Till the Cows Come Home (21 page)

The second stack of paper looked like Howie had found our milk hauler’s web site and downloaded whatever he could find, which wasn’t much—the history of the company, their mission, vague schedules, and contact information.

I put it aside and picked up the notebook.

Like the envelope, there was no writing on the cover. I flipped to the first page and immediately recognized Howie’s handwriting, staring at me in blue ink. I fanned through the pages. He had written on about a dozen of them. I went back to the first page and read it.

What Howie had written wasn’t organized—just scribbled notes. He must have been brainstorming, for there were lots of things which didn’t make much sense. After several pages, I thought maybe I’d found a pattern, and was surprised that the gist of his thinking was about Wayne.

Until I remembered that furtive conversation they’d had by the truck the other day when Carla was doing herd check. I never had found out what they’d been discussing.

Howie wrote questions like, “Why did Wayne get so defensive when I asked him where our milk was going?” and “Who is Wayne really working for?”

I wondered why Howie didn’t just call the co-op and ask them where our milk was going. It would have been easy enough. I’d never done it, choosing to let them worry about the milk once it was out of my hands. Just so long as the money got deposited in my account, I was happy, and I’d never missed one payment.

And Wayne obviously worked for the co-op. He drove their truck. Wore their uniform.

I tucked those thoughts aside and looked through the rest of the notebook. There were notes about all that had happened over the last several days, with question marks, dashes, and lines drawn from place to place. He’d imagined about every scenario, a lot of them not making any sense at all.

Then I found one that sent my head spinning.

Nick had appeared at the farm the very day the manure lagoon overflowed—the first sign of sabotage. Everything else had happened after I hired him. “Where did he come from?” Howie’s notes said. “What is he doing here?”

At first I tossed the idea off as irrelevant. We knew who had sabotaged our farm. Hubert had now crawled into his hole, and, along with Marianne, would be visited by the police at any time. The sabotage was all wrapped up.

But Howie’s death wasn’t.

My body went cold, and my brain tried to wrap around several disturbing questions. Where had Nick been this evening while I was at Hubert’s and Marianne’s? How convenient that he showed up right after I’d found Howie in the feed room. And the arson? Did Marianne really do that? She hadn’t actually admitted it, had she? Nick had every opportunity to set something up so the heifer barn would burn. He was getting to know the place inside and out. Did he know I was gone to Hubert’s? Had he come by and found Howie alone?

“But Queenie likes him,” I said out loud.

Queenie heard her name and thumped her tail on the floor.

“Could we both be that wrong?” I asked her.

I thought through every encounter I’d had with Nick, from the first time he walked into my office, to the way he’d supported me at the hospital. He’d asked some very personal questions the first night he’d been around, and he’d learned a lot about my life at the co-op dinner, both of which now made me very nervous. Was it all an act, for some unimaginable reason? He’d been wanting to tell me something the past couple of days, but we’d always been interrupted. I had no idea what he could possibly have to say.

Dammit, my hormones had taken me over from the moment I’d laid eyes on him, and now I was paying for it.

Perhaps that had been the plan.

Angry with myself for falling victim so easily, I swore and threw Howie’s notebook across the room, where it smacked the wall and fell to the floor. Queenie jumped up, scared by my outburst.

“Sorry, girl,” I said. “Come here.”

She whined and walked over to lay her head on my leg. I put my hand under her chin and lifted her nose up to look into her eyes. I wished she could tell me what she’d seen tonight. Thank God whoever it was hadn’t shot her, too. I stroked her nose, then stopped suddenly. Queenie had been splattered with blood and other things I couldn’t think about when I’d come home from Jude’s. Now she was clean and fluffy. Had Nick given her a bath while I’d been milking? He’d been brushing her when I’d looked out at him.

I immediately felt a whole lot better. Queenie would never have allowed him to care for her if he’d been the one who killed Howie.

A sudden desire to see Nick swept over me. Just to assure myself I hadn’t been a complete sucker. I pulled the slip of paper with his phone number from my pocket. I shook my head when I thought I’d been so bowled over I’d never even asked him for it when I’d hired him. Maybe I really was a sucker.

