A Bird in the Hand (11 page)

Pulling away from the space in front of the town hall was an ambulance. With lights and sirens going at full tilt, it began moving at top speed, heading for our local hospital. Hopefully Ms. Wentworth hadn't decked another unsuspecting soul in the chops. I reached up and tenderly touched my nose. I felt their pain, whoever the victim was.

We waited through the traffic jam—a relatively unknown phenomenon in our small burg—then found a parking spot around the corner from the town hall. With the line of cars gone and the gawkers occupied with other issues, the street was once more its normally serene self.

In fact, the inside of the building was silent as well—much
too
silent. The few folks we passed on our way to the elevator all seemed to be huddled together, whispering among themselves, work halted, and not a customer in sight. The atmosphere had taken an eerie turn, reminding me of a late night B-rated horror movie, the one with the young woman whose superpowers allow her to see the zombies under the skin of her fellow townspeople. I shook my head to dispel the image. I could picture His Honorableness—no, that wasn't charitable. The man might be clueless, but I'd wager he was no zombie. Maybe.

Gregory opened the door to the mayor's office, ushering me in first with a slight push to the small of my back. This was cowardice disguised as chivalry, I decided. Neither of us wanted to see what was on the other side of the door. Oh well, I sighed. If I must, I must…

And immediately dropped that train of thought. Ms. Wentworth was all but lying across her desk, sobbing so hard that she made no discernible sound. Concerned, I rushed forward, dropping my capacious bag in the process and nearly tripping my husband.

"Ms. Wentworth, it's Caro Browning." I gestured madly with one hand for Greg to join me, but he stayed where he was, watching the scene in front of him with something akin to distaste.
Really
, I thought.
Men.
Well, it was up to me. I jumped in, per usual, with both feet. "Ms. Wentworth, can you hear me?"

* * *

Two steaming mugs of coffee and thirty minutes later, I'd managed to get an almost coherent story out of the mayor's secretary. We'd moved from the front office to the kitchen, and I saw that my husband had much the same reaction that I did when I first saw it. That was not the time to discuss the mayor's fiscal soundness, I decided. Gregory could wait for the explanation.

With a few pauses to catch her breath, Ms. Wentworth recounted her morning. Coming into work later than usual—the mayor had called her the night before and had asked her to adjust her schedule—and finding Mayor Greenberg slumped in his desk chair, one plump hand held to his chest as he gasped for breath.

"And the ambulance came right away, of course," I prompted her when she paused and seemed to lose her train of thought.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course," she said, sounding as if she had only just then remembered what the conversation was about. Odd, yes, but I was well aware of how shock manifested itself differently in different individuals, so I let it pass.

My husband, ever the vigilant legal hound, did not.

"Please explain, if you will, Ms. Wentworth." The tone was polite, the words a directive that I didn't understand, and apparently neither did the secretary. "What might have caused the mayor to have a heart attack? Perhaps stress of the office?" I wanted to laugh but managed to remain sober.

"I'm sorry?" Ms. Wentworth's face was a study in consternation, and the flick of her eyes in my direction seemed to bear this out. Again, Gregory pushed the point.

"Is there anything going on that might have affected the mayor so profoundly?" My husband's voice was firm, a redoubt against the look of irritation I shot at him. I really didn't need Ms. Waterworks to spring another leak. Crying can be very tiresome.

"I don't know." Her voice was indignant, as stiff as her spine had become. "I thought perhaps something had happened to his daughter, if I only knew where she was. I need to talk to her, to make sure that she's alright." Ms. Wentworth stared straight at me although her words were aimed at Greg. "Tally means more to me than—well, let's just say that if anything happened to her, it might as well happen to me, too." The lines around her eyes were pronounced, her lips a thin line of exasperation. "When I became involved with my dearest Jeremiah,"
Here I wanted to gag
"it was as if I became a mother as well." She lifted her chin in defiance. "Tally is as good as my own daughter."

"Ah, excuse me, Greg, Ms. Wentworth." I looked from one set face to the other. "Would someone mind explaining what you two are talking about?" I felt as though I'd picked up the wrong script.

My husband reached over and took my hand, turning as if to leave. I tugged back, nearly losing my footing over the small trash can that set to the side of the desk. This was definitely
not
in the screenplay.

"Greg," I protested. "Someone needs to stay with her." I looked over my shoulder at Ms. Wentworth. To my surprise, my normally socially-correct husband laughed. I stared at him as if he'd lost a marble or two.

"Ms. Wentworth," he pronounced, "will be just fine. Come on, Caro. I'm sure we've got more important things to do today."

Something made me follow him meekly. With one last glance at the now-quiet woman, we left the mayor's office. Unfortunately, I now carried a visual that I really didn't want. I'd need more than a distraction to help me erase it from my mind.

* * *

Once back inside our car, seatbelts clipped into place, I finally found the nerve to broach the topic of Ms. Wentworth and the rather odd conversation that had just transpired. I figured that as long as my dear spouse was safely harnessed into his own side of the sedan, I at least had a head start in case an escape was necessary. Of course, I hadn't planned on the hand that shot out to grip my knee.

"Look, Caro." His fingers softened their grasp but stayed put. "The woman has played you for a fool." With a pat, he let go of me and placed both hands on the wheel.

