A Bird in the Hand (15 page)

I groaned aloud, and one of the officers, a young man who looked young enough to be in high school, shot me an inquisitive look. I smiled back at him weakly, making a show of clutching at my stomach and miming illness. He stepped around me quickly and joined his fellow officer in the kitchen, and I felt indignation rising. What if I'd truly been a damsel in distress, a woman in need of comfort? Whatever were they being taught at the academy these days? Certainly not chivalry.

I caught the slight sound of a chuckle behind me and swung around, a scowl across my face, ready to lambaste my spouse for not running to my rescue. It was a look of innocence though that he presented to me, causing my scowl to morph into a full-blown frown. Gregory reached out and drew me into his arms. I was tempted to break away but I—well, let's leave it there. Suffice it to say that I stayed put for the moment.

"You know, Caro, your face will freeze like that one of these days."

He managed to skip out of range of a well-placed kick toward his shins, winking at me as he strolled into the kitchen to join the discussion. And I? Tempted as I was to slam out of the house and leave him to find his own way back home—preferably in the back seat of a police cruiser—I was more interested in what was being said. Sighing, I followed him, tucking away a promise for a more satisfying payback when time permitted.

I skirted around the wall of uniforms blocking my view of Natalie Greenberg, nearly tripping over one set of solid shoes as I did so. I was intent on finding out what business the Stantons had here in Helena's house, and I didn't notice my husband's frantically waving hand above the heads of the officers as they stood talking earnestly, faces close together over the piece of paper one held in his hand.

Natalie still sat quietly, not moving, eyes fixed on a point somewhere else but the kitchen. I slid into the chair nearest her and cautiously put one hand on her shoulder. When she didn't budge, not even to shake me off, I scooted closer to her and placed my arm firmly across her shoulders. I was just gathering up the courage to whisper promises of aid into her ear when I caught sight of my husband's face, almost contorted with the effort of flagging me down. With a quick squeeze, I slipped from the chair and out of the kitchen, Greg's gesticulations indicating that we needed to leave.

"Let's go," he whispered, grabbing my elbow and propelling me out the front door. In spite of the fact that I wanted to stay, his actions intrigued me. In my experience, my beloved spouse does nothing without cause. I could hardly wait to hear what he had to say.

I drove away from the house as quietly as possible, eager to put distance between us and the drama before I found a place to pull over. Shifting into park, I turned to Greg, eager to hear what great plan he had concocted. "Caro, what in the world are you doing?" The cross tone was not an act. Greg was truly annoyed at me and impatient to drive on. If body language could talk, his would be using some fairly salty lingo and quite loudly at that.

"I'm waiting to hear why you wanted to leave so quickly." I sounded a trifle haughty, but that's what he did to me when he acted this way. "I assumed by the way you nearly dragged me out of there that something was on your mind." "Caro," he began, his tone carefully modulated, and his countenance wiped clean of all commentary. "We had no business there." I began sputtering, and he reached across the seat to grab my hands in his. "We have a bigger fish to fry, Caro, a
much
bigger fish."

Ah. It was beginning to dawn on me, my husband's reasoning for our quick exit. I sat back in my seat, squared my shoulders, and put the car back into gear. "Where to, Holmes?" I gave him one of my sunniest smiles. I'd gone from irate to ready to rock and roll as quickly as it took to say the words "private investigator."

Gregory, ever one to play along with my literary allusions, replied, "Onward to the bakery, Dr. Watson. I feel a need for sweets and information coming on."

I grinned, gunning the accelerator, giving the tires a little extra spin. The game, as they say, was definitely afoot.

The bakery was busy, of course, with Candy and the other employees dashing back and forth between the kitchen and the counter, balancing armloads of cookies, sweet breads, and other equally delicious concoctions. I managed to snag a small table near the front door—all the better to people watch, my dear—and sat waiting for Greg's return with our goodies. A slight pinching at my waistband required a surreptitious adjustment, and I decided that I'd begin my workout regimen tomorrow. Or the next day. Until then…

We had just begun on the slices—slabs really—of piping hot pumpkin bread, replete with a drizzle of icing, when I caught sight of a familiar car across the street. I could have sworn it had not been there when we'd arrived, nor had it been there when I'd sat down, so I could only think that Richard Beaton had arrived in the past few moments as we ate. I waggled my fork at Gregory, telegraphing the man's presence and trying to convey through extra-sensory perception that our prey was in view. My dear spouse, of course, just frowned at me and flicked off a stray crumb that had sailed from my utensil to the front of his shirt. I sighed deeply, albeit dramatically, I must confess. Leaning across the table, I whispered, "Beaton is across the street." More crumbs accompanied this pronouncement, making it Greg's turn to sigh.

