Kneading to Die (5 page)

Char got up and began clearing plates. “Why, I have no idea. It's too soon to think about that. Anyone want more? How about a martini, Stan?”

“No, thank you. She must be leaving you with big shoes to fill. She was good at caring for the alpacas?”

Silence. Then, “Tremendous,” Char declared, downing the rest of her drink and setting the glass on the kitchen table with a snap. “Carole was very devoted. This is a terrible thing for our town, just terrible.” She fanned her face as her eyes filled with tears again. Ray rose and went to her, rubbing her back.

“Why do you ask, Stan?” he asked in that quiet way he had.

“Just curious. Char told me Betty wasn't happy with her care and that people were having second thoughts about her.”

Char pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling, still dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “I shouldn't have made it sound like that. Betty is Betty. You know how people get when something sticks in their head. I'm not sure what other people think. Oh, my goodness! What a lovely kitty! Is that the little man in question? Come here, sweet pea,” she crooned as Nutty entered the room, playing shy.

“We did use Carole for the alpacas. For some things,” Ray said, returning to the table. “We also used an outside vet. But you can't tell anyone.”

“Why would I tell anyone?” Stan shook her head, bewildered. “But why can't you just use the vet you want to use?”

“You can, of course.” Ray wiped his mouth with his napkin, balled it up and tossed it from hand to hand. “But it's polite to buy locally.”

“Polite. Okay. But again, what if you—oh, never mind.” Stan was getting a headache. So was Nutty, by the looks of it. Char had him cradled in her arms like a baby, singing to him. He looked horrified. Stan stifled a giggle. “Here, give him a treat.” Stan got up and fished one out of his jar, handing it to her.

Char sniffed it. “This smells almost good enough to eat myself. What kind is it?”

“Cheese and spelt. I make them. I make all Nutty's food, actually. He has stomach problems.”

“Really? So does Savannah. Our dog that watches the alpacas. Carole couldn't ever figure out what was wrong. Our other vet had some ideas, but I hate all those medicines. Do you think we could try some of the food you give Nutty? We'll pay you, of course.”

“Oh, don't be silly. You don't have to pay me. And I'd be happy to look into some dog recipe ideas. I've never cooked for a dog before.”

“Aren't you wonderful. Ray, isn't she wonderful?”

“She sure is,” Ray said. “Now we need to get back to the B and B and explain this to our guests. We can't possibly do afternoon tea while all this is going on.”

“Afternoon tea?” Stan asked.

“We have some guests of English descent. They requested it.” Ray looked unhappy about disappointing anyone. “I can't possibly expect Char to bake scones when she's so distraught, and Lord knows I'm no good at it. The gumbo was already made when we heard the news.”

Stan had a feeling the vodka martinis were more of an inhibitor for Char than grief, but she kept her mouth shut. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

“Oh, honey, don't think anything of it. We all stick together around here. Ready, darling?” Char asked Ray.

“Ready. You take care now, Stan, okay? And call if you need anything.”

Stan promised she would and saw them to the door. She closed and locked it behind them before returning to the kitchen to clean up. Nutty peeked out from the cabinet he'd wedged himself into.

“Coast is clear,” Stan told him. She swore he emitted a sigh of relief as he jumped out and went in search of his next napping spot. She felt the same way. That conversation had been tiring.

 

 

The walls might be closing in on her. Stan had wanted to be left alone, but after Ray and Char left, she had no idea what to do with herself. She'd texted Richard, but he hadn't responded. And when she called, his phone went right to voice mail.

She floated from room to room, unpacking half a box here, a few things there. She mopped the downstairs bathroom floor and hung one picture; then she took it down because it didn't look right. The old Blue Öyster Cult song “
(Don't Fear) The Reaper”
played in a continuous loop in her head until she thought she might go crazy—when theme songs go bad. She went in search of a calming jazz CD and turned it up.

The whole time she tried to force the dead vet out of her head.

