by Liz Mugavero
Stan gave him a hug. Ray and Char Mackey, owners of the Alpaca Haven Bed-and-Breakfast, were her first and most trusted friends in Frog Ledge. They knew all the gossip, were always supportive of her, and the fact that Char was from New Orleans originally didn’t hurt. She made the best food and strongest drinks in town, though Stan wouldn’t tell Jake that. As the owner of McSwigg’s, the local Irish pub, he would find that assessment offensive.
But Betty was in no mood for niceties. “Where’s Helga?”
Ray, in his usual slow and steady manner, thought about that long enough that Betty looked about ready to pop. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Betty.”
“Aargh,” Betty muttered. “She’s got to be around here somewhere.”
“Do you need a replacement historian?” A man with a scraggly beard and tiny eyeglasses appeared behind Betty. “I’m happy to jump in if Helga is neglecting her duties. I’m quite an expert on our town’s Groundhog Day legacy.” He smiled at Stan and held out a cold, thin hand. “Dale Hatmaker. I’m—”
“We’ll be fine, Dale,” Betty cut in, stepping in front of Stan before she could shake his hand. “Thanks for offering.”
Despite Betty’s curt tone, Dale Hatmaker didn’t look offended. Instead, he smiled at them both, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head at Betty, then walked away.
Stan looked from Betty to Ray. Both were glowering after Hatmaker. “Who was that?”
Betty rolled her eyes. “That’s Dale. Self-elected historian. He wants Helga’s job and doesn’t make it a secret. Shameless, if you ask me.”
“Completely shameless,” Ray added, snapping his suspenders. “As my wife would say, he ain’t got the good sense God gave a rock.”
Stan smiled at the southern phrase so common to Char. “Her job? You mean you get paid to be the historian?” she asked.
“Well, of course you do!” Betty looked at Stan like she was slow. “It’s not a fortune, but it’s a small salary. Dale just wants the title. He knows some things, sure, but he’s not a lifer in town like Helga and her family. He’s only lived here about fifty years.” Betty sniffed, as if that were equivalent to about two weeks. “He just wants his name in the paper. Anyway, I must go find her. If you see her, please find me right away.” She hurried off, leaving Stan and Ray staring after her.
“What’s Betty so frantic about finding Helga for? The ceremony isn’t in danger of starting without her.” Ray looked at his watch. “Although we are getting close. Holy smokes,” he interrupted himself. “Is that Arthur Pierce?”
Stan turned to see Cyril and his dad engaged in a serious discussion under a tree. “I think so. Cyril called him dad.”
“Well, of course it is. It’s wonderful to see him. They just had some devastating news.” He leaned close to Stan, and whispered, “Arthur has terminal cancer. Diagnosed just last month.”
Stan made a sympathetic noise. Poor Cyril.
“Anyway, I apologize. I sidetracked you. What’s got Betty so up in arms?”
“There was a strange episode with Helga’s daughter. She said something was wrong and we had to find her,” Stan explained.
“Ahh. Sarah?”
Stan nodded. “What’s her deal? She seemed a little . . . spacey.”
“She does tend to appear that way,” Ray said. “But, actually, she’s a medium.”
Stan’s eyes widened. “A real one?” That explained the energy comment.
Ray pulled a pack of chewing gum out of his pocket, unwrapped a stick, and offered it to Stan. She declined. He popped it in his mouth, chewed slowly. “She thinks so. I don’t think it’s her day job, but she considers it a talent. What’s the fuss about? What’s wrong with Helga?”
“Sarah didn’t say. She looked like she was going to pass out. Then she said something was wrong and we had to find her. Betty shrugged it off, but now she seems concerned.” Stan huddled deeper in her coat. Now she knew why people were wearing groundhog costumes. The day was cold, overcast, and damp. She was freezing and wished for a hat. At least she’d had the foresight to bring gloves. February was not the best time of year for an outdoor event in New England.
“Hmmm.” Ray stroked his own beard. “Well, I’ll take a walk around. Anyone seen Gerry?”
