by Liz Mugavero
Next was a letter Hal had written to Tony Falco, endorsing his campaign. Stan skimmed it. In it, an articulate Hal had written about his admiration for Falco’s commitment to farming and his work on policy to keep milk prices fair. Stan wondered what position the present mayor, Mona Galveston, held on those issues. Did she see farming as a thing of the past, not worth much campaign time?
The last folder had the standard PC title “New Folder.” She figured it was probably empty but checked anyway. It was not. Inside were eight documents, all labeled with only dates. The earliest was August of the previous year. The most recent was last month. She clicked on the earliest. A screen popped up asking for a password. She tried the next one. Same thing. Same for all eight. Stan propped her chin in her hand and drummed her fingers on the desktop. What had Hal password protected? She halfheartedly tried a couple of combinations based on the kids’ names and the street number of the farm. No go.
Drumming her fingers on her table, Stan pondered the implications of a dead man’s password-protected documents. They could simply be bank information, something to do with the farm’s finances. She could ask Emmalee about them. Or they could be Hal’s personal documents, untitled and protected so his family didn’t stumble upon them. Business dealings, most likely. Perhaps love letters from someone other than Em, although that was a wild assumption.
But what if they had something to do with his death? She should call Trooper Pasquale and alert her to the documents. But what if she didn’t think it was important? Pretty much everyone in the world password-protected something, and hardly any of them were murdered.
She wished she could take a peek, just to see.
“Ugh,” she muttered, frustrated. “There’s gotta be a way.” Then she sat up straight. She’d nearly forgotten Justin. Nikki’s boyfriend, surfer dude extraordinaire, diving teacher—and computer wizard. He could help her get into the documents with minimal effort, she was positive. She pulled out her phone and dialed Nikki’s number.
“Where’s Justin?” she asked when her friend answered.
“Hi to you, too,” Nikki responded. “He’s on a dive trip in the Caribbean.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s up?”
“I need his help with a computer thing.” Stan didn’t elaborate.
“Oh. Send him an e-mail. Maybe he can help over the phone. Otherwise, he’s due back Saturday.”
“Okay, will do. Thanks, Nik.” She hung up before Nikki could probe. She connected Hal’s computer to her wireless Internet and e-mailed the documents to Justin with a copy to herself. Hopefully he could take a look soon, but if not, Saturday was only a couple of days away.
She was getting hungry. And it was nearly six. Her mind drifted back to Bruno’s and pizza. Maybe she’d go pick one up for her and her mother to enjoy. She’d been meaning to try out some different pizza shops locally. And she could always pop her head into the pub while her pie cooked and ask around. Maybe someone would mention being Hal’s date for eleven on the day he died.
Her mother wasn’t interested in going out for pizza. Stan had to pick it up and bring it to her. Patricia also had directed her to pick up a large salad, in case the pizza wasn’t very good—which meant she had expected a different kind of dinner.
But investigating had to come first. Maybe Bruno’s would offer a good lead.
On impulse, Stan called Izzy’s cell. She still hadn’t been able to track her friend down to see what was going on with her. “You want to have pizza tonight? My mother’s in town and we’re going to have dinner.”
“Your mother?” Izzy sounded exhausted and distracted, such a difference from her usual demeanor. “Why do you want me intruding if your mom is in town? Oh, wait a second.” She chuckled, sounding a little like herself again. “You don’t like your mother, do you?”
“Not true. My mother’s fine. And I haven’t seen you in a while. I think you’re avoiding me.”
“Not avoiding anyone, babe. Just not feeling well. Where you gettin’ pizza from?”
“Bruno’s, in Willard? Ever hear of it?”
Stan heard Izzy suck in a breath. She didn’t respond immediately, and when she did, her tone was cautious. “Where did you hear of Bruno’s?”
“I heard about it around town and wanted to check it out.” The lie rolled easily off Stan’s tongue.
“Where around town?”
“Oh, there was a pizza debate going on in the library when I was there the other day. I heard someone say it was the best pizza around.” Lie two. What was happening to her?
