Comfort, B - Cashmere Kid, The UC FR.htm

ONE

Was it just last month that Hilary, Sophie, and I were discussing Sophies goat-keeping problems? After tea in my living room in Lofton, I remember saying to Sophie, "They're beguiling, mischievous, lovable, and charming, but forget it, dear. I'm not going to play mother to your goats."

"You don't have to mother them," my dear friend Hilary Oats snarled at me. "For Pete's sake, Sophie isn't asking you to motherdiem. Just be mere. It's only for a few days, and, anyhow, I'll do all the work."

"See, Tish, Hilary says he'll do all die work" That unlikely pronouncement was from my tall, lovely, unrelated niece. The same adjectives I used for the goats could as easily apply to Sophie—beguiling, yes—lovable and charming, too, but at die moment exasperating.

The scenario painted by Sophie and Hilary rolled out in front of me like a familiar rug. It was no effort for me to imagine Hilary standing on Sophies porch, die Times crossword under his arm, waving his pipe to punctuate his comments and directions for

the barnyard operations. With equal ease, I could see myself conned into chasing an errant kid, soothing a troubled goat, or squishing through the mud to fall into the feeding trough.

"Nope," I said. "We've been through all this before." Even to myself I sounded mean, but when Sophie had plunged into the goat business, I had taken a firm stand about goat sitting. "I'm too old to be a nanny."

"Very funny." Hilary displayed his lopsided smile. "Isn't she, Sophie?"

Hilary always took Sophies side. Maybe it's because they're bodi so tall they share a special kind of ozone. Hilary with his angular Nordic race could be the laird of some clan in the Outer Hebrides, though he'd tower over most Scotsmen. He explained to anyone who'd listen that since his eightieth birthday last week he'd been shrinking. At last count he was down to six feet three inches. Or maybe all the cooking diey do together forged a deeper bond than one would expect. Maybe it was just love. We bodi loved Sophie. She was my cousin Marians stepdaughter. Brought up in Hawaii, she had blown into my life a year ago while pursuing a career as a commercial photographer. She left her job to move in with me. We shared both perilous and rewarding times together, but I was relieved when she moved on and I could call my house my own. I quarrel with the notion that I'm set in my ways. It's just that I'm accustomed to being alone and like it that way. There's my dog Lulu, of course, but dial's different

"I won't be gone long, Tish, but I just have to go to that seminar in San Angelo. I'll learn so much. And then just two days in Tulsa. I've never been a godmother before, and Tansy's really counting on me."

"No, no, nor My fist made a couple of artifacts bounce on the curly maple table beside me.

Hilary frowned in silence while I massaged my hand. Sophie sighed.

With what was left of a small inheritance from her aunt, Sophie had bought a dilapidated farm in nearby Clement Hollow. Even the most persuasive realtor couldn't have sold the place on the basis of what fun it would be to "fix it up." It was a matter of debate whether the land or the house was drearier, and dreary is hard to come by in southern Vermont. Except for a clearing on either side of the dirt road and a small corral around the barn, the land was covered widi rocks, dense brush, and struggling saplings. Sophie called it Goat Heaven. Hilary said it looked like a meteor had dropped on the place.

The small weadiered barn was Sophies delight. She pointed out that its roof was sound, which was very important, because goats don't thrive in a damp and drafty place. The house was appalling. Two ancient prefabricated houses had been carelessly shoved together into the shape of an angle iron, while a miserable-looking triangular porch seemed to hold the two parts together.

I had to smile at Sophie. Standing on her turf like a reigning monarch, she surveyed her kingdom with sparkling eyes. Working a notepad out of the back pocket of her jeans, she leaned over and detached a pen clipped to her boot.

"Paint," she said as she wrote. "It'll need some paint." She held up her hand to forestall our comments. "But that's not numero uno. The fence is first, and that's a pro job. Newt and his nephew are going to start on it tomorrow. The goats are coming Saturday, and William the Conqueror will be here a few days after that."

Sophie had bought seven does and kids from a farmer in Londonderry, and William the Conqueror was to be a gift from

her father. A highly productive Australian cashmere buck to start her herd.

"Do you mean to tell me a goat—a buck—can cost seven thousand dollars?" Hilary asked.

"Oh, yeah. Even more. Try ten grand. It's a great animal."

"I'm astonished," said Hil. "What did you have to pay for the odier goats?"

"I'll have to wait to see how many are delivered. But I figure it's about a hundred dollars apiece."

The prices meant nothing to me. I had no idea what a cow or a pig cost, let alone a goat.

"All the way from Australia, Hil," said Sophie. "Imagine die expense. I mean, that's real money; it's a real production. I mean, he's gotta be in quarantine for weeks. And die shipping. But it'll be worth it."

"How about embryos?" Hilary asked. "I hear they do diat. Wouldn't that be simpler? Cheaper?"

"Even that's expensive," Sophie said. "Sayyou pay six or seven thousand dollars for some embryos from, say, Mongolia or Australia. Hrst diey've got to put die embryos in something sort of like a bar straw in a liquid solution with something in it for die embryos to feed on while diey travel and sit in quarantine. That's not all. These thermoslike containers have to be kept upright. Then you gotta pick diem up at the airport and get die vet on die ready. He's gotta put 'em in die does and they say diat even after all diat, seven times out of ten it doesn't work. So what do you diink? Am I not so crazy?"

"Maybe you're right." Hilary wanted to know how much William's fleece would be wordi, and shuddered when Sophie guessed die price at about $50. "A year? Why am I asking diese questions?" He raised his hands in a heavenly direction.

The roof was the best part of the bam. The rest needed a lot of work, and Hilary had been very generous widi his time. He enjoyed carpentry but told me it drove him crazy when Sophie's boarder, Mike Flynn, insisted on helping him. As an unemployed actor and part-time waiter, Mike had plenty of time to spare. Hil imagined him weasling his way into Sophies affections, and in Hil s opinion no one was good enough for her— certainly not Mike Flynn.

The barn didn't worry me. I was afraid die house would fall on top of Sophie, or just give up and fall over sideways, widi Sophie enmeshed in wallboard and rotted linoleum.

Hilary, hunched in the wing chair, was still frowning. Sophie sighed again.

I spoke. "You did hear me, dear. No, I will not take care of your goats." I spelled it out: "N-O."

"I hear you, Tish. I hear you. So—you really mean it. So now I'll do what Dad's wanted me to do all along."

Sophie's constant communication widi her father in Hawaii had been reflected in my telephone bills die previous year.

"And what's that, dear?" I entertained a wild hope diat Sophies dad would come himself. Sophie needed him. Hilary was ten years older than I, too old to be teetering on ladders and clinging onto beams slippery widi bat guano.

"I'm going to ask Sandy to come up and move in with me."

"Sandy? Oh—your brother." A tingle of apprehension touched my scalp. "I thought he was still in Hazelton."

"No, he's out. He's dean." Sophie spread her long fingers to display her blameless palms. "Let's hope it lasts this time."

My mind couldn't focus on her words as she chattered on about the wonderful detoxification center at Hazelton and its record of success.

"I think he'll be fine," she said. "He loves animals, and you'll love him, Tish."

I had just met Sophie the year before and had never met her brother. There were adjectives about him that filtered through— sweet, smart, talented. Unstable. But I couldn't remember hearing the precise nature of his addiction. The tingle turned into an involuntary shudder.

"He's in New York," Sophie went on. "Dad thinks it's a bad place for him."

"Doing what?" asked Hilary, his eyebrows framing the question.

"That's the trouble. He's not doing much of anything. He wants to get involved in environmental stuff."

"I agree widi your fadier," I said. "I don't see a guileless country boy coping with urban environment problems. Sophie, what will he do here? Can he really help you?"

"Oh, God, yes. There are a million things to do."

I cupped my ear. "Did someone just tell me that there was nodiing at all to do about goats—just be there?"

"Oh, you know, Tish. My house is falling apart. Not one damn door closes.The windows have to be propped open. And all the plywood is disintegrating. Sandy can help a lot."

"Where will he sleep?" I wanted to take that question back the minute I asked it. It didn't matter a hoot to me where he slept, but Sophie only had two bedrooms and presumably Mike Flynn was in one of them. I hoped my two empty guest rooms didn't figure in her plans.

"In Mike's room. He's gone. Got a job in Great Barrington. What a slob. Keeps his clothes in a garbage bag. Gotta get home and clean up. He's worse dian goats."

Mike Flynn didn't appeal to me. Hil said it was because he

looked like Elvis Presley. Elvis captured the generation after mine and not me. I'd never liked die sallow wet-haired type. Mike rated zero on one occasion when Sophie brought him for lunch. Hilary, who had made a glorious sausage quiche, blanched at Mike's table manners. Its one diing, we agreed, through ignorance to misuse the cutlery or to gtasp a fork widi your fist while cutting or to pile food on the back of your fork with a knife much like a plasterer with his trowel. I can even close my ears to those who slurp coffee and avert my eyes in the presence of food blowers, but to chew with your mourn open! Grotesque. I was pleased she sounded glad about his departure. Sophie certainly had something for the boys. I occasionally thought her ebullient personality landed her in die lap of unsuitable types, but I didn't give it much thought. Not so Hilary. He acted like a dragon when presented to some of Sophies conquests. But somehow she could always disarm the old warrior.

"Gotta go." Sophie put Lulu in my lap and kissed the top of my head. "I want to call Sandy. You'll love him, Tish." She blew a kiss to Hilary. "Behave yourselves, gang. Ta-ta."

Hilary opened the door for Sophie and headed for the kitchen, suggesting that it was time for a drink.

Staring from die window at die top of Stratton mountain, I tried to empty my mind like a yogi and pretend dioughts were benign clouds and simply let diem float by. It didn't work.

"Here." Hil handed me a scotch and soda. "I've got bad news for you, honey. My big old hook nose smells trouble."

His nose was probably right. I shrugged and sipped my drink and turned my attention to die sight of enormously tall Hilary folding himself into a chair. With a grunt he raised his size 12 feet and plunked them on my petitpoint ottoman. He spilled tobacco from a mangled pouch that looked like a stuffed ro-

dent; and after tamping the tobacco down with the end of my crystal letter opener, he took kitchen matches out of his breast pocket. One was never enough. In spite of being a reformed smoker, I loved the smell of pipe tobacco and even found Hil's whole messy ceremony rather relaxing.

"Well, my friend," Hil waved a cloud of smoke away, "tell me about brother Sandy."

"I don't want to talk about him. I don't know any more about him than you do at diis point." Widi a tinge of bitterness, I added, "You'll love him."

"Guess you're right. What happens happens. No point in a lot of half-assed philosophizing. Let's go out on the porch. This is our first real spring day."

What Hilary meant was that it wasn't raining as it had been every day for a month. I tossed cushions onto the wicker chairs and we sat in companionable silence admiring our chosen slice ofVermont.

Across the street the general store was a perfect custard yellow. Our post office was a white toy-sized building widi the American flag waving over window boxes filled widi red and white geraniums.The Federal houses on eidier side of die street were also white, as was our picture-perfect church. The handsome Lofton Inn was just out of sight, but you could see die side of Pete's garage, and beyond it the brick library.

Lulled by die satisfying scene and the twittery birds and mellow scotch, I said, "Hark, I diink I hear Pan playing a happy tune."

Hilary looked at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. "May I remind you, madam, that die word panic is a derivation of diat particular Satyr's name."

Two

The following weekend, Sophie called in high excitement. The goats had come. They were beautiful, she said, and William the Conqueror might be arriving any moment. Sandy had driven down to Hartford to pick him up at the airport. "Please," Sophie begged, "would you hurry, hurry?"

Somewhere I had read or heard that goats like to be brushed, so I had put aside a couple of brushes that I thought would be appropriate. An old Scottish tale has it that no billy goat is visible for 24 consecutive hours as he must leave daily to visit the devil and have his beard combed. I could be the devils helper.

Lulu watched me pull on short rubber boots. The weather had improved, but die mud refused to give up its gooey grip. I put on my safari jacket and addressed Lulu. "I'll take you, but you have to stay in the car." I'm not dotty yet; I've always talked to animals. They seem to like it, and certainly after 10 years my alert little pug knew what I was saying.

On the drive over, I wondered if the goats would like Lulu. Though I expected them to be friendly and amiable, they

might not recognize a pug as a dog. I reflected diat from the Himalayas to Zululand and here at home, goats were kept as pets for the sheer pleasure of their company. Newton Cleary, Sophies neighbor, said goats respect (his word) horses, but haven't much use for sheep. Apparently exasperated by their stupidity, they often butt the sheep. Race horses love goats. It's an old and evil trick of criminal gamblers to steal a horse's companion goat. The horse is so demoralized he has no heart for racing.

According to Newt, goats were also excellent sheep herders, being intrepid and instinctive leaders. Newt tells about the wonder of a goat's invisible clock. He'd seen herds of goats let loose in die Northeast Kingdom who return home every night at 6:15. He said his two goats, tethered near the house, would bang on die kitchen window if they weren't fed on time.

I crossed my fingers on the steering wheel and hoped that Sophies herd would have all die better instincts and sterling qualities of goatdom.

What a sight. I laughed as I stopped die car. Every rock in the small barnyard was topped with a goat surveying its new turf.

Sophie ran over. "What did I tell you, Tish? Goat heaven!" She dapped her hands like a delighted child. "Aren't they gorgeous, aren't diey beautiful? They love it. They love my rocks."

Gorgeous? That was straining, but I did agree they were beautiful. They made die shabby neglected farm come to life. As I watched, the white kids pirouetted from their rock perches to die ground below.

"Who's he?" I pointed at a spavined creature with a long white beard.

"That's Hairy Harry."

"If you paid for him, don't tell Hilary. But a buck? Why another buck? What's with William the Conqueror? Is he going to need help? Or perhaps advice from an elder?"

Sophie laughed. "I think he's had his last hurrah. The Andersons said diis group was so devoted to each odier that they felt Harry would literally die if he was left behind, so I said I'd take him."

Picasso would have loved Harry. His knobby knees held up an incredible armature of bones. One horn was shorter than the other and his ribs looked razor sharp. The hair was wearing offhis tail. He plodded over and butted me gendy in the stomach. I took one of the brushes out of my pocket and went to work on his coarse hair. He groaned sensuously.

One by one the animals came to look me over. The reception line seemed to be choreographed by Number Six, Melissa, an all-white doe. After she gave me a disconcerting oblong-eyed look, she permitted a brown, white, and black doe to move in. The tag around her neck read "Shirley."

"Saints above, who named these creatures?" I asked.

"Wait, Tish, it gets worse."

And it did. The next doe was Tiffany, and still another gloried in die name Kimberly.

"Those two shy ones," Sophie pointed at two multicolored does peering around a rock, "diey're Marsha and Courtney."

"And you're stuck with those names?"

"The Andersons are very pleased with dieir names, and Mrs. Anderson says I mustn't change diem. The goats would be upset."

"What kind are they?"

"A mixture of Alpine andToggenburg. I think she said Harry was a Saanen. Cashmere being my aim, it really doesn't matter what breed they are." Sophie smiled. "Here's Newt."

We didn't hug, but I wouldn't have minded. Newton Cleary was a round, white-haired old man always redolent of the stable smells I loved. We went way back. Newt used to deliver manure to Doug, my long-gone husband, who had cherished his strawberry patch and thought goat-soaked hay was the perfect mulch.

"Hey there, Tish." Newt let loose with a stream of tobacco juice. I gasped. I had forgotten that particular unfortunate habit of his. The horrid brown goop always landed within inches of my foot. "How about this girl of yours with goats? Eh? Fine lookin herd. One thing I can tell you about these goats is diat they ain't going anyplace but inside that fence Hank and I built. If there's one thing I know about, it's about goats, and I'm telling you for a fact they know all about electricity so its no good putting up one of them fences. The big trick with fencin goats is to be darn good and sure there's nothin' diey want on die other side. Curiosity is their middle name."

Newt could talk all day and I loved to listen, but we were interrupted by Sandy's arrival. Sophie's beat-up station wagon drove up beside die gate, and out jumped a slight, deeply tanned young man. The platinum blond crest of hair made by his mohawk cut brought to mind a charioteer, maybe Phaeton, driving into the sun.

He shook his hands boxer-style over his head. "I got him. Here's die champ. C'mon and meet William die Conqueror."

Newt smiled. "They sure are brother and sister." He poked me. "Let's go see what this buck looks like."

Before Sophie opened the back of the station wagon, a canary-yellow convertible skidded to a stop and a cheerful-looking man about my age stood up behind the steering wheel. He looked like a bird of paradise, with lime-green

•'I ->< pants, a coral polo shirt, a yellow golf hat, and those awful

mirror glasses.

I nudged Newt, nodding toward the jaunty newcomer. "Who's he?"

"That's Stu Simpson," he said. 'You know him. They moved up from Boston a few years ago. Has a real big garden, likes chicken, er, manure. But ya know, I'll take horse manure any day—"

I interrupted. "Where do diey live?"

"Just down die road. Got a brook in front of die house."

"Big day," Stuart Simpson said. "Wouldn't have missed it for die world. Everyone's waiting to see your million-dollar billy." He came over and shook Sophie's hand with both of his. "Congratulations, goat lady."

Sophie sent Sandy in search of a plank for William's exit from die wagon. When he came back, Newt stood on one side of die ramp and Sophie stood on die other and raised die gate. With lots of sweet talk and encouragement from all of us, die tired goat ignored our plank and jumped to solid ground and gave a tremendous sigh.

"Skinny," Newt observed. "Smaller than I diought he'd be."

"So would you be," Sophie brisded, "if you'd been in quarantine for five weeks."

Sandy was stroking die goat's back. 'You'll be all right, kid!" He beamed. "The cashmere kid."

Sophie put her arms around die white buck's head and kissed him.

"Hey," Simpson raised his voice, "let's pull ourselves together, fellas. No more necking; let die poor guy get dirough die gate."

Silently we all hung on the fence. I don't know what each of us expected, but William die Conqueror's reception was a non-19

event. The kids stared at him until Tiffany stepped into their view and nudged them aside. The other goats ignored him. Not even Harry gave him a tumble. For his pan, "William stood solidly, looking at everything and nothing.

"He'll be okay," Newt assured Sophie. "They'll give him a hard time for a couple of days—maybe try to keep him away from the water. He'll need a little looking after. But he's a good one." He patted Sophie's shoulder. "Don't worry, girl." He turned to walk uphill toward his house. "I'll look in on things."

Simpson and I had introduced ourselves, and while Sophie had told me how much she liked the neighbors, I was glad to see for myself what a positive warm kind of person he seemed to be—and what widi Newt in his house just uphill from goat heaven it would erase some of my worries about Sophie coping alone on this godforsaken farm.

Simpson started his car. "I'll have some lettuce trimmings tomorrow. They'll be good for the boss buck. I'll bring them

by."

Idly stroking Tiffany's back, Sophie looked over at her new star, William, and I could sense she was disappointed. William looked kind of puny. Sophie then told Sandy, "Cashmere goats don't look all that much different from other goats. It's just the size of their fiber that matters—and how good their yield."

"Their hair?"

"Not the outer hair; it's the soft fleece underneath. William hasn't got any now. You have to comb it out or shear 'em. Oh, Tish," she turned to me, "what manners I have. You haven't really met my brother. I think of course you know him, but you don't."

Sandy had been in Clement Hollow for a few days, but I had been away so we had had no chance to meet.

We shook hands and beamed at each other. I liked him, right away. He had Sophies glowing smile.

"I hope you'll come and see me while Sophie's away," he said. "It's going to be lonely here."

"Lonely!'' Sophie exclaimed. "You should see this incredible animal nut, Tish. He's keeping a fucking bat in his bedroom. Excuse the language, but a bat!"

"He's cute," Sandy said. "He lives in an umbrella. My sisters not too impressed with raccoons, eidier. I don't know what there is about raccoons and me, but they can always find me."

"He feeds them dog food. Tish," Sophie took my arm, "you will come and see Sandy a lot, won't you? I mean really a lot?"

I promised, and promised for Hilary, too. Since I wasn't the main baby sitter, I was happy to help out—and I really did like goats. "You know Hil. He'll want to fatten up your William, to say nothing of your brother here. So don't worry. We'll be around."

Sandy looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. "Can you be ready in half an hour, Soph?"

"You're leaving for Texas today?"

"Yeah, the time has come. God, how I hate to leave William when he just got here. Tish, you will..."

"Shush. I've told you I will. Relax."

"Sandys going to drive me to die bus in Bellows Falls." She ran inside.

"You don't have to worry either, Tish," Sandy said. "I'll be taking good care of the goats. Like I was telling the guys in New York, my sisters getting a $7,000 goat, but dien most of diem have never even seen a goat or even a cow. They think milk

D. VJJMHJKI

comes from the deli."

When Sophie reappeared, she looked smashing in a black gabardine suit and gold earrings Lul u could jump through. Her shoulder-length dark honey hair, usually free, was pulled back and tied with gold yarn. A change from her usual costume of boots, jeans, bulky sweaters, and always her Davy Crockett hat— or, today being warm, cut-offs, a tank top, and a ridiculous pink pith helmet advertising Pepsi-Cola. Hats, as she said, were her thing. They made her seem even taller than her already-tall five-eleven. I hoped my dear young friend wasn't jumping in over her head with so many goats, the wretched house—and brother Sandy. Twenty-five seemed awfully vulnerable from my vantage point.

"I'll stay till you get back, Sandy, so don't tarry." I hugged Sophie. "Don't worry, dear, and have fun."

When they left, I moseyed around the miserable kitchen looking for a tea bag. I wasn't sure I even wanted to boil water in this grungy dump. It wasn't dirty. Sophie had clearly scrubbed surfaces. Boxes of cereal and rice, raisins andTriscuits were aligned, and the cutlery upright in jelly glasses looked dean. But the place required major surgery, make-do wasn't enough.

A beer mug served for my tea and I moved out onto the dinky porch so I could watch the animals while I read Sophies well-thumbed goat manual.

Lulu barked, and I realized she'd been shut in the car too long. She sat on a pillow in my Isuzu Trooper, designed to let her rest her head on the door sill and be a part of the scene. She was barking not at me but at the antics in the barnyard. I stuffed the goat manual in my pocket and ran to open the gate. I could see that Melissa, the dominant doe, was terribly distressed. She pawed the ground and whipped her head up and down in ob-

vious panic. The sounds she made were alarming.

As I approached, I could see her belly was huge. Was she pregnant? Could her swollen belly have escaped my notice earlier?

Kneeling on spongy goat dung with the goat owners' manual in one hand, I rubbed Melissa's bulging belly. Surely Sophie would have told me if she expected one of her goats to give birth while I was in charge. In charge? The manual said human interference in die birthing process was inadvisable, unless you had to pull out a stuck kid, which of course required experience and caution.

Melissa's friends were no help. A piebald billy goat whose cerise neck tag read Number 3, Hairy Harry, started to nibble on my collar. I tried to elbow him away. Number 5,Tifrany, die mother of two spotted kids, tried to shove herself and the litde ones between me and Melissa. I remembered that the manual had stated that the birthing process was eagerly attended by the herd. Puzzled and frightened, it took me a few minutes to notice that a large van had stopped in front of Sophies house. Two men got out. One of them walked toward the gate.

Thank goodness, some help! My 70-year-old knees didn't respond to my unspoken command to rise so I waved and yoo-hooed from between damp flanks and flicking tails. Holding on to Hairy Harrys neck, I managed to haul myself up. Pushing my bifocals higher on my nose, I slowly lowered my waving hand. These weren't friendly faces, not helpful neighbors. Who were these dour men? My first look recorded their threatening stance, one widi his hands in his pockets, his head forward. The other larger man put bodi hands on the gate. "We've come for the goats, lady." He started to open the gate.

"Hey!" Alarmed and angry, I called to them. "Don't come in

here, please. You must have the wrong place. These goats belong to Sophie Beaumont and they aren't going anywhere."

The men turned toward each other, leaning in a brief huddle. With another look at me they got into the van, heavy doors slammed and I could hear the gravel hit my car as they spurted away. Possibly they were frightened of me—a frizzy-haired old lady hanging onto an old goat with one arm and the other around the neck of a frantic bleating nanny. Their visit left my mind in seconds. Melissa needed me. I examined her from above and was troubled to see that the swelling was on one side. I seemed to remember that goats had three stomachs and felt sure a kid would be carried low and in die middle. Then it came to me. Bloat. I'd seen BLOAT at the top of a column in the manual.

My hands were shaking and my glasses kept sliding down my nose. I found the place and managed to read. "Bloating might be caused by a stoppage, possibly foreign matter in the throat." The writer advised diat widi care the object might manually be worked down die diroat into die stomach. Melissa's agitated state was accurately described.

With grim determination, I planted my chest on die back of her neck and wound my arms around her throat. She didn't like it, but I held tight and my right hand ran down her neck. I felt the lump. A cobra swallowing an ostrich egg flashed to mind, although what I felt was more like a fig or kumquat. Stroking it terrified the poor beast, and she twisted and bucked. For a moment I thought I'd be airborne, or at least thrown over her head into the mud. Then, shuddering, she fell to her knees, taking me with her. Gritting my teeth, I kept massaging the lump. I prayed to all the goat deities; probably I was howling or groaning from the pain of my killing position. My

old frame threatened to break apart. My right arm felt severed at the elbow.

Melissa let out a heartrending bleat and I was sure she was going to die. The book had said that was a real possibility. At the same time, her rear end exploded in a burst of excrement, and a torrent of hot urine poured into my boots.

Magic—or divine intervention? Melissa deflated; I ran my hand down her smoodi throat. The lump had vanished. I was crying with relief: Thank you, Pan, or whoever you are, thank you. I didn't see Melissa step on my glasses but I could hear the crunch. Lurching over to die mounting block, I sat down and sagged against die bam door.

I watched Melissa walk offwith one of her friends as though nodiing had happened. Not even a backward glance or a bleat of dianks for her ravaged savior.

Hairy Harry was looking at me right in the eye as diough he wanted me to admire the speed with which he was shredding the goat manual. I wondered if there had been some words of advice about first aid for billy goats who ate books.

Concentrated deep breadiing brought enough oxygen to my bloodstream to give my old anatomy die strength to pull off and empty my boots. I peeled off my disgusting socks. Picking up die smelly diings, I walked gingerly out of the corral. I let an impatient Lulu out of die car and we went into the house.

Poking around Sophies room, I found shoes in a cardboard carton, all too big. She's fond of saying diat while her feet are extremely long, diey are narrow and aristocratic. 1 pulled a pair of her heavy ski socks up to my knees. I looked like an Eskimo, and I probably smelled like one, too. Years ago I read diat Eskimo women rinsed dieir hair in urine to add to their allure on die dance floor. I'd be die belle of die ball.

It took five minutes to find the phone—it was under the bed. Hilary was home and it was a relief to have his sympathetic ear for a rendition of my eventful and exhausting day. He insisted I climb right into the Isuzu and go home. He said he would come over and wait for Sandy. He assured me he'd be angry if I were still there when he came. I knew he meant it.

The road home never looked lovelier.

THREE

Hilary called about dinner time widi the disquieting news diat Sandy had not returned.

"Where are you?" I asked. "Still at the farm?"

"No, I'm home. The goats went into the barn widfout any urging from me. I checked the water and dosed die doors. Turned on a light in the house for Sandy and left him a note."

It made me nervous to diink of die goats diere alone, but you can be sure diat if Sophie were diere she wouldn't be sitting home staring at die barn door.

"Tish, I'm not going to worry about diat brodier of hers tonight, and don't you."

Hilary has diis naive idea diat if he tells me not to worry about somediing I'll instandy stop.

"What's die boy like, anyhow?" he asked.

Maybe Sandy was having trouble with. Sophies old car, or maybe he was bouncing off the wall in some bar or stoned as a statue. I didn't know what to tell Hil except diat Sandy was sweet and sported a pale gold mohawk.

Hilary said he'd go down to the farm first thing in the morning. I said I'd be there early, too. I had plans for Sophies house that required some measurements.

I brushed my teeth die next morning widi die newest Rotor-Rooter-type electric toodibrush. Looking straight at myself in the bathroom mirror under a 25-watt bulb, I looked just fine. To be avoided at all cost was looking at oneself under higher wattage or in other peoples mirrors.Too, seeing ones reflection in a store window could shatter an otherwise jaunty spirit. Oh, what die hell, so I lacked die vanity it required to have my face lifted. Frans Hals would have found me a good model. Not really the florid, soused barmaid look, but a round-faced reasonably cheerful type. I hung some outdated glasses around my neck and made a mental note to call the optometrist. My denim cutoffs were a discreet and not very becoming three inches below the knee. An old T-shirt I pulled on had belonged to Doug, and one could still make out die message: HUBERT HUMPHREY FOR PRESIDENT. In a canvas bag I assembled equipment: a tape measure, sketch pad, pen, tea bags, English muffins, a chunk of Crowley cheese, and some Perrier.

Just in case I staved away for more than a couple of hours, I called Charlie, our postmaster, and asked him to check in on Lulu when he closed for lunch. Out in the shed, I unearthed a half-gallon of interior white paint, a roller and brushes, and my three-step stepladder. I intended to enlist Sandys help for more acrobatic jobs. I wanted Sophie to return home to a fresher, brighter house.

My wresding bout with Melissa the day before had made me especially glad about die gift I had given myself last Christmas: a step, a metal square attached to die place where running boards used to be, to help me climb into my car. In a daily way, it was

no effort for me to get into the high vehicle, but when I was dressed up or when I wore a tight skirt or felt a little arthritic, it was a great help. Today I could have used a forklift.

Goat Heaven was a lovely bucolic sight. The animals were meandering around in the pasture munch ing tender green leaves and posing on rocks. There were no odier cars, no green station wagon, and no sign of Hilary's antique Beede.

Before I could open die door, Hilary drove up beside me. I had to crank down die window and peer over die edge to see his dun-colored litde car. To accommodate Hilarys long legs the back seat had been removed and die drivers seat bolted in its place. He looked as diough he was driving a go<art in an amusement park. Generations of mice had made their home in the Beede. Hil said he was quite sure that after he went to sleep on Saturday nights, the mice took the car out to make whoopee. Despite Lysol and Airwick, it smelled awful. No one would ride with Hilary. The old curmudgeon liked it that way.

"No Sandy?" I asked.

He shook his head and eased out of the Beede.

"Did you let the goats out?"

He nodded his head. Clearly, I didn't have his attention. Preoccupied, he put a grocery bag on top of the car. "Hey—," he walked a few paces down the road and pointed, "there's a car down diere. Looks like an accident."

I caught die alarm in his voice. Out of the car, I jogged to catch up with his long-legged stride. At die top of die hill, we bodi stopped and wordlessly took in die frightening scene. Stuart Simpson's yellow convertible had slid into die ditch. It had to be his can I'd never seen another like it. Hilary and I must have seen die body at the same moment. We both ran.

Simpson was lying on die bank His shirt was ripped down

the fix>nt, showing the white hair on his tan chest. Both arms were crossed over his eyes.

Kneeling beside him, Hilary took hold of his wrists and raised them gendy. "Good God, it «Stu."

His face was covered with blood. If he weren't lying beside the yellow car I wouldn't have recognized him.

"Go call the rescue squad, Tish. Hurry." Hilary bent his head to Simpson's chest. "I think he's gone, but hurry anyhow."

"I'll call the state police, too," I said. While everyone knew that was proper procedure in any vehicular accident, that wasn't why I thought of it. Up on the bank a few feet from Simpson's body, I'd seen a golf dub. Its metal head was bloody.

The rescue squad assured me they'd arrive in about 20 minutes. I told the policewoman I spoke to about the blood on the golf club, and she pleaded with me not to touch anything and to avoid walking around the scene. She drought an officer could be there within three-quarters of an hour, and she said she would notify the homicide squad.

That word—homicide—really hit me, and I hurried back outside and decided to take the car, even diough die scene of the accident was less than 200 yards away. My knees were shaky, and I knew I couldn't possibly run up that hill again, but mainly I had Stuart Simpson's wife on my mind. I didn't know her, but since Sophie referred to "die Simpsons," I assumed diere was a wife.

Hilary was dealing with two different cars whose drivers had stopped and were eager to help. I passed on die official message, warning Hilary not to tramp around. His big feet had probably already erased whatever secrets die roadside growdi had held.

"I didn't know you knew Simpson." I didn't wait for a reply. "What's his wife's name?"

1 HE V^AMIMtKt 1NJU

"Don't remember. Knew him years ago. Tell you more later."

One car departed and a pickup stopped. It was my plumber, Bob Dirkson. He held both sides of his face. "Jesus, Letitia— what happened? Someone push him off the road?"

"Don't ask. Awful, isn't it? Move a little, will you? I've got to go tell Mrs. Simpson."

"Yeah, of course. I just been there."

The Simpsons' mailbox was another few hundred yards down the road. A manicured facade was becoming a familiar sight in Vermont. A designed wooden bridge over a picturesque brook and a lawn mowed to die very edge of die handsome stone wall spelled money. Money, or people with time on dieir hands dedicated to diat kind of landscape. Possibly that was sour grapes. Doug used to go after our grass like Nebuchadnezzar, but my touch out of doors leaned toward the shaggy. The Simpsons' typical New England farmhouse had those lovely proportions that were impossible to imitate. Age and background made die difference, and it was evident in their house. Even as I admired it, I winced at their choice of dental pink clapboards with cream trim.

My eyes shifted beyond die house to a covered swimming pool and a cluster of outdoor furniture. A plump woman in shorts was pruning a shrub. She turned to look in my direction and disappeared into die house.

Minutes later when I knocked, she greeted me dirough die screen door widi a "hello" and raised eyebrows.

Introducing myself, I asked to speak to Mrs. Simpson.

"Yes, of course." She opened die door, stepping aside to let me in. "I'm Grace Simpson."

I introduced myself as Sophie Beaumont's aunt.

"Come in." Opening die door, she stepped aside as I walked

into the hall. The woman seemed too young to be Simpsons wife. I thought possibly she was his daughter, as her round face was reminiscent of her fathers, but she lacked his cheerful expression. Her eyes were too close togedier and her moudi too petulant to be attractive. Possibly she had once been described as pretty, and her pudgy figure might have been viewed as cute. I placed her age in the late diirties. Too young to go to pot.

Those were thoughts diat fit into two seconds. My compassion was truly aroused by diis woman, and I knew my news would be shattering. I felt she was someone, as the song goes, who needs someone—and she had to run out of luck.

"There's been a terrible accid—," I could say no more. She took hold of my upper arms and pushed me back onto an upholstered bench. Her nose within inches of mine, she spoke on a long exhalation. "Has something happened to my husband?"

Her husband! "Are you? Yes, his cars down die road. Toward Sophies." I must have sounded senile.

Mrs. Simpson darted by me like a shot. I rose to see her running down the driveway.

Oh, Lord. I hadn't prepared her for the awful truth. I consoled myself that it probably wouldn't have helped anyhow. I resisted a temptation to go lie down on the long sofa I could see in the living room.

