Homicide at Emu Lodge

By June Whyte

The week leading up to Christmas should be fun, but when mobile-veterinarians, Dr. Emily Harrison and Dr. Maggie Post encounter an angry arachnid as big as a small dog, they decide it’s no fun at all – especially as the eight-legged creepy-crawly is found guarding a dead body.

Who hated the bullying agent enough to kill her? Her boss, Edward G. Peters, the best-selling horror author whose Modus Operandi in his latest book is identical to the crime? Or the author’s cook who is protecting a shady secret between her boss and the deceased? Or the edgy young cleaner who’s living a lie, the TV guy with a hidden agenda, or the scruffy burglar caught breaking into Emu Lodge the day before the murder?

Once again, the two amateur sleuths find themselves deep in the middle of another baffling mystery. However, when Maggie’s daughter gets caught up in the killer’s sights and Fat Santa threatens to blow them away if they don’t butt out, both Maggie and Emily wonder if maybe the stakes are too high.

That is until Maggie wakes to find herself surrounded by spiders…

• Language: English
• Publisher: June Whyte Books
• Release date: Jan 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648254294

June Whyte

A former school teacher, competitive horse rider, and greyhound trainer, June Whyte has always dreamed of being an author.She wrote her first full-length story (with chapters) when she was nine-years-old - Donald McDonald in Texas - a story involving a rather extraordinary boy who rode buck-jumpers in a rodeo.And when she penned her first murder mystery, Murder Behind Bars, it resulted in her fifth-grade teacher questioning her home life.Even now, in retirement, June's favorite spot is sitting in front of her computer, drawing on her knowledge of greyhounds and horses to create humorous mysteries for both adults and younger teens.

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www.junewhytebooks.com

For writing friends, Robyn, Wendy and June K, for my beta reader, Nancy Gazo, and for my many readers. Without you, I’d be knitting scarves for my dog, Yolo, instead of making up exciting adventures for characters who turn into friends. Love you all to the moon and back.

1

Break-in at Emu Lodge

And do you know what that moron suggested?

Dr. Maggie Post grunted. Rivers of sweat, pure honey to the mass of buzzing flies, trickled down her forehead making it near-impossible to answer her colleague, best friend, and sister-in-law, Dr. Emily Harrison’s irate question.

A phone call from Emily’s lawyer five minutes earlier had set her friend off like a match to a petrol-soaked rag. However, Maggie, arm deep inside the warm interior of a Jersey cow, could only half-listen. She had much more important things to worry about than her brother, Peter’s, latest shenanigans. Instead, she pressed her chest hard up against Flossie’s back-end and strained to extend her fingers a fraction further into the cow’s birth canal.

Emily’s indignant voice continued to buzz in Maggie’s ear like the persistent flies she was in no position to swat. He says he wants us to visit a marriage counsellor before he’ll sign the divorce papers. Emily gave a high-pitched laugh that ended in a squeak. "A marriage counsellor? My soon-to-be-ex-husband is a lying cheating man-slut, we’ve been separated for almost a year, and now, on the eve of me winning a get-out-of-jail-free card, he wants to patch up our marriage? As. If."

Mmm… Maggie, afraid to open her mouth any further due to the closeness of the cow’s manure-slicked bottom, grunted again. She could never win when Emily got like this. And as for her bone-headed brother, Peter, she was close to disowning him.

Blocking Emily’s voice so she could concentrate, Maggie let her fingers do the exploring. Okay, there was definitely a calf inside, as expected, but she was blowed if she could find the critter’s head–or its feet. And in calving, the front feet should come out first, followed by the head.

Damn. Couldn’t be a normal birth, could it? Oh no, it had to be problematic, a challenge to their veterinary skills–like ninety-five percent of the calls they’d had that day, starting at 4am when an annoyed farmer rang to inform them that the medication given to his valuable breeding ram was sending it loco and to get out there pronto to stop said ram from tearing off its $50,000 assets on the sharp edges of the feed bin it was currently humping.

It was five days before Christmas and both Maggie and Emily had been enjoying the lead-up to a day spent eating and wrapping Christmas presents. Maggie’s twelve-year-old daughter, Judy, was home from boarding school chock-full of plans that involved shopping for last-minute presents, tree-hunting, singing carols and decorating the houseboat they currently lived on with Emily. A full month of fun and relaxation to look forward to before their next Vets2U assignment.

And then the local large animal vet, gnarled old Dr. Vincent, had gone and broken his leg. Something to do with his granddaughter trying to teach him to ski.

Of course, they couldn’t refuse to help out for a few days–just until his replacement arrived from further up the river. But what they hadn’t figured on was half the cows in the district going into labor and all having complications while calving.

To the accompaniment of a loud squashy-sounding slurp, Maggie withdrew her arm from the inner recesses of the cow and stood, hands on knees, attempting to get her breath back.

More trouble? Emily asked, her body language instantly switching from frustrated ex-wife back into professional veterinary mode. The thing with both Maggie and Emily was that sick animals always came first.