“Really.” Izzy’s tone was flat. Weird.
“Yeah, why? The garlic kind sounded great. Award winning.” Fleetwood Mac’s “Little Lies” should be her song tonight.
“Award-winning, my ass,” Izzy said. “You’re lying. And I thought we were friends.”
Taken aback, Stan was speechless for a minute. Izzy used her pause to continue her tongue lashing. “Why do you really want to go there? And don’t give me another line.”
“I thought we were friends, too,” Stan said, recovered and angry. “So maybe you should tell me what you know about Bruno’s. And why you’ve been acting so strangely since Hal died.”
Silence on the other end. Then Izzy hung up.
Stan stared at the silent phone, then looked at Scruffy, who sat on the floor watching her.
“That didn’t go so well, did it?”
Scruffy wagged her tail cautiously.
“Now I really want to go and see what the deal is. I think Izzy knows Bruno’s all too well. You guys in?”
“Woo woo!” Scruffy jumped up on Stan’s leg.
“That settles it.” She grabbed the dogs’ leashes and kissed Nutty’s head. He reached a lazy paw up to touch her cheek, as if to say, I’ll miss you.
She loved that cat.
She and the dogs piled into the car and headed out. Stan had MapQuested the address on her phone. Frog Ledge was such a small town the main road leading in and out was a two-lane country highway. She followed this road for about five miles in a direction she’d never taken since moving to town, and came to a bridge with a sign: ENTERING WILLARD, EST. 1682. The bridge crossed a river. On the other side, ramshackle buildings lined the street. Some were boarded, some were abandoned, and some were tagged up with graffiti. People were outside, but it wasn’t the same crowd she was used to seeing in Frog Ledge. Teenagers walked along the side of the bridge, some alone, others with one or two friends, some with pit bulls that made Henry look like a runt. The kids were all dressed in red and black and looked like they were trying to be gangsters. None of them looked friendly; most looked like they were on a mission. Henry and Scruffy didn’t seem to like the looks of them either—they started barking and howling at the window, resulting in glares from the street.
“Hush, guys,” she hissed, rolling up the windows as they drove through. Frog Ledge was such a cute little town, with well-cared-for common areas and people who truly seemed invested in their community. Willard, so far, seemed run down and not as loved. But maybe this was just a bad area and it would improve in a few blocks. Every town had one.
Her phone told her to take a left onto Browning Street. It was as seedy as the neighborhood she’d just passed through. Possibly more so. Along the way, attempts at sprucing up the area were apparent—a cupcake shop, a café, an art co-op. But payday loan shops, thrift shops, stores with Spanish names, and boarded up windows surrounded those few places. Yikes. What business did Hal Hoffman have around here?
Bruno’s was ahead on the left. She could see a neon sign blinking pinkish red with the name. She cruised up slowly and assessed the situation. The neon sign was for the pub. The pizza shop was much more low key. She’d hit the pub first, get some info, then swing over to the pizza place. If the pies looked nasty, she could pick something up at McSwigg’s for her mother. Or she could just beg Char to feed them.
She parked and glanced at the dogs. “Okay, guys. I’m not going to be long
. Keep an eye on the car, okay?”
Henry looked at her, his sweet brown eyes worried. He was so sensitive. She could almost hear him say, Why don’t you leave this to the police? In hindsight, she probably should have called Pasquale and handed the calendar over. Scruffy sat ramrod straight at the window, alternating between barking at people passing by and looking at Stan with that same concerned face. Did the dogs know something she didn’t about Bruno’s?
It’s fine. Go. Stan pulled down the visor and opened the mirror, checked her hair and makeup. Acceptable. Okay. She grabbed her purse and got out of the car, beeped it locked. The dogs watched balefully through the window as she made her way to the door. The top pane of glass had a large crack in it. The door had barely any weight to it when she pulled it open. It banged shut behind her.
