Элизабет Чандлер: The Back Door of Midnight

“You could ask her the problem,” he said hopefully. “You could ask her what she would like me to do. I just can’t figure out what’s botherin’ her. Her appetite’s off. She’s getting nasty with the other goats, even her sister, Daisy, here.”

“Did you take her to a vet?”

He nodded. “Can’t find anything wrong with her, just her usual dental problems — always had them. I give her special food.”

“Well, I’m sorry she’s unhappy, but—”

“Maybe you could just get down with her for a minute,” he said.

“Get down?”

“Like Iris does. Get down on her level, close your eyes, and listen to her mind.”

“But I know nothing about goats. Until now I’ve only seen them at petting zoos.”

“They’re not much different than us,” he replied. “They just can’t speak English. But I understand. I’ll wait. Sooner or later, Iris will remember.”

I glanced toward the property next door.

A stocky, white-haired woman stood at a tall gate in the hedge, watching us. She was dressed in black and white, the outfit of a household employee. I wondered if Zack’s stepmother had sent her out to see what progress was being made. Well, it wasn’t my problem.

But I did feel sorry for Maria and walked over to see if she would let me pet her. When I leaned down to her, she lifted her head slightly. Whew! Talk about bad breath!

“I think you should brush after meals,” I said, and moved around to the side of her, where the smell wasn’t as strong.

She rolled an eye toward me.

“Not feeling so good, huh?”

She made a soft bleating sound.

“Feeling kind of cranky? And everybody else, instead of being nice to you, gets mad at you because they expect you to be your happy self all the time, like you’re just there for them and haven’t got any problems of your own?”

Another bleat.

“Iris usually kneels and lays her head against Maria’s,” the man called to me.

Grateful that my friends in Baltimore couldn’t see me, I knelt, but I was not going to put my head against a goat’s.

So what is it? I asked, silently, of course — I’m not crazy.

If I were a goat, why would I be making myself miserable, staying apart from the others? Maybe they were dissing her.

Dental problems gave you bad breath, breath that might be foul even to a sister goat. I studied her skinny little chin.

Are they giving you a hard time about the way you smell? Those mean old goats! And I bet some people haven’t been so nice either.

She blinked, and had I believed in psychic connections, I would have thought she had just said yes.

Do you like to be petted? I’m not going to hurt you. I reached up, lightly touched her back, then stroked her. She turned to look at me full in the face, and I stopped breathing.

Whew!

Guess it has been a while since anyone has wanted to pet you face-to-face. Maybe that’s part of the problemyou’re feeling unloved, taken for granted. How about if I tell your owner that?

I stood up, opened my mouth to suck in a big gulp of air and snort the smell out of my nose, then walked over to the man beneath the tree.

As I delivered my report, he squinted at the goat and nodded in agreement. “You know, the grandkids have been around a lot since school let out, and they like the goatsthe others, not her. Never thought about it till now. She’s hurtin’ for attention, with that bad breath and all.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a cracked leather wallet, and I realized that he was going to pay me. I waved my hand. “No money.”

“But I pay Iris,” he insisted.

I couldn’t take money for making up stuff. “I’m just learning,” I said. “I can’t take money while I’m learning.”

“Well. . well, I thank you. And Maria thanks you. Come on, you silly girl. I’ll give you a nice grooming when we get home.”

He herded his goats toward the long end of the house, and I figured the horse trailer parked out front was his. I also figured that Maria’s problems would prove easier to solve than Aunt Iris’s.

“Nicely done.”

I turned quickly and saw Zack sitting on the back step leading to the hall door. As I walked toward him, I could feel my cheeks getting warm, and I willed them not to. “I thought you went home.”

He smiled. “No, I walked around the side of the house. I was curious.” He jumped up and held open the screen door to the hall. “May I?”

What PBS miniseries had he hatched from? I didn’t know a single guy under thirty-five who would hold a door and ask to come in by saying, May I?

He followed me into the house. “Are you psychic?” he asked.

“No.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me again, considering my response. His eyes were the same kind of changeable blue as the creek. They were dangerous eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“Very. I arrived today expecting my uncle to be alive, hoping to spend a summer with him. That’s how psychic I am.”

Now his face grew serious. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. . No one told you?”

“According to Aunt Iris, Uncle Will always forgets to mention the important things.” I laughed, but Zack gazed at me, brow furrowed. “That was a joke,” I said, “although she really seems to have expected him to inform me of his death.”

“No one told your parents?”

I didn’t feel like explaining my family. “No.”

“Do you want to borrow my cell phone and call someone?” For the first time he was less than smooth. He reached in one pocket then another, fumbling for his phone.

“I’ve got a zillion minutes—”

“No thanks. Mine’s charging.”

He nodded and put the iPhone back in his pocket. “Will you be staying the summer? Will somebody else be coming to help you?”

“I don’t know. My family’s on vacation, and I have a lot of things to figure out.” I looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “What do you know about my uncle’s death?”

Zack didn’t move, but I saw him pull back from the question. “What do I know?”

“Aunt Iris says he was burned in the trunk of a car.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“And that it happened Wednesday night.”

“It did.” He sounded cautious, like a lawyer being interviewed by a TV reporter.

“If you’re worried about telling me something gory or morbid, just spill it. I’m going to learn what happened one way or another, the sooner the better.”

“I don’t know much,” he said.

I took a gamble, remembering my dream. “Were some kids there? Was it a party thing?”

“That’s what they’re investigating. There have been three other fires — arsons — which the police think were set by a group of kids just fooling around.”

“Murder’s not just fooling around!” The anger in my voice surprised me.

Even with his tan, I saw the red creep into Zack’s face. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”

He was holding back something, I could sense it. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You should talk with Sheriff McManus. His office is on the corner of Jib and Water Streets. I’ve got to go now.”

“I will talk to him,” I said as Zack headed for the door, “but I get the feeling you know something he doesn’t.”

Turning back for a moment, Zack gave me a half smile.

“And you said you weren’t psychic.”

WHILE AUNT IRIS was out, I checked out the rest of the house, searching for anything that might indicate what had happened to Uncle Will and what he had wanted to tell me.

The living room, full of lumpy chairs with worn fabric, lay to the right of the stairs and center hall. The only thing I remembered in it was the tall grandfather clock. The dining room, to the left of the stairs, was smaller than I recalled. In the center hall, a table hugged the wall beneath a long and tarnished mirror. The phone on the table was old. Lifting the clunky receiver, I heard a reassuring dial tone.