wish I knew where the Sam Hill he was.” Roger shook his head, then turned back to
Stan. “Let’s go. I’ll show you the milking platform.”

They rounded the corner and entered the next building. Stan saw a bunch of cows high
up on the platform in stalls, machines and tubes hooked up to their udders, a bar
keeping them in place. Milking time. She felt bad for them again, although none of
them looked bothered. Two boys who looked remarkably similar—short, skinny, Latino
features—worked each aisle, making sure the milk flowed into pipes. They looked at
Stan curiously, but neither spoke. Roger said something in Spanish, then turned back
to Stan.

“Timing with milking is everything,” Roger said. “These boys need to be real good.
Within sixty to ninety seconds after they touch the udder, the milk flows. That machine
better be hooked up by then, or the milk’s spilling.”

Which meant money was spilling, too. “Are they good at it?”

Roger shrugged. “Some better than others. That was one thing Hal was a major stickler
on. Milk is a precious commodity on a dairy farm. When it spilled, he wasn’t happy.
He didn’t speak any Spanish, but he got his point across. The guys were very careful
not to make Mr. Hoffman angry.”

Stan thought about the farm staff. Young men doing manual labor for probably very
little money. Even more unappealing when someone was yelling at you about spilling
milk. Had one of these guys gotten fed up with it? They had to be strong if they worked
at the farm. And you didn’t need that much height or strength to stab someone in the
chest with a sickle. Especially if they weren’t expecting it. She shivered.

“Did the police finish questioning the staff?” she asked.

Roger nodded. “Questioned all of us. They brought in a couple translators for the
guys and questioned each shift. They didn’t come up with anything.”

Even if the police had, they wouldn’t have told him. Stan wondered how she could find
out. Jessie wouldn’t be telling Brenna anything, not as close as she was to this case.
Would Jessie discuss it with Jake? Stan needed to figure out who Jessie’s friends
were and get friendly with them. But even the couple of times she’d seen Jessie out
at town events, off duty, she had either been alone or with her daughter, Lily. The
three-year-old loved Scruffy.

Stan forced her attention back to the farm. “Where does the milk go?” She watched
the bars keeping the cows in place lift, allowing them to move again. They all backed
out of their stalls as if they had been doing this whole routine for a long time.
Which they probably had.

“Excellent question. That’s our next stop.” Roger led her around the stalls and into
a hallway. They passed a small office with his name on the door. Unlike Hal’s, it
was neat and tidy. It even had a comfy-looking chair tucked in the corner. Why did
Hal work in the dreary laundry room while the head herdsman had a nice office in the
middle of the action?

Stan followed Roger around the bend and they entered a narrow room with a stainless
steel tank that nearly reached the ceiling.

“This is our tank room,” he said, flicking on the light. “Holds four thousand gallons
of milk.”

“Four thousand?” Stan repeated.

“Yep. The milk gets cooled as it goes through the pipes, down to fifty-five degrees.
Comes out of the cow at a hundred and one. And goes in here.” He motioned to the ladder
running along the front of the tank. “Go on up and lift the lid, take a peek. Just
don’t lean too far. There’s augers in that tank.”

Stan observed the ladder suspiciously. It didn’t look very steady, especially for
a man the size of Hal, or Roger. How dangerous was this place? She grasped the sides
of the ladder and climbed the few feet. Augers in the tank. She pulled the lid off
and peered inside. Milk churned slowly within, the steel blades just visible. She
reset the lid and climbed down. “Do you guys make cheese here, too?”

Roger frowned and shook his head. “No, ma’am. This farm ain’t that fancy. Only two
of our farms have the cheese-making facilities. Ted’s and Leigh-Anne’s. She’s got
the ice cream piece, too. And she don’t let no one forget it.” For as much as he smiled
when he said it, Stan could taste the bitterness under his words. Clearly Roger wanted
Happy Cow, the founding farm, to be the best farm in the co-op. And it wasn’t.

“How come you guys don’t do it, too? The more you produce, the better the profits,
right?”

“Well, sure,” Roger said, pulling off his hat and scratching his head. “But Hal didn’t
have no interest in expanding. Which never made no sense to me, other than the initial
cost. But milk, well, milk ain’t no gold mine. We get twenty bucks for every hundred
pounds of it. That’s the price the state sets, end of story.”

“Twenty dollars? That’s it?” No wonder dairy farmers looked exhausted and beaten down.
How did anyone make a living on that? And how did they pay their staff? Stan didn’t
know for sure, but she was willing to bet a guy like Roger didn’t make a lot of money,
and probably hadn’t had a raise in a while. Did he see a brighter future for a bigger
farm? It sounded like he’d encouraged Hal to expand the operations. Would he have
killed Hal over his denial?

She jumped a foot as the door clanged open behind her. One of the workers stood there.
He tipped his hat to Stan and addressed Roger.

