Kneading to Die (12 page)

Theme song: “
My Favorite Mistake.
” Stan lay in bed the next morning and thought maybe Richard was right and Frog Ledge had been a mistake. Maybe she did belong back in the city, looking for another corporate job and staying out of murder investigations. What kind of person bought a house in a strange town because it was cute, anyway? She buried her head back under the pillow against the bright sun and blue skies trying to tempt her out of bed. But it wasn't the solution, no matter how unemployed she was, or how much she angered her neighbors. Stan Connor did not hide under the covers.

Although today the possibility sounded tempting, she had treats to bake. And Nutty would want breakfast. Stan never slept this late. Not that she had technically been sleeping, just tossing and turning and fending off troubled dreams and frightening possibilities of what could happen next.

Today called for extreme coffee. She loaded her coffee grinder with her stash of extra bold and leaned against the counter with her cup, waiting for the liquid to drop into the carafe. Just the thought of having to be productive today made her want to cry. She had no desire to go outside and see anyone.

The pot had filled enough for her to pour some, which she did gratefully and took the first greedy sip. The first dose of caffeine shot through her veins. A few more sips and her head started to clear. She could feel her mind shift from
poor me
to strategy mode. The conversation with Amara hadn't gone as planned, but so what? She couldn't mourn a friend she hadn't really made yet. And survival was the goal right now, not friends.

Draining her first cup of coffee, Stan poured another and arranged her ingredients on the counter. The apple cranberry oat treats had been a big hit with Nikki's dogs, so she measured out extra ingredients for that kind. She didn't want to sell out of anything tomorrow. And treats might come in handy today, with the errand she had to run. A conversation with Diane Kirschbaum might be in order, before Amara got to her. That is, if she hadn't already. Besides, a trip to the dog kennel might not be a bad idea for a new resident.

 

 

Stan packed up a variety of fresh snacks and the food she'd made for Savannah, Char and Ray's dog, and got her bike out of the garage. It was hard to justify using her car for anything around town, unless it involved taking Nutty in his carrier. She dropped the food off first; then she biked past the town hall and the library, past Izzy's shop and almost barreled past the street before she saw the sign for the dog pound obscured by a leafy tree. She took a hard left and coasted down through a residential neighborhood. At the next sign she took a right. The houses faded away to woods. After another half mile, she finally saw a sign:
FROG LEDGE MEMORIAL PARK.
Underneath the sign, a smaller one read,
DOG POUND THIRD LEFT.
The signs were ugly green metal. Obviously, Gene had not crafted them.

Stan drove into the expansive park, past picnic areas, walking trails and even a small lake. She passed clumps of families on blankets, kids playing games, Rollerbladers and skateboarders practicing their technique, until she got to another sign. It pointed down a dirt road. Crappy place for a dog kennel. It didn't exactly encourage visitors, unless someone happened to be visiting the park and noticed it. Stan hoped that had no superstitious significance for the animals who ended up there.

She coasted into the parking lot and halted in front of the building. It was hideous. Small, square and gray, it resembled an old bomb shelter more than a hub of animal care and adoption. Chain-link runs stretched out along the sides and back, abutting the woods. Diane's white ACO van was parked haphazardly outside, as if she'd backed up to the door and unloaded an animal in a hurry.

Propping her bike against the side of the building, Stan hung her helmet off the handlebars and headed for the open front door. No dogs barked at her arrival. Quiet, except a voice holding a one-sided conversation. She peered around the corner and saw Diane's back, half hidden behind a wall separating the office from the presently empty kennels.

Stan didn't want to interrupt, so she hung back in the “welcome area.” It consisted of a dirty welcome mat, a few cracked plastic chairs and a sign warning people not to put their fingers through the fences. It smelled moldy and damp and faintly of Lysol. No dogs in sight. The notices tacked to the bulletin board warned about an animal abuser who might be in the area and advertised a reward for a lost cocker spaniel named Mitzi. Stan tapped her foot impatiently. Maybe if she wandered inside, Diane would see her and hang up. As she went to step around the corner and reveal herself, Diane's words filtered across the room.

“It's got to be easier with her gone. We need to get access to that building.” A pause. “Amara's still going for it, but it might get held up depending on who owns it on paper and what happens with the will.”

She had to be talking about Carole's practice. Not wanting to miss a word, Stan stepped into the room, sticking close to the wall, intent on the conversation. And she kicked a collar with a bell, which was on the floor, sending it jingling across the dirty cement. Damn. She darted back to the door, pretending she'd just walked in.

Silence from behind the wall. Diane's chair creaked as she leaned back. She saw Stan, frowned and said, “Gotta go.” She hung up the phone, pushed the chair back and stood up. Her outfit today was a uniform, and she didn't look as frumpy as she had in Amara's yard.

“Yes?” she said.

“Hi. Stan Connor. We met at—”

“I remember you.”

All righty. Stan crossed to pick up the collar. “It was on the floor.”

Diane stayed where she was. Stan put the collar on a shelf against the wall, next to an assortment of collars and leashes. “I was out for a bike ride and wanted to see where the kennel was.”

“Why?”

Why?
Apparently, not many people cared where the kennel was. “Because I should know where things are in my new town.”

“So you're not looking for a dog?”

“Not right now, no. Which might be good, since you don't seem to have any.”

Diane either didn't get her attempt at humor or didn't care. “They're out back. It's their exercise time.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense.” Stan glanced around, trying to figure out what to say next.
Perhaps “Who were you talking to?” Or, “Why do you want Carole's building?”

