Swan for the Money (7 page)

Chapter 11

Spike actually shut up, as if he was just as startled as I was.

“Myotonic goats!” my grandfather exclaimed. “Fascinating!”

He ambled over to the fence and peered down at the prostrate goats with far greater interest than he’d shown when he’d thought they were mere color-coordinated yuppie farm accessories.

“What’s a myotonic goat?” I asked. I was relieved to see that the goats were coming around, shaking their heads and starting to scramble to their feet. The one who had remained standing started walking, stumbling a bit with the first few steps, but quickly returning to a normal gait.

“Also known as Tennessee belted fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said. “Or wooden-leg goats.”

“Or stiff-legged goats,” Caroline put in. “Nervous goats. Sometimes Tennessee scare goats.”

“Stiff-legged goats is probably the most accurate term,” my grandfather said. Had everybody heard about these goats except me? “They don’t lose consciousness, so they’re not technically fainting.”

“Then what is happening to them?” I asked. The goats seemed fine, and Mr. Darby didn’t seem particularly upset by what Spike had done to them.

“They suffer from an hereditary genetic disorder called myotonia congenita,” my grandfather said. “Basically, when startled, their muscles lock up temporarily. If they’re not well balanced at the time, they fall over.”

“It’s not just being startled that does it,” Mr. Darby said. “Any sudden stimulus. Heck, if I give ’em an especially good feed, half of them will keel over out of sheer joy.”

“Hasn’t anyone tried to fix this?” I said. “Identify the goats with this genetic defect and keep them out of the gene pool?”

“On the contrary,” Caroline said. “Some breeders have worked hard to keep the trait
in
the gene pool.”

“It’s not considered a defect,” Mr. Darby said. “It’s just a feature of the breed.”

“A useful feature for sheep herders,” my grandfather said. “A lot of them use these goats to protect their sheep.”

“Like llamas?” I asked. “But if they faint when startled, how do they scare off predators?”

“Not like llamas,” my grandfather said. “They don’t scare the predators off. They fall down and get eaten, allowing the more valuable sheep to escape.”

“The ultimate scapegoat,” Caroline said, shaking her head.

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Presumably predators aren’t a problem for these goats,” Caroline went on. “You don’t have many wolves roaming the Virginia countryside.”

“More’s the pity,” said my grandfather. “We need more natural predators to keep the deer population down.”

“No wolves,” Mr. Darby muttered. “Just her.” Meaning, I had no doubt, Mrs. Winkleson.

He leaned over to pour the contents of his bucket into a trough just inside the fence. Five of the goats scampered toward the trough, while one keeled over, possibly startled by the clanking sound the bucket made hitting the trough. From farther off, we could see other black-and-white forms headed our way.

Spike wasn’t reacting, just watching the goats. I deduced that it was only goats he could smell, not another dog.

“You don’t just let them forage the landscape for their food?” my grandfather asked.

“Most of it,” Mr. Darby said. “But I give ’em a little feed once a day with a specially mixed vitamin and mineral supplement. Makes up for any soil deficiencies. It’s what Dr. Rutledge recommends.”

Dr. Blake nodded, and I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t finding anything to disapprove of in Mr. Darby’s care of the goats. If Clarence Rutledge was their vet, they were lucky goats indeed. They certainly looked healthy as they jostled and butted each other to get a good share of the feed. Another one keeled over suddenly, for no apparent reason, but kept on chewing for the whole ten or fifteen seconds it took him to come to and reclaim his place at the trough.

Maybe Mr. Darby’s lugubrious expression wasn’t due to any problems here at Raven Hill. Maybe he was just a natural Eeyore.

“I just wish she wouldn’t keep selling off so many of the kids,” Mr. Darby said suddenly, as if he’d been trying to hold the words back and finally couldn’t. “She inspects every single one born, and if they don’t meet her standards, off they go.”

“Her standard being that they have to be pure black and white?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Off they go where?” my grandfather asked, snapping to attention again.

“We’ve got a back pasture that’s not technically part of the farm,” Mr. Darby said. “If a kid has even a touch of any color but black and white, we take the doe and kid both up to the back pasture, and once the kid’s old enough to leave the mother, we sell it. Good market for registered fainting goats these days. Same with the Belties who aren’t perfect. If the calves don’t have a well-shaped white belt, or if they’ve got white spots anywhere else or black spots in the belt, off they go to the back pasture till they’re old enough to sell.”

