A Biscuit, a Casket (7 page)

Jake was used to his sister, and Stan could tell even he was caught off guard. “Wait—what?
Em? Jess, stop it. That’s going too far.”

Jessie shook her head slowly. “It’s not me, Jake. My boss is very interested in this
case. Probably because he knows my history with the family. He immediately pounced
on Em. I’ve been tracking her day, and . . .” She trailed off. “There are some missing
pieces.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Of course I asked her. She swears she was at the farm. Forgot about the conference
and was running late when she remembered it, so she drove over there but allegedly
couldn’t locate the teacher. Said after that she returned to the farm, but none of
the workers remember seeing her. The ones we’ve been able to talk to, that is. But
the teacher says she was there until at least three-thirty, waiting for the Hoffmans.”

“Did you talk to the worker who was at the farm last night?” Stan asked.

Pasquale grimaced. “Sort of. He spoke enough English that we didn’t get the translator
out of bed, but I think we’re going to need a longer conversation with him. Basically
he didn’t see Hal at all yesterday, because his shift starts in the afternoon. But
he didn’t see Em either. So you see what I mean. It’s not going well.” She sat on
the stool, a movement that, to Stan, signified defeat.

Jake sensed it, too. He paused from arranging his garnish trays and grabbed a beer
mug, filled it with ice and water, and placed it in front of his sister. “Did you
eat?”

She shook her head.

“Veggie wrap?”

A nod.

“Chips?”

She hesitated. Jake took that for a yes. “Be right back.” He left the bar and disappeared
around the same corner Brenna had a few minutes earlier.

Stan was left with Pasquale.
Well, this is awesome.
She picked up her water glass and swirled the remaining ice around for something
to do. Pasquale hadn’t touched her water. Instead, she observed her surroundings as
one would a sleazy alley they’d been forced to walk down in the dark. Either she wasn’t
a drinker and thought bars were a waste of time, or she had a particular aversion
to her brother’s place. Stan wanted to ask.

“Do you have any thoughts on who killed him? Aside from Emmalee?” she asked instead.

Pasquale frowned. “I can’t discuss the case.”

“You were just discussing it,” Stan pointed out.

Before Pasquale could respond, Jake came out of the kitchen. “Order’s in. You really
should eat more than once a week, you know,” he told his sister.

She ignored him. “I’m going to talk to the waitresses now.”

“Fine. Let me go tell them first.” He waited until the two girls had left their customers’
tables, then beckoned them over. “Caroline, Maddy. Can I borrow you two for a minute?”

The girls approached, curiosity apparent on each face. They were both twentysomethings,
but on the young end of twenty. “What’s up, boss?” the blonde one with the long ponytail
asked.

“This is my sister—Trooper Pasquale. She’s a state police officer. She needs to ask
you two a question about a customer. That okay?”

“Sure,” the blonde said. “I’m Caroline.” She turned to look at her coworker, a curvy
brunette with a tattoo covering her entire forearm.

The girl hung back, apparently wary of this whole exercise. “I’m Maddy.”

“What’s going on? Is someone in trouble?” Caroline asked.

“Thanks for taking the time, ladies. I just need you to look at a photo.” All business
again, Pasquale pulled a photo out of her pocket and showed them. “Was this man in
here yesterday at all?”

Caroline and Maddy bent their heads together over the photo. Neither of the girls
looked disturbed. They must not read the
Frog Ledge Holler
, Stan figured.

Maddy looked up first, shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

Caroline lingered over the photo a bit longer. “That’s Hal, right? Hoffman?” At Pasquale’s
nod, she continued. “Sure, he’s a regular. Decent tipper, too. He doesn’t always sit
at the tables. Mostly the bar. But he wasn’t in here yesterday. At least not while
I was here, and I came in at two. I worked an extra shift yesterday.” She tapped her
index finger thoughtfully against her lips. “But you know, I do remember . . .” She
turned to Maddy. “You know him, too, Maddy. He’s usually in here with a group of guys,
kinda look like the Mafia? But sometimes with his wife. Wasn’t she in here yesterday
afternoon looking for him?”

