A Biscuit, a Casket (4 page)

Stan woke mere hours later to a giant face inches from her own, eyes boring into her
like they were trying to suck out her brain. This was followed by a paw hovering over
her nose. She rolled away and came face to face with two more sets of eyes—one glaring,
the other innocently blinking.

Ugh. Saturday morning already. She was exhausted. And a glance at her Zen alarm clock
next to the bed told her she had good reason to be. It was only seven. She hadn’t
gone to bed until nearly four.

“What, are you all ganging up on me?” She pushed herself up on one elbow and surveyed
her audience. Henry had now put both front paws on the bed and pushed his head closer,
trying to nuzzle her arm. Nutty, owner of the glaring eyes, stayed where he was, conveying
his displeasure at having to wait for breakfast. Scruffy snorted and rolled over on
her back, kicking her pretty little paws up in a plea. How quickly they forgot they
had eaten less than four hours ago.

“Okay, I get it, I get it. You’re hungry. And you two have to go out,” Stan said to
the dogs. Scruffy
woo-wooed
in agreement. Henry sat back down and howled.

Stan looked at Nutty. He returned her stare. His gaze seemed reproachful, his flicking
tail saying,
Why did you have to bring these dogs here? They’re so loud. And now I’ll have to wait
for my breakfast.

Reaching over, Stan stroked him, all the way to the tip of his tail. “Ah, come on,”
she said. “You know you love them. Well, at least Scruffy. Henry’s growing on you.”

Nutty turned his head and jumped onto his window bed. Crossed his paws and put his
head on them.

“You can deny it all you want, but it’s true.” Stan tossed the covers off and swung
her legs over the side of the bed. With one hand she scratched Scruffy’s belly; with
the other, she rubbed Henry’s head. She understood Nutty’s position, even though a
lot was bravado. But so far, Henry had been nothing but deferential to his feline
counterpart. Stan figured Nutty would keep the game going until Henry unequivocally
got the message: Nutty was in charge. The posturing had to last in case Henry was
slow.

It had been just the two of them, Stan and Nutty, when they’d moved to Frog Ledge
in June. Nutty had wandered into Stan’s life a few years back as an injured stray
cat when she lived in her condo in West Hartford. He had parked himself on the lawn
until she went out to investigate. A visit to the vet revealed Nutty had possibly
been hit by a car, so Stan had taken him in and nursed him back to health. He also
suffered from irritable bowel disease, which had triggered Stan’s interest in baking
homemade treats and preparing food for him. They’d decided they liked each other,
his homemade diet improved his health, and they had gone on to live happily ever after,
so far.

Now, a mere four months after moving to Frog Ledge, their family had doubled with
Scruffy first, then Henry. Scruffy was a southern transport who stole Stan’s heart.
Henry had claimed Stan after he tasted her homemade treats when they’d met at the
pound. The brown pit bull with the white spot on his face was a muffin. Stan had subsequently
learned the depth of his loyalty during a hairy situation. After that, she couldn’t
leave him languishing there, homeless.

“Let’s go, then.” She stepped into her furry pink slippers and pulled a sweatshirt
over her pajamas. It was chilly today. She herded the dogs out the back door and headed
into the kitchen to make coffee.

Stan loaded organic beans from Izzy Sweet’s Sweets, the local coffee and chocolate
shop, into her grinder. She filled up the water, popped a filter in, and waited, mug
in hand, for her drug of choice to brew. She should have whipped up a smoothie first
and gone out for a run, but she wanted coffee. Now. It had been a late night. And
not a good one, at that.

“Did you hear what happened, Nutter?” she asked her cat when he strolled into the
kitchen.

Nutty stared at her, eyes unblinking. Stan figured that meant no.

“There’s been a murder on the block.” She waited for the appropriate shock. Nutty’s
expression didn’t change. “That’s a little coldhearted,” she remarked. “Just because
you didn’t know the guy doesn’t mean you can’t feel a little badly.”

Nutty rubbed on the table leg and meowed. Clearly, he was only interested in breakfast,
not the untimely death of Hal Hoffman. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes until the
dogs come in,” she told him. “The kitchen’s only doing one shift today.”

Nutty meowed at her again. A challenge. Who said animals didn’t talk back?

