Kneading to Die (20 page)

“There's really no reason to go to the wake.” Stan pulled a short-sleeved black dress out of her “really good clothes” closet, wrinkled her nose and tossed it aside. “I'm tired of people staring at me and whispering. I should just wear a sign with big letters that states,
‘I'm not a murderer.'
” She accentuated those last words by rattling a hanger in time to each one. She pulled out a navy-blue-and-white dress and held it up in front of her mirror. Now she looked like a Cape Cod sailor.

Scruffy, her only audience, gazed at her adoringly, that little stump of a tail vibrating with excitement. Scruffy got excited about everything. Or she thought everything meant a walk or a car ride. Nutty couldn't be bothered with her continued drama and was off sunning himself somewhere.

Stan sighed and sat down on the side of the bed, glancing at her watch. The wake began at seven. It was six-thirty. She hadn't gotten to talk to Brenna's friend about Carole. Her cell had been off when Jake called. Still no word from Nikki. And none of her “good” clothes were working. She wanted to forget she'd ever met Carole Morganwick. However, if she didn't go, it would look worse. Everything made her appear guilty. It was as bad as being a newbie in corporate America. Possibly more cutthroat.

“So I guess I'm going,” she said to Scruffy, “and I'm wearing a skirt.”

Scruffy
woo-wooed
and stomped her front paws.

“I know, I know. I'm not happy about it, either.” Stan took a black pencil skirt off its hanger and paired it with an emerald green blouse. Open-toed black sandals, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a little bronzer and eyeliner, and she was done.

Nutty strode into the room and fanned his tail. He reminded Stan of the head turkey who escorted her charges into the yard yesterday looking for birdseed, tail fanned out. Scruffy immediately dropped to her front paws in front of him in a bow. Nutty didn't move. Scruffy went back to her sitting position and held up her paw. Nutty headbutted it. Scruffy dove onto him and started licking him to death.

Stan laughed. These two were hilarious together. Nutty seemed to like her. Sort of. Stan winced as he grabbed Scruffy's beard with his claws and shook her face, then dashed from the room. Scruffy chased after him. Stan hoped Nutty wouldn't miss the dog too much when Nikki finally came back to get her.

Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she grabbed a black sweater in case the funeral home was cold and headed out to the wake, feeling more like she was going to her own funeral.

 

For someone who hadn't been all that well liked, Carole Morganwick's wake was packed from the moment the doors opened. Figaro and Sons Funeral Home, just past the center of town, hosted the event. The small—dare she say “cozy”—funeral home looked more like someone having a party at their house, with townspeople spilling out the doors, talking in the parking lot and gathering on the wraparound porch before they entered. The only hint that something else had brought them here was the attire, largely black. Stan hoped her green shirt wasn't too distracting. Maybe she should wear her sweater now.

But it was so darn hot. She decided against it, locked her car and headed inside, eyes peeled for a blue sedan in the parking lot. One of the Figaro sons, presumably, opened the door for her. He looked fairly young, maybe midtwenties, with slicked-back hair, which reminded her of an Italian mobster. Sweet eyes, though. He smiled as she passed into the blast of cool air.

Stan let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Quieter in here, but still a crowd of people. Stan looked around to find Char or Izzy—anyone still talking to her. She was a little nervous about the receiving line and meeting Carole's brother:
“Hi, I'm Stan Connor, and I'm a suspect in your sister's murder,”
she envisioned herself saying.

Someone jostled her elbow. When she turned, Izzy grinned at her. “Come on, let's sign in. Gonna be a long night.”

They got in the guest book line, which didn't seem to be moving fast. Izzy checked her watch and sighed. “I've been at the shop since six this morning. Crazy busy. The dogs spent most of the day there and they didn't even get a walk. They're not happy with me right now. Speaking of my babies, they wanted to know if you had any more goodies for them.”

Stan frowned. “You don't have to say that, Izzy. I know the last thing people want right now is me feeding their animals. After what happened to Duncan.”

