The Icing on the Corpse (19 page)

Chapter 29

“He wouldn't tell me what he meant. Just that he warned her to let sleeping dogs lie.” Stan toyed with her latte cup. It was the second one of the day already. A folded-over copy of the
Holler
was strewn on the chair next to her. Her byline mocked her under the above-the-fold headline:
Arrest Made in Town Historian's Death.

She'd been at Izzy's pretty much since her friend had turned the lights on this morning. In the back booth. The one Izzy had termed the “break-up booth,” because it wasn't in the café's main traffic line. Stan didn't want to attract attention due to her new byline, but she didn't want to be home alone either.

“Sounds menacing,” Izzy said. “Do you think he meant the boxer's murder?”

She'd been coming over to hear the story in bits and pieces as the ebb and flow of customers allowed. Stan wanted to talk it out but had to be careful—there was so much she couldn't reveal yet. She also needed an opinion on how to approach the subject with Jake, who had certainly seen the paper by now, but she didn't know if Izzy's would be unbiased enough. But she had to figure something out soon. She needed to go talk to him. She hadn't seen him since Helga's funeral yesterday.

“I can't imagine what else Edgar would've been talking about. But he clammed right up. And the web of people who were close to that boxer's murder is getting overwhelming. I can't imagine why anyone would want to be a journalist, if they have to deal with this kind of thing all the time. It's so frustrating.” She flipped the paper over so she didn't have to look at it. “I don't know what to think anymore.”

She'd been up half the night after returning from the War Office and finishing her story. Truth be told, she'd been slightly freaked out about Edgar Fenwick's reaction and spent a lot of time in her den pondering his words. They were familiar, at this point: Don't stir up the past. Although Edgar Fenwick hadn't elaborated on what was to be left in the past, Stan felt like he had to be talking about the ghost hunt. Everyone was so antsy about that. But from Edgar's statement, it sounded like he'd linked it to Helga's death. Just like Stan had. She might be grasping, but her gut told her she wasn't.

Despite all the unanswered questions, the
Holler
had waited on the front porch first thing today. Her byline, followed by the disclaimer “
Special to the
Holler” seemed way bigger than it needed to be. Cyril's bike still stood on her front porch. She still had this poor, orphaned orange cat in her guest bedroom. Benedict. He didn't seem to feel poor, though. Or even orphaned. He purred a lot when she'd brought him food, and he gave her lots of head butts. But she still needed to figure out who he was and where he might belong.

And that was only the immediate list.

I just can't believe . . .” Izzy picked up the paper, glanced at the headline, and shook her head. “Do you really think Cyril killed Helga?” she asked in a low voice. “Why on earth would he do that?”

Stan shook her head miserably. “I don't think he did at all. I feel like there's a huge piece of the puzzle missing. And I'm not sure that the police are looking for it now that they have their guy. Or so they think.”

“What possessed you to agree to get involved—er, write this story? And is he actually paying you? I didn't think the
Holler
made any money.” Izzy glanced at the line forming at her counter and sighed. “I have to go make some drinks in a second.”

“Fifty bucks a story.” Stan cracked a smile. “But I don't think he can write checks from jail, so I'm probably out of luck. Trust me, I didn't want to do it, but you know me. I'm horrible at saying no. I really didn't need the fifty bucks that badly.”

Izzy laughed. “Want a double chocolate-chip muffin or something when I come back?”

“I would love one. Or two.”

The chimes rang, signaling a new customer. Stan glanced up and saw Sarah Oliver walk through the door. She was alone. She didn't look their way as she went to the counter, ordered a coffee, and took it to the bar facing the street.

Izzy saw her, too. She looked at Stan. “Think she saw the paper?”

“No idea.” Stan watched Sarah settle onto a stool, adjusting her ever-present flowy skirts around her. Something besides sympathy—and the lyrics from “Dreams”—niggled in the back of her brain, but she couldn't quite grasp it. “But I'm sure her brother or sister-in-law filled her in.”