That gave me food for thought, indeed, so much so that when we turned into our driveway it seemed to me that the drive had just begun. Gregory looked over at me and grinned, his blue eyes full of amusement.

"And that, Mrs. Browning, has to have been the quietest drive we have ever taken." He was still grinning when he got out of the car.

You've no doubt heard the expression about "wiping the smile from your face," and I am witness to its reality. When we saw who was waiting for us on our front porch, Greg's face went as still as a panther lying in wait for prey, and I felt my heart give a little leap as if trying to find a hiding spot behind my ribs.

The other man—the one who had been at Nellie Grayson's house the night of the shooting, the driver of the car that had nearly landed in our yard—stood with hands in pockets, a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Honestly the man looked as if he were trying out for a part in a made-for-cable mob movie, and not a very major part at that.

What
was
it with all the drama queens—and kings—in Seneca Meadows?

"Hey." With a well-timed jerk of his chin, the man let fly a tube of grey ash from the end of his cigarette as he held out one rather beefy hand. Apparently he was determined to play out the Brando-like role he had assigned himself.

 I remained frozen in place, using our car as a barrier between me and the possible threat that my husband was now blithely approaching. I am a firm believer in every man for himself, and I had no compunction with diving back into the car and locking myself inside. Besides, my husband, as athletic as he is, would have a great head start in a footrace against a smoker's lungs. That issue settled, I watched the scene before me with a wary eye.

"Gregory Browning." Greg's voice was firm and even, always a sure sign of impending battle in my experience. He reached out and grasped the man's hand, giving it a rather firmer than called for shake. I had to grin. Ever the territory marker, my dear husband is.

"Richard Beaton, private investigator. Pleased to meet you." He proffered a business card to my husband, who took it and gave it a quick glance before tucking it into his breast pocket. I saw that Mr. Beaton's eyes had shifted in my direction, and I shrank inside my light coat, trying to compact my pastry-padded body into nothingness. I'd personally never come across an investigator whose last visit to a neighborhood involved running
from
a crime scene. "And is this the missus?"

Oh, puhleeze
, I thought with a mental eye roll. The missus? What decade was this guy living in, anyway? That thought spurred my feet into action, and I all but marched over to Greg's side. I'd show him
missus
.

"I'm Caroline Layton-Browning. And you are again?" I invested the words with all the dignity I could muster while clutching my coat around me. I felt rather than saw Greg's amusement..

"Richard Beaton." He flashed a set of nicotine-stained teeth at me. "But, please, call me Dick."

Oh, you bet I will,
my mind said as my mouth replied, "A pleasure, Mr. Beaton." I turned to Gregory. "Shall I let the dog out?"

Let ol' Dickie-boy think we had a blood-thirsty hound at our disposal. My theatrics, though, were immediately dashed by the yipping that had begun behind the front door. Mr. Beaton looked at me and smiled, his lips drawn back over his teeth in much the same manner as a shark's just before that fatal bite.

"Ah," he said. "Your dog, I presume?"

"Yes," I answered stiffly. I turned to my husband. "Gregory, are we going to stand here all day or shall we go inside?" My testy tone should have worked as a warning system to both men. It didn't.

"After you, Mrs. Browning." Richard
Call Me Dick
Beaton performed a ridiculous half-bow as he ushered me ahead of him. Apparently his character was moving from the harsh streets of crime to a more royal venue. I completely ignored him, reaching down to scoop Trixie into my arms. Mr. Beaton reached over and gave my traitorous pooch a quick rub between the ears. If dogs could swoon from ecstasy, Trixie would have done so. Mr. Beaton, recognizing a breach of loyalty when he saw one, gave me that predator-like smile again.

"Delightful dog you have there, Mrs. Browning."

I all but stuck out my tongue at our visitor.

Over mugs of coffee—I pointedly did not offer to share any of the banana bread that sat on our counter—my husband and I listened as Mr. Beaton explained his presence.

"My firm was originally hired to find Natalie Greenberg, the daughter of—"

I interrupted his spiel. "We know who she is." I know I sounded rude, but the man had rubbed me wrong from the get-go. "And we already know what happened to the other investigator who came looking for her." I purposely did not look at my husband, instead rising to make Mr. Beaton another cup of coffee. Caffeine, I've found, can be a wonderful tongue-loosening agent, especially when served in a cozy kitchen like my own. I surreptitiously eyed the sweet bread. No—that was a bit much, even to me. I tried not to slam the refilled mug down in front of our uninvited guest.

"Thank you, Mrs. Browning," he said gravely. "May I continue?"

I shot a suspicious glance at him as I sat back down. As the reigning Queen of Sarcasm, I recognized a fellow user when I heard one. I saw an amused gleam in Gregory's eyes as he took a sip from his own mug. I all but tossed my head at him.

"Please," I replied regally. "Elucidation is a virtue, Mr. Beaton."

I could have sworn that he was hiding a smile as he took a sip of coffee. He cleared his throat, leaning against the slats of the oak chair.

"We'd already sent out one investigator, who met with, shall we say, a dead end." His solemn expression gave nothing away, and I could not figure out if he'd meant that as a pun or not. I decided to ignore it. "Mayor Greenberg, still concerned with his daughter's whereabouts, called and asked that someone else take up the case, hence my insertion into the story."