The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat (16 page)

“It looks like nobody did it,” Allegra said with exasperation as we walked in. “Look. Here's the Staples's murder. I made a time line down the x-axis of the chart, and the y-axis is the people at the dairy. The barn help went straight from the milking parlor to the cheesery. They have a bunch of stuff to do there every day and the routine doesn't seem to vary much.

“You were right about Pietro and Tony.” She blushed a little. It was clear the boys had found it a delight to aid Allegra in her part of the investigation. “They helped me talk to them, and it's pretty clear none of them were anywhere near the milk room between nine and nine thirty. The alibis for the Folk murder aren't as tight, of course, because we aren't sure what time he was killed the night before he was discovered, but they all sleep in the same three-bedroom house on the farm, and they swear they were together eating dinner, watching TV, like that.” She scowled at the papers. “So that leaves Mrs. Capretti, Marietta, Caterina and Frank, and Ashley herself. Mrs. Capretti was yelling at the rest of her family the morning of the Staples murder, and Ashley says she saw them all pouring out of the house once she ran outside and started screaming. She's very sure about that.”

“And the night before the discovery of Folk's body?” I asked.

“Caterina went to pick Pietro and Tony up at the airport. They got back around two. The flight was late. I checked, by the way, and it was. Marietta and Mrs. Capretti watched TV, they said, and they were there when the bartender from the club brought Mr. Celestine home.”

I sat next to Ally and perused the sheets myself. “According to the forensics report, the clumps of soil under Folk's fingernails place him at the high school parking lot,” I said. “That's twelve miles from the dairy. The murderer had to kill him there, and then transport him all the way to the compost pile in back of the goat barn. Whoever did it had to have at least an hour to make that trip.” I resisted the impulse to crumple to sheets into a ball and put them into the garbage disposal. Lincoln, sensing my frustration, pawed at me and barked.

“We'll take a walk in a few moments, old fellow.”

“So, like I said, nobody did it.” Ally threw her hands up in the air in a theatrical gesture. “There weren't any bodies, nope. It's all an illusion.”

I leaned back in my chair. “There are two possibilities here. The first is that the two murders are totally unconnected. This is possible, but in my view, not probable. My initial theory was that the two men got in the way of the saboteur, and the saboteur eliminated them. If the sabotage and the murders are not related, the same theory holds. Folk knew who killed Staples and blackmailed him. Or her,” I added, to forestall protests from my wife and our young protégé. “In short, I believe there is only one murderer.

“Now we do have three possible suspects in the Staples murder who are unconnected to the dairy. Jonathan Swinford has a possible motive if he discovered a relationship between his just-barely-of-age daughter and Staples.”

“Ashley and Staples?” Joe said. “That's disgusting. He was what—thirty-five, thirty-six?”

I went on. ““Which brings us to the other motive. Jealousy.”

“Ashley said her father beat Melvin Staples up,” Ally said. “Now, she didn't see it happen, but Mel said something to her about her father's temper. And then the autopsy report showed those old bruises on his face.”

“Parental rage. Not precisely jealous, but close enough. We would consider Mrs. Staples, if she hadn't been in Syracuse with her mother-in-law. And of course, there are the Brandstetters. The testimony of Anna Luisa's downstairs neighbor is clear. Luisa was in that rented apartment twenty miles away all morning. The one without a verifiable alibi is Neville.”

Nobody looked at me. Then Ally said, in rather a small voice, “But he's the client.”

“He is indeed.” I cleared my throat. Brandstetter was a friend and colleague. “This line of inquiry must be followed up. It's essential that we discover more about Folk before we jump to any conclusions. Presumably, he has a wife, whom we shall interview, and the use of a part-time secretary courtesy of the village. I'll start with the village.”

“I thought Lieutenant Provost was handling that end of the investigation,” Allegra said.

“He may have overlooked something.” I had an uncomfortable thought. What if Simon was right? What if the murders were connected to whatever nefarious hijinks the two had been up to?

“And what about the sabotage?” Joe asked.

Now, that was worse yet. I had a theory about the sabotage. “We had dinner tonight with the Celestines,” I began.

Ally looked at Joe. Solemnly, they both began to applaud. “We figured you deserve it after sitting through dinner with that jerk,” Joe said with a grin.

“Thank you. What I deserve, in fact, is another inch of Victor's excellent Scotch.” I excused myself from the table, went to the small cabinet that serves us as a wine cupboard, and poured myself a healthy measure. I came back to the table and resumed my postulations.

