by Liz Mugavero
Brenna hadn’t considered the crime from that angle, Stan could tell. She pursed her lips and thought about it, then said tersely, “Yes, she was in here. Looking for him. They were supposed to go to the parent-teacher meeting together and Hal never showed up. As usual. There. Are you satisfied?”
“You should tell Jessie,” Stan said.
Brenna gathered her hair in a ponytail. “Fine. Whatever. Jake and Desi are gonna have my head if I don’t get to work.” She slipped an apron on and ducked behind the bar, already fielding orders from her regulars before she even got the strings tied.
Stan slipped her iPad back in her purse and sipped the glass of Merlot Jake had slipped in front of her. He’d already tuned in to her choice of wines. Weird. But nice, at the same time. Her last boyfriend hadn’t figured out after four years what she liked to drink. Richard had always been too busy worrying about what he was drinking. She watched Brenna slip into bartender mode, chatting with her customers, deftly pulling pints and mixing liquors. Was she telling everything about yesterday’s visit from Emmalee Hoffman? Why had she claimed to be so late for the parent-teacher meeting that she drove over to the school immediately after realizing her error, but really she had stopped by the bar looking for Hal?
The crowd gathered in earnest now, anticipating the step dancers’ arrival. Stan watched from her prime spot as people streamed in. Some she recognized vaguely, others she knew from her travels around town. Amazing to see how many locals crammed into the place. It was easy to see why, though. McSwigg’s exemplified community. Real community. Stan could see it in the way people interacted. It didn’t seem to matter who they’d come in with. Most tables and other seating areas had excess clusters of people gathered around them, old friends catching up or new acquaintances becoming more intimate. Stan caught snippets of words floating around her: “A good topic for the next council meeting agenda . . .” “Eileen is back in the hospital again. Pneumonia this time . . .” “Jacob is doing much better in school, what a difference a teacher can make. . . .”
Stan half listened, allowing herself to float in that space of comfort without feeling compelled to get up and begin contributing to one of the conversations. She’d never been to Ireland, but liked to believe this is what it would be like. Friendly. Comfortable. Safe. And then she heard another half conversation, somewhere behind her. “The bottom line is, Hoffman owed money,” a man with a deep voice said. “They’ll find a way to get it. Don’t matter if he ain’t around anymore.”
Stan spun on her chair and squinted into the dim room, trying to see who was speaking. The man at the table directly behind her with the Yankees cap on? No. The woman he was with hadn’t stopped talking yet. The group of men next to them? They looked rough, with their black leather jackets and oversized bodies. One of them met her gaze. His was not friendly.
At the other end of the pub, the background music went off and someone introduced the step dancing troupe. Everyone clapped. A wave of folks moved forward to get a better view, and the music began again, louder and more compelling as the room filled with the thunderous sound of the dancers hitting the floor over and over. Stan whirled around, pretending not to have noticed the guy looking at her, and focused on the music. The beat matched her pounding heart. Hal owed money? Had the lender killed him? What did that mean for Emmalee and the boys? Were they in danger? She took a swig of wine and tried to calm down. She risked a glance behind her again and noticed the group of men had left. Why? Because they knew she’d heard them?
“What’s wrong?” Jake paused on his way down the bar.
“Oh, nothing. I just . . . nothing.” She offered him a bright smile.
He tilted his head, observing, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. “You sure?”
“I am. This is a great group. I’m enjoying it.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be back to fill your glass.” He continued on to whatever task he needed to do.
Stan forced herself to concentrate on the dancing. She had a decent view from her bar stool, and the more she watched—and sipped her wine—the more relaxed she became. She tapped her foot along with the beat, unable to remember feeling this content in a long time. Like she had finally found a place she belonged. Home. A different kind of home than she’d ever had, and the one she’d probably have least predicted for herself, but it was true. Here, she didn’t have to be “on” all the time, like in her mother’s fancy Rhode Island waterfront home, or in the cutthroat financial world she used to inhabit. She was just Stan, who prepared food for animals she loved, and it was perfect.
