The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat (7 page)

“
No!
No! I can't stay the night with a murderer! Can't I stay here? I feel safe here!”

I could not suppress a shudder. What if my tender-hearted wife agreed to let this poor benighted harpy stay in the back room?”

“Lieutenant Provost says that your husband's in the clear.”

“Is he
sure
?” Luisa said skeptically. “Neville's quite clever, you know.”

“He was teaching a summer school class from nine to eleven this morning.”

“Parasitology,” Luisa said. “Yes. It's a graduate course.” She looked thoughtful. “I forgot all about that.”

“Those hours cover the possible time of death.” Madeline folded her lips, which made the dimples on either cheek stand out. “So you won't be spending the night with a murderer.” She held a hand out to Luisa. “Come on, sweetie. I'll take you home.”

Luisa was efficiently bundled up and seated in Madeline's Prius in record time. She had parked her own vehicle sideways in our driveway, within a cat's whisker of our Bronco. She handed me the keys to her car through the passenger window with an apologetic moue. “I was just so upset.”

“The Bronco has its share of bumps and scrapes,” Madeline said. “But it'd be a shame to put a ding in that little thing.”

The “little thing” was a Mercedes 450 SL canvas top. Luisa glanced at it indifferently. “A bribe from Mamma.” A pale smile touched her lips. “Mamma always gets a return on her dollar. I'm chained to the tasting room for the summer. At least I'm not teaching those freakin' cheese-making classes for the rest of the year. Caterina pulled that short stick out of the pile.”

Madeline gunned the motor. I stepped back to allow them to leave, then followed them across the village to the house on Crescent in the Mercedes. Normally, I rue the invention of the combustion engine; like the cell phone, it is a piece of technology man would be better off without. But the little car was a revelation. I was almost sorry to leave it in the Brandstetters' driveway. Madeline left the Prius at the curb, and the two of them got out and walked slowly up the weedy sidewalk to the porch. I joined them. The living room lights were on, despite the fact that we were still at the gloaming part of the day.

Luisa looked at the lights, stopped short, and gasped. “He's home! I can't…I won't. Oh! Madeline, please, please come in with me!”

Madeline gave her a firm shove and said cheerfully, “We're right behind you!”

Neville heard us, of course, and was waiting in front of the fireplace as the three of us walked in the door. Rather, Madeline and I walked in. Luisa cracked the door, peered around the edge, cried “Neville?” in that little-girl voice, then ran forward and flung herself into his arms, kicking the little beagle aside in the process. “I thought they'd locked you up and thrown away the key!”

Neville gazed at us over the top of his wife's head. I couldn't put a name to the expression on his face, but Madeline did later, after we had gotten home. She said it was depressed and loving resignation.

“Thank you, Austin, Madeline,” he said.

“No trouble at all,” I said.

Neville addressed the dark head huddled in his chest. “Sweetheart, it's been a rough day. I want you to go upstairs and lie down for a bit. Do you think you can sleep?”

“She's had four good slugs of brandy,” Madeline said. “She ought to be out like a light in thirty seconds flat. Come on, Luisa. Let's get you upstairs.”

I waited until the two women had disappeared around the bend in the staircase, then I sat down in the same chair I'd occupied not six hours before. It seemed like six weeks. The beagle sniffed around my knees, looking for Lincoln. “You went down to the station and spoke with Simon?”

“Yes.” Neville put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. “Yes, I did.”

“That course in parasitology you teach. Was it a lecture day this morning? Or a field day?”

On a field day, the professor generally turns the class over to a TA and is free to pursue other activities. Neville's expression gave me the answer I needed.

“What did Provost have to say about that?”

He pulled his lips back in an attempt at a smile. “Not to leave town.”

“Did you retain a lawyer?”

“Do you think I should?”

I looked at him for a long, grim moment. “Did you do it?”

“No. No, Austin, I didn't.”

“Your innocence not withstanding, you should probably think about a lawyer.”

He nodded. Then he said, “What about this Provost? Is he up to finding out who did kill Staples?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said. “He is an excellent detective.”

“But these last two murders in Summersville. You gave him a hand in solving those, didn't you?”

I was silent. Neville was a friend of mine. A former colleague. The stakes were very high.