She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. This isn’t McSwigg’s. The room barely had any light at all, probably because the owners wanted to hide their décor—or lack thereof. The tables were pocked and scarred. The wooden chairs looked stiff and punishing. She couldn’t tell what color the walls were, maybe because of the dark, or the dirt. The crowd of about fifteen looked like a cross between a motorcycle gang and a street gang, although that was probably just her naive point of view. She had no idea if motorcycle gangs and street gangs would hang out at the same bar, or if it really mattered at this point when two of the largest biker dudes in the house were eyeing her like a side of fresh meat.
Stan put on her best “don’t mess with me” face and strolled to the bar. Well, she hoped it was a stroll. Her legs were shaking, so it might’ve looked like she had a disorder. The bar wasn’t in much better shape than the rest of the place, although it looked sturdier than anything else. The plastic covering on some of the empty stools was torn. Foam spilled out. The people residing on the rest of the stools looked as rough as the furniture.
And every person in the place—all male—stared at her.
Her jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and black ankle boots had seemed acceptable when she left the house. Now, she felt like she’d broken some kind of rule in here. Too many clothes? An uncomfortable realization. But thanks to the chew-’em-up-and-spit-’em-out atmosphere of corporate America, Stan had an edge. She knew how to keep a poker face, how to pretend nothing bothered her when in fact, she wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. She drew on every ounce of those tactics to look straight through the men leering at her as she walked. Finally she made it to the less-crowded end of the bar, AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” pounding through her brain.
The bartender, a greasy, foul-looking man with acne-pocked skin, ignored her for about five minutes. While she waited, she observed the other patrons. A guy with a shaved head sat closest to her, alternating between staring moodily into a beer mug and staring at her. Two seats away from him, two guys with black do-rags huddled together, talking in hushed tones. Their jeans hung way below their boxers, and Stan swore she saw a glint of black metal jammed into the elastic waistband of one of the guys.
What the heck was she doing here? Let Em come find out what her husband was up to. Or better yet, Trooper Pasquale. At least she got paid for this crap. And it was really none of her business, after all. She’d just made up her mind to leave when the bartender finally turned to her, observing with flat eyes. “Yeah?” he said.
She’d lost her chance. She had to say something now. Stan pasted on her best sexy smile and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. Her recent haircut had been a fabulous one, and her hair felt extra bouncy and thick. She hoped it would distract him. “I’m looking for someone who may have been here last Thursday. Hal Hoffman? Do you by any chance know if he had an appointment with someone here? At eleven?”
The guy’s eyes narrowed to mean slits, then he barked out a laugh. Instead of answering her, he looked at his line of customers. “Did he have an appointment, she wants to know. Like this is some doc’s office or sumthin’.” He looked back at Stan, the sneer returning. “Whadda I look like, a secretary? How the hell should I know? You want a drink or what?”
Stan’s gaze fell on the dirty, smudged glass the guy dried with a towel that looked like it hadn’t seen a washing machine since 1978. “No, thank you,” she said, backing away. “I’ll just, uh, ask around.”
The bartender glared at her, then went back to his real customers. Stan didn’t care to have the same conversation with any of the other patrons, so she headed for the door and the safety of her dogs. But a body cut in front of her, blocking her way. She found herself staring into the chest of a leather vest, on top of a big beer belly. Tilting her head back, she looked up into a face meaner than the bartender’s, racked with scars and half hidden by a huge, bushy mustache that moved as he spoke. What she could see of his teeth under the mustache were yellow. He reeked of stale cigars and sweat. But by far, the most disturbing aspect of his appearance was the scarred-over hole in his neck, a perfect circle.
Like a bullet hole.
“’ Scuse me, miss,” he said with a leer. His voice sounded odd—slightly robotic. Probably something to do with said hole. “Couldn’t help but overhear. You a friend of Hal Hoffman?”
“Yes,” Stan said. Behind her, she heard chairs scraping, heavy boots hitting the floor as men stood.
“You taking care of his affairs? Since I heard he ain’t with us anymore.”
Stan glanced over her shoulder. Saw the bartender throw down his towel and disappear through a door behind the bar. “Yeah, I am.” She was?
