The Icing on the Corpse by Liz Mugavero Page A

this afternoon she hoped to stop by Betty’s house with some homemade soup. She didn’t normally cook for anyone other than herself and sometimes Jake—her cooking was usually reserved for dogs and cats—but figured a traumatic event like Betty had endured yesterday called for some soup. She could also bring some of her new Strawberry Bites for Betty’s cat, Houdini, to sample. And she wanted to press Betty about her allegation that Helga had been pushed. If it had been the medicine talking and she wasn’t singing the same song today, Stan could forget about it, as well as Dale Hatmaker’s potentially incriminating request for Helga’s job. If Helga hadn’t been murdered, she could chalk that up to bad taste. If Betty stuck to her guns, well, that was another story.
    She pulled out her large slow cooker. She wanted to get the soup, a hearty harvest vegetable, simmering while she was out so the veggies had plenty of time to soften and release all their yummy flavors into the broth. She’d picked up fresh kale, carrots, chick peas, and a bevy of other veggies from the winter farmers’ market she’d visited on Saturday in the town hall. Her mouth watered just thinking about it. She planned to make a double batch for herself. She had plenty of veggies. What better meal for an end-of-winter week?
    Especially considering how frigid it was outside. A lot colder than yesterday, as if the Groundhog, Interrupted act had ensured winter would return in full force. She longed for spring and a run at the green with warm sun shining down and people doing yoga on the grass as she passed. The spring, summer, and fall seasons were so beautiful here it almost made her forget about the winter. But every year, January through March seemed like the longest months. She might have to consider that vacation house in Florida once the business really took off.
    She gave Nutty a sampling of the venison before putting it in another pan to sauté and letting the dogs back inside. They bounded in happily. Their fur was cold and a little wet. “Is it snowing, guys?” She peered out and noticed it was, indeed, flurrying. Maybe she and Amara would drive to the sweet shop.
    Once the soup was cooking in the slow cooker and everyone had eaten their breakfast, Stan showered and bundled up in case they walked, and headed next door to Amara’s. The snow still swirled, but it didn’t seem to be accumulating. Despite the long, cold winter, Stan had to admit it made a beautiful picture—the quaint New England town, the historical green with the church steeple in the distance blurred by white flakes.
    Amara greeted her at the door with car keys. “Did you have your heart set on walking?”
    â€œNope, I was hoping we’d drive.”
    Amara breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I’m so sick of being cold.” She jammed a knitted hat over her chin-length brown hair, adjusted her glasses, and picked up her coat. “Let’s go.”
    Stan hopped in the passenger seat of Amara’s little Prius. “Can you believe how yesterday turned out?” she asked.
    â€œ So sad.” Amara backed out of the driveway and turned the car toward Main Street. “She was a nice lady. A little abrupt, but she was old enough that she was entitled, you know?”
    â€œDid you know her well?”
    â€œI was getting to. She was actually working on some genealogy research for me.”
    â€œReally? She’s a genealogist, too?” Jake had never mentioned that.
    â€œShe dabbles. Dabbled. I met her right after I moved to town.” Amara had moved to Frog Ledge about two years ago. She’d told Stan once that she’d felt a connection to the little town when she’d visited as a child, and eventually kept her promise to herself to move there. Stan had felt the same way last year when she’d stumbled upon Frog Ledge and the house that she would buy only