Till the Cows Come Home (7 page)

I picked at a spot on the countertop. “Whose Shovel?”

“My brother-in-law’s. Needs some top-end work.”

“Ugh.” I knew what was involved with that, having done it to my own bike the previous summer. “Any new stuff?”

“Got some of those Samson drag pipes you were asking about before. But anybody asks you, you got ’em from somebody as a gift, and can’t remember who.”

I grinned. The drag pipes I’d been lusting after sounded so throaty, rumbling around the countryside, but they weren’t exactly legal. On the other hand, I’ve never heard of anybody actually getting busted for them.

“How much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Geez, Bart, you trying to break me?”

The door to the garage creaked and Lenny, Bart’s business partner, came in, wiping his blackened hands on a rag.

“Who’s breaking who? Or would that be whom?”

“Whom cares,” Bart said.

Lenny was the motorhead of the H-D Biker Barn, and Bart was the brains—or so Bart wanted you to think. I liked to imagine that Lenny had a doctoral degree secretly stashed away, while Bart was still up late at night working on his GED. What everyone knew for sure was that Lenny was the wallet of the operation and Bart did his best to keep the money in-house while Lenny liked to spend it.

Lenny is the complete opposite of Bart physically, as well, his belly spilling over his grease-stained blue jeans, his red hair and beard wild and untethered. He looks more like the stereotype of a biker, but he’s actually the tamer of the two. He had what he calls his “former life,” which he never wants to talk about, but he tries to forget those days. His nickname, Hammer, still holds on, but those of us who see him often know he prefers his given name. He’s never told me exactly what Hammer stands for, but I get the impression it’s for something a bit more illegal than his tendency to ride fast.

“Bart’s trying to sell me drag pipes for a fortune,” I said. “I can’t afford one, let alone an actual pair.”

“I’m quoting you a great price,” Bart said. “You get ’em at cost, it’s still gonna run you two-fifty, two-seventy-five.”

“What’s the occasion?” Lenny asked me. “You haven’t been here in a while.”

“Not my choice,” I said. “The bank account’s the boss. But yesterday was my birthday and I got a few bucks to throw at you.
Few
being the important word.”

“You hear that, Bart? We got us a birthday girl, and you mean to take every dime.”

“Yeah, yeah, make me the bad guy,” Bart said. “You want to stay in business or not?”

My shoulders began to relax as I listened to their good-natured bantering.

“Before we’re too far gone on the pipes,” I said, “what else you got?” I slid off the stool and walked around, checking out the various chrome pieces mounted on the Peg-Board.

Bart came out from behind the counter, and Lenny disappeared into the recesses of the back.

“Check this out,” Bart said. He pulled something off the wall and handed it to me.

“I already have a timing cover,” I said, not looking at it.

“Yeah, but you don’t have this one.”

I looked down at the package. In prominent relief on the otherwise smooth chrome was a chilling skull, its teeth bared in a grin, its eye sockets dark and deep.

“Too cool,” I said.

Bart rocked on the balls of his feet and looked smug. “Thought of you as soon as it came in last week. Told Lenny you’d have to get it. It’ll match that pretty little tattoo of yours.” He pointed to the eyes. “And look at those.”

I laughed. “You mean the eyes actually light up?”

“Wire ’em right in, and those eyes’ll glow real eerie-like.”

I looked at the price and shook my head. Forty was still too much, seeing as how groceries were going on a credit card that month.

“What about blue lights?” I asked. “Got any of those around?”

“It would be the same deal as the pipes,” Bart said. “They just showed up on your scooter and you didn’t know where you got ’em.”

“How much?”

Bart shrugged. “Fifteen.”

I let out the breath I was holding. The lights wouldn’t run me into the red like the other stuff, and they were something I’d been wanting. You mount them on the underside of your bike, and when you ride at night, they glow off the chrome, looking spookily supernatural.

“Okay,” I said. “Ring ’em up.”

Bart dug some out from under the counter and punched the cash register. When he leaned down again to get a bag, Lenny came up behind me, lifted the back of my shirt, and stuck something in the waistband of my jeans. I looked at him, and he winked.

“Jude working the fields at night now?” Bart asked.

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I was headed toward Quakertown the other night and drove past that field of yours that fronts Telford Pike. Saw lights way back in, toward your place. Thought maybe Jude was doing some catch-up.”