I punched buttons and the phone rang on the other end, but after three rings I got his voice mail saying he was so sorry he was unavailable, and if it was an emergency I was to please call this number. I really didn’t want to leave a message.

I dialed the emergency number, and again there was no answer. And I got a different answering machine.

“Hello. You’ve reached Das Homestead, your home away from home. Please leave a message and we’ll—”

I slammed down the phone. Das Homestead. The rich person’s home away from home. The B and B Howie and I made fun of, betting on which expensive vehicles would be in the parking lot. Assuming no one we knew would ever have the resources to stay there.

I guess I was a sucker, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nick’s truck sat bathed in the B and B’s motion detector lights, between a Lexus and a Ground-Pounder—a custom chopper that’ll run you thirty grand, minimum.

I sat in my truck alongside the road, an ugly feeling of betrayal flooding my body. A barn painter. Right.

A light went out in one of the bedrooms and I wondered if it was his. I rested my elbow on the steering wheel and rubbed my temples. I wanted to storm the place, demand some answers, but had enough smarts to know it would be a mistake. Even if Queenie and I were right, and he wasn’t a killer, he wasn’t a blue collar Joe either. So who the hell was he?

I took off the emergency brake and eased away, going somewhere I knew I’d be welcome.

Rochelle Hoffman pulled me into her house and held both of my hands in her own. Her eyes filled with tears, and oddly, I found myself doing the comforting while we stood hugging in her foyer. She pulled away and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, Stella. I just.…” Her lip quivered and she put her hanky over her mouth.

“Okay if Queenie comes in?” I asked.

She got a hold of herself and nodded. “Of course.”

“Come, Queenie!”

Queenie trotted into the house, claws clicking on the marbled tile. Rochelle knelt and let Queenie lick her face.

“Marty around?” I asked.

“He’s out in the barn, doing something or other. Couldn’t sleep after he heard about Howie. We drove by your place a little while ago, but it was all dark, so we thought maybe you were trying to get some sleep. We should’ve stopped in.”

“It’s okay, Rochelle.”

“Oh, Billy—I mean, William—wanted me to tell you how sorry he is. He was here for supper when…when we got the call about Howie.”

“Thanks.” I looked at the wall for a moment to stop the tears that threatened. “You want Queenie to stay with you while I go out to the barn?”

“Sure. Come on, girl. I’ve got some treats in the kitchen.”

You’d think Queenie understood English the way she took off ahead of Rochelle.

Marty was in his milking parlor, scrubbing the outside of the milking tubes. Not something that gets done every day. Or every year, for that matter.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked at me silently for a moment before climbing down his ladder and hanging his rag on one of the rungs.

“You okay?” he said.

“Not really. Got a minute?”

“Got more than one.”

He led me into his office, which was really just an old storage room with a desk and a fridge, and we sat down. He opened the fridge and took out a fresh jug of chocolate milk. He poured some and handed me a mug. I took a sip and was sent back to my shorts and tennies, braids stuck on the sides of my head. The milk was creamy and thick—the kind that feels like it leaves a coat of fat all along your esophagus and stomach. Heavenly.

We sat in silence for a few minutes until visions of Howie on the feed room floor began floating in front of me.

“Tell me again how the co-op decides where our milk’s going,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s not rocket science. Markets call to say they need so-and-so amount of milk, and the haulers take it there.” He shrugged. “You never know where it might end up. My milk ends up going as far as Texas sometimes, or as close as Philly. Depends who needs it. Why?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I was going through some stuff of Howie’s—” I stopped to clear my throat. “And he seemed to be very concerned about who was getting our milk. The co-op had no records of where our milk has gone for the past year.”

Marty perked up. “What? That’s not good.”

“I know. But I’ve been getting milk checks, so obviously the milk’s going somewhere. Howie downloaded a list of the co-op’s markets, our records from past years, and stuff from the haulers. He was even wondering about the guy who drives the truck.”

“Wayne?”

