Kneading to Die (7 page)

Stan left the path and cut through the headstones, hoping she wasn't pedaling herself into a corner. She could sense the car coming closer, keeping pace with her, but she didn't turn. It was still far enough back that she wouldn't be able to identify anyone, anyway. Instead, she pedaled faster, ignoring the reality that she was also pedaling blindly, urging her screaming legs to pick up the pace. She would pay for this tomorrow. If she made it to tomorrow. Her imagination kicked in and she imagined a
Sopranos
-like scene where the driver of the car pulled out a fancy, silenced gun and popped her off right here. Or grabbed her and drove away to a house of horrors and torture.

Who would feed Nutty?

Under any other circumstance, and without the murdered vet hanging over her head, she'd have found her paranoid thoughts amusing and would have laughed them off. She wasn't part of a hit TV show or a best-selling horror novel.

Not today. Today she felt like she was part of a real-life drama a heck of a lot scarier than a TV show. Stan careened around a huddle of stones, heading for the perimeter. Worst case, she could haul the bike over the stone wall. It wasn't that high. Then she'd be on the street, where at least there might be witnesses to her untimely death. Or she could leave the bike and run.

She risked a glance around. The car gained on her. Her lungs were going to burst and her arms and legs ached. A rock in her path almost tipped her over, and she fought to keep control of the bike and not pitch forward over the handlebars. The blue car sped up and cut left, heading straight for her. Her eyes widened. She envisioned the car plunging over headstones in some desperate attempt to get to her. She was screwed.

And then a red Saab convertible appeared from the other direction. Stan thought about flagging the car down, but she'd look crazy. And the woman driving the car wasn't paying attention, anyway. Her music blared and she sang at the top of her lungs. Apparently, she was either happy to visit her deceased loved one, or really happy they were deceased.

Whatever her reasons, her presence halted the blue car. The Saab passed it. Stan took advantage of the lull, pedaling furiously, keeping close to the wall. She'd hit a slight decline in the terrain and used it, pushing her legs harder. Then she saw huge iron gates. A much larger entrance than the one on the other end. And the gates were wide open. She wanted to sob with relief. What a glorious sight! She flew through, wild with freedom and civilization, as cars whizzed past and the noise level rose a few octaves. She glanced behind her. The blue car wasn't in sight.

She paused to rest for a minute. Now that imminent danger had passed, she felt a little silly. What if she'd imagined the car stalking her? It could have been someone looking for a headstone. Or a funeral director looking for a plot. Or someone else who just liked cemeteries.

The stress of the move and Carole's death was getting to her. She reached for her water and realized she'd lost the bottle during her all-terrain ride. Shoot. It was hot out here and she was suddenly very thirsty.

And she had no idea where she was. She couldn't be that far off track from the road she'd been on when she first found the cemetery. But she sure as heck wasn't going back through it, imagination or not. She'd had enough for one day. She felt around in the small bag she'd brought for her phone. She could use the GPS. But the phone wasn't in there. She vaguely remembered throwing it on the table after speaking with her mother.

She turned left and started pedaling again, keeping the cemetery next to her. That had to bring her back somewhere near her house. Of course it was all uphill. Stan could feel sweat dripping down her back and wished she could find a pool to jump into.

A honking horn behind her startled her, and her bike jumped the curb. Almost into oncoming traffic. Cursing, she wobbled to a stop and turned. A black pickup truck idled across the street. Jake grinned at her. Duncan pushed his head next to him in the window and howled.

“Sorry 'bout that,” Jake said. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

Stan waited until the cars had passed; then she crossed the street to them. “Between the two of you, I'm lucky I'm still alive.” She reached in and scratched Duncan's ears. “Hi, fella.”

“You doing a triathlon or something?” Jake asked. “The only thing I haven't seen you do is swim.”

She smiled, thinking of her still-empty bucket list, the athletic event she'd thought about adding to it. Why hadn't she? “No. Just figured I'd check the town out a bit. Found the cemetery.” She glanced over her shoulder. Wondered if she should mention the car and figured he would think she was crazy. “By the way, do you, um, know the quickest way back?”

He laughed. “Got yourself lost, did you? You want a ride? It's damn hot out here. And you're a good few miles out.”

“I am?” She looked around dubiously. “I came through the cemetery, but I didn't want to go back that way.”

He watched her, then opened the door. “Get in. I'll throw your bike in back. I have cold water in the cooler. You don't want heat stroke.”

Stan opened her mouth to protest, but then she remembered her lost bottle of water. Oh, well. She could live with being a wuss if it meant a cold drink. She hopped off and unhooked her helmet. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He hefted the bike easily onto the bed of his truck. Stan couldn't help noticing again how cute he was. Which made her remember Richard, who was cute in an uptight sort of way. Jake looked like the laid-back sort. She walked around to the other side of the truck and climbed in. Duncan immediately plopped onto her lap.

