Kneading to Die (3 page)

“My practice is next to the town hall. Frog Ledge Veterinary Services. What condition?”

“He has irritable bowel syndrome. Mild.”

“What he's taking for it?”

“‘Taking for it'?”
This woman fires questions like she's part of the Inquisition!
“Do you mean medicine?”

“Of course I mean medicine.” Carole lifted the lid off Nutty's treat jar and peered inside. “What are these?”

“Treats. Freshly baked last night. And Nutty is not on traditional medicine.”

“What the devil do you mean, ‘not on traditional medicine'? How do you expect him to maintain?”

As if he were on cue, Nutty strolled into the room, his plume of a tail standing tall, his usual posture when he investigated new goings-on. He looked from Stan to Carole, recognized the treat jar in her hand and promptly rubbed against her leg.

Carole observed him. She reached down, pulled his ear back and peered inside. Nutty batted her with his paw. “Looks like mites,” she said. “So what did you say you're doing for his disease?”

Stan slapped the newspaper on the counter. “Nutty does not have ear mites. He's on a strict diet of organic food. When he's not feeling good, I use natural medicine,” she said. “He's doing extremely well. What can I help you with, Dr. Morganwick?”

Carole sighed heavily and set the lid down on the treats. Nutty gave her a look that said,
I can't believe you were in my treat jar and didn't bother to give me any;
then he beat it down the hall to avoid getting his other ear pulled.

“I thought you might be one of those
organics,
” Carole said, drawing out the last word in distaste, as if Stan had told her she was a serial killer. “Nutty really should have traditional care. And a nutrition consult. I'll tell you what. Bring him down tomorrow and I'll give you a half-price visit this first time. That way he'll be in the system if you need me in a pinch. And we can talk about his treatment then.”

Stan was rarely speechless, but she'd never had an experience quite like this before. This woman must be crazy. And she'd let her in—well, she'd had no choice, really—and now the so-called doc was standing in her kitchen near her freshly sharpened set of knives.

“I suppose that's reasonable,” Stan said finally, at a loss for any other reply.

“Lovely! We'll see you at eight tomorrow. Please be prompt. I'll sneak you in before my first appointment. I do love new clients.” She smiled, finally, then walked out the door.

 

 

“These alpacas are adorable.” Stan stood in the backyard of the Mackeys' B and B, petting one. The soft brown animal nudged Stan's hand as her movement slowed; she was clearly asking for more.

“Aren't they great? This is Mittens.”

“Mittens?”

“Yes. One of our first. We got her when I was still getting used to the cold. Fifteen years after I got here.” Char laughed at her own joke. “So how are you liking town? Meeting a lot of people?”

“Some. I met Amara Leonard.” She wondered if she should mention Carole's odd visit.

“She's a lovely lady, isn't she? Let's go inside and you can sample some of the gazpacho I'm making for our guests. I do hope you start meeting more people. It's quite a social little town.”

Stan followed her in. “I met the vet, too.”

“Carole?” Char turned and observed Stan's face. “Where did you meet her?”

Well, now that she'd opened the door. Stan told her about the encounter earlier that day. “It was bizarre.”

Char's bright orange sundress lit up the kitchen like a fluorescent bulb. Orange seemed to be her favorite color. She accented the look with chunky red jewelry and matching four-inch platform flip-flops, which were one shade darker than her hair. Her eye shadow today was a warm, glittery gold. The whole outfit reminded Stan of a fancy bowl of ripe fruit. Generous-sized fruit. But in an inviting bowl.

“Carole is an interesting woman,” Char said, choosing a knife and then attacking fresh tomatoes, their juice oozing over the wine bottle–shaped cutting board. “She's very passionate about her work. And her town.”

“How long has she been a vet?”

Char stopped cutting, knife in midair, to think about that. Tomato juice and seeds dripped red from her blade and splattered on the cutting board. “I'm not entirely sure, but Ray says her family's been doing this forever. Her daddy owned that practice.” She lowered the blade again with the confidence of a guillotine operator, slicing the tomato neatly in half. “Put Doc Stevens in the driver's seat when Carole left town. But then she came back.

“I think she's feeling threatened by all the choices people have these days.” Char lowered her voice. “Like Doc Amara. I think she's a doc. Are those kinds of people docs?”

“You mean homeopaths? Yes, of course they're doctors. I mean, the legit ones. She was meditating on the green this morning. I almost stepped on her. Carole saw us talking.” Stan thought about the way Carole had stared at them. “I think that's why she came over. Marking her territory. There must be some not-so-friendly competition between those two. They were yelling at each other in the street Saturday when I was moving in.”

“Yelling? Really?” Char abandoned her tomatoes at the promise of gossip. “What were they yelling about? I can't picture that little thing yelling.”

“I didn't hear much. Something about Amara being a ‘two-bit hack.' And Amara did her fair share of yelling back.”

Char laughed and turned back to her veggies. “Sounds like something Carole would say. I have to admit, honey, I don't know much about that natural stuff. But I do know Carole is very set in her ways. I presume she would think it's all hogwash.”

“Then why would Carole be upset? If she thinks there's no validity?”

Char thought about that, the
snap, snap, snap
of her knife against the cutting board the only sound in the room for a moment. “Well, I don't know,” she said finally. “I guess that's a good question. I know she made fun of that odd thing Amara does with her hands. What's it called? Raking, or some such thing?”

“You mean Reiki?” Stan chuckled. “You really aren't into natural healing, are you?”

