A Biscuit, a Casket

by Liz Mugavero

  Amara nudged Diane again to get up, which she did, and stumbled through an explanation of how she planned to bring in more volunteers and work at the new shelter on her off time. After she sat down, Stan rose and went to the mic.

  “Stan Connor of Frog Ledge. I just wanted to add that I’m thrilled this kind of establishment is moving into Frog Ledge. I think it will give people convenient, healthy veterinary care options. I’m a steadfast homeopathy client myself, and I’ve seen the difference it’s made for my cat. And I commend Ms. Kirschbaum for her selflessness and dedication to the animals, for using her spare time to make their lives better. Thank you.”

  She went back to her seat. Diane turned and gave her a big smile as if to say thank you.

  After that, the comments stopped and Mayor Galveston announced the public hearing closed and a decision to be brought back to the council after the next town zoning meeting.

  Stan, Char, and Patricia waited until people filed out before leaving. “Well, that was eye opening,” Stan said. “I never thought Trooper Pasquale would stick up for anyone like that!”

  Char laughed. “Oh, Stan. You just had a bad first experience with Jessie. She’s a lovely girl, if not a little reserved. But she means well.”

  “What an interesting bunch of characters,” Patricia said. “Is this how all small towns work? It’s fascinating.”

  Fascinating? What had come over her mother? Twilight Zone theme song. She pushed it out. “I have to say, I’m surprised, Mom,” Stan said as they left the chambers, opting for the stairs. “This doesn’t seem like your cup of tea.”

  “It’s fun to try new things,” her mother said dismissively.

  Since when? Stan wanted to know, but bit her tongue. As they walked back toward Stan’s house, she had to ask the burning question. “So, Mom. That guy Tony Falco. You know him?” She glanced at her mother, but couldn’t see her face well in the darkening night.

  “Which one is that?” her mother said in a tone that Stan had heard before. It meant, I’m completely avoiding answering you.

  “The man who asked about funding the new shelter. Who also happens to be running for mayor,” she said.

  “Hmm. I don’t quite remember, Kristan. You’ll have to point him out to me if we see him again.” And with that, she turned to speak to Char, leaving Stan wondering what her mother was hiding.

  Chapter 22

  “So what do you know about this Tony Falco character?” Stan asked.

  She, Char, and Ray filed into the church the next morning for Hal Hoffman’s send-off. Char was dressed appropriately in a long-sleeved black dress, but had tied one of her signature orange scarves around her neck and topped off the outfit with flaming orange pumps. She couldn’t help herself. Stan had chosen a simple black sweater dress. Ray still wore his overalls, but had changed to a clean shirt.

  “Ray’s been out all morning with the alpacas,” Char had confided on the way. “It was hard to pull him away, but Hal was a friend.”

  Char stood on her tiptoes to survey the crowd as they paused in the back of the church. “Good turnout,” she said approvingly. “What do I know about Tony Falco? Not much. Except that I wouldn’t vote for him.”

  “No? How come, if you don’t know much?” Stan asked.

  “Well, for that reason, sugar. Not to be mayor. I’m all about welcoming new folks to town, but I have reservations about putting them in charge too early when they don’t know us. Plus, I’m delighted with Mona’s mayorship. She knows this town and she’s a good person to have in charge. Now, Hal was a fan of Falco—if you couldn’t tell from that big, honkin’ sign in front of his yard. But Hal—God rest his soul—was a Republican, like his candidate. And Tony Falco’s stump speech is all about saving the dairy farms. He was a lobbyist before, I heard. Lobbied at the federal level for better milk prices. So, Hal’s loyalty is understandable. But there’s something about him that just doesn’t gel with me. Why do you ask?”

  “My mother seemed to know him. Or at least know of him. Did she say anything to you?” Stan asked.

  “Why, no. I can ask her later,” Char said. “She’s delightful, you know. She seems to be enjoying herself very much. She had breakfast with me this morning and even came out to see the alpacas.”

  “That’s great.” And surprising.