Helga’s companion, Gerry Ricci, was ninety-two to her eighty-seven. Despite their advanced ages, they were one of the most visible couples in town, always out and about, participating in some historical event or other town gathering. Gerry had bad knees and Helga had a bad hip, but they got around swimmingly. They reportedly met for breakfast twice each week and dinner on the weekends, but both maintained their own households in that true old-fashioned mind-set. Stan hadn’t seen him either and told Ray so.
“I’ll put an APB out.” He winked at her. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t you worry. I’ll get Char on it. You know my wife. She can find out anything.”
He wasn’t kidding. Char Mackey had a gift for gossip. There was nothing she couldn’t get people to tell her. Part of it was a gift, and part of it was her Southern heritage.
Before he could walk away, a shout from farther down the green distracted them.
“She’s here!”
They both turned to look. Stan hoped it was Helga, but realized the pseudo-groundhog making the announcement pointed to a woman unloading a pink carrier from an SUV parked on the road next to the green.
“Lilypad’s here,” Ray said. “You better run in and get your gift. Don’t worry, I’ll keep looking for our errant historian. She probably just got tied up at the museum. You know how she is when she’s working.”
“Hope so. Thanks, Ray. Speaking of missing people, have you seen Jake?”
Ray pointed to the side of the church. “I think Betty asked him to pull some chairs out from the other entrance.”
“Thanks.” Stan darted back inside the nearly empty meeting room and went to retrieve her bag from under the table where she’d stashed it. Instead of leaving through the main exit, she went to the side door in hopes of tracking Jake down. But when she shoved the door open, she nearly hit a tiny woman on the other side. Tinier than Betty Meany, even. She had tight, silver curls and wore a long red coat that probably weighed more than she did. She was engaged in what looked to be a serious conversation with Carla Miller, who was leaning against the building. Neither of them looked happy.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Stan peered around the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was looking for Jake.”
The tiny woman glared at her, causing Stan to freeze in her tracks. Whoa. Not so friendly.
Carla shook her head. “It’s fine. I haven’t seen Jake out here.”
Stan mumbled another apology and a thanks. As she shut the door, she heard Carla say, “You could try to be nicer to people, Maeve.”
She didn’t wait to hear Maeve’s reply. Instead, she hurried back through the basement and out the main door. Helga still wasn’t in sight when Stan stepped outside. Neither was Jake. Instead, she ran into the new mayor, Tony Falco. And her mother, who was always on Falco’s arm these days. Here in Frog Ledge, instead of her home in Narragansett, Rhode Island. Falco, a newcomer to town, had usurped the incumbent mayor last November. And captured her mother’s normally blasé heart at the same time.
Stan stifled a sigh. “Hello,” she said, pasting on her best blankly pleasant face, a holdover from her corporate days, and trying not to wince as Falco pumped her hand a bit more enthusiastically than necessary.
“Kristan!” Patricia Connor bussed her cheek with a kiss. “Hello, dear. How exciting to have my daughter as the gift-giver!”
That was a switch. When Stan had first started her business, her mother had brushed it off as nonsense and tried to encourage her right back into the dysfunction of corporate America. When she’d resisted, citing a much-needed rest from the cutthroat corporate world, Patricia had shifted gears and tried to push her into politics. Because that wasn’t cutthroat at all.
“Yes, it
’s cool. I have to run, Mom. They’re about to get started. I’ll talk to you later,” she promised, and hurried off, relieved to see Jake up ahead. He stood with Frank Pappas, the builder working on Jake’s newest renovation project in town. Frank was doing most of the talking, and his hands moved in short, curt gestures in time with his lips. Jake listened, but he didn’t say a word. Stan hesitated for a second, then figured she had every reason in the world to interrupt. She was the groundhog gift-giver, for goodness’ sake.
She walked up and tapped Jake on the shoulder. “This event is getting wacky,” she said. She smiled at Frank. “Hi.”
Frank grunted.
“There you are.” Jake twined her fingers with his. “Frank, I’ll talk to you later.”
Frank shrugged and walked away.
“What was that about?” Stan asked.
“Nothing. We’d better hurry—you need a spot right near the guest of honor and the head groundhog.” Jake tugged her toward the crowd, in the opposite direction of where Frank had gone.
“Head groundhog?” Stan repeated.
