Chapter 23
Stan went straight home where she could snoop out in the open. She was supposed to
call her mother at six so they could have dinner. It was only five. Plenty of time
to take a look at her booty. She poured herself some organic lemonade and grabbed
some almonds for a snack, then went into the sunroom so she could let the dogs out
and keep an eye on them.
The lockbox itself was high quality, steel, with padding inside. Given the condition
of everything else she’d seen at the Hoffmans’—gently and not so gently used, inexpensive—this
stood out like a sore thumb. Hal must’ve really wanted to protect this machine.
She pulled the laptop out. A small, leather-bound book fell out in its wake. Stan
put it aside and checked out the computer. It wasn’t anything special either. A PC,
at least a few years old. As a Mac girl, Stan wasn’t impressed. While she waited for
it to boot up, she picked up the book. A calendar. For this year. She flipped through.
It was the kind with lines next to each date and one page at the beginning of each
month showing all the weeks. Stan thumbed through the calendar until she got to October
17. The day Hal died. There was one entry on the page: “11, Bruno’s.” Nothing else.
No parent-teacher conference noted. The rest of the week also had no entries. The
present week had a lot. All just times and names of places, or times and initials.
All meetings Hal had missed. One meeting with the Department of Labor. She thought
of the argument between Peter Michelli and Roger about the alleged illegal workers.
Enrico’s disappearance. Had he been an illegal and somehow knew about the meeting?
Had he taken off so he wouldn’t be deported? Had Em made the meeting?
She went ahead to the next week. The day before Halloween showed an interview scheduled
with Carmine, a mechanic. In November, Election Day was highlighted with the initials
“TF” noted—Tony Falco. Flipping back through to past entries, she noticed Hal had
a number of meetings with TF, or had simply noted, “campaign headquarters.”
The end of November had no entries. The next entry Stan found was a reminder for December
8, Danny’s birthday. She didn’t see anything about board meetings, or other Happy
Cow business. She flipped back to October 17. . . . Bruno’s. Stan drummed her fingers
on the desk and tried to think if she’d ever come across a Bruno. This could reference
a person’s name, or some kind of business. She didn’t remember either from her travels
around town. Pulling out her iPhone, Stan did a Google search. The name turned up
a match in the nearby town of Willard, seven miles outside Frog Ledge. Bruno’s Pub,
the “friendliest place in town,” according to the listing. Right around the corner
from Bruno’s Pizza. Knowing what she’d heard about Hal, a pub seemed logical. Somehow
she doubted Hal would’ve chosen the pizza shop over the pub for his meeting.
The laptop had finally turned on. She searched the list of programs for QuickBooks
or some accounting software. Nothing. Where would it be? She scanned the folders and
documents on Hal’s desktop. Spreadsheets of feed and farm vehicle parts. A PDF of
grain delivery schedules. Photos of the Hoffman kids in various stages of farm work.
A cute photo of the littlest one kissing a cow. Someone was holding him up—Stan could
only see forearms in the picture—while someone else snapped the photo. She opened
the “My Documents” folder. Not much in there either. A Word document with a list of
numbers and dates. Some were starred, others crossed off. She had no idea what they
represented. She closed the document and moved on.
Next was a letter Hal had written to Tony Falco, endorsing his campaign. Stan skimmed
it. In it, an articulate Hal had written about his admiration for Falco’s commitment
to farming and his work on policy to keep milk prices fair. Stan wondered what position
the present mayor, Mona Galveston, held on those issues. Did she see farming as a
thing of the past, not worth much campaign time?
The last folder had the standard PC title “New Folder.” She figured it was probably
empty but checked anyway. It was not. Inside were eight documents, all labeled with
only dates. The earliest was August of the previous year. The most recent was last
month. She clicked on the earliest. A screen popped up asking for a password. She
tried the next one. Same thing. Same for all eight. Stan propped her chin in her hand
and drummed her fingers on the desktop. What had Hal password protected? She halfheartedly
tried a couple of combinations based on the kids’ names and the street number of the
farm. No go.
