Kneading to Die (6 page)

Izzy followed Stan's gaze. “Whatcha watching? Oh, the Galvestons.” She rolled her eyes.

“Who are they?”

“Big shots around here. Old money, own half the town, et cetera. Mona is the mayor. She's probably speaking. The rest of the town council will stand by and nod solemnly. That's her daughter, Perri.” She pointed at convertible girl. “And the boy is Paul. Her twin. They live up there.” She pointed to the east. Stan followed her finger past the sky streaked with the beginnings of night and just saw the outline of a house, seemingly miles away, lit up against the hills behind it. It looked grand.

Stan wondered where Carole had lived. “Were they close to Carole, or is this just what they do around here if someone dies?”

“Mona and Carole used to be close. Heard she was like an aunt to Perri and her twin for a while. Perri took to her because when she was a kid, Perri wanted to be a vet. But not so much anymore. I think they're getting started. That's Mona.” Izzy nodded toward the podium as a hush fell over the crowd. Around them Stan could smell lighters as they brought the candles to life.

The crowd fell silent as Mona Galveston walked behind the podium. She looked very mayorly, with her tidy, short haircut, simple yet somber dress and a hint of red lipstick. She tapped the mic. The crackle blared through the night, silencing the last of the talkers.

“Good evening,” she said in a crisp, clear voice that easily commanded attention. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight we are a town reeling from the tragedy and horror of losing one of our own. A friend, a neighbor, a woman with a rich history here. Carole Morganwick.” She bowed her head slightly as she said Carole's name and waited a beat to ensure the crowd did the same.

The rest of the group stood around her, heads bowed in solemn remembrance of their friend and neighbor as Mona offered up the perfect mixture of praise, reminiscence and sorrow. By the time Mona was done, Carole sounded a lot more appealing than she had seemed in person.

Then, another familiar face on the fringes of the crowd. Trooper Jessie Pasquale. Shouldn't she be off duty? Still in uniform, she scanned the crowd with her flat eyes. Looking for the murderer, no doubt.

The murderer. Was he or she here? Stan suddenly felt chilled in her thin sweater, even though it was still in the seventies. And was Pasquale staring at her? Or was it her imagination?

“Are you okay?” Izzy nudged her.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like you're about to faint or something.”

“I don't faint.” Stan forced herself to breathe. That tall man standing by himself, looming over the bench. He looked evil. Was it him? Or Betty Meany, arms crossed, all one hundred pounds of her guarding the library door? Could a little old woman do that? Then again, Betty wasn't all that old, when you got right down to it. She was probably in her early sixties. You didn't have to be a spring chicken to stab someone where it counted with a needle. Especially if the other person wasn't expecting it.

Mona Galveston finished her speech and the councilmen and councilwomen joined her at the podium. They all held hands and led the group in a moment of silence. Then Mona asked everyone to join her for the short walk up to the veterinary clinic, where they could leave their trinkets as a tribute in front of Carole's favorite place.

Stan felt what little food she'd choked down today churn in her gut at the thought of going anywhere near the clinic. “I'm going home,” she told Izzy. Before the other woman could reply, she stepped out of the crush of the crowd, which was moving forward with their candles, teddy bears and stuffed dogs and cats. Izzy was swept along, so all she managed was a wave and a look of sympathy.

Stan stood off to the side for a few minutes, breathing deeply, willing herself not to throw up in front of the whole town. When she felt a little steadier, she walked toward her house. The air had turned cooler now, and she scrubbed at the goose bumps popping up along her arms. She turned back once to find Trooper Pasquale lingering, too. And watching her. Stan deliberately turned away, but she felt the cop's eyes all the way to her front door.

Stan tossed and turned all night. Dreams of people chasing her with needles woke her every hour. She finally fell asleep around four. When her cell phone rang next to her head, it felt like mere minutes later. She reached for it, squinting at the clock.
Nine-thirty! How can that be?
She didn't recognize the number, but forced herself to sound awake.

“This is Stan.”

“Kristan Connor?” A woman's voice, it sounded clipped and efficient.

“Yes. Who's calling?” She sat up, throwing the pillow aside.

“This is Bernadette Macguire. I'm a recruiter for Infinity Financial. I've seen your credentials, and I'd like you to come in and speak with us about a vice president, media relations position. When are you available?”

Infinity. One of her old company's biggest competitors. Glee surged through her, but she tried to play it cool. Infinity only wanted the best people, and their recruiting efforts were pickier than most. “I . . . Can you tell me a bit more about the position?”

