by Liz Mugavero
Keeping her on the leash, Stan led Scruffy over to the cat. Scruffy was surprisingly reserved, approaching cautiously, tail as straight up as such a tiny nub could be. Nutty didn’t back down. He let the dog sniff him all over; then she licked his face. He blinked his eyes and rubbed against her; then he sat at her feet.
“Wow, I guess you do like some dogs. That’s good news. She’s visiting for tonight,” Stan told Nutty, unclipping Scruffy’s leash. “Why don’t you two go play?”
Instead, they both followed her to the kitchen. Dinnertime.
“I should have known. I’ll get it ready now.”
Depositing her stuff on the table, she took some food out and heated it on the stove while she checked her voice mail. She’d had her phone turned down all day, anticipating fallout from her mother over the lawyer visit. And she wasn’t disappointed.
“Kristan, what in the world is going on? Richard told me someone was murdered and you were … in the vicinity. Now the state news has picked up the story, he said. I sent the best lawyer in the state and you turn him away? Please call me.”
She knew it. The Hartford Courant had picked it up. Stan deleted the message and threw the phone back in her purse. She wouldn’t return that call. It explained Richard’s sudden concern. He and her mother were both so predictable.
After she fed the animals, Stan put on a new pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She sliced the fresh mozzarella and tomatoes, which she’d picked up at the co-op, on top of fresh basil leaves. She drizzled balsamic vinegar and a touch of olive oil and sprinkled pepper; then she grabbed her laptop and her iced blackberry tea and headed for the sunroom.
The salad was delicious. She allowed herself a few bites before opening her laptop and pulling up Google. But instead of searching for Carole or Diane or anyone else in town, she typed Sheldon Allyn’s name into the search bar. A number of hits came back within seconds: the official Every Sweet Thing website, some articles on the pastry chef, including a spread in the New York Times, a YouTube video of the man himself demonstrating how to make meringue—a practice that apparently required a fierce amount of praise directed at the ingredients—and some clips of his guest appearances on some of the great Food Network shows.
His enthusiasm was contagious. He loved his pastry. Anyone could tell by watching his meticulous measurements, his praise of what each ingredient brought to the table, his pride at the finished product. For the first time Stan allowed herself to feel something other than disbelief or skepticism. She thought about what it might be like to control her own destiny, to wake up in the morning and do something that made her happy. Not the kind of happy bred only by money and beating the pants off the competition, but the kind of happy a person made for herself by doing something she loved.
Could she really be Sheldon Allyn’s pet pastry chef?
Why not?
Outside, through her open windows, noise and chatter started to filter in off the green. People arriving for the party. The band was tuning up, testing equipment. She could see fireflies flitting through the woods on the side of her property—even they were taking part in tonight’s festivities.
Stan turned back to her computer and pulled up the search bar. She typed in Carole Morganwick, Connecticut and sat back.
The results started filling the page. The Frog Ledge Holler articles topped the list. Cyril Pierce had an online edition as well. He must spend an awful lot of time at his beloved paper. Stan had to admire him. The world needed a good media presence. Of course they needed good PR people, too.
Reviews of Carole’s practice were right below it. This was where her gut told her the clues could be. And her gut was right. Only five reviews, but four of them were poor. One with one star, three with two. The fifth review had five stars. Stan wondered if Carole had created it, or put someone up to it.
She skimmed the poor ones. Comments ranged from Terrible bedside manner to My dog got sick after his vaccine, and she overcharged me too. There was a commentary about a cat that sounded suspiciously like Betty’s story.
The doorbell rang, interrupting Stan’s reading before she could get to Carole Cross’ reviews. Scruffy frantically woo-wooed and shot to all fours. Now what? Stan took one more bite of mozzarella and hurried to the front of the house, with Scruffy leading.
She peered through the narrow side window before approaching the door. It was Jake. What was he doing here? She swung the door open wide, one finger in Scruffy’s collar so she wouldn’t run away. Duncan stood there, wagging his tail. He barked excitedly when he saw Scruffy; his tail flapped hard enough to dent the wooden railing. Stan was pleased to see he was on a leash.
“Easy,” Jake said, yanking him back. “Hey, Stan. New dog?”
“Just babysitting. Well, dog sitting. Come on in.”
Stan let Scruffy go. She and Duncan frantically sniffed at each other, tails wagging. Jake looked at Stan. “I guess they’re okay with each other,” he said, unclipping Duncan’s leash.
“I guess they are,” Stan agreed as the two dogs chased each other through the house. A crash, sounding suspiciously like a kitchen chair tumbling, followed. Jake winced.
“Sorry. Dunc’s a rough one. I wanted to see if you were coming to the dance tonight.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s actually pretty fun.”
“Don’t you need to be at the bar?”
“Brenna’s there, and Travis. Travis is second in command. He’s more the bar-social type than the community-social type. They’ll be fine.”
“I can’t go to the dance.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone thinks I killed Carole. Haven’t we gone over this? People stare at me, Jake. The lady at the general store didn’t even want to ring me up. I’m surprised she didn’t let me walk out the door with the stuff for free.”
