by Liz Mugavero
Not Stan. Coffee shops were as normal to her as breathing. Especially on a day like today. And this shop was so colorful, it was hard not to be cheery just setting foot inside it. Various shades of greens and purples collided on the walls, decorated with framed photos of coffee shops from around the world. Coco Chanel held an esteemed place on the back wall. Coco was one of Izzy’s idols. “Class,” Izzy would say, hand on hip, admiring the artwork. “Pure class. And so put together.”
Izzy didn’t look so put together this morning. Her hair, woven into dozens of tiny braids, looked perfect as usual, and her smooth caramel skin still gleamed with hardly any makeup. But her eyes told a different story. She was shaken.
Stan breathed in the scent of rich coffee and lemony pastry. “It smells so good in here,” she said, hoping to take Izzy’s mind off the murder. “What did you bake this morning?”
“Thanks,” Izzy said. “Lemon pound cake with cream cheese frosting. Are they sure it wasn’t a farming accident? I’ve read about dairy farms—how they can be really dangerous.”
Stan fitted a cover onto her cup and took a grateful swig, not even caring when she burned her tongue. She’d had plenty already today, but she still felt foggy and slightly headachy. The sure signs of no sleep. “There were a lot of people there last night, Iz. Including me. And I saw”—she lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention—“the body. What they’re saying is true, as horrible as it is.”
Izzy’s hand went to her mouth as if to hold back her horror, fresh tears blooming in her chocolate eyes. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t. Was it . . . painful?”
Her reaction was oddly out of character. Izzy was normally the epitome of cool, calm, and collected, even when everything around her was in a state of upheaval. It was one of the reasons Stan had taken to her so quickly after moving to Frog Ledge—that, and her dogs, Baxter the boxer and Elvira the poodle. Her tears were unsettling. “I didn’t realize you were friendly with the Hoffmans. Did you know them well?”
Izzy abruptly turned and began cleaning her espresso machine. “I get all my milk and cream from the farm. Hal gives—gave—a special discount for local businesses.”
“But did you know him personally?”
“Of course I did. We were pretty much neighbors. He came in for coffee a lot. One of the few locals who did.” Izzy tossed her rag into the sink.
“I’m sad for his family. That poor woman, with four sons.” Stan wanted to ask if she knew Emmalee, too, but a young college-aged woman approached the counter. Stan stepped to the side.
Izzy pasted a smile on and took the woman’s order for an egg-white wrap with spinach and a nonfat latte.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Izzy asked Stan when the woman moved down the counter to wait for her food. “You must be hungry. I’m sure you didn’t eat anything after last night.”
“Oh, I’m not really hungry.” Even as she said the words, Stan’s stomach growled. She recalled she hadn’t eaten dinner last night. She’d been so worried about not having enough treats for the party that she’d baked extra and run out of time to cook for herself. And after all the excitement, eating hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“Here. I have quiche.” Izzy spun to the case behind her and sliced a generous piece. Stan could see greens and reds mixed with the egg-colored delight.
“What’s in it?”
“Red pepper, spinach, garlic, and onion.” Izzy put the plate in the microwave and hit the buttons. “You should eat.”
“I won’t argue. I’m stopping by the farm when I leave here. I’m sure I’ll need strength for that.” Stan sighed just thinking about it. “Do you know Emmalee, Hal’s wife?”
“Not really.”
“I thought she did most of the deliveries,” Stan pressed.
“She never came in here?”
“Maybe once or twice. Why?” Izzy sounded annoyed. Stan shrugged, wondering why her friend was getting defensive. “Just wondering. Does she have people to help her with the farm? I mean, what’s she gonna do?”
“No idea. Maybe the co-op farmers will help.” Izzy pulled the plate out of the microwave and set it in front of Stan. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Stan picked up her fork and sliced off a steaming piece of quiche. “What do you mean, co-op farmers? This smells amazing,” she said. Took a bite, nodded. “It is amazing.”
