Kneading to Die (14 page)

Jake laughed. “I hope not. That's my sister. My
other
sister. Obviously, not the one you've met.”

“Oh.”
“Nice job, Stan,” her inner voice chided.
“How many sisters do you have?”

“Just two. Brenna, and, of course, you know Jessie. That's enough.” He glanced behind him, shook his head as he watched his sister lean forward, elbows on the bar, engrossed in whatever one of the male patrons was saying. “She's just messing with him, but she's real good at it. Gets rockin' tips that way.”

“Seems like an odd thing for a big brother to encourage,” Stan said.

“What am I gonna do? She's gonna do it somewhere. May as well be where I can keep an eye on her. Or punch somebody out, without too much fear of repercussion.”

“I don't know about that,” Stan said. “Your other sister is pretty hard-core. She might close you down.”

A strange look passed over Jake's face and his lips moved into a thin line. “Yeah. That's one way to describe her.”

Richard returned to his seat, glancing between her and Jake as he did so. Someone yelled Jake's name from the other end of the bar. He raised a finger to tell them to wait. “Well, enjoy your evening. And please let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks,” Stan said.

Richard nodded stiffly. After Jake walked away, Richard said, “You didn't tell me you knew the owner.”

“I met him out running. I don't
know
him.”

“Well, you two seem pretty cozy.” Richard took the straw out of his drink and made a show of drinking half of it in one gulp.

“‘Cozy'?” Stan laughed. “Jealousy is not becoming on you, Richard. And, really, people have already found a few reasons to stare at me. Let's not give them another.” She took a generous swallow of her drink. This had been a bad idea. She knew it, but she still agreed to come here with him. Would she ever learn to follow her instincts?

As if sensing her agitation, Duncan sat up and howled. The patrons around them turned to see what was upsetting their usually calm mascot.

“It's okay, Duncan.” Stan patted his head.

“Everything okay, young lady?”

Stan turned to the voice a few bar stools down and recognized Gene, the sign maker.

“Fine, thank you,” Stan said. She smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. Richard leaned over to get Jake's sister's attention, pointing at his glass. She held up one finger, still listening to another customer clearly in the middle of a story.

But Gene had recognized her now. “It's the bike rider. How was your trip the other day? See anything interestin'?” He got up and limped over to her.

Just a car stalking me.
“I rode through that beautiful cemetery. It's enormous.”

“Our cemetery's something to be proud of. Folks from all over the county choose it, hands down. Unless they have some tie to their own town. Or their relatives are too lazy to drive.” He chuckled at his own joke. Stan held the polite smile. She hated pretending stupid jokes were funny. Gene didn't seem to notice. “How'd you like them eggs?”

“They were absolutely delicious,” Stan said. “And I need to pay you for them still.” She reached for her bag, but he shook his head.

“I'll bring ya more this week. Leave a bill for two cartons. Ok?”

She nodded. “That's great. Thank you.”

He indicated Richard. “He with you?”

“Yes, that's Richard.” She turned to him, but now he was chatting up Jake's sister, who had turned her attention on him. Great form of revenge. Hitting up a twentysomething. “Well, he's busy right now.” Jake's sister looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but listening to him. Probably droning on about his latest sale at work. And his commission. Trying to impress the college kid.

“Friendly fella,” Gene commented.

“Yeah.” Time to take control of this conversation. “So you had an appointment with Carole the other day? The day she died?”

A mixture of emotions Stan couldn't identify fled across his face. “Junior did. Yup.”

“Were you friends with Carole?”

“Knew her growin' up, but I already told ya that.”

“Was she a good vet?”

Gene narrowed his eyes. “Weren'tcha there with your own cat?”

“I was.”

“Well, helluva time to be asking me now, ain't it?”

Stan wondered if she'd offended him, but she couldn't tell from his poker-faced expression if he was kidding or not. “It was my first time going.”

“Ah.”

She glanced over at Richard. There was another empty glass in front of him. Still talking to Brenna, who was looking around for an escape. Stan decided to take advantage of the situation.

“Does Carole have family around?”

“None I can think of. Just that brother of hers. I suppose they called him to figure out what to do. He don't come around much, but I bet he stepped up to do a nice funeral. They're doin' a wake Monday. Took a while, I guess, with the autopsy and all. Funeral's Tuesday, but they ain't inviting anyone.” He leaned against the bar, completely invading the man's space next to Stan and ignoring his dirty look. His eyes were watery enough to make Stan wonder if he'd had a few too many drinks. She wondered how Jake handled his townspeople and friends leaving the bar snookered, especially when he knew that one of his sisters might be waiting outside to arrest the lot of them.

