A Biscuit, a Casket (9 page)

All the remaining leaves seemed to have abandoned their trees overnight. When Stan
looked out the bedroom window first thing Monday morning, her yard was covered with
reds, oranges, and yellows. The sight of them, blown in colorful drifts across the
grass, made her clap her hands in delight. It had been years since she had raked a
pile of leaves and jumped into them. Her dad used to do it for her and her sister
when they were kids. Maybe today she would do that, in her dad’s memory.

Nutty jumped up and wedged himself in the window between her and her view of the yard.
His fluffy tail tickled her nose.

“Hi,” she said. “What did you do with the dogs?” Nutty refused to answer, so she went
looking. Nutty trailed behind her. He looked disappointed when she located Henry and
Scruffy on the back porch. Henry lounged on the floor, his fox skin toy hanging out
of his mouth. Scruffy nestled up against him adoringly, but bounded to her feet when
she saw Stan. Henry woofed at her.

“I’m getting breakfast now. Let’s go to our places.”

The three obediently followed her to the kitchen, Nutty leading the way. They sat
in their usual spots—Scruffy and Henry right next to each other on the floor, Nutty
on the counter. It was a bad habit he’d gotten accustomed to when he first moved in
with her. Stan felt bad making him get down. So they compromised: Nutty only got on
the counter to eat, and sat in the same spot. No need to spread out the mess.

Stan prepared a bowl for each of them with pureed chicken, vegetables, rice, and calcium
powder. Leaving them immersed in their breakfasts, Stan made herself a healthy green
smoothie and a hard-boiled egg and ate while reading the latest
Frog Ledge Holler
. After he finished his breakfast, Nutty leapt onto the table and settled down next
to her, resting his paw just on the edge of the paper. He often did that—when he wasn’t
sitting directly on whatever she was trying to read.

The edition was a big one at seven pages. The front page headline announced a meeting
at town hall Tuesday night where the council would hold a public hearing on the petition
for the property at 82 Main Street. Stan recognized the address. It was the former
veterinary clinic that had been damaged earlier in the year. Amara Leonard, her homeopath
neighbor, her fiancé Vincent DiMauro, a traditional veterinarian, and the town animal
control officer, Diane Kirschbaum, wanted to buy the property. According to Cyril
Pierce and the paperwork filed with the town hall, they hoped to create a veterinary
practice offering both allopathic and homeopathic treatment, and expand the clinic
to add animal sheltering capabilities.

Stan let out a low whistle. “Wow, Nutty. That would be a great thing for Frog Ledge,”
she said to her cat. Nutty stared at her, blinking his big eyes in acknowledgment.
“You think so, too? Good.” She nodded approvingly. She was all for it. But she wondered
how the town officials felt about it.

It was no secret the town’s animal control facility was sorely lacking in both space
and quality, but the town powers-that-be probably wouldn’t agree because it would
cost money to renovate. Tucked away in the back of a large park on the outskirts of
town, the facility was difficult for most people to find if they did want to look
at the animals. And the quarters, even though Diane kept them clean and as friendly
as possible, were old, run down, and dark. Stan felt certain the animals were sad,
even though Diane did everything in her power to get them adopted. Yes, an upgraded
sheltering facility would do a world of good. But would it have to be separate from
the town quarters? Would she run both? Would they be consolidated? Or would this be
Diane’s personal venture?

Stan hadn’t been to a council meeting since she’d moved to Frog Ledge. Tomorrow night
seemed like the perfect time to check one out. She’d go, and show her support for
the project. Maybe it would even help repair her relationship with Amara.

She flipped the page and scanned the other headlines. A small blurb on Hal Hoffman’s
untimely death, but no new information. The coroner had ruled it a homicide. Police
were investigating. A statement from Trooper Pasquale deemed there to be no public
threat, which meant she thought the killer knew Hal. Below the article was Hal’s obituary.

The picture was the same as the one that had run the day after the murder. Stan stared
at the tanned, smiling face, smoldering eyes, the shadow of stubble apparent on his
chin, and wondered what secrets were hiding there. Who had killed him and why?

“What do you think, Nutty?” she asked her cat. “His wife seemed to hate him, his business
partners weren’t thrilled with him, and he partied a lot. Any number of things from
that list could’ve gotten him killed. And, he may have owed someone money.”