The day was taking its toll. My watch told me that from die minute Hil had seen die car until now had taken less dian half an hour. It was only nine o'clock.

I didn't know how much time elapsed before I roused myself and climbed into the car. I could hear the rescue squad ambulance coming from the odier direction.

The lonely tragic scene of Stu Simpsons death had been transformed into a traffic jam. The back of the ambulance was open,

and I recognized one of the two rescuers who were slipping into the ditch with a stretcher. Carol Zimmer must have been created by a benevolent god to take care of emergencies. She was a part-time postal clerk, a substitute teacher, a star of the ski patrol, and a volunteer for every good cause. She knelt widi her arm around Grace Simpson, and with Hil's help moved her away from her husbands still body.

I stood out of the way, near the ambulance, and talked to a uniformed state policeman who was directing traffic

"When will the homicide van be here?" I remembered the van from anodier occasion. It was a very complete and efficient laboratory run by knowledgeable technicians.

"Soon, I hope. Doesn't look too good."

I knew what he meant. In spite of another officer down in the ditch, people were bustling around. How could there by any pristine evidence left? I could see the side of the convertible from where I stood. The door panel was dented. It didn't look deep, but obviously the car was hit with enough force to push it off the road. Flat terrain instead of the deep ditch might have spared Simpson's life. Maybe.

A quick two-step got me out of Carols way. Deftly, the covered body was rolled into the ambulance.

"I'm going with him. I insist." Grace Simpson elbowed me away and climbed into the back of the ambulance.

Carol smiled ruefully at me and shrugged. "A tough one."

"Where are you taking him?" I asked.

"Springfield." Carol got in widi Grace, and die driver dosed the door.

Hil took my arm. "Let's get out of here." We drove back to Sophie's, and neither of us spoke until I brought in tea and muffins.

Hil was sitting in a butt-sprung lounge chair, his chin on his chest, eyes closed. His usually ruddy complexion was gray, and the vitality he usually exuded was missing. Even his white hair looked thinner and wispy.

"You knew Simpson?" I asked.

He nodded. Straightening up, he reached for the hot tea. "Years ago, he ran Gridlock Press in Boston. We used to do business. Don't you know them? I've seen him around here, too. Cocktail panics, downtown, around. Spends all his time on the golf course, so I don't see him all that much."

"Golfers don't drive around widi golf clubs in the car. They usually keep them where they play. At Ekwanok, I guess."

"True. But I had time to look over the car while you were telephoning. The dubs were in a canvas bag—the kind you might take to play someplace else. But who cares.. .diere they were, and someone killed die poor guy."

"Who would do such a horrible thing?" I didn't expect an answer. "Poor Grace Simpson. She certainly took my breadi away. I thought she was his daughter."

"Yeah. I don't know when he married her. A couple of years ago, I guess. Quite a dish, isn't she?"

"A dish!" I restrained myself from hitting Hilary with a vocal broadside demeaning both his eyesight and his sanity. I drank the rest of my tea. "How is she going to get home from die hospital? Should I go? Should we do something? Are diere children?"

"Don't know. I'm trying to diink who their friends are."

"Lawyer? Doctor?" I suggested.

Widi my word "lawyer," Hil was reminded diat he'd seen die Simpsons more dian once at die Pells' house. Zachary Pell was a popular local attorney. Hilary disappeared into die bedroom to call him.

FOUR

Still at Sophies house we had a long session with Lieutenant Zuccarelli, a middle-aged, soft-spoken man who paused so long between sentences that a couple of times I got up to leave but was stopped by his gentle smile and a wave of his hand.

He hadn't seen the body himself, but held Polaroid pictures taken by the first official arrivals. We were no help. We had nothing to add to the obvious, and we hadn't had enough time to generate any opinions. Not that our ideas would have interested the painstaking officer.

I had a feeling his thick black eyebrows were attached to his glasses, and if he removed them his pale face might fade into the mist.

Half an hour later Lieutenant Zuccarelli backed politely out of the door. Zachary Pell called to say his wife had gone to Springfield Hospital and would see to it that Grace Simpson got home.

There was nothing left to do. When I looked down at my ragged cut-offs I could hardly remember why I had worn them. It seemed a lifetime ago.

"Lets go, Tish," Hilary said. "You look dead and I'm a basket case." Outside, the goats furnished a lovely vision of pastoral serenity, chewing and scratching, and the kids playing ring around a rosy.

Hil went into the bam to make sure the hay was plentiful and die water trough was full. Hairy Harry's ardor had cooled a little since yesterday, but men I looked pretty terrible. He let me scratch his neck.

"Where is the million-dollar lover?" Hil asked.

"I don't see him. He's probably behind those rocks in the pasture."

We weren't really in a bucolic paradise. We could hear cars moving and people calling to each other. I heard the grinding noise of die wrecking truck probably pulling the once-dashing convertible out of die ditch.

"Hey, seriously, Tish. Where is the damn goat? What's his name? How about Van Goat? I'm going to snatch his ears offif he's hiding. We don't need this."

My intense sense of fear had a physical manifestation. I raised my hand to my throat and felt the surge of blood caused by panic. "Oh no. William!" I yelled. "Where are you?"

Hilary reasonably suggested that I walk along one side of die pasture fence to look for possible holes and he'd walk the other stretch.

The county agent had recommended to Sophie diat a seven-foot fence was preferred for a goat enclosure, and that's what Newt and his nephew had built. Newt said a goat could jump over a five-foot fence and a six-foot fence—but a seven-foot fence, no way.

I didn't know whether goats dug holes die way dogs do, to get under a fence. In any event, I didn't see any holes—nor any

other breach or gap. Nor did I see William die Conqueror.

Hilarys lace told me he'd had die same experience.

"I can't stand it," I wailed. "I just can't stand it if something has happened to Sophies goat."

"I'll check out die barn again," said Hilary, striding ahead. "Damn goats. Why did she have to get goats?"

Prickly brush had scratched my legs, and I was dose to tears.

Hilary reached die bam before I did and he reappeared in die door, his open hands empty.

Of course I trusted him, but I had to go inside and look into the corners and even foolishly up in die loft. William was gone. There was no plausible explanation. He had somehow escaped or been removed. A protective mechanism wouldn't let me say "stolen."

Inside Sophie's house, feeling wobbly, I lay down on the gruesome avocado carpet and tried to slow down my heartbeat and regain my composure. Deep breathing. It helped some, but die essence of deep relaxation is a passive mind. Mine wasn't.

Hilary resumed his former pose in the overstuffed chair. "What die hell could have happened to him!"

I sat up. "Maybe diose men stole him."

"What men?"

"Didn't I tell you? About die men who came up in a van yesterday and said diey'd come for die goats?"

"No, damn it, you didn't tell me. What did diey say?"

"Just that diey'd come for die goats. I said something like, 'You have die wrong place. Please go away.' And diey left."

"That's all they said?"

"Listen, Hilary. Melissa was about to die. I was on my hands and knees in a foot of muck. I'm idling you what I remember, and diat s all I remember."

We were both silent for a few minutes. Hilary made a steeple ofhis fingers. "I wonder if we are thinking the same thing, Letitia. I can see it. Those men probably took die goat. They probably had heard that damn Van Goat was worth a lot of money. Stu came along and saw them and made a scene. He's a scrappy type. They shove him off the road. Maybe he attacks them with the golf club. They grab it and hit him. What do you think?"

I managed a wan smile. "Will you call Zuccarelli or shall I?"

It was a great relief to hear that Zuccarelli wasn't available. I needed a respite and was eager to get home. There wasn't any part of my anatomy, including the contents of my head, that didn't ache.

When I arrived, Charlie was on the front porch just leaving the house. Thank you and goodbye was all I wanted to say to him, but it was undiinkable—even unforgivable—not to tell him the sad news about Stuart Simpson and about William's disappearance. Charlie knew everyone for miles around, and he liked to receive, digest, and disseminate information. Millie Santini, our librarian, with her usual tact and generosity described Charlie as a news gatherer.

"Is Sophie okay?" Charlie had been the first person to tell Loftonites about Sophie when she arrived last year, and as well as being smitten, he was very possessive about her.

I filled him in on her trip to San Angelo.

"Gosh—that expensive goat missing." He probably knew exactly what William had cost, plus his entire background. Charlie shook his head and massaged what Sophie called his Mickey Mouse ears. "It's one darn shame, that's what it is."

"Who would steal a goat, Charlie?"

"Dunno. Lots of people are raising goats in Vermont now. I'll think about it."

Good reliable Charlie. I squeezed his arm with what was possibly my last ounce of strength.

Flat on my back on my well padded oriental carpet, I gave in to gravity, and finally to sleep.

Lulu walked across my stomach and brought me back to reality. Refreshed, thank goodness. There was work to do. I inched along the floor and reached die telephone. Putting it on my chest, I dialed Libby Lupin. Libby was the doyenne of goat breeders, and her farm in Dorset was where you went to learn how it was done.

When you called Libby—if she answered at all—you were usually greeted by the bleat of some kid in her arms. It sounded more like a moo today. "That you, Libby?"

"Stan talking."

I laughed. "Gee, I'm overcome. What a gracious greeting."

"I'm in a hurry. What's up, honey?"

I told her about the disappearance, and I wont repeat her barnyard expletives.

"What's the buck's name?"

"His registered name is William the Conqueror, but as Hilary says he's a victim and he's named him Van Goat."

"I've heard about him. What a great creature. What a great name. If he belonged to me I'd call him Van Gloat."

"What I want, Lib, are names. Or a list of goat people around here, or goat breeder associations."

"Hold it. Though I can promise you no goat breeder would steal a goat." She left die phone and left me with some large-nostriled beast breathing into the receiver. "This won't help, you know," she said. "There are a couple of million people who have one or two goats, at least half of whom might be mote or less insane."

I used my own kind of shorthand to write down the names she did give me. She promised to call if she had any ideas.

Pulling over the phone book, I started at die top of Libby's list. While none of the people I was able to reach knew Sophie, Libby's name was magic. I begged them to call either Hilary or me with even the tiniest wisp of news or a fleeting thought.

Charlie barged in through die screen door and was greeted effusively by Lulu. He was used to seeing me on die floor. "Here." He handed me down a piece of paper. "All die names I could think of, Letitia."

Wonderful Charlie. He genuinely loved to share.

He left and, next, Hilary blew in carrying a bag of groceries. I had suggested diat when die time came, such a bag be placed beside him in his coffin to enforce diat natural look morticians strive for. He walked right past me. "Dinner," he said, and strode into die kitchen. He stowed die groceries noisily. A superb cook, Hilary would never be accepted as a chef for invalids or sensitive musicians. He made a terrible racket in die pursuit of his muse.

One minute later, Zuccarelli pressed his nose on die screen door. Hilary let him in while I rolled to my feet and ran my fingers dirough my hair. Still in my awful costume, I decided to let Hil cope widi Zuccarelli while I made a quick change. Shordy, I returned wearing espadrilles, a denim skirt, and a white cotton turdeneck which made me feel a litde less like grandma about to feed the piglets.

Hilary was describing his activities of die day before: "The buck was in the barn last night, diat I know. But diis morning I just opened die barn door and a couple of goats walked by me. It never occurred to me to look at or count each animal. I walked away, got in die car, and went to Londonderry to get

something. You know the rest. Letitia, I didn't know he was missing till after we'd talked to you at Sophies house."

Zuccarelli made me glad I'd changed. He examined me slowly from head to toe. "Mr. Oats mentioned some men you saw yesterday before the incident."

He nodded during my brief recitation, dien quizzed me at length. "Are you positive you couldn't identify either of those men?"

"Possibly the one who came to the gate. But only in the same light and the same clothes. His hair was light and, I think, thin. He had stubble on his chin, or maybe it was a pale beard, I don't know. His face was full—I mean, as opposed to gaunt. That's all. Oh, and their clodies were alike—dark work clodies." I was equally hopeless in describing die van which I remembered as dark and dusty, and if diere was any print or logo on die side, it didn't register.

Hilary wanted to know what hope Zuccarelli had of finding die men.

"There were dues. Not many, but diere are always clues." The lieutenant made a steeple of his fingers. My lord, two tent makers. I resisted die urge to join them.

"What are they?" I asked. "Aside from what the dent in the car tells you and the golf club? And what about diat club? I hope diey'll test die head for two kinds of blood. Hilary, I diink Stuart Simpson might have struck first."

A less gende soul wouldn't have smiled so sweedy at my gratuitous observations.

"You might be interested, Mrs. McWhinny, in die fact diat an almost empty pint of vodka was found under die victim's car." Lieutenant Zuccarelli was speaking a litde faster now, I guess to forestall comments from me. "Mrs. Simpson has as-

sured me that its unlikely that it belonged to her husband."

"So maybe they were drunk. But drunk or not, why steal a goat?" Hilary hit the chair arm. "Why murder someone over a goat? It's insane."

"The insane can be quite unexpected, Mr. Oats. However, I have a reeling there's more to the homicide than now appears,"

To all our further questions, Lieutenant Zuccarelli said, "We'll see, we'll see." Except for my last question: "Please let us know about die blood tests, Lieutenant. And I want to know about the prints on die vodka botde. It will be such a help in trying to find out what happened."

Rising, he shook his head and waggled a pale clean index finger at me. "Leave this matter to us. 'Fools rush in,' you know. This is not a case of vehicular homicide, Mrs. McWhinny. What we have here is murder."

FIVE

Frequently Hilary bought pasta in sheets from the Pasta Pot in Manchester, which let his imagination have free rein creating exotic shapes. He provided epicurean dinners for us a couple of times a week and it was a pleasure for me because, while I enjoyed cooking, I was satisfied widi a bowl of vegetables. Fortunately my freezer in the cellar hid some of the low-calorie frozen food I thought was delicious. The mere sight of a frozen meal made Hilary apoplectic and he'd force me to listen to his vituperative pronunciation of each ingredient listed on the box.

Tonight we ate a favorite of mine, doughnut-sized turnovers filled with buttery vegetables and Parmesan cheese. The salad was watercress and endive with sun-dried tomatoes.

A couple of drinks and a meal like that should lift anyone's spirits, but I failed to be transported by Hilary's culinary wizardry. He looked drawn and was unusually quiet.

"Because of the green paint," Hilary said, "it could have been Sandy, you know."

"Green paint?" What are you talking about?"

"I guess you were upstairs. Zuccarelli said there was green paint on Stu's car where it got sideswiped—and Sophies station wagon is green."

I pushed away from the table and stood by the window and didn't even see the apple blossoms. "Did you tell him about Sandy?"

"Yep. Not much to tell, but he wrote it all down. Where the hell is that kid? I don't trust him. Do you, really?"

"Oh, I don't know. I want to. I confess I'd forgotten about him, too. And die goats, Hil, did you put them in the barn?"

Hilary said he'd forgotten about the goats, too, and he quite correcdy advised me not to get my busde in an uproar—an ancient expression I especially disliked. However, he caught my sense of urgency.

"Lets take your car," Hilary said, already heading for the door. Usually that was a joke. The Beede could barely make it to Manchester and back. But we weren't laughing when we piled into die Isuzu. Hilary, whose night vision is better dian mine, had die engine going before I closed my door.

We tore dirough die deepening dusk, diat rotten driving time when it is a toss up whedier die headlights help or hinder. I hoped die deer weren't planning to migrate from one side of die road to die odier. We couldn't have stopped.

Dusk left Sophies house in shadow, and die last glimmer of daylight made die barn look cozy and inviting. Hil wresded widi the gate, and I ran across the bare turf. The day's terrible events must have influenced my expectation. I felt sure die barn would be empty. Then Hil laughed. "You had me worried.Tish. Look at 'em."

Sophie's herd, minus Van Goat, was all diere. Tiffany was lying in a corner with die kids, and die odiers were lying down

or pulling hay out of the overhead rack. Harry was scratching his neck on the side of a stall. Melissa wandered over and tugged my flannel shirttail. I scratched the space between her horns. Hilary leaned over to stroke the velvet coat of one of the kids.

"Maybe we should stay here, Hil. Overnight. It makes me sick to diink of those rusders, those murderers, in here singling out Sophies pride and joy. Suppose next diey fancy Courtney, or the kids, or Marsha here?" She wanted to be scratched, too. "I couldn't bear it."

Hilary told me I was silly and that under no circumstances was he going to spend the night in Sophies house. "Widi bats and raccoons? Not a chance."

"You could sleep in Sophies room. It's Sandy who has the zoo."

"On a futon? Me? Forget it."

"What's to keep someone from stealing Melissa or Courtney or the kids?"

"These goats aren't valuable. Someone knew Van Goat was worth a lot of money. Maybe not a lot of money to city people, but a helluva lot to a former."

Reluctandy I pulled die barn door shut, and we drove home in glum silence. Poor Hil was exhausted but insisted on driving me home, saying the walk back to his house would be good for him.

I watched him walk away into die darkness. Hilarys military posture and springy gait made it hard to think of him as old, but of course he was. Tonight his shoulders sagged. Even stalwarts many years his junior would have considered a murder and a kidnapping more than enough for one day.

Hilary had lived in Lofton almost as long as I had. I never knew his wife, Alice. She died while they lived in Rudand where

Hilary ran Alpha Press, an offset printing house that specialized in scholastic books.

I thought Hilary, like a drake, had given his whole being to Alice, his swan, and it was inconceivable for him to think of any other woman as his partner—though it was not a matter I could imagine him discussing with me or anyone else. Maybe I was romanticizing. Maybe he just loved the gustatory joys of life and a good reading light and no interference.

The antics of merry widows, calculated to catch his total attention, failed, and he also rejected dieir efforts to con him into playing ye olde faithful escort. All wonderful women, he'd said, but he couldn't stand all the chattering at parties.

His own parties were a different story. Hilary loved to ply his guests with drink and create for them epicurean extravaganzas. He tore around his kitchen like the chef in a Bizet opera— crockery clanking, kettles whistling and pans sizzling, some in flames. He operated on the brink of gastronomic catastrophe, which I think added die special ingredient that made his meals so memorable.

Hilary was easy to describe. He looked like central casting's model for die craggy, sometimes crabby major general. He'd grown a snappy litde beard during the winter and couldn't keep his hands offdie thing. Sophie suggested diat his constant tugging of die salt and pepper outcropping was going to make him look just like Van Goat.

Hilary had a mixed picture of how I looked or, I should say, whom I resembled.The comparisons he made usually provoked a reaction. When he tried to butter me up he'd say I looked like Kadiarine Hepburn.

"I do not," I snarled. 'You mean Kadiarine Hepburn looks like me."

Then he might try Wendy Hiller. ("Wendy who?" Sophie asked.) But I thought she was too severe. I figured my face probably reflected my character. I thought that I came across like the familiar smile in a circle or maybe the winner in a bake-off. Once, however, describing myself as smiling and amiable, I caught Hil rolling his eyes at Sophie.

We became friends when we worked together on a community booklet describing the natural wonders of Lofton, and there were many, the mountains, the trout streams, and our maze of dirt roads with a rewarding sight around every bend.

The tiny village itself was pristine. Blessed by the embrace of the National Forest, there was little room left for eager homesteaders or developers. I don't believe any house in Lofton had ever been built on speculation.

We natives like it that way. Me, a native! Newton Cleary would laugh at die diought. A displaced New Yorker was more like it. Twenty-five years in residence made me an old-timer but certainly not a native.

A few years ago I'd sort of fallen for someone's handsome houseguest who seemed to have a gleam in his eye. Before I realized it was an optical condition we had fallen into an affair—an affair that raised some eyebrows in town. Fortunately, Hilary was away for most of my dalliance. When he did come home his cool disapproval was very painful for me. Somehow he managed not to acknowledge Chester's existence. We never talked about it, then or now.

My ardor faded in a matter of weeks. We had litde in common and I hadn't realized since Doug died how much I had come to cherish my privacy, and, gregarious soul diough I am, I was desperate to regain that particular blessing.

Chester became restless, too. I think he was eager to get back

to his own home and to his favorite occupation, which was polishing his antique Mercedes.

In spite of the pleasure of having a warm body where and when you want it, I was bored. I had always thought diat to be bored was a confession of one's lack of imagination, but I realized it was real. It exists, and—thank goodness—can be terminated by positive action.

I vowed when the brief alliance was over that there would be no more romantic entanglements. It was ridiculous, a woman my age. At least that was how a neighbor described it. Of course, I didn't feel old. But I came to share die feeling of an old friend who had lost her husband, to whom I had remarked diat I thought she would probably marry again. "Never," she said. "I can't bear the diought of someone new exploring me."

My mind was not on cleaning up the kitchen. I could tell when I caught myself putting my squat Steuben candle holder in the refrigerator.

A companion was what I needed for the idea that was taking shape in my mind. But who did I know with a sense of adventure who was also a damn fool? Well, perhaps quite a few people—but none I wanted to spend die night with.

Hilary's reluctance to spend die night in Sophie's house was easy to understand. I felt the same way. But die barn—that was different.

As a child in my grandfathers house in Nyack, we were allowed to play in die bam. It was heaven. The greatest sport and the one requiring the most skill was to squirt milk direcdy from the cow's teat into a kittens mouth. There were always litters of spooky litde cross-eyed kittens.The gende old Swiss cow didn't seem to mind our antics. The kittens didn't have much choice, but we convinced ourselves diat they enjoyed it. We diought it

was hilarious. One night my cousins and I were allowed to spend the entire night in the barn. We had a glorious time leaping around the hayloft, climbing into stalls, and playing hide and seek ad nauseum.

Mr. Kennedy, Grandpas grumpy farmer, took care of Jennie and die horse George, who pulled die plow and die lawn mowers. The next morning he herded us into Grandpas presence at die breakfast table, grumbling about the condition of die barn. Grandpa, pouring Jennies cream on his oatmeal, wasn't really angry, but I vaguely remember we had to put in hours cleaning up die bam.

These happy memories went through my head while I prepared for my mission. I chose doming dm would resist prickly hay. I put a new battery in my large flashlight, and I felt like a dramatic old fool when I took Doug's .22 target pistol out of die bedside table. You never can tell, I reasoned. A coyote might storm die place, or a hungry fox. I had to smile at die improbable thought of me shooting any creature diat looked like a dog. Sophie, a sharp-shooter herself, had cleaned die gun not long before, and it was loaded. The hand-tooled leather holster made it simple to carry and made me feel like Ethel Merman in Annie Get Your Gun. Writing a note made me feel even sillier. But, believe it or not, I considered myself to be dioughtful and cautious and didn't want Hil or Charlie to be alarmed if diey blew in early in the morning and found Lulu, but not me.

Oncoming headlights were what made driving at night difficult for me, and diere were none on the dirt road between Lofton and Clement Hollow. The few houses along die way were dimly lit. The flicker of a television brightened one of diem, and a barking dog in front of anodier house noted my passage.

I began to wish I'd brought Lulu. As for as I knew, she'd never even successfully killed a flea, but she was good company. The vision of me carrying her up die perpendicular loft ladder is what made me resist. The ceiling light Hilary had left on in Sophie's kitchen added to the houses unloved appearance.

Craftily I drove around to the back of the barn, parked the car, and came through the narrow gate that let the goats in and out of the barnyard to the pasture. The animals were all lying down. If there was a light in the barn I couldn't find it. I turned the flashlight beam on myself so the animals could see their caller. They left it up to Hairy Harry to check me out. He rose to his knees, then all the way up, and walked over to sniff my holster. He stepped on my toe and butted me in the stomach. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to his hay-strewn bed.

I couldn't climb the ladder and hold my flashlight on at the same time. So I put it in my knapsack and, looking around, I memorized the barn's interior and took a good look at the ladder. Hey, Grandpa, here I come again—back in die loft. I grinned in die dark and felt the security of my knapsack bumping my back as I ascended. On hands and knees I made my way over to an end wall. I liked die idea of having somediing solid in the sea of sweet-smelling dry grass. My featherweight poncho popped out of its sandwich-sized bag. Still grinning, I spread it over the hay and then lay on my back and, clutching my shins, rolled back and forth to make a nest. What happened immediately after that, only Morpheus knows.

Probably it was the rumble of thunder diat awakened me. It took a few minutes to figure out where in die world I was. Wiggling my toes and fingers, I sent a message to my old motor diat I was about to take some action. It was black as a witch's tent. No

light, no hint of dawn showed between cracks in the old timbers. With my thumb about to press the flashlight button, I drew in my breath. The animals were moving down below. There were low sounds of ruminating and scratching, a hoof scuffing on the wooden floor—but there was something else. Small grunts and squeaks made me know I wasn't alone in the loft. A rustling and movement near my foot made me twist around, and on all fours arch like a cat. Mice, perhaps. Squirrels? I tried to remember if I'd ever heard of snakes living in a hay loft. Squeaking snakes? No. Then I heard and felt the unmistakable presence of a bat—a sound like a tiny wave on the beach. An undine, accompanied by a feather touch of moving air,

A deeper noise nearby made me rather hysterically think of bears. Did they ever hibernate between the bales of hay that might not be used until spring? Still reluctant to turn on the flashlight, I crawled cautiously toward the loft's edge. I stifled a scream when my hand touched warm flesh.

At die same moment, a voice inches away urgendy pleaded: "Don't stop, oh don't stop, sweetheart. Don't. Don't stop."

Astonished, I rolled away from the lovers, fervendy hoping Sweetheart could keep up his efforts a little longer so I could reach die ladder. I felt a momentary flash of gratitude that it wasn't my bare bottom bouncing on the brambly hay. I was breathing as hard as Sweetheart by die time my hand dosed around the vertical post that supported die ladder.

Slithering around like a seal, I started down the first few steps when Sweetheart's partner let out a whoop. At die same time, Zeus added to dieir orgasmic pleasure widi a resounding clap of thunder.

"Kansas, oh Kansas," Sweetheart's low voice murmured over and over.

Kansas! What is the younger generation coming to! Geography at a time like this?

Safely on the floor, I moved toward the goats. Their white forms looked unearthly as they milled around in the darkness. With my hand on Melissa's neck, I whispered, "Quiet" in her ear. Another crash of thunder came, this time farther away. Melissa sighed and settled down in a corner. The others followed her example. The lovers were quiet.

I tiptoed to the narrow door beside the sliding barn door and was relieved at its silent hinges. Slipping into the rainy night, I resolved to keep this nonsensical episode to myself. It was a litde late to be reliving my youth in Grandpas barn. And what in the world had I expected to find—a repentant goat thief returning Van Goat? Or a busy rustler luring Melissa or Hairy Harry away? Ridiculous. Hilary would be merciless. It was easy to imagine his reference to an addlepated old Nancy Drew.

The light was out in Sophie's house and I could barely make out the station wagon parked by the corral.

Six

It was a huge relief that Hil was going to be in Boston all day— possibly overnight—because my inadvertent voyeurism made such a runny tale. I hadn't seen a thing, so eavesdropping was a better description. 1 thanked my lucky stars that my intimate proximity, even touching one of the lovers, hadn't involved me in an orgy for three.

A lot of heterosexual kids, I gathered, were dangerously opti-misticabout avoiding AIDS. Sometimes I worried about Sophie's breezy ways, which was silly since she appeared to have been endowed with good sense. But it seemed like a poor time for spontaneous sex in die hay. It was easier in my day; safe sex meant when your parents weren't home.

It was also a relief that Sandy was back. Maybe his partner had rejected Sophie's house as a love nest and that's die reason they chose the loft; or perhaps now that he was back Sandy intended to keep in close contact with the livestock. In any event, I was so glad he'd returned I couldn't even work up much curiosity about what took him so long.

It was pleasanter to think about romping lovers than to turn to the reality of Stu Simpsons death. The use of cold steel and mindless violence in place of words was terrifying. The word murder turned my mind off. Murder was for Lieutenant Zuccarelli and the homicide squad. My efforts, I felt, would be better spent rinding Van Goat.

Hilary was convinced that Stu's murderer was also the goat's kidnapper. I wasn't so sure. "Think goat." I must have said it out loud because Lulu cocked her head and frowned. Given his strenuous late evening, 1 put off calling Sandy until after breakfast and made a trip with Lulu across the street to the store.

Our appealing country store was Lofton's pantry. For most people a daily visit to the post office included a stop at the store to pick up the paper and buy everything from Brie to salami or Pampers. The news truck was late this morning and there were close to a dozen neighbors gathered. The greeting I was accorded would have been appropriate for Connie Chung or Diane Sawyer.

Millie ushered me inside the store and sat me in the old captains chair, a rickety object in front of the pot-bellied stove, held together with wire and turnbuckles.

"Now," Millie said, "start at the beginning." My recitation to a rapt audience was followed by expressions of sorrow and incredulity, then by many piercing questions.

I avoided any mention of green paint or hayloft copulation, and I tried to minimize Sandys role as Sophies brother and goat sitter and even lied when asked where he had been at the time of the murder. A question I hated to ask myself.

The proprietor of the store handed me a mug of cofree and raised his eyebrows. "Milk?"

Harding Marsh gained points by his thoughtfulness. As the

new owner of the store, he had enormous shoes to fill. The previous owners had been loved by all of us and the town still mourned their departure.

Urbanites often keep their sanity in the city with the dream of running a country store. A pretty town, friendly people, gorgeous scenery, dean air, children in die local school, no locked doors, and possibly enough profit to take a winter vacation. But each new owner has learned die hard way that its a very demanding life. And you do have to lock the doors, if you aren't too tired to turn the key come evening.

We all hoped it would work out for Harding Marsh even though he was an unlikely love object. The bland proprietor was quiet, polite, and efficient. His interests or passions were well hidden; he was a model of mediocrity. About 50 years old and of medium height, Harding wore cartoon-sized tinted glasses that hid the top of his face and most of his nose. The glasses also emphasized his tiny smile and pointed chin. If his goatee was created for cosmetic reasons, it failed. That sparse-type growth used to be described by my mother as a "feebly," as in: he has a feebly on his upper lip. The well-mannered remoteness of the new proprietor suited a community that wasn't yet ready to offer their hearts.

Millies daughter who worked in the store had nothing to add to the general assessment of Harding. There was nothing better or worse said of him than her pronouncement: "He's okay." She also reported that soon Harding's daughter was expected to come help her father.

I missed Bev and Buzz so much it wasn't any pleasure for me to go to the store anymore. Okay though he was, Harding was not a drawing card. Hilary felt the same way. "How can you like a man," he said, "who can't get excited about the weather?"

When I did call Sandy there was no answer. I thumbed through the phone book and put my ringer on Simpson. If I called Grace Simpson, would it mean anything to her—or would I just be giving myself a litde pat on die back? Newt said they'd lived here for quite a few years. I felt sure their friends would be more helpful than I—and also there was that unfortunate resentment toward strangers bearing bad news. I'd give Grace more time to regain her composure.

When I drove up to the gate by Sophies barnyard I was gratified to see all the goats, but a litde perplexed by the sight of two men. It took a minute to recognize Sandy because he was wearing Sophies pith helmet. The odier man was Mike Flynn. They bodi came over to greet me.

Sandy said, "This guys been telling me—Mike, is it?—he's been telling me about the awful stuff that's been happening."

"Hello, Mike," I said. "How did you hear about it all?"

"The papers, ma'am. It's all in the papers. I was nearby. I came up to see if I could help. Have you told Sophie?"

Hilary and I had discussed that question at length and had agreed we would wait until the day before she was to return. We planned to call her in Tulsa to prepare her for die shock. I explained this to Mike and told him we really didn't need his help unless, of course, he could find Sophie's billy goat. I walked toward the barn hoping he would regard my action as dismissal. I wanted to talk to Sandy alone.

It appeared to work because in seconds Sandy came bounding into the barn.

"You were here, Mike tells me. What happened? How could they have stolen that great goat? God, how are we going to tell Sophie? We gotta find him, Tish. I mean, like, right away."

"I agree, Sandy, but I don't know where to start."

"I do," he said. "Let's go to farms where they have goats and see if maybe they have a new one, like William."

"Oh, Sandy dear, I don't diink it would work. If someone has taken Van Goat, diey're surely not going to tell anyone about it."

"Van Goat!"

"Hilarys name for him."

"So. You've got a better idea? Lets try it. We can't just moan and, like, stand here."

Sandy was right; hopeless as his idea sounded I agreed diat doing something—anything—was better than nothing. "But first," I said, "you owe Sophie an explanation foryour behavior, and in her absence I'd like you to tell me. Had you been here, maybe Van Goat wouldn't have been stolen." Too bad to lay such a load of guilt on the elfin young man, but he'd have to answer some harsh questions when Sophie got home. I thought he might as well start with me. "Well?"

"Well, you see...." Removing the pith helmet, he avoided my eyes by lowering his head, I felt as though I should wave a wand over his bright crest of hair and grant him some sort of junior knighthood—or better still, perhaps imprison him in the tower. "Well, you see, this guy in Boston—"

"What were you doing in Boston? Why didn't you come right back from Bellows Falls?"

"We missed the bus, didn't you know? So I drove Soph to Logan Airport. There was this guy I know, and I decided to spend die night."

"How could you forget about the goats? About Sophie's house? Tell me the truth, Sandy. Were you under the influence of anything, like drugs or alcohol?"

"Well, yeah, a little bit, but it was a mistake. They had these

incredible brownies, and after I pigged out they told me they were made with angel dust or some crap like that. Bam—I got sick and I guess I konked out. The guys weren't there when I left, so I don't know much. Lousy trick. You don't have to tell Sophie, do you? It was like a mickey. I'll be smarter the next time. I'm really sorry I didn't call you, but I knew you and Mr. Oats would take care of everything. But geez, I feel awful about that buck. Do you know when he was stolen?"

"We think yesterday morning." I couldn't help adding, "When you should have been here."

"I hear you, I hear you—so what can I do?"

I was dealing with a naughty puppydog, not a grown man. I remembered he was younger than Sophie—maybe 22. Maybe the stint in Hazelton and withdrawal from drugs had disrupted his awareness. It seemed inconceivable he could have been so careless and irresponsible when he clearly adored his sister.

"Sandy," I put a finger under his chin and raised his head, "before we dash off and look for the goat, I'm going to call Lieutenant Zuccarelli. I know he wants to talk to you."

That was as close as I could bring myself to mentioning the damning evidence of green paint. Neither was I going to bring up the subject of my adventure in the hayloft—but some perverse devil made me walk over and start to climb the ladder.

"What are you doing, Tish?"

"Just going up to get my poncho I left up there."

"In die hayloft?"The boy looked mildly puzzled but expressed no interest in my ascent and proceeded to chin himself on one of the lower beams.

When I returned and stood folding my poncho, he only commented on its size. Possibly curiosity had been erased in treatment, or maybe it was not part of his makeup. To him,

perhaps, an old lady sleeping in the loft was no surprise. I mean, we were, like, a different species, weren't we?

Thedaywe met, for instance, while we were waiting for Sophie, Sandy asked me where I had gone to art school. I started out, I told him, at school in France. He said it must have been exciting. I daresay he thought I was there during die French Revolution.

