Kneading to Die Page 5

  “I’m fine, really, and the bowls are right there.” Stan pointed to the cabinet. Ray nodded, snapped his suspenders and went to work on the soup.

  With steaming bowls of gumbo and rice in front of them, and a martini for Char, mixed in a water glass, since Stan hadn’t finished unpacking the kitchen, they dug in. Well, Char and Ray dug in. Apparently, they were still able to eat, despite their grief over Carole. Stan pushed the soup around with her spoon, wishing she were hungry—it did smell awfully good—but still feeling sick. She wanted her bath. Or to go back in time to this morning so she could change her mind about going to the vet.

  “So what in the world happened today? I heard just the bare facts. Poor Carole. Beaten with a bag of kibble!” Char shuddered.

  “‘Beaten with a bag of kibble’?” Stan repeated.

  “No?” Char leaned forward, her bracelets clanking together. “Well, we all know how these stories go, the more they’re passed around. So how did she die?”

  “Char, the poor girl doesn’t want to relive that,” Ray chided his wife. “Eat your gumbo, Stan, and don’t think about it anymore.”

  “You’re absolutely right, love. I’m a terrible friend. I’m so sorry, honey.” Char turned apologetic, puppy dog eyes to Stan. “Forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I have no idea how she died. The police have to do an autopsy.”

  “But was there kibble involved?” Char couldn’t help herself. She set her chin in her hand, waiting expectantly.

  Stan remembered the kibble scattered atop the dead woman and tried to chase the image from her mind. “How did you hear about this so fast?”

  “Diane told me,” Char said.

  “Diane?”

  “Kirschbaum. The animal control officer. And, of course, Gene was there, too. He had an appointment with Junior, his dog. He was in shock, Diane said.”

  “Who’s Gene?”

  “He’s the town’s sign maker. A woodworker. Amazing talent. He’s very gifted. He makes other things, too. Decorations, lawn pieces. We have a lovely whiskey barrel for flowers Gene made us. I’ll show you next time. And he grew up in town, so naturally he knew Carole from years ago.”

  The man with the white hair and the Lab. Stan remembered the look of disbelief on his face and felt sorry for him. “What about Diane? Was she friendly with Carole?”

  Ray and Char exchanged a look. “I think they’d done business a few times. You know, it would be hard not to,” Char said.

  “But they weren’t friends?” Stan asked. “She looked pretty upset. I saw her outside this morning, after …”

  “‘Reluctant colleagues’ might be a better term,” Ray said. “They had differing opinions about animals.”

  Sounded like Carole had differing opinions with people about a lot of things. “Word gets around quickly here,” she said, instead.

  Ray nodded. “You don’t live in the city anymore, my dear. This is a small town, and everyone knows everything. Trust me.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Just like everyone knows that Hal Hoffman was in a bar brawl last night at Jake’s place and almost got his behind kicked. If it weren’t for Jake, that college kid would’ve taken him right down.”

  Stan shook her head. “Who’s Hal Hoffman? And why does anyone care?”

  Both Char and Ray stared at her.

  “What?” Stan asked. “Why would I care that some guy named Hal Hoffman got in a fight like a teenager? Is he a teenager?”

  “Well, he may as well be,” Char muttered, earning a dirty look from her husband. “Hal is your neighbor, honey. The Happy Cow Dairy Farm. He and his wife, Emmalee, run it. I’m sure you’ve seen him outside on the tractor. And Jake runs the bar in town. Irish pub. A classy place. He hates when there are upsets.”

  “And like I said, you live in a small town now,” Ray reminded her. “You have to care.”

  Yikes. Apparently, there was a lot she had to learn about small-town life. Stan wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She had enough going on without worrying about who was getting in bar brawls. “Is this Jake McGee?” she asked.

  “The very same. Have you met him?”

  “I did. When I was out running.”

  Char smirked a little. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, honey. You’re an attractive woman. Jake likes the ladies.”

  Stan flushed.

  “Have you been to McSwigg’s yet?” Ray asked.

  “That’s the name of his bar?”