“Of course.” Bernadette shuffled some pages on her end and reeled off the particulars of a job that sounded almost identical to the one Stan had lost. “Basically, the position is responsible for the media presence of the company. And we'd love to talk with you about it. Shall we set up an interview?”

“Please.”

“What day works for you?” Bernadette clicked keys on her end of the line.

“Can we do next Tuesday?” Maybe Bernadette would think she was interviewing the rest of the week and not see her as desperate. And maybe at that point the police would have apprehended Carole's killer and she could focus on other things.

“Terrific. I have a ten and a two.”

Stan chose the two and hung up. “What do you think of that, Nutty? Warner can go pound sand!”

He ignored her and went back to sleep. Stan wanted to do the same, but she knew it would be impossible. She leaned back against the pillows and thought about having a job again. An expense account. A place to wear her fancy shoes and nice suits. She had another chance. A new world to rule. “
I Will Survive”
began playing in her head.

Interestingly, the prospect didn't excite her as much as she thought it would. Maybe with some coffee. Before she could get out of bed to make it, her iPhone rang again. Her mother.

Stay positive.
“Good morning,” she nearly sang, grimacing at herself. God, she sounded fake.

“Did I interrupt anything?” Patricia asked in a tone suggesting she wasn't overconcerned if she had.

“No, just getting ready to go for a bike ride.” Yes, that's what she would do today. Get the bike out and explore her new town. “How are you, Mom?” She forced herself out of bed and went downstairs.

“A bike ride? Don't you have a job interview?”

Stan forced the smile to remain in her voice as she got the coffeepot ready and pressed the button to grind the beans. “No, Mom, I don't.” Had her mother tapped her phone?

“Kristan, you can't be serious. What are you
doing
with your time? Especially in that godforsaken place you moved to. Richard told me all about it.”

“Richard did? When did you talk to him?” She moved to the refrigerator and grabbed smoothie ingredients while the coffee brewed.

“Oh, the other day,” Patricia said dismissively. “The point is, you're in a funk. You need to get back into the land of the living.”

Stan laughed. “Because I don't have a job? That's funny, Mom. When was the last time you worked?”

“Kristan! That was uncalled for. I do other things with my time. You're well aware of all the volunteer work. The fund-raisers. The contributions I make to the local community.”

In other words, the luncheons she hosted and the vodka-and-tonic cocktails she drank. Stan threw a handful of berries on top of her carrot and apple slices. Dumped in protein powder and spinach leaves. “I know, Mom. Just saying.” She turned the Vitamix on and walked away so she could still hear.

“Well, I'll chalk your comment up to the obvious distress you've been through. I called to let you know I gave a friend of mine your number. His name is Randolph Simon.”

“The senator?”

“The very same. He's going to be looking for a new chief of staff. A division of time between Rhode Island and Washington. I told him you'd be perfect for the job.”

Her mother never ceased to amaze her, even after thirty-five years. Stan had been seven years old the first time she asked if she had been adopted. To this day she wasn't completely convinced there hadn't been a swap at the hospital. Only problem was, she resembled her mother to a tee.

“Mom, I don't want to be a chief of staff for a senator. And I'll take care of my own job search, if and when I'm ready. Okay? I appreciate the thought, but please don't worry about it.” She switched off the machine and poured the contents into a glass. Poured a side of coffee.

“You don't have to be ungrateful.” Patricia's voice ticked up a couple of octaves. “I'm only trying to help you get back on your feet.”

“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it,” she lied. “But I'm fine. And I need to get going. I still have a lot of unpacking. You should come see—”

“Never mind,” Patricia cut her off. “I'll stop bothering you.” And she disconnected.

Stan stared at the silent phone for a few seconds; then she shook her head. Their conversations always seemed to go down this path. She wondered why she bothered, but then she remembered she hadn't. Her mother had called her.

Dropping the phone, she wandered into the sunroom with both her cups, alternating between a swig of coffee and a slurp of healthy. Observed her backyard. The grass was long. She needed to find someone to mow it. Char would know who.

Finishing her beverages, she changed her clothes, gathered her key, phone and water bottle and went out the front door. She almost slammed into a man wearing a trench coat standing on her porch. Stan gasped, startled, feeling her heartbeat kick up to high. Carole's lifeless body flashed through her brain again.

The strange-looking man snapped to attention when he saw her and stuck out his hand.

“Kristan Connor?”

The second time someone had asked her that today, and it was barely ten. Stan eyed him suspiciously. She did not offer her hand. What was up with the outfit in this heat? Jeans peeked out from the bottom of the coat. Sandals topped the look. He had a full head of unruly curls. Big glasses made his face seem slightly out of proportion. He carried a notebook and pen.