“It's a private service?”

Gene snorted. “It's a crock, you ask me. No one but relatives allowed. Funny thing is, like I just told ya, she don't have many. It'll be a short service—mark my words.”

He looked like he was about to say more, but a man came over and slung an arm around him. The top of his head gleamed smooth. As he stepped into the light, Stan recognized him. He was the karate guy who had come to the kennel to see Diane. “Need another drink, my friend?” His tone was jovial, but Stan sensed an undercurrent of hostility.

Gene did, too, because he immediately stiffened. “Sure, why not. Nice ta see ya, Don.” It didn't sound like it was all that nice. He didn't introduce Stan.

The man named Don looked Stan up and down. His gaze was neutral and he didn't say anything. Instead, he kept his arm around Gene and walked him away from the bar.

Stan turned back to Richard, who was working on a new drink. Jake's sister had moved on, and Richard looked foul again. “Did you see that?” she asked.

“What?”

“That man who came over. It was like he didn't want Gene talking to me.”

“Who's Gene?”

“The guy who was just standing here. If you'd stopped flirting for a few seconds, I could've introduced you.” Stan craned her neck to see if she could see them, but they'd vanished into the crowd.

Richard didn't catch her dig. He caught Brenna's eye again and raised his glass. Brenna's smile looked to Stan more like a grimace, but she grabbed a glass and poured the drink. Satisfied, he looked at Stan. “You having another one?” he asked.

Stan opened her mouth to snap at him that no, she wasn't, and he shouldn't, either. But she didn't get a chance. Instead, she covered it with both hands as Brenna slid the drink down the bar with just the tiniest flick of her wrist, and the quickest gleam of satisfaction in her eye. It tipped and spilled, flowing over the shiny mahogany right into Richard's lap.

If Stan wasn't hearing it for herself, she wouldn't have believed it. First thing in the morning, crowing roosters really did sing
cock-a-doodle-do!
She thought that had been a cartoon exaggeration from her youth, but no. It happened regularly in Frog Ledge, and at six on a Saturday, too.

She rolled over and covered her head with the pillow. She'd forgotten to shut the blinds, so the sun beamed in, making it more impossible to ignore the morning. Richard would snarl and complain if he was there. But he wasn't. He'd left in a huff last night after dropping her off, still wearing his alcohol-soaked pants and complaining how he better not get pulled over on the way home smelling like a brewery.

Stan didn't bother to point out that he'd had plenty to drink, and it wasn't just the booze he'd worn contributing to the problem. She also didn't point out his attempts to flirt with Jake's very young sister had been poorly received. After the spilling incident Stan had been intent on getting out of the bar before either of them made anyone else mad. But she wished she'd had a chance to find out about the man named Don, who clearly had wanted Gene to stop talking to her.

Footsteps on her porch had her out of bed and at the window, in time to see a young boy pedal away, a newspaper bag slung over his shoulder. New edition of the
Frog Ledge Holler.
Cyril had gotten delivery help. Stan's stomach immediately flipped, the familiar sense of dread settling in. What had Frog Ledge's renowned investigative journalist come up with this time?

Nutty meowed loudly, as if to say,
You don't want to know. Stay in bed.

Stan sighed, threw the covers off and dragged herself up. She forced her normal routine to take over. She hit the bathroom first; then she headed down to the kitchen and started her coffee brewing. Once that was done, she took a deep breath and headed to the front door.

The newspaper had landed just to the left of her welcome mat. She stepped out to get it and bent over. She barely had time to brace herself when she heard panting and pounding paws. Duncan leaped up her stairs and landed on her.

“Whoa! Jeez, Duncan!” Stan braced herself by grabbing her door frame, grabbing his collar with the other hand. “What the heck are you doing here?” Was Jake around? He had to be. Suddenly self-conscious, she finger-combed her hair. She wished she'd washed her face, but she didn't see him anywhere. Not even across the street at the green.

“Come on inside.” She grabbed the paper and ushered the dog through the door. “I'll call your dad.” Although she didn't have his phone number, and, of course, Duncan's collar had no tag on it. “Your daddy needs to keep a better eye on you.”

