“I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”
Emmalee Hoffman appeared in the kitchen doorway. If possible, she looked even more
exhausted than she had the night before—and then she’d reminded Stan of the walking
dead, no Halloween pun intended. When she saw Stan and Char, she attempted to smile.
“Hi, guys,” she said, and her voice broke.
Char stepped past Francine, dropping her enormous purse with a thunk on the table.
She enveloped Em, who was not a tall woman, in her bulk. Emmalee’s face vanished into
Char’s bosom as Char squeezed. “You’ll be okay, honey,” she crooned. “It’s just going
to take some time.”
When Char finally let her go, Em stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the back of
her hand. “I know,” she said. “I know. It’s just . . .” her voice trailed off. She
glanced at her sister. Francine took the cue easily. “I’ll go sit with the boys,”
she said, and slipped upstairs.
“Thank God,” Em said, motioning to the table. “Please, sit.”
Stan looked around for a seat. The kitchen table was crammed with casserole dishes,
pies, bottles of wine, Crock-Pots. The chairs had coats and stacks of papers piled
on them. But despite the many cars outside, no one else seemed to be in the house.
It was quiet as a tomb. She stashed her jacket on the chair with the highest pile
and perched on the edge of another.
“Everyone’s outside on the farm,” Em said, anticipating the question. “My brothers
all came, and Hal’s sister. She went out to get groceries. Some of our sister farms
sent workers to help out. People have been lovely.” She collected papers off one chair
and motioned to Char, her movements slow and stiff. “Here, sit.”
Char narrowed her eyes. “Have you eaten?”
Em shook her head.
“Well, let’s change that right now.” Char set to work clearing space on the counter,
pulling eggs and veggies out of the fridge. “I’ll whip up some omelets. What do y’all
like in them?”
More eggs. Stan hoped Char wouldn’t force her to eat. Her friend was known to be overly
generous with food.
“I’m really not hungry,” Em began, but Char hushed her.
“Of course you are. And the boys are, too. Peppers and onions, right? Tomatoes, too?”
At Em’s resigned nod, Char got to work. “So what have you found out?”
“I haven’t found out anything aside from what I knew last night.” Emmalee sank down
into her own chair, right on top of someone’s coat, and stared at her hands in her
lap like she’d never seen them before. “Someone murdered Hal.” She looked at Char.
“Who would have wanted to murder Hal? I know he was a son of a bitch sometimes, but
he had a family. A business that supported the local economy. Why?”
Char shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Emmy.” She heated some oil in a pan and
began chopping peppers and onions. “Do you think it was random?”
Em lifted her shoulders helplessly. “It had to be. I know he . . . could make people
angry, but that angry?”
Stan thought of Hal Hoffman’s body again. The protruding sickle under the glow of
the flashlight. She shivered. “Where do you think the murderer got the . . . weapon?
Would Hal have had it on him? Like, to cut corn?” she asked, thinking of her conversation
with Nikki.
All eyes in the room fell on her. She turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring
it up—”
But Em shook her head. “No, Stan, that’s a good question. I didn’t even think of it.
I know my father-in-law had a collection of those old tools, but I haven’t seen them
in a long time. I think Hal kept them somewhere in one of the barns.”
Stan thought about that. A family heirloom as the weapon. Was that symbolic, or coincidental?
“Was he having trouble with anyone?” she asked. “Kathryn McKitchum said she saw him
arguing with the man in the Explorer outside her restaurant. The man named Fink. Did
Emmalee Hoffman appeared in the kitchen doorway. If possible, she looked even more
exhausted than she had the night before—and then she’d reminded Stan of the walking
dead, no Halloween pun intended. When she saw Stan and Char, she attempted to smile.
“Hi, guys,” she said, and her voice broke.
Char stepped past Francine, dropping her enormous purse with a thunk on the table.
She enveloped Em, who was not a tall woman, in her bulk. Emmalee’s face vanished into
Char’s bosom as Char squeezed. “You’ll be okay, honey,” she crooned. “It’s just going
to take some time.”
When Char finally let her go, Em stepped back, wiping her cheeks with the back of
her hand. “I know,” she said. “I know. It’s just . . .” her voice trailed off. She
glanced at her sister. Francine took the cue easily. “I’ll go sit with the boys,”
she said, and slipped upstairs.
“Thank God,” Em said, motioning to the table. “Please, sit.”
Stan looked around for a seat. The kitchen table was crammed with casserole dishes,
pies, bottles of wine, Crock-Pots. The chairs had coats and stacks of papers piled
on them. But despite the many cars outside, no one else seemed to be in the house.
It was quiet as a tomb. She stashed her jacket on the chair with the highest pile
and perched on the edge of another.
“Everyone’s outside on the farm,” Em said, anticipating the question. “My brothers
all came, and Hal’s sister. She went out to get groceries. Some of our sister farms
sent workers to help out. People have been lovely.” She collected papers off one chair
and motioned to Char, her movements slow and stiff. “Here, sit.”
Char narrowed her eyes. “Have you eaten?”
Em shook her head.
“Well, let’s change that right now.” Char set to work clearing space on the counter,
pulling eggs and veggies out of the fridge. “I’ll whip up some omelets. What do y’all
like in them?”
More eggs. Stan hoped Char wouldn’t force her to eat. Her friend was known to be overly
generous with food.
“I’m really not hungry,” Em began, but Char hushed her.
“Of course you are. And the boys are, too. Peppers and onions, right? Tomatoes, too?”
At Em’s resigned nod, Char got to work. “So what have you found out?”
“I haven’t found out anything aside from what I knew last night.” Emmalee sank down
into her own chair, right on top of someone’s coat, and stared at her hands in her
lap like she’d never seen them before. “Someone murdered Hal.” She looked at Char.
“Who would have wanted to murder Hal? I know he was a son of a bitch sometimes, but
he had a family. A business that supported the local economy. Why?”
Char shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Emmy.” She heated some oil in a pan and
began chopping peppers and onions. “Do you think it was random?”
Em lifted her shoulders helplessly. “It had to be. I know he . . . could make people
angry, but that angry?”
Stan thought of Hal Hoffman’s body again. The protruding sickle under the glow of
the flashlight. She shivered. “Where do you think the murderer got the . . . weapon?
Would Hal have had it on him? Like, to cut corn?” she asked, thinking of her conversation
with Nikki.
All eyes in the room fell on her. She turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring
it up—”
But Em shook her head. “No, Stan, that’s a good question. I didn’t even think of it.
I know my father-in-law had a collection of those old tools, but I haven’t seen them
in a long time. I think Hal kept them somewhere in one of the barns.”
Stan thought about that. A family heirloom as the weapon. Was that symbolic, or coincidental?
“Was he having trouble with anyone?” she asked. “Kathryn McKitchum said she saw him
arguing with the man in the Explorer outside her restaurant. The man named Fink. Did
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