Yeah, looks like it, Maggie’s voice scratched at her throat like sandpaper on the skin of a newborn. The 38-degree summer sun shone overhead with the intensity of a skin-eating alien monster. It glared down on them from a cloudless sky and Maggie figured if they didn’t get this calf out of Flossie and find some shade soon, she’d end up as a puddle of goo in the middle of the sunburnt paddock.

She swigged a glug of what tasted like warm pond-scum from the water bottle Emily passed across and then shook her head. Don’t know why farmers can’t erect a tent in the paddock during summer for their poor longsuffering veterinarians to work under.

With maybe a couple of battery-operated fans switched on high.

And a giant thermos of something alcoholic, with lots of ice added.

Maggie caught Emily’s eye and they both let out a laugh. Actually, most farmers brought their stock into a shed or barn for birthing, but the last time they’d spotted their farmer was half an hour ago when he marched across the paddock in front of them. He’d pointed to the distraught cow restrained in a makeshift crush made out of spare bits of wood and iron and then stumped off in the direction of the house to repair the tractor. Probably with binder-twine and wire.

Maggie sighed as she dropped the now empty water bottle on the cracked ground and gave the agitated cow a reassuring pat on the rump. Sorry, Mama, but all I can feel in there is the tail, so it looks like your baby’s intent on coming out bum first. She shook sweat from her eyes and turned back to Emily with a sigh. I have to go back in and find those legs so we can get a tie on them.

Righto. Emily, completely in sync, selected a syringe from the leather vet bag and filled it with a local anesthetic, in readiness for an epidural.

The cow was growing even more restless in the crush. The whites of her eyes rolling, she pawed the ground, mooing plaintively, as if to say, ‘Hey, let me outta here! I’ve totally changed my mind about becoming a mother!’

I know how you feel, Maggie told the stressed-out cow as she took the sixteen-gauge needle from Emily. Too late now though, sweetie. Should have thought of that before fluttering your eye-lashes at that handsome bull. Maggie lifted the cow’s tail and ran her hand up its base, feeling for the articulations of the vertebrae where the tail met the body. Here we go. She directed the needle with its deadening anesthetic into the space around the spinal cord and when the tail went floppy and the cow settled, knew she’d hit the mark.

Want me to finish off, now? Emily asked, stepping forward. You look beat.

Nah, I’ll survive. Maggie shook her head and then glanced across at her best friend. Emily’s eyes were rimmed with red, her hair slick with sweat, and even her shoulders appeared ready to curl up and go to sleep. You don’t look up to doing a tap-dance routine yourself.

It had been a long day. After sorting out the testosterone over-loaded bull at sunrise, they’d gone on to perform a caesarian on a young heifer, treated several sick pigs, a horse caught on a barbed wire fence, a prized ram who’d broken his leg when he fell into a ditch and helped with the birthing of two lambs, four calves, a foal and a litter of piglets. Plus, there was the two hours all-up they’d spent traveling from farm to farm.

You’re right. I can barely lift my arms to scratch myself. Emily leant forward and gently wiped the sweat from Maggie’s face with a rag.

Don’t tell me that’s the same rag I used to wipe Flossie’s rear end five minutes ago? Maggie closed her eyes and screwed up her nose. She knew it was and tried not to gag at the rank smell of manure, dirt and blood that clogged her nostrils.

Okay, I won’t tell you. Emily poured half a bottle of iodine into a bucket of water and tossed her hair from her eyes. Anyway, stop bellyaching and get on with it. It’s not getting any cooler out here.

Okay, okay! I’m on it! Maggie passed Emily the empty syringe before dipping her arms into the bucket of dark yellow liquid, right up past the elbows to sterilize them. No gloves for this procedure, as she’d need all the feeling in her fingers to separate the bits of calf she’d be attempting to grab.

She rubbed some green lubricant onto her hands and straightened her shoulders before diving in again, right up to the armpit. From her back pocket she could feel her phone vibrating. No time for that now. First, she had to push the calf deeper into the uterus so she could feel around for the feet. There was so little room to move in there. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle, inside a box, blindfolded, and with one arm in a sling. With the side of her face slammed hard up against the black butt of the cow, she made one final effort. Yes! Her fingers found and fastened onto one leg. One leg that she was able to pull back, swing around and out.

Okay, Mags. I’m onto it! Moving in, Emily quickly attached a strap to the leg and hung on with both hands.

Maggie’s phone vibrated in her back pocket again as she carefully swung the second leg around. Ignoring the call, she helped Emily tug gently on both legs until the head appeared and a slimy black calf, no bigger than a child’s toy, arrived with a whoosh and what seemed like a gallon of amniotic fluid.

Oh, you darling… It didn’t matter how many baby animals Maggie helped bring into the world, every new birth made her throat constrict with amazement and threatened to make her cry. This time, however, out there under a blazing sun in a forty-acre dusty paddock affording no shade and no refreshments, there was so little liquid left in her tear ducts the most she could produce was a gentle sniff. She exchanged a grin with Emily as the calf took its first rattling breath and gave a sigh of relief when its little black chest began to rise and fall.

