A Bird in the Hand (3 page)

I immediately jumped into action, heading for our bedroom to don clothing suitable for chatting with my nearest neighbor and sworn enemy. I halted halfway down the hall, considering the reason for the enmity: her cats. I happen to be allergic to most anything that has feathers or fur. My precious Trixie a mysterious exception. I had no desire to stand at her doorway with eyes swollen shut from the dander and hair that would surely be all over the place. I considered my options, thoughtfully gnawing on a thumbnail. Well, there was nothing else
to
do except to send my sweet spouse over to find out what he could. He isn't allergic to anything, the lucky man.

With that point settled, I turned on my heel and marched back down the hallway and toward the family room where I could hear sounds of the latest cycling race. This was definitely not good timing for my plan. Greg lives for all things cycling, including watching groups of folks in body-hugging Lycra vie for various colored jerseys. I don't get it, but to each his own, I say. And it does leave me a lot of time to write. And spy on my neighbors. With an unconscious straightening of my shoulders, I stepped into the room.

"Greg, could you do me a favor?"

Suffice it to say that it took quite a bit of convincing on my part, as well as judiciously pointing out that the DVR not only recorded, but it could also be paused, before Gregory agreed to go over and see what our neighbor might know. From the way he walked across the lawn and to her front door, I could see that he was not a happy camper, and I had to grin in spite of myself. No matter how long you live with them and think they've finally outgrown their childish ways, men do their best to prove you wrong at every opportunity. Shaking my head, I busied myself with my laptop.

Gregory was back before I was able to get much done in the way of work. I have known him long enough to be able to gauge both his moods and his health, and from one brief glance at the set of his mouth, I deduced that he had a healthy case of irritation developing. At closer inspection, I could see why: The right leg of his trousers sported a blob of something that I didn't want to think about, and the manner in which he stomped inside and straight back to our bedroom was answer enough. Probably the result of one of those nuisance cats, I thought. Maybe now he'd back my quest to rid the HOA of such a menace.

I took my time shutting down my computer, giving him enough space to cool off and be able to speak without verbally harpooning me. From the sheer volume of the television emitted from the family room, though, I had a feeling that it might take him a while to descend from the Olympian heights of vexation and ire. I sighed, rising from the table to make myself a cup of tea. I'd need to come up with another method of obtaining information on the investigator.

I was reaching for the canister that holds my eclectic collection of tea bags when genius struck again: the mayor's connection to the crime. Not that I thought for one moment that His Honorableness personally had a hand in the murder, but why had he needed to hire a private investigator in the first place? One would think that given his stature both politically and socially—certainly not physically, since he is a short, rotund man with a ridiculously pursed mouth—he would have on hand those who could gather information for him.

Unless
, my suspicious mind commented,
it was about something that he would not have wanted anyone local to know about. Like maybe personal business.
Now that particular angle made sense. I set the canister down and started walking back to the family room, then stopped abruptly. I most likely would not get any further cooperation for my cat-crazed scheme from Greg, for today at least, and surely this was something I could tackle on my own. After all, don't writers need to interview folks every now and again when they're researching for a new book? I mentally patted myself on the back. This was definitely something that carried legitimacy. Spinning around, I grabbed my cell phone and asked Siri to connect me to the mayor's office. I have to admit that I was surprised at the ease in which I obtained the desired appointment. Of course, it was an election year, and perhaps His Honor thought that I might be able to give him positive press. Silly man. My intentions were probably more self-serving than his, a neat turn-the-tables trick that amused me.

I debated sneaking out, leaving my still-steaming spouse to his own devices. It wouldn't do either one of us a good turn if I added to his emotional load and suggested that he go with me. But—and this was a big one—if he discovered I had left the premises without letting him know where I was going, I risked another tantrum. He is very protective, which some see as a sure sign of devotion, but how I've dealt with it all these years and remained sane, I have no idea.

After a shower that found me moving a bit gingerly—I'd done a number on my back and shoulders when I'd fainted—I dressed in what I tend to think of as my working clothes: A crisp white shirt tucked into a pair of black linen trousers, finished off with a black leather belt and low-heeled pumps. A pair of simple silver hoops in my ears, a swipe of lipstick and powder, and I was ready. At least I was set for the interview. Whether or not I was ready to face my husband was the real question. With one more flip of my short hair, I grabbed up my leather bag that doubled as a purse and strode confidently out of our bedroom.

It was as I thought. Gregory was still ensconced in front of the television, but at least the volume had come down a bit. A good sign, I encouraged myself, and I coaxed my face into a pleasant attitude and stuck my head around the family room door.

Bless his heart. My hubby was sound asleep, recliner back and remote hanging precariously from his hand, soft snores coming from a slightly opened mouth. Trixie was tucked under one of his arms, and I almost giggled when I realized that she was snoring as well. They were certainly a matched set.

I tiptoed over to his chair, removing the remote and placing it gently on the butler's table that sat next to his chair. At least I would not need to explain my decision to go out so soon after my harrowing adventure in the park.

Of course, Trixie had other ideas. She detests being left out of anything that might prove to her advantage. With one tiny yip, she alerted Greg to my departure. I froze mid-step, risking a peek over my shoulder to see if he had been awakened. His eyes were still closed, but I know him well enough to see that he was now awake, ears tuned to my frequency. I decided to take the bull by the horns, Gregory being the bull in this case. Replacing the smile on my face, I turned around and leaned casually against the doorframe.

