The Icing on the Corpse Page 7

  She backed out of Betty’s driveway as darkness slipped into Frog Ledge. A light snow had started to fall again. The flakes swirled through the wind and kissed her windshield before puddling into water. She flicked her windshield wipers on, pausing before she drove away. In an upstairs window, a light went on. Stan caught sight of Betty’s face in the window before the room winked into darkness behind rapidly closing blinds.

  She drove away quickly, the heebie-jeebies chasing her. All Betty’s talk about murder and secrets seemed extra eerie on this dark, winter night. On autopilot, Stan didn’t realize she’d headed for the pub until she turned into the parking lot. Here, there was guaranteed warmth. She wanted to run in and tell Jake about Betty’s claims, but she couldn’t do that. She’d promised. Instead, she’d have to take comfort just in being here.

  It was a light customer night judging by the cars in the lot, probably due to the weather. Unless a lot of locals were walking over, which wasn’t uncommon. She parked next to Burt Meany’s red Buick—Betty had been right about his destination—and went inside.

  As soon as she stepped through the door, the feeling of “home” washed over her and she immediately felt better. She’d always been comfortable here. It wasn’t like any other bar she’d ever been in. Probably Jake had a lot to do with that, but overall this place wasn’t solely about having a drink—although there were plenty of opportunities for that. McSwigg’s was about community. Family. The place, corny as it sounded, where everybody knew your name. Or mostly everybody, like when the place wasn’t overrun with college kids.

  But even filled to bursting, it was special. Ireland was still on her “to visit” bucket list, so she didn’t have the real thing to compare it to, but if she had to bet, Jake’s place rated pretty high on the authentic Irish pub experience list. He’d done most of the interior work himself, from the elaborate wooden doors with Celtic engraving, to the gleaming mahogany bar, to the homey feeling he’d cultivated with a fireplace and mix of high bar tables, couches, and comfy chairs scattered throughout. The mirrored shelves behind the bar displayed his impressive collection of alcohol with a 3D effect. The live band area in back was quiet tonight, but Stan had seen it rocking many times with everything from Irish step dancers to full-on rock bands—all Irish themed, of course. He also had started hosting poetry slams and open-mic nights in an effort to cater to the age-appropriate student population. So far, it had been very successful.

  Irish flags, clovers, and various blessings, as well as photos of real Ireland castles and other scenery adorned the walls. And over the bar area, her favorite piece of McSwigg’s—the hand-cut, engraved wooden blessing that read: AN ÁIT A BHFUIL DO CHROÍ IS ANN A THABHARFAS DO CHOSA THÚ. Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.

  Hers certainly had.

  She scanned the room. Jake stood behind the bar, but not in his usual mode of pouring drinks and chatting with people. Instead, he was in the far corner having what looked to be a heated discussion with Izzy Sweet. Stan hesitated, thinking maybe she shouldn’t go in after all, but it was too late. Brenna had already spotted her from her position behind the bar. She waved. Stan threaded her way over, noticing Burt Meany planted in front of one of the big-screen TVs. He sat with a couple of other guys, drinking Bud Light from a can.

  She felt bad for Betty.

  “Hey, Bren.” She finally got to the bar and dropped her purse in the chair while she unzipped her coat and unwound her scarf. “Slow night?”

  “Really slow. I heard it’s snowing again.” Brenna wiped the counter in front of Stan and pulled out a wineglass. “Merlot?”

  Stan resisted the urge to swoon. “Yes, please.”

  “French fries?”

  Stan hesitated. She loved Jake’s homemade fries. Especially the Cajun ones. But she had her good-for-you soup at home for dinner. Although she could use something to tide her over until she actually went home.

  Brenna watched her inner struggle and laughed. “I’ll bring you fries.”

  Stan smiled sheepishly. “I’m that easy to read?”

  “Nah, I just know you by now. And how much you love fries.” Brenna grabbed a glass and selected the wine.

