A Biscuit, a Casket (15 page)

Showered, refreshed, and cleaned up, Stan dressed in a new pair of jeans, a blouse,
and comfortable flats. She’d bid her other pair of shoes good-bye and resigned herself
to wearing a pair of hiking boots next time she ventured to Happy Cow. Not that she
planned on accepting a permanent promotion to cow pusher, but just in case. Which
made her think about Hal’s missing boots from the barn, and Asher Fink’s confiscated
shoes. She needed to ask about that. She left her long blond hair loose and dried
it enough to give it waves, spritzed some perfume, and applied some eyeliner, mascara,
and lipstick.

Downstairs, her mother, Char, and Nutty lounged in the kitchen. Nutty sat on Char’s
lap as she fed him treats from Stan’s treat jar.

“I just adore this cat,” Char told her as she walked in.

Her mother wrinkled her nose but didn’t speak. Stan ignored her.

“He’s a good boy,” Stan said. “I think he’s getting fat.”

“Nonsense. He’s big boned.” Char checked her watch. “Well, the meeting’s at seven.
Do you want to go to Izzy’s for dinner first? She’s got a delightful pumpkin soup
on the menu this week.”

Stan looked at her mother. “Mom?”

“Wherever you ladies would like,” her mother said. Stan knew what she was thinking.
She usually only ate at fancy restaurants, not sandwich shops in little podunk towns.

“Izzy’s it is, then,” Stan said. It might give her a chance to pin her friend down
and ask about the business deal with Hal. Izzy had been strangely absent since Stan
and Jake had dropped her off Sunday after the chair-throwing incident.

 

 

But Izzy wasn’t at the cafe. The soup was phenomenal, though. Not even Patricia could
resist it. She was the first to finish her meal. After, the three of them headed over
to the town hall, a brick building with a stately white steeple on top. The building
blazed with lights. A hopping place to be on a Tuesday.

“The meeting’s on the second floor,” Char said. “Do you want to take the elevator?”

Stan, perusing the directory next to the front door, shook her head. “Why don’t you
go on? I need to make a quick stop,” she said. Before either of them could question
her, she headed down the hall in search of the resident state trooper’s office.

She’d been in the town hall twice—both times to license her dogs. Never to Trooper
Pasquale’s office. She checked the directory and set off toward the back of the building.
Stan had no idea if she was even at her desk at this hour, but it was worth a shot.
She rounded the corner, stopped in front of Pasquale’s office door, and knocked.

“Come in,” Pasquale commanded from the other side.

Stan pushed the door open, smiled. “Hi.”

Pasquale stared at her. “Ms. Connor. Please don’t tell me you’re coming to report
another dead body. I can’t take the excitement.”

Funny, she echoed Stan’s earlier thought when she was at the farm and Em had run in
panicked. “No, actually, I was here for the meeting and thought I’d stop in and see
how the investigation was going.”

“It’s going fine.”

“Any news?”

“You know I can’t discuss it.”

“Well, I thought maybe you had gotten somewhere with the farm staff.” Stan slid into
the chair in front of her desk. “I was over there today and Roger mentioned the interviews,
so—”

“So you thought you’d come see if you could bounce some theories around with me?”
Her tone was somewhat amused, but she still wore her cop face. She had the best cop
face Stan had ever seen. Not that she’d been around any other cops for a good amount
of time, but anyone who could hold her face in such a blank position for so long deserved
some kudos, however grudging.

“I wanted to see what you thought of the missing worker.”

Pasquale’s face didn’t change. “Missing worker?”

“The guy who was there the night of Hal’s murder. Enrico. He never showed up for work
Monday.”

Pasquale was silent for a moment. Taking the information in or formulating her nonanswer,
Stan couldn’t tell.

“Listen, Ms. Connor,” Pasquale said finally. “I appreciate your . . . enthusiasm,
and the information, but this is a murder case. It’s our top priority, and I’m very
confident in our ability to solve it. Please don’t hesitate to give us any information
you come across, but also, please don’t expect me to consult with you.”