“Now you just quit that right now. That's hogwash. Anyone who listens to it has no right to breathe.”

The woman in line behind Izzy gave her a startled look.

“It's true,” Izzy said to her. “This lady is getting an unfair rap and it makes me mad.”

“Izzy,” Stan said, red-faced. “No one cares.”

“Well, they should care. Right?” Izzy said to the woman. She looked like a soccer mom, the kind who stays away from confrontations and certainly doesn't speak to strange women in town. Her gaze moved back and forth between them like she was watching a tennis match.

“Right,” the woman answered uncertainly.

“See?” Izzy said to Stan. “Some people realize you didn't kill Carole and you didn't poison any dogs.”

Soccer Mom got out of line and moved to the back.

“You did that to get a rise out of her,” Stan said.

“No way,” Izzy said, but Stan swore she saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

They finally stepped up to the book. Stan scanned the names on the open page. She recognized a few: Lorinda, from the library; Emmalee Hoffman, from the Happy Cow Dairy Farm. Amara. Stan signed her name and stepped back to let Izzy do the same. The door opened behind them. Warm air wafted in with a stream of people. Jake McGee was at the front of the pack.

“Go ahead,” she told Izzy. “I want to see how Duncan is.”

This time Izzy didn't even remind Stan of how much she hated Jake. “Okay, find me in line.”

Stan moved down the side of the line. Her palms were sweating and she could feel that familiar ball of fear in her throat. Jake swore he didn't blame her for Duncan being sick, but she couldn't help feeling responsible.

But he smiled when he saw her. “Hey.”

“How's Duncan?”

“The vet called a little while ago. He's doing fine. Stop worrying, Stan.”

“I can't help it.” She smiled a little. “But I'm so glad he's okay.” She motioned behind her. “I better get back in line.”

Izzy hadn't made it to the casket yet, but she held court with a group of people, none of whom looked familiar. Stan joined them, but she hung back. She looked around to see who else was here and what was going on. Ray and Char sat with Mona Galveston. Ray saw her and waved. Char turned to see where he was looking and her eyes brightened. She stood up and beckoned Stan.

“Yoo-hoo, honey, come over and say hello!” Her attempts at a stage whisper failed miserably, and her wooden bracelets were as loud.

Stan slipped out of the long line and crossed the room. Char leaned over the chairs and grabbed her in a hug that was more like a choke hold. “How're you doin', honey?”

A flashbulb exploded right in front of them. Stan's eyesight faded to silver spots.

“What the devil?” Char turned around and rolled her eyes. “Cyril Pierce, what in blazes do you think you're doing? Put that away and have some respect! We're at a wake!”

Cyril tipped his fedora at her. “Sorry, Ms. Char. I've got a job to do too,” he said. “I'm covering Carole's funeral. It's only right, as a citizen of Frog Ledge, to give her an appropriate send-off.” He nodded at Stan, Ray and Mona. “Folks.” His gaze skipped back to Stan and lingered.

Stan could hear the question forming before his lips even moved. Luckily, so could Char.

“Well, go take pictures somewhere else.” Char shooed him off with her suitcase-sized purse. “My word, some people just don't think.”

“That's the media for you,” Stan said. “It's why companies need spin doctors.”

Mona Galveston hadn't said a word. She watched the whole exchange, but her expression was not unkind. Ray, as usual, took the polite role.

“Mona, Stan Connor. A new addition to town. Stan, our mayor.”

“Yes, lovely to meet you.” Stan offered her hand.

“Likewise.” Mona's grip was strong, efficient, businesslike. “How are you enjoying Frog Ledge?”

The question had to be a test. There was no way the mayor didn't know she seemed to be a prime suspect.

“It's delightful. The green is my favorite place to spend time.”

“It is lovely, isn't it? You haven't had the benefit of spending holidays there yet. It's charming.”

“I'm sure. I should probably get back in line. Nice to see you all.”

“Stop by later, honey!” Char called after her. “We're hosting a small get-together. You know, a send-off for poor Carole.”

