A Biscuit, a Casket (21 page)

Sometimes, Stan regretted opening her mouth. Tonight, as she packed up bowls of food
for Samson and Petunia, was one of those nights. She had no desire to go out again.
She knew it was uncharitable, but with Halloween looming in the near future, all she
wanted to do was curl up on her couch, watch scary movies, pour a glass of wine, sketch
out her website, and catalogue the new recipes Brenna had come up with. But that poor
dog and cat had been left behind while Em sorted out her life. Stan was a sucker for
that sort of thing.

Nutty, as was customary when he heard the sound of certain bowls, arrived in the doorway
and watched with a critical eye.

“It’s just a little bit,” Stan said. “Jeez, Nutty. We’ve talked about this selfish
thing. It’s much nicer to share.”

Nutty fanned his tail in disapproval like an ornery peacock.

“You’ve gotten pretty snooty for a former street cat,” Stan said, sliding the bowls
into a recyclable shopping bag. She surveyed the dogs, both sitting at attention in
front of her.

“You guys want to come for the walk?” Stan said. They both wagged in agreement. It
was probably a good idea to have Henry with her, walking in the dark. Even though
it was tiny little Frog Ledge and the police believed they had Hal’s murderer, Stan
still felt unsettled. Henry, despite being a big muffin, looked foreboding. The fact
that he was a big mush, well, she didn’t have to broadcast that.

She tucked her cell phone and keys in her pocket, clipped the dogs’ leashes on, and
headed out. The moon was well on its way to full, so it seemed as if someone had turned
floodlights on. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. Definitely a chill in the
air as they marched closer to winter. Stars blazed in the sky and the bare tree branches
beckoned like skeletal fingers in the breeze. Very Halloween-like. In Amara’s house
next door, she could see jack-o’-lanterns flickering in the windows. The rest of the
house was dark. Amara must be out. She made a mental note to stop by over the weekend,
maybe bring some dog treats as a peace offering.

There was still activity around the green. A bunch of teenagers hanging in the library
parking lot. A few people and dogs walking the loop. The company, though distant,
comforted her as thoughts of Bullet Man danced in her head. When they turned into
the Hoffmans’ driveway she took out her cell phone and turned the flashlight app on
to light their way. Scruffy pranced along happily. Henry was more cautious in his
approach. Stan got to the front steps and paused, glancing at the dark house. She
wished Em had left a light on. But she hadn’t.

Because you’re helping animals,
her conscience reminded her. Nikki would approve. Redeeming herself after the whole
working-at-a-dairy-farm faux pas. With that as her catalyst, she headed to the front
door, unlocked it, and hesitantly pushed it open. Samson immediately pushed his wet
nose into her palm, thanking her for bringing dinner. Scruffy strained on her leash,
trying to get to him, asking to play. He ignored her.

“You’re welcome, boy,” she said, patting his head. He sniffed Scruffy and Henry. They
sniffed back.

All else was quiet. Stan flicked on a few lights as she made her way into the kitchen.
The house looked the same, like everyone had left in a hurry and hadn’t given much
thought to what they would return to. Dirty dishes sat on a tray on the couch. Kids’
toys were strewn about. Petunia streaked by, startling Stan and sending Scruffy into
a barking frenzy.

“It’s okay, Scruf. Hush,” Stan said, though there was no one here to disturb. She
heated the food so it wasn’t cold and handed Samson his bowl. He politely devoured
it. She set the cat’s bowl on the counter for when she returned. She checked the back
door to make sure it was closed and locked, flicked off the kitchen light, and turned
to go. A light bounced around out in front of the building with the milking rooms
and office area. Like a flashlight beam.

Stan paused. That seemed odd. At night, the one staffer would usually be in the cow
areas, which had its own lighting. She mentally ran through the schedule Roger had
given her. It was nine right now. There wouldn’t be another milking until maybe eleven.
Whoever was on staff should be checking feed and water and doing those chores. According
to Roger, none of the cows was due to give birth any time soon, so that wasn’t an
issue tonight.

She caught herself and chuckled. When had she turned into dairy farmer of the year?
How did she even know this stuff? Roger had clearly done a good job with his tour.
She moved to the window. The light was still visible. Then she heard a clang. Beside
her, Henry barked.

The light went out.

Stan frowned. That was odd. Or was it? The workers needed to see to get around, after
all. She had no idea how one worked among the unlit areas of a dairy farm at night,
so she wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions.

Scruffy decided to bark in response to Henry, which set Henry off again. The two engaged
in an absurd chorus of soprano and alto, ensuring the cat wouldn’t come back to eat
her dinner anytime soon. Samson, not being easily moved, raised his head to see what
was going on before returning to his nap.

Well, if Samson wasn’t concerned, she wouldn’t be either. But she wanted to get out
of the house, back to her safe, cozy home.

“Samson, you want to go outside before we head home?”

Samson raised one eyebrow. Stan swore he smiled at her.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, then, let’s go.” She led the way to the side door,
which would let Samson right into the yard. Scruffy trotted along behind. Henry was
already at the door, whining softly. Stan tried to ignore the hairs that stood up
on the back of her neck. “Henry, it’s okay. Come.”

He ignored her. Very unlike him. She grabbed his collar and opened the door enough
for Samson to squeeze through.

And jumped a foot at the sound of a crash in the kitchen. Scruffy immediately went
into a frenzy of barking. Stan grabbed the nearest weapon—a half-burned Yankee candle
jar—and crept back into the kitchen, Scruffy on her heels barking her head off. Her
hand scraped the wall along the living room to flip on any and every light switch
until she reached the kitchen. Brandishing her weapon, she scanned the room from corner
to corner.

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.

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.