"Did Mike Flynn come back with you?" I asked.

"Him? No, he just came half an hour ago."

"No other friend came with you?"

"What friends? Oh, the guys from Boston said they'd like to see Sophie's expensive billy goat."This was hopeless. Guilt wasn't in his lexicon—though he clearly felt bad about Van Goat. "So let's go.Tish. Or maybe I should go and you stay here."

Anodiervanishingactdidn'tsuit me, and I didn't really worry about the goats. The kidnapping was over; the prize had been taken.

The sight of Lieutenant Zuccarelli driving up in an unmarked car filled me with both dread and relief. We walked over to meet him. I introduced them and observed that their handshake looked mutually limp. The sedate small detective guided us over to Sophies station wagon and knelt down on the drivers side. With his nose almost touching die car he examined its surface. From where I stood die car was a patchwork of dents and scratches, many of diem old, some recendy inflicted by Sophie who had said she diought of die car as a Jeep. I had driven widi her once over roadless terrain and knew diat to be true.

Sandy bent over Zuccarelli's shoulder. "What are you looking for?"

Zuccarelli shot me a quick look that was veiled by his glasses, but I interpreted it as amazement at a prime suspect's seemingly innocent question.

"I'm looking for a recent scratch or mark, young man. The victims car showed evidence of being forced off the road by a green vehicle."

"Maybe we should look up here on the front bumper." Sandy squatted beside the car. "Hey, what am I talking about? I was in Boston."

In spite of what Sandy said, the detective moved over beside him and ran his pinky finger along the mud guard, pausing to scrutinize a faintly visible streak of yellow. "You don't seem very concerned," he said to Sandy.

"Why should I be? I mean, that guy was run off the road here and I was in Boston, so how could I have anything to do with it?"

Zuccarelli offered no comment but produced his notebook. "You stayed where on Saturday night?"

"At diis guy's friends place. You know, in Boston."

"Let's start with their names." Zuccarelli clicked his pen.

"My friend is Zonker. I don't know his last name. And his friend's name is Drew something. Or," Sandy added, "maybe Drew is his last name."

ZuccarelH's pale face was stern. "You have their address?"

"Well, not really. But I might be able to find die place again."

"Are you willing to come with me to the barracks? I'd like to have one of our people accompany you to Boston to identify your friends."

"But lieutenant—," I spoke before Sandy had a chance to reply, "if you've completed die blood tests on die golf club, wouldn't that comparison clear Sandy of any suspicion?"

"The murder weapon is still undergoing tests, and while DNA is indeed a precise blueprint, who is to say Drew, or—," he looked at his notebook and added a touch of sarcasm, "Zonker

weren't involved in this incident? We must verify everyone's position in the matter—especially yours, young man."

"An alibi. Good God, you can't think I'd do diis to my sister? You don't, do you, Tish? Mike said I'd probably need an alibi, but I thought he was joking."

Lieutenant Zuccarelli pounced on Mike's name and wanted to know all about him. I told him all I knew, including his striking resemblance to Elvis Presley. I said he'd have to wait for Sophies return if he wanted more information.

Wandering back into the barnyard, I left the men talking. It seemed impossible for me to stand by without offering my opinions and suggestions. Shades of Hilary. Maybe one loses a degree of patience with the years.

Reaching beyond Hairy Harrys head I picked some pussy willows to take home. Farther along I snapped off some budding twigs for Harry and the does. I'd seen plenty of goats in my life, from the Atlas mountains in Morocco to Tunja, Colombia, but I'd never worried about diem, cared about diem, scratched their necks or gazed into their exotic oblong eyes. I loved the way they accepted me, with dieir agreeable inquisi-tiveness about my comings and goings. Marsha let me give her a little hug, dien widi casual independence diey all meandered off into the pasture.

"Hey, Tish," Sandy called, "I'm going to Boston today, he says. So maybe I won't be back before dark. Will you put die goats in die barn tonight? See you tomorrow morning."

I wished him luck and watched diem drive off, smiling to myself at die unlikely combination of die pale firm detective and the crested leprechaun.

Once again I sat on die worn mounting block and tried to organize my thoughts.

SEVEN

Even though I had put down Sandys idea of visiting goat farmers I had to admit it was exactly what I had in mind when I called the goat people on Libby and Charlies list. Why would they tell me if their dealings were less than honorable? On the other hand, what was diere to do? I'd lost all heart for working on Sophies house and die only way I could even mildly alleviate the dark dread of her return was to do something.

The feed store in Soudi Londonderry seemed a good place to start. The clerk, a long drink of water who half-heartedly offered to wait on me, was stacking bags of manure and was not the chatty type I had hoped for. However, he was willing to talk about feed. He described the various kinds of concentrated feed. He said goats favored pellets but he wondered why I'd need supplementary feeding when all the greens were so plentiful now.

When I asked him who raised goats locally, he replied, "Some girl in Clement Hollow. She had an imported billy stolen, but you must have read about it in the paper."

Yes, I had. "And who," I asked, "are some of the others?"

He mentioned a few names as I wrote furiously. "Axel Anderson has a dozen or more goats Vay off the Pikes Falls road. Sort of on the back side of Stratton."

Because his place sounded remote, I decided to try Anderson first and it was always nice to have an excuse to stop by Pikes Falls.

Axel Anderson probably was a descendant of the adventurous young Swedes who moved to our part of Vermont about a hundred years ago. These stalwarts cleared land, started logging camps, and built houses for the girls they had sent for to become their brides and helpmates. Old photographs of the dear-cut landscape at that time testified to their awesome energy.

Axels father or grandfather would weep to learn that Kidder Brook which I had just crossed was in danger of becoming polluted. Just beyond the river I turned right onto a narrow dirt road and then shortly I turned left at a faded sign that said Anderson. The two-rut road was threatening to dwindle into oblivion as I came upon a clearing and a small shabby house. A couple of white sheets and a red shirt were waving on a line strung from the porch to a nearby maple tree.

Beyond die house I could see a barn and several outbuildings and a sculptural heap of farm machinery. Beyond diat, on a high knoll, a cow and a horse and a few goats were grazing against a spectacular background of inky green trees.

Bounding dogs made me glad I'd left Lulu at home. Gingerly I squeezed out of the car door, telling the beasts in my most dulcet tones what good good dogs diey were.

A sturdy-looking woman wiping her hands on her apron called from the shadow of the porch. "You want to see Axel? He's out in the barn."

She vanished before I could introduce myself or thank her.

There was a well-worn path to the barn, and the shaggy beasts on either side of me saw to it that I didn't go astray.

Axel Anderson contained any enthusiasm he may have had at meeting me. While it seemed to me he may have tried, he wasn't able to arrange his rutted old face into a smile. He looked worn, and for someone who worked out of doors he looked pale, even sick.

He watched me impassively as I stumbled all over the place telling him how much I loved goats and wanted to paint a picture of one. I told him I especially liked white billy goats. Then I asked him if he bought and sold the creatures.

"Some."

"Have you added to your herd lately?"

"Nope."

"Do you have any interest in cashmere goats?"

"Not really."

"Do you think cashmere herds have a future in Vermont?"

Axel shrugged. "Dunno."

My jaw was stiffening. A sure sign of frustration. "May I do some drawings of your goats?" I waved a pad and pencil at him.

"Why not?"

Like trying to empty a friends ice tray, to unlock another's barnyard gate was almost impossible. I watched with interest while Axel silendy unraveled baling wire and let me in, dien wordlessly rebound the gate and walked away.

Vermonters are reputed to be taciturn but this man was die limit. I tried to be charitable; maybe he was sick. I would try to engage his wife in conversation after I looked over die herd.

What a modey crew. The Andersons' goats made Sophies litde brood look like purebreds. Time flew as I sketched die

goats. As a portrait painter I'd immortalized quite a few old goats: a corporation bigwig, a bank presidenti and a prominent politico or two. It was a delight to draw these unaffected, undemanding creatures. One could get dizzy looking at the spots, dots, and blotches. A fat doe staring at me had a perfect brown target on her side. The front half of the goat I chose to draw was white, and its rear was black. It looked as though a white goat and a black goat had been sawed in two and been improperly rejoined. A few Nubian goats with long floppy ears were splattered with caramel and chocolate spots. A black kid eyed me warily. Except for one multicolored Nubian who wanted my pencil, the goats didn't pay much attention to me. Of course diere was no sign of Van Goat.

The lone horse, a gray muzzled mare, followed me back to the gate where Anderson was standing. I raved about his pasture, his goats, and the lovely view. The mare nudged me from behind. I laughed and patted her neck. "She's a dear creature."

A little flash of animation passed across Axel s face. "Wanna buy a horse, lady?"

"You mean her?"

"Yup."

I gulped and turned to look more closely at the small chestnut mare. A white blaze between her expressive eyes drifted down her nose. Touching the velvet between her nostrils I was surprised by my emotional response. I hadn't owned a horse in 50 years and hadn't ridden one for 10. Sophie was the only excuse for buying a horse and this beast was my size. It would look like a burro with Sophie astride. In my long life it's usually been quite clear to me when my heart was going to rule my head. I recognized the signals.

As I reached out to touch her nose again, die horse direw

back her head and bared her teeth.

"She's smiling." I must have sounded like an ass but I couldn't help myself I was so full of delight, my heart in charge. "See, she's smiling."

"Yeah," Axel said. "She does that." He yelled to his wife on the porch and waved her over. "Could be she," he pointed at me, "wants to buyTrixie."

Maybe senility wasn't as dreary as I'd heard. Last night in a hay loft with fornicating neighbors, today on the verge of buying an aged mare. I'd also heard die condition was irreversible. Happily I forged ahead.

"Mrs. Anderson, I only want to buy your horse if you really want to sell her. You must love her a lot."

As she walked toward us I couldn't tell if Mrs. Anderson's sweet face was going to dissolve into tears or she was going to •smile. She did neither, but kept nodding her head and crumpling and releasing her apron tie. "You'd better keep Trixie." I pressed her arm. "She might be sad away from you, away from this beautiful place."

After an awkward silence she spoke. Her husband looked resolutely down at the ground. "We need the money. I can tell," she said, "that you're a lovely lady and you'll take good care ofher."

The poignancy of the moment was upsetting so I tried to ease it with questions about Trixie.

Axel retired to the barn while his wife told me they had bought the mare 15 years ago as a colt. She extolled Trixies easy gaits and friendly disposition. "It will be good for her to be ridden. I don't have time."

"About the goats, Mrs. Anderson. Has anyone offered to sell you a white buck by any chance?"

"You talking about the one that was stolen in Clement Hollow? No, ma'am—no way."

Sophie, I told her, was my niece and would loveTrixie.

"Oh, she'll be with more goats. That's nice."

"I'm sorry you need to sell Trixie. Your farm looks so—," I was going to say prosperous but that was too big an exaggeration. "So fine. I see you have some pigs—and I hear chickens. It must be awfully hard work for you born."

"It's not the work. My husband s sick; you can see the way he looks. And he's worried about what happens next, about me. He refuses to sell the place, but the animals—yes, they have to go." She lowered her voice when he reappeared. "He doesn't like to have me talking about the farm—about him."

Axel was carrying a battered cavalry saddle and a bridle. "Better try her out, lady."

Fortunately I was wearing blue jeans. While Axel put on the saddle and tightened die cinch, his wife slipped die bridle over Trixies head. Thanks to daily bouts of yoga and a fairly strenuous lifestyle I was in good shape but after all I'm no spring chicken. I knew the old body would pay for it later. Mrs. Anderson held die reins while I mounted from an overturned crate. She murmured to Trixie, telling her to be a good girl. "No one's been riding her," Mrs. Anderson said, "since—"

Before I could learn how long it had been since the horse had been ridden we tore out into die pasture. Trixie was mad with joy, I hope it was joy. She pranced and reared while I managed to stay on by clutching a mixture of reins and mane. A vision of myself in a head-to-toe plaster cast turned my legs into steel calipers and miraculously I stayed on. After showing off all her tricks, Trixie cantered to die end of die pasture in a lovely rocking-horse gait. Her trot was equally measured and at a high-stepping walk

she wove in and out and among the other animals as though showing offher new conquest. After dismounting and a pairing hug I leftTrixie in the pasture and walked to the house, extracting a check from my wallet.

At first I didn't recognize the tailored, almost chic woman emerging from the house as Mrs. Anderson. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a slash of lipstick brightened her face. Dark slacks and a crisp white shirt had changed Mrs. Anderson from a backcountry farmers wife into a competent-looking matron. "I cook at Rowleys four days a week," she explained her transformation. "The hours are good for me." She noticed the check in my hand and told me the modest sum she wanted forTrixie.

"You're sure sure sure" I asked, "that you want to sell her?"

"Yes." She smiled wistfully. "She'll be happier. It's kind of depressing around here."

We walked to our cars. I promised to come getTrixie as soon as I could borrow or rent a horse van.

Following Mrs. Anderson down their long driveway, I slammed on the brakes when her car came face to face with a large truck, the kind of square white truck I would associate with being full of bread or maybe mattresses.

I rolled down my window preparing to back up, but Mrs. Anderson made it dear by her gestures that she expected them to back up. They did, bumping into trees and scraping through brush. It wasn't hard to imagine the language being used by the driver, who was maneuvering the truck in reverse on the narrow driveway.

Mrs. Anderson waved me on at the end of the drive.

The trip home was spent rationalizing the new addition to my life.

EIGHT

There were two stalls in Sophies bam. One Hilary had been working on, replacing cross boards and some rotted two-by-fours, tightening it up to sequester a buck, presumably Van Goat or any other billy whose ardor was out of control or untimely. The other more spacious stall would be perfect fbrTrixie.

In the past I had heard Sophie say, casually as anyone might, that she loved horses. But nothing had ever been mentioned about actually owning one. My presumption overwhelmed me. By what divine right was I, uninvited, adding anodier creature to her farm? I resolved to call her before I brought Trixie to Clement Hollow. Tomorrow was the day we planned to call Sophie, anyhow. The poor child would have so much sorrow and unpleasantness to digest maybe Trixie would be a cheerful note. Oh, what a Pollyanna I was!

Lulu cut short her usual exuberant greeting to stand stiffly and sniff die legs of my jeans. Sophie wasn't the only one who needed an explanation.

I found myself humming and smiling as I warmed up some

soup and stuck a chunk of Hilary's French bread in the oven. Maybe, I confided to Lulu, I could clear out my shed and occasionally rideTrixie over from Clement Hollow for a sleepover.

But even Trixie's potent charm couldn't keep my mind away from thoughts of the Simpsons and the missing Van Goat.

After a hot bath and brief nap I decided to go see Libby Lupin. She was such a direct and refreshing person—to say nothing of being the queen of goatdom—perhaps talking with her would unsnarl my thoughts.

Giddy Goat Farm was a delightful shambles. At first glance it might be mistaken for a farmers' flea market. There were jackstraw piles of lumber, broken wheelbarrows, and odd parts of machinery all strewn with abandon. I particularly liked a splendid Victorian bathtub that had become a water trough, and I admired the style of a couple of goats that were sitting under a beach umbrella nailed to a fence.

It was hard to distinguish Libby's face from the tan kid she was holding. A sense of well being associated with a good tan was a pleasure of the past for me. Even though I liked my dermatologist a lot, I had no desire to deepen our relationship. I'd been squinting into the sun at bugs and birds and bees and tennis balls for too many years. Wearing a brimmed hat was a nuisance. I constantly took it off and inevitably left it someplace.

Mentally I had a garment in the planning stage—a jacket to be worn every time I left the house. My hat would be tied to the collar like a child's mittens. Glasses would be chained in the hole reserved for a boutonniere and an assortment of keys pinned to my waist. And, oh, my social security number, drivers license, and blank checks would stay in a buttoned pocket. Now I was considering the addition of my pistol in a slim holster.

"Libby, dear," I greeted her, "is your hair that way naturally or do you plug into a wall socket at night?"

"Listen, chum, don't give me that crap. I get invited out every Halloween night and I bet you don't. Look at diis baby." She pushed the sweet soft kid into my arms. "Here I'm aiming for white and this one gets slipped in on me."

"I love his color. What's the advantage of white?"

"The color of money, honey. You get more for white fiber because it's fashionable right now. It's the cashmere that counts, the diameter of die fibers. This little fellow might come in at 15 microns. Now that old doe over diere," she pointed at one of the goats under the umbrella, "she's been a superb producer, but the fibers get coarser with age."

"Why don't you breed those great-looking angora goats to cashmeres? Wouldn't diat make a fine combination?"

"It's been done. Early in the last century the French crossed angora and cashmere and it caused a sensation at the time. It's called cashgora but it doesn't work; it's not as good as eidier mohair or cashmere by itself. The processors don't want it."

"You get so little money for the cashmere. All that trouble, is it worth it?"

"Sure, but you gotta have a big herd—unless you're running a cottage industry—and high-quality animals. But listen, you can't get fiber from Mongolia or the Far East, it's too difficult. China used to export twice as much as anyone else in die world, but they wised up and now use their cashmere to make dieir own finished products. I mean, why send it to Scodand and let them make the profits? Sure it's worth it.

"Those ounces of cashmere combed out of what diey used to call shawl goats make a tortuous trip to Scodand much as diey used to years ago: by yak, bicycle, in saddle bags, on ferry boats,

and I guess now in pickup trucks and planes. But even before that the fleece had to be dehaired and washed and dried. They claim the water in the Himalayas adds its own special quality. For zillions of years slaves did die work, removing die kemp and outer hairs, picking over die wool like momma monkey looking for cooties. Then when it finally does get to Scodand it's inspected and washed and dried again, then dyed and spun. I mean its a long process. That's one reason it costs so much. But you know cashmere shawls were treasured in India long before diey landed in Paris about 1800; Empress Eugenie Bonapart sported a paisley shawl diat cost one hundred grand. She had 60 of diem. That did it; die prices really soared."

"And have never gone down," I said. "Last Christmas I bought my nephew a requested cashmere scarf. It didn't cost quite that but the skinny thing was about two hundred bucks."

"So you can see there's a place for us, Tish."

"How about the imitations like Cashmink? Lots of people can't tell the difFerence."

"Thank God most people can."

"The moths can." I was thinking ruefully of an inherited much-mended paisley shawl that had kept my shoulders warm for years.

"Sophie said you think goats should become Vermont's primary livestock," I said.

"I'm not saying you can make out big, Trump big, with just cashmere. You'd have to start out with a backbone of milk goats. Actually if you're selling goats you'd probably get more for a good milk goat than a cashmere. But it may not always be diat way. The only way cashmeres can pay offis, as I said, with a big herd. Keep your buck busy and the does producing. But listen, chum, what are you talking about? Nobody raises goats to get

rich. There's gotta be easier ways. But Christ, why not? Environmentalists are looking cross-eyed at cows now. They say they take up too much space; they eat the grain that's needed by the starving Armenians. Goats thrive on stuff no one else wants. What's more, you can milk 'em, shear 'em, skin 'em, and eat them."

"I could never be a farmer. I couldn't kill an animal I'd raised. That I raised! What am I saying? I couldn't kill any animal."

"Oh come on, chum. You want to start a total-care retirement community for old goats? Fine, I'll send you some."

She slapped a handsome buck on the brown patch on his rump. "Move it, George."

"You'd slaughter him?"

The sturdy beast gave LJbby a dirty look and moved just out of reach.

"Not until he quits chasing does. He's one of my best boys."

"Who could have stolen Sophie's buck, Libby? Lord, how I dread telling her."

"No one has ever taken the kook count in this world. Some looney, maybe. Or a smart-ass joke, or, you know, an ^CI dare you. But it's not a breeder. Too many of us know each other."

"If someone drove up right now," I said, "and wanted to sell you a fine goat, would you buy it?"

"Good question. Maybe, if he looked good enough and the price was right."

"No questions?"

"I don't know. No way am I a saint."

That reply surprised me. Libby's forthright character implied no-nonsense honor. But this didn't seem an appropriate time to discuss ethics.

"But the real question, Tish, is who killed Simpson? And do

the police really think that the killer stole Sophies buck, too?" "The police—or at least Lieutenant Zuccarelli—haven't confided in me. But Hilary and I feel sure that's the way it happened. I mean, why kill Stuart Simpson unless he caught them stealing Van Goat?"

"Love my goats." Libby took the kid out of my arms and pressed her cheek against its soft coat. "But kill someone for a goat? That's crazy. I mean it's murder." The day-old baby hid its nose in Libby's bushy hair. Libby was all one color, her skin and hair were light copper, her eyes slightly darker. Her lopsided grin had developed to accommodate an omnipresent cigarette, a hazard deplored by all her friends. Animals trapped by fire was every farmer's nightmare.

No one was sure where Libby came from. If the way she spoke was any clue, her background was urban, and to my ear an urban area intimately connected to Brooklyn or the Bronx. She responded to questions about her past with zany scenarios. She told Sophie she read palms in a storefront shop in Coney Island. She told someone else she taught kung fu in a girls' reformatory; and among other things she told me she wrapped gift packages in Tiffany's—which in many ways was the most unlikely.

Middle-aged is the way she described her place in time. Her irreverent zesty independence may have been what drew her to animals with those same qualities. Sophie said she thought Libby even looked like a small brown Spanish goat.

"Why goats, Libby? How did you decide to raise goats?" "I bought this no-account farm," she gestured to encompass her pastures and buildings, "and the guy who owned it left a goat. It was tied to a tree. Didn't find it for a couple of days. Then I got another and, of course, another."

The house was certainly no-account. From a quick peek once I could see the place was an unholy mess. An opened can of dog food on the kitchen table nestled inside a dirty sneaker. Over on the stove a cat napped on a pie tin, and pink underpants were drying on a lamp shade. Rumor had it that Libby's favorite goats slept in the living room at night.

"Who gives a flying fuck about the house?" Libby had said. "Farms are about animals and crops." Friends looked at the high fences and the rolling land speckled widi goats and beamed dieir agreement.

"Woops—," Libby pointed, "there's the goat express." She smiled at my quizzical expression. "These guys deliver for me. Got six cashmere does going up to St. Johnsbury."

Libby tramped across to the barn where the men had unhitched the back of the truck. She promised to call me if she had any ideas about the unsolved mysteries.

Dispirited and tired, 1 got in my car. I don't know what I thought Libby was going to do to raise my spirits, but she'd plunged me back into the blackness of the murder.

I chose an unfamiliar road back home, and beyond Danby on a secondary road I stopped in front of a minimal, unpainted house, a bungalow set in front of a barn. A hand-lettered sign on the post advertised goat cheese.

As no one rushed out to greet me I moseyed around toward the barn, but rather than appearing to snoop I went back and knocked on the front door.

Instandy it was opened by a pale dank-haired teenager with a baby on her hip. "Yeah?"

She almost blew a gum bubble in my face but I guess thought better of it.

"The goat cheese," I said. "I'd like to buy some."

"Yeah, I'll get it." She left me standing on the porch. I heard the refrigerator door slam and she reappeared with two packages of cheese. "Don't know how much they are. My father's out."

"I guess that's your fadier with the chain saw." The unmistakable grinding noise resounded against the mountain that rose up behind the house.

She shrugged her indifference. "What do you think they ought to cost?"

I took the smaller log of cheese and picked diree dollars out of my wallet, which seemed to satisfy her. "Where do you make the cheese? In the barn?" The place looked so crummy it was difficult to envision a pristine processing room.

"No, they pick up the milk."

Reassured the cheese wasn't made by the untidy young mother, or possibly the baby, I made a last attempt to invite conversation. "Where are the goats?"

"Outside," she said.

That did it. I said a goo-goo goodbye to the infant and walked to the car wondering what in die world I was trying to find out. Why stop at places where the owners couldn't possibly afford to buy a special buck like Van Goat? It was depressing to be so uninspired and incoherent—a waste of time and energy with no direction.

On a social level my next unplanned stop was more successful. In front of a trailer house a woman with an enormous blue denim bottom was cultivating a small garden plot. Watching her, a piebald goat was tethered to a post, contentedly chewing its cud.

"Phew," the young woman threw the hoe down in response to my greeting, "am I glad you came. This ground gets harder

every year." bhe looked me over with friendly blue eyes. "What can I do you for?"

Introducing myself, I said I was making an unscientific study of goats in the area and wondered if she was buying or selling any goats lately.

"Goats? Someone else was asking about goats. All we got is Lola here."

"Someone else was interested in goats?" Craftily I added, "It may have been my partner. A man?"

"Yes. But he was really more interested in our land. Mickey, my husband, showed him around."

"Are you selling the place?"

"Not really. He was thinking about climbing up Tabor." She gestured toward the steep face of the mountain.

"And did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Climb Tabor."

"Dunno. I didn't see him again and I forgot to ask Mickey."

We chatted a while longer and I left. I climbed into die car and sat on the cheese, which gave me a chance to vent my feelings very vocally.

NINE

Back home with my feet up and Lulu in my lap I reviewed what Libby had told me about the meager financial rewards of raising goats. The facts didn't surprise me, and certainly confirmed Hilarys opinion of Sophies enterprise. A small income from money Sophies mother had left her provided her widi some defense for the wolf at the door, but not really enough to live on. Maybe, I fantasized, she could use her skill as a photographer and become the Richard Avedon of the goat world. But who would pay Avedon prices for an image of Mr. Billy Goat on a platinum plate?Then I remembered a goat-loving acquaintance who said she couldn't take pictures of her goats because they pressed their noses on the cameras lens.

A rental business was a possibility—farm die creatures out as grass cutters and shrub pruners for die summer people. Reaching over Lulu I grabbed a pad and pencil. Rent goats for children's panics, I scribbled. Teach fleece gadiering to school children. Sell as companion animals to racing stables. Provide milk for those on special diets. Under cheese, I wrote: smoked cheese in

goat shapes. Sell yogurt made into dips and bottled dressings. Market do-it-yourself kits with cashmere yarn. Package goat-dung hay for urban penthouse gardens.

The telephone interrupted my entrepreneurial meanderings. It was Sophie. A whole day before she was expected. "Tish," she wailed, "its me, I'm home. Sandys told me everything. I could die, just die. Stu, I can't believe it. He can't be dead. Murdered. And William. It's all too terrible."

I've been accused of being a Pollyanna, but there was no way I could mouth lies about the miserable, heartbreaking events of the last week. We moaned and commiserated until sheer repetition brought us to a halt.

"I didn't expect you home so soon. Come over to Lofton, dear," I implored. "You know how happy Hil will be to see you and he'll want to cook dinner for us. Sandy too, of course." When she didn't reply, I added, "Or I could come over there."

"No, Tish, not now. Not today. Tomorrow maybe."

Tomorrow maybe? I looked at the receiver as though it had sent the wrong message. "Are you okay, dear?"

"Oh, sure. About to die, but okay. Tomorrow—I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't worry," I said. "Everything will turn out all right." Ugh. Pollyannas do die hard.

"Lulu, our Sophie has something on her mind or up her sleeve." My responsive pug misinterpreted the message and ran into the kitchen to look expectantly at her dish which said CAT— a present I'd bought her without my glasses.

The telephone brought me back into the living room. It was Hilary, who said he'd just come from Sophie's.

"The poor child," I said. "She's really upset, isn't she? And Lord, why not? Does she blame us about Van Goat? She didn't

sound exactly eager to see me or join us for dinner."

"There's a reason, Tish, and it hasn't anything to do with us or with that damn goat. She's got someone with her. She picked up this person in Texas and it looks as though he's moved in."

"He?"

"Yes, he. Can you believe it? When he shook hands with me he had his arm around Sophie." Woofing and huffing sounds of indignation made Hilarys face almost visible.

"My heavens that was quick work. Who is he? What does he look like?"

"Slimy. Blond hair and a moustache. He's wearing shorts I wouldn't wear on the beach." I'd never seen Hilary on the beach but assumed the slimy blond was wearing very short shorts. "His shirt was unbuttoned and he wears gold chains." Hilary gagged but managed to add, "And my God, he's got to be fifty years old."

If Sophies new friend was a model of fine American manhood, Hil probably would have described him the same way.

"He can't be all that bad." I smiled. "What does he do?"

"Says he's interested in the goat business. That's what he was doing in San Angelo. But I can tell you what he's interested in. The same thing a billy goat's interested in, and I don't mean hay."

"Relax, Hil. With all the bad news to digest, a new fellow might brighten up the scenery for Soph." I started to report on my meeting with Libby and my fruitless sleudiing.

"Tell me more at dinner," Hilary said. "Got some sword-fish."

The swordfish, I knew, had been bought in hopes of Sophie's homecoming tomorrow.The men in Sophie's life were hard for Hilary to take. Last winter she had been pursued and presumably pleased by a handsome, earnest young state trooper,Teddy

Baker. But even his sterling character didn't meet Hilarys standards. "Nice kid," he'd said, "but nothing on the ball."

Geography terminated that romance. Teddy was now stationed at Newport on the Canadian border. Since dien, local spies reported, and Sophie corroborated, that she had been kicking up her heels and playing the field. What field, I wondered? Seemed to me there were slim pickings in Lofton. I couldn't think of one eligible young man. But distances didn't matter in the search for fun. Probably she danced with someone in Woodstock one night and with someone else another night in Keene or Hanover. Or maybe she went all the way to Boston to whoop it up. Boston? Whatever, wherever, I hoped she'd had fun before this awful downer.

At dinner I planned to give Hilary a little talking-to about being overprotective. It's true Sophie loves Hil and cares what he thinks—about meringue or hollandaise sauce—but why would she give a darn what he thought about her taste in men or her social life or, for that matter, even imagine that he'd be interested?

The walk to Hilary's house restored some of my lagging vitality. Any walk in Vermont in any direction imparted the same rewards. I stopped to pick up a wiggling salamander and tossed the little orange lizard into the brush. Lulu and I stood stock still as a small garter snake slithered in and out of view. I observed deer scat and hoped no spotted fawns would lose their mothers this year. The last fingers of sunlight made shadows the color of pumpkin pie on die dirt road. Exuberant spring growth nearly obscured die turnoffto Hilary's house.

One half expected to see Daddy Bear emerge from die small brown-shingle house. The bungalow had been built half a century ago as a summer cabin. Hil had beaten and massaged die

building into a year-round house. Crammed bookcases provided most of the insulation: a colorful balloon jib from Hil's sailing days was nailed to the rafters. It frequently appeared to be in use. Overlapping oriental rugs kept the floor warm and gave the place its only resemblance to the Blue Mosque.

Even more shelves held up the kitchen ceilings, filled with exotic and mundane gadgets. My favorite was a tin measuring cup with Arabic markings.

In front of the long sofa, a table had been created by years of piling coffee table books one on top of another. I put my scotch and soda on a 10-pound volume of Menus from Zululand. Mil's pipe was cooling on Deciduous Trees of the Temperate Zone. A pile of printers journals from Year One made another table. One end of a mahogany refectory table was cleared off and elegantly set for dinner. Georgian silver candlesticks, Polynesian place mats, and crystal stemware made the table look like a cover shot for Gourmet magazine. If, that is, you couldn't see the other end where an office-sized typewriter was almost hidden under a mess of papers and junk. Hil's huge leather boots were perched on top of the mound, glistening with their annual coating of waterproofing goo.

Dinner was superb, though I kept the thought to myself that anchovy sauce on swordfish was gilding the lily a bit. Hilary boasted that he had a cast-iron stomach. I believed him, but also thought he must have some magic protective lining inside his head that would permit him to sit after dinner contentedly sniffing a pony of brandy.

During dinner I had omitted any mention of Sophies new friend, and since Hilary didn't talk about her at all, I canceled my lecture. We discussed Grace Simpson in a desultory fashion—what she might or might not do now that Stu was gone.

"Now there's a nice chunk of land she's sitting on. Too bad Sophie isn't in a position to buy it. The two properties are joined by that great ravine that runs behind them."

"Ravine?"

"Yeah. It starts about 300 yards beyond Sophies barn. It's gotta be 100 feet deep."

"Oh, my lord. Do you suppose Van Goat could have fallen into it?"

Hilary waved away my suggestion and emptied the bottle of Pinot Grigio into my glass. "Goats don't fall over cliffs, but you'd better be careful or that old granny mare of yours could catapult you both into kingdom come." Hilary had taken the news about Trixie with restrained skepticism. "But back to Grace—"

We both turned around as die front door opened. "Anybody home?"

Grace Simpson's plump figure glowed in an orange velour jumpsuit. She stooped to acknowledge Lulu's vociferous greeting. An involuntary middle meeting of her threadlike eyebrows made it quite clear that I was not a welcome part of her visit.

She gave her dimpled smile to Hilary who, widi a gallant gesture of welcome, ushered her over to the civilized end of die table. He tilted a chair, tumbling a week's newspapers to die floor. Hil held up the brandy bottle like a trophy. "For you."

"Oh. I shouldn't, but of course I'd love some."

"Do you have any news?" I asked. "I mean, has Lieutenant Zuccarelli uncovered any new evidence?"

She shook her head as I spoke. "Nodiing. I must say I don't dunk he ever will. I'm overcome by a sense of hopelessness." Her round shoulders shrugged up to her dangling earrings and down again. "Hopeless."

"Oh, I don't feel that way. It's discouraging, but never hopeless." There I go with my Pollyanna drivel and pap.

"I don't care anyhow. I don't feel vengeful. I don't care who murdered Stu.The awful fact is he's gone, finished. And here I am in the middle of nowhere." She sighed. "What next?"

Hilary fawned over the unhappy widow and refilled her suddenly empty snifter.

She laughed. "Might as well be drunk as the way I am."

Calling Lulu, I snapped on her leash and rose to leave. Hilary could play pattycake widi his tipsy caller. I was not amused.

Gesturing in my direction, Grace Simpson said, "I gather you've met my brother-in-law?"

"Your brodier-in-law? I don't think so. Perhaps you'll refresh my memory."

"Or maybe it was you?" She patted Hilary's knee.

Hilary pointed to his chest. "Me? What's your brother-in-law's name?"

"Peter. Peter Colwell. He came back fromTexas with Sophie."

I sat down.

Dismay supplanted the fatuous expression Hilary had displayed since Widow Simpson's arrival.

"Your brother-in-law?" he bellowed. Lulu barked. "Stuart Simpson's brodier is Peter Colwell? I don't get it." He stood up, pawing at his face with his napkin, mopping off the invisible cold water Grace Simpson's announcement had caused.

"Not Stu's brodier, silly. My first husband's brother. Lenny. Leonard Colwell."

Silly? I looked around to see who was silly and decided I was if I stayed one more minute. They probably didn't even register my departure.

Usually Hilary drove me home when I came on foot. I wasn't

happy about walking in the dark with Lulu. I imagined night creatures, hoary porcupines, inventive raccoons, and possibly cougars, bears, and wolves peering out at Lulu, eager to play or more likely to munch on her crisp curly tail. Lulu had to trot to keep up with my vigorous stride. I wondered how die wildlife liked my brave rendition of the Marseillaise.

