“I’ve already contacted the attorney and he’s available,” Joan pressed when James didn’t answer right away. “But if it’s a financial issue, then we can certainly wait until next week. It’s your call, Mr. Henry.”
The check he planned to write to cover the down payment and the first month’s mortgage would nearly wipe out his savings, yet James had never been so excited about spending such a large chunk of money at once. “It’s no problem. I’m just digesting the thought that I can move in sooner than I thought. I can be at your office by six.”
“Splendid. We can order Chinese takeout,” Joan suggested and then reluctantly added, “My treat.”
Throughout the morning, James dreamed about his little yellow house. Before the day was spent, he’d hold in his hand the keys to 27 Hickory Hill Lane. After all these years living in his boyhood room, the most charming home in all of the Shenandoah Valley would belong to him.
“You’ve got a sparkle in your eye this morning, Professor,” Scott commented as he passed by James’s office with the reshelving cart. “Francis and I figured that after what happened to Milla’s nephew, you might be feeling kind of gloomy.”
“I’m closing on my new house tonight,” James explained, and he picked up the day’s edition of the Star . He showed Scott the front-page photograph of the mangled rental car being hauled up the cliff edge by a mammoth crane. “It’s not that we aren’t all upset by the… accident ,” he said, for lack of a better word. “But we’ve got a plan to help the Sheriff’s Department find out who did this.” James stared solemnly at the photograph. “You and Francis reminded me that we didn’t need to stand around and wait to see if any clue emerged. We’re on the hunt for whoever did this.”
“We knew you would be,” Scott answered faithfully, and he moved off to organize the disheveled children’s section.
Lucy phoned a few minutes before noon and asked James if he was free for lunch. “I’m not offering anything fancy,” she said. “Just sandwiches from KFC. We’ll be eating in the car.”
“That’s fine.” James was curious. “Does this outing have anything to do with the outline of events we made last night?”
“Yes. It might not lead anywhere, but I’m going to investigate every angle. See you in ten minutes.”
James spent the small chunk of time trying to avoid a book club that met between eleven and twelve once a month. Its members were comprised of middle-aged women who took over the magazine section for the meeting and always held passionate discussions about every book pick.
For the month of January, they had chosen to read The Body in the Bakery, and every one of them had pre-ordered the novel from Amazon.com. Because he had no desire to hear more unpleasant details about himself or the rest of the supper club members as they were depicted in Murphy’s book, James hid in his office, pretending to answer e-mails.
At 11:58, as he put his coat on and headed for the lobby, James found himself bombarded by questions from the book club members, who literally chased him out the front door in their quest to have their curiosity sated. James couldn’t remember ever being so relieved by the sight of the dirty, cluttered passenger seat inside Lucy’s blue Jeep.
“Is it true, Ms. Hanover?” One of the women shouted as James climbed into the car. “Did you and Professor Henry talk over the Brinkley Myers murder case in bed?”
Lucy gave the woman her fiercest scowl. “That book is fiction , Mrs. Wright. Fiction means that it’s a made-up story, kind of like ‘Cinderella’ or Pretty Woman. If you have questions about what Ms. Alistair wrote, why don’t you send her an e-mail? In fact, why don’t you all send her a note? Maybe you can be in her next book!”
“What a great idea!” Mrs. Wright trilled, and she rushed back to the library steps to share Lucy’s recommendation with her group.
James looked over at Lucy and smiled, visualizing the women stampeding to the group of computers in the Tech Corner. “Nicely done. I’ll have to remember that one. After all, Murphy created this mess, so why shouldn’t she be the one to deal with the readers?”
“Exactly. Now eat your honey barbecue chicken sandwich. It won’t take us long to get to the goat farm.”
After unwrapping his sandwich from its cocoon of aluminum foil and inspecting it with happy anticipation, James spread a napkin across his lap and took a hungry bite. “Hmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “Is this the farm where Milla was going to buy her wedding favors?”
Lucy nodded and began to eat her sandwich, holding it in her right hand as she drove with her left. James was impressed that she didn’t allow any pieces of barbecued chicken to dribble out of the sandwich. His napkin was already littered with a dozen bits of red-tinged meat.
By the time they drove out of town, she had finished her lunch. It was a good thing too, because Lucy needed both hands to maneuver the Jeep over the winding, mountainous roads. Consulting a few lines of directions she had written on a piece of scrap paper, Lucy turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road. The Jeep made its way up an unpaved, rambling drive until James felt as though they were either lost or had driven right into West Virginia. Finally, the ground leveled off and a rusty tin sign that hung from an equally rusty mailbox indicated that they had reached the Cornflower Goat Farm.
“Cornflower. Like your eyes,” James remarked as he gestured at the sign.
Lucy blushed and seemed on the verge of speaking when they saw a man appear around the corner of the main house, which was a two-story log cabin with a picturesque front porch. A pair of dogs trailed after him, barking defensively at the sight of the Jeep. The canines had cream-colored coats and tan markings as well as dark muzzles and flashes of white teeth. The man put a reassuring hand on the back of the closest dog and waved at James and Lucy.
“What beautiful dogs!” Lucy exclaimed as she slammed her door shut. “Are they shepherds?”
The man nodded. “Anatolian shepherds. Best livestock guard dogs in the world. This here’s Knight and the smaller gal is Lady. My daughter named ’em.” He held out a weathered, calloused hand. “I’m Kyle Mills. How can I help you folks?”
Lucy began by praising the goat’s milk soap and lotion Milla had purchased in December and then casually asked Kyle if he remembered Milla and Paulette’s visit to the farm.
“Sure don’t, ma’am.” Kyle scratched Knight between the ears until the dog’s pink tongue unrolled sideways out of his smiling mouth. “I’ve owed the missus a vacation for nigh on ten years now, and she said if I didn’t get her someplace warm for Christmas, I could go huntin’ for a new wife.” He gestured behind him at the rustic barn, the rectangular cement building James assumed was used to create and package the goat’s milk products, and the vast stretch of pastureland. “Farmers don’t get much time off. I got one kid, but she’s at college and has got her sights set on bein’ a nurse,” he added with pride. “I hire some local boys to lend a hand now and then, but I couldn’t leave for a month without some real help ’round here.”
“Sounds like you found someone suitable,” Lucy prodded.
Kyle grinned. “Seems like the answer to my prayers dropped right out of the sky. That boy we got could take care of animals and customers. He even showed me how to get my wares on the computer. Made back every dollar I spent takin’ the missus ’round the state of Texas. Anyhow, Russ’d be the one who helped your lady friends.”