A Biscuit, a Casket (16 page)

The three stood. Only Diane looked nervous.

Mona nodded. “Would you care to say anything before we open the public hearing?”

Diane immediately shrank back, like she’d rather do anything but. Amara and Vincent
both stepped out of the aisle and over to the microphone set up at the front of the
room.

Amara spoke first. “Thank you for having us, Mayor Galveston and council.” Her voice
rang out, strong and sure of herself, in the crowded room. She’d dressed for the event.
She wore a long flowy beaded skirt in tones of brown and black, with black ballet
slipper flats peeking out from under it. A black tank top with a sheer lacy blouse
completed the outfit. She’d curled her short brown hair into full waves. The pointy
frames of her red eyeglasses reminded Stan of cat’s eyes.

“For anyone who’s not familiar with our proposal, we’re looking to purchase and expand
the former Frog Ledge Veterinary Clinic. As most of you know, the clinic was subjected
to a series of . . . unfortunate events over the summer, including the loss of its
proprietor. As such, our town has been without an official veterinarian. Dr. DiMauro,”
Amara nodded to her companion, “has owned his own traditional veterinary practice
for the past ten years in the area. And many of you are aware of the homeopathic veterinary
services I provide. We’re looking to partner and offer residents both services in
one place. In addition, we’d like to expand the building slightly to provide cage
space for animals in need of homes as they wait to be adopted.”

“Thank you, Ms. Leonard,” Mayor Galveston said. “Any commentary from the other parties?”

Vincent DiMauro leaned over to the mic. “I would like to add how excited I am at the
prospect of serving the residents of Frog Ledge and their pets. With the kind of complementary
treatment options we offer, I’m confident we’ll add a lot of value to the town. And,
we’ll be able to carry on the very fine tradition the Morganwick family began so many
years ago with their clinic.”

Stan nodded approvingly. DiMauro was a smooth character. He understood the politics
of small town Connecticut and the resistance to change, and he’d addressed it head
on. By acknowledging the long-standing presence of the Morganwick family, despite
what anyone may have felt about their standards of care, he’d tempered the probability
of old-timers complaining that they were trying to move in and wipe out their legacy.

Vincent, Amara, and Diane took their seats. Mayor Galveston opened up the public commentary
portion of the meeting. A man in back immediately stood and moved slowly to the mic.
He looked ancient, and moved that way. His thinning white hair was combed over the
age spots on his head, and he was bent over slightly at the waist. His pants hung
off him, like he’d lost a lot of weight recently. When he spoke, his voice had the
quaver of the aged.

“Myron Davenport, Frog Ledge,” he said. His posture made it seem like he was looking
at the floor. “I hope the council will give good thought to anything that will raise
taxes, especially for the senior citizens in town. There have been so many promises
of development in this town, and when it don’t come to fruition, we’re paying the
bills.” Myron Davenport nodded, as if he agreed with himself, and shuffled back to
his seat.

Mayor Galveston suppressed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Davenport. Anyone else?”

A woman Stan recognized from Izzy’s café rose. “Sheila Costanzo. I think it’s very
progressive to have a practice with both kinds of care. I, for one, will embrace it,
and I believe it will attract others from surrounding areas as well and be good for
the economy.”

The parade of residents continued, most in favor of the proposal, some grumbling about
taxes and money and hippies coming to town. Cyril Pierce was furiously pounding away
on his keyboard, alternating with scribbling notes in the steno pad next to him. He
had a lot of material at his disposal. Stan was impressed with the amount of people
investing their time to come to the meeting on behalf of the town. Although maybe
it was normal in a place like this. She didn’t know. Not that she was proud of it,
but she had never bothered to go to a town meeting any other place she’d lived to
compare.

Then Tony Falco stood and walked to the mic. He turned on a thousand-watt smile, pausing
to make sure every member of the council was included in it, then spoke. “Good evening.
Tony Falco, Frog Ledge.”

She cast a sideways glance at her mother. That same odd look was on her face as she
watched him speak.

“I want to commend this trio of good citizens for their efforts to move Frog Ledge
forward and contribute to the revitalization of the town,” Falco continued. Stan could
swear Mona Galveston rolled her eyes as she watched her opponent. “But a question
does arise, mainly regarding the expansion portion of the proposal. As the town already
oversees the Frog Ledge Dog Pound, which includes operating costs and the salary of
our very talented animal control officer, Ms. Kirschbaum”—Falco swept a hand in Diane’s
direction, in case anyone wasn’t sure who she was—“I’m curious, then, who would be
funding and staffing the sheltering portion of your proposed facility. I would imagine
it’s not something the hardworking residents of Frog Ledge would be expected to pay
for. Thank you.” Falco took his seat and looked expectantly at Diane, who had turned
redder than the candy-apple-colored convertible Stan’s dad used to drive.

