Dark Side of the Moo (Bought-the-Farm Mystery 2) Read online

  Dark Side of the Moo

  Ellen Riggs

  Dark Side of the Moo

  Copyright © 2020 Ellen Riggs

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-989303-51-1 eBook

  ISBN 978-1-989303-50-4 Book

  ASIN B0859P83G9 Kindle

  ASIN TBD Paperback

  Publisher: Ellen Riggs

  www.ellenriggs.com

  Cover designer: Lou Harper

  Editor: Serena Clarke

  2005111130

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Recipes

  Chapter One

  I got a little thrill every time I turned into the long, dusty lane that led to my hobby farm. The last curve would open up to reveal the beautiful property, the small but stunning inn, the big red barn, and pastures full of animals. I still couldn’t believe my luck. Despite all that had happened since I took ownership, buying the farm was in the top five most amazing things that had ever happened to me. Top two, actually.

  The truck kicked up a cloud as we passed under the iron arch that said, “Runaway Farm.” At least, that’s what it had said long ago, before the “m” rusted away.

  “Are you going to fix that sign?” Jilly asked, from the passenger seat. “It sends the wrong message, Ivy.”

  I eased up on the gas so that I could glance at the sign over my shoulder. “I think it’s perfect. ‘Runaway Far’ is what I’ve done in buying the place, right? I left Boston and the corporate grind behind me for good. Country life isn’t always polished.”

  “You can say that again.” She braced herself on the dash. “But you don’t want guests at your new inn to ‘runaway far,’ do you? This is about optics. We need to create a welcoming, come-hither vibe. That’ll be challenging enough given recent history.”

  “You’ve got a point,” I said, sighing as I faced the twisty, gravel lane again.

  Jilly Blackwood, my best friend, always had a point. She was smart, skilled and sensible—a natural at so many things that didn’t come easily to me. Or at least, didn’t come easily to me anymore, after a pretty serious concussion.

  “Careful, Ivy,” she said. “Don’t slow down. Steady, now. You know what happens…”

  The truck lurched and then stalled. Despite covering a lot of miles in this big pickup since I arrived, I hadn’t fully mastered the standard transmission.

  “Sorry, Jilly.” I looked into the back seat at Keats, the black-and-white border collie whose dramatic rescue had led to my move here. “You, too, buddy. I’ve been doing so much better, right? That was my first stall in a week.” He stared at me with his blue eye, the one that seemed to look right through me and expose the little lies I told myself. “Okay, four days. Yesterday’s bunny hop didn’t count.”

  “You’re getting nervous about today’s grand opening, and that’s no surprise,” Jilly said. “But we’ve worked our butts off and I think we’re ready.”

  Jilly had taken a leave from her successful headhunting business in Boston to help me get set up to open the refurbished and expanded farmhouse to guests. In fact, she’d done the lion’s share of the work inside, while I learned the ropes with the livestock outside. I had no experience with farming or animals, but I loved getting to know the unique needs of my sheep, goats, cows, llamas, donkeys, chickens and alpaca. There was a large and varied menagerie of rescue animals at Runaway Farm. Some were sweet, like Alvina the alpaca, and others less so, like Wilma the dangerously sly sow.

  On top of hard labor in the barn, I’d had bigger worries. Specifically, solving a murder. And escaping being murdered myself. Not to mention staying on the right side of Kellan Harper, the chief of police, who also happened to be my former high school sweetheart.

  All in all, it had been an eventful month in my old hometown of Clover Grove. Running the quaint, farm-themed inn would be a welcome reprieve.

  Now, with the worst behind us, I could take time to smell the roses. Or more specifically, the ever-present stench of manure. When people rave about fresh country air, they never seem to mention that. I was getting used to the farm bouquet, although I wondered if it permanently clung to my hair and clothes.

  Turning the key in the ignition, I said, “How about I get Clover Grove’s most famous artist to design a new sign? We can put Teri Mason’s version out at the highway to create a first impression and leave the old one for posterity. I want to respect what the previous owners did here. Keeping the sign pays homage to them.”

  The luckiest moment of my life had come after the unluckiest. Hannah Pemberton, the heiress who’d bought this hobby farm and converted it into an inn, saw media coverage of my rescue of Keats and called with an offer to sell it to me for “what I could afford.” In the end, she’d practically given it to me because my savings would barely cover the cost of finishing the reno and getting the inn launched. It was an honor to take over and care for the animals she’d loved so well before being summoned to Europe to run her family’s business.

  “I like that idea,” Jilly said. Her blonde hair was in a messy yet stylish knot and her makeup was low key. The fingers gripping the dashboard were unpolished for possibly the first time since we’d met in college. If someone had told me that Jilly would “go country” so fast, I’d have bet good money they were wrong. I thought she looked all the better for the change in priorities. She thought I took things too far with my bibbed overalls and steel-toed work boots. Turning, she raised her eyebrows. “Any word from Chief Hottie?”

