Misty Reddington's Blog: Molly Tinker Mystery Series, page 2

Goats at Pond Park

"What?" I said. "This is a blatant disregard of park policy. Who are you and why did you bring your goats to the park to eat my lawn?"

"Steve," he said, shaking my hand. "These are pet goats like dogs."

"Goats aren't allowed at the park. There are rules and regulations about goats. I studied them to become a park ranger."

"Don't you like dogs?"

"I love dogs."

"I'm sure you allow dogs to eat the grass."

"No," I said, not being altogether truthful.

Molly's Day

I sat against the stone wall at Pond Park, breathing in the fresh air and feeling the summer sun. What a day! Cumulus clouds rimmed the far horizon, and the rest of the sky was a deep blue.

Biting into my peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, I surveyed the park. Everything was looking good.

I inhaled slowly and exhaled. Then I saw it, a tiny goat, coming from the far woods. A tall lean man, shirtless and wearing khaki shorts, had it on a six-foot leash.

Molly's morning

After Dave and I settled the tiny pigs under a shade tree, I walked around the park and enjoyed the summer sun.
As I was heading back to my command post at the stone wall, I passed by the pigs.
"Oh! No! You dug up my lawn."
Dave leaned against an oak tree. "Pigs rout in the earth," he said. "You didn't know that?"

Molly's Day

The man came my way, smiling. I wondered what he wanted from me. Usually, it was something bordering on the illegal.

He held out his hand. "Good morning. I'm Dave Girard. I need your expert opinion."

I waited.

"Where can I put my pigs," he said. "They need some shade."

"Pigs? I think pigs at the park are against the rules and regulations."

"They'll be enclosed in a pen. Come see them. They're in my truck."

He led me to his pickup.

"They're just baby pigs."

"They sure are cute," I said.

Molly's morning at Pond Park.

The morning's already in the eighties and I'm wearing my heavy park ranger uniform. I've been picking up garbage for twenty minutes, all sorts of paper products, and I'm dreaming of an orange soda. I'm hopeful that my cousin, Jon, will pay me a visit and, at least, bring me a bottle of water.

A pickup came rolling into the parking lot, and an elderly man hopped out. He looked my way and smiled.

I left my cleanup bucket by a picnic table and went to greet him. I didn't like that smile. It only meant one thing, trouble.