Canal Days Calamity Page 11

  Gordie came to the last stall on the right and kicked the door open. “Here’s your friend,” he said.

  I looked inside to find Roy passed out cold in a pile of hay. “What happened to him?”

  “He drank all his money away and couldn’t pay me for the losing bet he placed. I told him he had to work it off in the stables. He got halfway through mucking out this one and I found him like this.”

  A shovel lay beside Roy, and a bucket stood in the corner. “How much does he owe you?” I asked.

  Gordie crossed his arms. “Since he’s a friend of Johnna’s, he owes me the rest of this stall cleaned and we’ll call it even.”

  I knew there was no getting Roy sober enough to clean the stall, so I hooked my handbag on the stall door and rolled up my sleeves. “Okay. I’ll get it done. Then I’ll get him out of your hair.”

  Gordie tipped his hat. “Nice doing business with you, ma’am.”

  I sauntered across the trod-on hay to where Roy lay and nudged his leg with my foot. “Hey! Roy! Wake up!”

  He muttered something and rolled over on his side facing the stall wall.

  I bent down and grabbed the shovel. “You owe me big, mister.”

  The odor was pungent. Manure on a farm in the spring smelled a lot different than manure in a small enclosure. Fortunately, the stable hands kept the stalls clean, so the entire place didn’t reek.

  A pitchfork rested against the wall. I had no idea how to muck a stall, but figured the fork was for hey and the shovel was for the piles that were ten times larger than what even Gus left in my backyard.

  I headed to the back corner, slid, grappled for something to hold on to, then lost my footing and went down hard in a slick spot in the hay-covered stall. Oh good gravy, I was sitting in horse urine.

  I got back up and got busy. I wasn’t planning on spending all night on this project, but it had to be done right for the horse who stayed here.

  And so Gordie wouldn’t put me on his hit list—if he had one.

  Who was I kidding? He definitely had one.

  “You want to sift through the hay with the pitch fork looking for clumps?” a very short man said, standing in the stall door.

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. Are you a jockey?”

  “What gave it away?” he joked. “Short guy in a horse stable, right? What about you? I doubt you’re one of the owners mucking a stall, and I know you don’t work here.”

  “My friend here”—I poked Roy gently with the pitch fork—“got himself in some trouble, so I’m bailing him out. Literally, it seems.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I almost choked. “No! Good Lord, no. We work together.” I twisted the wedding ring on my finger. He must not have seen it. “I’m married.”

  He took his jacket off. “Let me help. You’ll be here all night at the rate you’re going.”

  “Thank you. You’re a life saver. I’m Cameron—Cam.”

  “Buckley. Fletcher Buckley, but I go by Buckley.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “How long have you been a jockey?”

  “This is my first year.”

  “Do you win a lot?”

  He chuckled. It sounded a bit like a horse nicker. “No. My horse and I are both new to the racing circuit. We’re still trying to prove ourselves.”

  “What’s your horse’s name?”

  “I race Roderick’s Rapid Feet of Roderick’s Racers.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of Rs.” I laughed. “I love racehorse names. How do they come up with them?”

  “Sometimes it’s a combination of the breeding mare and stallion’s names. Rapid Feet’s mother is White Rapids out of Cedar Creek. His father is Feet of Fire, from Albany.”

  “Hence, Rapid Feet. That’s interesting. I didn’t know it had rhyme and reason to it.”

  “It doesn’t always.” He shook his head. “I know of this horse named Woobee. The owner let his four-year-old name him. That’s a lot of money to spend for a horse to name him Woobee.”

  “How much are racehorses?” I asked, sifting through the hay. This project was coming along a lot faster now that I had someone to share the duties with and talk to.

  “A yearling is about sixty-five grand.”

  “Holy—that’s a lot!”

  “Yes, it is. Racing is a big-money sport.”

  I jerked my chin in Roy’s direction. “I think this guy just found that out.”

  “You can’t believe how much trouble people get into betting on the races.”

