A Biscuit, a Casket

by Liz Mugavero

  “Thanks,” Stan said. “It was a really rough time.”

  “I’m sure it was. What a terrible thing,” Amara said. “So what’s going on with Nutty? Is he sick?”

  “No, but he really needs a checkup.”

  Amara pulled her phone out of her purse and opened the calendar. After perusing it for a minute, she said, “Can you bring him over Monday morning?”

  Stan nodded. “I can. What time?”

  “How about eleven?”

  “That works. Thanks, Amara.”

  Amara keyed a reminder in and dropped her phone back in her purse. “You’re welcome. Oh, hey, one quick thing.”

  “Sure, what?”

  “You’re not going to accuse me of murdering Hal Hoffman when you come over, are you?” Her eyes twinkled behind those glasses.

  Stan grinned. “Touché. I’m trying to stay out of this one.”

  Amara snorted. “I see you walking over there every day. How is that staying out of it?”

  “I’m just helping with some paperwork. Keeping my nose out of everything else.”

  Amara tucked the brown rice syrup into her cart. “If I know you, your nose may be out of it, but most other parts of you won’t be.”

  She disappeared around the corner. Stan shook her head and selected some honey and spelt flour. How does she think she knows me? She hasn’t talked to me since the week after I moved in.

  Chapter 26

  “They want how much to bail him out?” Stan stared at Brenna in disbelief. Her assistant had showed up soon after Stan returned from the co-op, desperate with the news of Tyler’s proposed bail. Stan had just settled in with a personal-sized homemade feta cheese and black olive pizza and her favorite old-fashioned notebook to make a list of everything she needed for Benny’s party.

  She’d purposely avoided going to the Hoffmans’ this afternoon. After the drama last night, she thought it best to stay away. Leigh-Anne and Roger could handle the work. Plus she needed to focus on her own business, for a day at least. Between funerals, cow pushing, and trying to keep her treats on track, her days were getting away from her.

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I just left the arraignment. Em almost fainted.” Brenna rubbed her forehead. Lines of concern were embedded into it. Stan was starting to worry about her. “A flight risk? How is this kid a flight risk?”

  “Well, he’s a young kid. He’s mobile. And he confessed to a murder, Bren.” She held up a hand at Brenna’s withering stare. “I’m just saying. This is police business, not friend business.”

  “It’s crap. Stan . . . they don’t have any money. I don’t think Em’s family does either, and Hal’s sure isn’t going to help her out. At least not his mother or brother.”

  “So what are they going to do?”

  Brenna didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes trained on Stan. Sad eyes. Pleading eyes.

  It took her a minute, then it dawned on her. “You want me to bail him out?”

  Brenna nodded, her eyes pleading. “Those kids need the family together. Em’s lost her mind. Danny’s flipping out. And the little ones are with Em’s sister, but she can’t keep them long-term. If I had the money I’d do it, but I don’t. And I don’t know what to do.” Tears filled her eyes.

  Stan sighed. When had she gotten the reputation as a bail bondsman? Izzy was one thing. Stan had fully expected to help her friend, who hadn’t needed it anyway. But was she going to be expected to bail out everyone in town?

  “Bren. I can’t just pull fifty grand out of my wallet,” she began, but Brenna’s shoulders drooped in disappointment.

  “Okay,” Brenna said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ll have to go pick the kids up and stay with Em at their house, I guess. I don’t know how much she’s going to be able to do in the state she’s in. . . .” Her voice trailed off in choked tears and Stan felt like crap.

  “Jeez, Bren. Where do I need to go?”

  Brenna stared at her, then flung herself at Stan and hugged her. “Do you mean it? You really will? You’ll get it back—Ty’s obviously not going to flee the state or anything. I mean, where would he go, right? Em wouldn’t let him anyway. Plus, I know he didn’t do it.”

  Then why did he confess? She remembered her conversation with Tyler in the little office, where the evidence of Hal neglecting his duties—and his family—had been overwhelmingly present. Tyler’s words rang in her head: “I loved my dad, but he had other things going on. Things that didn’t include us. And I think he hoped those things were his ticket out of here. But he never made it.”

