by Liz Mugavero
Well, there were her Wednesday morning plans. She’d have to adjust her baking schedule accordingly. She smiled as she glanced out the window into her backyard at a bird that had just landed at one of her feeders. Six or seven months ago, her Wednesday plans would not have included baking, or even thoughts of baking. Her days used to consist of bolting out of bed, downing nearly a pot of coffee, showering, dressing in a designer suit, and hitting the road. Then, she wouldn’t see the light of day for almost another ten or twelve hours. Unless she had a lunch meeting. If someone asked her tomorrow what exactly she’d done for all those hours, every single day for more than ten years, she didn’t think she could answer them.
It made her sad to think she’d traded so much of her life for something she’d thought was so important just to learn that it wasn’t. But, better late than never. Stan flipped the paper shut and looked at Nutty. He eyed the pieces of yolk that had escaped from her egg. She slid the dish over and let him lick it clean. When he was done, he rubbed his head along her arm as if to say thank you, and jumped down to find a sunny place for a nap.
She collected everyone’s dishes and started upstairs to dress in her running gear. Before she could, the phone rang.
“Izzy got arrested yesterday?” Char demanded before Stan could even say hello. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
Stan chuckled. It wasn’t like Char could’ve done anything useful if she had been called. She just wanted to be in the know. “Good morning, Char. And no, the person dropped the charges.”
“Huh. Really.” Char paused for a minute, probably to stir her Bloody Mary. “I can’t imagine what would persuade Izzy to throw a chair at a customer. Did they not like her coffee?”
Similar to what Jake had said. “She actually didn’t tell me why, although I don’t think that’s it. Her employee said the men were asking her questions. I don’t think they were normal customers.”
Char whistled. “Do you think it’s the FBI?”
“The FBI? What would the FBI want with Izzy?” Stan started to laugh it off, then stopped. Stranger things had happened in real life. And what about that movie with the family of American terrorists who lived in a nice neighborhood and blew up the FBI building and framed their neighbor for it? Arlington Road. The movie had given her the creeps.
Oh, seriously. What was wrong with her? Izzy wasn’t a terrorist.
“Maybe we should find out,” Char said.
“Well, I was hoping she’d tell me after things died down, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of her.”
“That’s odd,” Char said. “Keep trying. Let me know what I can do.”
Stan agreed and hung up. She finished getting ready, pocketed her gloves, popped her earbuds in her ears, and headed outside. Henry and Scruffy tried to follow her out the door.
“Nope. Sorry, guys.” The last time she’d tried to take them on a run, Scruffy had spent the first quarter mile trying to make friends with other dogs on the route, and Henry had wanted to stop and take a nap every ten feet. She finally had taken them home and started over solo.
The fall morning air snapped its fingers in her face. Stan took a deep breath, grateful for the weather. She savored the clean air for a moment, then started a slow jog to the green.
When she paused to let a car pass, she heard her name behind her.
“Stan! Good morning!”
Turning, she saw Emmalee Hoffman coming from the back of the house, waving at her.
Shoot. Should’ve crossed already. Stan pushed the uncharitable thought out of her mind and waved back. “Morning, Emmalee. How are you?”
Emmalee shrugged, pulling off her hat. “Doing fine. Just working, you know. Anyway, what time are you coming?”
“Coming?” Stan repeated.
“Yes. To work in the office. You are starting today, right?”
“I, um . . . Honestly, Em, I didn’t know you needed me today. I have a few things to do this morning and some treat orders to fill.”
“Oh.” Em fiddled with her hat, swinging it around on her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Is, uh, Leigh-Anne around yet? I bumped into her last night and she said she’d be staying at Char’s so she’s nearby to help you.”
Em tried to hide the disdain that passed over her face. “Yes, she sure is,” she said. “All moved in and already coming by. Right now she’s taking inventory of the farm equipment. Inventory. Can you believe that? Because she thinks there are things we need. Or need to upgrade. I highly doubt she’s gonna buy them for us, though.”
