It was the last part that sold me. The Shiffleys didn’t quite have a monopoly on construction and repair work in Caerphilly, but damn near. And while being Randall’s friend got us slightly better deals and noticeably faster service than most residents, I liked the idea of Randall feeling he owed me. The odds were high that something would need to be repaired or replaced in our Victorian-era farmhouse before his gratitude faded.
And there was always the chance that while I was there I could learn something that would help clear Molly. The chief could hardly object if I happened to learn something useful while performing a completely harmless fair-related task.
“Okay,” I began. “I can go over there—”
“Not now!” Michael interrupted. “We have to get ready for the llama show.”
“—immediately after the llama show,” I finished.
“Awesome,” Randall said. “I’ll send Vern over to the show ring with the paperwork.”
So much for any hope of a quiet afternoon.
Michael, meanwhile, had finished his ice cream and begun fussing over the llamas.
“Don’t let Jamie drip chocolate on Harpo,” he said. “I spent all morning shampooing and blow-drying him.”
Harpo was a white llama—at least after a thorough bath. A couple of times a year, when we showed him, his coat actually gleamed impressively snow white, and the rest of the year he served as a reminder of why gray, brown, and black were more practical colors for farm animals.
“I helped, Daddy,” Josh said.
“You did, indeed,” Michael said. “You were both a big help.”
I tried to imagine this and then decided not to.
“May I help, too?”
I glanced over to see Molly standing just outside the pen.
Chapter 25
I hurried over to give Molly a hug. She was wearing sunglasses. I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to pass incognito, or hiding the signs that she’d been shedding tears over Brett’s demise.
“How are you doing?” I asked, in an undertone.
“Lousy,” she said, in an equally low tone. “I just want to not think about it all for a while. Looking for something to distract me.”
“Distractions are us,” I said. “If you want to keep an eye out to see that none of the four-legged occupants of the pen get anywhere near the ice cream, I’d appreciate it,” I said. “Chocolate would be bad for the dogs, and we just washed the two llamas.”
“Only the two?”
“Just Zeppo and Harpo,” I said, pointing at them. “We’re showing them off in the obedience trials in a few minutes. Groucho and Chico will be in the conformation trials tomorrow.”
“And the fifth one? Gummo, I assume, in keeping with the Marx Brothers theme. Nice names.”
“Of course the boys, who are a lot more familiar with Snow White than Animal Crackers, usually call them Grouchy, Zippy, Happy, Chicky, and Gummy. Gummo is old, and half blind,” I added, pointing to where he was hanging over the fence, eyes focused on where my voice was coming from. “He’s just here for the company. They’re very social creatures, and he’d pine away if we left him home all alone.”
“Poor old Gummy.” She reached out and stroked his nose. I considered warning her that most llamas didn’t like to be touched. But Gummo was a lot more touch tolerant than most llamas, and maybe she’d find patting his soft brown nose comforting.
“That’s why we have the herd,” I said aloud instead. “Michael got Groucho, and the poor thing was lonely. I held out a while, hoping Groucho would come to accept us as his herd, but I finally gave in and said yes to another llama. I’m still not quite sure how we got from two to five.”
“That reminds me,” Michael said. “I’ve narrowed the selection down to three chicken breeds. Let me show you.” He began fumbling in his pocket for something, which would have been a lot easier if he wasn’t still holding the llama brush in one hand and the hair dryer in the other.
“Narrowed what down?” Molly said. “Here, let me help with that.”
She took over the brush and hair dryer and continued where Michael had left off, gently teasing Chico’s soft brown fleece to maximum fluffiness. Michael watched for a few moments. Then, satisfied that Molly understood the job, he pulled out his cell phone and turned it on.
“Okay, I rejected these.” He showed me a picture of the elegant black and white Yokohama rooster. “Apparently they require a lot of grooming to look anything like this one does. I think the Sumatrans are a better bet. The tail’s not so extreme, and the black feathers wouldn’t get dirty as fast. Although I am also rather taken with the Welsummer.” He showed a picture of a black and reddish copper rooster whose tail, though smaller than the Sumatrans, was still full and arched.