Kneading to Die Page 3

  Stan waved back in a gesture that meant It’s fine. In the process she almost tripped over another woman, meditating on a blanket. The woman’s eyes flew open at the disturbance. Stan slowed and yanked her right earbud out.

  “I’m so sorry. I almost got run over, too.”

  The meditator waved her off. “It’s no problem. All these exercisers are very serious out here. A good thing, I guess.”

  “It is a good thing. I’m Stan. I just moved in … there.” She pointed at her adorable little house.

  “Oh! We’re neighbors. I live there.” The woman fluttered her hand at the house right next to Stan’s.

  Stan realized it was the woman next door, the one with the golden retriever. She had been having the screaming match with the white-haired lady yesterday.

  “I’m Amara Leonard.” Amara rose gracefully to her feet, reminding Stan of a dancer. Short, though. Her shiny brown hair, cut in a chin-length bob, swung around her face. She wore funky pink glasses that made her eyes look cat-shaped. “I’m the one everyone thinks is crazy. I’m sure you’ll hear about it, if you haven’t already.”

  Stan laughed. “Crazy? I hadn’t heard. I’m Stan Connor. And are you crazy?”

  “A little,” Amara admitted. “But not for the reasons everyone thinks. I practice Reiki and homeopathy. Some people around here think it’s just a fancy way to say I’m a voodoo princess who’s plotting the demise of the town. Especially when I come out here to meditate.”

  “You’d have to have something better than that for me to think you’re crazy,” Stan said. “I could use a good Reiki session. And my cat and I could both use a new homeopath.”

  “Really? I do animal homeopathy only, and I would love to help your cat. Is he ill?”

  “He’s got some irritable bowel issues. I got him as a stray. He wandered into my condo complex a few years ago, after he’d been hurt. I took him to the vet, and he ended up staying.” Stan smiled. “He didn’t really want to, at first. I had to bribe him with homemade treats. That was the first night he didn’t scream at the door.”

  Amara laughed. “Cats are so ungrateful sometimes, aren’t they? So how do you treat his IBS?”

  “I make all his food. My grandmother taught me as a kid how to bake for animals, and I’ve expanded into cooking him actual meals. It’s helped.”

  “That’s phenomenal,” Amara said, clapping her hands. “Oh, I would love to work with you. I don’t want to interrupt your run. Please call me for an appointment.” She reached for her pockets, then seemed to realized she had none in her yoga pants. “Shoot. No cards on me. Just come by. You know where to find me.”

  “I will,” Stan said. “Great to meet you.”

  “You too! So exciting. I love people who get it.” Amara clapped her hands again, then plopped back down on her blanket, crossed her legs and began her Zen thing again.

  That was luck. Stan wasn’t sure what she “got,” but a homeopath next door was a good thing. Could she really meditate out here? Probably, Stan figured. She seemed way more enlightened. Amara was likely one of those spiritual-but-not-religious types who volunteered at soup kitchens and children’s cancer wards, played chants while she read self-help books and went to other countries to find herself or engage in some martyr-type activity to find a purpose. She also had a temper, which was obvious from her shouting match the day before. But everyone had a dark side.

  Stan jumped back on the path and picked up her jog. She noticed a woman on a bench watching her. She lifted her hand in a wave, then realized it was the white-haired woman. The other screamer. She looked straight at Stan, but she didn’t wave back. Shrugging it off, Stan turned her attention back in front of her a second too late. An enormous Weimaraner bounded into her path. She halted, feinting to the right to avoid being knocked over.

  If her reflexes had been slower, she would’ve ended up sprawled in the grass, or worse. She yanked her earbuds out, automatically reaching up to pat the overly friendly dog who was now standing on his hind legs trying to lick her to death.

  “Duncan! For Christ’s sake.” A man jogged across the grass. He wore a Yankees baseball cap backward, over longish, dirty blond hair, and a tank top, which definitely proved he had muscles. Tan, unshaven, dark glasses. From what she could see, he was very cute. Although she didn’t like people who couldn’t control their dogs. And she wasn’t wild about Yankees fans.