“So you went through the cemetery? It's one of the biggest in the county,” Jake said, jumping back in and pulling out into traffic. “Nice paths, if you like that sort of thing. Cooler's right there.” He nodded at her feet.

“Mmm,” Stan said noncommittally, reaching around Duncan and pulling out a blessedly cold bottle. She looked out the window as they drove, noting every blue car that passed. None of them looked like the car in the cemetery. “I hope I'm not taking you out of your way.”

Jake glanced at her with a smile. “The whole town isn't but forty miles around. Not much is out of my way around here. Don't chug the water. You're probably overheated. Don't want to shock your system.”

Good point. Stan resisted the urge to do just that, but she took a big swig. “Thanks. It's hot out there.” She pulled her treats out of her pack and fed one to Duncan. He wagged his tail so hard that he almost shifted the truck into another gear.

“It is. Happens this time of year. What are you feeding that unruly mutt?”

Stan smiled. He looked scruffy today. Unshaven, his hair too long.
It makes him look dangerous. Which he is,
she reminded herself.
Izzy will certainly tell me that.
“Some of my homemade treats. Pumpkin spice.”

“You coming to the farmers' market on Sunday?” He made a left and suddenly they were driving by Gene's place. Gene was still outside with his dog and his chickens, hard at work on a piece of wood. Stan wondered if it was for her wagon.

“I just saw the sign this morning. I'm definitely planning on it. I need some goat cheese.”

“Well, you'll have plenty to choose from. It's a big event.” He jerked a thumb at the back of his truck. “That's why I'm hauling tables around. We won't tell anyone your bike was on top of them. They won't want to put their veggies out.”

“Do you eat goat cheese?”

“I do. Sadie Brown's goat cheese is the best, if you want my opinion.” He placed his hand over his heart. “You'll be instantly in love. If that's your thing.”

“It is,” Stan said. “Which farm does Sadie Brown run?”

“The Sandy Beach Goat Farm. It's down the other way from my place. Hey, you know, they're not formal about who sells stuff there. You should bring some of those treats. With the dog population around here, you'll make some extra cash, guaranteed.”

“You really think so? I've never sold my treats. Except at adoption events.”

“Heck yes. Your pal Izzy has a table at every farmers' market. Why don't you setup on a corner of it and see what happens?”

“It wouldn't hurt to try, I guess.” She was already thinking about how much she should bake and how she would have to add to her grocery list.

“Not at all. Dunc will make me buy some, I'm sure.” Jake nodded at the dog nosing her pack and took a hairpin turn onto Stan's street. She could hear her bike skidding along the truck bed. He pulled into her driveway and left the engine running while he fetched her bike out of the back. Duncan remained across her lap, pretending to be asleep.

“Come on, fella. I have to get out,” she urged. He didn't budge. Jake came back and hung his arms in the open window. He shook his head.

“Dunc!” The dog lifted his head, blinked lazily at Jake, then dropped again. Stan laughed.

“I know, I know, he's not well behaved,” Jake said as Stan hefted him enough to get a leg out of the truck. Then she wriggled the rest of the way out from under his death grip.

“It's okay. He's cute. Thanks for the ride. And the water.” She patted Duncan's head. He gave her a woeful glance.

She leaned in and whispered, “I'll come see you soon and bring treats. You don't have to buy any.”

He wagged his tail.

“You conspiring with my dog?” Jake asked.

“I conspire with all four-legged creatures,” Stan said. “See you at the farmers' market.”

“Oh, I'm sure I'll see you before then,” Jake said.

Jake pulled away with a wave, Duncan hanging out the window, tongue lolling. Stan stashed her bike and helmet in the garage and went to the front door. Before she went inside, she turned and scanned the street. The blue sedan hadn't reappeared, but there were a dozen eggs sitting on her porch. Gene's chickens worked fast.

She unlocked her door and heard a
thump
and then running feet across the porch. A black cat with a shock of white on the top of his head trotted over to her, meowing loudly. He tried to squeeze past her inside the house.

“Well, hello,” she said, crouching down and holding out her hand. The cat came closer and sniffed her, still mewing. Stan wondered if he was lost. He wore a purple collar with a tag. She flipped it over and read the information:
Houdini.
And a phone number.

“Houdini, eh?” Stan said. “Are you lost? Do you want to come inside and I'll call your mom or dad?”

Houdini responded by slinking into the house. Stan hoped Nutty stayed upstairs. “Come on, then,” she told the cat. He followed her obediently down the hall into the kitchen. Stan closed both doors to keep Nutty out, turned and surveyed her new friend.