“Yeah.” I stood up and started to pace. “We’ve been having trouble with sabotage—”

“Heard about that.”

Once again I was taken aback by the speed and thoroughness of the farming grapevine.

“Anyway, this evening Howie was milking while I was…dealing with the situation.” I looked at him to see if he knew what I meant, but he didn’t give any indication one way or another. “So I don’t think those folks had anything to do with what happened to Howie. Those notes of his are my only lead.”

“Don’t the police have ideas?”

I dropped into the chair, exasperated. “I don’t know. I hope. They didn’t take his computer, but there was really nothing on it except personal files and games. I suppose I need to tell them about this notebook and stuff, but I have to do some thinking on my own or I’ll go crazy.”

“Well, a conspiracy with the co-op and milk haulers sounds pretty crazy itself. I can’t see what the idea would be. I mean, who cares, really, whose milk they get, or where your milk ends up?”

“Obviously, Howie did.”

Marty nodded. “All I can say is you could give the co-op a call tomorrow. Or ask Wayne yourself.”

“I thought of that, but so did Howie, apparently. He seemed to think Wayne didn’t know. Or didn’t want to tell him.”

As I thought about Howie’s conversation with Wayne, I realized it was after that when I noticed Howie looking older and worried. I had figured at the time it was all the sabotage that was getting to him, but he’d never had a chance to tell me what he was thinking. And all along, he’d been scribbling down thoughts in his little green notebook.

“What?” Marty said, seeing my face change.

I shook my head. “Just something I remember. I’ll call the co-op tomorrow to see what they can tell me about the past year.”

I stared down into my empty mug and felt the milk rumble around in my gut. I had to keep myself from thinking about Howie. At least from thinking about the fact that he wouldn’t be home when I got back.

I looked up when I felt Marty’s eyes boring into the top of my head.

“Sorry I can’t help you more,” he said.

“Forget it. I think I really just needed to get away from home for a bit.”

“You can stay here if you want. Get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep the last couple nights, between the electricity going out, the cows getting loose, and the fire.”

“Didn’t know your cows got out. What happened?”

“Part of the sabotage story. Tell you later?”

“Or never. You get some rest, Stella.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Marty walked me back to the house, where I gathered up Queenie and the bag of food Rochelle hoisted on me. The Hoffmans let me go, extracting one of the many promises I’d given people that I’d call if I needed anything.

When I got home I carefully avoided looking at the garage, not wanting to see the meaningless light by Howie’s door. My Harley was still outside and I knew I should put it in, but I figured one night out wouldn’t kill it. I couldn’t stomach getting that close to Howie’s place again. Queenie followed me into the house and watched while I put away the food Rochelle had sent with us.

For once, I walked upstairs fully dressed. I fell onto my bed and within seconds had crashed into a deep, dark sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My alarm wakened me from a half-sexy, half-scary Nick dream at five, and I was surprised to find myself in my clothes, lying diagonally across my bed. My first thought was of Howie, and I somehow made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

I walked out to the barn, looking straight ahead so I wouldn’t see the garage, and did the entire milking myself for the first time since last week. It took much longer than I remembered.

As I worked, I wondered where everybody was. I mean, wasn’t there anybody to help me? I suddenly felt the weight of Nick’s words from our night under the stars, his questions about who would be with me when I’m old.

Nick, who was at that moment sleeping in his luxurious bed, anticipating a hot, gourmet breakfast and a soak in his room’s private Jacuzzi.

But no matter what Nick was doing, or why he’d hidden his wealth, his prophesy was already coming true. Howie was gone and I was completely alone.

God, I missed him.

I stopped beside a cow, sadness threatening to envelop me, when I remembered there was a reason my closest friends were absent. People were sick. Kids were dying. It was five-thirty in the morning. I shook myself out of my stupor and started working again.

The cows’ udders weren’t as full as usual since they’d been milked late the night before, but I wanted to get them back on schedule before they got too screwed up. It was comforting to move among them, working without thinking. They were oblivious to all that had gone on around them—oblivious that Howie wasn’t with me. It was nice to have something in my life that was consistent.

