Chapter 4
Her nightshirt slid down her shoulders, down her hips, her thighs, skimmed along her calves and pooled at her feet. Cas stood before her, his skin golden in the candlelight. His dark eyes, pools of mystery. “I’ve waited for you,” he said and pulled her to him. His body was hard and lean. She could feel the heat of him as he pushed her down on the big four-poster. Could feel the ripple of his muscles as he came down on top of her, capturing her mouth, her body, stoking her desire for him.
His tongue traced her lips, invaded her mouth as his hands began to explore her, tracing curves, following valleys as she writhed beneath him. Closer and closer until finally they slid between her legs, across the spot that made her shiver, and two supple fingers slipped deep inside her. She arched against him, but he held her in place with a kiss.
“I’ve waited for you.” His voice was husky and incredibly arousing. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
His fingers withdrew, trailed up her stomach, between her breasts, alive to the heat of his touch. Played across her collar bone, then up her neck to where he took her chin and lifted it for his kiss. As his mouth captured hers, he pushed inside her. She stretched around him, taking him in, every hard, huge inch of him. Capturing him, clinging to him, keeping him this time.
He began to move, slowly at first, grinding his pelvis into hers. She lifted her hips to meet him and he drove into her, again and again, pushing her up the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist; her arms clung to his powerful shoulders, as they crested the wave of tightening pleasure. Then it uncoiled and Julie broke into a million pieces. She screamed—or he screamed.
Somebody was screaming.
Julie bolted upright in bed as a bloodcurdling cry tore through the night. She shook the sleep from her head. “What the hell?”
Smitty jumped off the bed and leapt toward the window.
Without thinking, Julie rolled over, grabbed her Glock from the bedside table, and dropped to the floor. She scrambled to the window, then carefully peered over the sill.
It was dark outside, but behind the mountains, a dim glow told her that it must be near dawn. Her eyes scanned the yard but could barely distinguish the outlines of shrubs and trees. She followed the slope of the hill to where the gazebo stood black against the lightening sky. Had she imagined movement? She blinked several times and looked again. A shadow moved across the ground, headed toward the gazebo.
Hadn’t she done this once already? Didn’t these people ever sleep? It was the second time in one night someone had attempted to get in her gazebo. Something worth taking must be out there. And as soon as she got rid of this trespasser she was going to have a good look at the place.
She checked her Glock. “This time we take no prisoners.” No firing into the air. No wasting time calling 911 and getting Cas out of bed again. She glanced toward her own bed. Of course it was empty, but what a great dream. Too bad it had to be interrupted.
A higher-pitched scream resounded through the darkness. It brought Julie fully awake.
Smitty gave a short insistent bark and trotted over to the door.
A third scream, this time longer and louder. Smitty bounded back to the window panting in excitement.
Julie rocked back on her heels and shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” It was a rooster. What jackass would keep roosters on the Hill? He should be shot. But not tonight.
Smitty pranced by the door, looking at her expectantly.
“False alarm, boy.” She locked off her Glock and returned it to the drawer. She’d seen more action in the last few hours than she had in weeks. Thanks to Donald, the bent cop. She yawned. She’d deal with that damn bird in the morning. Which, she noticed, was already appearing in the form of a yellow neon line behind the mountain peaks. Later in the morning.
She couldn’t wake up to that horror every morning. She’d have to go to bed at sunset to get enough sleep—and she was a night person.
There had to be an ordinance against keeping roosters within the town limits. She’d file a complaint. That would give her an excuse to see Cas again and find out if he looked as good in the daylight as he did in the dark—or in her dream.
She climbed into bed. The sheets had lost their warmth and her body had lost all residual arousal caused by her deliciously erotic dream. She nestled under the covers anyway.
“Now where was I?” She closed her eyes. “Oh yes. Ummmm.” She sighed and fell asleep.
It took Julie a few seconds to realize that Cas hadn’t suddenly developed halitosis in addition to his hemorrhoids, a condition she had conveniently edited out of her dream. Smitty was standing over her, panting his Get a move on, I’ve got to take a piss, wake-up call.
She stretched, yawned, while her body made creaking noises, and wondered how far she would have to drive for a double latte. Light was coming through the window, but Julie could tell it was still early. In the city she’d just be getting off her shift. If she had a shift, which she didn’t.
Smitty whined and looked mournful.