  Had he never made it because his own son had killed him?

  “Stan, you’re the best,” Brenna was saying. “We should go. Now. I’ll drive.” She grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled her out the door.

  On the way to the barracks—a trip Stan was getting way too used to making—she sorted through her thoughts about this latest turn of events. In her old, corporate life, it helped her to pull out her trusty notebook and jot down the facts, then write up a SARS report: Situation, actions taken, results, and support needed. And then focus on a theme song until her mind solved the problem.

  However, that worked best when she was alone. Brenna might think she was nuts if she burst out in song.

  Instead, she ticked through what she knew: One, Emmalee and Hal had not been getting along. Two, Emmalee was nowhere to be found the afternoon of Hal’s death and had even missed a parent-teacher conference—something those who knew her well said she would never do. Three, Hal hadn’t been seen anywhere that day. Four, Tyler knew his father had other things on his mind besides his family and the farm. Five, Tyler confessed. What eighteen-year-old boy did that if he was innocent? But he was fiercely protective of his mother. Which could mean he had killed his father because he felt his mother was being wronged, or he lied about killing him to keep his mother out of jail.

  Because he knew Pasquale was on the right track thinking of Em as a suspect?

  If Emmalee had finally gotten fed up, who knew what could have happened? She and Hal could have been on the farm, engaged in a rapidly escalating discussion while Hal used his family heirloom sickle to trim corn. Maybe she lost her temper. Grabbed the sickle out of his hand and stabbed him with it, then took off when she realized what she’d done.

  It was a great theory. But Stan wasn’t feeling it.

  Em was a serious, responsible woman who relied on her farm to provide a living for her and her kids. Stan could imagine her calling an angry truce with her husband. Making it clear she knew what he was about, but wouldn’t rock the boat because they had work to do. Finding a way to get her revenge in some other way down the road. Plus, she had been with Em when Hal was found and her reaction didn’t seem to be in line with that of a murderer, unless she was a phenomenal actor.

  Tyler, she wasn’t so sure about. The boy was intense. But kill his own father in cold blood, then drive back to school and wait for the call? And no one had heard or seen anything that day. No fighting, no screaming, no nothing. In fact, Roger had told Pasquale that he hadn’t seen Hal on the farm since the day before his death. Had anyone seen Tyler there? And what about the mysterious, missing Enrico? Did his disappearance have something to do with Tyler’s confession?

  And then there were the unhappy business partners. Asher Fink’s fight with Hal. Peter Michelli’s dissatisfaction with the way Hal ran the business. Not to mention the real estate deals gone bad and people looking for their money. And Izzy’s financial troubles. She had no one to blame but herself—and Hal.

  “Stan?” Brenna stared at her. “We’re here.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. Just thinking.” Stan grabbed her purse. “Let’s do this. Is your sister here?”

  “I doubt it. She probably threw him in a cell and went home to eat dinner. I’m so mad at her right now.” She swung her long legs out of the car and slammed the door.

  Stan thought Brenna had probably been watching too much Law & Order or CSI, but she didn’t say that. Instead, she said
, “Let me talk.”

  They went in the front door. Luckily, it was a different dispatcher than the one who had witnessed Stan and Jake’s attempt to bail Izzy out.

  “Can you tell me how I would go about posting bail for Tyler Hoffman?” she asked, speaking into the microphone next to the bulletproof window.

  The trooper picked up a book from his desk, skimmed it, then looked back up. “Actually, his bail’s already been posted. ’Bout a half hour ago.”

  “By whom?” Brenna stepped over.

  The guy sighed, like he wasn’t sure why she cared, and looked back down. “Ted Brahm,” he read.

  Brenna looked at Stan. Stan raised her hands, palms up. Ted Brahm, the farmer? How in the world was he posting bail? At the tune of fifty grand?

  “So they’re gone?” Brenna asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Stan tried.

  Brenna nodded distractedly. “Can we go over there?”

  “To their house? They might just want to be with the family right now. But sure, we can stop,” she said, as Brenna opened her mouth to protest.

