Kneading to Die

by Liz Mugavero

  “She only knew about the rescue because she thought you trained me to be a killer. How is that a good deal?” Stan asked.

  “We need more publicity. There’s only so much I can do on Facebook when I’m driving a million miles a week. Come on, help me feed the mutts. I have some cutie-pies.” She smiled sweetly and blinked her own big brown puppy dog eyes.

  “Coming. But I’m not adopting a dog. When’s Justin coming back?”

  “Tomorrow. Just in time for the adoption event Saturday.”

  Justin loved animals as much as she did. Nikki didn’t give men the time of day if they didn’t get her work. Justin did. He helped out with the herd every day and even went on transports.

  “Oh, speaking of that. I have treats in my bag.”

  “Awesome. They’ll all be clamoring for you to adopt them. Come on. Grab some bowls.” Nikki pulled on a pair of cowboy boots, balanced as many bowls as she could carry and headed out the back door.

  Stan picked up the remaining bowls and followed her friend outside into the fray. The dogs were lined up, howling in anticipation. All shapes and sizes: puppies, adults, big, small, shaggy and short-haired. They were adorable. Nikki tried to keep it to ten per trip, but she usually failed. There were so many dogs running out of time in the shelters in the South. She often spoke about how awful it was, especially the ones that still used gas chambers. Nikki had even started a program in schools to talk to younger kids about caring for animals. Gotta start somewhere, she always said. And if the little ones can teach their parents something, she had done her job.

  “You can start there.” Nikki directed her to the other end of the kennel. “Just put the bowls in the corner and fill up the water if they need it.”

  Stan went to work. She hoped it would quiet her brain, but it wasn’t working. Nikki’s assessment of the possible murder weapon bothered her. But it was something she should know, given her line of work. It didn’t mean she was a killer.

  She handed food to a boxer named Mitch, a bulldog mix named Queenie and a German shepherd named Crew. The next cage seemed to be empty, so Stan almost passed it by. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of something through the small door leading inside. She pulled the latch and entered the run. Went all the way to the back, where the dogs could go through the opening. Peered in. A small, shaggy, messy dog watched her anxiously.

  “Well, hello there,” Stan said. “Would you like an early dinner?”

  The dog’s stubby tail wagged hesitantly.

  “Why don’t you come outside?” Stan asked. “Otherwise, I have to go all the way around. Come on, come see me.” She knelt and held out her hand. The little dog, suddenly brave, trotted out and licked her face. Jumped right in her lap and proceeded to scarf down the food Stan offered.

  Stan smiled. The dog was adorable, despite its desperate need of a haircut. Probably a newcomer who hadn’t yet encountered Nikki’s groomer. And he—she?—didn’t seem to want to move out of her lap. Settling down on the ground, she let the dog eat, enjoying the cuddle time. Nutty wasn’t a huge cuddler. Only at night when he wanted to get warm, and then it was more about the blankets than about Stan. She handed over another treat, and the little dog inhaled that, too.

  “Making friends?” She turned to find Nikki hanging over the fence, grinning at her.

  “Yeah, we’re just hanging out.” Stan ruffled the dog’s floppy ears.

  “That’s Scruffy. She’s a schnoodle. She had twenty-four hours to live. And you should sell those treats somewhere other than my bake sales. I swear, every kind I’ve seen you with has been a hit.”

  Stan waved her off. “They’re dogs. They’ll eat anything.”

  “No way.” Nikki pointed to a golden-retriever mix lounging in the sun. “That dog? I offered her five different treats during transport and she turned her nose up at every single one. Yours, forget it. She barely chewed them.”

  “Oh. Well.” Stan shrugged, embarrassed. “They’re healthy.”

  “I’m telling you. You should package them and sell them. Scruffy’s up for adoption, by the way.” Nikki blinked innocently at Stan.

  “I know, I know. Sorry, Nik. Can’t do it right now.”

