Kneading to Die

by Liz Mugavero

  “I’ve missed you!” Ignoring Stan, the girl planted a kiss on his cheek. To his credit, Jake looked embarrassed.

  “Hey, Kate.”

  “Are you gonna dance with me?” She pressed even closer to him. Stan figured soon she’d pee on him to make sure everyone was clear that Jake was her property.

  “Maybe later, okay? I’m in the middle of something here.”

  Kate pouted, shooting a look at Stan that commanded, You’re in my territory.

  Maybe what Izzy had said all along about him was true. This girl looked a lot younger.

  “It’s okay. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, smiling at Kate. “I’m Stan. I was just leaving.”

  Confused, Kate glanced at Jake, then back at Stan. “Oh. Well. Nice to meet you. I’m Kate.”

  “Lovely to meet you, too. Jake, I’ll see you later.” She turned and slipped into the crowd with Scruffy. She didn’t look back to see his reaction. “Let’s go home, Scruff. This was a bad idea,” she told the little dog. Scruffy wagged and trotted along beside her. Before she could get halfway down the green, she heard her name.

  “Stan! Stan, wait!”

  Turning, she saw Char waving frantically. As usual, she was difficult to miss. Today she wore a flowing green dress one shade away from neon. As Char moved closer, Stan could see her fingernails and toenails were painted the same shade.

  “Honey, you are so wonderful.” Finally reaching her, Char nearly swallowed her in a hug. “You saved my Savannah’s stomach! And skin! My goodness, it’s only been a couple of days and that dog looks a hundred times better!”

  Her food. She’d almost forgotten. Well, that was good news, at least. “I’m so glad,” she said.

  “Me too! We have to discuss how we’ll handle this going forward. Can I order in advance? I’d like a week’s worth at a time. What do you charge?”

  “‘Charge’?” Stan repeated.

  “Well, yeah, doll, of course you’ll charge us. And you better not lowball the price.” Char waggled a green-tipped finger in her face. “This is a valuable service. Do you have other orders to fill? Are you advertising?”

  “Advertising?” What is she talking about? Stan shook her head. “No, I just gave you some portions of what I make for Nutty. I don’t, like, sell the food. As a business.”

  Char stared at her. “Well, why in heavens not?”

  “I … never thought about it?”

  “Well, then, it’s your lucky day. You just sit down with Izzy Sweet and she’ll tell you how to start your own business. She built that shop from the ground up, you know. She’ll get you going. In the meantime, then, call me tomorrow after you think about a price.”

  Stan could only nod her assent before Char squeezed her arm and plunged back into the fray. She saw her slide her arm through a soldier’s, jostling his fake rifle, and realized it was Ray. He waved the gun at her when Char pointed her out. Stan waved back.

  “That’s some good news, anyway,” she said to Scruffy. They continued through the crowd, walking against the flow of people, which only got thicker as the band started to play behind them. Not wanting the little dog to get trampled, she bent down and scooped her up until they were away from the crowds. They crossed the street, finally reaching her lovely little house, with the welcoming porch, where she’d hung flowers just yesterday, and the light beckoning them to come in and be safe. But she stopped before she reached the door. Her feeling of impending safety took off down the street like a runaway dog chasing a squirrel.

  On her front porch, propped against her door, was a bag of kibble. The same kind that Carole sold in her clinic, unmistakable by the large picture of a mother dog and puppy smiling from the front; and by nature of deduction, the same kind that had been strewn over Carole’s dead body.

  The bag had a large slash through it. Food spilled out of the wound, puddling on the floor.

  Chapter 21

  Getting a decent night’s sleep had become a distant memory. Stan slept on and off, her dreams plagued by costumed characters, larger-than-life needles and a woman drowning in a sea of dog food. The Rockwell song “Somebody’s Watching Me” served as the soundtrack, until she finally hauled herself out of bed at six and took Scruffy out into the backyard.

  After she fed her charges, Stan went to the TV room and turned on a yoga DVD. Got halfway through the routine before her lack of focus made her lose her balance during a prayer twist. She dropped onto the mat, forcing back tears. Nutty, who’d always had good ESP for when she was upset, wandered in and sat on her stomach, kneading at her with his sharp claws. At least now she could pretend his needle-sharp plucks were her reason for crying.