By die time we reached Main Street, exercise and song had lightened my churlish mood and I resolved to allot a definite period of time for thinking about Grace Simpson. Maybe in die baditub. That was the trouble. She seemed to be a zero, a dumpy nothing. What would I think about? Later, half asleep in my tub, I promised myself I'd think about her in bed. Once in bed I went instandy to sleep.

But Grace Simpson hadn't gone to sleep. Hilary told me when he dropped off die paper the next morning that she had talked until die wee hours. Which could mean 9:30 to Hilary. He demanded to know why I had departed so unceremoniously.

"I thought you might strangle the woman, and I didn't want to watch. And if you didn't do her in because of Peter Colwell, I didn't want to have to look at your lascivious smirk. What do you see in that woman?"

"Oh, come on, Tish. I'm just trying to be nice to the girl."

"Girl?"

"Girl, woman, female. Whatever the hell you want to call her, she's had a nasty shock and she could use a friend. Obviously," he added sourly, "not you."

"What did she have to say 'till the wee hours?"

"That Colwell had a project in Vermont and when he met Sophie in Texas, he realized that she, Grace, lived just down the road. Then I knew the rest, I didn't have to be told. Colwell thought oh goody, I can come sponge on well-heeled, ex-sister-

in-Iaw and shack up with her neighbor."

"You don't know that at all. What did she tell you?"

"He's been working for a goat ranch in San Angelo and felt he could be a big help to Sophie in building her herd. Also said he had business here. Business! He's very talented, she says. Imaginative, she says. Phew!" Hil pinched his nostrils. "I can't even tell you. Just a lot of crap."

"Looked to me like die lonely widow was—what do die kids say?—making a move on you."

"Nonsense. She's a nice lady, just a litde crocked last night and has a slimy brodier-in-law. We talked about die funeral next week."

Compassion was one of die vital ingredients of a civilized life, and listening to Hilary I realized I had widiheld mine from Grace Simpson. The woman had lost her husband, a man I had liked instandy. I told myself to shape up and amend my harsh view of die woman. Even, I diought, apologize for my own bad manners.

I guess it was seeing Hilary acting so besotted about Grace diatgotmygoat.

The fact that Hilary was a charming available man was not lost on die vintage population of Lofton, and apparendy was clear to die new widow as well. However, although renowned as a chef and host, Hil was not quite as acceptable as a guest. One, he refused to eat food he didn't like; and two, he was inclined to challenge all spoken generalities.

One to one Hil was die best company in die world. I had to remind myself diat I was lucky diat his unlovable social flaws gave him time for scrabble and epicurean meals with me.

TEN

I know. I watch television, listen to the radio, and read the papers. Small-town America is dead, diey say. Possibly dying, I draught. As in other places the influx of new people to Vermont has left many of us disenchanted. No one rushes over widi a hot casserole anymore to greet the nameless new neighbors. And they, in turn, seem to have die same lack of interest in those of us who have been around the maple tree for a while.

Dogs and children, cars and trucks at die Londonderry mall were still small-town pleasant. There were plenty of people to say "hi" to. My jaunty dentist waved as he backed away from the curb. A pretty bank teller counting my bills asked me if I wanted a spotted kitten, and a laughing woman I didn't know jumped out of a Subaru station wagon. "That's die second time this week I've done dial," she said. "It looks just like mine." In a spodight of sunshine, a truck driver was inspecting his chin in the side mirror. I almost said another "hi" to his vaguely familiar face but realized I didn't know the man.

In die drugstore, it occurred to me diat die truck driver might

be one of the goat thieves. Frequently in the last week I had imagined that I had seen one or the other so I tended to discount my impression. But to check again I rushed out of the store clutching a bottle ofTums and saw that the driver was gone. The shabby white truck was still there. I wondered if it could be the one I'd seen as I was leaving Andersons farm. Why was the driver so familiar?

With my stolen Turns still in hand I hurried back to where I'd left my car, jumped in, and drove over to park beside the Chamber of Commerce building where I'd have a chance to watch the truck, perchance to follow it. From my position I could dart offin either direction. I took dark glasses out of the glove compartment and from under the seat pulled out a tattered khaki hat to hide my gray frizz.

What made me even consider following a man, or men, in a truck? Men I didn't know? Perhaps it was the fatalism that comes with age: a what-the-hell feeling. Why let cancer or a faulty pump deliver the swan song?

Lulu worried me. I wished I'd left her at home. I didn't want anything to happen to her. She was such a coddled dependent, not like a hound dog who could survive rough treatment, eat garbage, or nap in a culvert. Friends had vowed, helped by a chunk of money in my will, to take care of Lulu if anything happened to me. That was some comfort, but not much help if we both ended up in a ditch. I thought about Stuart Simpson. He was probably so infuriated by the men who were stealing Van Goat that he forgot himself. Didn't even feel fear, ignoring danger and letting his adrenaline support his anger. Righting a wrong. Doing what comes naturally.

The dire events of the previous week had happened on my watch, and that, I rationalized, was why I owed Sophie a reasonable ending.

Muncning an aquamarine Turns, I turned my head as I saw the boxy truck back out of its parking place. There were two men in the cab. Neither of diem so much as peeked in my direction. They turned toward South Londonderry, with me following at a furtive distance. As furtive as you can be in a shiny vehicle built like a boxcar.

It occurred to me that die men might be headed for die Andersons' farm. If so, my shadowing job could be excused on die grounds diat I was eager to see Trixie.

Trixie—oh, lord, I hadn't told Sophie about Trixie. But diis was no time to diink about my beautiful horse.

I hung back as we got to the crossroads by die bridge in Soudi Londonderry, and came over the hill just in time to see die truck turning right and up toward Rawsonville. At die top of diat hill I was perplexed to see die truck had stopped in front of die entrance to die marketplace. Deciding to play it cool, I turned into die parking area. The difficult part of die charade was pretending I didn't see diem.

Parking in full view, I turned in time to see diem driving away. Damn! Once again I gunned die Isuzu and tore after diem.

If diey'd taken die road to Smidi's Mill or die shortcut to Route 301 was out of luck as I decided to keep to die blacktop. The next hill afforded a long view ahead and die truck was nowhere in sight. Oh, well, it was a rotten idea anyhow. What would I do if I did catch up widi diem? ("Excuse me, haven't we met before? Perhaps at die Vanderdrizzles' reception? Or at die polo game last week?")

In die next second I was hurled forward into my safety belt, banging my chin painfully on die wheel. Before I could recover, a second impact snapped my head back and flattened every vertebrae.

My oversized rearview mirror was rilled with the front of the truck against my tail. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a man's grin or grimace dirough the windshield.

I hit the accelerator in time to avoid what probably would have been another bashing. We were almost airborne. I clutched die wheel and screamed as I barely missed a farmer in his tractor pulling some bulky farm rig. Beyond him, I endangered yet another drivers life.

The conformation of my vehicle did not lend itself to speed, nor was it designed to take curves Indianapolis-style. With full knowledge of these limiting facts, I pressed even harder on the gas pedal.

The truck had been slowed down by the farm rig, but was making up for lost time. I felt sure die show of teedi I'd seen dirough die windshield had not been a smile but rather more like a tiger baring its teedi, intent on the kill.

Just short of Rawsonville, I saw a dirt road angling off to die right. From die look of die landscape it had to be a steep hill and, I diought, an ideal place to outrun die truck. With confidence nurtured by a long life of reasonably good luck, I slammed on die brakes. (Poor Lulu. Why hadn't I bought die dog safety seat I'd seen in some catalogue?) I put die car in second gear, turned, and, hanging tight, hit die accelerator and charged up die hill.

Around a bend a beautiful farm looked like an island of sanity, a safe haven, but I instandy dismissed die idea of stopping diere. Maybe no one was around. A good decision, as I spied a tractor moving in a faraway field. I could also see die truck raising dust behind me.

The chilling diought occurred to me that diis might be a dead-end road. Wide, well-kept dirt roads often dwindled widi-out warning in the hills of Vermont.

The road ended abruptly when it met a slightly larger crossroad. I turned right and had to cope with a dizzying number of twists and turns. Vaguely aware of new houses tucked in the woods, I wondered how the owners could live hemmed in by such a dense forest.

Then came the dwindle. The road went from narrow to narrower. To my surprise I was suddenly in a clearing by a concrete dam at the end of a sparkling lake.

HIGH MEADOWS LAKE, the sign said. An arrow suggested PARK HERE. I was astonished to find a lake unknown to me so close to home, and horrified to be trapped in a hopeless cul-de-sac.

With no sounds of pursuit behind me I took a moment to massage my hands which were aching from my frantic grip on the wheel.

I hugged Lulu and promised her we'd get out of this mess. But how?

I suppressed a mad desire to leap out of the car, drag one of the overturned canoes into the lake, and paddle away. However, I was stopped by a scenario of my enemies shoving my car in the lake and chasing me in a speed boat.

There wasn't a car in the parking lot, not a soul in sight. Not even a fisherman on the tranquil water.

Driving slowly around the edge of the lot I found what I was looking for: an opening. It was beside a trash can and looked large enough for the car, so I quickly backed in and hoped I wasn't parking on broken bottles.

I left the engine running and the car in gear. My only hope if the men had followed me to the lake was to wait until they were well into the area and speed by them in the opposite direction. Chancy, but what the hell, I had no choice. Should they choose to block die entrance and track me down on foot, that could be

very frightening if not terminal. Please—I muttered some heathen prayers—please let them be nearsighted; please make diem fall in die lake; please....

Before I could see it I heard die truck and soon saw its bumper as it came to a stop by the dam. Lulu saw it too. I grabbed her as she started to bark

Thanks to die splatter of sunlight and die leafy saplings pressed around die car I felt sure we weren't visible. I took deep breadis, dien exhaled, trying to tame my heart. I held my breath when die truck moved cautiously forward. I could see die drivers head swiveling around.

My heart fluttered widi hope when I saw diem reach die end of die parking lot.

Instead of speeding out of my hiding place I emerged at a snail's pace, hoping die men were momentarily admiring die lake. I reached the dam before I heard diem shouting.

Once again I asked more of my car dian any dealers brochure had suggested and we catapulted up die dirt road. Lulu sensibly sat braced on die floor. A lack of traffic let me maintain my hair-raising speed and I only touched die brakes as we coasted down into die backside of Bondville.

Once on Route 30 I was plunged into die agonies of die damned. Stuck behind a monstrous RV from Idaho I screamed every foul word I knew, and I called forth every curse I'd heard on die innocent tourists.

Finally, God bless Idaho, die RV moved its bulk to one side of die road and I darted past it on the only straight stretch of Route 30 for miles to come.

My blood pressure setded down as I realized diat die truck would have an even worse time than I did passing die behe-modi.

Sophie's turnoff was only a couple of miles away. I had no intention of leading the thugs to my house even though the image of busy little Lofton was tempting.

What a relief to see Sophies station wagon and Newt's pickup pulled up to the corral. Again abusing the brakes, I turned in between them. My head fell on die wheel and I began to sob. Lulu, who had been cowering on die floor, scrambled up beside me.

I heard, dien saw die truck roaring along die road spewing gravel as it came toward me. I ducked my head, folding my body in two beneadi the wheel. I didn't breathe, waiting for die last curtain to come crashing down around my head.

"Tish, what are you doing?" Sophie's head, wide-eyed widi alarm, was framed in die open window. "What's die matter?" She reached in hugging my shoulder. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." I unfolded myself and leaned back against die headrest. Lulu climbed out die window into Sophies open arms. "I guess I'm just exhausted and relieved. Let me get out of here."

Sophie had to move aside as I held in my anatomy and squeezed out of die car door.

"Hi." The tall blond man held out his hand. 'You must be Aunt Tish."

AuntTish indeed! Hil was right. Peter Colwell was old enough to be Sophies fadier. I had to admit his smile was a winner. Lots of teedi and plenty of crinkle around his blue eyes. It wasn't difficult to see that Peter was not Hilarys type. My first impression of die man was diat he was as frightened of losing his youdi as die ointment-daubing models in magazines.

His blue work shirt was more an ornament dian a garment.

His sleeves had been torn out at the shoulder to reveal strong tan arms. Golden hair tangled with a gold chain around his neck. His shirttails had been sheared, featuring curly hair around his belly button. Denim cut-offs barely spanned his crotch. Long shapely legs ended in suede Birkenstock sandals. Come on, Dad, I thought, who are you trying to kid?

"What happened?" Sophie held my shoulders and gave me a gentle shake.

It was such a long complicated story, starting back widi Melissa's bloat and up to the white truck at the Anderson farm, then on to my addlepated notion that I should follow the truck. It was embarrassing to describe how easily I was bested. How the pursuer became the pursued.

We'd moved into the house during my recitation. Peter sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands folded, listening intendy to my saga. He asked almost as many questions as Lieutenant Zuccarelli. Were there any markings on the truck? Did die men wear caps, glasses, etc? He even wanted to know if die driver had a pimple on his chin.

I was pleased by his serious demeanor and well-articulated interest.

"If those men," he said, "just happened to be guys driving any old truck, diey'd have stopped when you did at die market to find out what you were up to. Obviously you're a direat to diem. Maybe diey are murderers—or at least goat rusders."

"I'm sure it's die truck I saw at die Andersons' house. I should go ask them about die men. I mean, what were they doing there diat day? I never gave it a diought."

Sophie wanted to know who the Andersons were and why I was diere, so of course I had to tell her about Trixie.

It was good to see her laugh. "You're a nut.Tish, but I love

you." She took my arm. "Hey, wait. Why go over to the Andersons'? What's wrong with the phone? You're a wreck."

Sophie disappeared to return with the phone and an opened local phone book.

"Anderson will probably be out in the barn. Why don't I call his wife at Rowley's. No, no, I don't want to call. I'd rather go see her myself."

Sophie gave up on the argument but insisted I have tea first. "And please go comb your hair, or something."

Something, I thought as I looked at myself in her lousy mirror. Somediing would be helpful, but short of checking into Elizabeth Arden's for three weeks there wasn't much I could do. I settled for running Sophies comb through my hair and polishing my trifocals.

Sophie and Peter were out by the corral. Sophie scoffed at my term, explaining that what she had was a barnyard not a corral. But few words are as mellifluous.

"Who is hammering what?" I asked.

Peter held open the gate. "Sophies brodier is building himself a retreat." He winked at Sophie. "To get away from me, I think."

A little leery of winkers, I made no comment and followed diem to die back of die barn where Sandy and Newt were working on a structure right out of Africa,

The next best diing to a tree house, Sandys retreat was a box attached to the barn and perched on six-foot posts.

"Ta-da." Sandy saw me and struck a pose, his arms spread. "Some chateau, eh, Tish?"

"Hope you've got a magic carpet in diere," I said.

Sophie observed that he'd be safe from predators.

Newt managed to remove his cap and scratch his head at the

same time. I remembered to step back to avoid the stream of tobacco my presence seemed to inspire. "It sure won't keep all the girls from chasin' this young fella."

"Yeah." Sandy grinned. "Line forms at the right and no parachutes allowed. Don't think I'm out here because of you." He didn't smile at Peter when he said mat. "I'm going to guard diis place. The goats can walk around with diamond ear tags and no one's gonna touch "em."

Sophie told them about my miserable adventure. Sandy asked if I'd called Lieutenant Zucearelli.

"What could I tell him that would be helpful? The men in the truck have no connection to die men in the van except in my imagination."

"I'd be careful, Letitia." Newt nodded his head in agreement widi himself. "Didn't used to have a lot of bum ones around here but nowadays anyone with four wheels or two wheels can get anyplace fast on them interstates."

"Peter," I said, "Grace Simpson tells me you're her brother-in-law. It's wonderful for her diat you're here at this sad time. It must make her very happy."

"I hope so." He said he hadn't seen her in more dian six years and wasn't it convenient she lived so close to Sophie. At that point a response to his remark required more tact than I could muster.

Sophie nudged me, pointing toward the pasture. Hairy Harry was whispering in Lulu's ear. Because goats usually don't like strange quadrupeds on their turf, we all beamed at the comic pair.

"When Lulu bounced back from her encounter, Sophie picked her up and pushed me toward the gate, urging me to postpone my detective work until some other time. "To use your words, Tish, you're no spring chicken."

Like Cyrano de Bergerac and his nose, I was the only one welcome to talk about my age and attendant infirmities. But of course Sophie was right. She backed my car out of its cozy slot and offered all kinds of advice about how I should condua myself.

Peter put in his two cents' worth and Newt called out, cautioning me to drive carefully. Sandy told me to stay on the main road. The gratuitous advice went in one ear and out the other but I drove home with a steel grip on the wheel and a wary eye out for a white truck.

My little house looked like heaven.

ELEVEN

Sophie and Hilary went to Stu Simpsons funeral. I watched die sad sight dirough die dining room windows. Two huge Lofton dogs, sunning on die porch, diumped dieir tails to greet the mourners. I was glad die hearse was becoming obsolete. So many services, like this one, were performed as a memorial.

I liked to think of Sophies good neighbor in his snappy yellow roadster. Poor Stu—that smiling man who was going to bring Van Goat spring greens the next day. We all know life isn't fair, but still we always ask the same question. Why die good and the kind? Why him? Why me?

The only time I had met Stu was on the day Sandy brought Van Goat home. Much of what I knew about him I had read in die newspaper. I learned diat he was bom in Providence and went to Brown. From there he went on to Boston, where he worked for years at Houghton Mifflin.Then he started his own company, Gridlock Press, basically a printing operation with a sideline of publishing plays under die Encore Press imprint.

Simpson's first wife died six years ago, and he subsequendy

married Grace Hooten. No children were mentioned in the obituary. It did say that since returning to Clement Hollow he had pursued his interest in drama and had taken part in local amateur theatricals.

I could tell from the lawn mowers piled in a red pickup that the service was being conducted by Norman Goody, who ran a landscaping business in addition to functioning as a part-time minister of our church. His homespun gentleness would be a soothing presence, but neither he nor the Pope or the Dalai Lama could answer the question. Why Stuart Simpson?

After the service Sophie and Hilary greeted some of the Simpsons' friends. Hil managed to look quite regal as he inclined his top half to address the people he towered over. I marveled, as I always did, how Sophie could in minutes transform herself from a barnyard drudge into a willowy beauty. She wore a short blue skirt with a darker blue blouse and a broad-brimmed Panama hat with a Hawaiian bird-feather band. Her gold earrings were her usual hula hoop size. One night she insisted I try one on and I nearly got my elbow caught in the darn thing.

Sophie came in blowing her nose. "Oh dear, I can't help crying. Lucky Hil brought a dean hankie."

Hilary said he felt like crying, too. "What a rotten way for a good man to die. Met an old pressman who used to work for me—Tubby Jacobs. Later he worked for Stu at Gridlock in Boston. I told him what we thought about the murder and asked him some questions. I asked him if he considered Stu pugnacious, and did he diink he'd put up a tough fight. He said hell, yes. Stu wouldn't take anything lying down. On the other hand, he didn't see him starting a fight. In fact, he said he was easygoing to a fault. A very tolerant man. Tubby lowered his voice when he saw Grace come out on die porch and said, 'And

I mean tolerant. Don't know how he could stand her!' He said it was his wife's favorite topic—how unfriendly Grace was the one time she met her."

"Why did he marry her?" Sophie asked. "Did he have anything to say about that?"

"He said it certainly wasn't for money. He said that for Stu money was a by-product of work, that he was well offbut not loaded. Maybe it was love. She's an attractive person," Hilary added. "It's so easy to be cynical."

"I'm not being cynical. I hardly know the woman, but she's decades younger man Stu." Sophie blew again. "I'll miss him so. He was always bringing me something—berries, lettuce, wildflowers."

I asked if Tubby thought Stu was a drinker. Sophie was incensed. "Stu a drinker? No way."

"Tubby agrees," Hil sighed. "A sad, sad day."

"Did your friend Mike Flynn and Stu get togedier on their interest in the theater?" I asked Sophie. "You know, did tJiey get chummy?"

"Sort of. Stu told Mike he'd drive down to Great Harrington to see him perform when he landed a part, but it never happened."

When they left I watched Norm lock up the church and, standing alone in the now quiet village, remove his clerical overgarment, hitch up his trousers, and walk over to his truck. I was struck by the instant change from bustle to a placid noontime scene. Even the dogs had gone home.

Lulu interrupted my musings about life's unexpected events and herded me into the kitchen. It was time for lunch. Without the slightest warning an omelet floated in a cartoon balloon over my head. I salivated. Why am I, I asked myself, a strong-

100

minded woman, such a slave to current wisdom? "Why am I influenced by all those writers who write in all those newspapers and magazines? All those experts who are probably miserable physical specimens who tell me how far and how often to walk to achieve cardiovascular fitness. How much skim milk and cottage cheese I must eat to keep my armature intact. And insist that I count the grams of fat on every label. Reason told me that since I was too old to die young, damnit, if I wanted an omelet for lunch I was going to have an omelet.

Artfully I broke a couple of eggs into a bowl and whisked diem with a fork. Searching the fridge, I was horrified that there was no leftover broccoli to fill my omelet—a vegetable they told me I needed to prevent cancer while I packed my arteries with cholesterol. Ah, Vermont cheddar, the perfect filling. "While die omelet was finishing me off at least I'd go to die great kitchen in die sky knowing that cheddar was good for my teeth.

While Lulu was cleaning up the scant trace of omelet on my plate I thought of a way to transport Trixie to Lofton. The Walkers, who lived a mile up die road, raised quarter horses, and I had seen more than one horse carrier by their stables. Kim Walker assured me on the phone that neither would be in use for die next few days and I was welcome to borrow one.

"It's wonderful, you getting a horse, Tish." Kim looked like a Ralph Lauren advertisement. Skinny jeans rucked into Bean boots and a worn leather jacket over a turdeneck sweater. "Hope it's a hunter. We could go up to Woodstock together."

I explained that Trixie, to the best of my knowledge, didn't hunt and that I fervendy hoped she didn't care about jumping.

Kim demonstrated the workings of the van gate and waved goodbye as she returned to her barnyard chores.

There was tremendous temptation to rideTrixie to Clement

101

Hollow, but my better judgment overcame the urge. There were too many places where we'd have to travel on hardtop roads and we didn't know each other well enough to cope with the unexpected.

Killing two birds widi one stone pleased me, as I didn't want my inquiries about the white truck I saw at Andersons' to assume too much importance.

Sophie was eager to meetTrixie and said she'd love to go with me. She also told me Peter would be away. That news inspired me to invite Hilary to come along, too. I figured he'd be helpful talking to Axel. Perhaps the two old fellows scuffing dieir heels in the dirt right after discussing the weather would move on to something substantial. I hoped.

The next day was gorgeous. Hilary pronounced die word with a long Irish growl. The front seat of the horse van was hard as a board but capacious. Sophie drove. Peter, she said, couldn't come because he'd gone to Hartford for a day or two to see his partner. Peter and his partner, she explained, were involved in a venture capital enterprise diat involved goats.

"Please tell me, child," Hil said, "in simple words, just what the hell venture capital could have to do with goats."

Her response to Hil s question interested me, too.

"He has organized a goat lift."

Hilary and I exchanged an expressionless look.

"Peter says transporting livestock to needy countries is not unusual. It's arranged by the countries. Say like someplace in South America or Uganda or wherever. What he's doing is sponsoring a goat lift in Vermont."

"Do you think it will work?" I asked.

"Oh, it has before. But he and his partner are going to pay more for the goats dian the poor countries do."

102

"Which is?"

"Three or four hundred dollars a goat."

"At that rate," Hil said, "it doesn't sound like much of a pay-offfor big-deal venture capitalists, I mean, how many goats can you move at a time?"

"Try about 500, Hil. Can you imagine? They can get that many goats in one of those monster transports."

What a ghastly image. I could see 500 bleating, crushed goats.

"You'd sell yours?" Hilary asked.

"Never, not my first goats. Maybe some kids next year, but maybe not. What they want is milk goats. But I'm going to help Peter. He's going to pay me."

Hilarys silence and his obdurate profile made it dear he was removing himself from the conversation. I added some vapid comment, feeling it was wise to avoid further discussion of Peter's project and let the picture develop slowly.

As we turned into the Andersons', I started to sing "The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be," to which Hilary added his gravelly basso profiindo.

Mrs. Anderson's Chevy wasn't in sight, but I could see Axel working on a fence at the end of the pasture.

Trixie trotted over, threw back her head, and grinned at us. Sophie was captivated and cooed to the old mare, patting her velvet nose.

Hilary and I approached Axel and I introduced the men. They shook hands.

"You got an old Volkswagen?" Axel asked.

Hilary admitted he did.

"Think I've seen you around," Axel said.

"Can Letitia here take the mare home today?" Hilary asked. "As you see, we have a van."

103

When Axel said sure, I walked away with my fingers crossed. How great if Axel had a simple explanation for the sinister truckers,

Sophie was stroking a bony gray horse. "Who's this?" she asked me.

"Search me. Didn't see it last time I was here. Hey, Axel's got more goats than before, or maybe I just have goats on the brain."

Sophie backed up our rig to the gate. I unlatched the back, unfolded the ramp, and took out our bait—a bucket of oats.

The men walked toward us slowly, I couldn't read anydiing into Hil's occasional smile, but at least they seemed to have a friendly rapport. Mil avoided my eyes, which I knew meant I'd just have to wait to hear what he had learned.

Sophie introduced herself to Axel and shook his hand enthusiastically. "Who is this sweet gray horse, Mr. Anderson? AuntTish says he wasn't here the other day."

"My brother s. I'm taking him while my brodier goes to visit his wife's folks in California."

"Why can't I take care of him for your brother? Then Aunt Tish and I can ride together."

Axel allowed as how he didn't see any reason why not. "Besides," he said, "Popeye and Trixie get along good."

"Popeye?"

"Yeah. Used to be when he ate spring greens he'd run like the very devil."

Trixie was happy to be led into the van but it took half an hour to convince Popeye to join her. I was utterly exhausted by the time we waved goodbye.

"Well?" I looked at Hilary.

"Well, what?"

"Well, what did he tell you?"

104

"Said he forgot the truck drivers' names but they asked if they could pasture some goats with him for the summer. He said no the first time. They came back again and he said no again. The man's sick, you know."

"I know. Then what?"

"They came the other day and had die goats widi them. That time they said they'd pay him enough."

"How much?"

"'Enough' is all he said." Hil shrugged. "Nodiing much to caring for diem in die summer, he said, and he needed die money."

"Damn it, diat doesn't tell me anydiing. And he doesn't even know who diey are. That's crazy, damn id Thanks for trying, Hil, but it is disappointing, isn't it?"

"Those goats," Sophie said, "diey ve got to have been stolen."

"But why risk stealing goats?" Hil asked. "Highly identifiable creatures. All diose spots and blotches are like signatures. And for no financial gain? It does sound a litde fishy."

In spite of Sophies delight at finding Popeye, we rode home in moody silence.

At Goat Heaven, both animals were eager to get out of the van. They trotted into die corral as diough diey owned die place.

I congratulated Sophie on die sign, GOAT HEAVEN, nailed to die gate. She said it was Sandys handiwork.

Sandy stopped working on his retreat to admire die new livestock. Between them, Sandy and Hilary went right to work and rigged up a second box stall for Popeye.

I asked Hil later if he trusted Sandy as a carpenter's helper. Grudgingly he said Sandy was able and quick, but dierc was

105

something about him, Hil said. "He doesn't look you in die eye."

Stern judgments were handed down by Hilary on a person who didn't look you in the eye or who had a limp handshake. And as we know, chews with his mouth open. And any man, with the possible exception of an aborigine, who wears a gold chain.

Back home I looked up die number of Rowley's restaurant and called Mrs. Anderson. While I waited for her to be free I thought back to the time I had first seen the white truck. A considerate person in a car would have backed up on meeting die truck on that narrow road. We could have backed less than 50 yards, yet Mrs. Anderson made them back up a few hundred yards. Had she not wanted me to see them? Had she, in pique, tried to make life difficult for diem?

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. McWhinny. We're short-handed today."

I told her quickly about Trixie and Popeye, dien asked about the men in the white truck.

"White truck?"

"You must remember—two men in a white truck diat day I bought Trixie."

"Oh yes. I don't really know. Men Axel knows, I drink."

"They're boarding goats at your place and you have no idea whodieyare?"

"I'm terribly busy. So sorry, diey're calling me from die kitchen. Goodbye, Mrs. McWhinny."

Clearly die Andersons weren't talking. A fine old man like Axel Anderson and his nice wife. What in die world could they have in common with a pair of thugs?

I don't remember whedier Lulu reacted more violendy than

106

I to the apparition, but she threw herself into the air with something more like a shriek than a bark. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Harding Marsh was standing in the living room. "Hard-on" was Sophies vulgar and, in my opinion, inappropriate version of storekeeper Marsh's given name.

Smiling, he stood with a small package in one hand. He waved it at me. "The prosciutto you wanted. Just came in. Thought Td put it in die refrigerator for you."

Some nerve. Even in my anger I wondered what die nondescript creature looked like without his big dark glasses. My guess was that they hid pale watery eyes and invisible eyebrows. The man had never set foot in my house. Who did he think he was to do so now? No apology for trespassing, nor did he ask forgiveness for scaring me to death.

Widi ill-concealed annoyance I suggested he put die meat on die table. In diick-skinned good humor he asked me if I had met his daughter. She'd been exploring the territory, he said, and he thought I might have seen her.

"Red hair," he said, holding his open hands a foot from either side of his head.

"No. I haven't been in die store lately."

"The store s not for diat young lass. She's looking for a job at -Stratton, or someplace, she says, widi action."

My unwelcome visitor must have overheard my call to Mrs. Anderson, and while it obviously would make no sense to him, nonetheless I resented it.

I rose, picked up die prosciutto, and went into the kitchen, then radier pointedly opened die back door.

His first hint of apology came as he left. "Didn't see your car, Mrs. McWhinny. Didn't mean to intrude."

107

Watching him go, I got even madder at the thought that he must have been in the house when I came home and he'd probably snooped all over the place. He hadn't seen my car because I had taken to parking it in back of the house—not wanting to tell the thugs that this was my home.

I sat at the round marble-topped table in my cheerful kitchen. The walls were the color of mayonnaise, the cabinets white, and the ceiling the product of a crazy party some years ago. A fellow artist and I were mindlessly arguing about painting clouds. I maintained that Constable was the master. He favored a couple of Dutchmen. Full of booze and egged on by others we painted clouds all over the kitchen ceiling. I loved it.

My annoyance abated as I made my favorite drink of iced tea and ginger ale. My attention drifted back to my phone conversation. Well, hardly a conversation. More accurately, a succinct brush-off

Lieutenant Zuccarelli crossed my mind, but I was a litde embarrassed to tell him about my chase and its scary ending. I knew what the truck driver looked like now, but couldn't say he was the driver of the dark van I'd seen the day before Simpson was killed. What's more, I couldn't tell him anything about the trucks license plate except that I thought it was Vermont green. I kicked myself for not noticing it in the Londonderry parking lot, but reasoned that if it had been an out-of-state plate, it would have caught my eye. All Zuccarelli could do would be to tell me to be careful.

108

TWELVE

Disturbed by Harding's invasion of my home, I tried to quiet my mind by puttering around the studio. Since goats had become part of my life I'd hardly been in die place. I missed it but in another way it was a good vacation. I'd been painting too many portraits lately.

A portrait has been described as a painting that has somediing wrong with die moudi. But die eyes were my nemesis—one eye, diat is. My idea of heaven was being able to pose my sitter in profile. It didn't happen often, possibly because clients felt diey weren't getting their moneys wordi widi only one eye showing.

When we first became Vermont year-rounders Doug had built me a studio at die back of die house attached to die kitchen.

Doug pronounced his name "Dooglas," like die Scotsman he was. I smiled remembering diat when we were married I, as a product of my generation, had assumed his name widiout giving it much thought. Even a decade later I would have kept my own, which was Bray, a name I infinitely preferred to McWhinny.

109

For a brief mad moment in my career I considered signing my paintings "Bray McWhinny" with the hope that it might catch the attention of the art-viewing public.

The steady north light which came through the high windows gave the studio a Renaissance glow. The light enveloped favorite objects: jugs, baskets, and bottles that had been my models over and over again.They were often found lurking in the background of a portrait, or placed as a still life with odier props to enhance a sitters post or become part of a composition.

The work chair in front of my drafting table was deliberately placed with its back to the sunny vision of my apple tree and some spunky narcissi and jonquils pushing up through the spring green.

Unconsciously I slid paper in front of me and found myself sketching a head. Male. Narrow. Flat ears. Peter Colwell began to appear. He made me think of a Bedlington terrier, that stylish lamb-coated dog with its sides closely clipped. But Peters hair was more like a spaniel s—curly and well-groomed.

What went on inside his actor-pretty head? Did his obvious vanity preclude brains? I had to admit I'd never heard of that condition. And what was there about him that attracted Sophie? Possibly his air of assurance or sophistication. There was nothing sexy about the man or I think I would have sensed it. Though I could imagine him as an artful, passionless acrobat in bed, basically I pegged him as a fondler.

But the heck with his physical attraction or lack of it, what was his objective? Sophie? Or beyond Sophie? When Peter returned from Hartford I'd talk Hilary into inviting him to dinner so I could have a sitting duck to examine.

I picked up a couple of unfinished paintings, frowned at what I saw, and replaced them face to the wall. They didn't

110

summon me. A recently stretched canvas was on the easel, a big oblong of gauzy color. For me there was always a sense of urgency to defeat the unbroken white of a new canvas. So I filled die empty space widi turpentine washes of color in abstract patterns hoping to inspire my radier eardibound vision to unexpected heights. Unmoved I turned it toward die wall.

Back at my table I found myself drawing connected ovals much like the old-fashioned Palmer mediod of penmanship I was taught as a child in school. As my ovals got wider and became circles I diought about Grace Simpson, anodier cypher to ponder.

Fat would be my description of Grace. Plump was a kinder word, and obviously Hilary would choose voluptuous for die Widow Simpson. If she was vain, her vanity concerned something I had yet to see or hear.

The regimented row of question marks I doodled reflected a puzzle for which I wanted an answer. Was Peters presence in Clement Hollow engineered by or widi Graces help and if so, for what purpose?

Texas was full of goats. Why come to Vermont to go to die trouble of choosing goats from many small breeders? If Libby Lupin told me diere was money to be made from a goat lift I'd probably believe her. But Peter?

The profit, if any, must come from juggling some foreign exchange. I couldn't imagine an entrepreneur ugly enough to make a profit selling expensive goats to impoverished natives in some nameless land.

The screen door banged shut and Lulu, barking, tore out of die studio and into die living room, dirowing all 12 pounds of herself at Sophie. They bodi landed on die couch. I'd never seen Sophie actually sit on a chair or couch. She collapsed like

111

Raggedy Ann, then assumed a modified spread eagle with Lulu on her stomach.

