Kneading to Die (4 page)

“I've told you three times already. I had an appointment. A new patient appointment for Nutty. My cat.” Stan pointed to the carrier, where Nutty frantically rubbed against the wire door. “I got here and found her on the floor.” Stan swallowed, remembering how Carole Morganwick looked, still and unmoving, covered in kibble. Once the police had gotten photos and collected their evidence, they'd taken her body away, but Stan figured she'd see it in her mind for the next few years.

“You're right. That's what you told me three times already.” The resident state trooper leaned against Carole's reception counter, intense green eyes drilling a hole through Stan's head. “But what I want you to tell me is what you were really doing here.”

Stan had a few choice words about what she was doing here right now, but she didn't think it wise to opine. Especially to a state trooper. Stan had learned during this morning's course of events that a trooper was the responding officer in towns of this size with no local police force, something she still could barely comprehend. No police. At all. Except for this woman, who looked like she was barely out of her twenties and didn't need makeup, both of which counted against her in Stan's mind. She knew it made her an awful person—a stereotypical, awful person—but she'd been expecting a middle-aged, donut-eating male, not this redhead with the perfect skin and thick hair. Not one of those pale, pasty-looking redheads, either, or an orangey redhead like Char. The cop had some good genes. Or her coppery hair was straight from a bottle.

And this whole concept of resident state troopers who kept office hours in town was crazy to a city girl. On a better day she would be curious about how that worked, but it was not a better day. Stan had a blazing headache; it was freezing in this office; the vet was dead. And not by natural causes. Maybe she'd committed suicide and stabbed herself with some drug, but Stan figured that was unlikely. This cop—
TROOPER PASQUALE,
according to her badge—apparently felt the same way.

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Stan said, rubbing her shoulders to try to chase the goose bumps away.

“There was nothing in her appointment book with your name on it. And the practice doesn't open until eight-thirty.”

Stan sat up straighter. The trooper's insinuation was not lost on her. Theme song: “The
Twilight Zone
.” She mentally prepped herself, as she would one of her executives before they faced a difficult question from the media. Just the facts. “Dr. Morganwick came over yesterday to introduce herself. She was eager to take my cat on as a patient and told me to come in today before her first appointment.”

“Then why isn't it in her appointment book?”

“I have no idea why. She probably forgot to write it in. We spoke in my kitchen. I didn't call and talk to a receptionist or anything. But I did talk to Char Mackey about it. Whether or not I should come. You can ask her.”

“What's wrong with your cat?”

“Nothing's wrong with him.” Stan glanced inside the carrier. Nutty had been clawing frantically at the wire door until a few minutes ago. He'd since given up and gone to sleep.

“Nothing's wrong with your cat, but you came in before Dr. Morganwick's regular appointments.” Pasquale's dry delivery had Stan's hackles rising.

“She asked if I had a vet. Being new in town, I don't. She insisted I bring Nutty in to see her. Said it was an introductory visit so she could meet him in case there was an emergency. I thought it was weird, but I didn't want to make her mad or anything. Being new and all.”

“Ah, yes. You're new in town.” Pasquale's tone indicated being new was right up there with having genital herpes. “Where are you from?”

“I just moved here from West Hartford.”

“What do you do for work?”

She met Pasquale's gaze steadily. “I'm in between jobs right now.”

“What do you do when you're not in between jobs?”

“Public relations.”

Pasquale did not look impressed. “Did you see or hear anything odd when you got here?”

“Just the back door closing.”

Pasquale's eyes narrowed at that. “Walk me through what happened.”

“The door was open, so I walked in. I put Nutty's carrier on that chair.” Stan pointed to where he sat now. “No one was around. I thought I heard a door close out back, so I figured the doctor had gone outside for something and hadn't heard me come in. When no one came out, I called for her. Then I walked out back.” She shivered, more from the memory now than the cold. “I saw her and thought she had fallen, but when I went around the table, I realized she . . . I ran out and called for help.”

Pasquale opened her mouth again, but the door banged open and another trooper came in. Male, also young, a little pudgy, eager-looking.
TROOPER STURGIS,
his badge said. He glanced at Stan, curious, then turned his attention to his counterpart. “Jessie, I canvassed the area, but it was pretty early. No one saw anything. Not even Oliver, and he's always out riding that bike around.” He had a patch of hair on his chin, which he kept rubbing, clearly proud of it. Probably his first.