A couple of the men moved up behind her, circling. Blocking her way to the front door.
“We had an agreement. Beginning Saturday. I gotta know if we’re keeping that on the books.”
She swore she could feel someone’s breath on the back of her neck. Possibly the click of a switchblade opening. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. An agreement? For what? Seemed dangerous to say no. But what would she be agreeing to? Could be any kind of criminal activity. Illegal gambling. A drug deal. A hit, for all she knew. Or she could stop acting like she was on an episode of The Sopranos.
But she’d honed her nonanswering skills well over the years. Maybe that would get her out of this. “Can you come by the farm Saturday?” she said. “We can finalize everything.”
The guy was silent for the longest thirty seconds of her life, watching her. Finally he nodded, smoothing his mustache down with one hand. “I’ll do that,” he said.
“No problem,” Stan said, pasting a smile on. Then she turned and headed for the door as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Now she just had to figure out what to do on Saturday.
Chapter 24
Stan got to Izzy’s just as her friend was unlocking the doors Thursday morning. Enough was enough. Her friend had to talk to her sometime. And after last night’s episode, both on the phone with Izzy and at Bruno’s, Stan felt she deserved some answers.
After leaving Bruno’s in a mad rush she’d called her mother, trying to sound normal, only for Patricia to tell her she was eating with Char and Ray. Just as well. Her conversation with Bullet Man had rattled her, and she wouldn’t be good company anyway. Which would cause a whole slew of aggravation with her mother.
Stan had gone home after driving a few miles out of her way to make sure no one followed her. She’d locked her doors and sat in her den, in close proximity to a window, so she could see if he was coming to get her. Now she had to worry about what would happen on Saturday because she’d opened her big mouth. And Izzy was somewhere in the middle of all this.
No, Izzy would talk to her today if she had to tie her to the chair and pour espresso down her throat. Determined, she shoved the front door open just as Izzy opened it for her. Stan almost ended up on her face on the café floor.
Izzy raised an eyebrow. “Graceful entrance. You need coffee that bad?”
“No. I need to talk to you.” Stan took a deep breath and regained her poise. “And don’t tell me you’re too busy, or too upset that I lied about p
izza. I’m your friend and you can’t avoid me forever.”
Izzy listened to her dramatic speech without comment, then she shrugged. “Sure. Come on in. We’ll talk.”
Stan opened her mouth, then closed it again. That was easy. She followed Izzy into the shop. Coffee brewed, and Stan inhaled the scent of bold, bitter beans. Heaven.
“Want a cup?” Izzy asked, a hint of a smile on her lips. Clearly Stan needed to work on her poker face.
“Sure. Do you have someone to work the counter?”
“Oooh. This is going to be a serious conversation, then.” Izzy winked at her friend, a hint of her usual spunk shining through. “I do have help today. Della?” she called, heading over to pour Stan a cup.
Della Leroy, one of Izzy’s weekday staffers, appeared in the kitchen doorway and waved at Stan. “Good morning! You need me out here, Izzy?”
Della was Stan’s favorite of Izzy’s workers. She couldn’t quite tell how old she was due to her youthful brown skin and her funky, purple-tinged hair (which may or may not have been hair extensions), but her best guess was early fifties. Della was as loud as she was round, and she had a knack for coaxing people to try something from the pastry case, or a new kind of chocolate-flavored something to accompany their intended purchase.
“Could you do the counter for me for a little while? Stan and I need to chat.”
She figured Izzy would sit them down at a table in the back of the store, but instead she handed her the coffee and led her into the curtained-off area she reserved for small events, like poetry slams or exhibitions of local artists’ work. They went through another curtain with a door behind it. Izzy unlocked it with a key from her key ring. It opened into a stairwell. They were halfway up when Stan realized Izzy was taking her to her apartment. And that she’d never been up there, in all the months she’d known Izzy. She hadn’t really thought of it before. Maybe Izzy was just a very private person—something Stan could relate to—or maybe she didn’t consider Stan a good friend after all. She pondered why that realization stung.