“At least she waits till they’re weaned,” Caroline said.

“She wouldn’t if Dr. Rutledge hadn’t convinced her it’s bad for the health of the cows and does to have the natural cycle of motherhood interrupted,” Mr. Darby said. “Pretty clever of him.”

“So who does she sell them to?” Dr. Blake asked.

“Always a market for fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said.

“Have you checked on any of them after they left the farm?”

“She hasn’t told me where any of them have gone.”

Dr. Blake frowned and looked at me as if to say, “See? Evasive!”

We pondered the fate of less-than-perfect kid goats as we watched the remaining goats scarf up the last of their feed. Mr. Darby wasn’t looking at the goats but up at Mrs. Winkleson’s house. At the far side of the pasture, I could see a fence and a line of trees separating the goats from the next field, and then, over the trees, the top of the house. It was slightly surreal to see the goats feeding calmly, apparently oblivious to the huge architectural monstrosity looming over them.

“And she’s starting to take way too much interest in which ones faint the easiest and which ones don’t,” Mr. Darby went on, pointing toward the far side of the pasture. “Sneaks out through her garden to the back pasture over there and flaps that damned parasol of hers at them. If they don’t all keel over, she starts asking what’s wrong with the upright ones.”

“That sounds mean,” I said.

“It is,” my grandfather said. He stuck his notebook in one of the many pockets in his fisherman’s vest and leaned against the fence beside Mr. Darby.

“Yes, very mean,” Mr. Darby said. “Although at least it doesn’t really hurt the goats. If it did— well, not much I could do to stop the old bat, but I wouldn’t stay around to see the animals mistreated. I could always resign in protest. Hard as that would be.”

He reached over to scratch one of the goats behind the ears and his usually sad face suddenly looked almost cheerful for a few seconds, before it lapsed into its normal lugubrious expression. I found myself wondering how likely it was that he really would resign and leave his beloved goats at the mercy of Mrs. Winkleson.

Maybe he was being evasive about who bought the missing goats because he didn’t really want to think about their fate.

“Does Mimi like to chase the goats, too?” I asked.

“Mimi?” Mr. Darby’s face was blank. Either he didn’t recognize the name or he was a remarkable actor.

“Mrs. Winkleson’s dog,” I said. “The one who’s been dognapped.”

“Oh,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. The poor thing’s a show dog, not a farm dog. She never lets it out of the house. I’ve hardly ever seen it.”

All of which might be true, but I wasn’t quite sure I believed his blank reaction to the dog’s name. Had he somehow missed the police search party, still shouting “Mimi” at regular intervals as they combed the pastures?

“Ms. Winkleson’s pretty much the only one bothering the goats,” he said. “But she does it a lot. Before long she’s going to start telling me to send off the goats that don’t faint enough to suit her. They go to good homes and all but still, it doesn’t seem quite right somehow.”

How did he know the goats went to good homes if only Mrs. Winkleson knew where they went? I was liking this less and less.

“Well,” my grandfather said. “It’s not as if— hey!”

One of the goats had reached up and grabbed the notebook from Dr. Blake’s hand.

“Sorry about that,” Mr. Darby said. He hopped over the fence. Several of the goats, including the notebook thief, keeled over. But even though the goat with the notebook in his mouth was lying on his side with his legs held stiffly in front of him, his jaw was still working, and he did some damage to the notebook before Mr. Darby managed to retrieve it.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I should have warned you. Paper’s like caviar to them.”

“No real harm done,” my grandfather said. “Could have been worse. I could have been counting my money.”

“They’re darling,” Caroline cooed. She reached out a hand to pet one of the goats.

“Don’t touch their faces,” Mr. Darby warned.

“Oh, does that bother them?” Caroline paused with her hand hovering above the forehead of one of the smaller goats.

“Doesn’t bother them any, but you might not be so happy,” Mr. Darby said. “They just cleared out a big stand of poison ivy in the back of the pasture this morning, and they’ve probably got the sap all over their faces.”

Caroline recoiled from the goats.

