A Bird in the Hand (21 page)

I eased my eyes open to mere slits, taking in my surroundings. The cargo area of the van, where I had been stashed like so much jetsam, appeared to indeed be outfitted with the accoutrement for eradicating household pests. An idea began to formulate, one I'd also used in past plots with a successful outcome, disable the kidnapper with a blast of something in the eyes. Fire extinguishers, hairspray, perfume—I'd utilized them all and then some. Why not a good shot of chemicals?

The current song drew mercifully to an end, but that also meant a few more moments of playing dead. Or at least comatose. I allowed my head to loll in case he was peeking at me in the rearview mirror, a tiny line of drool issuing from my lips. Disgusting, to be sure, but one does what one must in situations such as this. The next song began, and I was relieved to hear my driver-kidnapper-friendly neighborhood pest control guy begin singing once more.

I inched my hand to the right and closed my fingers around the slender wand attached to a container of what I hoped was a lethal combination of pesticides. Not that I wished to dispatch the man like a bug, but I was getting fed up with the shenanigans in Seneca Meadows.

The screech that accompanied the wild spraying of chemicals startled even me, and I was the one doing it. The van began to swerve wildly across the road—I had taken a quick glance out the window before launching my attack—and headed straight for a light post in front of a mom and pop store. The driver was completely incapacitated, so I grabbed the wheel (I did not have a death wish) and guided the vehicle to a gentle stop, directly into a picket fence that surrounded the parking lot in which we had landed.

A series of shouts from without the van met my ringing ears and the sliding door was wrenched open. Several hands helped me out and held me upright. I was quite dizzy from being in such close contact with concentrated chemicals, not to mention the go around with chloroform.

"Oh, my god! It's Mrs. B.!" That voice could only belong to Candy, and I blinked in wonder as she stepped forward and grabbed my arm. "How in the world did you get in there?" She looked from me to the van and back, then at my face. "Mrs. B.! Your face is covered in zits!"

I managed to jerk my arm from her grasp, irritated at having her proclaim so loudly and inaccurately the cause of the lesions on my face.

"I've been chloroformed and kidnapped, and I'd appreciate it if you'd call my husband. And the police," I added, glancing around to see the faux bug man bent over at the waist, retching up his breakfast all over his shoes. "Don't let him get away," I added almost as an afterthought. Two customers from the store stepped to the man's side, gingerly taking his arms. I didn't blame them. There is nothing particularly heroic about wearing another person's vomit as proof of a good deed.

The expression on Officer Scott's face when he arrived on the scene was priceless, and I almost enjoyed telling him about my adventure. This alone should have let him—and that entire department—know that I was no ordinary amateur crime fighter. I was resourceful and canny, and I could land on my own two, albeit shaky, feet.

Someone called my husband, and he arrived with a look of extreme concern and outstretched arms. My heart melted to see my husband advancing on me, and I held out my own arms to receive his embrace.

"Good grief, Caro! You smell like a chemical warehouse!" He held me at arms' length, but his hands gripped my shoulders tightly. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his nose.

"No worse than he does," I said, pointing with my chin at my kidnapper who was being led toward an ambulance by Officer Scott and a paramedic. "My aim might not be perfect, but it certainly is lethal."

When I started crying, it didn't matter to Greg that I reeked of bug spray. He held me close and whispered against my hair. And he only gagged once.

Later that evening, after what now felt like a routine visit to the emergency room, I lay back against a mound of soft pillows, the requisite mug of hot sweetened tea cooling on my nightstand. Greg sat on the edge of the bed, a worried look on his face. He started to speak and then stopped, clearing his throat in the way that I knew indicated great emotion. It was nothing less than I expected, of course, having escaped from certain death by the strength of my own wits.

As exhausted as I was, I was determined to revel in his attention. I closed my eyes, imagining that my lashes were lying—no, sweeping—my delicate cheeks. Okay, perhaps they were still spotty from the reaction to chloroform, but really! I deserved a little slack with my fantasy.

