by Liz Mugavero
“Mrs. Hoffman, the morning chores are done,” the bearded man intoned in a voice more suited for a Sunday sermon than a farm.
Stan watched him through narrowed eyes. Was this all an act? Was coming over here this morning just to throw the authorities off his track and look like a concerned friend? Maybe Em had no idea what he and Hal argued about. Maybe it had been serious. Serious enough to kill over.
Em didn’t seem to think so. “Thank you, Asher. And thank you for coming personally. And all of you, for coming to help,” she said, raising her voice to include the men in line behind Asher.
“We’re honored to help, Mrs. H,” a younger man said. “Mr. H was, like, a super cool guy.” He fell silent and shuffled his feet, looking at the floor.
“Thank you, Lee,” Em said. “He would be grateful to all of you.”
Asher cleared his throat. “A crew’ll be back tonight. You gotcher regulars out there now, keeping things going.” With one last nod, he ushered the line of men back outside. ZZ Top’s “Legs” ricocheted through her brain. She sighed. Her brain could be so predictable.
“That’s awful sweet of them,” Char remarked after they filed back out the door. “That’s the man they questioned?”
“It is,” Em said.
“Huh.” Char slid the omelet on a plate and placed it in front of Em, hovering until Em picked up her fork and took a bite. “I guess they decided he couldn’t have done it.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Em said. She lapsed into silence again.
Char shrugged, unfazed, and kept whisking.
Stan shifted uncomfortably. She needed to make her exit. She tried to catch Char’s eye to give her a heads-up, but Char was again intent on her eggs. And then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Stan offered, for something to do. She hurried to the front door and pulled it open.
Two women stood on the porch, each carrying a casserole dish. One wore heels that made Char’s look like flats. She had unruly frosted blond curls that had been left loose to find their own way. She wore tight jeans and was nearly slim enough to do so. She smiled at Stan, revealing small, straight teeth. Her lips were coral.
“Hello. I’m Leigh-Anne Sutton.”
“And I’m Mary,” the other woman broke in. “Mary Michelli. Pleased to meet you.” Mary was not in the same style league as Leigh-Anne Sutton, Stan noted. She wore sweats and sneakers and her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. No lipstick. No makeup at all, in fact. Much more farmerish.
“We’re part of the Happy Cow co-op.” Mary shook her head, looked at Leigh-Anne. “We could hardly believe it when we heard the news.”
Leigh-Anne nodded in agreement. “We’re just devastated,” she said. “How is Em? Are you a friend?”
“Oh, sorry, yes.” Stan reached out her hand to shake theirs. “Stan Connor. Em’s neighbor. Please, come in.” She led them to the kitchen.
Em’s eyes didn’t brighten when she saw her visitors. In fact, Stan could swear she heard her sigh. “Leigh-Anne. Mary.” She rose for the obligatory hug, taking the casserole dishes and depositing them on the counter. She didn’t even try to fit them in the fridge. “You’ve met Stan. This is Char.”
“Pleased to meet y’all,” Char said, waving her whisk. Egg yolk splattered on the floor.
Mary had pulled Em back into a suffocating hug. “We are so, so, so sorry,” she crooned. “Emmy, how are you holding up?” Despite the saccharine oozing from her voice, Stan didn’t get the sense that Mary felt all that sad. She could see it in the way Mary’s eyes assessed the room over Em’s shoulder, taking in the clutter and disorganization. Which begged the question—how well did all these co-op farmers really get along?
“I’m okay,” Em said, trying to pull away. “I have to be. For the boys.”
Leigh-Anne clucked sympathetically. “Of course. The boys. How terrible. You must be feeling so overwhelmed right now!”
“A little,” Em admitted, though Stan couldn’t tell if she meant by Hal’s death or by the outpouring of sympathy.
“And terrified,” Leigh-Anne went on. “I mean, these are things that happen in big cities! New York and Chicago! Not in Frog Ledge.” She shuddered. “It makes me nervous and I don’t even live in this town. But I feel like it’s becoming an epidemic. After all, I’m only an hour away. No one is safe anymore. Imagine, a crazed killer wandering onto a farm and stabbing a farmer! What is our world coming to?”