“Isn't she a medium?” Izzy asked. “She should know all this already if she is. Heck, she should know if Cyril did it! Why don't you go ask her?”

“No! You go ask her,” Stan said.

“I have lattes to make.”

“Sure you do.” Stan rolled her eyes. “She's supposed to join the investigation tonight, though, remember?” Tonight was the big night. Adrian Fox and team were doing their ghostly investigation at the murder site. “I wonder if Jake will show up. I haven't talked to him about it.”

“Oh, no way,” Izzy said. “He's not really into this.”

“Plus, he's probably seriously mad at me,” Stan said.

Izzy frowned. “Why?”

“The whole reporting on this story thing without telling him they were looking at Helga's death as a murder,” Stan said.

“You didn't tell him beforehand?”

“I didn't have a chance. The only time I saw him yesterday was at the funeral, and it wasn't the place.”

“Wouldn't he be mad at his sister?” Izzy asked. “She could tell him. Why is it on you?”

“I doubt she would tell him, because it's an ongoing investigation. So he would have to hear about it from me. Except I chickened out of telling him.”

Izzy raised her eyebrows. “Given his moods lately, I'd say you're screwed. I really need to go help Mya. The line's getting longer and she's giving me dirty looks. I can feel it. Hey, before I forget. Can I get some new treats for the dogs? They've been mad at me for the hours I'm keeping. I haven't been able to bring them down as much.” Izzy lived in the small apartment above her shop—same setup as Jake and his place over McSwigg's. Her three dogs, Baxter, Elvira, and Junior, were regulars at the café, and Scruffy and Henry's good friends. “You know how picky Elvira is,” she added.

“I have some treats in my . . .” Stan paused as a thought clicked into place in her brain. She could almost hear the
ding, ding, ding
of the right answer. Benedict. Picky eater. Sarah Oliver's comment at the Groundhog Day celebration:
My mum is a fan of your cat treats. Her Benedict is a picky eater.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered. Sarah had dumped Helga's cat on her porch?

Izzy stared at her with open concern, but before she could ask what her new problem was, the door to the café banged open, sending the chimes on a frantic dance. Frank Pappas walked through the door. Well, walked was an exaggeration. More like stomped. He scanned the café, eyes finally settling on Izzy at their table, and strode over.

Izzy stood. “Hey. What's up? Everything okay?”

“No, everything's not okay.” Frank glowered at her.

“What's wrong? And tone it down, honey. You're scaring my customers.” Izzy kept her tone light, but Stan could see annoyance dancing in her eyes.

“How do you figure I can work on a building when I have gawkers lined up on every side of it? And morons trying to break in to do their own ghost hunt? This is all because you didn't send those scam-artist Hollywood types away. I'm going to be behind schedule, and you're going to be paying a lot more for this job. Do you get that?” He was almost foaming at the mouth, jabbing a finger into the air. A woman with headphones on who was working on a computer two tables away packed up her stuff.

Stan recognized the look on Izzy's face and thought about ducking under the table for cover. Izzy's eyes went to slits. When she opened her mouth, daggers flew out along with words.

“Your own people told you they were having problems there, so don't point fingers at me. And if you want to continue this conversation, you'll do it back there,” she said, pointing to the back of the café, her hand shaking with fury. “Otherwise, you can leave, or I can have you removed.”

With one last, nasty look at both of them, Frank stalked to the back of the café. Stan heard the door to the office slam.

“I'll catch you later,” Izzy said, shoving her chair against the table. Ignoring Mya and the growing line, she marched to the office behind Frank.

The door slammed again.

Chapter 30

With no evidence of bloodshed from Izzy's back office after twenty minutes, Stan focused on Sarah Oliver, still sitting across the room with her coffee. She wanted to get to the bottom of the Benedict mystery. At least that one might be easier to solve than the Helga mystery.