"I think we really need to reconsider the Stanton angle in this mess, Caro." His voice was somber, and I reluctantly agreed with him. As off-putting as that family was, I truly could not see them involved in something this brash. They were more of the creeping about at night type. Unless…

"Is it possible, Greg, that they have someone else working alongside them?" I puckered my brow as I thought this through, a connection forming on the edges of my mind. There was something I knew but couldn't bring to the forefront on demand.

Greg shifted on the bed, reaching over to take a sip from my mug. He wrinkled his nose with distaste. "This is cold, Caro. I'll pop out to the kitchen and get another." He walked out without answering my question, leaving me to work it out.

Trixie moved closer to my side as I stroked her soft fur, allowing my mind to roam freely. Someone else was connected to this, or perhaps even the brains. I was loath to give credit to Avery, and Louise was a regular bully. Their offspring, those two thugs in the making, didn't appear bright enough to think on their own. That left Suspect X. I was still puzzling it over when I fell asleep, long before Greg brought me a fresh cup of tea.

The morning brought no further clarification. Greg, the dear man, had called the university and arranged for his teaching assistant to take his lectures for the day, and I smiled, fully expecting a day of pampering. Unless it was to take place in his inner sanctum, though, it most likely wouldn't happen, at least not the way I would plan it.

When I finally dragged myself from bed, the anticipated breakfast having not materialized, Greg was already ensconced in his recliner, the traitor dog on his lap. To his credit, though, he was simply sitting there, one hand idly ruffling Trixie's fur. I could almost hear the logistical wheels turning, so I left him to it, going into the kitchen to make a well-deserved mug of coffee and toast with butter and honey. Aside from the bumps on my chin and around my nose, I felt almost human.

I carried a second mug of coffee to my study and stood staring out of the window. The day was shaping up nicely, an azure sky sans clouds giving promise of a sunny day. Too bad my mood wasn't as cooperative, I thought gloomily. I still had no answer for the near-miss kidnapping yesterday, and silence from the SMPD seemed, to me at least, more ominous than it actually was. I knew, logically, that answers would not come overnight, given society's expectation of innocence until guilt could be proven. And unless Officers Scott and Kingsley had resorted to tactics deemed tortuous in this enlightened time, the driver most likely hadn't done much talking.

Sighing, I sat down in my chair and reached out to turn on my computer—and froze. The idea that had been lurking at the back of my mind suddenly came bursting forth with all the might of a bulldozer: I knew the who, the what, and the why.

I think I startled my sweet husband more than I ever had before. When I came bursting into the family room—where he and his canine companion were now dozing peacefully—my screech brought him awake quicker than you could say "morning hanky-panky." Not that I hadn't done just that before, but that's another book entirely. Suffice it to say that his heart rate was up there with a climber on Mount Everest.

"Caro, I would appreciate it if you could maintain yourself at the age…" He broke off, verbally backpedaling for all he was worth. I didn't give him a chance.

"Look, Greg, I've got it figured out! I almost had it last night, when I was waiting for that mug of tea." It was my turn to pause, glaring down at my guilty spouse—"and I fell asleep." I waved aside the beginnings of his excuses, plopping myself down on the arm of the recliner and causing a major shift in balance. "It
is
the Stantons, and I can prove it!"

Beaming, I waited for the congratulations to begin. When nothing more than a sour look was forthcoming (my weight was creating a creaking noise in his beloved chair), I sighed loudly. There is nothing more dampening to one's enthusiasm than an audience whose response is lukewarm at best.

"Look," I began, pseudo patience underpinning my voice. "The deaths, my kidnapping—"

"I completely concur, Caro," interrupted my husband, who was now trying to pry my bottom off his chair with the leverage of an elbow. "Good grief, woman! Would you please stand up before we both tip backward?"

So I did. And only one person tipped over, unless you're counting the dog as well. I left him there like a turtle on its shell, calling over my shoulder, "Let me know when you're ready to compare notes, my dear."

I smiled all the way back to my study.

