Leave Tomorrow Behind (Stella Crown Series) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

The grandstand was crowded when we arrived, and I didn’t see anyone we knew to squeeze in with. Lucy and Lenny had taken Tess and gone home, and I was beginning to wish we’d gone with them.

The combines were already lining up outside the arena, and it was obvious that plenty of people in the bleachers had begun their drinking some time before. I hoped the drivers of the combines had waited to start on their booze until after the demo, but I wouldn’t have bet anybody on it.

A tanker truck was spraying down the mud pit, creating a soggy, sticky mess, and firefighters stood ready outside the arena, which was lined with tires inside metal side rails. An ambulance had its place off to the side, and already a young guy sat in a folding chair, receiving attention, holding a rag to his forehead. Tow trucks and front end loaders waited for their turns to pull dead combines from the pit, and beyond all that, straw bales made seats for those people who needed to be close for one reason or another.

Nick shielded his eyes and scanned the people in the thick, restless crowd. “You sure you want to risk it?”

“Eh, what are they going to do?”

“Puke on us,” Miranda muttered.

I led the others across the front and up the far stairs, finding us enough space for two people, which we made to fit three. Normally I don’t mind being that close to Nick, but not when it was closing in on a hundred degrees and his sister was practically my Siamese twin.

Miranda’s face told plenty about the situation. Just by looking at her, you could know that we were surrounded by large, sweaty people with beer logos on their stretched-out t-shirts, and plastic cups of the same drink sloshing around everywhere.

“Why are we here again?” she said.

A loud click came over the sound system, and then a voice said, “Please rise for the singing of the national anthem.”

We smooshed our way to a standing position, as crammed together as the cows when they’re rushing into the barn for milking, or pushing to get to the hay when we feed them outside. Only the cows smelled better.

Some family with large smiles and cowboy hats sang the song, and we sat down again while the first heat of combines chugged into the arena.

“Now what?” Miranda said.

“Just watch.”

It was like a combine rainbow in the mudpit—a green one named SwampRat; a white and black one painted like a cow with a sign saying; “Show us your teats!”; an orange one called Smashing Pumpkin; a yellow one dubbed Sunshine; and a red one emblazoned “Rotten Tomato.” Each went to its specified starting spot, a fluorescent orange flag waving from a dowel rod attached to the side of the cab. The flag would be their token of surrender, should the driver snap it off. It took a while for the drivers to get positioned, because the machines weren’t exactly speedy, and they needed to back into their starting spots. Finally, they were poised, and the official shot off the starter pistol.

The red and orange combines flew right out of their spaces, well, if five miles an hour is flying, and headed for each other in a way that made me think they were probably friends—or enemies. The cow one and the yellow one waited just long enough to go after the first ones, and the green one spun in the mud, smoking and jerking, either stuck or fried. The cow smashed into the back of the red combine, pushing it into the orange one, and the driver’s head whipped back and forth.

“That can’t be good for them,” Nick yelled, trying to be heard over the noise.

“They’re twenty-year-olds,” I yelled back. “Do you think they care?”

The green one got bashed by the yellow, who was backing up to take another shot at the green one’s back tires, the weakest spot on the machine. But before Sunshine could make the run, the driver of the green one ripped off his flag, so Sunshine had to stop, which made it a prime target for the red beast, who banged into it so hard I was surprised the driver didn’t go flying out. Thank God for seatbelts and helmets.

They kept on bashing and crashing into each other until only the red combine remained running and was declared the winner of the heat. The tow trucks and front end loaders took ten minutes to pull out the losers, and the next heat entered the ring.

“GO GET ’EM, STINKBOMB!” a woman behind us shrieked.

Miranda jerked forward so hard she hit the guy in front of us, who turned around and leered. “Want to do that again, little lady? I wouldn’t mind.” He patted her hip.

Miranda was obviously speechless, so I answered for her. “Back off, sleazeball.”

“Hey, she’s the one feeling me up.”

