by Liz Mugavero
“Cyril asked for help,” she said. “And I clearly don’t know how to say no.” She tried for a smile. It was a no go. “Can we go upstairs and talk?”
He paused as if weighing the answer. Finally, he nodded. “We can go in the kitchen. I have a few things to do and I think Brenna is upstairs.”
She untangled herself from Duncan and rose from her stool. Dunc padded anxiously behind them as Jake led her through the double doors into the kitchen. Larry made a quick but discreet exit when they came in.
Jake pulled out some potatoes and began slicing. “So, what’s up?”
“I thought you might want to talk about the article.” Stan leaned back against the counter and watched him work. She wondered if her backup oven would be off the table now.
“Not much to talk about. It looks like there were some developments. Even though not many people knew there was actually a case.” Jake’s knife sliced cleanly through the Russet potatoes into french fry–sized chunks, making her mouth water. “I don’t really know what to say about Cyril. About any of it. To think someone would kill her . . .” He shook his head.
“Cyril didn’t kill Helga.”
“Looks like my sis—the police think he did.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why would anyone?” Jake asked. He dumped his excess potato peels into the trash and started a whole new batch.
“I don’t know. It’s likely related to the murder at your building. Are you sure she never talked to you about it in detail?”
Jake sighed and put the knife down. He rubbed his hands over his stubble. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Are you working on a story? Or investigating on your own? Because I’m not going to help you with either.”
“I’m not doing either,” Stan said, stung. At least not the first one. The investigating part, well, she was just asking questions. No harm in that. “But I think it’s wrong that Cyril is in jail.”
“I think it’s wrong that Helga is dead. How long have you known about this?”
“Cyril came to me Wednesday night to ask for help.”
“Wednesday.” He shook his head and looked around the room, as if he might find a script somewhere that would help him continue this conversation. “And today’s Friday, and you let me find out in the newspaper. So I guess what’s bothering me the most is, you don’t trust me.”
“That’s totally not true!” Outraged, she stood up straight, hands on hips. “Not fair. Cyril got arrested, and it . . . threw a monkey wrench in everything. I didn’t know how to tell you because you were so sad, and this would’ve made it worse. And then I ran out of time.” It sounded lame even to her own ears, but it was the truth.
“What am I supposed to think?” Jake asked. “I’m not saying you have to tell me everything. But with something like this, it would seem like you’d want to confide in someone. Like, the person you’re supposedly closest to. This is pretty heavy stuff, no?”
Stan narrowed her eyes. “Of course it is. And I know how much she meant to you, so I didn’t think it was something you would want to hear.” What was he up to? She couldn’t tell if he was really angry, or hurt, or what was going on here. But she knew it didn’t feel good.
“Of course I wouldn’t want to hear it,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have talked it out with you.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I made a bad choice, I guess.”
“I didn’t say you made a bad choice,” he said. “I just wish you trusted me.”
“You really think I don’t trust you? Are you kidding?” She couldn’t even believe what she was hearing. Was he crazy? She wouldn’t bother dating him if she didn’t trust him. But maybe he was used to women behaving differently.
But instead of getting defensive, he simply shook his head. “No, I’m not kidding. Let’s be honest, Stan. There’s a part of you that doesn’t completely trust me. Or anyone, I don’t think. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m just telling you what I see.”
Furious tears plucked at her eyes, but she used every ounce of willpower she had to not cry. Jerk. Who did he think he was? She didn’t owe him any explanation about how she gauged the level of trust she had in people. She trusted him. Probably more than anyone, except for maybe Nikki. He didn’t see that. And she clearly wasn’t doing a good job of demonstrating it. As she tried to figure out the best way to answer him, the kitchen door swung open.
“Hey, Jake, where’d you put the—” Brenna stopped abruptly when she saw Stan.
“Hey,” Stan said, trying for a smile and not succeeding well.
Brenna frowned. She said nothing. Then she turned and went back the way she’d come. The door slammed behind her.
Stan looked at Jake. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s mad at me, too?”
