by Liz Mugavero
Then she saw Char and Ray joining the crowd. Char had traded in her brilliant colors for a billowy black dress. And was that … ? Stan leaned forward. Yes, it was. Amara Leonard had joined the flow of people heading to the green.
If Amara put in an appearance after that screaming match she’d had with Carole, Stan knew she had no choice. She heard Ray’s voice in her ear: You live in a small town now. You have to care. Groaning, she forced herself to get up and dressed in a pair of black shorts, a light sweater and comfy flats. Tromping unenthusiastically downstairs, she ate a few Saltine crackers to settle her stomach and called Nutty. He didn’t respond or come running, so she figured he was sleeping.
“I’ll be back,” she called to him, in case he cared. No response. Apparently, he didn’t. She shut the door behind her and twisted the handle to make sure it had locked. Slinking to the edge of the green, Stan followed the crowd up to the other end, near the library and the congregational church, where the crowd gathered. She wondered what religion, if any, Carole Morganwick practiced and where her funeral service would be held. If this was any indication, it would be well attended.
She’d lost sight of Ray and Char, and Amara was small enough that Stan might never find her in the crowd. She hung back near a flowering dogwood tree, watching everyone around her. No one cried, but there were a lot of solemn expressions and whispering. Up front, two teenaged boys were setting up a makeshift podium on the pavement behind the library, where a group of three women and two men stood. A circle of Carole’s friends? Stan inched closer for a better view and felt someone grab her arm. She turned and almost bumped into Izzy Sweet. Baxter and Elvira immediately crowded around her, sniffing excitedly.
“Oh, hello,” Stan said, bending down to pet them. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you.”
The dogs both sat and stared at her, as if encouraging her to change her mind.
“How are you?” Izzy asked, a twinge of sympathy in her voice. “I heard what happened.”
“Who didn’t?” Stan muttered.
Izzy threw back her head and laughed, drawing the attention of the people closest to them. She didn’t seem to care, or even notice. “Welcome to small-town America. I’m just sorry you were … involved. Was it terrible?”
“It wasn’t pleasant,” Stan said. “And I feel weird being here. I didn’t know her.”
“It’s appropriate to pay your respects. And quite noticed when you don’t.” Izzy smiled wryly. “Let’s move up to the front.”
Stan followed Izzy as she weaved through the crowd, noting how people parted to let her through. She scanned faces as she went. It could be her imagination, but people’s words faded as she passed, and they moved farther away. Up front, more people had joined the teens. A man tested a microphone, which kept screeching feedback into the crowd, while a short woman with gray hair oversaw the whole operation, one foot tapping impatiently.
Izzy stopped in front of an old-looking yellow Lab. He looked familiar. Then Stan realized his owner was the man outside the clinic yesterday. The woodworker.
“How’re you doing, Gene?” Izzy squeezed his arm sympathetically and petted the dog’s head. “Hi, Junior.”
Junior wagged. Gene shrugged. His face seemed to sag with the weight of misery. “Okay. Just can’t believe it.”
“No one can,” Izzy said. “Do you know Stan?”
Gene focused on her; his eyes were bleary. He shook her hand. “No. Gene Holdcroft.” Despite the hair, Stan could tell by his face he wasn’t as old as she’d first guessed. He stepped forward, more of a shuffle, really, with one leg dragging slightly. He shook her hand.
“Hi. Stan Connor.”
Gene squinted at her, still holding on. “You were there. Monday. I saw ya come out. You’re the young lady who—”
“Gene, with Stan being new to town and all, I don’t think she’s seen your work yet,” Izzy broke in. “Well, other than the signs around town. Maybe I can bring her by the shop and we can get her something for her new house?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Good. We’ll see you soon.” Izzy took Stan’s arm and pulled her ahead. “Poor guy. His wife passed away a while ago, and I think he was sweet on Carole. He’s taking it pretty hard.”
“I hope he wasn’t going to say I was the young lady who did it,” Stan said.
Izzy shook her head. “He’s a nice guy. Lived here his whole life. One of those small towners who knows where all the bodies are buried. No pun intended,” she added hastily.