Perfect. The thought snuck in, unexpected, but instead of startling her like it may have had a few months ago, it didn’t. Instead she felt peaceful. And a little warm and fuzzy, which could have something to do with her wine.
“Having fun?” Jake paused in front of her again during one of his endless trips up and down the bar and placed a glass of ice water in front of her. She wondered how many miles he walked the nights he worked. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, face inches from hers.
That warm, fuzzy feeling flared a little, and she reached for her glass of water to douse it. And managed to spill it all over the bar, and well into her neighbor’s lap. The man jumped up, flinging icy water off his clothes. Duncan jumped up, too, from his spot on the floor, thinking this was a fun game, and launched himself at the man’s leg.
“I’m so sorry!” Stan grabbed a pile of napkins and thrust them at the man as Jake deftly grabbed a rag and swiped up the water on the bar before it traveled. Stan could see the hint of a smile on his face as he did so.
The man observed her, then looked down at his soggy pants. Without a word, he took the napkins and swiped at himself, shaking Duncan off his leg. He was handsome, with wavy black hair shot through with silver, a tanned face with minimal lines, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was also annoyed.
“What happened?” The woman seated to his left leaned forward to see what was happening. “What a lovely dog! Why is he in the bar? How did I not notice him before?”
“I’m so sorry to be so clumsy.” Stan still felt like crawling under the bar in embarrassment. “And that’s Duncan. He . . . works here. Again, I’m so—” She broke off as she recognized the woman. She had been in Emmalee’s kitchen that morning. Leigh-Anne Sutton. The farmer with the highest heels of all.
The woman recognized her at the same time. “Oh, you’re the lovely little girl helping Emmy out! Stella, wasn’t it?”
Stan’s jaw clenched and she pressed her lips together. What should she respond to first—the incorrect name, or the fact that Leigh-Anne certainly wasn’t old enough to call Stan a “little girl”? She was probably in her midforties—ten years older than Stan.
Behind her, Jake laughed. It turned into a cough when she aimed her death stare on him as he continued to swab at the bar, obviously interested in the exchange.
“It’s Stan,” she said. “How are you, Leigh-Anne?” There. She should feel bad that Stan remembered her name.
“I should go home and change,” the man said to Leigh-Anne.
“I’m so sorry,” Stan said again.
Leigh-Anne wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be a baby,” she told her companion. “It’s only water. Go stand under the hand dryer in the bathroom.” She pointed toward the restroom signs. The guy frowned, but obeyed.
“I’m sorry,” Stan said again, finally sitting back on her stool.
“Ah, not to worry,” Leigh-Anne assured her. “He’s just cranky. Most men are cranky. Right, Mr. Bartender?” She winked at Jake, who raised one eyebrow.
Luckily someone waved him over for a new drink, and he simply nodded at her and moved down the bar.
“This is a lovely little place,” Leigh-Anne commented. “And such a hunk of a bartender!” She nodded approvingly, watching Jake’s every move as he whipped up some fruity drink.
Stan frowned. Forgot about water. Picked up her wine and took a long swig.
Leigh-Anne swiped the ex
cess water off the bar stool her companion had abandoned and perched on the edge. “This seems like the place to be in town. I figured I’d start checking things out. I’m going to be staying around here to help Emmy during her time of need.”
“Oh, really?” Maybe you should do her books. She thought Em had declined the offers of help. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “When you say staying around . . .”
“At the B and B. With all the lovely llamas.”
“Alpacas, you mean? Char’s place?”
“Alpacas, yes.” Leigh-Anne snapped her fingers. “My memory just isn’t what it used to be. Yes, my farm is about an hour from here, so it doesn’t make sense to drive that every day. And who knows how long poor Emmy will need the help, right? So I mentioned as much this morning, and that lovely woman suggested I stay at her place. She gave me a tremendous discount, too. I’m going home tonight to get my things and ‘moving in’ tomorrow.” She winked at Stan. “I thought I’d better check out the nightlife first. But it’s such a delightful little town. I haven’t been back since the co-op’s annual meeting six months ago. I always forget how adorable it is.”
