by Liz Mugavero
Stan smiled and extracted herself from the enthusiastic woman’s grip. It was a question she’d gotten regularly since adopting her nickname. “It’s Kristan, but I didn’t want the same nickname as everyone else. I’m so glad Benny’s excited. I’ll set up the treats and prizes I brought for the games. You can pick out Benny’s first, since he’s the host.”
Nancy beamed. “Wonderful. Let’s do it. Before Nyla gets here.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Nyla?” Stan asked.
“The poodle from down the road. She competes with Benny for everything.” Nancy rolled her eyes. “I heard she’s dressing up like a mermaid.”
A bark sounded from the front, followed by a ringing doorbell. “I’ll go let the guests in,” Emmalee said. “Stan, set up however you want.” She hurried back inside.
“Okay, so here’s what we have, Benny. You want to see?” Stan set her bag on the table and began unloading. “These are some new chews that I picked up. All natural, from a local farm. My dogs love them.” She held one out for inspection. Benny sniffed, then snatched it and dashed under the table. Samson followed him, tail wagging.
“Ben-Ben! Manners!” Nancy sighed. “You have dogs? You should have brought them! What kind?”
“I have a schnoodle named Scruffy and a pit bull named Henry. Both rescue dogs. My friend Nikki runs a transport service to help rescue dogs, mostly from down south. I have both of them because of her.”
“A pit bull?” Nancy sounded dubious. “Aren’t they terribly scary?”
“Oh my goodness, Henry is a complete love,” Stan said. “He was rescued in that local puppy mill sting a few months ago. Remember?” The perpetrators, a woman who ran a small vegetable farm with her son, had been selling the dogs as puppies to the local dogfighting trade.
“Really? I’ve never actually met one in person,” Nancy admitted. “But everything you hear is terrible.”
“Every dog is different. And it’s not the dog, it’s the owner,” Stan said, trying to keep her voice friendly. Stan adored Henry. He was everything the pit bull opponents said the breed could never be—friendly, gentle, and loyal. She’d heard Nikki’s stories about breed discrimination for years as Nikki navigated the rescue world, but since adopting Henry she’d seen it firsthand. And the more she faced people’s prejudice about her dog, and pit bulls in general, the more adamant she became about making sure the world—or at least her little town of Frog Ledge—knew the truth.
Nancy nodded, but Stan could tell she had gotten bored with the topic. She’d turned her attention to Benny, chewing on his snack and growling at Samson at the same time. “What kind of chew? He likes it.”
Stan hesitated. Some people got freaked out when she told them it was a cow trachea. It was the best treat for a dog. Rawhide was junk in comparison. Before she could answer Nancy, she heard shouts from out in the corn maze. Both women turned in that direction. Benny continued to eat his chew toy. Samson headed to the fence, his tail on alert, looking concerned. Emmalee returned with a man holding a boxer on a leash, the dog wearing a pirate hat. They both paused when they heard the shouting, now joined by screams.
“What’s all that ruckus about?” Emmalee asked, peering over the fence in the distance. She shook her head. “If that boy is up to something again—”
“Mrs. Hoffman!” A girl dressed as a sexy vampire with a stake in her heart ran up to the fence, terror blatant in her black-rimmed eyes. She spit her fangs into her hand and cried, “You’ve gotta come right now. To the maze. Something’s happened to Mr. Hoffman. Something . . . bad.”
Chapter 2
Emmalee bolted out of the gate and raced to the corn maze behind the vampire, Stan on her heels. Stan hoped Em knew her way around the maze, otherwise they’d be running through it like beheaded chickens. She’d been lost in a corn maze once and it hadn’t been pretty. Then again, she was quite directionally impaired.
Yellow, coarse cornstalks slapped at her as she hurried after Em, heart pounding, wondering what in the world was happening and wishing she had sneakers on instead of her glittery gold flats. Then again, she had planned on hosting a bunch of dogs on the patio, not running willy-nilly through a corn maze. The vampire led them through a series of twists and turns, slowing when they came into a straightaway.
