The Audacity of Goats Read online

  The

  AUDACITY

  of

  GOATS

  The

  AUDACITY

  of

  GOATS

  J. F. R I O R D A N

  NORTH OF THE TENSION LINE SERIES: BOOK TWO

  Copyright © 2016 by J.F. Riordan

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data On File

  For inquiries about volume orders, please contact:

  Beaufort Books

  27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102

  New York, NY 10011

  [email protected]

  Published in the United States by Beaufort Books

  www.beaufortbooks.com

  Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books

  www.midpointtrade.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Interior design by Jane Perini

  Cover Design by Michael Short

  For Hugh and Ethel, who are always in my heart.

  Wo zwanzig Teufel sind,

  da sind auch hundert Engel.

  Where there are twenty devils,

  there are also a hundred angels.

  —MARTIN LUTHER

  FOR HUGH AND ETHEL, WHO ARE ALWAYS IN MY HEART.

  PROLOGUE

  It was just before dawn on Washington Island. On this fall morning the sudden drop in temperature after last night’s cold front had made the air colder than the water. Towering mists enveloped the Island. Amand Ilstadt knew that as the sun rose it would burn away the heavy fog, but for the moment it was difficult to see beyond the edge of his pastures to the road.

  Little things like this were of no concern to Amand. He had a farm to run and animals to care for. Amand had grown up on the Island, and this had been his parents’ farm, and his grandparents’ before that. The rhythms of farming life were deeply embedded. He was not one to bide his time with a second cup of coffee.

  First on his list of things to do was to take a look at that wobbly gate on the eastern end of the paddock near the woods. His big Angus cattle had a talent for finding weaknesses in a fence line, and although the fence itself was electric, the gates were mere wood—too easy for his curious and wandering herd to push and break through.

  Even though it was still dark, he made his way to the shed for his tools and then headed out to the paddock wearing a headlamp, miner-style, to light his way. He sang to himself as he crossed the pasture, the rhythmic sound of a passing freighter’s foghorn adding to the music.

  Amand was a born singer. As a little boy he had sung while he milked the cows, sung as he walked to school, sung himself to sleep at night. Blessed with a rich baritone as an adult, the habit had remained with him, and he sang almost all day long on the farm. His wife always knew where he was by the sound of his voice, the music rising from the pastures, or the barn, or the work shed. Amand’s singing had made him something of a local celebrity, and when, occasionally, a tourist commented on the seemingly random sound of singing out in the countryside, locals would just smile and say, with a certain amount of pride, “Oh that’s just Amand. He sings all day.”

  The fog made everything seem alien and disconnected, and even though he knew every blade of grass on his place, Amand was finding it difficult to tell exactly where he was. He knew, though, if he just kept moving he would eventually reach the fence, and then he could make his way along it until he found the gate. Unconsciously, his voice rose as he walked, and soon he was singing lustily. He had just reached the second verse of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” when a sound came out of the fog that stopped his voice and froze his heart. It was the sound of a man screaming in abject terror.

  “HEY!” yelled Amand. “Who’s there? Where are you?” The scream came again, longer this time, filled with agony, and seemingly straight ahead of him. In a rapid sequence of thoughts, Amand considered what to do. How could he help this man? Should he run to him? Or go for help? No. This was too urgent to delay.

  Dropping his tools, he called out, “I’m coming! Hold on! Try to let me know where you are!” As he ran toward the sound, Amand wished he had his gun. And his phone. There was one more bloodcurdling scream. And then there was silence.

  Finding the gate, Amand opened it and headed into the woods. Desperately, he called out, searching where he thought the sound had come from, expecting that at any moment he would come upon the bleeding victim—or body. But as much as he called, he heard no answer, and he soon realized that he would have to give up and call for help. Heartsick, visualizing the suffering that could be going on only steps away, he called out words of encouragement, promising to return, and ran back through the fog toward the house.

  By the time the emergency vehicles arrived, the sun was starting to rise, and although the fog was still thick, there was at least light. Amand had continued to comb through the woods, calling as he searched. Soon the rescuers were calling and searching, too. As the day broke and the fog lifted, the teams were methodically sectioning off the woods, and covering it foot by foot. The search went on until nearly six o’clock that evening. They never found anyone.

  Bill Yahr, the Police Chief, had been briefly tempted to tease Amand that he’d been hearing things. But the look on Amand’s face told him that whatever he had heard had not been his imagination.

  There was almost no crime on Washington Island, and no animals dangerous to humans. If it had been someone seriously injured, no doubt they would hear about it, and sooner rather than later. No one could hide something like that for long on the Island. More likely, Bill supposed, it was one of the kids playing a joke. But he had to admit to himself, four-thirty in the morning was a strange time for a teenager to be out pulling pranks.

  The

  AUDACITY

  of

  GOATS

  Chapter One

  A new picket fence and freshly painted wooden sign announced the presence of a new business on Washington Island. This was a rare enough occurrence in these days of ever-shrinking prosperity, but under any circumstances would be the cause of festivities, in which everyone, even skeptics, would join.

