by Liz Mugavero
Chapter 37
Saturday morning, eight a.m. The timer on Stan’s oven dinged, jerking her awake. She was embarrassed to find her head on her kitchen table. Her chin felt wet. Had she actually drooled? Gross.
She’d been up since four, baking. She’d never gone to sleep for more than a half hour at a time last night and had eventually given up. After the stairs had collapsed under poor Max and sent the ghost hunt careening off the rails, Stan hadn’t felt much like sleeping. Or eating. So she decided to bake. At least the wedding cake was coming along. She’d gotten the taste almost to perfection—enough strawberry to be unequivocally berry-esque, but without being overwhelming. She’d probably need one more trial run before she could declare it final—this time with just a few adjustments to minor ingredients. Henry and Scruffy wholeheartedly approved. Benedict had nibbled, too. Nutty was still pouting about Benedict and had actually turned down the cake. Silly coon cat.
Still, Stan had hope. Nutty wasn’t mean to Benedict; rather, he would simply sit somewhere in a far corner of the room and glare at him. Stan could almost see him calculating the food and treats he’d have to give up so the new cat could eat.
Stan tried to be respectful of Nutty’s feelings, but even in just a day she’d bonded with Benedict. He was a true gentleman, and very mellow. He was even good with the dogs. Scruffy had tried to chase him down the hall once presumably to play, and he’d stopped and sat and politely let her know that he didn’t want to engage in those types of games thank-you-very-much, and given her a gentle tap on the head to drive the message home. Scruffy, embarrassed, had slunk off to tell Henry about the slight. Stan thought it was hilarious.
She wanted to keep him.
She turned back to the task at hand and unloaded her cake from the oven. Now she had to work on the icing. That would probably entice Nutty. She thought a cream-cheese frosting with a hint of strawberry. Maybe a dash of lemon to give it some zing.
The doorbell rang as she began pulling items out of the fridge. She thought about ignoring it, but her car was out in the driveway, so she was clearly home. Not to mention it was barely daybreak. Scruffy and Henry were already at the door barking up a storm. She sighed, deposited her armful of ingredients on the counter, and trudged to the front door. It was probably Char. No one else was talking to her anyway. And Char would want to debrief on the ghost hunt, certainly.
But it wasn’t Char. And she certainly wasn’t expecting this particular visitor.
Adrian Fox stood on her front porch, messy hair blowing in the wind. He wore a black motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and his trademark black boots. He wasn’t smiling. “Stan. I’m sorry to intrude so early. Got a minute?”
“Hey. Sure.” Stan pushed the door wide, noticing too late she still had a bar of cream cheese in her hand. She slipped it into her sweatshirt pocket. “Come on in.” She glanced out to the driveway. No van or other vehicle. He must’ve walked from Char’s.
“Char said you’d be up. Morning, pups.” He scratched Scruffy’s ears and petted Henry on the head. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. Just baking. How’s Max?” She led him to the kitchen. “Please, sit. I have lots of coffee. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee.” Fox pulled a chair out and sat.
“You don’t?” She must’ve looked astonished because Fox cracked his first smile.
“I don’t. Just green tea. Max is going to be okay,” he said, going back to her earlier question. “He broke his leg in three places. He’ll be out of commission for a bit, but he’ll manage.”
“Thank goodness.” Stan remembered the cream cheese and discreetly slipped it back into the fridge, then took the seat across the table from him. “I have some green tea. It’s some fancy brand that Izzy sells.”
“Sure. Sounds great. Getting ready for a big Valentine’s Day party?” He nodded at the heart-shaped cake cooling on its rack.
“Huh? Oh, the cake. Actually, yes and no. I’m catering a wedding.”
“Really. You’re a caterer? Impressive.”
“Well, sort of.” Stan smiled. “It’s a doggie wedding.”
Fox, to his credit, didn’t laugh or even smirk. He simply nodded. “That’s also impressive. And interesting. How does one dog know he’s supposed to marry another dog?”
