“Oh, you make cat treats? How adorable.” Emmalee pulled a block of cheese out and set it in front of Stan. “That's ten dollars.”
Emmalee Hoffman knew how to make a sale. Smiling, she reached into her wallet and pulled out a bill. “I do make cat treats. I refuse to buy my cat that junk from China they sell in the grocery store.”
“Amen.” Emmalee tucked the money into a silver lockbox. “Thanks for stopping by. I'm sure I'll see you around.” She turned her attention to the man waiting patiently behind Stan and began her cheese sample routine all over again.
Stan left her to it and wandered around, looking for Izzy's table. She spent a few minutes looking at jewelry and shelled out another twenty-five dollars for a bracelet she couldn't live without. And then she realized she hadn't gotten anything on her list yet. Not even information. Nor had she set up her own goods. She should find Sadie Brown and her goat cheese, and get moving to wherever Izzy was.
“Stan!”
She turned at the sound of her name, and there was Izzy, waving at her. “I saved you half the table.”
Stan hurried over, grateful for one friend, at least. “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary. Elvira vouches for your food, and that's good enough for me. Here, I brought you a tablecloth.”
Stan stared dubiously at the rest of Izzy's display. Instead of the fresh fruits and vegetables, organic honey, bee pollen and local dairy products that the weathered farmers peddled, Izzy's table belonged in a magazine. Gourmet coffee and tea were arranged in a beckoning display, a catalogue of her fancy chocolates propped in the middle. Samples of iced coffee beckoned from the cooler, with bottles of chocolate and strawberry liqueur hidden next to them.
Definitely a different vibe from the rest of the vendors. Izzy wouldn't have any trouble getting customers, especially if the non-locals were out stocking up on local food, which Stan imagined they would be. Stan arranged her tablecloth and began setting out her containers. Scruffy settled under the table, her tail wagging occasionally.
“This isn't going to look as nice as the rest of your table,” Stan said, uncertain.
“Are you kidding? I didn't do anything special with the display.”
“If that's not special, I'd hate to see what is,” she said, but she arranged her goods. Apple and oat, blueberry and carob, carob chip.
Izzy had turned her attention to a woman browsing her coffee. “That one's the best.” She pointed to the organic bold blend. The woman took her word for it and bought the bag. “Thanks,” Izzy said, handing her change. “Now, do you have a dog?”
“I do,” the woman said.
“Then you should buy him or her one of my friend's fabulous, homemade treats right there. This is her first farmers' market. She's new to town.”
“Really.” The woman moved down the table. “Homemade, you say?”
“Yes. All organic ingredients.”
“How much?”
“Two dollars each.”
“Why not? I always get Rexi a treat when I'm out.” The woman handed over the money and chose the blueberry kind.
Izzy watched the transaction with approval. “See? People love organic and homemade.”
“Thanks for the referral.”
“We gotta look out for each other. Oh, goody. Here he comes.” She wrinkled her nose; her gaze was focused to Stan's left.
She turned to see Jake and Duncan heading across the green toward them. Duncan pranced along, happy as always, tongue hanging out. Then he saw Stan and bolted toward her, almost taking out one of the produce tables in his clumsy haste to get to the promised treats. Jake cursed and took off after him, waving an apology at the glaring woman behind the table. Scruffy saw him too and bolted toward him. Stan came out from behind the table, hoping to head him off before he knocked Izzy's stuff over and gave her another reason to hate Jake.
Duncan lunged at her, tongue hanging out, and slobbered her with kisses like he hadn't seen her in months. Scruffy bounced up and down beside them, trying to wiggle her way into the love fest.
“Okay, okay, easy!” She laughed. “I brought them. You have to get off me.”
“Duncan, down!” Jake commanded, coming up behind him. “Bad dog.”
Duncan hung his head and looked appropriately ashamed, while keeping one eye on Stan's moves as she took out the treats.
“You really should have that dog on a leash, Mr. McGee!” The offended woman stood up and pointed at them, causing heads in the immediate vicinity to swivel their way. “My dogs don't behave like that, and they're pit bulls!”
