A Bird in the Hand (13 page)

Fighting the urge to grab my chest to still my rapidly beating heart, I smiled across the gleaming countertop at Seneca Meadows' eyes and ears. "I'd like to try my luck with that turnover," I said, pointing to the pastry. "And if you have a minute, could you sit and have coffee with me?" I smiled blandly, hoping that my plan to pick her brain wasn't lit up above my head in neon lights.

"Sure," she said. "You grab a table, and I'll get the goodies."

I glanced around the bakery's eat-in area. It was decorated in what must certainly be
de rigueur
for all small town eateries: gingham checked café curtains at the windows and the front door, matching table cloths on the tables scattered artfully around the room, and echoing prints on all of the chair cushions. Still, it had a homey air about it, and who am I to critique someone else's decorating choices? Mine has not changed since the late eighties or thereabouts, but at least I will be able to recognize my own house when I become more, shall we say, forgetful.

"Oh, my aching dogs." Candy sat down across from me and leaned over to rub at her feet, causing a shudder to ripple through me. I hoped that she'd used those disposable gloves when she'd taken my turnover from the case. I reached out to grab it before she could hand it to me.

"Candy," I began, taking a precautionary nibble of the pastry. So far, so good. I didn't keel over from foot fungus, so I took a bigger bite. Ah. Delicious as usual. I wiped a few crumbs from my lips and continued. "Candy, do you have any idea where Ms. Wentworth lives? You know, His Hon—I mean, Mayor Greenberg's secretary?"

She looked up from her impromptu foot massage, brow wrinkled. "Ms. Wentworth? I don't think I know a—" She smiled suddenly. "Of course! You must mean Helena." Candy gave her toes a final wriggle, sighing in relief. "Much better. I tell you, Mrs. B. Sometimes my feet hurt so bad—"

"That is all well and good," I said briskly. "However, I am in something of a hurry today, and I would appreciate it if you could give me Ms. Wentworth's—Helena's—address." I stood to emphasize my rush.

Candy gave me an injured look, which I proceeded to ignore. Muttering under her breath (I caught something along the lines of, "a 'please' would be nice.") Candy flounced back to the counter and disappeared into the kitchen, presumably to retrieve the desired information.

The bakery door jangled as a veritable gaggle of young girls walked in, talking excitedly amongst themselves as they stood eyeing the gleaming pastry case. I watched them with interest. The young of today amaze me, not because of how different they are from the youth of days gone by, but because of how different they are
not
. I can remember acting exactly that way with my own friends. And thinking that the adults around me had no clue about having fun. The passing years have altered that perception somewhat.

Candy's brusque words dragged me back to the present. "I've written it down for you. Make sure to phone ahead. Helena hates surprises." And with that, she pointedly ignored me and threw her sunniest smile at the giggling girls. "What can I get for you ladies today?"

I grabbed the slip of paper from the countertop and made my way through the excited group, careful to hold my rather large handbag against my side. It can be nearly lethal when it hits someone. Just ask my dear husband.

I stood still for a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sun's glare. From what I could decipher—Candy's handwriting left a lot to be desired—Helena Wentworth lived in one of Seneca Meadows' historic districts.
Very impressive,
I thought. Greg and I had looked at homes there before choosing our newer bungalow. The price tag of the mortgage alone had thrown us for a loop, not to mention the potential cost for the upkeep of the very large lawns that went with the houses. Well, maybe it was an inheritance. I couldn't see how someone on a minuscule salary such as what Ms. Wentworth's had been could afford a house like that, not to mention that she was now without employment.

The drive to that part of the town was pleasant. Great oaks spread their branches across the streets in a canopy of dappled light, producing a sense of time travel as I drove past houses of a previous era, an age when no one worried about depleting the forests and the builders were visionary.

Helena Wentworth's house was set back within a stand of tall trees, their verdant branches reaching up and over the rooftop. I eyed it critically; those would have to be trimmed back or someone might have a problem once the first snow fell. Still, it gave a feeling of seclusion, something that my HOA was sorely lacking.

