The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat (13 page)

I smoothed my mustache. “This is proving to be a very interesting case, Provost.”

“I could do with a lot less interesting and a few more suspects. Where the heck do we go from here?”

“The sabotage,” I said. “That's where we go. Folk wanted the dairy to stay in business. Someone else wanted to shut it down.”

“What about this alleged connection between Folk and Staples?”

“That is quite easily explained, now that we know the kind of malicious mischief Celestine has been fomenting. Do you have the forensics report?”

“Right here.”

I opened the file and pointed to the data listing the contents of Staples's vehicle. “You see the uncontaminated milk sample that was taken from the front seat. There are two sets of fingerprints on it, Mel's and someone who isn't in the system. I'll bet you a Friday night fish fry that those prints will be Folk's. Doucetta is set on grieving that assessment. If the dairy's not functioning, she'd have a fairly good stab at lowering the fair market value of the buildings. How much is a contaminated dairy worth commercially? Folk wanted Staples to send in clean samples.”

“I'll be dipped,” Simon said. “So. Let me get this straight. Somehow bozo over there”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the cell—“falls in with Folk and sets him on his mother-in-law out of sheer malice.”

“You've met the man. You know his reputation. Do you doubt that as a motive?”

“No. I don't doubt Celestine's motive. But you've got to convince me that Folk wanted to play for some reason.” He stared up at the ceiling and, as was his habit, began to ruminate. “Let's say you do. Let's say we find out why Folk took this one step further and hooked up with Staples so that the so…so…”

“Milk somatic cell count.”

“Thanks. So that it would come back normal. So this little plan to aggravate Doucetta turns out to be a little more trouble than it's worth. I dunno,” Simon said suddenly. This was a pattern I had noted in him before; he tended to argue with himself out loud. “I guess it makes sense if you look at the characters involved. Folk was a single-minded little so-and-so. Took a lot of pride in sticking to his guns as an assessor. What'd Gordy say? You couldn't bribe him for love or money. And not because he was honest, but because he had to be right? I can see that he'd go that extra step to try and get Mel to fake good results.” He slapped his knees with both hands. “Okay. If I have to buy this, I will.” He looked at me. “So I can see the malicious mischief angle. It doesn't account for the murders. Does Folk kill Staples because he's not playing along? That makes no sense to me. That's a motive for a psycho and these guys are your garden-variety creeps, not psycho. And who killed Folk? And how come?”

“There is the second, very curious element to this case that we have heretofore ignored.”

“Heretofore, huh.” Provost sighed. “And that would be?”

“Sabotage. You realize it took a fairly clever, determined person to burrow into that wall and use the wine spigot to pour pus down the pipe.”

“Maybe you could not talk about pus so much.”

“I haven't talked about pus at all,” I protested. “In any event, I have a conjecture.”

I paused. After a bit, Provost drummed his fingers on his desk. “Well?”

“I think Staples and Folk just got in the way of the saboteur.”

“Got in the way,” Simon repeated reflectively.

“They stumbled onto a larger plot, and they were eliminated.”

Provost nodded to himself. “Okay. Okay. That I can buy. So. The sabotage. Where do we start? I don't even have a logical suspect pool.”

“Greed. Lust. Revenge. An unholy triumvirate. But the triumvirate holds the key to this case. And we'll begin with the remaining players. Has Doucetta annoyed her suppliers to the point of murder? We'll put them on the list.” I hesitated, and then said, “We need to interview Neville, just to clear things up. And there is the Folk-Staples business connection. I have a strong feeling there may be motives there.”

We drew up a list of suspects and divided it between us.

 

“
T
HE
police department has asked us to look into all possible suspects connected with the dairy,” I said to the assembled members of Cases Closed, Inc. “It is absolutely essential that we know the movements of every person at Tre Sorelle on each day of each murder.

“The lieutenant and his people are digging into Folk's and Staples's backgrounds. They have the resources to do this far better than we do.” I paused, diverted by a brief vision of Cases Closed, Inc., International with a global reputation and the resoures of the CIA. “For the moment, at any rate.