  “Windsome Farm Goats,” the sign said. “Makers of Artisanal Cheese.”

  The wind blew a series of jaunty blue flags that ranged along the dirt drive to the barn, and, accompanied by her neighbors and a few remaining late-season tourists, Nancy Iverssen followed the flags up the hill. She was not a fan of this kind of thing. She had a new calf to see to, a broken switch on a heat lamp in the barn, and a rooster—whose long history of bad behavior had at last made his presence on the farm dispensable—to butcher. But her loyalty to the island and its welfare overrode her natural impatience. And besides, she was curious.

  The faint scent of goat drifted down the driveway. Nancy, accustomed to farm smells, found this, among all the others, the least appealing. It brought with it, however, the pang of recollection of Fiona’s goat, Robert. “Water under the bridge,” she told herself, brushing away sentiment. Nancy was not one to dwell on things, and she had not been one of Robert’s admirers—if he had had any, which she doubted—but she was fond of Fiona, and didn’t like to think of her unhappiness.

  Standing behind a cloth-covered table
near the barn was a woman with blonde curly hair. She was wearing an apron with “Windsome Farm Goats” printed on the front, and she chatted gaily with the small crowd of people standing near. Nancy found herself wondering whether the farm’s name was a deliberate play on words or merely bad spelling. It was difficult to tell these days.

  “Hi,” said the blonde woman. “Hello, everyone, and welcome. I’m Emily. Would you like to try some of our cheese?”

  On the table were trays attractively arranged with different varieties of goat cheeses, some crackers, and little pots of fruit preserves for tasting. A cluster of the inevitable fall yellow jackets circled the area, occasionally landing on the food—particularly the fruit preserves—and waiting to sting anyone who dared to challenge their territory.

  Emily seemed to be continually speaking. Her voice was not exactly loud, but it had a carrying quality, and she had many opinions. “Oh, yes,” she was saying, “we could have started the farm anywhere. Anywhere at all. But my husband and I thought it would be so perfect here, as a tourist attraction and all. We think the Island needs a little sprucing up, too, so we plan to be very active in the community.”

  She laughed at someone’s comment. “Oh, don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. We have a lot of experience in local government. My husband used to be on the school board at home and he had everyone wrapped around his little finger. And me, well, I know it sounds like a brag, but I’ve been told so many times that I have natural leadership qualities, and people just like to listen to what I have to say. So, I know we’ll be part of everything once we’ve settled in.”

  Nancy watched the faces of the people listening. The Islanders looked grim. The tourists were either rapt or indifferent. Someone said something about the cheese and the blonde woman launched into myriad details about butterfat, aging, and milking capacity. Everyone was served samples of cheese on little green paper napkins.

  “Where are you from?” asked someone, in a tone of voice that made Nancy suspect he already knew the answer.

  “Illinois,” said Emily.

  The islanders exchanged glances. Illinois tourists were both the bread and the bane of island life. Arrogant, brash, entitled, and always in a hurry, they did little, as a group, to endear themselves. Their wallets, however, generally made up for their other shortcomings. Now here was one come among them. No one from the Island expected anything good to come of it.

  Nancy took a sample of cheese, eschewing the yellow-jacket-laden preserves, and, leaving the chatter behind her, walked toward the nearby pasture where three dozen or so goats were grazing. They were small animals with big puppy eyes and an engaging sweetness that, as far as Nancy could see, bore no resemblance to the surly, taciturn nature of Fiona’s late animal. The sound of their owner’s voice continued unabated, carried on the breeze, although Nancy could no longer distinguish the words. She stood gazing at the animals, a look of barely disguised skepticism on her face, and wondered what Fiona would think of this.

  Fiona Campbell was giving a party. She was not generally much for parties; they were uncomfortable reminders of an awkward childhood. She was not entirely convinced that her neighbors liked her, her house was really too small to hold a crowd, and the last time she had hosted a party, she had been given—as a sort of hostess gift—a goat whose presence had made her life a misery until a barn fire had terminated their acquaintance. Nevertheless, in a triumph of hope over experience, she sent invitations to everyone she could think of.

  “Are you coming to my party?” she asked her friend, Pali, when she ran into him late one fall afternoon at Mann’s Mercantile, the only general and hardware store on the Island. They had met at the cash register where Fiona was purchasing batteries and plant food. Pali had an assortment of nails.

  “Of course. We wouldn’t miss it. Nika is already pulling out recipes for cakes trying to decide what to bring.”

  “She doesn’t have to do that. You don’t have to bring anything.”

  Pali smiled a you’re-not-from-around-here smile. “Just let me tell her whether you prefer yellow cake or chocolate. It will make everything a little easier.”

  Fiona smiled back. She had no illusions about her ability to blend into the culture. “Yellow, please.”