Stan's eyes widened and she had to smother a giggle at the woman's schoolmarm tone. Jake turned, hands raised in defense, a disarming smile full of white teeth catching the woman off guard.
“You're absolutely right, Mrs. Graham. My mistake,” he said. “See, I was busy helping Rosie Barnes over there”âhe pointed to an old lady making her way slowly across the grass with a walkerâ“and Duncan just saw one of his favorite people. I have his leash right here.” He held it up to prove his point.
Mrs. Graham seemed slightly appeased. “Well, like I said,” she grumbled, “he would've bruised my tomatoes.”
Stan bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. “Mrs. Graham, I'm sorry, too,” she said. “I'm looking for some nice tomatoes. Want me to take those off your hands?”
The woman's lips relaxed into something not quite a smile, but she motioned her over. “Well, sure. Bad-mannered dogs shouldn't keep me from a sale.”
“Okay, one second.” She turned and winked at Jake; then she slipped Duncan a treat. The dog trotted behind her to Mrs. Graham's table, where she paid for the tomatoes. His tail was swinging in such a wide arc that he put the squash in danger, too, until Jake managed to clip the leash on and pull him back.
“Who are you?” Mrs. Graham asked. “I haven't seen you around before.”
“My name's Stan. I just moved in last weekend.” She pointed behind her at her house, but Mrs. Graham was gawking at her. “What's wrong?”
Mrs. Graham clamped her lips together and pushed the tomatoes across the table. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Here you are.” She handed her change. Too much. Stan shook her head and held out two dollars.
“You don't owe me that much,” Stan said.
“No, I think that's right. You just don't worry about it now. Thank you.” Mrs. Graham busied herself with something under her table.
Mrs. Graham must realize she was a person of interest in Carole's murder. Stan glanced at Jake. He had noticed the reaction, too, but shook his head as if to say,
Forget it.
Stan walked over to him.
“Don't worry about it,” he said before she could say anything. “She's a piece of work, anyway.”
“Doesn't matter. This is stupid. What? Does she think I'm going to kill her for her tomato money?”
“Go man your table. Izzy's selling snacks for you.” Jake pointed.
Izzy had moved over to her half and was bagging treats for at least three people. Stan walked over. Her feet felt like they were dragging through cement.
“Girl, your stuff's outselling mine,” Izzy said when she returned. “You're all out of the blueberry.”
“That one seems to be a winner. Thanks for handling those people.”
Izzy waved her off. “What's Dee's problem?”
“Mrs. Graham? She's paying me off not to kill her.”
Izzy gave her a weird look, but she had to turn her attention to the woman and her two shrieking kids who approached the table. One of the kids made a grab for the candy. Stan left Izzy to it.
Chapter 22
No answer on Nikki's phone again. Stan hung up, frustrated. She needed to ask her about being in Frog Ledge on Monday, so part of her was glad she didn't answer. But she had to talk to her sometime. Right now, she needed to get out of Dodge. For the night, at least. She wanted to go to McSwigg's and have a drink. She knew that would be bad, so she would play it safe and surprise Richard. Take him to dinner. Or bring Scruffy and get takeout. No, Richard was too uptight. Not really an animal person. He'd be worried about dog hair on his couch.
“I'll make sure it's a quick dinner,” she told Scruffy when she took her outside before she left.
After a shower and the resurrection of her favorite summer dress, which was too fancy for dances on the green, Stan fed the animals and kissed them both good-bye.
Richard lived in the suburbs out past Hartford, in the town where most of the Warner Insurance executives lived. He lived in a gated community, which had never made Stan feel warm and fuzzy. He wasn't quite at the executive level yet, but that didn't stop him from trying.
Stan pulled into the driveway. The condo was dark.
Shoot, that's what I get for not calling first.
She pulled out her cell and dialed his number. Voice mail. Maybe he was at her mother's, planning another visit from a lawyer. A wasted trip, but it had been a nice night for a ride, anyway. And she wasn't far from her favorite Afghan restaurant. Takeout from there would help make it an unwasted trip. She still had the restaurant on speed dial. She called and from memory ordered her favorite dish; then she drove over.