Izzy inclined her head in agreement at the assessment of her cooking. “The Happy Cow products aren’t just from the Hoffman farm. There are four other farms that sell their products under that name.”
“Really? How does that work?”
“The farmers are the board. They vote on the major decisions, and all the products from each farm are labeled Happy Cow. But Hal ran the whole show.” Her eyes welled up again and she busied herself straightening the goodies in her pastry case.
There had to be something more to Izzy’s story about Hal supplying her with milk and cream for a discount. Izzy didn’t get teary eyed often. Stan would’ve loved to continue the conversation, but a bell over the door jingled and a group of girls came in laughing and talking loudly. Izzy sighed, but stood up and put her hostess face on.
Stan scooped up the last bites of quiche and deposited her plate. “Gotta go do this visit. Let’s take the dogs out later.”
Scruffy and Henry loved Izzy’s dogs. Baxter and Elvira had also recently welcomed an addition to the family—Junior, an elderly yellow Lab who found himself homeless through an unfortunate recent chain of events. The three dogs had bonded quickly, and Junior had taken on a father figure role to the two younger dogs. He kept them in line.
“Call me,” Izzy said, and turned to the giggling girls, who would likely be good for a sale of high-calorie drinks and pastries.
Stan waved and hurried out of the store, feeling stuffed. She didn’t have the ability to ignore the goods at Izzy’s. If she got out of the visit with Em quickly and hadn’t dropped from exhaustion, she could do a real run on the town green before she had to get baking. She had a number of treat orders to fill.
Even though she’d only been in town a few months—and moved here with no intention of starting a business, let alone a pet food business—she already had steady customers, mostly for her fresh baked, organic-ingredient-only treats. But people had heard about the “human” meals she made for the animals and were starting to request them. Char and Ray Mackey, who owned the local bed and breakfast, had been her first customers for meals. Their dog Savannah, who had suffered from allergies and stomach problems, had responded so positively they’d immediately asked Stan to provide her meals. Which meant a lot of research, because she didn’t yet feel confident in her ability to gauge the right nutrients to add to a well-balanced dog meal. It was one thing to cook for her own cat, but quite another to be responsible for another animal. And as Char increased the amount of food she wanted, the more worried Stan became.
But it was a good problem to have. Then she’d been asked to do Benny’s doggie party, which she considered a real coup. Her business was gaining momentum.
It was unfortunate the birthday party had been last night’s second casualty, but his parents had promised to reschedule since Benny had been looking so forward to the event. Although he had gotten to take home all the extra cow tracheas. She wondered when Em would let them reschedule the party. Figured today wouldn’t be the best time to ask.
Chapter 7
The Frog Ledge Town Green beckoned as Stan walked to Em’s. It was her favorite place in town next to her own house, and she was lucky enough to live right across from the south end. The green—or the mile-long “center of the universe,” as Stan thought of it—served as the town’s unofficial meeting place, where farmers’ markets, parties, music, Revolutionary War reenactments, and many other events occurred. It was also the official billboard for anything going on in town, because inevitably, everyone had to pass the green at least once a day to get anywhere in Frog Ledge. So it was co
mmon to see all kinds of signs, official and handmade, clustered at one end. A stone dust path surrounded the grass, and walkers and runners could be found just about any time of the day or night.
The trees still had some colored leaves clinging to the branches, although the reds and oranges and yellows so powerful just a week ago had already faded. Stan loved to run in the fall air, and this morning was still fairly warm, teetering in the low fifties. There was hardly anyone on the trail.
She turned into Em’s driveway. The dairy farm was busy. Cars were parked haphazardly all over the driveway and the lawn, and a couple spilled over onto the sidewalk in front of the house. Stan hesitated a minute. Em seemed to have more than enough support. Maybe she should just go about her business. After all, this didn’t really involve her.
But questions lured Stan back. Who had stabbed the farmer and left him in his own corn maze to die? Was it a random killing, or had it been someone Hal knew? As much as Stan didn’t want to think random murderers had been walking the streets of Frog Ledge and happened upon Hal in his corn maze, it was more disturbing thinking of who in town would’ve murdered him. Someone he trusted? Had he walked right into an attack?