Stan wasn’t even in the frame of mind to laugh at that. Then she saw Jake. He talked with a guy wearing a SAM’S ELECTRIC hat. Jake saw them at the same time Stan’s gaze locked on his. A slow, lazy smile settled on his lips. Izzy grunted beside her. Jake’s companion said something and walked away.
Jake ignored Izzy’s less than thrilled acknowledgment of him. “Good evening, ladies. Somber occasion, but lovely to see you, anyway.”
Stan started to say hello, but Izzy had other ideas. “Oh, save it, McGee,” she said.
Stan’s mouth dropped. She stepped in, attempting to salvage the situation. “Hey there. How’s it going?” Stupid question for a memorial service.
He winked at her. “Going fine. And don’t mind Izzy. She treats me like this every time she’s forced into my presence.”
Izzy’s face darkened and she opened her mouth, presumably to let loose a firestorm of insults. But before she could get going, a woman dressed straight out of the American Revolution pages of a history book hurried over and grasped Jake’s wrist.
“Thank goodness you’re here! We need you up front immediately,” she said, pulling him with her before he could even respond. “There’s something wrong with the microphone. The boys just can’t get it to work.”
Jake gave Stan an apologetic wave and let the woman drag him to the parking lot. Izzy turned blazing eyes on Stan.
“I really hope you have better taste than that,” she said. “Please don’t tell me you’re interested in that beast.”
Wow. There was being protective toward a new friend, and then there was going overboard. “Hold on. One, I have a boyfriend. Two, I met Jake and his dog out running. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly in my new town, is there?”
“He’s a disgusting womanizer,” Izzy said.
A shrill voice next to Stan diverted her attention before she could ask how Izzy knew that.
“Betty Meany’s here? She must be making sure the library doesn’t get vandalized during the service,” the woman said loudly to her friend, and they both sneered.
Betty Meany. The one Char told her about, who had lost her cat allegedly at Carole’s hands. Stan turned to Izzy. “Which one’s Betty?”
Izzy pointed to the gray-haired foot tapper watching the setup activities. “I’m afraid the catty one’s right, in this case,” she said with a nod to the woman who had made the comment. “Betty despised Carole. She probably thinks there’ll be riots after the memorial and will want to keep the library safe.”
Stan’s response was overwhelmed by the roar of a little blue convertible speeding up the street. It careened to a stop, half on the grass next to the church. A young woman with brown-and-blond–striped hair stepped out of the driver’s seat. She wore skinny jeans and sandals with heels that would give even Char pause. An oversized T-shirt slid down over small arms, tank top straps visible on her shoulders. The outfit reminded Stan of something Madonna would have worn in her heyday—minus the shoes. The girl moved with a strut that declared, I own the world. She headed over uneven ground to the makeshift podium, embracing one of the women waiting in the circle. Stan almost didn’t notice the boy slouching out of the convertible’s passenger seat, forgotten by the driver. He did not move with an I-own-the-world strut, but rather hunched over into himself, hands jammed in his pockets, shaggy hair and sunglasses covering most of his face. He was skinny enough that his jeans were falling down, but not in the trendy way that was all the rage these days.
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br /> Izzy followed Stan’s gaze. “Whatcha watching? Oh, the Galvestons.” She rolled her eyes.
“Who are they?”
“Big shots around here. Old money, own half the town, et cetera. Mona is the mayor. She’s probably speaking. The rest of the town council will stand by and nod solemnly. That’s her daughter, Perri.” She pointed at convertible girl. “And the boy is Paul. Her twin. They live up there.” She pointed to the east. Stan followed her finger past the sky streaked with the beginnings of night and just saw the outline of a house, seemingly miles away, lit up against the hills behind it. It looked grand.
Stan wondered where Carole had lived. “Were they close to Carole, or is this just what they do around here if someone dies?”