“Can I hire you to look into this?”

“Of course, Neville. I will do my best. Now isn't the time, you've had quite a long day….”

He barked with laughter. “A long day. If that's not a classic McKenzie understatement!”

“…But we should sit down and discuss this tomorrow. My investigators and I”—and I confess to a feeling of pride as I said this!—“will be at the dairy on Monday, and we will be there for as long as it takes. Tomorrow is Sunday. And we will take the time to develop a plan.”

The beagle ran to the foot of the stairs and looked up, tail wagging eagerly, as Madeline descended. I joined the beagle.

“Just as I thought,” Madeline said. “She fell right asleep. If she's not used to brandy, Neville, she might have a head in the mornin'. You give her lots of tomato juice and aspirin.” She looked up into his face. “And you, you take care of yourself, you hear? You're going to need one cool head in this household. Now, if you'll excuse us, Austin and I will be getting on home.”

Once in Madeline's Prius, my wife turned to me and said, “Somebody, Austin, ought to give that woman a slap up the side of the head. You know she's convinced that Neville killed that milk inspector because he's crazy jealous. She thinks it's her duty to let Simon know. Her own husband!” She put the car in gear with a jerk. “I swear to goodness. And he has a perfectly good alibi.” She looked quickly at me. “Doesn't he?”

I evaded a direct response. “He says he's innocent. I believe him.”

We drove home in silence, ruminative on my part, indignant on Madeline's.

We returned to a darkened house. Lincoln was waiting at his usual post by the back steps. Juno the Akita was prone to roaming the countryside; Ally had left her inside the house and she began a joyful barking when Madeline went inside. Lincoln and I remained out in the soft evening air. I had a habit of one last round of the barn and animals before I went to bed, and I set off now to check on our resident animals.

Ally had bedded Sunny the Hackney down in a stall next to Pony. They both greeted me with an impatient snort. August is a month of both heat and flies, and we have a practice of turning the animals out in the pasture at night and keeping them in during the day. Ally's half-bred Trakehner and our elderly Quarterhorse Andrew were grazing happily in the paddock off the barn, but Pony—a Shetland of bossy disposition and with a penchant for escape—had been conscripted to keep Sunny company. Pony shoved her nose against the stall mesh and blew out at me. This is the equine equivalent of “good evening,” so I leaned against the mesh and blew back. I checked the meds sheet hanging on Sunny's stall. The last dose of bute for the day was listed in Ally's neat handwriting. Sunny shuffled over. Her gait seemed at little easier, and the worried look around her eyes had disappeared. She nosed the mesh, expecting a treat. I apologized. But her diet would have to continue. The handful of carrots I'd picked up from the tack room supply was forbidden for a few more weeks.

Outside the barn, the moon sailed high and silver, spreading its pale light over the grounds. I went to the paddock gate and whistled. There was a rumble of hooves, and Tracker and Andrew came up to the gate. Horses are tactile creatures. Andrew leaned over the fence and nudged me affectionately. Tracker nudged him, then put her neck over his and nibbled his ear. They had no objection to sharing the carrot.

Neville Brandstetter would have been better off with a horse.

I
am fond of Sundays in August. Both Madeline and Lincoln feel the heat, and the coolest place on the farm is under the willow by the duck pond. We take our meals there, and when Neville came over midmorning, I conducted file CC005's first interview with the Muscovy ducks at my feet, squabbling over the remains of my breakfast croissant.

“Madeline not going to join us?” Neville settled into the Adirondack chair with an air of taking refuge.

“She and Joe are canning beans. Allegra is on call at the clinic.” I had a yellow pad and pen to hand. I dated the top of the first sheet, listed the case file number, and looked over my spectacles at Neville. “They will join us for lunch. It would be well, I think, to begin with some background on the dairy. I am particularly interested in Doucetta.”

Neville stretched back in the chair and gazed up through the willow leaves at the sky, which was blue. The air was filled with sunshine. “Ah yes. Doucetta.” He sat up and said briskly, “Tre Sorelle milks five hundred does and produces a rolling average of about two hundred thousand gallons of milk a year. The average is just under a gallon of milk per animal. It's an excellent average and a well-run operation. Half of the milk is sold to other processors. The rest goes into the Tre Sorelle cheeses, five hundred pounds a month.”

