A Bird in the Hand (16 page)

With the door closed politely yet firmly on the two Seneca Meadows officers, I beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, nearly stumbling over Trixie in my haste. Nosy dog. She could be as sneaky as the next person (okay, as me) when she wanted to see what was happening in her domain. I shot her a look of disgust, which I could swear was returned in spades, and headed to make the coffee.

I had just placed two steaming mugs of the luscious brew on the kitchen table when it occurred to me that only Trixie and I were present.
Whatever was keeping that man
, I grumbled to myself. When I go above and beyond the call of duty—making coffee at this time of the evening—I do expect to be appreciated.

The sight of my spouse lying in bed, hands tucked under his face as innocently as a newborn baby's and feigning sleep, flipped on my "irrationally angry wife" switch. I snatched the covers from the bed, Trixie bounding on top of Gregory as if this were a new form of game her crazy humans were playing.

"Gregory Browning!" I was panting with the exertion of stomping down the hallway and removing the covers. "Get your fanny out of that bed and into the kitchen. Now," I added in my best schoolmarm voice.

He opened one eye, observing me with mischief. Quick as a wink, his hand shot out and grabbed the edge of my nightie and pulled me down onto the bed beside him. Trixie, sensing the game beginning to rev up, began yipping excitedly and climbing over the two of us. With a huge sigh of exasperation, Greg grabbed Trixie, marched her down the hallway to her bed in the kitchen, and returned to our bedroom, closing the door against the sound of indignant barking.

"Now, Caro," he said, his voice as silky as his pajamas, "I believe that you and I have some unfinished business."

Never leave business unfinished before a good night's sleep, I always say.

The sun rose next morning and found me sitting in my office, a blank computer screen staring back at me accusingly. Alright—I know that inanimate objects do not stare, nor do they accuse, but this is how I was feeling. My writer's block was still firmly in place, and I could feel a few of its family members joining the party. If I wasn't careful, I'd soon have a writer's wall built.

I decided to create a file for everything I'd learned so far about the two murders, beginning with that inopportune stroll to the park. As I rapidly typed the facts, filling the screen with information on the Greenbergs, Ms. Wentworth, and the feckless detectives, it occurred to me that here, literally at my fingertips, were the makings of a book. Holding that thought, I dashed to the kitchen, quickly made a cup of my favorite tea, and in no time I was deep into a plot peopled with villains, political intrigue, and mayhem.

Although I detest having someone read over my shoulder, I feel the need to insert the first few pages of said manuscript here. I, after all, am a writer, and I do love to showcase my talents.

She was restless. Sleep had evaded her and even the comforting presence of her cats
[This was more than difficult for me to write, I can assure you]
could not assuage her uneasiness. Turning her head, she spotted the pair of birding binoculars she kept there—not for birds, of course, but to keep track of the neighborhood's comings and goings. A self-congratulatory feeling gave her a moment of pleasure. After all, if she didn't stay vigilant and keep the riffraff at bay, who would?
[Here I stopped to uneasily consider my own doings with binoculars, but I quickly banished the thoughts. I truly did do the work of a saint, no doubt about it.]

A slight noise from the living room startled her. A cat? One of the myriad of kittens roaming in the dark? If so, she'd need to retrieve the little darling. The thought of an animal getting hurt, especially in her own house, upset her. Without another thought, she arose…

That was as far as I got. Someone really
was
reading over my shoulder, an act that he knew would put me in a sulky mood for hours on end. I quickly turned off the screen and stood up as majestically as I could, managing to catch the torn portion of my nightgown on the arm of the desk chair.

Accompanied by a loud ripping sound, I pushed past my husband, preparatory to stalking back to the bedroom—and stopped abruptly. Something was beginning to percolate in the far recesses of my mind, something that I wasn't quite grasping about the entire unsavory episode of the last few days. I waited, but it didn't surface, so I continued my stomp down the hall and into the bathroom. Maybe a shower would trigger whatever it was that was circulating around in the soup.