“Here, have a treat while I call.” She bent down, flipped his tag over and pressed the digits into her phone. She fed him his treat with her other hand. He nearly swallowed it whole and rubbed on her leg for another. A woman answered.

“Hello, this is Stan Connor on Town Green Road. I think I have your cat, Houdini, here.”

“Oh, my goodness! That little rascal,” the woman exclaimed. “I think he snuck out this morning when I came back from my early walk. I'm so glad I got him a tag with my cell number on it. This has happened a few times lately. I'll come right over and get him. Which house are you, dear?”

“The green Victorian,” Stan said. “And don't worry. He's inside with me. Having some treats.”

“Well, how nice of you,” the woman said. “I'm Betty, by the way. I'm just up the street at the library. I hope I'm not holding you up.”

“Not at all. If you want me to keep him until you're done at work, that's fine, too.”

“Oh, how sweet. But I can grab him in a pinch and drop him off at home.”

Stan hung up and fed Houdini another treat. He gobbled that one, too. “Did you miss breakfast this morning, or do you just like my treats?” she asked. “I guess it could be my treats. Lots of animals like them.” She gave him another and poured herself a glass of iced tea while she waited. Houdini's owner had to be the infamous Betty Meany. Maybe she could get some information. The thought perked her up a bit. Maybe Houdini had really wanted her to meet his mom and gotten lost on purpose. Cats could be so considerate that way.

Stan left him locked in the kitchen and went looking for Nutty. This house was so large compared to their last place that she felt like she never saw him. He was always finding new corners to explore and sun spots to lounge in. She called him a few times and was about to give up when she noticed him lounging on the window seat at the top of the stairs, half hidden behind one of the pillows.

“Ah. There you are. Just wanted to let you know we have a guest, and I have a lot of treat baking to do. We're going to sell our goods at the farmers' market this weekend.”

Nutty didn't look impressed. He blinked lazy eyes at her and swished his tail.

“Well, I have to get appreciation somewhere, don't I?” She went back downstairs, leaving him to it.

It wasn't long before her doorbell rang. She hurried out to greet Betty. It certainly looked like the foot-tapping woman assisting with last night's vigil, but Stan hadn't gotten close enough. Barely five feet tall, Betty reminded Stan of Helen Mirren with her short, spiky gray hair. She also wore fun red glasses with rhinestones, which matched her red blouse.

“Hello, I'm Betty. Betty Meany. So lovely to meet you. Now where is that fresh little boy? And what did you say your name was, again?”

“I'm Stan. And Houdini's right this way. I put him in the kitchen so he wouldn't fight with my cat if they saw each other.” Stan led her down the hallway. “I'm so pleased to meet you. I've heard a lot about you already. Do you live nearby?”

“Two streets over, thataway.” Betty waved in the general direction of Stan's backyard. “Houdini used to be an outdoor cat and I rescued him, but he still has a wild side and loves to escape. That's why I call him Houdini. There you are, you silly little boy!” She set her purse down and scooped the cat into her arms, nuzzling her face in his black fur. “What a bad boy!”

And then she burst out crying.

Alarmed, Stan immediately grabbed a box of tissues from the counter and handed it to her. “Don't cry, Betty. He's fine,” she said. “And I'm sure he's sorry. Right, Houdini?”

Houdini responded by jumping out of his owner's arms and onto the counter, where he rubbed on her treat jar. “I'm so sorry you're upset, Betty. Please sit.” Stan pulled out a chair and motioned to it.

Betty sank into it, pulled off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, still clutching the box. “I'm sorry I'm such a wreck. It's not your fault. I'm glad Houdini turned up. I would have been devastated. I just lost one of my babies. My Snickers.”

The name caused her to go off on a fresh bout of tears. Betty blew her nose loudly; then she crumpled the tissues in her hand, still sniffling.

“I'm so sorry,” Stan said. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” Betty agreed with a hiccup. “Especially when they don't have to die. Snickers was fifteen, but she should have lived another ten years. Well, at least five. Cats can live that long, you know. Especially ones who are treated well. And my babies are treated like kings and queens. Would you like to see her picture?”

Without waiting for an answer she pulled her wallet out of her bag and extracted a photo of a pretty calico cat, sunning herself on a cat bed.

“Adorable,” Stan said. “What happened to Snickers?”

Betty narrowed her eyes. “That awful woman happened to her. I know you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but I'm sorry. She killed my cat as surely as if she'd shot her with a gun.”

“Who?” Stan asked carefully. She wanted to hear it straight from Betty.