“Who's asking?”

The sandy-haired man bared his badly discolored teeth in an attempted smile. He dropped his hand and uncapped his pen. “Cyril Pierce from the
Frog Ledge Holler.
I understand you found Carole Morganwick's body?”

Oh no! Only then did she notice the press pass clipped to his jacket. It looked handmade. She remembered Carole's remark about the free paper—how Cyril drove everyone crazy with it.

She wanted to go back inside, lock the door and hide. But she couldn't, so she went to her backup survival skill: spin mode. “Yes, I was the first client with an appointment on Monday,” she said. “It was terrible. Such a tragedy. But the police are engaged, and I'm confident they'll find the person responsible quickly.”

“The police report said your name wasn't on her schedule. Can you explain?”

“Carole and I spoke about an appointment when she came to my house Sunday afternoon. She told me to come in before her first appointment.”

Cyril Pierce scribbled furiously in his reporter's notebook. “Is it true that a bag of kibble was involved in this death?”

“You'd have to ask the police. It's an ongoing investigation.” She crossed her arms and waited for him to finish writing so he could leave.

“Did you feel your animal . . . Is it a cat? A dog? A rabbit? Did it get the best care from Dr. Morganwick?”

“I have a cat. This would have been my first appointment, so I can't comment on the care she provides. And I have nothing further to say. If you'll excuse me.”

Cyril nodded and closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Connor. And welcome to town,” he added. “I hope you enjoy the newspaper.” Cyril walked down her front steps and got on an old-fashioned bike with a basket in front. He tucked his notebook into a bag attached to the handlebars and pedaled away, trench coat flapping.

Stan shook her head. At least it wasn't the
Hartford Courant
knocking at her door. That was all she needed. Fired first, murder suspect next. Her former colleagues would have a field day.

The black bike with the purple stripes stood against the garage wall, spiffy and shiny. Unused. Richard had gotten on a kick last year about how they should be biking through the local state parks. They'd never gone even once after she bought the bike, and Stan had never taken the initiative to go herself.

Well, things were different now. She didn't need anyone to “take” her biking. She was a grown woman and perfectly capable of going on her own excursions. Strapping on her matching purple helmet, she wheeled the bike into the driveway and hopped on. It had been a while, but it was true: You never forgot how to ride a bike. Stan pulled out of her driveway and turned left.

Yes, fresh air would help, whether Cyril Pierce wrote a story about her or not. Now she had to get her mind off this nonsense and start thinking about her life. The police would find the killer, and Frog Ledge would eventually get back to normal. She could get on with whatever she was going to do next.

Stan circled the green and rode through the center of town, mulling over her to-do list. She had to buy paint for her office. Furniture for the guest room. Curtains for the living room. She needed incense, as well as oils for her aromatherapy burner. And a trip to the health food store for organic ingredients. She loved playing with all the delicious, local ingredients available today and making Nutty's treats even healthier. And she'd promised trial meals for Char and Ray's dog, Savannah, and treats for Izzy's dogs, so she had to buy extra supplies.

But it was another beautiful, sunny day, and she needed to be outside. The green was hopping. Children rode bikes and chased dogs; others enjoyed their morning walks. She saw a few remnants from last night's memorial on the grass, but she figured the brunt of that would be at the clinic. She could see a flurry of activity at the library. In front of the War House, the historical home where the American Revolution's masterminds had strategized, volunteers sat out front in their rocking chairs, waiting for someone to wander by so they could talk history. She could see Izzy's shop in the distance and thought about stopping there. But then she'd just eat and would never get her bike ride in.

She turned the other way, instead, although she knew she should avoid going any farther down Main Street. There was no need to drive by the clinic right now—except she needed to see if anything was happening. She drove around the front of the library. Police tape still stretched across the clinic's front entrance. Orange cones blocked the parking lot. The building already had that deserted feel to it, like the house on the block the children avoided because something bad had happened in it. The stuffed animals and candles were gathered in a clump. A wooden cross was propped against the pile, and someone had scrawled,
Rest in Peace,
using sidewalk chalk, in front of the whole memorial.

She rode a bit closer. She stopped her bike and balanced on her toes, inwardly reciting what she hoped would pass for a prayer. It had been a while since she'd done any praying. Putting her feet back on the pedals, she started off down the street as Amara Leonard and a man came around the clinic from the back. Their heads were bent close together as they talked intently, sticking to the side of the building. It was like they didn't want anyone to notice them.