“It’s very nice here. And that’s wonderful of you to come help,” Stan said. “What about your farm?”
“What about it?” Leigh-Anne looked blank.
“Who’s going to run it while you’re here?”
“Oh, that.” Leigh-Anne waved a manicured hand. “I have a staff. It will be fine.”
“Oh. So what are you helping Emmalee with?”
“Well, whatever I can! There’s so much to do. And with the co-op to run, too, well, she’ll need all the help she can get.” Leigh-Anne beamed at her, then turned her smile on her semidry companion as he returned. He went around her to sit on her abandoned stool, happily leaving Leigh-Anne next to the drink-spiller. “That’s Tony,” she said to Stan. “I’m sorry he’s not being friendly.”
“Well, I did spill on him,” Stan said.
“He’ll be fine.” Leigh-Anne turned a pointed stare on Tony, and his whole demeanor changed.
He leaned over to Stan and offered his hand. “Tony Falco. No harm done with the water.”
Tony Falco? As in the guy on the election sign? “Nice to meet you. Stan Connor.”
“Stan. Interesting name. Do you live here in Frog Ledge?”
“I do, actually.”
“Oh, well then.” His entire demeanor changed, and charm spilled out of every pore. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m running for mayor.”
Behind him, Leigh-Anne raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Always campaigning.”
Stan smiled. “I have heard of you. Your sign is in the Hoffmans’ yard.”
Tony Falco sobered. “Yes. Yes it is. Hal is—was—a good friend.”
“I know. It’s terrible,” Leigh-Anne said, shaking her head. “Just terrible.”
“So how do you two know each other?” Stan asked.
“Oh, Tony was a dear friend of my late husband,” Leigh-Anne said.
“Yes. Good man. Well, lovely to meet you,” he said to Stan. “I’m having a fund-raiser on Tuesday. At the hospital. Please come. Although you might’ve liked the one on Thursday better. It was held at the local winery. Everetts’—do you know it? Anyway, it was wonderful. Don’t you agree, Leigh-Anne?”
“Delightful,” Leigh-Anne said. “Lovely place. But the hospital will be lovely, too, I’m sure. Do come, Stan.”
“I’ll try,” Stan said, noncommittal. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“I’ll see you on the farm!” Leigh-Anne tugged a short, purple leather coat on and waggled her fingers at Stan, then followed Falco.
Stan said her good-byes back and watched them walk through the pub to the door. Their seats were grabbed before they even got halfway there. She took the last swig of her wine and thought it might be time to go, too, but before she could commit to that decision, another glass landed in front of her. Behind it, Jake winked.
“The show’s not over yet,” he said. “Stella.”
Chapter 11
“You’re what?”
Stan held the phone away from her ear to ward off Nikki’s high-pitched scream of protest. Stan had called her first thing Sunday morning after she’d finally found the energy to roll out of bed at eight—late for her—with the aftereffects of wine still lingering. She’d had a great time at McSwigg’s, and stayed a lot later than she should have. She’d enjoyed the step dancers, chatted with some of her fellow townsfolk, and spent a lot of time watching Jake when he wasn’t looking. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed. She’d also noodled the conversation she’d overheard among the group of onerous-looking men, dissecting it in the back of her brain, looking for any clues that might help her figure out who they were and if she could find out more about the money Hal owed. There had to be a way. She had access to the books now. Or she would, shortly.
Which was what Nikki was screaming about. Stan had felt compelled to break the news that she’d gotten roped into working at the dairy farm, knowing full well what Nikki would say about it. She’d called early to get it over with.
“How can you work there?” Nikki continued. Her voice had come down a notch, and Stan hesitantly put the phone back to her ear.
“I’m not really working there. I’m just . . . helping this woman out for a few days. Well, a few weeks, I guess. I’m not really sure.”
“That’s working there, in my book. Jeez, Stan. Don’t you listen to anything I say? Hold on.” There was a minute or so pause, then Nikki came back on the line. “Check your e-mail. I just sent you a video. You have to see what they do to these cows.”