“I’m not mad at you. I don’t know what Brenna is. Maybe disappointed, too.”
Whatever. “You know what, fine. She can be mad all she wants. You can both be mad. Or disappointed. I was just trying to help. Maybe you should try being mad at Jessie, too. She’s the one who started investigating. She’s the one who questioned the ‘person of interest.’ And she’s the one who could’ve given all of you a heads-up before any of this happened. It’s not my job to run around and tell everyone what Trooper Pasquale and the state police are doing. But I’m sure she’ll get off easy, as usual, because her job is confidential. Whatever.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Then she stopped and turned back. “And I have news for you. I do trust you. Like, one hundred percent. And I’m sorry you can’t see that.”
She left him standing there over a counter full of potatoes, staring after her. Too bad the heavy front doors were constructed so they wouldn’t slam, because it would’ve given her great pleasure to make the whole building shake on her way out.
Once she hit the sidewalk, she paused for a long moment, part of her hoping he’d come after her. But he didn’t.
Chapter 31
The temperature couldn’t have been more than thirty degrees, but Stan was boiling hot. She took the long way home, walking down Main Street and around the far side of the green before finally arriving in her driveway. She should’ve gotten the dogs and gone for a real walk to expend some energy, but she didn’t even feel like doing that. Somewhere along the way, her mad turned into sad. She noticed a few tears on her cheeks. But it could have been the wind whipping in her face.
Who was she kidding? It wasn’t the wind. Jake and Brenna were both mad at her because she hadn’t shared her knowledge of the alleged murder. Not just mad, either. Jake had looked . . . hurt. He’d already been annoyed with her about the ghost hunt, but this was the icing on the cake.
And speaking of cake, she had a wedding to worry about, and now she didn’t have an assistant to help her. Cyril had been arrested. Helga had been murdered. The town was divided over a ghost hunt, which may or may not bring the spirit of another murdered man to light. And her mother had been radio silent since Stan had gotten mouthy with Tony Falco.
All in all, a crappy week.
She climbed her front porch. A package waited. This one had a return address label, at least. She recognized the name of the kitchen company where she’d ordered her cake pans. At least she could practice her wedding cake recipe. She picked up the box, went inside, and locked the door behind her, stooping to hug the dogs. Now she did let herself cry. That’s what dogs were for, right? To offer comfort and support no matter what was going on.
Stan let herself have a few moments of self-pity and doggie licks; then she pulled herself together. There had to be a way to resolve this mess. All of it. She just needed to figure a few things out. Armed with a purpose, she went into the kitchen, deposited her new pans on the counter, turned the coffee on, and grabbed a notepad and pen. Time to make a list. One of her favorite things to do when she felt lost and overwhelmed.
She titled this list “What I Know” and numbered it. Then
she jotted things down.
1. Helga fell or was pushed down the steps and died.
2. Betty said she was murdered, because she never would’ve gone walking without her cane.
3. Betty wouldn’t tell anyone else her theory—not even police.
4. Dale Hatmaker wanted Helga’s job.
5. Sarah is allegedly a medium and can talk to Helga.
6. Someone called the ghost hunters.
7. A boxer named Felix died at Jake and Izzy’s building sixty-something years ago. He was supposed to fight Helga’s boyfriend.
8. Jessie Pasquale arrested Cyril Pierce for Helga’s murder, which no one else seemed to know was a murder.
9. Edgar Fenwick told Helga to let sleeping dogs lie.
10. Betty’s mother and Helga were close friends, and Betty never bothered to mention it.
11. Helga wasn’t nice to Betty (allegedly) or Sarah. Or most anyone, apparently.
12. Mom’s mad about me not coaching (or being nice to) Falco.
13. Dale Hatmaker was moving things out of the museum.
14. Someone left a book on my porch about the boxer’s murder. Maybe Arthur.
15. Arthur covered the murder and was friends with the whole group.
Ugh. Stan shoved the notebook away. There wasn’t even a good way to put these in order, save for number one. How was she supposed to make any sense out of this mishmash of information? Stan stared out the kitchen window into the distance, trying to force her brain to get its act together.