Oh, boy. Stan could see herself getting caught in the middle of those two personalities. She sighed inwardly but pasted on her best accommodating face. “I’m happy to come later this afternoon.”
Em brightened. “Oh, would you? I’m afraid the work has been piling up already. Hal had been so . . . busy lately. Bills need to be paid and I have no idea where some of my feed is. I’d love it if you could.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you later.”
Em waved and went into the house. Stan jogged across the street, her feet slapping the ground in time to her self-berating thoughts. Why in the world did you agree to this in the first place, Stan Connor? There’s that impulsive streak again.
The impulsive streak her mother never hesitated to remind her about. Her mother. Despite the situation, Stan bit back a giggle. If she ever told her mother she was helping out on a dairy farm, Patricia Connor would die. It was not a Rhode Island socialite thing to do.
Chapter 14
“So, I got a new order today. Along with all that”—Stan pointed to the handwritten list she’d taped up on the fridge for Brenna, who was in charge of treats while Stan covered the farm—“we need two batches of cat-shaped treats that are cheese-and-veggie-flavored and two batches of apple and cinnamon. No shape preference, although Pookie supposedly has a thing for fire hydrants.” A friend of Char’s had called this morning begging for dog treats by tomorrow. She said she’d heard everyone raving about them around town and she must have some.
It had been a lovely phone call to receive.
Stan laid ingredients out on her counter and handed over the cookie cutters. She’d found a great place near Nikki’s house in Rhode Island that sold all shapes and sizes of dog treat cookie cutters. Heaven on earth. She couldn’t wait to try out the one shaped like a burger. She wasn’t fond of the cat-shaped cutter since she didn’t like to think of dogs eating cats, but she’d bought it after a ton of requests for cat-shaped cookies. And for the cats, the store had fish and mice and balls of yarn and birds for shapes, and they were getting new ones in every week.
Brenna shook her head. “Pookie has never gone near a fire hydrant. They just say that because Pookie’s a dalmatian.”
Stan laughed. “Well, if it makes her happy, let’s just use the fire hydrant. So I’ll stay while you mix the batter and then I’ll head to Em’s, okay?”
Brenna pinned her long hair up in a bun and smiled knowingly. “That’s fine. I know you’ll want to taste the batter.”
Stan felt her cheeks grow warm. Was she that transparent? “No, I just . . . the dogs are picky,” she finished lamely.
Now Brenna did laugh. “The dogs aren’t picky. You are. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, I think it’s pretty cool. Not many people care about how things taste for dogs, never mind how healthy it is for them. That’s why I’m so excited to be working with you. So.” She rubbed her hands together. “Where are your mixing bowls?”
An hour later, Stan left the house in a flurry of doggie good-bye kisses. Henry and Scruffy followed her to the door, trying to get her to take them, but soon forgot about her when Brenna called them to lick bowls. Nutty sat on his tree next to the window in the hall. He gave her the paw. Stan stopped to give him a kiss and ruffle his fur. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Go wait in the kitchen for some treats.”
Nutty gave her face. He did that when she left sometimes. Stan wasn’t sure if it meant he d
idn’t like hanging out with the dogs, or if he would miss her. Either way, she was sure all three of them would barely remember her in about half an hour when the treats came out of the oven.
She strolled down the street, enjoying the sights of Halloween. The spirit here was fantastic. Every yard had pumpkins, mums, and cornstalks. The real enthusiasts had orange lights, graveyards, skeleton families, or other spooky accents in their front yards. One house on the other side of the green had small skulls hanging from every bare tree branch, and skeletons guarded the front door. Spiders dangled from webs and jack-o’-lanterns lit up every window as soon as dusk hit.
Stan wore jeans and her silver ballet flats, a snub to Jake and Brenna for their teasing. Hip-high boots, my rear end. There were limits to friendship and community, and slinging cow manure fell into that category. Did people really sling cow manure, anyway?