I leaned forward, meeting his watery eyes. “Back. Off.”

He did.

“You let the teenagers come here?” Miranda said, when she got her voice back.

“They’re all down there.” I pointed to a special section, marked off for the 4-H’ers. “Booze-free zone.”

“Wish we were with them.”

I was beginning to wish that, too. I searched the young faces, but couldn’t find any of the kids I knew, until I finally spied Bobby’s neon green shirt. Once I saw that, I could make out Zach, Taylor, Claire, Randy, and Laura—who was apparently now part of their crowd. Zach and Taylor sat beside each other, with Laura beside Taylor, while the other three sat directly behind them. Poor Claire. She had the perfect sight lines for what she really didn’t want to see.

Being a teenager really did suck sometimes. I remembered. But then, being twenty-nine had really sucked as well, so I figured they’d better get used to it.

Four more heats of combines destroyed each other, and while the winners made repairs, pick up trucks took the stage.

Miranda dropped her head into her hands. “I thought it was over.”

I patted her knee. I would have preferred to pat her back, but I couldn’t move that far.

The pick ups went through the same routine as the combines, but the demo went a lot faster, since they were smaller vehicles. They smashed and banged, backing into each other to preserve the engine compartment, as well as the driver, and then we sat through a brief intermission while firefighters put out a fire in an old Ford.

“Poor trucks,” Nick said.

I shrugged. “They’ve lived a long life.”

“But to end up this way…”

“Hey, the drivers love them. For now.”

The firefighters left, and the trucks went at it again, one of them getting hung up on a side rail, stuck while another truck just whacked and whacked it. Finally every truck but one had died, and the winning driver climbed out of the driver’s window, pulled off the helmet, and shook her hair free. The crowd went silent for a split second, then went crazy. Who’d known it was a woman out there?

The area cleared out again, and the championship for the combines was finally ready to begin. By now, the air was filled with gas and diesel smell, dust, blue smoke, and the lovely odor of burning tires, thanks to their constant spinning in the mud. Miranda had turned a pale shade of green, and I was beginning to feel a little worried she was going to heave on the gross guy in front of her. That wouldn’t turn out well.

She pressed her hand over her mouth, and swallowed. “This is supposed to be fun?”

I sighed again. Heavily. “Why did you come, again? Wait, I know. To spend time with your brother.”

“And to try to understand you better. Which is getting harder and harder as time goes by.”

The starting shot was given, and the combines went at it.

“Destroy him, Stinkbomb!” the woman behind us screamed, and clobbered Miranda’s back with her knee.

“Will you watch it?” Miranda snapped.

The woman didn’t hear her, instead screaming for Stinkbomb to “Crush his back axle, you moron!”

I smiled at Miranda. “You don’t find this fun?”

In answer, she took her index fingers and stuck them in her ears.

“No sense of culture,” I said to Nick.

He grinned, and then his brow crinkled. “Is that your phone?”

I pulled it out. It was ringing. “How on earth did you hear that?”

“Super powers. Who is it?”

“Don’t know. It’s just a number.” I stuck the phone back in my pocket.

“You’re not going to answer it?”

“I don’t answer if I don’t know who it is. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

“Are you sure?”

The red combine crashed into a camouflage one, and the woman behind us—along with a good portion of the crowd—went crazy.

“You get ’em, Stinky!” the woman screamed.

“I guess it’s important,” Nick said.

“What is?”

“Your phone call. Someone just left you a voice mail. I heard the ding.”

I pulled the phone out again. Nick was right. I considered where I was sitting, in the berserker woman zone, but also considered how hard it would be to make my way out of the grandstand. Lesser of two evils. I dialed voice mail and covered my other ear.

“Stella?” Bryan’s voice came over the line. “Where are you? Are you still at the fair? I don’t know what to—If you’re here, please come to the dairy barn. It’s bad. Carla’s bad. Please, I’m not sure how to—” The message cut off.

