A Biscuit, a Casket by Liz Mugavero

they’d forgotten she sat there.
    “Nothing,” Jake said.
    “Nothing?” It came out as a shriek, startling the other patrons. They all looked up
     from their tables at Brenna, who appeared to be about to hit Jake over the head with
     her plate of French fries.
    Jake shot her a look. “Hal didn’t spend a lot of time at home,” he said to Stan.
    “He didn’t spend any time at home. He let Em deal with everything—the farm, the kids, the bills—and all
     he did was go out and play. We all know what he was like. Why are you defending him?”
     Brenna shoved her plate away, rose, and stomped off. Stan watched her disappear through
     the entrance to the apartment she shared with Jake. She hoped Brenna came back, because
     they were supposed to have a planning session on upcoming batches of treats that needed
     baking.
    Stan looked back at Jake. He met her gaze steadily, still slicing the lemons.
    “So Hal Hoffman was . . . not a family man,” she said.
    “None of my business. Or Brenna’s.”
    “She seems to think otherwise,” Stan said.
    “Well, she’s wrong.”
    “She’s close to the family.”
    “We’re all close to the family. I told you, our mother is one of Em’s closest friends.
     She was there at the crack of dawn this morning, before everyone else showed up with
     their casseroles. Probably beating pillows with her in Hal’s name or something.”
    Stan had seen Jake’s mother around town but never officially met her. Jessie looked
     a lot like her, so Stan had shied away, wondering if the personalities were the same,
     too. But she thought she might like a woman who beat pillows in her friend’s dead
     husband’s name. “So why shouldn’t Brenna have an opinion? If someone was hurting my
     friend I’d be angry at them, too. What was he doing, anyway?”
    Jake used the edge of his knife to push the lemon slices into his tray. His exquisite
     green-brown eyes were troubled. “Nobody should be judging anyone else’s life, even
     if they think they know what it’s like. Brenna cares about them, of course. But she
     doesn’t know the whole story. Neither do I, before you ask,” he said as Stan opened
     her mouth.
    Reluctantly, she closed it again. “But he used to hang out here a lot.”
    “Course he did. It’s the coolest place in town.” He winked. “Part of being cool means
     not asking a lot of questions.”
    Stan didn’t agree. In fact, she wanted to ask more questions, but the front door opened.
     Jake glanced up to see who it was, and his whole face changed—eyebrows drawing together
     in a slight frown, lips narrowed. She turned to look, too. His sister, Trooper Jessie
     Pasquale, stood in the doorway, in full uniform. Her eyes roamed the room, assessing
     her surroundings, before stopping on Jake and Stan. The other patrons watched her
     entrance with interest.
    Great. Just what she needed. Stan sighed inwardly, watched as Pasquale moved to the
     bar, no nonsense as usual. “I should probably go,” she said, but Jake shook his head.
    “No need. Jess,” he said with a nod as his sister reached them. “I can’t say I remember
     the last time you set foot in McSwigg’s. Welcome.”
    Pasquale’s face remained impassive. She didn’t acknowledge her brother’s comment,
     probably recognizing it as sarcasm. She nodded at Stan, then turned back to her brother.
     “Got a minute?”
    He shrugged. “Sure. I’m setting up for tonight, but we can talk.”
    She hesitated. “I meant in private. It’s about Hal Hoffman.”
    Stan saw the annoyance flicker across his face. “I’m busy, but I’m happy to talk here
     while I’m working.”
    Stan started to rise, hoping to fade away without them noticing, but Jake turned to
     her. “No need to leave. We were in the middle of a conversation.”
    Her face heated. She perched back on the edge of the stool. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
    “You were already here,” Jake pointed out.
    Pasquale sighed. “Don’t worry about