by Liz Mugavero
“Hey, Ms. Connor! Sorry about that.” He looped his camera around his neck. “You looking for the boss?”
“Tyler, it’s Stan, for the hundredth time.” She gave the boy a hug. “How are you doing?” The oldest of the Hoffman children, Tyler had been the heir apparent to the Happy Cow Dairy Farm. But after his dad was killed last fall and the family did some soul-searching, Tyler turned to his real passion—photography. He’d gone out of town to school for a semester, but transferred to a local school and started working for Cyril part-time.
He smiled shyly. “I’m doing well . . . Stan. Off to shoot the new signpost on the south end of the green. Have you seen it?”
“Signpost? I haven’t.”
“It’s pretty cool. One of those old-school posts with a bunch of little white signs shaped like arrows. It’s for the historical stuff, but my mom’s farm is on there since it’s right near the green.”
“Cool! I’ll take a look later. I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t even noticed it.” The signs for all the town’s upcoming events tended to congregate at the south end of the green, across from her house. “Is Cyril here?”
Tyler pointed over his shoulder. “He’s there. Working on a story about the woman who was murdered.” He dropped his voice. “Not getting very far, from the sounds of it.” He slipped past Stan and out the door.
Stan walked into the office. They’d done a nice job down here, too. The last time she’d seen this basement, she’d been at the top of a staircase that crumbled literally beneath her feet moments later. But now, with all the debris hauled away, the walls Sheetrocked and painted, and a trendy metal ceiling installed, she would never have believed it was the same room. Cyril had positioned a few thrift-shop desks around the room for his operations and decorated the rest of the space with used, mismatched furniture—chairs that looked like they’d come from an estate sale, a small couch in the waiting area for people visiting or perhaps signing up for a subscription, a rickety table holding a Keurig and some coffee fixings.
He sat in the back of the room at the biggest desk, glaring at his computer. Next to him, a scanner crackled.
“Hey,” Stan said.
“Hey,” he said without looking up.
“No luck finding people to talk about Eleanor?” She pulled up a chair and sat in front of him.
He glanced at her, finally. “Why? You interested?”
“Not me.”
Cyril shoved his keyboard away. “What’s up?”
“Question for you.”
“That’s a switch.”
Stan looked around the makeshift newsroom. “Anyone else here?”
Cyril smiled. “My advertising person works, like, three hours a week. You’re safe.”
“When Tony was running for mayor, did you do any stories on him?”
“Of course I did,” Cyril said, offended. “Didn’t you read them?”
“I should’ve expected that,” Stan muttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. But I’m trying to find out if you found anything weird about him. You know, any scandal, or any . . . financial stuff that seemed off.”
Cyril tilted his head to the side, studying her. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you worried about Tony? It couldn’t possibly be because of what happened at his house, could it? I mean, that case is closed.” He winked at her, a gesture that just looked creepy coming from Cyril. “Isn’t it?”
Stan narrowed her eyes at him. “Can you help me or not?”
He motioned for her to stand behind him. She did. He pulled up the recently updated Holler website and typed Tony’s name in the search bar. A bunch of hits came up, mostly from city council meetings or other town goings-on. He scrolled through the list, then pulled up a story.
“Here’s one.”
Stan skimmed it. Cyril’s research said Tony grew up in upstate New York, spent summers with family in Connecticut, was a former high school baseball star, and went on to Yale. Always interested in politics, he went straight to Washington after college and worked on political campaigns of all levels. He went to law school but did not finish, and eventually went on to become a lobbyist, working for two different firms during his tenure. His mayoral campaign in Frog Ledge was his first foray as a candidate.
Cyril tried to get why Frog Ledge and why now, but Tony’s generic quote, “Connecticut has always felt like a second home,” was as far as he’d gotten.
“Family in Connecticut,” Stan mused. “Did he say where? Names?”
“He wasn’t very forthcoming,” Cyril said. “I tried to get dirt on him but really, I couldn’t come up with anything.”