But when she entered the yard and noticed the sign haphazardly leaning against the fence that read CORN MAZE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, she felt bad. This wasn’t about her. A man was dead. His family was in shambles. She took a deep breath and rang the bell at the old farmhouse. No answer. She knocked in case the bell was broken. Nothing. She went into the yard. Samson sat on the grass. Stan stopped to say hello and fished a treat out of her purse. The dog took it and chewed contentedly, then licked her hand. She continued on.
The Hoffmans had a lot of acreage. Directly behind the house was the gated patio where the doggie party had been set up. Beyond it was a substantial yard. It was barren except for an old-style swing set perched unsteadily in the grass, a few kids’ toys scattered about, and a bike on its side. And then, the corn maze. It looked less threatening today, but Stan still felt creeped out looking at it.
The other side of their land was the farm. She turned left and hurried toward the cow barns. The sides of the structure were up today, and she could see a row of black and white behinds, tails swinging lazily. Despite herself, she smiled. She liked cows. They were so chill. She remembered hearing stories of cow tippers when she was a kid and wondering how anyone could be so mean.
Yeah, well, that’s nothing compared to a dairy farm, Nikki’s voice chided in her head.
Stan commanded the voice to silence and moved closer, wondering if she could say hello to one of them. How did cows react when people came near them? She had no idea. While she pondered it, a human head popped up from in between a couple of the largest residents. A young man, barely as tall as the cows, stared at Stan.
“Yes?” he said in halting English. Stan recognized him—it was the guy who had been working the night Hal died.
“Um, hi. I’m here to see Em—Mrs. Hoffman.”
He nodded and motioned her to follow him. He led her to the barn where Brenna had sent Danny to put his chain saw away just three nights ago, when everything was different. Pushing open the barn doors, he made a sweeping motion in Stan’s direction, as if presenting her to an audience.
Emmalee Hoffman looked up from where she was working on a tractor wheel. She had a wrench in her hand and dirt all over her and Stan wondered again what in God’s name would possess anyone to want to own and work on a farm. But, it wasn’t really for her to judge. Not to mention she’d just volunteered to work on said farm, and she didn’t own it.
“Hey, Em.”
“Hi!” Em jumped up, letting the wrench fall with a clatter. “Thanks, Enrico.”
Enrico nodded and backed out of the barn.
“Enrico’s great,” Em said. “If you need anything, just ask him.”
Might be tough since he can’t speak much English. Stan nodded obediently.
Em paused and pushed a strand of gray-brown hair out of her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. “Well, haven’t I just lost all track of time. Sorry about that. The tractor wheel is busted. Come on, I’ll take you to the office.”
Stan forced a smile. “Great.”
Em surveyed Stan’s outfit. “You should really find a pair of boots to wear, honey,” she said, taking in Stan’s glittery silver shoes. “You don’t want to get those lovely little slippers dirty. And aren’t your feet cold? It’s chilly outside this time of year.”
Stan gritted her teeth, trying not to make it obvious. “Well, yes, but I figured since I would be in the office I wouldn’t have to run around in the mud.”
Em chewed on her lower lip. “Wait one second.” She veered over to a corner of the barn that looked like it could be home to many different species of wildlife. Stan heard clanks and thuds as Em tossed tools and equipment around. She returned looking puzzled. “I was going to give you the spare pair of boots Hal keeps . . .”—she faltered—“kept out here. But they seem to be gone. I wonder who would’ve taken them.” She stared into space for a moment, then shrugged. “They would’ve been fine for you to wear around the farm. I’m sorry they’re not here.”
“Oh, Em, don’t worry. They probably wouldn’t have fit me anyway,” Stan said. Thank God. “And I really don’t think I’m going to need them.”
Em waved a callused hand and led Stan out of the barn and around the back of the house. “Farm life is so unpredictable. You never know what can come up.” She stopped in front of a door next to the bulkhead. Fumbling in the pocket of her overalls for a key, she unlocked it and pushed it open. But before they could enter, Stan heard someone calling her name.
“Yoo-hoo! Stan! Emmy!”
