Kneading to Die (15 page)

“Where do you take him if he gets sick?”

“He usually doesn't. He has an iron stomach and decent genes. Plus, all the leftover booze he cleans out of the glasses for me every night has to help. I'm kidding,” he said at Stan's horrified gasp. “No, there's a twenty-four-hour place a couple towns away. It's my backup for now. Are you going to throw something at me, or just report me?”

“Probably throw something at you, but not when you're expecting it. I'm curious to see how many people went to Carole from around town.”

“Honestly? I didn't hear great things about her. And from what Brenna says, Amy was less than thrilled with the actual experience of working there.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. I don't usually ask for details on stuff like that.”

“So she's got no family except for a brother and a son no one's seen in years. What did she do around here? Who did she hang out with?”

“No idea, sunshine. Why are you so interested?”

“I want to know who hated this lady enough to kill her.”

“Stan, really. My sister knows you didn't do it.”

“She doesn't know any such thing, and she's made that clear enough.”

Jake was silent for a minute. Stan couldn't read his face.

“Were Carole and Mona Galveston buds? That was quite a speech the mayor gave the other night.”

“Not even close. A lot of history there.”

“History? Tell me. I can make you breakfast.”

“Bribing me for information?” Jake grinned. “I'll take you up on it.”

“Omelet?”

“Sure.”

Stan went to the fridge and began pulling eggs and vegetables out. “The history?”

“I don't know everything. You just hear things around town, and who knows when they stopped being true, right? But Carole's father was a vet, too. He did large animals, and he was the vet for the Galvestons' racehorses. Somewhere along the way they had a falling-out.”

“What kind of falling-out?”

“He wasn't the best vet, from what I hear. Kind of lackadaisical about things one would expect him to care about in that line of work. Bloodlines, that type of thing. Those folks took their horses pretty seriously, and something happened to one of their rising stars under his care. The horse died. I don't know the whole story. But the Galvestons—this was the mayor's father at this point—pretty much saw to it that his career was over.”

“Was Carole involved?”

“No. Carole and Mona were kids then. Friends, actually. But it turned into one of those Hatfield and McCoy things that happen in small towns. Right down to the kids.”

“But they eventually got friendly again?” She finished chopping vegetables and poured the mixture into her cast-iron pan.

“No. They hated each other's guts until the day Carole died.”

“So what was up with the whole speech thing the other night at the memorial?”

“Just the way it is,” Jake said. “That's how people operate, sweetheart. Don't tell me you don't know that.”

“I never paid attention to this stuff before.”
I also never found a dead body before.
“But where I worked, yeah, a lot of the same stuff. Minus actual dead bodies.”

“Where did you work?”

She told him.

“Not anymore?”

“Nope.”

“Why'd you leave?”

“My position got eliminated.”
Why am I offering that up?

“I'm sorry. You miss it?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes.” She folded the omelet perfectly in half and slid it onto a plate, handing it to him. “But it's fine. I'll find something else.”

“I'm hiring a cook. And waitresses.”

“Gee, where can I apply?” She smiled to soften her words. “Hopefully, your sister won't arrest me before I find another job. Those background checks are pretty awful, even if you never did anything wrong.”

“My sister will figure it out. She's not as bad as she seems. And she's smart. Like I said before, her only problem is she gives a bigger benefit of the doubt to people she's comfortable with. Me, I'm not as convinced that just because you've known people forever means you
actually know
them.”

 

 

After Jake left, Stan packed her treats carefully in the cooler and collected the paw-shaped bowls she used for displaying at Nikki's adoption events. It would be nice to get out of town for the afternoon. She changed into a Pets' Last Chance T-shirt and jeans and made an iced coffee for the road, called a good-bye to Nutty and went out the front door, stopping to check it behind her to make sure it was securely locked.

Then she saw Trooper Pasquale's car parked across the street at the green. The officer leaned against it, engaged in a lively conversation with Jake, who didn't look happy even from this distance away. Duncan did, as usual, sitting at Jake's feet, tail swiping the ground like a short-circuited windshield wiper.