“I was struck with Pietro and Tony's loyalty to their mother when I first met them yesterday,” I said. “They are quick to defend her from their skunk of a father. Tonight we heard how loving a mother Caterina is to her sons. I believe, in short, that Caterina is the saboteur. She wants her sons back. She wants her mother to accept them into the business. And she played on the superstitions of the old lady with the contamination of the high somatic cell count.” I paused and took a breath. It is at such times that I wished I smoked a pipe. “It was a curse, she told her mother, and the curse would be lifted when her boys came home and they did and it was.”

“So Caterina's the saboteur?” Madeline said. “Austin, you are a genius!”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“No offense, Doc,” Ally said. “But we don't really have proof.”

“I have little doubt that the poor woman will confess, if pressed,” I said. “Madeline seems to be in her confidence; it would be a good thing if you verified it, if possible, my dear. Ally is quite right. There is no proof. And perhaps now that her boys are home, Caterina won't need to plague the dairy anymore. If the sabotage stops, we can infer a great deal from that.”

The phone rang. I frowned in its direction. A call this late at night meant an animal emergency. “I'll get it,” Joe said. He rose and took the receiver into the living room.

“I hope it's not the Swinfords with another foundered horse,” Ally said wryly. “Ashley and her mother just can't seem to stop thinking of the horses as big house pets with the digestion systems of pigs.”

Our idle conversation came to a halt when Joe came back into the room. The expression on his face was serious. “That was Rita.”

“My column,” I said. “Good heavens. I completely forgot to send it in. The topic this week is sarcoptic mange, and I've been unable to find a suitable photograph to accompany it.”

“She didn't mention the article. She said there's been a fire at the Tre Sorelle Dairy. Half of the buildings are gone.”

We were shocked into silence.

Madeline's first impulse was to rush to the scene of the fire to see if we could help. “I don't care how tough Mrs. Capretti is, Austin. She's ninety-four years old!” She rubbed her forehead tiredly, “No, no. We'd probably just be in the way. But I know what we can do. I can call Trudy Schlegleman at the Ladies Auxiliary and tell her we can put up anyone who needs putting up.”

“Including the goats?” Ally said. “Thank God they were all out at pasture.” Ally looked at me in alarm. “They were, weren't they?”

“It's more than likely.” And if the animals had gone up in flames with the buildings, we would know about it soon enough. There was no need to torment the child with bad dreams.

“Did Rita say anyone was hurt?” Madeline asked Joe.

“She said there weren't any casualties.” He glanced Ally's way. “I'm assuming she meant animals as well as people, but she wasn't specific. I can call her back.”

“I'll call Trudy,” Madeline said firmly. “Her husband's chief of the volunteers and she'll know what's what.” She took the phone away.

“Rita said it was arson?” I asked Joe.

“Rita said there was a fire. She didn't say anything more.” He looked as grim as I felt. “We might have been wrong about that curse.”

Suddenly, I felt very tired. I took my dog and went out to say good night to my horse.

“
N
O
people were hurt, thank goodness,” Rita said when I put in a call to her in the morning. “But some of the goats died of smoke inhalation. At least I hope it was smoke inhalation. They always tell you that and I never believe a word of it.”

“You're being unnecessarily glum,” I said. “Statistically…”

“Don't give me statistically. You didn't see those poor little bodies. I went out with Nigel to cover the fire. Sometimes I hate this business. I don't suppose you'd want to do a serious column on how to protect your animals from fire.”

“Of course,” I said. “But I didn't call you to discuss the column.”

“And speaking of the column, Austin, the sarcoptic mange thing was perfectly revolting. I did as you asked. I Googled for photos and I'm telling you right here and now I am
not
running a photo of that stuff in a family-oriented newspaper.”

“Rita, you are displacing.”

“What?”

“It's engaging in an activity or behavior to avoid another activity or behavior. Horses weave to avoid anxiety, or that's the theory, anyway.”

“I know what displacement is, Austin,” she said sharply. Then, more mildly, she added, “And you're right. I don't want to talk about the fire. You know they took poor old Doucetta to the hospital.”

“I thought you said there were no human casualties.”

“She pitched a fit over the damage, I guess, and couldn't catch her breath. So they took her in for observation. I called over there just now. They said she's resting comfortably, whatever
that
means. I believe that as much as I believe everybody in a fire dies of smoke inhalation and not third-degree burns.” Rita ran out of breath, so she stopped talking.

“Has the cause of the fire been established?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I couldn't get a word out of Trudy Schlegleman's husband. And I can't reach Simon.”

“He's probably not answering his cell phone.”

“He'll answer his cell phone if you call him,” Rita said. “Do you realize what an impediment to investigative journalism cell phones are? The person I'm trying to reach can always tell it's me so they don't even answer.” She sighed. “I suppose I'd better go out there again. If I come and pick you up, will you come with me?”

