Buffalo and I looked at one another for a long moment. While he stared at me blankly, still grinning ear-to-ear, I found myself instinctively tightening my core and tensing my body as I stood before the man who had choked me out in record time. His swole arms hung limply by his side like a couple of shoulder strapped meat cannons and it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything until I did.
“Sykes? Do you think you and I could have a word in private?”
“As you wish, Mr. Ounstead. Bartholomew, could you please feed that “Moo-Moo” a handful of the yummy hay before working with it on the exercise we were practicing earlier?”
Buffalo nodded obediently, ripped strips of straw off of one of the organic hay bales he had carried, and lumbered over toward the animal in the grass bingo pen. He hand-fed the heifer some hay and petted it on its head.
“Good Moo-Moo,” said Buffalo.
Sykes topped up his cocktail then returned to my side.
“What’s its name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a girl cow, right?”
“That is correct.”
“What’s its name then? Cleopatra? Athena? I know you like the names of your animals to have historical significance,” I said, motioning to Napoleon and Brutus, who were both still lying side-by-side on the grass and quietly chewing away on their dental sticks.
“Benefits of a classical education,” retorted Sykes.
“You’re getting sloppy. That’s a Hans Gruber quote.”
Sykes chuckled and flashed his luminous white teeth again. “Very good, Mr. Ounstead. Very good. Perhaps my assessment of your abilities being rusty was a tad premature.”
“So, what is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The cow’s name.”
“It is a simple bovine, Mr. Ounstead. It has no name.”
I almost choked on my banana milkshake upon hearing his words, wondering what it was exactly that made a wiener dog and a goat worthy of classical monikers while a cow was not. I decided to let it go and push forward in my efforts to elicit answers from Sykes.
“I need your help, Sykes.”
“Indeed. And there are several factors at play. The first being that it is quite possible Kelly Lewis was not responsible for the murder of Jasper Adams.”
“And the fact Lewis and Jasper were disgruntled ex-lovers and the goliath who works for you and nearly strangled me to death on his cousin’s orders doesn’t make you think otherwise?”
“Not necessarily.”
Sykes proceeded to explain how Bartholomew “Buffalo” Lewis was essentially a jacked-up Lennie from Of Mice and Men. Kind, harmless, and endlessly devoted to his older cousin Kelly. Both had toured with the rodeo for years and, according to Sykes, the childlike colossus was an additional reason for the Seven Heads of the Rodeo’s reticence to cut ties with Lewis completely. Doing so would leave Buffalo without a job, or more importantly a purpose, and according to Sykes the giant with a gentle soul would be devastated, distraught, and utterly lost without his cousin and caretaker. Upon taking over the Agri-Zone on behalf of his Calgary-based business partner, my calculating companion had taken a shine to the simple behemoth as he lumbered about the country fair and hired him for some odd jobs, which I knew from experience was par for the course for Sykes, who seemed endlessly drawn to the abnormal. He was like a one-man magnet for all things misfit and maverick.
“I hear you, Sykes, but I’m still not seeing how that disqualifies Lewis from being a suspect.”
“I never said he should be. There just remain certain facts you seem to be overlooking.”
“Such as?”
“Mr. Lewis called upon Bartholomew to render you unconscious after you revealed your credentials as a professional investigator, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And we can both agree he was clearly grief-stricken by the news of the death of Mr. Adams and that he did not begin his attempted assault on you with a knife until the mention of the duffel bag of money you found in the locker of the deceased?”
“Uh, yeah …” I said, starting to connect the dots Sykes was laying out before me.
“This is all in addition to Mr. Lewis’s established history with mental illness. As you know, bipolar condition in particular is often associated with instantaneous mood swings and erratic behaviour.”
“You’re saying he was triggered both times he came at me.”
“I am saying it might be a pattern worthy of consideration.”
“But what about the sack of cash? Surely that has to be a possible motive.”
“I concur. Just not in the way you think.”
Before I could respond, a thunderous and ear-piercing hybrid sound of gargling and screaming sliced through the open air and startled me so badly I nearly jumped out of the pair of yellow Chucks that were tied snugly around my feet.
“AAAAARRRGGGGGLLLLLLEEEEEEGGGGG!”
Ever the cool cucumber, I followed Sykes’s gaze as he looked straight ahead. Leaning over the top of the orange mesh fence with a torso thicker than a beer keg was Buffalo, his mammoth meathooks cupped around his mouth. I wasn’t the only one jolted by the blaring cry as a moment later the cow emitted a high-pitched wailing moo before crapping out a wad of manure that plopped onto the grass like a super-sized Olympic discus.