The hair on my neck prickled. “I doubt it. Working in the dark makes him nervous. What night was it?”

He thought for a bit. “Let’s see, I was coming home from the grocery store…I guess it was Friday. Friday night.”

And the next day I had a dead cow and a punctured manure lagoon. I couldn’t picture Hubert stomping around a field at night, but I wouldn’t put it past him, either.

Bart handed me the bag with my birthday purchase. “Receipt’s in the bag. You know the return drill.”

“Got it.”

“Come back and get those pipes or that timing cover. Your ride would look and sound like a different beast. Gotta have ’em.”

“I’ll save up.”

“And let us know what happens about that cow. That’s some nasty shit.”

Lenny walked me to the door, I think so Bart wouldn’t see how lumpy my butt looked with whatever was jammed in my jeans.

“You come back soon now, Stella,” Lenny said.

“As soon as I can.”

Lenny gave me another wink and went back inside, the bell ringing daintily.

I walked over to my truck, tossed my new lights on the seat, and pulled the thing out of my pants.

It was the timing cover with the skull, smiling at me.

Chapter Nine

As soon as I got home I tried calling Jude. There was no answer, so I left a message on his machine to call me as soon as he got in. If he wasn’t the one in my field the other night, I wanted to know who was.

Feeling at loose ends, I went out to the barn and checked on the kittens. I knew Zach would be asking about them, and wanted to be able to give a report. I found them, snoozing comfortably, almost hidden under their mama’s fur.

Queenie, however, was not in her spot, and she hadn’t met my truck when I’d come home. I felt a fresh stab of worry. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever been gone this long, but it was unusual, and someone had taken it upon themselves to give me one less cow. I spent about fifteen minutes calling her, but had to stop when Detective Willard drove in. He stepped out of his unmarked Caprice Classic and walked over to me.

“Came out as soon as I could. I wanted to start on your list of names before heading here.”

I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it. “Haven’t found out anything yet. About anybody.”

“Well, I already know Hubert did it,” I said. “We just have to nail him. And I have a new time slot for you to check out.” I told him about Bart seeing lights in my field on Friday night. “As far as stuff here, I’m really not sure what you’re going to do.”

“Why don’t you just show me what you got?”

I took him on the tour of crime, pointing out the spot where I’d found Cleopatra, the now-patched-up manure lagoon, and the electrical box. Last was the corpse in the lower floor of the barn. Willard didn’t bat an eye. I guess when you’re used to seeing human remains during the course of your job, seeing the body of a cow doesn’t really bother you. Even if said body is spread out in piles on a tarp.

“The vet record her findings?” he asked.

“Even took pictures.”

He nodded and turned to me. “Gonna be straight with you. From what I see, there’s not a whole lot I can do. I’ll do a search around where the cow was found in the pasture, just in case the perpetrator left something behind, and check for fingerprints on the electrical box, but I don’t hold high hopes.”

I shrugged. “What I figured.”

“As far as the manure lagoon goes, it looks like any evidence would probably have been washed away.”

“Yup.”

“But it’s good you came by the station. I’ll make out a report, and I hope you’ll call at the first sign of anyone tampering with anything else.”

“You got it. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem. What I’m here for.”

He loped to his car for his tools and disappeared around the back of the barn. I checked Queenie’s food bowl, and when I saw it was still full, went to find Howie.

“Cop’s here looking around, so don’t be surprised if you see him.”

Howie glanced up from the conveyor belt he was fixing. “Think he’ll find anything?”

“No. But I think I know who did it.”

He waited.

“Hubert.”

His face cleared. “Would make sense. Damn. What you gonna do?”

I frowned. “Nothing. At least not till the detective checks him out.”

“Unbelievable. Him, I mean.”

I looked around the barnyard. “You seen Queenie?”

“Not lately. She missing?”

“Didn’t come out for her lunch.”

He shook his head. “Haven’t seen her since morning.”

We stared at each other.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Howie dropped what he was doing and we split up, searching the buildings and pastures. When that was unsuccessful, Howie reluctantly went back to work and I drove around the neighborhood, hoping I wouldn’t find my beloved collie lying in a heap by the side of the road.

No sign of her anywhere. I wondered if I should tell Willard, but decided I might be jumping the gun. It’s not unheard of for farm dogs to go off on a day’s journey. I hoped that was all it was.

