The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat (4 page)

Ashley blinked at me. If I hadn't known for a fact she was an honors student in economics at Ithaca College, I would have thought her handicapped. Madeline tells me I have little empathy for the young. “With a bang?” I said impatiently. “Or softly, as if someone were sneaking out?”

“That's a big, heavy door with a counterweight. You can't bang it shut. It closes in its own sweet time.”

“I see. And then?”

“And then I go into the room and look around.” She mimed tiptoeing about, looking from side to side. “And it was like I was guided. I mean, I just went to the tank and pulled open the lid and there he was. Splooshing around in the milk. We had to dump the whole batch,” she added briskly. “Mrs. C. pitched a screaming fit.”

“And then what happened?” Joe asked. He was gazing at the girl in fascination.

“Then I went, ‘Wow.' And then I went and got Mrs. Capretti and Mrs. Celestine and they called the cops and they sent me home.”

“Any indication of the cause of death?” I asked.

Ashley shrugged. “There was a big dent in his head. The milk was pink from the blood. But I suppose they'll have to wait for the autopsy to know for sure.”

Law & Order
has much to answer for. The young seem to know a great deal about the processes of criminal investigations. “A big dent in his head,” I repeated. “Well. It's unlikely that Mr. Staples opened the tank hatch, smacked his head against the rim, and fell into the tank, isn't it?”

“Golly,” Penelope said. “Who knew dairies were so dangerous?”

Her daughter looked at her with affectionate contempt. “Gee, Mom. Maybe it was, like, murder. D'ya think?”

 

“
D
EATH
of a milk inspector,” Joe said. “It sure sounds like murder to me.”

We were back at the clinic. The pony Sunny rambled painfully around our indoor arena, which has a soft floor of sand, shavings, and recycled rubber. She would have one thin flake of very dry hay twice a day for the next two weeks and all the water she could drink. I wanted to knock at least one hundred pounds from that pudgy frame. As I had thought, the X-ray of the left fore revealed a slight rotation of the coffin bone, and as soon as the inflammation in the hooves died down, our farrier would begin the slow process of reshaping the hoof. With luck, she'd be sound for light hacking, but only time would tell.

Lincoln was at my side, keeping a sapient eye on the pony's behavior. We have three horses of our own: Ally's Tracker, Andrew, my elderly Quarterhorse, and a Shetland named simply Pony. Horses are herd animals, and they prosper only in the company of others. As Sunny became more comfortable, she would join the others for company. For now, Lincoln himself was on the job. From the way she bared her teeth at the collie, she didn't see it as a privilege.

“Murder, indeed.” I turned my attention from the pony's problems to those of the late milk inspector, Melvin Staples. We had done all we could for the pony. Now it was time to do what we could for the deceased.

“He didn't drown without help,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see Simon Provost leaning against the arena wall, arms folded across his chest. The Summersville chief of detectives is a man of modest demeanor and a deceptively mild expression. I greeted him with pleasure.

“Simon! I had intended to look you up. And here you are. This is fortuitous.”

“You got a minute, Doc?”

“I do,” I said cordially. “Shall we repair to the office?”

I had purchased the thirty-acre farm called Sunny Skies some forty years ago, when I had first come to Cornell as an associate professor. The barns, the indoor arena, and the paddocks were the primary attraction. It was only upon my marriage that the house and gardens began to flourish into the comfortable place that they are today, under the attentions of my wife. The outbuildings have always been splendid. The barn has twelve stalls, attached at an L to the large indoor arena. The clinic is housed in the former tack room. It is well, if modestly, equipped. There is a small office, where I receive the occasional client, a room and a toilet in back, where Joe makes his quarters, and a operating-cum-examination room with a clinic chemical analyzer, an X-ray machine, and various other necessities I picked up as Cornell shed equipment outdated for its purposes.

I ushered Simon into the office and sat in the tattered desk chair that has been my companion for almost fifty years. The detective settled into the chair by my desk with a grunt. Joe leaned against the wall. Lincoln nosed the office door open and settled at my feet.

Cases Closed, Inc., had a quorum. We were ready for business.

Provost looked me straight in the eye. “Now, Doc, I don't want you getting any ideas about investigating this murder.”

“So it is officially a murder, then?”

