A Bird in the Hand (14 page)

"What actions are you speaking of?" I asked, my voice even, a sure sign of pique that he would do well to recognize. "I know that you're not referring to walking the dog, feeding the dog, cleaning the house, cooking the meals, doing the laundry…" My catalog went on and on, and by the set look on my husband's face, he'd either tuned me out completely or was working on the next salvo.

To my surprise, he held up both hands in surrender. I confess I had no rejoinder, a phenomena I think he'd counted on. To cover my confusion, I spun on my heel and walked out, following Trixie into the kitchen.

Men
some have a very odd way of displaying their affection. If he hadn't wanted me to go because he was worried about my safety, he could have just said so. He can be downright vexatious at times.

We managed to get through the evening without killing one another, although at times that was only by sheer willpower on my part. However, I did need him alive and well if I was going to put into play the next step in my strategy, so I graciously waved a white flag consisting of coffee and well-buttered toast in bed the next morning.

I could see by the wary look on his face that he'd already guessed my ploy, but I didn't mind as long as he was agreeable to what I'd planned for our day. I'd figured that if I kept his blood sugar up with a steady infusion of bakery goods throughout the day, my husband wouldn't concentrate too hard on the reason.

"You surely don't expect me to agree to whatever it is you're planning, Caro." Gregory reached over a protesting Trixie to set his empty plate on the nightstand. "I'm pretty sure that you know exactly how I felt about that yesterday, and I haven't changed my mind."

I've perfected the art of smiling with clenched teeth from countless meetings with my editors, and I turned my brightest beam on my spouse.

"Darling, I heard you very clearly last night." I'd been brought up not to lie. I certainly had heard him. What I
hadn't
said was, "I'm still going back out there." I upped the wattage. "More coffee, dear?"

* * *

The day was going to be a fine one, the sort that sets the pulses of the local chamber of commerce members racing as they dash to get those publicity photos snapped and turned into brochures. What clouds there were hovered high above the earth, wispy tendrils of white across a bright blue canvas. The countryside was in full bloom, trees now thick with new green leaves, the fields a quilt of emerald spreading up to the roadside. Seeing such beauty reminded me of Helena Wentworth's garden, in turn reminding me of the task ahead.

I chanced a sidewise look at Gregory. He seemed content to be the passenger today, a strategy in my favor, I thought smugly. I was driving both the car and our schedule, and I fully intended to keep it that way. For the moment, though, he appeared to be enjoying the glorious day as much as I was. I sincerely hoped I could get this first stop accomplished without our own nuclear explosion of temper.

The neighborhood that surrounded Ms. Wentworth's house was as lovely as I'd remembered. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead of us as I casually turned onto the quiet residential street that would take us straight to that particular residence.

"Caro." My husband's voice was low, almost velvet in texture, and my spine tingled and stiffened. Round one was about to commence. "Where might we be heading, exactly?"

The target house was in sight, so I merely pointed, pulling smoothly to a stop in front of Helena's house. From the sharp intake of breath in the seat next to mine, I knew he'd figured it out by himself.

"I am really amazed at your tenacity—"

That was as far as he got before the front door burst open, and a wild haired Natalie Greenburg stormed down the porch steps and over to our car. Instinctively I hit the automatic lock button, which was rendered completely useless by the wide-open window.

"What are you doing here again, you nosy witch? And who the hell is this old man?" From the look on her face and the fierceness in her eyes, I fully expected to see her begin to scrape her feet over the ground, preparatory to charging at us much as a bull would do. The girl looked and acted like a full-blown specimen from a nut house.

A quick glance at my dear husband had me rethinking this entire escapade. His countenance was as thunderous as Tally Greenberg's, and they both seemed to have forgotten my very existence. To categorize him as geriatric will raise his blood pressure and hackles guaranteed, and from the mottled color his face now sported, Miss Greenberg had made a huge mistake.

"We've actually come by to call on Helena, Natalie," I said briskly, "and that will be quite enough of your incendiary words." I reached over and patted my husband's arm. "Gregory, let us disembark."

Climbing out of the driver's seat—a trifle more difficult to accomplish than usual due to the precarious angle of the curb—I marched around to the sidewalk, back straight and eyes narrowed. From the looks that both my spouse and the girl were giving me, I knew that I had either stunned them into an awed silence with my elegant verbiage or I had uncovered myself as a bona fide Looney Tunes. I was in no mood to figure out which it was. I needed to prepare myself for the assault ahead—and I prayed it would be figurative, not literal. My poor body could not take much more battering.

Since Greg had not shown any sign of movement, continuing instead to divide glares between two females whose mental stability could be called into question, I marched over to his side of the car, wrenched open the door with a flourish, and indicated that he should join me on the sidewalk. True to my expectations, he did. If nothing else, my spouse knows when he is outnumbered and acts accordingly. What he might have to say later—well, that was also to be expected.

I left him and Tally trailing me as I mounted the steps of the porch and rapped sharply on the screen door. With a snort of disgust, she reached around me and pushed the front door open, leaving Greg and me in her wake. Without a glance at him, I followed her into the dim interior, craning my neck to look up at the second floor as if I'd see Helena Wentworth standing there. Instead, I saw no one, not even Tally, which I found slightly disconcerting. However, the absence of the homeowner—or dweller—has never before stopped me from satisfying my curiosity when something is on my mind, so I began climbing the stairs toward the bedrooms, hoping that Helena wouldn't come unglued when I poked my head around her door.

