A Biscuit, a Casket (18 page)

And every person in the place—all male—stared at her.

Her jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and black ankle boots had seemed acceptable when
she left the house. Now, she felt like she’d broken some kind of rule in here. Too
many clothes? An uncomfortable realization. But thanks to the chew-’em-up-and-spit-’em-out
atmosphere of corporate America, Stan had an edge. She knew how to keep a poker face,
how to pretend nothing bothered her when in fact, she wanted to curl up in a corner
and cry. She drew on every ounce of those tactics to look straight through the men
leering at her as she walked. Finally she made it to the less-crowded end of the bar,
AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” pounding through her brain.

The bartender, a greasy, foul-looking man with acne-pocked skin, ignored her for about
five minutes. While she waited, she observed the other patrons. A guy with a shaved
head sat closest to her, alternating between staring moodily into a beer mug and staring
at her. Two seats away from him, two guys with black do-rags huddled together, talking
in hushed tones. Their jeans hung way below their boxers, and Stan swore she saw a
glint of black metal jammed into the elastic waistband of one of the guys.

What the heck was she doing here? Let Em come find out what her husband was up to.
Or better yet, Trooper Pasquale. At least she got paid for this crap. And it was really
none of her business, after all. She’d just made up her mind to leave when the bartender
finally turned to her, observing with flat eyes. “Yeah?” he said.

She’d lost her chance. She had to say something now. Stan pasted on her best sexy
smile and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. Her recent haircut had been a fabulous
one, and her hair felt extra bouncy and thick. She hoped it would distract him. “I’m
looking for someone who may have been here last Thursday. Hal Hoffman? Do you by any
chance know if he had an appointment with someone here? At eleven?”

The guy’s eyes narrowed to mean slits, then he barked out a laugh. Instead of answering
her, he looked at his line of customers. “Did he have an appointment, she wants to
know. Like this is some doc’s office or sumthin’.” He looked back at Stan, the sneer
returning. “Whadda I look like, a secretary? How the hell should I know? You want
a drink or what?”

Stan’s gaze fell on the dirty, smudged glass the guy dried with a towel that looked
like it hadn’t seen a washing machine since 1978. “No, thank you,” she said, backing
away. “I’ll just, uh, ask around.”

The bartender glared at her, then went back to his real customers. Stan didn’t care
to have the same conversation with any of the other patrons, so she headed for the
door and the safety of her dogs. But a body cut in front of her, blocking her way.
She found herself staring into the chest of a leather vest, on top of a big beer belly.
Tilting her head back, she looked up into a face meaner than the bartender’s, racked
with scars and half hidden by a huge, bushy mustache that moved as he spoke. What
she could see of his teeth under the mustache were yellow. He reeked of stale cigars
and sweat. But by far, the most disturbing aspect of his appearance was the scarred-over
hole in his neck, a perfect circle.

Like a bullet hole.

“’ Scuse me, miss,” he said with a leer. His voice sounded odd—slightly robotic. Probably
something to do with said hole. “Couldn’t help but overhear. You a friend of Hal Hoffman?”

“Yes,” Stan said. Behind her, she heard chairs scraping, heavy boots hitting the floor
as men stood.

“You taking care of his affairs? Since I heard he ain’t with us anymore.”

Stan glanced over her shoulder. Saw the bartender throw down his towel and disappear
through a door behind the bar. “Yeah, I am.”
She was?

A couple of the men moved up behind her, circling. Blocking her way to the front door.

“We had an agreement. Beginning Saturday. I gotta know if we’re keeping that on the
books.”

She swore she could feel someone’s breath on the back of her neck. Possibly the click
of a switchblade opening. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. An agreement?
For what? Seemed dangerous to say no. But what would she be agreeing to? Could be
any kind of criminal activity. Illegal gambling. A drug deal. A hit, for all she knew.
Or she could stop acting like she was on an episode of
The Sopranos
.

But she’d honed her nonanswering skills well over the years. Maybe that would get
her out of this. “Can you come by the farm Saturday?” she said. “We can finalize everything.”

The guy was silent for the longest thirty seconds of her life, watching her. Finally
he nodded, smoothing his mustache down with one hand. “I’ll do that,” he said.

