Goodnight Moo Page 7

  “I’m tired, I guess,” Brynn said. But she was wired. Not one, but two incidents happened at the fair, where the locals let it be known that they suspected Wes of murder. “We’ve got a lot of work left at home tonight.”

  “No worries. I’ll take care of the girls while you get ready for the contest. How’s that sound?”

  Brynn warmed. How could anybody think anything but the best thoughts about Wes? “That sounds good.”

  As they walked through the crowd-less fairground with the lights still on and people closing up, the night winding down, Brynn had a conversation with herself. It was two people. That didn’t mean everybody believed the nonsense about Wes. Willow stood up for Wes with the French fry man and Mike stood up for him with Helen. Brynn held on to the thought that most of the local community was like Willow and Mike. She chose to believe that. She’d not dwell on the others—but she planned to arm herself with more knowledge about the victim.

  As they walked around the corner toward the parking lot, a young girl came out of one of the trailers, with a young man; she kissed him good night and looked up at Wes. “Hey, Wes,” she said.

  Brynn was startled. The young woman was unusually beautiful, striking green eyes and long dark hair. There was something familiar about her.

  “Hey, Chelsea,” Wes said, but kept moving. Brynn followed his lead. Was that who she thought it was?

  After they were safely inside the car, Brynn turned the ignition and asked Wes her burning question—even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Brynn pulled out of the parking lot. “Was that Chelsea, Josh’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she doing here when her dad is still in jail?”

  “I wondered the same thing.”

  “On a date?” Brynn asked.

  Wes didn’t respond.

  “When her family is in crisis? What kind of a person is she?” Brynn’s heart sped in her chest as she thought about Josh and the whole family.

  “Chelsea has issues.”

  That was the second time someone had mentioned that to Brynn. “How well do you know her?”

  “I’ve been to a few parties with her. We’ve talked a few times. But I don’t know her well.”

  “Yet you know her well enough to know she has issues,” Brynn pointed out as she stopped at a stop sign and looked both ways.

  “Everybody knows she has issues. Mostly, she sleeps around. I’ve steered clear of her.”

  Brynn was not into slut shaming. What grown women did or didn’t do in terms of their sex lives was no concern of anybody’s—let alone hers, unless they were hurting other people. But Chelsea was a sixteen-year-old girl. Brynn knew things had changed since she was a girl. Sex was much more casual. But had they changed that much?

  “Wasn’t she dating the young man who was killed?”

  “Yes, she was,” Wes said. “But it looks like she’s dating someone else already. You see what I mean? Issues. Like how could you even consider dating immediately after your boyfriend was killed in an accident where your dad was driving the tractor?”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that because that’s what I was wondering. I mean, I hate judging others, but sometimes you’ve gotta wonder about people.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. When Brynn pulled into her driveway and glanced toward her field, she noticed that her cows were not there—but the next thing she noticed was Tillie coming out of the barn. She’d taken care of the cows for the evening. Brynn wanted to run over to her and kiss her. Instead, she parked the car, and she and Wes exited the vehicle and walked over to Tillie.

  “Thank you, Tillie,” Brynn said. “We’re a little later than we thought we’d be.”

  “No problem,” she said. “You know I love your girls. I’m a little worried about Jewel, your new cow.”

  “She’s not mine. We’re fostering her until we can find someone else to take care of her. I’m worried about her, too.”

  “We need to give her time,” Wes said, walking up to them. “She’s shy and she’s different from the other cows. They’re not too sure about her, either. She looks different, smells different, you know. Once they get used to her, they will be fine.”

  Brynn hoped he was right. Jewel tugged at her heart, as any animal in her condition would. She reminded herself not to get too attached. After all, she was fostering the cow until Schuyler found a home for her.

  After the evening chores, Brynn sat down and opened her laptop. She wanted to look up Highland cattle, hoping she’d get an insight into Jewel’s behavior. She also wanted to do a quick search on Donny Iser, the young man who Wes found.

