The small pen outside the shed, where Spike spent the day quietly snoozing, now contained several large piles of sheared wool, along with a remarkable amount of sheep manure.
Inside the shed, Spike was still barking fiercely, and I could see his head popping into view every few seconds—the windows were too high for him to look out, so he was jumping up, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside.
But I was seeing the back of his head. He was trying to see out of the window at the back of the shed.
I ran around the shed. No one there, but I found a screwdriver lying below the window, and I could see signs that someone had tried to pry out the iron grille I’d put over the window. Fat chance making much progress on that before morning. I’d done a solid job on the installation.
“Good boy, Spike,” I said. I repeated it several times, in the hope he’d get the notion that “good boy,” in this context, meant “All right; you warned us about the burglar; so shut up already.”
“What’s going on?” Michael asked from the front of the shed.
I strolled around to join him.
“Spike detected an intruder.”
“It took him this long to let us know about it?” Michael said, gesturing to the piles of wool.
“Whoever did the shearing was someone Spike didn’t consider an intruder,” I said. “He didn’t bark until someone tried to break in through one of the back windows.”
“Thereby startling not only Spike but also the sheep thieves?”
“I don’t think they were stealing the sheep,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t even think they planned to steal the wool. They—”
“What the hell are you doing to my sheep?”
Mr. Early had appeared. He had obviously dressed hastily. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered to tie the high-topped tennis shoes he was wearing instead of the usual work boots. And was that a glimpse of leopard-print boxer shorts I was seeing above the waist of the hastily donned jeans? I tried not to stare. Luckily, he was without the shotgun he sometimes carried when alarmed over the fate of his flock. In his disheveled condition, he looked less intimidating than usual, and I was surprised to realize that he wasn’t really an old codger. He wasn’t much older than Michael. Mid-forties at most.
“We just got here ourselves,” I said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What the hell?” Mr. Early said. He walked up to the fence around the pen and stared at the piles of wool, then over at the several naked sheep, which, true to form, had drifted back into our yard and were grazing peacefully a few feet away.
“I thought it was the perp who returned to the scene of the crime, not the victims,” Michael murmured.
“Well, that’s a new one,” Mr. Early said finally. “Usually they just take the whole sheep.”
“What’s wrong? Meg, Michael, are you all right?”
Rose Noire crossed the yard at a dead run. Rose Noire, who had driven back to town several hours ago, along with Mrs. Fenniman, who was staying at her apartment.
“We’re fine,” I called. “Go back to sleep.”
“Is everyone all right?” she called. She hardly stopped to look at us before clamoring over the fence, lifting up an armful of the wool, and gazing at it in wonder, as if only by touching it could she even begin to fathom the sudden miracle of its presence. Even if Mr. Early noticed the little bits of wool clinging to her clothes when she arrived, he’d have a hard time proving she hadn’t just acquired them.
“What happened here?” she said, letting the wool sift out of her arms.
“Someone sheared Mr. Early’s sheep without permission,” I said.
“And did a damn careless job of it,” Mr. Early grumbled.
“‘Careless’?” Rose Noire repeated. “Oh, surely not. They’re not hurt, are they?”
“I don’t see any blood,” I said. “So I imagine the sheep are fine.”
“Well, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?” she said. “As long as the sheep are happy. And oh! Look!”
We all turned to see what she was pointing at. Just another naked sheep, as far as I could see.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Early said, frowning and squinting. He patted his shirt pocket then pursed his lips and squinted harder. I suddenly suspected that he usually wore contacts, hadn’t had time to put them in before dashing out of the house, and for some reason didn’t want to put on the glasses I could see sticking out of his shirt pocket.
“Look at him!” Rose Noire exclaimed, clasping her hands with enthusiasm.