  “We should find a seat,” Ray said in a properly subdued voice. “Come on, Stan.” With his hand at each of their backs, Ray herded them down the aisle and turned them into the first pew with enough room. Stan found herself uncomfortably close to a woman with long, stringy gray hair topped with a black flower. She had a hankie pressed against her face, into which she repeatedly blew her nose. Stan slid as far over against Char as she could.

  The church filled almost to capacity before the priest started the Mass. Stan hadn’t been to church in a very long time, but was still able to recite the words to almost everything in her head. Scary. The priest, Father Henry, had been in Frog Ledge for a long time—Ray leaned over to whisper—and knew Hal and his family well. During his sermon, he spoke directly to Emmalee and the boys, sitting right in front, about Hal’s devotion to them and how they could take comfort in knowing Hal would watch over them for the rest of their lives. To which Em and one of the younger boys started to cry, but behind her Stan could hear snickering.

  “Devoted. Like hell,” she heard a voice directly behind her mutter. Trying to be stealth, she stole a glance over her shoulder. Who had said it? The pretty brunette with the low-cut blouse? Or the woman next to her, who was filing her nails in her lap? She couldn’t tell. But she did see a familiar face at the back of the church. Izzy Sweet, dressed completely in black, including a hat, stood alone against the back of the church, a wad of tissues clenched in her fist. Crying.

  What on earth was that about?

  Stan stopped by the after-funeral lunch, mainly to see if Izzy was there. She was not, so Stan slipped out and went home to eat. She changed, checked her messages, and returned a call to a woman named Sophie Grasso, who was friends with Lorinda from the library. Sophie had twin cats who were turning five, and she wanted to have a party for them. Would Stan be interested?

  She’d never done a cat party before. It sounded fun. She did wonder how the rest of the guests would feel after being transported to the party. Most cats hated a car ride. Nutty was a prime example. But when she called Sophie back, she found out the rest of the guests lived in the house already. Sophie had rescued ten cats from local shelters over the past few years, and while she was used to throwing them parties, “I want this one to be special,” she explained. “These guys had a hard life before they joined my family.”

  Stan agreed and set up an appointment for the following week to go meet the cats, Wilma and Fred, and talk through what kinds of treats they would like best. Then, since farmers never got a day off, Stan headed over to the Hoffmans’. It didn’t look like Em was back yet. She hoped Em could forego work and spend the rest of the day with family. She’d looked exhausted and beaten down at the funeral. Stan figured she would try to get some things done for her today, even if it was just cleaning up.

  After checking in with Roger and learning that two cows were sick and in quarantine pens and the baby calf was doing well, she headed to the office. It looked exactly as it had yesterday when Stan left. Which was unfortunate. She’d half hoped Tyler would’ve come through and sorted through some of the stuff after their conversation on Monday. But she hadn’t seen him on the farm since then. The poor kid was dealing with a lot.

  But there was a new accessory. Petunia the calico cat blinked at her from the middle of the desk and swished her tail, spilling a pile of folders and their contents onto the floor.

  “Well, hello there,” Stan said.

  Petunia purred. Stan loved calicos. She wondered if Petunia had ventured down to the office to keep Hal company while he worked, or if he preferred the dog. Had he loved his animals? Did they miss him? Or did he have the typical farm mentality, that animals were
just there, and expendable? She hoped not. Petunia and Samson were too cute for that.

  “You’re welcome to hang out. And I think I have something you’ll like.” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag of treats—albeit a bit crushed, but still enticing to a cat, she hoped.

  They were. Petunia inhaled the first few pieces and looked up expectantly for more. “Excellent. I’m flattered.” Stan emptied the remainder of the bag out and let the cat enjoy. When Petunia finished, she curled up in a ball on the corner of the desk she’d cleared off and promptly went to sleep.

  Stan scooped up the fallen papers. As she went to shove them back in the stack, she noticed a couple of pictures in the midst. Expecting to see family photos, perhaps pictures of the kids as they grew up, she pulled them out.