The coffee was taking much too long to brew. She went into the sunroom while she waited
to watch the dogs. Henry ambled along as Scruffy bounced around him, trying to get
him to play tug of war.

The coffeepot finally beeped and she poured a large cup of the thick, black liquid.
The coffee was a welcome jolt to her exhausted system, and she sighed happily with
her first sip. Leaving the dogs to play a few minutes longer, she went to the front
door to see if newspaperman Cyril Pierce had been on the job.

He certainly had. The
Frog Ledge Holler
sat on her front porch, a perfect throw from whomever Cyril, its esteemed editor,
used these days—likely a local elementary schoolkid with a dependable bike and a desire
to make a few bucks a week hurling papers at houses. She picked up the plastic-wrapped,
skimpy local newspaper and went back inside.

Front page, above the fold: L
OCAL
D
AIRY
F
ARMER
F
OUND
D
EAD IN
C
ORN
M
AZE
.

Stan skimmed the story, which detailed how Harold “Hal” Hoffman’s body had been discovered
by an employee working in the corn maze last night. No further information until the
autopsy was conducted. The photo of Hal was full color, clear and bright. She’d only
ever seen him in jeans and a flannel shirt, a hat pulled low over his face, as he
went about his business around town. But this photo, with no hat and the hint of a
dress shirt apparent, showed how attractive he had been. Stan hadn’t realized. The
years of farming and harsh New England weather had rested a lot better on him than
they had on his wife. Then again, if the gossip mill was to be believed, she did a
heck of a lot more of the farming than Hal had.

A chorus of barks and
woo-woos
from out back caught her attention. Stan dropped the paper and hurried to the sunroom
door to see her dogs at the fence. She stepped out to see what they were looking at.
Beyond the yard of her next-door neighbor, Amara Leonard, the Hoffmans’ dairy cows
were clearly visible as they started their morning stroll to the grassy field at the
back of their property. Scruffy loved cows and always tried to get their attention.
Henry just followed her lead.

“Let’s go, guys. Breakfast!” Stan called. The dogs came charging to the door. “You
can’t go play with the cows today,” Stan told Scruffy, ruffling her ears, which looked
like pigtails. “Although I’ll probably have to go visit them. See how Em’s doing.
It’s probably the neighborly thing to do, right?”

The dogs stared at her as if to say,
Don’t ask us about neighborly etiquette.

Stan sighed. “Come on, then.” They raced to their breakfast spots, meeting up with
Nutty, who had already assumed his position on the counter. Stan headed to the fridge,
but heard her iPhone ring. Where had she put the stupid thing? She stood still and
listened. Traced the sound to her coat pocket, which still hung on the back of the
chair where she’d draped it after she’d gotten home this morning. As she pulled the
phone from the pocket, she swore she could still smell the crisp, fall, farm air clinging
to her coat. It gave her the creeps thinking of that trench of mud behind the corn
maze.

Shaking it off, she glanced at the readout. Jake. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing
up so early?” He’d probably gone to bed later than her if he’d closed the bar.

“How are you holding up?” Jake asked.

“I’m fine. I’m going to stop by Em’s this morning.” She went to the fridge and pulled
the dogs’ and cat’s food out. They were all still glued to their spots, watching her
every move. “I feel so bad for her. What a nightmare.”

“I know. But she’s a tough lady. She’ll get through it.”

“I’m sure she will,” Stan said.

Silence on Jake’s end of the phone. And no jokes. Odd. Stan popped the bowls of the
animals’ chicken, rice, and cranberry dish into the microwave and reheated.

“Will you be at the bar today?” he finally asked. Saturdays were usually when she
and Brenna got together to discuss the upcoming week’s orders.

“Yes. I’ll be over sometime midafternoon. Will you, uh, be around?”

“I will,” he said. “Big night tonight. The step dancers are coming in.”

Jake’s place was well known for the live Irish acts who came from all over the country
to perform. Tonight, a national Irish step-dancing troupe would pack the place to
the hilt.

“I thought about canceling after last night, but the group had already traveled all
the way here. And I think Hal, of all people, would’ve wanted the show to go on. He
loved Irish music. You gonna stay to see them?” he asked.

Stan thought about it. She probably would. She didn’t get out much these days, and
it seemed like a fun way to spend the night. Being in the house alone, thinking about
what had happened two doors down, wasn’t all that appealing. And she’d get to see
Jake, a little voice reminded her. She stuffed a gag in the little voice’s mouth.

