Kneading to Die (19 page)

Police vehicles lined the road, blocking traffic in both directions. A couple of troopers and some blockades kept people at a safe distance. Stan reached for her phone, but then she let it drop. She wasn't sure who it was. Either the fire was so bad the locals weren't confident they could get it under control with their resources, or they were afraid of it spreading, or both.

She had a sinking suspicion that an accidental fire in the same place a murder had occurred less than a week ago would be too much of a coincidence. Whoever had killed Carole had come back and set her building on fire. That didn't make sense . . . unless there was evidence to tie the murderer to the clinic somehow. Perhaps there was evidence that could be uncovered when they started sorting through Carole's will, or tracking the ownership of the building.

She thought of Diane Kirschbaum's phone conversation about accessing the building, about Amara and that guy slinking around behind the clinic. Sirens sounded again. Now an ambulance roared up. Stan shivered. She hoped no one had been inside.

People poured out of their houses and gathered nearby, even though they couldn't get close. Stan pulled her car into the library parking lot and ran down the street as fast as her sandals would allow. She reached the gathering crowd; people stopping their cars, trying to get home from somewhere; others who lived close by coming outside in pajamas to find out what the ruckus was about.

“My Lord,” a woman uttered. She was wearing a housecoat like Stan's grandmother used to wear. “How could this have happened?”

No one answered her. She saw EMTs, a glimpse of a stretcher being loaded into the ambulance, and then the doors slammed and the vehicle screamed away. Everyone's worst fears were confirmed. Someone had been in there.

The crowd went silent. Stan saw a man make the sign of the cross and she felt sick, fearing that a fatal injury might have occurred. If another person had died in that building, she didn't want to hear about it. She should go home. Odds were that Trooper Pasquale would show up at her door shortly, anyway, to find out where she'd been. Well, at least she'd been fighting with Richard in public. Something good had come out of that situation.

Cyril Pierce and someone wielding a camera arrived and tried to talk to the staties, but no luck. The hush on the street spoke volumes. The acrid smell of smoke floated down and covered the idyllic town. Troopers came and went from the cordoned-off area. Stan didn't see Pasquale anywhere. People spoke in hushed tones. Whispers and speculations. She heard something about an explosion. No one spoke to Stan. It seemed like hours that they had been out there; but when Stan checked her watch, it wasn't even nine o'clock. Less than two hours ago she'd faced off with Richard and Michelle in a completely different world.

When she was sure her lungs were turning black from inhaling smoke, she decided to leave. She'd hear the whole story tomorrow, surely. But as she moved through the crowd to get back to her car, a snippet of conversation caught her ear.

“I don't know if anyone talked to Jake yet,” a man said.

Stan didn't recognize the man or the young woman he spoke to who brushed tears away. “We have to tell him and Brenna,” she said, and Stan stepped in front of them. To hell with being rude.

“Tell Jake what?” she asked, and they both looked at her. The man's eyes were serious and sad.

“His sister was hurt. Trooper Jessie. She was there when the explosion happened.”

 

 

Stan pulled into her garage and stepped out into the darkness. Her throat was sore; she smelled like smoke; she wished she could go to bed and sleep, but she knew it wouldn't happen. Brandishing her key, she hurried to the door, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Scruffy scratched at the door from the inside, trying to get to her. Stan stuck the key in the lock, then froze. A scream bubbled up in her throat as she sensed someone over her shoulder.

The scream turned into a hysterical giggle when she turned, karate kick at the ready, and found herself facing off with her very own handmade wood-carved wagon, complete with a gigantic collection of flowers and plants inside it. She'd forgotten all about it in the week's excitement. It was gorgeous, and way too short to be a person.

She needed some sleep. She'd check it out tomorrow. She let herself in and greeted the dog and the cat, waiting at the door together. She got everything locked down, and then she realized Scruffy still needed to go outside. The one downfall of dogs. At least she would bark if anything was out there.

“Come on, then,” she said, picking up her leash. “Let's make this short and sweet, okay?”

Scruffy wagged her tail—such an obliging dog. Stan got her all geared up and they went out front. Scruffy did her selective sniffing routine, found a spot and did her business. She had just finished when a pickup truck slowed in front of Stan's house. Scruffy barked like crazy. The truck stopped and, to her dismay, the driver's door opened and a shadowy figure came around the front of the car. Stan froze, knowing she should bolt into the house. The person waved at her.