Maddy looked uncomfortable. She shrugged. “I really don’t remember. And I think my
table’s getting ready to leave. Is it okay . . . ?” She motioned over her shoulder
with her thumb.

“Go ahead,” Pasquale said, reaching into her pocket and producing a card, which she
handed to Maddy. “If you remember anything else, please call me. My brother knows
how to get in touch.”

Maddy nodded and hurried back to her customers. Pasquale watched her go for a minute,
then turned back to Caroline, still deep in thought.

“It
was
yesterday she was here,” she said, nodding now. “Mrs. Hoffman. I remember, because
it stood out. She never comes in here during the day, and never by herself. It sort
of looked like something was wrong, you know? She talked to Brenna, and then she left.”

“Brenna wasn’t working yesterday,” Jake said.

“Not officially, but she came down for a bit. We were making plans to go to a movie,
but she got distracted. Went and talked to Mrs. Hoffman. Then she left, too.”

Pasquale was good—Stan had to give her that. She didn’t acknowledge this news as disturbing
or curious. She waited to see if Caroline had anything else to add. When she didn’t,
Pasquale pulled out a card and handed it to her. “If anything else comes to mind,
please call me.”

“You bet.” Caroline tapped the card once against her palm, then slid it into her apron
pocket. “All set, boss?”

“Yep. Thanks, Car.”

Caroline turned to walk away, then hesitated. “Are the Hoffmans okay?”

Jake looked at his sister as if to say,
I’m deferring to you on this one.

Pasquale, still with her cop face firmly in place, shook her head. “I’m afraid Mr.
Hoffman died last night.”

Caroline’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What? How?”

“We’re still looking into it. Thanks again for your time,” Pasquale said, dismissing
her.

Caroline looked at Jake again, as if she wanted to say something, then murmured, “Sure,”
and moved distractedly back to work.

“Don’t these kids read the paper?” Pasquale muttered. “And where’s Brenna?”

“She went upstairs,” Jake said.

“She never mentioned Emmalee was in here yesterday,” Pasquale said. “Or that she had
talked to her.”

“Did you ask?”

“I didn’t think I needed to. I figured she would tell me if anything strange happened
involving the Hoffmans, considering the end result.”

“Maybe she didn’t think it was strange.”

Pasquale snorted. “Emmalee Hoffman in a bar in the middle of the day? Emmalee in a
bar is strange in and of itself. But in the middle of the day? When she was supposed
to be at school with her kid?”

“Why don’t you go ask her?” Jake suggested.

“Fine.” Pasquale shoved off the stool and rounded the corner. Stan heard the door
leading to Jake’s apartment slam behind her, then the tread of her boots on the stairs.

She looked at Jake. He shook his head, a trace of a smile on his lips. “My sister.
I love her, but she makes life hard.”

“It sounds kind of weird that Emmalee was in here yesterday afternoon,” Stan said.
“Wouldn’t she need to be on the farm?”

Jake looked pained. “I have no idea, Stan. I try to stay out of my customers’ lives.
I’m just the bartender.”

It was a gross understatement, Stan knew. There weren’t many people in Frog Ledge
as invested in the community as Jake. But she let it go. Clearly he had feelings about
the Hoffmans and whatever had occurred at their farm that he didn’t want to share.

Less than three minutes later, Pasquale appeared around the corner.

“That was quick,” Jake said.

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Must’ve gone out the private entrance in front.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll tell her to call you when she gets back. She’s working tonight.”

Pasquale still frowned.

“What, Jess?”

“I want to know what Em talked to her about yesterday. What was she doing here in
the middle of the day? Why was she suddenly so hell-bent on finding Hal?”

Stan went home to let the dogs out and change into jeans, her new pink blazer, and
her sequined ankle boots with cut-out toes. By the time she returned to the bar, Brenna
was back, wearing her work uniform—black leggings; tall, flat black boots; and her
green McSwigg’s T-shirt.