“Where was he today?” Pasquale asked.

“He'd gone out to your brother's place last night. Had a few too many. Slept in.”

Pasquale didn't like that. Stan could tell by her pursed lips and the way her eyes shifted away from Trooper Sturgis. She wondered who her brother was and what kind of place he had. And what he was serving. She might need some.

“You hit everyone?” Pasquale asked.

“Everyone nearby.” He smirked a little. “Didn't bother asking the Hoffmans' cows. They usually mind their own business.”

Pasquale turned the death stare on him and his smile faltered. “You check around out back, Lou?”

Lou hadn't. He left pretty quickly. Stan thought it was about time to do the same. She got up, picked up Nutty's carrier. He opened one eye and glared at her. “Are we done, Trooper Pasquale? I'd like to get my cat home.”

Pasquale looked like she was not done, but she didn't have a good reason to detain her. She flipped through her notebook one more time. “You're out by the green. In the Victorian.”

Stan nodded, and Pasquale read off Stan's cell number to confirm. “If I have any other questions, I'll follow up with you,” she said. “In the meantime, be careful. There's a murderer out there.”

News traveled fast in small towns. When Stan exited the vet clinic carrying Nutty, Pasquale hovering behind her, half the town had gathered across the street behind the newly positioned police barriers.

A man with thick white hair and an old yellow Lab stood at the front of one of the barriers. He looked like one of those people the newspaper always honed in on after a tragedy—a shocked onlooker with no idea he was being photographed for posterity.

“But I have an appointment,” Stan heard him say, and Lou leaned over and said something in a low voice. She couldn't see the older man's face, but she could tell from the hunch of his shoulders he was upset.

Stan could hear the buzz of conversation, speculation, in the larger crowd. A white van marked
FROG LEDGE ANIMAL CONTROL
was parked haphazardly outside the clinic. A woman leaned against it, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other covering her face. Stan hurried past her. Frantically pushing her unlock button as she approached her car, she finally heard the locks release. She loaded Nutty into the passenger seat and went around to the driver's side. Jammed the key into the ignition, missing a few times, and willed her hands to stop shaking so she could drive without running anyone over.

She kept it together until she pulled out of the parking lot, away from the crowd of eyes staring at her as she drove away, wondering what the new chick had to do with whatever was going on. God, she hated being speculated about.

When she reached her driveway, she lost it. She jammed her car into park in front of the garage. Overcome with an insane urge to sob, she closed her eyes and bit down hard on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. The pain helped her force the tears back, and she folded her arms and laid her head down on the steering wheel. Even more than she hated being speculated about, Stan hated to cry.

But holy crap, she'd just seen a dead person. Her first un–funeral-homed dead person. And even more disturbing than that, it was a murdered dead person. Because that needle didn't just fall out of a cabinet into Carole's neck.

She had almost been in the same room as a murderer. She checked to see if her car doors were locked. It seemed ridiculous on this bright sunny day in a town where cows outnumbered people. And why was she sitting in her car, anyway? She should go inside. Or back to West Hartford. Call Richard. But he was in Chicago. Who else could she call? Her mother? No. Death was too scandalous for her mother's sensitive disposition. Nikki. She should call Nikki. But Nikki hated getting phone calls during a transport. Understandable, when she had a van full of barking dogs, trying to listen to a GPS navigate her home.

Was there really no one to call? That was pathetic. As a fresh bout of tears threatened to overwhelm her, she realized that's the way it was. She had spent so much time at work, where people pretended to be friends but didn't trust each other, and hadn't spent enough time cultivating other relationships. If not for Nikki, she'd be friendless right now.

It was a crappy feeling, but not the time to tackle that, too.
Get a grip, get out of the car and go inside.

Really, she wanted her dad. More than she'd allowed herself to want him since he died nine years ago. He'd know exactly what to say right now to make her feel better, to help her keep a good perspective. But she couldn't talk to him, so it was a moot point. Maybe she'd try some of her all-natural stress reliever. If Nikki were here, she would tell her to take a damn Xanax, then dig one out of her purse.

Stan sucked some air into her lungs and pushed her car door open. The heat slammed into her, like hitting a brick wall. Grabbing Nutty's carrier, she hurried inside and locked the door behind her.