  Stan glanced over at Jake and Izzy in the corner. Izzy’s long braids obscured her face, but Stan could tell from her body language—long nails drumming on the bar, body angled away from Jake—that she was not happy with the conversation. She wondered if it had to do with the letter Izzy had told her about that morning. “What’s going on over there?”

  Brenna rolled her eyes. “Typical. All those two ever do is fight. It’s all they ever did, right?” She poured a generous sampling of the red wine into the glass and presented it with a flourish. “Enjoy. I’ll be back in a few and we can talk about our plan for tomorrow. We’re still baking, right?”

  “We are. I came by to tell you about the new job we have.” She hadn’t, really, but it was as good a reason as any. And she did need Brenna to get on the wedding planning quickly.

  “A new job? For Pawsitively Organic?” Brenna clapped her hands together in excitement. “What is it?”

  “You’re not gonna believe it. It’s cool. Quirky, but cool.” Stan sipped her wine and tried not to look over at Jake. He hadn’t seen her yet, which meant it was a serious conversation. He was usually on top of everything that happened in the bar—sometimes before it happened. And he always was the first to greet her when she showed up.

  “Excuse me. Can I get my wine?” A woman with six-inch stilettos, a too-short-for-winter dress, and a foul-looking face leaned in next to Stan. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “I’m so sorry. That was a Chardonnay, right?” Brenna hurried off to fill the order. The woman looked Stan up and down, clearly rating her outfit. She appeared to find it lacking, which didn’t bother Stan one bit if the alternative was looking like her.

  Brenna returned with the glass and Stan’s fries. She took the woman’s money. The woman didn’t leave her a tip and flounced away. Brenna frowned after her. “Jerk.” She put Stan’s plate of fries in front of her.

  “I hope that doesn’t happen often.” Stan popped a fry in her mouth. Heaven. “So, anyway, this new job—”

  Izzy appeared at her side. Irritation set her jaw and made her eyes flash, but to her credit, she tried to mask it with a smile. At the same time, two guys approached the bar.

  Brenna sighed. “I’ll be back.” With a curious look at Izzy, she headed for the new customers.

  “Hi,” Izzy said.

  “Hey,” Stan said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Listen, I gotta get going, but you should stop by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try. I have to figure out tomorrow’s schedule. Lots of baking to do and I got a new job today.” She saw Jake hanging back, waiting until Izzy was finished before he came over.

  Izzy saw him, too. “Well, try,” she said. “New coffee shipment coming in. And you can tell me about the new job. I heard some gossip about it today.” With a wink, she hurried away.

  Jake finished straightening the bottles on one of the shelves behind the bar, then came over. “What are you drinking?”

  “My usual.” Stan observed him, saw the fatigue in his eyes, the pale of his face behind his usual one-day stubble. “What are you drinking?”

  He half-smiled. “Nothing. Yet.” He tipped his Red Sox hat back, rubbed his forehead. “Long day. But it’s all good. How are you? Wasn’t sure I’d see you tonight.”

  “I wasn’t sure either. Fry?”

  “No, thanks. I already ate.”

  “Did you guys, uh, get the funeral planned?” She hated to bring it up, but didn’t want him to think she was rude if she didn’t ask.

  Jake’s face clouded over again. “We did. It’ll be private. Don wants to focus on their immediate family, the boys, you know. The town-wide celebration will be for everyone else. I think that’s the right thing to do. It’s supposed to be Sunday.”

  Stan nodded. “Sounds appropriate. The
celebration sounds like it will be a lot of work to pull together in such a short period of time, though.”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “It will be a busy week. So, will you go with me? To the funeral? It’s Thursday at eleven.”

  “Me?” She tried to hide her surprise. “If you’re sure no one will mind, of course I’ll go. But I thought it was private.”

  “Why would anyone mind? You’re with me.”

  The statement, even delivered so casually, flooded her body with warmth. Too bad she was so relationship challenged that she had no good response. “Great,” was the best she could come up with. “So you’re officially working tonight?”

  He shrugged. Either he didn’t notice her awkwardness or he was too polite to call attention to it. “Gotta jump back in sometime, right? Can’t sit around and mope.” He held up a finger to someone across the room. “Gonna hang for a bit?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  He paused and scanned her face. “Everything okay?”