“Now, Folk's body was found on the seventh, but the medical evidence suggests that he was killed on the sixth. And we know that Staples was murdered where he stood, on the fourth of August. So we need charts! Data! Graphs!”

“Sort of a ‘who's-where,'” Ally said.

“An excellent name for it,” I said. “We'll add that to the company's permanent procedures process.”

“The who's-where includes the herd manager and the barn help, doesn't it?” Joe asked.

“It most certainly does.”

I was quite happy. The entire staff of Cases Closed was assembled in our living room: Joe, Allegra, Madeline, Lincoln, and myself included. We had a client, in the form of the Summersville Police Department. We had a case. Most important, we had a billing number and a place to send the invoice.

“I can handle the barn help,” Allegra said. “I'm schooling Tracker with Ashley again tomorrow. She can help verify where the people who work there were during the day. She gets to work at eight and works until five. I'll stop by the dairy, first. I'll interview everyone, set up a chart, and then we can cross-check everybody's whereabouts.” She looked doubtful. “I hope my Spanish is up to talking to the barn staff.”

“Pietro and Tony are at least bilingual,” I said. “And they may have a little Spanish, as well. Perhaps they could be of assistance. And since they've only been in the country less than twenty-four hours, they are not suspects. I suggest you enlist their support.”

“And me, Austin?” Madeline said.

“If you can accompany Thelma in her meetings with anyone from Tre Sorelle, it's possible we'll come up with more data. I hope so. We're short on facts at the moment. I will interview Marietta. She seems to have a bone to pick with the whole lot of them. She was unusually forthcoming about Doucetta's tax dodges. Perhaps she could be encouraged to reveal even more.”

“What about Caterina and the horrible Frank?” Allegra asked.

I exchanged glances with Madeline. “We are going to ask Victor for some help with that,” I said. “He is a member of the selfsame golf club that offers liquor Celestine is unable to refuse. Madeline and I will go to dinner at the club with the Berglands tomorrow night. It's something called Ladies Night. I understand that the Wednesday night dinner is Caterina's only night free from her kitchen.”

“And what about me, Doc?” Joe asked.

“According to Ashley, Doucetta irked all of her suppliers in one way or another. I have a list of those who live locally.” I pulled the sheet from the file and handed it over to him. “You and I will double-team. We'll interview as many as will talk to us.”

“Hm,” Joe said. “The Bests are on here.”

“They supply meat kids for the pate and sausage. We can't let affection affect our responsibility to the case.”

“They're in their eighties!”

“Doucetta Capretti is ninety-four, and she's Provost's chief suspect at the moment. Besides,” I said, descending from the lofty, “Phyllis knows all the gossip. It's an excellent place to pick up leads.”

“And so is the Swinford Vineyard?” Joe said. “I can't believe anything they supply the dairy would lead to a blood feud.”

“Jonathan supplies them with five cases of wine a month. And Doucetta in full spate would drive the pope to murder.”

“And Dr. Tallant from the Pastures Green Clinic?” Joe's eyebrows rose.

“She must be eliminated as a suspect. We can't play favorites, even though she is a fellow veterinarian. If Doucetta hasn't paid the bill, that could be the beginning of some very poor relations indeed.” I sat back and drew breath. “It's more than likely that one or all of these suppliers will be found to have reasonable alibis for the fourth and the night of the sixth. But as you know, one must approach the solution to a murder investigation in the same way that one approaches the diagnosis of a pathological condition. Collect all relevant data, assess—”

“Doc?' Ally said. “I don't mean to interrupt you, but I've to get back to the barn and take another look at Tracker's stifle. He seemed a little tender going to the left.”

“And I need to get those canning jars from the cellar, sweetie,” Madeline said. “I'll be into the tomatoes pretty soon, and I'm going to need them.”

