Swine and Punishment (Bought-the-Farm Mystery 7) Read online

  Swine and Punishment

  Ellen Riggs

  FREE PREQUEL

  Rescuing this pup could bring Ivy a whole new life… if it doesn't kill her first.

  Discover how big city executive Ivy meets Keats, her crime-solving sheepdog, in A Dog with Two Tales. Join Ellen Riggs' author newsletter to get this FREE prequel to the Bought-the-Farm mystery series at EllenRiggs.com

  Swine and Punishment

  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 978-1-989303-64-1 eBook

  ISBN 978-1-989303-63-4 Book

  ASIN B08F4LHZ52 Kindle

  ASIN TBD Paperback

  Publisher: Ellen Riggs

  www.ellenriggs.com

  Cover designer: Lou Harper

  Editor: Serena Clarke

  2012180148

  Contents

  Title Page

  Free Prequel

  Copyright

  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

  What's Next

  Secret Series

  Fun Newsletter Signup

  Recipes

  Chapter One

  Percy jumped down from my shoulder, gave a yodeling howl, and doubled in size with an explosive puff of long fur. The marmalade tabby normally served as an ambassador for Runaway Farm and Inn, but he’d finally found a guest he didn’t like.

  “Be a gentleman, Percy,” I said, as he arched his back and started a strange sideways dance across the snow-covered gravel driveway. He moved like a tarantula, and I had no doubt he’d pack a poisonous punch if he reached his target. “You gave up feral life months ago.”

  “Maybe I should grab his carry bag from the truck and take him inside,” Jilly Blackwood said. My best friend was a confirmed cat lover, but she had her limits.

  “Good luck with that. He’s going to slice and dice whatever stands in his way.” I looked around and saw my know-it-all sheepdog sitting on his haunches and watching the spectacle. His mouth hung open in a dog smirk and he panted a ha-ha-ha. “Don’t just sit there, Keats. It’s your professional obligation to make sure everyone feels safe and comfortable here.”

  “Unless they’re murderers,” Jilly said, grinning.

  “There’s an exception to every rule,” I said. “And Evie Springdale is the opposite of a murderer. She’s a lifesaver and rescuer.”

  This was quite literally true. Evie was part of a rescue brigade from Dorset Hills, the bigger and more prosperous city next door to our town, Clover Grove. She regularly saved the lives of dogs, cats and other animals, and was married to a veterinarian, too.

  “In Percy’s defense, Evie isn’t the problem,” Jilly said. “Whatever possessed her to bring Roberto along?”

  Evie was still gathering her things while Roberto, her shorthaired ginger tabby, pressed his face to the rear window of the sedan. Judging by his open mouth and splayed claws, Roberto was neither impressed nor cowed by Percy’s unseemly display. Turning, Evie spoke to her cat and then shrugged at Jilly and me. She couldn’t get out without either releasing Roberto or welcoming Percy. My cat was fully capable of slipping through a crack like a harsh wind and blowing things up from inside. He was an elite sneak and professional stowaway.

  “This meeting is important so we need a solution fast.” I turned again. “Keats, I’m looking at you.”

  If a dog had shoulders, he’d have shrugged. While Keats and Percy were the best of frenemies, the canine genius didn’t fully grasp feline ways. Neither did I, but we were all learning.

  Evie had offered to help us come up with a marketing strategy to attract more guests to the inn following an unfortunate series of murders on or around the farm. The incidents had nothing to do with me or the inn but no one remembered that. I could only stay afloat because Hannah Pemberton, the billionaire heiress who’d previously owned the farm, continued to subsidize the business. Our luck had improved since Christmas, however. Three different sets of guests had come and gone without mishap—all based on the recommendation of Clover Grove’s mayor who had stayed with us over the holiday.

  Evie rolled down her window a bit. “I thought this would be fun. Did you know Roberto helped me crack an exotic pet ring in Dorset Hills? He’s a hero. So, I figured the two cats had something in common. Other than being orange.”

  It was hard to hear her over the screeching. Now Percy was standing with his paws against the back door of the car, menacing Roberto from close range.

  “Enough already,” I said. “I’m going in.”

  That finally propelled Keats to action. He wouldn’t intervene of his own accord, but if my welfare was at stake he felt obligated.

  We walked over to the car together. I stuck out my boot, hooked Percy around the middle and gently dislodged him from the car. He turned and spit in my direction.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Evie said.

  I stared down at the cat, unflinching. “Percy, we’ve talked about your cattitude. I can and will bench you from all team activities if you carry on like this. Do you want to spend your days hunting for mice like the barn cats? Because those are your choices. We all contribute around here.”

  Jilly crossed her arms in solidarity. “Normally, I take your side, Percy. I got you a coat and a travel bag, and hauling you around everywhere is making me lopsided. But hospitality is paramount here.”

