The Icing on the Corpse (4 page)

Chapter 5

Jake was quiet on the drive home from the hospital. Which was fine with Stan. If they were talking, he might bring up Helga or Betty, which would inevitably make her spill Betty's theory about Helga's death. Betty had sworn Stan to secrecy before she'd left her hospital room. With all the commotion of the ER and people coming and going, she wasn't going to be able to pry anything else out of her. Like who she thought might have pushed an eighty-seven-year-old town legend to her death, and why. She'd never finished her thought with those details.

Stan didn't want to accidentally mention any of that to Jake right now. Or perhaps ever, given the heartbreak he was already facing. She was hard-pressed to believe it anyway. Betty had to be feeling the effects of some pretty strong medication, combined with her own grief. Tomorrow she'd wake up and have no memory of this.

Stan hoped.

Jake pulled into her driveway. Her house was well-positioned at the south end of the town green, a perfect spot for keeping an eye on all the important goings-on. From here, they could see that any trace of a crowd had dispersed up ahead where the ceremony was supposed to occur earlier. The area looked barren and empty. Sad.

“You're not going to the bar tonight, are you?” Stan asked.

He shook his head. “I talked to my mother while you were with Betty. I'm going to take her to the funeral home. Don and Carla asked her for help with the arrangements. Sarah's not in any shape to take it on. My mother will make sure it's done right. And she'll need support.”

“That's sweet of you.”

He looked surprised. “Sweet? That's what anyone would do for their family.”

Stan focused her gaze on her pretty mint green Victorian house with the wraparound front porch. It looked so empty without her hanging plants or even the holiday decorations that she'd finally packed back in the garage until next Christmas. Hopefully spring would come soon—even though Lilypad hadn't had the opportunity to make her proclamation. “Sure they would,” she said noncommittally. Truth was, she had no idea. Her own family, when she interacted with them, operated with a level of dysfunction that made the McGees look like the Brady Bunch. Supportive wasn't the first word that jumped to her mind, with the exception of her dad and her gram. But they were both gone.

Jake didn't need her to dive into a pool of self-pity right now, though. She turned back and laced her fingers into his, squeezed his hand. “I'll let you go get your mum. Call me later if you want. And again, I'm so sorry.”

She got out and watched him back out of the driveway; then she trudged up the front steps. What a day. She was looking forward to spending some relaxing time with her dogs and cat tonight, and—

Her front door flew open. She gasped, jumping back, hand flying to her mouth.

Brenna McGee pushed the storm door open and held it for her. “Shoot, sorry. Didn't mean to scare you,” she said. “I heard the truck and figured I'd save you the hassle of trying to unlock the door.”

Stan had given Jake's little sister a key when she'd hired her permanently as her assistant baker. That way, Brenna had access to the kitchen and could come in to bake treats when Stan was tied up with other things. The system worked well. Until Stan forgot she could be inside and got the bejesus scared out of her, which happened occasionally. Like today.

“No problem,” Stan said, stepping inside. Her schnoodle, Scruffy, immediately accosted her,
woo-wooing
pathetically. She stood on her hind legs and dropped her front paws on Stan's thigh. Henry, her pit bull, sat obediently and waited for a pet, tail wagging. It felt good—really good—to be home.

“I'm glad you're here. The dogs would've been lonely by now. Hey, guys. Hey, Nutty!” She brightened at the sight of her Maine coon cat, who perched on the windowsill, regal tail fluffed out behind him.

When she first moved to Frog Ledge last year, it had been just her and Nutty. He'd come into her life years ago as an injured stray in her old condo complex. She'd taken him to the vet and nursed him back to health. They both decided the investment was worth their time. Nutty adjusted to his new home quite well, especially when she began cooking him homemade meals to combat his irritable bowel disease. They'd been together ever since. And even though he considered himself superior to any canine, Stan could tell he liked having the two new family members around. Most of the time.

Right now, the newer family members, both rescues who had found her after she moved to town, were barking up a storm. “I know! I missed you guys, too.” She shrugged off her coat. “Let's go get ready for dinner.”

At the magic word, the dogs raced down the hall and into the kitchen to take their places. The one word that did not require repetitive training exercises to sink in:
Dinner.

Stan turned to Brenna and gave her a hug, then stepped back and observed her friend. She didn't need to ask if Brenna had heard. By now, the whole town probably had. “I didn't even see you on the green earlier. Are you okay?”

