by Liz Mugavero
The strange-looking man snapped to attention when he saw her and stuck out his hand.
“Kristan Connor?”
The second time someone had asked her that today, and it was barely ten. Stan eyed him suspiciously. She did not offer her hand. What was up with the outfit in this heat? Jeans peeked out from the bottom of the coat. Sandals topped the look. He had a full head of unruly curls. Big glasses made his face seem slightly out of proportion. He carried a notebook and pen.
“Who’s asking?”
The sandy-haired man bared his badly discolored teeth in an attempted smile. He dropped his hand and uncapped his pen. “Cyril Pierce from the Frog Ledge Holler. I understand you found Carole Morganwick’s body?”
Oh no! Only then did she notice the press pass clipped to his jacket. It looked handmade. She remembered Carole’s remark about the free paper—how Cyril drove everyone crazy with it.
She wanted to go back inside, lock the door and hide. But she couldn’t, so she went to her backup survival skill: spin mode. “Yes, I was the first client with an appointment on Monday,” she said. “It was terrible. Such a tragedy. But the police are engaged, and I’m confident they’ll find the person responsible quickly.”
“The police report said your name wasn’t on her schedule. Can you explain?”
“Carole and I spoke about an appointment when she came to my house Sunday afternoon. She told me to come in before her first appointment.”
Cyril Pierce scribbled furiously in his reporter’s notebook. “Is it true that a bag of kibble was involved in this death?”
“You’d have to ask the police. It’s an ongoing investigation.” She crossed her arms and waited for him to finish writing so he could leave.
“Did you feel your animal … Is it a cat? A dog? A rabbit? Did it get the best care from Dr. Morganwick?”
“I have a cat. This would have been my first appointment, so I can’t comment on the care she provides. And I have nothing further to say. If you’ll excuse me.”
Cyril nodded and closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Connor. And welcome to town,” he added. “I hope you enjoy the newspaper.” Cyril walked down her front steps and got on an old-fashioned bike with a basket in front. He tucked his notebook into a bag attached to the handlebars and pedaled away, trench coat flapping.
Stan shook her head. At least it wasn’t the Hartford Courant knocking at her door. That was all she needed. Fired first, murder suspect next. Her former colleagues would have a field day.
Chapter 7
The black bike with the purple stripes stood against the garage wall, spiffy and shiny. Unused. Richard had gotten on a kick last year about how they should be biking through the local state parks. They’d never gone even once after she bought the bike, and Stan had never taken the initiative to go herself.
Well, things were different now. She didn’t need anyone to “take” her biking. She was a grown woman and perfectly capable of going on her own excursions. Strapping on her matching purple helmet, she wheeled the bike into the driveway and hopped on. It had been a while, but it was true: You never forgot how to ride a bike. Stan pulled out of her driveway and turned left.
Yes, fresh air would help, whether Cyril Pierce wrote a story about her or not. Now she had to get her mind off this nonsense and start thinking about her life. The police would find the killer, and Frog Ledge would eventually get back to normal. She could get on with whatever she was going to do next.
Stan circled the green and rode through the center of town, mulling over her to-do list. She had to buy paint for her office. Furniture for the guest room. Curtains for the living room. She needed incense, as well as oils for her aromatherapy burner. And a trip to the health food store for organic ingredients. She loved playing with all the delicious, local ingredients available today and making Nutty’s treats even healthier. And she’d promised trial meals for Char and Ray’s dog, Savannah, and treats for Izzy’s dogs, so she had to buy extra supplies.
But it was another beautiful, sunny day, and she needed to be outside. The green was hopping. Children rode bikes and chased dogs; others enjoyed their morning walks. She saw a few remnants from last night’s memorial on the grass, but she figured the brunt of that would be at the clinic. She could see a flurry of activity at the library. In front of the War House, the historical home where the American Revolution’s masterminds had strategized, volunteers sat out front in their rocking chairs, waiting for someone to wander by so they could talk history. She could see Izzy’s shop in the distance and thought about stopping there. But then she’d just eat and would never get her bike ride in.