“Gotta go.” I stood.

Miranda glanced up, hope in her eyes. “Are we leaving?”

“I am.”

“Well, then, I’m coming, too.”

Nick stood up. “What’s wrong?”

“Move it!” the crazy lady screamed. “Get the fuck down!”

Miranda blinked, then put her fists on her hips. Good lord, she was going to take on the crazy woman. Just as Miranda opened her mouth, I jerked her away, and the crowd closed in behind us. Miranda might not like the woman’s foul language, but no way would she win that fight. We picked our way down the stands. When we were clear of the crowd, we moved faster.

“Why did you yank me away like that?” Miranda said, plucking at my arm. “That woman had no right to—”

“That woman would have kicked your ass.”

Miranda stopped with the plucking.

“Where are we going?” Nick said.

“Dairy barn. Carla’s in trouble.” I kicked it up to a jog, leaving the two of them behind.

They knew where to find me.

Chapter Twenty-eight

I burst into the barn, expecting a crowd, but saw only a small group. They were standing at the Greggs’ stalls, and Gregg himself was yelling and poking a finger in Carla’s face. His head looked like it might explode any second, but that was exactly how I felt watching him assault Carla.

I strode over and pushed his hand away, stepping between the two of them, wondering why Bryan hadn’t done that already. Mrs. Gregg stood behind her husband, her face all blotchy from crying. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she swiped at her face with her hand. The older two girls were there, too, expressions blank, mouths open.

Gregg’s yelling stopped when I moved in, and his face went some kind of nuclear color. “You? Get out of the way before I—”

“Make me.”

“Stella…” Carla grabbed the back of my shirt.

I held out a hand to shut Gregg up and turned to Carla. “You okay?”

“Come here. Please.” She pulled me away from the group. Her face was so pale I was afraid she was going to either faint or throw up, so I led her to a straw bale and had her sit. Bryan was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered why he’d disappeared. He’d been there a few minutes ago, when he called me. At least I think he had.

“What’s going on?”

She slumped against the stall behind her. “The Greggs’ cows. They’re sick, both of them. And I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Tell me the symptoms.”

She took a shuddering breath. “Dizzy, at least they keep swaying into the sides of the stalls. Fever. Rolling eyes. It could be anything. Drugs. Sickness. I just don’t know.”

The bags under Carla’s bloodshot eyes were on their way to becoming serious luggage, and her shoulders slumped so low she threatened to slide right off the bale. All of her usual confidence and pep was gone.

“When did this start?”

“A few hours ago. I got the call just before the parade that the cows were acting strangely. It’s gotten worse fast.”

“So, not lemons this time.”

She shook her head so miserably I was afraid she was going to join Mrs. Gregg and start crying. “That first night, she called me and I told her she was imagining things. What if she wasn’t? What if I did miss something?”

I guess we couldn’t rule it out.

I sat beside her. “Okay, what have you done so far?”

“All the usual things. Temperature, looking in the eyes, everything I could do without hauling them off to the office. Bryan just ran some body fluids to the lab. We evacuated the surrounding stalls, even though it would be too late if there really is something wrong, and I called my partners. One of them should be here soon. Oh, God, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Did you check their feed?”

“There’s nothing left in their stalls. No hay. No grain. They’ve eaten every crumb.”

Or somebody had cleaned it up.

A commotion over at the cows caught my attention. Someone new had arrived. Carla’s head shot up hopefully, but the new arrival wasn’t one of her partners. It was one of the nasty vets who had shown up the day before, during the whole lemon fiasco. He went directly to Gregg, who began talking loudly and pointedly.

“She can’t figure out what’s wrong. It has to be something simple, right?” He glanced at us, making sure we saw that he had called in someone else.

“I’ll stop him,” I said, rising.

“No.” Carla’s hand shot out to grab my elbow. “Let him examine the animals. Maybe he’ll catch something I didn’t. We have to remember it’s about the animals. We can’t let something happen to them just because some people can’t deal with me.”