“Honey, I have my natural healers right over there.” Char nodded to the far wall of the kitchen. Not a wall but a wine rack. Bottles filled every slot. “I haven't been to a doc in years and I'm a hundred and ten percent.”

At Stan's chuckle, Char waved the knife at her. “I'm not kidding. Everybody gets crazy about health and exercise and doctors and food, but they're usually pill-popping, miserable people. No offense, honey. I know you're into that exercise stuff. But where I come from, we don't worry about all that. We have a few drinks. We eat good food. We laugh. That's all.”

Stan raised her iced tea in a toast. “Amen to that. Where did you come from, anyway? Maybe I'll move there next.”

“Louisiana, baby doll. Right outside N'awleans. We know how to move slow there, let me tell you.” Char pushed her diced tomatoes aside and attacked a green pepper. “And we have drive-through daiquiri stands. It's heaven.”

“I should have guessed.” She could see it now, in the plantation-style furniture, the gargoyle accents all over the kitchen. There were even Mardi Gras beads dangling from various spots—a chili pepper–themed string on a hook near the refrigerator, a coffee-and-beignets string near the breakfast nook. The gas fireplace in the kitchen would make this the favorite room in winter. The long table and benches invited everyone to sit together and enjoy a delicious meal. The mint green walls made Stan think of juleps, although she wouldn't know a julep if she tripped over it.

“So what do I do about Carole? I'm sure small-town politics would suggest I go and play nice. But I'm not in the market for a vet. Especially one who barges into my kitchen and commands me to show up. And I do believe in homeopathy and I don't feel like arguing with someone about it.” Stan got up and wandered to the glass doors at the back of the kitchen. Outside, Ray swept the patio, decorated with a few tables and lounge chairs for the guests. Stan could see a cozy wooden porch swing at the far end. Beyond, on the grass, the alpacas milled around behind their fence.

Char sighed and threw her cucumbers into the bowl. “I know. Carole is her own worst enemy these days. She's campaigning for her own business, but she's overdoing it a tad. She's really bordering on obsessive. And Betty isn't helping, either. She's angry and can't resist telling everyone about it.”

“Who's Betty?”

“Betty Meany. She's the town librarian. A bit nosy. You'll see.”

That Char called someone “nosy” with a straight face made Stan smile.

“She lost her best friend a couple of weeks ago—Snickers, her cat.” Char shook her head sadly, measured out two teaspoons of olive oil and added salt. “She's convinced the lymphoma came from all the vaccines over the years. Told Carole to stop, but Carole insisted Snickers needed them.”

“My goodness, that's awful,” Stan said. “I'd be upset, too. Maybe I should just call her and cancel. Nutty's doing fine right now.”

“Well, you know, I'm not sure Snickers' dying was Carole's fault. People can't see reality when they're that upset. I don't know, honey.” Char added lemon juice and some other seasonings, which Stan lost track of in the blur of her hands, then threw the whole concoction into the food processor and turned it on. “Y'all should keep the appointment,” Char shouted over the roar of the machine. “What's the harm?”

 

 

“‘What's the harm?' she asks. It's the hours of mea culpa and baking that I'm going to have to do to get you to talk to me again,” Stan said to Nutty the next morning. They were having their usual cat carrier standoff in the bathroom. It was seven-forty. Stan knew she would eventually win, but she'd lose a few battles first. And some skin. And probably be late. Why had she let this woman badger her into an appointment, anyway?

Theme song: “
Mission: Impossible
.” Nutty waited behind the toilet, watching her every move, tail flicking in displeasure like a possessed dust mop. Stan crouched down, attempting to talk sense into him. “Come on, Nutty. Let's do it the easy way.”

Nutty never saw the value in the easy way. After a session of fake-outs, scratches and some hissing, Stan scruffed him and dropped him into the upright carrier.

Nutty gave her a dirty look as she locked him in. “Hey,” she said. “I warned you.”

She carried him outside to the garage and loaded him into her Audi. They drove the mile and a quarter down the road. Past the green, across from the library, next to the town hall. As promised, a small house-turned-business with a hand-carved wooden sign in the shape of a cat and dog, tails entwined, came into view as she rounded the corner. A frog sat about the
FROG LEDGE
piece of the name. The cheery yellow color of the building seemed out of character for the serious vet. And the sign was amazing. Stan knew next to nothing about woodworking, but even from the street she could tell the detail was painstaking.

Stan parked on the street in front of the clinic. The same green SUV that had roared away from Amara's house the other night was parked in the tiny lot.

Inside the carrier, Nutty had resigned himself to the trip and was curled in a ball. “It'll be short, I promise,” she said. “No shots. No meds. Pinky swear.” He ignored her. She glanced at her watch.
Five to eight. I might as well get it over with.

She got out and hefted the carrier. They walked up to the front door. It stood slightly ajar. Stan pushed it open and called out, “Hello? Carole?”

No answer. The lights were on, so Stan stepped in. The waiting room felt comfy. A sign tacked up to the counter read:
PETS WELCOME.
Chairs were set up in twos and threes around the room, next to coffee tables stacked with piles of
Dog Fancy
and
Cat Fancy.
A computer hummed on a desk behind the counter. No receptionist or tech in sight. The room was cold, like someone had cranked the air-conditioning before the heat set in.

Stan set Nutty down on a chair and strolled around the room, checking out posters on the wall for packaged dog and cat food, a schedule of pet-friendly events in town, a bulletin board with ads offering pet-sitting services and showcasing lost pets. The lost pet ads always made her sad, but she felt compelled to look in case she ran into the missing animal somewhere.

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—” And 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 worked 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.