There had to be a better way. Stan got up and paced her kitchen. Scruffy followed her. The little dog seemed to know she was upset. Henry, however, was happily napping. Stan wished she had the ability to tune life out that way.
Nutty, however, was also in rare form. Stan had a hunch it was related to the extra cat upstairs. Even though Nutty hadn’t seen Benedict face-to-face, he’d been spending an awful lot of time sniffing around the door to the guest room and meowing. Demonstrating all-around bad behavior—like right now. Meowing and rubbing all over her legs, he then proceeded to jump on the wrong end of the counter—not his designated eating area—and a pile of mail and other items, including her new cake pans, went crashing to the floor.
“Nutty! What’s wrong with you?” Stan bent to pick everything up. “If these pans are dented, I’m going to be very angry at you.” She pushed the mail into a neat pile. As she redeposited it on the counter, she noticed the green edge of the certified envelope she’d taken on Helga’s behalf at the historical society earlier this week. “Aargh. Amara needs to come get this. Thanks for reminding me, Nutty.”
She dialed Amara again. Voice mail. This was getting annoying. She couldn’t be that concerned about it, if she wasn’t calling her back. Stan left another message, then hung up and pondered her next move. She needed to have another conversation with Betty. Betty, who had alerted Stan to the possible murder before even Jessie Pasquale came to that conclusion. Betty, who hadn’t offered any other theories since then and seemed to be avoiding even her closest friends.
It didn’t make sense.
Stan checked her watch. Only twelve-thirty. She didn’t have to meet Izzy and the ghost hunters at the bookstore building until eight. Plenty of time to make a few rounds. First, she’d stop by the library to talk to Betty and see where that led her. And she’d bring Scruffy as an icebreaker. No one could resist her little schnoodle. Henry was popular at the library, too, but right now he looked more concerned about his nap than the investigation.
“Scruffy! Want to go make some friends?”
She did, of course. Henry rolled over lazily and kept snoring. She bundled Scruffy in her new winter parka. One of the best things about Frog Ledge was its dog-friendly atmosphere. Most places didn’t blink an eye if anyone brought their dog, as long as he or she was well-behaved. Jake had been largely responsible for starting that trend. Duncan was a McSwigg’s regular.
Thinking about them made Stan sad again, so she focused on her task. The sooner she got to the bottom of whatever was going on, the sooner she could address her personal life. If there was a personal life left.
Stan drove over to the library, relieved to see Betty’s Mazda in its usual spot. She gathered Scruffy’s leash and they hurried inside. She found Lorinda at the front desk, talking to one of the staff.
Lorinda waved at them. “Hi, Stan and Scruffy!”
“Hey there,” Stan said. Scruffy strained at her leash until she could get to Lorinda, who leaned down to accept her kiss.
“What’s shaking?” Lorinda rose, balancing perfectly on her typical five-inch heels. Today’s were a snazzy purple snakeskin pattern.
“I’m looking for Betty.”
Lorinda pointed up. “In her office. Locked away. Came in and went straight upstairs. Haven’t seen her all day.”
“Really?”
“Yep, I worry that she’s taking Helga’s death too hard.” Lorinda shook her head. “It’s so sad. She’ll love to see you, I’m sure.”
Stan wasn’t too sure about that, but she didn’t say anything.
“Anyway, can Scruffy go visit the children’s library while you go see her?” Lorinda asked.
“She would love that.” Stan handed over Scruffy’s leash.
“Excellent. This will be a huge hit.” Lorinda winked. “Take your time, honey.” Scruffy trotted happily away with her. She loved visiting the library.
Stan climbed to Betty’s second-floor office. The door was slightly ajar. Betty was on the phone, speaking in what sounded like terse tones to whoever was on the other end. Stan couldn’t hear what she was saying. She stepped up to the door and knocked, pushing it open. “Betty?”
