A Biscuit, a Casket (5 page)

Nikki dropped something with a clang that resonated through Stan’s eardrum. “Sure
we can. So who did it? Maybe an animal activist.” Her tone grew thoughtful. “That
would be pretty cool, actually.”

“Nik! It wouldn’t. That would give animal activists a bad name.” She waited until
Nikki grumbled an assent. “I have no idea who did it.” Well, that wasn’t true. She
remembered the Ford Explorer, the man named Fink—if the name was any indication, maybe
they already had their man—and Pasquale sending someone out to question him. She wondered
what had happened with that. She told Nikki about it. “I haven’t heard if anything
came from it yet.”

“Stan . . . You’re not getting involved in this, are you?” Nikki asked.

“Involved? No. Why would you think that?”

“Because I know you? Look, after what happened last time . . . maybe you should just
go about your business. Read about it in the newspaper.”

“You’re silly.” Stan laughed. “I’m not planning on getting involved. I have enough
going on. New business, new life, remember?”

“I hope so,” Nikki said. “Dead farmers don’t seem like a good hobby to take up.”

After Stan hung up, she checked her watch. Only nine. Plenty of time to make a stop
before heading to Em’s. She needed to know if there had been any developments overnight
in Hal’s murder. Since the pub wasn’t open yet, the next best place for information
was Izzy’s coffee shop. She hurried upstairs to get dressed.

“Dead. I can’t believe it. How could this happen?” Izzy Sweet’s hand shook as she
poured coffee into a to-go cup for Stan. The tremors caused the hot black liquid to
splash on the counter. Izzy muttered a curse and swiped at the spill with a cloth.
“Do you know how he died? I’ve heard it was horrible—that he was stabbed with an awful
weapon.” She turned away, but Stan could’ve sworn Izzy’s eyes had filled with tears.

Izzy Sweet’s Sweets buzzed with the news of the murder this morning, the chatter mixing
with the jazz music playing softly through the speakers. Copies of the
Frog Ledge Holler,
many folded to Hal’s picture, littered the café tables next to pastries and lattes.
The undercurrent seemed less fearful than Stan would’ve expected, considering there
was a murderer on the loose. Instead, people seemed to want to talk about it, sharing
and comparing what they knew with the lean details in the newspaper. Human nature,
she supposed.
At least we’re all alive to talk about it.

Then again, there weren’t many true locals on hand in the café. Much of Izzy’s business
rested with the local college crowd and their parents. There were two large universities
within twenty miles of the sweet shop, and word had gotten out that Izzy’s coffee
was to die for. And, it made the tourists feel good to buy local. Unfortunately, Frog
Ledge’s old guard didn’t have the same loyalty—they’d been opposed to the shop, which
they called “fancy, highfalutin, and overpriced.” They would’ve much rather seen the
greasy spoon diner that had been there previously be resurrected.

Not Stan. Coffee shops were as normal to her as breathing. Especially on a day like
today. And this shop was so colorful, it was hard not to be cheery just setting foot
inside it. Various shades of greens and purples collided on the walls, decorated with
framed photos of coffee shops from around the world. Coco Chanel held an esteemed
place on the back wall. Coco was one of Izzy’s idols. “Class,” Izzy would say, hand
on hip, admiring the artwork. “Pure class. And so put together.”

Izzy didn’t look so put together this morning. Her hair, woven into dozens of tiny
braids, looked perfect as usual, and her smooth caramel skin still gleamed with hardly
any makeup. But her eyes told a different story. She was shaken.

Stan breathed in the scent of rich coffee and lemony pastry. “It smells so good in
here,” she said, hoping to take Izzy’s mind off the murder. “What did you bake this
morning?”

“Thanks,” Izzy said. “Lemon pound cake with cream cheese frosting. Are they sure it
wasn’t a farming accident? I’ve read about dairy farms—how they can be really dangerous.”

Stan fitted a cover onto her cup and took a grateful swig, not even caring when she
burned her tongue. She’d had plenty already today, but she still felt foggy and slightly
headachy. The sure signs of no sleep. “There were a lot of people there last night,
Iz. Including me. And I saw”—she lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure
no one was paying attention—“the body. What they’re saying is true, as horrible as
it is.”

Izzy’s hand went to her mouth as if to hold back her horror, fresh tears blooming
in her chocolate eyes. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t. Was it . . . painful?”