I had a hard moment when, by habit, I walked to the feed room, and saw the yellow police tape on the door. Without thinking, I turned right back around and was out the door to the feed barn before I could register what I’d seen.

Around eight I swept the last handful of lime onto the walkway, and had to either find something to do, or think. Not a hard decision to make. If I let myself think, I might as well just go in the house and shut myself in a closet. Forever.

I knew there were things around the farm that needed to be done. Things that couldn’t be avoided even though Howie was gone. But being at the farm wasn’t the solace it usually was, and I couldn’t stomach being there without Howie. Wondering if I had somehow caused his death. Missing everything about him.

I also had something else to take care of.

I went into the house, changed my clothes, and got into my truck. Das Homestead was a mere five-minute drive away.

Nick’s truck still sat between the Lexus and the chopper. Looked kind of funny, the little Ranger in the midst of luxury. I wondered what that said about Nick, but didn’t have the wherewithal to try to figure it out at the moment.

I parked at the end of the row, distancing myself from the upper classes, and stared at the door for several minutes. Finally, I took a deep breath and stepped down from my truck.

A bell tinkled when I pushed open the front door, reminiscent of the Biker Barn. I felt out of place in this atmosphere, though—the antithesis of a motorcycle shop. Howie would’ve taken one look at the room and laughed at me, standing in the midst of all the frills. Candles, incense, potpourri. Gleaming hardwood floors and shiny antiques. Depression glass. Old pictures in frames. No smell of farm or garage or even fresh air. The overbearing scent was that of breakfast, making my stomach twist. A door to my left closed off a room which emitted the muffled sound of clanking silverware. The dining room, I guessed.

A woman in a dark blue dress and expertly applied make-up appeared through a door in the lobby. She attempted to hide her discomfort at my appearance, but wasn’t quite successful. I could tell she was trying not to be overtly curious about the steer horns painted on the sides of my neck.

“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding like she doubted it.

“I’m looking for one of your guests. Nick Hathaway.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“He’s been working for me,” I said. “I need to talk to him.”

“Working…?” Her eyes flicked toward the door of the dining room. “He’s eating breakfast. I’ll check with him.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just go in.”

“But—”

I brushed by her and pushed open the door. Several people looked up as I entered, but only one of them interested me. Nick’s mouth fell open, and he glanced at a stack of papers that sat alongside his plate.

I picked my way through the small room of tables and stood several feet away from his chair, studying him. He was freshly scrubbed and wore his usual outfit—jeans and a T-shirt. Red this time. He looked great.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hathaway.” The woman from the lobby scooted past me and stood beside Nick, kneading her hands.

“It’s okay, Janet,” Nick said, keeping his eyes on me. “She’s a friend.”

Her face twisted with confusion. “So should I bring out another plate?”

I shook my head. At a normal time steak and eggs accompanied by a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice would be heaven. Today it would just make me sick.

Still looking at me, Nick said, “Thanks, Janet, but no.”

She left grudgingly, her expression daring me to make a fuss among her elite clientele. I pulled out the chair across from Nick and sat down without embarrassing anybody.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked gently.

“Any.”

We stared at each other.

“So,” I finally said, gesturing to the room. “You’re rich.”

His eyes fell to the papers in front of him, and he stretched his fingers out over them. He sighed. “Yes. Yes, I am very rich.”

A tremor started in my chin, and I clamped my teeth together. When the trembling stopped, I said, “Rich from what?”

He raised his eyes to meet mine, and my heart skipped a beat at the look in them. I was reminded of the sadness flitting across Howie’s face during the past few days, and I wondered if the source was the same.

Nick picked up the papers and thoughtfully tapped them against the table to straighten them. He hesitated, then handed the entire stack across to me.

I took them, knowing whatever I saw would change our relationship forever. What hadn’t already changed.

The header at the top of the first page said:

HATHAWAY DEVELOPMENT AND CONSTRUCTION
Harrisonburg, Virginia

The Board of Directors included Nicholas Patrick Hathaway, Jr.

I carefully placed the papers on the table, pushed myself off the chair, and left the building.