“No problem,” Stan said, pasting a smile on. Then she turned and headed for the door
as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Now she just had to figure out what
to do on Saturday.

Stan got to Izzy’s just as her friend was unlocking the doors Thursday morning. Enough
was enough. Her friend had to talk to her sometime. And after last night’s episode,
both on the phone with Izzy and at Bruno’s, Stan felt she deserved some answers.

After leaving Bruno’s in a mad rush she’d called her mother, trying to sound normal,
only for Patricia to tell her she was eating with Char and Ray. Just as well. Her
conversation with Bullet Man had rattled her, and she wouldn’t be good company anyway.
Which would cause a whole slew of aggravation with her mother.

Stan had gone home after driving a few miles out of her way to make sure no one followed
her. She’d locked her doors and sat in her den, in close proximity to a window, so
she could see if he was coming to get her. Now she had to worry about what would happen
on Saturday because she’d opened her big mouth. And Izzy was somewhere in the middle
of all this.

No, Izzy would talk to her today if she had to tie her to the chair and pour espresso
down her throat. Determined, she shoved the front door open just as Izzy opened it
for her. Stan almost ended up on her face on the café floor.

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “Graceful entrance. You need coffee that bad?”

“No. I need to talk to you.” Stan took a deep breath and regained her poise. “And
don’t tell me you’re too busy, or too upset that I lied about pizza. I’m your friend
and you can’t avoid me forever.”

Izzy listened to her dramatic speech without comment, then she shrugged. “Sure. Come
on in. We’ll talk.”

Stan opened her mouth, then closed it again. That was easy. She followed Izzy into
the shop. Coffee brewed, and Stan inhaled the scent of bold, bitter beans. Heaven.

“Want a cup?” Izzy asked, a hint of a smile on her lips. Clearly Stan needed to work
on her poker face.

“Sure. Do you have someone to work the counter?”

“Oooh. This is going to be a
serious
conversation, then.” Izzy winked at her friend, a hint of her usual spunk shining
through. “I do have help today. Della?” she called, heading over to pour Stan a cup.

Della Leroy, one of Izzy’s weekday staffers, appeared in the kitchen doorway and waved
at Stan. “Good morning! You need me out here, Izzy?”

Della was Stan’s favorite of Izzy’s workers. She couldn’t quite tell how old she was
due to her youthful brown skin and her funky, purple-tinged hair (which may or may
not have been hair extensions), but her best guess was early fifties. Della was as
loud as she was round, and she had a knack for coaxing people to try something from
the pastry case, or a new kind of chocolate-flavored something to accompany their
intended purchase.

“Could you do the counter for me for a little while? Stan and I need to chat.”

She figured Izzy would sit them down at a table in the back of the store, but instead
she handed her the coffee and led her into the curtained-off area she reserved for
small events, like poetry slams or exhibitions of local artists’ work. They went through
another curtain with a door behind it. Izzy unlocked it with a key from her key ring.
It opened into a stairwell. They were halfway up when Stan realized Izzy was taking
her to her apartment. And that she’d never been up there, in all the months she’d
known Izzy. She hadn’t really thought of it before. Maybe Izzy was just a very private
person—something Stan could relate to—or maybe she didn’t consider Stan a good friend
after all. She pondered why that realization stung.

Izzy unlocked a door at the top of the stairs and led her into an adorable kitchen
with sunny yellow walls, a cozy kitchen table, and three dogs jockeying for position
to greet them.

“Hey, guys!” Stan got down on her knees to give all the dogs hugs. Baxter, Elvira,
and Junior crowded around her, all looking for treats. Stan was happy to oblige. She
had her usual treat bag she brought when visiting Izzy.

Once the dogs were happy, she got to her feet and brushed her jeans off. Izzy was
pouring a glass of orange juice. “You all set with coffee? Want anything else?”

Stan declined.

“Let’s go sit, then.” Izzy walked into a living room that looked like a New York City
penthouse featured in a photo shoot—black and white and modern with splashes of red.
Stan wondered how she kept everything so pristine with the dogs there. She already
felt like her house needed constant cleaning with two dogs and one cat.

She perched on the edge of the black sofa. Izzy sat across from her on the white chair
with a red throw. She crossed her long legs, sipped her drink, and regarded Stan,
looking more like a movie star than a café owner in a sleepy, rural town. “So, what’s
up?”

