Shepherd's Crook (16 page)

forty-six

Winnie got us up
before dawn on Thursday morning. Normally I'd have burrowed under a pillow and let Tom deal with his baby, but I'd already been awake for what seemed like hours. I'd been thinking about the web photo I was sure showed Summer, or whatever her name was, as a little girl, and about Ray Turnbull. What were the odds that two people from Nevada, both of them involved with sheep and herding dogs, would end up in this little corner of northern Indiana? Even more incredible, if they had both been working with livestock and competing with sheepdogs in the sparsely populated land north of Reno, how could they not have known each other?

I pulled on some sweats and started down the hall to the kitchen. As I passed the room I'd been clearing out for Tom's new office, something moved on top of a stack of boxes under the window. Pixel's tail. It was twitching as if possessed, but the rest of the kitten crouched perfectly still as she watched the activity in the backyard.

“Good morning, Ms. Pixel.” I picked her up and she butted my chin with her forehead and let me hold her for two seconds. Then she tried to turn back to the window, protesting with long, squeaky meows. “You're right, the dogs are more interesting than I am this morning,” I said, setting her back on her perch.

In the kitchen I set four eggs on the counter, told Mr. Coffee to get busy, and opened my laptop. But before I could type “Ray Turnbull” into the search engine, Leo hopped onto the table and sprawled across my keyboard. We bumped noses and I stroked his soft marmalade fur. “Leo
mio
,” I murmured. He squinted at me and purred. I know there are people who find such animal behaviors annoying, but I'm thankful that my furry friends think enough of me to ask for attention. Cats and dogs are here such a short time, and that time passes so quickly, that I find it hard to begrudge them a few minutes of petting or play. They seem to feel better for it, and I know I do.

The back door opened and the three dogs exploded into the kitchen, little Winnie in the lead. Jay and Drake stuck with Tom, knowing he'd be dishing up breakfast. Winnie didn't know the morning routine, and when she saw me and Leo she tried to change direction. Still at full speed, her feet scrabbled one way while her plump little body slid the other, and she came to rest up against my foot. Half a beat later she had her wet paws on my knees and her wet mouth on Leo's leg. Leo pulled his ears halfway back and opened his mouth, but Winnie missed the warning. At eight weeks, she barely spoke Dog, let alone Cat. She poked her nose at Leo, yipped, and grabbed his leg again. Leo arched back from her, flattened his ears, hissed, and socked her in the snoot. Winnie froze for a second, then seemed to decide it was a game. She came back for more, grabbing Leo's tail. He leaped from my lap and I tried to grab the bouncing puppy, but she was too quick for me. She made another grab and Leo whirled on her, all patience gone. Winnie bowed at him, tail spinning, and pounced. He hissed and spat and whacked her little black nose.
Yip yow!
Winnie rolled over backward, recovered, and sat looking at Leo but not moving.

“When the cat says no, little girl, dogs should listen,” Tom said. Jay and Drake sniffed Winnie, apparently decided she was fine, and went back to staring at chef Tom.

I looked at the puppy's nose. Something was sticking up from the top of the moist black tip. “Did he scratch her there?”

Tom laid a hand over Winnie's shoulder and neck and pinched something from the top of her nose with the other. He put it in the palm of his hand, looked at it, and held it for me to see. “A bit of his claw sheath.” He turned back to where Winnie had been, but her round little fanny was racing down the hall in search of more fun with Mr. Cat.

I went back to my laptop while Tom retrieved the puppy. He set up a baby gate to keep her in the kitchen, dished up the three doggy breakfasts, and put a leash on Winnie to keep her out of the big boys' bowls.

“Need any help?”

Tom handed me Jay and Drake's bowls and grinned at me. “I think she's going to be a
two-handed
project for a while.”

Drake and Jay both had
drool-globs
dangling from their lips by the time I set the bowls down, but they waited for my “free” command before they inhaled their grub. Winnie took a little longer, particular the “sit and wait” phase of breakfast service, which was new and frustrating for a hungry puppy. But Tom is nothing if not patient, and when she managed to sit for five full seconds, he let her eat. I went back to my computer while he handed out carrots for their
post-breakfast
treat.

