Kneading to Die (10 page)

Stan couldn't even think of a theme song suited to this level of humiliation. She knew it was the exact outcome Pasquale wanted, but it still made her want to crawl into a hole. This cop had her sights on Stan and couldn't see farther than her nose. Well, that was fine. She hadn't done anything wrong, and she certainly hadn't killed anyone.

Stan held her head high as she went with Trooper Pasquale out the door. Izzy had even tried reasoning with her, to no avail. The rest of the local coffee drinkers just gaped. The other trooper, Lou from the murder scene, waited outside the front door. In case she got unruly, she guessed. It would have been funny, if it weren't happening to her.

She didn't speak as they drove west out of Frog Ledge. She had no idea where they were going, but she figured to the barracks. Trooper Pasquale's office in the town hall probably wasn't the best place to interrogate people she wanted to intimidate.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into a police barracks parking lot. Pasquale parked and Lou reached in to give her a hand out. She ignored him and climbed out by herself. They went in the back door, down an ugly hall and up a set of stairs. Turned left and entered a small room, which had a table and a few chairs. It looked nothing like what Stan had seen on TV, not that she'd expected it to. More worn-down. Grungy. Tired.

“Have a seat,” Pasquale said, motioning to the table.

Stan did. She crossed her legs and folded her hands together. “Well, am I under arrest? Because if not, I have nothing else to say. I have no idea who killed Carole Morganwick, but it certainly wasn't me. If I need to call a lawyer, I'd like to do that.”

Pasquale's expression didn't change. She pulled out a notebook, opened to a clean sheet of paper and uncapped her pen. She sat back and tapped the tip of it to her lips. She still wore no makeup, and today her red hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her neutral expression made her look like she was auditioning for a cop show.

“You're not under arrest,” she said. “
Yet.
But you'd be doing yourself a favor if you answered one or two questions for me.”

“And you couldn't ask me at the café?”

“I wouldn't get too cocky,” Pasquale said. “Truth be told, I would arrest you if I had just a smidge more evidence. But I'm giving you a chance to answer me and maybe change my mind.”

Stan spread her palms wide. “What are the questions?” Despite her outward cool, she could feel bile rising in her throat. She prayed to whomever was listening that she wouldn't throw up.

“Have you ever worked as a veterinarian, or a vet assistant?”

“No. I was in public relations.”

“You never worked in a veterinary clinic?”

“No.”

“Do you administer your own medications or vaccines to your cat?”

“Where on earth would I get the vaccines? And I don't even do vaccines for Nutty. He doesn't go outside.”

“Have you heard of an organization called Pets' Last Chance?”

Stan's eyes narrowed. Why was she asking about Nikki's animal transport service? “Yes. It's my friend's place.”

“Do you work there?”

“No one
works
there. People volunteer. And I've helped out in the past, yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“I've done transports with them. Not recently, because I was traveling a lot. I helped at a couple of the spay/neuter clinics. They have them biannually to help with feral cat population and to assist low-income families who need to get their animals fixed.”

“And what did you do there?”

“All kinds of things. Laundry, cleaning cages, post-op help.”

“Are medications part of post-op work?”

“Some, yes.”

“I thought you said you didn't administer medications.”

“I said I don't administer medications to my cat, which was what you asked. Have I given a rabies shot or a shot of painkiller at a clinic? Sure. Under a vet's supervision.”

“But you had access to medications.”

“We had rabies, distemper and pain medication.”

“What about euthanasia medicine?”

“There was always some on site, locked up. They occasionally had situations where stray or feral animals came in quite ill, or had undiagnosed conditions that caused cardiac arrest or something from the anesthesia.”

“Do you know what medication they used to euthanize?”

“No idea.” Her line of questioning finally sank in. Stan wondered what had been in that needle that killed Carole. Of course it made sense that the murderer knew meds and dosages. Her stomach pitched to her knees. It didn't matter that she didn't know those things, as long as Pasquale thought she did.

“When was the last time you attended a clinic?” Pasquale asked.

“A year ago, at least.”

Pasquale watched her for what seemed like minutes, drumming her fingertips on the table. Her nails were short, but they were French manicured. That surprised Stan. She'd pegged Jessie Pasquale for a plain Jane who didn't spend a lot of time on herself.

“How strongly did you feel about the litter of kittens that Dr. Morganwick refused to turn over to your friend's operation?”

Stan forgot about her efforts to remain aloof and confident. She stared at Pasquale. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I heard your friend Nikki was pretty pissed off about it.”

