Shepherd's Crook by Sheila Webster Boneham Page A

planning a wedding, and merging my household with Tom’s. The last thing I needed was to get dragged into another murder investigation. But here you are again, Janet . I forced myself to take some nice, long, healing breaths. In, one, two, three. My neighbor and best friend, Goldie, had taught me to do this. Out, one, two, three, four. Count to ten … eight, nine, ten.
    Twelve missing sheep.
    One missing dog.
    And a dead man.

fourteen
    One of these days I’ll learn to see household chores through to the end. It will be part of the “get organized, stop procrastinating” self-improvement project I’ve been putting off for a while. Okay, for decades . Saturday had not been the day, though, and when I pulled the shower curtain back and reached for a towel, my arm on autopilot, I came up empty. My bath towels, all three of them, were still in the laundry room. I told you to set a timer to remind yourself , said that know-it-all in my head. I shushed her and looked around. For once I had not dropped my dirty duds on the bathroom floor. No, I had deposited them in the hampers in my bedroom, colors to the left, whites to the right. Besides, they stank of sheep and I no longer did, so I would have been reluctant to use them even if they were handy. The only bit of fabric in the bathroom was a navy blue washcloth. It wouldn’t cover much, and besides, navy is just not my color.
    I said some of those words I’ve been trying not to say and dripped my way across the three steps to the door. I listened carefully, then opened the door a crack and listened again. The house was still. Tom and the dogs weren’t back yet, and the feline contingent must have been asleep in some secret lair. I tried to remember whether the kitchen blinds were wide open or down with the louvers at a modest-making tilt. Either way, the light was so much brighter outside than in that I figured a peeper would have to press his nose against the glass to see anything. I ran for it.
    Maybe it was the day’s stress that set me off, but by the time I left the hallway and scampered around the tote bag I’d left at the end of the hallway, I was flapping my bare-naked arms and laughing like a nutcase. Eight tippy-toes and a pirouette later I was in the kitchen, face to face with Leo, my lovely orange tabby. I stopped, still laughing, and reached out to stroke his cheek in greeting. His eyes went wide and his fur went wider as he flattened his ears against his neck, hissed, and backed away.
    â€œAww, Leo mio , it’s just me.”
    Leo relaxed slightly, gathered himself, and levitated onto the counter. He stared at me for a moment, then stepped closer and sniffed, as if confirming that it was in fact me, not some otherworldly demon that sounded but didn’t act like the woman he knew. Once he was convinced, he sat down and squinted at me, and I leaned in to bump noses. I didn’t linger, though, as goose bumps were beginning to rise on my arms and who knows where else.
    I flipped the light switch in the laundry room, visions of nice fluffy clean towels flapping in my head. Until I opened the dryer. Empty, but for a used dryer sheet and the well-worn kitchen towel I had used for Pixel’s pedicure. For half a moment I was confused. Then I opened the washing machine and said Aww, crap. I said a few other things, too, before I started yanking the damp towels and clothes out of one machine and throwing them into the other. Why can’t they invent a machine that does it all?
    A car door closed somewhere nearby. I froze and listened. Tom’s voice filtered faintly into the room. I figured I had enough time to race back to the bedroom and grab some clothes because he usually took the dogs through the gate and into the backyard. I heard Tom’s voice again. “Here. Go on in.” Who’s he talking to? Leo dropped off the counter across from me with a muted thud and trotted out of the kitchen. I held my