Going Organic Can Kill You (31 page)

Authors: Staci McLaughlin

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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Esther finished catching her breath. “I know they run away a lot, but they’re so darn cute. And the kids love them so.”

I didn’t point out that we’d had no more than three kids stay with us. Besides, she was right: the ducks were pretty cute.

Esther patted my arm. “You’re always such a dear, Dana. Would you round them up with me?”

I looked at Zennia to see if she needed my assistance with breakfast, but she waved her hand in a shooing motion.

“Call me quackers, but I’ll help,” I said.

Zennia chuckled as I walked out the kitchen door, Esther shadowing me through the herb garden. No little ducks hiding under the mint leaves. I stopped at the tool shed for an empty cardboard box, then wandered by the pool area.

The surface of the water was as smooth as the patio tables. I craned my neck to peek under the chaise longues in case the ducks had decided to seek refuge from the summer heat, but the space was empty.

I suspected the ducklings were entertaining the pigs again, but I held out hope they’d still be waddling down the sidewalk and we could intercept them. No such luck. One glance at the pigsty showed little yellow feathers coated in mud and only God knew what else, although I had a pretty good idea.

I placed my hand on the top railing. The fence around the sty was the same style as the slat fence around the pond out front. Three rails with large gaps in between. “Ever think of enclosing the ducklings in a more escape-proof fence? Maybe add a bottom board to keep them in?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to the precious little things,” Esther said. “Then they’d feel like prisoners.”

“We could give them an hour of yard exercise every day. Isn’t that what they do in real prisons?”

Esther tittered. “Oh, Dana, you’re a hoot.”

I hadn’t actually been kidding, but apparently Esther wasn’t keen on fencing in her pets. I scanned the area near the gate for the rubber boots that usually sat there, but the boots were missing. Someone had probably left them at the chicken coop or off in the vegetable garden. Not the first time the boots had walked away.

With a resigned sigh, I slipped off my sandals, opened the gate to the sty, and placed one bare foot into the muck. Mud and mystery objects, cool and slimy, squeezed between my toes. I shuddered as I added my other foot to the mixture, ready to catch these fuzzy felons and get out of the pen.

Wilbur, an occasional escapee himself, snorted at me. The four other pigs started a backup chorus of squeals and snuffles. Joy.

I grabbed the least muddy duckling, careful not to squeeze too hard, and handed it off to Esther, who dipped the duck in a nearby bucket of water and placed it in the cardboard box. I grabbed another duck, and we repeated the process.

By the fifth bird, my hands and wrists were covered in mud, the brown goo inching toward my elbows. The sixth pooped in my hand, but really, what difference did it make at this point?

I looked around the pen for the final escapee, not seeing any yellow peeking through the brown. The pigs had quieted down and now huddled in a group at the far side of the pen, watching the day’s entertainment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Wilbur was smirking as he watched me play the farm’s version of hide-and-seek.

Movement caught my attention across the pen. A brown blob crept toward the fence and the freedom beyond the rail. I caught Esther’s eye and jerked my head toward the duckling just as I heard the first strains of my cell’s ringtone coming from my pocket.

I raised my gunk-covered hands and continued to listen as Coldplay got louder, wondering who was calling at this exact moment. Oh well, if it was important, they’d call back.

I took two steps toward the moving blob, the pigs shuffling and snorting in nervous anticipation. These pigs really needed more excitement in their lives.

Chris Martin started singing again. I abandoned the errant duckling and slopped over to the gate, ignoring the sucking sounds from my feet. I snatched a nearby rag from a fence post, rubbed my hands mostly clean, and gingerly slid my phone from my pocket. The display showed my home number. Ashlee should be at work by now, leaving only Mom to call me here. But she was old-school when it came to interrupting someone’s workday. This might be serious after all.

I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear, crinkling my nose at a whiff of pig smells.

“Dana,” Mom said, her voice clearly strained. “I need you home right now. Your sister’s in trouble.”

“What’s wrong with Ashlee?” I asked, the grip on my phone tightening as I ran down a mental list of possibilities. Had she crashed her car again? Been fired? Gotten in a fistfight down at the Prescription for Joy drugstore over the last tube of Cotton Candy lipstick?

“It’s Bobby Joe,” Mom said, the words spilling out so fast, I expected them to drip from the receiver.

I sighed, not hiding my exasperation. “Is she still upset about that? She told me last night that they weren’t even serious. Tell her to find some new guy at work today, and she’ll forget all about Bobby Joe.”

The pause on the other end made me wonder if my cell service had cut out, something that happened often at the farm.

Then I heard Mom again, her voice practically a whisper.

“He’s dead.”

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7973-6