Silly question. Brenna didn't look okay. She looked as sad as her big brother. Her eyes were puffy and she'd clearly been crying. She had one of Stan's fleecy blankets from the back of the couch wrapped around her shoulders. Her long brown hair was piled on her head in a messy ponytail.

Brenna lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I got there late. Just as . . . everything started going wrong.” Her eyes welled with tears again and she furiously blinked them away, much like her sister, Jessie, had earlier. “I'm sad. I know she was old, but I wasn't ready for her to go. There's no way she should've died right now. She was so healthy and she . . . she . . . did so much around town. She was, like, everywhere. I can't believe she's really gone.” Grabbing a tissue from her pocket, she blew her nose. “Anyway,” she continued in a shaky voice, “I went back to the church and got all your stuff. And I hope it's okay—your mother saw me and gave me the gift back, so I gave it to Lilypad. I thought you'd want her to have it. Mrs. Abernathy was h-h-happy.” She dissolved into tears.

Stan took her arm and led her down the hallway. The animals followed, Nutty leading the charge. “Come on. Let's have some tea,” she said. “Unless you want to go be with your family. I can give you a ride, if you do.”

Brenna shook her head. “No, I don't feel like it. Can I just hang here?”

“Of course!” Stan tossed her purse and jacket on the back of a chair—her favorite dumping ground—and pulled out the lavender tea Izzy Sweet had given her. Izzy was a good friend to have. She owned the gourmet chocolate and coffee shop, Izzy Sweet's Sweets, down on Main Street, and loved to give samples of her new inventory.

“I don't think it's a coffee day. I think we need tea, some cookies, maybe a fire and a funny movie. What do you think?”

Brenna's sad eyes brightened a bit. “Yeah, that sounds nice. And maybe we can bake?”

“I think I've created a monster. But sure. We have plenty of treat orders to fill.” It still thrilled her to say those words:
Orders to fill.
It sounded so official. She, the diehard corporate girl who thought she couldn't live without fancy suits and an expense account, was making a go of her own business. An organic pet food business, no less, and one she often conducted in her pajamas. Some days she had to pinch herself to believe it. Her former cronies at Warner Insurance, the financial company where she'd led the public relations and media team, wouldn't believe it either. It was so un-Stan-like that it was funny. But really, it had been in her blood all along. For the umpteenth time since last summer, she sent a silent thank you to her old employer for firing her. Shedding her corporate identity had been one of the best things that ever happened to her.

She just wished her grandmother was around to see her make a go of her new business. And give her some recipes. “How're you doing with the meals for the new clinic?” Brenna asked, throwing her tissues in the trash.

Stan's neighbor, homeopathic veterinarian Amara Leonard, and her fiancé, traditional vet Vincent DiMauro, had teamed up to open a new practice in town. Their clinic, opening by the end of the month, would offer both types of veterinary care, as well as a small area for animal sheltering, thanks to their partnership with the town animal control officer. They'd commissioned Stan to provide a freezer full of healthy, organic pet meals with “real” food—meats, veggies and the like. And, of course, her signature treats. It was the first time she'd been asked to provide prepared meals on a regular basis. Right now, she did them for a select group of customers, including Char and Ray Mackey's dog, Savannah.

“Good,” she said in answer to Brenna's question. “I have a few already done and frozen. Another that I'm trying tonight on these guys.” She smiled at her dogs, who waited statue-like in their usual dinner places. Nutty perched on the counter giving her the stink-eye. If he had one of those cartoon bubbles over his head, it would definitely say,
Less talk, more food preparation.

She pulled a list off the fridge. “I have two meals of grass-fed beef with barley, carrots, spinach, and white rice; two turkey dinners with cranberries, potatoes, broccoli, and green beans; and a farm-raised, hormone-free chicken dinner with pan-seared salmon, squash, red potatoes, cheddar cheese, and spinach.”

“Wow. Those sound yummy.”

“If you eat meat.” Stan wrinkled her nose. “Or if you're a dog. And hopefully a cat. So next, I have a pork-based meal, a venison meal, and a salmon one I'm going to package for the cats. That should give me enough for the grand opening. And I'm making one of the pork ones tonight. I thought about trying some kidney beans or chick peas, but that's an experiment.”