* * *

"The way I see it, Gregory, is that Louise Stanton, alias Louise Greenberg, would do anything to keep present spouse in office, and remove any and all deterrents to said office." I waved my spoon at him, flicking the merest speck of crunchy pecan topping from the large bowl of ice cream we were sharing. He didn't bat an eye, either through not seeing my food faux pas or because he was planning a retaliatory shot of his own. "In my case, I suppose it was because of the minor issue of finding out the legal trouble in which they are embroiled, although I cannot imagine how they believe they can possibly—"

I was cut off in mid-flow by my husband who held his own silverware aloft in a manner much as a traffic officer might do, compelling all vehicles to halt. I complied and watched, fascinated, as a glistening globule of dark fudge sauce trembled on the bowl of the spoon before succumbing to gravity, dropping onto the front of his white shirt. I quickly popped my own spoonful of chocolaty goodness into my mouth before I could give in to the temptation of a smirk.

"Yes, my dear?" I lifted one eyebrow in query. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on his face. It would never do to acknowledge the spot that now rested gently on his breast pocket.

He carefully placed the offending silverware on the table before speaking, a very wise move in my estimation. "Here's what I propose to do, Caro." He waited for me to respond, so I nodded enthusiastically, or with as much enthusiasm as I could with my still-stiff neck. "Let's follow them, the Stantons, I mean, and see just what it is they're up to. In my experience, most criminals either give themselves away through loose lips or uncontrolled actions." He smiled across at me, a self-satisfied expression on his face.

I was stunned into silence. This from my husband, the acme of legal responsibility, the epitome of all things right and proper, the guru of criminal law.

I loved it.

"Absolutely, my dear!" I was nearly crowing in my agreement, my own spoon punctuating each word. This time, the pecans landed on me.

My intrepid spouse and I are never one for letting grass grow under our collective feet. We began to plan our steps, from borrowing his teaching assistant's car (a flower-bedecked green Volkswagen, complete with plastic flowers winding around the antenna) to a variety of disguises. I suggested a hair-dying session for the both of us. Greg vetoed that idea quickly, although I assured him that he would make a striking redhead indeed.

 We finally settled on donning workout clothes and baseball caps, mine with my hair tucked inside. I in my baggy sweatpants and he in his Lycra cycling outfit ("This
is
how I work out, Caro!") made a twosome guaranteed to blend in absolutely nowhere.

We finally left the house in our own vehicle dressed in our own regular clothes. The way I figured, if the Stantons were innocent, they wouldn't think twice about seeing us around town, Seneca Meadows being on the smallish side. If perchance they had something to hide, i.e., six deaths, one kidnapping, and one doctored pastry, they'd do their best to shake us.

I didn't count on a combination of the two.

It took us the better part of the morning to finally get an eye on their sporty SUV, Louise Stanton at the steering wheel, of course. I sat in the passenger seat of our modest sedan, mentally urging Greg not to lose them, pressing my foot on the floorboard on a phantom accelerator. Finally Greg noticed my odd movements.

"Caro, this car will go no faster with you attempting to push a hole through to the street," he said, the telltale vein in his right temple beginning to throb gently.

"One can but try," I said rather loftily, tucking the offending foot under my seat. "You know what you always tell your students, my dear: 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained.'
"

Greg snorted, the knuckles of his fingers whitening ever so slightly on the steering wheel. "That is in reference to actions that are based upon fact, Caro, not fancy." His foot pressed the accelerator a bit harder, and I mentally patted myself on the back. If it only took witty repartee to achieve my goal of going faster, I was amply prepared.

I suddenly grasped his arm, causing the car to swerve and Greg to curse.

"Don't look now, but they've turned onto that dirt road just past the old school," I said with more zeal than I'd intended. Greg's response is not printable, as so many of his commentaries are not. Suffice it to say that he was not pleased with my gift of observation.

Still, he piloted the car more slowly past the road where I had seen the SUV turn off, and I gave a quick glance to see if they were still visible. They were. Set back from the main road and partially hidden by a copse of trees, I could see a house and their vehicle parked in plain view. My heart picked up its pace, and I sat straighter, hands clasped tightly in my lap. I was gearing up for battle, and I could see by Greg's compressed lips that he was as well. Operation Catch a Killer was on.