A Bird in the Hand (18 page)

"Yes, dear?" I stayed where I was, seated on the floor with Trixie now ensconced on my lap, happily licking my hand.

"May I ask where you got this particular poster?" His tone implied,
do I even need to ask?

"Of course you may, Gregory," I replied, scrambling to my feet rather awkwardly. I plopped myself back in my chair and waited for the next verbal shoe to drop.

I like to think of myself as a wordsmith, a painstaking artist whose choices in diction are always carefully considered. And I did mean what I said. Of
course
he could ask. Only he didn't. Instead, he very gently leaned the poster sans my many sticky notes against the wall and just as carefully exited the room.

I sighed. Apparently solving the murders was still my job.

I set about regrouping my notes. This was quite a task since some of them had secreted themselves under the table while others had landed sticky-side up.

"You know, Greg, you might at least have stayed to help me." I kept my voice at a conversational pitch, knowing that my husband was most likely across the hall in his sanctuary. I knew very well that he could hear me, whether he responded or not. "I suppose this will become a one-woman job. Per usual," I added with a deep sigh for effect.

Still nothing. I was beginning to get hot under the collar when I heard a faint dragging noise making its way down our hall, accompanied by Trixie's excited yips. I left my notes on the table and stepped out of the kitchen to see Greg half-carrying, half-dragging a piece of plywood toward me, his face an interesting shade of light puce, whether from the exertion or from ire I couldn't tell.

Whatever was the man doing? It would do absolutely no good to ask him, though. His motto is
all in good time
or something equally irritating to those of us who crave instant information. So of
course
I inquired, using my most annoying mother tone. "Gregory Browning! Whatever in the world are you doing, besides ruining the floor?" I had to admit that the plywood provided a sturdier background for the plethora of sticky notes. And it provided a barrier between me and an irascible spouse. I really should learn to keep my thoughts to myself…

While it didn't work quite as efficiently as the CSI folks would have us believe, Greg and I were able to make some progress with our version of a smart board. I tend to think that my sticky note method is effective, so we stayed with it as we moved names and incidents around on the plywood, Greg's precious cycling poster propped against the wall in isolation like the troublemaker it was.

"I'm still looking at Avery Stanton as the killer," Greg commented, arms akimbo as he gazed at the board.

I sniffed in contempt. From my point of view, Greg had manipulated the notes to come up with this novel idea. When he has his mind set on an outcome, nothing will change it, not even my board that, to me, shouted Louise's name loudly and clearly.

I chose not to point this out, however. I would simply continue on in the vein of thought that I had developed and not let my spouse's narrow-mindedness hamper my progress. When I declined to comment, instead standing to my feet and inquiring about dinner, I had the satisfaction of seeing his brows bunch together—but only briefly. He has as much like for showing his hand as a professional poker player.

And neither do I.

It goes without saying that I can be devious. And that was certainly the mindset I'd developed rapidly following the sticky note exercise. I would need to figure out a reason for following up with my suspicions concerning Louise Stanton, especially since I'd need to spin it as a "we need to check out Avery" exercise. So as I sipped my coffee—today it was pumpkin spice—and contemplated my husband's noble profile across the table, I concocted a plan.

"Greg."

I placed my mug on the table a bit more firmly than I'd intended, earning a raised eyebrow from over the sports section of our local paper. I sighed. If I wanted things to go my way, I'd need to calibrate every word. I tried again.

"My dear," I began, careful to modulate my tone. "Why don't we make a visit to the mayor's office sometime today? I need to run by the post office as well, so we could combine trips, conserve some energy."

Appealing to Greg's conservancy bent, I crafted my suggestion in words designed to instill a guilt trip of the utmost size. From the frown that now creased his brow, I could tell that my hubby knew exactly what I was doing. I smiled primly as I waited for his response.

"If we must, Caro."

When provoked, Greg can become downright pedantic. The degree to which his "pedanticness" reaches is a reliable measurement of his ire. A four word reply indicated one level below "massive explosion," I would need to tread lightly.

"Well, then," I said brightly. "I'll shower and dress first, if that's alright with you, my dear."

