Of course, no matter how reassuring it felt to have my own blunt instrument in case the intruder in the sheep pasture proved dangerous, it would probably have been wiser to call the police. And I might have, if I hadn’t known that the chief probably had every officer in Caerphilly and the surrounding counties scouring the landscape for Charlie Shiffley and Shea Bailey. Interrupting that search would not endear me to the chief. Especially since he’d already had to interrupt it once to deal with our escaped animals. Never mind that the escaped animals were the SOBs’ fault, not ours. Right now, I didn’t think that was a distinction that would carry much weight with the chief.
And after all, the intruder would probably turn out to be Seth Early, performing some abstruse sheep-related farming chore that had to be done at night. Or some quirky New Age ritual he’d taken up under Rose Noire's influence. Singing the sheep a soothing, wool-centric lullaby, perhaps. Mr. Early still hadn’t quite gotten over being annoyed about the time in February when I’d reported a prowler on his property, and two deputies had interrupted him when he was trying to help one of his ewes through a difficult birth.
The intruder's flashlight disappeared behind a small rise, which gave me the perfect opportunity to sneak up on him. I approached from the other side of the hill, walking slightly crouched, and took shelter behind a convenient rock. And when I peered over the rock, I saw that it was, indeed, an intruder.
Sheila D. Flugleman. She was carrying one of her manure buckets and running her flashlight beam over the grass. A sheep turd appeared, and she stopped, pulled a small shovel out of the bucket, scooped up her prize, and then resumed the hunt.
I stood up, pointed my flashlight at her, and clicked it on.
“So does gathering it by moonlight do something special for the sheep manure?” I asked loudly. “Or could you possibly be diluting the purity of ZooperPoop! with the lowly droppings of the ordinary domestic sheep?”
She jumped and uttered a small scream—not much more than a squeak.
“Seth Early has those exotic sheep from the zoo, doesn’t he?” she said. “I’m taking their dung.”
“The Norwegian feral sheep? Yes,” I said. I strolled down the hill toward her. “And you can tell their dung from the rest?”
“I’ll mix it all up,” she said. “The package says that it contains manure from zoo animals. It doesn’t say that's all it contains.” A sudden thought struck me.
“That's why Patrick started charging you for the manure, wasn’t it?” I asked. “As long as ZooperPoop! was a small operation that saved him money on cleanup costs, he didn’t care. But when he found out what a moneymaker it was, he demanded a share in the profits. And threatened that if you didn’t pay, he’d tell everyone that ZooperPoop! was just ordinary farm manure.”
A wild guess, but from the sudden look of panic on her face, I suspected it was an accurate one.
“I guess that's not a rumor you want getting out just when you’re on the verge of getting some serious national publicity, according to the Clarion,” I added.
Her expression turned from anxiety to fury. When will I learn to leave well enough alone?
“Not a word of it's true,” she said. “And you can’t prove it. And anyway, I had nothing to do with his death, and if you tell Martha Stewart a word of this I’ll—I’ll—aarrgghh!!!”
She threw her bucket of manure at me and sprinted for the road.
“Eeuw! Gross!” I muttered. I’d seen the bucket coming, and dodged it. At least I thought I had. But I wasn’t sure she’d completely missed. I inspected myself by flashlight but couldn’t tell.
I heard Sheila's car start up—apparently she’d hidden it in a small thicket of trees down the road from our house. I turned to watch as she careened down the road toward town, tires squealing at every turn.
Good riddance. I’d go back to the house and call Chief Burke. Report that she’d assaulted me with a disgusting weapon.
But not until after my shower.
I unstuck Chief Burke's yellow crime-scene tape so I could get into the basement and throw all my clothes directly into the washer. Then I dashed upstairs, naked—luckily the party had lured all the relatives over to Mother and Dad's farm. I used up about half a bar of soap taking a long, hot shower. Then I wrapped myself in a bath towel and sprawled on the bed. The newly assembled bed with its clean sheets and its incredibly comfortable mattress. I was just going to rest a few minutes, and then get dressed, so I was ready to be perky and welcoming when Michael returned with his mother and his aunt. Really I was.