 

 

She took Nutty's chicken and rice out of the refrigerator and spooned some into a bowl. She was so frazzled that she forgot to heat it up, but he immediately attacked it. Already feeling sick to her stomach, Stan turned away from the food. She poured a glass of iced water and headed for the stairs. A long, hot bath would make her feel better. Then she could figure out what to do. She hoped the police found clues. She shivered. They would move fast on this. It was a small town. They wouldn't want a murder hanging over their heads—unless they had no idea how to solve it.

Her doorbell rang before she made it to the bathroom. Maybe this was what Richard meant about her getting sick of the small-town scene. She would give anything to be left alone right now.

Leaving her glass on the hall table, she went back downstairs and peeked out the hall window. There was no mistaking Char's flaming hair. No sooner had Stan opened the door, she found herself wrapped in a huge bear hug, her face pressed against Char's generous bosom, ensconced today in a bright yellow sundress.

“Oh, baby doll, are you all right?” Char exclaimed. “I heard all about what happened—you poor thing! We're all so torn up about it, but you—my goodness, finding her like that. Raymond, bring that soup in here right now.”

As Char released her grip, Stan could see the other woman's red-rimmed eyes were slightly puffy, despite the silver eye shadow that remained still firmly in place. Ray stood behind his wife, looking equally somber, and holding a Crock-Pot.

“You are both too sweet, but that's really not necessary,” Stan began, but Char pooh-poohed her and stepped inside, dragging Stan by the wrist. Her yellow wedge sandals had to be at least four inches high.

“Come sit down and tell me all about what happened. What a terrible, terrible tragedy! Y'all need a good old-fashioned Southern meal to heal this trauma.” Char dragged Stan to the kitchen and nearly shoved her into a chair, waiting for Ray to set the soup down.

“Char, really, I'm not hungry,” Stan said, but Char wouldn't hear it.

“Where are your bowls, honey? Ray, find the bowls.” Char lifted the lid off the soup and inhaled deeply. “This is just what you need. Gumbo. My specialty.” She turned and winked, fanning herself with her hand. “My goodness, it's hot in here.”

“I can turn the air-conditioning up.”

“I'll fix myself a drink. I needed one, anyway. I think we all do, after today. I just can't believe—” Char broke off, sniffling, and turned away, reaching for her ginormous purse. Fishing inside, she came up with a bottle of vodka.

“How you holding up, Stan?” Ray said, bending down to buss her cheek.

“I'm fine, really, and the bowls are right there.” Stan pointed to the cabinet. Ray nodded, snapped his suspenders and went to work on the soup.

With steaming bowls of gumbo and rice in front of them, and a martini for Char, mixed in a water glass, since Stan hadn't finished unpacking the kitchen, they dug in. Well, Char and Ray dug in. Apparently, they were still able to eat, despite their grief over Carole. Stan pushed the soup around with her spoon, wishing she were hungry—it did smell awfully good—but still feeling sick. She wanted her bath. Or to go back in time to this morning so she could change her mind about going to the vet.

“So what in the world happened today? I heard just the bare facts. Poor Carole. Beaten with a bag of kibble!” Char shuddered.

“‘Beaten with a bag of kibble'?” Stan repeated.

“No?” Char leaned forward, her bracelets clanking together. “Well, we all know how these stories go, the more they're passed around. So how did she die?”

“Char, the poor girl doesn't want to relive that,” Ray chided his wife. “Eat your gumbo, Stan, and don't think about it anymore.”

“You're absolutely right, love. I'm a terrible friend. I'm so sorry, honey.” Char turned apologetic, puppy dog eyes to Stan. “Forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive. I have no idea how she died. The police have to do an autopsy.”

“But was there kibble involved?” Char couldn't help herself. She set her chin in her hand, waiting expectantly.

Stan remembered the kibble scattered atop the dead woman and tried to chase the image from her mind. “How did you hear about this so fast?”

“Diane told me,” Char said.

“Diane?”

“Kirschbaum. The animal control officer. And, of course, Gene was there, too. He had an appointment with Junior, his dog. He was in shock, Diane said.”

“Who's Gene?”

“He's the town's sign maker. A woodworker. Amazing talent. He's very gifted. He makes other things, too. Decorations, lawn pieces. We have a lovely whiskey barrel for flowers Gene made us. I'll show you next time. And he grew up in town, so naturally he knew Carole from years ago.”