She and Amara locked eyes as Stan cruised by. Stan lifted one hand in a wave. Amara did not wave back. She averted her eyes as if she hadn't seen Stan. Interesting to see Amara by the clinic. The man didn't look familiar. He had a goatee and thin mustache and wore a suit.

Stan took a right and pedaled back down by the green, coasting around the south end nearest her house. A piece of plywood with paint scrawled on it announced a concert this weekend. There was supposed to be a farmers' market today, but someone had crossed the date out and put Sunday's date, instead. Carole's name and
RIP
was notated next to the change of date. Apparently, she had been mourned enough to postpone even that sacred event.

She hung a left and headed down a lovely street called Pollywog Avenue. They really did have a thing for frogs around here. More old farmhouses lined each side of the street; flowers and other greenery grew over walls and onto the sidewalks. The large old houses were interspersed with newer, smaller homes, much like on Stan's street. Some were kept well; others were run-down. Frog Ledge seemed to be a place of contrasts. It made it more endearing.

Approaching a yard with a large wooden sign on it, Stan slowed to read it:
GENE'S WOOD CARVINGS.
There was a small silhouette of a man whittling away on some wood while a dog sat next to him. The woodworker's house. By contrast to the beautiful sign, the house fell into the old and run-down category. The white paint was faded and dirty. The porch steps sagged. She could see rotted wood in some spots. The decrepit barn next to the house must be the wood shop. Through the open barn doors, Stan could see a large table cluttered with saws and other equipment. She heard cutting noises and music.

As if the dog were on cue, the old yellow Lab lumbered out on the grass to see who was coming to visit, tail wagging lazily. Stan stopped her bike, holding out her hand. He came over and sniffed.

“Hey there, boy. How're you doing today?”

“That's Junior.”

Stan jumped, almost dropping her bike. Gene materialized without a sound from behind a large bush. He smiled when he saw her.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle ya.”

“It's okay. Stan Connor. We met last night at . . .” Stan's voice trailed off. She didn't want to bring up Carole's memorial.

“I remember ya, of course.” He shook her hand. His hands were large and calloused. “Sightseeing?”

“Just getting some exercise.” Stan reached into the front pocket of her messenger bag and pulled out her travel stash of treats. “Can Junior have a treat?”

“Well, he don't have a lotta teeth.”

“These are soft. See?” Stan demonstrated by bending the cookie. Junior already sat at attention, with his eyes following her every move.

“Don't see why not, then. Go 'head, boy.”

Stan leaned over and held the treat for the dog. Junior took it very politely and inhaled it, wagging his tail for more.

“Guess he likes 'em,” Gene said, petting his dog. “Now, Junior. One's enough. He don't get out and exercise too much these days. Not like all you young people, running and so forth all over town.”

“These are good-for-him treats. I make them myself.”

“Whatever they are, he likes 'em. Course he likes lots of food,” Gene said.

Stan didn't know if that was an insult or a compliment, so she let it go. Instead, she pointed to a wooden wagon on his front steps, filled with summer blooms. “Did you make that?”

He turned and surveyed the decoration. “I did.”

The wood gleamed in the morning sun. Even from where she sat on her bike, Stan could see the detail of the piece. “I love that. It would be perfect for my porch. I just moved into the green Victorian. Over by the town green.”

“Ah.” Gene nodded. “That's a nice house.”

“It is. Could you make another one?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

He thought about that for a minute. “A hunnerd fair?”

One hundred dollars sounded like a bargain to Stan. “Sold.”

Gene nodded again. “I'll deliver it when I'm done. Take me about a week. Maybe a bit longer. I've got my new apprentice. Russ! Come on out. New customer.”

Behind him, in the barn, Stan could now see a boy with black hair covering his face, bent over the table. The boy ignored Gene.

“Oh yeah. The dog's out here. He's afraid of dogs.”

The old Lab didn't look like it would run if a bear was chasing it, never mind strike fear in the heart of a young boy. Stan petted Junior's head again and offered him another treat.

“So you're the official sign maker for the town?” she asked.

Gene smiled. “People need a sign, they call me. You need a sign for sumthin'?”

“Me? Not at the moment. Maybe someday. I'd rather have a wagon.”

“I did all them signs for the center of town,” he said.

“They're lovely. And I think it's such a nice idea to have everything match.” She thought of the sign outside of Carole's place. “I especially noticed the one at the vet clinic, since I was there the other day. With the cat and dog tails curled together.”