I tried to recall the ratio of milk to cheese. My dairy classes had been nearly fifty years ago! I believe it is several pounds of milk to one pound of cheese; the ratio may differ with the type of cheese being made. I could have asked Neville, of course, but the man was in full spate.

“The cheeses are marketed all over the United States. And money comes in from the retail operation, of course. Have you ever been in it? Tre Sorelle cheeses aren't a tenth of what sells in there. She carries Swinford wines and boatloads of that touristy crap like cheese plates and picnic baskets, whatever. You go in there on a Sunday afternoon like this one, and you can't get near the register. And then there are the tours. Doucetta picked up some old draft horse at an auction and Marietta tools tourists around the hundred acres in a farm cart at fifteen dollars a head. It all adds up to quite a pile of money. Doucetta's of the old school. The company's privately held and the only other people who know what the profits really are, are God and her accountant. And I'm not too sure about the accountant.”

“This is a complex business to run. Does she have advisors?”

Neville shook his head. “Just the firm that does the taxes. And I swear, Austin, she's got a second set of books somewhere. The retail business brings in a lot of cash. She's not real big on reporting the income, but she's the kind of personality that needs to track every nickel. She came over from Italy when she was sixteen. Had an arranged marriage with the old man—Dominic, his name was, and he passed away when Luisa was just a kid. There were three daughters: Luisa's the youngest by more than ten years; then there was Margarita, who died of a stroke a couple of years ago; and Caterina, the oldest. Caterina remembers the old man; he was quiet, she said. I got the impression that when Doucetta said “jump” the old man jumped and asked if it was high enough. Margarita had one daughter, Marietta. Her husband just up and disappeared a few years after Marietta was born. He died sometime after that—in Italy, I think.

“Marietta herself went on to Vassar, got a good degree there, and went from that to an MBA at the Wharton School. She's probably the best candidate as a successor to Doucetta, and the old lady dotes on her—as much as the old lady dotes on anybody.

“Caterina married a guy named Frank Celestine. A real jerk, if you want to know the truth, and a lazy one at that. If you're looking for suspects based on who deserves to be locked up on general principles, take a good hard look at Frank. Caterina herself isn't as dumb as she makes out, and she's certainly not as scatterbrained as she appears, but living with someone like Frank would suppress anybody's natural personality, and hers wasn't all that definite to begin with. The old lady dominates all of them. Which is why Caterina's forced to put up with Frank. Doucetta doesn't believe in divorce. As a mother—well, she's terrorized all of them since they were kids, and I suppose Caterina doesn't know anything else. You know how chickens will pick one poor bird out of the flock and peck it senseless? That's how Doucetta and Frank treat Caterina.

“Anyway, Frank and Caterina have two sons. Neither one of them was interested in the dairy. As a matter of fact, I think they both went to Italy to live ten or twelve years ago. There were some rumblings about drugs when they left. Maybe a felony or two. I don't know the details.

“And, as you know, Luisa and I didn't have any children at all. It looks as if Marietta's the only family member available to take over the dairy when Doucetta dies. Have you met her?”

I shook my head.

“Beautiful girl. Of course, all of Doucetta's offspring are beautiful. She's a stockbroker, or was. She came back from New York to help out a couple of years ago. She's got the brains to take the dairy over, that's for sure. Whether she has the desire is anybody's guess. But other than Marietta—there's nobody.”

We were both silent, looking over the duck pond. I had married late in life, astounding my colleagues who had thought me a confirmed bachelor at fifty. The children Madeline and I both wished for had not come. But our lives had been enriched by the long procession of students who had eaten at our table and become part of our lives for the time they had been at school.

“At any rate, Doucetta runs the place with an iron fist, or cane rather. Have you seen that goat-headed stick she carries? Of course you have, you were there when she thumped Abrahamson in the shins at the guild meeting. The kids are all petrified of her. And she keeps the purse strings open just enough so that it'd take real character to walk away from the place.”

“At ninety-four,” I began.

“Yes. At ninety-four, Doucetta's not immortal. I don't know who'll take over the operation after she goes. Nobody does. Caterina's husband probably has big ideas, but the guy's a real loser. She never got past sixth grade, Doucetta didn't. She combines this amazing genius for business with peasant superstitions.” He tugged his beard. “My guess, the whole thing will dwindle away once she's gone. In the meantime, she keeps the milk right on coming.”