I started to pull into the drive but reconsidered and parked on the street. I didn't want to telegraph my presence here before I was ready to knock on the door. After all, I was inviting myself over, something I wasn't sure would be appreciated. I'm not a fan of casual drop-ins, that's for certain, and I had a feeling that Ms. Wentworth might not be either.

A curtain twitched in an upstairs window, and I sighed, opening the car door and stepping out into the glory that can be New York's spring. I say
can be
because spring is also prime time for a winter rerun, but I digress. I was here to see exactly what Helena Wentworth knew about her late, somewhat lamented boss, and I did not have a plan of action.

The door opened before I could make it to the porch, and I must admit you could have knocked me over with a feather, as my granny would say whenever something amazed her. The young woman standing in the doorway was certainly not Helena, but I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew who it was.

Natalie Greenberg, dark eyes narrowed against the day's brightness, stood watching me walk up the sidewalk and head for the old-fashioned porch—a veranda, really—without so much as a smile on her face. I always feel awkward when someone watches me do anything, and walking is no exception. I managed to catch the toe of my shoe on the edge of the first step and would have done a face plant if not for the railing. As it was, I had not only marred the leather finish of my favorite shoes, I had also twisted my ankle. So it was with a limp that I approached the door and the still silent Natalie.

"Hello," I began, trying to look past her into the hall without being obvious. I'd come to see Helena Wentworth, after all, and if she wasn't in I'd come back another time. Besides, something about that staring face sent the willies tap dancing up and down my spine, and I had no desire to be ensconced behind closed doors with her.

"Is Helena at home?" I used her first name casually, intimating that Ms. Wentworth and I were on friendly terms, so it would behoove Tally Greenberg to get out of the way and let me in. At least that's the message I hoped I was sending. One never knows with some folks.

Natalie stepped to one side, letting me walk into the dark entryway. A staircase rose from the middle of the box-like foyer straight up to the next floor, and by craning my neck, I could just make out the form of Ms. Wentworth, leaning over the railing, her unsmiling visage a mirror image of the girl below.

What in the world is going on here?
I wondered. The dynamics were thick enough to slice and serve on toast. Straightening my shoulders, I dug out my best "here I am on a friendly social call" smile.

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in for a quick visit, Ms. Wentworth. Helena." My neck was getting a crick from looking upward. If she didn't descend soon, I might be stuck permanently in this position.

"Tally, why don't you put the kettle on while Mrs. Browning and I go into the front room?" Helena Wentworth began to walk slowly down the oak staircase, gripping the balustrade as if she were afraid she'd fall if she let go. I had seen concern on Natalie's face as she turned and disappeared further into the house, and I idly wondered just who was caring for whom.

My smile felt one size too small for my mouth, but I managed to keep it in place as Ms. Wentworth stepped off the last stair and into the entry way. Without as much as a glance my direction, she turned left through an archway and into what she had called "the front room." And what a room it was. The entire western wall was made up of French doors, each pane providing a glistening view onto one of the most gorgeous gardens I had ever seen this side of the Atlantic. Fragrant lilac bushes, trimmed to knee height, lined a brick walkway, guarding the perky daffodils that ran riot along a low wall. A myriad of pansies, daisies, and violets grew as if wild across the rest of the plot. It took an effort to recall my reason for being there, but it also gave me the opening gambit I'd needed.

"You must be quite proud of your beautiful blossoms," I said as I turned to face my hostess. "That has to be the loveliest garden I've seen in a while."
Thank goodness I could say this truthfully,
I thought wryly. I had a feeling that Helena Wentworth could spot a phony a mile off.

Her nod seemed perfunctory, as if the riotous perfection outside had lost its appeal. Or perhaps she had other things on her mind at the moment, considering she was harboring—if that was indeed the correct word—a fugitive from the law. Well, maybe not the law, I amended my thoughts, although she appeared clearly to be harboring. Miss Natalie Greenberg certainly had garnered the attention of quite a few folks. And I was as eager as the next person to hear what Helena Wentworth had to say about this.