  “Good.” Brenna turned and slammed out of the barracks. The cop behind the glass raised his eyebrow at Stan, then went back to his computer.

  Stan hurried out after Brenna and got in the car before she could take off without her.

  “Why the heck would Ted bail Tyler out? And how would Ted bail him out? Where did he get that much money?” Brenna reiterated Stan’s thoughts from a minute ago. She peeled out of the parking lot and hit the gas a lot harder than necessary.

  Stan thought of her peaceful afternoon gone up in flames and shrugged. “They’re friends, right? And business partners. He’s been helping Em out since Hal died. I saw him over there that first morning, working on the farm with some of his staff.”

  Brenna shook her head. “It’s weird. Em didn’t have any use for any of the co-op partners. She just went along with it because Hal was passionate about it. And because it made them more money than just running their farm and selling milk.” She went quiet until they pulled into Em’s driveway. Em’s truck with the NO FARMS, NO FOOD sticker was parked next to an unfamiliar Honda Civic.

  “Ted must still be here,” Stan said. “Should we bother her?”

  “I’m going in.” Brenna shoved the car into park and got out. With a sigh, Stan followed.

  “Go to the side door,” Brenna said, motioning Stan to the door near the garage.

  Close on her heels, Stan almost tripped when Brenna stopped short. Stan regained her balance in time to see what had startled her: Em and Ted Brahm guiltily jumping apart from the embrace they’d been locked in on the stoop.

  Brenna gaped at them, mouth open, until Stan nudged her with her elbow. She flushed and recovered. “Shoot, sorry. We, uh, just wanted to make sure you were okay. We went to get Tyler. At the barracks. Stan was going to post his bail.”

  Emmalee smoothed her flyaway hair back, red faced at being caught. “You did? Why, Stan, I just don’t know what to say. How sweet of you. And yes, we’re fine. Tyler is innocent. He did not kill his father. This will all get straightened out. The police are going to search his room at school. They got a warrant.” She grimaced, but forced a smile back on. “But thankfully Ted . . . came to the rescue.”

  Ted tipped his baseball cap. “Afternoon, ladies. We’ll all get through this.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” Stan said, her hand on Brenna’s arm. “And we should go. Em, I’ll bring Samson some food for his tummy later tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful. We’re actually leaving for a few days. To go stay with my sister,” Em added, which told Stan she probably wasn’t going to stay with her sister. “Would you mind checking on the dog and cat? I would be so grateful.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Why do I keep agreeing to these things? “We’re going to get going. Take care, Em.”

  With a nod to Ted, Stan turned Brenna firmly around and shoved her toward the car, her head spinning with this new revelation.

  So Em had been getting her revenge on Hal after all.

  Chapter 27

  Sometimes, Stan regretted opening her mouth. Tonight, as she packed up bowls of food for Samson and Petunia, was one of those nights. She had no desire to go out again. She knew it was uncharitable, but with Halloween looming in the near future, all she wanted to do was curl up on her couch, watch scary movies, pour a glass of wine, sketch out her website, and catalogue the new recipes Brenna had come up with. But that poor dog and cat had been left behind while Em sorted out her life. Stan was a sucker for that sort of thing.

  Nutty, as was customary when he heard the sound of certain bowls, arrived in the doorway and watched with a critical eye.

  “It’s just a little bit,” Stan said. “Jeez, Nutty. We’ve talked about this selfish thing. It’s much nicer to share.”

  Nutty fanned his tail in disapproval like an ornery peacock.

  “You’ve gotten pretty snooty for a former street cat,” Stan said, sliding the bowls into a recyclable shopping bag. She surveyed the dogs, both sitting at attention in front of her.

  “You guys want to come for the walk?” Stan said. They both wagged in agreement. It was probably a good idea to have Henry with her, walking in the dark. Even though it was tiny little Frog Ledge and the police believed they had Hal’s murderer, Stan still felt unsettled. Henry, despite being a big muffin, looked foreboding. The fact that he was a big mush, well, she didn’t have to broadcast that.

