Kneading to Die

Her watch read two minutes to eight. Stan glanced down the hall where the exam rooms waited. Somewhere in the clinic she heard a door quietly close. Maybe Carole had gone out back and was returning. She should let her know she was here.

Stan took a few steps, listened. Quiet. “Hello?”

Nothing. The first door on the left was closed. The one next to it was a bathroom, its door open, the room empty. Across the hall, another exam room, but this door stood ajar. Stan walked over, pushed it wider and peeked in.

“Carole? Nutty and I are he—”

Stan stopped. On the floor, just visible behind the exam table, was a Merrell clog. With a foot inside it. Stan took another tentative step and saw a leg. Horizontal.

“Oh my gosh, Carole! Did you fall?”

She rushed around the table and gasped, recoiling, slamming her hip in her haste to get away, a horrified scream working its way up her throat.

The vet lay on the floor, unseeing eyes staring up at the ceiling. A needle protruded from her neck, her still body and long white hair covered in kibble . . .

L
IZ
M
UGAVERO

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

This book would never have happened without the Sisters in Crime New England chapter under Sheila Connolly's leadership, and my agent John Talbot who was looking for writers in all the right places. Thank you, Sheila, for presenting this opportunity for me to realize my dream. And thank you, John, for recognizing the need for gourmet pet food in the world.

Sherry Harris, my dear friend and crack editor, made the book a million times better with her amazing eye for detail before I handed it over to John Scognamiglio, my editor at Kensington, who gave it his expert eye.

Dr. Alexis Soutter of the Manchester Veterinary Clinic in Manchester, Conn., generously gave her time and expertise to explain my choice of weapons at a vet hospital. Also, thanks to Dr. Martha Lindsay of Alternative Veterinary Services in North Andover, Mass., who is a champion of homeopathy and nutrition for animals. She has educated me since the day I met her, and has been a hero to animals for many years.

Eric Walsh, owner of The Big Biscuit in Franklin, Mass., deserves props for sharing his nutritional (and bakery) secrets. Eric invited me to spend time in his store, explaining everything from business plans to dried cow tracheas. His input has been invaluable and I look forward to learning more tricks of the trade as the series continues.

My writing mentors: Seascape Writers Retreat teachers Hallie Ephron, Roberta Isleib, Susan Hubbard and Hank Phillippi Ryan; Jenny Siler; my fellow Sisters in Crime and Guppy members; and the Wingate Writers Group, where it all began for me—thank you all for your contributions to my career, and happy publishing to all of you.

A special thanks to my companions on this amazing publishing journey: Edith Maxwell/Tace Baker, Jessie Crockett and Barbara Ross for their support, critiques and insightful ways of looking at plots and characters. To many more fabulous York beach house retreats! And to Christine Hillman Keyes for her never-ending support and friendship.

Thank you to my animal rescue friends and all the amazing groups I've been lucky enough to be affiliated with over the years, but especially Journey Ewell from Friends of Manchester Animal Shelter and Geraldine Tom of Animal Rescue Fund. What you do for animals is truly awesome. So many other groups including CT Votes for Animals, Our Companions, Salem Animal Rescue League, Friends of Feral Cheshire (Conn.) Cats, Merrimack River Feline Rescue Society, The Pat Brody Shelter, Brooklyn Bridge Animal Welfare Coalition and Throwaway Pups also deserve major kudos for helping our furry friends.

Cynthia and Doug Fleck—who says families have to be blood relations? Thanks for always being there. And Kim Fleck, I wouldn't be where I am today without you to believe in me and teach me what truly matters. For all the patience, love, support and extra scooping, thank you. You inspire me every day. Love you!

And to the furries—Tuffy, who wandered into the yard one day and never left, and Shaggy, rescue dog from South Carolina, the models for Nutty and Scruffy. And the rest of the crew (also all rescues), who teach me unconditional love daily. Life wouldn't be complete without you.

“You, missy, are a two-bit hack.”