Jessie must've seen Jake's truck at her house and waited until he left to give him a thrashing for associating with her prime suspect. She would probably succeed in swaying him over to her side . . . eventually. She was his sister. Then Jake wouldn't talk to her, either. Just stare at her, like half the town did when they saw her.

Jaw set, Stan ignored them as she crossed to her car. She'd just loaded up her stuff when a car pulled into the driveway. Richard. Followed by a second car.
Good visit or bad visit?
Stan's money was on bad. Knowing Richard, he had brought some kind of corporate recruiter with him. Richard got out of the car and went over to the man parked behind him. He said something to him; then he led him over to where Stan waited, with her hand on her car door, ready to escape.

“Hey,” he said, coming up and giving her a peck on the lips, any traces of annoyance from last night gone. “I brought someone to meet you. This is Keith Cronin. He's an attorney. Your mother and I were concerned about what's going on, so he's here to talk with you.”

Cronin wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses and had thick, wavy black hair shot through with gray. His features were almost feminine, and they matched his too-skinny body. His three-piece suit looked expensive, but it seemed wilted from the heat. He stepped over and held out a hand. Stan shook it unenthusiastically. It was damp and his handshake was limp. Her friends from corporate law would have a field day with this guy. And her mother was involved. That was perfect. “What do you mean, ‘what's going on'?” Stan asked.

“Well, you know.” Richard glanced around as if fearful a reporter or television camera lurked, ready to capture his every word. “The unfortunate death of that woman.”

Cronin watched from a few feet away, sympathy wrinkling his smooth, babyish face. “It's lovely to meet you, Kristan,” he said. “Should we talk inside?”

Stan gritted her teeth. “It's Stan. I'm on my way out. And I don't believe I need your services.”

Richard and the lawyer both stared at her. Richard spoke first. “What do you mean?” he said with a nervous laugh. “Aren't they trying to pin a murder on you? Be reasonable, Stan.”

Stan took a deep breath, trying to keep her temper in check. This was just like Richard. He blew it off last night because it didn't suit him to worry about it, but now something had caused him concern. The
Hartford Courant
had probably picked up the story. She could see Jake and his sister across the green, looking in her direction without trying to appear they were. She wanted to tell them to mind their own business. She wanted to ask Richard and her mother's lawyer to leave. And she wanted to go sell pet treats.

“Gee, Richard, I thought you weren't worried about it. But I didn't kill anyone, and I'm certain they'll figure out soon enough who did,” she said. “I don't think I'm in danger of being arrested, but if I am, I'll certainly give you a call, Mr. Cronin. If you'd like to leave me your card, please do so. Otherwise, I'm late for an appointment.”

They both stared at her as if she'd completely lost her mind. Maybe she had. But at the moment she didn't care. She was tired of people trying to run her life, even if they had good intentions. She was old enough and smart enough to solve her own problems, and it was about time everyone accepted that.

Cronin looked at Richard, unsure of his next move. “I really think she and I should talk,” he said to him.

“Hello?” Stan waved at him. “I'm right here, so if you need to say something to me, please don't direct it at anyone else. I don't think we need to talk right now. But again, I'll be happy to call you if I do. If you don't have a card, I'm sure Richard can give me your number.”

Richard sent her a foul look, but he kept his cool. More for the lawyer's benefit than for hers. “That's fine,” he said. “I believe Keith has a card. Right, Keith?”

Cronin looked uncomfortable, but he reached into his back pocket and took out a leather wallet. He extracted a business card and handed it to her. “I'll be available when you need me,” he said.
When.
Not
if.
“Your mother has put me on retainer.”

Great. Her own mother figured it would only be a matter of time before she got arrested. She took the card and stuck it in her back pocket. “Thanks. Now can you both move your cars?”

Richard's look would've wilted wildflowers, but only because his back was to the lawyer. “Of course, sweetheart. I'll call you.” He pasted a polite smile on his lips, air-kissed her again, then turned and walked back to his car.

Cronin glanced at her one last time. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise,” Stan said, her gaze steely.

He scurried back to his own car and backed out of the driveway. Richard didn't look at her as he peeled out, way too fast for this small street. Stan made a mental note to mention that to him later,
if
there was a later. He probably had to go report to her mother about her bad behavior, and that could take a while.

