Chapter 18
Tuesday morning, and Stan had a full day ahead: cooking a batch of Amish chicken with
spinach and cranberries for Savannah and figuring out how to host Benny’s birthday
party at her house. Brenna’s suggestion made sense. Stan had run it by Nancy, who’d
loved it despite her initial hesitation about pit bulls.
So now she was doing it, like it or not, next Sunday. And she had to bake a cake.
And treats. And get more cow trachea chews. And deliver all the treats from Brenna’s
baking frenzy yesterday.
Before she could do more than pour coffee, Nikki called. Stan winced. Either her friend
was calling to give her an earful about the farm, or she was looking for her treats.
She tried to head her off.
“Morning! Hey, I have your treats.”
“My treats? That’s good, but I wanted to see how you were,” Nikki said. “Any developments
in the murder?”
“Plenty, actually.” Stan multitasked her way through what she’d learned yesterday
about Hal, including the tidbit Char and Ray had mentioned about the development deal
Izzy had allegedly been involved in. Nikki listened intently until Stan stopped talking,
then let out a low whistle.
“Izzy’s definitely not telling you everything about her relationship with the dead
farmer.” Nikki’s voice came over the line crisp and clear, despite the fact that she
was most likely running around her backyard with a hose, filling up doggie water bowls,
or serving breakfast to her current residents. “Why didn’t she tell you about the
business deal?”
“I don’t know. Could be because it wasn’t a deal anymore. Sounded like it was over.”
Still, she could’ve mentioned it. Wait, why did she care? She usually hated when people
shared too much. This town was making her soft. “I’m worried about the men in the
café, though.”
“Do you think it had anything to do with Hal’s death?” Nikki asked.
“I wondered,” Stan said. “If they killed him or know who did, Izzy could be in danger.
But it doesn’t explain her reaction to his death.”
“Well, I’ve met this girl. She seemed like a tough cookie. So why would she be so
upset over him dying? Was he giving her that much of a break on milk, for crying out
loud?”
“I have no idea.” Stan turned the oven to bake and slid the chicken in. “And she had
nothing to say about it on the way home from the police station. I don’t know if that’s
because Jake was there.”
“Huh. Maybe she was blackmailing the farmer for money. Although, there could be more
to this real estate thing.”
“Blackmailing, Nik? Come on. He didn’t even have any money.”
Nikki apparently had come to terms with mankind’s tendencies. “Why not? Anything’s
possible. And you don’t know what he had on the side. Tell me about the deal, though.”
“They wanted to buy an adjacent building and turn it into a bookstore. Expand Izzy’s
offering, I guess.”
“So why did it go south?”
“I can’t get a good answer. Char and Ray talked about it. Then they stopped, like
they realized they shouldn’t. They definitely know more than they’re saying.”
“Gideon! It’s not time to play ball. Gimme that. Hold on, Stan.”
Stan heard a lot of static and barking as Nikki retrieved the ball from one of her
charges.
“Okay, sorry.” She came back on the line. “If I were you, I’d flat out ask Izzy. If
you want to know.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“If not, she’ll just throw a chair at you.” Nikki laughed at her own joke. “Come on.
People can’t keep secrets like that forever. If there was something going on with
money or blackmailing or whatever, they’ll eventually look at her as a suspect, right?
If they can’t come up with anyone else.”
“Yikes.” Stan hadn’t thought of that. “They already suspect his wife.”
“Yeah? Did she do it?”
“I have no idea.” Stan didn’t need the little voice to remind her that she didn’t
know anything about Em. And again, even if she did, that was no guarantee, even though
Char and Ray swore up and down she was innocent. “She was supposed to be at a parent-teacher
conference the day he died and she never showed up. And she was in Jake’s bar that
afternoon looking for him—which people around here say is extremely out of character.”
“Hey, people get pushed to a point. Who knows? Maybe that’s the day she found out
there was an affair. Happens all the time, Stan, unfortunately. You read the papers.”
“I guess.” The doorbell rang. Stan glanced up, surprised. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Henry and Scruffy went barreling down the hall, their barks a mixture of alto and
soprano ringing through the house. “Hey, Nik, I have to run. Someone’s at the door.
