Till the Cows Come Home (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I spent a long hour driving around after Abe left, again hoping I wouldn’t find Queenie lying alongside the road, but praying I’d catch a glimpse of her somewhere. No luck. My head had begun to throb like I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Then I remembered I hadn’t.

I arrived back at the house at the same time Detective Willard was pulling out. He stopped his car beside my truck and I opened my window. I was surprised to see Pam Moyer in the passenger seat. She looked tired and a little green. I wondered if that was from working through the night with the doctors, worrying about her dad, or if she was coming down with the aflatoxin sickness herself.

“Sorry about the calf,” Willard said. “You get my message last night?”

“Yeah. I’m not quite sure how to feel about it. You’re sure Hubert couldn’t have been involved any other way?”

“You mean like hire somebody?”

I shrugged.

“I checked him out pretty well,” Willard said. “No past history of violence. Sticks to the law as far as I can tell. Really has never had any trouble. Sonny Turner tells me Hubert’s got enough on his plate these days, with zoning hearings and building permits, the last thing he needs is another land purchase.”

Pam and I glanced at each other. We both knew full well Hubert would take whatever land he could get his slimy little hands on.

I leaned into the window. “So, Pam, what’re you doing with the detective here? I talked to your dad this morning and he thought you were with the Department of Health people.”

“Yeah, I was, but they finally kicked me out since I’m not official. The CDC’s here, too, so they really don’t need extra people hanging around. Sonny suggested I take a ride with the detective today, see what he does.”

“What for?”

Willard chuckled. “The Town Council president oversees the police department. At least, we’re accountable to him.”

“But—”

“And it looks to me like Sonny wants Pam here to take over when he retires. I think he was just waiting for someone like her to come along.”

I raised my eyebrows at Pam and she blushed, adding red to her face’s greenish tinge and making her skin an interesting puce color. “I’m not quite sure what they see in me, but it sounds like a job I’d be interested in. Be a good platform to help farmers.”

“Sure would.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed. I hoped she wasn’t going to heave right there onto her pants.

She opened her eyes. “Sorry about your calf. Is it the one from the other morning?”

“Yeah. The one we’d just done a C-section for. And I’m sorry to hear about the Bergeys. I don’t suppose your dad’s figured out yet how to replace the land?”

She shook her head slowly. “Nothing around to replace it with. I guess he’ll just have to be happy with his own eighty.”

Which wouldn’t be enough to keep him safe from foreclosure. And we all knew it.

I looked back at Willard. “See anything back there at the hutches that might help us catch the guy?”

“Nothing to see. No fingerprints I could find, anyway. And not much else to go on.”

Damn. “Hope it didn’t matter we went ahead and buried him.”

“Nah. Not much I could’ve seen from that, probably.”

I took in his sunken eyes and decided not to complain about Officer Meadows’ inference that I was making things up. “Your boy any better since they figured out this aflatoxin thing?”

Pam made a sympathetic sound and shook her head, putting her fingers to her mouth.

“Maybe a bit,” Willard said. “I’m hoping.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“So the Department of Health has helped already, huh?” I said. “By finding the aflatoxin?”

Pam made a face. “Actually, the county coroner did the autopsy and discovered the fungus trace. Nobody expected to find
that
.”

“That’s why I called you this morning. Does what they’re saying make any sense? Kids are getting sick because of something they ate?”

She stared out the windshield for a moment. “Unfortunately, it’s probably true. Now everybody’s working like mad to find the source of it.”

“Well, good luck to them.” I turned back to Willard. “Thanks for coming out.”

“Sure. Your farmhand told me about the water problem. I took a look at it, but didn’t see anything.”

“I’m pretty sure it was natural causes.”

“That’s what he said.” He paused. “Wish there was more I could do.” He started to roll up his window. “I hope I don’t hear from you about any new problems. I’ll let you know as soon as we come up with something.”

“Thanks. See ya, Pam.”

She gave a weak smile and nodded.

They eased away, swerving around Wayne, who was waiting at the end of the lane in the milk truck. I hoped Pam made it to their next stop before puking.