Emma's Waggin' Tails was a high-end pet supply store, offering handmade clothes, high-quality food and toys from recycled products. Nikki loved having events there. High prices, rich clientele. If they didn't adopt, they usually threw money at the problem. She always brought an extra-large donation jar.

Stan arrived at the same time as Nikki and her crew. Justin had returned from California in one piece, looking like he'd just jumped off his surfboard. His long hair was still damp, curling into ringlets. He wrangled two Boston terriers and a boxer out of Nikki's van while she directed some of her younger volunteers to set up cages and place flyers and other information.

“Can I help?” Stan deposited her goods on an extra table.

“Oooh, the treats.” Nikki clapped her hands. “We need a sign for those. Emma!” she called to the woman behind the cash register. “Can we get some poster board?”

Emma hurried to oblige after waving hello to Stan.

“We can set the treats up on that table,” Nikki said. “You have different kinds, right?” At Stan's nod she flashed a thumbs-up. “Just set them out and make sure we identify each. Cara, we need the cages stacked with blankets between them. Otherwise, the cats will be harassing each other all day.” She turned to Justin. “You good?”

He flashed a smile at her. His teeth were so white that they gave off a glare. Stan always wondered what the draw of New England was for such an obvious California boy. “We're great,” he said. His three charges were huddled together in a pile in the small pen he'd set up.

“Those three are too cute. I have to get the cats. Cara, if you're done with cages, come help me.” Nikki bounded through the front door again.

Stan watched her go, then shook her head. “No idea where she gets her energy.”

Justin laughed. “She kills me most of the time. So how's your new house, sweetie? I felt bad I wasn't around to help you move in.”

“It's great. I'm sure California was a better time.”

“Nikki probably whipped the place into shape for you, didn't she? I know she wanted to be there on official moving day, but she got tied up. It's why she was so bent on getting back early Sunday.”

Sunday?
Nikki hadn't been back to the area until late Monday. “Didn't she—” Stan began to answer, but the front door crashed open again. Cara stumbled through with two huge cat carriers.

“Careful!” Nikki's voice floated behind her, lost in a stampede of dog feet. A Rottweiler and a few other mixed-breed mutts dragged her in the door. The cacophony of their barking set off the Bostons and the boxer. Nikki sent Emma an apologetic look.

Emma didn't look fazed in the least as she worked carefully on the poster. Stan stepped over to take a peek. She drew different-shaped treats interspersed with stick figure dogs and cats around the words
GOURMET ANIMAL TREATS, BAKED FRESH
!

Nikki handed off a couple of the dogs to Justin. Once the tangle of leashes had thinned out, Stan noticed the little dog she'd spent time with at Nikki's the other day hanging back behind the crowd, her nub of a tail pointing down.

“Oh, there's my friend! Hi, Scruffy!” Stan dropped to her knees a few feet away.

Scruffy's tail immediately wagged when she recognized Stan. She took a few tentative steps over, but the Rottweiler blocked her path. She stomped her little feet and
woo-woo-wooed
at Stan until she came over and led her around the other dog.

“You must smell the treats. Come on, over here.” Stan led her to the table and chose one of the apple cranberry oat–flavored treats. “Try this one.” While Scruffy wolfed it down, Stan went to work arranging the different kinds in their bowls and setting up a sign for each. “How much are we charging?”

“Want to do a buck apiece, two for one-fifty?” Nikki asked.

“Sure.” She added the price to the poster Emma had proudly taped to the front of her table. “So Scruffy's up for adoption already?”

“Well, she didn't get groomed yet, so not technically. But I wanted to see how she did. She's kind of shy.”

Stan watched the little dog stand up against the table, sniffing for another snack. “She doesn't seem that shy to me.”

“Around other dogs she is, but she'll get over it. How're you doing with the cats, Cara?”

“Good. They're so cute!” Cara squealed.

Nikki checked on the other girl's handling of the cages and helped her arrange an adorable litter of kittens.

“I didn't know you had so many cats. Have you been taking more in?” Stan reached through the cage door and petted one of the babies.