Stan felt for her. She knew how stressful speaking in public was, especially when
you were put on the spot. It had happened to her many times in her early years in
corporate America, and she’d hated it.

Amara nudged Diane, who gritted her teeth and began to rise. But before she could
get to the mic, Trooper Jessie Pasquale strode down the aisle and took it.

“Trooper Jessica Pasquale, Frog Ledge. As many of you know, I oversee the animal control
function of Frog Ledge as part of my duties as resident state trooper, as the town
doesn’t employ its own police department. I’d like to address Mr. Falco’s comment.”
She gave Falco a sidelong glance that made Stan think she’d take pleasure in arresting
him after the meeting. “As many of you in town are aware, our facilities are less
than optimal, both for the animals in our care and Ms. Kirschbaum and her volunteers.
But since we’re not interested in raising taxes for the town, we’re making do. However,
I’d like to point out that any additional steps Ms. Kirschbaum is interested in taking
to better support the animals of our town is her personal choice as a resident, and
while those steps don’t require town funding, they do have my full support.”

And with that, she moved back to her spot against the wall in the back of the room.
Wow. Pasquale had just stuck up for Diane and the animals. And the new vet clinic-shelter.
Maybe she really did have a heart somewhere after all.

Amara nudged Diane again to get up, which she did, and stumbled through an explanation
of how she planned to bring in more volunteers and work at the new shelter on her
off time. After she sat down, Stan rose and went to the mic.

“Stan Connor of Frog Ledge. I just wanted to add that I’m thrilled this kind of establishment
is moving into Frog Ledge. I think it will give people convenient, healthy veterinary
care options. I’m a steadfast homeopathy client myself, and I’ve seen the difference
it’s made for my cat. And I commend Ms. Kirschbaum for her selflessness and dedication
to the animals, for using her spare time to make their lives better. Thank you.”

She went back to her seat. Diane turned and gave her a big smile as if to say
thank you
.

After that, the comments stopped and Mayor Galveston announced the public hearing
closed and a decision to be brought back to the council after the next town zoning
meeting.

Stan, Char, and Patricia waited until people filed out before leaving. “Well, that
was eye opening,” Stan said. “I never thought Trooper Pasquale would stick up for
anyone like that!”

Char laughed. “Oh, Stan. You just had a bad first experience with Jessie. She’s a
lovely girl, if not a little reserved. But she means well.”

“What an interesting bunch of characters,” Patricia said. “Is this how all small towns
work? It’s fascinating.”

Fascinating? What had come over her mother? Twilight Zone
theme song. She pushed it out. “I have to say, I’m surprised, Mom,” Stan said as
they left the chambers, opting for the stairs. “This doesn’t seem like your cup of
tea.”

“It’s fun to try new things,” her mother said dismissively.

Since when?
Stan wanted to know, but bit her tongue. As they walked back toward Stan’s house,
she had to ask the burning question. “So, Mom. That guy Tony Falco. You know him?”
She glanced at her mother, but couldn’t see her face well in the darkening night.

“Which one is that?” her mother said in a tone that Stan had heard before. It meant,
I’m completely avoiding answering you.

“The man who asked about funding the new shelter. Who also happens to be running for
mayor,” she said.

“Hmm. I don’t quite remember, Kristan. You’ll have to point him out to me if we see
him again.” And with that, she turned to speak to Char, leaving Stan wondering what
her mother was hiding.

“So what do you know about this Tony Falco character?” Stan asked.

She, Char, and Ray filed into the church the next morning for Hal Hoffman’s send-off.
Char was dressed appropriately in a long-sleeved black dress, but had tied one of
her signature orange scarves around her neck and topped off the outfit with flaming
orange pumps. She couldn’t help herself. Stan had chosen a simple black sweater dress.
Ray still wore his overalls, but had changed to a clean shirt.

“Ray’s been out all morning with the alpacas,” Char had confided on the way. “It was
hard to pull him away, but Hal was a friend.”

Char stood on her tiptoes to survey the crowd as they paused in the back of the church.
“Good turnout,” she said approvingly. “What do I know about Tony Falco? Not much.
Except that I wouldn’t vote for him.”

“No? How come, if you don’t know much?” Stan asked.

“Well, for that reason, sugar. Not to be mayor. I’m all about welcoming new folks
to town, but I have reservations about putting them in charge too early when they
don’t know us. Plus, I’m delighted with Mona’s mayorship. She knows this town and
she’s a good person to have in charge. Now, Hal was a fan of Falco—if you couldn’t
tell from that big, honkin’ sign in front of his yard. But Hal—God rest his soul—was
a Republican, like his candidate. And Tony Falco’s stump speech is all about saving
the dairy farms. He was a lobbyist before, I heard. Lobbied at the federal level for
better milk prices. So, Hal’s loyalty is understandable. But there’s something about
him that just doesn’t gel with me. Why do you ask?”