  “Most certainly is,” Ray said. “You would like it.”

  “As long as Hal Hoffman isn’t brawling.”

  “Righto,” Ray agreed.

  Then it dawned on Stan. “Is that the only place around here people drink at? Like people who live in town?”

  “Mostly. Some of them go to the next town. The fancy microbrewery. But most of us locals, we patronize Jake.”

  “Does some guy who rides a bike or something go there, too?” She racked her brain for the name Trooper Lou had used. “Oliver?”

  “He sure does,” Ray said. “You haven’t seen Oliver’s bike yet?”

  “No. No, I haven’t.” Stan slumped back in her chair, her stomach feeling sicker than before. Jake McGee was Trooper Pasquale’s brother. Had to be. “He’d gone out to your brother’s place last night. Had a few too many. Slept in.”

  Char and Ray were watching her, probably wondering why discussing Oliver’s bike had had such an adverse affect on her.

  “So Jessie Pasquale is Jake’s sister?” she said.

  “Sure is,” Ray said. “Kept her ex’s last name. Probably for their daughter’s sake.”

  Stan digested that info as best she could and turned the conversation back to Carole.

  “Does Carole’s family live nearby? I can’t imagine how they must feel.”

  “I don’t know much about her family, at least what’s left. Do you, Ray?” Char asked.

  Ray thought about it. “Well, now, I can’t be sure. The Morganwicks were a big name around here years ago. Big part of the town’s history. But the last few generations …” He shrugged. “Carole’s parents passed, and no one’s seen her brother in decades. Carole herself left for a while. Married, divorced. I really can’t say if there’s anyone. She kept to herself, mostly. Oh, but wait. Where did her boy end up living?”

  “My goodness, sweetie, you’re right. I forgot all about him! What was his name?” Char tapped her huge ring against the table as she thought. “Alexander, Adrian …”

  Ray snapped his fingers. “Adam. Must’ve gone off on his own. He’d be old enough.”

  “Or maybe with his dad. He never returned with Carole.”

  Stan listened with interest. “Carole had a son?”

  “Yes, just one. I don’t think they were close. She was very much absorbed in her work.”

  “Did Carole take care of your alpacas?”

  Char and Ray exchanged another odd glance. Not just odd. Guilty.

  “Yes. Yes, she did,” Char said, but not convincingly.

  “I’ve known Carole since we were toddlers,” Ray said. “We went to school together. Like I said, she grew up in these parts.”

  “So how long did she take care of the animals for you? What will you do now?”

  Char got up and began clearing plates. “Why, I have no idea. It’s too soon to think about that. Anyone want more? How about a martini, Stan?”

  “No, thank you. She must be leaving you with big shoes to fill. She was good at caring for the alpacas?”

  Silence. Then, “Tremendous,” Char declared, downing the rest of her drink and setting the glass on the kitchen table with a snap. “Carole was very devoted. This is a terrible thing for our town, just terrible.” She fanned her face as her eyes filled with tears again. Ray rose and went to her, rubbing her back.

  “Why do you ask, Stan?” he asked in that quiet way he had.

  “Just curious. Char told me Betty wasn’t happy with her care and that
people were having second thoughts about her.”

  Char pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling, still dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “I shouldn’t have made it sound like that. Betty is Betty. You know how people get when something sticks in their head. I’m not sure what other people think. Oh, my goodness! What a lovely kitty! Is that the little man in question? Come here, sweet pea,” she crooned as Nutty entered the room, playing shy.

  “We did use Carole for the alpacas. For some things,” Ray said, returning to the table. “We also used an outside vet. But you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Why would I tell anyone?” Stan shook her head, bewildered. “But why can’t you just use the vet you want to use?”

  “You can, of course.” Ray wiped his mouth with his napkin, balled it up and tossed it from hand to hand. “But it’s polite to buy locally.”

  “Polite. Okay. But again, what if you—oh, never mind.” Stan was getting a headache. So was Nutty, by the looks of it. Char had him cradled in her arms like a baby, singing to him. He looked horrified. Stan stifled a giggle. “Here, give him a treat.” Stan got up and fished one out of his jar, handing it to her.