Drumming her fingers on her table, Stan pondered the implications of a dead man’s
password-protected documents. They could simply be bank information, something to
do with the farm’s finances. She could ask Emmalee about them. Or they could be Hal’s
personal documents, untitled and protected so his family didn’t stumble upon them.
Business dealings, most likely. Perhaps love letters from someone other than Em, although
that was a wild assumption.
But what if they had something to do with his death? She should call Trooper Pasquale
and alert her to the documents. But what if she didn’t think it was important? Pretty
much everyone in the world password-protected something, and hardly any of them were
murdered.
She wished she could take a peek, just to see.
“Ugh,” she muttered, frustrated. “There’s gotta be a way.” Then she sat up straight.
She’d nearly forgotten Justin. Nikki’s boyfriend, surfer dude extraordinaire, diving
teacher—and computer wizard. He could help her get into the documents with minimal
effort, she was positive. She pulled out her phone and dialed Nikki’s number.
“Where’s Justin?” she asked when her friend answered.
“Hi to you, too,” Nikki responded. “He’s on a dive trip in the Caribbean.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s up?”
“I need his help with a computer thing.” Stan didn’t elaborate.
“Oh. Send him an e-mail. Maybe he can help over the phone. Otherwise, he’s due back
Saturday.”
“Okay, will do. Thanks, Nik.” She hung up before Nikki could probe. She connected
Hal’s computer to her wireless Internet and e-mailed the documents to Justin with
a copy to herself. Hopefully he could take a look soon, but if not, Saturday was only
a couple of days away.
She was getting hungry. And it was nearly six. Her mind drifted back to Bruno’s and
pizza. Maybe she’d go pick one up for her and her mother to enjoy. She’d been meaning
to try out some different pizza shops locally. And she could always pop her head into
the pub while her pie cooked and ask around. Maybe someone would mention being Hal’s
date for eleven on the day he died.
Her mother wasn’t interested in going out for pizza. Stan had to pick it up and bring
it to her. Patricia also had directed her to pick up a large salad, in case the pizza
wasn’t very good—which meant she had expected a different kind of dinner.
But investigating had to come first. Maybe Bruno’s would offer a good lead.
On impulse, Stan called Izzy’s cell. She still hadn’t been able to track her friend
down to see what was going on with her. “You want to have pizza tonight? My mother’s
in town and we’re going to have dinner.”
“Your mother?” Izzy sounded exhausted and distracted, such a difference from her usual
demeanor. “Why do you want me intruding if your mom is in town? Oh, wait a second.”
She chuckled, sounding a little like herself again. “You don’t like your mother, do
you?”
“Not true. My mother’s fine. And I haven’t seen you in a while. I think you’re avoiding
me.”
“Not avoiding anyone, babe. Just not feeling well. Where you gettin’ pizza from?”
“Bruno’s, in Willard? Ever hear of it?”
Stan heard Izzy suck in a breath. She didn’t respond immediately, and when she did,
her tone was cautious. “Where did you hear of Bruno’s?”
“I heard about it around town and wanted to check it out.” The lie rolled easily off
Stan’s tongue.
“Where around town?”
“Oh, there was a pizza debate going on in the library when I was there the other day.
I heard someone say it was the best pizza around.” Lie two. What was happening to
her?
“Really.” Izzy’s tone was flat. Weird.
“Yeah, why? The garlic kind sounded great. Award winning.” Fleetwood Mac’s “Little
Lies” should be her song tonight.
“Award-winning, my ass,” Izzy said. “You’re lying. And I thought we were friends.”
Taken aback, Stan was speechless for a minute. Izzy used her pause to continue her
tongue lashing. “Why do you really want to go there? And don’t give me another line.”
“I thought we were friends, too,” Stan said, recovered and angry. “So maybe you should
tell me what you know about Bruno’s. And why you’ve been acting so strangely since
Hal died.”
Silence on the other end. Then Izzy hung up.
Stan stared at the silent phone, then looked at Scruffy, who sat on the floor watching
her.
“That didn’t go so well, did it?”
Scruffy wagged her tail cautiously.