  He reached her, panting slightly, and tugged the dog’s collar to make him sit. “Bad dog, Duncan. You don’t run off like that. I’m very sorry,” he said, casting an appraising glance over her. Stan suddenly felt very self-conscious. And sweaty. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, reaching up to adjust her ponytail. “No problem. He’s very sweet, aren’t you, Duncan?”

  Duncan immediately pounced on her again, and this time she did lose her balance. His owner grabbed her arm to steady her. The dog seemed to weigh twice what she did.

  “Duncan! I said, ‘Sit,’” he commanded. When the dog obliged, tongue lolling, he rolled his eyes. “Sorry again. I’m Jake McGee.” He still held her arm.

  “Stan Connor,” she said, with a pointed look at his hand. He grinned and let her go, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on the brim of his cap. He had cool eyes, too. Catlike, with brown and gold and green all vying for dominance. Stan uncapped her water bottle and took a swig. She ordered herself to stop admiring. Not appropriate.

  “Stan, huh?” he said. “You don’t look like a Stan. The last Stan I knew was fifty-eight, bald and fat.”

  She almost spit her water trying not to laugh. “Well, maybe this will change your mental image of all future Stans. It was nice meeting you.” With one last pet for Duncan, Stan turned and started to jog again.

  A minute later, Jake McGee fell into step beside her; Duncan obediently ran after them both. “Do you live around here, Stan?” he asked, drawing her name out on his tongue.

  Stan glanced at him and kept the slow jog pace. “I just moved in yesterday,” she said.

  “Ah. The green house.” Jake snapped his fingers. “I saw you with the moving truck, but you look different.”

  “You mean sweaty.”

  Jake laughed. “I didn’t mean that. I think it’s the hair. It was down and now it’s in a ponytail.”

  “Easier to run with,” she said. Why was he noticing her hair?

  “Are you gonna keep this pace up?” Jake asked.

  “I hope not. I am out for a run, after all.”

  “I thought so,” he said, sighing. “I’m going to have to leave you to it. It was nice meeting you, Stan.”

  Something about the way he said her name gave her a warm feeling in her belly. She kicked up her speed. “You both, too.” She plugged her music back into her ears. After she’d gotten halfway around the circle, she turned back once. Jake and Duncan were no longer in sight.

  It took her a half hour to do a three-mile run. Not a bad pace, considering she couldn’t remember when she’d actually run last. She showered and was on her way to the back porch with an iced coffee, preparing to plot out the rest of her day, when her doorbell rang.

  She reversed direction and headed to the front door. Maybe it was someone with more sweets.

  It wasn’t. The woman with the long white hair stood on her porch, a straw hat like Ray Mackey’s perched on top of her head. Still not smiling. Piercing gray eyes studied Stan and the space behind her. Intense eyes. She reminded Stan of the depictions of Salem witches painted in honor of Halloween every year; the same white hair loose under a hat, only their hats were black and pointy. And they had warts on their noses. Her visitor had no warts, and she wore scrubs with smiling Scooby-Doo images plastered all over them. A happy scene in direct contrast with her aura. She had good shoes, though. Fun Merrell clogs that Stan had admired but never bought because they weren’t corporate America shoes. She pasted a polite smile on her face.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. I’m Carole Morganwick,” the woman
said. “I’m the vet in town.”

  “Hi there. Stan Connor. It’s very nice to meet you.” Stan extended her hand.

  Carole observed it like one would a dirty child reaching for a hug. Instead of shaking, she handed her a thin newspaper. “Your paper was on your lawn. Welcome to town,” she added. Her skin was cancer-tan, and hundreds of tiny wrinkles clustered around the corners of her eyes. From the expression Carole wore now, Stan guessed they were not laugh lines.

  “Thanks.” Stan took the paper and unfolded it. “Although I haven’t subscribed to a newspaper.” The Frog Ledge Holler. Thin. If there were more than four pages to it, she’d be surprised.

  Carole waved her off. “It’s free. Cyril drives everyone crazy with it.”

  Cyril? Stan had no idea what person she was talking about. “Oh. Well, would you, uh, like to come in?” Stan glanced behind her and envisioned where the unpacked boxes were stacked. How empty it still looked.

  Too late. Carole was already halfway through the door, looking around as if she were at a museum exhibit. “Thank you. I heard you have a cat.”

