The Icing on the Corpse (7 page)

Stan sighed. “So who do you think did it?”

“I don't know.”

“You have to have someone in mind,” Stan said. “Otherwise, why would you think she was pushed at all? Did she have a lot of enemies?”

“Of course not. She was lovely.”

“Did you see someone around the museum that morning? Someone who shouldn't have been there?”

“No, I wasn't even at the museum. I was tied up with event details at the church until right before ten, when we started the slide show. We were missing tablecloths, and the microphone at the podium outside wasn't working. So many logistics to handle.” Betty worked harder at the loose thread .

“Do you think Dale Hatmaker had something to do with her death?” Stan asked. “Would he . . . really kill a person because he wanted her job? That sounds a little extreme, but I guess you just never know.”

Betty was quiet for a long time. Stan decided to take the hint and leave, when Betty spoke. “Stan, you have to understand something about Frog Ledge. A lot of secrets live here. They've lived here for a lot of years. And Helga, well, Helga knew most of those secrets.”

Stan felt a sudden chill. She rubbed her arms to get rid of the goose bumps. “What kind of secrets? The kind that could get her killed?”

Betty looked straight at her. “The kind that should be left alone.”

Chapter 10

Betty knew more than she was telling about the Helga situation. Either that, or she'd gone completely off her rocker. Neither of those options sat well in Stan's gut.

She backed out of Betty's driveway as darkness slipped into Frog Ledge. A light snow had started to fall again. The flakes swirled through the wind and kissed her windshield before puddling into water. She flicked her windshield wipers on, pausing before she drove away. In an upstairs window, a light went on. Stan caught sight of Betty's face in the window before the room winked into darkness behind rapidly closing blinds.

She drove away quickly, the heebie-jeebies chasing her. All Betty's talk about murder and secrets seemed extra eerie on this dark, winter night. On autopilot, Stan didn't realize she'd headed for the pub until she turned into the parking lot. Here, there was guaranteed warmth. She wanted to run in and tell Jake about Betty's claims, but she couldn't do that. She'd promised. Instead, she'd have to take comfort just in being here.

It was a light customer night judging by the cars in the lot, probably due to the weather. Unless a lot of locals were walking over, which wasn't uncommon. She parked next to Burt Meany's red Buick—Betty had been right about his destination—and went inside.

As soon as she stepped through the door, the feeling of “home” washed over her and she immediately felt better. She'd always been comfortable here. It wasn't like any other bar she'd ever been in. Probably Jake had a lot to do with that, but overall this place wasn't solely about having a drink—although there were plenty of opportunities for that. McSwigg's was about community. Family. The place, corny as it sounded, where everybody knew your name. Or mostly everybody, like when the place wasn't overrun with college kids.

But even filled to bursting, it was special. Ireland was still on her “to visit” bucket list, so she didn't have the real thing to compare it to, but if she had to bet, Jake's place rated pretty high on the authentic Irish pub experience list. He'd done most of the interior work himself, from the elaborate wooden doors with Celtic engraving, to the gleaming mahogany bar, to the homey feeling he'd cultivated with a fireplace and mix of high bar tables, couches, and comfy chairs scattered throughout. The mirrored shelves behind the bar displayed his impressive collection of alcohol with a 3D effect. The live band area in back was quiet tonight, but Stan had seen it rocking many times with everything from Irish step dancers to full-on rock bands—all Irish themed, of course. He also had started hosting poetry slams and open-mic nights in an effort to cater to the age-appropriate student population. So far, it had been very successful.

Irish flags, clovers, and various blessings, as well as photos of real Ireland castles and other scenery adorned the walls. And over the bar area, her favorite piece of McSwigg's—the hand-cut, engraved wooden blessing that read:
AN ÁIT A BHFUIL DO CHROÍ IS ANN A THABHARFAS DO CHOSA THÚ
.
Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.

Hers certainly had.