Her reaction was oddly out of character. Izzy was normally the epitome of cool, calm,
and collected, even when everything around her was in a state of upheaval. It was
one of the reasons Stan had taken to her so quickly after moving to Frog Ledge—that,
and her dogs, Baxter the boxer and Elvira the poodle. Her tears were unsettling. “I
didn’t realize you were friendly with the Hoffmans. Did you know them well?”

Izzy abruptly turned and began cleaning her espresso machine. “I get all my milk and
cream from the farm. Hal gives—gave—a special discount for local businesses.”

“But did you know him personally?”

“Of course I did. We were pretty much neighbors. He came in for coffee a lot. One
of the few locals who did.” Izzy tossed her rag into the sink.

“I’m sad for his family. That poor woman, with four sons.” Stan wanted to ask if she
knew Emmalee, too, but a young college-aged woman approached the counter. Stan stepped
to the side.

Izzy pasted a smile on and took the woman’s order for an egg-white wrap with spinach
and a nonfat latte.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Izzy asked Stan when the woman moved down the counter
to wait for her food. “You must be hungry. I’m sure you didn’t eat anything after
last night.”

“Oh, I’m not really hungry.” Even as she said the words, Stan’s stomach growled. She
recalled she hadn’t eaten dinner last night. She’d been so worried about not having
enough treats for the party that she’d baked extra and run out of time to cook for
herself. And after all the excitement, eating hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“Here. I have quiche.” Izzy spun to the case behind her and sliced a generous piece.
Stan could see greens and reds mixed with the egg-colored delight.

“What’s in it?”

“Red pepper, spinach, garlic, and onion.” Izzy put the plate in the microwave and
hit the buttons. “You should eat.”

“I won’t argue. I’m stopping by the farm when I leave here. I’m sure I’ll need strength
for that.” Stan sighed just thinking about it. “Do you know Emmalee, Hal’s wife?”

“Not really.”

“I thought she did most of the deliveries,” Stan pressed.

“She never came in here?”

“Maybe once or twice. Why?” Izzy sounded annoyed. Stan shrugged, wondering why her
friend was getting defensive. “Just wondering. Does she have people to help her with
the farm? I mean, what’s she gonna do?”

“No idea. Maybe the co-op farmers will help.” Izzy pulled the plate out of the microwave
and set it in front of Stan. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Stan picked up her fork and sliced off a steaming piece of quiche. “What do you mean,
co-op farmers? This smells amazing,” she said. Took a bite, nodded. “It
is
amazing.”

Izzy inclined her head in agreement at the assessment of her cooking. “The Happy Cow
products aren’t just from the Hoffman farm. There are four other farms that sell their
products under that name.”

“Really? How does that work?”

“The farmers are the board. They vote on the major decisions, and all the products
from each farm are labeled Happy Cow. But Hal ran the whole show.” Her eyes welled
up again and she busied herself straightening the goodies in her pastry case.

There had to be something more to Izzy’s story about Hal supplying her with milk and
cream for a discount. Izzy didn’t get teary eyed often. Stan would’ve loved to continue
the conversation, but a bell over the door jingled and a group of girls came in laughing
and talking loudly. Izzy sighed, but stood up and put her hostess face on.

Stan scooped up the last bites of quiche and deposited her plate. “Gotta go do this
visit. Let’s take the dogs out later.”

Scruffy and Henry loved Izzy’s dogs. Baxter and Elvira had also recently welcomed
an addition to the family—Junior, an elderly yellow Lab who found himself homeless
through an unfortunate recent chain of events. The three dogs had bonded quickly,
and Junior had taken on a father figure role to the two younger dogs. He kept them
in line.

“Call me,” Izzy said, and turned to the giggling girls, who would likely be good for
a sale of high-calorie drinks and pastries.

Stan waved and hurried out of the store, feeling stuffed. She didn’t have the ability
to ignore the goods at Izzy’s. If she got out of the visit with Em quickly and hadn’t
dropped from exhaustion, she could do a real run on the town green before she had
to get baking. She had a number of treat orders to fill.

Even though she’d only been in town a few months—and moved here with no intention
of starting a business, let alone a pet food business—she already had steady customers,
mostly for her fresh baked, organic-ingredient-only treats. But people had heard about
the “human” meals she made for the animals and were starting to request them. Char
and Ray Mackey, who owned the local bed and breakfast, had been her first customers
for meals. Their dog Savannah, who had suffered from allergies and stomach problems,
had responded so positively they’d immediately asked Stan to provide her meals. Which
meant a lot of research, because she didn’t yet feel confident in her ability to gauge
the right nutrients to add to a well-balanced dog meal. It was one thing to cook for
her own cat, but quite another to be responsible for another animal. And as Char increased
the amount of food she wanted, the more worried Stan became.

