Die Like an Eagle (18 page)

“Yeah, I guess you have to get up pretty early to take care of them,” I said, nodding at the pigs.

“Between them and my kids, I'm in bed by nine most nights,” he said. “My wild nights are over.”

He was gazing with fond pride at the Gloucestershire Old Spots as he said it. I had the feeling he didn't much resent either the pigs or the kids for getting him up early.

“They're a lot of fun to watch,” I said. “Just tell me to mind my own business if you like, but does it bother you to eat your own pigs?”

“It would if I did but I don't,” he said.

“Don't tell me you're a vegetarian?”

“Shoot, no,” he said. “I'm a meat-and-potatoes guy, no question. But when you raise them free range—they seem so happy, and you get to know their personalities. Not something any self-respecting pig farmer ought to admit, but yeah, it would bother me to eat them.”

“So you don't eat pork?” I guessed.

“I eat other people's pork,” he said, with a laugh. “And I'm a picky son of a gun, too, because I know how nasty a badly run pig farm can get. But there's half a dozen free-range organic farms whose meat I'll buy.”

“Which ones?” I asked, pulling out my notebook. He rattled off the names, and I recognized a couple whose products appeared in the local section of the Caerphilly Market. Any pig farm that passed Mr. Entwhistle's inspection would be high on my list. His pig shed was neat, tidy, and cleaner than some parts of my house—the parts frequented by Rob and the boys. For that matter, I put Mr. Entwhistle's farm at the top of my list.

“Thanks for being up front with me about Biff,” I said. “And I'll see you at the next Flatworms/Eagles game. I think there's one coming up shortly.”

“With only four teams at our level in the league, there's pretty nearly always one coming up shortly,” he said. “I look forward to it. What I don't look forward to is cheering ‘Go, Flatworms!' Can't someone convince Biff to come up with more normal names for the teams?”

“I guess I should feel lucky we've got the Eagles,” I said.

“I heard a rumor that it was originally supposed to be the Earwigs, only someone at the uniform company thought it must be a typo and changed it to Eagles.”

“Yeah, Earwigs sounds a lot more like Biff's style,” I said.

We shook hands, and I turned to go back to the truck. Then a thought struck me.

“By the way, could you do me a favor? If you happen to get talking to someone at the game who seems really interested in heritage animals, could you try to make pig husbandry sound as difficult as possible?”

“Well, it's a lot harder than people think,” he said. “It's not as if you just turn them out in the field and nap. You worried that someone you know will get bit with the heritage pig bug?”

“My dad. He's got heritage-breed cows and sheep already, and I'm very much afraid he's getting ready to commit more animal buying.”

“He shown any interest in pigs?”

“Lately he's been studying poultry,” I said. “I was hoping he could be satisfied with a few rare geese or ducks. We've some experience with poultry, but none with pigs. I think he should work his way up to pigs.”

“Good point,” Mr. Entwhistle said. “If anyone shows undue interest in my pigs, I'll talk up the hardships.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Entwhistle.”

“Just Will,” he said. “See you at the game.”

I got back into the Behemoth and drove slowly out, admiring the pigs on either side as I went. When I reached the road, I stopped and pulled out my list of Brown Construction customers. Were there any more here in the south end of the county? Yes, five years ago Brown Construction had gotten a permit to build a barn for a Mr. Samuel Yoder. When I programmed the address into my GPS, it seemed to think the Yoder farm was only ten minutes away.

I headed out. After a good twenty minutes of sporadic signal and missed turns, I arrived in front of the Yoder farm. Or at least what used to be the Yoder farm. Lush, rolling pastures empty of any livestock. No vehicles or equipment visible anywhere. A big farmhouse that looked a little unkempt, and to its left, a huge, half-finished barn. The ground floor of the barn was covered with tattered Tyvek construction wrap, with some loosened strips flapping in the faint breeze. The upper story and the soaring roof were nothing but naked frame.

Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but what if that sad, unfinished barn had driven Mr. Yoder into bankruptcy? If he was less wary than Will Entwhistle, less successful in getting satisfaction from Brown Construction, maybe a little less financially sound to begin with…?

The Entwhistle farm was nearby—probably a good deal nearer than my roundabout route would indicate. Odds were Will knew what had happened to his neighbor, and if Biff had had anything to do with the Yoder's unfinished barn and abandoned farm, Will would probably enjoy telling me. I made an entry in my notebook to remind me to ask him.

And then a thought hit me. I pulled out my phone and called Mother.

“Where are you, dear?” she asked. “Some of the cousins were asking.”

“Long story,” I said. “I'll fill you in when I get back this evening. Speaking of cousins, is Festus still gung ho about buying a farm here in Caerphilly to serve as a weekend getaway?”

“Yes, if he can ever find a suitable place. Not that he isn't perfectly welcome to stay with us any time, and I'm sure you feel the same, but there is something about having your own place.”

“Tell him to check out this place.” I gave her Samuel Yoder's name and the address of his farm. “I don't see any ‘for sale' signs, but it doesn't look as if anyone's actively farming, and—long story, but I have reason to suspect the owner may be experiencing financial difficulties.”

“I will, dear. Is it a nice place?”

I glanced back up at the huge old farmhouse, shaded by enormous oaks, and sitting on a hill with a sweeping view of the rolling pastures that surrounded it.

“With a little work it could be an enviably nice place.” And given Festus Hollingsworth's thriving law practice, he could afford the work more than most. “I'll send you some pictures.”

“I'm sure Festus will be very grateful, dear.”

“That's good,” I said. “Because it would be really nice if he could express his gratitude by telling me anything he can find out about Mr. Yoder and what happened to him and his farm.”

“Ooh, a mystery.” Mother pretended to make fun of Dad's obsession with mysteries, but she had her own sense of curiosity and was expert at teasing hard information out of the rumors that made the rounds of the local grapevine. “I'll call him right away.”

I hung up, feeling pretty confident that if there was a story behind the vacant Yoder farm, between Mother and Festus they'd find it. I shot a couple of pictures with my phone, showing the house, the barn, and then a long shot of the gentle, rolling pastures. Then I e-mailed them to Mother.

Of course, it would take Mother and Festus time to report back. I pondered for a few moments, then pulled up the Summerball roster and dialed a phone number on it.

“Entwhistle,” said a now-familar voice.

“Will, this is Meg Langslow again,” I said. “I had one more question, about your neighbor, Samuel Yoder.”

“Another Biff casualty,” Will said. “I don't know all the details, but I'm sure he'd be happy to fill you in.”

“He's not here,” I said.

“If you're over at his farm, yeah, he's not there. Bank's in the process of taking his farm. He moved in with his married daughter.”

“Do you know where she lives?” I asked.

“No—somewhere in town, but I don't know the address, and since her married name is Jones, good luck finding her. But why don't you talk to him at tomorrow's games? His grandson's on the Wombats, and he never misses a game. He's about six three, thin as a rail, with a bushy gray beard. Or if you have any trouble finding him, I'm sure one of the other Wombat parents can point him out.”

A thought hit me.

“Mr. Yoder's beard,” I said. “Is it one of those Amish-style beards, with the bare chin?”

“Yes—he's not Amish, but I think he's got some ancestors who were. You've met him, then.”

“Seen him.” Probably not a good idea to mention that I'd seen him having a bitter argument with Biff. “I think I'll recognize him again.”

“Good. See you at the games.”

With that he hung up.

Yes, I'd recognize Samuel Yoder. If I ran into him at the game, should I ask him why he'd been quarreling with Biff at the ball field? Probably a better idea to leave it to the chief.

I was about to dial the chief again, then I hesitated. Definitely a good idea to let him know that I'd probably found two more people with good reason to dislike Biff and that one of them had had words with him at the scene of the crime.