"The horses are happy and making friends widi their new pals and alls well at Goat Heaven. At least I'm trying to pretend it is. Just stopped by die store. Hard-on's daughter arrived and I hear she doesn't want to work for Daddy. Wants to explore nighdife possibilities at Stratton. Waitress, geisha, whatever."

"What's she like?"

"Haven't met her. Charlie says she's 'got a wiggle on," which, as we know, means anyone of the female persuasion under 50 who isn't wearing ankle-lengdi homespun."

Sophie shrugged when I told her about Handing's unbidden appearance. "It's quiet at the store; no summer people yet. Maybe he's lonely and wanted you to invite him to share your proscmtto." She pulled off her cotton bandanna and tied it around Lulu's head, diereby transforming my pug into a mirror image of die movie gremlin E.T. "Why I came is—," she made me wait while she carried Lulu across the room and detached a dump of grapes from a bowl on the sideboard, "to invite you to saddle and mount our noble steeds and go exploring tomorrow."

"Lovely. I accept. Explore what? Where?"

"Goat Heaven."

During a wild spring snowstorm Sophie had said yes to her real estate agent. Since that day goats and more goats had filled her mind while she gave all her physical energy to the squat little barn. She had also labored tirelessly to prop up her cardboard house. All diat activity plus a soggy spring had left her 27 acres of land virtually unexplored and its perimeters unknown tome.

The day I say no thank you to an expeditionary junket is die day I turn myself in to die old folks' home.

112

The next morning was what we call a Vermont day—a day to bring joy to your lungs. A day when the sun touches even die tiniest twigs and stalks. The kind of a day that makes you want to sing. I rendered a stirring few bars of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning."

It took bodi of us to persuade Trixie to quit grinning and accept her bit. Popeye acted like a teenager, too. He tossed his head and pawed the ground while Sophie did a couple of arabesques and die Lindy Hop to put on his bridle,

"Whoopee!" The felt sombrero I'd unearthed made me feel like die star of a TV western. Sophie looked like Pocahontas widi a feather snick in her terrycloth headband.

You'd diink Trixie was a licensed agent showing me salable rurf as she walked ofFwidi a positive gait, instandy picking up a trail when we reached die woods.

"I don't know where Trixie's going," I called back to Sophie.

"Me neidier. But die west boundary must be up ahead and diere's a stone wall. So lead on, Pegasus."

I'd been leaning forward on Trixie's neck to avoid being brushed off by boughs and branches. In a clearing, relieved to be able to straighten up, I saw Trixie's trail had petered out. The possibility diat we had been walking in circles occurred to me. I'd never seen it writ that horses had a sense of direction, except toward home.

Sophie dismounted and handed me Popeyes reins. "Wait a sec. I diink die wall is over diere." She reappeared in a minute. "On track. I found it. Now we go left along die wall till we meet up widi the south boundary. A gully or a gulch or somediing. I never really did see it diat day. We better take it slow and easy."

I passed die information on to Trixie, who clearly intended to continue as leader.

113

I savored the smell of both my steed and the creaky old army saddle, and was lulled into a reverie in the dewy forest. Sunlight hit the dark wet bark of a few mighty trees. A bears claws had furrowed the skin of an ancient beech. Hundreds of big and litde conifers, reaching up for the sunlight, left below browned branches in horizontal patterns. I wondered if this entire forest had once been cleared by early farmers, like the Andersons' forebears, trying to create tillable land. Fiddlehead ferns were yet to unfurl along die tumbling stone wall.

"Heaven, isn't it?" Sophie asked.

Just as I turned in my saddle to express my emphatic agreement, Trixie came to a dead stop. Popeye bumped into her rump, dien came abreast.

"Good lord." I gulped, looking over the edge of the cliff. "You call this a gully? It's the Grand Canyon."

What we saw was a steep rocky slope not quite the Grand Canyon, but not a hill to tackle astride and much more than a gully. I recalled what Hilary had told me for Sophie.

"This is 75 feet?" she said. "It looks more like a couple of hundred to me. Whew! Do you suppose it's mine?"

Unable to answer die question and eager to examine her deed, I urged Sophie to lead on to die next boundary and dience toward home.

We kept die edge of die ravine in sight, diough it dwindled to not much more dian a ditch before we came upon die next boundary marker: a shepherds pile of rocks diat held up a marked stake.

We chatted excitedly about our discovery as die horses walked side by side along an overgrown wagon trail.

"Sophie, you haven't told me a thing about Texas, and how about die christening?"

114

"No time now. We're almost home. But you should see my godchild, he's something else again. He spent the whole time in church gurgling and cooing and giving the congregation the finger. It was darling. Ah, here's the comer of Newt's fence. I've never seen the barn from here." We paused. "What do you think, Tish? Would a cupola look good on the roof? Or maybe sort of a captain's walk? I could look all over Goat Heaven."

We discussed the esdietics ofbodi possibilities. Looking down on the clearing, we congratulated ourselves on a decision we had made earlier to create a parking place downhill south of the bam. Vehicles carelessly parked in front of Sophies house added an unnecessary touch to its innate squalor.

My Isuzu and Sophie s station wagon were parked primly on die newly graded turf.

Widi Trixie's cooperation, I unlatched the corral gate and Sophie closed it after looping die wire hoop back over die post.

Goat Heaven could have been die model for illustrations in a children's book—creatures grazing, die kids gamboling, and Harry standing on a boulder surveying his terrain. A trio of nannies lying under a tree were giving dieir attention to die activities at die main corral gate.

The involuntary groan that came from my soul, my guts, and my heart caused the horses to turn around and look at me.

Sophies lovely young profile beside me was cut out of stone. Her eyes were unblinkingly fastened on die bizarre scene ahead. Her hand went to her throat.

A sense of arrested motion fell over the corral.The only movement was die white goat walking dirough die gate held open for him. Silendy we watched him saunter over to die nannies and after whatever animal greeting he may have given diem he

115

named his back and reached up to eat the leaves from a tree nearly stripped bare.

It wasn't until then that either of us spoke. "My eyes aren't too good, dear," I said, "but I think that is...."

"I can't believe it. I don't believe it." Sophie slid out of her saddle, dropping her reins to die ground, and strode across die corral.

Dismounting, I followed her more slowly. Full of misery, I watched as Sophie stopped just a few feet away from die Libby Lupin.

Only the top of Libby's bushy hair was visible from where I stood. Her chin had fallen to her chest. I was close enough to hear her labored breadiing.

Since both of diem appeared to be too overcome with emotion to speak, I reached out to Libby and touched her arm as I asked her a question. "Have you had Sophies buck all diis time?"

She turned away, covering her face widi her hands, and sobbed out, "Oh God, oh God, Sophie, I'm so sorry—so sorry."

Sophie's flushed face told me that die daze of incredulity that had struck her had turned to anger. She folded her arms across her chest, gripping her elbows with whitened fingers.

"And Stuart Simpson," she said. "Tell us about him. Maybe he didn't like seeing you steal William. Tell us about it, Libby. Did you kill him?"

"Oh no, Sophie. No!" When Libby turned around to address her, Sophie turned toward die goats who had all come over to join us. "I never even heard die man's name. Honest. Never heard of Stuart Simpson until I heard it on die radio— or maybe you told me first, Tish. My God, you can't think I'd kill someone?"

Sophie didn't reply. Her obdurate stance seemed to defeat

116

Libby. Libby stood by the gate looking as small and pathetic as she usually did robust and ebullient.

"Just what happened, Libby?" I asked.

Her eyes pleaded widi me. "I did come over because of Sophies buck. No one was around. I knew she'd gone to Texas, but there was no one else here. Not her brodier or the neighbor she said was going to help out." Libby paused to blow her nose.

"And here was this great goat just standing here and why I came was I needed him desperately to cover my best cashmere doe who was just about through esterus and in a wildly anxious state. I'd lucked out on my last batch of embryos so I realry needed a fine buck. Of course I planned to pay a stud fee, I mean really. But no one was here and I couldn't wait. The damn goat couldn't wait either. So with a fist full of grain I talked die buck into the back of die wagon here and took him home.

"Then Jesus Christ, God Almighty, what happens next, a couple of hours later I'm hearing on die radio that Sophies neighbors been murdered and a valuable buck's been stolen and the police are hot on the trail of die killer. I was so scared I upchucked. Me, a murderer? Christ, I could see die whole fucking horror. I panicked and I figured I'd have to sit tight and keep my big moudi shut.

"When you called it was awful, Tish, and when you came to die farm I diought I'd die. I wanted to tell you but I just couldn't. The buck stood right beside you, too. I'd sprayed parts of him widi some tan dye. Stupid. But I wasn't diinking."

Sophie, who had moved away, could hear Libby's confession. She leaned over and ran her hand down Van Goats legs. The ochre splotches looked very natural to me.

"I haven't slept all week just trying to diink how I'd tell you, Sophie."

117

Libby's sad and peculiar tale knocked Hilarys and my theories about the kidnapping and murder into a cocked hat. I felt a twinge of regret. The men in the van were such perfect villains. My emotions and thoughts were a murky kaleidoscope, but this was no time for reflection or analysis. Nonetheless I asked Libby if she had seen anyone or any car or truck passing by when she took the goat.

"Nope, not a soul." She walked over to Van Goat and scratched his neck. "Sophie," she forced herself into Sophies line of vision, "Sophie, please forgive me. I'm just a crazy fool who's botched up somediing simple. I hate myself. Please don't you hate me too."

"Some other time." Sophies anger, along with her zest, had been drained away. "Some other time, please, Libby. I don't want to talk about it now."

Libby looked at me and got a wan smile and a shrug in return. Compassion stirred within me as I watched the sturdy woman drag her feet across the dirt and climb into her scarred old camper truck. Tears were running down her face as she drove away.

Would Libby still have Van Goat ifour cars had been parked in front of the house? I wondered if she had tried to return him before today. There were a lot of serious questions to be asked.

Trixie had gone into the barn and was waiting for me to remove her saddle and bridle. I hugged her neck and told her what a stinking mess humans can make of their lives.

118

THIRTEEN

"Ah, the equestrienne returns from the Clement Hollow Hunt Club." Hilary was sitting on the porch steps reading my New York Ttma. Lulu rushed to greet me and sniffed die barnyard smell on my field boots.

Hilary peered at me over the top of his glasses. "What's the matter, honey?"

I told him. Everybody knew about Libby Lupin, original, gutsy doyenne of goatdom, but Hil had never met her. Therefore, my reiteration of her miserable performance was not the stunning blow for him diat it had been for Sophie and me.

What did upset him was the dissolution of our theory. "Maybe when the fellows in the van ran Stu off the road he attacked diem widi a club. He was a hothead. They grab die club and with or without murder in mind, hit him. Our original scenario sans goats."

"Those men have to be involved or why did they chase me?"

"Because you chased diem." Hilary smiled. "Sophies got her prize goat back and diat should be enough for us. Murder is

119

something else again. Best left up to Zuccarelli."

Of course Hilary was right, but I was the only one to have seen the men in the van. It was my words that implicated diem in die murder. I was die only witness/reporter of our chase. I couldn't, as Hilary suggested, drop it, leave it to Zuccarelli.

"What are you thinking?" Hilary asked.

Tapping my expensively capped front toodi I looked at him and through him. I was thinking. It was quite clear diat Hil was not die helpmate I needed to stalk die thugs. Sophie, in the past, had proven herself to be a brave and imaginative cocon-spirator, but her interest was centered in Goat Heaven—and Peter Colwell.

"Peter Colwell." I spoke his name out loud. "Do you think he could have any connection widi Simpsons death? His relationship to Grace? A well-heeled widow." Before Hil could express his disgust for Peter, and to remind me he was in Texas when Simpson was murdered, I went on to say that I intended to invite the man for dinner, as soon as possible, and suggested that it would be helpful if Hilary would be the chef, to give me the chance to find out more about die Texas interloper.

Reluctandy he agreed. It was impossible for Hilary to resist die challenge of creating a meal. I'd have to cross my fingers about its content and just hope Hil wouldn't serve Peter a salad of rhubarb and oleander leaves.

After Hilary left I sank back into die easy chair by die telephone and spent a futile few minutes trying to sort out my dioughts. Idly I ran my hand over Lulu's silken coat, giving special attention to her ermine ears. Doug loved English bulldogs. It wasn't until our last mighty protector died that I got Lulu, a portable bulldog widi a gender snore. Pugs were bred as court jesters and still took dieir work seriously.

120

Next thing I knew I awakened from a half-hour nap, a much-needed respite from confusion and doubts. Animals to soothe a troubled heart, yes. Cats and dogs to quiet ones nerves, yes. Furry warm bodies do make the young, the old, and the addlepated smile. I believe it all.

Hunger, I hoped, was responsible for the wobbly feeling I had when I finally stood up. My larder had been sadly untended during die last week and my usual cucumber and endive sandwich didn't speak to me. Lulu brought me her leash, which told me diat she too was ready for a trip to the store.

Lofton's street scene was serene and bucolic. An abandoned tricycle stood in the middle of the road and a trio of LL Bean-garbed gendemen chatted by the post office. The entrance to die store was blocked by an enormous dormant Newfoundland. Lulu touched noses widi the black beast, a greeting for which it barely raised its head.

"Attila," a lilting voice called, "get up."

Attila rose and swishing his tail turned to inspect me and stood, about 200 pounds of him, on my right foot. His attendant burst dirough die door and pushed die dog to one side.

"Sorry, he doesn't realize he's the biggest thing in captivity. Hi," she said. "I'm Kansas Marsh."

Limping inside, I sank into die captain's chair and massaged my toes. I could feel myself grinning like a banshee. So this was Hardings daughter, Kansas, the hayloft lover.

Her perfect small features were overwhelmed by die work of a demonic barber who had fashioned a crest of hair, not unlike Sandys, which ran along the middle of her scalp and had been dyed chartreuse. Her surrounding locks were poodle pink. Astonished, I dapped and, laughing, told her how much I liked it. "Truly other-worldly. Thrilling."

121

"Thank you. Please tell my old man." Attila, who had joined us indoors, expressed his pleasure by swatting me across the knees with his five-pound tail.

We turned as the screen door banged shut behind Sandy. Clad in white shorts and a wild floral shirt, he looked like a tropical bird. I almost expected him to stand on one leg. "Explosive," he said. "Wow! Like wow! I really love your hair."

Kansas nodded demurely and retreated behind the counter. Her leather miniskirt was a few inches shorter dian any I'd ever seen. In fact, it was barely visible below her oversized T-shirt.

"Well?" Sandy looked at me. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Introduce you!" I hope I wasn't leering.

"Yeah. If you won't," Sandy leaned over the counter, his hand outstretched, "I will."

Other customers, friends, came into the store and diverted my attention from die youngsters, but I wondered why die charade. Why not admit they knew each odier?

I carried my groceries to die door. Aside from some wheat crackers and Saga cheese to adorn them, I bought milk, seltzer, and Coca-Cola, a must because I had stock in die company.

A new shipment of cotton kerchiefs in appealing colors caught my eye. I bought a peach colored one for myself and pale blue for Lulu. We both wore diem, doused with pennyroyal and eucalyptus. They kept die bugs away. Circumnavigating Attila, I tapped Sandy's arm and asked him to stop at my house before he went home. I had an idea.

Once again in die chair by the telephone, I dialed State Police headquarters, and it was widi extreme reluctance diat I asked to speak widi Lieutenant Zuccarelli.

The lieutenant maintained his usual composure while I told

122

him about Libby Lupin returning Sophie's goat. I could almost see him nodding his head, or possibly doodling on the desk pad. After saying how happy he was for my niece that her goat had been returned, he acted as though our conversation was finished.

"Hey, Lieutenant, wait a minute. What about those men? What have you found out about them?"

"Without a license plate number," he explained, "we have no way of identifying your men."

My men! I didn't care for that remark "How about the blood tests on the golf club? The paint samples. Prints on the vodka bode."

"You can be sure, Mrs. McWhinny, that whatever evidence we have is under careful scrutiny."

His assurance didn't invite comment. He might as well have said, "Butt out, lady."

Nonetheless, I persevered, pointing out that at least ten days had elapsed since die murder. Didn't justice work more swiftly than that, I wanted to know?

"There is a popular idea that I'm sure you've seen on television, Mrs. McWhinny, that because of pressure from some angry politician that someone, anyone, must instantly be accused. That," he added tonelessly, "is fiction. We deal with reality."

Zuccarclli then politely terminated the call and I congratulated myself for not telling him about my scary and embarrassing chase. It appeared clearer than ever that it was up to me to find evidence against the thugs.

Sandy, after knocking, came in the door dangling a long rope of licorice over Lulu's head as though she was a kitten. "How about Hard-on's daughter, Tish? She's a hot ticket, isn't she?"

'You should know, Sandy."

123

"Me?" he said with wide-eyed innocence. "Never laid eyes on her before."

Kansas Marsh had nodiing to do with my reason for asking Sandy to come to see me, so I eschewed any further probing of his sex life. He listened attentively to my proposal and said it sounded like fun.

Fun. I hoped so. His lighthearted spirit was what I'd counted on to turn a devious, illegal act into a seemingly harmless adventure. An unexpected asset for my project was Sandys new old car, a frail-looking collection of dull green metal balanced on four wheels. My sneaky idea could never have been enacted with my large, very visible Trooper.

Sandy called Sophie and told her not to worry if he didn't come home. He said he'd met a friend who wanted him to do something. He was telling the truth about that. I felt a rush of gratitude for his faith in me. Gratitude and guilt, the latter an exhausting emotion I thought I'd banished for life.

After considered preparations we took off in die late afternoon. With Sandy behind the wheel in a camouflage jacket and me in olive drab, dark glasses, and a knit hat, we were not invisible but certainly unrecognizable.

At die last minute I decided to give in and bring Lulu. I couldn't resist her poignant expression. She wore her forest-green turdeneck sweater.

Cautiously Sandy steered us along die dwindling road beyond die driveway to the Anderson farm. After going for about 400 yards we sputtered to a stop. Sandy jumped out to explore a slight opening in die woods diat proved to be a suitable hiding place for die car.

He lifted the sleeping bag from die back seat and I struggled with the knapsack. We grinned at each other. "Here goes

124

nothin,"' I said with more bravado than confidence.

We moved silently a short way up the partially wooded hill and at a first glimpse of the Andersons' house hunkered down and in low voices discussed our possible camping site.

My scheme, and I was beginning to diink it was a lousy one, was to observe die Andersons' place with die hope of seeing die diugs in dieir van or truck and widi the hope that we would discover die reason for their suspicious activities in our corner of Clement County.

It was a litde more dian a hope for me, I explained to Sandy. It was more like an expectation because of my conviction diat there was some nefarious link between die old former and die direatening men.

We unpacked our equipment on a level triangle of matted pine needles between three sweet-smelling conifers. We were geared for a 24-hour watch, diough I didn't expect it to last diat long, I had brought sandwiches and a bag of cookies, plus dier-mos botdes of bodi water and hot coffee. And in die liquid department, I had added scotch for me and Coke for Sandy.

I handed Sandy my camera, which wouldn't be useful at night but would act as my binoculars as diey were powerful enough to have stared down Japanese diroats in dark Okinawa almo^c half a century ago.

If and when the men appeared, I planned to keep diem under surveillance while Sandy ran down to die Andersons' driveway to hide himself in die brush in a position to record die license plates of whatever vehicle they were driving.

Sandy was die perfect companion for my nutty scheme. If Hilary, even in a moment of extreme indulgence, had come widi me, his indignant huffing and puffing would long since have given us away. He'd had a fit when I'd told him what I was

125

going to do but it would have been insane to put ourselves in this peculiar position without someone knowing our whereabouts. Dangerous was Hilarys word. I mean, what could happen except disclosure followed by embarrassment?

While Sandy thought our expedition was fun he had the imagination and grace to take it seriously. I smiled when I saw him remove a burnt cork from a penny candy bag and waited as he drew dusky streaks across his high cheekbones. From his Indian moccasins to his crested top he looked like a native warrior.

He reached for Lulu, pulling her over onto his lap. "Here, baby." He waved a plastic bag over her head, then poured some chunky bits into his palm. "Poochie yummies. I brought diese just in case the madam let you come."

Sandy checked his digital watch—6:36—and I, as a creature of habit, brought out die potables. My coconspirator and I toasted ourselves by softly clinking tin cup and can.

"Tell me about Hazelton, Sandy."

He moved even closer and seemed eager to talk about his experience. The devastating fact of incarceration, even though it was voluntary. The degrading agony of being stripped of his tender ego and vanities by recovering peers.The rebuilding process. Then die tremulous feelings of hope and final conviction that he could make it.

I wanted to reach over and hug him. Instead I reached over and squeezed his hand. "I hope you're going to stay widi us here in Vermont. Sophie needs you."

"Oh yeah. By all means. I love it here and I got some ideas but hey, we better be quiet. Tell you about it later."

Quiedy I wondered, was my elfin friend not what he seemed? Was he devious? Could Sandy perhaps have dreamed up a scheme with his cronies in Boston or New York? Lured them

126

into a plot to steal Van Goat only to be thwarted by Stu Simpson—then killed him? I wondered too if Libby was telling the truth about that morning. And Peter—he only lacked a moustache to twirl to be the perfect villain. I reminded myself that conjecture would get me nowhere. What I needed were facts. I needed to point a firm finger and widi any luck I'd be pointing at the men we were stalking.

By 9:30, a little discouraged and tired, we agreed that I should take a turn in die sleeping bag while Sandy kept watch.

While I was fumbling widi die zipper Sandy grabbed my shoulder. I caught his urgency and shoved Lulu inside die half-opened bag. Crouching like a jack rabbit, I looked down at the farm.

Sandy held the glasses. "It's a van. Can't see much because of die headlights. I can see a man, guess it's Anderson, waving to diem. They've stopped. No. They're driving by him."

A waning moon glowing dirough hazy cloud cover kept die night from being completely black and I could make out shapes. The headlights were beacons and Sandy was correct. They were heading beyond die fenced pasture.

"Where are diey going?" Sandy asked.

"Gimmee." With die cameras lens I focused on die lights moving slowly across a field. A stand of pine was suddenly illuminated and die van vanished into the woods. The very faint glow from die headlights made me diink diey must have headed downhill as soon as they entered die woods.

Puzzled, we stood up and looked at each other. "What are diose guys doing?" Sandy asked. "Whatever it is, diey gotta come back so I'm off."

"Here," I grabbed him and pushed die glasses at him, "take these."

127

He disappeared with the stealdi of an Indian and left me feeling miserably alone.

With my eyes still glued to the far woods, I leaned over and picked up Lulu. I had a horrid thought diat she might sneak out of the sleeping bag to follow Sandy.

Illegal dumping was the only reason diat occurred to me as a reason for the truck's nocturnal visit. Maybe Anderson had a ravine like Sophies that was suitable for toxic waste. There were newspaper reports of the EPA catching offenders dumping in northern Vermont but I don't remember thinking drat die punishment was particularly harsh. A slap on the wrist. A fine. So why did these men seem so vicious—or was it all in my imagination?

Ten minutes went by before I saw die van return and stop in front of die barn. Axel's tall figure stood out in a white shirt. I watched mesmerized as he used his whole arm to point in my direction. He dien raised his hand to his lips and whistled.

The piercing blast was answered by excited yapping. I'd forgotten die dogs! The hounds were giving tongue in the manner of hunting dogs trying to establish the scent or to follow a trail. Could diey sniff out a small house dog from a quarter of a mile away? Or had Axel detected some movement from our elevated encampment?

The tiniest move in a very familiar landscape can catch ones eye. The smallest shape where it doesn't belong or die faintest sound where no sound existed before call out to a sensitive ear or eye. I guessed a glint or reflection may have bounced from the cameras telescopic lens, or possibly Sandy and I had parted die branches of a bush or tree diat were usually entwined. Such actions might be visible to Axel.

No matter what die cause, die dogs sounded as diough diey were coming in my direction and I was terrified. I could imag-

128

ine them tearing Lulu apart like a pinata, to say nothing of their possible appetite for aged flank steak.

Lulus bark would be considered inadequate for a watchdog but what it lacked in volume it made up for with a throaty resonance. In spite of my hand around her jaw her wheezing must have beckoned the dogs. She nearly succeeded in squirming out of my arms.

Tightening my grip, I knelc down to unscrew die top of die water thermos and on second thought uncorked the coffee too. If a dash of water didn't stop die creatures, hot coffee surely would.

Lulu was momentarily diverted by discovering Sandys plastic bag of Yummies. I yanked them away from her just as the dogs landed in front of us.

They appeared to be as startled to see us as Lulu and I were to see them. They stood, front legs apart, salivating, their eyes rolling, apparendy unable to decide which of us to attack or what to do next.

The larger hound bared his teeth and made an unfriendly sound diat inspired me to upend the plastic bag of Yummies, scattering them on the sleeping bag. All diree dogs looked at me, at the Yummies, and back at me again.

Bobbing my head up and down I invited them to go to it. As the hounds tore into the lirde piles I nearly choked Lulu to deadi backing away from the scene. I cooed inanities: "Good doggies. Good Yummies."

Afraid I'd back into unknown territory I turned and ran as fast as I dared down the path Sandy and I had made from the car. Sandys four-wheeled junkyard treasure never looked lovelier. I almost panicked trying to open the door. Sandy had said the doors didn't lock but hadn't added any instructions on how to open them.

129

I pushed Lulu through the open window (an opening too small for me) and with a rush of adrenaline and a prayer for my lumbar region I lifted the door up and out. My effort was rewarded. The butt-sprung car seat felt like a pasha's cashmere cushion.

Taking deep breaths I willed my heart to slow down. One arm held Lulu dose to my side and my other hand held my knit hat over her face. I didn't want to take a chance of her blowing our cover. I didn't want to have anything more to do with toothy hounds demanding more treats. I was relieved by the sound of anodier whisde from Axel Anderson and exhaled tension when the dogs yipped in response and I heard them run through die woods.

Sit tight was the best advice I could give myself—sit tight, concentrate on Sandys plight, and pray to whomever diat he'd be safe.

Moments—or was it hours?—later Sandy appeared out of the night. He opened his door with enviable ease and once inside hit his forehead widi the heel of his hand.

"Damn, damn, damn. I blew it. They had a light, a spotlight. They seemed to be looking for me. I had to crawl through die brush on my belly like a goddamn worm. Never saw die guys, just lights."

"Did you see dieir license plates?"

"All I saw was wheels. Muddy wheels and die damned lights. What made diem diink I was there, I wonder?" Sandy dabbed at a couple of scratches widi a tissue I'd handed him.

Recounting my canine episode was no pleasure. I felt like an old fool. But Sandy was tickled by my description and vowed he would always carry Poochie Yummies on future dates widi female camping companions. He did not agree widi my wish

130

to leave the campsite and return to fetch our gear the next day.

Without waiting for any discussion of the matter, he slipped out of the car and ran into the woods.

Before I could begin any serious anguishing my partner was back, but he didn't get into the car.

"Get behind the wheel, Tish. When this wagon starts up it sounds like a 16-wheeler. Don't want Anderson to come running with a shotgun. I'll push. You steer."

131

FOURTEEN

Rain the next day suited my mood. I did a stint at my desk, paying some bills and writing a couple of letters that had been nudging my conscience. A little later I was leaning on my elbows vacantly concentrating on the middle distance (sometimes known as meditation) when Hilary telephoned.

I had already confessed to him my espionage failure, so happily it was not on the agenda for discussion.

Would I, he wanted to know, consider die dinner widi Peter Colwell and Sophie for tonight because die next day he had to go to a meeting in Washington and expected to be away for a couple of days, "Tell him it's not a dressy occasion," Hilary had said. "Just a one-gold-chain affair."

When I got Sophie on the phone she seemed pleased at die invitation and said she'd ask Peter. He was right there.

Where, I wondered, was "diere?"

The dinner party was not to be. Sophie returned to the telephone and said she was going with Peter to Hartford on business concerning the goat lift and she didn't expect they would be home in time for dinner.

132

The rainy day was suitable for pokey errands so Lulu and I took off with a long list. She sat behind the wheel of the car while I ducked in and out of die post office. Next I checked out the IGA, dien die bank and the stationery store. The healdi food store was always my favorite stop and I usually came out munching somediing fattening and delicious.

Lulu buried her head in a bouquet of carrot greens which made me diink ofTrixie.

The rain had abated and it seemed like a good time to look over the livestock. So with rising spirits we headed for Goat Heaven.

A car I didn't recognize was parked by die corral. No one was in sight.

Before I could open my door Libby's wagon pulled up beside me.

"Tish. Thank goodness you're here." Dbby jumped out and was unlatching die rear gate of her wagon when I joined her.

"A goat?"

"Yup, a kid, Ariel."

A litde black nose pushed out and touched my chin.

"Stand back, she's a leaper."

Unlike Van Goat's sedate exit when he had arrived, this sloppy-eared gazelle soared out of die wagon and if Dbby hadn't had her on a long lead she might still be flying.

I felt her chamois ears dien ran my hand down die white blaze on her nose and over her soft coat.

"Cashmere?"

"Yup, a cashmere kid, a test-tube baby."

Ariel's belly and legs were pale sienna. Tan eyebrows accented her oblong eyes. She looked as diough she'd grabbed her coat from a weavers loom in die high Adas Mountains of Morocco.

133

"She's a peace offering for Sophie. Is she here?"

I explained Sophies whereabouts and asked Libby if she knew Peter Colwell.

"Oh, sure. I mean I don't know him but he signed die letters we all got about die lift. That's somediing else, too. I hear die mans here and diat Sophies working on die lift. I'd like to offer to help. I know it takes a lot of organizing."

Libby went on to answer some of my questions about die goat lift. She said such livestock lifts had been going on for years, poor countries always being in need of infusions of stock. When die recipients of goats were desperately poor a problem arose: The expensively imported goats instandy became food for die table. Most lifts requested diat new goat owners give their first kid to their neighbor so diat the trickle-down system would work. Even one small goat could supply milk for a child every day.

"Are you sending some goats, Libby?"

"Naw, not this year. Don't want to cut into my breeding stock."

"Seems incredible to me diat 500 goats can be transported all in one plane."

"Yeah. It must be a nightmare. But it doesn't last long and diey're old hands at die job."

"Who is? Peter?"

"Not him. The people at quarantine. The arrivals gotta stay diere a couple of weeks before they ship diem on."

"And in this lift of Peter's?"

"Same diing. Only he's assembling them at die West River fairgrounds and trucking diem to quarantine in Newburgh."

"When does one get paid?"

"When diey're delivered to die fairgrounds. A certified check

134

on the nose. Four hundred dollars a goat. Good money—and you've got to produce your goat with a health certificate."

"Whew! That's a lot of moolah for a body to have on hand. Are they government checks?"

"This is private enterprise, or charitable. I dunno which. They call it Quadruped Passage." Libby sighed. "I'm glad Sophie's not here. I dread seeing her. Even though I know she'll flip over this baby. I hate myself, Tish. I really hate myself."

"Oh, come on. Life's too short. It was an unfortunate lapse of judgment. Could happen to anyone."

"Like you?" She smiled wryly. "Fat chance."

Ariel tugged at the thongs on my moccasin. "She's so litde, Libby. Suppose she doesn't fit in with the rest of the gang?"

"I hoped that herd instinct is strong enough to accommodate all comers."

Even as she spokeTrixie came over accompanied by Melissa, and the animals poked their noses through the gate to check out Ariel.

"If she seems lonely or unhappy, take her home with you. Put her on the back porch or put some hay in the garage or whatever. No problem. Look at her—already she's made friends with one of the goats and your horse and—," Libby lunged for Ariel as she attempted to climb onto my hood. She held the wriggling creature up to the window to exchange Eskimo kisses with Lulu."—And now with your pug."

Ariel then went to work on my other shoelace. Libby gave me her lead and wished me luck.

"And tell Sophie again how sorry I am."

My attention had been so diverted by Ariel I hadn't really looked at Libby, hadn't seen the dark semicircles under her eyes nor noticed the lines of strain that had given in to gravity. I had

135

great compassion for thedoughty woman but knew she wouldn't appreciate any Pollyanna drivel from me. With a diumbs-up gesture we said goodbye.

"Look at that cute little goat."

The exclamation of delight came from Kansas Marsh who was emerging from the stable. The stalks of straw sticking out of her wiry mop looked so appealing they might have been arranged by her wacky hairdresser.

Behind her, Mike Flynn, mussed up, looked less like Elvis. He knelt down to pat the kid and asked where she'd come from.

I pointed down the road at Libby's vanishing wagon. "Goat lady friend of Sophies."

Hairy Harry looked rather perplexed when he came over to inspect the new kid. Did I, he might be wondering, a Saanen senior, produce this long-eared Nubian junior? Trixie, grinning and nudging everyone, was enjoying the action, and Kansas and Mike were hugging and scratching and patting the creatures,

Kansas straightened up and brushed her sweater and jeans. "Will I smell? Do they smell as bad as they're supposed to?"

"Not this baby." I picked up Ariel. "It's the bucks that offend. They have an unlovely practice of peeing in their own mouths to enhance their charms."

"You'd do that?" Mike scratched Harrys forehead. "Shame on you. Wish there was a way I could fool around widi animals and make money at the same time."

"No such luck," I said, "Make a living, maybe, but money? No." I fleetingly diought of Peter. How was he going to make money on the goat lift?

"Do you diink Sophie will make a success of it?" Mike waved his arm to include all of Sophie's rough domain.

136

I was warming up to Mike but wasn't in the mood for a discussion of die many meanings of success. "Hope so."

"Mrs. McWhinny," Kansas said, "may I ask you a question?" I tried to look inviting. "Do you know die lady whose husband was killed—Mrs. Simpson?"

I nodded.

"Well, I was wondering about her. Like what does she do, and does she, like, live alone?"

The question was sort of surprising, and one I couldn't answer. How do you know another person—especially Grace Simpson, a comparative stranger? As a brand new widow I doubted diat she'd found a new partner. Was she alone? For all I knew she might be surrounded by family or friends. Or perhaps she had another surprise, like Peter Colwell, in residence in the guest bedroom or her own. Kansas went on to describe something equally surprising: Herfadier (I hope she didn't know what Sophie called him) constandy telephoned Mrs. Simpson and was always hurrying off to see her, and Kansas wondered what they were doing.

Since we are inclined, foolishly, to judge others by ourselves I assumed Kansas imagined her fadier and Grace Simpson busy in each other's arms. The vision of them thusly engaged brought me to die brink of laughter. The roly-poly extroverted widow and pudgy, owl-eyed Hard-on! Properly any such activity involving diem should be recorded by Hieronymus Bosch.

Her father, I assured Kansas, was a kind man who was simply being a friend to Mrs. Simpson, who must be lonely and miserable. They might have found, I suggested, something in common. A mutual interest—or perhaps, having lost Kansas' mother just a few years ago, he was particularly understanding and sympathetic.

137

"Have you two known each other for a long time?" I asked.