During Stan’s corporate career, she’d met many people like Jessie Pasquale. Self-righteous,
condescending, and convinced they were smarter than everyone else. Well, she had news
for her. She was plenty smart. And now she was annoyed.

“Listen. I’ve been over at the farm helping Em, and there are a lot of people who
were unhappy with Hal. The staff was afraid of him, and that guy Peter Michelli—”

“Ms. Connor,” Pasquale interrupted. “I’m well aware of who was unhappy relating to
Mr. Hoffman, and I’m going about my investigation as carefully and thoughtfully as
possible. I will get to the bottom of it. People don’t just go around stabbing farmers—or
anyone else—with sickles in my town and get away with it. But I don’t need your help.
Am I clear?”

Stan stood up and put her coldest corporate face on. “Crystal,” she said. “Best of
luck to you. I hope no one else gets stabbed before you figure it out.” She turned
on her heel and swept out of the office, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.
Never slam it—it showed vulnerability.

She headed back around the corner to find the stairwell. A door to her right leading
to another meeting room was open. About to pass, she heard a familiar voice and halted
before coming into view.

“. . . for your own good, Emmy.” Leigh-Anne Sutton’s pleading voice. “We need to make
sure this business stays strong. For the good of all of us.”

“Leigh-Anne’s right,” a man’s voice said. He sounded somber. “Emmalee, you’re grieving.
You have your boys. You’re trying to keep the farm going, and I heard you’re missing
an employee. Let us help.”

“That’s not helping,” Em snapped. “You’re just trying to take away what Hal created.
Because you wish you’d thought of it yourself. Admit it, Peter. You didn’t give a
hoot about Hal. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one who stabbed him!”

Stan gasped, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand and pressed against the
wall. What was happening? Was Peter trying to wrench the Happy Cow co-op from Em and
her family? It certainly sounded like it.

“If anything, it should be a partnership,” a new male voice interjected. “I don’t
think it’s a wise business decision for Emmalee to cede her ownership. But I do think
you could use some help, Em. And Leigh-Anne has such a good business sense. We should
agree to give it a try, don’t you think?” He sounded like he was cajoling a little
kid.

Em didn’t agree. “Ted, if anyone had told me you’d take their side, I’d have punched
them in the nose and called them a liar,” she said, her voice as frigid as the iceberg
that had taken down the
Titanic
. “But I guess I’m outnumbered. Asher? Do you want to put your two cents in?”

Silence. Stan leaned closer, anxious to hear Asher Fink’s response.

His solemn voice resonated into the hallway. “I agree with Ted. We should vote on
electing Leigh-Anne as the co-lead of the co-op in partnership with you, Emmalee,
and Ted as the manager of daily operations. Who wants to make a motion?”

“I will.” Peter’s voice was matter-of-fact despite the callous removal of Em as the
head of the business her husband had started.

“Second,” Asher said. “All in favor?”

Ted and Leigh-Anne’s simultaneous “Ayes” drifted into the hall as Em barged out of
the room, eyes blazing. Her eyes met Stan’s and she said nothing, just glared at her,
too, and hurried for the door.

Stan didn’t stick around for the rest of the group to disperse. She found the elevator
and hit the button. The doors slid open right away and she stepped in, her mind racing.
If she interpreted what she’d just heard correctly, Em had been ousted as the head
of the co-op. All of the partners had voted against her remaining the sole overseer.
Was this the second half of a diabolical plan the group had cooked up? Had Asher tried
to be the voice of reason with Hal the day he died, when they’d met in that parking
lot? Clearly it hadn’t gone the way Asher had planned, if the conversation had deteriorated
into a shouting match. Had he gone back to the farm later, startled Hal, and stabbed
him with his own tool as he pruned his corn maze? Or had Peter shown up and done the
deed after Asher reported back that Hal wouldn’t budge? And were they now trying to
get final control of the business?

The doors slid open on the second floor. Exiting the elevator, Stan found herself
facing the large room that served as the town council chambers. Seven seats were set
up on the dais. The rest of the room was filled with benches reminding her of the
church pews of her youth—straight backed, unfriendly. A table in the corner had a
printed sign that read PRESS. Cyril Pierce was the table’s only occupant.