I've found that silence is a wonderful tool when getting folks to spill their guts. I've used it on my beloved spouse more than once and have always been successful—for the most part. I stood quietly, watching Helena watch me, willing myself to stay silent. I had a feeling that she'd mastered the art as well and was determined not to be the first to blink, as they say.

Finally, sighing, Helena turned and made her way to a chaise lounge that sat in one corner of the room, indicating with a wave that I should sit in the chair next to her. She was certainly not the in-charge woman of the mayor's office that I had expected to see, but now seemed weary, tired of everything and ready to drop at a snap of the fingers.

Puzzled, I sat and waited for her to begin the conversation, but instead she dropped her head against the back of the chaise lounge, eyes closed. From where I sat, I could see the purple smudges under her eyes, and even her clothes seemed tired and dull. What in the world had she been doing these past few days to make her react this way? With a new determination to discover the truth, or at least what she knew, I cleared my throat, preparatory to the Caro Layton-Browning version of the third degree.

The door to the front room opened with a vitality that seemed out of place. Natalie Greenberg stood there, head on the swivel as she looked from the supine figure of Helena, to me, and back again. I pasted a smile on my face. She'd come in at the wrong time—or maybe it was the right time if she'd been listening outside the door.

"So, Natalie." My face felt as though it had been tossed into a dryer on high heat, shrinking about two sizes in the process. I plunged ahead, hoping my bright tone would cover my sudden uneasiness. "How have you been? You know, there are quite a few folks who'd like to chat with you."

I mentally smacked myself on the forehead. What a stupid comment! If Natalie Greenberg was up to no good, I'd just given her a reason to throw down, as the young folks today are wont to say. And I had no desire to be in the line of fire.

To my amazement, a look of puzzlement crossed her face. Was the girl really that thick? Or was I witnessing an Oscar-worthy declaration of innocence? Either way, I was befuddled.

"Helena?" Natalie's voice was hesitant, almost childlike, tentatively forming words. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

The still form of Helena Wentworth stirred, but her eyes remained closed as she spoke. "It seems that your name has come up alongside that of a dead man, Tally."

She stopped talking, and I had the feeling that it really was an effort for her to go on. If I hadn't witnessed this woman in action before, I'd have assumed that she was an invalid of sorts. As it was, her responses—or the lack thereof—were giving me the creeps.

Wanting to be helpful, as is my wont, I added, "Actually, it's
two
dead men, Natalie. And a dead woman as well."

The silence that followed was thick enough to spread on bread.

* * *

"You went
where,
Caroline? And did
what
?"

The ominous tone of his voice as well as the use of my complete given name should have been a hint. My husband, still planted in his favorite chair, sat looking at me with the expression that must have scared his law students half to death.

I assumed my best expression of innocence, something I'd perfected as a young girl, and looked my beloved spouse straight in the eyes. I have found that this adds an aura of virtue, assuming that no one who is lying can maintain direct eye contact.

"I just wanted to chat with Ms. Wentworth, to find out how things are going since…"

The near volcanic roar that issued from Gregory's lips nearly sent me flying backward. As it was, poor Trixie, who'd found a place to sleep on Greg's lap, gave a distressed bark and leapt to the floor, disappearing into the hallway. I wanted to disappear with her.

"I. Do. Not. Want. You. To. Go. There. Again." The edict crept out from between clenched teeth, the punctuation as clear as if it had been inscribed in the air above his head. "Do you understand?"

I understood his words rightly enough, but my immediate concern was for my husband's blood pressure. His face had taken on a mottled pattern, although his neck was as red as I'd ever seen it. Was this the sign of a stroke? My mind's Rolodex flipped quickly through the symptoms, and I almost missed his next words.

"…And if I ever hear of that again, I will
not
be responsible for your actions."

That brought me up short. When had I ever held Gregory responsible for
my
decisions? Well, if he wanted to start firing across the bow, I had plenty of ammo myself.