Stan could already see a crowd of costumed people gathered up ahead. Heading away from the scene was a short, skinny girl dressed like an evil nymph clutching the hand of a boy with a fake ax through his head. They were both crying as they fled, which sent a stab of dread through Stan’s belly. She’d been hoping to find Hal with a broken bone or something, after tripping and falling over one of the cornstalks. But why would people be fleeing from the scene crying? Stan thought of Danny Hoffman with his chain saw and hoped he hadn’t been part of an accident.
They finally reached the crowd at what appeared to be the top of the witch’s pointy hat within the maze design. They were at the end of the field. Emmalee elbowed her way through the crowd of kids. A girl wearing the bottom half of a werewolf costume sobbed. A boy with Dracula fangs had his arm around her shoulder. Stan could see his fingers, white with tension, digging into her arm.
Then Stan heard another noise—a wailing sound, starting out low in volume, then reaching a disturbing crescendo. Emmalee had reached the front of the crowd, and whatever she saw was not good.
Stan moved forward to stand behind her, peering around Emmalee’s shoulder. In the growing darkness, she could just make out a figure behind the short, wire fence containing the corn, face up, upper half immersed in a mud puddle left over from the weekend rain. She moved closer to get a better view.
And wished she hadn’t. A menacing hook-shaped weapon protruded from Hal Hoffman’s chest, a dark stain covering most of his upper body, discoloring his blue and green flannel shirt. His eyes were open. Empty.
For a second, she thought maybe this was the farmer’s idea of a bad joke. A staged murder in the corn maze for full Halloween effect. She waited for Hal to jump up, laughing, and pull the rubber prop out of his chest. Chide them all for falling for it.
But he didn’t.
Stan felt the contents of her stomach shift and had to turn away. She wondered how long it would take to erase the image of all that blood from her mind.
Emmalee snatched a flashlight from someone and pressed up against the green wire fence, shining the light square on the figure. Her screams grew louder, momentarily silencing the other sounds of the young kids who had first witnessed this scene. She moved forward, one hand on the low fence, ready to vault it.
Stan reached for her hand in the darkness, partly for support and partly to hold her back. “No,” she said quietly.
“But we have to help him,” Emmalee protested, her voice high, childlike. She yanked her hand away from Stan, but pounding feet and shouting froze her in her tracks as her son, the chain-saw–wielding Danny, crashed through the corn leaving broken stalks and scattered cobwebs in his wake.
“Where’s my dad?” the boy demanded, his voice dangerously shaky.
“Danny—” Stan stepped to the side, blocking his way. He shoved at her until his mother, finally realizing he was there, grabbed him and hugged him tight, forcing herself into some kind of composure. Her head barely grazed his chin.
“Danny, you can’t be here.” She locked desperate eyes with Stan over her son’s shoulder. “We need to get help.”
“We’ll get help. Did anyone call nine-one-one?” Stan called out, focusing on the vampire girl standing off to the side.
The girl shook her head, eyes wide as saucers as she watched Stan, clearly hoping for direction. Stan pulled her phone out of her back pocket. Noticed her hand was shaking. Great. Another call to Trooper Pasquale about a dead body.
Because Hal Hoffman was clearly beyond help.
Chapter 3
Stan wasn’t sure how she ended up in charge, but someone had to do it. Emmalee wasn’t up to the task. After placing the 911 call, Stan took Em’s arm. �
��We have to go out front and wait for the police.” She led Emmalee out of the maze. A large group of teenagers, who’d come to work in the maze, huddled on the grass talking in hushed whispers. Those who had brought their dogs to celebrate with Benny had also gathered in a group. The dogs seemed as worried as their owners. Some were howling. Others were sitting on alert. Dogs could always tell when something was wrong.
Stan could hear the hushed whispers in the crowd. “What happened?” “Was he murdered?” “Who would do such a thing?”
The blinking Halloween lights seemed to taunt them. Someone had shut off the spooky sounds playing in the ticket booth, and now the night was too quiet, save for the random evil laughter from one of the props either caught in the night breeze or urged into action by someone moving too close. The roll of stickers proclaiming “I survived the maze” fluttered in the breeze, a sinister joke.