  “Oh, why not? You just moved to a big house. You have one cat and a fenced-in yard. You could have two dogs. More.” Her eyes twinkled, but she was serious. Nikki had been encouraging her to adopt for ages. Stan had resisted, blaming her travel and overall work schedule. Getting a sitter for Nutty alone had been hard enough, especially when she and Richard had the same travel schedule.

  “Right, but I have some things to figure out. A recruiter called me. I have an interview next week.”

  Leaning against the fence, Nikki wrapped her long fingers in the chain link. “Same type of job?”

  Stan nodded.

  “I don’t understand why you’d put yourself through that again. Especially if you don’t have to.”

  “I do have to. It’s not responsible to stay voluntarily unemployed.”

  “It is if you’re trying to figure out what you really want to do with your life instead of what you think you want to do.” Nikki’s tone challenged, and Stan felt her hackles rise.

  “I’m thirty-five years old, Nik. I’m a little past the what-do-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up stage, I would hope. I’m good at what I do.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it if it doesn’t feed your soul. Come on, Stan. You’ve finally planted roots in a place that could make you happy, instead of some dark condo with shitty neighbors whom you tolerate because it’s close to your office. Give yourself a break. Take the time you need. There are other things that make you come alive besides press conferences. I know it because I’ve known you for more than twenty years. Don’t sell yourself short to prove something to some fantasy audience.”

  “Jeez. You want me to adopt a dog that bad that you have to stomp all over my career to get me to do it?” As soon as she said it, Stan wished she could take it back.

  Nikki’s eyes darkened. She let go of the fence. “I don’t need to beg people to adopt dogs. Most people realize the kind of friendship they’re getting without me having to jam it down their throats. And, surprisingly, some of those people are even big-shot corporate types. They just might be a little more enlightened than you.”

  Stan continued to pet the schnoodle, thankful for the distraction keeping her from responding right away. She didn’t know her friend had felt that way about her job. Or about who she had become because of it.

  “I know I needed a change. I’m just going to check the job out. But I will do the responsible financial thing.”

  “Knock yourself out, then.” Nikki’s voice was cool. “I’ll be up at the house.” She walked away.

  Great. Now Nikki was mad at her, too. Stan took another treat out of her bag. Scruffy’s ears perked up and she licked her lips, rolling out of her relaxed pose so she was ready to receive. Stan handed her one. She took it very politely and devoured it. Then she waited expectantly for another, wagging her tail.

  She did like the little dog. She pushed the thought aside and left Scruffy’s kennel. There was enough going on without worrying about a dog, too. She finished dropping off bowls of food and gave out the rest of the dogs treats. They all devoured them and barked their disappointment when she displayed the empty bag.

  As she walked back to the house, Stan turned around one last time. Scruffy stood at the fence now, watching her as she walked away. She had stopped wagging her tail.

  Stan drove home slowly, trying to chase away the nagging feelings of doubt about her best friend. She’d known Nikki for more than twenty years. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Stan would swear on her life.

  But she’d known Carole in the past. Knew animals that had died in her care. She shook off the nasty thoughts. Trooper Pasquale needed to step up her game and find the real killer quickly. This business of suspecting everyone she saw on the street had to stop. And she was spending so much time trying to prove Stan guilty
that her time to find the real killer had to be limited. She hadn’t seen the police dragging her neighbor off for questioning, even though they had been publicly threatening each other two days before Carole’s murder. Although that seemed crazy, too. Sweet, petite Amara Leonard, who meditated on the grass and practiced homeopathy.

  Whom Carole had called a two-bit hack. Was that because she was jealous or threatened, or was Amara a hack? Amara had called Carole a hack right back, so who knew?

  But Stan hadn’t looked Carole up on the Internet before promising to bring Nutty for an appointment. She was slipping. It must be what happened in small towns with all that peer pressure to use each other’s services.

  She needed to do some research on her now. Maybe she’d find some bad reviews with names she could show Pasquale. She should probably research Amara, too, before bringing Nutty in to see her. It was the responsible thing to do, and she didn’t want to make the same mistake she’d made with Carole. If Carole had known something about Amara that would have destroyed her if it had come out, all the more reason. Meanwhile, the simple answer might just be to ask Amara about the fight.