“All right, all right.” She pushed him away and shoved back the covers. And shivered. She grabbed the comforter and pulled it over her head. She hadn’t thought about heat the night before; there had been plenty of that between her and Cas, but this morning was another story.
Smitty grabbed the comforter in his teeth and tugged it away. “Just another teeny minute,” she pleaded and grabbed it back. Smitty shook his head and the comforter fell to the floor.
Julie sat up and gooseflesh erupted on every inch of uncovered skin. She slid out of bed and rushed to the dresser, pulled on jeans and a sweat shirt, then added another sweatshirt, one that covered her midsection, for extra warmth. She shoved her feet into a new pair of Timberland boots she’d bought from a street vendor, laced them up, and followed an anxious Smitty downstairs.
She stopped in the hall long enough to turn up the thermostat and was surprised to be met with actual heat and not more clanking pipes. When she reached the kitchen, Smitty was pacing at the back door, and he bolted past her as soon as she cracked it open.
“Don’t stray,” she called after him as he disappeared around the back of the house. “Do not roll in pond scum. Don’t chase anything with rabies. Stay away from early rising roosters. And all things Reynolds.” She closed the door on the frigid morning. Pretty damn cold for October.
A few minutes later, having successfully filled the coffee carafe from the exploding tap, Julie leaned her elbows on the counter and listened to the steady drip, drip of liquid caffeine as it played a counterpoint to the bass line buzz of the fluorescent light.
In the background, she could hear Smitty barking. It was early, she was coffee-less and Smitty was communing with the wonders of nature. She wondered if Cas walked dogs; she already knew he could make coffee.
A particularly loud-pitched bark interrupted that train of thought. “Damn it, now what?”
She looked out the window and saw nothing. There was definitely action going down outside, but since she didn’t think Smitty had cornered a drug dealer, she merely opened the door and whistled.
But Smitty didn’t come bounding around the house. She whistled again, called his name, and finally tramped across the back porch and into the yard to look for him. A gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine, and she crossed her arms to ward off the cold.
Up on the hill, the gazebo glistened white in the early morning sunlight. Julie stared in disbelief. It was surrounded by a mesh fence, at least six feet high. The open arches had been enclosed with whitewashed plywood, leaving only small crescent-shaped windows near the top. Instead of the wooden steps, a ramp ran down from the original door to the ground.
What had happened to her gazebo?
And then she saw Smitty. He was inside the fence, running in circles, cutting in and out of a mass of moving fluff. He stopped with his nose down, rump up, barked, then started up again. Something had triggered an inbred, and for Smitty, never used, herding instinct. Because he was definitely herding. A sudden flurry and frantic squawking rose up as he dove into the quivering mass.
Julie rubbed her eyes, looked again.
Chickens. Dozens of them. Red ones. White ones. Brown and black ones. Running mindlessly in all directions as Smitty’s latent sheepherding abilities came to life, while a person, stocky and squat, dressed in a heavy brown jacket, overalls and a wide-brimmed hat, furiously waved both arms at him.
“Smitty,” yelled Julie as she ran toward him. “Off, Off! Don’t eat anything. Chickens have all sorts of diseases and I don’t know where to find a good vet.”
Smitty turned to look at her. So did fifty beady chicken eyes. And suddenly as if on some silent command, they began to move away from Smitty and toward her. They squeezed through an opening in the fence and began high-stepping down the hill like a demented poultry regiment.
Jesus. Julie slid to a stop, then took a step backwards as chickens surrounded her.
The rooster was hers. Wes had left her chickens.
“What am I going to do with chickens?” she asked the sky. “What am I going to do with chickens?” she repeated in the direction of hell. “Damn it, Wes, if this is the answer to the riddle, I’ve got to say, ‘Not Funny!!’ ”
She stood motionless, not knowing what to do, while chickens pecked at her boots, her jeans and anything else they could reach, which thankfully wasn’t much. At least chickens can’t fly, she thought, just as a fat white hen rose several feet into the air. Julie ducked out of the way as a cloud of feathers brushed by her face and settled on the ground a few feet away.
Smitty pounced toward it; the chicken let out a squawk and beat her wings. Undaunted, Smitty nipped at her tail feathers until she hopped back to join the others.
