Kneading to Die (16 page)

Stan recited her phone number, not even sure what she had agreed to do. Sheldon programmed it into his phone, pulled her to her feet and bussed her cheek. Then he hurried out the door, still raving to himself about his fabulous idea and the amazing team they were going to make.

Stan stayed in her chair after Sheldon's exit, wondering what, exactly, she'd just gotten herself into. The guy had to be out of his mind. She should go ask Emma. But before she could leave the room, Emma appeared at the door. Her face was flushed with excitement.

“So? How'd it go?”

“It was interesting. Tell me the truth. Is that guy for real?”

Emma gaped at her. “You're kidding, right?”

“Actually, no. I have no idea who he is.”

“Holy crap.” Emma dropped into the nearest chair. “You don't know Every Sweet Thing?”

“I do know Every Sweet Thing. I know they have good pastry. I just didn't know who the owner was. . . .” Stan realized she was talking herself into a corner.

“Well-known is an understatement. If you're familiar at all with the food industry, you would know Sheldon Allyn. He's, like, a visionary.” Emma's eyes took on a weird shine as she described him. It made Stan think of cult members talking about their crazy leaders.

“So, bottom line, he's for real?”

“He's
so
for real! What did he ask you?”

“He wants a pet chef. For some reason he thinks he wants me. Apparently, because I can bake bone-shaped treats, he thinks I can bake doggie cannolis.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Emma's squeal was loud enough that Justin came running from the front of the store.

“Are you guys okay?”

“Wonderful! Stan's gonna be famous—”

“Hang on,” Stan interrupted. “Don't get carried away, Emma.”

“‘Carried away'? He wants her to be his pet chef!”

“Really?” Justin looked impressed. “Will you get a TV show?”

“A TV show?”

“Yeah. Sheldon's been in discussions about something on the
Food Network.
Last I heard, anyway,” he said.

“You know him, too?”

“Of course.” Justin looked at her like she'd asked him if he brushed his teeth every day. “Who doesn't know Sheldon Allyn?”

Emma giggled.

“I didn't have time to watch The Food Network! Cut me some slack,” Stan said.

“Maybe he can do a spin-off on
Animal Planet
or something.” Justin was getting excited now. “Wow, that's really cool, Stan!”

“He just talked to me about it. We'll see if it even happens, guys. He seemed flaky.”

“His croissants are flaky. He's one of the most brilliant men I know. He can turn anything into an amazing recipe,” Emma said defensively.

“He seemed lovely. Just not the type of business deals I'm used to.”

“You better tell Nikki,” Justin said.

“Good idea. Where is she, anyway?”

“I think she's out back. She had to talk to someone about a dog.” Emma pointed at the far end of the store. “You can go that way. It takes you right into the parking lot.”

Stan went out the back door, shading her eyes from the sun, and looked around for her friend. Not seeing her, she turned to go back in the store, when the lettering on a white van caught her eye:
FROG LEDGE ANIMAL CONTROL.
She paused, about to chalk it up to coincidence. Then Nikki walked around the side of the van, her head bent close to Diane Kirschbaum's, deep in conversation.

Diane Kirschbaum was at Nikki's adoption event, an hour away from Frog Ledge. If Nikki knew her, why had she never mentioned it? First Perri Galveston, then Carole Morganwick/Cross, now Diane. She'd thought her friend's first experience with Frog Ledge had been when she'd seen the house.

Seemed she had been wrong. It didn't give her a good feeling, especially after Diane's cold reception and Nikki's admission that she'd known Carole.

“Hey, Nikki!” Stan called.

Nikki looked up, startled; then she said something to Diane. “I'll be right there!” she yelled back.

They went around the back of the van again, out of sight. Stan leaned on the rail and waited. A minute later, Nikki reappeared. Diane climbed back into the van and drove out of the parking lot, her eyes never meeting Stan's.

“Hey, you need me?” Nikki jogged over. “We're getting a lot of applications for the dogs, huh?”

“We are. And I have a funny story to tell you.”

“Cool. Let's go in.” Nikki started for the door, completely ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Hey, Nik?”

“Yeah?” She half turned, still holding the door.

“Why was Diane Kirschbaum here?”

“She needed to place a pit bull and someone passed my name on.” She shrugged. “Just helping out.”

“That's pretty far for her to come to talk about a dog, no?”

“I guess, but this sounded like a personal thing, not a town thing.”

“So where's the pit bull?”

“What?”

“The pit bull. Did she bring him to you?”

“Her. And I have to assess her first. What's with the third degree, Stan?”

“No reason.” Stan followed her in. “You seem to know a bunch of people from my new town, including the dead person.”

“One person's hardly a bunch. And I told you, I don't know her. I was just asked to help out. Any new apps?” she asked Justin.