“Want treats?” she finally asked Nutty, who was hanging around the kitchen watching her manic movements with interest.

He meowed.

Stan rummaged around the cupboard. “They'll have to be pumpkin. I can't go out right now to get other ingredients.”

Nutty blinked, indifferent. Stan turned the oven on, pulled out her mixing bowl and added spelt flour, canned pumpkin, eggs, peanut butter, some water and ground cinnamon. She used her favorite wooden spoon to mix it all together, working the ingredients into a smooth batter.

“I knew I shouldn't have gone to that appointment,” she told Nutty as she worked. “I really didn't need to find a dead person. That was definitely not on my bucket list.”

Nutty yawned and dropped to the floor, resting his head on his paw.

“I hope they find out who did it soon. And why they threw kibble on her. Do you think it was someone mad about food? Maybe someone like this Betty person, who thought Carole didn't do things right?”

She glanced at Nutty. He didn't have the answers and wasn't shy about letting her know that. He'd fallen asleep. Stan sighed. It stank having no one to talk to when you were trying to solve a murder.

For a one-man show, the
Frog Ledge Holler
worked fast. A “special edition” was out first thing Tuesday. Front page above the fold, naturally, was all about the murder. The paper was two pages thin. She winced as she read the headline:
LOCAL VET FOUND DEAD AT CLINIC, FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED
. She took it to the kitchen and read it, standing up.

There was no mention of the kibble, at least.

 

 

“Murdered? Jeez, Stan. That's a helluva way to get welcomed to town.” Nikki sounded out of breath on the other end of the phone. In Nikki's world it was a normal morning—as normal as you can get taking care of fifteen dogs and a few cats. But it wasn't a normal morning in Stan's world at all. She had woken up with “
Highway to Hell”
pounding in her head. If anyone could make her feel better, however, it was Nikki.

“What happened? And who was it again?” Nikki asked.

“The town vet.”

“Was Nutty sick?”

“No.”

“Okay, I'm confused. Hang on.” Stan heard a blast of static, some rustling like Nikki was shuffling cards in her ear, then a bang and finally quiet. She came back on the line a second later. “Back. Had to finish dealing with one of the new dogs. He had an accident all over his kennel.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“More fun than a dead vet. So why were you there? Help me with this.”

Stan sighed. “The vet came to my door.” She relayed Carole's visit.

“And you went? What the heck's happening to you out there in the middle of nowhere?”

“I'm trying to play nice in the sandbox. Apparently, we're supposed to care about each other around here. And buy locally.”

“Hard to care about someone you don't even know, who shows up at your door like that. And I'm all about buying locally, but not when someone's stalking me to do it. But you always were good at that political crap. Okay, so you went. And she was just dead? How do you know she was murdered?”

“Because she had a needle sticking out of her neck!”

“Huh.” Nikki was silent for a moment, thinking about this. “You know, aside from the tragedy of it, it's pretty funny. Like
funny ironic,
not actually
funny
. But all those years in Hartford, you never came across a dead body, and that's where it wouldn't seem so bizarre.”

“Well, there was the time we got shot at.” She, Richard and another coworker had been at a red light shortly after leaving the office when someone had come running out of a house and started shooting at the car in front of them.

“They weren't shooting at you.”

“They could've missed. And they didn't hit the person they wanted to hit, either.”

“True. Do they know who killed this vet?”

“No.” Stan didn't mention the long questioning session that she endured.

“Are you doing okay?”

“I'm okay.”

“No, you're not. Want me to come over? I'm doing a couple of drop-offs today, but my schedule isn't too crazy. I can stop by later tonight.”

She really didn't want to see anybody. “Maybe tomorrow? I have a bunch of work to do here, and, honestly, I don't feel good.”

“Okay. Try to relax. And all kidding aside, be careful. Just because it's a small town doesn't mean everything's wine and roses. This woman got herself killed.”

