A Biscuit, a Casket

by Liz Mugavero

  They came face to face with a CLOSED sign.

  “What the devil?” Izzy usually had to be reminded to close, and not at nine in the morning on a Sunday, the day people came to the shop to linger over lattes and the New York Times, and refill their mugs. Stan cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside. No one. Lights off, no delightful coffee or pastry smells drifting through the door. Stan knocked. Nothing. Then, from a distance—probably upstairs in the apartment—the faint sound of dogs barking.

  Maybe Izzy was sick upstairs or something. But why wouldn’t the shop be open? She had help. Stan pulled her phone out again and redialed. Still voice mail. Concerned now, she pondered what to do. But before she could come up with her next move, a teenager with a green stripe down one side of her hair and various piercings in her face strolled around the corner with a trash bag.

  “Hey. We had to close, uh, unexpectedly. Sorry ’bout that. We’re back tomorrow,” the girl said when she noticed Stan.

  “Thanks. Is Izzy okay? Are the dogs?”

  The girl grinned. “She’s cool, but I’m not sure about the other guy. He wasn’t lookin’ too hot after she threw the chair at him and they had to call an ambulance. The dogs? I think they’re fine. They were out back until the cops came.”

  Stan gaped at her. “Izzy? Threw a chair at someone?”

  “Yeah, well, the guy was messing with her. I’da done the same thing. I was gonna help her, but, you know, the other guy called the cops.”

  “Do you know who they were? Were they assaulting her?”

  “Nah, just came in asking her questions. She didn’t wanna answer them, I guess.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “That lady cop took her away.” The girl hefted her trash bag to her other hand and gazed wistfully at the sweet shop. “I hope they don’t throw her in the slammer for long. I mean, like, I gotta pay my tuition soon.”

  Chapter 12

  “Can you find out from your sister how much bond they’re holding Izzy on?” Stan demanded. After her conversation with Mya, Stan had put her home-cooked food out in bowls for the feral cats and immediately called Jake. Brenna had warned her he was sleeping, but she didn’t care how grouchy he was.

  “Izzy?” Silence. She could picture him, still in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to focus and understand what she was talking about this time. Then she blushed. Stop picturing Jake in bed, for the love of God.

  “Yes, Izzy. She threw a chair at someone at the café today and got arrested. The place is closed.”

  “Threw a chair at someone?” He sounded more awake now.

  “That’s what her employee said. The guy’s friend called the cops and your sister arrested her.”

  “What, they didn’t like her blueberry muffin and wanted their money back?”

  Stan sighed. “Seriously, Jake. I’m worried about her. I’m gonna run home and get my car and drive down to the barracks.”

  “Stan. Stay out of it. You do not want to get involved in another one of my sister’s cases.” He didn’t say it, but she heard the unspoken again.

  “I’m not. I just want to make sure Izzy’s okay. Never mind. Sorry to bother you.” She disconnected and pocketed the phone, urged the dogs on. “Come on, guys. We’re gonna go home and get the car.”

  The dogs obediently jogged with her as she headed for home. She heard her phone ring, distantly, but ignored it. But just as they reached her driveway, a truck careened down the street. Much too fast for this neighborhood. Jake drove up behind her. Duncan hung out the window, mouth wide open, tongue lolling, smiling at her.

  Stan stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  He sighed. “Get in the truck.”

  “No. I was taking the dogs with me for the ride.”

  He muttered what was probably a curse, then got out. Came around and opened the double door of the pickup to make the backseat accessible, grabbed Duncan’s collar, and motioned to the dogs. “Come on, guys. Jump in.”

  Henry didn’t need a second invitation. Gracefully, he launched his stocky body into the truck and kissed Duncan. Scruffy looked up at Stan. She scooped the smaller dog up. “I know, too high for you.” After placing her in the truck with the boys, she jumped into the passenger seat. Jake slammed both doors, went back around, and climbed in. He took off down the street like he was in a NASCAR race.

  Stan grabbed the door handle as he careened around the corner and back up the other side of the green. “So what brings you here at this hour?”