"Long time?" Mike grinned. "Yes and no. She," he pointed at Kansas, "painted scenery in Great Barrington before she came up here to Vermont,"

"Mikes been giving me acting lessons." Kansas hugged herself. "It's so nice here at the farm. We love it, don't we, Mike?" She leaned over and embracing Ariel kissed the top of her head between the little bumps that I guessed would become horns. "I wish I had a goat."

"What's playing at your dieater, Mike?" I asked. "I hope you have a good role."

"A role? I've got a role all right but I hate to tell you, it's not on the stage. I'm the scenery painter, bulb changer, and I toss a mean salad." His rueful smile was appealing. "But don't diink I'm not important." He raised his fists and flexed his biceps. "I'm indispensable. I'm die only one who knows die way to die dump."

I never knew what Sophie s relationship widi Mike had been. Didn't want to know. But still I was a litde puzzled. Mike seemed like such a kid. As much as I disliked Sophies present situation I could understand Peter's older, big-deal appeal for someone as much younger as she. Probably Mike had been just what Sophie claimed he was—a boarder. Kansas and Mike had struck me as a more plausible match.

A gnawing sound led us around to die back of die bam where Popeye was chewing on one of die upright posts supporting Sandy's cabin in the sky.

"Have you seen Sandy, Mike?"

"Yeah, for a sec He had to go do something about diat car of his."

Mike and Kansas were elated when I suggested diey exercise

138

the horses. I departed after helping them saddle frisky Trixie and giving them a lot of instructions they probably didn't need.

The sun was breaking dirough to create a bucolic, pastoral, fragrant Vermont day. There was no place I'd rather be. I hugged Ariel again and left, still a little disturbed at leaving such a lirde kid on her own.

Remembering that I'd promised to pick up a book I'd ordered at the library, I turned toward South Londonderry, which in seconds took me by Grace Simpsons driveway.

Widi nosy intent I slowed to a stop by the bridge and sat staring at the house and pan of the garage. What could they be up to? A widow of two weeks making love? It struck me as more likely that they might be planning something. A trip? Some scheme?

I don't know what I expected to see from my vantage point, but in a moment I witnessed Grace Simpson come out of the house and walk toward die garage dragging a large shopping bag.

Slowly I took my foot off the brake and inched out of sight. That's what you get for snooping, I thought. Exactly nodiing except a flash of shame.

"Tish!" Sandy nearly ran into me as he called out over die sound of his hiccupping car. "Turn around—back up. Come on, you've gotta see what I've got. A surprise."

Back at die farm die riders were not in sight. The goats were browsing and Ariel was standing on a rock with a couple of does.

Sandy stood widi his back to die side of his car and his arms spread, hiding the occupants or possibly die sight of me from diem.

"Let me guess. You've got a parachute in diere for die tree hut."

139

Beaming, he shook his head.

"A baby tractor? No. A Grecian urn? Come on, I give up, what is it?"

Using his particular know-how he opened the back door and widi much cooing and cajoling he urged a taffy and white goat out onto the gravel. He grinned. "And anodier, Madonna, Queen of the Mayflies. Honest, that's her name." The doe made a graceful exit and turned and butted Sandy.

Both beasts stared at me as though awaiting instructions.

"More goats, Sandy? Wow! Cashmeres?"

"Nope."

"Something special?"

"Oh, very, very special. Lets introduce them to the odiers."

Sophies herd didn't give Sandy's sturdy bright-eyed goats a tumble.

"They've got horns," I observed. "They're medium size. They look like Spanish goats I've seen. What's so special? Do diey produce triplets? What's the story?"

Sandy acted very mysterious and said he wouldn't tell me until Sophie got home. He said he was going to show them around the bam. "Hey," he turned, "what were you doing at Simpsons'? Did you go see her?"

Was it fair to discuss with my happy young conspirator my feelings about Grace? That's what they were—mindless suspicions that the woman was somehow devious and up to something. But I told him what Kansas had said, and admitted it was silly.

"Maybe. But you were right about those guys at Andersons'. I figure they must have been dumping something, don't you? I'm going to do some exploring and I'll pussyfoot around Simpsons', too, and see what I can find out."

140

I should have said absolutely not to Sandy but instead heard myself weakly cautioning him to be careful.

"Yeah. I'll take Sophies birdwatching book or a butterfly net. Don't worry about me."

141

FIFTEEN

Continuing my aborted trip to the library, I smiled, imagining Sandy leaping over the landscape in pursuit of butterflies. Then, thinking about his new goats, I wondered if Sophie might just get tired of friends and family adding to her livestock without so much as a by-your-leave.

It was easy to lose track of time at our wonderful library. When I finally surfaced Lulu was fit to be tied. She'd been stuck in the car entirely too long. I explained to her that we were going home but first we'd swing by Goat Heaven because I realized I hadn't told Sandy that Mike and Kansas were out with the horses. They might be careless riders and possibly the old steeds might need some attention, a rub down or a blanket.

' I was relieved to see thatTrixie and Popeye were grazing peacefully in the pasture behind the barn. Sandys car was no longer parked by the corral, but seeing his two goats standing in die barn doorway I thought I'd take a minute to look them over and to be sure the water trough was full. Ariel wasn't in sight but I intended to make sure she was happy with the herd.

142

Thinking about Arid, I walked across to the bam and stepped on the lip of a metal feeding tin. The disk went whirling into orbit and landed with a mighty crash on the concrete drainage ditch.

The racket made me reflect on the joys of silent Vermont in contrast to my life long ago in the city. No sirens, blaring horns, jackhammers, or whining car alarms. Just the sounds of nature: bugs celebrating spring, doves cooing, and goats clicking dieir hooves on die rocky turf.

I picked up die pan and rose, then gasped at die sight of Sandys goats. Bodi of them were prone. Flat on their sides, all four feet straight out in the air rigid and motionless.

I fell to my knees beside die tawny buck. His eyes were rolling in panic. What poison could he have found? Then leaning over Madonna I implored her to tell me what happened. I felt her stifFbody. Her heart was beating fast. I rubbed her stifflegs and slowly felt diem soften under my hand. Her knees bent and in die next minute she had scrambled to her feet in the odd way of hoofed quadrupeds. So had die buck They bodi looked down at me crouched on all fours. Madonna emptied her bladder and they bodi walked by me for a drink at die trough.

Once again bested by goat behavior I sat against die wall, legs spread, chin on my chest. How could Sandy dioughdessly have brought unsound goats into his sisters life? I tried to remember the chapter on goat illnesses which I had studied before Harry ate the book, but couldn't remember anydiing about instant collapse or seizures.

With my eyes closed I did some deep breathing with the hope of restoring some energy. I massaged my knees and when I looked up I saw a foot—more precisely a booted foot, sucking out from behind Popeyes stall.

143

If this was another performance by Mike and Kansas I was annoyed. Who did Mike think he was, moving in on Sophies property with his lady love?

With noisy grunts and groans I got to my feet. I addressed Sandys goats, telling them to plan on a date with the vet pronto. I cleared my diroat theatrically and walked over to Popeyes side of the bam.

Mike Flynn was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling. An empty feed bag covered his chest. I leaned over, repeating his name, and felt his hand. His flesh was warm but I couldn't feel his pulse. I patted his cheek and felt his neck. I didn't need my wartime past as a nurses aide to realize he was dead.

But how? Electrically? The only wires I could see were taped togedier overhead. Like the goats, a seizure? One that was fatal.

I squealed with fright when something wet and cold pressed against my ear. Ariel, inquisitive and eager, was about to step on Mike's body. I shooed her away and grabbed both of Sandys sick goats and got them all outside the barn. After I closed the door I ran across the corral and dashed into Sophie's house and called die rescue squad.

In die kitchen I turned on die tap and found I was shaking so much I couldn't pick up a glass. I slurped some water from my cupped hands and splashed my face. It was almost as difficult trying to call Hilary. When I told him about Mike he thundered that it wasn't possible, he'd just been at Goat Heaven himself.

"When, Hilary?"

"A few minutes ago. I just got home. I'll be right there." He hung up.

Once again trying to restore my body and soul by leaning

144

back and breathing slowly I heard a slight noise that brought me to my feet. If Mike had been attacked by someone, maybe that person was in the house. Widi my heart beating far too fast I walked quickly to the door and out to my car.

Once inside widi Lulu curled in my lap I rested my head on the steering wheel.

I nearly jumped out of my skin again when someone said hello about six inches from my ear.

"Newt. Oh, Newt." Then I cried.

Newt shoved a huge rumpled kerchief through the window. "Here you go, Letitia. Dry "em up." Widi his hand inside the car Newt massaged the lapel of my suede jacket. He must have thought it was Lulu's ear.

Before I could pull myself together to tell him what had happened the rescue squad ambulance raced into view. I pointed toward die barn, and widiout speaking all three of them sprinted through the gate and into die bam.

Maybe Mike wasn't dead. Perhaps I should join the rescue team. But I was glued to the seat; I couldn't move.

In minutes I was in the middle ofa crowd. Sandy arrived and stood with his arms folded, staring at die ground. Hilarys Beede skidded to a stop, and to my surprise Sophie and Peter appeared next. Sophie got out in a trance. She stood looking around her, shaking her head.

"What in the world?"

"Search me," Sandy said.

Newt spread his palms and shrugged.

"It's Mike," HUary said. "Tish knows."

Instead of looking at me we all looked at the rescue squad people walking toward us. Carol Zimmer stayed behind a minute to dose die barn door.

145

"He is dead, isn't he?" I managed to get out of the car, hooking my arm through the windows to steady myself.

"Very dead, Mrs. McWhinny. Even though he must be pronounced dead by an M.D. we feel it's a homicide. The police will be here soon."

"Mike is dead? Mike Flynn? Someone murdered him? Oh God, what's happening?" Sophie walked over to die fence and hung her head and arms over the top rail like a spineless rag doll. Hilary went over and put his arm around her.

Under his breadi, Newt asked me if it was the same fella diat used to stay with Sophie. When I nodded, he shook his head and frowned.

"It isn't real," Sandy said. "It's just not real. I saw the guy less than an hour ago."

I asked Hilary if he had seen Mike when he came to die farm. He shook his head. "Where's his car? Newt said it was in the parking place."

Peter Colwell, who had said nothing, opened die back of Sophie's station wagon and proceeded to remove grocery bags and carry them into the house.

Sophie sank to her knees and reached through the rails. "Who's this?"

I told her about LJbby's visit. She walked dirough the gate and sat down, hugging the Nubian kid in her arms. I could hear her crying.

Carol Zimmer leaned on the gatepost with her hands in her pockets and quiedy answered our questions.

The reason they had notified the police when I had called was because Simpson's murder had occurred just yards away and die dispatcher thought there might be a connection. She said Mike had obviously been murdered as there was a single

146

entry wound at the back of his neck and not the kind ofwound that could happen by accident or be self-inflicted. Therefore they could take no action until the police arrived. The driver, she said, was calling the homicide van which included a forensic doctor. She answered my unasked question. Why hadn't I seen any blood? Because Mike was lying on a thick layer of hay—the kind of porous base favored by goats to absorb urine.

In a matter of minutes a young state trooper arrived and told us diat Lieutenant Zuccarelli would arrive in about an hour and had sent a message to us that if we lived nearby we could go home to reappear at three o'clock. Otherwise all witnesses were to stay put.

The young man told the rescue squad they could leave and he wrote down all our names.

"I'll be up the hill." Newt pointed. "Just honk when you want me."

Hilary looked at me and moudied, "I'll stay," and pointed down at Sophie.

Sandy and Peter both said they were staying. I went home and watched Lulu run around the back yard. I put a handful of dog biscuits in her bowl. My mind seemed to be mired in sludge. I couldn't uYtnk. I wanted to bury myself under my blankets and will them to carry me off to the South Pacific. My body required steaming so that's what I did for half an hour—soak in the tub.

This time I left Lulu home. Even widi Zuccarelli's laid-back, low-key detecting style the next few hours could only be sad and grim.

The skies looked threatening again and I found the group, including Zuccarelli, assembled in Sophie's living room. Sandy and Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor. Hilary had sunk into

147

the big stuffed chair and Zuccarelli sat on one of a trio of folding chairs. I sat beside him. Peter hooked his rear on a skinny radiator, his long bare legs crossed at the ankle, his tan arms folded across his chest and a sardonic smile on his picture-perfect face. Newt stood in die doorway.

I was in time to hear Sophies description of her morning.

The Hartford trip had been called off and Sophie and Peter had decided to do errands. A tooth diat had been bodiering Sophie had suddenly become excruciatingly painful and they had gone to see Charlie, her dentist in Rawsonville. He gave her a painkiller and said she'd have to wait half an hour for his attention as he was involved in a tricky procedure. So Peter went to have die car checked. The toodi fixed, they had some soup at the River Cafe and came home.

"Where did you have the car checked, Mr. Colwell?"

"Well, I didn't actually. It was a problem of vibration and it worked itself out on die road." Peter took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, looked around die room and put it back.

Zuccarelli said "Thank you," and asked Sophie how much time she had spent at the dentist. She guessed perhaps an hour.

"And during diat hour, where did you drive Mr. Colwell?"

"Oh, just around. Bought a paper and spent most of the time waiting in the car outside the office reading it."

"Could you see him from inside, Miss Beaumont? Through a window, perhaps?"

"I didn't even try. I was kind of out of it. Had my eyes dosed."

The lieutenant then questioned Hilary about his visit to Goat Heaven. He said diat on die way back from Manchester he had driven to Sophie's, as he often did, to see how things were going. He said he saw no one, didn't even get out of die car.

148

"Were there other cars here?"

"One. But I don't know whose it was."

Mine was the longest recitation and the most difficult because Zuccarelli kept wanting to know what time I came and went. How many minutes I took to do thus and so. While I'm a watch wearer, I'm not a watch watcher.

"After you talked to Kansas Harding and the deceased, how long did it take to saddle the horses?"

Of course I didn't really know. "I do know, though, Lieutenant, that I left the library at 1:15.1 was getting hungry and I actually looked at my watch."

"When did Libby come?" Sophie asked.

"Libby Lupin?" Zuccarelli raised his eyebrows. "She was here?"

"That was before anything happened," I assured him.

He asked Hilary, Sandy, and Peter if they had seen Libby. And Newt said he hadn't seen anybody 'cause he hadn't come down till he met me in the car.

"Did die deceased or Miss Harding see Libby Lupin?" he asked me.

"Nope, she'd left. She brought Sophie a kid."

Zuccarelli wrote wordlessly while most of us stared at die floor. He pulled a black case from his pocket and rose, handing each of us a card.

"Don't hesitate to call me any time anything occurs to you that might be pertinent to diis murder. And while I address diis to all of you, diis applies especially to you, Mrs. McWhinny. Please, no sleuthing. It's dangerous. This isn't a game on television; it's a murder. And someone who might well be out of control is out diere watching you."

"Hey, Lieutenant," Newt laughed. "How about it might be one of us?" He beamed at everyone. "We all gotta watch out."

149

SIXTEEN

We adjourned to the front porch while Lieutenant Zuccarelli asked us to make ourselves available for questioning in the near future.

I hastened down the steps, imagining the porch giving way under its load and pulling the cardboard house along with it.

Lieutenant Zuccarelli marched over to die barn to join the homicide crew that had arrived while we were inside.

"Hey," Sophie pointed at Sandys goats who were posing in profile, "what goes on? Did Libby bring me those goats, too?"

Sandy was poised to answer die question when the rescue squad ambulance returned.

The driver leaned on his horn and gestured for someone to open the corral gate.

At die same moment, Sandys goats were stricken and fell to die ground paralyzed and rigid.

Sophie, who had the quickest reactions of anyone I knew, ran toward die goats and in less dian two seconds was kneeling beside diem.

150

1 Mb l^A^ri

The rescue squad team abandoned their vehicle and raced by me, Carol swatting me with her medical bag.

"Hey, hey, its okay." Sandy danced around Sophie and die goats. No one paid any attention to him. Carol was listening to Madonnas chest with her stethoscope and waved him away. He grabbed her arm. "Listen — listen a minute. They're okay, honest."

The goats were repeating their past performance and were awkwardly climbing to their feet.

"They're fainting goats. Honest, Sophie, they're fine. The horn scared them. This is what they do. Faint."

"Oh yes," Peter said. "I know all about them."

No one applauded him for his esoteric knowledge, but stood silently staring at die beasts calmly chewing their cuds.

With her hands on her hips Sophie turned to her brodier. "Well?"

"Well, at the garage the other day I was reading diis magazine that had an article about fainting goats and die guy working on the car said he knew a lady who had some. I diought, what a gas. I knew you'd love them, Soph."

"What did you pay for them?"

"I won't tell you. I telephoned Pop and he said he diought you'd love 'em too."

"A strange breed," Hilary said.

Peter explained that fainting goats were not a breed but radier a gene diat could be bred in or out of a herd. They almost became extinct because ranchers long ago used diem to protect other goats, die idea being diat these goats, alarmed by wolves or coyotes, would faint and be fair game to detain die predators while die fleeter herd escaped. "They've been raised for meat, too," he told us. "They're solid creatures; science uses diem now

151

to oy to understand a condition like theirs in humans. Myotonia, I think."

I was reminded of a wartime beau of mine, a commander in the British Navy, who had to be constantly attended by a sailor because when the torpedoes struck and bombs fell, Horace would fall asleep.

Sophie, who was not amused, asked Sandy if he planned to work with medical scientists.

"No, I just got them because they're cute. They're different. I knew you wouldn't mind."

We all minded what happened next. In silence we watched the rescue crew roll a covered gurney across the corral.

They were followed by Lieutenant Zuccarelli who explained that the squad was doing us a favor by removing the deceased,, as it would take a while for the police to find his family and discuss their wishes.

Alone, Sophie walked over to the fainting goats and absent-mindedly scratched their heads. Ariel frisked at her feet while die rest of the herd milled around in die background. A shaft of sunlight made die goat herd and her flock appear to be posing for a Victorian calendar. Sandy joined her and they talked in low voices.

Newt waved goodbye and trudged up die road. Hilary said something like Seeyalater and sped offin his Beede.

Peter spoke to me. I wanted to tell him to take that smug smile off his face. "Sophie said you've offered to help with die goat lift. It's very kind of you; we need all the help we can get."

I told him Hilary would help and Libby Lupin had volunteered, too.

"Good. You know, die day is almost upon us. I shouldn't even be standing here. A million things to do. Tell Sophie, please,

152

that I'm going down to talk to Grace. Be back soon."

As I watched him walk away I wished his goat lift could take place tomorrow and that the man would pack up his designer jeans and gold chains and leave. The sooner the better. Then I scolded myself for my unreasonable bias.

Back in the corral I pleaded with Sophie to leave the farm, take a vacation from the tragic scene and move back into my front bedroom.

She admitted there seemed to be a curse on her part of Clement Hollow but that, damn it, no one was going to scare her away from her very own turf. "My goats, my horse," she sobbed, "my barn."

"You can rely on me, Tish," Sandy said. "I'm not going to let Sis out of my sight." He pulled out an object the size and shape of a blackboard eraser with two prongs at one end. "I'm ready." He made the gadget buzz. "A cattle prod. Widi this thing I could make a goat jump over the barn—and applied to the proper part of a persons anatomy, wow! End of argument."

Sophie examined the compact weapon. "I've only seen these about a foot long or longer. This must be for people, for crowds. Let's try it on you." She lunged at Sandy, who jumped away and ran. Sophie tore after him, yelling like a banshee. The goats fainted.

I left diem to their youdiful cadiartic madness and climbed into die car.

On mis occasion when I passed Graces driveway, Peter was emerging and flagged me down.

Cousin Grace had offered her sun porch as an office for Quadruped Passage. Peter said he was borrowing Graces car to bring back his files and computer from me office in Hartford.

153

He hoped we could all meet die next morning to plan goat-lift strategy.

"America is discovering die goat. It's no longer regarded as a smelly beast who relishes cans and eats cigarette butts. It's respectable—and like Sandys goats and the pygmies now being raised, even quite classy."

Libby had a captive audience and was sounding off on her favorite topic. We were sirring in Grace Simpsons sun room waiting for Sophie and Peter.

"There have been wild goats all over the world for centuries. And did you know diat they were domesticated seven or eight thousand years before Christ? Widi other quadrupeds, diey started grazing on what later became the Sahara. The creatures have been used for everydiing under the sun as well as providing die obvious: food, fiber, milk, and hide. They ve been used— probably still are—to pull carts. They used to use goats to diresh wheat. Trained dogs herded goats into a moving circle over wheat spread on hard earth, their sharp hooves doing the job.

"Lord knows, diey come in all shapes and sizes, from ritzy dwarfs to ones the size of a poodle to hefty bucks diat a couple of weightlifters would have trouble with. They come in all earth colors, with and widiout beards, and widi big round ears, pointed or floppy ones, and die La Manchas with no ears at all. They come widi or without horns, and some hornless ones are gay. Well, at least androgynous."

Half listening to Libby, I looked around die unremarkable sun porch and into the living room. My view, while limited, displayed a loveless approach to decorating—the it-will-do school of diought. A huge television dominated one end of die room and die scruffy scuffs on the floor under its turntable

154

1 Hh OttHMCHC 1ML/

brought to mind a dreary vision of a daytime television mentality. Or maybe a more charitable view would be of Grace curled up in a fuzzy robe wiggling her toes and munching popcorn.

The whiffl got of her breadi when she greeted us at die door suggested her tippling was not confined to die evening. She looked tired but composed and graciously offered us Diet Cokes and passed a bowl of peanuts.

It was so pleasant to listen to Libby and to think about myditc goatdom and the role of goats in die modern world. Certainly none of us wanted to diink about Mike Flynn, but we inevitably fell into the topic.

Why? That was the question. Why in the world would someone kill an agreeable young man, a bit player on any stage, and an infrequent visitor to Goat Heaven?

No white truck or dusty van had been sighted by anyone, and I found it difficult to imagine what connection those men could possibly have to Mike Rynn.

Hilary suggested diat Mike might have seen die men running Stuart Simpson off the road or actually killing him. I diought of Sandy and his friends again.

Grace winced. I added that my aim and intention was to find those horrible men and identify diem so diat Zuccarelli could get dieir fingerprints, prove diem to be guilty, erase diem from die scene, and please let us get back to normal, productive, happy lives.

"Amen," Grace said. "Does anyone know anything about the young man? His family, his background?"

"I do." Sophie came in dirough die porch screen door. She walked in under Peters arm holding die door open and sat on a wicker ottoman. "But not much. He never talked about family or, for diat matter, anydiing but die dieater. Zuccarelli said he

155

found his parents' names in his wallet and had so far been unable to notify them. I garner that someone has gone to Great Harrington to check out where he's been living and talk to die people at the theater. Such a nice guy."

She sighed. "What's happened to us here in Clement Hollow? Who are all diese evil people? I don't get it."

Hilary offered some observations on the declining moral fiber of the population. But no one was in die mood for philosophizing.

Peter filled in the vacuum with executive briskness. Once again I was starded to realize how soon Quadruped Passage was to take place.

"In general, the scene will be as follows." Peter counted on his long fingers. Lift day was to be next Saturday, rain or shine. He invited us all to pray for sunshine so he could avoid die expense of hoisting many added tents. "Goat owners must produce health certificates and other papers to one of us who will verify the number of goats present, dien pass die papers on to me, who will then hand over a check." A vet would observe the goats ascending die ramp into waiting trucks for dieir IDs, ear tags, tattoos, and for lameness or sniffles. Each truck, when filled, would proceed to Newburgh. He diought die process might take all day, not because goats were difficult to manage—on the contrary, diey travel very well—but because of the large numbers expected. There would be many paid handlers at work but he wanted to rely on his friends to be overseers.

Hilary sent me a look when Peter described us as friends.

Sophie appeared to be enraptured by Peters managerial skills and mellifluous delivery.

He handed her a fat briefcase. "Certified checks. You, dear girl, can be chief guardian of die exchequer."

156

"Suppose," Hilary asked, "a goat breeder who had stated that 10 goats were to be delivered could only bring eight or nine. I don't quite see that person making out a check to you."

"Ah, good question. No one can fool with a certified check. They're like gold. I have thought of die possibility you describe, and I've made out all checks for 20 percent less than the agreed amount. Our contract states that any further amounts to be paid would be paid on the spot widi a company check I think that will take care of that problem."

"I hope there isn't any cash in here, Peter. If so, take it back Please."

"Relax, sweetheart. Let me do the worrying. Grace here has arranged for a minimal catering set-up. Coffee, packaged sandwiches, and a hot dog vendor."

Grace nodded. "And the Sanipot toilet people will be there."

"Emergency tents are stored right there at the fairgrounds. However, I'm told there's only one telephone in the whole place, so don't plan to call your shrink and tell all." Peter smiled paternally. "Class dismissed."

It took restraint not to say something rude to Peter, but most of all I wanted to shake Sophie. Where was the good sense I'd attributed to her? Even at my age it was no trick to remember being blind to a true loves warts. But this middle-aged Lothario seemed so obvious.

157

SEVENTEEN

Libby roared off in her truck as Peter and Grace disappeared into the house. Hilary, Sophie, and I walked back up die hill to Goat Heaven.

Hilary wanted to go home but I lured him inside the gate, promising him he could meet Arid. I picked die little dynamo up and hugged her to my hearts content. Hilary was smitten with the downy kid too, and they frolicked for a while.

Sophie insisted diat we join her and test the amount of noise it took to make Sandys goats faint. Sandy told us diat profit-minded goat owners had been treating fainting goats as a side show, a practice despised by most breeders who regarded die creatures as gende pets. Sandys diought was to breed his fainters with Van Goat and end up with fainting cashmeres. It was my turn to tag behind, and diank goodness I did, because a movement caught in my peripheral vision made me swivel around. I yelled at die top of my lungs.

Ariel had darted over to die mounting block where Sophie had left the briefcase open and in a wink had managed to scatter its contents with wild abandon.

158

Sophie got there first and pulled a fragment of paper out of Ariel's mouth, then shoved her fingers way down die poor kid's throat, trying to rescue another check. At least I assumed it was a check.

"Oh God, Peter will kill me. Help!"

She didn't need to call for help. Hilary and I were both on our hands and knees picking up checks and assorted envelopes as fast as we could.

Peter arrived to witness our frenzy and Ariel scampering to the safety of the herd. For a moment he was speechless, then he regained his composure as Sophie handed him a tiny scrap of beige paper. She sighed deeply. "I think she ate a whole one." She went over and sat on the block, a picture of despair, her head in her hands.

"Hey, kiddo, relax." Peter even smiled. "It will be all right." He smoothed her hair. "Relax."

I fully expected Peter to be furious in his shock. I would have been. Hilarys expression echoed my surprise. He gave me a high sign and we departed, leaving Sophie and Peter murmuring soothing words to each other.

On the way to our cars I told Hilary that Sophie and Peter were coming for dinner.

"Oh, goody. I'll run right home and figure out what to feed Mr. Nice Guy."

"Or, Mr. Executive Body. Seems he has die big event in hand. I don't know whether I dread it or look forward to it."

"My sentiments," Hilary revved up the Beede, "are to get the damned thing over with."

When I parked in my driveway I saw Kansas sweeping the porch at the store across die street. I let Lulu out of die house and we bodi went over.

159

It was a subdued young girl who greeted me. Even her multicolored hair had lost its sparkle. I put my arm around her shoulders, gave her a little hug, and tried to tell her how sorry I was about Mike.

"Did anything happen when you and Mike went riding? Did you meet anyone along the trail or in the woods?"

She shook her head. "No one. The policeman kept asking me, but there's no reason in die whole wide world why anyone would want to harm Mike." We commiserated and talked about Mike's virtues, his charms, and his talent. Kansas sat down beside me on die bench and picked up Lulu and put her cheek on Lulus round head. "All I want to do is cry."

The screen door flew open and her rather appeared. "Oh, good, diere you are. Will you take over? I'll be back in an hour or so." He patted her shoulder. "And don't cry, Kansas, don't cry."

"See?" Kansas straightened up, banishing her tears widi die back of her hand. "What did I tell you? There he goes again. Bet you a million he's on his way to Mrs. Simpsons house."

We discussed die perplexing situation inside while she filled my order for sliced salami, an indulgence I used as a quick fix for just about anydiing.

In moments, Kansas was caught up widi odier customers. I picked up my packages and waved goodbye.

Later Hilary assured me, when I offered to help widi die dinner, that my only role was to supply the setting, provide die booze, and manage die small talk.

Small talk indeed. I planned to quiz die man. I didn't like so many mysteries close to home. Particularly since Peter was so devoted to Sophie. From whence had diis aging smoothie come?

They arrived on time and Peter surprised us both by his digni-

160

fied costume oppressed jeans and a long-sleeved dark polo shirt buttoned at the top, hiding any jewelry he might be wearing.

Lulu made a suitable nest in Sophies voluminous skirt and looked around as if to say. I'm ready, let's begin.

Peter got the message, and, standing with his hands on his hips, he surveyed the living room.

"Perfect. Just what I would have expected. No, that's not true. Even better, if possible. The paintings! Yours, I'm sure." He touched his pursed lips and opened his hand in a fly-away kiss. "Perfection. And the rug." He bent gracefully to examine my worn Kashmir. "It's lovely."

Hilary, standing by the mantel, plucked an imaginary flower from the air and sniffed it mightily. "Smell the roses."

"Thank you, Peter," I said. "Ignore Chef Oats. I don't know how he escaped from die kitchen."

I made drinks for us all at the marble-topped washstand that served as my bar. Sophie took her wine and Hilary's martini into die kitchen, and I setded down with my scotch to quiz my guest.

Peter had been born in Rhode Island and spent what he said was a normal underprivileged childhood. His father had died when Peter was 12, his mother subsequendy becoming die housekeeper in a large house full of children, with room for him. Then his fortunes changed as he was brought up with all the social and educational benefits die family bestowed on their own brood. Included were private schools in Providence, a sailing camp on Cape Cod, and even on to Groton.

"And Yale?" I asked.

College, he said, was not for him, nor was an occupation behind a desk or working for any kind of a boss. "What I like is roaming around die world. No fences."

161

It struck me as a rather feckless lifestyle for someone in his middle fifties. Nor did transporting 500 or more goats fit with my picture of a romantic vagabond.

"Yes," he said dreamily, "I've been in and out of a lot of rooms and looked out a lot of windows and I like it that way. Though I must say that seeing Clement Hollow, and knowing Sophie, I just feel this wonderful serenity and I see die beckoning finger of Father Time."

What a crock, I thought. How can Sophie stand this ass?

Peter expanded his lungs. "What air. It makes me want to setde down here in die Green Mountains." He smiled boyishly and mustered up a twinkle. "And raise goats."

Thank goodness Hilary hadn't heard Peters nauseating speech, and especially his overdy expressed intention of making Sophie and Goat Heaven his life.

Hilary produced a leg of lamb nesded in a crust of garlic-laden bread crumbs, accompanied by ratatouille and new potatoes with parsley from my window box.

Managing small talk isn't all diat easy when you're trying to avoid certain topics like Peters intentions. I knew Hilary would sacrifice his epicurean meal and tilt die table into Peters lap if he slobbered over Sophie, so I constandy refilled Hilarys glass with dangerous red wine and he fell into nonstop monologues of past wars. Some of them were amusing, all of them familiar to me, but at least we got through dinner and die brief evening widiout a confrontation.

"Absolutely nothing" is what I told Hilary when he asked me what I'd learned about Peter. "Not a damned thing except an uneventful youth and die schools he attended."

"Groton! I don't believe it," Hil said. "What does Sophie see in the guy? It's disgusting, really disgusting. You say he loves die

162

serenity of Clement Hollow? The man likes murders?"

Hilary slid further down on the couch and had a litde snooze while I washed the dishes.

When I was finished I sat down in the wing chair and rewarded myself with a cup of espresso, and wished, as I often did, that I had a cigarette.

"Broadbent." Hilary's eyes were still closed. "Terrance Broadbent, that was his name."

I smiled, waiting. "Taught English at Groton for a million years. Said he knew the name of every boy who ever entered those hallowed halls. He lives at the school. I'll call him tomorrow. Colwell at Groton? In a pig's eye."

The next day was uneventful: household chores, my annual 10 minutes of spring gardening, and a half-hearted attempt to store away winter clodies.

For the millionth time I admired Doug's and my favorite wedding present from his mother, a king-sized wandering foot quilt that covered my bed. Its cantaloupe patches and dusty blue squares changed every day. Today it looked like an aerial viewofKoyoto.

Doing die laundry inspired me to shampoo my hair, and I was drying it on the front porch when Lieutenant Zuccarelli arrived. He looked slighter dian ever and his shoulders sagged.

"Before you say a word, sit." I patted die back of a comfortable rocker. "I'm going to brew us some tea and make cinnamon toast."

He smiled his acquiescence, leaned his head back on the chair, and closed his eyes.

While we ate and sipped, we had a social moment. He told me about Francesco Zuccarelli, his ancestor, a Renaissance painter. "From men on, all Zuccarellis were artists, sculptors, and marble

163

cutters. Acentury ago my grandfather emigrated to Barreto carve marble. I'm a lost cause, but my son Remi has the gift. At six he can carve recognizable animals out of a bar of soap."

He wiped his fingers on a checkerboard cocktail napkin and folded them, supporting his chin.

"I'd like to review with you your actions the day Mike Flynn was killed, and also the day Stuart Simpson was killed."

I was astonished. "You can't seriously believe I had anything to do with either death, Lieutenant. I don't even kill mice. Gosh, I'd just met Stuart Simpson, and only knew Mike Flynn slightly."

He unlocked his fingers to wave down my mounting emotions. "Please, Mrs. McWhinny, in each case your description of events, your observations, and your actions helps me paint the scene." He smiled. "Maybe I am an artist after all."

If that was true, I thought, he took a hell of a long time to fill in the canvas.

"Can't you trace diose men? Why don't you arrest them? I'll bet what they could tell would help complete your picture."

"We're involved with other agencies, so I prefer to leave them out of our discussion for the moment."

He prodded me step by step through a description of the tragedies.

"You can see, Mrs. McWhinny, that there is no alibi for anyone even remotely connected with events in Clement Hollow."

"Sophie? And how about Peter Colwell? They were both miles away in Texas."

"Your niece. Of course. I should have said your niece has an airtight alibi. But Colwell s a different story. It's possible he could have been on the scene in each occasion."

"On a magic carpet from San Angelo?" I said a little sarcastically.

164

"He left San Angelo the day before your niece left the conference. And I believe diey met at Logan Airport to return here."

I held the sides of my head to contain the rush of information. The last two weeks had been so wild and hectic diat I realized Sophie and I had hardly said a word about her trip and I had of course assumed that Peter had accompanied her to Tulsa for die christening.

'"What would his motive have been, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know yet, but the fact diat he is Grace Simpsons ex-husband does raise some possibilities."

Intent on what was being said, I had been leaning forward. The revelation about Peter and Grace made me fall back into die wicker armchair, whose right rear leg than collapsed and sent me crashing to the floor like a fainting goat.