“I'm surprised no one's offered to buy her out. One of the big cheese companies, perhaps.”

“It'd make sense,” Neville said. “But I don't know a thing about it. Doucetta had me doing the necessary vet work at the dairy when Luisa and I were first married, but I haven't set foot in the place for years—nor have I talked to Doucetta other than Christmas and birthdays.”

“When did you stop treating the goats?”

“Most of us drop clinical in favor of the teaching and research. You know that better than anybody does. But even if I had kept up private practice, I couldn't have worked with her. We crossed swords early on. She's got notions about handling animals I don't approve of…and don't want to know about, frankly.”

I wasn't sure whether I should pursue this lead at the moment, or not. If Doucetta were engaging in unseemly practices, I would see that for myself. I made a brief note and said, “Which brings us to the high somatic cell count.”

“Yeah, I thought we'd get there.” Neville tugged at his beard with both hands. “I'll tell you what I think, Austin. I think it's sabotage.”

I was somewhat nonplussed. “By whom? And why? Or perhaps my first question should be: Are you sure? Broadly speaking, the cytokines critical in the early recruitment of PMN to the mammary gland are created in response to mastitis pathogens. Are there cases of mastitis in the Tre Sorelle goats?”

“It's truer for cows than goats,” Neville said. “Estrus, season, and milk yield raise the cell count in goats. Even the breed and the geographic area can affect the count in goats. Everyone has had a guess at why. Nobody's got much on how to fix it.”

“Troublesome,” I said. “And quite interesting.” My primary contribution to animal research had been a series of landmark studies on bovine back fat. To be truthful, at the time of my retirement, the subspecialty had been pretty well mined out. This area of caprine study was new to me. And intriguing. “Is anyone engaged in field studies?”

“Everybody who's anybody in the field is having a whack at it,” Neville said. “But you know the problems with funding.”

How well I knew the problems of funding!

“The Europeans have a lot more going on than we do, at the moment. More goats over there.”

“And you say some breeds seem more prone to the problem than others?”

“Apparently. But we haven't any definitive studies yet.”

“I'm more familiar with the meat goat breeds,” I admitted. “Savannas, Boers, and of course, the ubiquitous Spanish. The dairy has Saanens, primarily?” Saanens are known for producing a gallon of milk a day with dependable regularity.

“Saanens, Toggs, and Alpines.”

“Toggenburgs,” I said. “An attractive goat, if memory serves. But not a great deal of butter fat, surely?”

“There's exceptions to every rule, Austin. Researchers know that better than anyone does. For a while there, Doucetta played around with outcrossing, trying to create a breed that'd combine the best characteristics of the standards and eliminate the worst, but she couldn't see an immediate return, so she stopped. She's a cash-on-the-nail-head kind of lady.”

“You suspect sabotage, you said? There must be surer ways of putting her out of business.”

“With so many variables affecting the MSCC in goats, who's to say it isn't just bad luck? It'd be hard to catch somebody who's clever at it. You don't even believe it.”

“You do, apparently.”

“That's right. I do. And since you've got that look in your eye, all I can tell you is that it just doesn't feel right. The pattern's too persistent. There's no fluctuation in the readings. They're consistently a hundred thousand over a million. And there should be fluctuation. The only set of conditions I know of at the moment that reliably produces a higher count is mastitis, and there isn't any. All the other factors would give you an up and down count from sample to sample.” Neville got up and moved restlessly around the lawn. “As for why—well, Doucetta's made a lot of enemies in her lifetime. Aren't there supposed to be three basic motives for crime? Greed, lust, and revenge? Thanks to Doucetta, the dairy's awash in 'em.”

I mused. There was a great deal to think about. The yellow pad in my lap was covered with notes, including double underlines, which indicated those possible motives.

Greed. Lust. Revenge.

“I see Madeline,” Neville said, with the cheerful note that almost always attends those who speak of my wife. “And she's carrying lunch!”

I set the yellow pad aside. I was as ready as I could be for my appearance at the scene of the crime tomorrow.

And I hadn't the least notion of where to begin.