A grunt from behind the paper was Greg's reply. I stood and walked past him, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. It was a "catching-flies-with-honey" kind of day.

The ride to Seneca Meadows' downtown was on the silent side, but that suited me. I was in planning mode and needed to think. Greg, from his perch on the passenger's seat, exuded an air of disproval.
Maybe a side trip to the bakery would take care of that
, I thought. I would need him on my side.

The post office errand dispatched with, I pulled in front of the bakery, slipping the sedan's gears smoothly into park. Pasting on my best smile, I turned to my husband.

"Shall we stop for a bite or take it with us?" A shrug was my answer, so I chose for us. I figured a few minutes of sniffing sugar-infused air would sweeten his disposition.

"Good morning, you two," Candy greeted us from the gleaming display case. "I just put out some cinnamon rolls if you're interested."

I had to admit that they looked delectable. Alas, I am a creature of habit. "We'll take two slices of your freshest strudel, Candy," I smiled to take the sting from my words. It would never do to hurt the feelings of Seneca Meadows' best-loved citizen.

 "You'll turn into a strudel one day, Mrs. B.," she said in mock disapproval. "Coffee as well?" That went without saying.

Duly loaded down with sweet treats and liquid energy in a mug, I led Greg over to a small table near the back of the bakery. We needed privacy for our planning session—at least that was my intention—and I wanted to keep my dear spouse out of the range of nosy customers. When he is in a mood, he can be surly with the best of them.

"So." I wiped a few errant crumbs from my mouth and waited for Greg to look at me. When he didn't, I gave my best "ahem," the one that makes me sound as though I'm strangling. It also drives Greg crazy, a dividend in my book.

"Out with it, Caro."

His tone was as sour as expired milk, and he continued to scrape his fork across a plate that looked quite empty from where I sat. That, as you might have guessed, was the return volley in the battle of irritating sounds.

"While you are speaking with Avery, I'll tackle Louise," I said briskly, reaching out and snagging the offending plate and silverware. "We need to ascertain where both of them went after leaving Natalie at Helena's house, although I'm not sure that direct questioning will be the best method. Ideas?" I smiled brightly at Greg, who now sat with arms folded and an almost petulant expression on his face. I tried not to gloat.

"Actually, I do." He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. I mirrored his pose, leaning toward him in anticipation. When my husband has a notion, it's generally well-thought-out. And that was as far as he got. In rather dramatic style, Avery and Louise Stanton swept into the bakery. Apparently they believed that being the mayor demanded a fanfare—or at least a fan base.

Whenever I look back at that particular moment, I can see the flaw in my next plan of action, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing to do. Grabbing Greg's arm, I all but dragged him from his chair and past the Stantons, nodding farewell to Candy as we left.

"And just what prompted that little scene, if I might ask?" Greg was back to being irritated with me, but I completely ignored that. My mind was racing ahead with a most wonderful, most daring plan. Breaking into the Stanton's house.

"Just get in the car, Greg." I jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine with gusto, giving the accelerator an extra tap for good measure. "And call the bakery. I need to talk to Candy."

To my amazement, he did as I asked, dutifully handing over the phone as it began to ring. When Candy answered, I took a deep breath. The entire plan rested on how successful she would be.

"This is Caro," I began, then added hurriedly, "and don't say my name." I went on to explain what I needed her to do, and she agreed, although she didn't sound nearly as upbeat as I thought she should. Still, all we needed was twenty minutes—surely she could keep them occupied for that length of time. I rang off with her rather dubious promise in my ear then tossed the cell back to Greg.

"I don't want to know what you've got up your sleeve," he said, buckling up as I backed out of the parking spot and headed in the direction of the acting mayor's home. I smiled smugly and focused on driving, nudging the car to the edge of the speed limit.

"When we get inside," I began, ignoring Greg's groan of protest, "I want you to go through Avery's desk. That is, if he has a desk," I added. "If not, check the dresser in their room." I indicated a left hand turn and narrowly missed a cyclist, earning a growl from my passenger. "I will be in the kitchen."

"Looking for what, if I might inquire? A secret recipe? Minutes for that last HOA meeting?" Greg's voice held an unmistakable tone of scorn, which I chose to ignore.