“I've pulled a few. The rest just seem to show up. A pregnant mom wandered into the dog area a while back, so I set her up in a room. These are her babies.” The black-and-white kittens tumbled over each other, playful and full of joy, blissfully unaware of the danger they had been in before their mom chose Nikki as her guardian angel.

“Ladies—oh, sorry, and gentleman, of course,” Emma corrected, and shot an apologetic look at Justin, “are you about ready? I have to open the store.”

“We're good. Let 'er rip,” Nikki said. “You want to watch Scruffy, or do you want me to put her in a pen?”

“She can hang with me.” Stan rumpled the dog's ears.

“Don't let her eat all the treats. That's how we make the most donations at these things.”

Nikki was only half teasing. Stan leaned down and whispered to the dog, “Don't worry. I have plenty more.”

The first customers came in the door—a family with two young boys, who both began to shriek excitedly when they saw the animals.

“Don't touch that dog!” the mother exclaimed as her younger son made a beeline for the Rottweiler.

“Don't worry. He's probably the friendliest dog here,” Justin said, shooting a warning glance at Nikki. She tended to have little patience for uninformed people who discriminated by breed.

The Rottie named Blaze licked the little boy's hand. The mother shot both the dog and Justin a dirty look and dragged her children to the other side of the store.

“I hope it's not going to be one of those days,” Nikki said.

 

 

After the first family, the potential adopters improved. Two hours later two kittens had been adopted, and someone had filled out an application for one of the Boston terriers. Stan's treats had netted twenty-five dollars so far, although most of the money had come from one woman whose Great Dane had inhaled nearly one whole bowl before she realized he'd done so.

Scruffy hung out under Stan's table the whole time while she and Justin chatted and helped the younger volunteers with their charges. She'd wrapped Scruffy's leash under one of the chair legs, but the dog didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave her side. Every now and then, Stan slipped her a treat.

“What kind do you recommend?” An older woman stood in front of the table perusing the treats, holding in her arms a tiny Yorkie who had a red bow in her hair.

“The cheese ones are a big seller, but your dog might like this one.” Stan selected a pumpkin spice treat and handed it to the woman.

She hesitated. “I'm just not sure Nellie will like it.”

“Don't worry. It's a free taste test.”

The woman perked up. “Really? Free?”

Stan broke off a half and handed it to her. “Really.”

Nellie sniffed it delicately; then she took it between her teeth. “Let Momma break it for you,” the woman cooed. She crumbled the cookie up and let the little dog eat it out of her hand. Nellie crunched contentedly, then sniffed for more.

“Looks like she's sold! That's lovely. I hate feeding her processed treats. Especially with all those terrible ingredients from China. I'll take two more. The apple cranberry and”—she browsed the other plates, tapping her finger against her lips—“the broccoli and cheese. Nellie likes vegetables. Is the first one still free?”

“Of course.” Stan accepted the money and wrapped the two cookies. “I hope Nellie enjoys.”

Nellie and her person walked away; the woman cooed baby talk at the dog the whole time.

Emma approached the table with a man trailing behind her. He wore a purple suit, complemented by a shiny gray tie. His brown hair was feathered just a bit on top. Stan swore she could see a makeup line around his chin.

“Excuse me, Stan? I'd like to introduce you to Sheldon. Sheldon Allyn. I presume you know of him?” Emma raised her eyebrows as if to say,
You'd better.

Stan didn't, but she was good at faking it. “Of course.” She rose gracefully and held out her hand. “I'm Stan Connor. Lovely to meet you.”

“Yes, yes, you as well,” Sheldon said, shaking her hand. His was cool and smooth.

“We're fortunate, because Sheldon is one of our neighbors,” Emma said. “His Pomeranian, Bessie, is a regular. Where is Bessie today?”

“Oh, she's a bit under the weather,” Sheldon said. “But these treats might just perk her up! I've seen a steady stream of animals enthralled with them,” he told Stan. “Emma told me you bake them yourself.”

“That's right. I have some recipes, and the others I just experiment with until they come out right.”

“Fascinating.” Sheldon picked up one of the cookies, held it to his nose and inhaled, with eyes closed. Stan glanced at Emma. She shrugged.