When I got home I checked the answering machine for any news on Zach, but there weren’t any messages. I tried to push away my worries by finishing up the lawn and shredding newspapers. I was in the middle of that job when Howie came in, holding a rag over his hand, red soaking through the fabric. I shut off my machine.

“What’d ya do?”

“Sliced myself. Not too bad, but I guess I oughta get stitches.”

“Need me to drive you?”

“Nah. If you could just help me get this tied on so’s it won’t come off.”

“You wash it?”

“Yeah. It’s ready to go.”

I got some duct tape and wrapped it around the makeshift bandage, making Howie wince. I walked him out to his truck, and when I was assured he wasn’t going to faint at the wheel, closed the door behind him.

“I guess you’ll have to do the milking,” he said. “This’ll probably take a while.”

“No problem.”

“And I didn’t quite get that belt done.”

“I’ll finish it.”

I tapped the door and he drove off. The dust hadn’t even settled when I remembered Missy would be coming for the evening milking. As if I hadn’t already had enough trials for the day.

Detective Willard soon found me trying to loosen a stuck bolt on the conveyor belt, and leaned on the fence outside of the paddock. I walked over to him. “Find anything?”

“Nothing to find. But, like I said, I’ll write up a report. Call me at the first sign of anything else out of order.”

“Will do.”

“And I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything about your list of suspects.”

I tapped the wrench on my palm. “Can you give me a time frame before I can begin making Hubert’s life hell?”

He shook his head. “The time frame is never. You’ll just get yourself in trouble. Not that you probably care much.”

“Oh, I care a little. Thanks for coming out.” I noticed again the bags under his eyes. “Hope your son can come home soon.”

“Me, too.” He looked liked he was going to say more, but gave a little wave and headed toward his car.

When I finished the conveyor belt I had about a half-hour till milking, so I went to the office and dialed Jethro and Belle’s number. Belle answered.

“How’s my farmhand?” I asked.

“Same. Stubborn, like his sister.”

“Well, that’s good. They start letting you coddle them, you’ll know it’s serious.”

She chuckled half-heartedly. “Mallory seems to be perking up a bit. Actually kept down half a piece of dry toast.”

“Yum. You’ll call me if I can do anything?”

“We’ll call.”

I had just booted up the computer and opened a spreadsheet of my milking records when someone pulled into the drive. I leaned over, hoping to get a glimpse of Nick, and spilled an entire container of paper clips onto the floor. Great. I was kneeling under the desk, picking them up, when someone tapped on the door.

“Yeah.”

The door squeaked open and instead of Nick’s work boots I saw a pair of New Balance tennis shoes at my eye level. Scooting out from under the desk I glanced at my watch, trying not to sigh so Missy would notice.

“You’re early.” It was only five-ten.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“That what you’re wearing?” Besides the fancy tennies, she had on a lemon yellow short-sleeve shirt and jeans with a pleat, for God’s sake.

“Will I be too hot? I thought jeans would be better than shorts.”

I looked at her, trying to read exactly what her city mind would tell her. “Jeans are fine. Don’t mind me.” I stood up and brushed the dust from my knees.

“You okay?” Missy asked.

“What?”

She pointed at my shirt, which had a good amount of Howie’s blood on it. Oh well. I needed to change my grease-stained jeans, anyway. “I’m gonna go change quick. You can come in if you want.”

I didn’t really think she’d take me up on that, since there were other more interesting things to inspect, but she followed as close as Queenie does when she’s feeling needy.

Queenie
.

I dropped Missy off in the kitchen.

“I’ll be right down.” I suppose I should have said “Make yourself at home,” but it would have been insincere.

Five minutes later, dressed in a different pair of old jeans, my usual tank minus the flannel shirt since it was so hot, and rubber boots, I led her across the yard to the milking parlor.

I was astounded to see the cows almost all in their stalls and clipped in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Howie?” I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there. He popped up from behind a cow.

“Just getting the girls ready for you, Princess. Stitches didn’t take as long as I expected. Oh, hi Missy.”

“Hi, Howie,” she said, sparkling. I know that sounds stupid, but she really did sparkle.

“Well, get your ass out of here,” I said. “How am I going to get enough sleep if I have to take you to the hospital tonight after your stitches open and you bleed to death?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Missy looked at him, concerned. “Are you injured?”

“Nothing he won’t live through,” I said. “I’m just giving him shit.”

