A Hopeless Discovery Read online

  A Hopeless Discovery

  A Hope Walker Mystery Book Three

  Daniel Carson

  Copyright © 2019 Daniel Carson

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Daniel Carson Books

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Cover Design by Alchemy Book Covers

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Editing by David Gatewood

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dear Reader: A Note From Daniel Carson

  Chapter One

  I was halfway through one of Granny’s double bacon double cheeseburgers when the call came in.

  “Hope, it’s Alex, and I’ve got something you need to see.”

  My name is Hope Walker, and I grew up in Hopeless, Idaho, the weirdest town in America. I was abandoned by my mother before I could walk. I was raised by my granny, who owns only one change of clothes—as well as a bar named the Library. And I left Hopeless when I was nineteen because a boy named Jimmy died.

  But a series of recent unfortunate events brought me back home, and now instead of being a big-city, hotshot investigative reporter, I work as a small-town beat reporter for the Hopeless News. My boss, Earl Denton, pays me just enough so I feel terrible about myself, and I don’t plan on working for him for very long.

  But it’s not all bad. It’s been nice being with Granny again, and I love spending time with my old best friend, Katie. And then there’s the new sheriff. Sure, he’s a proud and frustrating sort of man, but he’s also tall, dark, and looks great in a pair of jeans. And when he’s not frustrating, he has a way of looking at me that makes me nervous. And that causes the memory of that boy named Jimmy to fade just a bit.

  The sheriff’s name is Alex Kramer. He was the one calling me, and his voice was all business.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Remember the deal we made?”

  “The one where you were going to stop getting in my way and let me report the news of this town like the world-class investigator I am?”

  “I knew this was a mistake.”

  You see, Sheriff Alex Kramer didn’t like the fact that I had solved a double homicide my first week back in Hopeless. So when the Thorndales’ family butler showed up dead, we made a deal. Or… maybe it was more like a bet. Whoever solved the case first was the winner. If Alex won, then I was to stay out of his way and leave the serious crime investigations to local law enforcement. But if I won, then he agreed to let me investigate whatever crimes occurred in our little town.

  And I’ll give you a little hint.

  Alex didn’t win.

  “Relax, Sheriff, I’m only kidding. What’s going on?”

  “You know Lydell Clowder’s place?”

  “Mr. Clowder, the goat farmer? Sure.”

  “Then you need to get out here, and fast.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hope, I can’t believe I’m saying this—but our small town has got itself another dead body. And this time, I really need your help.”

  I took Highway 15 two miles out of town, past the spot where Jimmy died, past the old cabin I once upon a time wanted to live in, and turned left onto the tree side of Moose Mountain. On the other side of Moose Mountain, what locals affectionately called the slope side of the mountain, was Moose Lodge, where the skiing took place in the winter months. But on this side of the mountain, there was nothing but the thick trees of the Sawtooth and a dozen or so cabins that had been there so long they seemed almost as much a part of the natural landscape as the trees themselves.

  When I was younger, Granny had spent a lot of time with me in these woods, and Mr. Clowder’s goats were always fun for me to see, especially when I was very little. He let them roam through the forest, chewing up the overgrown plants. Granny said those goats were doing the rest of us a favor. Nature’s lawnmowers, she called them. And it made the hiking easier for all of us.

  But there would be no hiking today. I wound up the gravel mountain road to the Clowder place, where I found Alex standing in front of his sheriff’s truck with his arms folded. As had become his custom, he wore a cowboy hat, a long coat, a flannel shirt, dark blue jeans, and cowboy boots. His gold star was placed prominently on his left lapel. He was tall, with wide shoulders and lean muscles, his jaw was strong, and he had a nice smile. Basically, he was good-looking in a slightly obnoxious way. But it was his eyes that got me. They were green and fierce, and when they looked at me, I had a tendency to get wobbly.

  Thankfully, he was also a gigantic pain the rear. That was enough to make me safe around him.

  As I stepped out of my car, he met me with a slight nod of his head, a dark expression on his face.

  “Now, I don’t know everything you’ve seen in your time as a big-city investigative reporter,” he began, “but… well, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Instead of leading me into the cabin, he steered me left toward a clearing. I could see Mr. Clowder’s goats in the distance, poking their heads in and out of the trees as they scampered around, playing in the crisp October air. Alex strode straight to the middle of the clearing, where a black tarp was stretched out over something.

  Of course, I knew what that something was. The body.

  He grabbed one corner of the tarp and looked up at me. “You ready?”