Before lifting the bar on the crush so Flossie could attend to her baby, Maggie treated the new mother with antibiotics, anti-inflammatories and a shot of oxytocin. After all, a foreign object–Maggie’s chubby right arm–had been busy ferreting around inside the cow’s birth canal a few minutes ago. As she swabbed the post-injection site, Maggie heard Emily’s phone ring and heard her friend say, "This is Emily Harrison of Vets2U. Oh…hello, Mrs. Carruthers What can I do for you?"

Maggie glanced over her shoulder and frowned. What did that old gossip want? Heart of gold and would do anything for you, but the woman was never happy unless she was listening to rumors, spreading rumors, or starting them. Mrs. Carruthers and her mild-mannered husband lived in a houseboat at the end of their wharf. And from day one, they reminded her of Gladys and Abner Kravitz, the retired couple who lived over the road from the Stephens in the 70’s tv show, Bewitched.

Medication complete, Maggie raised the bar on the crush and gave the cow a friendly slap on the rump. There you go, Flossie. Clean your baby up and see if she wants a feed.

"You saw her do what?"

Maggie peered across at Emily, whose voice had risen a couple of octaves. Her friend’s mouth was opening and shutting like a beached bass. Maggie sighed. It had been a long day and they didn’t need Mrs. Carruthers making it longer. "What’s she on about? Maggie asked as she deposited the empty syringes into their open vet bag before washing her arms in a clean bucket of soapy water. Who’s she picking on this time?"

Emily, mouth still open, gawped across at Maggie. Mrs. Carruthers says she saw Judy breaking into the big house over the road and–

"Judy? Maggie broke in with a snort. Has Mrs. Carruthers been smoking funny bacca? My daughter’s no burglar. She’s twelve years old and still reads pony books under the bedclothes by torchlight. That woman’s either winding us up or she’s itching to start another rumor. Maggie picked up a towel and rubbed her arms dry. Anyway, why ring you instead of me?"

Said she tried to but you weren’t answering your phone.

Maggie snorted again. How could I? My arm was inside a cow. And as for Judy breaking into a house–the woman’s delusional. She’s…

Take a look. Emily held her phone in the air so Maggie could see the screen.

Maggie stared at the zoomed-in picture of a young girl clad in hot pink jodhpurs and black Ariat riding boots. Judy. And she was scrambling through a side window of the creepy old mansion across from Emily’s houseboat. That’s it! She flung the towel in the air and felt a deep growl rising from her throat. I’m grounding that girl until she’s twenty-five!

Make it forty-five and throw in a ban on chocolate.

Maggie ran her fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. It didn’t make sense. Why would Judy break into the big old house belonging to the weird writer-guy? The hermit who also owned their house-boat berth and the horse-paddock they rented. The author who wrote sinister blood-soaked thrillers that kept readers awake all night and well into the next day. The mystery man who was never seen outside his house.

Edward G. Peters.

Intrigued and a little bit curious, last time she’d visited the local library, Maggie had decided to borrow and read the man’s latest book, called, ‘Terror in the Night’. It featured a psycho serial-killer who knew exactly how to kill humans without leaving a mark.

Maggie blinked at Emily and her breath shifted. And according to the photo captured by their rumor-mongering neighbor–Judy, her naïve and totally trusting daughter–was now inside this deranged man’s house.

2

Emu Lodge

Maggie sat bolt upright in the passenger seat of Emily’s little red Echo, eyes fastened on the road ahead. Why was Emily driving the car like a senior citizen? Why wasn’t she jamming her foot to the floor? Heart pounding as though she was running a marathon, muscles so taut she wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up with snapped tendons, she chewed on her bottom lip in an effort to focus. Anything to stop herself from falling apart.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The reality of this story did not compute. Maggie knew her daughter too well to believe she would willingly climb through a window like a common thief. And yet, the proof was in the photo captured by their busybody neighbor, Mrs. Carruthers.

And why wasn’t Judy answering her mobile? Since leaving the farm, Maggie had tried several times to reach her daughter, but every call went straight to voicemail. Her texts unanswered. Had Judy lost her phone? Or too busy updating her friends on Facebook? Maggie frowned. The reason she paid those exorbitant data fees every month was so she could always keep in touch with her daughter – not for Judy to lose herself on Facebook, or download movies and YouTube videos of the World Cup showjumping, or the best way to get your horse a hundred percent fit for its next competition, or...

Or was there a more sinister reason for Judy not answering her phone?

Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. Oh God, don’t let my daughter be hurt or in trouble with the police. Let this be a misunderstanding with a perfectly good explanation for whatever it is Judy’s supposed to have done. She opened her eyes and stared hard at her fingers, tightly clasped in her lap. What would Greg have thought of his daughter turning into a criminal? She bit her lip harder. If he’d still been alive he wouldn’t have let it happen. She sucked in a quick breath. Even after all these months, the grief for her law-enforcement husband who’d been shot dead in a drug bust gone wrong, was like a knife to the heart. Only two things had kept her