by Liz Mugavero
“That is lucky. I’d be happy to,” Stan said, trying to tamp down her eagerness. Information from Carole’s office! Score!
“Nice. You’re a rock star,” Amy said, flashing her first real smile. “Come on, I’ll get it.”
Stan followed Amy to her car, a red Honda Civic. She opened the back door and searched around for a minute; then she triumphantly pulled a beat-up black leather briefcase out of a pile on the floor. The briefcase was scratched and so crammed with stuff that it gaped open. Amy shoved it at her, as if afraid Stan would change her mind.
“Thanks!” With that, she turned and jogged back to the track, falling into her stride as if she’d never taken a break.
Stan stood with the briefcase, amazed at her good fortune. And Amy’s naiveté. Maybe she’d glean some information from something in there. What the heck, it was already open.
This job interview couldn’t come at a worse time. Stan thought about rescheduling. But that was a no-no—even though these kinds of companies made you wait months and months before making hiring decisions, in most cases. So she put on her favorite suit, one she’d had nothing but good luck while wearing, left another message with Diane Kirschbaum about Scruffy and drove to Hartford, itching to open the bag of Carole’s paperwork the whole time.
She checked her watch as she neared the city. Right on time. She was scheduled for two-thirty. But all she felt was sick.
The continued stress of her world, she assured herself as she walked into the building, a couple of folders from Carole’s briefcase in her bag in case she had reading time. The place was bigger than her previous employer’s. Normally, she would have researched every similarity and difference—ranked them as pros or cons—and have been über-prepared for this conversation. Today, not so much.
Bernadette, the happy scheduler, greeted her and showed her to a chair in the waiting area. She opened Carole’s folder and flipped through. She started with the financials. Engrossed in discovering how little money Carole had been bringing in—nowhere close to making a profit—Bernadette had to call her twice to the conference room. Instead of prepping for the interview while she waited, Stan had been going through the profit and loss statement and quarterly reports Carole had neatly packaged for the accountant. She learned the first half of the year had left Carole with a net loss of $2,894. Not terrible, but it told the beginnings of a story.
The woman interviewing her finally showed up. Stan found her unimpressive. A beige person. She wasn’t even wearing a power suit. Stan turned her corporate face on and answered the questions in her corporate voice, using all the buzzwords and smiling at the appropriate times. But the whole time her mind was on Carole’s file, wondering what else she might find.
They had her set up to talk with three other people over the next two-plus hours before they had Bernadette see her out, practically promising her an offer within the week, after they cleared the usual red tape. Stan assured them she’d be eagerly awaiting and hurried out to her car.
Instead of hitting the highway back to Frog Ledge, Stan drove to her favorite coffee shop near her old place. She stuck the folder she’d removed back into the briefcase and hauled it inside. She ordered a latte with a double shot and sat down with the goods. An hour and a half later, she had a good financial picture of Carole’s clinic. And it was dreary. Her father had paid the mortgage off years ago, and all she had to do was keep up with operating expenses. She hadn’t been doing that well. Hence, a proposal Amara Leonard and Vincent DiMauro had written to buy the business. The transaction Amy had mentioned. If Carole accepted, she wouldn’t have to ever worry about working again. It was a generous offer that likely would have put Amara and Vincent in debt for a long time.
But Carole had turned them down. No had been scrawled in vehement red pen across the formal paperwork, and it had been folded into thirds and stuck in the back of the file labeled as ACCOUNTANT. Clipped to it were a number of e-mail exchanges between the two parties. They started out polite; but by the time Stan got to the bottom of the pile of twenty or so, the tone had changed. Vincent DiMauro had been angry at the rejection and had repeatedly asked for the opportunity to meet again in person. His last e-mail, dated three days before Carole’s death, ended on an ominous note: I’m just going to show up, and then you’ll have to talk to me.
Stan gasped; then she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. If Vincent DiMauro had gone to see Carole, and the meeting hadn’t gone as planned, who knew what he would have done? He could’ve stabbed her in a fit of anger, not realizing it would kill her. Maybe he knew that she’d kept these e-mails and he figured he’d burn the place down to get rid of any evidence, including her hard drive.