Stan stood to the side, clutching her cell phone. She never thought she’d be eager for Trooper Pasquale to show up anywhere, but she couldn’t wait for her to arrive and take over. Stan’s brain, in an effort to block out the image of death, played Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” in a constant loop in her head. She pressed her fingers to her temples, willing it to stop. Totally inappropriate.
She saw movement over by the cow barn and turned to get a better view. One of the farmworkers. She hadn’t realized anyone was still on the property doing dairy farm duties, but it made sense. She didn’t know much about dairy farms, but figured someone needed to be on duty most of the time. The man—boy, really—was short with Latino features. He stood next to the cow enclosure, eyes glued to the action. His eyes met Stan’s across the field, then he turned and disappeared around the side of the building.
Frantic barking pulled her attention away. A Weimaraner galloped toward her, throaty bark heralding his arrival, a man holding a dangling leash close behind. Jake McGee and his sidekick, Duncan. Despite the gravity of the situation, Stan felt her stomach do that familiar flip thing it did whenever Jake was anywhere in the vicinity. The thing she always tried to ignore. As soon as Duncan saw her, his gallop turned into a full-on race and he headed straight for her. Stan bent down to greet him, bracing herself with one hand on the ground so he wouldn’t knock her over. He almost did anyway, covering her face with kisses.
Jake caught up to them, Duncan’s leash dangling from his fingers. If it had been a regular day, Stan would’ve lectured him about always having the dog off leash. She also would’ve asked where Duncan’s costume was, since he wasn’t wearing one and all Benny’s friends—well, their parents—had promised costumes. But she couldn’t say a word.
Jake had already picked up on the vibe. “Late to the party and miss all the action. What’s going on?” His words were light but his eyes were serious, searching her face. Even he could feel that something was very wrong. Stan could see him assessing the scene much like his sister, Frog Ledge’s resident state trooper Jessie Pasquale, would do when she arrived.
She shook her head, feeling the tears finally well up. Of course she’d have to lose it when he arrived. “Hal,” she said, then cleared her throat, trying to hold it together and keep her voice from shaking. “In the corn maze. He’s . . . he’s . . . been killed.”
“Killed?” he repeated, his voice sharp. He knelt next to her. “Stan. Talk to me. What happened? Where’s Emmalee?”
She pointed to where Emmalee stood, away from the crowd, her grip still tight on Danny. The boy hadn’t stopped crying since he’d realized his dad was the person on the ground in the maze. His face was buried in his mother’s chest. Stan hoped he hadn’t actually ventured in there and seen the body. As it was, it would be a long, hard road to get over this. Thank goodness Brenna was still inside with the little one, and had the sense to stay there after someone had gone in and alerted her to what had happened.
A burst of sirens drowned out her answer as the EMTs roared to a stop out front, followed by a state police car. Barely ten minutes since she’d placed the call. Stan watched Trooper Pasquale climb out of the car, crisp and professional in her uniform. She recognized Trooper Lou Sturgis, Pasquale’s sidekick, lurching out of the passenger side, his short, stocky body hampering his attempts to appear cool and in control. She wondered if Pasquale and Sturgis had been on duty, or simply heard the call and volunteered to take it.
Jake, too, noticed his sister. Stan heard his sigh, barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.
Pasquale walked over, one hand on her weapon. Stan watched her gaze sweep the crowd gathered in the dusky night, taking in the odd mix of people costumes and animal costumes, the Halloween decorations an ironic backdrop for the horrifying scene. The crowd anxiously watched her, too. Pasquale’s eyes landed directly on Stan and Jake, held just an iota too long, then continued her assessment.
“I better go talk to her,” Stan murmured, and stepped away from Jake. Duncan followed her anxiously as she moved to where Pasquale had stopped a few feet away.
“Trooper.”
Pasquale raised an eyebrow. “Ms. Connor. What’s going on? You called in a possible deceased?”
Stan nodded. “It’s Hal Hoffman. Some of the kids found him. In the corn maze. Do you want me to take you there?”
