thirty-six

The Winslows’ farm was bucolic in the morning light, and more perfect spring weather would be hard to find. Wooly clouds scattered themselves across a robin’s-egg sky like a reflection of the sheep grazing here and there in the rolling meadow behind the house, barn, and yarn shop. It wasn’t until I had parked in the shade of an ancient beech between the shop and the barn that a few oddities struck me.

First was the size of the flock in the pasture. A week earlier, it would have seemed normal, because Summer typically kept about fifty sheep. A quarter of the flock had disappeared the previous Saturday, and yet at a glance there seemed to be as many animals as ever. Could they have replaced the stolen sheep in four days? I had the impression they didn’t have that kind of cash lying around, and the insurance claim—if there was one—couldn’t have been settled yet.

As I tried to wrap my mind around the number of sheep in evidence, I spotted Luciano, the Winslows’ Maremma, lying toward the center of the scattered woollies. Summer usually locked the big dog up before her herding students arrived because he got to be quite the handful, even for her, when other dogs appeared on the property. Had she forgotten I was coming? It was certainly possible, given the stress of the past few days.

I opened the windows, the side doors, and the back hatch to keep the van cool for Jay, and left him in his crate while I walked across the yard to Summer’s wool shop. A rustic painted sign hung above the door—Hole in the Wall Yarn Shop. The door was unlocked and the lights were on, but there was no one there. Thinking she must have stepped out for a moment, I walked around the shop and looked at the merchandise. There seemed to be thousands of skeins of gorgeous yarn in bright colors, heathers, darks, blends. There was sheep’s wool, alpaca, and blends of all sorts. I can’t knit two rows with the same number of stitches, but I enjoyed imagining the possibilities embodied in that wall of fibers.

The center of the shop was taken up by a double-sided display rack. The side facing the wall of yarn held three rows of craft and pattern books. Here were instructions for sweaters and shawls and comforters, caps and mittens, wall hangings and scarves. At one end of the display there were even a few patterns for needlepoint projects, and I wondered whether my mother would enjoy working on one. Then again, I wouldn’t dare choose for her. Besides, she was busy these days with the therapy garden at Shadetree Retirement, and with Tony Marconi, her bridegroom-to-be.

I heard barking, but by the time I stepped out the door the only sound was a mixed chorus of chickadees, cardinals, and crows. The sheep were calm, and Luciano was still in place. I pulled my phone out to check the time and found that we should be starting my lesson in seven minutes. I walked around the shop, thinking Summer might be in the little dye garden she kept at the back, but there was no one there. Her truck was in its usual place, though, and Evan’s rusty old Toyota pickup was parked in front of the house. Even if Summer had forgotten my lesson, she must be around. I shaded my eyes with my hand and squinted at the sheep-dotted slope to see if I had missed her up there, knowing even as I did that Luciano would be on his feet if anyone were out there with his beloved sheep.

The house. They must be in the house, I thought, already walking that way. In fact, since the shop was unlocked, it seemed likely that Summer had run “home” for something. The house was oriented with the front door facing away from the barn and shop, and a herringbone brick walk through paired borders of different kinds of lavender led around the privacy fence that enclosed the back and sides of the house. The plants were just greening, but I had seen this walkway in August when the beds were rivers of white and violet and the air was heavy with fragrance and a-dance with bees. I stopped and drew a deep breath, and smiled at the promise carried in the faint lavender scent.

The curtains were drawn over the front windows, which seemed odd and gave my stomach a tiny squeeze. I glanced back at my van, wondering if I should go back and lock Jay’s crate, but that seemed a little silly. No one coming to the yarn shop would bother my dog, and besides, I’d only be a minute.

I stepped onto the long wooden porch. One end was framed and screened, and Rosie, the old ewe who slept there and had occasional house privileges, was watching me. She lay on a braided rug and had a flower-print bandana around her neck. “Hi, Rosie,” I said. “Your people around?” I flinched at the loud squeak of a loose board and a louder flurry of barking from inside the house. Nell. Summer must be inside, then, because Nell was always at her side. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. Even the barking had stopped, as if someone had hushed the dog. I knocked again, a bit harder, and called, “Summer? Evan? It’s Janet MacPhail.”

Evan’s voice came from behind the doorframe. “Janet?”

“Yes.” When the door didn’t open, I said, “I have a herding lesson scheduled. Maybe Summer forgot?”

Another couple of seconds went by before I heard a deadbolt pop and the door opened a few inches. Evan peered past me, then opened the door a bit wider. “Come in,” he said, and when I did, he looked out again, then slammed the door and locked the deadbolt. As I bent to greet Nell, the corner of my eye caught something that made me turn my head. A shotgun leaned into the corner behind the door.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. Of course something’s wrong, whispered my scoldy voice.

Evan turned wide, red-rimmed eyes my way. “Wrong?”

“You seem a little jumpy, and you have a shotgun by your front door.”

His eyes flicked toward the gun and back to me, and he said, “Oh, yeah. Coyotes. We’ve had coyotes around.”

That was certainly possible. In fact, that was a big reason Luciano was out there guarding the sheep. Still, as I registered again the closed curtains and Evan’s attention to locking the door, I knew there was more to his jumpiness than coyotes on the prowl.

“Where’s Summer?”

“Summer.” He murmured the name so softly I could barely hear him.

Yes, Summer. Your wife. I half turned back toward the door and said, “If something came up, that’s fine. I’ll just reschedule my lesson.”

Evan just stared at me, and I got the same creepy sensation I’d had with the skinny goon at Dom’s Deli, dialed up a few degrees. My salivary glands seemed to have stopped working and my voice came out a bit squeakier than I would have liked. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call her.” Right after I run to my van and peel out in a storm of flying gravel.

I turned and pulled the doorknob, then remembered the deadbolt. Blood was thundering in my ears, each beat coming a little faster, but not so loud that I couldn’t hear Evan breathing close behind me. I grabbed the deadbolt with my other hand and tried to turn the two bits of metal in unison. The knob turned easily and I felt the door move toward me a fraction of an inch, but the cold metal in my other hand held fast. I hit it with my palm and tried again, panic rising like acid in my chest.

The deadbolt wouldn’t turn.