  “No, it’s been blissfully quiet on the police front,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

  “I meant the romantic front and you know it.”

  I shook my head. “Who has time for romance anyway? This place is ten jobs in one.”

  “That I know, too,” she said. “Our time will come.”

  My brother, Asher, was carrying an obvious torch for Jilly but we really had been too busy to socialize with anyone but service people and Charlie, my farm manager.

  Keats stuck his head through the seats and gave a sharp bark I had come to recognize as a warning. “Ow. Must you, Keats?”

  He directed his long muzzle at the side of the dusty lane and his white front paw came up in a point. Like most border collies, he was smart enough to pilot a space shuttle. Unlike most border collies, he’d also mastered the inbred talents of many other breeds, from scent work, to retrieving and even protection. The only thing he didn’t do was swim and he was unwavering about that.

  My eyes followed his g
aze and I gasped.

  “Is that a little cow?” Jilly asked.

  Keats barked again, a little higher, as if confirming.

  Pulling over, I parked and flicked on the hazard lights. “Stay here, Keats,” I said, opening the door. The dog was great with livestock, but he was still young and exuberant, and I didn’t want to scare the baby.

  When I got close to the black-and-white Holstein calf, I took a quick step backward in shock.

  “What’s wrong?” Jilly called. Her head was out the window and Keats was battling for real estate.

  “He’s missing an eye,” I called back. “And one ear is just a little nub. Birth defects, I think.”

  Jilly elbowed Keats back as she slipped out of the truck. “Aw, poor baby. Where’s your mama?”

  The calf’s tail twitched and a slip of brown paper fluttered. It was like a gift tag, tied there with twine. Reaching for it, I read aloud, “Take good care of me.” Looking up at Jilly, I sighed. “He’s been abandoned here. Hannah said it happened all the time. Alvina was a dump-and-run, too.”

  “Who’d dump an alpaca?” she asked.

  “It’s a disposable world nowadays, I guess. But Hannah said Alvina brought her good luck, so maybe the same will hold true for this little guy.”

  Jilly’s eyebrows rose. “You’re keeping him? Don’t you have enough animals?”

  “Yes and yes.” I stared down at the calf. “I mean, he was dumped because there was probably nowhere else for a defective calf. Runaway Farm was welcoming rescues long before my time.”

  “But what about Heidi and Clara? Don’t they get a vote?”

  “For sure. I don’t want to upset the heifers.” Pulling the phone out of my front pocket, I texted the vet. “Heidi miscarried just before I got here. Maybe she’ll welcome little Archie.”

  “Archie?” Jilly shook her head and smiled. “Well, how are we going to get Archie down to the barn? I’m not holding him in my lap, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’d never risk injuring you now, Jilly,” I said, grinning. “Not with guests arriving in six hours. Those folks need to be fed. A good chef leads to good reviews.”

  She laughed. “I see my value has risen dramatically. But I bet these people are less interested in my culinary feats than my headhunting skills.”

  Our first official guests were my former colleagues from the human resources department at Flordale Corporation, where I’d worked for a decade. My career had ended on a sour note, however, and I’d been glad to put the place behind me. Particularly my boss, Wilf Darby. But when my successor asked to hold their annual team breakaway at Runaway Inn, I couldn’t say no. Any guests were better than none, I figured, especially when the Clover Grove gossip mill was still churning out stories about the death of the county dogcatcher, Lloyd Boyce, on my property.

  I let Keats out of the truck and his brown eye, the compassionate one, pleaded with me. “You can take him to the barn, buddy, but you’ve got to be super gentle, okay? He’s just a wobbly baby.”

  The dog’s ears flicked forward and back in what I took to be agreement. Keats and I had developed a good understanding of each other in our few months together. I should have trusted him, now, too, because he simply walked down the lane slowly and the calf followed. Jilly pulled out her phone and took pictures of the two black-and-white creatures for the farm’s social media page.

  Watching them made my heart swell. I nearly lost my life when I saved Keats from a neglectful owner who also happened to be a criminal. But Keats had saved me, too. And a few months later, he saved me again. I hoped that wasn’t going to become a regular thing. Fate probably hadn’t allocated me nine lives, like a cat.

  “It’s exciting, Jilly,” I said as we trailed after the dog and calf to the big red barn. “Our first rescue here at the farm.”

  “You always remember your first,” Jilly said. “I’ll even make an exception to my rule of never stepping into the barn while you go back for the truck.”

  Keats was torn. He was my constant shadow, but Archie had clearly become his new mission. He ran back and forth between us, until I said, “Stay, Keats. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Jilly needs you more than I do right now and the vet’s coming.”

  The dog gave me another pleading look with his warm brown eye and mumbled something deep in his throat. I nodded and smiled. “Yes, you can keep him. If he’s healthy.”