“We’re supposed to talk about next week’s work, aren’t we?” Brenna said when Stan
took a seat at the bar.

“We are.” Stan smiled.

“I’m sorry.” Brenna looked upset. “My sister gets me so mad. Let’s talk now. You’re
getting a lot of orders, right?”

“Yes! Look.” She pulled out her iPad and opened a document marked “Orders.” “We have
five orders for treats, but since we didn’t have the party last night, I only need
to bake a couple dozen.”

“Who are the orders for?” Brenna asked.

Stan ran her finger down the list. “I have two for Nikki, for adoption events. One
for the Dogtown Pet Spa and Resort—that new place across town. I think Betty Meany
knows the owners and referred us.” It was exciting. Already word-of-mouth customers
and she’d only been in business a couple of months. “One for Izzy, and one for the
woman who owns the food co-op. She says it’s one of the only things she’s missing—local,
organic dog treats.”

“Impressive,” Jake said. Stan hadn’t even noticed he’d joined them at the bar. He’d
been setting up for the step dancers across the room.

She flushed a bit. “It’s nice to have people willing to pay for my treats.”

“It’s very cool. You’re making a name for yourself already. I knew you’d be a hit
in no time.” He nodded approvingly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Brenna grinned at her. “I wish you two would just get it over with.”

“Brenna!” Stan blushed even redder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brenna rolled her eyes. “Sure you don’t. Okay, so if I come over Monday afternoon,
we can bake?”

“Yes. And then I have to follow up on Benny’s party. I don’t know that we’ll be able
to have it at the farm, so I have to think of a place we could do it.” She tapped
her finger against her lips. “Any thoughts?”

“How about your house?”

“My house?” Stan repeated.

“Yes, your house. It could be fun.” Brenna shrugged. “And your backyard is perfect.”

“I guess.” Stan hesitated a minute, then plunged into the question she’d been waiting
to ask. “So did you catch up with Jessie?”

“No.” Brenna’s voice hardened.

“Bren. Did you see Em in here on Friday?”

Brenna crossed her arms, the ultimate defensive position. “She stopped in. So what?”

“What did she want? Was she looking for Hal?”

“What, are you taking my sister’s side now?” Brenna looked visibly upset. “She treated
you badly, too, Stan. Don’t forget that. Now she’s trying to do the same thing to
Emmalee.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side, but it could be important to the investigation. Don’t
you want to know who killed him? And make sure the rest of the family is safe?”

Brenna hadn’t considered the crime from that angle, Stan could tell. She pursed her
lips and thought about it, then said tersely, “Yes, she was in here. Looking for him.
They were supposed to go to the parent-teacher meeting together and Hal never showed
up. As usual. There. Are you satisfied?”

“You should tell Jessie,” Stan said.

Brenna gathered her hair in a ponytail. “Fine. Whatever. Jake and Desi are gonna have
my head if I don’t get to work.” She slipped an apron on and ducked behind the bar,
already fielding orders from her regulars before she even got the strings tied.

Stan slipped her iPad back in her purse and sipped the glass of Merlot Jake had slipped
in front of her. He’d already tuned in to her choice of wines. Weird. But nice, at
the same time. Her last boyfriend hadn’t figured out after four years what she liked
to drink. Richard had always been too busy worrying about what he was drinking. She
watched Brenna slip into bartender mode, chatting with her customers, deftly pulling
pints and mixing liquors. Was she telling everything about yesterday’s visit from
Emmalee Hoffman? Why had she claimed to be so late for the parent-teacher meeting
that she drove over to the school immediately after realizing her error, but really
she had stopped by the bar looking for Hal?

The crowd gathered in earnest now, anticipating the step dancers’ arrival. Stan watched
from her prime spot as people streamed in. Some she recognized vaguely, others she
knew from her travels around town. Amazing to see how many locals crammed into the
place. It was easy to see why, though. McSwigg’s exemplified community. Real community.
Stan could see it in the way people interacted. It didn’t seem to matter who they’d
come in with. Most tables and other seating areas had excess clusters of people gathered
around them, old friends catching up or new acquaintances becoming more intimate.
Stan caught snippets of words floating around her: “A good topic for the next council
meeting agenda . . .” “Eileen is back in the hospital again. Pneumonia this time .
. .” “Jacob is doing much better in school, what a difference a teacher can make.
. . .”

