Kneading to Die (21 page)

Stan found Amy Franchetti running a five-minute mile on the Frog Ledge High School track. Brenna had tipped Jake off that she would be there. Stan had prepared herself for some serious running in case Amy couldn't stop to chat. She hoped she wouldn't be too winded to have the conversation, though she doubted she could sustain any kind of activity long-term.

After Lou left last night, she and Jake had searched for two hours for Scruffy, both on foot and in the car. They left a message at the pound. When they finally called it a night, she had to spend another half hour defending her decision to remain at her house and not spend the night on his couch or at Char's B and B. When Jake finally gave up and left, she spent the rest of the night hovering between being asleep and awake. Stan jumped at every sound, her Mace and cell phone clutched in her hand. The one bright spot had been waking up to hammering and pounding, which initially freaked her out. Once she realized it was Ray fixing her windows in the sunroom, after Jake had called him, she had been so touched and grateful that she cried all over him.

Now she had that darn job interview at Infinity in a few hours, and she needed to put up posters for Scruffy. Thank God she'd taken a couple of pictures on her phone. She was exhausted and unraveled. But if Amy, the former vet tech, could help shed some light on the possible killer, the two roads might converge. At this point she was grateful for Nikki's silence. The last thing she wanted to do was tell her she'd lost one of her charges.

Amy ran at a pretty good clip around the track. Stan wished she'd take a break, but since that didn't seem likely, she jumped in and jogged along until she was close enough to call her name. Then Stan realized Amy wore headphones and couldn't hear her. She picked up her pace enough to match strides with Amy, then tapped her on the arm.

Amy yanked the earbuds out and slowed, apprehension all over her face. “Yeah?”

“Amy? So sorry to bother you.” Stan explained who she was and what she needed. “I really want to be able to tell her brother everyone's trying to help. Could I have five minutes?”

The girl looked like she'd rather be asked to swim with alligators in a swamp. She glanced around, looking for some means of escape. “I don't think I can offer you very much, but I guess so. I'll meet you in the bleachers. I have to do one more lap.” She picked up speed again.

Stan veered off the track and went to sit.

Amy finished her lap in no time and joined Stan in the bleachers after grabbing her bag off the side of the field. She took out a hat and slipped it on, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“So what do you wanna know about Carole? I already talked to the cops. I didn't work there that long. She was pretty dysfunctional. And disorganized.”

“How long did you work there?”

“I started in February. So, not even half a year. She wasn't that busy, so I didn't work a lot of hours.”

“Were any of her clients mad at her? Besides Betty Meany?”

Amy cracked a tiny smile, the first friendly sign Stan had seen. “Betty was mad, definitely. I don't remember anyone else being that outspoken. It's funny, because Carole was weird enough that I could see her killing someone instead of the other way around.”

“Why do you say that?”

Amy jerked one shoulder in a shrug. “She had a temper. And she was just weird. Like, everything was a conspiracy. I remember when that other vet came to talk to her about selling the practice. Sounded like she would've been smart to take her up on it, but she got all nuts and threw her out. Thought the townspeople had banded together and were trying to get rid of her.”

“What other vet?”

“That homeopath lady. I think her boyfriend wanted it more. He's a traditional vet. He teaches science at the college. I took his class last semester. Cool guy.”

“Amara Leonard wanted to buy Carole's practice? When was this? Did you tell the police?”

Amy thought about that. “I don't think so. I didn't think it was important.”

“Carole didn't go for it.”

Amy snorted. “She told them to get out before she sicced a rabid pit bull on them.” She shook her head in disgust. “She would say stupid things like that all the time. She really wasn't that into animals, if that makes sense. I wanna be a vet 'cause I love animals, you know? But she didn't get all excited about them or anything. I think she liked farm animals, though.”

“Did she have a lot of clients?”

“Not too many. Mrs. McCafferty, my gramma's friend. And Mr. Holdcroft. He came all the time.”

“With his dog?”

Amy looked at her like she was an idiot. “Of course with his dog. He didn't come for treatment.”

“So she let you go.”

Amy wrinkled her dainty nose. “She didn't, like, fire me or anything. She just said she wasn't getting enough business to support a staff. I was the only staff, though. So I'm not sure how she handled it when she needed two sets of hands.” She shrugged. “Maybe she
was
gonna close up shop and sell. Who knows? But listen, I gotta finish my training for today. You all set with questions?”

“Sure,” Stan said, disappointed. Amy didn't have any new insights.

“Thanks.” Amy bounced to her feet; then she brightened. “Hey, since you're friendly with her brother, will you bring something to the funeral for him later?”

Since Amy had only deduced that, and Stan hadn't actually said it, she ignored the white lie. “What is it?”

“A bunch of stuff from the office. He knew I worked there. Carole must have been telling him stuff about the business. I wonder if he had a share in it or something. He tracked me down and called me at home. Wanted me to clean out her stuff from the office for him. Lucky I did it before the place burned to the ground. It's in my car.”

“That is lucky. I'd be happy to,” Stan said, trying to tamp down her eagerness.
Information from Carole's office! Score!

“Nice. You're a rock star,” Amy said, flashing her first real smile. “Come on, I'll get it.”

Stan followed Amy to her car, a red Honda Civic. She opened the back door and searched around for a minute; then she triumphantly pulled a beat-up black leather briefcase out of a pile on the floor. The briefcase was scratched and so crammed with stuff that it gaped open. Amy shoved it at her, as if afraid Stan would change her mind.