But it was a good problem to have. Then she’d been asked to do Benny’s doggie party,
which she considered a real coup. Her business was gaining momentum.

It was unfortunate the birthday party had been last night’s second casualty, but his
parents had promised to reschedule since Benny had been looking so forward to the
event. Although he had gotten to take home all the extra cow tracheas. She wondered
when Em would let them reschedule the party. Figured today wouldn’t be the best time
to ask.

The Frog Ledge Town Green beckoned as Stan walked to Em’s. It was her favorite place
in town next to her own house, and she was lucky enough to live right across from
the south end. The green—or the mile-long “center of the universe,” as Stan thought
of it—served as the town’s unofficial meeting place, where farmers’ markets, parties,
music, Revolutionary War reenactments, and many other events occurred. It was also
the official billboard for anything going on in town, because inevitably, everyone
had to pass the green at least once a day to get anywhere in Frog Ledge. So it was
common to see all kinds of signs, official and handmade, clustered at one end. A stone
dust path surrounded the grass, and walkers and runners could be found just about
any time of the day or night.

The trees still had some colored leaves clinging to the branches, although the reds
and oranges and yellows so powerful just a week ago had already faded. Stan loved
to run in the fall air, and this morning was still fairly warm, teetering in the low
fifties. There was hardly anyone on the trail.

She turned into Em’s driveway. The dairy farm was busy. Cars were parked haphazardly
all over the driveway and the lawn, and a couple spilled over onto the sidewalk in
front of the house. Stan hesitated a minute. Em seemed to have more than enough support.
Maybe she should just go about her business. After all, this didn’t really involve
her.

But questions lured Stan back. Who had stabbed the farmer and left him in his own
corn maze to die? Was it a random killing, or had it been someone Hal knew? As much
as Stan didn’t want to think random murderers had been walking the streets of Frog
Ledge and happened upon Hal in his corn maze, it was more disturbing thinking of who
in town would’ve murdered him. Someone he trusted? Had he walked right into an attack?

She half turned, about to sprint across the street to the green and forget the whole
thing, when she heard a voice. “Yoo-hoo! Stan!”

Turning, she spotted Char Mackey teetering up the street on boots with impossibly
high platform heels. She clung to a foil-wrapped casserole dish, and her ever-present
luggagesized purse hung off the arm she tried to wave with. Stan figured the emergency
bottle of vodka that usually lived in her purse made the trip more laborious than
it should have been.

“Hey, Char.” Stan waved back.
There goes my escape.
She waited for Char to catch up to her.

Breathing hard, Char finally did. Known and loved around town for her flamboyant outfits,
overly outgoing nature, and love for all things gossip, she didn’t disappoint today,
even while paying a visit to a friend who was in mourning. Her fisherman-yellow coat
gaped open, displaying black pants stretched thin over her bulk, and a neon red blazer
that clashed with her loud red hair. Chunky jewelry and her traditional, glittery
gold eye shadow completed the outfit.

“Phew. That’s a long walk when you’re carrying all this stuff.” Char leaned over and
air-kissed Stan. “I’d hug you, honey, but I’d dump the food all over you.”

“That’s okay.” Stan took the dish. “Let me help.”

“Well, thank you, honey. So nice of y’all to come see Emmy. She’s gonna need us all
now, that’s for sure.” Char glanced at the house, her lips pulled together, the only
outward sign of her distress. “That poor woman,” she murmured, more to herself than
to Stan. “Like she hadn’t been through enough with that man.” Shaking her head, she
sighed and turned back. “Shall we go in?”

“Sure. I can’t stay long,” Stan said.

“No, no, me either. We have a houseful. People coming down to get their Halloween
tricks and treats in early this year, before they head up to Salem for the real thing.”

Nearby Salem, Massachusetts, was New England’s premiere Halloween destination. The
entire month of October was like one big costume party. This year, it seemed people
were streaming through Connecticut and dropping some tourist dollars in their region
on the way, which was great for the local economy. And for Char’s bed and breakfast,
Alpaca Haven, the only establishment of its kind in town. It attracted customers left
and right with a reputation for cozy rooms, delicious food, and excellent service.
Being able to pet the cute alpacas on the premises didn’t hurt either.