Joe got up from the leather couch where he had been taking notes. “Sorry, Doc, but I'm on duty tonight and I might as well get on to the barn check.”

The room began to empty. “You are all sure that you all understand the basic process of our investigatory technique?” I called after them.

There was a chorus of “yes!” as though they spoke as one.

Lincoln put his paw on my knee and cocked his head inquiringly. “It is a unique approach to detection,” I said to him. “I'm thinking of submitting a paper to the
Detective Quarterly
.”

Odie settled on my other knee, and they prepared to listen.

W
ITH
the other members of the Cases Closed team galloping off in all directions, Joe and I set off the next morning to interview the suppliers to Doucetta's dairy. It was Wednesday, the eighth of August. Tomorrow, Melvin Staples would have been dead close to a week. We were no closer to solving the mystery of his murder. Justice demanded that we apprehend the killer, and soon.

More important, I wanted Cases Closed to get credit for bringing in the perp. I had a feeling in my bones that the murders were linked to the dairy and not to any extracurricular criminal activities by the team of Folk and Staples. Provost, I knew, was convinced that he had successfully nudged me off the track of the real killer—and out of his hair. Our team would prove him wrong!

The first potential suspects on our interview list were George and Phyllis Best, the owners and operators of Best's Boers. The farm occupies one hundred acres overlooking the lake. They live in an old double-wide trailer. The barns are held together by spit and baling twine. But the Bests have been farmers for more than fifty years and have the healthiest, happiest goats I've ever seen. They were a happy, contented couple with happy, contented goats.

“I find it really hard to believe that either one of the Bests is involved in murder,” Joe said as we drove up the winding hill to their tiny farm. “First of all, they're really old. Second, they play Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus in the Christmas parade every year, and if they ever did do anything wrong, no Summersville jury would convict them. And I can't see either one of them getting mad enough to murder anyone.”

“You may be right,” I said amiably.

When we pulled into the driveway of the farm, George Best was waving a twelve-gauge shotgun at a slick-looking couple in a Buick Park Avenue with New Jersey plates. We came to a stop next to the large shed that served the Bests as a kidding barn.

“Good heavens!” I said and prepared to get out of the car.

Joe grabbed my shoulder and held me back. “Let George know we're here, first. He's a little deaf, remember? We don't want to startle him. And for God's sake, stay out of the way of that shotgun!”

Sensible advice. I rolled down the window and called out, “George! It's Austin McKenzie.”

George swung the twelve-gauge around in a circle that directed the muzzle at us. Joe and I ducked below the dash.

“Dr. McKenzie!” That light, elderly voice belonged to Phyllis Best. Cautiously, I peered through the windshield. “George says he didn't know it was you.” Her voice was drowned by the roar of the Park Avenue's engine. The shotgun roared. The Buick whizzed by us in a cloud of dust and gravel. Joe leaned out of the passenger window and squinted at the rear license plate. The bumper sticker read “Lakeside Real Estate.” “Got it,” he said and scribbled the number on the receipt book.

“You can come out now,” Phyllis said cheerily. “George says, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.'”

Joe and I emerged from the Bronco with some caution, all the same. George waved at us, and then disappeared into the depths of the double-wide, shotgun in hand. He emerged moments later, shotgun-free, and trotted down the gravel path to meet us. He dropped a handful of shotgun shells on the picnic table that sat in their small front yard, then came up and stood beside his wife.

“How nice to see you!” Phyllis beamed. “And how is Mrs. McKenzie?”

“Quite well, thank you,” I responded. “And how are the Spice Girls?” I referred to the herd of Boer does that are the foundation animals for the Bests' well-bred herd.

“The summer kids are just coming on,” Phyllis said. “Basil had a ten-pound buck yesterday. We named him Baby Huey.” She gestured us toward the fenced pens attached to the shed. Basil, who I had treated on prior visits to the farm, greeted me with a bleat of recognition.

