A Biscuit, a Casket

by Liz Mugavero

  “All set,” he said, as the three of them bounded over to her and plopped on the floor, waiting for their food.

  “Thank you,” she said. His eyes met hers over the dogs’ heads, and she quickly looked away. “So I guess I’m feeding everyone dinner, huh, guys?”

  They all wagged expectantly. Duncan looked proud of himself for blending in with the group so well.

  “Good thing I’m prepared.” She pulled some bowls out of the fridge, and moments later all three dogs were eating contentedly. Nutty, who had already finished his, jumped down and nosed around to see whose plate he could bum something off of. The dogs, even Duncan, understood that he was in charge, and grudgingly let him select a plate to nibble from. He chose Henry’s.

  “Thanks for feeding Dunc,” Jake said.

  “No problem. Thanks for coming in. Want anything?”

  “No. Thanks. It’s pretty late.”

  She turned to the sink and began rinsing off dishes. “I can’t believe Hal’s been killed. Who would do such a thing? To someone with four children? I feel so bad for them.” She looked at Jake. “Was he really the type of guy someone could stab like that? In his own yard?”

  “That’s a good question,” Jake said. “Hal was a unique guy. You either loved or you hated him. And plenty of people hated him.”

  Chapter 5

  Stan woke mere hours later to a giant face inches from her own, eyes boring into her like they were trying to suck out her brain. This was followed by a paw hovering over her nose. She rolled away and came face to face with two more sets of eyes—one glaring, the other innocently blinking.

  Ugh. Saturday morning already. She was exhausted. And a glance at her Zen alarm clock next to the bed told her she had good reason to be. It was only seven. She hadn’t gone to bed until nearly four.

  “What, are you all ganging up on me?” She pushed herself up on one elbow and surveyed her audience. Henry had now put both front paws on the bed and pushed his head closer, trying to nuzzle her arm. Nutty, owner of the glaring eyes, stayed where he was, conveying his displeasure at having to wait for breakfast. Scruffy snorted and rolled over on her back, kicking her pretty little paws up in a plea. How quickly they forgot they had eaten less than four hours ago.

  “Okay, I get it, I get it. You’re hungry. And you two have to go out,” Stan said to the dogs. Scruffy woo-wooed in agreement. Henry sat back down and howled.

  Stan looked at Nutty. He returned her stare. His gaze seemed reproachful, his flicking tail saying, Why did you have to bring these dogs here? They’re so loud. And now I’ll have to wait for my breakfast.

  Reaching over, Stan stroked him, all the way to the tip of his tail. “Ah, come on,” she said. “You know you love them. Well, at least Scruffy. Henry’s growing on you.”

  Nutty turned his head and jumped onto his window bed. Crossed his paws and put his head on them.

  “You can deny it all you want, but it’s true.” Stan tossed the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. With one hand she scratched Scruffy’s belly; with the other, she rubbed Henry’s head. She understood Nutty’s position, even though a lot was bravado. But so far, Henry had been nothing but deferential to his feline counterpart. Stan figured Nutty would keep the game going until Henry unequivocally got the message: Nutty was in charge. The posturing had to last in case Henry was slow.

  It had been just the two of them, Stan and Nutty, when they’d moved to Frog Ledge in June. Nutty had wandered into Stan’s life a few years back as an injured stray cat when she lived in her condo in West Hartford. He had parked himself on the lawn until she went out to investigate. A visit to the vet revealed Nutty had possibly been hit by a car, so Stan had taken him in and nursed him back to health. He also suffered from irritable bowel disease, which had triggered Stan’s interest in baking homemade treats and preparing food for him. They’d decided they liked each other, his homemade diet improved his health, and they had gone on to live happily ever after, so far.

  Now, a mere four months after moving to Frog Ledge, their family had doubled with Scruffy first, then Henry. Scruffy was a southern transport who stole Stan’s heart. Henry had claimed Stan after he tasted her homemade treats when they’d met at the pound. The brown pit bull with the white spot on his face was a muffin. Stan had subsequently learned the depth of his loyalty during a hairy situation. After that, she couldn’t leave him languishing there, homeless.