Amy said she hadn’t told the cops about this proposed transaction. Well, it was time they heard about it. Stan shoved the rest of the papers back into the briefcase and hurried to the car, a dangerous trick on four-inch heels. She cursed the constraints of corporate wardrobe. Between her favorite suit, which didn’t feel quite right on her anymore, and the shoes, she wished she’d brought clothes to change into. She had to call Lou.
Part of her was relieved—this meant Nikki was off the hook. Although her actions were still a mystery, Stan could deal with that later. As long as her lifelong friend wasn’t a killer, she didn’t care what else she was doing in her spare time.
Once she was on the road, Stan plugged in her headset and called Lou’s number at Troop L. Voice mail. She pounded the steering wheel in frustration.
“Trooper Sturgis, this is Stan Connor from Frog Ledge. I need you to check out a man named Vincent DiMauro in regard to Carole Morganwick’s murder. I’ll explain later, but I have some potential evidence. Call me.” She recited her cell number, disconnected and hit the gas.
She was entering the Frog Ledge town limits when her cell rang. She snatched it up, hoping for a return call from Lou or someone at the barracks. Instead, a vaguely familiar voice said, “Stan, it’s Sheldon Allyn. I needed to follow up with you on our discussion.”
“Hi, Sheldon. What can I do for you?”
He didn’t seem eager for small talk. “I’m afraid I was a tad hasty in my offer. I won’t be needing a pet chef, after all. We hadn’t agreed on a contract, of course, so this is merely a courtesy call, but I wanted to let you know posthaste.”
“Posthaste”? Do people still talk like that? Apparently, Sheldon Allyn did. And he was canning her before he’d even hired her. “May I ask why?”
“I’ve simply decided to go in a different direction,” he said. “But thank you for your time, it’s been lovely.”
And he hung up. Gone. Another door closed. There was some saying about windows opening when doors closed, but Stan felt like she was seeing an awful lot of doors slamming. Any windows in the vicinity were cloudy. Or stuck shut.
She didn’t realize tears were brimming until her vision blurred and she almost missed her street. Her phone rang again, but she didn’t even bother to pick it up. She’d left Lou enough information on his voice mail. They could figure it out and arrest Vincent, or not. She didn’t much care at this point. Maybe she should put her house back on the market. Sell it and try California. Her dad had loved it out there. Plus, the weather was nicer. Or maybe she could rent her house out and leave tomorrow.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, she’d almost made up her mind. Her resolve strengthened even more when she got to her front door and saw the Frog Ledge Holler—another special edition—on her porch. Cyril Pierce really needed a vacation.
The headline, of course, was the “rash” of animal poisonings in the area. Now the tally had reached three dogs who had allegedly become ill, and the common ground among all three was Stan, as the article so objectively pointed out. Duncan had been on her porch when he’d been found ill, and the other two dogs had eaten her treats at the farmers’ market this weekend. Luckily, the animals only reportedly had stomach problems. Nothing more serious than that, with the exception of Duncan, who had been hospitalize
d.
Stan ripped the paper in half, then tore it in half again. She didn’t even want to bring it into her house to throw it away. Instead, she left it in a pile on her porch. No wonder Sheldon had reneged on his offer. He’d heard about this. Or maybe Cyril Pierce had called him for a comment, if word had gotten out about his offer. If he had been serious about wanting her, he probably had her name plugged into his Google search and got updates daily. And that was the end of that.
Time to accept her life for what it was. A failure. All the hard work she’d put into everything had been destroyed in a mere week. She’d even lost a dog who didn’t belong to her. She’d better do something quick before Nutty jumped ship, too.
Her phone rang again. It was a number she didn’t recognize. She let it go to voice mail before she picked it up to listen.
“Stan Connor. This is Diane. The ACO. Your dog is here. I picked her up earlier today. Please come get her before seven.”