  From everything that Brynn read, whatever Jewel’s problem was, it probably had nothing to do with the breed. They were known for their good nature. But something she read did catch her eye. Cows raised in isolation never learned how to socialize. That was probably the issue. And Schuyler and Wes were probably right—that it was going to take time.

  Then she keyed in “Donny Iser.” Internet research wasn’t going to give her everything she needed on the young man, but it was a good place to start. Who was he? Where was he from? And who were his enemies?

  She pressed enter and saw his Facebook account, Instagram, and Twitter. She also had those accounts, so she should check his out. His Facebook settings were private. Strike one.

  She checked out Instagram next. A ton of pictures splayed on his page—mostly of the Shenandoah Valley. Sunsets. Cows. Barns. She scrolled down farther. Okay. Finally photos of people. A group of young people who Brynn assumed were other workers on the farm. They were sitting around a fire. Her heart sank. This poor young man. He appreciated the beauty of the area and had friends. She scrolled down even farther. Photos of a young woman, a beautiful young woman. Wasn’t that Chelsea? She enlarged the photo. Yes, yes, it was.

  This one young woman seemed to be the common denominator for all the trouble. So why weren’t the police focused on her, instead of Wes?

  Perhaps they were and Brynn didn’t know. After all, why would she? But it seemed as if the young woman didn’t have a care in the world. She was happily on a date at the fair tonight. Brynn’s eyes burned. She yawned. Tomorrow was a big day. She should get some sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come easy. She didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she had a deep sense of foreboding. She wanted to ignore Helen and the way she frightened her. Brynn understood people like her existed, but she tried to steer clear of them. And she always felt like if she could sit down with them and talk, they’d change their minds about their views. But after being so close to Helen and seeing the fear and hatred in her eyes, Brynn wasn’t so sure of that anymore. She’d always chosen to seek the good in people. But she was struggling with finding it in Helen.

  “Some folks are just born bad,” Granny Rose used to say. “Ain’t nothing you can do about it, Brynn, except stay away from them.”

  Helen was old enough to know better and was probably beyond help. But Chelsea was another matter altogether. She had a good family, as far as Brynn knew. What prompted her to be so man crazy? People were complex and there were no easy answers, but usually young women who slept around had daddy issues. And Josh was decent.

  A weird tingle swept through her. You never knew what happened behind closed doors. Maybe he wasn’t as good of a father as Brynn assumed. She didn’t want to follow that trail in her mind. No. She’d keep believing in him and knowing he’d never hurt anybody.

  * * *

  The next morning, she and Wes worked together like a well-oiled machine. Got the cows milked, fed, and out, ate breakfast, and headed to the fairground. The carnival rides and such didn’t open until the late afternoon. But the rest of the fair opened at nine. Brynn and Wes got to their cheese shed at seven thirty in order to prepare and to greet the contestants.

  Everything appeared to be in order. The temperature of the building was correct and all the lined shelves and tables were the way Brynn had
imagined them. She loved the look of that brown linen fabric lining the shelves.

  She and Wes swept the floor and dusted and tidied up—when it comes to cheese, you can’t be too clean.

  Brynn heard laughter and chattering at the door, then a knock. When she opened it, there stood two people carrying bags and platters.

  “Hello,” Brynn said. “I’m Brynn MacAlister and this is Wes Scors.”

  “Wes!” The white-haired woman ran to him. “I knew your grandmother! I miss her so much!” She grabbed him and hugged him. He looked over her shoulder with a quizzical glance at Brynn. “She was involved with the local blood donation center. I’m a nurse, was, I mean. I’ve retired, but I volunteer at the bloodmobile.”

  “How nice of you,” Wes said, recovering his composure. “What do you have there?”

  “Cheese,” she said, laughing, holding up her bag. Wes took over and led her to the tables. Brynn turned to the other person standing there. A young man with dreadlocks swept off his head by a bandanna.

  “Hi, I’m Rad,” he said. “Here for the cheese contest.” He was soft-spoken and had a respectful air about him.

  “Nice to meet you, Rad,” Brynn said. “What do you have there?”

  “I’ve been experimenting with an Asiago,” he said. “I don’t expect to win the contest, but I’m looking for feedback.”