“Nikki. Please. Stop. I love cows. But I don’t know what to say. This is a farm town. The woman lost her husband. She has four kids to feed and the cows are here and they need care, too. What else can I do?”
Silence on the other end of the line. Braver, Stan continued. “Even if I did stage a revolution and helped them, where would I take five hundred cows? Where could they go? Seriously. Where do cows who don’t live on farms live? Who takes care of them? It’s not like we can ship them to India.” She remembered Nikki had told her once that cows were treated like holy objects in India.
“I’m not saying you should stage a revolution.” Nikki’s voice was sullen now. “I’m just saying, it’s embarrassing to have my best friend supporting an animal torture chamber.”
Stan sighed and rubbed her temples. It was already shaping up to be a long day. “Look. I’m not supporting the farm. I’m not even taking any money. I’m just going to use my spare time to help this woman get through the next few weeks and then I’m done. I’m not condoning the farm. I’m not doing marketing for them. I’m not even drinking milk.” She didn’t mention the cheese she sometimes bought for her treat recipes. Dogs and cats both loved cheesy treats.
Nikki hmphed at her. “Fine. Don’t tell me about it, okay?”
“My lips are sealed,” Stan promised, and hung up. Why did she do it to herself? She had a bad habit of needing to explain herself to people, friends and family included. She needed to work on that.
Outside her window, the sky was gray and serious. Probably nice and cool out. She could take the dogs for a walk around the green, then go for a bike ride. Then she could start planning her treat orders. Brenna was coming tomorrow to bake, but she could get a head start today. She glanced at the animals. Scruffy was still sprawled out on the pillow next to Nutty. Nutty didn’t even blink. He liked to sleep in on Sundays. From his bed on the floor, Henry lifted his head and woofed at her.
“Morning, guys. You wanna hit the green?”
Henry wagged his tail. Scruffy sat up and handed Stan her paw.
“Let’s get on with it, then.” She glanced at her phone, which had just lit up with the morning local news alerts she had set up. Weather, cloudy with chance of showers, high forties by noon. A water main had broken in the next town. And an early morning dispute in a Frog Ledge café had sent one to the hospital and one to jail.
“Huh,” she said to Henry, the only one who was actually paying attention to her. “What do you think of that?”
Henry’s tail smacked the floor in excitement.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Stan said. “We should take a walk down there instead of around the green, right? That way, we can fill up the feral cat food, too.” Stan and Izzy were feeding a colony of feral cats who lived behind her shop.
Scruffy sat up and woo wooed. Nutty came over and shoved his head against Stan’s hand, looking for rubs. “Well, I’m glad we’re all in agreement,” she said. “Let’s go eat so we can roll.”
An hour later the cat food was packed up and they were ready to go, Stan in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, Henry in his new plaid vest, and Scruffy in her pink sweater. Nutty bid them farewell from his window spot. Stan knew when they returned he’d be curled up in the sun spot, either on the hall floor or in his cat tree near the window. Being a cat was a pretty good deal. He seemed to prefer having the house to himself.
On the way down the street, she glanced at the house directly next to hers. Amara Leonard’s house. Stan hadn’t seen the homeopath in ages. Not that it mattered. Amara hadn’t spoken to her since the day last summer that she’d come to Duncan’s rescue, when he’d shown up sick on Stan’s porch. Their falling out earlier this year had been silly, and Stan wanted to wave a white flag and get on with things. Maybe she’d stop by this week. It would be nice to have a friend next door. Especially someone close to her own age.
They hiked down to the corner of Main Street and Darling Lane and crossed over, continuing down Darling. Scruffy led the way, prancing along, stopping to greet everyone she saw on the street—mostly a lot of older folks coming and going from the senior center. Izzy’s shop and upstairs apartment was a block farther. Scruffy knew exactly where they were headed. She was used to going to the café to visit Izzy’s dogs. She dragged Stan and Henry through the parking lot to the front door.