Buffalo threw his arms up in the air so quickly I was pretty sure I felt a gust of wind whoosh past me before he began jumping up and down. Even Sykes, despite his penchant for being utterly unflappable, gave into his emotion and raised his tumbler in a victory toast.
“Outstanding, Bartholomew!” he proudly declared.
“I can’t wait to show Cousin!” bellowed Buffalo with unbridled enthusiasm.
“He doesn’t know about what just went down?” I asked.
Still excited, Sykes turned his head to look at me, and in doing so, his upscale eyewear slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, revealing his eyes. I always forgot how icy blue his irises were, and despite their frosty appearance, they were crackling with electricity.
“He does not. And it is best for us all, Bartholomew especially, if that remains the case for now.”
I nodded, my racing heartbeat slowly returning to normal after the jarring sound. “Are you going to explain whatever the hell that was? Because I almost joined the cow in leaving a startled deposit on this field myself.”
“Mr. Ounstead, you are aware that the crux of my business model is and has always revolved around the taking and placing of wagers, are you not?”
“I am.”
“So, in a Bovine Game of Manure Chance, would it not be advantageous if one were able to encourage said creature to defecate at a certain time and place?”
“Are you telling me that’s why Buffalo just bellowed like a Chewbacca pissing out a kidney stone? Because you’re rigging this backcountry bingo by potty-training a cow to crap on demand?”
“I am a man of honour, Mr. Ounstead, and, as such, do not care for the term ‘rigging.’ Not to mention that encouraging such an animal to evacuate its bowels with precision is far from an exact science. This is more of an … experiment, if you will, based upon the latest research in the fecal patterns of cattle. And let me assure you that being on the cutting edge of bovine behavioural cognitive processes requires a significant financial investment. That being said, if a random sound were to happen to induce a painstakingly-trained mammal such as this to defecate, it would hardly be seen as pre-meditated and strategic, and in turn could potentially make the outcome of the wagers I am taking this weekend very lucrative indeed.”
I sighed and shook my head, frustrated that I was discussing dung in such detail when I was still wrapping my head around the possibility that Kelly Lewis didn’t kill Jasper. Sykes adjusted his glasses while I sucked back the remainder of my banana milkshake, and as always, the dairy delight brought me clear-headedness and calm.
Buffalo went back to petting the cow and feeding it hay, while I tried to get my conversation with Sykes back on track.
“You said something about the bag of money still being motive.”
Sykes nodded. “Are you familiar with the particular importance of the loggersports events this weekend at this very country fair?”
“More than the usual wood-chopping, tree-climbing, and axe-throwing you mean?”
Sykes nodded as he took an unusually big swig of his lime cocktail. Since I had only ever seen him nurse drinks before, I figured he still must have been in a celebratory mood.
“I suppose I’m not,” I said.
“These lumberjack festivities are being sponsored by STIHL, the German manufacturer of chainsaws and other such handheld power equipment used in our logging games. Although not public knowledge, those behind the scenes are—for lack of a better word—abuzz about the fact that representatives from the company headquarters in Stuttgart are here in town for a very specific reason.”
“Which is?”
“To award the winning competitor of the all-around events category an opportunity to serve as an official spokesperson to represent their Timbersports brand in the Pacific Northwest. Rumour has it that in addition to a hefty cash prize, the ongoing, multi-year contract would be quite lucrative. It was my understanding that your friend Mr. Adams was considered a frontrunner to win both the prize money and contract.”
I lowered my head for a moment as I snapped back in time to the moment Jasper and I were getting drunk together at the bar. The memory was foggy—but it was there. I played it over in my mind again and again, in addition to the conversation Declan and I had in the locker room when I was changing out of my stolen clown costume, where we had zeroed in on something similar Jasper had said to me while he smiled smugly to himself.
“That’s not to say that making a living exclusively from loggersports wouldn’t be nice.”
What was it that Jasper knew? Had he just been letting his mind wander with a “what if?” scenario? Or did the self-satisfied way in which he said such a thing have a deeper meaning—as if he knew he was in the hunt for and on the cusp of potentially snagging a STIHL sponsorship, and being able to kiss his day jobs goodbye in order to make a living exclusively from being a professional, paid, competitive lumberjack?
Despite the limited time we had spent together, after hearing firsthand the way he had spoken about his grandfather, it was hard not to think that securing such an honour and plum gig would have made his “Chop-Chop Pop Pop,” as Declan so affectionately referred to him, very proud indeed.