“Don't forget Perri,” Stan reminded her.

“Okay, so what's the big deal? I didn't know I had to report back about every person I spoke to.” Her harsh tone stung.

Justin sensed it, too. He glanced from Nikki to Stan, then held up some papers. “Apps on the other Boston and all three of those guys.” He nodded toward the pen with the smaller breed dogs. “Most of Stan's treats are gone. Did she tell you her fabulous news?”

“No, I didn't get a chance.” Stan brushed by her friend. She could give the cold shoulder, too. “I'm going to take Scruffy outside.”

She unwrapped the dog's leash from the chair leg and led the little dog out. Her nub of a tail wagged the whole way. They walked along the parking lot to the grass behind the store. Nikki had certainly seemed annoyed at her questions. If there was a simple answer, she wouldn't be so defensive. But it seemed like a natural piece of conversation, to mention knowing someone in the town your best friend moved to—especially since Stan didn't know anyone.

Maybe she was being oversensitive. Or Nikki was having a bad day. She did get upset at the way pit bulls were treated.

She sighed, watching Scruffy sniff out the perfect spot to do her business.
Maybe I shouldn't have stormed out like a child.
Scruffy hopped out of her squat and pawed at Stan's leg. She was adorable.

“Do you like cats?” Stan asked, squatting in front of her.

Scruffy licked her nose.

“Why am I asking you that? I can't adopt another animal right now. No matter how cute you are.” Stan stood up and sighed. Scruffy sighed, too. Stan swore she did. Now she was letting the dog down as well.

She hoped the rest of the treats really were gone. It was time to go home.

 

 

When they got back inside, Nikki came flying over to her and gave her a huge hug. Her attitude from fifteen minutes earlier was seemingly forgotten. “I heard Sheldon was here! That's so amazing! Wow, Stan. See, I told you cool things were gonna happen for you!”

“Thanks. I don't think I agreed to anything yet.”

“Well, you'd be crazy not to. Sheldon can get you places. Didn't I tell you your treats are awesome?”

“He wants more than treats. He wants a pet pastry chef. I have no idea if I can be that.”

“Of course you can be that, if you want to be! That sounds like fun for a change. You could use some fun in your life. Hey, I'm sorry to snap at you earlier. I've just been overrun by pit bulls, but I can't ever turn them away. My problem, not yours. Forgive me?”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” Nikki didn't seem to notice Stan's lack of enthusiasm. “Hey, can you do me a favor? I have to drop these dogs off for training and then follow up on this new dog. I don't suppose you'd want to watch Scruffy for a while?”

“Um. Sure, I guess. How long?”

“Not sure. Overnight, at least. Depends on if I can get away tomorrow. But I'd like to see how she does with cats. So maybe longer.”

“You have cats.”

“I know, but she's not inside that much at my house.
Please?
She'd love the personal attention.”

Sitting between them, Scruffy wagged her tail.

She wasn't sure how Nutty would feel about it, but what the heck? “Sure. Sounds fun.”

“Excellent. Here's her toy.” Nikki dove into her duffel bag and pulled out a ratty stuffed sheep. “She doesn't go anywhere without it.”

Scruffy immediately jumped up when she sighted the toy, her tongue hanging out, panting slightly.

“She likes to play chase,” Nikki said.

Stan took the toy. It was chewed up, stained and dirty. She looked at the dog. “Sounds like we're gonna have a fun evening, me and you.”

Stan drove home with her sunroof open and windows partway down so Scruffy could enjoy the fresh air from the backseat. She wagged her stubby tail the whole time, sticking her head out as far as she could so the wind whipped her ears around. They took the long way, since Stan really had nowhere to be. “
Life Is a Highway”
played in her head, so she didn't bother with the radio. She figured she wouldn't see Richard again tonight, and she had no other plans. That is, other than not to get arrested.

Or she could do some of that research she'd been meaning to do. A relaxing evening on the sunporch, with perhaps a fresh tomato, basil and mozzarella salad and homemade blackberry iced tea while she Googled information on potential murderers. She laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. How in the world had she ended up in this situation?

But when she drove through Frog Ledge again, especially past the clinic, her thoughts sobered. Someone was dead. Nothing funny about that.

The green was abuzz with activity. A bunch of teenagers hauled chairs around, arranging them in a half-moon shape facing the library parking lot. Two vans were backed up to the same spot, their back doors thrown open as people carted out equipment. Kids ran shrieking around the circles of adults, throwing balls and chasing dogs. Someone setup a popcorn cart. She remembered the sign she'd seen at the other end of the green for a concert and dance tonight. It was some historical thing that involved costumes. It sounded like fun. And she hadn't had popcorn in such a long time. Carnival-type popcorn was almost as good as movie theater popcorn. She salivated for a minute, thinking about it. Then she remembered her reality. If half the town didn't think she was a killer, she might consider going. But since that wasn't the case, she resigned herself to a quiet night at home.