Thank goodness! She immediately started to cry again. What a dripping mess she’d turned into. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried before moving here, unless you counted “The Elimination,” and now it seemed to be one of her daily activities. At least these were good tears.
She grabbed her car keys again, still in her interview attire, and rushed to the car. She didn’t have much time, and she doubted Diane would wait for her. Speeding past the town center, Stan navigated the back roads to the out-of-the-way dog pound. She hated the thought of that sweet little dog sitting in that damp, unfriendly building. Probably scared to death and surrounded by big dogs barking and growling at her. She hit the gas harder and turned onto the street leading to the park.
Quiet had settled over the wooded area. Even though dusk had barely fallen, the hush of the trees and the thick greenery gave everything a closed-in feeling. The park was supposed to close at dusk, but the gate was still open. Diane must be responsible for that, since she likely was in and out at all hours.
Stan followed the winding roads, noting the few stragglers unwilling to end their late-day summer fun. A couple of exhausted parents dragged their kids off play equipment. Farther down near the lake, a family packed up the remains of a picnic. Dinner. She was starving. She bet Scruffy was, too. She would make her a special meal when they got home. She had organic turkey in the refrigerator, and some ground beef from the co-op she had planned to cook for Nutty later in the week. But this was a special occasion.
She pulled into the pound parking lot. Diane’s white truck was outside and the building was lit up. It was five to seven. She’d just made it. But Scruffy was coming home! Grinning for the first time in days, Stan grabbed her keys and jumped out. She hurried precariously across the gravel, regretting not changing her shoes. Not really the place for stilettos. Faint barking sounded from behind the building. The dogs must be out for their last playtime of the night. She shoved the heavy door open and barreled inside, calling out.
“Hey, Diane? I’m here for Scruffy.”
And then she tripped, pitching forward over Diane, who was sprawled to the left of the door. Stan’s breath left her in a whoosh, hands automatically out to break her fall. They scraped the cement floor. One of her shoes slipped off. She twisted around; the horror of what she was seeing was dawning on her. A scream worked its way up her throat; but when her mouth opened, nothing came out.
It was happening again. Diane was dead. She looked dead, anyway. And the murderer might still be here. She had to run. But she crawled over and felt Diane’s neck for a pulse, praying she’d feel something. If Diane was dead, she would get blamed. Stan would be tossed in jail without a second thought.
Then … a soft moan. And a faint pulse under her fingers. Thank God. But she needed help.
“Diane?”
Nothing. Stan searched frantically in her pocket for her phone. She remembered leaving it in the car and nearly screeched in frustration. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, not caring if Diane could hear her. “I’m calling for help.” Vaulting to her feet again, she took a step out the door … and slammed into a body blocking her way.
She gasped and jerked back. This time she tripped over the shoe she’d lost and landed on her butt. Pain shot through her tailbone. She ignored it and scrabbled backward with her hands and feet, crablike, kicking her other shoe off so she would be balanced when she got up. Whoever blocked her way lurched inside, almost losing his own footing.
Once he stepped under the light, she realized it was Russ, Gene’s apprentice. What was the strange boy doing here? Regardless, help was help. “Something’s happened,” she said. “Diane needs help. Will you stay with her while I get my phone?”
The kid didn’t respond, much like when she’d tried to speak to him while he mowed her lawn. Well, she didn’t have time for this. She tried to push past him, but he stayed where he was, blocking her way.
“Can you let me out?” she asked, but fear started to prick her throat. He held a hand out to halt her, still not speaking.
“Get out of my way!” she shouted.
A shock of white hair appeared over his left shoulder. Gene. Thank God! He would collect his disturbed charge. “Gene! Can you please do something about him? Diane’s hurt!”
Gene put his hand on the kid’s shoulder and observed Stan with those watery eyes.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
Chapter 28
Gene and Stan stared at each other over the kid’s head for seconds, which seemed like hours.
“What—what are you talking about?” Her voice came out more like a croak, and she struggled to command authority. She didn’t have to sound like a scared schoolgirl. “What’s going on, Gene?”