 

 

Frog Ledge seemed to have its share of hypocrites. Stan had gotten the loner vibe from Carole. And the flat-out disliked vibe from a number of people, too. But as dusk covered the town the day after the vet's death, people flocked to the green with candles and stuffed animals and photos.

She heard them through her open bedroom window. She'd hidden herself up there for most of the day, trying to sleep but not succeeding. Or sitting on the bathroom floor, waiting to get sick. Stan tried to ignore the murmur of voices first; then as the volume grew she gave up and dragged herself to the window. Holy crap. Was she supposed to make an appearance at this?

Stan fought back tears for the millionth time that day. First in line to find a dead body. Now she had to put on her game face, get dressed and go pretend she was torn up about Carole's death. Well, she was torn up, but she didn't think it had to do with Carole personally. She couldn't be. She'd had one conversation with the woman—if you could even call it a conversation.

Then she saw Char and Ray joining the crowd. Char had traded in her brilliant colors for a billowy black dress. And was that . . . ? Stan leaned forward. Yes, it was. Amara Leonard had joined the flow of people heading to the green.

If Amara put in an appearance after that screaming match she'd had with Carole, Stan knew she had no choice. She heard Ray's voice in her ear:
You live in a small town now. You have to care.
Groaning, she forced herself to get up and dressed in a pair of black shorts, a light sweater and comfy flats. Tromping unenthusiastically downstairs, she ate a few Saltine crackers to settle her stomach and called Nutty. He didn't respond or come running, so she figured he was sleeping.

“I'll be back,” she called to him, in case he cared. No response. Apparently, he didn't. She shut the door behind her and twisted the handle to make sure it had locked. Slinking to the edge of the green, Stan followed the crowd up to the other end, near the library and the congregational church, where the crowd gathered. She wondered what religion, if any, Carole Morganwick practiced and where her funeral service would be held. If this was any indication, it would be well attended.

She'd lost sight of Ray and Char, and Amara was small enough that Stan might never find her in the crowd. She hung back near a flowering dogwood tree, watching everyone around her. No one cried, but there were a lot of solemn expressions and whispering. Up front, two teenaged boys were setting up a makeshift podium on the pavement behind the library, where a group of three women and two men stood. A circle of Carole's friends? Stan inched closer for a better view and felt someone grab her arm. She turned and almost bumped into Izzy Sweet. Baxter and Elvira immediately crowded around her, sniffing excitedly.

“Oh, hello,” Stan said, bending down to pet them. “I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you.”

The dogs both sat and stared at her, as if encouraging her to change her mind.

“How are you?” Izzy asked, a twinge of sympathy in her voice. “I heard what happened.”

“Who didn't?” Stan muttered.

Izzy threw back her head and laughed, drawing the attention of the people closest to them. She didn't seem to care, or even notice. “Welcome to small-town America. I'm just sorry you were . . . involved. Was it terrible?”

“It wasn't pleasant,” Stan said. “And I feel weird being here. I didn't know her.”

“It's appropriate to pay your respects. And quite noticed when you don't.” Izzy smiled wryly. “Let's move up to the front.”

Stan followed Izzy as she weaved through the crowd, noting how people parted to let her through. She scanned faces as she went. It could be her imagination, but people's words faded as she passed, and they moved farther away. Up front, more people had joined the teens. A man tested a microphone, which kept screeching feedback into the crowd, while a short woman with gray hair oversaw the whole operation, one foot tapping impatiently.

Izzy stopped in front of an old-looking yellow Lab. He looked familiar. Then Stan realized his owner was the man outside the clinic yesterday. The woodworker.

“How're you doing, Gene?” Izzy squeezed his arm sympathetically and petted the dog's head. “Hi, Junior.”

Junior wagged. Gene shrugged. His face seemed to sag with the weight of misery. “Okay. Just can't believe it.”

“No one can,” Izzy said. “Do you know Stan?”

Gene focused on her; his eyes were bleary. He shook her hand. “No. Gene Holdcroft.” Despite the hair, Stan could tell by his face he wasn't as old as she'd first guessed. He stepped forward, more of a shuffle, really, with one leg dragging slightly. He shook her hand.