“Financials?” Stan asked.
Cyril shrugged. “Unfortunately, it’s not like he was running for president and asked to release his tax returns. This job was small potatoes. The salary is $40K, and that’s public record. He did promise this would be his full-time job so he could devote himself completely to doing whatever the town needed him to do, blah blah. I think that’s in my other story.” Cyril went back to scanning his archives.
“Did he have any corporate funders?”
Cyril paused. “Not that I found.”
Frustrated, she walked around the newsroom. “How does he live in that house? No one wondered about that?”
“He didn’t live there while he campaigned,” Cyril said. “He promised everyone he’d move as soon as he won the election. Said he was taking his time looking for the right place.”
Stan frowned. “And people bought that?”
“His supporters did a good job. They were passionate about him. The farmers rallied around him hard. You must remember that. The Hoffmans were all about Tony.”
Stan did know that. Part of Tony’s appeal in this community was the lobbying work he’d done in support of farming and agriculture. That’d been his main platform. Not corporate greed.
“Do you know anything about the Trumbull family?”
“I know a lot,” Cyril said. “They’re the founding fathers of this town. A Trumbull has lived here since the day they put the sign in the ground.” He smiled. “I know where you’re going, Stan. I’ve gone there a few times myself. I’m telling you, you should think about doing freelance work for the paper. You think like a reporter.”
“I’m not looking for a job,” Stan said impatiently. “I’m looking for some intel on Tony.”
Cyril picked up a paper clip from his desk and twisted it out of shape. “I know the Trumbull kids moved away, and old man Trumbull wanted to stay there after his wife died seven or eight years ago. I did go to town hall once in hopes of finding the deed, but I couldn’t find anything with his name and I never bothered to check again. Honestly never gave it much thought after that, and no one came asking about it. That’s how I get a lot of my stories, you know. People around here love to give tips. I suppose I could do more digging, since you’re giving me a tip.”
“That would be awesome. Thanks, Cyril. Let me know what you find out. One more thing. Do you know where I can find Curtis Wallace during the day?”
“Wallace?” Now Cyril looked interested. “Why?”
“I heard he was an accountant,” Stan said, the lie slipping off her tongue. “I need a new one.”
Cyril looked suspicious. “The firm’s Maxwell and Sampson.”
“Thanks.” As she was turning to leave, Cyril called her back.
“I’ve been meaning to give you this.” He reached into his desk drawer and handed her a magazine.
Stan glanced down. Then did a double take. Nutty’s face stared back at her, larger than life in vibrant color, all Maine coon poise and arrogance on the cover of Foodie. Her eyes automatically slid to the accompanying text. Rescue cat inspires new trend in pet food. And next to that, Meet Nutty, the genius behind Pawsitively Organic. Despite herself, she couldn’t hold back the grin when she raised her eyes to Cyril.
He flashed her a thumbs-up. “Cover models wish they had that much face time.”
&nbs
p; “I guess so. Man, they covered this page with him.” And the photo was so sharp she could count his whiskers.
“You haven’t seen this yet?” Cyril gaped at her. “What’s wrong with you? If this murder hadn’t upset my editorial calendar, I was planning my own feature on Nutty, talking about his feature.”
“You were?”
“Of course. We like to promote our famous residents.”
She scanned the piece, splashed across four pages in the center of the magazine. Lots of photos. It detailed how she and Nutty found each other, why she’d started baking, and how Pawsitively Organic came about. Sheldon must be livid. There wasn’t one mention of him.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“My copy showed up Friday.”
“Showed up? You have a subscription to Foodie magazine?”
Cyril’s casual shrug, the skittering away of his eyes was her answer.
She sighed. “You’re still looking for dirt on Sheldon and the gang? You know I’m not going to comment on any of that.”
“I subscribed when you got the gig with Sheldon,” he said, defensive. “I figured you’d be showing up in all kinds of magazines like that so I wanted to be prepared.”