“Excuse me,” he said in halting English. “No break?”

Roger swore under his breath and immediately looked at Stan. “I’m sorry. Not the right
language in front of a lady.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Stan said with a smile. “I’m afraid I’ve used worse.”

“It’s so frustrating when people are irresponsible and don’t show up for work. Go
ahead and take your break, Hector. I’ll cover.”

Hector tipped his hat again and disappeared. Roger motioned Stan ahead of him and
they exited the tank room. He pulled the door shut tightly behind him. “That’s the
end of the line anyway. I hope you enjoyed the tour. At least you’ll have a better
idea of how things work ’round here.”

“It was excellent. Thank you, Roger. I appreciate it. I’m going to head over to the
office now.” She bid Roger good-bye and left the building, cutting across the grass
to the house. The back door was unlocked. Stan let herself into the chilly room and
immediately turned the thermostat up. She hated being cold when she was pushing paper.
She’d always kept a blanket in her old office. When she needed alone time, she’d shut
her door and wrap herself in it. She got a lot of work done that way.

Not that she’d get a lot of work done here, since there was still no laptop, no clear
indication of how much money was in the account to pay bills, and no other direction
except to straighten out the piles. She sighed and dug into one. Official paperwork
in this file. Stan spent a few minutes thumbing through the dairy farm licensing information,
mortgage information, and the co-op agreement. Then Em appeared at the door. She looked
disheveled and upset.

“Stan, I need your help,” she said, her voice dangerously shaky. “Can you come now?”

Please don’t let it be another dead body.
“What’s going on, Em?” Stan asked, hurrying to keep up as she followed her across
the yard.

“We’re down a man and it’s putting everyone behind.” She sounded completely frazzled.
“I need you to help. We need a pusher.”

“I’m sorry, I said I’d do the books, not deal drugs.” Stan’s lame attempt at a joke
fell short when Em turned and stared at her. “Yes. A pusher. You want me to go get
someone?”

Em snapped the straps of her overalls impatiently. “So you know what a pusher is?”

“Roger took me around and explained, yes. Whoa, wait a minute.” She held up a hand
as it dawned on her what Em was asking. “Listen, Em, I’m happy to help, but I don’t
know how to push cows. I mean, do cows even like to be pushed?”

“You’ll do fine. The cows know the drill. Roger is tending to the expectant mother
and assessing whether another cow is ill, and I have to make sure the other boys get
their break. If we get behind on our milking schedule, the rest of the week will be
off.” Emmalee wrung her hands, the stress of the last few days manifesting in her
face. “Please?”

How in the world did I get myself into this situation?
Stan gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “Sure, Em. I’ll come push cows.” She glanced
down at her flats, already crusted with mud and God-knew-what-else from her earlier
tour. Her jeans weren’t her best pair, but they weren’t her worst, either. Well, that’s
what she got for trying to be fashionable at her new “job.”

“Oh, thank God.” Em stepped forward and clasped Stan’s hands between hers. “Roger
will be over to help you if he can. And I have a call in to Ted and Asher. Come on
now.” She tugged Stan to the barn. “Roger! Stan’s going to help.”

Roger’s head popped up over the stall. “Great. Remember how I showed you the groups
of cows? The holding pen is the small group on the left. Just lead them out and up
the ramp. You’re just an escort, really. They know the drill.” He disappeared again.

“You’re a dear!” Em called out, already heading back to whatever she’d been doing.
A minute later, the door closed, and Stan was alone with the better part of five hundred
cows.

“Well, that’s just great,” she muttered. “Move to a farming town and become a farmer.
Who would’ve thought?” She stepped hesitantly over to the row of cows waiting patiently
for their trip to the milking area. “Hey, guys,” she said. “Want to, ah, head over
here?”

None of them moved. A couple swiveled their heads at her and gave her what she believed
was the stink-eye. So much for them just going right along. She took another tentative
step forward, feeling the muddy, manure-y ground squish around her feet.
Awesome.

“Come on,” she tried again. “We’re just going to go right up the ramp here.” She pointed,
hoping a couple of them would be accustomed to leading the pack.

Nothing. The
Mission Impossible
theme song played in her head.

She glanced around. No one else in sight. She wished she had some treats right now.
That might help. Did cows like treats? She had no idea. And it might contaminate the
milk if she fed them treats anyway. Nope, on to Plan B. Not that she had one.

Hands on hips, Stan surveyed the group. Some of them were still looking at her, kind
of like how the problem kids used to look at the substitute teacher in school. The
others were blatantly ignoring her. Well, time to get serious. If the milking got
off schedule, it would be her fault.

“Okay, who’s going to go first?” She clapped her hands. “How about you?” Moving to
the front of the pen, she swung the gate open. The cow closest to it eyed it, but
didn’t move. She rested one hand tentatively on the cow’s flank.