“It’s really more a human thing than a dog thing,” Stan admitted. She poured hot water into his mug of tea and handed it to him. “So what can I do for you?”
Fox sobered again. “I didn’t expect last night’s expedition to turn out that way. I would never put my guys—or anyone—in danger, and I’m devastated that happened to Max. Of course, the media’s all over it as a successful ghost hunt.”
“The media?” Stan asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach. “What media?”
“All the major channels. Someone leaked the story and it took off. So now, of course, everyone is surmising that this was the work of evil spirits, etcetera. Because that’s what sells.” He shook his head. “I’ve already been contacted by a movie producer.”
Oh, no. Stan closed her eyes. Jake would be even more livid than he was already. Now he owned a building with allegedly evil spirits. And they wanted to make a movie about it.
“Don’t worry,” Fox said quickly. “I’m not looking to make a movie. The truth is, I don’t think evil spirits had anything to do with what happened.”
“That’s a relief,” Stan said. “And it makes sense. It’s a really old building.”
Fox didn’t say anything.
“What?” Stan asked. “It is old.”
“That’s true,” Fox said. The unspoken “but” lingered in the air between them.
Stan narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you saying?”
Fox seemed to be weighing his words carefully. “Listen. Char said I could trust you to be discreet.”
Sure, but if he’d already confided in Char, he might have a problem. “Okay,” Stan said. “You think someone did this.”
Fox exhaled. “I have some concerns about the building.”
“What kind?”
“There are people who don’t want this particular ghost discussed. And are willing to go to great lengths to keep it quiet. I got a call the other day. After the town meeting. From one of your town councilmen.”
“Which one?” Stan asked, but her gut already knew.
“Don Miller.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to meet. So we did. At a park just outside of town. He offered me money to go home.”
“What? He bribed you?”
“He didn’t bribe me,” Fox corrected. “He attempted to bribe me. I didn’t take the money. Clearly, because I’m here. And I went through with the investigation.”
“How much money?”
Fox’s lips thinned. “A lot for a town councilman in a tiny town like this.”
“What’s a lot?” Stan pressed.
“Fifty thousand.”
Fifty thousand bucks? Don Miller didn’t strike her as the savvy investor type who had that kind of cash in his pocket. But maybe his karate business was more profitable than Stan realized. “Why didn’t he want you to do it?”
“He asked me if I would stand down out of respect for his mother and for the good of the town.”
“The good of the town. Interesting.” Stan leaned back and folded her arms. “What did you say?”
“I told him I appreciated his concern and certainly had the utmost respect for his mother, but that when I spoke with her before her death she was quite insistent that this investigation went forward. No matter what.”
No matter what. Chills shivered up Stan’s arms despite her heavy sweatshirt. “She really said that?”
“She did. It seemed very important to her.”
“She didn’t say why?”
“She said it was time for the truth to come out, and I could help her tell that truth. She wanted press. Lots of it.”
&n
bsp; Stan frowned. “She wanted press? Why?”
“She didn’t get into that.”
“Did you tell anyone she said that? About how it was time for the truth to come out?”
“You’re the first.”
“So she was your tipster,” Stan said.
Fox hesitated. “Off the record? Promise?”
Stan made a zipper motion across her lips.
“Yes.”
Stan nodded slowly. “I had a hunch.” She rose and walked slowly around her kitchen. “Helga wanted to talk about Felix Constantine. She wrote about him. She paid tribute to him. I know she tried to stop the building construction under the auspices of a board or committee or whatever it is she sat on. That makes me think she wanted the attention on him that your operation would bring. But the rest of the town seems to want to forget he ever existed.” She turned back to Fox. “How did Don react to you turning down his money?”
“He was angry. When I refused to change my mind, he left. But he was not happy with me.”
“Do you think he might’ve . . . taken other action?”