  “Ivy?” Jilly said. “Can I suggest you avoid talking to the dog like that in front of the Flordale vipers?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Like what?”

  “Like he understands you, even when you’re sharing complex ideas.”

  “He does,” I said. “I don’t know how, but he does. I think he’s just smarter than most humans. Smarter than most of the Flordale vipers, anyway.”

  She laughed. “No argument there. Just don’t give them anything more to gossip about, okay?”

  “Let them bond over my eccentricities. They’ll probably be scared they’ll crack under pressure like they think I did.” I gave an evil cackle. “Maybe I’ll scare them a little more.”

  “It’s not your corporate reputation you need to worry about now, my friend. It’s five-star ratings online. My cooking isn’t enough to float this ark.”

  “Fine,” I said, starting to walk back to the truck. “I’ll keep my weird under wraps until the vipers have slithered off to their big-city lairs.”

  “Eggs-actly,” she called after me. “Do you see what I did there?”

  “When I told you to work on your egg game, I meant in the kitchen,” I called back.

  The veterinarian had pulled up behind my truck to wait for me. Sticking her mop of short brown curls out the window, she said, “I was in the neighborhood delivering quintuplets.”

  “Sheep?” I asked.

  “Goats. Cutest little things.”

  Senna York had recently taken over the local agrarian vet practice and I’d already called her out half a dozen times for what turned out to be non-issues. She was kind enough to charge me a lower rate for “coaching” while I got on my feet. Charlie was amazing and knowledgeable, but still on part-time hours after getting injured on the job.

  It was unnerving to be a novice hobby farmer, a novice innkeeper and even a novice dog owner, all at the same time. I went from being at the top of my game as an HR executive to the bottom here. Although I was constantly racked with uncertainty, I had no regrets… other than wishing I’d held onto my automatic transmission sedan.

  Senna followed me down the lane, parked in front of the barn and hopped out. Keats immediately circled to herd her inside. “Thanks Keats, but I do know the way,” she said, laughing as he nipped her pant leg to get her to hurry.

  “He’s adopted Archie,” I said, snapping my fingers to get the dog to fall back.

  Senna examined the calf, murmuring kind words to the spindly creature. “Poor thing,” she said. “He’s just a day or two old. Abandoned because he’s not perfect. But at least they didn’t—”

  “Don’t say it.” I held up my hand. “I know people think I’m too soft, but Runaway Farm is an escape from practicalities.”

  “Well, here’s a practicality you need to consider, Ivy,” Senna said. “Can you handle the work of bottle feeding with the inn opening?”

  “No,” Jilly said. “She can’t.”

  “What about Heidi?” I asked, looking toward the pasture with the two cows, and finding them looking back. “Her milk hasn’t dried up. Wouldn’t she welcome a wee one?”

  Senna tipped her head thoughtfully. “Grafting a calf sometimes works with easygoing cows. Heidi’s a bit feisty.”

  “She’s just young and spirited,” I said. “A baby will calm her down.”

  Senna laughed. “Probably the opposite. But let’s give it a try. I’ll need some molasses.”

  “I’ll run up to the house,” Jilly said, looking happy for an excuse to get out of the barn.

  Still kneeling beside the calf, Senna said, �
�I’ll give Archie his shots, and then he’ll need to lose his manhood.”

  I was aghast. “Already? He’s a newborn.”

  “The sooner the better,” Senna said. “You don’t want a two thousand pound bull around here. There are few more dangerous animals on a farm.”

  Archie looked up with one big brown eye as if pleading to keep his parts, and Keats circled us all anxiously.

  “So you need to knock him out?” I asked.

  “It’ll be fast and he’ll get a painkiller. You don’t want to know how most farmers handle castration.” She got up and walked out to her Land Rover. “Maybe you should go up to the house while I take care of Archie.”

  “I don’t like this,” I called after her, and Keats whined in agreement.

  She came back in with her big silver kit. “Do you trust me, Ivy?” Her voice was calming, like a sedative slipping into my own bloodstream. “It’s just neutering, like you did to Keats, I’m sure.”

  Keats tucked his tail between his legs and we both laughed. He was a master of reading tone and body language.

  When Jilly got back with the molasses, Senna pulled on a latex glove, poured the sticky black fluid into her hand and smeared it on the calf’s back. She led him out to the cow pasture, and then hopped over the fence to apply molasses to Heidi’s udder. Finally, after letting Heidi sniff the calf through the fence for a few minutes, she opened the gate and Keats escorted Archie inside. Heidi gave a few gusty snorts as she examined the calf. I held my breath, worried she’d hurt the sweet baby. The molasses was sweeter, however, and she started licking the calf so hard he almost fell over. He still managed to squirm toward the business end and find his molasses incentive. His tail began twitching happily and Heidi didn’t seem fazed at all when he latched on.