  “I do,” Stan said, closing the door. “A Maine coon. Nutty. Where did you hear that?”

  Carole ignored the question. “Who’s your vet?”

  “Well …” Stan thought about the best way to answer that. She hadn’t been to Nutty’s “traditional” vet in over a year, nor had she seen his homeopath in a while. And she’d just met Amara, so that didn’t count.

  Carole turned abruptly at her hesitation. Those intense eyes drilled into Stan’s. “You need a local vet, my dear, if you love your cat. And I don’t mean those funny people who call themselves ‘vets,’ but don’t do any kind of veterinary work at all. Did I mention I’m the town vet?”

  “Of course I love my cat,” Stan said, bristling at both the insult and the thinly veiled dig at homeopathic vets. Carole must have seen her talking to Amara this morning and decided to establish some territory. “I treat Nutty like a king. Especially with his condition. And yes, you mentioned you’re the vet.”

  “My practice is next to the town hall. Frog Ledge Veterinary Services. What condition?”

  “He has irritable bowel syndrome. Mild.”

  “What he’s taking for it?”

  “‘Taking for it’?” This woman fires questions like she’s part of the Inquisition! “Do you mean medicine?”

  “Of course I mean medicine.” Carole lifted the lid off Nutty’s treat jar and peered inside. “What are these?”

  “Treats. Freshly baked last night. And Nutty is not on traditional medicine.”

  “What the devil do you mean, ‘not on traditional medicine’? How do you expect him to maintain?”

  As if he were on cue, Nutty strolled into the room, his plume of a tail standing tall, his usual posture when he investigated new goings-on. He looked from Stan to Carole, recognized the treat jar in her hand and promptly rubbed against her leg.

  Carole observed him. She reached down, pulled his ear back and peered inside. Nutty batted her with his paw. “Looks like mites,” she said. “So what did you say you’re doing for his disease?”

  Stan slapped the newspaper on the counter. “Nutty does not have ear mites. He’s on a strict diet of organic food. When he’s not feeling good, I use natural medicine,” she said. “He’s doing extremely well. What can I help you with, Dr. Morganwick?”

  Carole sighed heavily and set the lid down on the treats. Nutty gave her a look that said, I can’t believe you were in my treat jar and didn’t bother to give me any; then he beat it down the hall to avoid getting his other ear pulled.

  “I thought you might be one of those organics,” Carole said, drawing out the last word in distaste, as if Stan had told her she was a serial killer. “Nutty really should have traditional care. And a nutrition consult. I’ll tell you what. Bring him down tomorrow and I’ll give you a half-price visit this first time. That way he’ll be in the system if you need me in a pinch. And we can talk about his treatment then.”

  Stan was rarely speechless, but she’d never had an experience quite like this before. This woman must be crazy. And she’d let her in—well, she’d had no choice, really—and now the so-called doc was standing in her kitchen near her freshly sharpened set of knives.

  “I suppose that’s reasonable,” Stan said finally, at a loss for any other reply.

  “Lovely! We’ll see you at eight tomorrow. Please be prompt. I’ll sneak you in before my first appointment. I do love new clients.” She smiled, finally, then walked out the door.

  “These alpacas are adorable.” Stan stood in the backyard of the Mackeys’ B and B, petting one. The soft brown animal nudged Stan’s hand as her movement slowed; she was clearly asking for more.

  “Aren’t they great? This is Mittens.”

  “Mittens?”

  “Yes. One of our first. We got her when I was still getting used to the cold. Fifteen years after I got here.” Char laughed at her own joke. “So how are you liking town? Meeting a lot of people?”

  “Some. I met Amara Leonard.” She wondered if she should mention Carole’s odd visit.

  “She’s a lovely lady, isn’t she? Let’s go inside and you can sample some of the gazpacho I’m making for our guests. I do hope you start meeting more people. It’s quite a social little town.”

  Stan followed her in. “I met the vet, too.”

  “Carole?” Char turned and observed Stan’s face. “Where did you meet her?”

  Well, now that she’d opened the door. Stan told her about the encounter earlier that day. “It was bizarre.”