  She was wrong. These were postcards, all of faraway places. San Diego. San Francisco. Napa Valley. A ski resort in Vail, Colorado. Horses in a pasture. None of them had messages on them; rather they seemed to be mementos. Or wishes. Stan shuffled through them slowly, thinking of Hal Hoffman the man. Until now, she’d only thought of him as Hal Hoffman the dairy farmer, or the failed real estate mogul or the bar hopper. But first and foremost, he was a man with dreams and hopes and desires, many of them probably secret, stored away until they were almost forgotten. Reduced to a pile of yellowing pictures stuffed in a folder next to receipts for the cows’ veterinary care. Stan wondered how many of those dreams—if any—actually mirrored the life he’d just left behind. She remembered Tyler’s words that first day, about his dad looking for a ticket out of town. But he hadn’t made it. Now those dreams were buried for good, along with the man who owned them.

  But the farm remained. Stan picked up the checkbook and flipped through the register. The last recorded check in the register was dated August 13. There were a few checks missing since that one, and no noted balance. She hadn’t run across any recent bank statements either, so those were probably arriving via e-mail. Perhaps they had gone to an online system. It had to be easier. But then she was still out of luck, because there was no sign of a computer.

  Well, no use dwelling on something she couldn’t change. Better to do what she could.

  Stan tackled the piles with vigor and determination and within an hour she’d gotten through one third of them, written out checks for all the September and October bills she could find, and filed the rest. Whether she could mail them or not was a different story, but she’d recorded the amounts to ask Em.

  Standing to stretch her cramped legs, Stan wandered around the tiny room. Why hadn’t Hal kept an office out in the farm building? She couldn’t imagine the appeal of being down here in a room that was dark even on the brightest of days. The one small window was so dirty the sun seemed to have a filter on it.

  Petunia woke from her nap, jumped down, and wandered to the back of the room, kicking up clumps of dust as she went. Stan watched her wend her way around the ratty chair and the filing cabinet, out of sight.

  “Petunia?” Stan called. She didn’t want her to get stuck somewhere in this room where no one ever looked. She’d have to make sure the door to the house was shut when she left so Petunia didn’t come back in.

  Stan peered behind the chair. No cat. “Want a treat?” Stan tried, shaking the bag. She moved around the chair to check behind the ancient filing cabinet and cursed when she tripped on something. Bending over, she saw the corner of something metal sticking out from under the chair. She reached down and pulled it out.

  A lockbox. One for a laptop, it looked like. She tried the lid. Locked. Which made sense but didn’t help her any. She tested the box. Heavy, so something was definitely inside it.

  Why had Hal locked up his laptop if he used it for farm accounting? Perhaps he was just cautious, especially with so many workers on the property, but still. Locked and shoved under a chair? It seemed odd.

  She set the box on the desk and checked the drawers for a random key. Nothing. Petunia emerged from under the chair and wended her way around Stan’s legs, purring. “Were you trying to show me this?” Stan asked. The cat rubbed her ankle. “Thanks. Now show me the key.”

  Petunia gracefully hopped onto the washer and vanished into the house, her job done. “Great,” Stan muttered. The key had to be here somewhere, she hoped, and not buried with Hal. She checked the filing cabinet. Nothing. She slammed the drawer in frustration. She could wait until Em got back, which could be much later. She could try to bust into it, but she was no lock picker. Or she could just leave it where she found it and go about her business.

  The third option seemed smartest.

  Instead, she hopped over the washing machine herself and headed into the basement. If Em came back, she could always say she was thirsty and went to get water.

  Great. Now I’m breaking and entering a dead man’s house. . . . What’s wrong with you?

  She ignored the condemning voice and climbed the stairs to the main floor. The door to the house was cracked. She pushed it open the rest of the way and found herself in Em’s hallway. Samson trundled in to greet her. At least he was making her feel better about being in the house. She found the den that Em and Pasquale had used the night of Hal’s murder, thinking it might be a good option for keys. But her search yielded nothing. She wasn’t ready to snoop in their bedroom and didn’t know where else to look.