  “Let’s go, then.” She stepped into her furry pink slippers and pulled a sweatshirt over her pajamas. It was chilly today. She herded the dogs out the back door and headed into the kitchen to make coffee.

  Stan loaded organic beans from Izzy Sweet’s Sweets, the local coffee and chocolate shop, into her grinder. She filled up the water, popped a filter in, and waited, mug in hand, for her drug of choice to brew. She should have whipped up a smoothie first and gone out for a run, but she wanted coffee. Now. It had been a late night. And not a good one, at that.

  “Did you hear what happened, Nutter?” she asked her cat when he strolled into the kitchen.

  Nutty stared at her, eyes unblinking. Stan figured that meant no.

  “There’s been a murder on the block.” She waited for the appropriate shock. Nutty’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a little coldhearted,” she remarked. “Just because you didn’t know the guy doesn’t mean you can’t feel a little badly.”

  Nutty rubbed on the table leg and meowed. Clearly, he was only interested in breakfast, not the untimely death of Hal Hoffman. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes until the dogs come in,” she told him. “The kitchen’s only doing one shift today.”

  Nutty meowed at her again. A challenge. Who said animals didn’t talk back?

  The coffee was taking much too long to brew. She went into the sunroom while she waited to watch the dogs. Henry ambled along as Scruffy bounced around him, trying to get him to play tug of war.

  The coffeepot finally beeped and she poured a large cup of the thick, black liquid. The coffee was a welcome jolt to her exhausted system, and she sighed happily with her first sip. Leaving the dogs to play a few minutes longer, she went to the front door to see if newspaperman Cyril Pierce had been on the job.

  He certainly had. The Frog Ledge Holler sat on her front porch, a perfect throw from whomever Cyril, its esteemed editor, used these days—likely a local elementary schoolkid with a dependable bike and a desire to make a few bucks a week hurling papers at houses. She picked up the plastic-wrapped, skimpy local newspaper and went back inside.

  Front page, above the fold: LOCAL DAIRY FARMER FOUND DEAD IN CORN MAZE.

  Stan skimmed the story, which detailed how Harold “Hal” Hoffman’s body had been discovered by an employee working in the corn maze last night. No further information until the autopsy was conducted. The photo of Hal was full color, clear and bright. She’d only ever seen him in jeans and a flannel shirt, a hat pulled low over his face, as he went about his business around town. But this photo, with no hat and the hint of a dress shirt apparent, showed how attractive he had been. Stan hadn’t realized. The years of farming and harsh New England weather had rested a lot better on him than they had on his wife. Then again, if the gossip mill was to be believed, she did a heck of a lot more of the farming than Hal had.

  A chorus of barks and woo-woos from out back caught her attention. Stan dropped the paper and hurried to the sunroom door to see her dogs at the fence. She stepped out to see what they were looking at. Beyond the yard of her next-door neighbor, Amara Leonard, the Hoffmans’ dairy cows were clearly visible as they started their morning stroll to the grassy field at the back of their property. Scruffy loved cows and always tried to get their attention. Henry just followed her lead.

  “Let’s go, guys. Breakfast!” Stan called. The dogs came charging to the door. “You can’t go play with the cows today,” Stan told Scruffy, ruffling her ears, which looked like pigtails. “Although I’ll probably have to go visit them. See how Em’s doing. It’s
probably the neighborly thing to do, right?”

  The dogs stared at her as if to say, Don’t ask us about neighborly etiquette.

  Stan sighed. “Come on, then.” They raced to their breakfast spots, meeting up with Nutty, who had already assumed his position on the counter. Stan headed to the fridge, but heard her iPhone ring. Where had she put the stupid thing? She stood still and listened. Traced the sound to her coat pocket, which still hung on the back of the chair where she’d draped it after she’d gotten home this morning. As she pulled the phone from the pocket, she swore she could still smell the crisp, fall, farm air clinging to her coat. It gave her the creeps thinking of that trench of mud behind the corn maze.

  Shaking it off, she glanced at the readout. Jake. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing up so early?” He’d probably gone to bed later than her if he’d closed the bar.

  “How are you holding up?” Jake asked.