Quick to help me, the lieutenant and I looked as diough we were making out in some bizarre orgy. At least that was Hilarys impression as he came upon the scene.

When we managed to untangle ourselves we moved into die living room, where die lieutenant resumed his questioning— first telling Hilary about Peter as a suspect and his relationship to Grace.

It was one of the few times I've seen my friend at a loss for words. He mumbled about old Broadbent and Groton. I think die realization of Grace's duplicity had really shocked him.

"You didn't like Mike Flynn, did you, Mr. Oats?"

"Of course I did. Barely knew die boy."

"Mrs. McWhinnys niece said you didn't approve of him."

I explained diat Hilary didn't approve of any men around Sophie. "No one was good enough for her."

"The officer who came to see you the other day, Mr. Oats, said you have an extraordinary collection of knives and that

165

you were a commando in World War II."

"Knives? Of course I have knives. I cook. I have dozens—all shapes and sizes. As for using one to kill a person, that's insane."

Zuccarelli tried to calm Hilarys rising temper and assured him that he had to examine every conceivable avenue.

"There are others, too," he said, bringing out his notebook. "Kansas Marsh. She was probably the last person to see Mike Flynn alive."

Kansas seemed so improbable a murderer that neither Hilary nor I responded.

"And Sandy Beaumont. Perhaps he became attached to Miss Marsh and resented Mike Flynn's attentions. And we never have found the friends he said he stayed widi in Boston."

"That's crazy," I said. "He's only known her a couple of days. Anyhow, he couldn't kill anyone. He's a sweet dear boy."

"A dear boy," die lieutenant said, "with a very unstable immediate past." He went on. "And Libby Lupin, who was close to the scene on both occasions."

"Ridiculous. If she were die murderer she'd never have returned die buck. Why plant yourself on die scene when by dien we all diought Van Goat was a goner."

"And diere's Newton Cleary. He seems to have led a blameless life, but we haven't eliminated anyone yet."

Hilary and I had no comment on diat unlikely candidate,

"That brings us to Grace Simpson. Possibly she wanted to be reunited with Colwell. It is a situation diat bears more scrutiny. And I haven't forgotten your men."

"My men? That really makes me mad, Lieutenant."

"Sorry, sorry. Well, thank you for tea. Thank you for your patience. We will be in touch, yes?" The detective rose and made his usual backward exit.

166

EIGHTEEN

"Lieutenant!" I jumped up and followed him out on die porch. "About Mike's parents. We'd like to help—you know, meet diem. Do whatever we can."

"So far diey don't seem to exist. When diey failed to respond to repeated calls placed to a number found among Mike's belongings, we asked die Camden police to check dieir whereabouts. They diink his fadier may have died, or vanished, and his mother moved away. The department is, however, going to stay on it."

"In die meantime, what happens to Mike?"

"He can be kept in die morgue for a few weeks, dien it's potters field."

"Would diere be any objection if we had a litde ceremony? Widi Kansas Marsh and Sophie, too. Maybe some friends from the theater."

"I diink diat would be fine, Mrs. McWhinny. My feeling is, the sooner die better."

Sophie answered die phone when I called and was in favor of a

167

service, which we agreed I would arrange for the next afternoon. Shesaid she would telephoneanypeopleMikehad known in Lofton and call the group in Great Harrington. I hoped his parents, when found, would be pleased. I felt sure our instant funeral wouldn't stand in the way of any service they wanted kter on.

Built in 1845, our handsome church was a monument to New England simplicity and frugality. No filigree, no frou-frou, and probably wearing its twentieth coat of white paint. The interior remained virtually unchanged except for the introduction of electricity, some boxy heating equipment, and an organ. Six tall, slender, muldpaned windows on each side still had die original glass, which sometimes turned die outside scene into cameo abstractions. In spite of very uncomfortable wooden pews it was a heavenly place to sit.

No one, it seemed, wanted to sit in the front row. A group of young people and a middle-aged couple who, I assumed, were from Great Harrington sat in the second row. Kansas walked in alone. Her hair extravaganza was hidden under a scarf. I thought she looked lovely—sad but lovely.

I exhaled with relief when Sophie, without Peter, slipped in beside me.

"Where's Hil?" she asked.

"He refused to come."

"That figures. I've heard him on the subject. 'He isn't coming to my funeral. Why should I go to his?'"

We both smiled at die sight of a tidied-up Newt, sitting in die last pew. "He couldn't stand Mike," Sophie said. "I diink it's sweet of him to come."

"Talk about sweet—look!" Millie was twirling die organ stool to accommodate her diminutive figure. "She's always so busy. But never too busy. What a good sport."

168

"Who's missing? Oh, here's Grace Simpson. Nice of her, too. She didn't even know him, did she?"

Sophie shrugged. "Dunno."

"AndLibby.Isshehere?"

"I didn't call her. She didn't know him. Way over from Dorset It never occurred to me."

"Sandy, Sophie. Where's Sandy?"

"Said he didn't want to leave the goats."

Norman Goody raised his hands and greeted the tiny group. Normans best time of year, cosmetically speaking, was winter, when he grew a beard. The beard hid his chin, which lacked any flesh or bone that protruded forward. But there was nothing weak-chinned about Normans character. His compassion and tireless efforts to help others made him a strong star in Lofton and at die odier small churches on his route.

Millie played somediing very softly—I think it was Bach— while a young actress from the troupe read die Twenty-Third Psalm. Norman read a Robert Frost poem about strangers on the earth and then enjoined us all to pray for Mike Flynn's young soul.

We closed with one of my favorite hymns, "Amazing Grace." To make up for die lack of volume of less dian 20 voices, Millie pulled out all the stops or whatever one does to make die Lofton church sound like die Salt Lake Tabernacle. I caught a glance from Sophie as I belted out die lyrics. She may have been as embarrassed as I was long years ago, standing beside my grandmother who, with her pince-nez trembling on her pert nose, sang widi a voice intended to catch die attention of die deides.

Afterwards we all stood awkwardly on die front porch and, looking up, muttered about the probability of rain. Grace Simpson walked over to her car and drove away. Newt, scratch-

169

ing his droopy rear end, talked to Lieutenant Zuccarelli.

Sophie took a deep breadi and went over to talk to die theater group. She need not have made die effort—diey all rushed down die stairs and piled in a van before she could say a word.

Kansas put her arm dirough mine. "This is die first funeral I've ever been to. Now I can see why my modier didn't want one. I don't diink die minister even knew Mikes name. Kept calling him your faithful servant."

Norman, who had come through the doorway, touched Kansas' shoulder. 'Yes, I did, young lady. I knew his name but I didn't know your friend. Why don't you tell me about him?"

I joined Newt and Zuccarelli. Newt said, "I only came to please that girl of yours, Letitia. Can't say as I cared much for die poor young fella, but I liked him a sight better than die one she has hanging around now. What does he diink he is? Those shorts! A badiing beauty? Gotta go. You take care, Letitia. I don't diink we're as safe as we ought to be around here." He lurched down die stairs, letting go with a saved-up stream of tobacco once off sacred turf.

"I'm afraid he's right about that." The lieutenant greeted me with a slight salute.

"I'm surprised diat you didn't grab Mike's dieatrical friends for questioning."

"Everyone in die company and anyone widi a connection to die company has long since been questioned."

The old-fashioned equivalent of mind your own business is don't try to teach your grandmodier how to suck eggs. "I am sorry, Lieutenant. Mike's murder has left me feeling a litde deranged."

"You know how I feel?" Sophie had joined us. "I feel like I was on some kind of a gruesome merry-go-round. But it wont stop.

170

You can't get off." She looked up at the dark sky. "I should have asked Norm to pray for good weather for Quadruped Passage."

Bless a humanitarian event, I thought, or bless some slick scam of Peters that I felt sure would line his pockets.

Kansas wearily pulled offher scarf and shook her colorful mop of hair. Sophie joined her and they walked over to die store.

"Thanks, Norm." We shook hands. Mine held a 50-dollar bill. "That was a nice service. Brief and just right."

Norman nodded in the direction Kansas had taken. "I lost the notes I made when you called me, Tish. Its true I didn't know die boy's name, but I diink I convinced her otherwise. Nice girl. Seems awfully confused and lost. She doesn't know much about her friend. Says he wanted to be an actor more dian anything else in the world. Said he loved animals. Said he used to dream about what animals he'd have on his ranch outside of Hollywood."

"Poor kid. Anything else?"

"Well, she said she thinks he was in some kind of trouble a year ago but wouldn't talk about it. Do you think there's a connection between Mr. Simpsons murder and Mike Flynn's?"

"Wish I could answer that one."

"They knew each other. Saw diem eating lunch at the counter at Friendlys just before Simpson was murdered. Just wondered."

Sophie called to me from the store as I walked home. "Wait up." Inside she picked up Lulu and headed for die kitchen and returned with a Coke.

"When I said that about Norm praying for the goat lift I could tell from your expression that you didn't approve and I can tell from the way you look when Peters around that you don't like him." Sophie ran her long fingers dirough her newly streaked hair. "Right?"

171

"Don't try to read my expression. My face is the way the Lord in her infinite wisdom arranged it. But since you have brought up die subject let's talk a minute about where you wear your heart, which appears to be on your sleeve. A dangerous place. But," I forestalled her interruption by raising my hand, "You don't need my approval. I'm not your mother nor am I your grandmother. But I hate to see you being bamboozled by a smoothie like Peter Colwell."

"So I'm being bamboozled, am I?" Sophie got to her feet. "Gee, thanks, Tish. I appreciate your confidence in my judgment." Before I could say another word she had stormed out die door.

A little angry and quite miserable, I hugged Lulu and realized I was weeping—weeping for die dead, weeping for my foolish young friend, weeping for the world.

"Oh, come on, Letitia!" When I addressed myself aloud in such circumstances I used die Italian pronunciation, \c-tect-zia. When Lulu heard that word it meant I was admonishing myself to snap out of it and take action. She was alert and ready for anything. Would I dash to the phone, run for the car or— worst scenario—drag out a suitcase?

What I did was head for die kitchen. Cooking therapy. Her favorite program. I dirashed around like Hilary, yanking pie shells out of die freezer, grabbing cans from high shelves, and counting eggs. Hilary called when I was on my knees in front of the refrigerator saying he'd like to provide dinner for us both. I lied, sort of, telling him I had plans for dinner and suggesting he pray, if he knew how, for good weadier the next day. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him about Sophie. To do so seemed pointless.

By the time my orgy was over I'd made diree lime pies—

172

Sophie loved them—a lemon sponge cake, and a couple of coffee rings loaded widi butter and brown sugar. Purged of tears and empty headed, I overcame an urge to eat one of die pies and instead opened a can of mushroom soup and watched die tube until I fell into bed.

173

NINETEEN

Dawn was breaking as Lulu and I jogged down the main street of Lofton. It was goat lift day. I hoped the weatherman's prediction of a beautiful Saturday was accurate. The thought of a multitude of goats packed together under wet tents was appalling. The bleating, the smell, and the confusion would be a nightmare.

Lulu nearly pulled me offthe road when she charged Mom and Pop Raccoon, who were calling it quits for the night.

Home again, I paused on the porch to admire Stratton Mountains imitation of a Japanese print, with its pointed summit rising from a sea of clouds in the valley.

After breakfast I filled a book-sized pouch widi peanut butter sandwiches and half a dozen Kg Newtons.The possibility of being stuck behind a pile of papers seemed very real, and even the most severe hunger pangs couldn't make me eat a lukewarm commercial sandwich. A pint-sized flask of iced tea went into a voluminous shoulder bag along widi extra pens, dark glasses, packaged wet napkins, and my Swiss army knife. Oh yes, and

174

smelling salts—that Victorian blessing still to be found in some drugstores.

I packed a lunch for Lulu, who planned to spend the day with Millie at the library, her favorite home away from home.

I was wrestling with the can of saddle soap to clean my field boots when Sophie phoned. "Did I wake you up? Sorry I blew yesterday, fish."

"Forgotten, dear. Me, I'm edgy too. Of course I'm awake." If you're an early riser you might as well make a virtue of it. "I've been up for hours. How about the checks Ariel ate?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Peter got replacements. He said it was easy. He's got a very good relationship with the bank, thank goodness. I don't know how Fd come up with 24 hundred dollars!"

In bed the night before I'd tried to think of a way to tell Sophie about Peter and Graces relationship, and finally decided diat I shouldn't say a diing. When in doubt, button your lip, was an apt expression of Hilarys. She probably knew. I could imagine Peter, about two inches from her ear, describing his marital situation. Maybe it all sounded reasonable to her. Maybe with the ears of infatuation, even admirable. At least I hoped it would be that way instead of being a mortal blow for Sophie.

"It's going to be hot as hell, Tish. Peter says bring an umbrella, or I diink a straw hat would be easier. Ta-ta. See ya."

Hilary called to ask if I wanted him to make extra sandwiches. I revealed the contents of my lunch bag but said that if he was going to make my favorite, avocado and bacon, to yes, please, make a couple for me.

He wanted to know if I'd talked to Sophie and told her about Peter s perfidy. He agreed with me diat it was a subject better left alone. Hilary reeled off a pungent broadside about Peter. Only

175

the urgent necessity of cooking the bacon made him hang up.

Lulu barked madly when someone knocked on the front door.

It was Kansas, straw-bonneted and looking more like a 4-H competitor than a haystack siren. She wanted to ride over to die fairgrounds with me.

"Mrs. McWhinny, Mr. Goody said that you and Sophie made all the arrangements yesterday. You know—about Mike. That was nice of you."

I appreciated the gratitude in one so young and said that I expected Lieutenant Zuccarelli would find Mikes parents soon.

"Maybe he won't. Maybe they'll never know he died. Maybe they'll diink he's gone to LA or China or something."

At least, I diought, Mike had died with his dreams intact. Not diat die diought would give a parent much consolation.

Doug and I had married late, in our forties, and had never had any children, but I had always felt diat to lose a child must be the most unbearable pain.

The next knock was Millies, who had come to call for Lulu. Delighted, my pooch ran off without so much as a backward glance.

Three miles short of die fairgrounds, where Route 30 joined Mountain Hill Road, we came upon a cavalcade of vehicles. We passed a station wagon with three goats looking out die back window. We inched by vans and pickup trucks full of goats. We were especially charmed by die sight of two multicolored goats sitting in die back seat of a sports car.

At die fairgrounds, ayoung girl widi a cigarette hanging out of her mouth told us to bear right and we'd see a sign for officials.

The vans and trucks parked in orderly rows made me diink of a country dog show. I guessed diat many of them had been

176

camping overnight. Goats wens tethered all over the place. It all looked rather festive.

Sandy was grinning beside the official sign.

"Big day, hey Tish? And look who's here." He beamed at Kansas. "They going to put you to work?"

"I'm willing."

"So come widi me. Ill show you around."

Kansas bounded out of die car and I watched them stride away.

Beyond the goat vans I saw six or seven trucks of various sizes. Libby had explained diat goats didn't like being transported in regular slat-sized cattle carriers because they were too drafty for die delicate creatures.

Last week, when Hilary was in Boston, which he often described as a diree and a half hour trip to a different world, he holed in at die Harvard Club library and surfaced widi information about the early efforts to transport goats that made me feel better about todays event.

It seems in 1818 one M. Jaubert, a cashmere endiusiast, went in search of die fleecy beasts. Cashmere shawls were die rage in Paris and fetched huge prices, so his venture was blessed and backed by die French government. He traveled to Persia, Tibet, and neighboring countries buying more than a thousand animals and dien commenced the perilous trip back to France.

The herds crossed frozen rivers, fell into ravines, were attacked by unfriendly tribes, and harassed by predatory beasts. Jaubert had to abandon 200 goats in die vast steppes of the Ural mountains.

Finally he loaded the remaining animals on Russian ships in die Crimea and took two ghasdy months to arrive In Marseilles with nearly starving beasts.

177

Comparing that saga of torture and misery to packing our Vermont goats into an air conditioned flying crate for a few hours didn't make Quadruped Passage seem so awful. Sophie assured me that all the goats were expected to survive die ordeal.

One of die trucks was backed up to a wooden ramp and a couple of men with pitchforks were spreading hay inside die truck

It was easy to spot tall Hilary in a crowd. He had seen me and waved, pointing to a marked parking area.

Libby greeted me in her usual pithy manner. "Maybe we could ship all diese people to Puerto Rico and I'll keep the goats. What a rumble." She was in her element, noisily greeting friends and exchanging news.

"She probably knows every goat here," Sophie said.

Sophie looked stunning, but I'm biased. She filled white jeans like a model and wore a lavender velour turdeneck widi a hair band to match. Her wrists were circled with enough different-sized silver bracelets to join a band.

Beyond her, Peter was tucked into skin-tight jeans and a white cotton sweater topped by a red neckerchief and a Panama hat.

Sophie unfolded a chair for me.

"Here," she took offmy shoulder bag and put it on die long table, "you're my field representative. Your job," she smiled, "and diese orders come right from his high mucky-muck, is to count goats, give me die owners' papers, plus die healdi certificates. I stare at the papers and hand diem to Peter who dien gives the owners a check or checks."

"Who pays Peter?" Hilary joined us. "Where's die gent who's buying die goats?"

"According to Peter you never see him. Because of foreign currencies and export regulations it's all done dirough an agent who knows all about diat stuff. I guess it's pretty tricky."

178

"Tricky." Hilary sniffed. "Trick is just what I had in mind."

Sophie darted off! Hilary unfolded another chair beside mine.

"Broadbent's dead. So I'll let that rest for the moment, but those checks the kid ate, I ve been thinking about them. I imagine myself as a banker saying: 'Oh dear, a goat ate your certified checks? Dear, dear, I'll make out a few more for you.' No way. Tricky. That's the word. Keep your eye peeled today."

"For what? Or who? I mean what can you do? Have you seen Grace?"

Hilary rose and looked around. "Over by the dog wagon. She's wearing a red hat. I don't know who I'm looking for," Hilary said, "but dollars to donuts I'm looking at a murderer somewhere here on the field."

Or murderers, I thought to myselE

Hilary moved away to shake a friends hand.

My safari jacket had button-down pockets so I stowed my wallet in one and my knife in the other and hung my bag over the back of the chair. A greedy goat or a thief was welcome to whatever I had in the bag, though losing my Eg Newtons would be a wrench.

We could have arrived two hours later and still have been early. People and goats were milling, vehicles were moving three feet backward or forward. There was much paper shuffling. The most prominent activities seemed purely social. "Well, if it isn't Mildred." "Oh, and Andrew, are you really going to sell Rosebuds kids?" "Have you seen how many they're sending from Loophole Earm?"

Finally something happened to make everyone pay attention to the business at hand.

A big black cloud loomed overhead. The suddenness of

179

its appearance didn't augur well for the rest of the day. The social clamor quieted.

Peter, using a loudspeaker, called for attention and requested everyone to stay put and to have goats gadiered and papers ready.

Sandy, Libby, and I sprang into action. I began my assigned work widi die closest van. A collection of goats was tediered in a circle around die van as diough to ward offan attack of Indians.

The owner, a tall young man, identified each goat by name. I gave each one a pat on die head and checked offits name on die contract. Then I dipped its healdi certificate to die inside of my folder.

After diat procedure I escorted die man to our work table, introduced him, and handed the papers to Sophie. She scrutinized them and passed diem on to Peter.

Widi his suave manner in working order, he handed die seller a check, which in diis case needed no additional money as die young man had delivered two fewer goats dian described.

Returning to get die goats, I then escorted die group over to die loading ramp where a couple of men and women I didn't know took charge. A handsome blonde woman widi a stedio-scope I recognized as Jamaica's new veterinarian. There was no time to speak to her. I rushed off to my next client.

It sounds simple but it was a slow, trying process. Moving dirough die crowd was difficult, and the hardest part was to persuade die goat owners to leave the field once diey'd parted widi dieir animals. They were having fun.

What seemed like hours later, escorting my fourth or fifth owner dirough die crowd, I spotted a goat I knew. Her front half was all black and her back half all white. There couldn't be two goats whose color was so crisply divided in die middle. It

180

had to be the goat I had done a drawing of at Axel Andersons farm.

Sandy was talking to a woman standing beside the black and white goat. It certainly wasn't Mrs. Anderson. Rushing my client through the process, I ran back and spent 10 minutes before I found diem again.

"Excuse me," I said to the woman, yanking Sandy's arm. "I must talk to Mr. Beaumont." I pointed to my paste-on name badge. "It's official."

"Is diat woman die owner?"

"No, but she has all die papers. I mean, I have diem. Lets see, it says here River Valley Farm. James Curtain, owner."

"Excuse me again," I touched die woman's arm, "I diink I recognize diis animal as one that belongs to Axel Anderson in Jamaica. Would you know if diat is so?"

"Could be. The men said diat some of die goats belonged to odier people."

"Men? Where are they?"

"Don't righdy know, but diey said diey'd be here in time to load 'em on die truck."

I turned to Sandy. "They have got to be our men. We must find dieir truck or van."

"Wait a minute, lady." Sandy waved. "Be right back."

Sandy ran offin one direction and I went in another. I was looking for the phone.

Far from die center of action, I came upon die fairgrounds' lone telephone nailed to a tree trunk. I nearly expired waiting for a loquacious old man to finish talking to a deaf friend.

At die Rockingham State Police barracks I was told diat Lieutenant Zuccarelli was not on duty but diat an officer had been assigned to die fairgrounds. I should look for him.

181

Someone as anxious as I had been was now frowning beside me. I asked information for Andersons number. After I dialed I let it ring forever, imagining Anderson out in the barn.

"Lady, give up, give up, he ain't home."

No answer. Again I called information for die number of Rowley's restaurant.

Now there were three people pushing me and muttering. One large woman was particularly threatening.

Mrs. Anderson was brought to the phone. "Quick," I said, "It'sTish McWhinny. Just tell me one thing. Did your husband give permission to someone called Curtain to sell his goats?"

"Yes," she said and hung up the phone.

I sensed her anger or irritation in just that one word. Why, I wondered? Didn't she care if the sale had taken place and if all went well?

When I hung up the receiver the restive mob diat had gathered nearly knocked me to the ground.

Ruffled and uncertain, I elbowed my way back to the place I had last seen the woman and the goats, but they were gone.

I rushed through die crowds, earning dirty looks and some vocal resentment. I stopped in my tracks when I came in view of die work table. Two men were standing in front of Peter, one leaning over, apparendy writing. The woman who had been with the goats was standing beside diem.

Frantic, I ran back weaving in and around the vans and trucks yelling Sandys name. I collided with goats, knocked over someone's chair, and bumped into a man peeing.

But it was Sandy who found me folded over a car fender trying to catch my breath.

"Come on.Tish, I'll show you."

"I can't move anodier step, Sandy. I've been running in circles

182

trying to find you." i

"Come on, move, Tish. It's over here. I found it, that same truck \vesaw at Andersons'." |

He pulled my arm under his and clamped his down like a vise. He dragged me past a couple of trucks to the white one I instantly recognized.

Before I could demur or resist, Sandy, a mighty young man for his size, hoisted me up and onto the back of the truck. He jumped up as though he'd bounced off a trampoline and scrambled inside and sat beside me.

"Take it easy. You'll feel better in a minute."

"In a minute," I managed to say. "We haven't got a minute. Peter was paying offthose men. We've got to get out of here. All we need is their license plate number. Then Zuccarelli can...." My sentence went unfinished.

"Look." I didn't have to point. Sandy saw diem, too. The same men I'd seen so often before. Their heads were bent as they paused. They were so close I could see they were examining Peters check.

Sandy sprang to his feet, grabbed my hands and dragged me on my bottom across die straw-strewn floor. He rolled me like a sack of meal against die back of die drivers cab and fell painfully on top of me. I could feel him quivering as he reached out and pulled a bale of hay toward us. With an even longer stretch he leached die only other bale of hay in die truck and put it in place between us just as die men dosed die rear doors.

183

TWENTY

Hilary told me later that a while after Sandy and I vanished, all hell broke loose at die fairgrounds. The hue and cry was led by Lieutenant Zuccarelli, who had been there all die time. He told Hilary he wouldn't have missed the goat lift day for anything. Certainly not with all his suspects in one place. Using Peter's megaphone, he had implored everyone to look for us.

That was heartwarming to hear after the fact. But our circumstance at die moment was terrifying.

The only light in die truck aside from a sliver between die doors came dirough a wire mesh glass panel between us and die driver's cab.

It was closed, thank goodness, but we could hear die men laughing and talking. The words weren't very clear but die tone was one of enormous self-approval.

As I was trying to judge die size of die panel, it slid open.

Sandy and I pressed hard against die wet smelly floor. I held my breadi as an empty can bounced off"my head.

A large hand widi tufts of black hair on die fingers dangled

184

inches from my shoulder. The hand whipped about, illustrating some point its owner was making to the driver.

"Where's the rest of the beer?" He withdrew his hand. "Oh, here. Shit, its not cold. Oh well." He closed the panel and I exhaled slowly. In what seemed like minutes the panel was reopened and another crumpled can sailed over our prone bodies and ricocheted around the truck.

The panel was left open and the beer drinker said, "If he gives us a load to move tonight, my old lady will skin me alive."

"Yeah, mine too. Gotta take a leak and we need some oil. This damned rigs gonna fell apart."

"Maybe this is our chance," Sandy whispered. When the truck lumbered to a stop both men got out and Sandy and I popped up on our knees to look through the window.

We had pulled up at a small gas station.

"I could get through here if I could just knock all the glass out," Sandy said.

I left him examining the window and scurried to the back of the truck to try the doors. There was no handle or lock on the inside. With my fingers spread I felt the surfaces like a safecracker, trying to find any screws or bolts or anything that might yield to pressure or to our ingenuity. All in vain.

When Sandy warned me that the men were returning, we arranged ourselves sardine style, mashed against the cab and no doubt both praying to our private gods.

Their speech became unintelligible and I surmised from the sound of popping plastic bags and loud crunching that they must be stuffing their faces widi potato chips, Fritos, or some kind of brittle junk food. They'd obviously never been admonished not to talk with their mouths full.

This brought to mind poor Mike Flynn and Hilary's criti-

185

cism of his eating habits. Why had these callous louts killed him? If Mike had seen them attack Stuart Simpson, why couldn't they have threatened him? It had been more than two weeks since Stu's murder and Mike had said nothing.

A sudden explosion shattered my sensibilities, and I could feel my veins contracting at the horrendous noise that blared from the cab.

The radio, turned on at top volume, made the truck vibrate, and for me it was a real physical assault. But Sandy grinned. "Music."

Music indeed. Cacophony was more like it. Those of us bred on gentler sounds were still able to hear Chopin and George Gershwin, but Sandys generation, their eardrums abused for years, I felt sure were doomed to an old age of silent memories.

I moistened and twisted some Kleenex and screwed it in my ears.

There wasn't enough space to assume a fetal position but it would have been comforting. Shivering, I realized that thanks to my age I no longer had enough glue to hold my bones together. The rough ride was serious punishment.

Even Sandy was hugging himself. "Oil? These assholes don't need oil. What this crate needs is springs."

I unstoppered one ear while we had a whispered discussion about die possibility of escaping. Even with his hand cupped around my ear I could hardly hear him.

"Next time we stop I can bash in the panel with the ramp."

The ramp the men must have used to get the goats in and out of the truck was made of three wide planks with crosspieces about a foot apart down its length. It had been placed at one side of die truck.

"Can you lift it? It's so long," I said.

186

"Dunno. You may have to help."

Sandy got excited when we stopped briefly, perhaps for a traffic light. We didn't dare look Twice more our hopes were raised and dashed.

Or should I say Sandys hopes. I had a private worry. My lean acrobatic young friend could easily worm his way through the panel into the trucks cab. But I would have to be bodily bound like a geisha's foot, tranquilized or anesthetized, and maneuvered by expert handlers to even get halfway through the shoebox-sized opening.

Try not, I advised myself, to think ahead. I corrected that. Try not to diink.

Mind over matter sounds positive, but a matter not to be overcome by even the most powerful diought process is having to go to the bathroom. Of course the goats had been doing it for hours all over the truck. It was more difficult for me.

Sandy thoughtfully put a hay bale between us and I was able to go undetected. I never failed to resent a man's ability to bring such a convenience to a picnic. Or for that matter to find such body functions easier to cope widi while being inadvertendy kidnapped by murderers.

Sandys huge watch told us what time it was all over die world, including wherever we were: 3:30. Neither of us knew when we embarked on this crazy trip but we agreed we had been traveling for more dian an hour, possibly two.

The truck began stopping and starting, and frequently slowing down, which made us think we had come to a town or even a city.

Shoved gratingly into low gear, die truck turned a sharp corner and one of the men switched offdie radio. We seemed to be proceeding on gravel, or maybe die sound was just my crumbling eardrums.

187

"There's the motherfucker," one of them said amiably. "Hope he hasn't got anything for us."

Sandy sprang up when we heard the men step out of the cab. I rose more slowly. We could see the men entering a brick building.

"See," Sandy said, looking in another direction. "Just like we thought. Junk and stuffand hundreds of vats. God knows what's in 'em. This is it, Tish. Let's go."

He picked up the front pan of the ramp and instructed me to hold up the middle section. It weighed a ton.

"Now lunge, Tish. When I count to three really hit it. Are you ready? Mark, get set. You got a good grip? Ready?"

"Ready," I answered through clenched teeth.

"One, two," and when Sandy said "three" we were rewarded by a tremendous crash. I was physically and mentally prepared for jabbing the window out but was thrown offbalance and landed on my knees when the ramp seemed to meet no resistance and kept right on going. On my knees again beside Sandy we looked in horror. The wooden plank had gone through the panel as though it was gauze and crashed on through the windshield and was now teetering on the hood of the truck.

I expected to be surrounded by a group of men with machine guns clutched in hairy hands, but instead we looked at the back view of a man operating a bulldozer. The noise of his machine must have masked the racket of the shattering glass. No one emerged from the brick building.

"Oh, Jesus, let's get out of here." Sandy used his cap as a glove to pick out the shards of glass stuck in the rim. I began barehanded and in the first second I cut myself and was bleeding freely. The blood didn't help as I tried to open my knife to attempt a different approach to the problem.

188

I didn't realize how black our prison had been until we were suddenly blinded by light. The tear doors had been thrown open and a man whose outline wasn't familiar was looking in at us. Reason told me he couldn't see us any better than we could see him.

"Lets dash out. He'll be confused."

Sandy got the idea right away and ran to the back of the truck and slid off, saying, "Hello, hello. Good to see you."

I turned over and slid off the back of die truck on my belly.

The stranger stared at me in dismay. His eyes traveled over my dung-stained costume. He looked at die hay and, probably, manure in my hair. He sniffed the air and with obvious disgust looked me over again.

Fortunately he was speechless so Sandy and I said goodbyes and hastily started to retreat. Our actions changed the beefy mans demeanor and he grabbed Sandys arm.

"Not so fast, kid. What do you diink you're doing here wiuS this...." Again words failed him as he took me in and the wad of bloody Kleenex wrapped around my index finger.

"I'm calling the boss." He let go of Sandys arm and put his fingers up to his mouth, obviously preparing to whisde.

Sandy flew at the man, and grabbing his shirt collar jammed his fist into the mans fat neck.

The starded creature gagged. He went mad, dancing up and down and grabbing his neck and squealing.

Sandy assumed a spread-eagle stance and, winding up like a big-league pitcher, delivered a tremendous upper cut hitting the man squarely on the chin.

He fell to his knees moaning widi pain.

"Run,Tish. Run!"

I was running. I'd started running when I realized that Sandy

189

had Tapped the man with his cattle prod. And I knew that while it was a terrifying and, I should add, electrifying experience, its effects were short-lived. My dearest hope was that Sandys punch would stun die hulk until we could escape.

We ran a checkered course dirough the junkyard and out through open gates onto a blacktop road.

I grabbed die first upright I could find to keep me on my feet and give me a minute to breadie.

"Well, get in, lady. You too, fella."

I looked up and into die open door of a bus. Sandy and I looked at each other in amazement.

"This is a bus stop, lady. Are you getting in?"

Reality hit us and we scampered in and heard die lovely sound of die doors closing and the bus surging ahead.

I collapsed in die seat behind the driver and fished for my wallet.

"Where are you going, lady?" He turned around to ask die question. I was soothed by his crinkly bulldog face.

"I don't know, driver. Where are we?"

He looked at me again and sniffed, his expression no longer friendly. "You're in Keene, New Hampshire, in die U. S. of A."

"Oh, good. We want to go to the town hall or wherever die police station is," I said.

For die rest of die trip I could look up and see his vigilant eyes in die rearview mirror. Possibly he diought we might change our minds and escape even before we turned ourselves in. After all, he was responsible for the safety of his passengers.

A woman and child three seats away got up and moved to die back of die bus. A couple of odiers were clearly discussing my repulsive condition.

When my head nodded forward I didn't try to retrieve it. I

190

let sleep do its healing work. When Sandy awakened me I saw that everyone had moved to die back of the bus.

I beckoned to Sandy widi my bloody finger, and when he bent over to listen, die passengers probably diought I was going to bite him.

"Is anyone following us? A car?"

"Could be. Not sure."

Of course Sandy stank and was smeared with goat dung, but somehow it didn't seem as depraved on a young boy. Maybe he was an overworked farmhand. Or a 4-H star.

"Police station," the driver announced in a loud voice. The passengers watched us descend and stared at us out on die sidewalk. This wasn't a part of Keene I recognized, but at least die building looked official.

Pulling Sandy's carde prod out of his pocket, I told him to run. "Run in and get help. If anyone's been following us I'll scream and poke them with this. What I won't do is run, climb, or jump. Now hurry."

Cars passed by and no one even turned in my direction. A couple walking by stared at me for a second and dien politely averted dieir eyes.

Sandy held open a heavy door and yelled at me. "Come on in. They know all about us."

After a trip to die washroom where I rinsed and rebound my finger widi toilet paper and splashed my face widi water, I was propelled by Sandy to an office down the hall and introduced to Sergeant Dill.

Thank goodness he didn't stare or snifK I'd had about enough of that. He burst out laughing.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he wheezed. "You really take die cake."

I was peeling dung off a diamond ring widi my fingernail

191

and didn't join his mirthful moment.

Then, businesslike, he told us an APB had been sent out on us and diat Zuccarclli, who was a personal friend, had sent him a message asking him to be alert to a possible kidnapping.

"Kidnapping?" Sandy asked if the FBI were looking for us.

"Soon they would have been. Now lets get you back where you belong." The sergeant looked at me again and turned his head, smodiering his laughter with a handkerchief.

Widiin half an hour a car and driver were produced to drive us home.

Sandy described our bus route from the junkyard, and 10 minutes later we went slowly by the fenced-in yard. Pale blue letters on the brick building informed us diat die name of the operation was D&J Salvage, with die phone number below.

The gate we had run dirough in terror was closed. Not a soul was in sight.

I asked Marybeth, our young driver, to proceed with all possible dispatch to Clement Hollow.