“I think so,” she answered carefully, spooning the food into three bowls. “But we
can talk about it later.”

“Okay then,” Jake said. “I’ll see you in a bit. Dunc says bring treats.”

“Duncan knows that’s a given,” Stan said.

She hung up and fed her animals, watching them lick their plates clean. An evening
with Jake, even though he would be working, was tempting. She had to figure out if
she was ready to give in.

 

 

“Someone killed the farmer? With a hook? Like a pirate hook?” Nikki Manning’s incredulous
voice resonated over the phone, making Stan want to laugh, which she didn’t think
was appropriate. Instead, she took a long swig of coffee before answering.

“Someone killed the farmer. With a hooklike thing. I don’t know what you call the
hook, but it looked horrible. Short, curved, wooden handle. Kind of like a miniversion
of the Grim Reaper’s sword thingy.” Despite herself, she shuddered. “And only two
houses down from me, might I add.” In addition to talking everything through with
Nutty, Stan needed her best friend’s take on the recent events. Nutty hadn’t had much
to say about the incident.

“Sword thingy? It’s a scythe. Well, the Grim Reaper’s tool is a scythe. I think the
smaller one is a sickle. Hold on, I’ll send you a picture.”

Stan frowned. “How do you know so much about scythes and sickles?”

Nikki laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t do it. Rhode Island has farming types, too,
remember? My dad had lots of those tools around here. He did a lot of work outside,
grew some stuff. Here it comes.”

Seconds later Stan felt her phone vibrate in her hand as a text came over. She pulled
it away to look at it. Nikki had sent her a picture of what looked remarkably like
what had killed Hal. “A sickle,” Stan read. “Yep, that’s it. Who would’ve known? And
who would’ve been carrying this around with no one noticing?”

“Wikipedia says it’s used to cut corn,” Nikki said.

“Makes sense. There’s a corn maze there. That’s where they found the body.”

“Maybe the farmer was using it and someone turned it on him. That’s hardcore.”

Stan could hear Nikki chewing on the other end of the line, probably her usual granola
and fruit combo. Then she piped up again, presumably after swallowing. “But maybe
he deserved it. Dairy farms aren’t nice places in general. Please tell me this isn’t
a factory farm.”

Stan should’ve expected that. There was no greater animal advocate than Nikki Manning.
She’d started her animal transport business on a shoestring when they were in college
and over the years built up her reputation, community support, and a network that
extended from Maine to Georgia. The rescued dogs—and sometimes cats—were brought safely
to her home in Rhode Island, or to other shelters that helped get them adopted. Although
her transport mainly helped dogs on death row in southern states, she advocated nonstop
for everything four legged and was quite outspoken about it. She was a staunch vegan
who preferred the company of animals to most people. She was also Stan’s oldest friend,
which in Nikki’s mind gave her certain liberties. Like lecturing her.

“It’s not a factory farm. I know what factory farms are, Nik. Give me some credit.”
Stan rose and went to her coffee bar, topped off her cup. It was Izzy’s special bold
blend, something Colombian and delightful. “This is a local farm. The cows walk around.
It’s a huge piece of land. They even have a spot down the hill in back with all these
little ponds.”

Nikki grunted. Stan could picture her in her usual outfit of jeans and cowboy boots,
sitting at her messy kitchen table surrounded by cans of dog food, paperwork, and
a few cats. “Don’t believe everything you hear. They still have a crappy life.”

“The farmers or the cows? Kidding,” she said when Nikki started to protest. “I get
it. Can we go back to the dead farmer for a second?” Stan got up and walked around
her bright kitchen. The tangerine-colored walls put a smile on her face even on the
gloomiest of days. She’d decorated with yellow and red accents and all red appliances,
and hung wind chimes over the sink in front of the window and in all four corners
of the skylight. They sparkled when the sun shone on them and cast extra light around
the room. She’d wanted a room that made her feel good. Since she started baking for
a living, she was glad she’d made the kitchen so Zen with all the time she spent there
these days. She straightened the stack of mail she’d been neglecting while she planned
Benny’s party over the last week, promising to get to it today. She pulled the blinds
up on the window to let the hazy sun in. Better than nothing.