Although not in her first youth, Basil was an extremely good-looking doe, with the caramel brown face characteristic of the highly bred Boer and long brown ears that curled at the tip. The rest of her was white. She nursed the largest Boer buckling I've ever seen.

“Now that's a goat,” Joe said in admiration.

Basil trotted to the fence, raised herself up, and whiffed hello. Baby Huey protested the sudden departure of his breakfast with a loud
blat
, leaped into the air, spun around several times, then raced as fast as he could around the fence perimeter, ears flying in the breeze created by his passage.

“Any problems?” I asked.

“A little bout of the runs with the weanlings,” Phyllis said. “But nothing major. We maybe weaned that new set of kids too early.”

“You added CORID to the water? And used the penicillin?”

“We did.” She turned to her husband. “What? Dear? Oh. George says to thank you for those penicillin samples you sent us.” She added, innocently, “It's just amazing the stuff they give doctors for free. And so good of you to send us the extra.”

I avoided Joe's raised eyebrows. The Bests lived on their Social Security checks and the income from the small amount of meat they sold Doucetta. With carcasses at a dollar twenty-five a pound, and an average weight of sixty pounds, they made little enough to keep body and soul together.

“George says you probably want to know why he was shooting at those people from New Jersey.”

“Er. Yes.”

Phyllis sat down at the picnic table and indicated that we should, too. “They're after us and after us to buy this acreage. They didn't seem to want to take no for an answer. They've been sending us letter after letter and the last one came special delivery at ten o'clock at night, and you can imagine what George had to say about being hauled out of bed at that hour!”

In the years I had been treating the Bests' Boers, I had never heard an audible word from George Best. Neither had anyone else I knew. Either he spoke at a pitch known only to dogs and his wife, or Phyllis had exceptional extrasensory perception.

“George keeps telling these people we won't sell.”

“And they keep coming back? That comes pretty close to harassment, Mrs. Best.” Joe scratched Basil's forehead as he spoke. The doe looked as lovingly at him as Ashley Swinford. “Maybe you'd like us to drop a word in Lieutenant Provost's ear?”

“The police?” Phyllis wore an apron that read “We've Got Your Goat!” She fiddled nervously with the pockets. “Well, the thing is, they have this paper.”

“Who has what paper?” I asked.

She sighed. “You know Louise.”

“Your daughter? Yes. She's a special education teacher at the middle school, isn't she?”

“She's about to retire. She'll be sixty-five…anyway, we had to take out a little mortgage on the farm a while ago, and Lou cosigned for us, because the bank needed a little more security than we had, you see.”

I sighed. I knew what was coming next.

“And she—what's that word, George? Assigned. Yes, she assigned the mortgage to these people. Now, we'd been making payments right along, until a few months ago when Doucetta had all that trouble and couldn't send us the meat check. So we fell behind some, and these people”—her face turned pink with indignation—“these people want all that money at once!”

“The real estate people?” Joe said, confused.

“These real estate people say they bought the land from the ones that Louise sold the mortgage to. What? Oh. George says they didn't buy the land, they bought an option.”

Joe rubbed his forehead. I myself was somewhat perplexed. Except for the motive. The motive was as clear as the sky. Behind all of these shenanigans was cold, hard cash. Lakefront property was soaring in value, due in part to general inflation, but mostly due to the rise in tourism and the influx of urbanites growing grapes.

“Louise means well,” Phyllis said. “She's been after us to retire for years and years. She says the farm is getting too much for us, and in a way she's right.” Unconsciously, she rubbed her hands, which were bent with arthritis like the roots of a banyan tree. “But we love it.”

“Let's get back to the money you're owed from the dairy,” Joe said. “Mrs. Capretti is behind in her payments?”

“One hundred and thirty-five days.”

I eyed Phyllis who heard 90 percent of the gossip in Tompkins County. “Is Tre Sorelle in trouble?”

Phyllis pursed her lips. “George says there are quite a few who won't do business with them. But George says it may be just that they're Eye-talian.”

This was a sad fact of country life—but probably true.