Sarah still sat on her stool overlooking the street. She had a book open in front of her. Stan weighed her options. She didn't know if Sarah read the paper, or got a message from her mother, or somehow had heard that Helga's death was now being considered a murder. If she knew, she would likely be devastated. If she didn't know, Stan didn't want to be the one to tell her.

Either way, it would be difficult to be upset with her. If Stan was right about the cat. But she needed to know.

Stan approached her. “Sarah, do you have a minute?”

Sarah glanced up from her book. Stan glimpsed the cover.
Discover Your Psychic Type
.

“Hi, Stan. Of course. Do you want to sit?” She picked up her bag, but Stan shook her head.

“No, thanks. I only have a second. Are you doing okay?”

Sarah shrugged. “It's hard. But I felt at peace at the funeral. My mum was there.”

“Oh.” Stan decided not to mention the murder thing, if Sarah wasn't going to. “Did you by any chance leave your mother's cat at my house?”

She didn't know what she expected—an admission of guilt, a plea for forgiveness, something that would suggest Sarah understood what an inconsiderate thing she'd done, both for Benedict and Stan. She certainly didn't expect the bizarre reaction she got.

Sarah clapped her hands. “So it worked!”

“Worked? What worked?”

“My test.” She beamed. “I knew Benedict would know if he was meant to stay with you. If he wasn't, he would've left. But I specifically asked him to stay and wait for you if it felt right to him.”

Stan wished for more coffee. Preferably with a shot of strong alcohol in it. “I'm glad he waited for me. I'm not sure what you want me to do, though.”

Sarah looked at her blankly. “Give him a loving home, of course. I can see how you treat animals. He'll feel like a king with you.”

That was flattering to hear, but still. “I don't think I can keep another cat. I already have a cat, and two dogs. It would've been nice to be asked first. Before leaving a house cat outside on my porch. What if he'd wandered off?”

And, of course, Sarah burst into tears. Unlike most people who cried in public places, she didn't seem to care if anyone heard her. She cried loudly, making gasping noises like she was being strangled, too. Stan wanted to hide under the table as people turned to look. Now she was responsible for upsetting a newly dead, possibly murdered woman's daughter.
Way to go, Stan.

“Sarah.” She cursed inwardly but tried to make her voice gentle and soothing. “Don't cry.”

Sarah continued to cry. Stan fumbled in her purse for her packet of tissues, pulled a few out, and handed them to her. Sarah blew her nose, loudly, then quieted down some. Once she'd resorted to exaggerated sniffles and the other patrons had mostly gone back to their business, Stan tried again.

“Look. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just . . . I don't know if it will work out. He seems like a nice cat and all—”

“He
is
a nice cat.” Sarah's eyes started to well again. Stan braced herself, but Sarah kept it under control. “My mum loved Benedict. Probably more than me. He's named for Benedict Arnold, you know. My mum was one of a small group of people who believed Benedict Arnold wasn't all bad and still deserves his place in our history. Anyway, I didn't know what to do with him. I can't have him because I'm allergic, and he likes your food, and no one else will take him. My brother doesn't want him, and Mum wouldn't trust just anyone.” She let out a shaky breath. “And I asked my friend who's an angel reader—”

“A what?” Stan asked.

“An angel reader. She gets messages from the angels.”

This was getting a little too woo-woo for Stan. “You asked her . . . ?”

“I asked her how to tell if you and Benedict would be a good match. She said Benedict would know, and that's why I sent him to you. But I understand if you can't keep him.” She swiped one final tear from her cheek, then stood up. “Should I come get him now?”

“I . . . what would you do with him?” Stan asked.

Sarah shrugged. “I guess I'll have to bring him to the humane society.”

“No! You shouldn't do that,” Stan said. “Not unless you know for sure it's a no-kill shelter.”

From the blank look Sarah wore, Stan figured she didn't know what that meant. She resisted the urge to pull her own hair out and run screaming from the café. She asked herself the same question as yesterday:
How in the world do I end up in these situations?