“But Gregg thinks he can just call in some other vet. And that vet thinks he can come into your territory.”

“Let him. You know how I said this job wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be? He can have it.”

“But your reputation—”

“—is fine. Two days—because that’s what it’s been, can you believe it?—can’t ruin my career.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Not with Gregg and his connections involved.

Nick and Miranda joined us, and Carla’s eyes barely lit up at the sight of Nick in his well-fitting jeans. Not a good sign.

“Stay with her,” I told them.

I wandered toward the cows, trying to stay out of Gregg’s sight lines, but that was impossible. He was completely aware of me, and his eye was twitching. His nostrils were just flaring when his flunky vet stepped back to confer with him. Whatever he was saying, it wasn’t good, because Gregg grabbed the closest thing to him—a bucket—and flung it across the room, barely missing a 4-H’er who had bent over to pick something up.

“Stella? What’s happening?” Don, one of Carla’s partners, the one who had been on hand the day before after the lemon fiasco, spoke quietly beside me.

“Something bad, I guess. Gregg’s throwing a fit. You gonna take a look?”

“In a second.” He went to sit with Carla, where they had probably about the same conversation she and I had had.

“I don’t believe this!” Gregg yelled. “Somebody is out to get us!”

He met my eyes for a few seconds, then stomped away, the vet scuttling after him. Mrs. Gregg stood as if frozen, while her two older girls hovered in the background, obviously not sure whether they should care about what was happening, or go do something more fun. One of them jumped, pulled her phone from her pocket, and began texting away. The other turned to the guy beside her. A different guy from the one at calf judging earlier.

Spectators began drifting away. The only ones staying were people who had cows in the barn, and were worried about them being affected. I went closer to the stalls now that Gregg was gone. Mrs. Gregg looked too out of it to notice, and I wasn’t sure if she would even care. The cows seemed disoriented, off balance, and their eyes had a glassy sheen. Almost like they’d been hypnotized. Or were in pain.

Don followed me over to the stall. “What do you think? You see anything like this before?”

“Actually…” A memory was coming back to me. I’d had an intern one summer, stupidest kid I’d seen for a long time, but I was doing a favor for his parents and giving him some pointers. He’d found some bad hay I’d thrown out back for the garbage, and figured it just hadn’t been put away properly. He fed it to some unfortunate cows, and they’d all looked just like this, like they were either drunk or suffering incredibly bad hangovers.

I put my hand on the closest cow’s side and leaned on it. The cow moaned and inched sideways. Stomachache. I met Don’s eyes briefly, then went to the trough, where the hay would have been placed earlier. It was empty, as they had said, but I leaned in and smelled it, catching a whiff of rotten odor.

“Bad grain?” Dan said.

I stood up. “Could it be that simple?” I turned to Mrs. Gregg. “Who’s been feeding these cows?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Feed. Who’s been giving it to them?”

“My daughters, of course. They’re their cows.”

Uh-huh. I looked at those very daughters, whose interest in their sick cows had lowered even further, so much so that one of them was walking away.

“What is it?” Mrs. Gregg said.

I returned to Carla and knelt in front of her and Nick. “Did you find any smidgen of grain to send to the lab?”

“Just crumbs. Along with a sample of the water.”

“Maybe crumbs will be enough.”

“You think it was the grain?”

“It would explain how the cows are acting, and would be incredibly simple to do. No needles, no hard-to-find drugs. Just rotten sileage. Or even hay.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “But why?”

“I think we know why,” I said.

She shook her head. “The cows weren’t the ones cheating.”

“Of course not. But feeding those idiot girls rotten sileage wouldn’t knock them out of the competition.”

She didn’t smile. “Okay. It was to get back at the family for how they play the game. But that still doesn’t tell us who. Who would do such a thing?”

A sick feeling rumbled in my stomach. I really hoped I didn’t know the answer to that.