  The cat’s green eyes widened and he meowed in a more conciliatory tone.

  “That’s better,” I said. “Go into the barn and collect yourself. You can come out and meet Roberto when you cool down.”

  Percy turned and walked toward the barn, tail lashing furiously. When he disappeared inside I signaled Evie that it was safe to join us.

  She opened the door and there was a flash of orange as Roberto launched like a rocket. A similar missile shot out the barn door. Keats spun in a circle, confused about his best move.

  It didn’t matter. The cats had a meeting of the minds mid-point in their trajectories and turned as one to charge the dog instead. He threw me a resentful look with his eerie blue eye before the three animals streaked up the driveway. The cats were fast but the deep snow gave the dog a big advantage.

  “Roberto, leave that dog alone,” Evie yelled.

  “He’ll be okay,” I said. “Keats has moves.”

  “What just happened there?” she asked. “First they’re issuing death threats and then they’re a team. Did we just get played?”

  “Typical barnyard antics,” I said. “Best to ignore them a
nd go into the barn. They’ll get nosy about what we’re doing and come around.” Evie started to follow and that’s when I noticed the phone in her hand was discreetly aimed in my direction. “Are you filming all this?”

  Pushing back the hood of her parka, she released a cloud of strawberry curls. Her pretty, lightly freckled face broke into a smile. “Who me? Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you want to show Hannah the mayhem around here.”

  My worry must have been audible because Evie’s smile turned from sly to kind. “Hannah knows exactly what it’s like here. It was even crazier in her time.” She stared around. “Without the homicide, of course.”

  “Then why would you film me during a visit to chat about marketing?”

  “And why wouldn’t you warn us?” Jilly asked, smoothing her own unruly curls. “So we could dress for the camera?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Evie said. “People crave authenticity these days. They like you guys because your media presence isn’t glossed up and staged.”

  “I don’t have a media presence,” I said. “I learned during my HR career that everything posted online comes back to bite you in the butt. All we have is a website for the inn.”

  As we walked into the barn, warmth closed around us like a blanket. We all unzipped our parkas. I was wearing my usual overalls over long johns and Jilly was in jeans and a cable knit sweater. Evie, on the other hand, looked chic in black pants and matching cashmere. She must have forgotten the way dust, fur and hay would insinuate themselves in the fibers of her clothes.

  Directing her phone around the barn, Evie smiled. “Just because you haven’t deliberately built an online presence doesn’t mean you don’t have one. In fact, there’s nothing better than an organic following. I was pleasantly surprised to see how many views there are of the singing donkey.”

  “He doesn’t sing anymore,” I said, as she walked over to get a close-up of Bocelli. His loud, grating braying during my Christmas stint with the town choir had also led to a short feature on local TV. “That all ended when I figured out what he wanted.”

  Evie gave me a significant look. “It was an amazing story, Ivy. Stories move people. And stories drive business.”

  “No, Evie,” I said. “Uh-uh. You’re not doing an online show starring this hobby farmer like you did with Hannah Pemberton.”

  “Why not? You said you’d keep an open mind about my marketing ideas. The Princess and the Pig had a cult following that kept this farm going when it was at risk of being shut down. People still contact me about it every single day.”

  “That’s because Hannah was an elegant heiress. A fish out of water. They came to watch a pig take her down a peg.”

  “News flash,” Evie said, walking from stall to stall filming. “You’re a fish out of water here, too. Think about the hook: ‘Uptight exec lands in manure with the love of her life.’ The same viewers will love seeing the pig take you down a peg.”

  “The love of my life will hate this idea more than you can possibly imagine,” I said. “As chief of police, Kellan Harper has to keep some dignity.”

  Evie turned with her phone. “I meant the true love of your life.”

  Keats was now sitting in a circle of light. It gleamed off his fluffy black ears and shiny coat. His blue eye fixed Evie with a calculating stare while his warm brown eye welcomed the camera. When his mouth opened in a happy pant, his verdict was in.

  “Once again, no,” I said. “No to you, Evie, and no to the canine love of my life.” I glanced at Jilly, expecting her to chime in with agreement.

  Instead, my best friend gave a shrug. “We’ve got to consider all the options, Ivy. At the rate you bring in new rescue animals, your ark will sink otherwise.”

  “Traitor,” I said.

  The cats strolled in together and I had no doubt Roberto had sold Percy on the benefits of being a media darling. It was five against one, but they all underestimated my loathing for the spotlight. I’d deliberately flown under the radar my entire life. That had served me well in my 10-year career at Flordale Corporation and even more so since moving here and starting to solve mysteries. Inviting cameras to track my every move wouldn’t just embarrass me and jeopardize my relationship with Kellan, it could put me at risk from the deadbeats who popped up with some regularity in Clover Grove and gravitated to me. A sleuth with an entourage couldn’t solve the riddles of the day.