“I dropped off yer wagon!” Gene called.

Relieved, she loosened her grip on Scruffy's leash. “Yes, I saw! Thank you!” Stan called back, staying where she was. Scruffy continued to bark.

“You like it?”

“It's beautiful,” Stan said. “Thank you so much, Gene. Can I drop off your payment tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrah.” He shrugged. “Not worried about it.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, but he changed his mind. Closed it again. “Lots of sirens tonight. You hear them?”

“I did. There was a fire,” Stan said. “Downtown.” She did not say where. She didn't feel like talking at all, never mind talking about that.

“A fire, huh.” Gene shook his head. “So much bad stuff going on lately.”

“I know. Terrible. Well, thanks for coming by. You have a good night. Come on, Scruffy.” With a wave she dragged the protesting dog inside and locked the door behind her. She peeked out the window. Watched Gene limp back around to the driver's side of his truck and drive away.

 

 

Huddled in her bed with a cup of tea, and Scruffy and Nutty nestled beside her, Stan tried to process the newest development in this never-ending saga. Her appetite for her long-cold Afghan food had vanished with the smoke she'd seen tonight. She felt like she'd taken a massive blow to her windpipe when she'd heard the news of Jessie Pasquale's injuries. Her throat tightened up; she couldn't speak. A wave of hot nausea washed away the initial chill. Because it was Jake's sister? Or because she kept seeing Pasquale's daughter, playing with the dogs and tugging on her uncle's hand? It certainly wasn't because she was overly fond of Pasquale, although she would never wish harm on anyone.

But the part of her she didn't like spoke up, in a childish voice, saying,
“See, big shot, you got what you deserved, because you've been wasting your time making Stan's life miserable, and the real killer is still out there, Trooper.”
That bratty inner-child voice came through loud and clear tonight in the privacy of her own home—and in her own mind—despite Stan's best efforts to squash that naughty kid and send her to her room. It was the truth. Jessie Pasquale had screwed up, and it could've cost her life.

On the heels of that thought came the guilt and the half-baked prayers:
Please, please, don't let her die. She has a kid, and Jake would be devastated. Who would the resident state trooper be?
and on and on. The warring emotions had her up and pacing like a restless ghost; Scruffy was on her heels, the little dog anxious at the change in atmosphere. Nutty just watched her, a concerned look on his face, his tail straight up on high alert.

She wanted to call Jake, but she wasn't sure if that was appropriate. The family had to be handling it. She needed a drink. Her head felt like it might explode. Processing the sighting of Richard and Michelle, the fire and finally this news tonight, she wasn't sure which end was up. Never mind Nikki. The other piece bothering her right now. She still hadn't heard a word from her friend. Nikki's phone had been off. It wasn't like her to be off the grid completely, even if she was on a transport, which she hadn't said anything about yesterday. All the crazy things Stan had learned this week made her nervous. Worse, they sent her brain down a path she didn't like one bit.

Draining her tea, she set the mug down with a snap. She couldn't sit here and worry all night, and she wasn't going to get any sleep. Grabbing her purse and keys, she hurried out of the house again, making sure her porch, driveway and garage were all ablaze with lights.

 

 

It was near, if not past, closing time at McSwigg's. Stan pushed open the heavy front door, scanning the room. A few diehards nursed their last drinks. Duncan galloped over to greet her. She didn't see Jake or Brenna. She and Duncan went up to the bar. A guy with a huge head of curly hair washed glasses.

“We're getting ready to close,” he said.

“Actually, I'm looking for Jake.”

The bartender shook his head. “'Fraid he's not here. Family emergency.”

“I know. Do you know if he's coming back?”

“Not sure.”

“Mind if I wait? I'm supposed to watch Duncan,” she lied.

The guy shrugged. “Sure.”

Stan settled on a stool; Duncan's head was in her lap. The bar emptied out. The curly-haired guy moved on to sweeping the floor. Stan sat there for the better part of a half hour as everyone else emptied out.

And then Jake walked in.

He came in the front door, so he hadn't gone up to his apartment first. Which meant he'd just returned from the hospital. Stan's heart started pounding. She was afraid to ask how Jessie was. Afraid of his reaction. She'd been snotty about his sister before. He'd understood, but the game had changed tonight.

