The Hen of the Baskervilles (23 page)

“No, stay,” I said. “You can lead one of the llamas. It's always an absolute goat rope when we try to travel with more than three children or animals. And we can find a quiet corner of the stands where the boys won't annoy anyone, and you and I can talk.”

“Well, if I can help,” she said.

Michael handed her Zeppo's lead.

We set out with Michael proudly escorting Harpo.

“Let me go in the middle,” I said, when Molly was about to fall in line behind them. “It's never a good idea to let one llama follow another too closely. The one who isn't in front will try to goose the other.”

“You're joking,” Molly said.

“I wish,” I said. “As a species, the llama has a very pronounced sense of humor, but unfortunately it's about as subtle and refined as that of the average second-grade boy. If you could wave a magic wand and make them human, they'd look elegant, but they'd drive you crazy holding burping contests and telling fart jokes. Come on, boys; let's follow Daddy.”

We marched in stately procession toward the show ring. Harpo and Zeppo seemed to know that they were about to have their moment in the spotlight and stepped even more proudly and elegantly than usual. Michael basked in all the attention Harpo was getting. The boys waved at everyone we passed. Molly hid her face behind Zeppo's now dramatically fluffy wool but seemed to be enjoying herself. And around us, threading through the crowds singly or in well-spaced pairs, other llamas were also making their way to the show ring.

“We're going to kill them.” Michael gave me a quick peck on the cheek before taking Zeppo's lead from Molly and leading the two into the backstage area. I glanced quickly at Molly, but she didn't seem upset by the phrase.

We found a seat in the front row. The llama trials, I noted with disapproval, were not nearly as well attended as some of the livestock events—one of the things Michael and his fellow llama fanciers were hoping to change. And the front rows were empty, possibly because many of the spectators were afraid of being spat upon. Which I could have told them wasn't likely to happen. A well-socialized llama never spat except at other llamas, and very few people wasted their time entering badly socialized llamas in the obedience trials.

“So what's this contest about, anyway?” Molly asked. It had taken a few minutes to get Josh and Jamie properly penned in between us, and I gathered she'd only just now caught a glimpse of the obstacle course the llamas would be tackling.

“Apart from their wool, llamas are also pack animals,” I said. “And getting more popular all the time for wilderness trekking. The obedience trial challenges them with obstacles that are similar to things they'd encounter in a typical hike. Oh, look, there are Michael and Harpo. They must have drawn number one.”

“Happy!” both boys shouted. “Go, Happy, go!”

We all watched as Michael brought Harpo up to the first obstacle—a tangled pile of branches that both handler and llama had to walk across. Michael stomped vigorously as if to show Harpo there was nothing to fear underfoot. Harpo picked his way as delicately as a cat, but without hesitation. Scattered applause greeted their success.

Next they approached a series of white-painted rails, four to six inches off the ground.

“Llamas aren't high jumpers, I gather,” Molly said.

“Actually, they aren't bad,” I said. “But they're supposed to step over this obstacle, not jump. When you're trekking through the wilderness, you really don't want a four-hundred-pound llama carrying a hundred pounds of gear to be bouncing up and down like a jackrabbit.”

Harpo handled the rails beautifully—he strolled over them as if on flat ground, without touching a single rail, without the slightest hint of a hop, and without appearing to look down.

Next was the fence gate, where Harpo had to stand while Michael opened it, walk through without balking, and then stand again while Michael closed it. The slalom, where they wove in and out between half a dozen artificial Christmas trees without knocking any of them over. Harpo walked delicately over a layout of old car tires, through a series of large hoops, and then through a child's wading pool filled with stuffed animals. He followed Michael up a ramp and then down a series of rather high steps. He only flicked his ears a bit when Michael picked up and checked a front foot, and then a back foot. He allowed Michael to lead him down a path between two narrow rails and then, on command, backed up the whole length of the path. And finally he stood as if at attention while Michael tied his lead to the fence and unloaded his packs.

