Free A Biscuit, a Casket by Liz Mugavero Page A

was quite positive
     even after losing her job, because of her investment savvy and careful money management.
     She hadn’t had to worry about working again and could focus on her new business. Which
     was, of course, all good. The bad part was, well, people knew it. Which meant there
     could be no good outcome to this conversation. The theme song from Jaws began playing in her head. She felt like prey being circled by the most lethal of
     hunters.
    “I don’t . . .” she tried again, but Em had gotten up and was standing in front of
     her, hands clasped as if in prayer.
    “Stan. Would you please help me with the office work? Just until I figure out . .
     . what I’m going to do. Please. It would mean so much, and be such a big help.” Her
     puppy dog eyes reminded Stan of Scruffy when she wanted something.
    Stan felt all eyes in the room on her. What on earth was she supposed to say? No?
     To a grieving woman who could very well lose her livelihood? She may as well have
     just put a sign on her front door proclaiming herself the scarlet U of Frog Ledge—“unneighborly”—if she did that. Then she could rest assured her new
     business would spoil faster than a gallon of milk left out in the sun too long.
    Stifling a sigh, she forced a smile. “Well, sure, Em. I’d be glad to help out.”
    “Oh, thank you!” Em hurled herself at Stan and locked her in a hug. Stan took a step
     back to keep her balance as the other ladies clapped.
    “You’re such a love,” Char said, sliding plates of omelets onto the table. “Sit and
     eat.”
    “I really should get going,” Stan said. She didn’t think she could eat another bite
     this morning, after Izzy’s quiche.
    “Nonsense!” Em grabbed her hand and led her back to her chair. “Eat. You’re going
     to need to keep your strength up.” She smiled a bit, but Stan sensed something other
     than mirth. “This place can be a handful.”

Chapter 8
    “You need to go shopping for overalls.” Brenna leaned forward on the shiny mahogany
     bar that served as the center of McSwigg’s, her chin resting in her palm, eyes filled
     with humor.
    “Shut up,” Stan grumbled. “I’m just doing the books.” She’d foregone her run and gone
     right to McSwigg’s after leaving Em’s, hoping for some sympathy.
    Clearly she’d come to the wrong place. From his spot behind the bar stacking glasses,
     Jake guffawed. He turned to look at his sister and they both cracked up. “That’s what
     you think, kiddo,” he said when he could stop laughing.
    Stan glared at them. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Neither of them said anything.
     They just continued smiling, which annoyed Stan. She looked around the pub. It was
     still early. Only a few customers were in the bar. Two young women sat at a table
     near the window eating nachos and gossiping. A lone man sat across the room with a
     beer glass and a book, the title of which Stan couldn’t see. The place had a much
     different feel during the day than it did at night when people filled every corner
     and the music weaved Irish spells over the crowd, but it was still appealing. Jake
     had revamped the entire building two years ago. He turned the first floor into the
     bar and pub. The upper level served as the living space he, Duncan, and presently
     Brenna, called home. Both floors had that wide-open space design going for them. The
     pub had tall and short tables scattered around surrounded by padded stools in greens
     and golds, their wooden legs carved with Celtic knots, gleaming wooden floors, and
     Irish landscapes dotting the walls.
    The bar had drop lights positioned every few feet above it. An Irish flag matching
     its counterpart over the front door was proudly displayed on the far wall behind the
     bar, and a carved wooden sign with a Gaelic saying hung above it: An áit a bhfuil do chroí is ann a thabharfas do chosa thú : Your feet will bring you to where your heart is.
    Stan loved that sign. But today, it