Nutty flicked his tail at her and rested his head on Hal’s picture. The obituary described
Hal as a loving husband, father, son, and brother who had lived in Frog Ledge his
entire forty-six years and had grown up on the Happy Cow Dairy Farm, taking it over
from his parents, Lester and Camille Hoffman. Lester had passed ten years ago. Camille
Hoffman lived in Stowe, one of Frog Ledge’s neighboring towns. Stan skimmed the part
about Hal being survived by his wife, Emmalee; sons Tyler, age eighteen, Danny, fifteen,
Robert, ten, and Joseph, four; a sister, Hillary; and a brother, Lester Jr. Hal had
an MBA from the University of Connecticut.

Impressive. Stan didn’t know if that was typical for a second- or third-generation
farmer, but she guessed it might not be. She had heard people crediting his good business
sense, even if he wasn’t necessarily into the manual labor. He was also the chairman
of the Connecticut Milk Promotion Board, to which he’d been appointed by a local senator.
He’d been an avid fisherman and part of a men’s hockey league. His funeral service
would be held on Wednesday at St. Augustine Catholic Church, right across the green.
There would be no calling hours. Burial would be in the Frog Ledge Cemetery.

Well, there were her Wednesday morning plans. She’d have to adjust her baking schedule
accordingly. She smiled as she glanced out the window into her backyard at a bird
that had just landed at one of her feeders. Six or seven months ago, her Wednesday
plans would not have included baking, or even thoughts of baking. Her days used to
consist of bolting out of bed, downing nearly a pot of coffee, showering, dressing
in a designer suit, and hitting the road. Then, she wouldn’t see the light of day
for almost another ten or twelve hours. Unless she had a lunch meeting. If someone
asked her tomorrow what exactly she’d done for all those hours, every single day for
more than ten years, she didn’t think she could answer them.

It made her sad to think she’d traded so much of her life for something she’d thought
was so important just to learn that it wasn’t. But, better late than never. Stan flipped
the paper shut and looked at Nutty. He eyed the pieces of yolk that had escaped from
her egg. She slid the dish over and let him lick it clean. When he was done, he rubbed
his head along her arm as if to say thank you, and jumped down to find a sunny place
for a nap.

She collected everyone’s dishes and started upstairs to dress in her running gear.
Before she could, the phone rang.

“Izzy got arrested yesterday?” Char demanded before Stan could even say hello. “Why
didn’t anyone call me?”

Stan chuckled. It wasn’t like Char could’ve done anything useful if she had been called.
She just wanted to be in the know. “Good morning, Char. And no, the person dropped
the charges.”

“Huh. Really.” Char paused for a minute, probably to stir her Bloody Mary. “I can’t
imagine what would persuade Izzy to throw a chair at a customer. Did they not like
her coffee?”

Similar to what Jake had said. “She actually didn’t tell me why, although I don’t
think that’s it. Her employee said the men were asking her questions. I don’t think
they were normal customers.”

Char whistled. “Do you think it’s the FBI?”

“The FBI? What would the FBI want with Izzy?” Stan started to laugh it off, then stopped.
Stranger things had happened in real life. And what about that movie with the family
of American terrorists who lived in a nice neighborhood and blew up the FBI building
and framed their neighbor for it?
Arlington Road
. The movie had given her the creeps.

Oh, seriously. What was wrong with her? Izzy wasn’t a terrorist.

“Maybe we should find out,” Char said.

“Well, I was hoping she’d tell me after things died down, but I haven’t been able
to get ahold of her.”

“That’s odd,” Char said. “Keep trying. Let me know what I can do.”

Stan agreed and hung up. She finished getting ready, pocketed her gloves, popped her
earbuds in her ears, and headed outside. Henry and Scruffy tried to follow her out
the door.

“Nope. Sorry, guys.” The last time she’d tried to take them on a run, Scruffy had
spent the first quarter mile trying to make friends with other dogs on the route,
and Henry had wanted to stop and take a nap every ten feet. She finally had taken
them home and started over solo.

The fall morning air snapped its fingers in her face. Stan took a deep breath, grateful
for the weather. She savored the clean air for a moment, then started a slow jog to
the green.

When she paused to let a car pass, she heard her name behind her.

“Stan! Good morning!”

Turning, she saw Emmalee Hoffman coming from the back of the house, waving at her.

Shoot. Should’ve crossed already.
Stan pushed the uncharitable thought out of her mind and waved back. “Morning, Emmalee.
How are you?”

Emmalee shrugged, pulling off her hat. “Doing fine. Just working, you know. Anyway,
what time are you coming?”

“Coming?” Stan repeated.

“Yes. To work in the office. You are starting today, right?”

“I, um . . . Honestly, Em, I didn’t know you needed me today. I have a few things
to do this morning and some treat orders to fill.”