  “Just hear me out,” Evie said. “I’m thinking of something different from The Princess and the Pig. That was more of a slice-of-life reality show. Your show would be staged to deliver a very specific message.”

  Sensing I was too grumpy to speak, Jilly asked, “And that message is…?”

  “That Runaway Inn is the destination for city folk craving the quaint farm and small-town experience. Jilly, you’d be inside, showing us how to prepare your stupendous meals. You’d be preserving and canning. Finding new ways to use all those eggs. Meanwhile, Ivy would be out here showing us the mysteries of manure management and talking about livestock and rescue work. I’m seeing this show as educational. Your former careers gave you the presence to teach.”

  I shook my head. “So you really mean edutainment. I’d spout some facts about farm life while people wait for the money shot where I get trampled or bitten. Sound about right?”

  Evie grinned. “Those moments are gifts to the viewers. You have to add a little sugar to the education pill if you want them to swallow.”

  My head was still shaking, apparently of its own accord. “Nope. Never. Not a chance.”

  Jilly’s green eyes were alight with edutaining possibilities. She’d always been a natural teacher and gracious host. “Maybe think on it, Ivy. You know how important it is to control the message. Right now, the message is controlling us.”

  “Fine. I’ll think on it.” I walked through the back door with Keats at my heels, whining. “Not you too, buddy. You know we need to stay undercover. How would we do that with cameras following our every move?”

  I pulled in some deep breaths of the frosty air. January had been the coldest month on record in hill country and February showed no sign of relenting. It had been hard, but not as bad as I feared. Farming didn’t allow much time for weather angst.

  Leaning against the fence bordering Wilma’s pasture, I stared at the sly, stubborn sow who’d also kept Hannah on her toes. The pig had grown a thick coat because she far preferred being out here to mixing with her barnyard colleagues inside. She was a confirmed loner. I’d rotated in other livestock to give her a companion and it always ended badly. There was a reason the pig poker—a long pole with a metal hook on the end—stood ready by the gate.

  A movement at the far end of the pasture caught my eye. It also caught Wilma’s eye and a feral twinkle appeared. Evie’s ginger cat was strolling casually around the rim of the food trough. Taunting the pig.

  “Roberto, no!” I grabbed the pole and slipped through the gate. Keats shot in after me and tried to head Wilma off at the pass. The pig was surprisingly agile and extremely smart. Keats had already practiced his best herding moves on her and she’d calculated countermoves. Now, when he feinted left, she turned on a dime and charged the cat. “Jump, Roberto! Jump.”

  The cat either didn’t understand me like Percy did or enjoyed staring down death. No one came between Wilma and her trough.

  All I could do was try. Swinging the poker over my shoulder, I raced after Wilma. The smooth wooden pole quickly slid off my parka, spiraled and jammed between my boots.

  It felt like I did a cartwheel but that may have only been my brain rattling loose in my skull. It hadn’t been properly anchored since the head injury I sustained rescuing Keats. Either way, I ended up flat on my back in the churned-up muddy snow, staring at the gray sky. A wet nose touched my cheek and Keats poured a little sympathy into me with his brown eye while my lungs refilled. Wilma came back and stood over me, too.

  “Cut!” Evie said. “Bravo, Ivy, bravo!” She c
ame toward me with the phone in one hand and the pig poker in the other. “You can’t stage moments like that. Pure gold.”

  Pure orange, more like. Roberto was waltzing along the top rung with his tail in the air, while Percy did the same from the other end. They met in the middle and exchanged what appeared to be a congratulatory head butt.

  Scrambling to my feet, I said, “That was not edutainment, Evie Springdale.”

  “Sure it was. It was all about the wrong way to approach a testy pig. First you show that, and then you show a better way. All the while the banner promoting the inn unfurls underneath. Right?”

  “Wrong,” I said, stomping toward the gate. “I hope that’s not your only idea.”

  “Just the best one,” she called after me. “Fair warning, Ivy. If you don’t do it, someone else will. It’s in the zeitgeist. I feel it.”

  She’d spent nearly as much time in political PR as I had in corporate HR. I believed her. In fact, the truth of her words stung me like the fierce wind.

  But I still couldn’t do it. The show would have to go on without me.

  Chapter Two

  “You said no?” Teri Mason tried to hide her disappointment and failed. I’d dropped by her art store, Hill Country Designs, expecting sympathy. I’d missed our chats during her month-long trip to Key West. There wasn’t a hint of tan on her angular face, but the tropical paintings lined up against the wall suggested she’d at least spent time under a beach umbrella.