Toward the end of their routine, I was holding my breath, and I could tell half of the onlookers were, too. The llama-owning half. When the judge nodded for Michael to lead Harpo out of the ring, the audience broke into thunderous applause.

“I'm impressed,” Molly said. “But I guess I wasn't cut out to be a llama owner. I can't quite fathom the level of enthusiasm.”

“That's because you just saw pretty darn close to a perfect performance,” I said. “It gets a lot more interesting when things don't go as planned.”

And for the next dozen or so llamas, things definitely got interesting. Llamas refused to step on the sticks and tires, or stubbornly detoured around them. Llamas shuffled their feet into the rails, or leaped over them like steeplechasers. Llamas dug in their heels and refused to go through the gates. Llamas fell off the ramp, jumped off of it to walk beside it, or stood immobile at the top surveying their surroundings with lordly stares. The occasional llama completely ignored the course and trotted over to the stands to study interesting spectators, dragging his hapless owner behind him. One llama tried to eat the artificial Christmas trees. Another jumped over the fence rather than wait for his owner to open the gate. One very young llama became fascinated with the stuffed animals in the wading pool and refused to stop sniffing them. He finally had to be led off the course by dangling a grungy teddy bear in front of him. Even the llamas that didn't completely blow one or more obstacles failed to execute them as quickly, cleanly, and calmly as Harpo had.

“Okay, I see what you mean,” Molly said. We were watching the volunteers trying to deal with a llama who got fed up midway through the obstacle course and was lying down just outside the tunnel, humming to himself with his eyes closed. “Harpo is a llama genius, but imperfection is a lot funnier.”

“Let's just hope Zeppo doesn't completely destroy Michael's reputation as a brilliant llama trainer,” I said. “It would be fabulous to have them come in as first and second.”

“Zeppo's not as well trained as Harpo?”

“He's just as well trained, but more eccentric,” I said. “Some days he'll sail through the course perfectly, but all too often on competition days his mind is elsewhere. I'm hoping he's focused today.”

“Well, at least if he doesn't place second, we'll have a few more laughs.” Molly's face suddenly grew serious. “Thank you,” she said.

“No need to thank me,” I said. “That's one of our missions at the fair—to proclaim the joy of llamas. Michael won't be content until every farmer has a few.”

“Not sure they'd get along with my goats and cows,” Molly said. “No, I mean thank you for everything. For recommending the lawyer. Both the lawyers, actually. I like them both a lot. And I understand that if it wasn't for you, I'd be languishing in a jail cell in Clay County instead of out on bail in Caerphilly. Which I gather that would be a very bad thing, unless all the stories I'm hearing are just gossip.”

“Some are and some aren't,” I said. “It's more like Dogpatch than
Deliverance,
but still—you don't want to be in jail anywhere.”

“I just wish I'd thought to ask you to recommend a divorce lawyer sooner.” She sighed. “But I guess I've been in denial. Apparently I should have closed all the joint accounts as soon as Brett moved out, rather than waiting till he spent all the cash and maxed out the credit cards. I'd be a lot less broke, and look a lot less suspicious to your chief. But I didn't even get around to changing the locks until I came home one day last week and found our stereo was gone.”

I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I just shook my head. Molly didn't seem to expect an answer. We watched in silence until, to my relief, she broke out in giggles again at the sight of a black-and-white pinto llama standing, proud and dignified, basking in what he no doubt assumed was the approval of the crowd, while his owner tugged in vain on his lead.

“Actually, according to my attorney—my defense attorney—I may owe a debt of gratitude to Clay County as well,” Molly said. “She seems to think she'll be able to get a lot of the evidence thrown out in court because the Clay County police are careless about processing it.”

“Yes, Deputy Plunkett is pretty careless,” I said. “I think they're doing all they can to keep him from touching anything from now on.”

“Damn,” she said, with a wry laugh. “There goes my defense.”