The man with the white hair and the Lab. Stan remembered the look of disbelief on his face and felt sorry for him. “What about Diane? Was she friendly with Carole?”

Ray and Char exchanged a look. “I think they'd done business a few times. You know, it would be hard not to,” Char said.

“But they weren't friends?” Stan asked. “She looked pretty upset. I saw her outside this morning, after . . .”

“‘Reluctant colleagues' might be a better term,” Ray said. “They had differing opinions about animals.”

Sounded like Carole had differing opinions with people about a lot of things. “Word gets around quickly here,” she said, instead.

Ray nodded. “You don't live in the city anymore, my dear. This is a small town, and everyone knows everything. Trust me.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Just like everyone knows that Hal Hoffman was in a bar brawl last night at Jake's place and almost got his behind kicked. If it weren't for Jake, that college kid would've taken him right down.”

Stan shook her head. “Who's Hal Hoffman? And why does anyone care?”

Both Char and Ray stared at her.

“What?” Stan asked. “Why would I care that some guy named Hal Hoffman got in a fight like a teenager? Is he a teenager?”

“Well, he may as well be,” Char muttered, earning a dirty look from her husband. “Hal is your neighbor, honey. The Happy Cow Dairy Farm. He and his wife, Emmalee, run it. I'm sure you've seen him outside on the tractor. And Jake runs the bar in town. Irish pub. A classy place. He hates when there are upsets.”

“And like I said, you live in a small town now,” Ray reminded her. “You have to care.”

Yikes. Apparently, there was a lot she had to learn about small-town life. Stan wasn't sure how she felt about that. She had enough going on without worrying about who was getting in bar brawls. “Is this Jake McGee?” she asked.

“The very same. Have you met him?”

“I did. When I was out running.”

Char smirked a little. “I'm not surprised.”

“Why?”

“Ah, honey. You're an attractive woman. Jake likes the ladies.”

Stan flushed.

“Have you been to McSwigg's yet?” Ray asked.

“That's the name of his bar?”

“Most certainly is,” Ray said. “You would like it.”

“As long as Hal Hoffman isn't brawling.”

“Righto,” Ray agreed.

Then it dawned on Stan. “Is that the only place around here people drink at? Like people who live in town?”

“Mostly. Some of them go to the next town. The fancy microbrewery. But most of us locals, we patronize Jake.”

“Does some guy who rides a bike or something go there, too?” She racked her brain for the name Trooper Lou had used. “Oliver?”

“He sure does,” Ray said. “You haven't seen Oliver's bike yet?”

“No. No, I haven't.” Stan slumped back in her chair, her stomach feeling sicker than before. Jake McGee was Trooper Pasquale's brother. Had to be.
“He'd gone out to your brother's place last night. Had a few too many. Slept in.”

Char and Ray were watching her, probably wondering why discussing Oliver's bike had had such an adverse affect on her.

“So Jessie Pasquale is Jake's sister?” she said.

“Sure is,” Ray said. “Kept her ex's last name. Probably for their daughter's sake.”

Stan digested that info as best she could and turned the conversation back to Carole.

“Does Carole's family live nearby? I can't imagine how they must feel.”

“I don't know much about her family, at least what's left. Do you, Ray?” Char asked.

Ray thought about it. “Well, now, I can't be sure. The Morganwicks were a big name around here years ago. Big part of the town's history. But the last few generations . . .” He shrugged. “Carole's parents passed, and no one's seen her brother in decades. Carole herself left for a while. Married, divorced. I really can't say if there's anyone. She kept to herself, mostly. Oh, but wait. Where did her boy end up living?”

“My goodness, sweetie, you're right. I forgot all about him! What was his name?” Char tapped her huge ring against the table as she thought. “Alexander, Adrian . . .”

Ray snapped his fingers. “Adam. Must've gone off on his own. He'd be old enough.”

“Or maybe with his dad. He never returned with Carole.”

Stan listened with interest. “Carole had a son?”

“Yes, just one. I don't think they were close. She was very much absorbed in her work.”

“Did Carole take care of your alpacas?”

Char and Ray exchanged another odd glance. Not just odd. Guilty.

“Yes. Yes, she did,” Char said, but not convincingly.

“I've known Carole since we were toddlers,” Ray said. “We went to school together. Like I said, she grew up in these parts.”

“So how long did she take care of the animals for you? What will you do now?”