I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Yeah. And hey, keep me posted,” Nikki said. “Now I’m intrigued. Oh, and can I meet
you somewhere to grab the treats?”
Stan agreed to meet her for lunch Thursday at their usual midway point, then hung
up and hurried to the door, half expecting Jake, or even Char. But she didn’t get
either of them. Instead, she came face to face with her mother. Whom she hadn’t seen
since she’d moved to Frog Ledge over the summer. And whom she certainly didn’t expect
to see right now. On her doorstep, separated only by the screen door. With a suitcase.
“Mom.” She cleared her throat and tried to force some enthusiasm into her voice. “What
are you doing here? I mean, it’s great to see you. Is everything okay?”
“Kristan. Why does something have to be wrong for me to visit my oldest daughter?”
Patricia Connor’s lips tilted in the closest thing she had to a smile. She pointed
at the porch. “Are these your cats?”
Stan leaned out the door and smiled when she saw Lucy and Ricky, the cats from the
house to her right. She worried about their frequent trips outside, but they often
landed on her front porch sniffing around for treats. “No, these are a neighbor’s.
They’re looking for snacks.” She reached into the treat jar she kept next to the door
for that purpose and handed them each a cookie. The cats plopped in the sun to enjoy.
“Come on in, Mom.”
Patricia took a step into the door, then stopped abruptly when Henry came around the
corner. “My goodness. I didn’t know you had an attack dog. Are things that frightening
out here in the country?”
“Attack dog?” Stan laughed. “Henry is far from an attack dog. Right, Henry?” She patted
his head and pulled the door wider so Scruffy could get past Henry to say hello. Her
mother eyed the small dog with the same level of wariness.
Stan sighed. “Do I need to put the dogs outside?” Her mother and sister had never
been animal people, whereas Stan and her dad had always loved animals. It ran in that
side of the family—her dad’s mother, her favorite grandmother, had been the one who
introduced Stan to the idea of cooking and baking for cats and dogs. Many of Stan’s
happiest childhood memories had taken place in her grandmother’s kitchen, where they
concocted healthy treats for the neighborhood cats and dogs who often came to visit.
She hadn’t realized she’d inherited the gift until she’d begun cooking for Nutty.
“If you don’t mind.” Her mother’s tone indicated she didn’t care if Stan did mind.
Stan gritted her teeth. And reminded herself not to. “Come on, guys,” she said. Henry
immediately followed her. Scruffy continued to
woo-woo
at her mother in hopes of getting some pets. She was unsuccessful. The little schnoodle
finally dropped to all fours with a huff, then turned and pranced down the hall after
Stan and Henry. Stan let them out the back door and returned to the hall. Her mother
had finally entered the house. She now eyed Nutty, who had gotten in on the act. He
rubbed all over her tall leather boots. Stan swore she saw that glint in his eye that
said,
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Suppressing a smile, she reached for her mother’s bag. “Sorry, I’m not putting the
cat outside. That’s Nutty. He’s an indoor cat. Come sit.” She led her mother into
her living room, a bright, sun-filled room. She rarely used it despite the comfy setup
she’d created, with an overstuffed sectional, strategically placed tall glass tables
topped with pots brimming with bright, inviting flowers. Right now it screamed Halloween,
with black and orange streamers around each window and light-up haunted houses on
each small coffee table. Usually, when she wanted to watch TV or read she curled up
in the smaller den, which she’d painted cranberry red and accented with gold drapes.
The den was her favorite room. It had a gas fireplace and built-in bookshelves, and
she didn’t want to share it with her mother yet.
“Can I get you something to drink? I have iced tea and lemonade. Made with organic
lemons.”
Her mother settled carefully in one corner of the couch, smoothing her cream-colored
suede skirt over her knees. “Iced tea, please. Thank you.”
“Sure.” Stan squared her shoulders and headed into the kitchen.
Just calm down and see why she’s here. Maybe it’s a good visit. Maybe she’s changed.
Then, that other voice:
Sure. And when you look out the window, you’ll see a couple of the Hoffman cows flying.