The doorbell rang. Maybe Jake was back? Scruffy bolted toward the front door, always eager to be the welcoming committee. “Want to brew some hot water for the tea?” she asked Brenna. “I'll get the door.”

Henry trotted behind her down the hall. It wasn't Jake. Stan pulled open the door. “Mom. Hi.”

Patricia was alone at least. That was a plus. But she didn't look happy. She frowned at Stan. “I need to talk to you.”

Chapter 6

Patricia Connor swept into the hallway the way only a woman of her social status could sweep, but her practiced movement stumbled when Scruffy bounced up and pawed her knee. Stan immediately pulled the dog back—it wouldn't do to get dog hairs on her mother's outfit. Patricia wore a long, impeccably cut black wool coat and matching hat. She looked like she was about to go out on the town. Manhattan, not Frog Ledge.

Stan
so
needed to get used to this. Before a few months ago, she saw her mother maybe twice a year, even though she lived only an hour away. Frog Ledge was not a place her mother, a Rhode Island socialite of the highest order, would have touched with a ten-foot pole in other circumstances. Now, thanks to her new love, she practically lived here. Stan had been trying extremely hard to look at her mother differently and improve their relationship. Her low opinion of Mayor Falco didn't help.

“Sure.” Stan stifled a sigh. She nudged the dogs back and closed the door behind her mother. “Come on in. I was just making tea.”

Patricia eyed Henry with suspicion. Henry lumbered over and sniffed her, his tail wagging hopefully.

“Quit giving Henry that look, Mom. You know the drill. He's the nicest dog you'll ever meet.” She hated when people—especially her own mother—showed bias to her dog because of his breed. Henry was a sweetie.

“I know you tell me that, sweetheart. It's just that you read so many terrible things about pit bulls—I know, I know.” Patricia held up a hand as Stan opened her mouth. “You're going to be angry at me.”

“Not angry, just disappointed. Nikki would give you an earful if she was here. I've told you a million times, Henry's an awesome dog. Think of his breed as ‘rescue' instead of pit bull. That goes for both the dogs.” Stan's best friend, Nikki Manning, ran a dog transport group that saved animals from death row down South. She was also the fiercest animal advocate Stan knew—and she wasn't afraid to get into fistfights if that's what it took. Defending pit bulls was one of her favorite pastimes. Nikki was responsible for both Stan's dogs, and Stan wouldn't trade them for anything.

“Yes, I know. Fine, you're right, I'm sorry.” Patricia took her coat off and held it high in the air as Nutty appeared, twining his way around her heels. Stan bit her lip to keep a giggle back. Her animals had an innate ability to aggravate her mother. She loved it.

“I'll take your coat,” she offered.

Patricia hesitated. Stan rolled her eyes. “I'll put it somewhere it won't get furry.”

“Thank you.” She handed it over after tucking her hat into the sleeve, then smoothed her sleek, silvery blond hair back into place. “Now. Shall we?”

Stan led the way down the hall, feeling like the Pied Piper—the pets followed single file and her mother brought up the rear. She paused to tuck her mother's coat safely into the coat closet she hardly ever bothered to use, then continued into the kitchen. Brenna glanced up from the recipe cards spread out on the table in front of her. “Hey, so—oh, hi, Mrs. Connor.”

“Hello, Brenna.”

“Tea?” Stan grabbed mugs out of the cabinet as the kettle whistled, signaling boiling water. “Or if you want coffee, I can make that, too.”

“Tea would be lovely. I hope I'm not intruding.” Patricia sat.

“Not at all.” Brenna glanced at Stan, then self-consciously adjusted her ponytail. “Did you want me to go?”

“Oh, no, dear!” Patricia exclaimed. “I don't want to interrupt. I won't take much of my daughter's time. I just need her advice.”

“
My
advice?” Stan turned, unable to conceal her surprise. That was a new one.

“Yes, this is your town, after all. My intuition tells me we might have a touchy situation on our hands.” Patricia accepted the mug of tea and waited for Stan to sit. When she did, Patricia continued. “You know it was a terrible morning, with the circumstances at the celebration. Tony was so upset about that poor woman. She was a legend in the community, I understand. Did you know her well, dear?”

Stan resisted the urge to point out that Tony Falco knew Helga probably as well as she did. Not very. “I was lucky enough to meet her a few times,” she said instead. “But, yes, it was very sad. Brenna and her family were extremely close to Helga.”