I cast a glance at the clinic appointments on the refrigerator. There was a routine animal health check scheduled for the Longacre's Longhorn cattle. Joe and Allegra could handle that with ease. Most important was the meeting in Hemlock Falls with the dairy's accountant. “Yes, I'll come with you. But I'll meet you there. Madeline and I have an appointment later in the afternoon.”

“She's already out there with the volunteers, isn't she? She can drive you back.” She hung up before I could protest.

Rita was at the door in twenty minutes. Madeline was with the Ladies Auxiliary, planning support for the victims of the fire, both animals and human. Joe and Ally were in the barn attending to the animals. I left a note on the refrigerator door, with instructions on the interstate health certificate, and we left for the site of the fire.

Fire. If there is one word that can panic the most phlegmatic of farmers, that's it.

Practicing veterinarians are no strangers to barn fires. Old barns have old wiring. Vermin gnaw through new wiring. When anxious farmers store new hay in tightly packed bales too soon after cutting, it can be highly combustible, and more than one hay barn has spontaneously ignited and burned to the ground. And it is always quite dreadful to see the results.

The thunderstorm had left hot, muggy weather in its wake, and the air seemed to hug the ground. The smell hung in the air at least two miles out. The odor of a barn fire is distinctive. It is mainly damp wood, ash, melted plastic, and often, tragically, roasted flesh.

Rita let out a sigh of relief as we came up the slight rise that led to the dairy. “It looks like it was the creamery, mostly, and the milking barns. Thank God it didn't get to the goat barns. And the house looks okay. Bit singed around the lawn.”

In addition to the fifteen or so automobiles parked every which way on the lawn, a Summersville Fire Department truck sat parked in front of the ruined creamery. Two figures in the long rubber coats, high rubber boots, and protective helmets of the fireman's uniform tramped heavily through the ashes. A number of volunteers were at work in the goat barns. The bleats and cheery shouts coming from that direction suggested that the does were being milked by hand.

“Looking for smoldering piles, do you suppose?” Rita said, nodding at the two suited figures. “Think they'd know anything about the source of the fire?” She braked, turned the ignition off, and sat for a moment, taking things out of her tote bag and putting other things in. I got out of the passenger side and approached the nearest rubber figure. He took his helmet off.

“Rassmussen,” I said.

“Doc,” he nodded. “'Fraid there's not too much to do here, but it's good of you to come and help. Doc Tallant's already been and gone. Wasn't too bad, considering. Lost three goat kids, a buck, and a couple of does.”

“No people,” Rita said, coming up behind me. “You can confirm that?”

Gordy turned and pointed. “They're all over there. Except for Mrs. Capretti and the herd manager and his people.”

We were perhaps a hundred yards from the dairy office. Marietta, Caterina, Pietro, Tony, and Frank stood in an awkward clot at the fire-darkened office door. Marietta raised a hand in salute. I waved back. Then she and the two boys disappeared into the office. Buckled by the heat, the door failed to close behind them.

“They took Doucetta to the ER last night to check her out,” Gordy said, “but she made such a fuss they brought her back. But that granddaughter of hers made her stay in bed. So she's up to the house. The barn help's in the barn.”

Rita took her tape recorder from her tote and held it up. “Have you determined a cause of the fire yet, Mr. Rassmussen?”

“This for attribution?” he asked with a wry smile. He had clearly been there all night. His face ran with sweat. Ash smeared his forehead. He smelled of fatigue.

“Of course it's for attribution,” Rita said.

“Then let me get out of this rig first, will you? Cripes, it's hot!” He shrugged himself out of the overcoat and overalls and kicked his boots off. He padded over to the fire truck in his stocking feet, retrieved his shoes and a bottle of water from a compartment near the neatly coiled hose, and sat down on the ground. “Whew!”

“Bad one?” Rita asked sympathetically,

“Could have been worse,” Gordy said. “But I'm beat. You can put in that article of yours that the volunteer firefighters of Summersville did one hell of a job, though.”

Rita smiled. “I've already got a list of names. Nigel's out right now getting pictures. You can bet we'll give them a pat on the back. We have a pretty good shot of the fire at its height. I'm going to run it front page, above the fold, with a whacking big headline: ‘Summersville Volunteers in a Blaze of Glory.'” She struggled with a small surge of emotion. “I think you guys are as brave as all get out.”

“Huh,” Gordy said. He took a long swallow of water and coughed.

“As do I,” I offered.

Both of them ignored me.

“So you guys must have some idea of how this happened.”