She experienced instant relief when she pulled into her driveway and found no one waiting for her. She had a clear path inside.
I don't have to talk to anyone. . . . Ha! What a joke my life has become. Well, still is.
She slammed her emergency brake up and shut the car off abruptly. It was exactly like her existence in her old place, only she'd really hoped it would be different here. She wanted to meet people, make new friends, get out and do things. But the murder had squashed all that.

Then she felt bad for whining, even if it was in her own head. The murder had been harder on Carole, certainly. She opened the back door and grabbed Scruffy's leash and toy, along with the empty containers from her pet treats. “Let's go. We have a rockin' good time ahead of us.”

Her relief at no visitors soon changed to apprehension when she noticed the envelope sticking out of her front door. Hesitant, she approached, wondering if she should even touch it. At this point she wouldn't be surprised if it jumped up and bit her. But she had to get in the door, and the stupid envelope was, in effect, blocking her way. Stan sighed and ripped it free from the frame. Plain white envelope, nothing written on it. Unsealed. She lifted the flap and pulled out the single piece of paper. She unfolded it.

A bill from Leonard Homeopathic Veterinary Care for 250 bucks. Stan resisted the urge to rip it up. Amara might be watching right now. Instead, she calmly tucked it in her purse, unlocked the door and led Scruffy inside.

Nutty waited in the hall, anticipating either Stan's return or the visitor she brought. His tail went up at the first sighting of Scruffy, but he didn't bolt like he had when Duncan was in the house. Scruffy's tail vibrated with excitement as she strained the leash, trying to get to Nutty.
Crap. Is she going to try to eat him or wrestle him?
Stan's bets were on Nutty, either way.

Keeping her on the leash, Stan led Scruffy over to the cat. Scruffy was surprisingly reserved, approaching cautiously, tail as straight up as such a tiny nub could be. Nutty didn't back down. He let the dog sniff him all over; then she licked his face. He blinked his eyes and rubbed against her; then he sat at her feet.

“Wow, I guess you do like some dogs. That's good news. She's visiting for tonight,” Stan told Nutty, unclipping Scruffy's leash. “Why don't you two go play?”

Instead, they both followed her to the kitchen. Dinnertime.

“I should have known. I'll get it ready now.”

Depositing her stuff on the table, she took some food out and heated it on the stove while she checked her voice mail. She'd had her phone turned down all day, anticipating fallout from her mother over the lawyer visit. And she wasn't disappointed.

“Kristan, what in the world is going on? Richard told me someone was murdered and you were . . . in the vicinity. Now the state news has picked up the story, he said. I sent the best lawyer in the state and you turn him away? Please call me.”

She knew it. The
Hartford Courant
had picked it up. Stan deleted the message and threw the phone back in her purse. She wouldn't return that call. It explained Richard's sudden concern. He and her mother were both so predictable.

After she fed the animals, Stan put on a new pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She sliced the fresh mozzarella and tomatoes, which she'd picked up at the co-op, on top of fresh basil leaves. She drizzled balsamic vinegar and a touch of olive oil and sprinkled pepper; then she grabbed her laptop and her iced blackberry tea and headed for the sunroom.

The salad was delicious. She allowed herself a few bites before opening her laptop and pulling up Google. But instead of searching for Carole or Diane or anyone else in town, she typed Sheldon Allyn's name into the search bar. A number of hits came back within seconds: the official Every Sweet Thing website, some articles on the pastry chef, including a spread in the
New York Times,
a YouTube video of the man himself demonstrating how to make meringue—a practice that apparently required a fierce amount of praise directed at the ingredients—and some clips of his guest appearances on some of the great
Food Network
shows.

His enthusiasm was contagious. He loved his pastry. Anyone could tell by watching his meticulous measurements, his praise of what each ingredient brought to the table, his pride at the finished product. For the first time Stan allowed herself to feel something other than disbelief or skepticism. She thought about what it might be like to control her own destiny, to wake up in the morning and do something that made her happy. Not the kind of happy bred only by money and beating the pants off the competition, but the kind of happy a person made for herself by doing something she loved.

Could she really be Sheldon Allyn's pet pastry chef?

Why not?

Outside, through her open windows, noise and chatter started to filter in off the green. People arriving for the party. The band was tuning up, testing equipment. She could see fireflies flitting through the woods on the side of her property—even they were taking part in tonight's festivities.

Stan turned back to her computer and pulled up the search bar. She typed in Carole Morganwick, Connecticut and sat back.