Gene stepped in, lightly pushing the boy ahead of him and out of Stan’s way, his limp apparent by his heavy left step on the cement floor.
“Just what I said. You ain’t leaving.”
He’d lost his mind. Clearly. Her legs shook, but she stepped forward. “What’s wrong with you? This woman needs help. Did you do something to her?”
Stan gauged the space between Gene’s body and the door. She had just decided to chance a run for it, when Gene looked down at Diane, who had started to stir. He delivered a vicious kick to her head with his heavy work boot, the one worn on his good leg. Diane immediately stilled. Gene brought his other hand up from behind him. A wood-carving knife, its grooves as razor sharp as a shark’s teeth, was clenched in it.
Stan stared at him as the reality of her situation dawned on her. She took a step back, hands up in front of her in a defensive pose, and she drew on every ounce of her spin doctor skills. “Gene, this looks bad, but we can turn this into a good story. Let’s stop this right now so we can all walk away from here.”
He turned on her, his face full of hate. “You shoulda left it alone. What happened with me and Carole was between me an’ Carole.” He advanced on her, the knife pointed accusingly.
Stan took a step back, her mind racing. She had nowhere to go but the back of the building, where there was no exit. Except maybe through a dog run. She’d been wrong about Vincent and Amara. The killers were right in front of her, and she was screwed.
Gene pulled the heavy door shut behind him and turned to Russ, still standing frozen where Gene had shoved him. The young man’s eyes were glued to the floor; his hands were clenched in front of him. If the kid had a weapon, he wasn’t ready to draw it yet.
“Drag that one to the back,” Gene said, waving his knife at Diane’s still body. At Gene’s command the boy sprang into action, shoving his hair back. Stan got her first glimpse of his eyes. They were terrified. Which was a lot better than maniacal. Finally something that could work out to her advantage, if she played it right.
Russ grabbed Diane by the armpits and dragged her across the floor, the strain showing in his biceps. He wasn’t a large boy, and Diane had to be 140 or 150 pounds.
“Gene. Tell me you didn’t … . you killed Carole.”
G
ene refocused on her. “You stupid city girl. Don’t know how it works round here, do you? They woulda let it be after too long. Nobody cared about her, anyway, really. Nobody but me, an’ she was too stupid ta see it all this time. Her boy here finally could see what she was about, too. Knew he could count on me, instead.”
“Her …” The light went on in Stan’s brain, and she didn’t like the view. “You’re Carole’s son,” she said to Russ. If he really was Carole’s son, his name would be Adam. Had Gene given him an alias?
No response from him, but Gene shook his head vehemently. “He’s my son. He had no use for her. She sent him away! Sent him away and I never even knew he existed.”
His son? The last piece clicked into place. Maybe too late. His hatred for Carole was so apparent that Stan felt it spilling over to encompass her.
“So that’s your son and Carole never told you? Adam. Is his real name Adam?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the kid react to his real name. She was right. The validation filled her with dread.
“That’s what she named him. Course I couldn’t call him that ’round here, what with everything going on. People would be thinking the wrong thing. Buncha busybodies. How’d you know that, anyway?” He moved forward, faster than she thought he was able.
Stan shrank back, held up her hands in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. “You haven’t seen him in a long time, your son. You must have missed at least twenty, twenty-two years? I can see how that would make you mad.” She held up her hands and spoke soothingly as her eyes darted around, looking for something, anything, to help her. “No one would blame you for that.”
He frowned at her and motioned to the back of the room. “Twenty-three years, you want the real number. And he needed me. He … he’s been sick. I coulda helped him.” Gene looked at him again. His son didn’t seem to hear him. Gene shook his head and turned back to Stan. “Over there. Sit. At the desk.”
Diane’s desk, in the back of the room against the cement wall. That little alcove was as good as putting herself in a grave. She needed to stay out here, where she could make a break for the door or window. As it was, she was nearly backed against the wall. She reached in her pocket to feel for her keys. Still in there.