When I am deep into a manuscript, I am a very, very clean person. Not that I am not clean every other day of my life, let me hasten to add, but by accident I discovered that a warm shower under the pulsating—and rather expensive—shower head is as good as anything to get the old juices flowing again. And I was feeling the need to erase the thoughts of anyone choosing to cuddle with a cat. I could swear that some of the fictional fur had settled itself in my hair and up my nose.

This began an entire train of thought concerning who would kill the Cat Lady. I, of course, had considered this many times but would never actually carry through such a plot, but apparently there were those without the strict moral code that I employ…not to mention the specter of life behind bars.

A brief rippling of the shower curtain startled me, and I opened my eyes to see Greg's face peering around it, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Oh, no, you don't," I said decisively, modestly crossing my arms over my heaving bosom. Actually, there was no heaving, and practically no bosom, but I've always wanted to insert that phrase into my writing. Besides, becoming sidetracked now would stifle my flow of creativity. On the other hand…

Thirty minutes later, we were finally showered and dried off, grinning at each other like two teens on a very randy weekend. Who said that the over-thirty crowd can't have fun? And there was the added bonus of a clear mind, at least on the side of my dear husband's. With that out of the way, I could count on him to focus on the problems at hand.

"I'm thinking," I began to a small groan from Greg. "No, listen. I really do have an idea." I ran the towel over my face and so missed his expression. I could have predicted it, though, and it did not surprise me to see a deepening line between his eyebrows.

"Caro," he began with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. "I need at least one day off from all of this, if it's all the same to you."

Well. That was gratitude for you! I'd allowed him to interfere with the sanctity of my shower, and he couldn't deign to help with this one little issue? I could feel my own annoyance mounting, which strangely enough put me back on the right footing. I would handle this alone, thank you very much. And I knew exactly what the first step would be.

A clean body equals a clear mind, I always aver, so it was no surprise to me that I was able to sit down and dash off the last few thousand words in my manuscript. I ended my frenzy of typing with an emphatic flourish, saving a copy for myself and sending the original on its merry way to my agent.

With that rather banal task out of the way—okay, it does help put food on the table—I was able to turn my full concentration back to the more important task of solving the string of murders for the Seneca Meadows Police Department, whose gratitude, I suspected, would not be forthcoming. No matter. I was determined to use my talents as a writer of mysteries to help my adopted town return to a semblance of its former self: quiet, safe, and boring.

I've always admired the various television programs that show an attentive group of detectives gathered around a white board that has been adorned with names, photos, and motives. I decided that I needed my own white board, so I took one of Greg's posters out of the garage, one that featured last year's Tour de France winner, and set it up on my desk, turning toward the wall the face that grimaced in both pain and ecstasy. I had no desire to look at that reminder of my own lack of physical endurance, plus the backside of the poster was a great place to create my own murder display.

I love those little pieces of paper that are sticky along one edge. In fact, I've been known to almost paper a room with them in order to stay on top of all the things that my busy life requires. (Gregory, of course, posts all of his own doings in his smart phone. But I prefer my tangible reminders, thank you very much.) I took my varied collection of these sticky notes from a desk drawer and began my own investigation.

I wrote each victim's name down on a different-colored sticky note, and I began by arranging them in chronological order on the impromptu whiteboard. Next to each name I placed a notation of how they had met their demise, as well as my suspicions concerning a possible culprit. Finally, I added a rather clever touch—in my opinion—and included a column that focused on the common denominators of each victim. When I had finished, I stepped back and took a look at my handiwork—and at the murderer's name: Natalie Greenberg.

Of course, this was pure conjecture on my part, but since I tend to think that I can read a criminal's mind at sixty paces, I was certain I'd nailed it. I mentally dusted off my hands, congratulating myself on a good day's work. I'd worry about how to prove this later. For now, I felt that I'd accomplished something those dear boys in blue had not been able to do, and being the generous woman that I am, I decided to give them a few more days before I sprang the answer on them. It would never do to decrease the morale of the local police department. One never knows when one might need them, after all.