Casually pushing my chair back with my knees and rising—and rather gracefully, it must be noted—I looked at my partner in crime and announced, "I will be back anon. One of us must take the bull by the horns."

Gregory snorted in amusement. "'Anon?' Pray thee, oh writer, to explain from whence this absolute verbal nonsense is coming." He stood as well, brushing his hands over his plate. "Let's get this over with, Caro. But I'm warning you," he added sternly, "I will be taking the lead on this one."

Crumb-laden or not, I stuck out my tongue. In spite of my success in the literary realm, I am still a bit touchy whenever someone—particularly my dear husband—casts aspersions my way. And sometimes I just need to channel my inner child.

Just as we stepped out of the doorway, loud noise, almost like the backfiring of a car, caused us both to start. Apparently it had startled the occupant of the car as well. A howl erupted from its interior, and we began to run.

Beaton's car was slotted between an elegant sedan and an eclectically decorated Volkswagen Beetle. I looked into the near car window, noticing the various fast food bags scattered about the backseat and floorboard. Wrinkling my nose at the aroma of stale fries, I stepped closer to the driver's door where Beaton sat moaning in pain, one beefy hand clamped firmly on his left shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers in a slower river of red.

I screamed, of course.

I was asked the same series of questions over and over by detectives, patrol officers, and someone who acted suspiciously journalistic in manner. At that moment, though, I was not feeling too discriminate and just kept repeating the same answers almost mechanically. No, I hadn't seen anyone approach Mr. Beaton's car. Yes, we had been sitting just across the street in the bakery near the window. Yes, I knew who he was, and yes, I had seen him earlier. Where? At another crime scene, just an hour or so before.

That last answer got the most response. After a brief confab between all of the officers, two of the detectives broke away from the group and hopped into their car, unmarked but still blaring "here comes the law" as surely as if it had a neon sign above it.

Thankfully, Greg was now back at my side, one arm lying protectively across my shoulders. My knees were trembling, and I was certain that if I did not sit down soon, I would fall over and concuss myself yet again.

"I need to find a place to park it," I murmured into my husband's shirtfront. I could feel a few of the errant crumb missiles that had attached themselves rather moistly to the material, but I didn't move. If I couldn't sit, at least I could lean on the one person whose presence always calmed me and made me feel safe. I hoped that Natalie had the same…

That emerging thought snapped my head upright, so quickly that I felt the world beginning to spin. Clutching at Greg's chest, I gasped, "Natalie! Someone needs to stay with her!" I had had a sudden, almost irrational, fear that she was in danger.

"We're already on it, Mrs. Browning."

I looked over to see young Officer Scott standing with feet planted wide apart, hands clasped behind him in what I thought of as "non-threatening officer stance." I felt a bubble of hysteria rising in my throat. Maybe there was a class for various poses in the academy, something akin to yoga or Pilates. I folded my lips together tightly in order to stifle any insane sound that might try to escape. I really had no time for a trip to the local loony bin. And from the added pressure of Greg's arm, I knew that he'd sensed it as well.

The upshot of the entire day was this: Two people were seriously injured, both from gunshot wounds of the same caliber. They were still running ballistics, of course, but the conjecture seemed logical. I mentally added in the Cat Lady's demise as well as the dead detective in my HOA's park and got an increasing mess, one that should have sent shock waves through the community. For some inexplicable reason, though, Seneca Meadows had managed to keep a tight lid on all of this. That reason alone made me want to figure out what was happening here.

