sixty-eight

Thursday morning Goldie came over, newspaper in one hand and fresh-baked muffins in the other, for an eyewitness account of the evening before. She looked around the kitchen and raised an eyebrow at me.

“What?”

“Where’s Tom?”

“Home, I suppose,” I said, trying to hide my face in the refrigerator. “His home.” For a little longer, at least.

“I’d have thought you’d both need a good hug after all that.” She tapped a headline with her finger, but all I could see was “o Let the Dogs Out?”

“We hugged when we found Winnie,” I said. Goldie hadn’t known Winnie was one of the loose dogs, and the puppy’s misadventure and rescue by Lilly the Aussie distracted her from pressing me about Tom’s absence. And she was right, I had needed a hug when I got home just before midnight. I had crawled into bed and hugged Jay and Leo until I fell asleep sometime in the wee hours. Pixel had even put up with some hugging before she went off to bat her ping-pong ball around its circular track.

“Were all the dogs found? And safe?”

Just as I confirmed that they were, my phone rang. It was Sylvia Eckhorn. After we rehashed the events of the previous evening, she said, “I asked my husband about livestock insurance, and when I mentioned the Winslows, it turns out he actually knows them. He’s their agent. Isn’t that weird?”

“Maybe not that weird. How many insurance companies around here handle livestock insurance?”

“Not that,” she said. “I mean, he doesn’t insure their sheep per se. Just their property and vehicles.” I didn’t know what to say to that, and Sylvia picked up the slack. “If the sheep were covered for ‘special use,’ like a herding trial off the property, it was with someone else. But that’s not the interesting part.”

“No?”

“No! The interesting part is that Summer modified the policy to exclude the loss of livestock or crops. She told Ron they couldn’t afford the premiums and would just have to take their chances.”

“So that means she and Evan weren’t trying to defraud the insurance company.” So who had removed the sheep from the event, and why, and how did they end up back at the Winslows’ farm?

“Not Ron’s company, at least,” said Sylvia. “But get this. She called and cancelled the policy that Thursday, you know, two days before the sheep went missing.”

I thanked her and was trying to pick the threads apart as I hung up. Could Summer have cancelled the insurance without telling Evan? Could Evan have staged the theft, thinking the sheep were still insured? Even if they collected on the lost animals, the payment would cover only a quarter of his debt. And how was Ray involved? Or was he? Maybe his death had nothing to do with the missing sheep. My head was spinning when Goldie picked up our earlier conversation where we had left it.

“Thank God the dogs are all safe. Now let’s hope the prosecutor follows through with charges.” She leaned into the newspaper to read, then let out a hoot. “Oh my! I bet Councilman Martin will be holding a press conference today. Damage control.”

“What?” I picked up a muffin and took a bite. “They mention him?”

“Apparently he sent an aide into the police station to collect ‘a friend’ for him last night, but a reporter recognized the guy and followed him out to Martin’s car.”

“The Councilman is lucky there was anything to collect,” I said. “A lot of people were ready to lynch our friend Chelsea last night.” As soon as I said it, Ray Turnbull swung into my mind and I lost my appetite. Goldie didn’t seem to notice.

“It says here that the councilman claimed ‘Chelsea Donovan is a family friend.’”

“Wonder what his wife would say about that.”

“Hang on! Here we go. ‘Dorothy Martin, the Councilman’s estranged wife, claimed not to know anyone named Donovan.’”

“I guess they caught her off guard.” I got up and poured the coffee. “Or Dorothy is puttin’ the screws to the Councilman. Does it say anything about who they were, or the charges?”

“Let’s see.” Goldie was quiet for a moment before starting to read again. “Members of an unnamed organization that advocates to end, and I quote, ‘the slavery of pet ownership.’ They were arrested and charged with trespass, vandalism, assault, and animal cruelty and endangerment.” She whistled and Jay jumped up and shoved his head up under the newspaper. Goldie bent and kissed him. “This is about those bad people, my love. Listen to this.” He cocked his head and waited. “‘An unnamed source added that officials are also considering filing federal conspiracy and terrorism charges.’”

Goldie laid the newspaper on the table, broke a muffin in half, and said, “Do you have any honey?”

“No. There’s some raspberry jam in the fridge.”

She smeared the jam on her muffin and then sat back and watched me until I blurted the whole story of Winnie’s rampage and my argument with Tom, ending with, “It’s just not going to work.” To my surprise, she didn’t press me and didn’t offer any advice. She just ate her muffin and said, “There’s another short article in there about the murder behind Blackford’s. They quote Detective Hutchinson.”

“What does it say?”

“Not much. Just that they’ve interviewed several people, and are looking for a possible witness.”

I thought about that, and as I realized what it must mean, my heart sank. Joe, the homeless man. He had been drifting around the general area for a while. Was he living behind Blackford’s? What did it mean that they were looking for him? Was he hiding? Had someone threatened him, or worse?

Goldie dipped into the jam jar again. “What happened to your little honey bear?”

“Winnie.”

It’s scary how often Goldie knows what I’m thinking without being told, and that was another of those times. “Blending families can be difficult,” she said. “Different approaches to managing the young ’uns and all.” She picked up the dishes and said, “Get dressed. I’ve decided to buy a new dress for your mom’s wedding, and you’re going to help me find one.”

I told Goldie about Joe, and we drove to Blackford’s with a quick stop at Firefly for a sandwich, coffee, and two bottles of water to go. A delivery truck had the alley blocked, so we parked and walked. The alley ran between the back of the building and a strip of scrubby vegetation that edged a drainage ditch.

“He lives back here?”

“He moves around,” I said, and then pointed to a refrigerator-size packing crate tucked into an alcove behind the dumpster and recycling bin. A blanket hung over the open end, and a mildewed green shower curtain was tacked over the blanket, its length flung back onto the box.

“Joe?” The only sign of life was a pair of sparrows hopping along in front of the box. “Joe, it’s Janet. I brought you a cup of coffee.”

Goldie walked around to the store’s front entrance to buy dog food while I strolled up and down the alley, peering into the brush along the ditch and checking the lot at the far end of the building. The delivery truck left and still I waited, hoping Joe might reappear.

“No luck?”

Goldie’s voice made me squeeze the top off the to-go cup and slosh not-so-hot coffee over my hand. “No.” I tucked the sandwich box under my arm and re-settled the lid. “He either isn’t here, or he wants his privacy just now.” I had raised my voice, hoping Joe would hear and feel safe, whether he came out or not. “I’ll just leave the sandwich and coffee inside the door to his house for when he gets home.”