A Bird in the Hand (20 page)

"He's in the kitchen," Greg replied, turning on heel and exiting our bedroom.

He was gone before I could ask the reason for this visit. I yawned, trying to appear fully functional as I walked in the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee met my appreciative nose, and I smiled almost benevolently at both my husband, who handed me a mug, and at the officer, whose expression looked much like a little boy who was about to confess to stealing the cookies.

I sat and sipped, forcing Officer Scott to take the conversational lead, something he did with much reluctance. I was careful to modulate my expression—it would never do to gloat. There would be plenty of time for that later. After a moment or two of inane conversation, Officer Scott got to the meat of his visit.

"It was your, uh, assumption of relationship that got me thinking, Ms. Layton-Browning—"

"Please call me Caro," I interjected magnanimously.

"—and I discovered that Louise Stanton was once married to Mayor Greenberg. In fact," he added as he squirmed a bit more, "it would seem that she is—was—also the sister of the second Mrs. Greenberg, the one who, ah, committed suicide."

Here was a solid motive, if not two of them, for getting rid of His Honor. I did admire a woman who could multi-task! With Mayor Greenberg erased from the political picture, she could move back into the role of Seneca Meadows' First Lady—
and
eliminate several witnesses to her legal issues with no one the wiser. Except for yours truly, of course.

Well done, Louise
, I thought with grudging admiration.
Well done indeed.

I nodded graciously as he finished the spiel and stood to make his farewell. Gregory was sipping his coffee, keeping his own counsel, but I could feel his curious eyes fixed on me. I'd certainly have some explaining to do. With assurances that I did not feel any rancor for him or the SMPD, I closed the door behind Officer Scott and slowly walked back to the kitchen and my waiting interrogator.

There is a quality to certain silences. The silence in my kitchen was thick with recrimination, albeit a very quiet accusation. Those are the worst type, the silences that grow exponentially by the minute. And my dear husband had a green thumb when it came to cultivating silence.

"Well, someone had to tell them." I sounded petulant, a child caught tattling. "I felt it was my civic duty to provide them the clues to go on, and it worked out quite well, as you might have noticed." I refrained from tossing my head at him. I'd made my point. There was no need to fuel any more fires, so to speak.

After a few moments, my put-upon husband sighed. "Let's go out for dinner, Caro, and make it a real celebration. Of sorts," he added as he rose to rinse out his coffee mug, qualifying his applause as negligible. Before I could retort, he said, "I was thinking of that new restaurant just outside of town."

Momentarily derailed from the current train of thought, I wrinkled my brow, trying to picture anything out of town except the myriad cattle herds that roamed the countryside. I stared at him, waiting to be enlightened.

"The Farmhouse, Caro." He lifted his eyebrows at me as if to say that I must be the last in our town to learn about this new place. And for all I knew, I was. After all, I had been just a tad distracted as of late. Besides, there were quite a number of farmhouses scattered through the countryside—was it my fault if I wasn't privy to which one was now a restaurant?

"You might at least let me know
which
farmhouse it is, Greg," I said, a trace of huffiness in my voice.

"It's just past the railroad depot, on the east side of Schuyler Road." He was patience personified, a true saint of the highest water. And he was letting me know it.

I stuck my tongue out at him. Saints tend to irk me. Luckily for me, he had already turned to place the mug in the dishwasher. Luckily for him, I loved him.

The railroad runs through our little burg from north to south, carrying goods from various manufacturers to businesses all along the eastern seaboard. This includes beef on the hoof, so the myriad cattle cars that form the trains can be smelled from far and wide when they stop at the depot. The idea that someone had actually set up a restaurant within sniffing distance of the bellowing cargo did little to whet my appetite. Hopefully the dining area would be heavily insulated against any escaping odors.

I had to admit that the Farmhouse presented itself delightfully. Wide beds of seasonal flowers wound their way around a spacious porch and down the graveled path. Several wooden rocking chairs, the sort with wide, flat arm rests and slatted backs, rocked gently to and fro in the evening breeze, and I discovered that I was intrigued. I was not about to let on to my spouse, though. He'd have to work for any commentary I might have to offer.