“Cause of death hasn't been legally established, no. But he either drowned or died of the blow to the head. We'll know for sure after the coroner's report. Body's off to Syracuse for the forensics.”

“I, of course, am not certified to examine the corpses of Homo sapiens, but if you like me to take a look on an informal basis…”

“No, Doc, I wouldn't. And neither would the State of New York. That half-baked company of yours—what d'ya call it?”

“Cases Closed.”

“Right. You have no legal standing. You've got that? You're not even licensed.”

I drew breath. Provost held up his hand in admonition. “I don't want to hear it. That honorary deputy certificate I gave you may have been the biggest mistake of my professional life. You aren't a detective, Doc. What you are is a damn good vet, from what I've seen and what everyone tells me….”

“Really?” I said, pleased. “Who is everyone?”

“You know. Everyone. It's a well-known fact.”

“My colleagues at Cornell? No? Of course. My newspaper column, Ask Dr. McKenzie!”

Simon rubbed his hands over his face and said, “Argh.” Then he said, “What I need from you is veterinary info. And what I'm going to get is veterinary info and
that's as far as it goes
! Got that?”

I smoothed my mustache and smiled.

Simon dug into his jacket pocket for his notebook. In all the time I have known Simon, he has never been without a jacket. He wears a tatterdemalion tweed sports coat in the winter and a crumpled seersucker jacket in the heat. If he wore Birkenstocks, one could mistake him for a professor. “Somatic cell count,” he read aloud. “What is it?”

“The number of white blood cells sloughed into a substance such as milk. A high count may be an indicator of an infection such as mastitis. The state sets allowable limits.”

“I hear that Tre Sorelle's got some problems in that area. Can the state shut them down? I mean, how big a deal is this milk somatic cell count?”

I tugged at my ear and didn't answer him for a moment. In our past cases, it had sometimes taken Provost a bit more time than necessary to see the desirability of hiring Cases Closed personnel to supplement an investigation. “In cows, it can be a big deal, as you phrase it,” I said amiably. “Goats not so much.”

“Not so much?”

“Not so much.” Years of successfully applying for grants from institutions reluctant to subsidize such vital issues as the constituency of bovine back fat have given me some expertise in the art of negotiation. “I'd be happy to prepare expert testimony that would be well received by the courts.”

“But?”

“But it will take some time. Some research.”

“And it's gonna cost me.”

A small dose of humor was in order. “Madeline would have my guts for garters if it didn't.”

Simon's face brightened, his invariable habit when my wife's name is mentioned. “Madeline,” he said. “How is she? As a matter of fact, where is she?”

“She went down to the village hall. She intends to have a discussion with the tax inspector.”

Simon exhaled sharply. “
That
SOB. Now if someone conked
him
over the head and set him to drown in a bulk tank, you wouldn't hear a shout of surprise from me.”

“No?”

“Nossir. You remember Nicky Ferguson retired and took that RV of his to Florida. Well, some dimwit on the village board brought this guy in—his name's Brian Folk, and I don't want to tell you how many ‘Folk you' jokes I've been hearing around town.” Simon subsided into what in any other person I would have described as a sulk.

“And?” I prompted.

“And he's been a royal pain in the keister. Seems to think it's his God-given duty to raise taxes all over the township. I'm half serious about putting a bodyguard on the guy. Called me twice demanding I do something about these threats he's been getting. Told him not much I could do unless he was actually attacked. And it's not going to be long before that happens.” He rubbed his face again. “So Maddy's down at the town hall giving him what for, huh? Well. Fine. If anyone can take that miserable little punk down a peg, it's your wife. She's something else, Austin.”

“She is, indeed,” I said proudly. “As to our murder victim, Simon…”

“He's not ‘our' anything, Doc. We're hiring you on as a goat consultant so I can figure out if anyone at the dairy had a motive to knock him off.”

“At the usual rates?” I asked.

“Sure. Whatever. The usual rates.”

“Excellent. Now, what do you know of this man's background?”

Simon eyed me suspiciously.

“I need to know only in support of my report. If the man had little or no expertise in the area of somatic cell testing, that could affect the results.”

“Of course he knew what he was doing. He was licensed by the State of New York.”

He bit his lip. I did not comment.