“Hi. Stan Connor.”

Gene squinted at her, still holding on. “You were there. Monday. I saw ya come out. You're the young lady who—”

“Gene, with Stan being new to town and all, I don't think she's seen your work yet,” Izzy broke in. “Well, other than the signs around town. Maybe I can bring her by the shop and we can get her something for her new house?”

“Sure, sure.”

“Good. We'll see you soon.” Izzy took Stan's arm and pulled her ahead. “Poor guy. His wife passed away a while ago, and I think he was sweet on Carole. He's taking it pretty hard.”

“I hope he wasn't going to say I was the young lady who did it,” Stan said.

Izzy shook her head. “He's a nice guy. Lived here his whole life. One of those small towners who knows where all the bodies are buried. No pun intended,” she added hastily.

Stan wasn't even in the frame of mind to laugh at that. Then she saw Jake. He talked with a guy wearing a
SAM'S ELECTRIC
hat. Jake saw them at the same time Stan's gaze locked on his. A slow, lazy smile settled on his lips. Izzy grunted beside her. Jake's companion said something and walked away.

Jake ignored Izzy's less than thrilled acknowledgment of him. “Good evening, ladies. Somber occasion, but lovely to see you, anyway.”

Stan started to say hello, but Izzy had other ideas. “Oh, save it, McGee,” she said.

Stan's mouth dropped. She stepped in, attempting to salvage the situation. “Hey there. How's it going?” Stupid question for a memorial service.

He winked at her. “Going fine. And don't mind Izzy. She treats me like this every time she's forced into my presence.”

Izzy's face darkened and she opened her mouth, presumably to let loose a firestorm of insults. But before she could get going, a woman dressed straight out of the American Revolution pages of a history book hurried over and grasped Jake's wrist.

“Thank goodness you're here! We need you up front immediately,” she said, pulling him with her before he could even respond. “There's something wrong with the microphone. The boys just can't get it to work.”

Jake gave Stan an apologetic wave and let the woman drag him to the parking lot. Izzy turned blazing eyes on Stan.

“I really hope you have better taste than that,” she said. “Please don't tell me you're interested in that beast.”

Wow. There was being protective toward a new friend, and then there was going overboard. “Hold on. One, I have a boyfriend. Two, I met Jake and his dog out running. There's nothing wrong with being friendly in my new town, is there?”

“He's a disgusting womanizer,” Izzy said.

A shrill voice next to Stan diverted her attention before she could ask how Izzy knew that.

“Betty Meany's here? She must be making sure the library doesn't get vandalized during the service,” the woman said loudly to her friend, and they both sneered.

Betty Meany. The one Char told her about, who had lost her cat allegedly at Carole's hands. Stan turned to Izzy. “Which one's Betty?”

Izzy pointed to the gray-haired foot tapper watching the setup activities. “I'm afraid the catty one's right, in this case,” she said with a nod to the woman who had made the comment. “Betty despised Carole. She probably thinks there'll be riots after the memorial and will want to keep the library safe.”

Stan's response was overwhelmed by the roar of a little blue convertible speeding up the street. It careened to a stop, half on the grass next to the church. A young woman with brown-and-blond–striped hair stepped out of the driver's seat. She wore skinny jeans and sandals with heels that would give even Char pause. An oversized T-shirt slid down over small arms, tank top straps visible on her shoulders. The outfit reminded Stan of something Madonna would have worn in her heyday—minus the shoes. The girl moved with a strut that declared,
I own the world.
She headed over uneven ground to the makeshift podium, embracing one of the women waiting in the circle. Stan almost didn't notice the boy slouching out of the convertible's passenger seat, forgotten by the driver. He did not move with an I-own-the-world strut, but rather hunched over into himself, hands jammed in his pockets, shaggy hair and sunglasses covering most of his face. He was skinny enough that his jeans were falling down, but not in the trendy way that was all the rage these days.