“Oh.” Em fiddled with her hat, swinging it around on her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t
have assumed.”

“Is, uh, Leigh-Anne around yet? I bumped into her last night and she said she’d be
staying at Char’s so she’s nearby to help you.”

Em tried to hide the disdain that passed over her face. “Yes, she sure is,” she said.
“All moved in and already coming by. Right now she’s taking inventory of the farm
equipment. Inventory. Can you believe that? Because she thinks there are things we
need. Or need to upgrade. I highly doubt she’s gonna buy them for us, though.”

Oh, boy.
Stan could see herself getting caught in the middle of those two personalities. She
sighed inwardly but pasted on her best accommodating face. “I’m happy to come later
this afternoon.”

Em brightened. “Oh, would you? I’m afraid the work has been piling up already. Hal
had been so . . . busy lately. Bills need to be paid and I have no idea where some
of my feed is. I’d love it if you could.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you later.”

Em waved and went into the house. Stan jogged across the street, her feet slapping
the ground in time to her self-berating thoughts.
Why in the world did you agree to this in the first place, Stan Connor? There’s that
impulsive streak again.

The impulsive streak her mother never hesitated to remind her about. Her mother. Despite
the situation, Stan bit back a giggle. If she ever told her mother she was helping
out on a dairy farm, Patricia Connor would die. It was not a Rhode Island socialite
thing to do.

“So, I got a new order today. Along with all that”—Stan pointed to the handwritten
list she’d taped up on the fridge for Brenna, who was in charge of treats while Stan
covered the farm—“we need two batches of cat-shaped treats that are cheese-and-veggie-flavored
and two batches of apple and cinnamon. No shape preference, although Pookie supposedly
has a thing for fire hydrants.” A friend of Char’s had called this morning begging
for dog treats by tomorrow. She said she’d heard everyone raving about them around
town and she
must
have some.

It had been a lovely phone call to receive.

Stan laid ingredients out on her counter and handed over the cookie cutters. She’d
found a great place near Nikki’s house in Rhode Island that sold all shapes and sizes
of dog treat cookie cutters. Heaven on earth. She couldn’t wait to try out the one
shaped like a burger. She wasn’t fond of the cat-shaped cutter since she didn’t like
to think of dogs eating cats, but she’d bought it after a ton of requests for cat-shaped
cookies. And for the cats, the store had fish and mice and balls of yarn and birds
for shapes, and they were getting new ones in every week.

Brenna shook her head. “Pookie has never gone near a fire hydrant. They just say that
because Pookie’s a dalmatian.”

Stan laughed. “Well, if it makes her happy, let’s just use the fire hydrant. So I’ll
stay while you mix the batter and then I’ll head to Em’s, okay?”

Brenna pinned her long hair up in a bun and smiled knowingly. “That’s fine. I know
you’ll want to taste the batter.”

Stan felt her cheeks grow warm. Was she that transparent? “No, I just . . . the dogs
are picky,” she finished lamely.

Now Brenna did laugh. “The dogs aren’t picky. You are. And there’s nothing wrong with
that. In fact, I think it’s pretty cool. Not many people care about how things taste
for dogs, never mind how healthy it is for them. That’s why I’m so excited to be working
with you. So.” She rubbed her hands together. “Where are your mixing bowls?”

 

 

An hour later, Stan left the house in a flurry of doggie good-bye kisses. Henry and
Scruffy followed her to the door, trying to get her to take them, but soon forgot
about her when Brenna called them to lick bowls. Nutty sat on his tree next to the
window in the hall. He gave her the paw. Stan stopped to give him a kiss and ruffle
his fur. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Go wait in the kitchen for some treats.”

Nutty gave her face. He did that when she left sometimes. Stan wasn’t sure if it meant
he didn’t like hanging out with the dogs, or if he would miss her. Either way, she
was sure all three of them would barely remember her in about half an hour when the
treats came out of the oven.

She strolled down the street, enjoying the sights of Halloween. The spirit here was
fantastic. Every yard had pumpkins, mums, and cornstalks. The real enthusiasts had
orange lights, graveyards, skeleton families, or other spooky accents in their front
yards. One house on the other side of the green had small skulls hanging from every
bare tree branch, and skeletons guarded the front door. Spiders dangled from webs
and jack-o’-lanterns lit up every window as soon as dusk hit.

Stan wore jeans and her silver ballet flats, a snub to Jake and Brenna for their teasing.
Hip-high boots, my rear end.
There were limits to friendship and community, and slinging cow manure fell into
that category. Did people really sling cow manure, anyway?