“You may have a point. I'll see what I can come up with for you.” Simon paged through his book. “We tossed his name into the computer, of course, and we haven't got any bites yet.”

“By which you mean he has no arrest record.”

“Nope. Seems to have been an okay kind of guy, from the first accounts. He's a vet. Not like you, but a veteran. Spent more time than he should have in the first Gulf War but then all our people over there have spent more time than they should. Honorable discharge, according to his wife.”

I remembered young Ashley's appraisal of the dead man's appearance. A hunk, she'd said. “He was married?”

“Tough little thing. Name's Kelly. All cut up about this, of course. Two kids. Anyhow, she says Staples grew up near Seneca Falls, went from high school right into the marines, and then qualified as a milk inspector two years ago.”

“He must have grown up on a farm,” I observed. “The state does require two years of significant agricultural experience.”

Simon tucked the notebook into his pocket. “So that's what I know about the deceased. Seems to have been a decent enough guy, although you never know, these days.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I was thinking maybe there was some way you could get into that dairy. Sniff around there. From what I can tell, there's been trouble with this…”

“MSCC,” Joe said. “The milk somatic cell count.”

“That. I need to know if anyone at the dairy had a viable motive to off this guy.”

“You've talked to Doucetta Capretti?”

Provost groaned. “That I have, Doc. And here's what I figure. Better you than me!”

M
Y
decision to forgo supervising the Tre Sorelle QMPS team had been precipitate; I needed legitimate access to the dairy if Cases Closed were to solve the murder.

Doucetta Capretti had a short fuse. I doubted she would answer questions voluntarily if I presented myself as a detective. As a QMPS consultant, I would have more standing in her eyes. I tried not to think of the fate of a former colleague, who had been rapped smartly on the backside when he questioned Doucetta's brining practices at a meeting of the New York State Farmstead and Artisan Cheese Makers Guild.

A phone call to Neville Brandstetter's office informed me that I would find him at home. I sent Joe to the Internet to research New York state requirements for safe somatic cell levels in goat milk and any scientific papers on the causes of increased levels.

The GPS in the Bronco directed me to the south side of Summersville where the Brandstetters made their home. He had been married to the volatile Anna Luisa for twenty years. There was much I could learn from Neville about the dairy where his wife had spent her girlhood. I hoped he was in a forthcoming mood.

When I stopped in front of his house, I began to have doubts about his cheeriness of mind. Brandstetter was a precise and tidy man with a lively interest in horticulture. But the lawn and gardens around his house were in a pitiable state. The lawn was in need of mowing. The perennial bed cried out for weeding.

A colleague of mine once said that one could hazard a guess on the state of a couple's marriage by the state of the landscaping. If so, the Brandstetters' union was not a happy one.

The house was in the Craftsman style, an architectural mode common to this part of New York. It sat attractively in the middle of a sizable lot. The shingled roof hung low over the front porch, which had a deserted air. A fawn beagle lay on the front stoop, with its head on its paws. It raised its head when Lincoln barked as I parked in the short driveway, and then trundled down the steps to greet us, tail slowly wagging. It was a bitch, and a nice one. Her coat was glossy and she was not fat, as is often the case when this breed has been turned into a pet. (The proper role of a beagle is beagling, not playing fetch with indolent owners.) She greeted Linc with a submissive wriggle and thrust her head under my hand for a pat. The front door opened and Brandstetter stepped out onto the porch.

“McKenzie,” he said. “Haven't seen you in some time. You're looking well.”

I couldn't say the same of Brandstetter. His red beard was a veritable hedge. There were purple shadows under his eyes. His skin was sallow. If he had been a cow, I'd have tested him for Johne's disease. He bent and ruffled Lincoln's ears. “And how are you, Linc?” He straightened up with a sigh. “Bergland told you about the dairy job, I suppose. I take it you've heard?”

“About the death of the milk inspector? Yes, I have.”

He grinned. It was not a happy expression. More of a grimace. “They've closed the dairy temporarily, but from what I hear they'll be up and running pretty quick. You can imagine Doucetta's reaction to dumping all that milk.”

I could, indeed. The laws of man can shut down machinery, but they can't stop a goat from lactating.

“She's been on the phone to the governor by now, I imagine,” he added gloomily.

“Had you met the deceased?”