The commotion at Julie’s feet suddenly escalated. A black and brown hen pecked at a little speckled one. A red puffed-up monstrosity, whose top thing looked like it had had a bad run-in with a curling iron, joined in and soon there was an out-and-out chicken fight.
“Smitty. Do something. Make them go back to their ... ” What did you call a chicken gazebo? Her mind retrieved every nature program she had tuned into by mistake while looking for the Daily Show.
Then it came to her. Coop. Wes had turned the intricately ornate gazebo, the place of summer breezes, homemade lemonade and games of dominos, into a chicken coop.
The man in the hat barreled down the hill still flapping his arms as if he, too, were going airborne. Which would be a problem since he was not designed for lift-off, though the hat was wide enough to catch a few wind currents. The chickens made a path for him, then crowded in behind him as he came to a stop in front of Julie.
“Call off your damn dog. This isn’t the National Herding Trials. Which is a good thing, because that mutt doesn’t have a clue.”
Smitty, who’d stopped to sniff the newcomer, barked and poised for attack.
“No-o-o,” cried Julie as Smitty leapt through the air, knocking the man against her. Julie fell back and the three of them tumbled to the ground. They were soon surrounded by chickens, which overcome by curiosity or stupidity, began to climb over them.
“Damn it, Smitty,” said Julie.
Smitty arfed and thumped his tail in the newcomer’s face. His hat fell to the ground.
Julie pushed the roly-poly stranger and a few chickens away, then sprang to her feet as sudden realization dawned. Now she knew what the pond scum odor really was. She quickly checked her clothes for signs of chicken droppings.
The trespasser struggled to his feet and reached for his hat just as Smitty snagged it between his teeth.
“That’s my best hat,” he said.
Julie stopped and looked at the hat and then at the man.
His silver gray hair was cut in a bowl shape. His crinkly, sun-parched face made Julie wonder about the efficiency of the outlandish hat.
“Drop it,” Julie commanded.
Smitty released the hat. It fell at her feet. She handed it back to its owner.
“Thank you.” He brushed off the brim, inspected it, then stuffed it back on his head. He slapped his hand across his overalls and stuck it toward Julie. “Maude Clemmons. You must be Julie. Took you long enough to get here.”
Julie quickly wiped off her own hand while she readjusted her initial appraisal of the stranger. He was a she named Maude.
“How do you do,” Julie said as her hand was taken between strong fingers and a callused palm, and she was given a handshake that threatened to rattle her teeth.
“You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t Wes tell you I’d be over to feed the beauties?”
“Wes is dead,” Julie blurted out, then bit her lip. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Damn heart. Never did take care of himself, the old coot. I told him if he didn’t cut out that feud with Reynolds he’d have a coronary. But you know Wes. Never did things by halves. Had three in a row. The last one did him in. Should have saved my breath. Damn.” Maude stuffed her hand into a deep pocket, pulled out a red handkerchief, and wiped her eyes with it before stuffing it back into the pocket.
“Uh,” said Julie.
“Welcome aboard. Where do you want to start?” Maude walked away without waiting for an answer. The chickens, who had settled into a clump some distance away, crowded behind her.
“Come on,” she said and started back toward the gazebo.
Since the chickens were following her, Julie felt no need to do the same, until Maude stopped, turned around and said, “Come on.”
Julie followed ... reluctantly. As soon as she was inside the compound, Maude latched the fence. Smitty whined from the other side.
Julie held her breath. The smell was overpowering.
“Yeah, it’s getting a little ripe. I’ll send the Pliney boys over to cart it away. Twenty bucks. And watch them or they’ll leave a trail all the way to the truck. It’s a good thing you got here. I’ll be out of town next week. You should be able to get along without me by then.”
“Me?” Julie squeaked, trying not to breathe.
Maude picked up a tin pan and began tossing little pebbles at the chickens who fell on the particles like they were caviar. “Wes left you instructions. I’ll show you through the routine.” She handed the now empty pie pan to Julie.
“Wes liked to let them roam. Even let them in the house. A little too laissez-faire for me. I mean, have you ever tried to clean chicken shit out of an Oriental carpet?”
Julie shook her head. Her lungs were bursting.
“Never get rid of the smell. Which reminds me. Be sure to leave your shoes on the porch. You don’t want to track anything into the house.”
Julie shook her head, then nodded, thinking of the boots she had worn last night. The smell. That’s why they’d been left on the porch. And Cas told her to leave them outside. He must have know about the chickens, too. Why didn’t he warn her?
