The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat (14 page)

I inquired as to her whereabouts on the relevant nights.

“I got married,” she said. She waggled her ring finger, on which she wore a plain gold band. “We went to Niagara Falls. Just got back.” She petted the snake she was treating for skin mold with one forefinger. “Know anyone that wants to adopt a boa constrictor?”

I said I would make inquiries, and we left her to her snake.

“So the dairy's not doing as well as it could be,” Joe mused.

“I'd rather we had some facts, as opposed to anecdotal evidence. You notice that Carrie hasn't yet refused to go out to treat the goats. I've known more than one farmer to manage cash flow by stringing out payments.”

“Creates a lot of bad feeling,” Joe observed.

“Doucetta seems impervious to bad feeling. And if she's the store-your-money-under-the-mattress type, she may simply have an inclination to hang on to every penny before it's absolutely necessary to spend it. We simply don't have enough information to determine the dairy's solvency at this point.”

“What about the hay and feed guys? We can check with them.”

“The dairy grows its own hay. And nobody with any sense shorts the grain salesmen—they just stop delivery. Farmers pay that bill before they buy shoes for their children, much less a Mercedes for a disaffected daughter. No, I'd much prefer to talk to the accountants.” I fell silent, devising ways to coax financial information from that notoriously close-mouthed group. I had an idea that would work if Madeline gave me a hand. And Thelma, although she wouldn't realize it (and if she did, would probably refuse).

“So what's next, Doc?”

“Locally the only supplier left with a possible animus is Jonathan Swinford. We'll speak with him. This time of day, we will probably find him in the vineyard itself. And I've come up with a way to discover more about the dairy's actual finances. But first we need to speak to Swinford.”

We stopped first at the lavish boutique and tasting room. A Wednesday in August is prime tourist time. The tasting bar was stacked four deep with appreciative sippers. The small café area was stuffed with people drinking lattes and gulping biscotti. At the front of the long, rectangular room, a tour group gathered at the enormous windows at the grapevines in the valley below.

All the staff members wore T-shirts with the Swinford Vineyard logo and a bunch of grapes printed across the back. I stopped one young lady with a case of Swinford's famous red zinfandel under one arm and a corkscrew in the other.

“Mr. Swinford? He's at the distillery. We just got a load of juice in.”

We found Jonathan Swinford at the base of a twenty-foot stainless-steel vat, writing busily on a clipboard. He was tall and thin and wore a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a well-cut pair of trousers, and expensive loafers with no socks. A sapphire-studded Rolex adorned one wrist. If he had been a prospective donor to the vet school, Victor would have put him down for he what called a huge pile of smackers. Swinford looked up as we came down the cool concrete floor, a faint look of puzzlement on his face. “I think I know you,” he said with a cordial smile. “But I can't quite place…”

“Austin McKenzie,” I said. “My assistant, Joe Turnblad.”

“Of course. The horse vet. What can I do for you gentlemen? If it's about the bill for that wretched animal, you can send it on to the house.”

“No, we are not here about the bill,” I said with some asperity, “and I am not here in my capacity as a ‘horse vet.' We have been asked to take a look into the murders at the Tre Sorelle Dairy.”

He whistled. “Oh, yes. Poor Ashley found the first body. Somebody named Staples? The milk inspector? And then there was this other fellow.”

“Brian Folk,” I said.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I don't know him. I think I ran across Staples once when I came to pick Ash up from work. Good-looking guy. Reminded me of Mel Gibson.” His eyes narrowed. “This doesn't have anything to do with my daughter's discovery of the body, does it? She's handling it pretty well, but my wife says it was pretty traumatic for her.”

“No, this doesn't involve Ashley, as such.”

“As such?” he asked sharply.

“We're more interested in your relationship with Mrs. Capretti.”

“Who told you I had a relationship with Ms. Capretti?” He tapped his pencil against the clipboard impatiently.

“You sell five cases of wine to the Tre Sorelle retail operation each month.”

He ran his tongue around his lower lip. “We do? Let me think. I believe you're right.” He smiled and placed his hand under my elbow. “Let's go into my office and see what the file says.”

We followed him out of the distillery to a small office located just inside the front door of another large building. He looked over his shoulder as he unlocked the office door. “This is where we bottle. Our gallonage is about fifty thousand a year. You can see why I can't recall a five-case sale right off the top of my head.” The door opened and he stepped aside. “Please come in. Would you like anything? Coffee? Or would you like to try our 2002 Chardonnay? That was our first gold medal winner, you know. I'd appreciate your opinion.”

I resisted the temptation to take him up on the offer of the Chardonnay. I had indeed tasted that particular vintage, and it was excellent. “Some coffee would be welcome.”

He seated himself at a rosewood desk and gestured toward two comfortable chairs placed around a small, round conference table. He pressed an intercom button, requested coffee, and then pulled the keyboard to his computer forward. “Tre Sorelle, you said?” He tapped away. “Yes, we send five cases a month to them from May until late September. We don't sell much locally in the down season.”

“But you ship all over the world,” I said.

“Oh, yes, where the export taxes don't make it prohibitive.”

“Does Tre Sorelle pay you on time?”

He tapped at the keyboard again and read the screen. “They're late payers, but they avoid the surcharge. Just. And Doucetta's a born nickel-and-dimer, of course. It's hard to survive in small business without keeping an eye on the bottom line all the time. She's a genius at that.”

A thought occurred to me. “Your employee upstairs said you had just received a shipment of juice?”

Swinford frowned. There was a tap at the door, and the same young lady who had directed us to the distillery brought in a tray with a carafe of coffee and a plate of cheese and biscuits. She handed the cups around, poured, and then took her leave. The coffee was excellent. The cheese was well aged and had a creamy texture. If the Swinford Vineyard was expanding into cheese like this, Thelma would have a significant competitor on her hands.