  “I will pass on that information,” he said cheerfully.

  They said good-bye, paid for their purchases, and went on about their business.

  The reason for the party was an achievement of sorts. Despite all odds, Fiona had spent a year living alone on remote Washington Island—a place she had once described as being inhabited by hermits and crazy people—in an old, rather decrepit house already in the possession of various creatures who chewed and scurried. It had not been one of her better moments when she had accepted a casual dare from friends who had not expected to be taken seriously, but Fiona had set out to prove that she could do it. No one of her acquaintance had expected her to succeed, least of all Fiona herself.

  The year had not been without incident, much—if not most—of which were distinctly goat-related. And yet, in a transformation that in other contexts might have been considered almost miraculous, Fiona had come to love the little house, to respect most of her neighbors, and even to have made some friends.

  These friendships did not, however, include her immediate neighbor, Stella DesRosiers, whose capacity for malice was a new experience for Fiona. Stella had reappeared on the Island shortly after the barn fire with only the vaguest explanation for her disappearance, murmuring something about a family emergency. No one dared to ask her any questions.

  The drive from Mann’s to Fiona’s house was about three minutes, and she was mentally planning her party to-do list as she pulled into her little driveway. The days were getting shorter, and everything glowed with the rose and gold light of sunset. She looked at the house with pleasure. It was freshly painted and charming, its old-fashioned yard filled with peony bushes and hostas, hydrangea and lilies of the valley. There was a big maple, and an enormous fruit laden apple tree spreading its ancient branches. Fiona pulled on the hand brake of the car, gathered her purchases, and walked up the steps to the porch, carefully averting her eyes from the back yard.

  She didn’t want to see that the old barn, which she had so loved, was gone. It had burned to the ground last spring, and she felt struck with fresh grief whenever she saw what was left of its stone foundation. The gift goat, Robert, had been in the barn, and Fiona’s grief was, perhaps, intensified by the complexity of her feelings for Robert. He had been a nuisance and a headache; she had resented every moment of time she had spent on his care. And yet she had felt responsible for his well-being, and the mysterious cause of the fire haunted her with guilt.

  What had she overlooked? What should she have done differently? Why didn’t she hear something in the night when the fire first started? Had she been too distracted by the joys of her new love in those first days? Fiona lay awake most nights with these questions circling her mind like bats. The image of the flames shooting high into the night sky returned to her in her dreams and in her waking. She knew that she should be grateful that the fire had not reached the house. But she could not shake the terrible sense of remorse which haunted her.

  Fiona was forced out of her reflections by the exuberant welcome of Elisabeth’s German shepherd, Rocco. Fiona’s friend, Elisabeth, and her new husband, Roger, were honeymooning in Italy, and Fiona was the dog sitter. Rocco was more than good company. He loved Fiona with a shepherd’s passionate devotion, loyalty, and single-minded purpose. Elisabeth was the first and foremost object of his dedication, but Fiona was a very close second.

  Reheating herself a cup of coffee and giving Rocco a biscuit, Fiona resolutely turned from thoughts of the fire. Tonight she would not think of it. Tonight she would focus on the future.

  Fiona sat at the kitchen table to drink her coffee, and Rocco settled under the table, resting his head on her feet with a deep sigh of satisfaction. With a feeling of pleasurable anticipation, Fiona got
out her notebook and began to make a to-do list for the party. She looked forward eagerly to seeing Elisabeth and Roger, who would be returning shortly from their honeymoon. The party would not be complete without them.

  Lars Olafsen had been Chairman of the Town of Washington for going on twenty years, and a member of the town board for five years before that. He was a dutiful man, and a public servant in the old-fashioned sense. He had earned the respect of his constituents through his fairness, his honesty, and his innate, steady, Scandinavian calm.

  But Lars was beginning to feel the wear of so many years at the beck and call of his fellow islanders, and had begun to yearn for a reprieve. His children and grandchildren lived downstate in Milwaukee, and his wife was continually urging that they spend more time there. And Lars, though he was only in his early seventies, was beginning to feel his energy wane, and his enthusiasm for the job with it.

  The major consideration, however, was one he would never admit to anyone, not even to his wife. Although his feelings were complicated, secretly Lars still glowed with a feeling of heady triumph after his out-maneuvering of Stella DesRosiers last spring in her mean-spirited attempt to drive her neighbor, Ms. Fiona Campbell, out of town. He had stooped to political blackmail, no doubt about it, and he had suffered many moments of doubt about what he’d done. Had it been a violation of the public trust that disqualified him for continuing in office, or a valiant stroke for the public good? Lars had struggled with this question, but he always returned to the conclusion that it had been no more than Stella deserved, and an act of natural justice. Stella had been bullying her fellow citizens for years without any repercussions other than her unpopularity. And while he continued to wonder whether it was wrong to feel proud of it, his career, Lars felt sure, could reach no greater achievement. “Might as well go out on a high note,” he thought.