Nikki knew Carole Morganwick? She hadn't given any indication she recognized the name when Stan mentioned it. Or had she mentioned it? She couldn't remember, but she highly doubted Nikki would kill a vet or anyone else for not turning over a litter of kittens.

“I don't know anything about that. And that seems like an odd reason to kill someone. Have you checked into Dr. Morganwick's personal life? A crazy ex-husband? A stalker? Maybe an old coworker who didn't like her? There have to be other people out there besides me to bother. I told you I didn't even know her.”

Pasquale did her silent thing again. Then she said, “Why did you move to Frog Ledge, Ms. Connor?”

“Because I found a house I liked.”

“That would make you leave West Hartford? Frog Ledge doesn't have much to offer for city girls.”

Stan crossed her arms in front of her. She knew it looked defensive, but she just wanted her hands to stop shaking. “I like it here.”

“Did Nikki Manning suggest you move here?”

Stan couldn't keep the disbelief off her face. “Trooper, give me a little credit. I'm a grown woman and I don't need anyone making suggestions about where I live.”

“Maybe Carole was making her life hard. Maybe Nikki wanted someone to keep an eye on her.”

“You think Nikki asked me to move here as a spy and a hit man? Hit woman?” Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. She coughed to keep it from erupting. If Jake was as crazy as his sister, Izzy had every right to her opinion of him.

“Animal rescue people can be quite . . . What's the word?
Passionate,
” Pasquale said in a tone suggesting she would have chosen a different word. “Once they feel like someone's messing with their cause, they get angry.”

Stan's leg wanted to jiggle. She forced it to stop. “Animal rescue people are serious about what they do. And vets technically are animal rescue people also, right?”

Pasquale didn't acknowledge the question. “Where were you before you went to the clinic on Monday?”

“At home. Corralling my cat into the carrier.”

“Were you alone?”

“I was.”

“Nikki Manning wasn't with you?”

“No. She was on a transport.”

“You're certain.”

“That I was alone, or that she was on a transport? Both. I was alone, and I talked to her Saturday night. She was delayed in South Carolina. Not home until sometime Monday afternoon.”

“And you didn't speak to her on Monday.”

“I didn't.”

Pasquale made a note on the still-clean sheet of paper in her notebook.

“I'd like to know, Trooper Pasquale, if I should call my lawyer now.” She fixed Pasquale with a steely stare and willed herself to hold it in place.

Pasquale looked at her for a long time. “You're free to go,” she said finally. “Stick close to home until this is unraveled. Do you want a ride?”

“No, thank you.” Stan got up. “I'll call someone.”

 

 

Nikki's cell phone went to voice mail. Stan cursed and walked out into the parking lot. She'd seen a coffee shop down the street. She'd call Richard to pick her up and go wait for him there. He answered on the third ring.

“Hey, babe. What's up?”

“Are you around? I need a ride.”

Silence. She could imagine him calculating the rest of his workday, his gym time, then deciding whether it would be too much of an inconvenience. “From where?”

She glanced up at a beep from a car horn. She saw a little red PT Cruiser parked in the lot. Izzy Sweet waved from behind the wheel.

“Never mind, I'm all set,” she told Richard. “Let me call you back.” Without waiting for an answer, she disconnected and walked over to the car.

“Taxi?” Izzy asked. Baxter and Elvira crammed their noses out the window. Baxter woofed at her.

“How'd you guess?” Stan slid in and shut the door. “Hi, guys,” she said to the dogs; then she leaned her head back against the seat. “How embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing for her when she realizes the real killer is out there laughing.” Izzy hit the gas and they whizzed away.

“Cute car.” Stan glanced around the spotless interior. “That was sweet of you to come get me. No pun intended.”

Izzy grinned. “I'm named for a reason, baby. I figured you wouldn't take them up on a ride back.”

“I had no idea they would even offer me a ride back,” Stan said.

“They usually do, if they can't find a reason to keep you. They think it makes them look better.”

“You sound like you've had experience with this.”

Izzy winked. “I have lots of stories. So what was their burning question?”

Stan's stomach twisted again as she remembered the conversation. “I guess my friend's rescue place tried to work with Dr. Morganwick and she turned them down. Or something like that. Nikki never mentioned it to me.” And she needed to ask her. ASAP. “They wanted to know if she was at my house the day of the murder. Which she wasn't. She was in South Carolina, for goodness' sake. And it's irrelevant, anyway! I didn't kill Carole, and neither did Nikki.”

“Jeez, they're reaching, huh?” Izzy shook her head. “You'd think with a charmer like Carole they wouldn't be so stumped.”

