Eleven Little Piggies by Elizabeth Gunn Page A

all that slurry we’re pumping underground doing to the aquifers?’
    â€˜Not to mention how much people in the tourism industry hate those sand mines being dug near the Mississippi,’ Clint said. ‘Messing up the bluffs – hate it! But Maynard said to me, “Lotta farmers in this part of the country spent their lives struggling to pay the mortgage and taxes. Easy money’s hard to resist after years of hard labor”.’
    â€˜Easy money’s hard to resist no matter what you been doing,’ Andy said. ‘Who’s winning?’
    â€˜So far, in the Kester family it’s a draw. The parents say hold off a while, as a lot of counties have a moratorium on sand mining right now – they want to see how much the bidding goes up when that ends. They figure sooner or later the moratorium can’t last because the need for new sources of oil is so great and the profits so high, no government can hold out against exploiting it for long.’
    â€˜Maynard told you all this?’
    â€˜Yes. I told you, he’s a talker; he knows a good story when he hears one.’
    â€˜Or makes one up?’
    â€˜Most of what he told me has the ring of truth about it, it seemed to me. Ethan wants to sell now because he’s afraid Minnesota and Wisconsin have so much sand that pretty soon the price will go down. Doris and Matt both say they want whatever Owen wants, and Owen’s been saying, “over my dead body will anybody turn my beautiful River Farm into a sand pit”.’ Clint cocked one cynical eyebrow. ‘Looks like he got his wish.’
    â€˜My, my,’ I said. ‘You do give me interesting items to talk over with Ethan. Anything else happen outside while Rosie was inside doing what she was assigned to do?’
    Clint scowled over the cheap shot but answered anyway. ‘I don’t know where it fits in all this but there is something odd about that boy who ran into the house when the yelling started. The one Maynard says pokes his nose into everyone’s business but never talks.’
    â€˜Wait, now. Whose boy?’
    â€˜I don’t know, but he lives there. He talks funny; I couldn’t make out what he said. Once it sort of sounded like “Mama” but he looked too big to be saying that.’
    â€˜That’s Alan,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s her son.’
    â€˜What?’ Clint stared at her. ‘You sure? Who told you that?’
    â€˜The sausage ladies. I know – it’s hard to believe.’
    â€˜Boy, is it ever. A wimpy little weenie who won’t look anybody in the eye? He belongs to that tall, beautiful dame?’
    I said, ‘So he’s another member of the corporation?’
    â€˜Not exactly,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s Alan Kester, the bread lady’s strangely silent boy. The help out there say he’s autistic.’
    â€˜What’s that got to do with the case?’ Andy shook his notes impatiently as if they might have crumbs.
    â€˜Probably nothing. I’m just reciting facts as they come along, OK? They say – the employees there say – that their orders are to leave Alan alone and let Doris handle him. Which they say they’re glad to do because if he gets puzzled or agitated Alan can get pretty hostile.’
    â€˜OK,’ I said. ‘We got a lot on our plates here, so let’s not argue. We still haven’t settled the main question: was Owen Kester’s death accidental or a homicide?’
    â€˜I thought we were going to answer that when we went back to look in the cooler Saturday night,’ Clint said. He was carefully not meeting Rosie’s eye. She was glaring at him like a hungry hawk, waiting for a chance to sink her talons in him if he said one word about her mistaken hunch. ‘But since we didn’t find anything but a little weed on that excursion . . .’
    Rosie pounced. ‘You make it sound like I just