“We need to talk.”

“You said that,” Izzy said. “What are we talking about?”

“You know what. Hal Hoffman. And Bruno’s.”

“Bruno’s? What about Bruno’s? Did you go there last night?” She raised her eyebrows
at Stan’s nod. “How was your pizza?” Sarcasm tinged her voice.

Stan bared her teeth. “I didn’t get pizza. After my experience in the pub I figured
it wouldn’t be that good after all.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, come on, Izzy. I didn’t come here to play games. I’m your friend and I care about
you. You never told me the real story about the guy in your café, and now I hear you
and Hal had some deal going. When I mentioned Bruno’s you clearly knew what kind of
place it was. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Izzy narrowed her eyes. “How did you hear about that deal?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Great. So the whole town knows about my bad judgment.” She flopped back on her chair,
put her head on the back, and stared at the ceiling.

“The whole town doesn’t know anything unless you told them. Except maybe that you
threw a chair at one of your customers,” Stan said.

Izzy shook her head. “He wasn’t a customer. You want to know why I threw a chair at
that guy? Because he threatened me. Nobody threatens me and gets away with it.”

“How did he threaten you? Did you tell Pasquale?”

“Yeah, right. You can’t exactly tell the cops you borrowed money from a scumbag like
that and expect them to have any sympathy. So no, I didn’t tell the cops anything.
Fortunately, the scumbag was scared of being found out, too, so he dropped the charges.
I figure he’ll come looking for me eventually, some night when I’m near a dark alley
alone.”

“Izzy. Did you borrow money from a gangster? Does he operate at Bruno’s?”

Izzy scooped Elvira, who had wandered into the room, onto her lap, nuzzling the dog’s
head against her chin. “I suppose I should start from the beginning.”

“That’d be nice,” Stan said.

Izzy ignored her sarcasm. “When I got to Frog Ledge and bought this place, I threw
my entire life savings into it, between the mortgage and the repairs. This floor was
perfect but I needed to redo downstairs. Expensive, but worth it. I wanted to own
a business so bad.” Her tone was wistful. “And I’m doing way better than I expected.
I wish more of the locals would come around, but it’s all good.

“Except that I don’t have a cushion anymore. And I had a problem with some of the
work in the kitchen, so it got a little out of hand, expense-wise. So I’ve been living
on the edge a bit.” She laughed self-consciously. “But who doesn’t do that in America
today, right?”

Stan stayed silent. She didn’t usually live on the edge, financially or otherwise.
Financially, she knew it was wise. In other aspects of her life, she figured she was
shortchanging herself. Although this week alone she’d broken into someone’s computer
and made a possible deal with a gangster, both of which could qualify.

“I figured since the stock market was tanking, real estate might be the way to go
to make some cash back,” Izzy went on. “I bought a piece of commercial property and
it was a disaster. Two businesses moved in, then moved out again in less than three
months. I can’t keep a tenant in there to save my life, and I can’t sell it.”

“Where is the property? Here in Frog Ledge?”

“Actually, no. It’s in Willard.”

Stan thought of her adventure last night. “Near where I was last night?”

Izzy was silent, but her facial expression said it all.

“Oh, God. It’s not affiliated with Bruno’s, is it?”

Izzy wrinkled her nose. “Not affiliated, but near enough that no one wants to be in
that neighborhood. Between the bikers and the other . . . problems, it’s not good
for business. And I didn’t do my homework well enough. Nothing new there, either.
I can’t unload it. So I’m even more strapped. And then, the perfect place came along
for my second dream.”

“Second dream? I’m assuming the café was your first?”

Izzy grinned. “Actually, marrying Brad Pitt was my first, but I gave that up a while
back. I don’t like his new scruffy look anyway. So yeah, the café. Next is a bookstore.
Ideally, they would be in the same place, but my shop expanded more than I had planned,
so it wouldn’t work right now. Nope, there’s a place a little ways down the street
that’s perfect for a bookstore. It was on sale a little over a year ago. It seemed
like fate. And here’s where the story goes wrong.”