  She hesitated. She really wanted to tell him about Betty’s crazy theories and her own bad feeling about Dale Hatmaker. But she also didn’t want to cause him more heartache. Or break Betty’s trust. She would wait another day, see if anything came of it. “Of course. Everything’s fine.”

  He gave her the not-sure-I-believe-you look, but went to talk to whoever was beckoning. Stan sipped her wine. If she told him and he confronted Betty, which wasn’t unrealistic considering his proximity to the situation, that could be problematic. Betty would never forgive her. And if Jake told Jessie, that would be a whole other can of worms. No, silence was probably the best option in this situation.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Stan swiveled on her stool to find her mother standing next to her wearing her best practiced smile and a thousand-dollar suit that didn’t fit in with the denim and flannel set. Which meant—yup, there he was. Stan wanted to crawl under the bar as Tony Falco finished clapping somebody on the back and joined them.

  “We meet again. Hello, Kristan.”

  “It’s Stan,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “My grandfather’s name was Stan,” Falco said. “It doesn’t feel right to call you by the same name. Please forgive me.” He smiled charmingly at her. Behind them, Brenna pretended to stick her finger down her throat and throw up.

  “May we sit?” her mother asked again. The smile had faded a bit at this point.

  “Of course, help yourself.” Stan waved at the seats and swallowed more wine. “I can’t stay much longer anyway.” She’d lost her appetite for her fries. Which was infuriating.

  “But we just got here. This is perfect timing for you and Tony to have a conversation, right, dear?”

  Stan recognized the tone and the accompanying look, mostly from her teenaged years. It meant, Do what I tell you and love it like it is your idea.

  She had hated the look then, and she hated it now. The french fries weren’t even worth sticking around for.

  But Falco leaned over. “Yes, I heard you were interested in talking to me about coaching opportunities. I’ll be honest, I don’t think I need that much coaching, but I’m happy to take any tips you’d like to provide. And of course, if you’re looking for a longer-term paid arrangement, we can certainly discuss that.” He flashed straight white teeth at her.

  Theme song for this guy: “Big Shot.” She could picture Billy Joel making fun of Falco as he sang. She drained her wineglass and set it on the bar, then stood. “The only tip I really have right now is pretty simple.” She leaned closer, past her mother, so Falco could hear her. “Don’t dishonor a woman who meant so much to everyone in town by appointing someone to her job who just wants a title and his name in the newspaper.” She straightened, shrugged her coat on, and picked up her bag. “If you need any other tips, please feel free to call me.” She flashed them a dazzling smile, then headed out the door, waving to Jake on the way. He’d certainly forgive her for leaving once he saw Falco. He probably wished he could walk out, too.

  Chapter 11

  Stan woke at the crack of dawn Tuesday with her mind on weddings. Her upcoming meeting with Dede Richardson later this week would help her get to know the dogs and get a feel for their “party style.” But that was only a formality. With the exception of the dress and tux, which Dede’s daughter was handling, Dede had not-so-subtly conveyed the message that she expected Stan to plan the entire party, from the fabulous gourmet cake right down to wedding “rings.” Oy.

  She couldn’t help but feel like she was the wrong person for all of it except the cake. She had zero experience with weddings. She hadn’t even been to one in about ten years. And now she was being trusted to send a couple of dogs on their happy ever after? She hoped the bride wasn’t a bridezilla. At least Dede was securing the “wedding official.” She had no idea how to go about finding a doggie minister.

  Stan rolled out of bed and checked out her window to see what was happening on the green. It was the first thing she did every morning, especially when spring was on the horizon. Not today, though. It was gray again. The town green was hidden behind a cloud of foggy drizzle. On the bright side, maybe it would melt the snow. It seemed like spring wasn’t planning to make an early appearance in New England this year. It had been a long winter. With a groan, she dropped back on the bed and crawled under the covers. She didn’t have to get up yet. The dogs hadn’t even stirred—Scruffy was still sacked out at the foot of the bed, curled up with Nutty, and Henry hadn’t even opened his eyes to peek at her from his bed across the room.