The results started filling the page. The
Frog Ledge Holler
articles topped the list. Cyril Pierce had an online edition as well. He must spend an awful lot of time at his beloved paper. Stan had to admire him. The world needed a good media presence. Of course they needed good PR people, too.

Reviews of Carole's practice were right below it. This was where her gut told her the clues could be. And her gut was right. Only five reviews, but four of them were poor. One with one star, three with two. The fifth review had five stars. Stan wondered if Carole had created it, or put someone up to it.

She skimmed the poor ones. Comments ranged from Terrible bedside manner to My dog got sick after his vaccine, and she overcharged me too. There was a commentary about a cat that sounded suspiciously like Betty's story.

The doorbell rang, interrupting Stan's reading before she could get to Carole Cross' reviews. Scruffy frantically
woo-wooed
and shot to all fours.
Now what?
Stan took one more bite of mozzarella and hurried to the front of the house, with Scruffy leading.

She peered through the narrow side window before approaching the door. It was Jake. What was he doing here? She swung the door open wide, one finger in Scruffy's collar so she wouldn't run away. Duncan stood there, wagging his tail. He barked excitedly when he saw Scruffy; his tail flapped hard enough to dent the wooden railing. Stan was pleased to see he was on a leash.

“Easy,” Jake said, yanking him back. “Hey, Stan. New dog?”

“Just babysitting. Well, dog sitting. Come on in.”

Stan let Scruffy go. She and Duncan frantically sniffed at each other, tails wagging. Jake looked at Stan. “I guess they're okay with each other,” he said, unclipping Duncan's leash.

“I guess they are,” Stan agreed as the two dogs chased each other through the house. A crash, sounding suspiciously like a kitchen chair tumbling, followed. Jake winced.

“Sorry. Dunc's a rough one. I wanted to see if you were coming to the dance tonight.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Why not? It's actually pretty fun.”

“Don't you need to be at the bar?”

“Brenna's there, and Travis. Travis is second in command. He's more the bar-social type than the community-social type. They'll be fine.”

“I can't go to the dance.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone thinks I killed Carole. Haven't we gone over this? People stare at me, Jake. The lady at the general store didn't even want to ring me up. I'm surprised she didn't let me walk out the door with the stuff for free.”

“Abbie?” Jake made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Abbie's just a gossip. Most people in town aren't like that.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm sure people listen to Abbie. Her place is the hub, right?”

“‘The hub'?” Jake laughed. “Where'd you get that?”

“Never mind. It's not just Abbie.” Stan threw her hands up in frustration and walked back to the sunroom, stopping to right the upended chair on her way. “Point is, I'm not going.”

“That's not very sociable of you.”

“Huh! Did your sister think I was being ‘sociable' when she saw you over here this morning?”

Jake said nothing.

“See, didn't think so.” Stan sat back down and waved at the other chair. “Feel free to sit.”

Jake did. She closed her laptop.

“My own family and supposed boyfriend already called a lawyer.” Stan viciously hacked her tomato into bite-sized pieces. “Can you believe that? A lawyer!”

She hadn't realized that had bothered her so much until now. She knew her mother had a misguided way of offering help, but hiring a lawyer before she even got arrested? That didn't show a whole lot of faith.

“Is that who the suit was in your driveway this morning?” Jake smiled. “He didn't get very far.”

“Yep, you guys had front-row seats. I bet your sister was annoyed when she thought I had someone who wouldn't let me talk.”

“Stan, I know you're angry at my sister, but she really is trying her best to get to the bottom of this.”

Stan had nothing to say to that. She swiped her last piece of mozzarella around her plate to pick up the remains of her balsamic vinegar; then she pushed the dish away. Jake watched, his expression slightly amused.

“I know why you should come to the dance,” he said.

She glared at him.

“To get a decent meal, at least. All you're eating are some leaves and cheese for dinner?”

“A decent meal?” Stan snorted. “What, are they grilling hot dogs?”

She didn't mean to sound so snarky, but the stress was definitely getting to her. Jake didn't take offense, though. He didn't look like much of anything got him riled. He just laughed and stood to go.

“I'm heading over there now. I'd love it if you came with us. Bring the pooch. It's fun. Don't worry about not having a costume,” he said, anticipating her next line of protest. “A lot of people don't dress up. Including me.”

Stan knew she should decline, but she really did want to go. He'd obviously made an effort. Whether it was because he genuinely felt sorry for her or was trying to apologize in his own way for his sister's behavior, she wasn't sure. Being a jerk to someone who actually still wanted to talk to her wouldn't help her cause. As if on cue, “
I Hope You Dance
” floated into her head.

She sighed. “Okay.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“Sure, why not?”

Jake grinned. “Your enthusiasm is truly overwhelming.”