As he got closer, Stan could see how tired he looked. And how troubled. But he smiled at her. Minus his usual teeth display. “Hey.” He slid onto the stool next to her.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

She hesitated; then she leaned forward and let the words tumble out. “I know you probably think I'm full of crap, but I'm not. I feel horrible about what happened. How's your sister?”
Great speech.

He raised an eyebrow. “I don't think you're full of crap. I appreciate your asking. She's okay. Thankfully, she took someone with her when she responded to the call. He called out the troops as soon as the explosion happened.”

“What happened? Why did she go in there?”

Jake started to answer; then he stopped and held up a finger. “Hang on.” He went over and spoke to the curly-haired guy. The guy nodded, took off his apron and walked out the door. Jake followed him and locked up, then returned to the stool.

“It was an anonymous call,” he said. “Saying someone was in the building and it was on fire. But it wasn't on fire, so she went in the back. Someone had jury-rigged some half-assed explosive, which, thank God, didn't work right. Something blew up in the exam room right behind her. Of course she had to check if anyone was in there.”

“So someone set her up?”

Jake's silence answered her question. “No one's supposed to know that. The cop she was with is a friend. He told me. They had agreed not to go in, just go to the scene and wait for the firefighters, because they were in town. But since the place didn't look like it was on fire, Jess did what she does best. She ignored the rules.”

“How long will she be in the hospital?”

“A day or two, I think.”

“What about Lily?”

“Her dad came and got her. He lives in the next town.”

“I'm sorry, Jake.”

He lifted one shoulder. “She'll be okay.”

“It was the person who killed Carole, wasn't it?”

“I don't know.”

“It had to be. Who else would try to blow up the place?” Stan got off the stool and paced around the empty bar. “This is crazy. They have to catch this person soon. Right?”

He watched her, his eyes hooded in the dim light. “I hope so.”

She jammed her hands in her pocket and looked around, not wanting to keep eye contact with him for too long. Her gaze fell on the Gaelic sign again. She nodded at it. “What's it mean?”

He followed her gaze. “‘Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.'”

Stan kept her gaze trained on the words until they blurred. “How nice,” she said. “Well, I should probably get going.”

He didn't speak for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “Sure. Thanks for coming by. Be careful going home.”

Monday: one week since Carole died; since Stan's life went off the rails. Theme song: “
Crazy Train.
” Ozzy Osbourne seemed a fitting choice. She wondered what it meant that a lot of her theme songs dated back to her angst-ridden heavy metal days. And today was Carole's wake, on top of what would surely be a day of crazy town gossip and stories galore about the fire at the clinic and Jessie Pasquale's injuries. Cyril might have managed to get an edition of the paper together. It was that thought that drove her out the front door, first thing in the morning, before she'd even had a sip of coffee from the mug in her hand.

On the porch she had a visitor.

Stan was getting used to seeing Duncan waiting out there—Jake still hadn't mastered the art of keeping an eye on him—so she didn't blink an eye when she saw the dog curled in a ball. But she wasn't used to this lack of response when he saw her. Usually, he was on her like a jumping bean, bouncing up and down until she gave him a kiss. Normally, he would be standing up on his hind legs, his paws on her shoulders, licking her to death. This morning, nothing.

“Duncan?” she called.

He didn't respond. “Duncan!” Dropping to her knees beside his still frame, she was relieved to see him lift his head half an inch, just enough to give her a baleful look. Then he dropped back to the floor again. At least he was moving. For an awful moment she'd expected the worst.

“Dunc, what's wrong? Are you sick?” Fear at seeing him like this manifested into anger. Where was Jake? And why was she suddenly responsible for two dogs, when she had only signed up for one cat, and a self-sufficient one at that?

“Hang on, I'm gonna call your dad.” She stood to go inside and find her phone, but Duncan fixed sad eyes on her and gave a pitiful whine. Then he vomited where he lay.

He could've eaten trash on the way to her house. Lord knew he would eat anything. So, did he just have a bad bellyache, or was this something worse? She didn't want to take the chance. Abandoning her pride, still dressed in her pajamas, she sprinted for the stairs. She hit the lawn, running, and raced next door to Amara's, banging on the door and ringing the bell simultaneously.

No response.

Stan cursed again, about to launch into a tirade about people who held stupid grudges at the wrong time. Then she realized it was barely seven in the morning; she tried again. This time she could hear the dog barking.

The door cracked a minute later. Amara stared at Stan.

“I'm sorry,” Stan said. “I know it's early and you're angry at me. But there's a sick dog on my porch. Please, can you come help him?”