“Abbie?” Jake made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Abbie’s just a gossip. Most people in town aren’t like that.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure people listen to Abbie. Her place is the hub, right?”
“‘The hub’?” Jake laughed. “Where’d you get that?”
“Never mind. It’s not just Abbie.” Stan threw her hands up in frustration and walked back to the sunroom, stopping to right the upended chair on her way. “Point is, I’m not going.”
“That’s not very sociable of you.”
“Huh! Did your sister think I was being ‘sociable’ when she saw you over here this morning?”
Jake said nothing.
“See, didn’t think so.” Stan sat back down and waved at the other chair. “Feel free to sit.”
Jake did. She closed her laptop.
“My own family and supposed boyfriend already called a lawyer.” Stan viciously hacked her tomato into bite-sized pieces. “Can you believe that? A lawyer!”
She hadn’t realized that had bothered her so much until now. She knew her mother had a misguided way of offering help, but hiring a lawyer before she even got arrested? That didn’t show a whole lot of faith.
“Is that who the suit was in your driveway this morning?” Jake smiled. “He didn’t get very far.”
“Yep, you guys had front-row seats. I bet your sister was annoyed when she thought I had someone who wouldn’t let me talk.”
“Stan, I know you’re angry at my sister, but she really is trying her best to get to the bottom of this.”
Stan had nothing to say to that. She swiped her last piece of mozzarella around her plate to pick up the remains of her balsamic vinegar; then she pushed the dish away. Jake watched, his expression slightly amused.
“I know why you should come to the dance,” he said.
She glared at him.
“To get a decent meal, at least. All you’re eating are some leaves and cheese for dinner?”
“A decent meal?” Stan snorted. “What, are they grilling hot dogs?”
She didn’t mean to sound so snarky, but the stress was definitely getting to
her. Jake didn’t take offense, though. He didn’t look like much of anything got him riled. He just laughed and stood to go.
“I’m heading over there now. I’d love it if you came with us. Bring the pooch. It’s fun. Don’t worry about not having a costume,” he said, anticipating her next line of protest. “A lot of people don’t dress up. Including me.”
Stan knew she should decline, but she really did want to go. He’d obviously made an effort. Whether it was because he genuinely felt sorry for her or was trying to apologize in his own way for his sister’s behavior, she wasn’t sure. Being a jerk to someone who actually still wanted to talk to her wouldn’t help her cause. As if on cue, “I Hope You Dance” floated into her head.
She sighed. “Okay.”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
“Sure, why not?”
Jake grinned. “Your enthusiasm is truly overwhelming.”
Chapter 20
Frog Ledgers were serious about their parties. Their history, too, if the costumes were any indication. People packed the green, eating, showing off their period hats and dresses, staking out spots for the show. The band had set up on the grass, with a space sectioned off for dancing. Jake led Stan into the fray, and Scruffy strained her leash to keep pace with Duncan, who greeted everyone he met. People were equally enthralled with Scruffy and kept exclaiming over what a precious dog she was, and so beautiful.
Scruffy wagged her tail proudly after each compliment and kept glancing back at Stan to make sure she’d heard. Stan focused on the three people Jake was introducing her to: Fiona, his neighbor, a middle-aged woman whose interest in costumes had nothing to do with history, if her zebra pants and teased-out hair gave any indication; a fellow named Louis, who judged poultry in the town fair; and then Terri, who worked at the small soda factory in the next town.
“Hey, that’s Amy.” Jake pointed to a young woman standing near the small stage, talking animatedly with one of the band members. “She’s the girl who used to work for Carole.”
Stan perked up. “Can I talk to her?”
“I don’t see why not. But don’t be so intense, okay? Maybe I can just introduce you tonight.”
“‘Intense’? If you were a hair away from being arrested for murder, you’d be intense, too,” Stan shot back. Then she realized Trooper Pasquale stood a few feet away and could clearly hear their conversation.
Only, tonight Jessie didn’t look like Trooper Pasquale. Dressed in a simple orange tank dress, and holding on to a little girl’s hand, Pasquale looked like any other small-town soccer mom, only prettier than most. But her face still had cop written all over it, at least in Stan’s eyes. She observed them, with her expression unchanged. Stan didn’t think she’d even say hello to her brother, but the little girl began to squeal. She looked like a mini version of her mother.
“Unca Jake! Unca Jake! Mommy, it’s Unca Jake and Dunkie!” The child started running toward them, stopping when she realized her mother still firmly held her hand. “Come on, Mommy!” She stomped her foot impatiently.
Pasquale looked like someone was leading her to a particularly vicious crime scene, but she allowed her daughter to lead her over.
“Hi, peanut.” Jake scooped up his niece and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He nodded at his sister. “Jess.”
“Jake,” she returned, her gaze raking over Stan. “Ms. Connor.”
“Hi,” Stan muttered.
“Lily, this is my friend Stan. Can you say hello?” Jake asked.
Lily giggled. “That’s a boy’s name.”
“It can be a girl’s name, too,” Jake said.
Lily thought about that; then she turned to Stan and waved. “Hello.”
“Hi, Lily,” Stan said.
“Can I have my kid?” Pasquale asked Jake.