The harsh words, shouted from next door, broke the stillness of the small-town Saturday and startled Stan Connor enough that she dropped her last moving box. The one full of things she didn't trust the movers or Richard to handle. Miraculously, Richard leaped over and saved it, right before it almost hit the pavement in her new driveway.

“And I'll make sure everyone in town knows it.” The shouting continued, creeping closer.

Stan and Richard turned to see a woman with long white hair storm down the driveway to their left, jabbing a finger at someone they couldn't see.

“Oh, try it,” another voice yelled back. “Everyone will see who's really the hack. You're not the star you think you are around here!”

The white-haired woman said something else Stan couldn't hear and stormed over to a green SUV. She got in, revved the engine and roared down the road. A thirtyish woman, with a golden retriever by her side, appeared. She watched the truck disappear. When she realized she had onlookers she turned abruptly, called the dog and vanished into the house.

Stan glanced over at Richard, who watched the scene with interest.

“So much for peace, love and harmony in a small town,” Richard said with a smirk. “You sure you don't want to rethink the condo in the city?”

Stan shook her head. “Not a chance. See? You thought I'd be bored, but now I have front-row seats for the neighborhood brawls. They were too proper for that in West Hartford.” Stan closed the car door. “I wonder what that was about.”

Richard precariously balanced his last two boxes, hefting them higher into his arms. “Who knows? Maybe she didn't milk the cow right.”

“I don't see cows in the yard. But there's a dairy farm two houses down.”

“Yeah, I can smell it.”

“Oh, hush.” Stan held the heavy oak front door, with the beveled glass sidelights, open for him, forgetting all about the argument as she stepped into her new home. Victorian. Bright. Happy. And all hers.

“Can you put those on the kitchen table? Carefully? My Vitamix is in that box.”

He grunted at her as he moved inside, trying not to trip with his cargo. Stan stood on her new porch and surveyed her surroundings. Her yard. Her driveway. Her town green—didn't it belong to everyone, after all?—directly across from her house, its grass lush and inviting in the summer sun. Her neighbors. Cows, arguments and all.

She loved Frog Ledge already.

She followed Richard into her new tangerine-colored kitchen, wincing as he dropped the box on the table. She heard a clatter from within the heavy cardboard and sighed.

“Have you seen Nutty?” Her Maine coon cat didn't like upheaval and hadn't been thrilled with the move. He'd been hiding since she'd let him out of his carrier.

Richard opened the box and began pulling out kitchen paraphernalia. “The Vitamix looks fine,” he said, pulling out the beloved machine she used for everything from soup to smoothies to frozen drinks. “And no, I haven't seen the cat.”

“I hope he didn't sneak out in the last-box frenzy.” Stan hip-checked Richard out of the way and finished unpacking the box herself. “You can unpack dishes. Or better yet, how about basement stuff?” She turned, waiting for his response, and caught him glancing at his watch.

“What? Oh. Sure. I have a little more time. I told Carl I'd meet him for drinks tonight. You're welcome to join us.”

“For drinks. With Carl. Gee, that sounds great, but I'll have to pass. Got a little bit of work to do.”
Work that my boyfriend should volunteer to help with.

“Oh. Well, next time,” Richard said, completely missing her sarcasm. “Unless you find really cool things to do around here. In Frog Ledge.” His tone suggested she would be more likely to find a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end of it during her morning run.

“Is it necessary to be so derogatory? This town is beautiful. This house is beautiful.” Stan swept an arm around her colorful, empty kitchen, already imagining what treasures she could find to make it her own. “Just because it isn't the city doesn't mean you have to shoot it down.”

He was raining on her parade, and she didn't have many parades these days. But today she'd woken up excited about the move—so excited, in fact, that she'd chosen a theme song for the day. Something she hadn't done since “The Elimination.” And even though it was the cheesy eighties song “I'm So Excited,” heck, it was still a theme song.

She was getting back on track.