“As soon as I talk to Mrs. Hoffman.” Pasquale motioned to Emmalee.
Emmalee handed her son off to a woman standing next to her wearing a cowboy hat, and walked over.
Pasquale’s gaze was like an X-ray machine. “What happened, Emmalee?”
“I . . . . don’t know,” Emmalee said softly, then cleared her throat and spoke louder. Trying to be strong for her son. “They came shouting for us that something had happened to Hal.” Her voice broke. “We all went to see. . . .”
“Who’s all?” Pasquale interrupted. Stan saw images of ruined crime scenes running through Pasquale’s head.
“A lot of us. All our actors and actresses were in the maze—I’m not sure how many. Can you please go help him?” Her face crumpled. She gave up the guise of self-control and wept again. Jake reached over and took her hand. She squeezed it gratefully.
“I’m going. Please stay right here. Lou. I need you to round everyone up and keep them here. Start asking for witnesses. To anything.” She motioned to the EMTs, then nodded behind her. “Were all these people on the premises?”
“Yes. Well, most of them. People have been coming and going all night,” Stan said.
“Great,” Pasquale muttered. She motioned to the EMTs, then nodded to Stan. “Let’s go.”
For the second time, Stan found herself traipsing through the corn maze, although this time it was easier to get where she needed to go. The stalks had been trampled in certain spots where the wire fencing had been dislodged by the earlier rush, leaving the proverbial trail of bread crumbs to lead her back. Pasquale moved cautiously, obviously concerned with someone still hiding in the stalks. One hand rested on her gun, the other swept each side of corn with her Maglite as they moved.
The site where Hal’s body rested had been stripped of corn. The gaping hole in the maze where people—Emmalee, probably—had ripped at the stalks and yanked the plastic fence away allowed a clear view of Hal’s silhouette as Pasquale shined her light ahead. Stan hung back while Pasquale stepped over the short fence, taking care not to further trample the ground that so many people had covered earlier. The EMTs waited, too, watching her for the signal that they could take over. Pasquale walked around Hal, observing from different angles, even standing in the muddy puddle to get a look at him. Finally she snapped on gloves, bent down, and stared at the wound and the weapon, shielding the body from view.
Not that Stan was looking. Heck, she’d seen enough already. She turned away and concentrated on the stillness where they stood, in the midst of the corn. Thought of that old horror movie, Children of the Corn, and shivered. She remembered how much that movie had freaked her out as a kid. Could someone be hiding in the corn right now? Someone who had evaded Pasquale’s bright
light? Hal’s killer? A rustle in the stalks made her jump. She whirled, saw nothing. The leaves settled back into place. Must’ve been the breeze.
Pasquale walked over and said something to the EMTs. They nodded, stayed where they were. Pasquale took out her radio and spoke briefly into it, then she walked over to Stan.
“Where were you when you heard the girl calling for help?”
“I was on the patio. Getting ready for the doggie birthday party.”
Pasquale didn’t comment on that. “Walk me through what happened.”
“One of the kids working in the maze came up to the fence, screaming for Emmalee. We followed her. The crowd was already here.” She hesitated. “Has . . . has he been dead long?”
Pasquale didn’t answer. Instead she said, “You don’t have much luck, do you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“With this.” She waved a hand behind her. “What are the odds? Twice since moving here?”
Stan sighed. She would never live down her first-week-in-town experience of encountering a real dead body. And she’d known that placing another similar call to the police would not be a feather in her cap. But what was she supposed to do? No one else had been thinking straight. She hoped Pasquale wasn’t insinuating she had been involved. Instead of answering her question, she said, “Who would kill the local dairy farmer?”
Pasquale watched her with those intense green eyes, long enough to make Stan antsy. The trooper looked more like an Irish model than a cop, with her gleaming red hair and flawless white skin. She never wore makeup that Stan had seen, and her long hair was usually pulled back in a ponytail or a braid. She was one of those people who didn’t need to put in a lot of effort. Which probably didn’t endear her to a lot of women. “That’s what we’re going to find out,” she said finally. “Why don’t you go back out front. I’ll be there as soon as the crime scene folks show up.”