  He glanced over at her. She could see a laugh tickling the corners of his mouth as he tried to hold it back. “Funny.”

  “Hey, I’m a big girl. I can find my way to jail on my own.”

  “Yeah, we know.”

  “There’s no need to be snarky.” Stan also didn’t want to be reminded of how close she’d come to being arrested for murder this past summer.

  “So what did Izzy do this time?”

  “I’m not sure. There was some fight at the café. She threw a chair at some guy and he had to go to the hospital.” Duncan stuck his head between the seats and stared at Stan adoringly. She rubbed his head.

  Jake shook his head. “I knew that girl was nuts.”

  “Oh, come on. She’s not nuts. Plenty of people deserve to have chairs thrown at them. It’s kind of admirable to find someone who’ll actually do it.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re a weird chick, you know that?”

  “I do. So what are we gonna do when we get there?”

  “We? What ‘we’? I’m just driving you. I’m not taking my sister on this early in the morning, after I’ve had about four hours of sleep.”

  She glared at him. He stared straight ahead.

  “I didn’t need a ride. I need someone to deal with her while I bail Izzy out.”

  “You’re bailing her out?”

  “If she’s arrested, she’ll need to be bailed out. That’s not important. Stop distracting me. You need to come in and talk to your sister.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

  Caught off guard, Stan opened her mouth again, then closed it. Looked over at him. “Fine?”

  “Yeah. I was just messing with you.”

  “You’re such a jerk.”

  “I know. And Izzy will keep reminding us both of that on the way home.” For some reason Stan hadn’t yet figured out, Izzy hated Jake’s guts.

  Jake pulled into the barracks parking lot and lowered the windows enough for the dogs to stick their noses out to sniff. “There better be a coffee shop near here.”

  They walked silently into the dingy gray building. The last time Stan had been here, she’d been taken in through the back, where they brought the criminals. She hadn’t seen this tiny, ugly room, with two chairs and a rickety table covered in magazines that may have been from the nineties. Behind dark, bulletproof glass, a trooper watched them.

  Jake went to the window. “I’m looking for Trooper Pasquale. It’s Jake McGee.”

  The cop picked up a phone and said something Stan couldn’t hear, then pointed at the chairs.

  “They don’t know you here?” Stan asked him in a low voice once they sat.

  “I don’t exactly hang out here. On normal days.”

  Before she could think of a retort, a door next to the bulletproof glass opened. Jessie Pasquale appeared. She observed both of them, then focused on her brother. “What’s up?”

  He rose from his chair, the worn plastic creaking in protest. “Did you arrest Izzy Sweet?”

  Pasquale crossed her arms. Defensive. “You came all the way here to ask me who got busted today?” Translation: Why do you care?

  “No. I came down to see if she needed bond posted.”

  Pasquale cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously? The woman despises you.”

  Stan covered her outburst of laughter with a cough. It was the most personality she’d ever seen Jake’s sister demonstrate.

  “I’m not posting it.” Jake jerked his thumb at Stan. “She
is. So, come on. Can she post bond?”

  Pasquale’s lips thinned as her gaze flicked to Stan and back. “Izzy won’t need bail. She’s cooling off. The guy dropped the charges.”

  “Really?” Stan vaulted to her feet. “Can she leave, then?”

  “She can do whatever she wants. Until the next time she assaults someone in her own store.” Pasquale turned and disappeared, letting the door slam behind her.

  Stan looked at Jake. “She definitely didn’t get the social skills in your family.”

  “Yeah. Good thing she’s not the bartender.”

  “So now what?”

  “I guess we hang out and wait.”

  Stan sighed and sat again. It seemed to be hours, but when she checked her phone only fifteen minutes had gone by. When the door opened again, she braced herself for another go-round with the disagreeable trooper.

  But it was Izzy who appeared. She was alone. She looked exhausted.

  “Hey!” Stan exclaimed, jumping up. “You’re free to go?”

  But Izzy didn’t look delighted to see them. Tossing her long braids over her shoulders, she crossed her arms and glared at Jake. “What is he doing here?”