My first search was simply Ray Turnbull's name. Aside from recent news of our Ray's death, I found links to a curler and broadcaster from Manitoba and a plumber from Florida, but no stockmen from Nevada or anywhere else. That didn't mean much, though, since Ray didn't strike me as a guy who would have a website or spend much time on social media. Next I typed in Turnbull + sheep and found someone, but he had a different first name and he lived in England. I found some Turnbulls in the Reno area, but no Rays.

Tom took the dogs out again and I started to shut down my computer, but decided to take one last run at finding Ray. If Summer was hiding behind a pseudonym, maybe Ray was, too. I leaned back and closed my eyes. My mind was still flailing around for a starting point when Tom brought the dogs back in. Winnie took a couple of laps around the kitchen, but her morning romp and full belly had taken the edge off her energy, and she soon flopped down between Jay and Drake, rolled onto her side, and heaved a big sigh.

“Looking for more on Summer?”

“Ray. But no luck so far, at least not under Ray Turnbull.”

Tom poured our coffee and said, “Okay,
ten-minute
limit, but let's take one more stab at it.” He grinned at me. “I'm not sure we should be playing detective, but it is kind of fun puzzling out the details.”

We brainstormed search terms and watched the results for anything remotely promising.
Raymond Turnbull
found nothing new.
Ray + Nevada + sheep
was equally disappointing.

“Try just ‘Ray Turner,” said Tom. “I read somewhere that people often choose new names similar to their old ones.”

“That seems pretty obvious,” I said, but I tried it. Nothing. Ditto
Ray Turn + Nevada.

The ten minutes and our coffee were nearly used up when I had another idea. “You know, I always thought ‘Turnbull' was the perfect name for a guy who handles livestock. I mean, lately he's been working with sheep, but what if he used to work with cattle and just made up the name?”

Tom finished his coffee and set the mug on the table. “I bet there are a lot of cowboys named Ray, if that's even his name.”

“Maybe something else?” I type
Ray + Nevada + bull
and found a man who braided bull ropes. “What the heck is a bull rope?” We both leaned in to read and learned that a bull rider grips a braided bull rope for the
eight-second
attempted ride in a rodeo. I typed again—
Ray + Nevada + bull rider.
That brought up several names, but none fit our guy.

“Rats,” I said, fingers poised for another search string, if I could think of one.

“Time's up and I'm starving.” Tom stood up and kissed the top of my head. “I need more than two eggs and a piece of toast. Let's go to the diner.”

He didn't have to ask twice.

forty-seven

We had such an
early start that it wasn't yet eight when Tom dropped me at home and took off with Drake and Winnie to pack more books. I resisted the urge to do more Googling and focused for a couple of hours on tasks that would pay the bills. As I hit publish on the last set of proofs and they posted to my website, I looked around to see where all the very quiet creatures were. Leo and Jay didn't worry me, but a silent Pixel could mean trouble. But there she was, curled into a sleeping gray ball inside the bigger curve of Leo's body. They were on a chair in a shaft of sunlight, and their fur shone like pewter and gold. I carefully lifted my camera and took several shots. The soft clicks of the shutter release woke Jay. He stood, stretched, yawned, and laid his head on my thigh.

“You're right, Bubby. Time for some fun.” He cocked his head. “Maybe Goldie and Bonnie would like to go with us. What do you think?” Goldie was game, and twenty minutes later we parked at the River Road Trailhead for the Rivergreenway, unloaded the dogs, and headed east along the chocolaty Maumee River.

“She's such a good girl,” said Goldie, “I don't know that she even needs that obedience class.”

“She probably doesn't, but it will be good for you, and help you build a stronger relationship.”

“Oh, I'm going!” Goldie's laugh blended with the birdsong rising from the beeches and sycamores and oaks along the riverbank. “I'm really excited about it. And I know Bonnie will get me through.” At the sound of her name, Bonnie turned toward Goldie and wagged her bushy tail, then rejoined Jay. The two of them trotted at the ends of their
six-foot
leashes, but they didn't pull. “I have very few regrets, but I'm beginning to regret all the years I've lived without a pet.”

“Maybe the time just wasn't right,” I said, although other than college I couldn't imagine a time in my own life when an animal didn't fit in. “And you have a pair of lovelies now.”

We walked in silence for a while, the kind of silence that, between simpaticos, feels like communication. The air had that early spring mix of fresh leaves and new grasses and cool mud. We turned around at the
one-mile
marker and were just in sight of the parking lot when a little white dog trotted into view followed by a woman in leggings and a tunic. Her face was obscured behind big sunglasses, and she was too far away to see clearly at any rate. The dog stopped short and barked at us. “Quiet!” I knew the voice, and waved.

