Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

The goats seemedfine, and Mr. Darby didn’t seem particularly upset by what Spike had done to them.
    “They suffer from an hereditary genetic disorder called myotonia congenita,” my grandfather said. “Basically, when startled, their muscles lock up temporarily. If they’re not well balanced at the time, they fall over.”
    “It’s not just being startled that does it,” Mr. Darby said. “Any sudden stimulus. Heck, if I give ’em an especially good feed, half of them will keel over out of sheer joy.”
    “Hasn’t anyone tried to fix this?” I said. “Identify the goats with this genetic defect and keep them out of the gene pool?”
    “On the contrary,” Caroline said. “Some breeders have worked hard to keep the trait in the gene pool.”
    “It’s not considered a defect,” Mr. Darby said. “It’s just a feature of the breed.”
    “A useful feature for sheep herders,” my grandfather said. “A lot of them use these goats to protect their sheep.”
    “Like llamas?” I asked. “But if they faint when startled, how do they scare off predators?”
    “Not like llamas,” my grandfather said. “They don’t scare the predators off. They fall down and get eaten, allowing the more valuable sheep to escape.”
    “The ultimate scapegoat,” Caroline said, shaking her head.
    “That’s horrible,” I said.
    “Presumably predators aren’t a problem for these goats,” Caroline went on. “You don’t have many wolves roaming the Virginia countryside.”
    “More’s the pity,” said my grandfather. “We need more natural predators to keep the deer population down.”
    “No wolves,” Mr. Darby muttered. “Just her.” Meaning, I had no doubt, Mrs. Winkleson.
    He leaned over to pour the contents of his bucket into a trough just inside the fence. Five of the goats scampered toward the trough, while one keeled over, possibly startled by the clanking sound the bucket made hitting the trough. From farther off, we could see other black-and-white forms headed our way.
    Spike wasn’t reacting, just watching the goats. I deduced that it was only goats he could smell, not another dog.
    “You don’t just let them forage the landscape for their food?” my grandfather asked.
    “Most of it,” Mr. Darby said. “But I give ’em a little feed once a day with a specially mixed vitamin and mineral supplement. Makes up for any soil deficiencies. It’s what Dr. Rutledge recommends.”
    Dr. Blake nodded, and I could tell by his expression that he wasn’t finding anything to disapprove of in Mr. Darby’s care of the goats. If Clarence Rutledge was their vet, they were lucky goats indeed. They certainly looked healthy as they jostled and butted each other to get a good share of the feed. Another one keeled over suddenly, for no apparent reason, but kept on chewing for the whole ten or fifteen seconds it took him to come to and reclaim his place at the trough.
    Maybe Mr. Darby’s lugubrious expression wasn’t due to any problems here at Raven Hill. Maybe he was just a natural Eeyore.
    “I just wish she wouldn’t keep selling off so many of the kids,” Mr. Darby said suddenly, as if he’d been trying to hold the words back and finally couldn’t. “She inspects every single one born, and if they don’t meet her standards, off they go.”
    “Her standard being that they have to be pure black and white?” I asked.
    He nodded.
    “Off they go where?” my grandfather asked, snapping to attention again.
    “We’ve got a back pasture that’s not technically part of the farm,” Mr. Darby said. “If a kid has even a touch of any color but black and white, we take the doe and kid both up to the back pasture, and once the kid’s old enough to leave the mother, we sell it. Good market for registered fainting goats these days. Same with the Belties who aren’t perfect. If the calves don’t have a well-shaped white belt, or if they’ve got white spots anywhere else or black spots in the belt, off they go to the back pasture till they’re old enough to sell.”
    “At least she waits till they’re weaned,” Caroline said.
    “She wouldn’t if Dr. Rutledge hadn’t convinced her it’s bad for the health of the cows and does to have the natural cycle of motherhood interrupted,” Mr. Darby said. “Pretty clever of him.”
    “So who does she sell them to?” Dr. Blake asked.
    “Always a market for fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said.
    “Have you checked on any of them after they left the