“I don’t want to start rumors. You’d need to get an expert in there to look at the stairs to see if they were tampered with. It might be too late anyway. But I thought it was worth putting out there. At least tell someone about the conversation.”
“You think a town councilman snuck into a building that’s under construction and tampered with the stairs so someone would get hurt? Or worse?” It sounded crazy. But then again, everything happening around town was crazy.
Fox shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. Look. I’m not saying that’s it, but it’s awfully suspicious that he didn’t want me to do the ghost hunt and then this happens.”
They were both silent for a minute. “What about how Sarah said her mother was talking about an accident? Do you think that was about Max? Foreshadowing?” Stan asked.
Fox shrugged again. “I can’t give you a good opinion on Sarah’s abilities. I don’t know her well enough. Could she have been referring to Max? Sure. Could she have been referring to something else? Yup. Could she be acting this whole thing out? Of course.”
“Maybe she meant Felix Constantine’s death was an accident,” Stan said.
“Again, your guess is as good as mine,” Fox said.
“Do you think he’s really haunting that place?”
“I don’t know,” Fox admitted. “We haven’t watched any of our footage, with Max’s injury. But there was a camera connected in the basement. We’ll see what happened.”
Stan refilled her coffee. “This man is the reason Helga’s dead. I can feel it.” She glanced down the hall as the doorbell rang again. “Excuse me,” she said, and went to the door, peering out the side window.
Jake’s truck was in the driveway. She cringed. Unless he’d come to break up with her, in which case it wouldn’t matter, having Adrian Fox in her kitchen at this time of morning was not going to win her any brownie points. But what was she going to do? She could hardly slam the door in his face. Instead, she pushed it open. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He gazed at her solemnly. “Can we talk?”
“We sure can.” She leaned against the frame. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“A walk?” He looked puzzled. “It’s pretty cold out. And I didn’t bring Duncan.”
Not seeing any other way out, she stepped aside, wondering how she could spin this. Having Adrian in the house after suggesting a walk would look bad. Jake followed her inside.
“Were you at the ghost hunt last night? Are you okay?” Jake stopped abruptly, his gaze moving past Stan over her left shoulder. Stan looked behind her. Fox was in the kitchen doorway.
“Jake.” Fox came down the hall. “Nice to see you. Stan, I’ll get out of your way.” He started past them to the door.
“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Jake shook his head. “Sorry to bother you.” And he walked out.
Stan watched him go in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said out loud.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble,” Fox said. He looked truly upset.
“Don’t be silly. Helga’s death has been hard on him, but that’s no reason for the kindergarten behavior.” She raked a hand through her hair, realizing she’d been welcoming all these visitors and hadn’t even brushed it yet. She’d been lucky to be wearing yoga pants and not her fleecy pajamas when Fox showed up. “Did you have anything else you wanted to talk about?”
“No, I wanted to tell you about Don Miller. And ask you to be careful.” Fox gazed at her. “Whoever doesn’t want this story heard is willing to go to great lengths to keep it quiet. I hear you have a . . . tendency to be in the middle of things. I wouldn’t want to see you caught in the crossfire.”
Chapter 38
After Adrian left, there were no more distractions. Stan had to sit with herself and figure out what to do about Jake. Not to mention the bombshell about Don Miller. Which wasn’t really any of her business, but Fox had trusted her with the information. Which meant she should probably call Jessie Pasquale. If nothing else, it might buy Cyril some time if she could successfully weave it into some kind of narrative that culminated in Helga’s death.
That was the problem. It seemed like a stretch for a ghost-hunting out-of-towner who had a mishap on an old staircase to have a connection with a woman murdered in a completely different place. Unless she could bring the right evidence to Jessie. Not that she knew what the right evidence was. She wished Fox had recorded his clandestine meeting with Miller. But what would that prove? That he didn’t want a ghost hunt. Nothing else. But if she could find something, it would save her the dance of trying to convince Jessie when she clearly was content with her suspect sitting in his cell. Jake and Brenna were both already angry at her, why not go three for three and get Jessie firmly on board, too?