Sandy fell asleep. I had no such luck, and leaned back in die seat aimlessly shuffling miserable thoughts around in my tired head. I hoped some goat would enjoy eating my straw hat.

192

TWENTY-ONE

Once home I marched through the living room to the back porch and kicked offmy boots. Then piece by piece I dropped every article of clothing I had worn into die washer and started the machine.

For die next 10 minutes I stood motionless in die guest room shower stall. Then I nearly fell asleep soaking in my baditub.

Lulus eager greeting almost catapulted her into die baditub. She was followed by Charlie, Millie Sanuni's litde freckled-faced boy. "Hi, here she is." I diought he was going to come over and slap my hand in greeting. I slid farmer down into the tub and clutched the washdodi across my bosom as Charlie bent over me stretching his moudi apart widi a finger in each cheek. "See?"

I gazed into a wide empty space between his teeth.

"Going to get new ones soon." He said goodbye to Lulu and waved at me.

When my debonair young visitor left I considered crawling between die sheets slighdy damp. A wonderful prescription for instant sleep. But Hilarys voice roared up die stairs. "Hooray,

193

you're alive. Come on down, we want to see you."

"We" could mean almost anyone, so instead of dashing down in my bathrobe I pulled on cotton slacks and a cashmere sweater. I tried to energize myself with some jazzy earrings.

Hilary greeted me widi a bear hug. "Glad you're okay," which coming from him was love talk.

"Sophie, what's happened to you?" I asked. "You look as though you'd been dragged through a knot hole." I raised her chin widi my good index ringer. "You've been crying."

"Hilary will tell you about it." She cried when she hugged me and said how worried she'd been, how frightened everyone had been. "Sandy"—she released me—"where's Sandy?"

"At your house. Probably in die shower."

"Where die hell were you.Tish?" Hilary boomed. "For Gods sake, tell us."

"Sandy and I took a trip in die murderers truck. To Keene, via an illegal salvage company. Sandy was a real hero. I'll give you a blow-by-blow soon. But one of you tell me, please. Did somediing happen at die fairgrounds?"

"Sophie here was the first one to realize you'd been gone a long time, Tish. You know how confusing the scene was. She got me worked up about it and finally we got Zuccarelli into die act; when he called you on Colwell's megaphone widi no luck, we were really worried. Sophie looked and saw dm your car was still diere. So was Sandys. Zuccarelli got die cop diat was diere to put in an alert about you bodi.

"In die meantime I spent a lot of time looking at diose bank checks Colwell was handing out and felt sure they were counterfeit. What a set-up. Give diem out on a Saturday, no one can deposit diem till Monday. Plenty of time for Colwell to deliver die goats, collect die rest of his money, and vamoose.

194

"I made Zuccarclli sit down and listen to me. I told him that thanks to a lifetime in the printing business I was something of an expert in the field. I convinced him about the checks and he hot-footed it to die phone. He was gone for half an hour or more. He had to call all over die place. Try getting a banker, or anyone for diat matter, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in June.

"He came back actually running, and diat's when we really got alarmed. Not only were you and Sandy gone, but Colwell had vanished. Everybody looked at everybody else but no one had seen die guy."

"He was right beside me," Sophie said, "but he'd been popping up and down all day so I really never knew when he left."

Hilary continued. "There were only a few dozen groups of goats left to be processed when Zuccarelli used the horn again.

"I was right. An officer of die bank verified the fact diat die checks were fakes. There were no funds in die bank in Colwell s name, and no record of such a large collection of certified bank checks made out to any one person or corporation.

"Zuccarelli suggested diat everyone leave as quickly as possible. He said die FBI had been notified and diey would be in Newburgh to meet die goats. He promised to keep everyone informed. They were all stunned."

"Sophie took it like a soldier." He patted her shoulder.

Sagging into the wing chair I used my last bit of strengdi to lift my feet up onto die ottoman. Hilary put a drink beside me.

I asked, "How did die rotten stinker get away? Did he take your car, Sophie?"

"That's somediing else," Hilary answered for her. "He asked Grace if he could borrow her car because he had to make a call and Zuccarelli was using the phone."

195

With his back to Sophie, Hilary put his finger to his lips which I gathered meant she didn't know about Peter and Graces past marital connection.

I frowned. Why did it matter now?

"What a fool I am," said Sophie. "When it dawned on me what Peter had done—that he was a cheat and a liar, a criminal—I felt as though I'd been shoved out of an airplane. My head's full of plastic bubbles. I can't diink." She shook her head back and forth.

Lulu sensed her distress and insinuated herself into Sophie's arms.

Hilary beckoned me into the kitchen, and with the pleasant false fuel of alcohol I got up quickly and followed him.

"Zuccarelli," he said in a voice as close as he could to a whisper, "Zuccarelli told me he hadn't said anything to anyone about Peter and Grace. I spoke for us. Said we wouldn't either. I mean, what's the point?"

I nodded and agreed that we had enough to deal with. Rolling over my kitchen step stool, I took down some cans of soup. One of my major skills in the culinary department was doctoring canned soup under die delusion that it tasted like an effort by Julia. Hilary couldn't bring himself to discuss my mixtures but I noticed he always ate them with gusto.

He was tossing chopped onions and peppers into a frying pan. "I'll make an omelet when we want to eat."

I sat on the couch beside Sophie, who was absendy uncurling and curling Lulu's tail.

"Are you okay, dear?"

She nodded. "For a minute there I thought die rat had broken my heart, but it's my pride. Tish, what a gullible fool I've been." She looked at me accusingly. "You knew, you and Hilary

196

knew. Bamboozled, you were right. I was bamboozled."

I refrained from suggesting she be more cautious the next time, and I offered no advice. Nobody wants advice unless they pay for it, and even then its not always welcome.

I produced one of those maddening wiser-than-you smiles and then was persuaded to recount my own adventure.

They interrupted me constantly widi dozens of questions. Sophie was particularly delighted by my description of Sandys dramatic uppercut.

"Dad will be so thrilled," she crowed. "He taught Sandy how to box. We had a punching bag in the basement."

"You'd better tend to his hand. It looked awfully sore and swollen when I left him," I said.

The timid knock Lulu responded to revealed Zuccarelli still drawn and tired but with a wired intensity I'd never seen before.

The first pangs of hunger hit me when Hilary asked the lieutenant if he'd eaten. The mantle clock made a musical lirde ping for 8:30.

"Don't say anything interesting, either of you," I instructed. "Better not say anything at all. We'll have dinner in two shakes." Campari was Lieutenant Zuccarellis drink of choice, and Hilary, widiout being asked, added a generous dollop of scotch to my glass.

Curried pea soup, Hil's omelet, and a green salad made a delicious meal.

Peters escape interested me, and die lieutenant seemed receptive to questions and unusually generous in responding.

"A silly question, Lieutenant, but why did you have to use that one and only popular telephone at the fairgrounds? Don't police cars have phones? The officer had one. Hil says he sent

197

out the alert about us on the one he was carrying."

In view of so many grave issues sometimes its easier to hang onto minutiae. Perhaps Zuccarelli knew that. He said that since it was his day offhis official car was in die shop and he had used his wife's Geo. The officer on duty, after using his phone, had redipped it behind on his belt. He showed us a tiny smile. "Libby Lupin said probably some buck had taken it to call some nanny for a date. Anyhow, it disappeared."

"What about Peter?"

"Mrs. Simpson was very upset about him. She implied to me diat he was not always reliable, and was given to extravagant ideas, but she couldn't believe he was a criminal. The FBI is working widi us and it's a matter of time before the car is found. We know he altered his appearance by stealing someone's shabby denim jacket and a baseball cap, or at least mat's my assumption, from what I learned from someone at the field. The FBI will also be in Newburgh to see diat the goats are delivered and to detain the agent, or agents. What financial arrangements will be made, or what the outcome will be, we don't know."

"I figure, Lieutenant," Hilary said, "that Colwell saw me huddling with you about die checks and then followed you and got die gist of what you were saying on die phone."

"End of Quadruped Passage. Beginning of Biped Passage," I said.

Zuccarelli gave me diat smile again. "And about your men, Mrs. McWhinny."

I gritted my teedi. This was no time to be captious.

"I heard about your ride from Sergeant Dill."

"What made you think we'd gone to Keene?"

"A boy tending goats said he saw a man helping an elderly lady wearing a straw hat into a white truck. Of course, I knew it

198

was you and assumed the man was Sandy Beaumont. Then the boy said he saw two men get in and drive away. The environmental people had told me that they'd been watching a salvage company in Keene that they suspected was using our area here for toxic dumping.

"I took a guess and guessed right. We're going to find those men and, most importantly, find them dumping out-of-state waste. The Department of Environmental Conservation has plans for them. Be patient, Mrs. McWhinny."

He raised his hand in the universal signal to halt when I started to speak.

"And let me explain that our laboratory has been undergoing reconstruction diese last two weeks and all work, not just the analysis of the clues of die Simpson case, has been very slow. Results will come pouring in tomorrow or die next day."

Hilary and Sophie cleaned up while I had to tell die detective about every second of our trip to Keene. He tried to pry out a description of die men. I could describe characteristics of stature, type of walk, ear set, and hair arrangements. The beer drinker had pointed bat ears and only a fringe of mousy hair and probably a pot belly. The driver had thinning ginger hair and flat ears. They both had ham-sized hands that hung in an anthropoidal manner. But I never saw either of diem straight on. I told Zuccarelli I could identify diem but couldn't describe them. Zuccarelli left minutes later, but not before he warned me: "Anybody who is about to be charged widi murder is dangerous. Be careful, madam. Very careful."

"At least," Sophie said, "we have an explanation of die police slow-pokedness. I was telling Libby today, I mean, how long can it take to get results of blood and paint tests? And die fingerprints on die vodka bottle, you'd diink it would be simple."

199

I did nodiing to detain Sophies departure. I was exhausted. Even so, the beautiful evening cast its spell and Hilary and I sat on die porch for a while.

"Did you hear what Zuccarelli said? Anybody about to be charged. Do you think, Hil, he's about to pounce on some one person, not those guys?"

Hilary shrugged. "Maybe he diinks Grace had something to do with die murders. Maybe she and Colwell were in cahoots. Knock off Stu, move in, now that she's a woman of property. God I hate to drink so."

"And I hate to think about Libby, too," I said. "But suppose she was die one who got in a fight widi Stu and killed him?"

"But what about Mike Flynn?"

"Maybe he saw her doing it."

Hilary sat up straight. "Just thought of somediing. We're forgetting Harding Marsh. Maybe he has a real passion for Grace, and Colwell was trying to move in."

"Possible but not probable. I don't see Hard-on wielding a knife. At least no one is pointing at Newt."

Hilaryyawned. "Yeah, tell me about it.That dish in his front yard means Newts watching too much television and that's why he's turned into a serial killer."

"When Hilary left, I sat and watched a light go on in the Marsh apartment over the store. I wasn't sleepy anymore. Maybe I could get some news on die tube. I'd sort of forgotten about the rest of the world.

200

TWENTY-TWO

The next day I felt lousy. My head ached and my bandaged finger was a debilitating nuisance. It was almost impossible to fasten my watch strap or do a dozen things usually performed automatically.

My thoughts dwelt on Hilarys suggestion that Grace Simpson and Harding might have somediing evil to hide.

When I thought back to die time I told her about Stuart, I remembered her reaction of shock and alarm as being very real and genuine. The idea of either of diem using violence seemed improbable. But a long life had taught me that my assumptions could be very very wrong.

Because Hilary had entertained suspicions about die couple, I diought perhaps he'd help me do a litde spying.

Before any sleudiing, my first errand was to go see Axel Anderson and find out exacdy what happened. To find out if he had been left holding die bag and to tell him whatever I knew about die scam.

201

As I dialed Millie at die libraiy, I reflected it was about time Lulu got her own library card.

Millie said she'd love having Lulu spend the day widi her. What a pal.

Hilary agreed to join me, provided, he said, that we didn't play cops and robbers. No car chase. No Houdini escapes and please, no bodily peril.

It was home-baked bread day at the store, so Lulu and I trotted over to load up on croissants and raisin bread.

The yummy baked goods were not my only purpose. I unobtrusively pulled Kansas to one side and asked if she knew her father's plans for the day.

She shrugged. "I don't know what he's going to do, but he wants me to be on duty from 1:00 to 3:00."

I called Hil again and we made a date for 12:30 at Sophies. He offered to bring lunch for die Goat Heaven crew.

Axel Anderson was sitting on the steps of his front porch coiling lengths of rope he pulled out of a basket. Two goats grazing far away looked like toys in the empty pasture.

Axel quit his work when he saw me, and greeted me unsmilingly.

"\bu may get partial payment for your goats, Mr. Anderson," I said. "But no one really knows what die situation will be yet."

"I got plenty."

"You did?"

"Yeah. They paid me $350 for each animal. The odier $50 was for making die arrangements and taking the goats over."

"Wonderful. Oh, that's wonderful." The great news gave me a lift but a diought knocked me back down. "These men will want dieir money back. You may be in a difficult position. I really mean dangerous."

202

I didn't want to tell him about my close contact widi the thugs, but tried to impress him with how bad the situation could be.

He wasn't impressed. "I got somediing for you."

"Forme?"

He went inside and when he returned handed me the metal-rimmed cork to my diermos botde. "You might need dais."

I debated making a million excuses, but said thank you and backed away die way Zuccarelli does. I waved like a toddler and dove into die car, feeling like a fool.

At die nearest telephone I called Zuccarelli, who listened impassively to my description of Andersons situation. He dianked me before I could add any of my insights or suggestions and hung up.

After driving diidier and yon doing a few more errands I got to Sophie's about noontime.

She looked tired and distracted. There were papers spread over a card table and more strewn on her bed. Her typewriter was on the bureau.

"The hot poop from New Jersey," she said, "Is diat die agent will pay 100 bucks when he accepts a goat at die quarantine and die odier 100 whenever they're delivered in Puerto Rico. If diat doesn't sit well with die owners they can call for their goats diemselves. This is die mess I have to cope widi. This is the fucking mess diat louse left me."

"Come on outside. It's a glorious day, and if Zuccarelli s right, diis whole oppressive business will be over soon."

"I can still see Stu zipping around in his convertible. And Mike. Poor Mike. I don't understand anything. Maybe I should move." Maybe we all should move, I diought. Vermont was supposed to be paradise.

203

Outside, the sight of Hilary emerging from the Beetle was always good for a smile. He lifted the hood and produced a basket that looked so official and enticing it might have come from Fortnum & Mason's.

Sandy saw us from his perch on a ladder and ran over. We all settled down on die porch to say ooh and aah at each item Hil removed from die basket.

He handed a corkscrew along with a botde of white wine to Sandy. "Open it gendy, please." He passed each of us a half an avocado stuffed widi heavenly shrimp salad and we were invited to break chunks off a ring of provolone bread. Sophie somberly toasted her friends Stu and Mike. Soon the sun, die wine, and die food softened die lines of her face and we all munched happily, our words only murmurs.

Sophie went back to her work widi die goat papers and Sandy, still basking in his role as my savior, to his ladder. As if on cue, Hard-on drove by and we could hear die car slow down to turn into Grace's driveway.

"Let's give him a while to start doing whatever it is that diey do," Hilary said, and led die way to die corral.

Litde Ariel not only had been accepted by die herd, she seemed to be die belle of the ball. Sandys fainting goats flattered us with a greeting. Hilary poked around in die barn, but my vivid memories of Mike kept me outside.

I had a diought and went back into Sophie's to borrow her butterfly net. She was too engrossed in her work to ask why I wanted it.

I led the way as we walked beyond the pasture and out to the end of Sophie's ravine. I explained to Hilary that my plan was to walk along the edge until we got to the Simpson property.

204

Sandy had reported from his snooping that whatever they did, they did it out of sight behind die house.

Springs abundance beguiled us and took some of die curse off our sleazy project.

Hilary expressed his doubts. "Suppose we stumble onto diem rolling around togedier? I mean, whew, how embarrassing."

"Maybe that would be less likely to happen if we climb down and walk along die bottom of die gulch or whatever you call it."

"In the brook?"

"I didn't know diere was one down diere but of course we don't have to walk in it." The steep descent was difficult but fun because of die forest of saplings. Like monkeys we went along, clutching one tree and dien die next. A slim maple gave way under Hil's weight and he fell head first downhill into die dirt, assuming die breast-stroke position.

I was just nervous enough to have any tiny event trigger tears or laughter but fortunately I managed to control bodi. I watched him rearrange himself and struggle to his feet.

"This is a damn fool idea," was the mildest diing he had to say for die rest of our steep trip.

Nodiing prepared me for die beauty of die pool we came upon. Kneeling, I leaned over to scrub the sap off my hands and soodie my finger. My scruffy reflection on die glass surface made me look like the good fairy.

"Try this for a fix, Hil."

We bodi studied his image in die pool and decided he looked like Michaelangelo's Moses. Sort of

The rocks were too sharp to consider wading. We made our way silendy from rock to rock like tightrope walkers concentrating on balance.

Hilary was ahead when I grabbed his shirttail. "I hear voices."

205

We moved slowly around a bend in the brook and to die astonishment of all of us came suddenly almost face to face with Grace and Harding.

My first impression of Grace was of a peasant woman at die old village marketplace holding a large basket of wares in front ofher.

Harding, with his mouth open in his bearded race, was reminiscent of a carving on a Gothic portal. His trousers were rolled up to his knees and he was standing widi a fist full of mud in each hand.

Grace was die first to overcome her surprise and speak. And it was then diat I saw that die big round tray she held was really a sieve.

"You startled us. Harding and I want to keep diis as our own private affair. I hope you won't tell anybody."

Hilary grasped die situation before I did.

"Well, I'll be God damned. You're panning for gold!"

We spent an animated few minutes with the industrious pair. Harding described the scant rewards but exciting moments of dieir quest.

Harding, in response to a question from Hilary, said that in a month's time they had collected less dian a troy ounce of the precious stuff.

"Please don't tell. We don't want to be teased."

"Whydon'tyou tell Kansas, Harding?" I asked. "She's puzzled by your absences and I diink she'd be awfully pleased and relieved to know what you're doing."

"Really? What does she think I'm doing?"

"I don't know. Just tell her. Please."

Hilary was still bemused, and remarked that there was no accounting for bizarre pursuits.

206

"And you?" Grace pointed to Sophies butterfly net Hilary was carrying.

"Oh, well yes, and we like butterflies, don't we, Tish?"

It was hard to swallow a giggle at diat one.

Our climb back up die trail to Graces house was much easier than our descent. Steps had been fashioned here and diere. Even so we didn't speak until we made it to die top.

"It's really funny." I smiled. "The idea diat diose two could be murderers."

Hil didn't diink it was so funny. "Panning for gold is just one aspect of their relationship. I still diink it's possible diey wanted to do away with Stu."

"I don't believe it. He'd probably have been down diere panning for gold widi diem."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Hilary said. "Grace was a golf widow. Who knows?"

Hilary's opinion of Grace had been clouded when he learned she was a liar. Deceit was beyond Hils comprehension.

"I wonder if she did lie," I said.

"Grace? I'll bet Colwell got her to. Thought it would sound better to Sophie. But let's not think about diat scoundrel any more." He waved die net. "Makes me think—maybe I'll bone and butterfly a chicken to grill tonight. How about it?"

The rest of the day was blessedly uneventful. Sandy and I took die horses for a brisk canter down die road and dien I picked up Lulu and went home to tend to unfinished business in my studio.

Dinner was delicious. We sat on the screened-in porch widi a soft background of the operettas Hilary loved. Smoke from die grill outside was as nostalgic as die music We discussed die romance of die search for gold. Or was it greed?

207

"What could you do," I asked, "with half a troy ounce of gold?"

"Maybe make a skinny wedding ring. No, it's not greed, it's a consuming passion."

I went home early. I was tired and apprehensive about tomorrow. With the police laboratory in full swing, I wondered what we'd learn. I dreaded the next day.

208

TWENTY-THREE

The next morning I was still in my bathrobe when Libby blew in. She refused my offer of coffee and paced around the room like a tiger. She put her hands in and out of her pockets, jiggled her keys, and lit a cigarette, inhaling enough smoke to fill a balloon.

"I've got to tell you something, Tish. I want you to know what really happened—you know, about Simpson. I wasn't going to say anything about any of this but when Sophie told me die other day about die vodka botde they found under Simpsons car I figured I'd have to tell. You'll understand. I wanted to tell you first. I'm sure I know who did it."

"Hey, Libby. Don't tell me, for heavens sake. Tell Zuccarelli. I'U call him."

She grabbed my arm. "Don't. Please don't. Please listen first."

I poured myself some coffee and sat in a straight chair. "I'm listening."

"That day.. .the day I went to get Sophies buck. I was diere trying to coax him into die back of my wagon when diese guys

209

U. VJUMMJKI

in a van stopped and watched me...then offered to help. We got the buck in and we talked about goats for a while. They were in some kind of trash disposal business. There was a sign on the door of the van. So I figured I could use them. From the last owner I had inherited a half-dozen vats in my lower field. I think they were full of old crankcase oil and God knows what other crap. I noticed one of diem was leaking the odier day and they had to go. So I thought from the looks of them that these guys might be willing to bend die law a litde bit, so first I said I had some trash that needed to be hauled. I'd drawn diem a map of how to get to my farm. I got in to pull out a pad from die glove compartment and diis pint botde slides out and one of diem says 'Hey, diat looks good.' So I hand it over. After they have a shot or two I tell diem my trash may be toxic. 'No problem,' diey said. So we leave it diat diey'll be diere widiin an hour. I tell them to keep the bottle."

It was my turn to pace. "Why in the world haven't you told Zuccarelli diis? It could make a lot of difference. Honesdy, Libby, you're nuts."

"I told you.Tish, when I brought back die buck. I was scared. Small sob story: when I was a kid my fadier took some funds from die place he worked. I diink it was his partner's fault, but he had to go to jail for two years. It killed my modier. She hardly spoke a word from die day he left. We were disgraced. Even in diat crummy neighborhood. School was hell for me. And like I told you, I was scared, I mean really scared, of ever having anything to do widi die police.

"I left home, got a job on a horse farm. As time went by some of us did some smart betting, and soon I had enough to buy into anodier horse place, and die next diing after diat I'm into goats in Vermont.

210

"That's why I was scared shitless when I heard Simpson had been murdered."

"Did die trash men show up?"

"Naw. Would you? They've got to be a million miles away."

I answered the phone in the library. It was Zuccarelli, who said some of the test results were in and he wanted to tell me Libby Lupins fingerprints were on the vodka botde, and he wanted to know if I had seen her.

"She's right here, Lieutenant, and I know all about the fingerprints on die bottle."

There was a moment of silence on his end of die phone. "She told you?"

"Yes. And before I put her on die phone I want to ask—"

"I know what you want to ask. You were right about diose men. They're in police custody right now."

"Thank God." I wanted to squeal with delight. I managed not to skip back into the living room. "Here's your chance, chum. Tell it to the lieutenant just die way you told me." I patted her shoulder in encouragement. "It'll be all right."

I closed the library door and went upstairs to get dressed. When I returned, Libby, looking more relaxed, was puffing up a storm.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"Like you, he said why didn't I tell him sooner. He's still on die phone, wants to talk to you."

"Mrs. McWhinny, I want you both to wait for me at your house and please don't talk about die case. Not at all. Till I get diere."

Obeying Zuccarelli was no trick. I had a few phone calls and Newt's grandson, Seward, came to give die grass its first summer mowing. Libby sat widi Lulu out on die front porch leafing

211

through a magazine and watching Lofton's street scene.

My heart ached for Libby even though I thought she was a damned fool and probably a liar, but it was comforting to realize that we were finally coming to the end of the trail. I puttered around the studio thinking how lovely it would be to get back to work, no longer fearful and with an uncluttered mind.

Lulu greeted Zuccarelli noisily and I started to go out to the porch. The detective leaned inside the door and spoke softly. "I want you to identify the salvage company men." He put his finger to his lips. "No comments. No reaction. Just fold your arms if you recognize them."

It was hard for me to believe I was so elated at the idea of seeing die horrid creatures again, and I fervendy hoped itwould be die last time.

Zuccarelli led us down die street a few hundred feet to the church parking space. It was a secluded patch of gravel, and when we walked in I was surprised not only to see die dirty old van I knew so well but two police cars plus Zuccarelli's car.

We stopped about fifty feet from die van, and one of die state troopers escorted two men around to die side of die van and into our view.

They were dressed like the men I knew but dieir doming was dieir only resemblance. The Mutt and Jeff pair stood widi their hands behind dieir backs like athletes posing for die team picture. Or perhaps diey were handcuffed; I couldn't tell.

Libby's voice was decibels below her usual tone but I could hear her saying diat she wasn't sure about the men but didn't think diey were die ones she had seen.

I folded my arms when die trooper brought the next pair around die van. I would have known them anywhere. The beer

212

drinkers bat ears and a face that looked like a shar-pei, that crinkly faced dog whose eyes were almost invisible. And die unshaven ginger man looked like a featureless blob.

An almost palpable current told me they recognized me. But even as we locked eyes, I was astonished to hear Libby repeating die same doubts. No, she couldn't swear these were the men she met at Sophies farm.

Zuccarelli waved at die troopers and all four men got into die van. He turned to Libby, and I only heard part of what he said, but it was clear he was trying to persuade her to go to headquarters widi one of the officers.

"I've got work to do, Lieutenant. I just can't go offand leave my goats. I've been gone too long as is."

But Zuccarelli prevailed; he led a reluctant and dejected Libby to one of die cars and closed the door.

He came back to speak to me. "Mrs. McWhinny, please. I know you're bursting widi questions, but please hold it. I will be back about 4:00. Please round up your niece and her brother and Mr. Oats—and wait for me?"

"May I tell them what's going on?"

"If you want to. I'll get diere as soon as possible."

The whole group paused in front of my house and die tall man from the line-up got into Libbys wagon and brought up die rear of die caravan as it left town.

Sophie, Hilary, and Sandy arrived on rime. It was probably my imagination but Sophie looked different, maybe a litde older. Her elastic smile more considered, her eyes darker. I hoped she'd learned somediing diat would spare her future grief

There were old souls on this earth who did things easily, as diough diey had done diem before. But new souls like Sophie, and like Libby, had to learn the hard way.

213

"A trooper told me to come on over, Tish." Newt stuck his head in the door. "Okay?"

We all smiled as Newt pulled offhis Agway cap and swatted imaginary matter off the window seat. The old man sat down and scooped up Lulu, who settled happily in his lap.

If the occasion hadn't been so nerve-wracking, I would have run for my camera.

I took a deep breath and told them about Libby's visit and described the scene in die parking lot. I kept my thoughts to myself about her inability to recognize the right men.

Was she so preoccupied with her improper act of borrowing Sophies prize buck that she really didn't pay any attention to the men? What diey looked like?

I guess we were all drinking about the same thing, because Hilary said, "Maybe Libby diought diey'd point at her as die illegal dumper and somehow weasel out of the serious charge of murder and it would end up murder by persons unknown."

"Saving her own skin seems to be what she's doing," Sandy said. "If she hadn't taken Van Goat, maybe none of diis would have happened."

"I'm sorry," Sophie said. "I don't see Libby as a murderer. You surely don't mink she'd kill Mike. Stab him? It's not possible."

We came back to the same question. Why not admit she knew die men?

"I'm surprised Hard-on isn't invited to this little party," Sophie said. "And Grace."

"Oh come on," Hil said. "Grace couldn't have killed Stu, no matter what you think about the woman."

Lulu leapt out of Newt's lap and rushed to meet the lieutenant as he came in die door.

214

I think we were all wearing the same mande of dread when we said hello and sat expressionless, leaving the floor to the lieutenant

"I've told them Libbys story," I said. "Please fill it out for us."

"Not just yet. First, Mrs. McWhinny, the information you have been waiting for about the two men you were so sure were the murderers. They are, as I told you, in custody. The two other men you saw today were officers who took Curtain," he read from a piece of paper, "and Reece, back to the state police barracks and handed diem over to the Vermont Department of Environmental Conservation.

"While it's known that the Keene salvage group has used many dumping sites, die conservation people, on the strength of your observation, set up a trap for die men at Axel Andersons farm. And last night diey caught diem. Undercover, diey watched them dump a full truckload of fluorescent light tubes into the gully. It's a misdemeanor and diey're in for a lot of trouble. They paid Anderson $ 150 for each dumping."

"Will he be in trouble?"

"He'll be fined. We couldn't see him. His wife said he was very sick. Before we left, a doctor was diere. When I asked how he was doing die doc shook his head. So who knows.

"The M.O. of diese men was to soften up people widi good terrain for dumping—sometimes by giving diem a goat, probably stolen. They said farms were die ideal cover for dumping. Two-track roads leading into die woods were too obvious. In die process diey learned about the goat lift and figured to make a little money on die side. They acquired some goats—again probably stolen—and parked diem widi Anderson. Except, as we know, in diis instance it didn't pay off.

"Incidentally, Curtain and Reece said diey had never seen Libby Lupin but diey identified you, Mrs. McWhinny, as die

215

woman who had been chasing them."

"Me chasing them!" I was indignant. "Nonsense."

"Back to die laboratory reports, Lieutenant," Hilary said. "Were Libbys prints on the golf dubs?"

"No, the steel shaft was clean and the handle was rough textured. The blood on the club's head matched that of the deceased. The green paint on Simpsons car wasn't much help. The paint was so old and was die same paint as your station wagon, Miss Beaumont, and your brothers car, and the same as Libby Lupin's wagon. We have yet to test the salvage van, which we diink was once green."

"In our opinion," Zuccarelli said to his silent audience, "the murderer committed an unpremeditated act of violence. You don't plan to assault someone with a steel dub. First, diere's a good chance one would miss the target and, second, die image of burying steel in human flesh and blood is repugnant to any sane person."

"Do I understand that you believe there is a single, possibly insane murderer?" Hilary asked. "That these men, these dumpers, are not guilty?"

"Did I say that, Mr. Oats? Oh, where are Harding Marsh and Mrs. Simpson? I left word for them both to be here." He looked at his watch. "His daughter doesn't know where Marsh is and we can't find Mrs. Simpson."

I told Zuccarelli where she could be found and with whom and what she was doing. "Don't tell anybody, please. They want to keep it a secret."

The lieutenant did not look amused. "I don't know how some of you will react to my next bit of information," he said, "but from die point of view of a law enforcement officer, it's a very satisfactory episode.

216

"Janet Martin, mother-in-law of one of the goat owners at the fairgrounds Saturday, was taken by her son late that afternoon to Bradley International Airport. She flew home toTampa and, as promised, called Vermont that night to report on her safe arrival.

"Her son described to his mother the goat lift fiasco and Colwell's disappearance."

"How incredible," I said. "I can hardly believe it."

"Please, Mrs. McWhinny, let me finish. Mrs. Martin had noticed Colwell on the plane but didn't register any connection. Then as she stood waiting for her luggage she idly observed him going out die glass doors and into a Hilton Hotel jitney.

"After she talked to her son, JanetMartin called us, and thanks to the FBI and the local police, Colwell was apprehended the next day."

"Oh dear." Sophie looked dashed. "I never want to see that man again in my life."

"You may not have to. Due to some past illegal operations of his, die Texas audiorities lay first claim on his person."

"That brings us to Libby Lupin," Hilary said. "We know about her fingerprints on the botde and the mystifying problem of not recognizing either of the sets of men you paraded for her. Tell us more."

"I will. You know about her fingerprints on the vodka bottle and that is a fact, but it is also a fact that Libby Lupins thumbprint was on die face of Mike Flynn's wristwatch. After she killed him she must have pulled him into the horse stall. She's completely blank about the episode. A not uncommon result of shock"

Sophie cried out; I gasped; and Hilary said, "Oh my God, Lieutenant. How hideous."

217

"But her story...," I said.

"That's what it is, Mrs. McWhinny—a story. A story made up by a desperate woman righting for her life. There was no information released at the time of the murder about any evidence of official suspicions, and while you all may have known, it wasn't until Miss Beaumont mentioned the vodka bottle found at the murder site that Libby Lupin panicked and made up the story she told you.

"The accused is still too upset to give us all the details of what did transpire. But much as you're surmised, Mr. Simpson stopped Lupin when she was taking the cashmere buck. He didn't believe her reason for doing so, and accused her of stealing him and said he was going to drive right home and call police. The rest is unclear but the results speak to what must have happened. She says she didn't mean to kill him,"

"But Mike," Sophie said. "Why did she kill him?"

"That day before Flynn was murdered and you were talking to him, Mrs. McWhinny, you were standing beside the barn. Didn't you say Libby Lupin was leaving?"

"Yes, but they didn't meet." I thought a minute. "Mike did ask who she was. But by then she was driving away."

"That would be enough. He must have seen her hitting Simpson or somehow involved in the scene. I'm sure when she killed Flynn she felt she was home free. That is, until she heard about the botde."

"Why in the world didn't Mike Flynn tell you?" Sandy asked. "You talked to him."

"That's another story." The lieutenant perched on die edge of the ottoman. "We finally got in touch with his mother, a widow, who dianks you all and will be in touch. She told us mat Mike had fallen in with some tough kids a year ago and in a drug-

218

A i tii ^/unmcivc «vii>

related incident had tried to rob a convenience store. Because two of die perpetrators were under age die judge put diem all on probation.

"It is Mrs. Flynn's opinion diat her son would be nervous about any connection with a criminal incident and would diere-fore not report it for fear of being implicated. That explanation satisfied me. Flynn's dieatrical associates in Great Harrington described him as a nice fellow but a little paranoid, always looking over his shoulder. And who is to say that under different circumstances, he might not have come forth? For instance, if someone had been accused of die crime."

"Who's going to take care of Libby's goats?" Sophie asked.

"Someone from die Animal Rescue League is at her place now. He'll stay until die proper legal procedures can be accomplished. I spoke to die director of die department and suggested diat a herd of goats could be an instructive and dierapeutic part of die women's state correctional facility."

"Man, diat's cool," Sandy said. "You mean Libby could go right on taking care of her goats?"

"It's possible. It's very sad about your friend, Libby Lupin. She was an inspiration to \fermont goat breeders. Prisons are full of odierwise good people who trapped diemselves or were trapped in circumstances diat got out of hand. Good people who panicked widi tragic results. Maybe you could go over to Dorset and help out widi die goats, Miss Beaumont."

"Good idea." I stood up. I knew die reality of Libby as a murderer would never sink in. I was grateful diat Zuccarelli was a fellow Pollyanna and was able to pin a bucolic ending on such a sad tale.

"Before I leave you all," he said, "I have a problem diat I'd like to discuss widi you. It's about my wife." We all looked

219

surprised, but I could feel my jaw relax as the lieutenant shared his little smile with us. "I've promised her a surprise for her birthday next week and she has stated that because she knows me so well there is absolutely nothing I could give her that would be a surprise. So I wondered, Sandy, if you could help me find a fainting goat."

220