“Oh, God. What did you do?” Stan wanted to cover her ears. She hated hearing stories
about bad financial decisions. She’d learned money at a young age, and her years in
financial services gave her some great insights into investments and best practices.
She’d been in such good shape being laid off hadn’t even made her bank account blink.
But it sounded like Izzy hadn’t been as informed, or as thoughtful.

“I found a partner to buy the building with me.”

“Hal Hoffman.”

“Bingo! You get the prize behind door number three.” Izzy rose abruptly and headed
into the kitchen. She refilled her glass and returned. “Again, Impulsive Izzy. Not
enough homework. My uncle knew Hal. They were both members of the regional Chamber
of Commerce, years ago. I guess the fact that they were friends shoulda clued me in.
My unc had some issues. Anyhow, he told me I needed to hook up with Hal—not literally,
so don’t wiggle your eyebrows at me—and get in on his real estate biz. Always had
his eye on the prize, my uncle did.”

“So where’s your uncle now? Can he help?” Stan asked.

“In jail out west somewhere,” Izzy said without missing a beat.

“Oh.” Stan wasn’t sure she wanted to know why.

“I listened to him. Came to Frog Ledge and started this business, and scoped out the
opportunities with Hal. Hal came in the café a lot. Wanted to supply my dairy. Loved
that I wanted to get in on the real estate stuff. I think he saw me as a good prospect
to help him get rich quick. Hal’s deals were pretty sketchy. But I wanted the store,
so I got on board. And then I was on the hook. My fault, again. I didn’t question
where he was getting the dough. Plus, he was involved in a lawsuit. Supposed to be
getting money off some countersuit, and he was going to dump a chunk of that settlement
right into the building.” She smiled wistfully. “I could smell my bookstore. But the
lawsuit didn’t get settled as fast as he thought. The payments stopped getting made.
And he avoided me.

“When I finally confronted him, he confessed he didn’t have his share of the money.
So I tried to cover the payments—I really did. I didn’t have staff for a while so
I didn’t have to pay salaries. He gave me the dairy supplies for free to try to help,
but his wife caught wind of it and freaked out.” She shook her head. “It all went
to hell. The loan sharks started putting pressure on me when they realized he couldn’t
pay. Then they stopped coming around for a while, so I thought maybe he had gotten
his act together. Turns out, he was gambling—don’t ask me whose money. Turned a few
profits, and then he lost big. The visits started up again. And then the son-of-a-gun
got himself killed. And I have mortgages on three buildings that I can’t keep paying.”
Her eyes watered and she turned away.

“So the guy in the chair incident. He was sent by the person Hal dealt with to get
a loan?”

Izzy nodded, still facing away from Stan.

“Do you know his name?” Stan’s mind immediately went to the guy with the hole in this
throat at Bruno’s. “What did he look like? Did he have a hole in this throat?”

“A
what?”

Guess not. “Forget it. His name?”

“No idea. I let Hal handle it.”

“Izzy.” Stan got up from the couch and perched on the edge of Izzy’s ottoman. “Do
you think these people killed Hal?”

Tears dripped down Izzy’s cheeks as she faced Stan. “I don’t know. I wondered when
. . . I saw the paper. But I don’t know. And then I worry they might kill me. That’s
why I got freaked out that day. In the café.”

“Understandable.” Stan got up and paced, her brain working. “Have you been threatened
in any other way?”

“Couple of phone calls, but can’t prove who made them.” Izzy waved a dismissive hand.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing the cops can do. It’s not like it was a legal loan or
anything. I’m telling you, if I don’t make one kind of stupid decision with a man,
I make another. At least I didn’t get involved with him, eh? Now everyone just thinks
I was.” She swiped angrily at her cheeks.

Stan rose and placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Izzy. Everyone makes decisions
they wish they could do over. We just have to figure out how to get you out of it.”
She dropped her hand and paced the living room, her mind racing. “Have you talked
to a corporate Realtor?”

Izzy nodded. “No one wants to touch the Willard neighborhood. And I don’t want to
sell the other building, just refinance.”

Stan paced again. “Okay. We could also talk to a local bank. Sometimes they’re better
able to lend money, especially if it’s to an established local person. We could try
to get a better loan for all three. I’m sure the interest on whatever Hal did is insane,
am I right?”