Char led the way to Em’s door and rang the bell. Stan suddenly felt stupid. She hadn’t
even brought anything. It would occur to her to cook food for animals before people.
Char sensed her anxiety. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said. “I don’t think Em’s
gonna run out of food anytime soon. It’s nice that you came.”

Em’s sister, Francine, answered the door. She looked even more anxious than she had
the previous night. Stan doubted her presence was giving Em any peace at all. “Oh,
hello,” Francine said. “How sweet of you to come see Emmy. She needs her friends right
now.”

“Yes, we thought so. We’ve brought shrimp Creole.” Char’s New Orleans origins made
her especially popular in the area. She made the best food and the strongest drinks,
and having fun was a core part of her personality.

Francine brightened and stepped back. “Come in, come in. We’ve had lots of tuna casseroles,
but no shrimp Creole. How generous. Em!” She hollered. “She’s taking care of the boys
right now,” she confided in a low voice. “They’re having such a hard time.” Her face
fell again just thinking about it, and she began picking at her fingernail again.
Stan resisted the urge to grab her hands to stop her. “My poor nephews. And we finally
told Robert. He was . . . he loved his daddy. This is just going to be so hard for
those boys.”

“I know. I’m so sorry,” Char said. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”

Emmalee Hoffman appeared in the kitchen doorway. If possible, she looked even more
exhausted than she had the night before—and then she’d reminded Stan of the walking
dead, no Halloween pun intended. When she saw Stan and Char, she attempted to smile.

“Hi, guys,” she said, and her voice broke.

Char stepped past Francine, dropping her enormous purse with a thunk on the table.
She enveloped Em, who was not a tall woman, in her bulk. Emmalee’s face vanished into
Char’s bosom as Char squeezed. “You’ll be okay, honey,” she crooned. “It’s just going
to take some time.”

When Char finally let her go, Em stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the back of
her hand. “I know,” she said. “I know. It’s just . . .” her voice trailed off. She
glanced at her sister. Francine took the cue easily. “I’ll go sit with the boys,”
she said, and slipped upstairs.

“Thank God,” Em said, motioning to the table. “Please, sit.”

Stan looked around for a seat. The kitchen table was crammed with casserole dishes,
pies, bottles of wine, Crock-Pots. The chairs had coats and stacks of papers piled
on them. But despite the many cars outside, no one else seemed to be in the house.
It was quiet as a tomb. She stashed her jacket on the chair with the highest pile
and perched on the edge of another.

“Everyone’s outside on the farm,” Em said, anticipating the question. “My brothers
all came, and Hal’s sister. She went out to get groceries. Some of our sister farms
sent workers to help out. People have been lovely.” She collected papers off one chair
and motioned to Char, her movements slow and stiff. “Here, sit.”

Char narrowed her eyes. “Have you eaten?”

Em shook her head.

“Well, let’s change that right now.” Char set to work clearing space on the counter,
pulling eggs and veggies out of the fridge. “I’ll whip up some omelets. What do y’all
like in them?”

More eggs. Stan hoped Char wouldn’t force her to eat. Her friend was known to be overly
generous with food.

“I’m really not hungry,” Em began, but Char hushed her.

“Of course you are. And the boys are, too. Peppers and onions, right? Tomatoes, too?”
At Em’s resigned nod, Char got to work. “So what have you found out?”

“I haven’t found out anything aside from what I knew last night.” Emmalee sank down
into her own chair, right on top of someone’s coat, and stared at her hands in her
lap like she’d never seen them before. “Someone murdered Hal.” She looked at Char.
“Who would have wanted to murder Hal? I know he was a son of a bitch sometimes, but
he had a family. A business that supported the local economy. Why?”

Char shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Emmy.” She heated some oil in a pan and
began chopping peppers and onions. “Do you think it was random?”

Em lifted her shoulders helplessly. “It had to be. I know he . . . could make people
angry, but that angry?”

Stan thought of Hal Hoffman’s body again. The protruding sickle under the glow of
the flashlight. She shivered. “Where do you think the murderer got the . . . weapon?
Would Hal have had it on him? Like, to cut corn?” she asked, thinking of her conversation
with Nikki.