  Stan frowned. Izzy’s issue with Jake was none of her business. She probably didn’t even want to know what had triggered it, especially if it had to do with some torrid love affair between the two of them. But today he’d come at Stan’s request to help, and he didn’t deserve to be treated like that. She took a step forward, hands settling on hips. “What’s he doing here? We came to bail your butt out after we heard you were acting out a Jerry Springer episode. That’s what he’s doing here, and if you continue to be rude, you can call a cab back to Frog Ledge. The dogs are in the truck and we’d like to leave.”

  “Stan, really, it’s fine,” Jake started to say, but she shook her head.

  “It’s not fine. I don’t know what the deal with the two of you is, and I’m pretty sure I don’t care, but at the very least she can be civil to someone who comes to help her out. Do either of you disagree?” She looked at both of them.

  Jake shook his head. Izzy still looked annoyed, but chastised. The dispatcher behind the bulletproof window stared at Stan. When she met his gaze he quickly dropped his head.

  “Good. So, are you free to go?”

  Izzy nodded.

  “Would you like a ride?”

  “I’d love one,” Izzy drawled.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Jake, biting back a smile, rose and headed outside. Stan pushed Izzy in front of her. “You want to tell me what happened?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Nah. Later.” Izzy shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “It’s stupid.”

  “Well, throwing a chair at someone doesn’t seem like the best way to solve a problem,” Stan said. “Did you know these people?”

  “Sort of.” Izzy clammed up as they reached the truck. Jake unlocked the doors and wordlessly opened the passenger side. Izzy climbed in back, trying to fend the dogs off as they threw themselves at her.

  Stan settled in the front seat. “I went by the shop. The dogs were barking upstairs. Your employee told me what happened.”

  “Mya?” Despite herself, Izzy grinned. Stan caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror. Now that looked like her friend. “Mya was ready to jump right in and help.”

  “Yeah, she told me.”

  “So, uh, hey. Thanks for picking me up,” Izzy said as Jake swung out into traffic and headed back to Frog Ledge. “Both of you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jake said, and Stan couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  “I can relate,” Stan said. “Well, not the chair part. But the being dragged out of the café part. You’re lucky they didn’t press charges.”

  “I guess. Whatever, I’m tired of the whole stupid thing.” Shutting up abruptly, Izzy leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Jake glanced at Stan, who shrugged.

  Izzy didn’t say another word until they pulled up in front of her place. Leaning forward, she muttered another “thank you” to Jake, then climbed out of the truck.

  “Call me later. We can go for a walk or something,” Stan said through the open window.

  Izzy nodded. “We’ll see,” she said, and Stan thought she looked incredibly sad. “Thanks again, okay?” And she hurried inside, leaving Stan staring after her.

  Chapter 13

  All the remaining leaves seemed to have abandoned their trees overnight. When Stan looked out the bedroom window first thing Monday morning, her yard was covered with reds, oranges, and yellows. The sight of them, blown in colorful drifts across the grass, made her clap her hands in delight. It had been years since she had raked a pile of leaves and jumped into them. Her dad used to do it for her and her sister when they were kids. Maybe today she would do that, in her dad’s memory.

  Nutty jumped up and wedged himself in the window between her and her view of the yard. His fluffy tail tickled her nose.

  “Hi,” she said. “What did you do with the dogs?” Nutty refused to answer, so she went looking. Nutty trailed behind her. He looked disappointed when she located Henry and Scruffy on the back porch. Henry lounged on the floor, his fox skin toy hanging out of his mouth. Scruffy nestled up against him adoringly, but bounded to her feet when she saw Stan. Henry woofed at her.

  “I’m getting breakfast now. Let’s go to our places.”

  The three obediently followed her to the kitchen, Nutty leading the way. They sat in their usual spots—Scruffy and Henry right next to each other on the floor, Nutty on the counter. It was a bad habit he’d gotten accustomed to when he first moved in with her. Stan felt bad making him get down. So they compromised: Nutty only got on the counter to eat, and sat in the same spot. No need to spread out the mess.