“It’s just unfathomable.” Mary shook her head in agreement. “And Amy sends her regrets, Emmy. She had some things to attend to. Don’t think she’s upset, because she isn’t,” she added hastily. “She completely understands the police have to do their jobs.”
Stan glanced at Em. Em didn’t respond. She just gazed at Mary as if to say, I don’t really care if she understands or not. She folded her arms and tapped her foot.
“Amy?” Stan asked. “Amy who?”
All eyes turned her way. “Amy Fink. Asher’s wife,” Mary said. “Of course it was very difficult for her to be woken up in the middle of the night to have her husband dragged in for questioning in a murder case. And something about his shoes being confiscated. But of course, we want the innocent people identified early so they can focus on finding the real killer. I, for one, can’t imagine who would do such a thing,” Mary went on, oblivious to Em’s body language.
“Me either,” Char broke in, always the peacemaker. “But I think Leigh-Anne’s right. This had to be a random, horrible act. You know, Cyril—our newspaperman—has been keeping tabs on a rash of break-ins, both in Frog Ledge and some of our little towns around it. I wonder if this was a burglary attempt gone wrong.”
In the corn maze? Unlikely. Stan kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to get in the middle of this discussion, which seemed to have undertones galore. But she was intrigued by the confiscated shoes. What were they looking for? Evidence of dirt? They were all farmers, for goodness’ sake. Dirt was a way of life. Stan made a mental note to ask Jake if Jessie had mentioned anything about a shoe to him. Or perhaps a suspicious footprint. But with all the people walking around the farm, that seemed like a long shot.
“They’ll find whoever did it,” Leigh-Anne declared. “The police won’t let it rest. Especially in a close-knit town like this one. Emmy, please let me know what I can do. Especially when you start planning”—she dropped her voice an octave—“the services. Funding them, even. I’m happy to help.”
Em bristled visibly. When she spoke, her voice was sharper than the sickle that had killed her husband. “That’s lovely of you,” she said in a tone indicating it wasn’t, “but I’m sure I can pay for my husband’s funeral.”
Leigh-Anne, to her credit, flushed. “Emmy, that was not an insult. I know what it’s been like for you—for all of us!—and I just want to make sure this is as easy as possible.”
This was about to get ugly. Time to go. Stan edged nearer to the chair where she’d tossed her jacket, but the doorbell rang again. Maybe she could sneak out in the rush of new visitors. But she couldn’t get past Leigh-Anne Sutton to get her jacket, so she gave up and ducked into the front hall and opened the door. Betty Meany, the Frog Ledge librarian, and Lorinda Walters, who worked the research desk, waited. Each held a shopping bag full of more food, if the delightful smells coming from the bags were any indication. Funny how death brought out people’s appetites. Or maybe they just wanted to eat because it was such an alive activity.
“Hi there,” Stan said. “Come on in.”
“Well, hello!” Betty exclaimed.
“Hey, Stan!” Lorinda had dressed for the occasion with leopard print stretch pants and black heels—more five-inchers. Had these women all coordinated their shoes, or was this the new dress code for condolence visits? Stan felt out of place in her running sneakers and yoga pants, although she did look better than Mary Michelli.
Betty pinched Stan’s cheek and breezed by, sweeping off her cherry red beret as she entered the kitchen, full of comfor
ting words for Em.
“So awful,” Lorinda confided. “I almost don’t know what to say to the poor woman.”
“I know. Terrible.”
They stood there for another minute, pondering the situation, then Lorinda sighed. “I better go in.”
“I’m going to have to get going, so I’ll just grab my stuff,” Stan said. She followed her into the kitchen.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Em was saying to the mini-crowd gathered. “Leigh-Anne and Mary, I appreciate your offers, but you have your own farms to run. Same with Asher and Ted. The guys and gals can’t come over here twice a day and do my chores. I have to do what’s right. Not like I haven’t been doing it anyway.”