Her eyes began to tear from the attempt not to breathe. Her lungs gave up the fight and she gasped for breath. Her stomach rolled over.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this.” She fumbled with the latch, squeezed through the mesh opening, and sped back to the kitchen and coffee and sanity.
Twenty minutes later, Julie heard two clunks on the porch, followed by a loud rap on the kitchen door. She put down her coffee mug and went to open it. Maude stood on the threshold, holding a basket of multi-sized eggs and a paper grocery bag. She was hatless and bootless, and red, yellow and orange striped socks stuck out from rolled-up overalls.
“You’re gonna have to learn to take care of these chickens. I can’t be on permanent call. I have my own flock to take care of. Plus I got a thousand chickens to sex over in Plattsburgh next week.” Maude marched past her and plunked the basket and bag down on the counter.
Julie blinked. Did she say sex and chickens?
“Oh, don’t look like that. It’s easy. Wes left you detailed instructions in the ledger. I’m not leaving until Monday and I’ll be back by Thursday. If you run into something you can’t handle, ask Dan Pliney down at the Hardware and Feed Store.” Maude leaned over and disappeared head first into a deep cabinet. She came up a second later, wielding a heavy cast iron frying pan.
“What are you doing?” asked Julie.
“Showing you the right way to fry farm eggs.”
Julie grimaced. “I’m not much of a breakfast person.”
“You will be. Just takes some gumption. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Especially when you have chores to do.” Maude reached in the bag and pulled out a cube of butter.
“Chores?” squawked Julie. “I’m not doing any chores. I’m only staying long enough to clean out the house and put it up for sale.”
Maude dropped a cholesterol-packed slice of butter into the frying pan and turned on the burner. Then she turned on Julie. “What’s your hurry? Take some time. Don’t you have things to do here?”
Julie thought about the riddle and her hopes that it would actually turn out to be something that she could use—like money—but was afraid it was only chickens.
Maude did a one-handed egg crack and opened the shell over the pan. The egg sizzled as it oozed into the butter. She cracked another egg and dropped its contents into the pan. “Well? Don’t you?”
Julie, who had been distracted by the efficiency with which Maude was dealing with the eggs, started. “What?”
“Don’t you have things to do?”
“No,” said Julie automatically. “Just dispose of Wes’s effects.”
Maude whirled around. “What the hell kind of attitude is that? He loved you all his life and he left everything he held dear to you. Dispose of his effects. Of all the—”
“Sorry,” said Julie. “It’s just a phrase. All of his possessions, his ... whatever.”
Maude took the end of a bag of bread in her teeth and tore it open, while she wrestled with the cord of the toaster that seemed to be stuck under something on the shelf.
The toaster came free and Maude dropped the bread next to it.
“Not whatever. Or maybe whatever. Because you, girl, are going to do whatever it takes. Wes was counting on you and you’re not going to let him down.”
“Counting on me for what? What does he want me to do?”
Maude shrugged and dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster slots. She pressed the lever down hard enough to send the toaster sliding across the counter. “How should I know? That’s for you to figure out.”
She stretched up on tiptoe and pulled two plates down from a cabinet and slid eggs and toast onto them.
Julie watched in amazement. Not one broken yolk. “How did you do that?”
“Practice. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. Wes said you were bright.” She opened a drawer and took out silverware and paper napkins and began to set the table.
It was obvious that she knew her way around Wes’s kitchen. What else did she know?
“Sit down and eat. Even I don’t like cold fried eggs.”
Julie sat down and looked at the two yellow yolks that stared back at her. She swallowed, took a sip of coffee.
Maude placed the second plate and a mug of coffee across from her and pulled out a chair. She did a little jump and plop to get her butt on the chair seat, then picked up her fork and pointed it at Julie. “Eat.”
Julie gingerly cut into her eggs and watched the yellow run across the flowered plate. She lifted the fork to her mouth, knowing Smitty was under the table, if she could just figure out a way to slip it to him. She realized Maude was watching her, so she pushed the egg into her mouth. Waited for the gag reflex to kick in and was surprised when it actually tasted good.
Maude nodded, smiled, and dug into her breakfast. “Told you they were good. No immunized, hormone-pumped, antibiotic-riddled store-boughts here. Just good old natural fertilized eggs.”