Instead, she voiced aloud, “Does the public come here to adopt?”

“Sometimes. Did you want a tour or something? Because this is pretty much it.” Diane waved a hand at the runs. Sparse but clean. Each had blankets and bowls and toys. “We have a cat room out back, but there aren't any cats right now. I can show you the dogs, if you want. Quickly.” She looked at her watch. “I have an appointment.”

Another friendly sort. Maybe Amara had already warned her about what a troublemaker Stan was. She'd better ask what she wanted now, because she might not get another chance. “I'd love to see the dogs, and I wanted to talk to you about Carole. Morganwick,” she added, in case there was any confusion.

A whole slew of looks chased each other across Diane's face. The one she probably thought was nonchalance stuck. She would have been terrible at poker. “What about her?”

“
Yeah, Stan, what about her?”
her internal voice probed. “Did you work with her often?” Stan asked.

Diane shook her head no. “Not usually. She didn't take in strays or surrenders or anything. Even when I asked her to.” Her tone turned sour on that. “Why?”

“I saw you outside her clinic on Monday.”

“So?”

She decided not to tell Diane about Trooper Pasquale questioning her as a suspect. It hadn't elicited the sympathy card with Amara, and Diane seemed a much tougher nut. “I just wondered if anyone knew any more about what happened. It was shocking for me, you know, to find her like that. . . .” Stan trailed off; Diane said nothing.

“So, can I see the dogs?” Stan asked, since she didn't seem to be getting anywhere. “I brought homemade treats for them.”

Diane looked at her strangely, but she nodded. “Sure.” She led her outside. “We can't go in. They're under observation right now.”

Stan followed her outside to the fenced area. Six adorable pit bulls, ranging from huge to puppy, waited at the fence, tongues hanging. They barked a welcome chorus when Stan and Diane appeared. The largest dog, mostly brown, stood up and howled.

“That's Henry,” Diane said. “They're all friendly. You can give them treats from over the fence.”

Stan stepped over and offered her hand for Henry to smell. He did a thorough sniffing, then licked her fingers. Stan held out a treat. He plucked it from her hand and devoured it. The other dogs watched intently. Henry stepped back and woofed. The other dogs seemed to take that as a signal that everything was okay, and the rest clamored for their turns.

Stan fed them all. She caught Diane wearing a tiny smile. When Diane realized she'd been seen, the smile vanished. A car drove into the parking lot. A door slammed.

“Diane! You ready?” a man's voice shouted.

“Back here,” Diane called. “I have to go, and I can't leave you here,” she told Stan.

A man with a shiny bald head, who was wearing a karate uniform, came around the corner. His smile faded when he realized someone else was present. He nodded at Stan. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Stan started to step forward and introduce herself, but Diane interrupted.

“I'm ready. Let's go. Thanks for bringing the treats,” she said to Stan.

“No problem.”

She followed them to the parking lot and got on her bike. They waited until she rode away before starting the car.

Stan biked away from the park and headed back toward the center of town. Another piece of the puzzle: Diane wanted to get into Carole's clinic. Maybe Carole had something in there Diane wanted back, or maybe she wanted the town to turn the building into an adoption center. It would certainly be more conducive to getting animals adopted than where she was now.

Or maybe there was something linking her to Monday's events she wanted to destroy.

But the police would've found that. Stan pedaled faster, her brain humming with thoughts.
Diane is odd, but is she a killer?
Maybe it was paranoia taking over. But you really never knew who you were standing next to.

As she neared the green, Stan decided to swing by the library. She'd promised Betty she would sign up for a library card, and this would be a good chance to nose around for more potential information. Or at least some gossip.

She parked her bike out front. She thought about locking it, then remembered where she was. People may get murdered in their own vet clinics, but Cyril hadn't written any stories that she had seen about thievery.

The buildings in Frog Ledge had that just-old-enough look about them without looking run-down. They had history. And a lot of them were, in fact, historical buildings or homes. She loved that. The library was housed in a two-story white structure that apparently had been the old town schoolhouse. It looked like it had received all new siding recently. Stan wondered if it had been red. The carved wooden sign out front was shaped like a book and said,
FROG LEDGE MEMORIAL LIBRARY
. Another Gene creation.

She pushed open the front door and went inside, stepping into a foyer-type area. Immediately to her right, a cozy living-room arrangement had been set up with chairs, a couch and a gas fireplace. The books were on built-in wall shelves, just like a real living room, and the shelves had signs taped to them:
BETTY'S PICKS, JAMES'S PICKS, LORINDA'S PICKS.
There was a play area with toys and kids' books. There was also a table with snacks and pitchers of iced tea, covered with plastic wrap, filled to the brim with lemons and ice, waiting for readers to pour a cup and sit with a book.

Stan loved libraries almost as much as cemeteries. They had been her favorite place when she was a kid. Her sister had no interest, except for the magazine section. Stan, however, would browse the stacks for hours, or sit with the latest issue of
Highlights for Children
and learn about all kinds of things. She hadn't set foot in a library in about five years. Maybe longer. Something else she'd given away in exchange for living the dream.

Well, that was going to change. She was here today for a purpose, but as part of her new routine, she would visit the library every week. Get acquainted with some old favorite authors and find some new ones. Read some magazines. When was the last time she'd read an issue of
The New Yorker
or
The Atlantic
? Or even
Lucky
? Reading
Money
and
Forbes
was fine, but it had become all she read, because God forbid someone mentioned a recent article and she couldn't jump into a well-informed conversation. She'd forgotten a lot of things that were important to her.