“Look,” she said, finally. “I don't want you to rush to a decision and then regret it. I was just struggling with where he came from and if he really did belong to someone. I didn't want to steal someone's cat.”

“That's why I left the note,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, okay. I get it.” Stan sighed. “Why don't we do this. I'll see if Benedict can get along with my cat and dogs, and if he seems to like it there. Right now he's in my guest bedroom. If it looks like everyone can get along, then he can stay. Deal?”

“Deal!” Sarah got up from her seat, all smiles, and threw her arms around Stan. “You are a wonderful lady. I knew Mum was right.”

“Your mother thought I was wonderful? I didn't even know her well.”

“She told me.” Sarah winked. “Just yesterday. Please let me know how Benedict is doing. I'll see you tonight for the investigation.” With that, she picked up her coat and bag, and exited the café, her skirt swirling in the wind gust outside the door.

Stan watched her go, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

 

 

After she left Izzy's, Stan took a quick detour down the street to McSwigg's. It was nearly eleven-thirty, so Jake and some of the staff would be getting ready for lunch. She'd tried Brenna on her cell earlier to see if she'd made any headway on the “rings” for the bride and groom, but got no answer. Maybe she could track her down in person.

Plus, she couldn't avoid Jake forever. Even though she kind of wanted to. For a while, anyway. She paused at the front door of the pub, took a breath. Smoothed her hair. Found a box of Tic Tacs in her coat pocket and popped a few in her mouth. When she couldn't find anything else to procrastinate with, she pulled the door open and went in.

No customers yet. Jake and one of his bartenders, Larry, were behind the bar. They both turned to look when she entered. She smiled, hoping her nervousness wasn't shining through.

Larry lifted his hand in a wave. Jake didn't. He glanced at her. His gaze lingered for a second, two, then he looked away. No smile. No sexy head tilt. No nothing.

Stan's stomach dropped. She'd been expecting some negative reaction, but not this blatant snub. Unless she was reading it wrong. She had a tendency to do that. Maybe he was just engrossed in whatever he was talking about and hadn't really registered her presence.

Sure. And maybe Helga really had talked to Sarah yesterday about how wonderful Stan was.

She squared her shoulders, pasted her smile on, and headed to the bar. “Hey,” she said, pulling out a stool. Duncan, hearing her voice, shot out from under the bar like a rocket and propelled himself onto her lap. At least he looked happy to see her. She leaned down for some kisses. The dog happily obliged.

“Hey there,” Larry said. He glanced at Jake, clearly wondering why he wasn't speaking, then took the cue. “I'll go get that box,” he said, and fled into the kitchen.

Jake crossed his arms and leaned back against the bar. Stan played with Duncan's ears to keep her hands occupied—and so he wouldn't see them shaking.

“What's up?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Jake said. “You looking for a quote?”

Ouch.
“No, I'm not. But I guess you saw the paper,” Stan said.

Jake nodded. “You are a woman of many talents.”

Stan frowned. She couldn't actually tell if he was mad. His tone was even and his face was neutral. He didn't look like he had when he and Frank were arguing the other day, and he certainly didn't look like he did the night he and Izzy were “talking.” Then again, he didn't look like he normally looked when she sat at his bar and flirted with him, either.

“Cyril asked for help,” she said. “And I clearly don't know how to say no.” She tried for a smile. It was a no go. “Can we go upstairs and talk?”

He paused as if weighing the answer. Finally, he nodded. “We can go in the kitchen. I have a few things to do and I think Brenna is upstairs.”

She untangled herself from Duncan and rose from her stool. Dunc padded anxiously behind them as Jake led her through the double doors into the kitchen. Larry made a quick but discreet exit when they came in.

Jake pulled out some potatoes and began slicing. “So, what's up?”

“I thought you might want to talk about the article.” Stan leaned back against the counter and watched him work. She wondered if her backup oven would be off the table now.