“Doesn’t poison ivy affect them?” I asked.

“Doesn’t seem to,” he said. “One of the few things they like as much as paper. And you know what their third favorite food is?”

Dr. Blake and Caroline shook their heads, but I had a suspicion.

“Don’t tell me. Roses,” I said.

“Got it in one,” Mr. Darby said. He chuckled softly.

“Please tell me they don’t often get loose,” I said.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But Mrs. Winkleson has a good, tall fence around her roses, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on them tomorrow, what with all the extra roses coming in for the show. No! Naughty goat!”

We all jumped, and several goats fell over, including one who had been sneaking up with his head lowered, as if about to charge and butt Mr. Darby in the rear.

“Bad, bad goat,” Mr. Darby said, shaking his finger at the fallen goat. “He’s a terror, Algie. Always trying to butt people. One of these days he’ll do it to Mrs. Winkleson and get himself sent up to the back pasture.”

From the sound of it, he was looking forward to Algie’s probable fall from grace. Was Algie’s fondness for butting a natural trait or the result of training?

Mr. Darby reached down to scratch Algie’s ear fondly before scrambling to the safety of our side of the fence.

I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven.

“Speaking of the show, I should get back to the barns,” I said. “The volunteers will be arriving any time now. But if you two want to continue your tour—”

“We’ll come with you, dearie,” Caroline said. “We’re going to help out with the setup, remember? Thank you so much for the tour,” she added, turning back to Mr. Darby.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

He nodded genially to each of us. I noticed he made a point of gripping the bucket tightly in both fists, perhaps for fear that Dr. Blake would attempt another potentially crippling handshake.

“Okay, so something probably needs investigating,” I said, when Mr. Darby was out of earshot. “Either he knows something he’s not telling, or he’s deliberately closing his eyes to avoid learning something he doesn’t want to know. And his reaction to Mimi’s name was suspicious, too.”

“Then you have no objection to our snooping?” Caroline asked.

“Snoop away.”

“As long as you’re not short of volunteers,” Caroline said. “I gather the garden club members will be doing most of the work.”

“No,” I said. “The garden club members are almost completely useless as a source of volunteers. None of the non-rose growers are coming. They’re too peeved about this show going well and too busy trying to rescue theirs. And most of the rose growers are too busy prepping their blooms.”

“I thought that started tomorrow?” she asked.

“The final frenzy will be tomorrow, but there’s stuff you have to do the day before a show. In fact, if Mother and Dad are typical, stuff you have to start doing nearly a week before the show.”

“So who’s volunteering, then?” Dr. Blake asked.

“Most of the New Life Baptist Choir, thanks to Minerva Burke,” I said. “And most of the county’s off-duty law enforcement officers, thanks to Chief Burke. Minerva’s taking no chances that the show will fall through. She wants to exhibit her miniature roses. And Rose Noire has drafted most of her lovelorn suitors. And Mother strongarmed some of the family. Aunt Beatrice is coming, and Aunt Patience, and probably Aunt Calliope. So—”

“Aunt Calliope?” My grandfather had pulled out his pocket notebook and was scribbling in it.

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve met Aunt Calliope before.”

“I haven’t met half the aunts and uncles you keep mentioning,” he said. “How many siblings does your mother have, anyway? I started keeping a list this weekend, and so far various members of your family have referred to at least thirty-seven people as aunt or uncle. Salmon spawning would be hard pressed to keep up with these Hollingsworths.”

He was shaking his slightly gnawed notebook as if he’d found compelling evidence of . . . something.

“Well, they’re not literally aunts and uncles,” I said. “For example, if memory serves, Aunt Calliope is technically my second cousin by marriage, once removed.”

“Then why do you call her an aunt?”

“Because she’s Mother’s generation,” I said. “Term of respect. At least in the Hollingsworth family, anyone approximately your age is a cousin. Anyone your parents’ age is an aunt or uncle. The generation below you are nieces and nephews.”

Dr. Blake considered this notion for a few moments, staring balefully at his notebook.

“Has anyone got such a thing as a Hollingsworth family tree?” he asked finally.

“Not that I know of,” I said. “I’ll ask around if you like. But I’m not sure anyone’s tackled that.”