Stan half listened, allowing herself to float in that space of comfort without feeling
compelled to get up and begin contributing to one of the conversations. She’d never
been to Ireland, but liked to believe this is what it would be like. Friendly. Comfortable.
Safe. And then she heard another half conversation, somewhere behind her. “The bottom
line is, Hoffman owed money,” a man with a deep voice said. “They’ll find a way to
get it. Don’t matter if he ain’t around anymore.”

Stan spun on her chair and squinted into the dim room, trying to see who was speaking.
The man at the table directly behind her with the Yankees cap on? No. The woman he
was with hadn’t stopped talking yet. The group of men next to them? They looked rough,
with their black leather jackets and oversized bodies. One of them met her gaze. His
was not friendly.

At the other end of the pub, the background music went off and someone introduced
the step dancing troupe. Everyone clapped. A wave of folks moved forward to get a
better view, and the music began again, louder and more compelling as the room filled
with the thunderous sound of the dancers hitting the floor over and over. Stan whirled
around, pretending not to have noticed the guy looking at her, and focused on the
music. The beat matched her pounding heart. Hal owed money? Had the lender killed
him? What did that mean for Emmalee and the boys? Were they in danger? She took a
swig of wine and tried to calm down. She risked a glance behind her again and noticed
the group of men had left. Why? Because they knew she’d heard them?

“What’s wrong?” Jake paused on his way down the bar.

“Oh, nothing. I just . . . nothing.” She offered him a bright smile.

He tilted his head, observing, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. “You
sure?”

“I am. This is a great group. I’m enjoying it.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be back to fill your glass.” He continued on to whatever task he
needed to do.

Stan forced herself to concentrate on the dancing. She had a decent view from her
bar stool, and the more she watched—and sipped her wine—the more relaxed she became.
She tapped her foot along with the beat, unable to remember feeling this content in
a long time. Like she had finally found a place she belonged. Home. A different kind
of home than she’d ever had, and the one she’d probably have least predicted for herself,
but it was true. Here, she didn’t have to be “on” all the time, like in her mother’s
fancy Rhode Island waterfront home, or in the cutthroat financial world she used to
inhabit. She was just Stan, who prepared food for animals she loved, and it was perfect.

Perfect.
The thought snuck in, unexpected, but instead of startling her like it may have had
a few months ago, it didn’t. Instead she felt peaceful. And a little warm and fuzzy,
which could have something to do with her wine.

“Having fun?” Jake paused in front of her again during one of his endless trips up
and down the bar and placed a glass of ice water in front of her. She wondered how
many miles he walked the nights he worked. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, face
inches from hers.

That warm, fuzzy feeling flared a little, and she reached for her glass of water to
douse it. And managed to spill it all over the bar, and well into her neighbor’s lap.
The man jumped up, flinging icy water off his clothes. Duncan jumped up, too, from
his spot on the floor, thinking this was a fun game, and launched himself at the man’s
leg.

“I’m so sorry!” Stan grabbed a pile of napkins and thrust them at the man as Jake
deftly grabbed a rag and swiped up the water on the bar before it traveled. Stan could
see the hint of a smile on his face as he did so.

The man observed her, then looked down at his soggy pants. Without a word, he took
the napkins and swiped at himself, shaking Duncan off his leg. He was handsome, with
wavy black hair shot through with silver, a tanned face with minimal lines, and a
neatly trimmed mustache. He was also annoyed.

“What happened?” The woman seated to his left leaned forward to see what was happening.
“What a lovely dog! Why is he in the bar? How did I not notice him before?”

“I’m so sorry to be so clumsy.” Stan still felt like crawling under the bar in embarrassment.
“And that’s Duncan. He . . . works here. Again, I’m so—” She broke off as she recognized
the woman. She had been in Emmalee’s kitchen that morning. Leigh-Anne Sutton. The
farmer with the highest heels of all.