“Not necessarily. After all, if they find any evidence that would clear you, you don't want that getting thrown out, right? Look, do you have any idea how the gun got in your van?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly. “I've been racking my brains. Did I leave one of the doors open? Maybe. The van's old, and the back hatch sticks sometimes. Maybe it was open.”

I nodded. Of course, this begged the question of why the killer would make a beeline from the crime scene to her van in the hope that it would be open and he could deposit the gun there. Maybe he'd just planned to leave it in or near her campsite, noticed the imperfectly closed van door, and seized the opportunity. Or maybe the killer was someone who knew her well enough to know about the tricky latch.

Or someone who knew that Brett might still have had a key to Molly's van. Vern had said his key ring was missing. If Molly hadn't changed the house locks until last week, had she even begun to think about the van locks? Probably not; or even if she had, it probably hadn't seemed a high priority for spending some of her meager cash on.

“Of course, someone could have jimmied the van doors,” she was saying. “It's not that hard—Brett knew how. He was always losing his keys. Or having them taken away from him at bars and parties.”

She smiled sadly.

“You don't sound very mad at him,” I said.

She considered that for a moment.

“Actually, I'm not.” She looked around as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “To tell the truth, when he actually left, all I could feel was an enormous sense of relief. As if I'd been carrying around a huge weight but I was so used to it that I never realized how much it was dragging me down until suddenly poof! It was gone. I was almost dizzy with relief. Okay, I was terrified about the possibility of losing the farm, but didn't blame Brett for that. I knew perfectly well it was her idea.”

“Genette's?”

She nodded.

“I gather you don't like Genette,” I said. “Understandable.”

“It wasn't just me,” she said. “No one liked her. If you ask me, I think the killer wanted to hurt her. Or maybe was trying to kill her and got Brett instead. I can't think of any reason why someone would want to kill Brett. Most people found him either annoying or likable. Or both. But you don't kill people because they're annoying. And no one hated him.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Which is what your mother always taught you to say when you can't say anything nice.” Molly's laugh sounded bitter. “You think my theory's stupid.”

“No, this time I meant it,” I said. “It's an interesting theory, especially since Genette seems to share it.”

“Genette?” She sounded startled. And then she frowned. “How do you know she…”

“Mother spotted Genette packing up her booth and presumably planning to skip town, so I got the job of stalling her until the chief could get there,” I explained. “She was completely panic-stricken, saying the killer had been after her and gotten Brett by mistake. She was about to leave all her stuff behind, thinking the fair had bellhops to pack it for her.”

“Bellhops.” Molly actually smiled. “Yeah, that's Genette. But she could be right. About the killer mistaking Brett for her. Or even more likely, killing Brett to get back at her. I can see that. She has enemies. Not just me. She's hurt a lot of people.”

“Such as?” I wondered if she would name Paul Morot, the former winemaker.

Just then I saw Vern Shiffley step up to the fence around the ring, a little to our left. He seemed to be scanning the crowd. I suspected he might be looking for me.

“Hey, Meg!” Vern spotted me and waved.

Just then Deputy Plunkett appeared at his side. Vern headed for the stairs to the bleachers, followed by Plunkett.

“Oh, dear,” Molly stood up. “I hate to desert you, but—you understand.”

She began picking her way across the bleachers to the other side, where there was another set of steps. By the time Vern and Plunkett reached me, she was gone. Along with my best chance of finding out if she knew anything that would help solve Brett's murder.

 

Chapter 26

“Hey, Meg,” Vern said, when he reached us.

“Hey,” Josh said.

“Hey, junior.” Vern patted Josh on the head. “Meg, got some papers for you.”

“Was that who I think it was?” Plunkett asked.

“That was Molly Riordan, yes,” I said. “The papers for Genette to sign?”

“Right,” Vern handed me a manila folder containing a thick wad of paper. “You can leave if you like, Plunkett. Like I told you, this is Shiffley Moving Company business, not law-enforcement business.”

“I'm in no rush.” Plunkett sat down and began studying the llamas with puzzled eyes. Vern shook his head and went on.