She blew out a breath. “Great. Let me know when you want to do the story on Nutty. I’ll clear his calendar.” She waved the magazine at him. “Do you mind if I take this?”
“Kind of,” he said. “There are some recipes in there I wanted to try.”
She stared at him. He sighed. “Fine. Take it. But at least take pictures of the recipes and text me,” he called after her as she made a beeline for the door.
Chapter 49
Every time Stan stopped at a light or stop sign—only twice between Cyril’s and her house—she couldn’t help picking up the magazine to admire her beautiful boy’s picture. Both times, someone behind her honked impatiently. She felt like getting out of the car to show them the magazine, but refrained.
At least she could show Caitlyn. But when she drove up, Caitlyn’s car was gone. She and Eva were quite the social butterflies these days. Duncan and Jake were at the pub, so they couldn’t even see it yet. She’d have to announce it to all the other animals and catch them up later. She hurried into her house, greeting Scruffy, Henry, and Gaston at the door, then went looking for the cats. She found them in the kitchen, lounging on the counter. Nutty napped, and Benny purred.
“Nutty, look!” She held up the magazine excitedly. Nutty opened one eye, gave her a look, then closed it again, his tail twitching his displeasure at her interruption. Her smile faded. “Really? You’re not even excited about being on the front cover of Foodie? What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he was worried about a Photoshop scandal. She took a picture of the magazine and texted it to Jake, Brenna, Char, Izzy, and Jessie. Everyone oohed and aahed appropriately except Jessie, whom she still hadn’t heard from. That put a damper on her excitement. The red car still hung over her head.
But, nothing she could do about it now except wait for Jessie and check her cell phone account online for the number Monica called. First, real food. She fixed a salad and green smoothie, hoping to counter the effects of all the recent sweets. While she ate, she took out a notebook and drew a table with four columns. In the first column, she wrote Richard’s name. In the second, Tony’s; the third, Monica’s; and finally Curtis Wallace’s. Under Richard’s name, she wrote “Arrested” and added a sad face. Under Tony’s she wrote “Disappeared, long history with Eleanor, blackmail? Finances?” Under Monica’s, she wrote “Suspicious behavior, didn’t get along with mom.” Finally, under Curtis she wrote “Fighting with victim.”
Stan sat back and looked at her list. No great revelations popped out at her. She started to add more things to Monica’s column: “Wrong phone passcode.” “Red car.” “Missing purse.” “What is her deal??” She underlined the last question and tossed her pen in disgust.
She found her iPad in the den. Sinking onto her comfy love seat, she logged on to Verizon and pulled up her account details. After a little scrolling, she located an unfamiliar number. Holding her breath, she dialed. The phone rang four times, then voice mail.
“I’m not available. Please leave a message.” A male voice, but muffled, as if there was a lot of background noise when he recorded. Plus, the greeting was so short. She wished she could say she recognized it unmistakably as Scott’s, but she couldn’t.
So much for that bright idea. Annoyed, she texted Jessie one more time, then curled up on her side and rested her head on her fuzzy purple pillow. Just for five minutes. She was so tired.
When she woke up, the clock on her cable box claimed it was almost eleven and she had a leg cramp from sleeping on a too-short couch. Benny was draped over her head, and Nutty’s tail hung in her face. When she moved her head, a note fluttered to the floor from the pillow: “We’re home and in bed—love, C.”
She hadn’t even heard her sister come in. And she hadn’t sent Tony his statement yet. She was surprised her mother hadn’t called to remind her. With a sigh, she swung her legs off the couch, wincing as they protested this new position. The dogs, all crowded on the floor underneath her, rolled over to see if they were moving somewhere else. When they realized she was settling into a different position, they all went back to sleep. Stan wrapped herself in the extra blanket she kept on the couch and picked up her phone, hoping for a response from Jessie. Nothing from her, but Jake left a message an hour ago.