Francine, who had reentered the room while Stan had been in the hall, snorted. “Damn right,” she said. “You did too much, Emmy. We have to figure out a better way.”
“Now, now,” Leigh-Anne interrupted. “We are here to help, Emmy. You just stop that right now.”
Em ignored both of them. “I know I need help on the farm. Have for a long time. But laborers aren’t too hard to find. What I’m really gonna need help with are the dang books. Hal was better with a ledger than I was, let’s face it. And I can’t have Tyler running over here from college to do it. He needs to do his own homework. I don’t even know where Hal left off most of the time.”
Stan saw an opening and snuck in to retrieve her jacket, finally.
“It’s just too bad I don’t have someone with that expertise standing right in front of me,” Em said, and then she stopped talking and turned to stare at Stan. The other women’s gazes followed.
“What?” Stan said, frozen with one arm in her sleeve.
Em tapped her lip with her index finger. “Didn’t you work for a money company?”
“Me?” Stan stared at her. Char turned from the stove now, too, a thoughtful look on her face. “I, um, technically, yes . . . I worked in insurance financial services. But I did public relations. I didn’t do money.”
“But,” Char said, “you’re a whiz with investments.”
Stan felt her face turning red. It was true. Her financial situation was quite positive even after losing her job, because of her investment savvy and careful money management. She hadn’t had to worry about working again and could focus on her new business. Which was, of course, all good. The bad part was, well, people knew it. Which meant there could be no good outcome to this conversation. The theme song from Jaws began playing in her head. She felt like prey being circled by the most lethal of hunters.
“I don’t . . .” she tried again, but Em had gotten up and was standing in front of her, hands clasped as if in prayer.
“Stan. Would you please help me with the office work? Just until I figure out . . . what I’m going to do. Please. It would mean so much, and be such a big help.” Her puppy dog eyes reminded Stan of Scruffy when she wanted something.
Stan felt all eyes in the room on her. What on earth was she supposed to say? No? To a grieving woman who could very well lose her livelihood? She may as well have just put a sign on her front door proclaiming herself the scarlet U of Frog Ledge—“unneighborly”—if she did that. Then she could rest assured her new business would spoil faster than a gallon of milk left out in the sun too long.
Stifling a sigh, she forced a smile. “Well, sure, Em. I’d be glad to help out.”
“Oh, thank you!” Em hurled herself at Stan and locked her in a hug. Stan took a step back to keep her balance as the other ladies clapped.
“You’re such a love,” Char said, sliding plates of omelets onto the table. “Sit and eat.”
“I really should get going,” Stan said. She didn’t think she could eat another bite this morning, after Izzy’s quiche.
“Nonsense!” Em grabbed her hand and led her back to her chair. “Eat. You’re going to need to keep your strength up.” She smiled a bit, but Stan sensed something other than mirth. “This place can be a handful.”
Chapter 8
“You need to go shopping for overalls.” Brenna leaned forward on the shiny mahogany bar that served as the center of McSwigg’s, her chin resting in her palm, eyes filled with humor.
“Shut up,” Stan grumbled. “I’m just doing the books.” She’d foregone her run and gone right to McSwigg’s after leaving Em’s, hoping for some sympathy.
Clearly she’d come to the wrong place. From his spot behind the bar stacking glasses, Jake guffawed. He turned to look at his sister and they both cracked up. “That’s what you think, kiddo,” he said when he could stop laughing.
Stan glared at them. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Neither of them said anything. They just continued smiling, which annoyed Stan. She looked around the pub. It was still early. Only a few customers were in the bar. Two young women sat at a table near the window eating nachos and gossiping. A lone man sat across the room with a beer glass and a book, the title of which Stan couldn’t see. The place had a much different feel during the day than it did at night when people filled every corner and the music weaved Irish spells over the crowd, but it was still appealing. Jake had revamped the entire building two years ago. He turned the first floor into the bar and pub. The upper level served as the living space he, Duncan, and presently Brenna, called home. Both floors had that wide-open space design going for them. The pub had tall and short tables scattered around surrounded by padded stools in greens and golds, their wooden legs carved with Celtic knots, gleaming wooden floors, and Irish landscapes dotting the walls.
