The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat by Claudia Bishop Read Free Book Online Page B

and as soon as the inflammation in the hooves died down, our farrier would begin the slow process of reshaping the hoof. With luck, she’d be sound for light hacking, but only time would tell.
    Lincoln was at my side, keeping a sapient eye on the pony’s behavior. We have three horses of our own: Ally’s Tracker, Andrew, my elderly Quarterhorse, and a Shetland named simply Pony. Horses are herd animals, and they prosper only in the company of others. As Sunny became more comfortable, she would join the others for company. For now, Lincoln himself was on the job. From the way she bared her teeth at the collie, she didn’t see it as a privilege.
    â€œMurder, indeed.” I turned my attention from the pony’s problems to those of the late milk inspector, Melvin Staples. We had done all we could for the pony. Now it was time to do what we could for the deceased.
    â€œHe didn’t drown without help,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see Simon Provost leaning against the arena wall, arms folded across his chest. The Summersville chief of detectives is a man of modest demeanor and a deceptively mild expression. I greeted him with pleasure.
    â€œSimon! I had intended to look you up. And here you are. This is fortuitous.”
    â€œYou got a minute, Doc?”
    â€œI do,” I said cordially. “Shall we repair to the office?”
    I had purchased the thirty-acre farm called Sunny Skies some forty years ago, when I had first come to Cornell as an associate professor. The barns, the indoor arena, and the paddocks were the primary attraction. It was only upon my marriage that the house and gardens began to flourish into the comfortable place that they are today, under the attentions of my wife. The outbuildings have always been splendid. The barn has twelve stalls, attached at an L to the large indoor arena. The clinic is housed in the former tack room. It is well, if modestly, equipped. There is a small office, where I receive the occasional client, a room and a toilet in back, where Joe makes his quarters, and a operating-cum-examination room with a clinic chemical analyzer, an X-ray machine, and various other necessities I picked up as Cornell shed equipment outdated for its purposes.
    I ushered Simon into the office and sat in the tattered desk chair that has been my companion for almost fifty years. The detective settled into the chair by my desk with a grunt. Joe leaned against the wall. Lincoln nosed the office door open and settled at my feet.
    Cases Closed, Inc., had a quorum. We were ready for business.
    Provost looked me straight in the eye. “Now, Doc, I don’t want you getting any ideas about investigating this murder.”
    â€œSo it is officially a murder, then?”
    â€œCause of death hasn’t been legally established, no. But he either drowned or died of the blow to the head. We’ll know for sure after the coroner’s report. Body’s off to Syracuse for the forensics.”
    â€œI, of course, am not certified to examine the corpses of Homo sapiens, but if you like me to take a look on an informal basis…”
    â€œNo, Doc, I wouldn’t. And neither would the State of New York. That half-baked company of yours—what d’ya call it?”
    â€œCases Closed.”
    â€œRight. You have no legal standing. You’ve got that? You’re not even licensed.”
    I drew breath. Provost held up his hand in admonition. “I don’t want to hear it. That honorary deputy certificate I gave you may have been the biggest mistake of my professional life. You aren’t a detective, Doc. What you are is a damn good vet, from what I’ve seen and what everyone tells me….”
    â€œReally?” I said, pleased. “Who is everyone?”
    â€œYou know. Everyone. It’s a well-known fact.”
    â€œMy colleagues at Cornell? No? Of course. My newspaper column, Ask Dr. McKenzie!”
    Simon rubbed his hands