But even thinking Jake’s name made her stomach hurt. The look on his face, before the suspicion and anger took over, had been pure hurt. Obviously with everything else going on he would be suspicious to see Fox in her kitchen this early in the morning. Especially after the whole googly-eyed thing when Fox first came to town. But did he really think that little of her, that with one spat she would start cavorting with someone else? Now who didn’t trust whom?
That nagging, annoying voice that popped up whenever she needed negative reinforcement was off and running. You’re clearly starstruck by Fox, you never bothered to hide it. He probably thinks you’re going to tire of this small-town stuff and look for a life with more flash and pizzazz. And, he thinks you don’t trust him.
“But I’m happy here. I don’t want more flash and pizzazz,” she argued out loud. Scruffy came over and held up her paw, clearly concerned for Stan’s well-being. Stan rubbed her ears. “We love it here. We have a house and a business. And . . . I do trust him. I love him.”
Even as the words left her mouth, they shocked her. She hadn’t allowed them to even pass through her brain before. It was too soon.
But was it, really? Or was that just an excuse to keep her distance? It had been so long since she’d been in a functioning relationship—her last boyfriend, Richard, was more a convenience thing since they worked together and understood each other’s crazy schedules—that she wasn’t sure she remembered how a real relationship should be. She’d dated Jake for four months. Why couldn’t she love him already? Things didn’t have to follow a pattern. Life was crazy. Love was definitely crazy. There was no right or wrong way to approach it.
She had some soul-searching to do, it seemed. Although now wasn’t the time to try to sort that out, as Frog Ledge fell apart around her.
But maybe she could help prop it back up. Armed with a new resolve, Stan checked her watch. Ten-fifteen. The Frog Ledge Library was open until noon on Saturdays. And she had a date with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And Betty, if she’d speak to her.
The Frog Ledge Memorial Library was hopping today. There was some kind of
kids’ program going on in the children’s section, and every computer on the main floor was in use. The two librarians at the reference desk were running around like crazed chickens. Betty was nowhere in sight.
Stan waited nearly fifteen minutes before a computer freed up. She searched for “Doyle” and, as expected, was sent to the Sherlock Holmes novels. She located the books and pulled out A Study in Scarlet first. She read the first page, then flipped through the book, half hoping a signed confession would fall out. Just for fun, she went through each copy of each book in the stack, just on the off chance.
Nothing fell out. No names were written in the margins with an asterisk citing “killer” at the bottom. No key to a secret lockbox with said confessions either. What was she supposed to do, read each book and short story for a clue? This was silly. She sighed in frustration and replaced the book on the shelf. She needed Betty. Maybe Betty would understand the cryptic message delivered by both Arthur and Sarah, and actually speak to Stan to convey it. On second thought, she grabbed one of the Holmes books to check out. It had been a while since she’d read them. What was the harm? Maybe some of Holmes’s logic could help her solve her own mystery.
Stan rounded the corner of the aisle and almost slammed into Carla Miller. Carla seemed to be everywhere lately. Fox’s story flooded her brain. Had Carla known about her husband’s attempt to bribe Fox? Were they in cahoots? It was highly likely.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Stan said. “Hi, Carla.”
Carla fluffed her too-big hair. It looked like she’d had a dye job recently. She had blond streaks shooting through the brown. “Hello there. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Getting ready for tomorrow’s event?”
“The what? Oh, yes. Of course. The event. So difficult.” She nodded at the book under Stan’s arm. “Doing some reading?”
“Yep,” Stan said. “It’s a good weekend for some Sherlock Holmes.” Baiting her, just a bit. If her husband was bribing Fox to stay away from Felix Constantine’s murder, he had to know something about it. And by default, Carla, too. Maybe they knew what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was supposed to know.