“They are good,” said Julie, surprised. She tore off a corner of toast and dipped it into the yolk. Even better on the second bite.
“Well, enjoy them ’cause there won’t be many more this season.”
“Why? Is something wrong with the chickens?”
“Nope. But when the days get short, the hens stop laying, unless you set up an artificial light source. You want to do that?”
Julie shook her head. “No,” she said vehemently just in case Maude had mistaken the head shake as a nod.
“So enjoy them now.” Maude pushed her plate away. It looked like it had just come out of the dishwasher. Julie looked down at her own plate. Pretty close. She threw a sympathetic look toward Smitty, who had quietly crept closer to her feet. He knew better than to beg, but that didn’t stop him from keeping an eager eye out for any accidental falling breakfast parts.
Maude leaned back in her chair and placed her hands over her middle. “Well?”
Julie suddenly had so many questions, she didn’t know where to begin. Mostly she wanted to know why Wes had left her everything, but had never tried to contact her while he was alive. But she wasn’t ready to open up to Maude. She didn’t remember her from before. And even though she appeared to be a good friend to her uncle, maybe more than a good friend, Julie knew better than to trust anyone in this town.
“Why did Wes start raising chickens?”
“Cause he liked them. They’re good company. You’ll find that out.”
Julie didn’t bother to repeat that she wouldn’t be staying long enough to bond with any chickens.
“Was he lonely? Did he suffer? Was he happy?” Julie heard herself asking the questions and couldn’t seem to stop them once they started.
Maude let her carry on for a while, then sighed. “I told him he should just bring you home, but he was a stubborn cuss. Thought you were better off without him and without this town.”
“He didn’t know where I was,” said Julie, then remembered the envelope addressed to her.
“Of course he did, he knew everything about you. Went to the library every week and looked you up on the internet. And he was as proud of you as your no-good father should have been. And he stuck by you, while your father just drank himself to death.”
Julie’s throat tightened and without warning her eyes began to sting. “My father never got over my mother’s death.”
“I know. And nobody blames him.”
I did, thought Julie. And then a more frightening thought occurred to her. “Wes followed my career?”
Maude nodded.
“He knew I was a ... a ...”
“New York detective.”
“Oh, God.”
Maude narrowed her eyes at Julie. “When he got too sick to go to the library, I went for him. He didn’t know about the internal investigation. I didn’t want him getting upset.” Maude looked away, then said in a shaky voice, “I thought maybe he’d pull through.”
“I’m sorry.” Julie sniffed and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t guilty.”
“I know. I kept reading about you even after he died. It just got to be a habit. Kept him closer.”
Smitty heaved himself off the floor and put his head in Maude’s lap.
“My partner was taking drug money,” said Julie. “I blew the whistle on him.”
“Good for you.”
“It didn’t make me very popular with some of the movers and shakers in the department. They should have given me a medal, instead I got desk duty. Shit.” She brushed her sleeve across her eyes. “Sorry. I can’t believe I just dumped all this on you.”
“Well, hell. Why not. We’re just a couple of watering pots,” said Maude, absently stroking Smitty’s head. “And Wes would give us both a swift kick if he were here.”
“Yeah,” said Julie. “Well, he’s dead now, so where does that leave me?”
“That, girl, is up to you.”
“Someone tried to break into the chicken coop last night.”
“Did they?”
“I called the sheriff.” She watched to see what Maude’s reaction would be. Got nothing. “Why is Cas Reynolds sheriff?”
“Hank Jessop had a heart attack. They needed someone to fill in for him. Cas was available.”
“Why is he even here?”
Maude shrugged. “Better ask Cas about that.” She pushed Smitty away and slid off her chair.
Julie stood up, too. “Maude.”
Maude lifted both eyebrows at her.
“Did—did anybody else know? About me?”
“Well, I didn’t tell.” She picked up the bread and butter, put it in the fridge, and slammed the door. “It’s about time you stopped worrying about what everybody thinks. You’re the last of the Excelsiors. Start living up to it. I gotta get going. I’ll be back in the morning. In the meantime, you start learning about chickens.” She headed for the door. “I left an egg in the basket for the dog. If you crack it over his kibble, you’re on your way to having the glossiest coated mutt in the county.”
Smitty sat up and lifted a paw.
“Damn, is that dog smiling at me?”