Stan scanned the room looking for her mother and Char. They were sitting up front,
heads bent close together, giggling like schoolgirls. Weird. She needed some time
alone with her mother to find out the real story about her visit. Patricia wasn’t
the type to drop in on people, even her daughter, especially when said daughter lived
in a small town out in the middle of nowhere. Patricia Connor was usually lost if
a decent afternoon martini wasn’t within reach at some fancy bar. Although Stan would
bet Char’s drinks would rival any served at her mother’s hoity-toity places.

She headed to their row and slid in next to her mother. “Hey.”

“Hello there. Find what you needed?” Patricia asked.

“I did,” Stan said.

Char leaned over. “Good timing. It’s going to be packed! I guess everyone is interested
in a new vet clinic. This will be a great meeting!” She rubbed her hands together
with glee.

Stan had to smile at her enthusiasm. Char made everything fun. She looked around,
trying to get a sense of attendees. There was Betty Meany, with a couple of folks
from the library. Another group of people she recognized from the War House clustered
together near the back, not far from Cyril Pierce’s press area. Stan wondered if any
other journalists ever showed up, or if Cyril’s only competition was his own pen.

The War House volunteers were almost unrecognizable tonight. The four men and two
women were dressed in regular clothes for your average seventy- or eighty-year-old,
whereas they normally wore period costumes from Revolutionary War times. Most days
they took turns sitting in front of the historical building, encouraging people to
come in for tours. They often staged reenactments of Revolutionary battles on the
town green, as a tribute to the war activities of the past. Frog Ledge had been an
integral site during that time. Tonight they looked like regular citizens from the
present.

Huddled together in the front row were Amara Leonard, Vincent DiMauro, and Diane Kirschbaum.
No sign of Jake, but Jessie Pasquale had come in and stood near the back. Made sense
as Diane’s boss. Stan wondered how she felt about this shelter proposal. Or if she
was there to investigate Hal’s murder and didn’t care, given the close eye she had
on Asher Fink, who had also come up after the co-op meeting ended. Stan wondered why.
He didn’t live in town. There was no sign of Ted Brahm, Peter Michelli, or Leigh-Anne
Sutton. Or Emmalee.

Stan leaned over to her mother again. “Are you sure you want to sit through this,
Mom?”

“Of course I’m sure, Kristan. It’s interesting.” Patricia squeezed Stan’s hand. Stan
almost fell off her bench. What had come over her mother?

Then, all of a sudden, Patricia’s gaze shifted. Her hand clenched Stan’s tighter,
an unconscious motion. Stan followed her stare. Tony Falco stood just outside their
row, speaking to a woman with blond curls tighter than a standard poodle’s and a suit
that had seen better days in the eighties. His smile came so easy it seemed fake.

“What’s wrong, Mom? You know that guy?”

Her mother didn’t answer, but clamped her lips together and looked away. She turned
her body back to Char and said something. Stan looked at the man again. He was still
talking to Poodle Woman, but his gaze had gone to her row. Specifically, to her mother.
Did they know each other?

A door to the side of the council seats opened and the town officials filed to their
chairs, causing the rest of the still-chatting stragglers to disperse and take their
own seats. To the far left, on their side, was Mona Galveston, the mayor. Stan liked
Mona. She would definitely vote for her on election day in a couple of weeks. She
had no idea who Tony Falco was as a candidate—her own fault. But he hadn’t been overly
friendly in the bar. Which could be chalked up to the spill.

The other councilmen and -women, many of whom Stan hadn’t met, turned their attention
to Mona as she rapped her gavel. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Frog Ledge.
Thank you for joining us tonight for our public hearing about the property at Eighty-two
Main Street, the former Frog Ledge Veterinary Clinic.” She glanced down at some papers
in front of her. “According to the paperwork filed with the town clerk, there is a
group of citizens in town who wish to buy the damaged clinic and renovate it. The
building will house a veterinary clinic offering both allopathic and homeopathic traditions.
A request was also filed to extend the rear of the building for shelter space, to
house animals in need of homes.” Mona smoothed the papers, folded her hands on top
of them, and surveyed the crowd. “Do we have that group of citizens here?”