Stop. You’re not on the police force. They’ll figure it out.
She half turned, about to sprint across the street to the green and forget the whole thing, when she heard a voice. “Yoo-hoo! Stan!”
Turning, she spotted Char Mackey teetering up the street on boots with impossibly high platform heels. She clung to a foil-wrapped casserole dish, and her ever-present luggagesized purse hung off the arm she tried to wave with. Stan figured the emergency bottle of vodka that usually lived in her purse made the trip more laborious than it should have been.
“Hey, Char.” Stan waved back. There goes my escape. She waited for Char to catch up to her.
Breathing hard, Char finally did. Known and loved around town for her flamboyant outfits, overly outgoing nature, and love for all things gossip, she didn’t disappoint today, even while paying a visit to a friend who was in mourning. Her fisherman-yellow coat gaped open, displaying black pants stretched thin over her bulk, and a neon red blazer that clashed with her loud red hair. Chunky jewelry and her traditional, glittery gold eye shadow completed the outfit.
“Phew. That’s a long walk when you’re carrying all this stuff.” Char leaned over and air-kissed Stan. “I’d hug you, honey, but I’d dump the food all over you.”
“That’s okay.” Stan took the dish. “Let me help.”
“Well, thank you, honey. So nice of y’all to come see Emmy. She’s gonna need us all now, that’s for sure.” Char glanced at the house, her lips pulled together, the only outward sign of her distress. “That poor woman,” she murmured, more to herself than to Stan. “Like she hadn’t been through enough with that man.” Shaking her head, she sighed and turned back. “Shall we go in?”
“Sure. I can’t stay long,” Stan said.
“No, no, me either. We have a houseful. People coming down to get their Halloween tricks and treats in early this year, before they head up to Salem for the real thing.”
Nearby Salem, Massachusetts, was New England’s premiere Halloween destination. The entire month of October was like one big costume party. This year, it seemed people were streaming through Connecticut and dropping some tourist dollars in their region on the way, which was great for the local economy. And for Char’s bed and breakfast, Alpaca Haven, the only establishment of its kind in town. It attracted customers left and right with a reputation for cozy rooms, delicious food, and excellent service. Being able to pet the cute alpacas on the premises didn’t hurt either.
Char led the way to Em’s door and rang the bell. Stan suddenly felt stupid. She hadn’t even brought anything. It would occur to her to cook food for animals before people. Char sensed her anxiety. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said. “I don’t think Em’s gonna run out of food anytime soon. It’s nice that you came.”
Em’s sister, Francine, answered the door. She looked even more anxious than she had the previous night. Stan doubted her presence was giving Em any peace at all. “Oh, hello,” Francine said. “How sweet of you to come see Emmy. She needs her friends right now.”
“Yes, we thought so. We’ve brought shrimp Creole.” Char’s New Orleans origins made her especially popular in the area. She made the best food and the strongest drinks, and having fun was a core part of her personality.
Francine brightened and stepped back. “Come in, come in. We’ve had lots of tuna casseroles, but no shrimp Creole. How generous. Em!” She hollered. “She’s taking care of the boys right now,” she confided in a low voice. “They’re having such a hard time.” Her face fell again just thinking about it, and she began picking at her fingernail again. Stan resisted the urge to grab her hands to stop her. “My poor nephews. And we finally told Robert. He was . . . he loved his daddy. This is just going to be so hard for those boys.”
“I know. I’m so sorry,” Char said. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”
Emmalee Hoffman appeared in the kitchen doorway. If possible, she looked even more exhausted than she had the night before—and then she’d reminded Stan of the walking dead, no Halloween pun intended. When she saw Stan and Char, she attempted to smile.
“Hi, guys,” she said, and her voice broke.
Char stepped past Francine, dropping her enormous purse with a thunk on the table. She enveloped Em, who was not a tall woman, in her bulk. Emmalee’s face vanished into Char’s bosom as Char squeezed. “You’ll be okay, honey,” she crooned. “It’s just going to take some time.”