“Not much to talk about. It looks like there were some developments. Even though not many people knew there was actually a case.” Jake's knife sliced cleanly through the Russet potatoes into french fry–sized chunks, making her mouth water. “I don't really know what to say about Cyril. About any of it. To think someone would kill her . . .” He shook his head.

“Cyril didn't kill Helga.”

“Looks like my sis—the police think he did.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why would anyone?” Jake asked. He dumped his excess potato peels into the trash and started a whole new batch.

“I don't know. It's likely related to the murder at your building. Are you sure she never talked to you about it in detail?”

Jake sighed and put the knife down. He rubbed his hands over his stubble. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. “Are you working on a story? Or investigating on your own? Because I'm not going to help you with either.”

“I'm not doing either,” Stan said, stung. At least not the first one. The investigating part, well, she was just asking questions. No harm in that. “But I think it's wrong that Cyril is in jail.”

“I think it's wrong that Helga is dead. How long have you known about this?”

“Cyril came to me Wednesday night to ask for help.”

“Wednesday.” He shook his head and looked around the room, as if he might find a script somewhere that would help him continue this conversation. “And today's Friday, and you let me find out in the newspaper. So I guess what's bothering me the most is, you don't trust me.”

“That's totally not true!” Outraged, she stood up straight, hands on hips. “Not fair. Cyril got arrested, and it . . . threw a monkey wrench in everything. I didn't know how to tell you because you were so sad, and this would've made it worse. And then I ran out of time.” It sounded lame even to her own ears, but it was the truth.

“What am I supposed to think?” Jake asked. “I'm not saying you have to tell me everything. But with something like this, it would seem like you'd want to confide in someone. Like, the person you're supposedly closest to. This is pretty heavy stuff, no?”

Stan narrowed her eyes. “Of course it is. And I know how much she meant to you, so I didn't think it was something you would want to hear.” What was he up to? She couldn't tell if he was really angry, or hurt, or what was going on here. But she knew it didn't feel good.

“Of course I wouldn't want to hear it,” he said. “That doesn't mean I couldn't have talked it out with you.”

“I don't know what you want me to say. I made a bad choice, I guess.”

“I didn't say you made a bad choice,” he said. “I just wish you trusted me.”

“You really think I don't
trust
you? Are you kidding?” She couldn't even believe what she was hearing. Was he crazy? She wouldn't bother dating him if she didn't trust him. But maybe he was used to women behaving differently.

But instead of getting defensive, he simply shook his head. “No, I'm not kidding. Let's be honest, Stan. There's a part of you that doesn't completely trust me. Or anyone, I don't think. I'm not saying it's right or wrong. I'm just telling you what I see.”

Furious tears plucked at her eyes, but she used every ounce of willpower she had to not cry. Jerk. Who did he think he was? She didn't owe him any explanation about how she gauged the level of trust she had in people. She trusted him. Probably more than anyone, except for maybe Nikki. He didn't see that. And she clearly wasn't doing a good job of demonstrating it. As she tried to figure out the best way to answer him, the kitchen door swung open.

“Hey, Jake, where'd you put the—” Brenna stopped abruptly when she saw Stan.

“Hey,” Stan said, trying for a smile and not succeeding well.

Brenna frowned. She said nothing. Then she turned and went back the way she'd come. The door slammed behind her.

Stan looked at Jake. “You've got to be kidding me. She's mad at me, too?”

“I'm not mad at you. I don't know what Brenna is. Maybe disappointed, too.”

Whatever.
“You know what, fine. She can be mad all she wants. You can both be mad. Or disappointed. I was just trying to help. Maybe you should try being mad at Jessie, too.
She's
the one who started investigating.
She's
the one who questioned the ‘person of interest.' And
she's
the one who could've given all of you a heads-up before any of this happened. It's not
my
job to run around and tell everyone what Trooper Pasquale and the state police are doing. But I'm sure she'll get off easy, as usual, because her job is
confidential.
Whatever.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door.