She turned the other way, instead, although she knew she should avoid going any farther down Main Street. There was no need to drive by the clinic right now—except she needed to see if anything was happening. She drove around the front of the library. Police tape still stretched across the clinic’s front entrance. Orange cones blocked the parking lot. The building already had that deserted feel to it, like the house on the block the children avoided because something bad had happened in it. The stuffed animals and candles were gathered in a clump. A wooden cross was propped against the pile, and someone had scrawled, Rest in Peace, using sidewalk chalk, in front of the whole memorial.
She rode a bit closer. She stopped her bike and balanced on her toes, inwardly reciting what she hoped would pass for a prayer. It had been a while since she’d done any praying. Putting her feet back on the pedals, she started off down the street as Amara Leonard and a man came around the clinic from the back. Their heads were bent close together as they talked intently, sticking to the side of the building. It was like they didn’t want anyone to notice them.
She and Amara locked eyes as Stan cruised by. Stan lifted one hand in a wave. Amara did not wave back. She averted her eyes as if she hadn’t seen Stan. Interesting to see Amara by the clinic. The man didn’t look familiar. He had a goatee and thin mustache and wore a suit.
Stan took a right and pedaled back down by the green, coasting around the south end nearest her house. A piece of plywood with paint scrawled on it announced a concert this weekend. There was supposed to be a farmers’ market today, but someone had crossed the date out and put Sunday’s date, instead. Carole’s name and RIP was notated next to the change of date. Apparently, she had been mourned enough to postpone even that sacred event.
She hung a left and headed down a lovely street called Pollywog Avenue. They really did have a thing for frogs around here. More old farmhouses lined each side of the street; flowers and other greenery grew over walls and onto the sidewalks. The large old houses were interspersed with newer, smaller homes, much like on Stan’s street. Some were kept well; others were run-down. Frog Ledge seemed to be a place of contrasts. It made it more endearing.
Approaching a yard with a large wooden sign on it, Stan slowed to read it: GENE’S WOOD CARVINGS. There was a small silhouette of a man whittling away on some wood while a dog sat next to him. The woodworker’s house. By contrast to the beautiful sign, the house fell into the old and run-down category. The white paint was faded and dirty. The porch steps sagged. She could see rotted wood in some spots. The decrepit barn next to the house must be the wood shop. Through the open barn doors, Stan could see a large table cluttered with saws and other equipment. She heard cutting noises and music.
As if the dog were on cue, the old yellow Lab lumbered out on the grass to see who was coming to visit, tail wagging lazily. Stan stopped her bike, holding out her hand. He came over and sniffed.
“Hey there, boy. How’re you doing today?”
“That’s Junior.”
Stan jumped, almost dropping her bike. Gene materialized without a sound from behind a large bush. He smiled when he saw her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle ya.”
“It’s okay. Stan Connor. We met last night at …” Stan’s voice trailed off. She didn’t want to bring up Carole’s memorial.
“I remember ya, o
f course.” He shook her hand. His hands were large and calloused. “Sightseeing?”
“Just getting some exercise.” Stan reached into the front pocket of her messenger bag and pulled out her travel stash of treats. “Can Junior have a treat?”
“Well, he don’t have a lotta teeth.”
“These are soft. See?” Stan demonstrated by bending the cookie. Junior already sat at attention, with his eyes following her every move.
“Don’t see why not, then. Go ’head, boy.”
Stan leaned over and held the treat for the dog. Junior took it very politely and inhaled it, wagging his tail for more.
“Guess he likes ’em,” Gene said, petting his dog. “Now, Junior. One’s enough. He don’t get out and exercise too much these days. Not like all you young people, running and so forth all over town.”
“These are good-for-him treats. I make them myself.”
“Whatever they are, he likes ’em. Course he likes lots of food,” Gene said.