Gordy wiped his nose with his forearm and stared at Frank Celestine. Celestine stood with his legs planted wide, and his arms folded across his chest. Caterina sat on the front stoop, her hands in her lap. She looked like a sleepwalker. “That one”—he jerked his thumb in Frank's direction—“says it's lightning. Lightning,” he added in disgust.

“There was quite a storm last night,” I said.

“Yeah. But was it raining gasoline?”

“So it was arson,” Rita said. “Any idea who set the fire?”

“We're pulling out all the stops on this one. Provost called in the state arson squad.” Gordy looked up at the sky, as if expecting a helicopter to descend momentarily. “And they're supposed to be here any time now. Part of how come Riley and me are still here is to keep the site blocked off from anyone who's nosing around.” He gestured toward the center of the T, where most of the destruction appeared to have occurred. The area was cordoned off by the familiar yellow police tape. Riley, if it were he in the concealing overcoat, tramped around the perimeter in a guardlike fashion.

Rita shoved the tape recorder closer to Gordy's mouth. “Can you tell me a little bit about the type of evidence that made you realize the fire was set?”

“I guess,” Gordy said, a little uneasily. “It's not supposed to be secret, is it?”

Rita grinned at him. “With some twenty volunteer firemen running around here last night, you don't expect to keep it a secret long, do you?”

“You got a point there, Santelli.”

“Thank you, Rassmussen.”

They stood and smiled at each other. I had an odd feeling of being superfluous. Madeline tells me I am somewhat insensitive to the more subtle signs human beings use to communicate with one another. Since embarking upon the career of investigating detective, I've made considerable effort to improve in this area. Rita was a widow. Gordy was a divorcé. I made a deduction. “Are you dating one another?” I asked, to ease the silence.

Rita's freckles disappeared in a tide of red. Gordy took a large gulp of water and had a coughing fit. Rita turned off the tape recorder with a decisive jab of her thumb and glared at me. “Any other social clunkers you want to drop into the conversation, McKenzie?”

“Ah, no,” I said.

“Bottles with rags stuffed in the neck,” Gordy said loudly. “We found gasoline-soaked rags, and a lot of shattered bottle glass. Hard to say how many. But more than six or seven, that's for sure.”

“Really?” I said. This was very interesting. “A Molotov cocktail sort of affair?”

“I guess so.” Gordy looked doubtful. “You don't think Russians set the fire, do you?”

“What Russians would that be?” I asked rather tartly.

Gordy was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of two black Ford LTDs and Simon's Ford Escort. The investigators from Syracuse had arrived.

Rita headed straight to the arson team. Gordy trailed after her. Frank's head came up, and he jogged after them, avid curiosity in his face. I deliberated a moment. Under some gentle persuasion, Provost would fill me in on the fire forensics. And if I had to endure any more of Celestine's company, it would have to be under less trying circumstances. Now might be a good time to discover if anyone from the dairy had a clue as to how the fire was set.

Caterina stood as I came up to the office door and gave me a small smile. “It's probably the wrong time to say so, but I really enjoyed meeting Madeline last night.”

“Madeline is a delight,” I agreed. “I take it you're all right?”

“Me?” She looked down at herself, as if astonished I'd asked. She wore a droopy sort of skirt and white blouse. A Tre Sorelle scarf was wrapped around her head. She touched it. “Tony said I should wear this to keep the ashes out of my hair.” The smile she gave me this time was much more confident. “He's such a good son to me.”

“I'm sorry for all your trouble.” I turned to look at the devastation.

“Tony says it's not as bad as it looks, although he said not to say so to anyone else.” She added in a whisper. “The insurance, you know. Tony says they'll try to wriggle out of paying us if they can.”

“Hm,” I said. “Tell me, when did the fire start?”

She widened her eyes. “We didn't know a thing was happening 'til we got back here after dinner last night.”

“What time would that have been?”

“About two, I think. Frank likes to stay until closing. He thinks it shows support for the club.”

I let this one pass.

“By the time we got here, the fire was almost out. Everyone was milling around in this confused way.” She trailed off. “I didn't know what to do, exactly, so I got Frank to bed….”

I let this one pass, too. The man was undoubtedly dead drunk.

“And then I made coffee for everybody. Sandwiches, too. The volunteers were about starved to death. And then Mamma had this sort of attack.” Her hand went to her chest. “The firefighters made her get into the ambulance. Of course, she didn't want to go.” Then she added earnestly, “She really feels the loss of her cane, you know. Is there any way you can talk Lieutenant Provost into getting it back fast? She's using this aluminum thing now, and she says it's too light to be any use at all.”

“I'll see what I can do,” I promised. “Who was home when the fire started?”

“Home? Um. Marietta had a date. The volunteers called her on her cell phone and she came right back. The guy came right along with her.”