  I rested my pitch fork tines on the ground and leaned on the handle. “I man where I live—Metamora—was murdered a few days ago. Rumor has it he was in a ton of debt from gambling and owed the wrong person.”

  “You think it was Gordie?” Buckley chuckled. “He’s all bluster. He’s never hurt a fly.”

  “Do you know who would hurt someone?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I steer clear of the betting scene. Everybody knows Gordie, though.”

  I took my inquiry a step further. “What about Butch Landow? Ever heard of him?”

  “Butch? Sure. I’ve met Butch before. Hangs around with a couple of other fellas, Stewart and Steve.”

  “Then I’m sorry to tell you it was Butch who was killed.”

  “Really?” Buckley stopped shoveling and looked me in the eye. “I can’t understand that. As far as I know he never bet on horses.”

  “Well, he bet on something.”

  “Luck wasn’t on his side, I guess.”

  “Guess not.”

  So Butch would come here with my father-in-law and Steve Longo, but not bet on the races. How could that be if he was in gambling debt? What was he betting on if not horses?

  • Twelve •

  My eyes popped open. The phone was ringing. It was still dark out.

  After taking stock of the situation, I reached for the phone on my nightstand, glancing at the alarm clock. Half past five in the morning. No wonder Gus and the Wonder Twins hadn’t budged from where they pinned me down in bed on top of the quilt. It was too early to bark and jump on the bed like birthday party kids on a trampoline.

  Who in the world was calling? Then it hit me—I’d disappeared from the Briar Bird last night. After I hauled Roy home and got back to Ellsworth House, Monica was already in bed and Mom wasn’t home yet. Ben would be wondering where I’d run off to. I was surprised he hadn’t called in a missing person report on me. “Hello?” I answered with a croak.

  “Good morning, Cameron. It’s Fiona. Due to the conflict with the Daughters, I’m canceling our clarinet lessons going forward.”

  “Oh,” I said. I kind of expected this, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. “Thanks for calling.”

  She hung up without so much as a goodbye.

  I put the antique phone receiver down and fell back against my pillow. Gus belly crawled up the bed beside me and rested his head on my shoulder, staring at me with his big brown eyes. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m not that upset.” I stroked his head and rubbed his ears. Who was I kidding? I’d gotten myself into another dust up—heck, a dust storm this time—with the Daughters. And the kicker? I was starting to really like playing the clarinet.

  Wrestling over two hundred pounds of dogs to get out of bed, I put my feet on the chilly hardwood floor and stood, stretching. Seeing as how I’d scheduled a meeting with Arnie Rutherford at the same time as my lesson, I supposed it was a good thing Fiona canceled.

  I threw on my robe and tied it as I headed down the hall with the dogs. Liam darted from the spare bedroom and joined in the parade down the stairs. I don’t know what time Mom got up in the mornings, but coffee was already brewing in the kitchen. A glance out the French doors to the patio showed the sun cracking a red eye open. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. The ancient rhyme an
d the pain in my knee were reliable sources of weather forecasting. It was going to storm soon. I hope it came and passed before Friday.

  Mom sat with her coffee cup, texting on her cell phone. After pouring myself a cup, Gus, Fiddle, Faddle, and I stepped outside to join her. Liam darted down the hall and back upstairs. I knew I should grab him before he had an accident on the floor, but I needed coffee before I had enough energy to give chase.

  “Look who came back,” Mom said, not looking up from her phone.

  “Morning. Who are you texting so early?”

  “Carl,” she said, with a school girl grin. “He’s coming over to help me, Monica, and Quinn bake today.”

  Good gravy, a whole nest of lovebirds in my kitchen. “That’s nice of him.”

  “He’s a very nice man,” she said, sighing.

  “Yes, he is,” I said. I couldn’t refute the fact. Carl was an upstanding neighbor and even though Soapy was the mayor, it was like Carl was governor—if a minuscule town could have a governor. He was bigger than life. A legend in our corner of the world. Of course, you can’t really build a castle on a giant hill and not become a legend.