“Thanks!” With that, she turned and jogged back to the track, falling into her stride as if she'd never taken a break.

Stan stood with the briefcase, amazed at her good fortune. And Amy's naiveté. Maybe she'd glean some information from something in there. What the heck, it was already open.

This job interview couldn't come at a worse time. Stan thought about rescheduling. But that was a no-no—even though these kinds of companies made you wait months and months before making hiring decisions, in most cases. So she put on her favorite suit, one she'd had nothing but good luck while wearing, left another message with Diane Kirschbaum about Scruffy and drove to Hartford, itching to open the bag of Carole's paperwork the whole time.

She checked her watch as she neared the city. Right on time. She was scheduled for two-thirty. But all she felt was sick.

The continued stress of her world, she assured herself as she walked into the building, a couple of folders from Carole's briefcase in her bag in case she had reading time. The place was bigger than her previous employer's. Normally, she would have researched every similarity and difference—ranked them as pros or cons—and have been über-prepared for this conversation. Today, not so much.

Bernadette, the happy scheduler, greeted her and showed her to a chair in the waiting area. She opened Carole's folder and flipped through. She started with the financials. Engrossed in discovering how little money Carole had been bringing in—nowhere close to making a profit—Bernadette had to call her twice to the conference room. Instead of prepping for the interview while she waited, Stan had been going through the profit and loss statement and quarterly reports Carole had neatly packaged for the accountant. She learned the first half of the year had left Carole with a net loss of $2,894. Not terrible, but it told the beginnings of a story.

The woman interviewing her finally showed up. Stan found her unimpressive. A beige person. She wasn't even wearing a power suit. Stan turned her corporate face on and answered the questions in her corporate voice, using all the buzzwords and smiling at the appropriate times. But the whole time her mind was on Carole's file, wondering what else she might find.

They had her set up to talk with three other people over the next two-plus hours before they had Bernadette see her out, practically promising her an offer within the week, after they cleared the usual red tape. Stan assured them she'd be eagerly awaiting and hurried out to her car.

Instead of hitting the highway back to Frog Ledge, Stan drove to her favorite coffee shop near her old place. She stuck the folder she'd removed back into the briefcase and hauled it inside. She ordered a latte with a double shot and sat down with the goods. An hour and a half later, she had a good financial picture of Carole's clinic. And it was dreary. Her father had paid the mortgage off years ago, and all she had to do was keep up with operating expenses. She hadn't been doing that well. Hence, a proposal Amara Leonard and Vincent DiMauro had written to buy the business. The transaction Amy had mentioned. If Carole accepted, she wouldn't have to ever worry about working again. It was a generous offer that likely would have put Amara and Vincent in debt for a long time.

But Carole had turned them down.
No
had been scrawled in vehement red pen across the formal paperwork, and it had been folded into thirds and stuck in the back of the file labeled as
ACCOUNTANT
. Clipped to it were a number of e-mail exchanges between the two parties. They started out polite; but by the time Stan got to the bottom of the pile of twenty or so, the tone had changed. Vincent DiMauro had been angry at the rejection and had repeatedly asked for the opportunity to meet again in person. His last e-mail, dated three days before Carole's death, ended on an ominous note: I'm just going to show up, and then you'll have to talk to me.

Stan gasped; then she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. If Vincent DiMauro had gone to see Carole, and the meeting hadn't gone as planned, who knew what he would have done? He could've stabbed her in a fit of anger, not realizing it would kill her. Maybe he knew that she'd kept these e-mails and he figured he'd burn the place down to get rid of any evidence, including her hard drive.

Amy said she hadn't told the cops about this proposed transaction. Well, it was time they heard about it. Stan shoved the rest of the papers back into the briefcase and hurried to the car, a dangerous trick on four-inch heels. She cursed the constraints of corporate wardrobe. Between her favorite suit, which didn't feel quite right on her anymore, and the shoes, she wished she'd brought clothes to change into. She had to call Lou.

Part of her was relieved—this meant Nikki was off the hook. Although her actions were still a mystery, Stan could deal with that later. As long as her lifelong friend wasn't a killer, she didn't care what else she was doing in her spare time.

Once she was on the road, Stan plugged in her headset and called Lou's number at Troop L. Voice mail. She pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

“Trooper Sturgis, this is Stan Connor from Frog Ledge. I need you to check out a man named Vincent DiMauro in regard to Carole Morganwick's murder. I'll explain later, but I have some potential evidence. Call me.” She recited her cell number, disconnected and hit the gas.

 

 

She was entering the Frog Ledge town limits when her cell rang. She snatched it up, hoping for a return call from Lou or someone at the barracks. Instead, a vaguely familiar voice said, “Stan, it's Sheldon Allyn. I needed to follow up with you on our discussion.”

“Hi, Sheldon. What can I do for you?”

He didn't seem eager for small talk. “I'm afraid I was a tad hasty in my offer. I won't be needing a pet chef, after all. We hadn't agreed on a contract, of course, so this is merely a courtesy call, but I wanted to let you know posthaste.”

“
Posthaste”? Do people still talk like that?
Apparently, Sheldon Allyn did. And he was canning her before he'd even hired her. “May I ask why?”

“I've simply decided to go in a different direction,” he said. “But thank you for your time, it's been lovely.”

And he hung up. Gone. Another door closed. There was some saying about windows opening when doors closed, but Stan felt like she was seeing an awful lot of doors slamming. Any windows in the vicinity were cloudy. Or stuck shut.