  She really hoped Amara wasn’t the killer. That would really devalue the whole block. Plus, where else would she find a homeopath right next door?

  Chapter 13

  Amara Leonard’s little house buzzed with activity. Stan dropped her car off in her driveway and walked over. Two cars and a contractor’s van filled the driveway. The house was under construction. A ladder stood against the side. At the top a man scraped paint. A red Honda was parked in the driveway behind a black Ford Focus.

  This had seemed like a good idea earlier, but now Stan wasn’t so sure. What was she supposed to say? “Hi, I heard you having an argument with the dead vet the other day. Do you mind telling me what that was about?” It sounded ridiculous. Maybe she should just go home.

  Before she could, Amara appeared from around the side of the house, brandishing a pair of hedge clippers almost as big as she was. A pink Boston Red Sox baseball hat covered most of her forehead. Despite the heat, she wore long pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, probably to prevent bug bites or allergy issues from working in the yard. Diane Kirschbaum, the animal control officer, was right behind her. Amara saw Stan and waved.

  No turning back now.

  “Hey! Did you come to make Nutty’s appointment?” Amara asked.

  Diane hung back, arms crossed, observing Stan. Her curly brown hair had withered into frizz from the heat. She wore Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that had cats on it. Sneakers and ankle socks topped off the outfit. Stan felt herself judging. Stop critiquing. These women are my new neighbors!

  “I did,” Stan said, convincing herself it wasn’t really a lie. She could do that while she was here, too.

  “Cool. Have you met Diane?” Amara pulled the other woman forward. “Diane Kirschbaum. Town animal control.”

  Diane walked over slowly and shook Stan’s hand. Strong grip. Diane and Amara are friends? Stan smiled and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Stan Connor.”

  “You too,” Diane said.

  “Come on in, then,” Amara said. “We’ll find a time to get Nutty over.”

  “I was just leaving,” Diane said.

  “I’d love to come in,” Stan said. “I won’t stay long. You’re busy.”

  “Eh.” Amara waved her off. “I’d rather talk to potential clients than do yard work any day. Elmore!” She shouted toward the man on the ladder. “I’m taking a break. Do you want anything?”

  Elmore smiled and waved. Amara sighed. “He doesn’t speak much English,” she explained to Stan. “Ray Mackey found him for me.”

  “Amara, I’ll call you tomorrow,” Diane said.

  “Oh, please don’t leave on my account,” Stan said. “Besides, I love to get to know more people from my new town.”

  Diane’s expression resembled a deer in headlights at the suggestion. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Bye,” Stan murmured, watching Diane walk over to the Focus, slide in and drive away.

  “Don’t mind her. She’s shy,” Amara said. “But she does wonderful things for animals.”

  Stan followed Amara into a kitchen that looked straight out of Country Living magazine. Wallpaper in an apple design plastered the room. The yellow linoleum floor reminded Stan of her grandmother’s kitchen. By contrast, Amara’s white table looked chic and out of place. She’d covered one of the walls with a blue velvet tapestry depicting the sun and the moon. A small stereo on the counter played soft jazz. A red candle burned in a metal holder on the wall, emitting a cinnamon scent. The dog she’d heard barking, the beautiful golden retriever, ambled over to see her. His large tail swung in a happy arc. Shoot, she’d given all her treats to Nikki’s dogs.

  “That’s Beau. He’s a muffin.”

  “He’s adorable.” Stan rubbed his head. He rewarded her with a lick; then he dropped at her feet and put his head in his paws. “And your house is too.”

  “It needs some work,” Amara said, waving at the walls. “I bought the fixer-upper. Had to look past the cosmetic stuff to see it was a good house and a good deal. And the town’s great, truly. Aside from the … unpleasantness you’ve encountered.”

  It seemed too soon to start talking about why she was really here, so Stan stayed quiet.

  “I wanted somewhere to expand my business, and so far, so good.” Amara rapped on the wooden pantry door to seal her luck. “Hopefully, bigger and better things are in store. So let’s talk about Nutty.” She grabbed an appointment book off her counter and motioned to Stan to sit. “Water? Lemonade?”