Stan poured the iced tea, put some cookies on a plate, and checked to see what the
dogs were doing outside. Scruffy was digging a hole and Henry was supervising. Satisfied,
she gathered her refreshments and took them into the living room. Stan handed her
mother a glass and set the cookies on the table, then took a seat on the opposite
side of the couch. “So what’s up? I have to admit, you were the last person I expected
to see today. I didn’t realize you knew how to get here.”
Or even remembered the name of the town.
“Well, I do have a GPS,” her mother said, sipping her tea. “I must admit, it’s quite
picturesque out here. If you go for this type of setting.”
Meaning, it didn’t hold a candle to the rich, oceanfront area of Rhode Island she
called home. Stan shrugged. “It’s not the ocean, but it’s pretty in its own right.
And the town is lovely. Wonderful people.” Except for whoever had murdered Hal, but
no need to go into those details. “What’s with the suitcase?”
Her mother nibbled a cookie. “I had some free time from my volunteer work this week
and I thought I’d stay for a few days. I took a chance you’d be free,” she added dryly.
“I hope I’m right.”
“Stay? Here?” Stan repeated, then realized how she sounded. She forced that enthusiasm
back into her voice. “What a wonderful idea, Mom. Not that I’m necessarily
free,
since I am running my own business. But I’m free in the sense of being flexible.”
Patricia still hadn’t gotten over Stan’s decision not to return to a “real” job after
her position had been eliminated. She also couldn’t understand why that situation
had led to Stan’s retreat from the Hartford area to her new haven and the realization
that corporate America no longer held any appeal. She’d already heard all about it,
and now she refused to take the bait. Billy Joel made an appearance in Stan’s head
singing “My Life.”
“Your own business? Oh, you mean the dog food. Yes, I recall Richard mentioning that.”
Stan stiffened. “Richard? You’ve spoken to him?” She hadn’t talked to her ex since
they’d parted ways last summer.
“Not in a bit, dear. He did tell me about your . . . decision. To stop seeing him.
He was quite disappointed, but felt you two had drifted apart. And he did mention
your new hobby. But that was months ago.” She waved a hand as if dismissing the whole
conversation, and took another cookie.
“My decision?” Stan chuckled. “Yes, it was, but his affair with the office’s version
of Pamela Anderson had a lot to do with it.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. She didn’t usually like to get into those kinds of details.
Dirty laundry had no business being aired. “Sometimes a fresh start is a good thing.
So those dogs live here?”
“They do.”
Maybe that meant she wouldn’t stay.
“They’re both adopted. One was from Nikki and the other from the pound here in Frog
Ledge. He was saved from a bad breeder situation.”
Her mother didn’t really have any concept of rescue versus bad breeders, so she had
no comment on that. “And they . . . behave?”
“They’re terrific dogs,” Stan said. “And they both love Nutty. And Nutty loves them.
Most of the time.” She grinned at her cat, who had climbed up on the couch next to
her mother just to be a brat. He sprawled with his tail resting on her leg. Nutty
opened one eye and seemed to raise his eyebrow at Stan, probably disagreeing with
her assessment of his feelings about the dogs.
“Well, the house seems quite nice,” her mother said, gazing around. “Aside from all
these . . . decorations. Are you having a Halloween party?”
Stan had gone all out for her first Halloween in her new house. She’d strung up her
own orange lights along the farmers porch and on the shrubs right in front of it.
A ghost that responded to motion hung next to her front door. After dark, when someone
walked past it (or when the wind blew it), it made ghostly noises. Fluttering in the
breeze was a flag featuring a black cat watching a witch fly past the moon on her
broom. Her pumpkins sat on the railing, waiting to be carved. But she’d really let
loose on the inside. Every room had black and orange garland, bat garland, spider
webs, pumpkins, witches, pumpkin-scented candles.
Too bad her mother didn’t like it.
“No plans for a party yet. I just like Halloween. You do remember that, right?”
Patricia chuckled. “Of course I know that. Are you going to show me the rest of the
house?”
“Sure,” Stan said, putting her iced tea down with a snap. “I love showing off the
house. Don’t you love Victorians?”
Patricia made a noncommittal sound and rose. “Shall I leave my bag here?”