  Char’s bright orange sundress lit up the kitchen like a fluorescent bulb. Orange seemed to be her favorite color. She accented the look with chunky red jewelry and matching four-inch platform flip-flops, which were one shade darker than her hair. Her eye shadow today was a warm, glittery gold. The whole outfit reminded Stan of a fancy bowl of ripe fruit. Generous-sized fruit. But in an inviting bowl.

  “Carole is an interesting woman,” Char said, choosing a knife and then attacking fresh tomatoes, their juice oozing over the wine bottle–shaped cutting board. “She’s very passionate about her work. And her town.”

  “How long has she been a vet?”

  Char stopped cutting, knife in midair, to think about that. Tomato juice and seeds dripped red from her blade and splattered on the cutting board. “I’m not entirely sure, but Ray says her family’s been doing this forever. Her daddy owned that practice.” She lowered the blade again with the confidence of a guillotine operator, slicing the tomato neatly in half. “Put Doc Stevens in the driver’s seat when Carole left town. But then she came back.

  “I think she’s feeling threatened by all the choices people have these days.” Char lowered her voice. “Like Doc Amara. I think she’s a doc. Are those kinds of people docs?”

  “You mean homeopaths? Yes, of course they’re doctors. I mean, the legit ones. She was meditating on the green this morning. I almost stepped on her. Carole saw us talking.” Stan thought about the way Carole had stared at them. “I think that’s why she came over. Marking her territory. There must be some not-so-friendly competition between those two. They were yelling at each other in the street Saturday when I was moving in.”

  “Yelling? Really?” Char abandoned her tomatoes at the promise of gossip. “What were they yelling about? I can’t picture that little thing yelling.”

  “I didn’t hear much. Something about Amara being a ‘two-bit hack.’ And Amara did her fair share of yelling back.”

  Char laughed and turned back to her veggies. “Sounds like something Carole would say. I have to admit, honey, I don’t know much about that natural stuff. But I do know Carole is very set in her ways. I presume she would think it’s all hogwash.”

  “Then why would Carole be upset? If she thinks there’s no validity?”

  Char thought about that, the snap, snap, snap of her knife against the cutting board the only sound in the room for a moment. “Well,
I don’t know,” she said finally. “I guess that’s a good question. I know she made fun of that odd thing Amara does with her hands. What’s it called? Raking, or some such thing?”

  “You mean Reiki?” Stan chuckled. “You really aren’t into natural healing, are you?”

  “Honey, I have my natural healers right over there.” Char nodded to the far wall of the kitchen. Not a wall but a wine rack. Bottles filled every slot. “I haven’t been to a doc in years and I’m a hundred and ten percent.”

  At Stan’s chuckle, Char waved the knife at her. “I’m not kidding. Everybody gets crazy about health and exercise and doctors and food, but they’re usually pill-popping, miserable people. No offense, honey. I know you’re into that exercise stuff. But where I come from, we don’t worry about all that. We have a few drinks. We eat good food. We laugh. That’s all.”

  Stan raised her iced tea in a toast. “Amen to that. Where did you come from, anyway? Maybe I’ll move there next.”

  “Louisiana, baby doll. Right outside N’awleans. We know how to move slow there, let me tell you.” Char pushed her diced tomatoes aside and attacked a green pepper. “And we have drive-through daiquiri stands. It’s heaven.”

  “I should have guessed.” She could see it now, in the plantation-style furniture, the gargoyle accents all over the kitchen. There were even Mardi Gras beads dangling from various spots—a chili pepper–themed string on a hook near the refrigerator, a coffee-and-beignets string near the breakfast nook. The gas fireplace in the kitchen would make this the favorite room in winter. The long table and benches invited everyone to sit together and enjoy a delicious meal. The mint green walls made Stan think of juleps, although she wouldn’t know a julep if she tripped over it.

  “So what do I do about Carole? I’m sure small-town politics would suggest I go and play nice. But I’m not in the market for a vet. Especially one who barges into my kitchen and commands me to show up. And I do believe in homeopathy and I don’t feel like arguing with someone about it.” Stan got up and wandered to the glass doors at the back of the kitchen. Outside, Ray swept the patio, decorated with a few tables and lounge chairs for the guests. Stan could see a cozy wooden porch swing at the far end. Beyond, on the grass, the alpacas milled around behind their fence.