The cow whipped her tail up and smacked her in the face. It was like getting hit with
a lasso flung by a particularly strong cowboy. The pain stung, setting her face on
fire. Stan stumbled back, tripped, and fell on her rear right in the mud. Or manure.
Her luck, probably manure. She pulled her left hand out of the muck, sniffed tentatively.
Eww. Pulled her other hand out, not bothering to sniff. The cow, looking smug, sauntered
through the gate toward the milking pen as if she’d planned to do it all along. If
she could talk, Stan imagined she would say,
Welcome to the farm, sucker!
One by one, the others followed. Stan leapt to her feet to avoid being trampled by
any of them, only to find Roger hanging over the pen laughing.

“I’m sorry,” he managed when he realized she’d seen him. “That was priceless. Nice
job getting the cows through the gate, though.”

Stan wiped her filthy hands on her filthy jeans. “Glad I could help.”

“You’re a good sport.” Roger nodded. “There’s a couple more shifts to move. I hope
you can stick around for a bit.”

 

 

Two hours later Stan walked home, hoping she wouldn’t bump into anyone on the street
who could smell her. She hadn’t actually gotten anything done in the Happy Cow office,
but she’d finally gotten the hang of cow pushing and had helped get the last few groups
where they were supposed to be.

If her corporate friends could see her now. From PR mogul to cow pusher in just six
months. It was so absurd she giggled a little, then frowned when she glanced down
and saw her ruined shoes. These would have to be thrown out.

As she turned into her driveway, she slowed. Char and her mother sat on her front
steps, laughing.
Her mother. Laughing.
Stan hadn’t seen that in years. What were they doing at her place? And why did her
mother have to show up when Stan looked like she’d taken a dip in the Happy Cow manure
tank?

Sure enough, when her mother spotted her the smile faded a bit. She stopped talking
and stared. Stan pasted a smile on and waved. “Hi, ladies. What’s going on?”

“Heavens to Betsy, Stan, whatever happened to you?” Char asked.

“Oh, this.” Stan flicked a hand at her dirty clothes, dismissing them. “I was helping
Em out. Doing some things I hadn’t planned on.”

“Like what? Shoveling cow poop?” her mother asked.

“No, Mom. I didn’t shovel it.”
Just fell in it.

“Well, Kristan, I won’t dare ask again. Something tells me I don’t want to know.”

She absolutely wouldn’t. Which is why Stan told her.

“At a dairy farm? Have you lost your mind?” Her mother couldn’t have looked more horrified
if Stan had told her she’d taken a part-time job as a prostitute.

“Now, Patricia, she’s being a lovely neighbor and helping that poor woman at the farm,”
Char said, sending Stan an anxious glance as if to say,
Don’t fight.
“Her husband was killed the other night.” She leaned close to Patricia and said in
an exaggerated hush, “Murdered! Have you heard? We’re trying not to discuss it at
the B and B. We don’t want to upset our guests.”

Patricia’s eyes widened. “Murdered? Here?”

“It’s terrible.” Char shook her head. “And Stan here, well, with her financial background,
she jumped right in to offer her expertise.”

Stan had to laugh. “Char. I spent the day herding cows. That has nothing to do with
financial expertise.”

“How was he murdered?” her mother asked.

“Stabbed with a sickle,” Stan said. “It was ugly.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth. She looked pale. “In this neighborhood?”

“Two doors down.”

“Why in the world were you herding cows?” Char broke in, an attempt at drawing Patricia’s
attention away. “I thought you were doing books.”

“They were shorthanded. Listen, do you guys want to come in? I really want to shower.”

“Sure, we’d love to.” Char stood. “We stopped by to see if you were going to the council
meeting tonight. Your mother decided to tag along with me and I thought it would be
loads of fun if we all went together. I figured you were going since this is your
topic, right, dear? Animals, shelters, and vets?” She beamed like a kid delivering
a handmade card to a grown-up and now expected high praise.

Shoot. The town meeting. She’d forgotten. Stan pushed past them and unlocked the door.
“Scruffy and Henry, sit,” she commanded. They obeyed. “Yes, I’m going.”

“Kristan.” Her mother got up and followed her inside, giving the dogs a wide berth.
“This doesn’t sound like a safe neighborhood. There was that other murder when you
first moved here, too. Maybe you should think about moving back to Rhode Island. I
can help you find a house near ours.”

“Oh, Patricia, don’t be silly! This is a lovely town. It’s very safe, normally. There’ve
just been those couple of unfortunate incidents since Stan moved to town.” Char shut
the door behind her and waggled her fingers at Nutty, who sat on the windowsill. “Besides,
Stan loves it here. Don’t you?”

“I do. Make yourself at home. There’s lemonade in the fridge. Fresh squeezed, organic.”
She kissed Nutty’s head and patted each of the dogs. “I’m going upstairs to wash off
the cow poop.”