  Char sniffed it. “This smells almost good enough to eat myself. What kind is it?”

  “Cheese and spelt. I make them. I make all Nutty’s food, actually. He has stomach problems.”

  “Really? So does Savannah. Our dog that watches the alpacas. Carole couldn’t ever figure out what was wrong. Our other vet had some ideas, but I hate all those medicines. Do you think we could try some of the food you give Nutty? We’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t have to pay me. And I’d be happy to look into some dog recipe ideas. I’ve never cooked for a dog before.”

  “Aren’t you wonderful. Ray, isn’t she wonderful?”

  “She sure is,” Ray said. “Now we need to get back to the B and B and explain this to our guests. We can’t possibly do afternoon tea while all this is going on.”

  “Afternoon tea?” Stan asked.

  “We have some guests of English descent. They requested it.” Ray looked unhappy about disappointing anyone. “I can’t possibly expect Char to bake scones when she’s so distraught, and Lord knows I’m no good at it. The gumbo was already made when we heard the news.”

  Stan had a feeling the vodka martinis were more of an inhibitor for Char than grief, but she kept her mouth shut. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “Oh, honey, don’t think anything of it. We all stick together around here. Ready, darling?” Char asked Ray.

  “Ready. You take care now, Stan, okay? And call if you need anything.”

  Stan promised she would and saw them to the door. She closed and locked it behind them before returning to the kitchen to clean up. Nutty peeked out from the cabinet he’d wedged himself into.

  “Coast is clear,” Stan told him. She swore he emitted a sigh of relief as he jumped out and went in search of his next napping spot. She felt the same way. That conversation had been tiring.

  The walls might be closing in on her. Stan had wanted to be left alone, but after Ray and Char left, she had no idea what to do with herself. She’d texted Richard, but he hadn’t responded. And when she called, his phone went right to voice mail.

  She floated from room to room, unpacking half a box here, a few things there. She mopped the downstairs bathroom floor and hung one picture; then she took it down because it didn’t look right. The old Blue Öyster Cult song “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” played in a continuous loop in her head until she thought she might go crazy—when theme songs go bad. She went in search of a calming jazz CD and turned it up.

  The whole time she tried to force the dead vet out of her head.

  “Want treats?” she finally asked Nutty, who was hanging around the kitchen watching her manic movements with interest.

  He meowed.

  Stan rummaged around the cupboard. “They’ll have to be pumpkin. I can’t go out right now to get other ingredients.”

  Nutty blinked, indifferent. Stan turned the oven on, pulled out her mixing bowl and added spelt flour, canned pumpkin, eggs, peanut butter, some water and ground cinnamon. She used her favorite wooden spoon to mix it all together, working the ingredients into a smooth batter.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to that appointment,” she told Nutty as she worked. “I really didn’t need to find a dead person. That was definitely not on my bucket list.”

  Nutty yawned and dropped to the floor, resting his head on his paw.

  “I hope they find out who did it soon. And why they threw kibble on her. Do you think it was someone mad about food? Maybe someone like this Betty person, who thought Carole didn’t do things right?”

  She glanced at Nutty. He didn’t have the answers and wasn’t shy about letting her know that. He’d fallen asleep. Stan sighed. It stank having no one to talk to when you were trying to solve a murder.

  Chapter 5

  For a one-man show, the Frog Ledge Holler worked fast. A “special edition” was out first thing Tuesday. Front page above the fold, naturally, was all about the murder. The paper was two pages thin. She winced as she read the headline: LOCAL VET FOUND DEAD AT CLINIC, FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED. She took it to the kitchen and read it, standing up.

  Frog Ledge—Carole Morganwick, local veterinarian and daughter of town scion Henry Morganwick, was found dead Monday at her veterinary clinic on Main Street.

  Resident state trooper Jessica Pasquale responded to a 911 call from a client, who found the body around 8 A.M. While the cause of death has not been determined, foul play is suspected. No suspects have yet been identified, but state police are following a number of leads.