“My mother seemed to know him. Or at least know of him. Did she say anything to you?”
Stan asked.

“Why, no. I can ask her later,” Char said. “She’s delightful, you know. She seems
to be enjoying herself very much. She had breakfast with me this morning and even
came out to see the alpacas.”

“That’s great.” And surprising.

“We should find a seat,” Ray said in a properly subdued voice. “Come on, Stan.” With
his hand at each of their backs, Ray herded them down the aisle and turned them into
the first pew with enough room. Stan found herself uncomfortably close to a woman
with long, stringy gray hair topped with a black flower. She had a hankie pressed
against her face, into which she repeatedly blew her nose. Stan slid as far over against
Char as she could.

The church filled almost to capacity before the priest started the Mass. Stan hadn’t
been to church in a very long time, but was still able to recite the words to almost
everything in her head. Scary. The priest, Father Henry, had been in Frog Ledge for
a long time—Ray leaned over to whisper—and knew Hal and his family well. During his
sermon, he spoke directly to Emmalee and the boys, sitting right in front, about Hal’s
devotion to them and how they could take comfort in knowing Hal would watch over them
for the rest of their lives. To which Em and one of the younger boys started to cry,
but behind her Stan could hear snickering.

“Devoted. Like hell,” she heard a voice directly behind her mutter. Trying to be stealth,
she stole a glance over her shoulder. Who had said it? The pretty brunette with the
low-cut blouse? Or the woman next to her, who was filing her nails in her lap? She
couldn’t tell. But she did see a familiar face at the back of the church. Izzy Sweet,
dressed completely in black, including a hat, stood alone against the back of the
church, a wad of tissues clenched in her fist. Crying.

What on earth was that about?

 

 

Stan stopped by the after-funeral lunch, mainly to see if Izzy was there. She was
not, so Stan slipped out and went home to eat. She changed, checked her messages,
and returned a call to a woman named Sophie Grasso, who was friends with Lorinda from
the library. Sophie had twin cats who were turning five, and she wanted to have a
party for them. Would Stan be interested?

She’d never done a cat party before. It sounded fun. She did wonder how the rest of
the guests would feel after being transported to the party. Most cats hated a car
ride. Nutty was a prime example. But when she called Sophie back, she found out the
rest of the guests lived in the house already. Sophie had rescued ten cats from local
shelters over the past few years, and while she was used to throwing them parties,
“I want this one to be special,” she explained. “These guys had a hard life before
they joined my family.”

Stan agreed and set up an appointment for the following week to go meet the cats,
Wilma and Fred, and talk through what kinds of treats they would like best. Then,
since farmers never got a day off, Stan headed over to the Hoffmans’. It didn’t look
like Em was back yet. She hoped Em could forego work and spend the rest of the day
with family. She’d looked exhausted and beaten down at the funeral. Stan figured she
would try to get some things done for her today, even if it was just cleaning up.

After checking in with Roger and learning that two cows were sick and in quarantine
pens and the baby calf was doing well, she headed to the office. It looked exactly
as it had yesterday when Stan left. Which was unfortunate. She’d half hoped Tyler
would’ve come through and sorted through some of the stuff after their conversation
on Monday. But she hadn’t seen him on the farm since then. The poor kid was dealing
with a lot.

But there was a new accessory. Petunia the calico cat blinked at her from the middle
of the desk and swished her tail, spilling a pile of folders and their contents onto
the floor.

“Well, hello there,” Stan said.

Petunia purred. Stan loved calicos. She wondered if Petunia had ventured down to the
office to keep Hal company while he worked, or if he preferred the dog. Had he loved
his animals? Did they miss him? Or did he have the typical farm mentality, that animals
were just there, and expendable? She hoped not. Petunia and Samson were too cute for
that.

“You’re welcome to hang out. And I think I have something you’ll like.” She rummaged
through her purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag of treats—albeit a bit crushed, but
still enticing to a cat, she hoped.

They were. Petunia inhaled the first few pieces and looked up expectantly for more.
“Excellent. I’m flattered.” Stan emptied the remainder of the bag out and let the
cat enjoy. When Petunia finished, she curled up in a ball on the corner of the desk
she’d cleared off and promptly went to sleep.

Stan scooped up the fallen papers. As she went to shove them back in the stack, she
noticed a couple of pictures in the midst. Expecting to see family photos, perhaps
pictures of the kids as they grew up, she pulled them out.