By the time she joined Izzy at the casket, Stan felt like she'd been in the funeral home forever. It was almost nine. Her sweater had been unnecessary. The room was stifling hot with such a large crowd. The air conditioners worked overtime and were still losing the battle.

Izzy moved up to the kneeler. Stan realized she was about to see Carole's body. Again. A cold sweat trickled down the small of her back. She must have gone pale; when Izzy rose and looked back at her, she looked concerned. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Stan said. She braced herself and sank onto the vacated kneeler, thinking she'd just shut her eyes and try not to look. She made the sign of the cross and concentrated on not throwing up. But she couldn't help it. She had to see. Forcing her eyes to Carole's face, she was surprised to find the dead woman looking fairly peaceful. Definitely a difference from when she had been on the floor covered in kibble.

Stan wondered if there was any left in that mass of hair somewhere, and she stifled a giggle. Hastily crossing herself again, she stood. Now would be the even weirder part—meeting Carole's family. The group was small. No sign of any son, at least not anyone who looked young enough. A man with the same white hair, only much shorter, stood next to the casket, looking solemn. A woman who was much younger stood next to him. She looked bored.

Izzy stepped up first. “So sorry for your loss,” she said, holding out her hand. “Are you Carole's family?”

The man nodded and shook her outstretched hand. “I'm her brother. Elliot Morganwick.”

“I'm a fellow business owner in town. Izzy Sweet. Again, so sorry.”

The man pointed to his left. “My wife, Andrea.”

Izzy moved down the line, leaving Stan no choice but to offer her condolences to Elliot Morganwick.

“So sorry,” she murmured, hoping she wouldn't have to introduce herself.

Elliot nodded, leaning closer to hear her. “Thank you. And you are?”

“I'm new to town,” she said hastily. “I was a client. Sort of.”

He nodded, puzzled, but Stan had already moved on to his wife. Andrea Morganwick had short, dark hair and a pointy nose. She looked bored beyond belief. She also looked like she needed a sandwich. Stan could see her hip bones jutting out of the dress she wore. Her handshake was limp and she didn't make eye contact, just sighed a “thank you” as well-wishers passed by. Stan ducked out of line and found a black trench coat blocking her path. Cyril Pierce.

“Can I have a word?” he asked.

She sighed. “About what?”

Cyril glanced around to see who was listening. “You may want to talk in private. Although I'm not sure how private this will be in a few minutes.”

Stan snapped to attention. “What are you talking about?”

Cyril motioned her to a quiet corner of the room. “I've had some accusations brought to me. I'd like your side.”

“No comment. I already told you I didn't kill Carole.”

“This isn't about Carole.” Cyril pulled his notebook out of his trench coat pocket and made a dramatic show of uncapping his pen. “It's about Phineas Dobbins.”

“Who?”

“Phineas is a dog. He belongs to Myrna Dobbins.” He pointed across the crowd to a woman with Wednesday Addams hair and a sour expression. “Right now he's ill. With possible food poisoning.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that, but I don't believe I've ever met Phineas. Or Myrna. What does this have to do with me?”

Cyril watched her with a reproachful expression. “Myrna Dobbins bought some of your dog treats at the farmers' market yesterday. It was the only deviation in Phineas's diet.”

Stan fled the funeral home without giving Cyril the benefit of a second “no comment.” She ignored Izzy and Char, who both called after her. She was sure that somewhere along her path to freedom, she also passed Jake. He was about to rethink the idea that she wasn't to blame for Duncan's illness.

She made it to her car before the tears started, but she couldn't give herself the luxury of having a good cry. People were coming and going at a steady clip, and she didn't want to give the gossipers more fodder.

Poison an animal? Even people who didn't really know her should be able to tell how much she loved animals. She wanted to find who started that nasty rumor and beat them with her cake pan. She hoped Phineas would be okay, whatever had happened to him.

This was when she needed Nikki. There wasn't anyone else to whom she could cry. She dialed Nikki's cell again as she pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. Straight to voice mail. She pulled into her driveway, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt in her life.