"For receipts, memos, correspondence." I whisked the car around a corner and drew up in front of a neat bungalow. "If Louise has saved any of those items, she'll have plastered the refrigerator with them."

Greg looked out of the window at the house. "Do you think it's wise to park in front of the house we intend to burgle?"

"We are not here to burgle, dear," I said in a deceptively sweet voice. "We are simply gathering information that might help to solve some rather nasty deaths. And I didn't park in front of their house," I added. "It's the one across the street."

"Brilliant," my partner in crime muttered. I thought so as well.

It took just a few minutes of the allotted time to break and enter. God bless the Stantons—they actually left their back door unlocked. Someone needed to warn them about housebreakers.

The Stantons went in for minimalism, which was apparent from the lack of furniture. One couch—a red leather monstrosity—and an armchair that looked as though it had been fashioned from plastic sat squarely in the middle of the front room. A quick peek into the dining area showed much of the same. I shuddered, wondering how in the world Louise Stanton's massive bottom could be comfortable on those hard chairs.

"I found something," my husband announced from the nether regions of the house. I practically skipped down the hall in my enthusiasm, colliding with said husband as he stepped out from what was clearly the master bedroom.

"Good grief, Caro." Greg rubbed his nose, a flush of red spreading across the offended appendage. "Can't you act your age?"

Not the best thing to say to any woman—that much was certain—so onto the list of retribution it went. At the rate Greg was going, I would have enough ammo for at least three decent clashes of the wills. With that satisfying thought tucked safely away, I smiled up at my disgruntled spouse.

"And what did you find, my dear?" I held my head up a tad higher, conscious that my neck had begun to take on a crepe-like appearance lately. I wanted to appear as though I could still skip at will, sans the racing heart that now threatened to give me away.

"This," Greg replied, thrusting an envelope into my hand. "From what I can see, this is a notice of intent to prosecute."

"To prosecute what? I mean, whom? And why?" I sounded as muddled as I felt, and I quickly scanned the paper the envelope had contained.

"The Stantons, it would appear, have been indicted for money laundering."

Greg made to whisk the paper from my hand. I hung on, determined to read it in its entirety. The sound of tearing paper filled the space between us, and we let go as one, watching the two halves as they drifted to the floor—just as the unmistakable sound of the front door opening reached our ears.

We remained frozen in place, a tableau of terror. I recovered first, of course, grabbing the rigid arm of my spouse and spinning him around in the direction of the master bedroom.

"Quick!" I hissed. "In there!" I pushed Greg ahead of me into the vast closet, dragging him down to the floor. "Get behind those trousers, Greg. And tuck your legs under you," I added as I arranged my own limbs. If our luck held, no one would even know we'd been here. Unless…

"Greg!" I kept my voice as quiet as possible. "Do you still have the letter?"

A quiet groan was my answer. Fabulous. We'd just left a calling card, complete with flashing neon sign, in the middle of the hallway.

The voices we heard, though, were not those of the elder Stanton pair. Rather, from what I deduced, there were at least two out there, young males from the
basso profundo
tones emanating from the hall. Or at least they were
basso
until they got closer to our hideyhole. Then they demonstrated a pitch that would make any soprano weep with joy.

"Get Ma on the phone—quick!" That was Voice One, clearly the elder of the two by the bossiness he exhibited.

"No way, dude! You tell her!" Voice Two sounded terrified of the mater, not that I could blame him. Louise Stanton could run roughshod over whomever she chose.

"Whatever. I'll do it, sissy boy."

They moved back down the hallway toward the front room, and soon I could hear One's voice lifted in protest. He was probably taking the heat. That, I felt certain, would not bode well for Two.

There had not been a solitary sound from Greg's side of the closet, and I began to worry. Perhaps he had fainted. Or worse. I'd heard tales of perfectly healthy men in their prime—and he was definitely in his prime—dropping dead for no apparent reason. With racing heart, I crawled out from behind a collection of Louise Stanton's tent-like dresses and listened intently. A soft snore reassured me and then brought my blood to a boil. How in Heaven's name could he sleep at a time like this? I was tempted to leave him behind for Avery Stanton to discover.