“Now I really want to go and see what the deal is. I think Izzy knows Bruno’s all
too well. You guys in?”
“Woo woo!”
Scruffy jumped up on Stan’s leg.
“That settles it.” She grabbed the dogs’ leashes and kissed Nutty’s head. He reached
a lazy paw up to touch her cheek, as if to say,
I’ll miss you.
She loved that cat.
She and the dogs piled into the car and headed out. Stan had MapQuested the address
on her phone. Frog Ledge was such a small town the main road leading in and out was
a two-lane country highway. She followed this road for about five miles in a direction
she’d never taken since moving to town, and came to a bridge with a sign: E
NTERING
W
ILLARD
, E
ST.
1682. The bridge crossed a river. On the other side, ramshackle buildings lined the
street. Some were boarded, some were abandoned, and some were tagged up with graffiti.
People were outside, but it wasn’t the same crowd she was used to seeing in Frog Ledge.
Teenagers walked along the side of the bridge, some alone, others with one or two
friends, some with pit bulls that made Henry look like a runt. The kids were all dressed
in red and black and looked like they were trying to be gangsters. None of them looked
friendly; most looked like they were on a mission. Henry and Scruffy didn’t seem to
like the looks of them either—they started barking and howling at the window, resulting
in glares from the street.
“Hush, guys,” she hissed, rolling up the windows as they drove through. Frog Ledge
was such a cute little town, with well-cared-for common areas and people who truly
seemed invested in their community. Willard, so far, seemed run down and not as loved.
But maybe this was just a bad area and it would improve in a few blocks. Every town
had one.
Her phone told her to take a left onto Browning Street. It was as seedy as the neighborhood
she’d just passed through. Possibly more so. Along the way, attempts at sprucing up
the area were apparent—a cupcake shop, a café, an art co-op. But payday loan shops,
thrift shops, stores with Spanish names, and boarded up windows surrounded those few
places. Yikes. What business did Hal Hoffman have around here?
Bruno’s was ahead on the left. She could see a neon sign blinking pinkish red with
the name. She cruised up slowly and assessed the situation. The neon sign was for
the pub. The pizza shop was much more low key. She’d hit the pub first, get some info,
then swing over to the pizza place. If the pies looked nasty, she could pick something
up at McSwigg’s for her mother. Or she could just beg Char to feed them.
She parked and glanced at the dogs. “Okay, guys. I’m not going to be long. Keep an
eye on the car, okay?”
Henry looked at her, his sweet brown eyes worried. He was so sensitive. She could
almost hear him say,
Why don’t you leave this to the police?
In hindsight, she probably should have called Pasquale and handed the calendar over.
Scruffy sat ramrod straight at the window, alternating between barking at people passing
by and looking at Stan with that same concerned face. Did the dogs know something
she didn’t about Bruno’s?
It’s fine. Go.
Stan pulled down the visor and opened the mirror, checked her hair and makeup. Acceptable.
Okay. She grabbed her purse and got out of the car, beeped it locked. The dogs watched
balefully through the window as she made her way to the door. The top pane of glass
had a large crack in it. The door had barely any weight to it when she pulled it open.
It banged shut behind her.
She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark.
This isn’t McSwigg’s.
The room barely had any light at all, probably because the owners wanted to hide
their décor—or lack thereof. The tables were pocked and scarred. The wooden chairs
looked stiff and punishing. She couldn’t tell what color the walls were, maybe because
of the dark, or the dirt. The crowd of about fifteen looked like a cross between a
motorcycle gang and a street gang, although that was probably just her naive point
of view. She had no idea if motorcycle gangs and street gangs would hang out at the
same bar, or if it really mattered at this point when two of the largest biker dudes
in the house were eyeing her like a side of fresh meat.
Stan put on her best “don’t mess with me” face and strolled to the bar. Well, she
hoped it was a stroll. Her legs were shaking, so it might’ve looked like she had a
disorder. The bar wasn’t in much better shape than the rest of the place, although
it looked sturdier than anything else. The plastic covering on some of the empty stools
was torn. Foam spilled out. The people residing on the rest of the stools looked as
rough as the furniture.