“Oh, no.” Patricia looked genuinely distressed. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Brenna mumbled, shuffling her recipe cards together.

“Maybe you can give me some insight, then.” Patricia leaned forward. “Tony and I were redirecting people at the celebration after we received the news. Offering condolences, of course. We were approached by a man who offered—actually, he was quite insistent—that he step into Helga's duties immediately.”

Brenna's mouth dropped.
“What?”

“I know,” Patricia said. “Unseemly. Tony was instantly uncomfortable, of course, given the circumstance, but he did let the man speak.”

“Was it Dale Hatmaker?” Brenna asked through clenched teeth. “Never mind—stupid question. Of course it was Hatmaker. Slimy piece of—”

“So what did Tony say, Mom?” Stan interrupted, shooting a warning look at Brenna.

“He did introduce himself as Dale, yes,” Patricia said, answering Brenna's question. “But the point is, I'm concerned.”

“Concerned about what?” Stan asked, but her mind had already divided itself between the part still listening to her mother and the part off and running on its own. Dale Hatmaker. The man who'd appeared out of nowhere this morning and offered himself up to “help” by filling in for Helga, suggesting she was shirking her duties before anyone knew what had happened. Then he'd panhandled for her job before she was officially pronounced dead? What kind of man did that? The kind of man who pushed an eighty-seven-year-old to her death? Crazy thoughts, but what if Betty's suspicions were true and Helga hadn't fallen on her own?

“Quite frankly, I'm concerned about Tony making a bad decision and letting this man have the job,” her mother said. “I get the sense Mrs. Oliver was much loved in the community. Tony told Dale the museum would be closed for the next little while, while Mrs. Oliver was laid to rest and everything was sorted out; but once that's done, he'll have to address it. And he can be . . . easily led by outside influences. Especially given his somewhat rocky relationship with the council.”

“Would he really be that stupid?” Brenna asked. “Because there'd be a lotta people here running him out of town. Helga's own son is on the council. And he knows karate.”

Patricia raised an eyebrow at Brenna. Stan covered her eyes. She didn't want to watch. Then she heard her mother say, “I really can't say if he'd be that stupid. The running out of town is exactly what I'm trying to prevent.”

Stan peeked through her fingers. “Did I just hear you right?”

“Of course you did. It's true.”

“You must have magical powers,” Stan said to Brenna. “No way would I have gotten away with saying that.”

“Oh, Kristan, hush. This is no time to be fresh,” Patricia said. “I need to help Tony.”

“He didn't make any promises, did he?” Stan asked.

“No, but this Dale was quite pushy. I overheard one of the other council members giving Tony you-know-what about the whole thing a while later. Tony didn't appreciate it. Which makes me think he would be contrary just to prove a point.”

“So what do you need from me, Mom?”

Her mother hesitated. “You're so good at public relations, dear. Tony could use some . . . executive coaching. From a professional.”

At Stan's blank look, Patricia sighed impatiently and rapped her knuckles on the table. The sound sent Scruffy into a barking frenzy, thinking someone was at the door. “You, dear. You're a professional. Could you help him?”

Stan burst out laughing. “Me? You want me to coach the mayor? I'm not a leadership coach. Or a political advisor.”

“No, but this will certainly make the newspaper if he makes a rash decision. He doesn't need negative publicity. He needs training. What do you people call it? Media training!” Patricia smiled triumphantly, like she'd just solved a particularly difficult
New York Times
crossword puzzle. “He needs some help. Please, Kristan? So he doesn't get off on the wrong foot?”

Stan resisted her natural urge to correct her mother. Falco had already gotten off on the wrong foot, at least with her. Instead, she considered her options. Running out the back door wouldn't help. She still lived here. Denying her mother would only serve to deteriorate the relationship even more, and most likely prove the bittersweet point that this town was too small for both of them. But saying yes would be a strike against her with all the people who hated Falco. There were a lot of them. And many had pets.

Both sets of eyes were on her, waiting for a reply. And her own pets were still waiting for dinner.

“He might not even be willing,” she began, but her mother cut her off.

“I'm sure he will, dear. As a matter of fact, I'm going to ask him right now.” She jumped up, leaving her tea barely touched. “Thank you! I'll call you with the verdict. Now, where's my coat?”