  “I’m fine. I’m going to stop by Em’s this morning.” She went to the fridge and pulled the dogs’ and cat’s food out. They were all still glued to their spots, watching her every move. “I feel so bad for her. What a nightmare.”

  “I know. But she’s a tough lady. She’ll get through it.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Stan said.

  Silence on Jake’s end of the phone. And no jokes. Odd. Stan popped the bowls of the animals’ chicken, rice, and cranberry dish into the microwave and reheated.

  “Will you be at the bar today?” he finally asked. Saturdays were usually when she and Brenna got together to discuss the upcoming week’s orders.

  “Yes. I’ll be over sometime midafternoon. Will you, uh, be around?”

  “I will,” he said. “Big night tonight. The step dancers are coming in.”

  Jake’s place was well known for the live Irish acts who came from all over the country to perform. Tonight, a national Irish step-dancing troupe would pack the place to the hilt.

  “I thought about canceling after last night, but the group had already traveled all the way here. And I think Hal, of all people, would’ve wanted the show to go on. He loved Irish music. You gonna stay to see them?” he asked.

  Stan thought about it. She probably would. She didn’t get out much these days, and it seemed like a fun way to spend the night. Being in the house alone, thinking about what had happened two doors down, wasn’t all that appealing. And she’d get to see Jake, a little voice reminded her. She stuffed a gag in the little voice’s mouth.

  “I think so,” she answered carefully, spooning the food into three bowls. “But we can talk about it later.”

  “Okay then,” Jake said. “I’ll see you in a bit. Dunc says bring treats.”

  “Duncan knows that’s a given,” Stan said.

  She hung up and fed her animals, watching them lick their plates clean. An evening with Jake, even though he would be working, was tempting. She had to figure out if she was ready to give in.

  “Someone killed the farmer? With a hook? Like a pirate hook?” Nikki Manning’s incredulous voice resonated over the phone, making Stan want to laugh, which she didn’t think was appropriate. Instead, she took a long swig of coffee before answering.

  “Someone killed the farmer. With a hooklike thing. I don’t know what you call the hook, but it looked horrible. Short, curved, wooden handle. Kind of like a miniversion of the Grim Reaper’s sword thingy.” Despite herself, she shuddered. “And only two houses down from me, might I add.” In addition to talking everything through with Nutty, Stan needed her best friend’s take on the recent events. Nutty hadn’t had much to say about the incident.

  “Sword thingy? It’s a scythe. Well, the Grim Reaper’s tool is a scythe. I think the smaller one is a sickle. Hold on, I’ll send you a picture.”

  Stan frowned. “How do you know so much about scythes and sickles?”

  Nikki laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t do it. Rhode Island has farming types, too, remember? My dad had lots of those tools around here. He did a lot of work outside, grew some stuff. Here it comes.”

  Seconds later Stan felt her phone vibrate in her hand as a text came over. She pulled it away to look at it. Nikki had sent her a picture of what looked remarkably like what had killed Hal. “A sickle,” Stan read. “Yep, that’s it. Who would’ve known? And who would’ve been carrying this around with no one noticing?”

  “Wikipedia says it’s used to cut corn,” Nikki said.

  “Makes sense. There’s a corn maze there. That’s where they found the body.”

  “Maybe the farmer was using it and someone turned it on him. That’s hardcore.”

  Stan could hear Nikki chewing on the other end of the line, probably her usual granola and fruit combo. Then she piped up again, presumably after swallowing. “But maybe he deserved it. Dairy farms aren’t nice places in general. Please tell me this isn’t a factory farm.”

  Stan should’ve expected that. There was no greater animal advocate than Nikki Manning. She’d started her animal transport business on a shoestring when they were in college and over the years built up her reputation, community support, and a network that extended from Maine to Georgia. The rescued dogs—and sometimes cats—were brought safely to her home in Rhode Island, or to other shelters that helped get them adopted. Although her transport mainly helped dogs on death row in southern states, she advocated nonstop for everything four legged and was quite outspoken about it. She was a staunch vegan who preferred the company of animals to most people. She was also Stan’s oldest friend, which in Nikki’s mind gave her certain liberties. Like lecturing her.