Stan didn’t know if that was an insult or a compliment, so she let it go. Instead, she pointed to a wooden wagon on his front steps, filled with summer blooms. “Did you make that?”
He turned and surveyed the decoration. “I did.”
The wood gleamed in the morning sun. Even from where she sat on her bike, Stan could see the detail of the piece. “I love that. It would be perfect for my porch. I just moved into the green Victorian. Over by the town green.”
“Ah.” Gene nodded. “That’s a nice house.”
“It is. Could you make another one?”
He nodded.
“How much?”
He thought about that for a minute. “A hunnerd fair?”
One hundred dollars sounded like a bargain to Stan. “Sold.”
Gene nodded again. “I’ll deliver it when I’m done. Take me about a week. Maybe a bit longer. I’ve got my new apprentice. Russ! Come on out. New customer.”
Behind him, in the barn, Stan could now see a boy with black hair covering his face, bent over the table. The boy ignored Gene.
“Oh yeah. The dog’s out here. He’s afraid of dogs.”
The old Lab didn’t look like it would run if a bear was chasing it, never mind strike fear in the heart of a young boy. Stan petted Junior’s head again and offered him another treat.
“So you’re the official sign maker for the town?” she asked.
Gene smiled. “People need a sign, they call me. You need a sign for sumthin’?”
“Me? Not at the moment. Maybe someday. I’d rather have a wagon.”
“I did all them signs for the center of town,” he said.
“They’re lovely. And I think it’s such a nice idea to have everything match.” She thought of the sign outside of Carole’s place. “I especially noticed the one at the vet clinic, since I was there the other day. With the cat and dog tails curled together.”
Gene’s face fell. “I made it. Made the other one for Doc Stevens too, when it was his. You prob’ly didn’t see that one. But when Carole came back, I felt like she’d need a new one. So it was hers, know what I mean?”
“Of course. Did you know Carole well?”
“Sure did. We lived here together all our lives, ’cept when she left for bigger and better parts. She was friendly with my wife, Celia.”
“I’m sorry. It’s such a tragedy.”
Gene glanced away, eyes blinking furiously. Someone who had liked Carole. It made her feel better.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Gene made a shrugging motion. “Ain’t nothing we can do about it.” He scratched his head. “You want some eggs?”
“Eggs?” The conversation shift threw her off. Did he want to make her breakfast? “I, um, already ate, but thank you.”
Gene looked at her like he didn’t quite understand her. “Well, now, I don’t know you’d want to eat them from the carton, but my chickens just laid a bunch this mornin’.”
Stan felt the flush creep up her neck. He wanted to give her fresh eggs, not cook her scrambled eggs. Boy, did she have a lot to learn about country life. “That would be lovely, but I don’t have anywhere to carry them.”
“I could leave some for you on your porch,” he said. “Or do automatic delivery, if ya like ’em.”
Automatic delivery. For some reason this struck her as immensely funny and she had to hold back a giggle. This place certainly had its share of characters. “You know, that sounds great, Gene. Just let me know how much and I’ll pay you for a week’s worth, okay?”
Just then, two chickens ran around from the back of the house, squawking. “New customer!” Gene yelled to them, and they stopped and looked at him as if they understood what he was saying.
Stan waved good-bye and kicked her bike back into action. She wanted to log a few miles. Frog Ledge had a lot of hilly, winding roads. Stan approached the hills aggressively, forcing her legs to work harder for the reward on the other end. Reaching a downslope, she coasted, loving the feel of the hot breeze and sun hitting her face. She’d forgotten the exhilaration of bike riding.
Around the next bend Stan spotted a cemetery shaded by oaks and maples on a rolling hill. Stan braked at the entrance. She liked cemeteries, a quirk that her family and friends didn’t quite get. If you thought about it as a bunch of bones rotting in the ground, or a boatload of corpses, sure, it might seem strange. But she loved to look at the names, imagine the stories of the people and the families and the legacies they’d left behind. Cemeteries were hopeful, if you looked at them in a different light. If you believed in coming back again as something or someone else, it was the start of a new life. If you believed in the afterlife, it felt good to think of your loved one there, happy. Peaceful.