The food would take fifteen minutes; Stan arrived in ten. She headed inside to wait. The woman at the hostess stand recognized her. She held up a finger and vanished out back in a swirl of flowing fabrics, reminding Stan of Char, but a skinny version. Stan sat on the low-slung red couch in the waiting area and glanced around, looking for something to occupy her time.
And a flash of big hair caught her eye. She stood, peered around the corner into the dining room for a better view. “Well, I'll be damned,” she muttered.
Flouncing past the swirly hostess, who was on her way back from the kitchen with a bag and a smile, Stan went into the dining room and approached the table. Richard faced her and saw her coming, eyes widening as she approached. And that go-go dancer, bottle-blond hairâhis companion could only be one person. Michelle Mansfield. A Pamela Anderson look-alike, with Botoxed lips and too much cleavage. It would've been funny if the whole thing wasn't so clichéd.
Stan walked up and stood right behind his companion. She folded her arms and gave him a brilliant smile. “I guess this is why you're not home,” she said. “How are you, Michelle?”
Michelle spun around; her tiny brain, under all that hair, was likely working overtime to process the situation. She settled on a fake smile and jumped up to offer Stan an even more fake hug. Her dress dipped in a V, almost to her waist.
“Stan! So nice to see you,” she said. “Richard and I were just prepping for an early-morning sales presentation tomorrow. How are you doing?”
Michelle also worked at Warner. A lifer. Done twenty years so far in various positions. She didn't have a reputation for actually getting things done in any of them. Nowadays she worked closely with Richard and his sales team putting client presentations together.
Usually not on a Sunday night, unless things had really changed since she'd been gone. Not to mention the lack of paperwork on the table, or the open bottle of champagne, which didn't exactly scream,
We're working!
“I'm fabulous,” she said, bussing the air next to Michelle's cheek.
Richard still hadn't said a word, which clinched Stan's suspicion their dinner had nothing to do with a sales presentation. She felt angry tears threatening to bubble up from her throat all the way to her eyeballs, but she held the tears back.
Michelle, at least, looked like she was enjoying herself. “So what are you doing now?” she asked. Richard continued to sit, still apparently with no voice. “Did you find work yet?”
Stan smiled. This was the part she had to admit she enjoyed. “I haven't been looking for work,” she said. “Don't really need to.”
Michelle laughed. “Yes, severance can feel pretty good for a while, can't it? But it does run out.”
Stan wondered how she knew that. Michelle had never been laid off and couldn't possibly understand the humiliation. “My severance is just being rolled into my investments, anyway,” Stan said. “I have plenty of income without it.”
Michelle glanced at Richard, confused. “I thought you said you weren't working.”
“I'm not. I'm just a damn good investor. Have been for years.” She smiled and turned to Richard. “Have a
great
dinner,” she said, emphasizing “
grrrreat.
” Then she continued, “Sorry to interrupt. Nice to see you, Michelle. Have a wonderful night.”
Richard finally stood. “Stan, wait.”
Stan glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. “I have to go, Richard. My food is waiting. But I'm glad I took a ride here, anyway. It was a real eye-opener.”
She waved cheerily at them and went to the front, paid for her food and headed out to her car. The mad took over, once she was driving, manifesting through her foot on the gas pedal. Michelle, of all people. She wasn't even that attractive. Her hair was an attention-grabber, sure, but anyone with eyes could tell it was fake. And once you got past the hair, well, that was another story.
Stan pounded the steering wheel in frustration. She hated being snarky. Sometimes it couldn't be helped. But it really wasn't Michelle she was angry with. It was Richard. And herself, for not admitting what was right in front of her.
Richard didn't love her. Not really. They had been good when they worked together, because they had the same focus, same drive, same big ambitions. The lack of common interests and philosophical differences weren't as obvious when you spent most of your time at work, traveling for work or talking about work. Now that they didn't have that in common anymore, the cracks in the foundation were expanding like spiderwebs of shattered glass.