  Alex was right. I’d seen things in my time as a big-city reporter. And I’d already come face to face with murder in my brief time back in Hopeless. But I hoped to never get used to death. So I took a deep breath as I nodded. “Ready.”

  Alex pulled back the tarp.

  I jumped back and let out a rather embarrassing shriek. I was not prepared for what was there. Not prepared at all. There was indeed a dead body under that tarp…

  … but it wasn’t human.

  It was gray and white,
with a thick full beard… and four legs.

  It was a goat.

  Chapter Two

  “I hate you, Alex Kramer,” I said as the not-so-good sheriff laughed uncontrollably.

  “You should have seen your face, Hope! It was priceless.”

  “Priceless? You told me there was a dead body under there.”

  “There was. A dead goat body. I never said it was human.”

  “You told me to prepare myself—that you’d never seen anything like it.”

  “All true. It’s my first dead goat. Seen plenty of dead animals. Lots of dead deer, a few cows, a horse once. But never a goat.”

  “You pulled me away from a perfectly greasy double bacon double cheeseburger just to pull a prank on me?”

  Alex wagged a finger at me. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I’d say, oh, maybe thirty percent of it was the prank. And for the record, that part was worth it. But the other seventy percent is official business. Like I said, a deal’s a deal. I promise to not get in the way of you investigating crimes in this town. I’ll even keep you in the loop. And this”—he gestured to the dead goat—“this is me keeping you in the loop.”

  “I don’t think even Earl Denton cares much about a dead goat, Sheriff.”

  Alex smiled. Thankfully, he was being a butthead, so his gorgeous smile had no effect on me. He knelt down and pulled the tarp back even further. “Well,” he said, “before you make any judgments about newsworthiness, wait until I tell you the whole story. This isn’t just a dead goat.”

  I saw it immediately. Just under the goat’s shoulder blade was a small hole surrounded by dried blood. An entry wound. I knelt down and saw that more blood had pooled beneath the body.

  “The goat was shot?”

  “No, Hope, not just shot. I just got done taking Mr. Clowder’s full statement. And according to him? This goat… he was murdered.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. I am serious.”

  “Alex, what am I really doing here?”

  “Like I said, we had a deal. And you were right, the sheriff’s office is woefully understaffed. It would be foolish of me to refuse the help of an accomplished investigator such as yourself, especially considering she’s only trying to do her job… not to mention her civic duty.”

  “I think we both know I wasn’t talking about dead goats.”

  He stood up and shook his head. “I don’t remember us making any exceptions for goats. In fact, I don’t recall saying anything about goats one way or the other.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should go back and look at the agreement, see if there was a goat section I’ve forgotten about…” Still looking thoughtful, he started off toward his truck.

  “Now where are you going?”

  “Like I said, we’re woefully understaffed. Brooks Grady got his old station wagon stolen last night, so I need to go look for it.”

  “A stolen car? Why didn’t you tell me about that one?”

  Alex pointed toward the cabin. Old Mr. Clowder had come out onto the front steps and was looking our way.

  “Because I told Mr. Clowder that I was bringing in the best homicide detective I knew to crack this case. He’s waiting to talk to you.” Alex got in his truck and started it up. He leaned out the window. “And Hope? The man’s in serious grief, so I wouldn’t keep him waiting too long. Well, off to deal with grand theft auto. Good luck with your murder investigation!”

  He gave me an obnoxious grin and even had the nerve to wink at me. As he took off, I had just enough time to pick up a piece of gravel and clank it off the side of his truck.

  I walked to my car. There was no way I was investigating a goat murder. But… I could feel Mr. Clowder staring at me. This crime, this… goat murder… it mattered to him.

  Don’t do it, Hope. Don’t waste your time on this.

  I spun around and looked at Mr. Clowder. He stood on his porch, his shoulders slumped, his face turned down. As far as I knew there had never been a Mrs. Clowder—just an old man and his goats. That old man was now grieving.

  And he was expecting me to help him.

  Stupid Alex Kramer.

  As Mr. Clowder led me into his kitchen and poured me a cup of coffee, I looked around. The place was surprisingly cute—and clean—for a single man. No trash on the floor, no dirty underwear spread about, no empty soup cans lining the counter. Everything was in its proper place. The fireplace was crackling with a slow, steady fire, with a rocking chair set in front of it. A pair of reading glasses and a Bible rested on a small table.

  And that’s when my eyes went to the mantel over the fireplace. When I saw the pictures for the first time.