  A noise on the porch made them both jump. She’d never removed the bag of dog food. The whole thing had creeped her out, and she hadn’t wanted to spend an extra minute out there, exposed in the dark.

  She hoped a raccoon or possum hadn’t discovered it.

  “Come on, Nutter, we better go see.”

  He followed her obediently downstairs, where Scruffy stood in front of the door wooing at it. Nutty jumped on the windowsill to observe, while she pulled the door open cautiously, an inch at a time, half expecting someone to be waiting outside with a needle to plunge into her carotid artery.

  Instead, she found Duncan, sound asleep next to the now-half-empty bag of dog food. He’d cleaned up every piece of kibble from the porch for her, and then some. It looked like he’d worked a paw into the hole in the bag and helped himself until he was stuffed.

  Stan groaned. On a good day this stuff was not an ideal choice, loaded with preservatives and who knew what else. But this bag hadn’t been left by someone with good intentions. She hoped nothing was wrong with it. How did the dog get out again, anyway? Meanwhile, Scruffy wiggled her way through the crack in the door, thrilled to see Duncan once more. He rolled over when he saw her, and Scruffy dropped next to him and they engaged in a lickfest.

  “Dunc, get in here. You too, Scruffy.”

  Duncan immediately jumped up, tail thudding the porch, and hurled himself at her, planting sloppy kisses wherever he could reach. Scruffy followed suit. She must think this was a new game.

  Stan returned the hug and ushered them inside with one last glance around. In the sunny-morning hours of daytime, the sinister events of the night seemed almost surreal. Except for the ominous bag of kibble, that is.

  As she closed the door, she noticed another Frog Ledge Holler near the front of the porch. Cyril was on a roll lately. She scooped it up and went inside, glancing down at the news above the fold. He hadn’t disappointed:

  POLICE CONTINUE MANHUNT FOR VET KILLER

  By Cyril Pierce

  Nearly a week after local veterinarian and beloved neighbor Carole Morganwick was found murdered in her exam room, state police from Troop L are pursuing at least one person of interest, said Frog Ledge resident state trooper Jessica Pasquale.

  “We are pursuing all appropriate leads and hope to apprehend the murderer and close this case in the very near future,” Pasquale said.

  She would not confirm the person of interest’s identity. She said, however, that their search has been focused on the immediate Frog Ledge area.

  “We don’t think this was a random act,” Biggs said. “We believe Dr. Morganwick was targeted.”

  Stan crumpled up the newspaper without finishing the article and stuffed it in her trash can. Was this Cyril’s way of letting her—and the rest of the town—know she’d be behind bars soon? The dangerous outsider who came to town and all hell broke loose. It was like a Stephen King novel. She stewed for a few minutes, then remembered Duncan, sitting at her feet, wagging his tail.

  “Yikes, I have to call your dad. Where did I write down that number?”

  She searched around the kitchen and came up empty-handed. Looks like she would have to call the bar again.

  The same female voice answered on the fourth ring, again sounding out of breath. “McSwigg’s.”

  “Hi, this is Stan
Connor. Duncan’s back. He was on my porch this morning.”

  “Oh no! How does that dog do it? I’m so sorry. This is Brenna. Jake’s not here right now, but I’ll call him.”

  “I can drop him there. It’s no problem. Just give me a half hour or so.”

  “Are you sure? It’s our fault.”

  “No problem,” Stan assured her. “I just worry about him being out on the street like that.”

  “I know. We do, too. He’s slick.”

  Stan hung up and surveyed the dog, who’d eaten himself into complete lethargy and was sleeping on her kitchen floor. Nutty had vanished. He was not a fan of Duncan. “Make yourself comfortable while I shower,” she told the sleeping dog, and went upstairs.

  Half an hour later she, Duncan and Scruffy were in her car, heading to McSwigg’s. She wondered where Jake was. With Kate? She mentally kicked herself for the thought. But she did note that she hadn’t even yet thought about Richard, when she should probably call him and assess the damage from the lawyer incident. Maybe tonight she’d go see him. Show up at his place, go out to dinner. Maybe he was only trying to help her.