All eyes in the room fell on her. She turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring
it up—”

But Em shook her head. “No, Stan, that’s a good question. I didn’t even think of it.
I know my father-in-law had a collection of those old tools, but I haven’t seen them
in a long time. I think Hal kept them somewhere in one of the barns.”

Stan thought about that. A family heirloom as the weapon. Was that symbolic, or coincidental?
“Was he having trouble with anyone?” she asked. “Kathryn McKitchum said she saw him
arguing with the man in the Explorer outside her restaurant. The man named Fink. Did
the police get anywhere with that?”

Em hesitated. “Hal had trouble with everyone,” she said finally, dropping her voice
an octave. “Heck, he had trouble with me. He was difficult, stubborn, and he hated
manual labor. He was more interested in his drinking buddies and his get-rich-quick
ventures than he was in running this place. But he was smart as hell, too. And handsome.
Even charming, when he wanted to be. But there were days when I wanted to kick his
behind from here into next week. Asher Fink is one of our co-op partners. Matter of
fact, he’s here today helping. One of the first to show up. He and Hal argued more
than they agreed, that’s for sure. But it was never serious. And Asher stabbing him?
I couldn’t picture it. He can’t even slaughter his own beef cows.”

Before Stan could digest that lovely visual, they were interrupted by the back door
opening. A parade of people filed in. Stan could smell fall air and cow manure wafting
around them. The leader, a giant of a man with a cowboy hat and a beard reminding
Stan of ZZ Top, took his hat off and nodded at the three of them, his gaze settling
on Em. Stan remembered Kathryn McKitchum’s description of the man with his “big beard”
arguing with Hal. Asher Fink—it had to be. Char turned from the stove, where the first
omelet was sizzling away in the cast iron pan.

“Mrs. Hoffman, the morning chores are done,” the bearded man intoned in a voice more
suited for a Sunday sermon than a farm.

Stan watched him through narrowed eyes. Was this all an act? Was coming over here
this morning just to throw the authorities off his track and look like a concerned
friend? Maybe Em had no idea what he and Hal argued about. Maybe it had been serious.
Serious enough to kill over.

Em didn’t seem to think so. “Thank you, Asher. And thank you for coming personally.
And all of you, for coming to help,” she said, raising her voice to include the men
in line behind Asher.

“We’re honored to help, Mrs. H,” a younger man said. “Mr. H was, like, a super cool
guy.” He fell silent and shuffled his feet, looking at the floor.

“Thank you, Lee,” Em said. “He would be grateful to all of you.”

Asher cleared his throat. “A crew’ll be back tonight. You gotcher regulars out there
now, keeping things going.” With one last nod, he ushered the line of men back outside.
ZZ Top’s “Legs” ricocheted through her brain. She sighed. Her brain could be so predictable.

“That’s awful sweet of them,” Char remarked after they filed back out the door. “That’s
the man they questioned?”

“It is,” Em said.

“Huh.” Char slid the omelet on a plate and placed it in front of Em, hovering until
Em picked up her fork and took a bite. “I guess they decided he couldn’t have done
it.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Em said. She lapsed into silence again.

Char shrugged, unfazed, and kept whisking.

Stan shifted uncomfortably. She needed to make her exit. She tried to catch Char’s
eye to give her a heads-up, but Char was again intent on her eggs. And then the doorbell
rang.

“I’ll get it,” Stan offered, for something to do. She hurried to the front door and
pulled it open.

Two women stood on the porch, each carrying a casserole dish. One wore heels that
made Char’s look like flats. She had unruly frosted blond curls that had been left
loose to find their own way. She wore tight jeans and was nearly slim enough to do
so. She smiled at Stan, revealing small, straight teeth. Her lips were coral.

“Hello. I’m Leigh-Anne Sutton.”

“And I’m Mary,” the other woman broke in. “Mary Michelli. Pleased to meet you.” Mary
was not in the same style league as Leigh-Anne Sutton, Stan noted. She wore sweats
and sneakers and her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. No lipstick. No makeup
at all, in fact. Much more farmerish.

“We’re part of the Happy Cow co-op.” Mary shook her head, looked at Leigh-Anne. “We
could hardly believe it when we heard the news.”

Leigh-Anne nodded in agreement. “We’re just devastated,” she said. “How is Em? Are
you a friend?”

“Oh, sorry, yes.” Stan reached out her hand to shake theirs. “Stan Connor. Em’s neighbor.
Please, come in.” She led them to the kitchen.