Gene's face fell. “I made it. Made the other one for Doc Stevens too, when it was his. You prob'ly didn't see that one. But when Carole came back, I felt like she'd need a new one. So it was hers, know what I mean?”

“Of course. Did you know Carole well?”

“Sure did. We lived here together all our lives, 'cept when she left for bigger and better parts. She was friendly with my wife, Celia.”

“I'm sorry. It's such a tragedy.”

Gene glanced away, eyes blinking furiously. Someone who had liked Carole. It made her feel better.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up.”

Gene made a
shrugging
motion. “Ain't nothing we can do about it.” He scratched his head. “You want some eggs?”

“Eggs?” The conversation shift threw her off. Did he want to make her breakfast? “I, um, already ate, but thank you.”

Gene looked at her like he didn't quite understand her. “Well, now, I don't know you'd want to eat them from the carton, but my chickens just laid a bunch this mornin'.”

Stan felt the flush creep up her neck. He wanted to give her fresh eggs, not cook her scrambled eggs. Boy, did she have a lot to learn about country life. “That would be lovely, but I don't have anywhere to carry them.”

“I could leave some for you on your porch,” he said. “Or do automatic delivery, if ya like 'em.”

Automatic delivery. For some reason this struck her as immensely funny and she had to hold back a giggle. This place certainly had its share of characters. “You know, that sounds great, Gene. Just let me know how much and I'll pay you for a week's worth, okay?”

Just then, two chickens ran around from the back of the house, squawking. “New customer!” Gene yelled to them, and they stopped and looked at him as if they understood what he was saying.

Stan waved good-bye and kicked her bike back into action. She wanted to log a few miles. Frog Ledge had a lot of hilly, winding roads. Stan approached the hills aggressively, forcing her legs to work harder for the reward on the other end. Reaching a downslope, she coasted, loving the feel of the hot breeze and sun hitting her face. She'd forgotten the exhilaration of bike riding.

Around the next bend Stan spotted a cemetery shaded by oaks and maples on a rolling hill. Stan braked at the entrance. She liked cemeteries, a quirk that her family and friends didn't quite get. If you thought about it as a bunch of bones rotting in the ground, or a boatload of corpses, sure, it might seem strange. But she loved to look at the names, imagine the stories of the people and the families and the legacies they'd left behind. Cemeteries were hopeful, if you looked at them in a different light. If you believed in coming back again as something or someone else, it was the start of a new life. If you believed in the afterlife, it felt good to think of your loved one there, happy. Peaceful.

It had been a long time since she'd visited one for no reason. The last cemetery she'd been in had hosted her maternal grandfather's funeral, a resting place for society's big names. Pretty but overdone, as most society affairs were. This graveyard looked simpler. A lot of older stones. She pedaled through the gate and cruised down the main path. The grounds extended a lot farther than she'd thought. The older stones were situated to the right, and continued back as far as she could see. Stones on the left side appeared to be newer. Fancier.

Stan turned her bike right and ventured down the historical path. The old stones appealed to her, both in appearance and possibility of the stories resting with the people beneath. She'd never been a huge history buff, but people of any time period fascinated her. Imagining their lives, their families, their secrets. A fun way to spend a summer morning.

And Cyril Pierce wouldn't look for her here. At least she hoped not. Towering oak trees, strategically placed, provided some shade and dimmed the outside noise. As she moved on down the lines, a name caught her eye:
Elias Morganwick.
An old grave, thin stone, the dates faded by age and weather but still readable.
1817 to 1889.
One of Carole's early relatives? A hearty one. Seventy-plus years couldn't have been common back then. She wondered if Carole would be buried in this cemetery when they released her body for a funeral. After they determined what killed her, of course.

She cut across the path, forced herself to focus on the beautiful day instead of the murder. That's when she noticed the blue sedan idling up on the main path. Someone must be looking for a relative's stone. Stan rode on, lost in the sounds of summer. Chirping birds, a lawn mower, dogs barking, kids shouting.

Boy, was it hot. The sun seemed to follow her. Her helmet felt like a hundred pounds on her head, making her swelter inside it. She didn't realize the blue car had moved closer, until she caught a flash of light, the sun glinting off the paint. Uneasiness crept over her. There was no one else in the cemetery. Not even a groundskeeper. And there
was
a murderer on the loose.

She turned back, casually, and picked up the pace. There had to be another street exit to this place. She didn't want to have to reverse direction and ride by the lurking car. Although she'd love a glimpse of the driver. She couldn't see anything from over here. But getting back to the main road, where there were people, would be the smart thing.