Free Kneading to Die by Liz Mugavero

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.
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œHe’s a disgusting womanizer,” Izzy said.
    A shrill voice next to Stan diverted her attention before she could ask how Izzy knew that.
    â€œBetty 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.
    Izzy followed Stan’s gaze. “Whatcha watching? Oh, the Galvestons.” She rolled her eyes.
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œBig 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