“You didn't like her, either.”

Izzy made a face. “She wasn't anyone's favorite person—let's just put it that way.” They were silent for the rest of the drive. Izzy drove fast, maneuvering her stick shift like it was an extension of her arm. She shortened the twenty-minute drive into fifteen. She pulled up in Stan's driveway with a flourish. “You need anything?”

Stan shook her head. “No. Thanks again, Izzy.”

“No thanks necessary. We outsiders have to stick together.” With a wink and a beep, Izzy tootled on down the road back to her shop.

Stan went inside, pulling her ringing cell phone out of her pocket. Richard. She'd forgotten all about him.

“Hi,” she answered.

“What's going on? I thought you were calling me back.”

“I'm sorry. I just got home.”

“Is something wrong with your car?”

She had to tell him sooner or later. Later was probably better. “Can we talk about it when I see you? That's tonight, right?”

A pause. “We can, as long as everything's okay.”

“Everything's peachy.” She let herself into the house. Nutty waited at the door. He arched his back as she stroked the length of him, all the way to the tip of his tail.

“Does this have something to do with what you were going to tell me on the phone last night?”

“It does. But it's fine. It can wait.”

“All right, then.” He was already distracted by something else, she could tell from his tone of voice. “Can we plan on tomorrow night, instead? I'm looking at a late night catching up here.”

Stan swallowed the hurt; she tried to cover it up. There was no law that said a boyfriend had to be engaged in unpacking or providing moral support when his girlfriend was about to be accused of murder. “Sure, that's fine.”

“You're the best, babe. I'll see you around seven tomorrow night.”

She disconnected and checked her watch. It was only one. Nikki would be starting afternoon rounds in the kennels soon. Good time to catch her for a face-to-face conversation.

Nikki was outside in the fenced-in part of the yard, playing ball with some puppies. Stan watched from the side of the yard. They made a cute picture. Nikki loved her animals. Did she love them enough to kill for them? And would she let her best friend take the fall?

One of the big dogs saw Stan and barked her arrival. Nikki dropped the ball and turned around. “Hey! What are you doing here? Come to help with the afternoon snack?” She stepped out of the gate, latching it behind her. “You guys can play in here for a while.” A little white dog with brown ears chased her to the fence, barking furiously.

“He's cute.”

“They all are. A couple of my last-minute grabs over the weekend. So what's going on? Have you had lunch?”

“Nope.”

“Come on in, then.”

Stan followed Nikki inside through the back door into the kitchen. Dog food cans cluttered the counter, and a calico cat slept next to them, curled in a ball. Neat piles of paperwork were stacked on half the table, probably adoption forms and vet records for the recent arrivals. A whiteboard above the table had schedules and dates scribbled in black. Miscellaneous sticky notes added color. A ceiling fan hummed lazily over the whole scene.

“Have a seat. Don't mind the mess. Is everything okay?” Nikki went to the fridge and pulled out iced green tea. “Tea or coffee?”

“Iced tea is fine. Thanks. Listen, I have to ask you something.”

“Okay, shoot.” Nikki poured two glasses and placed one in front of Stan.

“Did you know Carole Morganwick?”

“Who?”

“The vet who got killed.” Maybe she hadn't mentioned her name. Or maybe Nikki was playing dumb.

“No. At least I don't think so. Should I?” She slid into the chair opposite Stan and tucked her long legs under her.

“Well, the cop who's trying to arrest me thinks you do.”

“The cop who
what
? Stan, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

No point prolonging this. Stan blurted it out. “I got hauled into the state police barracks to answer a few questions. Apparently, the trooper who thinks I'm guilty of killing Carole said you knew her and had a bad experience. And maybe I tried to get revenge for you.” She recapped the questions Pasquale had asked her.

“And then she finished up with something about you being angry about a litter of kittens, and how rescue people are pretty much crazy.” The last part was badly paraphrased, but it was what Pasquale meant.

Nikki stared at her in rapt fascination the whole time. When Stan finished talking, Nikki blew out a breath. “What's the woman's name again? I swear, I don't know who she is.”

“Carole Morganwick. Oh, hang on.” She pulled her tote bag out from under her chair. She'd stuffed the special edition of the
Frog Ledge Holler
in there the other day, with Carole's grainy picture on the front page. Like in real life, Carole didn't smile. Her eyes stared flatly out of the page, expression indifferent. She handed it to Nikki.

Nikki's eyes widened. “Holy smoke,” she said.

“What?”

