Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

impatient.
    “Some of ’em, yes,” Mr. Darby said. “Yesterday we moved the rest to another pasture for the weekend, so your flower show could use their barn. Same with the cows. Left a few down here for show and took the rest up where they won’t be in anyone’s way.”
    “Is it a problem, them not having the barn for shelter?” Caroline asked.
    “There’s a shed over there they can use for shelter if the raingets heavy.” He pointed to a weathered gray structure in the distance. “Almost as good as the barn for them,” he said.
    “Almost,” I repeated. “But not quite. Sorry we’re inconveniencing you and them. In fact, if now’s a bad time, we could look at the goats later.” Actually, I was less worried about Mr. Darby’s time than about what could be happening back in the barn where my volunteers were supposed to be setting up for the show. Had I left them alone too long? Of course, Sammy and Horace, the only volunteers on hand at the moment, were fairly reliable, but how were they coping with Mrs. Winkleson chivvying them? Then again, now was a better time to help Dr. Blake and Caroline— and make my small contribution to the search for Mimi— than later, when things got busier.
    “No problem,” Mr. Darby said. “Today’s not such a busy day.” Was he implying that yesterday, when he’d had to move the cows and goats out of our way, was? Or that tomorrow, with the hordes of people, would be? Or was I just too ready to read reproach into his melancholy tone? And was it just melancholy or was there a little anxiety as well? Was there something about the goats he didn’t want us to see? No, he didn’t sound defensive or angry. Just sad. After several weeks of talking to him about various rose show-related problems, I wasn’t sure if sad was his most common mood or his whole personality.
    “So how many goats do you have?” my grandfather asked.
    “Twenty-three in this pasture,” Mr. Darby said. “And—”
    The handle of the bucket clinked just then, and Spike began barking furiously at it.
    “Hush,” I said. Spike subsided into soft growls. I watchedSpike closely, but he seemed to be focused on the bucket, and not anything else in the vicinity.
    “You might want to keep him away from the goats,” Mr. Darby said, as we neared the fence. Ahead, I could see a pasture, with half a dozen shaggy black-and-white goats peering expectantly through the fence, as if waiting for dinner.
    “He’s on a leash,” I said. I tightened my grip on the loop, just in case. “And his bark is really worse than his bite. Or were you worried that they might trample him?”
    “Not really,” Mr. Darby said. “Actually—”
    Spike lunged forward as far as the leash would permit and erupted into a frenzy of short, sharp barks. His bark was remarkably deep for an eight-and-a-half-pound furball.
    When they heard him, the half dozen goats loitering near the fence turned as if to run. Then all but one keeled over as if an invisible bowling ball had slammed into them. They lay on the ground with their legs held rigid and straight out, looking for all the world like wooden toys knocked over by a careless child. The last goat remained upright, but froze in place. I suspected he was as rigid as the others, but had the good luck or good balance to remain upright.
    “Shut up, Spike,” I snapped. “Look what you’ve done.”

Chapter 11
     
     
     
     
    Spike actually shut up, as if he was just as startled as I was.
    “Myotonic goats!” my grandfather exclaimed. “Fascinating!”
    He ambled over to the fence and peered down at the prostrate goats with far greater interest than he’d shown when he’d thought they were mere color-coordinated yuppie farm accessories.
    “What’s a myotonic goat?” I asked. I was relieved to see that the goats were coming around, shaking their heads and starting to scramble to their feet. The one who had remained standing started walking, stumbling a bit with the first few steps, but quickly returning to a normal gait.
    “Also known as Tennessee belted fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said. “Or wooden-leg goats.”
    “Or stiff-legged goats,” Caroline put in. “Nervous goats. Sometimes Tennessee scare goats.”
    “Stiff-legged goats is probably the most accurate term,” my grandfather said. Had everybody heard about these goats except me? “They don’t lose consciousness, so they’re not technically fainting.”
    “Then what is happening to them?” I asked.