  “It’s not a factory farm. I know what factory farms are, Nik. Give me some credit.” Stan rose and went to her coffee bar, topped off her cup. It was Izzy’s special bold blend, something Colombian and delightful. “This is a local farm. The cows walk around. It’s a huge piece of land. They even have a spot down the hill in back with all these little ponds.”

  Nikki grunted. Stan could picture her in her usual outfit of jeans and cowboy boots, sitting at her messy kitchen table surrounded by cans of dog food, paperwork, and a few cats. “Don’t believe everything you hear. They still have a crappy life.”

  “The farmers or the cows? Kidding,” she said when Nikki started to protest. “I get it. Can we go back to the dead farmer for a second?” Stan got up and walked around her bright kitchen. The tangerine-colored walls put a smile on her face even on the gloomiest of days. She’d decorated with yellow and red accents and all red appliances, and hung wind chimes over the sink in front of the window and in all four corners of the skylight. They sparkled when the sun shone on them and cast extra light around the room. She’d wanted a room that made her feel good. Since she started baking for a living, she was glad she’d made the kitchen so Zen with all the time she spent there these days. She straightened the stack of mail she’d been neglecting while she planned Benny’s party over the last week, promising to get to it today. She pulled the blinds up on the window to let the hazy sun in. Better than nothing.

  Nikki dropped something with a clang that resonated through Stan’s eardrum. “Sure we can. So who did it? Maybe an animal activist.” Her tone grew thoughtful. “That would be pretty cool, actually.”

  “Nik! It wouldn’t. That would give animal activists a bad name.” She waited until Nikki grumbled an assent. “I have no idea who did it.” Well, that wasn’t true. She remembered the Ford Explorer, the man named Fink—if the name was any indication, maybe they already had their man—and Pasquale sending someone out to question him. She wondered what had happened with that. She told Nikki about it. “I haven’t heard if anything came from it yet.”

  “Stan . . . You’re not getting involved in this, are you?” Nikki asked.

  “Involved? No. Why would you think that?”

  “Because I know you? Look, after what happened last time . . . maybe you should just go about your business. Read about it in the newspaper.”

  “You’re silly.” Stan laughed. “I’m not planning
on getting involved. I have enough going on. New business, new life, remember?”

  “I hope so,” Nikki said. “Dead farmers don’t seem like a good hobby to take up.”

  After Stan hung up, she checked her watch. Only nine. Plenty of time to make a stop before heading to Em’s. She needed to know if there had been any developments overnight in Hal’s murder. Since the pub wasn’t open yet, the next best place for information was Izzy’s coffee shop. She hurried upstairs to get dressed.

  Chapter 6

  “Dead. I can’t believe it. How could this happen?” Izzy Sweet’s hand shook as she poured coffee into a to-go cup for Stan. The tremors caused the hot black liquid to splash on the counter. Izzy muttered a curse and swiped at the spill with a cloth. “Do you know how he died? I’ve heard it was horrible—that he was stabbed with an awful weapon.” She turned away, but Stan could’ve sworn Izzy’s eyes had filled with tears.

  Izzy Sweet’s Sweets buzzed with the news of the murder this morning, the chatter mixing with the jazz music playing softly through the speakers. Copies of the Frog Ledge Holler, many folded to Hal’s picture, littered the café tables next to pastries and lattes. The undercurrent seemed less fearful than Stan would’ve expected, considering there was a murderer on the loose. Instead, people seemed to want to talk about it, sharing and comparing what they knew with the lean details in the newspaper. Human nature, she supposed. At least we’re all alive to talk about it.

  Then again, there weren’t many true locals on hand in the café. Much of Izzy’s business rested with the local college crowd and their parents. There were two large universities within twenty miles of the sweet shop, and word had gotten out that Izzy’s coffee was to die for. And, it made the tourists feel good to buy local. Unfortunately, Frog Ledge’s old guard didn’t have the same loyalty—they’d been opposed to the shop, which they called “fancy, highfalutin, and overpriced.” They would’ve much rather seen the greasy spoon diner that had been there previously be resurrected.