Betty looked startled. She held up one finger, then said, “I’ll have to call you back.”
Stan waited until she’d replaced the phone, then stepped in and took a chair in front of her desk. “How are you?”
“I feel fine,” Betty said. She certainly looked better than she had even at the funeral yesterday. Her spiky hairdo was back, and she had added a teal scarf to her simple black dress for some color. “It’s hard, but I had to get back. Things were piling up, and with the event Sunday . . .” She trailed off and shook her head. “Life goes on, doesn’t it? So what’s going on?”
“You tell me,” Stan said.
Betty frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did you read the paper this morning? I’m sure you’ve heard by now either way. About Cyril.”
Betty picked up a bottle of water from the corner of her desk. “Yes, I heard,” she said.
Stan waited. “And?”
“And what?” Betty sipped her water. “Of course I was shocked. But Jessie must have found something to bring her to that conclusion.”
Stan threw up her hands. “Come on, Betty. You knew before Jessie Pasquale that Helga was murdered. You dropped that bombshell and then stopped talking about it.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I think you know who did it. And you know it’s not Cyril.”
Betty managed to look horrified. She rose from her chair, went over to her door, and closed it. “I beg your pardon, Stan!”
“You don’t need to beg my pardon. I think you need to beg Cyril’s. If you know who did it and you’re letting him take the fall, that’s wrong.”
Betty fiddled with a pen on her desk. Stan noticed her hand shook.
“I don’t know who did it. But I also don’t know why on earth Cyril would kill Helga.”
“I don’t think Cyril killed anyone,” Stan said. “Unless my gut is way off.”
Betty didn’t say anything.
“Tell me about Dale Hatmaker. How badly did he want Helga’s job? Did he bribe the mayor or something so he could get it if Helga suddenly became unable to do the work?”
“I don’t know. Dale’s a slime ball,” Betty said. “But I haven’t figured out if he’s capable of killing anyone.”
“Are you working on figuring it out? If you are, that could be dangerous.” Not that she sh
ould talk.
Betty still didn’t answer. Stan sat back. “Why won’t you talk to me? You trusted me enough to tell me your hunch in the first place. What changed?” Inwardly, she cringed, hearing herself have a similar conversation from the other side. Trust. It seemed to be lacking in Frog Ledge lately.
Something flickered in Betty’s eyes. “I do trust you,” she said. “But I have nothing to tell you.”
Frustrated, Stan changed direction. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother was Alice Donahue? The Alice Donahue who had keys to the library the night of the Constantine murder, and found the guy’s body later?”
Betty’s hand froze. “Why are you bringing my mother into it?”
“That’s common knowledge. It was in all the reports. It just took me longer to connect the dots with your maiden name since I’m new to town.” She managed a smile. “You should at least give me props for doing my research.”
Betty’s face remained stony. Guess she didn’t appreciate the joke.
“Listen. The way I figure it, either Dale Hatmaker or someone associated with the Constantine murder killed Helga, if Jessie Pasquale is indeed right and she was murdered. Those were the two things that stood out after she died.” Stan held up a finger. “Hatmaker greased someone’s palms for a job”—she held up a second finger—“and the ghost hunters came and stirred up this murder. Do you agree?”
Nothing.
“What do you know about the Constantine murder? What did your mother know? What was Helga doing that Edgar Fenwick told her to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’?” Stan fired the questions off the way she presumed a real journalist would. Although she did wonder about leaving time for the person to answer.
Betty shoved her chair back and stood up. “I have no idea, and I’m insulted that you’re insinuating any such thing. I also don’t appreciate my mother’s name being thrown into this mess. That incident happened over sixty years ago. Most people associated with it are dead. I don’t know why you’re feeding into this tabloid frenzy to bring it up all over again so people’s relatives can suffer. If Trooper Jessie thinks Cyril killed Helga, well, my heart is broken because I’m fond of Cyril. But again, she must have her reasons to think that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. We need to be prepared to celebrate a wonderful woman’s life.”
