Free Kneading to Die by Liz Mugavero Page A

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?”
    â€œMona 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.
    â€œGood 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?
    â€œAre you okay?” Izzy nudged her.
    â€œYeah, why?”
    â€œYou look like you’re about to faint or something.”
    â€œI 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.