He grinned. “You haven’t met the head groundhog?” He swung her hand as they walked. It fit nicely in his, she noticed, then felt like a silly sixteen-year-old again.
“I haven’t. Do I know him?”
He maneuvered her into the crowd so she had a front-row view of the outside podium, which had been set up on a platform at the southernmost edge of the library parking lot. He stood behind her, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Stan leaned back against him, content. Despite the chill of the day, she already felt warmer. Jake pointed to where a tall groundhog was rounding up all the child-sized groundhogs. “There he is. It’s Michael Figaro. The undertaker.”
The undertaker was dressed up as head groundhog? Stan covered up her giggle with a cough. “Did they find Helga?”
Jake frowned. “Find her? Is she missing?”
A shrill whistle pierced the air. All heads turned to the podium. Betty removed her fingers from her lips. “We’ll be starting momentarily. Please welcome Lilypad! And, Mrs. Abernathy.” She did a Vanna White wave in the direction of a woman who, from a distance, looked like the star of Mrs. Doubtfire. Mrs. Abernathy bowed to the crowd and set the pink carrier with its precious cargo next to the podium.
“Perhaps Mr. Figaro will lead the groundhog children’s choir through a couple of songs, while we wait,” Betty suggested, then hurried from the podium before Mr. Figaro could protest. Stan watched as she made her way over to Char and Ray, spoke briefly to them, then continued walking. Sarah Oliver intercepted her en route. The two exchanged words; then Betty marched in the opposite direction toward the street. Sarah waited a moment, then ran after her. They crossed the street, disappearing inside the Frog Ledge Historical Museum.
Jake followed her gaze. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Stan repeated what she’d told Ray a few minutes ago.
Jake glanced back across the street. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I’m going over.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said. She scanned the faces directly around her. Her mother was a few feet away, standing with a woman Stan had never seen. “Hang on,” she said to Jake.
She hurried over. “Mom. Sorry to interrupt. Can you hold the gift for me for a few? I’ll be right back.” She shoved the bag at her mother.
Patricia accepted it. “Of course, Kristan. Where are you going?”
But Stan had already waved her thanks and weaved her way back to Jake. They headed for the street. After their conversation with Betty, Ray and Char were a few steps ahead of them. Before any of them could get to the sidewalk, Betty emerged from the museum and crumpled to the ground.
Stan gasped. She and Jake bolted across the street, Jake pulling his phone from his pocket as he ran to call 911. Char had already reached Betty—how, wearing heels that high, Stan couldn’t figure out. Sarah was nowhere in sight.
Jake raced up the steps, knelt, and said something to Char, then disappeared inside. Behind them, the crowd had started to notice something wasn’t right, and little by little people were turning in their direction. Some had already started over. Ray waited in front of the museum to try to hold them off.
“Stay back! Give her air,” Ray called, motioning concerned friends away from the steps. “Give her some room.”
Stan knelt next to Char, who leaned over Betty. The musical notes faded as the rest of the crowd caught on to the drama unfolding nearby. People lined up on the sidewalk, watching apprehensively.
“What happened?” Stan stared at Betty’s white face. She felt sick, remembering Sarah Oliver’s words. Something’s wrong.
Betty stirred and opened her eyes. Stan and Char exchanged a look of relief. When Betty’s eyes landed on Char, she burst into tears.
“Now, Betty, don’t be upset.” Char leaned over her friend as approaching sirens grew louder and an ambulance careened into sight. “The ambulance is here. You’re going to be fine.”
“It’s not me,” Betty whispered, struggling to sit up. Stan grabbed one arm and Char took the other, and they helped her to a sitting position. “It’s Helga!”
Char looked around. “I don’t see Helga anywhere.”
“Inside,” Betty whispered. Her next words were so soft Stan strained to hear them. “I think . . . I think she’s dead.”
Chapter 3
Dead? The hair rose on the back of Stan’s neck. How? Where was Sarah? Before she or Char could ask Betty any of these burning questions, the ambulance arrived. Two EMTs spilled out onto the sidewalk. They grabbed their stretcher and converged on Betty, taking her pulse, shining a light in her eyes, asking her name. Finally, one of them gave a nod, and they hauled her up and on to the stretcher.
“Excuse me?” Char hovered next to the female EMT.