  But it was too late for more sleep. Her mind had already kicked into high gear. She sat back up and grabbed her iPad. Opening the preliminary wedding list she’d made yesterday, she scanned it for priorities.

  1. Figure out/buy ingredients for cake—strawberry flavored

  2. Ingredients for secondary dessert—variety of flavors

  3. Wedding “tags” for collars (in place of rings)

  4. “Bow vows”

  5. Flavored doggie water in a fountain

  The bow vows made her smile. She’d found the term online when she Googled “doggie weddings” in a frantic attempt to assure herself this could actually be done. And had found mention of a number of other ceremonies, one on a beach with bow vows. Doggie wedding vows? Whoever would think of such a thing?

  She had forgotten to add setting up the green and figuring out if they could use the gazebo to the list. Whom was she supposed to ask about that? Jake would probably know. She should call him. Who had time to sleep? She needed to get to work. She got up, found her slippers, and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Nutty and the dogs still hadn’t budged—they must’ve still been too full from sampling the treats she and Brenna had power-baked yesterday—so she headed downstairs alone to make her coffee.

  It just started to spew into the pot when her phone dinged, signaling a text message. Now, if only she knew what she’d done with it. After riffling through pockets and her pile of stuff on the table, she finally located the phone in the bottom of her purse. She had to get better about keeping track of the silly thing.

  The text was from Jake. Want to take the dogs for a walk? Wondering what happened with Mum.

  He was up early. Was that good or bad? She texted back. Sure, can you give me an hour? Not that she really wanted to recap the discussion with her mother, but she did have to tell him about the doggie wedding. She hadn’t even gotten to tell Brenna.

  He responded: Meet me at eight, the new building.

  The clackety-clack of nails on the floor signaled the arrival of the pups—they had a sixth sense for when she was in the kitchen.

  “Morning, guys.” She bent down for kisses, then let them outside just as Nutty chose to make his appearance. He eyed her hopefully and wound around her legs.

  “Hi, handsome.” She scooped him up and nuzzled his nose. “Turkey potpie this morning.”

  Nutty purred. Stan set him down and went to let the dogs in. Once the three were g
athered, she fed them her new turkey potpie-style dish she was testing for the clinic’s display, then filled her Vitamix with fruits and veggies for a smoothie. Drink in hand, she turned to find the dogs eagerly watching her. They always seemed to know when a walk or car ride was in their future.

  “You guys want to go for your walk?” She smiled at Scruffy’s excited squeals and Henry’s tail thumping. “I’ll go shower. Go wait by the door,” she instructed.

  Of course they didn’t listen, and followed her upstairs. Having multiple pets meant she never got to do certain things alone anymore. Like shower or use the bathroom.

  Oh, well. Good thing they were cute.

  The building Jake and Izzy co-owned had, among other uses, been the former site of the Frog Ledge Library. In the late 1980s, the town had received a state grant to build a new library building adjacent to the town green, which allowed for more accessibility during events and such. Betty had told the story of the relocation at an event last year. She’d been librarian back then, too, and she talked about how excited she was at the prospect of setting up a brand-new building and how the entire town had pitched in to help.

  Betty had championed Jake and Izzy’s plans to build a bookstore. Frog Ledge didn’t have one, and Betty was such a staunch supporter of reading and literacy programs that it was a no-brainer. Stan wondered if she ever had a bit of nostalgia, though, for her old library. Sometimes when people were attached to things or traditions, even the most positive change seemed like a negative. Especially during the remodeling process.

  The block was hopping with activity this morning when she, Scruffy, and Henry walked up. Trucks were parked all over the street, and workers hauled supplies inside. They looked cold, wearing heavy gloves and hooded sweatshirts. The building must not be much warmer inside. Sure, they had electric heaters and other equipment, but it was drafty and old, and they probably hadn’t reached the insulation point yet. Stan shivered thinking about being in there five days a week, eight hours a day in this weather.