  “So where on earth did you disappear to at dinner? Not a word about leaving, you just take off ? We were worried sick until Cass told us you had an Action Agency emergency to take care of.”

  Bless Cassandra Platt!

  “Roy got himself into a situation. It was no big deal.”

  She shook her head. “You should never hire drunkards.”

  “Well, he volunteers.” Plus, despite his faults, my team wouldn’t be the same without him.

  I noticed Isobel sitting under Mom’s legs, warm, cozy, and half-hidden in the drape of her robe. That dog liked everyone but me!

  “Are you having a party out here?” Monica asked, coming out to join us. “I thought I’d be the only one up this early to start mixing up bowls of dough.”

  “What’s on the menu today?” I asked.

  “Dogs Dig Honey Bones,” she said. “Old Dan promised to get me a big slab of fresh honeycomb from the hive.”

  “Your testers are going to be happy campers today,” Mom said, reaching down and scratching Isobel’s neck.

  “Those dogs eat better than I do,” I said.

  “I think Isobel has allergies.” Monica reached down and took her grumpy dog’s chin, turning it back and forth. “She always has crusty eyes. The raw honey should help with that. It’s great for preventing allergies.”

  “You’ve really been doing your homework,” I said. “Holistic dog bone remedies.”

  “If I’m going to make them treats, they might as well be good for them.”

  Monica would make a good mom. I’d never thought of my business-oriented sister as a family woman, but settled down in this small town, baking dog treats and loving her life, I could easily see her getting married and having a baby or two.

  The thought thrilled me. I wouldn’t be having a baby of my own, but Monica having one would be the next best thing. I could babysit and take the kid for strolls by the canal; we could sit on the bank and toss bread to the ducks.

  If only Quinn Kelly didn’t live across the Atlantic. How could my sister settle down with a man who lived thousands of miles away?

  As quickly as the vision of a little Monica came into my mind, it vanished.

  The sun had risen, and I figured it must be a quarter after six. “I guess I better get in the shower. Another busy day.”

  “You’re telling me,” Monica said. “Canal Days better be worth all the fuss.”

  “It is,” I said, slipping back inside. Monica would sell out of dog treats quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. It would be the perfect introduction for Dog Diggity’s opening in town.

  Upstairs, Liam was whining outside of Mia’s bedroom door. Just as I grabbed her doorknob and turned it, the front door opened and closed, somewhat stealthily. As stealthily as a creaky old door can open and close. Whipping Mia’s bedroom door open, I looked around. The bed was made, and she was nowhere in sight.

  “Mia!” I shouted. “Mia?”

  “I’m down here!” she yelled from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

  I raced back down the stairs and found her taking a yogurt out of the refrigerator. “Was that you coming inside?”

  She nodded.

  “Where were you? Why wasn’t your bed slept in?” My mind was putting this puzzle together and was coming up with an ugly picture.

  “What do you mean? I made my bed this morning and went outside to let Liam out.”

  Liam had been upstairs with me. The little dog scampered around her feet. “Why wasn’t he sleeping in your room last night like always?” I asked, eager to catch her in her lie.

  She shrugged.

  Then it hit me. “You have on Stephanie’s clothes!”

  She rolled her eyes and plopped her yogurt cup on the counter. “Fine. I spent the night at her house, okay? I knew you’d have a hissy fit about it for no reason, so I lied.”

  “No, not okay! You didn’t come home, didn’t ask permission, and didn’t even call. You’re grounded! Give me your phone.”

  “What?” She clutched her cell phone to her chest. “No. You didn’t even know I was gone!”

  “Hand it over.” I held out my hand, palm up.

  “No! You’re not my mom! You’re barely my stepmom!”

  Her words jabbed my heart. “I’m calling your father.”

  She flipped her hair, dismissing me, and stalked out of the kitchen. “Whatever.”