Wayne drove up, parked, and stepped down from the cab. Exhaustion was apparent in his every move.

“Ma’am,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Wayne. It’s all there for ya. Need any help?”

“I think I can handle it. Although it has only been ten years I’ve been hauling your milk.”

“Guess I can trust you, then.”

“I should think so.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “You all right? You don’t look so good.”

He fidgeted, then thrust his hands into his pockets. A sheen of sweat shone on his forehead.

“God, Wayne. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

He gave me a strange look. “No, no. It’s Flo.”

“Your wife?”

“She…she’s got MS, you know.”

That’s right. “She okay?”

He swallowed. “Having a few problems. Nothing we can’t fix, I don’t think.”

“Hope you get it taken care of soon.”

He gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“Go to it, then. And have a good lunch.” He had to be hungry, since we were the last stop of his busy morning run.

I left him and was standing at the kitchen sink wolfing down an apple—imported from North Carolina—and a PB&J when Carla drove up the drive. I brushed my hands off, washed my food down with water from the sink, and went out to join her.

“Where’s your greeter?” she asked, looking around for Queenie.

“I wish I knew. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

Carla watched me steadily. She knows how much Queenie means to me—knows how much
anybody’s
dog means to them—and I could see the fears written on her face. She’d told me before that dogs often go off when they know they’re going to die, in order to find a quiet place to do it. She also knew I’d had a cow murdered just a couple days before. I looked away.

“What can I help carry?” I asked.

“Nothing, Stella. You know the drill.”

Each month Carla comes for a monthly herd inspection. She checks for pregnancies, doles out medicine, and looks at any problems I point out to her. It takes time, but it’s worth it to know everything is as it should be.

As it should be. Didn’t I wish.

I jogged to my office, grabbed a folder that had seen better days and threatened to spill its load should I give it half a chance, and got back to Carla’s truck. I sat on the bumper and watched while she pulled on her “check-up gear,” which consists of coveralls, the same biceps-high gloves she’d used for the C-section and autopsy, and high rubber boots.

I smiled to myself, watching her dress. Carla is my exact opposite. She is small and round and soft in all the places a woman should be, plus a few more. She says if God had meant her to be thin, she wouldn’t have been born with a craving for dairy products—pure dairy, that is. To her, skim milk is un-holy water, frozen yogurt is sinful, and non-fat cheese is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Carla is very religious about her fat.

She suddenly froze, her eyes catching on something. “Am I on my way to heaven, or is there really a man of unlimited beauty walking this way?”

“You ain’t dying, sister,” I said. “Your eyes are seeing true.”

“How long have you been keeping this a secret? Here I’ve been taking another long look at my same old Abs of Iron calendar.”

I laughed. “Sorry, Carla. He was covered up when you were here yesterday. You’re welcome to come and observe any time.”

She waggled her eyebrows, but behaved herself once Nick reached us.

“I’m off for the afternoon,” he said. “What time should I be here for dinner?”

I could sense Carla looking at me and hoped I didn’t betray any discomfort. “Five-thirty, I guess. Dinner starts at six, boring speeches at seven.”

“I’ll bring a book to read.” He smiled and looked at Carla, who showed him her teeth in return.

“Sorry,” I said. “Carla, this is Nick Hathaway. Nick, Doctor Carla Beaumont—she keeps my cows happy and healthy.”

They shook hands, which Carla enjoyed entirely too much, and made all of the appropriate “glad to meet you” noises.

Looking at Nick, I made a sudden decision. “Can I ask a favor, Nick?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“Howie and I have to go to a funeral this afternoon, and we’d appreciate it if you could hang around for a couple of hours after lunch. Keep an eye on the place.”

I could feel Carla’s eyes boring into me, and Nick looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

I wondered how much I should say. “Somebody’s been playing pranks on us and it’s gotten out of hand. I hate to leave the place unguarded.”

He looked at his watch. “Sure, I guess I can do that. What time do you need me?”

“Say, two-ish? The funeral’s at two-thirty.”

“No problem. See you then.”

Carla and I both kept a close watch as he walked to his truck, got in it, and drive off.

“You sure know how to pick ’em, girl,” Carla said.