However, Duncan had already careened down the hall toward the kitchen. Seconds later, Nutty scrambled out like a cartoon cat, sliding on the long fur around his paws. He fled up the stairs. Stan held back a giggle. She followed Duncan. He had both paws up on her counter and had the treat jar sliding dangerously toward the edge. “Duncan! No. Wait.” Obediently he plopped down on his haunches and waited, tongue hanging, for her to serve him.

Stan tossed him a few treats and looked around for her phone. She found it on top of the toaster. She looked up the number for McSwigg's and dialed. A female voice answered.

“Hi, I'm looking for Jake,” she said.

“He's still upstairs. Who's calling?”

“This is Stan Connor. His dog just showed up at my door.”

The girl gasped. “Oh, my God. Hang on.” Stan heard the phone clatter down, followed by yelling. After about five minutes Jake picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, it's Stan. Duncan's at my house.”

A pause. “Well, what the hell is he doing there? And why didn't my sister just give you my number? Hey, Brenna,” he yelled away from the phone. “Next time give her my number. Forget it, I can just give it to you.” He started reciting, but Stan interrupted.

“Hang on. I don't have a piece of paper.” Stan grabbed a pen out of her junk drawer. She imagined Jake shoving his rumpled hair back and jamming one of those caps he always wore on his head.

“Ready.” She scribbled the number he recited.

He paused.

“Do you . . . ?” she started to say.

“I guess I'll . . . ,” he said at the same time. They both stopped.

Stan cleared her throat. “Do you want me to bring him to you?”

“No. You shouldn't have to do that. I'll swing by. Unless that's not convenient?”

“That's fine. I'm here for a while.”

“Okay. Gimme a few. What's wrong with that dog?”

“Maybe he really likes my treats.”

“You know,” Jake said, “I wouldn't doubt it.”

That made her blush. Stan raced upstairs to change out of her pajamas into a pair of cutoff sweats and a tank top. She washed her face and ran a comb through her hair. She left the bathroom; then she ducked back in and swiped powder over her face. She went back downstairs and threw the dirty dishes from last night into the dishwasher. Like he would even notice.

Get a grip. Go about my business.
Trouble was, she didn't have much business right now. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on the paper she'd tossed on the table. Which had started the whole morning. Picking it up, she forced her eyes to the headlines:

The doorbell rang, startling Stan out of the article. With shaking hands she tossed the paper aside and went to answer it; Duncan trotted obediently beside her.

Jake stood on the porch, cap on, bleary-eyed, just as Stan had pictured him. She swung the door open. Duncan wagged his tail.

“Hey,” Jake said. “And you,” to Duncan, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

Duncan bolted back toward the kitchen.

“I guess not much,” Stan said. “Come on in.”

“Sorry about this.” He stepped in and looked around. “Place looks nice.”

“Oh, thanks, but it's not even close to being done. Want coffee?”

“I'd love some. You sure I'm not intruding?”

“Not at all.”

“Your boyfriend here?”

“No. He had to go home last night.”
And change clothes.

“He like the bar?”

Since he was behind her, Stan had to look back to see if he was busting her chops, but his face remained carefully blank. She thought back to Richard's reaction to the drink in his lap and decided in this case a white lie would be preferred.

“He had a great time.”

“Probably until my sister dumped his drink on him.”

“There was that.”

“From what she said, he deserved it.”

“He was annoyed with me.”

“So that means you flirt with a twenty-two-year-old? In front of your girlfriend?”

This didn't sound like something a player would say. Izzy would tell her it was all an act to get her on his side. She shrugged, not knowing how to respond.

“If Brenna hadn't done it, I probably would have. But my little sister isn't shy. Apparently, Duncan likes what you've done to the place, too.”

The dog had plopped down on the small rug in front of the sink, watching them. When Stan looked at him, Duncan's tail wagged.

Stan poured Jake a cup of coffee and placed it on her table. “He's so cute. And I feel like I'm still really behind in getting settled. With . . . everything going on, unpacking hasn't taken priority, although it would probably get my mind off everything. So how did Duncan get out?”

Jake sat down and took a sip. “Good coffee. I don't know. I'm thinking my door from my apartment didn't shut all the way and he got into the bar. Then, when people started coming and going this morning, he snuck out.”

Stan shook her head. “Dangerous.”

“I know, I know.” He wagged a finger at the dog. “Getting me in trouble.”