“And are they behind in payments to anyone else you know?” I asked.

“It's rough times in the farming business,” Phyllis said.

It is always rough times in the farming business. That's a given.

“And she's had a couple of complaints about the carcass weight.” Suddenly, she blushed bright red. “George! You know I don't approve of that kind of language about anybody! This is a Christian household, if you please!”

“She's been stiffing you on the payments?” Joe said. “How much…” I nudged him, and he fell silent. Talk of money embarrassed people like the Bests.

“If refusing to pay us is ‘stiffing,' then she's been stiffing us,” Phyllis said. “But we have faith that God will provide.”

“Not likely,” Joe muttered.

“George wants to know if you dropped by for any particular reason. We heard about the murders over to the dairy.” She shook her snowy head. “George thinks the world is going to hell in a handbasket. It'll be the Apocalypse next, you mark my words. I mean, what kind of world is it when folks like us are suspects?” Her blue eyes, remarkably unfaded, twinkled at me. “That is why you dropped by, isn't it, Dr. McKenzie? George heard all about this detective work you're doing down to the veterans.” She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “He'll be so disappointed if you don't ask us where we were on the nights of the murders.”

“August fourth and August sixth,” I said. “Where
were
you on the nights of the murders?”

“Shucks. We were at bingo. Both nights. I won eleven dollars and fifty cents on the Thursday. Didn't I tell you God will provide?” Phyllis said. “That money went straight to the feed bill. Now, what if I gave you two handsome men some of my zucchini bread?”

The zucchini bread was delicious. Phyllis's baking was widely known for its excellence. It was some time before we got back on the road.

“God will provide,” Joe repeated somewhat bitterly as we drove back down the winding dirt road to Route 96. “Seems like the real estate developers are the ones being provided for. And what did the Bests do to deserve a daughter like that?”

“‘O sharper than a serpent's tooth is the something something of an ungrateful child'? No, I'm glad to say Louise is no Goneril.”

Joe looked blank.

“
Lear
, my boy,
King Lear
. There is more to the story than would appear. We were out there last month, as you recall, and at the time Phyllis mentioned Louise was encouraging them to them sell up and enjoy a less arduous lifestyle. I dropped in on Louise to follow up. Madeline knows her as a dedicated teacher and a fond daughter. George has been diagnosed with congestive heart failure. You saw how Phyllis suffers from arthritis. Louise has five acres and a four-bedroom house near Trumansburg. She wishes her parents to join her with as many of the Spice Girls as is practicable, the charming Basil and her chubby progeny included.”

“Oh,” Joe said.

“So there is no evil real estate developer with sinister designs on their property.”

“I didn't think…”

“No. You probably didn't. But then Madeline let drop that you are a Republican. I, on the other hand, have hopes of the evil real estate developer—at least as a motive for putting the dairy out of business. The Tre Sorelle land is worth a mint to a developer, even in these recessionary times.” I frowned. “It all depends on the reason for Doucetta's withholding the meat check. If it's truly due to cash problems, I may be on to something.” I looked at the list in my hand. “Next is Dr. Tallant. I'll call her clinic to see where she may be found.”

 

“
N
OPE,”
said Carrie Tallant. “She owes the clinic a pile of money.” Carrie's clinic assistant said she was on a call at the ASPCA, where she worked as a general veterinary one day a week. The pound is a pleasant facility, with a lot of space for the bewildering variety of animals man either maltreats or abandons. We found her in the area dedicated to reptiles. “We've had to tell her we can't come out unless she pays something on the account. So we'll get a small check. And then we'll do a bunch of work and the receivables mount up again. It's a problem, Austin. Do we let animals suffer and maybe die because we're owed a lot of money? How do we square professional ethics with that?” She shook her head in frustration. “Anyhow. It's definitely an issue. And the high somatic cell count?” She shook her head. “I couldn't find a thing wrong with the does. She told me that she was going to let the state pay for looking into it further than that. Bless the state, I say.”