  “Water is great. Thanks.” Stan sat.

  Amara filled a glass with iced water for each of them and placed them on the table. “Okay. So Nutty has IBS symptoms. Bloody stool?”

  “At first, he did. He improved quickly after the food change and I was able to take him off his meds.”

  “Hang on.” Amara hurried out of the room, returning a moment later with a laptop and a bag crammed full of papers and books. “I do all my own scheduling and office work right now, since I don’t have an office yet and can’t really justify the overhead.” She opened the laptop and hit some keys. “And just so you know, this history is all part of his first appointment. When you bring him, I’ll look at him. But if I gather it now, he won’t have to spend as much time. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. The first appointment fee is one hundred seventy-five dollars. The follow-ups are less, and most of them can be phone checkins.” She waited until Stan nodded in agreement, then continued. “So tell me what you cook for Nutty.”

  Stan recited some of her typical meals. “I keep it basic, since I didn’t have a lot of time up until recently.”

  “It’s all great stuff. That’s wonderful. And it’s helped him, so what more can you ask?”

  “It has,” Stan agreed. “By the way, would you object if I brought Beau some of my homemade treats? I usually have some on me, but I’m empty today.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind. I’m sure he would love them. Wouldn’t you, Beau?” Amara scratched the golden’s ears. He thumped his tail. “Does Nutty go outside?”

  “Oh no,” Stan said. “He was a stray. I found him outside of my old condo. He had been injured somehow, maybe a car. So I kept him. He likes it inside so much better.”

  “And he doesn’t take medication anymore at all?”

  “Doesn’t need to.”

  “What did your other vet say? Your traditional vet.”

  “Well, I didn’t use him very much, but he would’ve preferred to give Nutty a steroid or something. Some vets are very open-minded about natural medicine, while others don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Darn right, and it’s such a shame. Animals would benefit from different vets collaborating. It’s not about if I’m right or they’re right. It’s about working together for the best outcome for the animal. And if we worked as partners on a r
egular basis, animals wouldn’t need half the pharmaceuticals or surgeries they need today.” She leaned forward, her eyes blazing like one of those TV preachers during a particularly important sermon. “But that’s the problem. Because a lot of traditional vets—not all, you’re right, there are some enlightened ones—but most think the only way to heal is with a pill and a knife. I’m very lucky, you see. My fiancé, Dr. DiMauro—have you heard of him?—is a traditional vet and he’s very open. Vincent struggles with his closed-minded colleagues constantly about this.”

  Well, Amara is certainly passionate about her profession. “So, did you have issues with that when you moved here? With Dr. Morganwick?” Stan held her breath.

  Amara cocked her head, eyes immediately becoming hooded. “What do you mean?”

  “Just curious. She saw us talking on the green that day, and she was at my door an hour later asking me to bring Nutty to see her.”

  That made Amara angry. Stan could see it, although the other woman tried to brush it off.

  “That’s how she operated. Listen, I’m not trying to speak badly of a dead woman. I feel terrible about what happened to Carole, but she wasn’t very enlightened when it came to alternative therapies. People like her, it sounds awful, but they stall change. This town needs someone with a different mind-set when a new vet moves in. There’s so much potential here. But it’s a farm town, and sometimes that mind-set is hard to shake. It’s a challenge, but a worthwhile one. So … let’s get back to Nutty.”

  People like her stall change. Sounded like Carole Morganwick being gone, one way or another, worked out for her competition. And, wow, did Amara get worked up when the topic arose!

  Amara went through another series of questions before she declared enough history. “Now, do you want me to come to your house and see him? I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “That sounds great. How about next Friday?”

  Amara scanned her screen and hit some keys. “I could come by at ten.”

  “Perfect.”

  Amara keyed in the appointment, then reached into her bag and handed Stan a packet. “My card, some information on classical homeopathy and my credentials. When I said I was just starting out, I meant here, with an official home office. I’ve worked in other people’s practices before. And I trained under a doctor in London.”