  Brynn smiled. She loved that attitude. “You’ll get plenty of that. We’ll make sure of it.” She and Rad placed his cheese on the shelf and looked around. “Cool building.”

  “Yeah, we thought it was a good option.” Brynn handed him a form to fill out, a questionnaire about his cheese, and ingredients, as she spotted a new group of cheesemakers entering.

  She was thrilled to see such an interest in cheesemaking, hoping this contest might be a yearly draw for the fair. As more and more people entered, a wave a gratitude moved through her—maybe this whole thing with Wes wasn’t as big a deal as she figured. People trickled in for the contest—maybe they hadn’t even heard about the problems he was having, or the murder. Who knew? She felt a deep sigh of relief and focused on the task at hand.

  Chapter 18

  Cheese competitions at fairs were never as popular as the pie contest. Brynn knew that, and the crowd wasn’t nearly as big as she would have liked. But still, there was a crowd, and it was the first year of what she hoped to be the start of a long tradition.

  She took in the group, a mix of ages and genders. Cheese touched everybody, as Grandma Rose used to say. Didn’t matter who you were, there was a cheese for you. When Brynn met someone who didn’t like cheese, she was immediately suspicious. Not being able to eat cheese for health reasons—or ethical reasons—was one thing. But not liking it? She’d never understand.

  Brynn eyed the cheddar. Uniform, with no irregular finishes, no waves or lumps. Good body and sound-looking texture. Perfect creamy orange color. She bored a hole into it. She sliced a piece and brought it to her nose. She loved the tangy scent of a good cheddar. She bit into it.

  The smooth cheese crumbled nicely in her mouth and the flavor popped. Cheddar finish with a distinct note of butterscotch or butter caramel on upper back of palate.

  This was a beautifully crafted cheddar. She glanced at the tag: “Mary Rogers, Waynesboro, Va.” She scanned the crowd in an attempt to figure out who Mary was. Was she the short, birdlike woman, dressed in a tracksuit? Or was she the tall, curvy woman with long gray hair, wearing jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt? Or perhaps she was the woman with a pageboy wearing a long denim skirt?

  Whoever she was, Brynn was enamored.

  The cheddar was the third cheese she’d tasted, and while the others were fine, this was extraordinary. She bit an apple slice to cleanse her palate and took a drink of water. She wanted more, of course—but she had fifteen other cheeses to sample. She filled out her judging form and moved on to the next, passed a cowboy-hat-wearing man who seemed to be watching her intently. He nodded at her as she walked by. She smiled politely.

  She glanced at Wes, happily tasting cheese, and eyed her next tasting—Parmigiano-Reggiano—brought by Sophia D’Amico.

  Brynn fancied any sort of Parmigiano cheese. Crowned the king of cheeses, it’s an Italian pureblood cheese—sharp, intense, and full-bodied in taste. She eyed it as a block of cheese. Firm but a bit granular and crystallized as it should be—because that happened when this cheese aged a bit. And it should age at least twelve months because the secret to its iconic flavor lies in its maturation. The cheese flavor lingered in her mouth—delicious, but not as extraordinary as the cheddar.

  Brynn was mulling over the medley of flavors in her mouth, took a bite of an apple, and a scream interrupted her. She whipped around toward the noise. A small group of people gathered around something on the floor. She rushed over, elbowing her way in.

  Wes! Why was he lying on the floor?

  “Oh my God!” someone said. “He’s been shot!”

  What? That couldn’t be? Was this some sick joke? Shot? Fear tore through Brynn. What was going on?

  “I’ll call 9-1-1!” another voice said.

  Brynn’s heart raced as she kneeled on the floor next to him. “Wes! Wes.” His eyes rolled around, as if he was trying to stay awake. “Get him,” he said, barely coherent.

  “What? Who?” Brynn’s focus zoomed in on him. She brushed hair off his forehead. “Wes? What happened?”

  “Dreadlocks,” Wes said before he passed out.

  “Did he say ‘dreadlocks’?” the cowboy-hat man asked over Brynn’s shoulder.