  She tucked her cell phone and keys in her pocket, clipped the dogs’ leashes on, and headed out. The moon was well on its way to full, so it seemed as if someone had turned floodlights on. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. Definitely a chill in the air as they marched closer to winter. Stars blazed in the sky and the bare tree branches beckoned like skeletal fingers in the breeze. Very Halloween-like. In Amara’s house next door, she could see jack-o’-lanterns flickering in the windows. The rest of the house was dark. Amara must be out. She made a mental note to stop by over the weekend, maybe bring some dog treats as a peace offering.

  There was still activity around the green. A bunch of teenagers hanging in the library parking lot. A few people and dogs walking the loop. The company, though distant, comforted her as thoughts of Bullet Man danced in her head. When they turned into the Hoffmans’ driveway she took out her cell phone and turned the flashlight app on to light their way. Scruffy pranced along happily. Henry was more cautious in his approach. Stan got to the front steps and paused, glancing at the dark house. She wished Em had left a light on. But she hadn’t.

  How did I get roped into this again?

  Because you’re helping animals, her conscience reminded her. Nikki would approve. Redeeming herself after the whole working-at-a-dairy-farm faux pas. With that as her catalyst, she headed to the front door, unlocked it, and hesitantly pushed it open. Samson immediately pushed his wet nose into her palm, thanking her for bringing dinner. Scruffy strained on her leash, trying to get to him, asking to play. He ignored her.

  “You’re welcome, boy,” she said, patting his head. He sniffed Scruffy and Henry. They sniffed back.

  All else was quiet. Stan flicked on a few lights as she made her way into the kitchen. The house looked the same, like everyone had left in a hurry and hadn’t given much thought to what they would return to. Dirty dishes sat on a tray on the couch. Kids’ toys were strewn about. Petunia streaked by, startling Stan and sending Scruffy into a barking frenzy.

  “It’s okay, Scruf. Hush,” Stan said, though there was no one here to disturb. She heated the food so it wasn’t cold and handed Samson his bowl. He politely devoured it. She set the cat’s bowl on the counter for when she returned. She checked the back door to make sure it was closed and locked, flicked off the kitchen light, and turned to go. A light bounced around out in front of the building with the milking rooms and office area. Like a flashlight beam.

  Stan paused. That seemed odd. At night, the
one staffer would usually be in the cow areas, which had its own lighting. She mentally ran through the schedule Roger had given her. It was nine right now. There wouldn’t be another milking until maybe eleven. Whoever was on staff should be checking feed and water and doing those chores. According to Roger, none of the cows was due to give birth any time soon, so that wasn’t an issue tonight.

  She caught herself and chuckled. When had she turned into dairy farmer of the year? How did she even know this stuff? Roger had clearly done a good job with his tour. She moved to the window. The light was still visible. Then she heard a clang. Beside her, Henry barked.

  The light went out.

  Stan frowned. That was odd. Or was it? The workers needed to see to get around, after all. She had no idea how one worked among the unlit areas of a dairy farm at night, so she wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions.

  Scruffy decided to bark in response to Henry, which set Henry off again. The two engaged in an absurd chorus of soprano and alto, ensuring the cat wouldn’t come back to eat her dinner anytime soon. Samson, not being easily moved, raised his head to see what was going on before returning to his nap.

  Well, if Samson wasn’t concerned, she wouldn’t be either. But she wanted to get out of the house, back to her safe, cozy home.

  “Samson, you want to go outside before we head home?”

  Samson raised one eyebrow. Stan swore he smiled at her.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, then, let’s go.” She led the way to the side door, which would let Samson right into the yard. Scruffy trotted along behind. Henry was already at the door, whining softly. Stan tried to ignore the hairs that stood up on the back of her neck. “Henry, it’s okay. Come.”

  He ignored her. Very unlike him. She grabbed his collar and opened the door enough for Samson to squeeze through.

  And jumped a foot at the sound of a crash in the kitchen. Scruffy immediately went into a frenzy of barking. Stan grabbed the nearest weapon—a half-burned Yankee candle jar—and crept back into the kitchen, Scruffy on her heels barking her head off. Her hand scraped the wall along the living room to flip on any and every light switch until she reached the kitchen. Brandishing her weapon, she scanned the room from corner to corner.