But when she entered the yard and noticed the sign haphazardly leaning against the
fence that read C
ORN
M
AZE
C
LOSED
U
NTIL
F
URTHER
N
OTICE
, she felt bad. This wasn’t about her. A man was dead. His family was in shambles.
She took a deep breath and rang the bell at the old farmhouse. No answer. She knocked
in case the bell was broken. Nothing. She went into the yard. Samson sat on the grass.
Stan stopped to say hello and fished a treat out of her purse. The dog took it and
chewed contentedly, then licked her hand. She continued on.

The Hoffmans had a lot of acreage. Directly behind the house was the gated patio where
the doggie party had been set up. Beyond it was a substantial yard. It was barren
except for an old-style swing set perched unsteadily in the grass, a few kids’ toys
scattered about, and a bike on its side. And then, the corn maze. It looked less threatening
today, but Stan still felt creeped out looking at it.

The other side of their land was the farm. She turned left and hurried toward the
cow barns. The sides of the structure were up today, and she could see a row of black
and white behinds, tails swinging lazily. Despite herself, she smiled. She liked cows.
They were so chill. She remembered hearing stories of cow tippers when she was a kid
and wondering how anyone could be so mean.

Yeah, well, that’s nothing compared to a dairy farm,
Nikki’s voice chided in her head.

Stan commanded the voice to silence and moved closer, wondering if she could say hello
to one of them. How did cows react when people came near them? She had no idea. While
she pondered it, a human head popped up from in between a couple of the largest residents.
A young man, barely as tall as the cows, stared at Stan.

“Yes?” he said in halting English. Stan recognized him—it was the guy who had been
working the night Hal died.

“Um, hi. I’m here to see Em—Mrs. Hoffman.”

He nodded and motioned her to follow him. He led her to the barn where Brenna had
sent Danny to put his chain saw away just three nights ago, when everything was different.
Pushing open the barn doors, he made a sweeping motion in Stan’s direction, as if
presenting her to an audience.

Emmalee Hoffman looked up from where she was working on a tractor wheel. She had a
wrench in her hand and dirt all over her and Stan wondered again what in God’s name
would possess anyone to want to own and work on a farm. But, it wasn’t really for
her to judge. Not to mention she’d just volunteered to work on said farm, and she
didn’t own it.

“Hey, Em.”

“Hi!” Em jumped up, letting the wrench fall with a clatter. “Thanks, Enrico.”

Enrico nodded and backed out of the barn.

“Enrico’s great,” Em said. “If you need anything, just ask him.”

Might be tough since he can’t speak much English.
Stan nodded obediently.

Em paused and pushed a strand of gray-brown hair out of her eyes. She looked like
she hadn’t slept in a week. “Well, haven’t I just lost all track of time. Sorry about
that. The tractor wheel is busted. Come on, I’ll take you to the office.”

Stan forced a smile. “Great.”

Em surveyed Stan’s outfit. “You should really find a pair of boots to wear, honey,”
she said, taking in Stan’s glittery silver shoes. “You don’t want to get those lovely
little slippers dirty. And aren’t your feet cold? It’s chilly outside this time of
year.”

Stan gritted her teeth, trying not to make it obvious. “Well, yes, but I figured since
I would be in the office I wouldn’t have to run around in the mud.”

Em chewed on her lower lip. “Wait one second.” She veered over to a corner of the
barn that looked like it could be home to many different species of wildlife. Stan
heard clanks and thuds as Em tossed tools and equipment around. She returned looking
puzzled. “I was going to give you the spare pair of boots Hal keeps . . .”—she faltered—“kept
out here. But they seem to be gone. I wonder who would’ve taken them.” She stared
into space for a moment, then shrugged. “They would’ve been fine for you to wear around
the farm. I’m sorry they’re not here.”

“Oh, Em, don’t worry. They probably wouldn’t have fit me anyway,” Stan said.
Thank God.
“And I really don’t think I’m going to need them.”

Em waved a callused hand and led Stan out of the barn and around the back of the house.
“Farm life is so unpredictable. You never know what can come up.” She stopped in front
of a door next to the bulkhead. Fumbling in the pocket of her overalls for a key,
she unlocked it and pushed it open. But before they could enter, Stan heard someone
calling her name.

“Yoo-hoo! Stan! Emmy!”

Stan turned to see Leigh-Anne Sutton making her way across the grass. She wasn’t wearing
her heels today, but she still looked like a fashion plate in her jeans, North Face
jacket, and pink designer hiking boots. “What are you girls up to?”

Stan could feel Em’s whole body clench, even standing a few feet away. She turned
to face Leigh-Anne with more of a grimace than a smile.