“Staples?” There was that strange grin again. I wondered if the man was about to colic. “Sure. The goat industry's growing, Austin. We're getting new cheese makers and new milk producers all the time. Most of 'em have some start-up problems of one sort or another. So Staples called me for advice once or twice. Seemed to know his job.” He flushed red, then white.

“I would be quite interested in supervising the QMPS team at Tre Sorelle,” I said. “Victor may have mistaken my intent when I spoke with him yesterday.”

“Eh?

“You haven't spoken to Victor since he's spoken to me?”

“I? No. I haven't checked my phone messages today. I've been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“You look like hell,” I said frankly.

“Do I?” He tugged at his beard with an absentminded air. He turned to go back to the house. I followed. “Some kind of summer flu, I think. Came on all of a sudden. Late yesterday.”

I was close enough to smell the alcohol on the man's breath. Summer flu, my hat. There was a mystery here, for certain. If Brandstetter had taken to the bottle, Victor would have been the first to tell me.

“So I went home from the office yesterday and…” He trailed off. “Won't you come in? Can I get you something?” He pushed open the door. “Scotch?”

“A bit early in the day for me, thank you all the same.”

Lincoln followed me in. The little beagle followed Linc. The living room wasn't too much of a tip. From Brandstetter's personal disarray, I'd expected worse. Several days' worth of the
New York Times
were spread over the floor, and the remains of the man's lunch occupied the coffee table in front of the fireplace. I settled into the leather armchair at right angles to the couch. Linc sat at my knee. The beagle nestled adoringly at Lincoln's side. He licked her nose, and then turned his attention to the business at hand.

“I'll check and see if Victor called, shall I?” Brandstetter wandered over to the telephone stand in the corner and punched a button on the answering machine. The first voice I recognized was that of his wife, Anna Luisa. It was high and hysterical and the only thing I heard before Neville slammed his hand on the machine to shut it off was: “Neville? Oh, God!”

“Not trouble, I hope?”

Neville wandered back to the couch in a distracted way. He ran his hands through his beard. “No, no. She called me at the office. Thought she'd find me here first, I guess. I took care of it. Just a…” He paused. “Flat tire.”

The Caprettis were known for volatility, but I doubted a flat tire would have engendered that kind of response. Didn't the woman have AAA? I waited with an expectant air, but Neville merely continued his aimless wandering about the room. There is nothing like a work-related problem to take a man's mind off his personal woes, so I said:

“What's your take on the somatic cell count problem at the dairy?”

I only half listened to Brandstetter's response. I knew the gist anyway, and I was trying to read the heading on a pile of papers half covered by an abandoned salami sandwich. One can't help being familiar with judicial actions in these litigious times, and it looked remarkably like a summons and complaint. The summoned was Neville; the plaintiff Anna Luisa Capretti Brandstetter and the cause of action was a divorce.

“Oh, dear,” I said.

“It
is
a bit of a mystery,” Neville said with some animation. “Doucetta runs a tight ship. And of course, goats are prone to higher somatic cell counts than other ruminants. It's not a reliable indicator at all. A cell count of over a million in bovines is a sure sign of mastitis or worse.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. It was, in fact, a gross calumny, but the man had not spent fifty years studying cows. “There can be a number of contributing factors.”

“Yes, well, you're the cow man. Anyway, goat counts go up if the doe is at the end of lactation, or if she's a big producer, or even if it's spring.” The problem at hand had indeed served to distract him from whatever personal woe was bothering him. He leaned forward, interest in his eyes. “Leslie Chou's right. There is quite a nice little problem here. Why are the counts so high? And why so consistently?”

“Stress?” I suggested. “Are the animals confined twenty-four hours a day?”

“The goats are pastured. This time of year, they only come in for milking. The less stress on the animal, the better a producer it'll be. Doucetta learned that early on.”

“Then a contaminant in the pasture?” Goats, like all farm animals, are vulnerable to toxic weeds and grasses.

“Odd time of year for it. But it's certainly possible. Yes, it's quite a nice little problem.”

“Do you think Doucetta herself has any ideas about the source?”