She was wrong. These were postcards, all of faraway places. San Diego. San Francisco.
Napa Valley. A ski resort in Vail, Colorado. Horses in a pasture. None of them had
messages on them; rather they seemed to be mementos. Or wishes. Stan shuffled through
them slowly, thinking of Hal Hoffman the man. Until now, she’d only thought of him
as Hal Hoffman the dairy farmer, or the failed real estate mogul or the bar hopper.
But first and foremost, he was a man with dreams and hopes and desires, many of them
probably secret, stored away until they were almost forgotten. Reduced to a pile of
yellowing pictures stuffed in a folder next to receipts for the cows’ veterinary care.
Stan wondered how many of those dreams—if any—actually mirrored the life he’d just
left behind. She remembered Tyler’s words that first day, about his dad looking for
a ticket out of town. But he hadn’t made it. Now those dreams were buried for good,
along with the man who owned them.

But the farm remained. Stan picked up the checkbook and flipped through the register.
The last recorded check in the register was dated August 13. There were a few checks
missing since that one, and no noted balance. She hadn’t run across any recent bank
statements either, so those were probably arriving via e-mail. Perhaps they had gone
to an online system. It had to be easier. But then she was still out of luck, because
there was no sign of a computer.

Well, no use dwelling on something she couldn’t change. Better to do what she could.

Stan tackled the piles with vigor and determination and within an hour she’d gotten
through one third of them, written out checks for all the September and October bills
she could find, and filed the rest. Whether she could mail them or not was a different
story, but she’d recorded the amounts to ask Em.

Standing to stretch her cramped legs, Stan wandered around the tiny room. Why hadn’t
Hal kept an office out in the farm building? She couldn’t imagine the appeal of being
down here in a room that was dark even on the brightest of days. The one small window
was so dirty the sun seemed to have a filter on it.

Petunia woke from her nap, jumped down, and wandered to the back of the room, kicking
up clumps of dust as she went. Stan watched her wend her way around the ratty chair
and the filing cabinet, out of sight.

“Petunia?” Stan called. She didn’t want her to get stuck somewhere in this room where
no one ever looked. She’d have to make sure the door to the house was shut when she
left so Petunia didn’t come back in.

Stan peered behind the chair. No cat. “Want a treat?” Stan tried, shaking the bag.
She moved around the chair to check behind the ancient filing cabinet and cursed when
she tripped on something. Bending over, she saw the corner of something metal sticking
out from under the chair. She reached down and pulled it out.

A lockbox. One for a laptop, it looked like. She tried the lid. Locked. Which made
sense but didn’t help her any. She tested the box. Heavy, so something was definitely
inside it.

Why had Hal locked up his laptop if he used it for farm accounting? Perhaps he was
just cautious, especially with so many workers on the property, but still. Locked
and shoved under a chair? It seemed odd.

She set the box on the desk and checked the drawers for a random key. Nothing. Petunia
emerged from under the chair and wended her way around Stan’s legs, purring. “Were
you trying to show me this?” Stan asked. The cat rubbed her ankle. “Thanks. Now show
me the key.”

Petunia gracefully hopped onto the washer and vanished into the house, her job done.
“Great,” Stan muttered. The key had to be here somewhere, she hoped, and not buried
with Hal. She checked the filing cabinet. Nothing. She slammed the drawer in frustration.
She could wait until Em got back, which could be much later. She could try to bust
into it, but she was no lock picker. Or she could just leave it where she found it
and go about her business.

The third option seemed smartest.

Instead, she hopped over the washing machine herself and headed into the basement.
If Em came back, she could always say she was thirsty and went to get water.

She ignored the condemning voice and climbed the stairs to the main floor. The door
to the house was cracked. She pushed it open the rest of the way and found herself
in Em’s hallway. Samson trundled in to greet her. At least he was making her feel
better about being in the house. She found the den that Em and Pasquale had used the
night of Hal’s murder, thinking it might be a good option for keys. But her search
yielded nothing. She wasn’t ready to snoop in their bedroom and didn’t know where
else to look.

Maybe she’d get that water after all. She headed to the kitchen. There was a pile
of dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. She found a clean glass in the cabinet,
the last one, and filled it with ice and water from the fridge. As she drank it, she
glanced around the room. Em really needed a housekeeper. But Stan was keeping her
mouth shut about that one. She didn’t want that job, too. She finished the water and
washed out the glass. Then, because she couldn’t in good conscience leave the mess,
she filled the dishwasher and ran it. Straightened up as much as she could and swept
the floor with the broom in the corner. As she put it back, she accidentally hit the
keys hanging on a ring near the door. Bending to pick them up, the lightbulb went
off.

He probably kept the key on his ring. These had to be his keys, since Em had her car.
Score.

She hurried back down the stairs and sorted through the keys. There were three small
ones. The first one was too big. The second one fit but didn’t turn. And the last
one worked perfectly.

“Yeeah!” Stan pumped her fist in the air. She unlocked the box, confirmed that there
was a laptop in it, and raced upstairs to return the keys to their hook. She went
back through the basement, grabbed the laptop, closed the door to the main house so
Petunia didn’t come back in, and left.