Amara hesitated just long enough to piss off Stan. “You can add it to my bill,” Stan snapped, and Amara narrowed her eyes and finally spoke.

“One minute.” She shut the door in Stan's face.

Stan crossed her arms and waited, tapping her foot, peering over to her yard in a futile effort to see onto the porch. Amara returned wearing a baseball cap and carrying a small kit. Stan led her to the porch, to Duncan. Still in the same spot. That's when she noticed the other spots of vomit on the porch.

Amara dropped to her knees and took the dog's head in her hands. She checked his eyes, inside his mouth, gently rolled him to the side and probed his belly. “You just found him like this?”

“Yeah. He comes to my porch sometimes for food.”

“So you fed him.”

“No, not this morning. I came out and he was just lying here.”

“Was he foaming?”

“No. Why? You don't think he has rabies?”

“Not if he's had his shots. He has no bite marks, anyway.” Amara opened her kit and perused the small vials inside for what seemed like hours.

Stan fidgeted, unable to watch Duncan like that anymore. “I'm going to call Jake.” She went inside, letting the door slam behind her. Nutty and Scruffy waited in the hall, both looking very concerned. “It's okay, guys.” She hoped.

She picked up her phone and put it back down. Dreaded this call. Would dread it under normal circumstances, but he'd already had a rough night. Yet it had to be done. She hit the call button before she could change her mind.

He answered on the second ring. She pictured him sleeping with the phone next to him, waiting for news about his sister.

“Hey.” Her voice came out hoarse and gravelly. She cleared her throat and started over. “It's Stan.”

“Hey, Stan. I was just about to call you. I can't find Duncan. Is he over there again?”

“That's why I'm calling. Can you come over right away?”

Silence. “Is everything okay?”

“Duncan's sick.”

“I'll be right there.”

 

 

Something small-town America and corporate America had in common: the rumor mill. As soon as word got out about what had happened to the beloved mascot of McSwigg's, the story spread as fast and as far as a raging wildfire. It even overshadowed the accounts of the real fire from the previous night. Some went with food poisoning and blamed Stan, since he had been on her porch. Others said someone in the neighborhood—also possibly Stan—secretly had something against dogs and was leaving rat poison in desirable places. And on, and on, and on.

Once the poison rumors had been exhausted, the townsfolk moved on to Duncan's miraculous recovery. Some credited Amara with saving his life and raved about her awesomeness. Others, mainly the older crowd, whispered that she was some voodoo doctor or witch. Still, others said the real rescue happened once they got Duncan to the emergency vet, but Stan knew differently. He had gone from alarmingly sick to quiet and alert in the time it took to drive to the emergency clinic. Stan insisted on accompanying him. Amara had sent the remedy along for her to administer throughout the drive, and Stan rode with Duncan's head in her lap.

The morning was a barrage of sounds and images crashing together: Jake repeating that it wasn't her fault, that she'd been right the whole time and he should be more careful about letting the dog escape so easily. The vet techs rushing Duncan out back, expecting a dire situation after Stan's frantic call about a possible poisoning. Jake comforting her when she cried, instead of the other way around. The verdict that Duncan had likely eaten something toxic, although the vet couldn't tell what without running extensive tests. The cautious relief when Stan and Jake were allowed out back and Duncan wagged his tail and gave Stan his paw.

Stan had given Amara the credit and showed the doc the remedy Duncan had taken every fifteen minutes on the way over. The vet's response had been neutral. She recommended Duncan stay overnight to make sure he didn't relapse, and to monitor that his organs were functioning properly.

And then they were in Jake's truck, heading back to Frog Ledge.

“You okay?” Jake asked.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I'm glad he's okay.”

“Me too. I feel awful.”

“Why? You didn't do anything. You saved his life.”

“Amara saved his life. I don't care that the vet dismissed it. She did.”

“I believe it. And you made that happen.”

Barely. Only reason Amara did anything I asked is because she loves animals more than she hates me.
But Stan didn't say that to Jake. She thought of the bag of kibble on her porch Saturday night. Duncan had eaten a ton of it by the time she realized it yesterday. In many cases poison wasn't instantaneous, unless there was a very large amount. She wondered if this was really random, or if someone's hatred ran so deep they were willing to hurt defenseless animals.

“Stan?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, stop blaming yourself.”

“Hard not to. I move to town and everything falls apart.”