“What ingredients do you use?” Sheldon continued to sniff, but he opened his eyes and looked at Stan.

“Well, it depends on the flavor, but I use fruit, rolled oats, spelt flour, cheese, pumpkin, all kinds of things, really.”

“No preservatives of any sort, I presume.”

“Of course not!”

“Local ingredients?”

“As much as possible. In fact”—she pointed to her apple cranberry oat selection—“these have a smidgen of local honey in them to sweeten the flavor a bit.”

“Delightful! Do you mind if I sample?”

“Sample the pet treat? I don't mind, but why would you. . . .” Stan trailed off as Sheldon Allyn nibbled on the cookie, eyes closed again. Behind him, Emma made a choking sound as she tried to hold back a giggle.

“Stupendous!” Sheldon declared, his eyes flying open. “Ms. Connor, might you be able to step away from your post for a moment and discuss some business with me?”

“‘Business'? Uh, sure, I guess,” Stan said. She sent a look to Justin that pleaded,
Help me.
He had been watching the scene with amusement, too.

“I got you, sweetie. I'll make sure no one steals any treats, and I'll keep an eye on Scruffy,” Justin assured her. “Go on and talk.”

“Emma, may we use your conference room?” Sheldon asked.

“‘Conference room'?” Emma repeated. “I don't have a
conference room.
But you're welcome to use my kitchen.” She led them to the back of the store and pushed a door open, revealing a half office, half break room. “Voila.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Sheldon held the door for Stan and followed her inside and held out a chair. She sat. Instead of sitting himself, Sheldon perched on the edge of the table. Totally in her space. Stan inched back in her chair as much as she could.

“I'm sorry to be so abrupt with my offer, but your food is a delight and it's just what I'm looking for. You know Every Sweet Thing's reputation, I'm sure.”

Stan gaped at him. Now she recognized the name. Every Sweet Thing bakeries were upscale—gourmet pastries at its finest—sprinkled throughout classy New England towns. There was only one in Rhode Island, in downtown Newport. They tended to land in places like Boston's Newbury Street. What the heck did the owner of Every Sweet Thing want with her dog treats? “Yes, I know Every Sweet Thing.”

Sheldon nodded as if he wouldn't expect anything less. “I'm expanding my reach. And to do so, I'm expanding my line. I'm doing some cupcake shops as a separate line in order to open more stores, and I'd like to do a pet pastry line. I've been searching high and low for a creator who will do this justice. I've already thought of the name. Every Sweet Thing for Pets.” He drew the words out as if enjoying the taste on his tongue; then he beamed at Stan. “And I've had terrible luck so far. Just terrible. Everyone who is referred, they are pompous fools and don't understand what I want. I want classy. Tasteful, as well as tasty. I want gourmet!” His voice rose on the last words as he swept his hand into the air. His passion for the project was evident.

Stan waited. Sheldon waited.

“Well?” he said finally. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I'm . . . not sure what you're asking me.”

Sheldon smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “My apologies. When I get excited, I talk in circles. I need a pastry chef. Your pet treats tell me you have potential. I don't want a pompous fool baking for the ‘fancy' animals who will eat these creations. I want
real.
And
beautiful.
My poster child for pets. So, will you be my pet chef?”

Stan's mouth dropped open.
A pet chef? Is this guy for real?
“You—you mean you want someone to make dog treats?”

Sheldon sighed heavily. “No, no, no. Cannolis. Birthday cakes. Mousse. Pupcakes. Pet pastry. Do you understand?”

She didn't, actually, but this man seemed a bit unstable. “I, um, I think so. But how do you know I can do that? I appreciate your enthusiasm, and it sounds lovely, but I've never—”

“Ah!” Sheldon leaned forward and, to Stan's shock, planted a kiss right on her lips. “Perfection! I knew I made the right choice. All the greats doubt themselves in the beginning. We will learn together! It will be the first venture of its kind.” He leaped up and clapped his hands. “I'll get a contract together. Please e-mail my assistant with your information. But first, your phone number.” He waggled a finger at her. “I don't want you getting away from me.”