It had been a long time since she’d visited one for no reason. The last cemetery she’d been in had hosted her maternal grandfather’s funeral, a resting place for society’s big names. Pretty but overdone, as most society affairs were. This graveyard looked simpler. A lot of older stones. She pedaled through the gate and cruised down the main path. The grounds extended a lot farther than she’d thought. The older stones were situated to the right, and continued back as far as she could see. Stones on the left side appeared to be newer. Fancier.
Stan turned her bike right and ventured down the historical path. The old stones appealed to her, both in appearance and possibility of the stories resting with the people beneath. She’d never been a huge history buff, but people of any time period fascinated her. Imagining their lives, their families, their secrets. A fun way to spend a summer morning.
And Cyril Pierce wouldn’t look for her here. At least she hoped not. Towering oak trees, strategically placed, provided some shade and dimmed the outside noise. As she moved on down the lines, a name caught her eye: Elias Morganwick. An old grave, thin stone, the dates faded by age and weather but still readable.1817 to 1889. One of Carole’s early relatives? A hearty one. Seventy-plus years couldn’t have been common back then. She wondered if Carole would be buried in this cemetery when they released her body for a funeral. After they determined what killed her, of course.
She cut across the path, forced herself to focus on the beautiful day instead of the murder. That’s when she noticed the blue sedan idling up on the main path. Someone must be looking for a relative’s stone. Stan rode on, lost in the sounds of summer. Chirping birds, a lawn mower, dogs barking, kids shouting.
Boy, was it hot. The sun seemed to follow her. Her helmet felt like a hundred pounds on her head, making her swelter inside it. She didn’t realize the blue car had moved closer, until she caught a flash of light, the sun glinting off the paint. Uneasiness crept over her. There was no one else in the cemetery. Not even a groundskeeper. And there was a murderer on the loose.
She turned back, casually, and picked up the pace. There had to be another street exit to this place. She didn’t want to have to reverse direction and ride by the lurking car. Although she’d love a glimpse of the driver.
She couldn’t see anything from over here. But getting back to the main road, where there were people, would be the smart thing.
Stan left the path and cut through the headstones, hoping she wasn’t pedaling herself into a corner. She could sense the car coming closer, keeping pace with her, but she didn’t turn. It was still far enough back that she wouldn’t be able to identify anyone, anyway. Instead, she pedaled faster, ignoring the reality that she was also pedaling blindly, urging her screaming legs to pick up the pace. She would pay for this tomorrow. If she made it to tomorrow. Her imagination kicked in and she imagined a Sopranos-like scene where the driver of the car pulled out a fancy, silenced gun and popped her off right here. Or grabbed her and drove away to a house of horrors and torture.
Who would feed Nutty?
Under any other circumstance, and without the murdered vet hanging over her head, she’d have found her paranoid thoughts amusing and would have laughed them off. She wasn’t part of a hit TV show or a best-selling horror novel.
Not today. Today she felt like she was part of a real-life drama a heck of a lot scarier than a TV show. Stan careened around a huddle of stones, heading for the perimeter. Worst case, she could haul the bike over the stone wall. It wasn’t that high. Then she’d be on the street, where at least there might be witnesses to her untimely death. Or she could leave the bike and run.
She risked a glance around. The car gained on her. Her lungs were going to burst and her arms and legs ached. A rock in her path almost tipped her over, and she fought to keep control of the bike and not pitch forward over the handlebars. The blue car sped up and cut left, heading straight for her. Her eyes widened. She envisioned the car plunging over headstones in some desperate attempt to get to her. She was screwed.
And then a red Saab convertible appeared from the other direction. Stan thought about flagging the car down, but she’d look crazy. And the woman driving the car wasn’t paying attention, anyway. Her music blared and she sang at the top of her lungs. Apparently, she was either happy to visit her deceased loved one, or really happy they were deceased.