I cut my thoughts short and turned my attention back to Sykes. “You said Jasper was a frontrunner. Which means there were other loggers in contention.”
“Correct.”
“You think one of them may have used that as a reason to take Jasper out?”
Sykes sipped his cocktail and smiled ever-so-slightly. “It is your profession which requires such speculation and investigation, Mr. Ounstead, not mine. I am simply sharing some potentially relevant chatter with an old friend.”
A while back having Sykes refer to me as a friend would have thrown me for a loop. But our relationship had evolved over the time we had known each other, and I’ll be damned if I hadn’t grown to consider the animal-loving, wager-taking, enigma of a man a pal.
“Any particular rival woodcutters spring to mind whom you think may have had the motive or the means to eliminate Jasper?”
“I understand that the STIHL sponsorship had been essentially shortlisted to two men—Mr. Adams, and a gentleman known as Harland McGraw.”
“Never heard of him.”
“No, I imagine you would not have, nor will you have much luck trying to find him by his given name. He is much better known by his competitive nickname, ‘Hot Saw’ McGraw.”
“Where can I find this ‘Hot Saw?’” I asked.
“Unfortunately, at the moment, I do not believe you can. Both Mr. McGraw and Mr. Pippen have already been taken to the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment for questioning.”
“You mean Randy Pippen. The loggersports head honcho and one of the Seven Heads of the Rodeo.”
“The one and the same,” said Sykes.
“Did Pippen have a favourite between Jasper and McGraw?’”
“Most certainly. Mr. Pippen much prefers the more polished and blue-blood Harland McGraw and has been known to favour him. He was apparently less than inclined toward your friend and his more salt of the earth, man of the people, growing-up-on-the-green-chain image, despite the popularity of your late companion among the dedicated fans of these logging tests of strength and skill.”
I nodded, taking it all in. I slipped my phone out of my pocket and checked the screen. I had one text message from an unknown number. I opened the message.
Kelly in custody at the security station inside the arena. Still out cold. RCMP on their way. Is that chili of yours hot? Cuz in case you haven’t noticed I like things spicy, Big Boy.
Annie
I did my best not to blush. If Sykes noticed my momentary infatuation he chose to ignore it, instead shifting his gaze between Napoleon and Brutus, still chewing their dental sticks side-by-side like the best of friends, while Buffalo continued to smile innocently and pet the cow as he fed it handfuls of organic hay.
With Lewis still unconscious and the Mounties on their way there was no sense in heading over to the security facility to meet with Annie just yet. And although the STIHL sponsorship opened up an entirely new avenue of investigation—one that could be the break I had been looking for in terms of making headway into the who and why of Jasper’s murder—there wasn’t much I could do with both Pippen and “Hot Saw” McGraw off site.
Which left me with Declan, who last I knew was tracking down the Doukhabor motivational speaker Jim Kootnekoff, AKA “Kooty,” the big cheese who oversaw the Marketplace at the Colossal Cloverdale Rodeo and Country Fair.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Ounstead,” said Sykes.
“What do you know about the Marketplace and Jim Kootnekoff?”
“Alas, with my Agri-Zone responsibilities, I am afraid I only know of him by name.”
“What about his motivational speaking?”
Sykes simply shook his head.
“Ever heard of the necklaces he’s known for peddling?”
Sykes’s left eyebrow shot up so high on his forehead it looked like it was on an invisible fishhook. I told him about the washer on the chain I had found at the bottom of the log boom pool and how given the fact Jasper was known not to buy into Kootnekoff’s unique brand of self-improvement, it was more than likely the rudimentary jewelry had belonged to the killer.
“Most curious,” conceded Sykes. “It appears as if your next avenue of investigation awaits.”
“How far away is this hayseed bazaar, anyway?” I asked.
“On foot, and making your way through the fairgrounds crowds on this Saturday afternoon, I am afraid such a footslog could take up to twenty minutes.”
I cursed silently to myself. “I don’t have that kind of time, Sykes. Not with Lewis in custody with security while the Mounties are on the way. I need to get to the Marketplace fast to question this Kooty character and get back so I’m present the moment Lewis comes to.”
“A solid strategy,” agreed Sykes, before draining the last drops of his lime beverage.
“You don’t happen to know of a quicker way for me to get over there, do you?”
A satisfied smile slowly crept across Sykes’s face.
“Oh, Mr. Ounstead. Despite all of our dealings with one another it seems you still underestimate me.”