  The McSwigg’s parking lot had only a few cars in the far end, presumably staff. She pulled up near the front door and parked. The dogs clambered out behind her. She pushed the heavy front door open. Duncan immediately bounded in, raced to where Brenna set a table and planted kisses on her face.

  “What a bad boy!” Brenna scolded, but she nuzzled his head. “I’m so sorry about that. I can’t believe he got out again.”

  “I just worry he’s going to get hurt,” Stan said. “I have no problem with him visiting.”

  “Well, thanks. My brother would thank you, too, although I’m not sure where he is.” Brenna shook her head. “He does that sometimes. Disappears.”

  I’m sure it’s more than sometimes. Stan smiled noncommittally. “Have a good day,” she said, and turned to leave. Brenna stopped her, though.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about the spilling thing. With that guy.” She twisted her dish towel around one hand.

  “Don’t be. He asked for it.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed her grip on the towel. “Okay, then. Is he your boyfriend?”

  “For now.”

  Brenna smiled. “Fair enough. So you cook food for dogs?”

  “I have a cat. I cook for him. People have asked me for food for their dogs, though.”

  “Do you think sometime you could teach me how? I’d like to get a dog when I get my own place, and I know the food out there is pretty much crap.”

  “Of course,” Stan said. “Anytime you like.”

  “Well, thanks.” Brenna smiled. “I’ll tell my brother you saved the day. Again.”

  The kibble still sat on the porch. Stan had hoped it would somehow be gone, vanished from reality. But since it wasn’t, she figured she should let Trooper Pasquale know about the gift. She would give her a hard time about not calling someone when it happened, but oh, well. Pasquale had been at the dance, so she couldn’t have done much, anyway.

  The person answering Pasquale’s phone put her through to voice mail. Twenty minutes later her doorbell rang. Stan was expecting it. She opened the door and pasted on a smile.

  “Good morning,” Stan said, keeping her voice cool. “You got my message.”

  “I did.” Pasquale knelt and examined the bag of food without touching it. “Have you touched this?”

  “No. But Duncan ate some. Ripped a bigger hole in it, actually.”

  “Duncan? Why?”

  “He wandered onto the porch and it was there.”

  Pasquale pursed her lips. Disapproving. She stood. “So you just came home last night and here it was?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why did you wait until now to report it?”

  “I—I don’t know. I wasn’t sure anyone would take me seriously. I also knew you were off duty.” It sounded lame, even to her.

  “You’re aware the barracks are full of troopers with jurisdiction?”

  Stan gritted her teeth. How could this foul woman be related to Jake and Brenna? “Yes.”

  Pasquale gave a curt nod. “We’ll look into it.” She snapped a pair of gloves on her hands, picked up the bag and walked back to her car.

  Scruffy had joined her on the porch. They watched her drive away. Scruffy looked at Stan as if to say, What now? Stan looked at Scruffy and shrugged. “I guess we’ll call Nikki and see when she’s coming for you.”

  Scruffy’s ears went down.

  Nikki’s phone was off, so it wasn’t an issue, at least for the time being. Then Stan remembered the farmers’ market that afternoon.

  “We need to do some more baking,” she told the dog. “I almost forgot all about it.”

  She didn’t have any stock left from yesterday’s adoption event, which was good for Pets’ Last Chance, but it meant she had to bake fast if she wanted to try her hand at the farmers’ market. And Izzy was expecting her now, so she had to get started.

  Three batches, two hours and a couple of doggie potty trips later, Stan packed up her treats, clipped Scruffy’s leash on and went across the street. The green had been transformed into a carnival of produce, dairy products and other locally made trinkets, clustered together under an enormous white tent, others on separate tables strategically placed throughout the grass. At least a dozen tables were in some stage of dressing, and there were already people milling around trying to get a sneak peek at the goods.

  Stan waited on the edge of the green with her containers of treats, unsure, much like those times as a child when she was unsure if there was an open invitation to join her classmates’ kickball or hopscotch games, or if everyone would turn and stare at her. Or worse, see through her facade to realize how terrible she was at games and yell at her to leave. Scruffy, however, couldn’t wait to join the fray. The little dog strained at her leash, woo-wooing every time she spotted another dog already at the party. May as well get on with it. Stan channeled Kelly Clarkson—“What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger)”—and walked slowly into the crowd.