Stan turned to see Leigh-Anne Sutton making her way across the grass. She wasn’t wearing her heels today, but she still looked like a fashion plate in her jeans, North Face jacket, and pink designer hiking boots. “What are you girls up to?”
Stan could feel Em’s whole body clench, even standing a few feet away. She turned to face Leigh-Anne with more of a grimace than a smile.
“Taking Stan to the office. She’s starting today.”
“Fantastic!” Leigh-Anne clapped her hands. “I’d love to help. Please let me know what I can do.”
If possible, Em stiffened even more. “It’s mostly a matter of getting organized. After that, Stan will be fine. She comes from financial services, you know,” she said, as if Leigh-Anne should be impressed.
“That’s right! I do remember you saying that.” Leigh-Anne leaned forward, her eyes alight with interest. “Stockbroker? Investment banker? Do tell!”
The truth sounded lame. “Actually, I did PR.” She smiled. “Not terribly exciting, I know. Certainly not like working on Wall Street.”
“Oh, but it still must have been wonderful. I think that whole world is so exciting. Money makes our country run, after all.” Leigh-Anne glanced at Em, who was watching with disdain. “Well, I don’t want to keep you, though I would love to hear more about that. So, Emmy. Let’s sit later and talk about what you need most from me. I’m at your service, after all.”
Em sniffed. “I need help with the stalls. But you’re going to get those pink boots all dirty walking around in this muck.”
“These?” Leigh-Anne glanced down with a look of surprise, then chuckled. “Emmy. These are work boots. Just because they’re pretty doesn’t mean they can’t get the job done.” She winked at Stan. “We can’t let our duties get in the way of our fashion sense, right, Stan?”
Stan couldn’t help but smile. She agreed completely. It vanished quickly when Em turned dagger eyes on her. Behind Em, Leigh-Anne rolled her eyes.
“I’ll go get to work. Come find me if you need me. Remember, I’m here to help. Em set me up in a little office over in the milking parlor.” With that, she waggled her fingers at Stan much like she had at the bar Saturday when she made her exit with Tony Falco, and turned back in the direction of the cows.
Emmalee muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like God help us, then motioned to Stan to follow her into the office.
“Here we are,” she announced. “Where everything happens.”
Stan stepped in behind her and looked around. The room was about the size of her guest bedroom closet, and
that was being generous. It looked like it had been a laundry room at one time. The hookups were still on the far wall. The linoleum floor was cracked in most places and missing in some. Stan could see dust bunnies skittering along, pushed around by the breeze Em had let in. Boxes were stacked along one wall. Someone had slashed the words “Files” in black Sharpie across the front of each. The wall itself looked like it used to be white, but was now grayish. An out-of-commission washing machine was jammed in front of another door—a feeble attempt to block the entrance to what Stan presumed was the main house. There was a desk shoved up against the front wall. It looked like an antique, what Stan could see of it. Piles of paper and folders were stacked so high they tilted dangerously. One wrong move and they would all go crashing to the floor.
Em followed Stan’s gaze around and shrugged, her smile sheepish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get in here to clean yet,” she said. Her tone was light, but Stan could feel the seething behind the words. If Hal was alive, Em probably would’ve torn him a new one at the condition of the room. Stan wondered how long it had been since Hal had actually worked in this office.
“Don’t worry about it. I can help get things organized while I’m here.” Why do I keep digging this hole deeper?
“I don’t want you to waste your time,” Em said.
“Em. I would have to at least dig through the files on top of the desk to get anything done,” Stan pointed out. “So just tell me what I’m supposed to be doing and I’ll tackle it as I can, okay?”
To her dismay, Em’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t deserve wonderful friends like you,” she said, her voice wobbly.
Stan hated seeing people cry. “Oh, Em, of course you do. Listen. Why don’t you go back outside and get your stuff done. I’m sure the kids will be home soon, right? And in the meantime, I’ll just start organizing some things.” How hard could it be? Find some bills, write some checks. Maybe call and order some feed for the cows. Simple. And this way, she could stay away from the actual farm operations, and possibly avoid Nikki’s wrath.