The first thing she noticed about her house was the absence of her porch light. She distinctly remembered turning it on before she left. Already jittery, she went on instant alert. Fishing around inside her bag, she grabbed her old can of Mace, which Richard had given her for the nights she walked alone to her car in the parking garage. She had no idea if it was still functional, but it would have to do. And thank goodness she'd downloaded the flashlight app for her iPhone. She powered it up, grabbed her purse and keys and went up the front steps.

No slashed bags of kibble. A positive sign. Shining the light up, she didn't see anything out of whack with the light. Must be a faulty bulb. She stuck her key in the lock and started to twist, but the door gave under her hand.

She knew she had locked the door. She debated calling the police, but she dismissed the thought. They were probably busy building an animal cruelty case against her. “Nutty? Scruffy?”

Scruffy didn't run to the door to greet her. This didn't feel right. She hesitated; her brain was already screaming at her to leave, run, lock herself in the car and call the cops.

Then she heard a yowling sound. It was Nutty's upset voice—the voice he used when she tried to get him in the carrier for a vet visit. But still, he didn't come.

Nutty was in trouble. Stan whipped out her Mace, raced inside and down the hall, flicking lights on as she went. She grabbed her biggest butcher knife out of the holder on her kitchen counter and whipped around, trying to figure out where Nutty's cries were coming from. Then the doorbell rang, almost sending her through the ceiling. Was the danger in the house or outside?

Stan crept back down the hall and eased up to the side window to peek. Dark, but she could still make out Jake's silhouette. She went to yank the door open; then her hand stilled. Odd timing for him just to show up. No, now she was getting paranoid. They had been at the wake together. He'd probably heard the new story. He couldn't be a murderer, for God's sake. He was the trooper's brother. And there might still be someone in here, so she needed to move.

She whipped open the door, realizing a second too late she still held the knife and the Mace.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “You should just say you don't want visitors.”

“Oh, for . . .” Stan shoved the screen open and let him in. “Someone broke in. The light was out and the door was unlocked. I heard Nutty crying, but I can't find him or Scruffy anywhere.”

That snapped him into serious mode. “Did you call the police?”

“Is that your response to everything? No, I didn't call the police.”

“It's my response to threats and break-ins, yes. Go call.”

“I have to find the animals.”

“I'll go look.”

“I'll go with you.” She followed him. “I was about to check upstairs. I want to know my animals are safe.” Her throat prickled with tears. Scruffy would've come out by now. The dog wasn't in the house, and Nutty had stopped crying. She hoped he wasn't hurt.

Jake went left at the top of the stairs. She followed. They went into the spare bedroom. As he bent to look under the bed, something crashed in the closet. She shrieked and spun around, knife at the ready. Jake jumped up and pulled the door open.

Nutty bolted out and took off like he'd discovered the bogeyman was in there with him. “Oh, Nutty!” she called, and dashed after him. But he disappeared down the stairs.

Jake stepped out into the hall. “He okay?”

“Looks fine. But no Scruffy.” The tears came now, a culmination of what seemed like the longest week of her life. The adorable little schnoodle who had followed her around adoringly. She had told Nikki she couldn't adopt the dog, and she had spent the last two days wondering when Nikki would come claim her. Now Stan would give anything to see her.

Jake relieved her of the butcher knife and put his arm around her shoulder. “Don't cry. We'll find her. We need to call someone, though. You're positive someone broke in? You didn't leave the door open by accident and she got out?”

“I've been religious about locking things up ever since . . .” She trailed off with a hiccup. “I don't know. My porch light was out when I got home and the door was unlocked. How did they get in?”

“Did you check the back door?”

Stan shook her head.

“Let's do that. Does anything look out of place?”

“I don't know.” She glanced around, unsure. “I haven't really looked at anything.”

“Okay. Don't worry about it right now. Stay here.” He checked out the rest of the rooms upstairs. “No one here, but you'll have to see if anything's gone. I'm going to check the back door.”