“Taking Stan to the office. She’s starting today.”

“Fantastic!” Leigh-Anne clapped her hands. “I’d love to help. Please let me know what
I can do.”

If possible, Em stiffened even more. “It’s mostly a matter of getting organized. After
that, Stan will be fine. She comes from financial services, you know,” she said, as
if Leigh-Anne should be impressed.

“That’s right! I do remember you saying that.” Leigh-Anne leaned forward, her eyes
alight with interest. “Stockbroker? Investment banker? Do tell!”

The truth sounded lame. “Actually, I did PR.” She smiled. “Not terribly exciting,
I know. Certainly not like working on Wall Street.”

“Oh, but it still must have been wonderful. I think that whole world is so exciting.
Money makes our country run, after all.” Leigh-Anne glanced at Em, who was watching
with disdain. “Well, I don’t want to keep you, though I would love to hear more about
that. So, Emmy. Let’s sit later and talk about what you need most from me. I’m at
your service, after all.”

Em sniffed. “I need help with the stalls. But you’re going to get those pink boots
all dirty walking around in this muck.”

“These?” Leigh-Anne glanced down with a look of surprise, then chuckled. “Emmy. These
are work boots. Just because they’re pretty doesn’t mean they can’t get the job done.”
She winked at Stan. “We can’t let our duties get in the way of our fashion sense,
right, Stan?”

Stan couldn’t help but smile. She agreed completely. It vanished quickly when Em turned
dagger eyes on her. Behind Em, Leigh-Anne rolled her eyes.

“I’ll go get to work. Come find me if you need me. Remember, I’m here to help. Em
set me up in a little office over in the milking parlor.” With that, she waggled her
fingers at Stan much like she had at the bar Saturday when she made her exit with
Tony Falco, and turned back in the direction of the cows.

Emmalee muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like
God help us,
then motioned to Stan to follow her into the office.

“Here we are,” she announced. “Where everything happens.”

Stan stepped in behind her and looked around. The room was about the size of her guest
bedroom closet, and that was being generous. It looked like it had been a laundry
room at one time. The hookups were still on the far wall. The linoleum floor was cracked
in most places and missing in some. Stan could see dust bunnies skittering along,
pushed around by the breeze Em had let in. Boxes were stacked along one wall. Someone
had slashed the words “Files” in black Sharpie across the front of each. The wall
itself looked like it used to be white, but was now grayish. An out-of-commission
washing machine was jammed in front of another door—a feeble attempt to block the
entrance to what Stan presumed was the main house. There was a desk shoved up against
the front wall. It looked like an antique, what Stan could see of it. Piles of paper
and folders were stacked so high they tilted dangerously. One wrong move and they
would all go crashing to the floor.

Em followed Stan’s gaze around and shrugged, her smile sheepish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
get in here to clean yet,” she said. Her tone was light, but Stan could feel the seething
behind the words. If Hal was alive, Em probably would’ve torn him a new one at the
condition of the room. Stan wondered how long it had been since Hal had actually worked
in this office.

“Don’t worry about it. I can help get things organized while I’m here.”
Why do I keep digging this hole deeper?

“I don’t want you to waste your time,” Em said.

“Em. I would have to at least dig through the files on top of the desk to get anything
done,” Stan pointed out. “So just tell me what I’m supposed to be doing and I’ll tackle
it as I can, okay?”

To her dismay, Em’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t deserve wonderful friends like
you,” she said, her voice wobbly.

Stan hated seeing people cry. “Oh, Em, of course you do. Listen. Why don’t you go
back outside and get your stuff done. I’m sure the kids will be home soon, right?
And in the meantime, I’ll just start organizing some things.” How hard could it be?
Find some bills, write some checks. Maybe call and order some feed for the cows. Simple.
And this way, she could stay away from the actual farm operations, and possibly avoid
Nikki’s wrath.

“Of course, the kids.” Em wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just have to
go get that tractor squared away. Ted is coming over later to oversee the evening
milking. Roger has been here since five this morning—I can’t ask him to stay too late.
And Tyler is doing what he can to help out. He’s not much for getting dirty, though.
Maybe he can help you sort through some things in here?”

“Sure, whatever works,” Stan said. She was anxious to get going on a few tasks. She
really didn’t want to be at the farm all night.

“Okay.” Em took a deep breath and pulled her gloves back on. “I have to go to the
funeral home and drop off a suit for Hal to wear. The funeral’s Wednesday.” She looked
like she would rather stay here and scoop cow manure. “Do you have any experience
with funeral homes?”