  Mr. Clowder came up beside me and handed me a cup of coffee. “Yep, these are my kids.”

  On the mantel were dozens of small framed pictures… of goats. And off to one side were a couple hundred more small photos collected into a montage. Goats, goats, and more goats. Every last photo.

  He pointed at the montage. “That’s a memory board of past goats, but the ones on the mantel, these are my current goats.” His lip began to quiver. “Well, that is… except for Percy.” He pulled a picture from the mantel. It showed a white-and-gray goat with a hint of a smile. Mr. Clowder held the picture with pride, then pressed it to his chest. “My dearest Percy, cut down in the prime of his life.”

  I suddenly got the feeling that I was attending some sort of a goat wake. But as this was my first goat wake, I could only guess at the protocols. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mr. Clowder.”

  “Not just my loss,” he said. “The world lost one of the truly great goats today.” He raised his cup of coffee, and I suddenly realized we were doing a toast. I raised my cup as well.

  And then I realized Mr. Clowder was waiting for me to make a toast.

  “Um… to Percy,” I said hesitantly. “One of the best.”

  “To Percy!” Mr. Clowder threw back his coffee like it was a shot of tequila and wiped his hand across his face.

  Before this got any weirder, I decided I had better start my investigation. “So, Mr. Clowder,” I said. “Sheriff Kramer says you think Percy was murdered?”

  “In cold blood. I assume you’ve seen the body?”

  “Yeah, I saw that Percy was shot. But why do you think it was murder?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it likely that some idiot hunter was shooting at turkey or deer and missed… and Percy was the unfortunate victim?”

  Mr. Clowder frowned. “I’ve lived in this cabin for over forty years. Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

  “Well, it would be a freak thing,” I replied, “so it wouldn’t happen very often. Hunters do still hunt in these woods, don’t they?”

  “We’ve tried to scare them off… but yes, they do. But I’m telling you, this was no hunter. This was deliberate.”

  “Okay, let’s assume that’s true. Who would want to kill Percy?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “No, I’m not. Just—look at it from my perspective, Mr. Clowder. To believe this is murder, I need a motive. What motive would anyone have to murder a goat?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do people usually murder goats?”

  “They don’t. Nobody murders goats.”

  “Wolves murder goats.”

  “Well, yes, but they don’t typically use guns.”

  “That’s a fair point. Listen, I don’t know what to tell you, Hope, but I know my goats. And Percy, he was one of the good ones.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Not like those bad goats you’re always hearing about.”

  Clowder nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Percy was the kind of goat a man could depend on. That’s why I castrated him.”

  I spit out my coffee. “You what?”

  “Percy was one of my wethers. I’ve got three of them. I keep Danny
in with the bucks, but Percy and Leon stayed with the main herd.”

  “Mr. Clowder, I literally have no idea what you just said.”

  He looked at me curiously. “You don’t know much about goats, do you?”

  “I’m afraid they didn’t feature prominently in my education.”

  “Then I need to fill in that gap. But first, a question. What do you call a goat with only one ear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Van Goat!” He laughed.

  I was at a loss. “I—I’m sorry?”

  “Van Goat! You know. Like the painter… with one ear?”

  “Oh… right.” I tried to smile. Apparently goat wakes also involved terrible jokes.

  “Percy loved that joke. I’m gonna really miss that goat. Well, come on then. If you’re gonna solve this goat crime, you’re gonna need to know the difference between a buck and a wether. Heck, I might even let you milk some of the mamas.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” I said quickly.

  He waved dismissively. “It ain’t about necessary. It’s learning.”

  “Well, I mean… I wouldn’t want to mess anything up.”

  He nodded. “’Cause if you do, you know what we’d have to call it?”

  I gave him a blank look. I had a bad feeling about this.

  He smiled. “An udder disaster!”

  “That’s a good one, Mr. Clowder. I bet Percy loved it.”

  “You bet he did. Now follow me. We’ve got a murder to investigate.”

  Chapter Three

  Mr. Clowder led me outside, to a fenced-in area with a shelter at one side. Three goats wandered around, chewing on grass. As he leaned against the fence, all three goats looked up briefly before going back to their meal.

  “The two larger ones are bucks. The smaller fella is a wether. A wether is a castrated male.”

  I tried not to look for his missing bits. Out of respect, I guess. “Why do you, uh… do that?”

  “You see, people raise goats for their milk and their meat. I raise ’em for their milk, which I use to make cheese And to keep a good milk-producing herd, I need those mamas to keep having babies. And to keep having babies…”