The bar had drop lights positioned every few feet above it. An Irish flag matching its counterpart over the front door was proudly displayed on the far wall behind the bar, and a carved wooden sign with a Gaelic saying hung above it: An áit a bhfuil do chroí is ann a thabharfas do chosa thú: Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.
Stan loved that sign. But today, it didn’t make her feel any better. Her heart wasn’t on the dairy farm, so she had no idea why her feet had landed her there earlier. “I have no clue why they think I’m qualified as an office worker. I don’t even know why I’m doing books. I’ve never done books for anyone in my life. People just assume since I worked in financial services I’m an accountant or an investment manager or something.”
Duncan, who had been sitting at her feet since she came in, stood and pushed his face into her hands, watching anxiously to see if she was upset. She rubbed his nose and fed him a treat.
“I think it’s sweet. It’ll be good practice. You’ll have to do books for your business,” Brenna pointed out.
Stan thought about that. It was true, but still. Doing books for a five-hundred-cow dairy farm was a bit beyond the scale of her meager little pet food business.
“I’d recommend a heavy pair of boots,” Jake said. He pulled out a knife and began slicing through a pile of lemons and limes. “Gets cold this time of year.”
“What are you talking about?” Stan demanded. “I’m not working outside on the dairy farm! I don’t even think I like dairy farms. Aren’t they mean to the cows? That’s what Nikki says.” She lowered her voice as a couple of members of Jake’s staff stopped what they were doing and stared at her.
“Mean? I don’t think so,” Jake said. “It’s not like a factory farm. I don’t think cows have the best deal around, but I don’t think they’re treated badly. It’s not like beef cows. Think about it. Even if the farmers aren’t as . . . animal-sensitive as someone like you, the cows are their livelihood. If they mess that up, they’re just hurting themselves.”
“They better not be,” Stan said. “Because I don’t care about buying local if that’s the case. And I certainly wouldn’t want to work for a place like that. I just said yes because everyone was watching me and I felt bad for Em. I mean, jeez, she just lost her husband. What was I supposed to say?”
Brenna looked sympathetic. “And once Em gets something in her head, good luck getting it out. Right, Jake?”
“Yep. Once she’s got you, she’s g
ot you. Trust me, it’s happened to us,” Jake said.
“Why do you think I used to babysit those kids?” Brenna rolled her eyes and shuddered. “Because of our mother. She promised Em. Danny, the one with the chain saw? That kid was a nightmare.”
“Was?” Stan asked at the same moment Jake repeated, “Chain saw?”
“Yeah, I see your point,” Brenna said to Stan. To Jake, “He thought it would be funny to greet guests with a real chain saw when they came in for the maze. Almost took Stan’s head off.” She grinned. “That’s nothing. One time when I was babysitting he got his hands on a butcher knife and locked me out of the house. I had to explain that to Em and Hal when they got home. Kid’s a piece of work. But I guess we all know where he got that.”
“Yeah, Hal was a handful,” Jake said, his eyes on the limes he was slicing fast and furiously. Stan watched his fingers, almost a blur as they moved through their task.
Brenna snorted. “My brother, the king of understatement.”
Jake filled a lime tray and covered it with plastic, then focused on the lemons with a shrug. “No understatement about it. He was a handful. He spent a lot of time here.”
“Like every night. When he wasn’t out playing poker or doing whatever else he did for his opening act,” Brenna said.
Stan was surprised to hear Brenna, so normally carefree, sound almost . . . bitter.
Jake noticed it, too. “Bren, leave it alone.”
Brenna’s voice ratcheted up. “Why? It’s the truth. And it’s about time people stopped pussyfooting around and protecting him. Em doesn’t deserve that.”
“Protecting him from what?” Stan piped in. Both Jake and Brenna turned and stared at her as if they’d forgotten she sat there.
“Nothing,” Jake said.
“Nothing?” It came out as a shriek, startling the other patrons. They all looked up from their tables at Brenna, who appeared to be about to hit Jake over the head with her plate of French fries.
