Kneading to Die Read Online Free PDF

Intense eyes. She reminded Stan of the depictions of Salem witches painted in honor of Halloween every year; the same white hair loose under a hat, only their hats were black and pointy. And they had warts on their noses. Her visitor had no warts, and she wore scrubs with smiling Scooby-Doo images plastered all over them. A happy scene in direct contrast with her aura. She had good shoes, though. Fun Merrell clogs that Stan had admired but never bought because they weren’t corporate America shoes. She pasted a polite smile on her face.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHello. I’m Carole Morganwick,” the woman said. “I’m the vet in town.”
    â€œHi there. Stan Connor. It’s very nice to meet you.” Stan extended her hand.
    Carole observed it like one would a dirty child reaching for a hug. Instead of shaking, she handed her a thin newspaper. “Your paper was on your lawn. Welcome to town,” she added. Her skin was cancer-tan, and hundreds of tiny wrinkles clustered around the corners of her eyes. From the expression Carole wore now, Stan guessed they were not laugh lines.
    â€œThanks.” Stan took the paper and unfolded it. “Although I haven’t subscribed to a newspaper.” The Frog Ledge Holler. Thin. If there were more than four pages to it, she’d be surprised.
    Carole waved her off. “It’s free. Cyril drives everyone crazy with it.”
    Cyril? Stan had no idea what person she was talking about. “Oh. Well, would you, uh, like to come in?” Stan glanced behind her and envisioned where the unpacked boxes were stacked. How empty it still looked.
    Too late. Carole was already halfway through the door, looking around as if she were at a museum exhibit. “Thank you. I heard you have a cat.”
    â€œI do,” Stan said, closing the door. “A Maine coon. Nutty. Where did you hear that?”
    Carole ignored the question. “Who’s your vet?”
    â€œWell . . .” Stan thought about the best way to answer that. She hadn’t been to Nutty’s “traditional” vet in over a year, nor had she seen his homeopath in a while. And she’d just met Amara, so that didn’t count.
    Carole turned abruptly at her hesitation. Those intense eyes drilled into Stan’s. “You need a local vet, my dear, if you love your cat. And I don’t mean those funny people who call themselves ‘vets,’ but don’t do any kind of veterinary work at all. Did I mention I’m the town vet?”
    â€œOf course I love my cat,” Stan said, bristling at both the insult and the thinly veiled dig at homeopathic vets. Carole must have seen her talking to Amara this morning and decided to establish some territory. “I treat Nutty like a king. Especially with his condition. And yes, you mentioned you’re the vet.”
    â€œMy practice is next to the town hall. Frog Ledge Veterinary Services. What condition?”
    â€œHe has irritable bowel syndrome. Mild.”
    â€œWhat he’s taking for it?”
    â€œâ€˜Taking for it’?” This woman fires questions like she’s part of the Inquisition! “Do you mean medicine?”
    â€œOf course I mean medicine.” Carole lifted the lid off Nutty’s treat jar and peered inside. “What are these?”
    â€œTreats. Freshly baked last night. And Nutty is not on traditional medicine.”
    â€œWhat the devil do you mean, ‘not on traditional medicine’? How do you expect him to maintain?”
    As if he were on cue, Nutty strolled into the room, his plume of a tail standing tall, his usual posture when he investigated new goings-on. He looked from Stan to Carole, recognized the treat jar in her hand and promptly rubbed against her leg.
    Carole observed him. She reached down, pulled his ear back and peered inside. Nutty batted her with his paw. “Looks like mites,” she said. “So what did you say you’re