“Come on, Stan. You're angry about your position being eliminated. I get it.” Richard took the empty box out of her hand, collapsed it for recycling. “I wish you'd thought more about it before up and moving out here. I mean, who even comes to this side of Connecticut? Except to go to the casinos. And who lives in a town called Frog Ledge? We could've figured something else out.”

Nutty chose that moment to slink around the corner. Stan ran her hand down his back to the tip of his tail as he proceeded cautiously by her to investigate the unpacking. And probably look for his homemade treats, which she was running low on.

“Who's ‘we'? Like you pointed out, I'm the one who lost my job.” She yanked open a drawer and threw utensils in it. “You're still Richard Ruse, vice president, fancy-pants sales guy. Your life didn't change much, aside from having to drive a half hour to my house instead often minutes.”

Richard still worked at Warner Insurance, the financial giant where Stan had ruled the media spotlight. Until two months ago. Losing her beloved public relations job—and corresponding expense account—gave her the right to be a little cranky, didn't it? She was trying to make the best of having her professional life and most of her social life yanked away. Not dwell on the past, and all that. And moving had seemed the most appropriate way to do that.

“Of course this changes things for me,” Richard said patiently. “We were a great power couple in the company.”

Her face must have said it all. He had the decency to flush. “You know what I mean. Look, all I'm saying, Stan, is you didn't have to move to the other side of nowhere. And financially, staying in the condo would've been better. Smarter.”

She turned, eyes narrowed. “Don't play that card with me. We both know I'm in better financial shape unemployed than most people are working. I paid for this house in cash. I'm good with investments, to put it mildly. And I'm getting severance for almost two years. Money is not the driver here. Changing my scenery was. Now, can we not argue? I'd like to unpack and enjoy my new house. And I wish you would enjoy it with me.” She hefted the next box onto the counter and began pulling out dishes, piling them in cabinets.

“I am enjoying it with you,” he said, his voice soothing. “Want me to hang some of your pictures in here? I brought my tools.” He picked one up from the pile the movers had leaned against the wall. It was a depiction of a Paris café, only the backs of the patrons visible as they faced the city street.

“Sure. I think there.” She pointed above her two-seater bistro table.

Richard picked up his tool bag and pulled out a level, hammer and nails. He held the picture against the wall. “Tell me where.”

“A little higher. Over to the left.” Stan stood back, cocked her head to determine if the picture was straight. “That's good.”

She watched as he marked the wall and banged in the nails. Handsome, no doubt about it, with wavy brown hair and big blue eyes. Tall too. She could always wear whatever size heels she wanted when they went out. And such a smooth talker. What else would you expect from a salesman?

She turned abruptly and went back to the dishes.

“Listen,” he said, intent on his task, “I talked to Mick Harvey yesterday, and he thinks he can talk to the New York folks about finding you something in a different division. You could probably still be based in Hartford. It wouldn't be exactly like your old job, but—”

“Enough.” Stan slammed the cabinet shut so hard, the contents inside rattled. “I don't want to talk about Warner anymore. I don't want to work at Warner anymore. And I don't want you talking to Warner people about me. End of story, Richard.”

He finished with the picture and stepped back to admire his work, unfazed by her reaction. “You won't be happy without a job. We both know that. May as well see what they have to offer.”

“I wouldn't be happy going back there, either. They didn't want me anymore. They made that clear. Frankly, I don't need them. I certainly don't need to beg anyone for a job, thank you very much. When I want one, I'll find one with no problem.” She hoped.

“Come on, Stan. What did you think would happen? McAllister was in a bad spot.” Richard moved up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing at the tension there. Waiting for her to see his point. People usually saw Richard's point. That was how he pulled in six figures in commissions last year. “He had to place blame somewhere. You know the game. Jeez, you're a top player.”