“She ought to—but good luck in getting it out of her. You know what she's like. On the other hand, that dairy is her life. She'd probably set aside her temper if you were going to help her out of a jam,” Neville said as if trying to convince himself. “I know she thumped Abrahamson with that damn cane of hers when he went in to talk to her about the feta, but that was different. More personal. She takes a lot of pride in her cheese.”

I'd forgotten about Abrahamson. “Broke his shin, didn't she?”

“Well, he had a pretty good bruise, that's for sure. But I kind of admire the old girl. For heaven's sake, Austin. She admits to ninety-four but I wouldn't be surprised if she's closer to a hundred. And she's got all her marbles.” He gave me a genuine smile, which lightened the care lines in his face. “And some of mine.”

“Hm. So the key to getting along with her would be?”

“Getting along?” Neville laughed. “With Doucetta? Nobody gets along with Doucetta. The trick is to avoid World War Three.” He shrugged. “Just agree with everything she says. That should do it.” His eyes slid toward the salami sandwich and the horrible document that lay beneath. “Luisa just never figured that out.”

I cleared my throat. A detective must go where sensible men fear to tread. “And how is Anna Luisa? The last time we saw her was at my retirement party, I believe.”

Neville's lip quivered. He bit his lip. He began to cry.

It was most awkward. Tears rolled down his face into his beard. His nose ran. I got up, prepared to leave the man alone with his sorrow. I do not, as Madeline would have it, panic in the face of emotion. But I admit my attention was on leaving the man to his sorrow with a reasonable grace.

Had I been paying attention to my dog instead of Brandstetter's dripping nose, Anna Luisa's entrance into the house would not have taken me by surprise. Lincoln looked toward the front door. His ears tuliped forward. He rose, wagging his tail. The little beagle jumped to her feet, too, eyes adoringly on Linc's face. Anna Luisa burst into the room with a rush of air. She carried a suitcase and a tote bag stuffed with clothes.

The look on Neville's face when he saw her was very like the beagle's.

Doucetta's daughters are quite good-looking, with black curly hair, eyelashes as long as a Guernsey heifer's, and curvy figures. Luisa is perhaps the prettier of the two, although at the moment she looked quite upset. Her face was flushed and tears streaked her cheeks. Between Neville's tears and runny nose, the two of them made a fairly soggy pair. She set the suitcase and the tote bag on the floor, flung herself at Neville's feet, and cried, “Darling. Forgive me!”

A detective cannot afford sensitivity. I quelled my impulse to run for it. It is a drawback to the occupation I had not heretofore encountered. If I left this poignant scene, I might never discover the reason why Luisa had left in the first place, much less why she had returned. All facts are fodder in an investigation. I sat back in my chair and prepared to listen.

Neville pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Forget it.”

“I came back because I love you! Not him!”

Aha. A lover, then. A sad story, but all too common.

There was only one fact I needed to know, and then I could leave them to their discussion. I cleared my throat to capture their attention. “And who is the gentleman in the case?”

Before either Brandstetter could respond, my cell phone rang. It was Deirdre, the barmaid at the Embassy. There was trouble involving my wife, the tax assessor, and the remains of a lemon pie.

I was out of the house in a flash.

 

“
O
H,
Lordy,” Madeline said. “You actually asked poor Neville Brandstetter who tried to run off with his wife?”

I poked at my salad greens with my fork. I had paid Deirdre for the lemon pie and it was time for lunch. By the time Lincoln and I arrived at the Embassy, Brian Folk had stalked off to wash up, and my wife was fomenting revolution among the remaining patrons. She greeted me with pleasure and a tuna salad.

“There was no need to come and rescue me, darlin',” she added before I could respond to her question about the Brandstetters' troubles. “I had everything well in hand.”

“I believe it was the pie in hand that caused the trouble,” I said.

“Ha-ha,” Madeline said flatly. “That little skunk.”

“Neville? I believe Neville to be the innocent party in this case.”

“Not Neville. That Brian person. Do you know he went and upped taxes in the trailer park down by Covert?” She nodded toward the bar, where two large, husky fellows in John Deere billed hats were drowning their tax sorrows in Rolling Rock. “Those poor souls barely have two nickels to rub together as it is. And how in holy heck is a flippin' trailer supposed to appreciate, anyway? Those things lose half their value the minute some poor sucker drives one off the lot.” Indignation made her cheeks pink. It was quite becoming.