“Mona and Carole used to be close. Heard she was like an aunt to Perri and her twin for a while. Perri took to her because when she was a kid, Perri wanted to be a vet. But not so much anymore. I think they’re getting started. That’s Mona.” Izzy nodded toward the podium as a hush fell over the crowd. Around them Stan could smell lighters as they brought the candles to life.
The crowd fell silent as Mona Galveston walked behind the podium. She looked very mayorly, with her tidy, short haircut, simple yet somber dress and a hint of red lipstick. She tapped the mic. The crackle blared through the night, silencing the last of the talkers.
“Good evening,” she said in a crisp, clear voice that easily commanded attention. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight we are a town reeling from the tragedy and horror of losing one of our own. A friend, a neighbor, a woman with a rich history here. Carole Morganwick.” She bowed her head slightly as she said Carole’s name and waited a beat to ensure the crowd did the same.
The rest of the group stood around her, heads bowed in solemn remembrance of their friend and neighbor as Mona offered up the perfect mixture of praise, reminiscence and sorrow. By the time Mona was done, Carole sounded a lot more appealing than she had seemed in person.
Then, another familiar face on the fringes of the crowd. Trooper Jessie Pasquale. Shouldn’t she be off duty? Still in uniform, she scanned the crowd with her flat eyes. Looking for the murderer, no doubt.
The murderer. Was he or she here? Stan suddenly felt chilled in her thin sweater, even though it was still in the seventies. And was Pasquale staring at her? Or was it her imagination?
“Are you okay?” Izzy nudged her.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look like you’re about to faint or something.”
“I don’t faint.” Stan forced herself to breathe. That tall man standing by himself, looming over the bench. He looked evil. Was it him? Or Betty Meany, arms crossed, all one hundred pounds of her guarding the library door? Could a little old woman do that? Then again, Betty wasn’t all that old, when you got right down to it. She was probably in her early sixties. You didn’t have to be a spring chicken to stab someone where it counted with a needle. Especially if the other person wasn’t expecting it.
Mona Galveston finished her speech and the councilmen and councilwomen joined her at the podium. They all held hands and led the group in a moment of silence. Then Mona asked everyone to join her for the short walk up to the veterinary clinic, where they could leave their trinkets as a tribute in front of Carole’s favorite place.
Stan felt what little food she’d choked down today churn in her gut at the thought of going anywhere near the clinic. “I’m going home,” she told Izzy. Before the other woman could reply, she stepped out of the crush of the crowd, which was moving forward with their candles, teddy bears and stuffed dogs and cats. Izzy was swept along, so all she managed was a wave and a look of sympathy.
Stan stood off to the side for a few minutes, breathing deeply, willing herself not to throw up in front of the whole town. When she felt a little steadier, she walked toward her house. The air had turned cooler now, and she scrubbed at the goose bumps popping up along her arms. She turned back once to find Trooper Pasquale lingering, too. And watching her. Stan deliberately turned away, but she felt the cop’s eyes all the way to her front door.
Chapter 6
Stan tossed and turned all night. Dreams of people chasing her with needles woke her every hour. She finally fell asleep around four. When her cell phone rang next to her head, it felt like mere minutes later. She reached for it, squinting at the clock. Nine-thirty! How can that be? She didn’t recognize the number, but forced herself to sound awake.
“This is Stan.”
“Kristan Connor?” A woman’s voice, it sounded clipped and efficient.
“Yes. Who’s calling?” She sat up, throwing the pillow aside.
“This is Bernadette Macguire. I’m a recruiter for Infinity Financial. I’ve seen your credentials, and I’d like you to come in and speak with us about a vice president, media relations position. When are you available?”
Infinity. One of her old company’s biggest competitors. Glee surged through her, but she tried to play it cool. Infinity only wanted the best people, and their recruiting efforts were pickier than most. “I … Can you tell me a bit more about the position?”
“Of course.” Bernadette shuffled some pages on her end and reeled off the particulars of a job that sounded almost identical to the one Stan had lost. “Basically, the position is responsible for the media presence of the company. And we’d love to talk with you about it. Shall we set up an interview?”
“Please.”
“What day works for you?” Bernadette clicked keys on her end of the line.