Once we were released, with the stock reminder to "please stay in town and be available," the car seemed to have turned itself in the direction of home. I was not the one piloting the sedan. My legs still felt too weak to press the accelerator and brakes. All I wanted was a quiet evening with my husband, my dog, and a mug of tea (or an adult beverage) to help banish the day's bad memories. You can't always get what you want, though. The Rolling Stones sang about it, and I absolutely concur.

Just as we had settled in bed, each with a book and with Trixie's furry body stretched out between us, the doorbell rang. I jumped, nearly upending my tea. Trixie growled, something she hardly ever does, and I sat frozen, my thumping heart the only indicator that I was still alive. The phrase "scared to death" made a pass through my addled brain. I had no desire to be a test case. Gregory, ever the calm one, flipped the covers back and stood in one smooth motion. From somewhere in my scrambled thoughts I had to admire his physique from behind. Cycling truly does do wonders for the body.

By the muffled sounds of voices that reached my ears—there were at least two other than my husband's—I deduced that something urgent had occurred. It was agony waiting for Greg to return with information, so I did what I always do: Act, then think. From the startled looks on the faces of Officers Scott and Kingsley, I realized a tad too late that not only was my hair lacking its usually decorum, but so was my attire. I was still in my rather tatty nightgown, a tear in the fabric where I'd managed to catch myself on the edge of the nightstand and neckline stretched out from many impatient tugs over my head. It was too late to do anything about it, though, so I extended my hand in my best "lady of the manor" style, refusing to meet my spouse's amused eyes.

"I feel as though we just saw one another," I said in an attempt at levity. It was not well received, however, and I could feel a blush beginning to spread across my face. I moved to stand by Greg, hiding my torn nightie behind his elegant silk pajamas. Nothing, not even my rat's nest hair, would entice me to leave until I knew what was going on.

"Like I was telling your husband here, Mrs. Browning, we've identified the weapon used today." Officer Kingsley, his tone more formal than it had been when last we'd spoken, seemed to be purposely obtuse with his word choice. There were two shootings—did that mean that one weapon was used in both? I was tempted to ask for clarification but caught a slight elbow in the side from my dear husband. I filed that away for later. I never know when I'll need ammunition for retaliation.

"You mentioned that the weapon—a small caliber handgun, correct?—was found in the backseat of Mr. Beaton's car." Although Greg's tone was casual, I knew that he had repeated this rather important piece of information for my sake. I mentally erased one payback from my ongoing list.

For the life of me, I did not recall seeing anything that looked vaguely like a gun when I looked through the car window. Of course, I wasn't concentrating on that, but still…

The officers exchanged glances, and then Officer Scott replied, "No, sir. It was found in the back seat of a car registered to Natalie Greenberg."

Now that was a mystery to ponder. Unless said car had been stashed away in some unobtrusive spot at Helena Wentworth's house, I could not imagine where Natalie was keeping it. This morsel of information was filed away under
to be investigated after coffee and confab with spouse
.

The idea of coffee was alluring, and I had just opened my mouth to invite one and all into my kitchen when Greg said, his tone still exceedingly polite, "Gentlemen, I'm sure you'll understand that it's been quite a trying day for my wife." He slipped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly to his side. This was not an expression of amorous intentions. Rather, it was his signal for me to keep quiet, so he could handle the situation to his liking. It would have amused him to know that I actually was in agreement with him, so I leaned into his side and enjoyed my role as helpless wife.

"Absolutely, sir," agreed Officer Kingsley. "We just wanted to let you know that you two are off the hook."

My shoulders instantly stiffened. "Off the hook?" I had no idea that we'd been dangling from any such implement in the first place. I shot both officers my best "I am not happy with you" scowl. With all I was doing to help them at their job, they had dared to suspect me? I made another mental note. This one, however, was to put both of these numbskulls in my next book and kill them off in a satisfying manner. Ah, yes. The life of a writer can be quite cathartic at times.

That internal conversation led to another thought, this one accompanied by the usual guilt. My longsuffering editor had sent yet another email to me. The words were polite, proper, but the underlying tone—or maybe it was my guilty conscience—had shouted
get off your lazy arse and get that manuscript here NOW
. I sighed. I'd really have to do something about it…tomorrow. For now, I needed that promised consultation over coffee.