  Morganwick, who was 61 at the time of her death, has run the Frog Ledge Veterinary Clinic since 2007, reclaiming ownership after the death of Dr. Randolph Stevens. The clinic originally belonged to Morganwick’s father, Henry, who placed it under Stevens’s management in 2002. Henry Morganwick died in 2003, leaving instructions that the clinic be returned to any of his remaining family’s management upon his and Stevens’s death. Carole returned to Frog Ledge after Stevens’s death to continue her family’s legacy of caring for local animals and helping the community.

  Carole Morganwick is survived by her brother, Henry Junior, and a son, Adam Cross. Memorial services have not been planned at this time.

  There was no mention of the kibble, at least.

  “Murdered? Jeez, Stan. That’s a helluva way to get welcomed to town.” Nikki sounded out of breath on the other end of the phone. In Nikki’s world it was a normal morning—as normal as you can get taking care of fifteen dogs and a few cats. But it wasn’t a normal morning in Stan’s world at all. She had woken up with “Highway to Hell” pounding in her head. If anyone could make her feel better, however, it was Nikki.

  “What happened? And who was it again?” Nikki asked.

  “The town vet.”

  “Was Nutty sick?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’m confused. Hang on.” Stan heard a blast of static, some rustling like Nikki was shuffling cards in her ear, then a bang and finally quiet. She came back on the line a second later. “Back. Had to finish dealing with one of the new dogs. He had an accident all over his kennel.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “More fun than a dead vet. So why were you there? Help me with this.”

  Stan sighed. “The vet came to my door.” She relayed Carole’s visit.

  “And you went? What the heck’s happening to you out there in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I’m trying to play nice in the sandbox. Apparently, we’re supposed to care about each other around here. And buy locally.”

  “Hard to care about someone you don’t even know, who shows up at your door like that. And I’m all about buying locally, but not when someone’s stalking me to do it. But you always were good at that political crap. Okay, so you went. And she was just dead? How do you know she was murdered?
”

  “Because she had a needle sticking out of her neck!”

  “Huh.” Nikki was silent for a moment, thinking about this. “You know, aside from the tragedy of it, it’s pretty funny. Like funny ironic, not actually funny. But all those years in Hartford, you never came across a dead body, and that’s where it wouldn’t seem so bizarre.”

  “Well, there was the time we got shot at.” She, Richard and another coworker had been at a red light shortly after leaving the office when someone had come running out of a house and started shooting at the car in front of them.

  “They weren’t shooting at you.”

  “They could’ve missed. And they didn’t hit the person they wanted to hit, either.”

  “True. Do they know who killed this vet?”

  “No.” Stan didn’t mention the long questioning session that she endured.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not. Want me to come over? I’m doing a couple of drop-offs today, but my schedule isn’t too crazy. I can stop by later tonight.”

  She really didn’t want to see anybody. “Maybe tomorrow? I have a bunch of work to do here, and, honestly, I don’t feel good.”

  “Okay. Try to relax. And all kidding aside, be careful. Just because it’s a small town doesn’t mean everything’s wine and roses. This woman got herself killed.”

  Frog Ledge seemed to have its share of hypocrites. Stan had gotten the loner vibe from Carole. And the flat-out disliked vibe from a number of people, too. But as dusk covered the town the day after the vet’s death, people flocked to the green with candles and stuffed animals and photos.

  She heard them through her open bedroom window. She’d hidden herself up there for most of the day, trying to sleep but not succeeding. Or sitting on the bathroom floor, waiting to get sick. Stan tried to ignore the murmur of voices first; then as the volume grew she gave up and dragged herself to the window. Holy crap. Was she supposed to make an appearance at this?

  Stan fought back tears for the millionth time that day. First in line to find a dead body. Now she had to put on her game face, get dressed and go pretend she was torn up about Carole’s death. Well, she was torn up, but she didn’t think it had to do with Carole personally. She couldn’t be. She’d had one conversation with the woman—if you could even call it a conversation.