“Are you defending McAllister?” Stan heard her voice rising, but she couldn't rein it back in. She moved out of his reach. “The president of the company gets caught screwing the competitor president's wife, and it's my fault the media picked up the story? My fault the statement didn't sound better? You really have been drinking the Kool-Aid. There was nothing I could have done to spin that.
Nothing.
Not to mention, by the time I got called, it was too late. And by the way,” she said, kicking an empty box across the room, sending Nutty running, “no one really gives a damn what that pompous ass is doing. They were just curious about how he scored a decent-looking mistress.”

Richard's blue eyes turned icy, as if she'd insulted him personally. He opened his mouth to respond, but the doorbell rang, shutting them both up.

“Who's that?” he asked.

“No idea.” She turned her back on him and headed for the front door. He trailed behind, his footsteps on the hardwood floors sending echoes throughout the empty house.

Stan pulled open the front door. Her mouth dropped in surprise. An unlikely trio stood on her porch. Two women and a man. The older of the women held hands with the man. At first glance they were an odd match. She had short, flame-colored hair teased up off her head and sprayed into place. Despite the heat of the July day, she wore a long-sleeved pink-and-orange paisley dress, which made her generous frame appear even larger. Platform flip-flops had her towering over her partner. Glittery silver eye shadow caked over each eye reminded Stan of her nightclubbing, dancing-until-dawn days. By contrast, her companion, a fiftyish or sixtyish man with a beard and kind eyes, was skinny enough that his jeans were held up by checkered suspenders. He wore a straw hat and looked like he'd just left the farm. Which, around here, he probably had.

The younger woman could be a fashion model. Or a basketball player, given her height. Stan had to look up to see her. Eyes covered by Jackie O sunglasses, long black hair weaved into hundreds of braids. She wore skinny capri jeans, a tank top and purple flip-flops. With one hand, she held on to two leashes, one attached to a boxer and the other to a poodle. In the other she carried a huge basket wrapped in pink cellophane.

The group broke into a cheerful chorus of “Welcome to the neighborhood!” The poodle woofed. The boxer wagged his tail.

“Oh, my goodness! How nice! I'm Stan Connor.” Stan stepped out on the porch and held out her hand.

The man reached over and shook first. His grip was hearty and strong. “Ray Mackey. This is my wife, Char,” he said. “We run Alpaca Haven, the bed-and-breakfast–slash–alpaca farm down the way a bit. And that's Izzy,” he said, pulling the model/basketball player up next to him. “Isabella Sweet, of the infamous sweetshop, also down the way, but thataway.” He pointed in the other direction.

“A pleasure,” Izzy said, a slight British accent lilting her voice. She lifted one hand in a wave. A ring in the shape of a gigantic purple daisy almost hit Ray in the face. Brilliant red nails with glittered tips stood out against her caramel-colored skin.

“Honey, did you say ‘Stan'?” Char interrupted, knocking her husband out of the way to clasp Stan's hand.

“I did,” she said, smiling. “It's short for—”

“I think it's delightful!” Char exclaimed. “I love unique names. I don't even want to know what it stands for.”

That surprised Stan. People were always curious when they heard her name. Most agreed it was the most unique nickname for Kristan they'd ever heard. Char, apparently, wasn't most people. She leaned forward and bussed Stan's cheek, noticing Richard lurking in the hall when she did so.

“And who's this?”

“That's Richard.” Stan motioned to him to come out. She shot him a sideways glance that said,
Have some manners.

Richard stepped forward; his smile was more of a grimace, his handshake formal and proper. “Richard Ruse. Nice to meet you.”

“Would you like to come in? For, um, tea?” Stan asked her guests, trying to remember if she'd unpacked her teapot yet.

“Oh, honey, we saw the movers leave just a while ago. You're in no shape to entertain,” Char said, but she craned her neck to see around Richard into the house until Ray poked her arm. “We just wanted to drop off something small to welcome y'all to the neighborhood. Izzy?” She motioned to her. Izzy stepped forward and presented Stan with the basket.

“Some treats Char and I put together,” she said. “Enjoy.”