But I didn't want to tick him off by appearing to be snooping in his case. Probably a good idea to make my report in person, so I could gauge his reactions.

I programmed my GPS for the center of town and set off, hoping the machine was better at finding its way out of than into the trackless wilds of the southern end of the county.

After only a few wrong turns, I made my way back to town and parked the Behemoth in the nearly deserted lot at the police station. In fact, the chief's blue sedan was the only vehicle in sight.

I walked through the door of the police station to find the entrance room empty. No officers visible, no citizens waiting in front of the reception desk or in the battered orange or purple plastic chairs around the walls, and most important, no one behind the desk.

Why was the police station deserted in the middle of the day?

 

Chapter 14

“Hello?” I called, scanning the empty reception room.

A head popped up from beneath the desk, startling me so that I jumped slightly. Then I recognized the elaborate braids and round caramel-colored face. Kayla Butler, Aida's daughter. She looked nearly as startled as I did. And why had she been hiding behind the desk?

“I didn't know you were working at the police station,” I said, while glancing around to see if there was anything visible to account for the hiding. All seemed clear, but then I began to worry for another reason—the last I'd heard Kayla had been completely immersed in the joys and sorrows of her senior year at Caerphilly High School. I hoped this was only a part-time job and not a sudden derailment of her planned career in music and drama.

“I work here part time when they're short staffed,” Kayla said. “We need every penny for the college fund.”

I was relieved to hear that.

“But I don't usually work the front desk,” she said, frowning slightly. “I wouldn't be out here at all except that some fool tourists ran into Merle Shiffley's pig truck just now, and they were already short staffed with the murder and they had to send Mom and Sammy to the accident scene.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Merle is fine, and so are the pigs as far as we know, but Mom and Sammy are still helping round them up so it could be a while. Vern took the tourists to the hospital with cuts and bruises, but they'll live. And I spilled my slushie.” She gestured toward her feet. “That's why I was under the desk. I need to mop it all up before the chief sees it. He's the only one here, so if you need to see him, you're fine, but if you want anyone else, they're all out somewhere.” She waved her hand vaguely as if to suggest that the whereabouts of the rest of the force remained a profound mystery.

“I did want to see the chief,” I said.

“Go on back, then,” she said, disappearing under the desk again.

I thought of suggesting that Frankie, who usually manned the desk during the day shift, would have called the chief on the intercom to ask if it was okay to send me back. I decided my conscience would be served if I told her on the way out. I strolled down the hall and knocked on the chief's closed door.

“Come in, Kayla,” he called out.

I opened the door.

“Although I thought I told you that you can use the intercom and not leave the front desk unattended,” the chief went on as I stepped in. He didn't look up from the stack of papers in front of him, and I recognized a faint note of irritation in his voice.

“Shall I remind her of that on my way out?” I asked.

He raised his head and looked briefly startled before breaking into a smile.

“Come in.” He sat up and pushed the papers away from him as if grateful for an interruption. “Not sure the reminder will do any good,” he added as I shut the door and took a seat in front of his desk. “But she's a good kid, even though she can talk the hind leg off a donkey, and I appreciate her giving up part of her weekend on such short notice to help out here. What can I do for you?”

“Since there's to be no baseball today,” I said, “I decided to console myself with work. I tried to find Biff, but no luck. He wasn't at his business, and apparently the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Brown kicked him out a month ago.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “Vern reported that he appears to be living in bachelor squalor in one of the back rooms of the main building at his scrapyard. I know the housing market is tight here in Caerphilly, but you'd think he could find something over in Clay County.”

“Evidently the housing market is tight there, too,” I said. “Especially for someone who may be experiencing serious cash flow problems. Gina—the estranged wife, who seems already to have shed her married name—suggested that might be why he's procrastinating on starting the town square work—can't afford to buy the materials.”

“Interesting,” the chief said. “I do need to talk to her at greater length.”

“I hope she has an alibi,” I said. “Because she sure has motive.”