“Yes, you can ride in the ambulance,” the EMT said, barely glancing at Char as she adjusted the stretcher to prepare for the trip down the sidewalk.
“No, no! That’s not what I want. There might be an injured woman inside,” Char said. “Betty went inside looking for a friend. When she came out she said Helga had fallen.”
That wasn’t what Betty had said, but Stan stayed silent. She certainly didn’t want to repeat Betty’s words—I think she’s dead—for fear they might come true. Out of the corner of her eye, Stan saw Cyril casually snapping pictures, moving closer through the crowd. Always looking for the story.
The EMT paused. She held up a hand to halt her partner, then turned to Char. “Did she say where in the building?”
Char shook her head.
The EMT moved over to confer with her partner, a tall, thin man with carefully styled hair who looked like the senior of the two. After a whispered conversation, she pulled out her radio and called in a possible second ambulance needed. Her partner began wheeling Betty’s stretcher away. Cyril edged closer, now jotting things down in his notebook.
Ray left his sidewalk duty and came over to take his wife’s hand. “Is she okay?” he asked, looking from Stan to Char. “What happened?”
Stan opened her mouth, closed it again. She looked helplessly at Char.
Char pressed Ray’s hand to her cheek. “We don’t know if she was hallucinating or what, but she told us . . .” She dropped her voice and turned away from Cyril so he couldn’t read her lips. “She told us . . . something happened to Helga. Inside. I don’t know. We were just going to go in.”
“Why don’t you go with Betty in the ambulance, dear,” Ray said, shooting a worried glance at Stan. “She probably needs a friend.”
“Yes, yes, I think you’re right,” Char murmured with one last nervous glance at the EMT, who had just returned. “I’ll go do that.” She hurried after Betty’s stretcher.
“I’m going in to take a look,” the EMT said. But before she could head inside, the door opened and Jake emerged.
A shot of panic pierced Stan’s chest and left her cold—her own sixth sense that things were about to go very wrong.
Like when she was speeding down the highway and blew right past a cop. Only today there was a lot more at stake than a speeding ticket. Jake’s face was pale and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear his eyes were wet. He met her eyes briefly, then motioned to the EMT.
“You should come in here,” he said.
“You’re confirming an injury?” The EMT pulled her radio back out.
“Just come in,” Jake said, urgency creeping into his voice.
The EMT obliged. Stan followed them, dread seeping through her body like a slow IV drip. She had no desire to see what Betty thought she’d seen, but Jake shouldn’t have to go in there with only a complete stranger.
The heavy wooden door slammed behind them. Stan paused inside the doorway to look around. She’d never been in the museum before. At first glance, it wasn’t what she’d expected. She supposed her definition of “museum” was geared toward a fancy art museum. This was small, about the size of her dining room and living room combined, and much less sophisticated. Preserved documents and historical artifacts made up the decor instead of gold-framed oil paintings or modern glass sculptures.
She didn’t have time to take it all in. Jake moved through the main room purposefully, leading them past exhibits of old farming tools, collections of photographs, what looked like an old library card catalogue. Past a desk in a small alcove in the back of the room. A red purse—Helga’s purse, probably—hung neatly on a hook on the wall next to the glittery purple cane Stan recognized as Helga’s constant companion, next to Gerry. A black cape was draped over the back of the chair. She saw Jake’s gaze linger on it; then he moved on, around a corner to another door.
This one led to a stair well. The EMT coughed, the noise amplified in the small, quiet space. Stan jumped. Then, very faintly, Stan heard someone crying.
Jake pointed, his face grim. “Down there.” He let the EMT pass. He’d already seen.
The EMT took the stairs carefully. Stan peered down and saw Sarah bending over a small, still form clad in pink at the bottom of the stairs. Stan couldn’t see the entire scene, but what she could see looked . . . wrong. The pink-clad legs were splayed in an odd manner. She turned away, feeling light-headed and sick all at the same time. She hardly ever prayed, but found herself doing it now for Helga, the poor woman, and her daughter. And, of course, Jake. She thought about Sarah’s insistence that something was wrong with her mother. Ray hadn’t seemed confident in her medium abilities, yet she’d clearly been right.