She scanned the room. Jake stood behind the bar, but not in his usual mode of pouring drinks and chatting with people. Instead, he was in the far corner having what looked to be a heated discussion with Izzy Sweet. Stan hesitated, thinking maybe she shouldn't go in after all, but it was too late. Brenna had already spotted her from her position behind the bar. She waved. Stan threaded her way over, noticing Burt Meany planted in front of one of the big-screen TVs. He sat with a couple of other guys, drinking Bud Light from a can.

She felt bad for Betty.

“Hey, Bren.” She finally got to the bar and dropped her purse in the chair while she unzipped her coat and unwound her scarf. “Slow night?”

“Really slow. I heard it's snowing again.” Brenna wiped the counter in front of Stan and pulled out a wineglass. “Merlot?”

Stan resisted the urge to swoon. “Yes, please.”

“French fries?”

Stan hesitated. She loved Jake's homemade fries. Especially the Cajun ones. But she had her good-for-you soup at home for dinner. Although she could use something to tide her over until she actually went home.

Brenna watched her inner struggle and laughed. “I'll bring you fries.”

Stan smiled sheepishly. “I'm that easy to read?”

“Nah, I just know you by now. And how much you love fries.” Brenna grabbed a glass and selected the wine.

Stan glanced over at Jake and Izzy in the corner. Izzy's long braids obscured her face, but Stan could tell from her body language—long nails drumming on the bar, body angled away from Jake—that she was not happy with the conversation. She wondered if it had to do with the letter Izzy had told her about that morning. “What's going on over there?”

Brenna rolled her eyes. “Typical. All those two ever do is fight. It's all they ever did, right?” She poured a generous sampling of the red wine into the glass and presented it with a flourish. “Enjoy. I'll be back in a few and we can talk about our plan for tomorrow. We're still baking, right?”

“We are. I came by to tell you about the new job we have.” She hadn't, really, but it was as good a reason as any. And she did need Brenna to get on the wedding planning quickly.

“A new job? For Pawsitively Organic?” Brenna clapped her hands together in excitement. “What is it?”

“You're not gonna believe it. It's cool. Quirky, but cool.” Stan sipped her wine and tried not to look over at Jake. He hadn't seen her yet, which meant it was a serious conversation. He was usually on top of everything that happened in the bar—sometimes before it happened. And he always was the first to greet her when she showed up.

“Excuse me. Can I get my wine?” A woman with six-inch stilettos, a too-short-for-winter dress, and a foul-looking face leaned in next to Stan. “I've been waiting.”

“I'm so sorry. That was a Chardonnay, right?” Brenna hurried off to fill the order. The woman looked Stan up and down, clearly rating her outfit. She appeared to find it lacking, which didn't bother Stan one bit if the alternative was looking like her.

Brenna returned with the glass and Stan's fries. She took the woman's money. The woman didn't leave her a tip and flounced away. Brenna frowned after her. “Jerk.” She put Stan's plate of fries in front of her.

“I hope that doesn't happen often.” Stan popped a fry in her mouth. Heaven. “So, anyway, this new job—”

Izzy appeared at her side. Irritation set her jaw and made her eyes flash, but to her credit, she tried to mask it with a smile. At the same time, two guys approached the bar.

Brenna sighed. “I'll be back.” With a curious look at Izzy, she headed for the new customers.

“Hi,” Izzy said.

“Hey,” Stan said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Listen, I gotta get going, but you should stop by tomorrow.”

“I'll try. I have to figure out tomorrow's schedule. Lots of baking to do and I got a new job today.” She saw Jake hanging back, waiting until Izzy was finished before he came over.

Izzy saw him, too. “Well, try,” she said. “New coffee shipment coming in. And you can tell me about the new job. I heard some gossip about it today.” With a wink, she hurried away.

Jake finished straightening the bottles on one of the shelves behind the bar, then came over. “What are you drinking?”

“My usual.” Stan observed him, saw the fatigue in his eyes, the pale of his face behind his usual one-day stubble. “What are you drinking?”

He half-smiled. “Nothing. Yet.” He tipped his Red Sox hat back, rubbed his forehead. “Long day. But it's all good. How are you? Wasn't sure I'd see you tonight.”