When Char finally let her go, Em stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I know,” she said. “I know. It’s just . . .” her voice trailed off. She glanced at her sister. Francine took the cue easily. “I’ll go sit with the boys,” she said, and slipped upstairs.
“Thank God,” Em said, motioning to the table. “Please, sit.”
Stan looked around for a seat. The kitchen table was crammed with casserole dishes, pies, bottles of wine, Crock-Pots. The chairs had coats and stacks of papers piled on them. But despite the many cars outside, no one else seemed to be in the house. It was quiet as a tomb. She stashed her jacket on the chair with the highest pile and perched on the edge of another.
“Everyone’s outside on the farm,” Em said, anticipating the question. “My brothers all came, and Hal’s sister. She went out to get groceries. Some of our sister farms sent workers to help out. People have been lovely.” She collected papers off one chair and motioned to Char, her movements slow and stiff. “Here, sit.”
Char narrowed her eyes. “Have you eaten?”
Em shook her head.
“Well, let’s change that right now.” Char set to work clearing space on the counter, pulling eggs and veggies out of the fridge. “I’ll whip up some omelets. What do y’all like in them?”
More eggs. Stan hoped Char wouldn’t force her to eat. Her friend was known to be overly generous with food.
“I’m really not hungry,” Em began, but Char hushed her.
“Of course you are. And the boys are, too. Peppers and onions, right? Tomatoes, too?” At Em’s resigned nod, Char got to work. “So what have you found out?”
“I haven’t found out anything aside from what I knew last night.” Emmalee sank down into her own chair, right on top of someone’s coat, and stared at her hands in her lap like she’d never seen them before. “Someone murdered Hal.” She looked at Char. “Who would have wanted to murder Hal? I know he was a son of a bitch sometimes, but he had a family. A business that supported the local economy. Why?”
Char shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Emmy.” She heated some oil in a pan and began chopping peppers and onions. “Do you think it was random?”
Em lifted her shoulders helplessly. “It had to be. I know he . . . could make people angry, but that angry?”
Stan thought of Hal Hoffman’s body aga
in. The protruding sickle under the glow of the flashlight. She shivered. “Where do you think the murderer got the . . . weapon? Would Hal have had it on him? Like, to cut corn?” she asked, thinking of her conversation with Nikki.
All eyes in the room fell on her. She turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up—”
But Em shook her head. “No, Stan, that’s a good question. I didn’t even think of it. I know my father-in-law had a collection of those old tools, but I haven’t seen them in a long time. I think Hal kept them somewhere in one of the barns.”
Stan thought about that. A family heirloom as the weapon. Was that symbolic, or coincidental? “Was he having trouble with anyone?” she asked. “Kathryn McKitchum said she saw him arguing with the man in the Explorer outside her restaurant. The man named Fink. Did the police get anywhere with that?”
Em hesitated. “Hal had trouble with everyone,” she said finally, dropping her voice an octave. “Heck, he had trouble with me. He was difficult, stubborn, and he hated manual labor. He was more interested in his drinking buddies and his get-rich-quick ventures than he was in running this place. But he was smart as hell, too. And handsome. Even charming, when he wanted to be. But there were days when I wanted to kick his behind from here into next week. Asher Fink is one of our co-op partners. Matter of fact, he’s here today helping. One of the first to show up. He and Hal argued more than they agreed, that’s for sure. But it was never serious. And Asher stabbing him? I couldn’t picture it. He can’t even slaughter his own beef cows.”
Before Stan could digest that lovely visual, they were interrupted by the back door opening. A parade of people filed in. Stan could smell fall air and cow manure wafting around them. The leader, a giant of a man with a cowboy hat and a beard reminding Stan of ZZ Top, took his hat off and nodded at the three of them, his gaze settling on Em. Stan remembered Kathryn McKitchum’s description of the man with his “big beard” arguing with Hal. Asher Fink—it had to be. Char turned from the stove, where the first omelet was sizzling away in the cast iron pan.