"Greg, this is absolutely enchanting!" I exclaimed as I looked around, thereby negating my intent of indifference. Oh, well. It truly
was
a lovely spot, and I found myself looking forward to the rest of the evening.

Although it did feel odd dining on filet mignon when I could clearly hear the lowing of cattle in the distance—I prefer not to acknowledge where my meals originate—it was one of the tenderest cuts of beef I'd had in a great while. Perhaps I'd been mistaken about Greg's annoyance over my solo visit to the boys in blue.

"Next time you decide to waltz downtown and do your Agatha Christie act, Caro, would you mind letting me know?"

Greg took a swallow from his water glass, and I could see by the tense lines in his face that he meant what he said. In spades. I softened, my reaction morphing from genuine ire to that of adoration. He really
did
want to keep me around for a while longer.

"Of course, my dear," I replied, reaching over to cover one of his hands with mine. "Your slightest wish is my command."

He removed his hand from mine, snorting in derision. "If only, Caro."

And the spell was broken, which was just as well, since neither of us are mushy people.

We enjoyed our meals, topping them off with a glorious concoction heralded as "Death by Chocolate," a misnomer if there ever was one—I had been thoroughly schooled in death recently, and none of it had come by the hands of this luscious dessert. Of course, there was the dessert: Death by Chocolate. I shook my head, dispelling the negative thought. I was determined to enjoy my evening out.

I've heard it said that bad things come in threes—I beg to differ. They actually come in fours, and their collective name was Stanton. When I saw Greg's eyes swivel to the entryway and then back again with a sharpness that was more than idle curiosity, I couldn't help but gawp as well.

To my dismay, in marched the gang of four, their ranks led by Louise's massive bulk. I shuddered, thinking how close I'd come to viewing her
au naturel
. I turned back to face my husband. He had resumed eating the remains of the chocolate cake, evidenced by the rim of frosting that encircled his mouth. I forgot the Stantons as I mimed wiping my own lips—as I've mentioned before, for someone as refined as my husband, his lack of table manners is appalling.

"Let's get out of here," I hissed at my spouse as he sat placidly forking up the remaining crumbs of chocolaty goodness.

"Why?" His curiosity was genuine.

Why indeed?

"Because we might be recognized, Greg, and I have no desire to be remanded for a burglary." I sat back in my chair, chin jutting forward in the attitude that suggests an ensuing skirmish. To my dismay, he laughed.

"And just
how
might they recognize us, Caro, not to mention they already do—smile! Here they come." To my horror, Greg stood to his feet, holding out his hand to the approaching family. "Mr. Mayor! What a pleasant surprise this is. Caro, do you remember Mayor Stanton?"

Of course I remembered him! That was a given, even if I hadn't just broken into his house. Avery Stanton had moderated many an HOA battle in my presence, and I'd chatted with him at various town meetings. Just what was my husband playing at?

"Mr. Browning. And Mrs. Browning—or should I say Ms. Layton-Browning?" The man was absolutely fawning over me, clinging to the hand that I'd thrust out in an automatic response to Greg's words.

"Please, do call me Caro," I said, tugging my hand free of his clammy grasp. What was it with politicians and their uncomfortably damp palms? I didn't want to think about it, not so soon after eating.

"Caro it is." Avery Stanton was practically emitting his own light, he was beaming so broadly.

The rest of the Stanton clan seemed content to gather around their patriarchal figure while the rest of the restaurant did their best to watch without appearing to. I was becoming decidedly uneasy. Something in the man's face told me he knew more than he was revealing. I decided to up the ante in this little farce.

"It is always such an honor to see you and your lovely family among us mere mortals." Here I gave a hearty guffaw to show the mayor that my words were meant to imply a joke, and I enjoyed the swift change of expression that crossed his face. Greg, who thankfully wasn't within ankle-kicking distance, glared at me across the table.