“Giselle! You cut your hair!” When I had first gotten to know Giselle, she'd been very overweight, unhappy, and not very nice to be around. She had tried to hide behind baggy dark clothing, lanky hair, and garish makeup. I still had trouble reconciling that woman with the stylish person in front of us now.

“Do you like it?” She pulled her sunglasses off and smiled when we both said we loved it. “I just had it done this morning. I went for a trim, and saw a picture on the wall of the salon, and, well,
ta-da
!”

Maybe you should try something like that.
It was my pesky inner nag. Every so often she reminded me that I didn't have to go four months between trims and wrestle with my curly mess for three of those months.

Conversation quickly shifted to the murder investigation and missing persons and sheep, and I knew when Giselle narrowed her eyes at me that she was going to suggest something crazy.

“Janet, maybe we could find an excuse to go look around the Winslows' place.”

“Oh, no, I don't think that's a good—”

Goldie piped up. “You know, I've been thinking about taking up knitting again.” I stared at her. “What? I used to knit … When I was a little girl … A little.”

“I knit!” Giselle said. “Let's go to the yarn shop and see what's going on!”

“The last time we did something like this—”

“It was great fun and we solved the case,” said Goldie.

“We got in trouble, and no, we didn't!” Then again, I thought, we did learn things that helped move the investigation along. “I'll drive.”

An hour later, we pulled into the parking area in front of the Hole in the Wall Yarn Shop. Jay and Bonnie were in the big crates in the back of my van, and Spike was snuggled up on a fleece pad in his tiny carrier on the backseat. It was fifty degrees outside and breezy, so we cracked all the windows for the dogs and locked the van.

No one seemed to be about the place, but Evan's
beat-up
old Toyota truck was parked where it had been the last time I was there, although now it faced out, as if set for a quick getaway. A flock of starlings flushed from a trumpet vine that festooned the woven wire fence between the two pastures. Like the last time I was there, the hillside was dotted with sheep, but the sky this time was dappled with pewter and lit by a cold sun.

Goldie stood facing the pasture directly behind the shop and barn, the one with the sheep. “How lovely!”

Giselle and I flanked her and I scanned the flock scattered across the green. I didn't see Luciano.

“Maybe we should check in the shop?” Giselle said, turning toward the building. Goldie and I followed a few paces behind but stopped when Giselle said, “They're closed.” She pointed at the sign in the window, then crossed the porch, made blinders of her hands, and pressed them against the glass to peer in. “I can't see much. The lights are off. Oh!” She knocked on the door. “I thought I saw someone.” We waited. She knocked again, and finally said, “Weird. It must have been a shadow. It looks like a great place. Darn it.”

Goldie snorted. “We didn't actually come to shop.”

“I know, but still …” Giselle turned toward us and shrugged. “Should we look around?”

Adventure Janet shouted
Yeah! Let's look around!
while Sensible Shoes Janet wrung her hands and said
Oh dear oh dear, I don't think we should.
The decision was out of my hands, though, as Goldie and Giselle were already crossing the yard toward the pasture gate.

Goldie gripped the gate latch and said, “Maybe they're out there. Let's—”

“Stop!” I ran toward her and covered her hand with my own. “Luciano might be out there.”

“Who?” Goldie asked.

“Sounds like a Mafia hit man!” Giselle elbowed Goldie and they started to laugh.

“You won't think it's funny if he catches you in his pasture.” I studied the animals on the hillside again and saw no dogs, but I wasn't about to go into the pasture until I knew for sure where Luciano was. “Let's check the house and the barn before we go traipsing up the hill.”

The house wasn't buttoned down as tight as it had been the last time I was at the farm. The curtains were open, and a pot of Johnny
jump-ups
sat on a blue
ladder-back
chair by the front door. I didn't recall seeing them the day before, but couldn't be sure. No one answered when I knocked, and as we turned to backtrack, my gaze swept the area. At first nothing seemed out of place, but when the sun peeped out from the cloud cover it caught on something near the porch.

“What's that?” asked Goldie, peering over my shoulder as I picked the object out of the grass.

I looked at Goldie and said, “Shotgun shell.”