“Give her a break, Jess. She wants to see the dogs.” Lily squirmed away from Jake, trying to reach Scruffy while shrieking with excitement as Duncan kept jumping to lick her face. “Besides, you’re off duty. Take a break.”
“Thanks for the advice. Hold on to her then while I go get something to eat?”
“Sure.”
Without even a thank-you, she turned and walked to the food tables, her dress dragging along the grass.
Stan looked at Jake. He smiled. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She smiled at Lily. “Do you want to meet Scruffy?”
“Yes!” Lily wriggled free of Jake and dropped to her knees in front of the little dog. She started cooing and petting her; Scruffy sat perfectly still, soaking up the attention.
“She’s a nice dog,” Jake said.
“Yeah.”
“You keeping her?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Cat hates dogs?”
“No, they actually seem to like each other.”
“Then why not?”
He certainly asked a lot of questions. And they hardly knew each other. “I’ll probably be going back to work soon. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”
“Found something already? That’s great.”
She didn’t have time to explain. Izzy strode up behind them, her brown eyes fiery. Great, she’d assume Stan was fraternizing with the enemy. But Izzy ignored Jake and walked right up to Stan. “We need to talk,” she said in a low voice.
“Right now?” Stan glanced at Scruffy, still being coddled by Lily.
“Yes, right now.” Izzy crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting. She had ignored the costume option, too, and was dressed in a flowing peach-colored skirt and a white tank top.
“I’ll hold the dog,” Jake offered.
Stan glanced at him, then back at Izzy and sighed. She handed him the leash. “Thanks.”
She followed Izzy to a quiet spot halfway down the green. “What’s so urgent?”
“What’s urgent is that friend of yours, getting herself in trouble. And you, probably. You’ll get yourself in trouble, you know, if you lie for her.” She wagged a finger at Stan.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Izzy. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Or who. I didn’t lie about anything. Lie to who?”
“That rescue friend of yours! You told the trooper she wasn’t here the day the vet died.”
“She wasn’t.”
“Not according to my sources.”
“Your ‘sources’? What are you talking about?”
Izzy reached into her purse and pulled out her iPad. She touched a few buttons. “This her van?” She turned the device around.
A grainy picture taken during some form of darkness clearly depicted Nikki’s blue van, unmistakable with the smiling dog on the side of it. Stan couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk, but the tinge of light creeping around the edges made her think morning. She could just make out the back of Izzy’s shop behind the van.
“This is from Monday.”
“Really. Where’s the date?” Stan heard the unsteadiness in her own voice and hoped Izzy couldn’t.
Izzy pointed to the tiny dateline. “My watcher took it. E-mailed it to me Monday, but somehow I missed it. Not staying on top of my e-mails this week.”
“Your ‘watcher’?”
“I told you, I had some problems when I came here. There are a couple of kids who keep an eye on things for me.”
“Kids? No security cameras or anything? You sure that’s dependable?”
Izzy raised an eyebrow. “They like money. So, yeah, they’re dependable.”
Stan thought of the group of kids she always saw skateboarding around town in various parking lots. They probably were the logical choice, because during early mornings or later in the evenings, they had full access to parking lots when stores were closed.
“The question is, what was she doing outside my shop at five A.M.?”
Stan had no answer for that. She didn’t know if what Izzy told her was true, but she didn’t have any reason to doubt her. Nikki, on the other hand, had already proven she could withhold information, even from her alleged best
friend.
Izzy still waited for her answer. “Listen.” Her voice softened. “If you didn’t know, that’s one thing, but I think it’s weird. Pasquale asked you if she was here, and now it looks like she was. Don’t you agree?”
“There has to be a mistake, Izzy. Nikki wasn’t back from her South Carolina run on Monday morning. She didn’t get back until later in the day.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she told me.” Stan realized as she spoke them how weak the words sounded in light of everything else. In the back of her mind, Justin’s words suddenly shouted at her. She was hell bent on getting back early Sunday.
“Yeah,” Izzy said. “Maybe you need to ask her again. With a polygraph.”
After Izzy left to help with the refreshment table—making sure people had decent things to drink, she said—Stan stayed by the tree, thinking. If Nikki had been in Frog Ledge the day of Carole’s murder, that would mean she lied. On more than one occasion. Stan couldn’t imagine why she might have been here. Something to do with rescue animals would be the rational explanation. And if it wasn’t … Stan didn’t want to think about that. Izzy’s shop was uncomfortably close to Carole’s clinic. Of all days to be parked there—it looked bad.
Jake walked up with the dogs. Lily was nowhere in sight. He probably had orders to return her to her mother before he started carousing with the alleged murderess.
“Everything okay?” Jake passed Scruffy’s leash to Stan.
“Everything’s fine.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
She didn’t respond.
“Come on, then. Want a drink?”
“I don’t know. I think I need to go home.”
“Why? Stan, what’s going on?”
Part of her really wanted to confide in him. She didn’t know if it was because her list of confidants was dangerously short, or because she trusted him. Either way, she didn’t have much to lose. She was just opening her mouth, when a girl dressed in a skimpy tank top and tiny skirt sauntered up and slid her arm around his waist.