“Oh,” she said, beaming again. “I’m very glad to hear that.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them, Howie was sneaking out the door, trying not to laugh. He really was going to take off and leave me with the prom queen. I’d get him back later.

“Okay,” I said. “Might as well get started. Come on.”

“I’m so glad you agreed to let me help,” Missy said. “Abe’s always talking about you and your farm, and I thought it would be nice to see what you do. We may be friends for a long time.”

I grunted, trying to ignore the sudden ache in my chest. “Here.” I handed her some paper towels and a bucket of water. “Wipe the cows’ teats off. You want to have them clean for the milkers to go on.”

Missy eagerly took the towels and hunkered down by the first cow.

“Watch out for the hind feet,” I said.

“All right.” She looked wary.

“They don’t usually kick, but you don’t want to be caught off guard.”

She nodded and set to work. Thirty seconds later I came back with the milker hose, and Missy was still by the first cow.

I stopped behind her. “I said clean it off, not detail it.”

“Sorry.”

“This one next.” I pointed across the aisle.

She scurried over.

I stuck the milker on the first cow and went to get the grain so the cows could start eating.

We had a few minutes of pleasant non-verbalizing—listening to Rachmaninoff, I believe—Missy trying to avoid the poop in the stalls, and me dumping food into the trays in between switching the milkers. I wondered if she knew more about Zach’s health than I did, and felt a stab of jealousy that she’d infiltrated the family.

“So how’d you get started milking?” she asked, stopping my pity-fest.

“Abe didn’t tell you that part?”

She shook her head.

“My folks owned this farm. Dad died when I was three, Mom when I was sixteen. Howie stayed on, kept the developers from running me over. So I never really started milking—it’s been my life since day one.”

Missy was looking at me, shocked. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

“Old news, now. Clean that cow will ya?”

Shaken, she bent down by the cow and cleaned the udder. I thought we were going back to the pleasant quiet, but I was mistaken.

“How old do cows get?” Missy asked.

“Oldest right now’s eighteen.”

“Wow. What do I do with this one? She won’t get up.”

The cow was lying down, chewing her cud and looking completely immobile.

“Kick her in the butt.”

“
Kick
her?”

“Not like you’re punting a football. Just bother her.”

Missy gave me a concerned look, but stuck her foot on the cow’s haunch and starting wiggling it. Eventually, the cow lumbered to her feet.

“Eighteen years old,” she said. “How long will she live yet?”

“This is probably her last season. Her milk production has gone way down, so this fall she’ll probably retire.”

“She’ll be the queen of the herd, then?”

“Actually, she’ll go to the meat packer’s.”

Missy shot up, stricken. “You’re going to
kill
her?”

I sighed, having forgotten the world Missy was coming from.

“She’s not a pet, Missy. She’s a business commodity. Every retired cow I keep is just another mouth to feed. Winter’s coming up and the pastures won’t be any help.”

“I can’t believe you
do
that!”

I clipped the milker on the next cow and turned on Missy. “Who’s going to pay me to feed her? I don’t see the Humane Society banging down my door. You going to sponsor my retired cows so they can live in luxury?”

Missy glared at me, but had nothing to say. She faced the wall for a few minutes before speaking again.

“What about Queenie?”

I glanced at the spot where Queenie usually sits and felt a small pain behind my eye. “Queenie’s a dog.”

“So?”

“She’s my friend.”

“What about your truck?”

I shook my head, confused. “What about it?”

“It’s not a cheap truck.”

“It’s more than ten years old, and a farm truck, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, then, what about your Harley? Those aren’t cheap, no matter how old they are.”

I looked at Missy, a stranger until yesterday, and now she was picking apart my life and placing me in the role of villain, attacking me even as she made herself a part—however small—of my farm. I choked back the words I
really
wanted to say and settled for a tamer spiel.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I basically picked that bike out of a Dumpster and put it back together piece by piece, with my own two hands. It’s not a show bike. Now, any more questions, or can we get some milking done?”

We stared at each other, each daring the other to say more. I finally won the contest, and Missy went back to work. We stayed in stony silence for about ten minutes. Finally, I felt it was time to mend the fence, or Abie-baby would have my hide for scaring his little Snow White.

“Want to try sticking the hose on?” I held up the milker.

She turned to me, her face solemn, and after a moment she came over, setting the paper towels on the ground. I showed her how to apply the milker. Her enthusiasm returned and she actually clapped when she got it on.