Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

farm?”
    “She hasn’t told me where any of them have gone.”
    Dr. Blake frowned and looked at me as if to say, “See? Evasive!”
    We pondered the fate of less-than-perfect kid goats as we watched the remaining goats scarf up the last of their feed. Mr. Darby wasn’t looking at the goats but up at Mrs. Winkleson’s house. At the far side of the pasture, I could see a fence and aline of trees separating the goats from the next field, and then, over the trees, the top of the house. It was slightly surreal to see the goats feeding calmly, apparently oblivious to the huge architectural monstrosity looming over them.
    “And she’s starting to take way too much interest in which ones faint the easiest and which ones don’t,” Mr. Darby went on, pointing toward the far side of the pasture. “Sneaks out through her garden to the back pasture over there and flaps that damned parasol of hers at them. If they don’t all keel over, she starts asking what’s wrong with the upright ones.”
    “That sounds mean,” I said.
    “It is,” my grandfather said. He stuck his notebook in one of the many pockets in his fisherman’s vest and leaned against the fence beside Mr. Darby.
    “Yes, very mean,” Mr. Darby said. “Although at least it doesn’t really hurt the goats. If it did— well, not much I could do to stop the old bat, but I wouldn’t stay around to see the animals mistreated. I could always resign in protest. Hard as that would be.”
    He reached over to scratch one of the goats behind the ears and his usually sad face suddenly looked almost cheerful for a few seconds, before it lapsed into its normal lugubrious expression. I found myself wondering how likely it was that he really would resign and leave his beloved goats at the mercy of Mrs. Winkleson.
    Maybe he was being evasive about who bought the missing goats because he didn’t really want to think about their fate.
    “Does Mimi like to chase the goats, too?” I asked.
    “Mimi?” Mr. Darby’s face was blank. Either he didn’t recognize the name or he was a remarkable actor.
    “Mrs. Winkleson’s dog,” I said. “The one who’s been dognapped.”
    “Oh,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. The poor thing’s a show dog, not a farm dog. She never lets it out of the house. I’ve hardly ever seen it.”
    All of which might be true, but I wasn’t quite sure I believed his blank reaction to the dog’s name. Had he somehow missed the police search party, still shouting “Mimi” at regular intervals as they combed the pastures?
    “Ms. Winkleson’s pretty much the only one bothering the goats,” he said. “But she does it a lot. Before long she’s going to start telling me to send off the goats that don’t faint enough to suit her. They go to good homes and all but still, it doesn’t seem quite right somehow.”
    How did he know the goats went to good homes if only Mrs. Winkleson knew where they went? I was liking this less and less.
    “Well,” my grandfather said. “It’s not as if— hey!”
    One of the goats had reached up and grabbed the notebook from Dr. Blake’s hand.
    “Sorry about that,” Mr. Darby said. He hopped over the fence. Several of the goats, including the notebook thief, keeled over. But even though the goat with the notebook in his mouth was lying on his side with his legs held stiffly in front of him, his jaw was still working, and he did some damage to the notebook before Mr. Darby managed to retrieve it.
    “Sorry,” he said again. “I should have warned you. Paper’s like caviar to them.”
    “No real harm done,” my grandfather said. “Could have been worse. I could have been counting my money.”
    “They’re darling,” Caroline cooed. She reached out a hand to pet one of the goats.
    “Don’t touch their faces,” Mr. Darby warned.
    “Oh, does that bother them?” Caroline paused with her hand hovering above the forehead of one of the smaller goats.
    “Doesn’t bother them any, but you might not be so happy,” Mr. Darby said. “They just cleared out a big stand of poison ivy in the back of the pasture this morning, and they’ve probably got the sap all over their faces.”
    Caroline recoiled from the goats.
    “Doesn’t poison ivy affect them?” I asked.
    “Doesn’t seem to,” he said. “One of the few things they like as much as paper. And you know what their third favorite food is?”
    Dr. Blake and Caroline shook their heads, but I had a suspicion.
    “Don’t tell me. Roses,” I