  Maybe she’d get that water after all. She headed to the kitchen. There was a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. She found a clean glass in the cabinet, the last one, and filled it with ice and water from the fridge. As she drank it, she glanced around the room. Em really needed a housekeeper. But Stan was keeping her mouth shut about that one. She didn’t want that job, too. She finished the water and washed out the glass. Then, because she couldn’t in good conscience leave the mess, she filled the dishwasher and ran it. Straightened up as much as she could and swept the floor with the broom in the corner. As she put it back, she accidentally hit the keys hanging on a ring near the door. Bending to pick them up, the lightbulb went off.

  He probably kept the key on his ring. These had to be his keys, since Em had her car. Score.

  She hurried back down the stairs and sorted through the keys. There were three small ones. The first one was too big. The second one fit but didn’t turn. And the last one worked perfectly.

  “Yeeah!” Stan pumped her fist in the air. She unlocked the box, confirmed that there was a laptop in it, and raced upstairs to return the keys to their hook. She went back through the basement, grabbed the laptop, closed the door to the main house so Petunia didn’t come back in, and left.

  Chapter 23

  Stan went straight home where she could snoop out in the open. She was supposed to call her mother at six so they could have dinner. It was only five. Plenty of time to take a look at her booty. She poured herself some organic lemonade and grabbed some almonds for a snack, then went into the sunroom so she could let the dogs out and keep an eye on them.

  The lockbox itself was high quality, steel, with padding inside. Given the condition of everything else she’d seen at the Hoffmans’—gently and not so gently used, inexpensive—this stood out like a sore thumb. Hal must’ve really wanted to protect this machine.

  She pulled the laptop out. A small, leather-bound book fell out in its wake. Stan put it aside and checked out the computer. It wasn’t anything special either. A PC, at least a few years old. As a Mac girl, Stan wasn’t impressed. While she waited for it to boot up, she picked up the book. A calendar. For this year. She flipped through. It was the kind with lines next to each date and one page at the beginning of each month showing all the weeks. Stan thumbed through the calendar until she got to October 17. The day Hal died. There was one entry on the page: “11, Bruno’s.” Nothing else. No parent-teacher conference noted. The rest of the week also had no entries. The present week had a lot. All just times and names of places, or times and initials. All meetings Hal had missed. One meeting with the Department of Labor. She thou
ght of the argument between Peter Michelli and Roger about the alleged illegal workers. Enrico’s disappearance. Had he been an illegal and somehow knew about the meeting? Had he taken off so he wouldn’t be deported? Had Em made the meeting?

  She went ahead to the next week. The day before Halloween showed an interview scheduled with Carmine, a mechanic. In November, Election Day was highlighted with the initials “TF” noted—Tony Falco. Flipping back through to past entries, she noticed Hal had a number of meetings with TF, or had simply noted, “campaign headquarters.”

  The end of November had no entries. The next entry Stan found was a reminder for December 8, Danny’s birthday. She didn’t see anything about board meetings, or other Happy Cow business. She flipped back to October 17. . . . Bruno’s. Stan drummed her fingers on the desk and tried to think if she’d ever come across a Bruno. This could reference a person’s name, or some kind of business. She didn’t remember either from her travels around town. Pulling out her iPhone, Stan did a Google search. The name turned up a match in the nearby town of Willard, seven miles outside Frog Ledge. Bruno’s Pub, the “friendliest place in town,” according to the listing. Right around the corner from Bruno’s Pizza. Knowing what she’d heard about Hal, a pub seemed logical. Somehow she doubted Hal would’ve chosen the pizza shop over the pub for his meeting.

  The laptop had finally turned on. She searched the list of programs for QuickBooks or some accounting software. Nothing. Where would it be? She scanned the folders and documents on Hal’s desktop. Spreadsheets of feed and farm vehicle parts. A PDF of grain delivery schedules. Photos of the Hoffman kids in various stages of farm work. A cute photo of the littlest one kissing a cow. Someone was holding him up—Stan could only see forearms in the picture—while someone else snapped the photo. She opened the “My Documents” folder. Not much in there either. A Word document with a list of numbers and dates. Some were starred, others crossed off. She had no idea what they represented. She closed the document and moved on.