“The good Lord planted him in my path.”

“Well, then, praise God.” She turned to me. “Should I ask about the ‘pranks,’ or was that just your way of not telling him you had a cow murdered?”

“Make that two cows, and a messed up manure lagoon.”

“Two? You didn’t call me about the second.”

“No need to. He was hanged in his hutch.”

“Oh, no. Not Zach’s calf?”

“’Fraid so.”

“But that hardly ever happens.”

“Bingo.”

“Good lord,” she said. “What kind of creep would do something like that? How are you handling the threat?”

I told her about the cops and keeping the lights on at night, along with Howie and me taking shifts, and our false hope that we’d gotten Hubert into a corner. She shook her head, understanding more than most how vulnerable we were. “Let me know if I can help somehow, but I wouldn’t be too good at guard duty. I’d fall asleep on my shift.” She finished pulling up the zipper of her coveralls and picked up her tool kit. When she stood, she suddenly took a deep breath and leaned on the truck, setting her kit back on the ground and resting her head on her arm.

“You okay?” I asked, stepping toward her.

She held up a hand. “I’ll be fine. I’m still fighting this cold, and I’ve been getting these head rushes.”

“You’re sure it’s not this aflatoxin thing?”

“I don’t eat fresh vegetables. You know I’m a closet non-vegetarian.”

“You pregnant?”

“If I am, I’ll start a new Church of Immaculate Conception.” She straightened up, her face starting to regain its color. “Where to, boss?”

“If you’re sure.…”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. Let’s start out with the possibly pregnant cows. I want to know how many actually took.”

I looked in my folder to see how many cows Carla had hopefully impregnated last month. That’s not as kinky as it sounds, believe me. Carla uses a long tube that looks kind of like a turkey baster, and—forgive me—sticks it up the cow’s vagina and forces sperm to the hopefully awaiting egg. A few days before that I give the cows a hormone called Prosta, which puts them in heat. Not as fun as the typical way of getting pregnant, but the odds are a lot better.

Artificial insemination is a big thing in farming these days, just like genetically modified foods. You get to pick from a bank of semen after seeing which DNA fits your needs. Need milk with higher milkfat content? Choose semen from a bull who’s had offspring with it. Need wider hips? More milk production? You got a problem, you try to fix it with good genes. Some might say we’re playing God, but those folks aren’t trying to make a living by farming.

Carla had her hand up the back end of a cow when Wayne stuck his head around the corner.

“I’ll see ya, Stella. All done for today.”

“Great. Tell Flo to feel better soon.”

His eyes teared up and he looked away. “I’ll tell her. Thanks.”

“Isn’t he usually much more cheerful?” Carla asked when he’d left.

“Yeah. But his wife’s sick. Sicker than usual, I mean. She’s got MS. Anyway, he has a right to be crabby since he hasn’t had lunch.”

“That’s just because
you’re
crabby when you haven’t had lunch.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Carla grinned and pulled her arm out of the cow. “Preggers. That’s how many now? Four?”

“Five. Five out of seven ain’t bad. And that’s the last one.”

“But I was having so much fun.”

“That’s life.”

“Well, if I can’t do that any more, I want to see the cow I cut the calf out of the other day.” She looked suddenly sad, and we both took a moment to wish Gus was still alive.

On our way to the barn we saw Howie and Wayne talking by the tank truck. Wayne was shaking his head, his hand on the truck door, and Howie didn’t look too happy. I wondered if I should see what the problem was, but Carla had already headed into the barn, so I followed. I found her standing beside Wendy.

“Healing up nicely,” she said, giving the cow a pat.

I grunted. “At least she can do something right.”

Carla stretched her back. “Got anything else?”

“A sore foot, and a couple that are way pregnant.”

Carla checked on the soon-to-be-mamas and said they were doing just fine and should have their babies in two weeks or less. This may not seem like a long time, but it sounded way too long to me, seeing as how I can’t milk them at all once they’re seven months into their nine of gestation.

“Any trouble with the newly freshened cows?” Carla asked. She was referring to the mamas of the two calves who had been Gus’ neighbors in the hutches.