  Shouts and conversation punctuated the story of the day. The tone seemed hopeful. Anticipatory. Competitive. Merchants casually sought out their nemeses, sized them up, then decided if they could up the ante. Or lower the prices. Stan wasn’t sure where her table—well, Izzy’s table—was. She should’ve found out if she needed a license or something. Or a certificate to prove she was legit.

  These people, with the exception of Izzy, were real farmers. They could hold their heads high above their produce table and say they belonged there. They slaved over the soil with their pitchforks and tractors. Their cows produced this milk eight hours ago. They churned this butter at four in the morning. Their chickens had been laying eggs all day. What could she boast? That she turned her oven on to 350, mixed a few ingredients in a bowl and set a timer? She was a fraud. This was not a press conference, and she didn’t belong here.

  But she couldn’t be a quitter, or a chicken. So Stan held her head up and headed into the fray, Scruffy prancing along beside her. Along with her sellable items, she had a small bag of treats tucked in her shorts pocket for Duncan and some of her other pooch friends and cash for the items on her list: goat cheese, fresh tomatoes and local honey.

  She noticed Jake right away, helping an older woman put up a tent to protect her wares from the sun. He laughed at something she said. He had a nice smile. And he used it a lot. Duncan sat obediently next to him, supervising the process. When Jake turned around, Stan averted her eyes before he noticed her, not wanting to be caught staring.

  She needed to get a grip. She veered off toward the first table in her path, which happened to be the Happy Cow Dairy Farm. She wondered how Hal Hoffman was doing after his bar brawl; then she smiled. Maybe she was getting the hang of the small-town thing, after all.

  The woman behind the table finished counting change for a young boy and handed him a bottle of milk from a cooler. He took it and ran off, clutching his money in
his free hand, shouting for his mother. Stan stepped up and smiled. It was the same woman she saw around the farm. Hal’s wife. Char had said her name was Emmalee.

  “Hi, I’m Stan. Your new neighbor,” she said.

  “Oh, hello! Lovely to meet you. Emmalee Hoffman.” Emmalee stood and shook Stan’s hand with a farmer’s grip. Strong and sturdy. She was taller than Stan. Everyone around here was tall, it seemed. Grays shot through the brown hair pulled back in a braid. “How are you liking the neighborhood?” Then her face fell. “I’m sorry, maybe that was a stupid question, after what’s happened.”

  “Oh, my goodness, no. I love it,” Stan said. “It’s very cozy.”

  Emmalee Hoffman looked dubious. “Even with the cow manure? You don’t look the type to like the smell of cow manure.”

  Stan laughed. “I wouldn’t say I like it, but it doesn’t bother me. Honestly, I don’t smell it much. Anyway, I like cows.”

  “Well, you came to the right place, then.” Laughing, she sat down again. “Would you like a sample of our cheddar cheese?” She reached into a second cooler without waiting for an answer and handed Stan a chunk.

  “Sure.” Stan nibbled it. Not goat cheese, but still delicious. “Yum. This would be perfect shredded into my cat treats.”

  “Oh, you make cat treats? How adorable.” Emmalee pulled a block of cheese out and set it in front of Stan. “That’s ten dollars.”

  Emmalee Hoffman knew how to make a sale. Smiling, she reached into her wallet and pulled out a bill. “I do make cat treats. I refuse to buy my cat that junk from China they sell in the grocery store.”

  “Amen.” Emmalee tucked the money into a silver lockbox. “Thanks for stopping by. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” She turned her attention to the man waiting patiently behind Stan and began her cheese sample routine all over again.

  Stan left her to it and wandered around, looking for Izzy’s table. She spent a few minutes looking at jewelry and shelled out another twenty-five dollars for a bracelet she couldn’t live without. And then she realized she hadn’t gotten anything on her list yet. Not even information. Nor had she set up her own goods. She should find Sadie Brown and her goat cheese, and get moving to wherever Izzy was.