When my cell phone rang I answered it almost on autopilot, still feeling rather cheerful over having solved the murders.

"Caro here," I said, rather expecting to hear my now-happy agent or the acting mayor or the local television station on the other end. I was certain, in my current frame of mind that they would all want to speak with the great Caro Layton-Browning, solver of crimes both real and fictional.

"Is this the writer?" The voice was muffled somewhat, but it didn't set off any alarms. Haven't we all tried to juggle a phone against our ears as we multi-task our way through life?

"Yes, this is she," I replied in my jolliest all-hail-and-well-met voice. "How may I help you?" The resulting silence on the other end of the line was a bit disconcerting, I must admit, but I am used to people who suddenly lose the power of speech when speaking to a real live author. It was the next words, however, that set my heart to pounding. And I regretted, with all of said pounding heart, that my husband was not at home.

"You're next."

Let me assure you that I was not about to add my name to the white board.

* * *

"Let's look at this rationally, Caro." My lawyer husband, ever the voice of reason, sat across from me at the kitchen table, eyeing me over a mug of coffee.

Not being one to rationalize my own impending doom, it took all of my self-control to not throw my own steaming mug at him. I figured, though, that if I wanted his support on this matter, I would need to play nice.

"Of course," I replied, a sweet smile on my face. "Rational is my middle name, as they say." I took a sip of coffee and watched the various emotions flash across his face. This is always my favorite part of any disagreement with Gregory, the moment when he is weighing my response against his own logic and is trying to decide which way to approach the situation. We are a couple whose communication has been honed to a fine point whether we are in agreement or not.

"Perhaps you are right," he finally said, his tone decidedly sober. This took me by surprise, I can assure you, and I once again began to feel the increasing of my heart rate as I stared at his solemn face.

"I'm not ready to die!" My voice did not sound like my own, and I could feel a tightening in my chest. Idly I wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like, but Greg soon pushed me toward sanity.

"Now, Caro," he said, his voice both soothing and authoritative. "Who in their right mind would want to murder you?"

I know that he meant to sound supportive but I took offense to his words. Wasn't I someone important enough to do away with? That thought, of course, led to more internal hysteria. Someone—maybe a person I knew—wanted me dead. And that really troubled me, to say the least.

The ringing of the doorbell made me jump so much that my coffee sloshed onto the tabletop. Gregory, with one look at me to make sure I was functional, went to answer the shrill summons, and I sat trembling, heart thumping, and armpits prickling with sweat.

I could hear Greg's voice as he spoke to whoever was at our door, his tone polite and not alarmed, so I relaxed. When he returned to the kitchen with none other than Seneca Meadows' acting mayor Avery Stanton trailing him, I almost laughed. A more mild-mannered man you simply could not find, in my opinion. Now that wife of his—she was definitely a horse of a different color. In fact, I thought, she had a faintly horsey look. The visual made me smile.

"Ah, Mrs. Browning! How nice to see you in such good spirits!"

Avery's jovial greeting amused me. Perhaps he was attempting to channel the late mayor's
bonhomie
, or maybe he assumed that was how a mayor-in-waiting should behave. At any rate, his present demeanor was a far cry from the meek leader of our HOA.

Gregory shot me a quizzical look, ascertaining my current frame of mind, I was sure. I returned his look with a prim smile, and I could swear I heard his teeth grinding.

"How are you, Ave—Mr. Stanton?" No need to remind him of my sparring incidents under his watch at our neighborhood gatherings. I was determined to follow the formal tone he'd used. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?"

I've adopted many Americanisms since our move to the States, and it always amazes me when I see the odd looks I get. Perhaps it is my British accent that throws them off. Be that as it may, I was truly inquisitive as to the reason behind this little visit. From my dear spouse's upright posture, I could tell that he was curious as well.