  Numb, Brynn nodded.

  “I know that little jerk,” the man said. “I’m going to get his ass.”

  The next thing Brynn knew, the man was gone and the medic arrived on the scene, shooing everybody away. Time was moving in drips and waves. The building swayed as a man’s arm lifted her to her feet. She was covered in a sticky substance. Dark. Blood! Everywhere. The floor was covered as well.

  As the paramedics lifted Wes onto the stretcher, Brynn wobbled, with a man behind her holding her up. “Brynn,” he said. She turned to see Mike Rafferty trying to catch her before her head thwacked the floor and all went black.

  * * *

  When she awakened, she was on a stretcher, being wheeled into the hospital. She tried to sit up, but straps prevented it. Why was she on a stretcher? She’d just passed out, for God’s sake. Flashes of Wes’s face in agony sprang to her mind.

  “Wes,” she said to the paramedic next to her. “Is Wes okay?”

  “Who?”

  “The young man who was shot?”

  The paramedic didn’t answer as they wheeled her into the room, unstrapped her, and transferred her to a bed. The room spun. Pain shot through her head.

  “Do you know? How is Wes Scors?” Her stomach roiled from the movement.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. All I know is you have a nasty concussion, thirteen stitches in your head. You’re going to need to take it easy for a while.”

  She must have hit her head on the ground when she fainted. Brynn’s stomach soured. “Think I’m going to be sick,” she said right before he handed her a pan.

  * * *

  Brynn heard faraway voices, reminding her of a game she played as a kid with tin cans. Pretending they were phones. She suddenly wanted her mother.

  “Will she be okay?” A woman’s voice.

  “She has a concussion. It’s going to take some time. But she’ll be okay.” A man’s voice.

  Pain thudded in Brynn’s temples.

  “Did they get the guy?” Another man’s voice.

  She tried to lift her eyelids. But they were too heavy. Voices kept sounding.

  “I believe so.” A woman’s voice.

  Something in Brynn’s mind eased, gave way, and she drifted off.

  Light shone in her eyes, which prompted her to awaken. She batted her eyes. The light was coming from outside. Sunlight streamed into the room. She turned her face away from it and saw Schuyler curled up
on a chair in the corner. “Schuyler?”

  She shot up out of the chair.

  “Brynn. How are you feeling?”

  “The light . . . hurts.”

  Schuyler walked over to the window and pulled the curtains shut.

  “What happened?”

  Schuyler smiled and leaned over the bed. “You passed out and conked your head.”

  Memories slowly waved into her brain. The cheese contest. Wes.

  “Wes?”

  “He’s going to be fine. Superficial wound, but he did bleed a lot. I had no idea you are so skittish about blood.”

  All the blood. Everywhere. “Me either,” Brynn said, grimacing as a shot of pain moved through her head. “Who shot Wes?”

  “It was Rad.”

  The nurse walked in. “Hello, I’m Sherry, your nurse. I need to take your vitals. I won’t be but a moment.” She slipped a blood pressure cuff on Brynn.

  “Should I know him?” Brynn asked Schuyler.

  Schuyler shook her head. “No. Not unless you’ve wanted to score some crack or something.”

  The blood pressure cuff tightened and then loosened as the nurse read the dial. Then she slipped it off.

  “How does someone like that know Wes?”

  “I don’t think he did. He heard Wes killed Donny and was stoned out of his mind and went off on a tangent, thought he was a vigilante.” Schuyler crossed her arms.

  The nurse slipped her fingers onto Brynn’s wrist and watched her pulse.

  Brynn and Schuyler quieted. After the nurse was done and walked out of the room, Schuyler sat down on the edge of Brynn’s bed. “This has been crazy.”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “They have a guard posted at Wes’s room for his protection. Do you believe it’s come to that?”

  Brynn’s heart raced. He was such a great kid and had wanted to find a place and people he could belong with. He thought he found it with Brynn and in Shenandoah Springs. Who knew about a racist element here?

  “It’s bizarre.”

  “His dad is coming to visit,” Schuyler said. “He’s fit to be tied.”