“Hey, babe. Where are you? Brenna’s here working with me, so I’m keeping my eye on that situation. Find out anything? Love you.”
She hadn’t found out anything, but at least Jake felt like it was under control for the night. Stan pulled up a fresh document and banged out a quick-and-dirty media statement for Tony. She didn’t put a ton of effort into it, but still admired her ability to produce something good in under fifteen minutes. She e-mailed it off to Tony, then did something she hadn’t done in weeks—flipped on the TV. Scrolling channels, she paused on the classic movie station, currently airing the cult favorite Mommie Dearest. Her finger on the channel button, she paused for just a minute to watch.
An hour later, she was still glued to the screen watching Faye Dunaway portray Joan Crawford’s abusive treatment of her children, and she couldn’t stop thinking of Monica Chang. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she convinced herself it was exhaustion and all the crazy emotions that surfaced after last weekend. The whole thing was ridiculous because she had no proof that Eleanor abused Monica. Well, maybe emotionally, just knowing Eleanor.
That made her think of her own mother—not abusive, but emotionally unavailable—and she cried even more. She couldn’t think of a time growing up when she hadn’t wished for some kind of common ground with Patricia, something that would bridge the gap for good. But she hadn’t found it, and she had no reason to believe she ever would. Which was gut-wrenching and good for a few more sobs.
And that’s how Jake found her a few minutes later when he got home way earlier than usual, even though she tried to get herself together when she heard him come through the front door. He heard the TV and came looking for her. When he poked his head in the room, his smile faded to concern as he took in her red-rimmed eyes and the crumpled tissues next to her.
“Stan? What’s going on? What happened?” He came over and sat down next to her, reaching for her hand.
“Nothing,” she sniffed. “I was watching Mommie Dearest.”
He cocked his head at her. “You were what?”
“Watching that stupid movie about Joan Crawford abusing her kids.” She reached for another tissue and blew her nose. “It made me think of my mother and Monica Chang—I saw her today—and that made me sad, and now I’m concerned that maybe Eleanor was horrible to her and maybe Monica killed her because she couldn’t take it anymore. Lord knows she was horrible to everyone e-else.” She started to cry in earnest.
“Oh, honey.” Jake hugged her to him, prob
ably trying to follow that train of thought.
She rested her head on his shoulder and sniffled. When she finally stopped crying, she swiped at her tear-streaked face and looked up at him. “What are you doing home so early anyway?” she asked.
He smiled. “Nice greeting.”
She winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know. It was slow tonight and I had enough people on that they could get a head start on cleanup. I figured I’d take advantage of it. Plus, I hadn’t heard from you and I was getting worried.”
“I fell asleep, and then I figured you were busy so I didn’t call back. That’s when I started watching the movie.” She tugged her blanket tighter around her. “I still haven’t heard from Jessie on the license plate. On anything, actually. She left her office today and vanished.”
Now he frowned. “Vanished?”
“That might be dramatic, but I haven’t heard from her since. Her office door was locked and her phone’s off.”
“Maybe she and Marty went out somewhere. I didn’t see him at the pub tonight and he usually comes in on Tuesdays for the half-price appetizers.”
“Maybe,” Stan agreed, but she didn’t think so. Even though it was unofficial, Jessie would be focused on this murder case, which would mean she didn’t have time for things like date nights.
“You said you saw Monica Chang?”
“She came to town to file a police report about her missing purse.”
“With Jessie?”
“Yup. So much happened today.” She briefed him on the media, Tony’s snooping around in Jessie’s office, Monica’s visit, and her conversation with Tony afterward. Stan pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. “Cyril’s looking into Tony’s financials for me.”
“Yeah?” Jake sat back, keeping his arm around her shoulders.
She snuggled against him. “Yep. I want to know how he could afford that house. I know things are cheaper over here compared to the other side of the state, but that house cost a pretty penny.” She looked up at Jake. “I want to know if my mother bought it for him.”