“Can we do next Tuesday?” Maybe Bernadette would think she was interviewing the rest of the week and not see her as desperate. And maybe at that point the police would have apprehended Carole’s killer and she could focus on other things.
“Terrific. I have a ten and a two.”
Stan chose the two and hung up. “What do you think of that, Nutty? Warner can go pound sand!”
He ignored her and went back to sleep. Stan wanted to do the same, but she knew it would be impossible. She leaned back against the pillows and thought about having a job again. An expense account. A place to wear her fancy shoes and nice suits. She had another chance. A new world to rule. “I Will Survive” began playing in her head.
Interestingly, the prospect didn’t excite her as much as she thought it would. Maybe with some coffee. Before she could get out of bed to make it, her iPhone rang again. Her mother.
Stay positive. “Good morning,” she nearly sang, grimacing at herself. God, she sounded fake.
“Did I interrupt anything?” Patricia asked in a tone suggesting she wasn’t overconcerned if she had.
“No, just getting ready to go for a bike ride.” Yes, that’s what she would do today. Get the bike out and explore her new town. “How are you, Mom?” She forced herself out of bed and went downstairs.
“A bike ride? Don’t you have a job interview?”
Stan forced the smile to remain in her voice as she got the coffeepot ready and pressed the button to grind the beans. “No, Mom, I don’t.” Had her mother tapped her phone?
“Kristan, you can’t be serious. What are you doing with your time? Especially in that godforsaken place you moved to. Richard told me all about it.”
“Richard did? When did you talk to him?” She moved to the refrigerator and grabbed smoothie ingredients while the coffee brewed.
“Oh, the other day,” Patricia said dismissively. “The point is, you’re in a funk. You need to get back into the land of the living.”
Stan laughed. “Because I don’t have a job? That’s funny, Mom. When was the last time you worked?”
“Kristan! That was uncalled for. I do other things with my time. You’re well aware of all the volunteer work. The fund-raisers. The contributions I make to the local community.”
In other words, the luncheons she hosted and the vodka-and-tonic cocktails she drank. Stan threw a handful of berries on top of her carrot and apple slices. Dumped in protein powder and spinach leaves. “I know, Mom. Just saying.
” She turned the Vitamix on and walked away so she could still hear.
“Well, I’ll chalk your comment up to the obvious distress you’ve been through. I called to let you know I gave a friend of mine your number. His name is Randolph Simon.”
“The senator?”
“The very same. He’s going to be looking for a new chief of staff. A division of time between Rhode Island and Washington. I told him you’d be perfect for the job.”
Her mother never ceased to amaze her, even after thirty-five years. Stan had been seven years old the first time she asked if she had been adopted. To this day she wasn’t completely convinced there hadn’t been a swap at the hospital. Only problem was, she resembled her mother to a tee.
“Mom, I don’t want to be a chief of staff for a senator. And I’ll take care of my own job search, if and when I’m ready. Okay? I appreciate the thought, but please don’t worry about it.” She switched off the machine and poured the contents into a glass. Poured a side of coffee.
“You don’t have to be ungrateful.” Patricia’s voice ticked up a couple of octaves. “I’m only trying to help you get back on your feet.”
“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it,” she lied. “But I’m fine. And I need to get going. I still have a lot of unpacking. You should come see—”
“Never mind,” Patricia cut her off. “I’ll stop bothering you.” And she disconnected.
Stan stared at the silent phone for a few seconds; then she shook her head. Their conversations always seemed to go down this path. She wondered why she bothered, but then she remembered she hadn’t. Her mother had called her.
Dropping the phone, she wandered into the sunroom with both her cups, alternating between a swig of coffee and a slurp of healthy. Observed her backyard. The grass was long. She needed to find someone to mow it. Char would know who.
Finishing her beverages, she changed her clothes, gathered her key, phone and water bottle and went out the front door. She almost slammed into a man wearing a trench coat standing on her porch. Stan gasped, startled, feeling her heartbeat kick up to high. Carole’s lifeless body flashed through her brain again.