Stan knew it might be different ifâwhenâshe took this other job. Different company, but the same industry. They could easily fall back into the old pattern. But she was sick of the old pattern. His attention, concern and support for her was less than what she should expect for herself. Even showing up with that lawyer was a sad attempt at controlling, more than helping. Plus, it had been her mother's referral, not even his. It still made her sad. Now she had to add “cheating boyfriend” to the list of really sucky occurrences of the week.
She lifted her foot off the gas. Halfway home already. She had better slow down or a ticket would round off the day. Her cell rang. Richard. She debated shutting it off, but figured prolonging the aggravation wouldn't be productive, either. She hit the speaker button. “What?”
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“What do I think?”
Silence. “Well, you know. Dinner with Michelle and all. But we were working on a client presentation.”
“Yes, Richard, I'm aware of how important your job is, and how closely you and Michelle have to work together. I understand. It brought some things to the surface that should have been apparent a long time ago.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Now he sounded annoyed. Like she'd done something wrong.
“Just tell me. Did you actually cheat on me yet? Or were you in the pre-cheat stage still?”
Silence. Which Stan took as answer enough. She snorted in disgust. “Forget it. I'm done.”
“Done? What do you mean done? You know I wouldn't cheat on youâ”
“I don't know any such thing. And frankly, I don't want to have to even ask the question.”
But instead of being chastised, Richard just seemed angry. “You know, Stan, you've been a real piece of work lately.You are being incredibly irresponsibleâ”
“Irresponsible?” She didn't mean to screech, but couldn't help it. “How do you figure?”
“Losing your job. Picking up and moving to some remote location. And now? A suspect in a murder? What's happened to you, Stan?”
Like any of thatâaside from the moving pieceâwas her fault. Anger almost made her drive off the road, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She tried the old count-to-ten trick before she responded, but it didn't help. The mad was back.
“I'm done talking to you.” She turned the phone off and threw it in her bag. Flicked on her high beams and slowed down as she hit the long, winding country road that led out to her house. She drove faster than she should. There were no cars on the road, as far as her headlights could see. It was black, black, black. The moon had vanished somewhere in the clouds. Streetlights were hard to come by around here. Signs illuminated briefly as her car swept past them; then they plunged back into darkness. Somewhere in the distance she could hear sirens. They sounded like they were heading toward her, but she couldn't tell. The emptiness was disorienting. Headlights lit the sign telling her she'd be in Frog Ledge in a mile. Still no cars on the road, but the sirens were getting closer.
Stan slowed as flashing lights filled her rear-view mirror. Not police cars. Fire trucks. Two of them. The Frog Ledge Volunteer Fire Department was in the opposite direction, so these trucks must be from a neighboring town. Heading into Frog Ledge.
Stan pulled to the side of the road as the fire trucks barreled past her, the noise deafening. She hated sirens. Hoped nothing had happened on her street, with Nutty and Scruffy in the house. After the trucks had thundered past her, she pulled out behind them.
The sinking feeling intensified as she realized they were heading in the direction of the green. Right near her house. But the trucks didn't slow. She heard other sirens, too. An accident, possibly.
The fire trucks careened around the stop sign next to the library, heading into downtown. She thought of Jake's bar and hoped nothing had happened out there requiring this many emergency vehicles.
She should park in her driveway, enter her blissfully quiet house and forget whatever else was happening. It had nothing to do with her; and the more she stayed out of drama, the better off she'd be. She'd almost convinced herself and slowed down as she got to her house; then she changed her mind and drove past. Just a peek. Who knew when the
Holler
would have the story? It was too late for Cyril to print papers now, unless he was going to post an update online. And it wasn't necessary, anyway. All she had to do was walk outside tomorrow and someone would be talking about whatever it was.
She reached the library and turned right. The sirens had stopped; but as soon as she turned, she could see the lights flashing. Right on Main Street. Above them, thick black smoke curled into the sky.
Right above what used to be Carole's vet clinic.