  I dialed Ben’s number and got his voicemail. “We need to talk about Mia. She stayed with Steph last night and didn’t tell me. She blew off my punishment. You need to do something about this. Call me.”

  I hung up feeling defeated.

  Barely her stepmom, indeed.

  A dull tapping on the front door drew my attention from my despair over Mia. I stood still and listened for it again. A few seconds later, it sounded once more.

  I tip-toed down the hall, ears peeled.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It wasn’t a knock that a person would make on the door, and it wasn’t one of the dogs. Spook the cat sneaked in silently whenever he pleased.

  Slowly, I took ahold of the door handle and eased it open only to be faced with Metamora Mike and a loud quack!

  Oh, good gravy. “What do you want?”

  He quacked again, reared up, and shook his tail feathers.

  “Clarinet lessons were canceled. You’ll have to find someone else to harass.”

  He darted for me, trying to get inside. “No, no. No ducks in the house. Stay here.”

  I eased him away from the door and closed it. I’d made a dog treat addict out of him, and he would never leave my yard. In the kitchen, I opened the beehive–shaped treat jar Betty had given me and took out a bone-shaped biscuit.

  Back at the front door, I stepped out on the front porch and sat on the step with Mike waddling around beside me. “Here you go. Is this what you want?” I broke a small piece of the biscuit and fed it to him. He gobbled it down like it was the duck version of chocolate chip cookies, which were my own food vice. “I get it,” I told him. “You and I aren’t so different.”

  My fuzzy black and yellow friends buzzed in and out of their new hive-in-a-box, landing on my potted mums and cone flowers. Overhead, dark clouds scuttled past fluffy white ones.

  My mind travelled back to the night before. There was a big piece missing from what I knew about Butch Landow’s gambling. What I did know was A) he was in debt and selling things, like his truck, to pay whoever he owed, 2) he hung out with Stewart and Steve Longo, who bet on the horse races, and finally, according to Buckley, Butch never bet on the horses.

  So where did that leave me? Missing a key element—what did Butch lose his money betting on?<
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  ∞

  Fifteen minutes before nine o’clock I walked into Soapy’s and found my four seniors sitting at the back corner table joined by Elaina, now known as Grandma Diggity. To my horror and, admittedly, my amusement, she had a fake mustache perched on her upper lip. Johnna gave me an apologetic smile and shrugged. “Can’t take her anywhere.”

  I patted Anna on the shoulder. “I’m happy you’re here. I hope having the pageant at the high school instead of right where the vendors are will be an okay compromise?”

  She twisted her hair around her finger and glanced at Logan. “I understand that not everyone has the same opinions about things that I have, so it’s fine. As long as I don’t have to help with it.”

  “No, of course not.” I couldn’t help myself and bent to give her a quick squeeze. She was a good kid with a solid head on her shoulders. “Guess I should pick a table before Arnie Rutherford gets here.”

  “Cameron?” Roy grasped my hand. “A word?” I nodded, and he stood and led me a few feet away. “About last night, did you find out who killed Butch?”

  “You mean while you were passed out in a heap of hay and I was shoveling horse manure?”

  “Let’s not get testy. I said I’d gamble with that father-in-law of yours and I did. What happened in the meantime is a sacrifice I was happy to make.”

  “A sacrifice? I’d say you had a pretty good time last night.”

  “I sacrificed every last dollar in my billfold, Cameron Cripps-Hayman! Did you learn anything or not?”

  I sighed. Roy would never admit he had a problem. “Unfortunately, the only thing I learned is that Butch never bet on horses, so he must’ve been betting on something else.”

  He furrowed his brow and rubbed the scruff on his chin. “Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.

  The bell above the door jingled, and I hurried over to a table in the center of the room. “We’ll be right here,” Johnna whispered rather loudly.

  Arnie Rutherford sauntered up to the table in a dated three-piece suit. “Good to see you again, Mrs. Hayman,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. All I noticed was his pinkie ring, a chunk of black hills gold flashing in my eyes.