"Yes." Only it came out in a sibilant
yaaaasss
, the snake-like quality quickly dampening any witty rejoinder I might have had. I quickly took my seat and busied myself with emptying another packet of sugar into my already sweetened iced tea. With a nod to my husband, the mayor led his family to where a nervous waitress was waiting to seat them.

Greg retook his seat, his irritation evident in the stiffness of his shoulders.
Well, he could kiss his after-dessert dessert goodbye
, I thought huffily. His next words, though, turned my own reaction on its head.

"I think, Caro, that they've just shown their hand." He set about stacking plates and tidying up the table, a pleasant smile on his face as if we were conversing casually about the weather or where we might go on our next holiday. "Something about that man strikes me all wrong."

I leaned forward eagerly, wanting to dissect this turn of events but a slight shake of Greg's head stopped me. Instead, I said in what I hoped was a nonchalant tone, "Let's go home, dearest. I'm rather tired after such a busy day." This earned me the kick I'd avoided earlier, delivered with a sweet smile on his face.

"I agree, Caro." Greg stood and smiled lovingly down at me, holding out a hand to help me stand.

I beamed back, my expression one of complete agreement. We were in Oscar-winning mode.

And yet I was suddenly frightened. The Stantons were a four-headed monster to be avoided at all cost, and I was thoroughly regretting my hare-brained decision to search their house. How
could
Greg have let me talk him into that?

It was in this frame of mind that I climbed into bed, quite obviously delineating my side with a pillow and Trixie's furry frame. A quiet chuckle from my husband let me know that he knew exactly what I was up to, which, of course, made me even more irritated.

When he reached over the barrier to pull me close, I was a willing participant.

* * *

The following morning found me staring at my computer screen, willing new ideas for book plots to gel. My mind was all over the place, from my newly-discovered fear of enclosed spaces (blame the recent sojourn in the Stantons'
know
closet) to the near disaster at dinner the night before.
Just how much did the Stantons know?
I wondered, mentally retracing our steps through their house. Aside from the dropped legal paperwork, I could think of nothing that pointed to either me or my intrepid spouse.

And then the light bulb came on, and I literally slapped my forehead. What idiots we had been! Nanny cameras, of course—that was the most logical, incontrovertible answer. I shivered, realizing that the game was certainly afoot. I reached for my cell to call Greg's office at the university then stopped. There was nothing he could do about it now, and it probably wasn't a good idea to leave a message with his teaching assistant regarding our mutual crime spree, given his specialty of law. I was willing to bet that he was glad to be back at work and away from my daily drama.

A knocking at the front door interrupted the growing hysteria. I frowned, peering out the window of my study. A white van sat in our drive, the familiar signage on its side declaring that they specialized in the prompt removal of rodents, spiders, and other household pests. I didn't recall a pest control visit today, but perhaps they'd called Greg, and he'd forgotten to share that with me. Forgivable, considering the upheaval recently in our lives. To tell the truth, any respite from working on my book was welcome. Without another thought, I flung open the front door, ready to greet our friendly neighborhood killer of all things pesky.

I just didn't realize that I was on that list as well. The last thing I could clearly recall was a masked man grabbing my arms, spinning me around, and pressing a cloth to my mouth and nose. I was out like a light.

Watery light filtered through my eyelids, and a burning sensation around my nose and mouth told me that I'd been chloroformed. I'd done that to several characters in past manuscripts and vowed to halt that practice except for the worst of the worst. It felt like my skin was on fire, and I was angry with myself for falling for an old trick that might have been Mrs. Grayson's downfall.

Mrs. Grayson! I groaned, recalling just how detrimental a visit from a supposed pest technician—or whatever it was they called themselves—had been. She'd earned a toes-up, feet-first ride on the county's dollar from her residence to the morgue.

The van was still moving, and the driver was singing along with a local country station, a song that set my teeth on edge. Why did they all have to yodel as if they were about to embark on a trip to the Alps? At least it provided some cover for me. I needed to wriggle my arms and legs a bit to get the blood circulating again. Curiously, I had not been tied, my abductor apparently counting on my unconscious state to last longer than it had.