The woman recognized her at the same time. “Oh, you’re the lovely little girl helping
Emmy out! Stella, wasn’t it?”

Stan’s jaw clenched and she pressed her lips together. What should she respond to
first—the incorrect name, or the fact that Leigh-Anne certainly wasn’t old enough
to call Stan a “little girl”? She was probably in her midforties—ten years older than
Stan.

Behind her, Jake laughed. It turned into a cough when she aimed her death stare on
him as he continued to swab at the bar, obviously interested in the exchange.

“It’s Stan,” she said. “How are you, Leigh-Anne?” There. She should feel bad that
Stan remembered her name.

“I should go home and change,” the man said to Leigh-Anne.

“I’m so sorry,” Stan said again.

Leigh-Anne wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be a baby,” she told her companion. “It’s only
water. Go stand under the hand dryer in the bathroom.” She pointed toward the restroom
signs. The guy frowned, but obeyed.

“I’m sorry,” Stan said again, finally sitting back on her stool.

“Ah, not to worry,” Leigh-Anne assured her. “He’s just cranky. Most men are cranky.
Right, Mr. Bartender?” She winked at Jake, who raised one eyebrow.

Luckily someone waved him over for a new drink, and he simply nodded at her and moved
down the bar.

“This is a lovely little place,” Leigh-Anne commented. “And such a hunk of a bartender!”
She nodded approvingly, watching Jake’s every move as he whipped up some fruity drink.

Stan frowned. Forgot about water. Picked up her wine and took a long swig.

Leigh-Anne swiped the excess water off the bar stool her companion had abandoned and
perched on the edge. “This seems like the place to be in town. I figured I’d start
checking things out. I’m going to be staying around here to help Emmy during her time
of need.”

“Oh, really?”
Maybe you should do her books.
She thought Em had declined the offers of help. Maybe she’d changed her mind. “When
you say staying around . . .”

“At the B and B. With all the lovely llamas.”

“Alpacas, you mean? Char’s place?”

“Alpacas, yes.” Leigh-Anne snapped her fingers. “My memory just isn’t what it used
to be. Yes, my farm is about an hour from here, so it doesn’t make sense to drive
that every day. And who knows how long poor Emmy will need the help, right? So I mentioned
as much this morning, and that lovely woman suggested I stay at her place. She gave
me a tremendous discount, too. I’m going home tonight to get my things and ‘moving
in’ tomorrow.” She winked at Stan. “I thought I’d better check out the nightlife first.
But it’s such a delightful little town. I haven’t been back since the co-op’s annual
meeting six months ago. I always forget how adorable it is.”

“It’s very nice here. And that’s wonderful of you to come help,” Stan said. “What
about your farm?”

“What about it?” Leigh-Anne looked blank.

“Who’s going to run it while you’re here?”

“Oh, that.” Leigh-Anne waved a manicured hand. “I have a staff. It will be fine.”

“Oh. So what are you helping Emmalee with?”

“Well, whatever I can! There’s so much to do. And with the co-op to run, too, well,
she’ll need all the help she can get.” Leigh-Anne beamed at her, then turned her smile
on her semidry companion as he returned. He went around her to sit on her abandoned
stool, happily leaving Leigh-Anne next to the drink-spiller. “That’s Tony,” she said
to Stan. “I’m sorry he’s not being friendly.”

“Well, I did spill on him,” Stan said.

“He’ll be fine.” Leigh-Anne turned a pointed stare on Tony, and his whole demeanor
changed.

He leaned over to Stan and offered his hand. “Tony Falco. No harm done with the water.”

Tony Falco? As in the guy on the election sign?
“Nice to meet you. Stan Connor.”

“Stan. Interesting name. Do you live here in Frog Ledge?”

“I do, actually.”

“Oh, well then.” His entire demeanor changed, and charm spilled out of every pore.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m running for mayor.”

Behind him, Leigh-Anne raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Always campaigning.”