There was no need to worry. Helena, one hand flung out as to intercept me, lay prone beside her bed, a halo of blood surrounding her head and a bullet lying nearby. In spite of my queasiness at the sight of so much blood, I knelt down beside her and placed two fingers on her neck. To my relief, I felt a faint pulse. I looked around the room and spotted a tee shirt on the floor; I grabbed it and pressed it to the side of her head. The now-familiar nausea set in posthaste, and when Greg walked in, I was happy to relinquish my place beside Helena.

My various exposures to police procedures and research for my books should have served to set my mind at ease whenever I encountered a situation such as this one, but it hadn't. Thankfully, my dependable husband had the matter in hand. After calmly dialing for emergency services and the police, Greg sent me to make tea—or something stronger—for us as he sat by Helena and waited for emergency services to respond. I was certainly tempted to look for "stronger."

That's where I found Natalie Greenberg. She was seated at the kitchen table, chin propped in hands and eyes fixed on something only she could see. It was creepy, to say the least. I decided that I needed to get something into her—preferably something liberally laced with sugar, my go-to remedy. In the meantime, I needed to get as much information from Natalie as I could before the police arrived and shut me down. The sound of approaching sirens was my cue to hurry.

"Do you know who hurt Helena, Natalie?" I asked gently, taking a seat in the chair next to her, my own malaise pushed to the side. I debated giving her a hug but restrained myself. Even kittens, when unnerved, will lash out at an unfamiliar touch. Conscious of my newly healed nose, I stayed where I was, waiting for a response. When she did not answer but instead began softly crying, I felt like a heel. Apparently I needed a crash course in how to question a victim. I was still debating my next move when I heard the front door open. The paramedics and two of SMPD had arrived, along with one person I could have done without.

"What a delightful surprise this is." The voice was gruff, familiar, and I turned my head to see the bulky outline of Richard "Call Me Dick" Beaton standing just inside the kitchen door, beefy hands clasped together at his waist. I groaned inwardly. This man was the last person on Earth I wanted to see. Thank the powers that be I'd coerced my dear spouse into joining me on this jaunt. I'd let him deal with dear old Dick.

I rose to my feet in my best imitation of the queen, head high and back straight. "Natalie," I said regally, "I need to step out for a moment but I'll return as soon as possible. Just drink your tea and don't let anyone bother you," I added for good measure, giving Richard Beaton a glare down my uplifted nose. A huge grin on the detective's face was his response.

Ignoring him, I sailed through the doorway and halted, unsure of where to look for Gregory. Knowing my husband, he would not be content to sit and ruminate. He was more than likely searching the residence for some indication of what had taken place.

A noise from the front room where Helena and I had visited (was it really only a day ago?) made me turn there first, and I beheld my better half striding up and down in front of the bank of French doors, hands shoved into pants pockets and lips pursed in thought.

"Gregory," I hissed from between clinched teeth. "That cretin is here! And I'm certain he is not here because we called 9-1-1." As far as I knew, Beaton was employed privately as a gumshoe, or whatever it was private investigators were called these days. I paused in the middle of my rant. Perhaps he was referring to his employment with that "Dick" routine, as in Sam Spade? Shaking my head, I resumed my tirade. "And right now, at this very moment, he's in the kitchen with that poor girl! Gregory! Are you even listening to me?" He had stopped his incessant promenading and now stood staring out of the windows as if admiring the riotous blooms just the other side of the glass. I was tempted to throw something at him.

Just as my eyes lit upon a small decorative bolster, considering its ease of heft and ability to sail across the room, my husband swung around, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. (This is the same mouth that fascinated me so during the early days of our acquaintance, and to tell the truth, it still has some effect on me.) I guiltily dropped my hand mid-grab for the pillow and gave him my own version of innocence, slightly widened eyes and a quizzical frown creasing my forehead—but not too much. At my age, I am ever concerned with creating permanent lines across my noble brow. It worked as well as it always did, Gregory's eyes rolling almost to the back of his head and a slight shake of the head.

"Caro, don't even think it." He cut off my feeble protestations, instead crossing the room with long strides in order to grab both my arms in his and deliver a brief—but pleasurable—kiss on my upturned lips. In addition to being quite nice, it had also effectively silenced me. Greg's lips traveled from my own tingling mouth to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. Instead of further, ah, administrations though, he whispered into my ear. "Our mutual friend," this caused me to stiffen in his grasp, "seems to have invited himself to the party." A distant sound of sirens underscored his words.

"I know!" I managed to wrench myself free and glared up at him. "That's what I came in here to tell you."

From where we stood, I could see a veritable flotilla of vehicles through the windows: two police cruisers, an ambulance, and a car that looked like something straight out of a television drama had just arrived. Husband or no husband, I was not going to be left on the sidelines of this party.

Dashing into the entryway, I was just in time to see the back door close as Call-Me-Dick took his leave. No surprise there, I thought grimly. That man was a menace in a cheap suit. A quick glance at Natalie showed her in the same position as she'd been when I left her, so I doubted she had even registered the detective's presence. That, at least, was a blessing. Whatever it was he'd tried to get out of her probably hadn't worked out well.

A sharp rap on the front door made me jump. Gregory, having moved into the hall behind me, answered the door with a calm smile. From the set of his well-shaped shoulders to the air of self-assurance, he might have been ushering inside an invited guest—something they all were, I suppose, in a macabre manner—instead of standing aside to let in Avery Stanton, he of the HOA and our fair town's vice mayor.

And right behind him, arms pumping like a locomotive and chin lifted high in triumph, came the missus—Louise Stanton, in the flesh. And a considerable amount of flesh it was indeed.