She followed him downstairs. “The basement,” she said.

“Wait for me,” he instructed.

Wired, she paced around, looking for Nutty. She found him in the TV room, hiding under the coffee table. She scooped him up and nuzzled into his long fur, wiping her face. He licked her nose. “What happened here tonight?” she asked him.

Nutty meowed.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you guys in danger. This is all my fault.” She felt the tears coming on again and tried to swallow them.

“Hey, Stan.” Jake appeared in the doorway. “You're gonna want to come out here.”

 

 

Stan stood in her sunroom, still holding Nutty, observing her broken windows. She was over being upset. Now she was resigned. Once he figured out how they'd gotten in, Jake had investigated the front porch and found the lightbulb unscrewed. Whoever had left the kibble was back, and they wanted her to leave Carole's murder alone.

“So they broke in, took the dog and walked out my front door? Or did they break in to warn me, and the dog got out by chance?” She kicked at the scattered glass on her floor. “I'm sorry I ever came here.”

They were waiting for the cops. Stan had finally given in and called. Jake looked troubled. He hadn't said much, but he seemed deep in thought.

Stan realized she had never even found out why he'd come over. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I heard about Cyril's stupid accusations and wanted to make sure you weren't paying any attention to those idiots. I swear, I love this town, but sometimes the people in it drive me insane.”

Her stomach clenched, remembering Cyril's questions about poisoned dogs. He noticed.

“No one with any sense thinks you got any dogs sick.”

“I don't know about that. They already did, because of what happened to Duncan.” Her eyes filled with tears again. She turned away and busied herself getting a glass of water. Nutty stuck close to her. She'd almost tripped over him twice now. She picked him up and hugged him.

“Do you think he's trying to tell me what happened? I wonder if I should call one of those pet psychics or something.” She was only half kidding, but Jake looked serious.

“Did you want to call someone?”

“I already called the police, remember?” The ice maker in her refrigerator had jammed. She opened the freezer door and shook the bin forcefully to clear it.

“No. I mean, your boyfriend.”

“Ha!
Boyfriend.
” She slammed the freezer door. A piece of ice flew out of the chute and hit the floor. She hurled it into the sink. “That's funny.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to get into it. Enough things are wrong right now.”

“Okay.” Jake emptied the dustpan and set the broom in the corner.

“Why does Izzy hate you so much?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the doorbell rang. Of course.

She sighed. “Be right back.”

Trooper Lou waited at her front door.

Lou. It figures.
Here was the cop who had been on scene with Jessie at Carole's murder. He cocked his head when he saw Stan. “You're always in the middle of everything, aren't you?”

“Tell me about it.” Stan led him to the kitchen.

Jake nodded at him. “Lou.”

“Hey, McGee. How's Jessie tonight?”

“Doing better. Going stir-crazy in the hospital.”

“I bet. So what happened, Ms. Connor?”

Stan went through the whole story. Lou went through the rest of the house, checked out the basement, the front door and the porch light, made notes, dusted for fingerprints.

“So nothing's missing?” he asked when he returned to the kitchen.

“Not that I can see. Nothing even looks out of place.”

“I'll file the report.”

“So what happens next?”

Lou slapped his notebook shut. “We look into it.”

“What about Scruffy?”

“The dog? She may have gotten out in the confusion. Did you go out and look?”

“I was waiting for you,” Stan said, exasperated. “Making sure no one was still in here.”

“Oh. Well, I would suggest starting there.”

He said it so seriously, like she would have been too stupid to think of that. She resisted the urge to make a snarky comment.

“What if the intruder took Scruffy? We need to find her. She isn't even my dog!”

Lou looked dubious. “I can't put out a report on a missing dog.”

Stan looked at Jake, willing him to step in before she assaulted a cop.

“Lou. A little help here,” he said.

Lou sighed. “We'll send a press release to the paper. You should put up posters. Check with Diane, too. Maybe she really did get out. If she did, chances are good she'll get picked up. Diane hates seeing dogs running around loose.”