Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

pranced among his victims, head high, tail wagging, uttering an occasional sharp bark of triumph.
    “What’s going on?” Mr. Darby appeared out of the woods at my right and began scrambling over the fence.
    “I’m so sorry,” I called back to Mr. Darby as I trotted after Spike.
    “Not your fault,” he said. “Happens all the time. Dogs. Little kids. Herself with that damned umbrella.”
    I was getting close to Spike, and had to watch my step, lest I trip over one of the recumbent goats.
    “Perfect example of a maladaptive mutation.” Dr. Blake sounded out of breath, and was leaning heavily on the fence. “In the wild, anything that keeled over at the first appearance of a predator wouldn’t live to reproduce.”
    “It’s not their fault,” Mr. Darby said, sounding a little peeved. “They were bred that way.”
    “Precisely my point,” my grandfather said. “We humans have taken the goat, one of the most admirably rugged and self-reliant of ruminants, and then deliberately bred it for a trait that’s at best inconvenient for the animal and at worst dangerous.”
    “Well, there’s some truth to that,” Mr. Darby said.
    “Don’t let them kick that poor little puppy!” Caroline shouted. “Catch him, quick!”
    “I’m trying,” I said.
    Spike wasn’t seriously at risk, since most of the goats were still horizontal. He wasn’t eager to be caught either, and the longer he eluded me, the harder catching him would be. I chased, he dodged, and then the goats began getting up, which made it easier for him to use them for cover. Some of them were still a little shaky, others recovering more quickly and bounding toward the fence to greet Mr. Darby, who was reaching into his pocket and feeding bits of carrot to them. My grandfather reached over, took some of the carrots from Mr. Darby’s hand, and began feeding the maladapted goats himself.
    “It’s the same as how we’ve taken an animal as magnificent as the wolf and turned it into— well, something like that,” he went on, pointing with a carrot at Spike, who was sniffing at one of the larger fallen goats. As if spurred by my grandfather’s words, Spike suddenly leaped away from the goat and began backing toward the fence, growling. I leaned down and managed to grab the end of his leash.
    “Even in captivity, you’d think the extreme version of myotonia would be a handicap,” Dr. Blake went on. “The ones that succumb less readily and recover more quickly have a better opportunity to get food.”
    “I make sure none of ’em starve,” Mr. Darby said.
    “They look very healthy,” Caroline said.
    “Yes, of course, but my point is that the myotonia gives them a competitive disadvantage,” my grandfather said. “Some of these goats have had half a dozen carrots by now, and that goat over there hasn’t had any.”
    He pointed at the goat Spike had been sniffing. It still layslightly apart from the rest of the goats, nearer the fence that separated their pasture from the farther one beyond. I took a few steps forward to take a closer look.
    “That’s because it’s not a goat,” I said. “It’s a person. And I see blood. Call 911.”

Chapter 16
     
     
     
     
    I tossed the leash to Dr. Blake and ran toward where the figure was lying. Definitely a human form. Probably a small one, though it was hard to judge size since the figure was lying down, curled on one side, and swathed in a voluminous black garment.
    “I’m coming,” Caroline shouted. “Remember, I’m a nurse.”
    I thought I recognized the black garment on the fallen figure as a rain cape, quite possibly the one Mrs. Winkleson had been wearing all morning as she strode around barging into things and ordering people around. I wondered, briefly, if we were panicking over a cloak someone had dropped in the pasture. No, there was a foot sticking out from under the black fabric, with a thick ankle and a familiar-looking sturdy black shoe on the end of it. I plopped to my knees beside the figure and scrambled for her wrist to check for a pulse.
    “Emergency!” I could hear Dr. Blake shouting into his cell phone.
    What was Mrs. Winkleson doing out here in the pasture? No time to waste figuring it out. She had no pulse. But she was still warm— normal body temperature as far as I would tell. My mind raced to figure out what Dad’s instructions would be. Chest compression, probably.
    “No pulse,” I said over my shoulder to Caroline.
    “We should do CPR, then,”