  Stan prepared a bowl for each of them with pureed chicken, vegetables, rice, and calcium powder. Leaving them immersed in their breakfasts, Stan made herself a healthy green smoothie and a hard-boiled egg and ate while reading the latest Frog Ledge Holler. After he finished his breakfast, Nutty leapt onto the table and settled down next to her, resting his paw just on the edge of the paper. He often did that—when he wasn’t sitting directly on whatever she was trying to read.

  The edition was a big one at seven pages. The front page headline announced a meeting at town hall Tuesday night where the council would hold a public hearing on the petition for the property at 82 Main Street. Stan recognized the address. It was the former veterinary clinic that had been damaged earlier in the year. Amara Leonard, her homeopath neighbor, her fiancé Vincent DiMauro, a traditional veterinarian, and the town animal control officer, Diane Kirschbaum, wanted to buy the property. According to Cyril Pierce and the paperwork filed with the town hall, they hoped to create a veterinary practice offering both allopathic and homeopathic treatment, and expand the clinic to add animal sheltering capabilities.

  Stan let out a low whistle. “Wow, Nutty. That would be a great thing for Frog Ledge,” she said to her cat. Nutty stared at her, blinking his big eyes in acknowledgment. “You think so, too? Good.” She nodded approvingly. She was all for it. But she wondered how the town officials felt about it.

  It was no secret the town’s animal control facility was sorely lacking in both space and quality, but the town powers-that-be probably wouldn’t agree because it would cost money to renovate. Tucked away in the back of a large park on the outskirts of town, the facility was difficult for most people to find if they did want to look at the animals. And the quarters, even though Diane kept them clean and as friendly as possible, were old, run down, and dark. Stan felt certain the animals were sad, even though Diane did everything in her power to get them adopted. Yes, an upgraded sheltering facility would do a world of good. But would it have to be separate from the town quarters? Would she run both? Would they be consolidated? Or would this be Diane’s personal venture?

  Stan hadn’t been to a council meeting since she’d moved to Frog Ledge. Tomorrow night se
emed like the perfect time to check one out. She’d go, and show her support for the project. Maybe it would even help repair her relationship with Amara.

  She flipped the page and scanned the other headlines. A small blurb on Hal Hoffman’s untimely death, but no new information. The coroner had ruled it a homicide. Police were investigating. A statement from Trooper Pasquale deemed there to be no public threat, which meant she thought the killer knew Hal. Below the article was Hal’s obituary.

  The picture was the same as the one that had run the day after the murder. Stan stared at the tanned, smiling face, smoldering eyes, the shadow of stubble apparent on his chin, and wondered what secrets were hiding there. Who had killed him and why?

  “What do you think, Nutty?” she asked her cat. “His wife seemed to hate him, his business partners weren’t thrilled with him, and he partied a lot. Any number of things from that list could’ve gotten him killed. And, he may have owed someone money.”

  Nutty flicked his tail at her and rested his head on Hal’s picture. The obituary described Hal as a loving husband, father, son, and brother who had lived in Frog Ledge his entire forty-six years and had grown up on the Happy Cow Dairy Farm, taking it over from his parents, Lester and Camille Hoffman. Lester had passed ten years ago. Camille Hoffman lived in Stowe, one of Frog Ledge’s neighboring towns. Stan skimmed the part about Hal being survived by his wife, Emmalee; sons Tyler, age eighteen, Danny, fifteen, Robert, ten, and Joseph, four; a sister, Hillary; and a brother, Lester Jr. Hal had an MBA from the University of Connecticut.

  Impressive. Stan didn’t know if that was typical for a second- or third-generation farmer, but she guessed it might not be. She had heard people crediting his good business sense, even if he wasn’t necessarily into the manual labor. He was also the chairman of the Connecticut Milk Promotion Board, to which he’d been appointed by a local senator. He’d been an avid fisherman and part of a men’s hockey league. His funeral service would be held on Wednesday at St. Augustine Catholic Church, right across the green. There would be no calling hours. Burial would be in the Frog Ledge Cemetery.