“That's a little dramatic, unless you killed Carole and set fire to her building. And poisoned my dog.”

“Of course not!”

“See what I'm saying?”

“You don't understand.”

“You're right. I don't. If you didn't do it, you didn't do it.”

“Life's not always that black-and-white.”

“In this case, it seems pretty black-and-white to me.”

“Not when my best friend could've been involved.” It was the first time she'd spoken the words aloud. She'd danced around the whole Nikki thing in her mind, sure, but mostly to justify why it couldn't be true. But the evidence seemed overwhelming. Especially with Nikki's van sitting in Frog Ledge the day of the murder, when she'd explicitly told Stan she was hundreds of miles away.

Jake didn't take his eyes off the road, simply raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

She hesitated, not sure she should confide in him with this level of information. But she needed to talk it through with someone, and that obviously couldn't be Nikki. So she did, beginning with Nikki's past experiences with Carole Cross/Morganwick and her furtive conversation with Diane Kirschbaum and Perri Galveston. She ended with Izzy's revelation about Nikki's van being in the area the day of the murder. She didn't notice Jake had kept driving, past the turnoff for Frog Ledge, until he pulled up in front of a coffee shop that she'd never seen before. He didn't turn the car off until she was done talking.

“Feel like a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Sure.”

They went inside and found a seat. He waited until they'd ordered before he spoke again. “Do the police know about all this?”

“I don't know. I haven't told them anything. Maybe Izzy told them about the van. I hate even entertaining the thought, but . . . people do crazy things every day. And something Carole said the morning she came to my house always stuck in my mind. She said how animal people are a little crazy. It was a generalization, but I know what she means. Nikki loves animals. She's passionate about rescuing them. Sometimes she does things other people could call crazy.” Stan dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes. It was then she realized she was still wearing the running shorts and tank top she'd worn to bed the night before. She had been so worried about Duncan that she'd run out the door without even thinking about it. She wasn't even wearing a bra.

Two weeks ago she wouldn't have gone out of the house without full makeup, armored in her business suit, carrying her laptop instead of a shield to battle the business world. Now she'd run out half dressed, probably had mascara smudges and hadn't even brushed her teeth this morning.

“But Nikki wouldn't leave a mutilated bag of dog food on my porch. She wouldn't hurt me. Or an animal.” But what about the people standing behind her? “What do you know about Diane Kirschbaum?” she asked Jake. To hell with the lack of a bra. She couldn't fall apart now. If they didn't figure out who killed Carole soon, things would only get worse. With Jessie out of commission for a while, there was no telling who would be on the case. Trooper Lou hadn't inspired that much confidence.

“The ACO? Don't know her well. Jessie oversees her. She always struck me as odd.” Jake shrugged. “But people seem to like her. Well, the animal people seem to like her. Not sure she gets out much, otherwise.”

“She's not very friendly. When I went to the dog pound the other day on my bike ride, she was almost hostile.”

“I don't think she interacts with the public much.”

“She's friends with Amara. Which seems odd, because Amara's sociable, when she doesn't hate you. She's pretty angry with me. I'm just glad she was able to put that aside for Duncan.”

“Why is she angry at you?”

“I asked her why she and Carole were fighting the day I moved in.”

Jake laughed. “She thought you were suggesting she killed her?”

“Well, I was wondering. Amara knows veterinary medicine, right? I know she's holistic, but she must have that background. Anyway, she didn't like the conversation. She threw me out and stuck a bill in my door.”

“You better not run for office anytime soon.”

“I don't think they elect convicted criminals, anyway. Do you think they tracked down Carole's son?”

“I have no idea. If they did, he might be at the wake tonight.”

The wake. She'd nearly forgotten. Something else to look forward to. Plus, she had a job interview tomorrow. Exhaustion nearly overpowered her at the thought of it all.

She rapped the table in frustration. “There are plenty of people who didn't much like Carole, but no one seemed passionate enough to kill her.” Something dawned on her and she looked up at him. “Your sister's friend? The one who worked for Carole. I need to talk to her. I never got to meet her the other night.”

“I told you I'd introduce you. I can still do that, but Jessie already talked to her. She had nothing.”

“Sometimes it's different when it's a cop questioning you.” Stan drained her cup and rose. She needed a shower. “Can you call her on the way home?”

Jake tossed his empty cup into the trash and walked outside. “I'll try her. And I'll be sure to recommend you for a junior detective badge when Jess recovers.”