“Dr. Morganwick.” Betty nearly spit the words. “And she shouldn't have called herself a doctor. She was nothing but a fraud, who wanted to push her vaccines and her bad food. What kind of treats are those, anyway? I've never seen him so hell-bent on a treat. He doesn't usually like the ones I buy, and I refuse to buy the garbage at the grocery store.”

Stan turned to where Houdini was rubbing the jar and purring loudly. “They're homemade. Those are cheese-flavored treats. I also have pumpkin spice. I can give you some to take home, if you'd like.” She got up and fed one to the cat.

“How thoughtful,” Betty said. “I have another baby at home. A tiger cat. Copperfield.”

“I can send some for him, too.”

“Snickers loved treats.”

“So you were telling me what happened to Snickers.” Stan got up to put treats in a plastic bag. She heard scratching on the kitchen door. Nutty, wondering why his mother was packing up his treats for someone else. She was in for it when Betty left.

“I had Snickers since she was a baby. Just a tiny six-week-old kitten.” Betty traced a finger over the photo.

Stan had never thought about losing Nutty—why would she, he was only four or five—but now she realized how awful it would be. And especially after fifteen years! She brought the treat bag back to the table.

“She went to Dr. Stevens. He was wonderful. And not just out to make a buck. So many vets, I've heard stories where they would rather let these sweet animals die than put someone on a payment plan. It's shocking. But Dr. Stevens wasn't like that. He would treat a hurt possum, if you brought one in to him. He loved animals.

“Anyway, Dr. Stevens never bothered me about getting all these shots for Snickers. He understood she never went outside. None of my cats do. Unless you count this one, when he sneaks out.” She shook her finger at Houdini. He rubbed Stan's leg and meowed. “He knew those vaccines do more harm than good. They're just moneymakers. If you don't know that, you should do some research. Because that's what you'll find. Moneymakers.” Betty pounded her tiny hand on the table for emphasis.

Stan made a sound of agreement.

“She was doing just fine, Snickers was. And then Dr. Stevens got sick and had to stop practicing. That was terrible. Just terrible. We had no town vet for almost a year. Can you imagine? And then”—Betty paused, and sighed dramatically—“Carole came back to town.”

“So you knew her before she left?”

“Knew her! Of course. Her family has been here for years. There's no one left, though, just Carole and her brother, but he lives clear across the country. She was the last one. Well, her boy, but I have no idea what happened to him. They moved away and she came back alone. Her ex probably took him from her. They were always fighting, those two.”

Ex-husbands. Angry customers. And Jessie Pasquale had her as a murder suspect? “Sounds like Carole had a rough life.”

Betty snorted. “She made her own bed, that one. Her family name provided her with a cushion around here, and she still managed to screw it up. But none of that excuses what she did to Snickers. And probably all these other unsuspecting cats and dogs. I hope your baby wasn't subjected to her!”

“She died before Nutty could see her. So what happened when she came back to town?”

“She took over the practice, like her daddy intended. And, naturally, everyone who loved Dr. Stevens didn't think twice about going to her. Because that's what you do in towns like ours. You support each other. Plus, we already trusted her name. Her father had been a vet here, too. Horses and farm animals, mostly. He even took care of the Galvestons' racehorses. I brought my babies over to introduce them to Carole, and the first thing she did was insist Snickers—all of them—get those awful rabies shots. Lectured me on how it's the law. Well,
law, schmaw,
in my opinion. It's a way to get money, and everyone knows those shots hurt our pets. But she made it sound so . . .
dire
. Like the health inspector was going to come to town and take them away from me. Such a terrible way to operate, scaring your customers. But I love my kitties, so I did it. And then Snickers started getting lumps, right where the shots were. I told Carole, but she insisted the shots had nothing to do with it. Told me I had to get them, that it was for her own good. I listened to her. When I finally listened to me, it was too late for Snickers.” Her eyes filled up again. “She already had cancer. Lymphoma.”

“That's terrible.” And, boy, was it easy to get information around here! It just walked through your door.

“Anyway. Enough of that stuff. I don't mean to dump all this on you when you were so nice to save Houdini.” Betty shoved herself out of the chair, leaving dirty tissues in her wake. “You should come to the library and get your card. I would love it if you signed up.”

“I will certainly do that,” Stan said. “I love libraries.”

Betty beamed. “Excellent. I should let you get back to your day. I'll see you at the circulation desk!” Betty stood up, gathered her purse and picked up Houdini.

“It was my pleasure. Here, don't forget your treats.” Stan handed her the bag. “And I'm so sorry about Snickers.”

“Thank you, dear.” Betty switched her funky red glasses for a pair of enormous sunglasses, hiding her eyes. “Unfortunately, I'm not sorry that awful woman is gone.”