“I wasn't sure either. Fry?”

“No, thanks. I already ate.”

“Did you guys, uh, get the funeral planned?” She hated to bring it up, but didn't want him to think she was rude if she didn't ask.

Jake's face clouded over again. “We did. It'll be private. Don wants to focus on their immediate family, the boys, you know. The town-wide celebration will be for everyone else. I think that's the right thing to do. It's supposed to be Sunday.”

Stan nodded. “Sounds appropriate. The celebration sounds like it will be a lot of work to pull together in such a short period of time, though.”

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “It will be a busy week. So, will you go with me? To the funeral? It's Thursday at eleven.”

“Me?” She tried to hide her surprise. “If you're sure no one will mind, of course I'll go. But I thought it was private.”

“Why would anyone mind? You're with me.”

The statement, even delivered so casually, flooded her body with warmth. Too bad she was so relationship challenged that she had no good response. “Great,” was the best she could come up with. “So you're officially working tonight?”

He shrugged. Either he didn't notice her awkwardness or he was too polite to call attention to it. “Gotta jump back in sometime, right? Can't sit around and mope.” He held up a finger to someone across the room. “Gonna hang for a bit?”

“Sure,” she said.

He paused and scanned her face. “Everything okay?”

She hesitated. She really wanted to tell him about Betty's crazy theories and her own bad feeling about Dale Hatmaker. But she also didn't want to cause him more heartache. Or break Betty's trust. She would wait another day, see if anything came of it. “Of course. Everything's fine.”

He gave her the not-sure-I-believe-you look, but went to talk to whoever was beckoning. Stan sipped her wine. If she told him and he confronted Betty, which wasn't unrealistic considering his proximity to the situation, that could be problematic. Betty would never forgive her. And if Jake told Jessie, that would be a whole other can of worms. No, silence was probably the best option in this situation.

“Is this seat taken?”

Stan swiveled on her stool to find her mother standing next to her wearing her best practiced smile and a thousand-dollar suit that didn't fit in with the denim and flannel set. Which meant—yup, there he was. Stan wanted to crawl under the bar as Tony Falco finished clapping somebody on the back and joined them.

“We meet again. Hello, Kristan.”

“It's Stan,” she said through gritted teeth.

“My grandfather's name was Stan,” Falco said. “It doesn't feel right to call you by the same name. Please forgive me.” He smiled charmingly at her. Behind them, Brenna pretended to stick her finger down her throat and throw up.

“May we sit?” her mother asked again. The smile had faded a bit at this point.

“Of course, help yourself.” Stan waved at the seats and swallowed more wine. “I can't stay much longer anyway.” She'd lost her appetite for her fries. Which was infuriating.

“But we just got here. This is perfect timing for you and Tony to have a conversation, right, dear?”

Stan recognized the tone and the accompanying look, mostly from her teenaged years. It meant,
Do what I tell you and love it like it is your idea.

She had hated the look then, and she hated it now. The french fries weren't even worth sticking around for.

But Falco leaned over. “Yes, I heard you were interested in talking to me about coaching opportunities. I'll be honest, I don't think I need that much coaching, but I'm happy to take any tips you'd like to provide. And of course, if you're looking for a longer-term paid arrangement, we can certainly discuss that.” He flashed straight white teeth at her.

Theme song for this guy: “Big Shot.” She could picture Billy Joel making fun of Falco as he sang. She drained her wineglass and set it on the bar, then stood. “The only tip I really have right now is pretty simple.” She leaned closer, past her mother, so Falco could hear her. “Don't dishonor a woman who meant so much to everyone in town by appointing someone to her job who just wants a title and his name in the newspaper.” She straightened, shrugged her coat on, and picked up her bag. “If you need any other tips, please feel free to call me.” She flashed them a dazzling smile, then headed out the door, waving to Jake on the way. He'd certainly forgive her for leaving once he saw Falco. He probably wished he could walk out, too.