“Did she get married or something? Or divorced?”

“I think so.
I
didn't know her, remember? That's something everyone seems to forget.”

“I do—did—know her.” Nikki raised her gaze to meet Stan's. “Haven't seen her in a long time, but her name was Carole Cross then. She ran a clinic in New Jersey. We used to stop there during transports sometimes. It was right on our route. But we lost some animals there.”

“Lost how?”

“Died. A dog got a vaccination and two hours later went into cardiac arrest. I don't know if it was a bad vaccine, or if she gave him the wrong thing, but it was awful.” Nikki shook her head and handed the newspaper back to Stan. “There were a few other things. I eventually stopped going there, and I recommended against it for any of my transports. But when you do this work, unfortunately, you come into contact with bad vets all the time. If I wanted to pay people to bump off all the morons I've encountered, I'd actually have no money left to save animals.”

Trooper Pasquale had to know Carole ran another clinic under a different name. Stan filed this new information away to research later.

“This cop is out of her mind. She thinks I killed this vet, who was also out of her mind.” Stan closed her eyes and rested her forehead in her hands. “And she thinks you taught me how to do it. Oh, then she asked me another weird question. She asked if I was alone the morning of Carole's murder, before I went to the clinic. And when I said yes, she asked if I was certain you weren't with me.”

Nikki's expression remained neutral this time. “Huh,” she said, “weird is right. I'm going to start the doggie dinners. Want to help me deliver?”

“Sure. But why would she ask that?”

“Who the heck knows?” Nikki went to the counter, her back to Stan, and started opening dog food. The calico fluffed her tail at the disturbance, reminding Stan of Nutty. She jumped down and stalked away. “She sounds like she's going out on a limb here. A lot of them, actually.”

Nikki measured out dog food. Stan could see the kennels through the window. The dogs were all in the outside part of their runs, engaged in various tasks. They were slurping water, chasing squirrels from their side of the fence or sniffing along the grassy border. The puppies had dropped in an exhausted pile in the middle of their play area.

“That might be true, but that limb has my name written all over it.”

“You don't know for sure what she thinks. I mean, she didn't arrest you or anything. She's grasping, Stan.”

“Not yet, anyway. But she kept me at the scene forever asking questions, and now she pulls me out of the sweetshop—”

Nikki dropped a can of food at that. “No way.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that's where I was when she tracked me down.” Stan nodded. “Marched right in and asked me to come with her. How would she know I helped out at your clinics? How would she even know I knew you?”

“I have no idea. Do you think she saw the van when I was at your house?”

“You didn't have the van yesterday.”

“Oh yeah.” Nikki paused, spoon in midair, to ponder this. “Well, there's stuff online from our clinics, and your name is all over the place. All she would have to do is Google you, or something. We always put up that stuff. Good publicity. Do you know what was in the needle that actually killed her?”

“No idea,” Stan said. “She asked me a lot about what you use at your clinics to euthanize, though.”

“Hmm.” Nikki thought about that. “Do you think she just got stabbed when you saw her?”

“I don't know. I assumed, because I heard a door closing.” She shivered, remembering.

“Well, it might've been potassium. That's something the vets use in fluids, but if you don't dilute it and give someone a good shot of it, that's a death sentence, for sure. Oh, for crying out loud.” Nikki raced out of the room in response to a crash and a loud meow, leaving Stan feeling uneasy. Nikki reentered minutes later, carrying a black-and-white cat who looked either crazed or terrified.

“This is Charlie. Charlie's having trouble getting used to the other felines.” Nikki deposited Charlie at Stan's feet. “Any chance Nutty wants a challenging brother?”

“I doubt it. And Nutty might need a foster home, anyway, if I get arrested.”

Nikki shook her head and let the cat go. “Stop it right now. No one's getting arrested. Well, hopefully, someone is, but not you. So she knew about the rescue. That's not a bad thing. Maybe she'll spread the word, once she clears us of all wrongdoing.” She went back to the counter, finished filling dog bowls and counted them.

“She only knew about the rescue because she thought you trained me to be a killer. How is that a good deal?” Stan asked.

“We need more publicity. There's only so much I can do on Facebook when I'm driving a million miles a week. Come on, help me feed the mutts. I have some cutie-pies.” She smiled sweetly and blinked her own big brown puppy dog eyes.

“Coming. But I'm not adopting a dog. When's Justin coming back?”

“Tomorrow. Just in time for the adoption event Saturday.”

Justin loved animals as much as she did. Nikki didn't give men the time of day if they didn't get her work. Justin did. He helped out with the herd every day and even went on transports.

