“Can you check for a pulse?” she said and rubbed her bare arms. She had to keep hope alive.
“Do I look like a vet?” He bent for a better look. He poked its round belly. She didn’t move. “Nope, it’s dead.”
Harper shuddered and glanced at the house. There was no sign of life. Thank God. Running down their goat was not the best way to start contact with Gerald’s parents. Maybe they could put it in the hatchback before anyone noticed.
“You have to do something.”
“Me?” He frowned. She was somewhat certain she saw a hint of amusement that he quickly hid. “You ran it over. Why don’t you try CPR?”
“I’m not doing CPR on a goat.” She glanced at the car and bent down. The poor thing. “You do it.”
Before Noah could respond, the noise of a screen door slammed shut brought them upright. A tall, rawboned, elderly woman in a baggy denim shirt, loose brown workpants, and grimy rubber boots stepped to the edge of the porch.
“Knock it off, Harriet!” she yelled and stomped a foot. The goat twitched, flailed her hooves, and rolled to her feet. She baa’d and raced off for the barn at a rapid clip.
Harper gaped. “I told you I didn’t hit her,” she stated with a flood of relief. Thankfully, goat CPR was off the table.
Noah chuckled. Suspicion welled.
“You butt-face!” she exclaimed and socked him in the arm. “You knew she wasn’t dead.”
He snorted and rubbed the spot. “Butt-face? You haven’t called me that since elementary school.”
She spun away from him. “And you deserved it. You called my shoes ugly.” The only time he’d talked to her before senior year was that one time in the hallway outside of Mrs. Stanley’s math class. He’d earned the insult.
“They were ugly shoes.”
“They were not.” She gritted her teeth. “Don’t we have a case to investigate?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
How had she ever fallen for such an annoying man?
Harriet ran by, chasing a butterfly.
“Most of those goats only faint for a couple seconds,” the woman called after she’d waited patiently for them to stop squabbling. “Harriet is a drama queen.”
A dramatic goat? Harper blinked. Day one of the investigation and she’d dropped into the Twilight Zone.
Recovering from the near fatal goat collision, she led the way to the white-washed porch. The woman frowned down at them, but her eyes locked on Harper. She was closer to Irving’s age than Harper first thought. Well into her eighties.
She stepped forward. “Do I know you?”
“We’re PI’s investigating the Gerald Covington case,” Noah interjected. “Are you Fanny Covington, Gerald’s mother?”
Pale gray eyes went steely-hard. “That’s where I know you. From the news.” She ignored the question and pointed an arthritic finger at Harper as if casting an ancient curse upon Harper’s head. “You murdered my grandson.”
Chapter 8
“I didn’t—” Harper stopped in mid-sentence as the woman glowered down at her from her lofty perch. She couldn’t bring herself to argue with a grieving relative, even if the older woman was wrong. Plus she looked ready to kick Harper’s behind. In a matchup, Harper wasn’t confident she’d win.
Worse, that crooked finger was up to something. She felt a twitch in her lower extremities. Had her ovaries shriveled up? Would she wake up tomorrow with hideous boils all over her body?
Didn’t ancient curses usually involve infertility or children born bearing a pronounced cave-dweller-type forehead and a hairy back hump? If this woman had some sort of mystical power, Harper was in serious trouble.
Noah stepped up and the finger dropped. Her ovaries stopped twitching. Thank goodness.
“I’m Noah Slade.” He reached up a hand. The still unnamed woman stared a few beats at his handsome mug. Her heavily lined face softened slightly. Noah clearly had a knee-wobbling effect on women of all ages. “And you must be Gerald’s grandmother, Estelle.”
“I am.” She took his hand. That explained the large gap in ages between Gerald and Estelle.
When Noah said he did research, it must have included extra branches of the family tree.
“Are Gerald’s parents around?” he said.
“They moved to Ibiza last year to join a cult of chanting toga wearers.” She shook his hand. “What do you want Mr. Slade?”
“As I said, I’m investigating the murder and am trying to find out what I can about your grandson. I’ll welcome anything that’ll help me find his killer.”
“Other than her?” Leveling a withering scowl at Harper, Estelle shifted and walked to a long bench on the porch. She dropped onto it with a small grunt. Her knees popped with the effort. “With her arrested, the case is closed.”
Harper bit her lip and remained silent.
“All of the facts have not come out,” he said patiently. “I hope that you’ll be objective and go over all the evidence with an open mind before making a judgment.”
Yes. He was good.
The senior harrumphed and indicated a spot next to her. Noah sat, leaving a place on the end for Harper. She chose to stand and leaned against a porch post, out of the direct sight of the other woman. No sense inciting her temper. She couldn’t take the risk of another dose of finger curse.
If Gerald’s grandmother was anything like him, who knew what could happen. Even if she wasn’t a witch, Estelle might push her off the porch. She looked mean.
“I don’t know what evidence you need,” the woman said as she shifted to peer-scowl at Harper. “It sounds like the police have their suspect picked out.”
Noah nodded. “I agree, she does look guilty, but there are issues with the case.” He ignored Harper’s frown. “Gerald was a big man and Harper is, what, a hundred and twenty-five pounds? It’s hard to imagine her getting the jump on your grandson.”
“Have you seen the movie Carrie?” Estelle countered. “A bitty thing can do a lot of damage. And she has shifty eyes. Killers have those kinds of eyes.”
Harper wanted to tell her that her eyes were not shifty, and furthermore, she did not have the psychic ability to move objects with her mind.
The woman was obviously off her rocker.
Noah flicked a quick glance at Harper. “Yes, well, Carrie aside, as a former member of law enforcement, I like to line up the clues into a solid package before I commit to sending someone to prison for life.”
Estelle’s eyes bore into him. The rusty cogs in her mind were grinding. She finally spoke, “Are you two having sex?”
As if that’s the only reason anyone would be on Harper’s side! “No, we are not having sex.”
“Are you sure?” the woman pressed.
Harper lost it. “It may have been fifty years since you’ve seen a naked man, but I do know sex well enough to know that Noah and I are not having any.”
For a minute, she thought Estelle was about to do the finger thing again. Instead a gleam filled her eyes. “You have a short temper, missy. No wonder you’re suspect numero uno.”
A tug on her pant leg cut off a curt reply. Harper looked down to see the fainting goat munching on her jeans leg with her funky goat