“I have to feed Nutty. Can I give some to Duncan? It's a turkey, cheese and carrot mix. With calcium powder.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “For the cat?”

“Yes, for the cat.”

“That . . . sounds crazy.”

“Why? I make all his food. Not just treats.”

“Get outta here.”

Stan crossed her arms defensively. “He has stomach problems.”

“Hey, do what you gotta do. Sure, Duncan can have whatever he wants.”

“I'm presuming he didn't eat breakfast yet today.”

“Cut me a break, would ya? I went to bed at three. And he has food at the ready all the time.”

Stan wrinkled her nose. “What kind?”

“I don't know. It's in a bag.”

That made Stan think of the kibble showered over Carole on the day of her death, which deflated the fun of the banter. She busied herself with getting the food onto plates. Decided she'd bring Duncan his own stash of good-for-you meals so he didn't start running away to get them. She heated them up enough to take the chill out; then she handed Duncan his. He attacked it, with his tail wagging the whole time.

“Be right back. Have to find Nutty. He wasn't happy about the visitor.” She went upstairs and found him on the windowsill. He glared at her, his expression clear:
I know there's a dog in the house. Please remove it.

“He's just visiting, Nutter. Eat your breakfast.”

She went back downstairs. Jake was reading the paper. He glanced up at her as she came in.

“This whole Carole thing is crazy, but it looks like they're narrowing it down.”

“Yeah. Your sister will show up with handcuffs any minute now.”
Either here or at Nikki's.
She moved to the coffeepot and poured another cup. Her hands still shook. “More coffee?” She was surprised to find her voice sounded normal.

“Sure.” He passed her the mug. “Listen. I heard about what happened at Izzy's. I'm sorry. My sister is . . . loyal to this town and the people. For a cop she has some trouble believing the worst about people she's known forever. She'd much rather blame the people she doesn't know, because that's where she's had the experience. I think it gives her an illusion of safety. Believe me, she has her reasons.”

“I wish I weren't the one in her sights.” Stan topped off the mug, handed it back and did the same with her own before returning to the table. “It's just because I was there and I found her. I also heard the killer leaving, but no one cares about that.”

“You heard the killer leaving? What do you mean?”

“I heard someone going out the back door that morning. That's why I went down the hall. I thought she had been out back or something and hadn't heard me come in. There was no receptionist, so I walked down to tell her. But it hadn't been her, so whoever killed her was just leaving.”

And could have killed me, too.
If whoever it was had seen her, or recognized her car, then he or she could come after her, too. That person might think she could implicate him. So not only were the police watching her, the killer might be as well.

From the look on Jake's face, he was thinking the same thing. He was quiet for a minute; then he said, “Brenna's friend worked as her receptionist. Carole let her go a couple of weeks back.”

“Really. Why?”

Jake shrugged. “Not sure. Brenna said there wasn't enough work. I guess her friend was bummed because she wants to work with animals and couldn't find another job around here.”

“So Carole fired her receptionist.” Maybe the receptionist was angry about it, too. “What was her name?”

“Amy Franchetti. She wants to go to vet school, and the job seemed like a good way to get some experience. But she didn't work there very long.” Jake shrugged. “Now she's waitressing for me.”

“You get all the college girls, huh?”

He grinned. “My customers like them.”

“Do you know some guy named Don?”

“Don. You mean Don Miller? The councilman?”

“Bald? Kind of unfriendly-looking? Some kind of karate person?”

“That's him. He runs a school for martial arts. Why?”

“Gene was talking to me last night and Don came and pretty much strong-armed him away. I'm wondering why.”

“What was Gene talking to you about?”

“Carole. I asked him how well he knew her. He seems to be one of the only people I've met around here who liked her.” She cocked her head and looked at Jake. “Did you like her?”

Jake drained his cup. “Didn't know her. Can I get more? This coffee rocks.”

“It's Izzy's.” She waited to see if he had any reaction to that. He didn't. She motioned to the pot. “Help yourself. Did you take Duncan to her?”

“Nope.”

“Who did you take him to?”

Jake sighed. “Another chance for you to tell me what a bad parent I am for him. I was in between vets for Duncan. The rescue where I got him—”

“Oh, he's a rescue. That's great.”

“Wow, you approve of something I did with the dog. Can I write that down? Anyway, they had done all his vet stuff. I only adopted him about a year and a half ago, so I haven't gotten my own vet yet.”