“Oh, speaking of that. I have treats in my bag.”

“Awesome. They'll all be clamoring for you to adopt them. Come on. Grab some bowls.” Nikki pulled on a pair of cowboy boots, balanced as many bowls as she could carry and headed out the back door.

Stan picked up the remaining bowls and followed her friend outside into the fray. The dogs were lined up, howling in anticipation. All shapes and sizes: puppies, adults, big, small, shaggy and short-haired. They were adorable. Nikki tried to keep it to ten per trip, but she usually failed. There were so many dogs running out of time in the shelters in the South. She often spoke about how awful it was, especially the ones that still used gas chambers. Nikki had even started a program in schools to talk to younger kids about caring for animals. Gotta start somewhere, she always said. And if the little ones can teach their parents something, she had done her job.

“You can start there.” Nikki directed her to the other end of the kennel. “Just put the bowls in the corner and fill up the water if they need it.”

Stan went to work. She hoped it would quiet her brain, but it wasn't working. Nikki's assessment of the possible murder weapon bothered her. But it was something she should know, given her line of work. It didn't mean she was a killer.

She handed food to a boxer named Mitch, a bulldog mix named Queenie and a German shepherd named Crew. The next cage seemed to be empty, so Stan almost passed it by. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of something through the small door leading inside. She pulled the latch and entered the run. Went all the way to the back, where the dogs could go through the opening. Peered in. A small, shaggy, messy dog watched her anxiously.

“Well, hello there,” Stan said. “Would you like an early dinner?”

The dog's stubby tail wagged hesitantly.

“Why don't you come outside?” Stan asked. “Otherwise, I have to go all the way around. Come on, come see me.” She knelt and held out her hand. The little dog, suddenly brave, trotted out and licked her face. Jumped right in her lap and proceeded to scarf down the food Stan offered.

Stan smiled. The dog was adorable, despite its desperate need of a haircut. Probably a newcomer who hadn't yet encountered Nikki's groomer. And he—she?—didn't seem to want to move out of her lap. Settling down on the ground, she let the dog eat, enjoying the cuddle time. Nutty wasn't a huge cuddler. Only at night when he wanted to get warm, and then it was more about the blankets than about Stan. She handed over another treat, and the little dog inhaled that, too.

“Making friends?” She turned to find Nikki hanging over the fence, grinning at her.

“Yeah, we're just hanging out.” Stan ruffled the dog's floppy ears.

“That's Scruffy. She's a schnoodle. She had twenty-four hours to live. And you should sell those treats somewhere other than my bake sales. I swear, every kind I've seen you with has been a hit.”

Stan waved her off. “They're dogs. They'll eat anything.”

“No way.” Nikki pointed to a golden-retriever mix lounging in the sun. “That dog? I offered her five different treats during transport and she turned her nose up at every single one. Yours, forget it. She barely chewed them.”

“Oh. Well.” Stan shrugged, embarrassed. “They're healthy.”

“I'm telling you. You should package them and sell them. Scruffy's up for adoption, by the way.” Nikki blinked innocently at Stan.

“I know, I know. Sorry, Nik. Can't do it right now.”

“Oh, why not? You just moved to a big house. You have one cat and a fenced-in yard. You could have two dogs. More.” Her eyes twinkled, but she was serious. Nikki had been encouraging her to adopt for ages. Stan had resisted, blaming her travel and overall work schedule. Getting a sitter for Nutty alone had been hard enough, especially when she and Richard had the same travel schedule.

“Right, but I have some things to figure out. A recruiter called me. I have an interview next week.”

Leaning against the fence, Nikki wrapped her long fingers in the chain link. “Same type of job?”

Stan nodded.

“I don't understand why you'd put yourself through that again. Especially if you don't have to.”

“I do have to. It's not responsible to stay voluntarily unemployed.”

“It is if you're trying to figure out what you really want to do with your life instead of what you think you want to do.” Nikki's tone challenged, and Stan felt her hackles rise.

“I'm thirty-five years old, Nik. I'm a little past the what-do-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up stage, I would hope. I'm good at what I do.”

“That doesn't mean you have to keep doing it if it doesn't feed your soul. Come on, Stan. You've finally planted roots in a place that could make you happy, instead of some dark condo with shitty neighbors whom you tolerate because it's close to your office. Give yourself a break. Take the time you need. There are other things that make you come alive besides press conferences. I know it because I've known you for more than twenty years. Don't sell yourself short to prove something to some fantasy audience.”