The Case of the Ill-Gotten Goat by Claudia Bishop Page B

haven’t any definitive studies yet.”
    â€œI’m more familiar with the meat goat breeds,” I admitted. “Savannas, Boers, and of course, the ubiquitous Spanish. The dairy has Saanens, primarily?” Saanens are known for producing a gallon of milk a day with dependable regularity.
    â€œSaanens, Toggs, and Alpines.”
    â€œToggenburgs,” I said. “An attractive goat, if memory serves. But not a great deal of butter fat, surely?”
    â€œThere’s exceptions to every rule, Austin. Researchers know that better than anyone does. For a while there, Doucetta played around with outcrossing, trying to create a breed that’d combine the best characteristics of the standards and eliminate the worst, but she couldn’t see an immediate return, so she stopped. She’s a cash-on-the-nail-head kind of lady.”
    â€œYou suspect sabotage, you said? There must be surer ways of putting her out of business.”
    â€œWith so many variables affecting the MSCC in goats, who’s to say it isn’t just bad luck? It’d be hard to catch somebody who’s clever at it. You don’t even believe it.”
    â€œYou do, apparently.”
    â€œThat’s right. I do. And since you’ve got that look in your eye, all I can tell you is that it just doesn’t feel right. The pattern’s too persistent. There’s no fluctuation in the readings. They’re consistently a hundred thousand over a million. And there should be fluctuation. The only set of conditions I know of at the moment that reliably produces a higher count is mastitis, and there isn’t any. All the other factors would give you an up and down count from sample to sample.” Neville got up and moved restlessly around the lawn. “As for why—well, Doucetta’s made a lot of enemies in her lifetime. Aren’t there supposed to be three basic motives for crime? Greed, lust, and revenge? Thanks to Doucetta, the dairy’s awash in ’em.”
    I mused. There was a great deal to think about. The yellow pad in my lap was covered with notes, including double underlines, which indicated those possible motives.
    Greed. Lust. Revenge.
    â€œI see Madeline,” Neville said, with the cheerful note that almost always attends those who speak of my wife. “And she’s carrying lunch!”
    I set the yellow pad aside. I was as ready as I could be for my appearance at the scene of the crime tomorrow.
    And I hadn’t the least notion of where to begin.

Six
    â€œ A ND what do you think you’re doing here, arsehole?” Doucetta stood at the dairy door, feet planted wide, with cane held crosswise to bar my team from entry.
    The morning was not beginning well.
    It was seven thirty, and the air was thick with the bleats of does waiting for their turn in the milking. A light rain was falling on the Tre Sorelle Dairy. Although I had passed by the place many times, I had never actually been on the premises.
    It was even more impressive close up than from the roadside.
    The dairy buildings and creamery formed a T that was at right angles to the long metal shed barns that housed the goats. The office and the milking parlor formed the bar of the T and faced the courtyard; the creamery where the cheese was made formed the shank. Both the house on the hillside overlooking the dairy and dairy buildings were constructed of pale pink stucco now dampened slightly with the misty rain. Building maintenance in a commercial farming operation is a continuous problem and frequently neglected. I was impressed to see that the worn spots in the stucco were neatly patched. One of the long wrought-iron scones was detached from the wall near the office door and the wall patching was in process, but at least the work was being done.
    Wisteria wound around the eaves and the window jambs. The drive—more of a courtyard if one considered the fountain chiming in the center of the brick