“Well.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “How is the pony getting along? You've got quite a racket going there, McKenzie. I've got to hand it to you vets. Women and horses must be the bread and butter of your particular trade.”

“With luck and the right farrier, the pony will be good for some years yet,” I said.

“Damn,” Swinford said with what he probably hoped was a man-to-man smile. “I don't begrudge my daughter the expense, mind you, but I might as well pour cash into a hole as spend it on those flippin' animals.” His cell phone rang. Joe's cell phone rang. Both men took out their phones and opened them with a snap. Swinford said, “Excuse me, Dr. McKenzie. Yes? What is it, Penny. No. No. I'm off to New York tonight. Sorry. What kind of tone are you talking about?” He cast a hurried glance at me and swiveled his chair so that his back was to us. “You're getting upset over nothing. You know I have to…fine. Go screw yourself.” He shut the phone with a snap, swiveled his chair to face us again, and dragged up the man-to-man smile. “Women,” he said. “You know, if you intend to make it big in the wine business—and I intend to make it very big—you're on the road much of the time. You have to be. My wife has a hard time with the bigger picture. But then, most women do.”

“My wife does not,” I said. “And I had asked about your purchase of grape juice?”

“Oh, yes, that. The thing is…” He leaned forward confidingly. “We can't grow enough up here to meet the demand. So yes, I buy grapes. Locally, of course. Consumers want to know that the Swinford wine is a Finger Lakes wine, but it doesn't necessarily come from acreage we actually own. A lot of the vintners do that when they run to the higher volumes.” He hesitated. “But we don't publicize the fact, necessarily.”

“You can count on my discretion,” I said dryly.

“So. Is there anything else I can help you with?” He rose, went to the office door, and opened it.

“The night of August fourth and August sixth during the day. We're establishing the whereabouts of anyone concerned with the dairy.”

He laughed, clearly at ease with this question. “I was on a buying trip in San Francisco. Got back yesterday afternoon. Well, gentlemen, if there's nothing else?”

Joe bent forward and murmured, “That was Abel Crawford on the phone. His regular vet is on vacation. He doesn't want to deal with the locum. Sounds like a prolapsed uterus.”

“A barn call, is it?” Swinford said with a smile. “Good to stick with what you know, isn't it? Detective?”

Was that a sneer in the man's voice? I could think of no more questions. The prolapsed uterus at Crawford Dairy loomed. So we left and walked back up the hill to the Bronco.

“The fellow is slippery,” I said, as I fastened my seat belt. “And he bears watching.”

“Do you think so?” Joe said in some surprise. “He behaved like a rich jerk, sure. But that's because he is a rich jerk. What makes you think he's slippery?”

“Because we are faced with an anomaly. If we believe him, that Doucetta pays her bills on time, it makes no sense. Why pay for wine when you can't pay the vet? On the other hand, why should he lie? This goes into the ‘for further consideration' column.”

Joe put the key into the ignition. “Good catch. In the meantime, what's the quickest way to Crawford Dairy? It's out near the goat dairy, isn't it?”

“You can cut over to 96 by using 332,” I said. “And then head south. As for Swinford, I confess to bias. The ambition, the slighting reference to his wife were somewhat distasteful, don't you think?”

Joe smiled wryly. “Doesn't make him a saboteur. Or a murderer, for that matter. He could be jerking your chain just because he can.”

“True enough. The one attractive thing about the man was his affection for his daughter. That seemed real enough.” I settled back in the passenger seat and set aside detection for the moment.

The Crawford Dairy was a large enterprize and was a Dairy of Distinction three years running. It was a mark of the increasing success of McKenzie Veterinary Practice, Inc. (practice limited to large animals) that we had been invited to treat one of the animals, even if it was because Abel Crawford had taken a dislike to the locum tenens.

“Snotty little kid,” he said of the substitute vet when we were in the large cow barn. “Didn't listen to a word I have to say about this first calf. So I kicked his snotty little butt right out the door. Orville DeGroote had a decent word for you, Doc, so I thought I'd give you a try.”

I had treated Orville DeGroote's ill-tempered Quarterhorse for hoof abscesses more than once and kept his cattle on an annual vaccination schedule. I was pleased that DeGroote had passed his approval on to to Crawford.

“So what it is about this heifer other than the obvious?” I asked. The cow in question was a young Holstein. She had recently calved. As is the custom in dairies like this one, the calf was taken off the mother at birth, and put into a bottle calf hut with a bucket of replacement milk and a number of other calves for company. Her uterus hung behind her hindquarters in a way that must be most uncomfortable, having emerged soon after the calf itself. There are cows prone to this problem. Joe set to work immediately, cleansing the organ with a solution of Betadine and water, sluicing it over and over again.

And what it was about the heifer was that she kicked.

“Oof!” said Joe.

“A hitch will solve that problem,” I pointed out. After he straightened up and caught his breath—the heifer caught him in the midsection—I helped him fasten a rope around the cow's neck. We drew it down her flank, looped it around her right fetlock, and drew the foot up to her belly. She bellowed in a frustrated way, and then settled down.

Having been kicked a lot lower down than Joe had been in his initial efforts to put the uterus back where it belonged, the young locum had insisted on an emergency surcharge. “Not to mention he wouldn't touch the cow again without drugging her and for that he wanted another forty-five bucks,” Crawford said. He shook his head. “Must think I'm made of money.”

“I've yet to meet a farmer made of money.”

Crawford was a big man, in the way that working farmers are big, with a solid chest, thick arms, and calloused hands. He smiled. “If you ask me, the fella was afraid of the cow.”