"I'm headed out for a bit, my dear. Could I get you anything while I'm gone? Maybe one of those iced coffees that you like?"

Bribery, in my view, generally gives the briber one up on the bribee, especially if a soft spot is known to said briber. Of course, not everyone is married to my husband—obviously—and I knew that my chances of leaving the house without interrogation were a little more than nil.

"You may." He responded without so much as turning his head to look at me, but I could see the beginnings of a smile hovering on his lips. Dratted man. He can smell an enticement at one hundred yards. I sighed. The matter of a peace offering would still need to be addressed.

"Anything else? I could swing by the bakery, grab another one of those strudels. Or perhaps a pull-apart bread. You enjoy those as well."

The only response I got this time was a turn of his head and a strained expression on his face, all signs of the emerging smile erased.

Uh oh
, I thought.
Here it comes.
I shot Trixie a venomous glare. This was all her fault. She snuggled deeper into Greg's side and closed her eyes with a smug look on her pointy face.

"Would this trip to the bakery be before or after whatever it is that you're up to now?"

I'm very good at many different personalities, or so I've been told. The self-righteous Caro popped to the surface with a vengeance, and I all but clutched at my heart with a dramatic
moi
? Instead, I settled for a slight widening of the eyes as I returned look for look with my husband.

""I'm sorry that you had to deal with the cat la—Mrs. Grayson," I began, which I instantly recognized as the wrong tack. "If you wish, I could swing by the dry cleaners and…" I got no further.

"That, Caro, is a Topic for Another Time." The capitalization was as evident as if it had been written down. I sincerely hoped that the offending trousers had not been stuffed into our hamper but decided against asking.

 I was suitably impressed with his delivery, each word clipped off from the one that followed in a precise manner. Much like a stalk of crisp celery being snapped in two, I thought. By a set of very strong teeth. I controlled a shudder. It would never do to be seen as weak.

"Alright," I agreed hastily. No need to upset the dessert cart any further is my motto. "Bear claws or pull-apart?"

An indignant snort was the only answer I received. I made a hasty retreat, glad to get off so easily this time. And it would be a cream cheese pull-apart, iced and loaded with those little crumbs of sweetness that stick on the lips. If I got to choose, that's what I wanted.

I carefully backed my sedan out of the garage, thankful for the automatic opener. I could clearly recall the days when we lived in less than savory digs, when I would have to put the car in park, get out, and shut the heavy garage door, all the while keeping a weather eye on the two little boys who remained glued to my side whenever they visited us. I never knew where they might end up, tumbling about the car's interior like two puppies, especially when I would warn them not to move a muscle. Otherwise they might have tried to drive off, one pressing on the gas pedal while the other steered.

Those were the glory days before the advent of a nationwide law in merry old England, requiring car and booster seats, when children could meander around the inside of a vehicle and sit wherever they chose. Or not sit, as the case may be. Our godchildren loved to climb into the back window and make faces at unwary drivers as I blithely drove around town. I for one am thrilled to know that all children must now be restrained in cars. This at least gives their harried parents an advantage on days when the little darlings are up to no good. It frightens me now to think that they've grown into their teen years and are driving.

My musings about the not-so-good old days were cut short when a horn blasted behind me, nearly causing me to jump out of my rather sore skin. I had paused at a stop sign and apparently had not left the starting blocks fast enough for the truckload of teens just behind me. Luckily for them (I told myself) the wind carried away most of their rude remarks as they rocketed around me. It was enough, though, to force me into focus. I would need all my wits about me if I were to gain any insight into why the mayor had hired a detective in the first place.

Our town hall is neatly tucked away on the second floor of one of the area's oldest buildings. Its brick has weathered quite elegantly, like a matron who accepts the vagaries of age and plays them to her advantage. I prefer my architecture—and companions—to be refined yet sturdy, and still have a viable purpose.
Much as I view myself
, I considered ruefully, pushing through the frosted glass door. If ever there were a woman with a purpose this fine day, it would be me.

The bottom floor is home to the chamber of commerce and the registrar's office. As I passed through the doors and headed for the elevators, I spotted a rather nervous-looking young couple standing just outside the registrar's, apparently on the bubble of whether to go in or to leave. I smothered a smile, remembering the day that Gregory and I went for our own marriage license. It can be the best day of your life—or the one that you live to regret the most. Thankfully, ours was of the first option. Of course, much work has gone into making it the best, but that is material for a different sort of book entirely. The task at hand was to tackle the mayor and pick his brains for all I was worth.

I easily found the mayor's office and approached the rather somber woman sitting at the reception desk, fingers busily clicking away on keys as she looked up and acknowledged my presence.

"Appointment?" Her eyes returned to the screen in front of her, her tone brusque and, to my mind, very uninviting. Not what I'd expected for someone in His Eminence's office. The man is as smarmy as a used car salesman, syrupy voice and all. Maybe she had been hired to play the straight man.

Better to use honey than vinegar
, I reminded myself, and I smiled sweetly as I approached her desk, taking a page out of the mayor's book. "I called earlier for an interview with the mayor," I replied, one hand clutching my oversized leather bag, the other proffering my business card.

Some writers think that having a business card is a vanity, while others maintain it adds legitimacy to what some see as a fly-by-night fashion of earning a living. I tend to use mine as a prop, something for the other person to focus on as I size him or her up. That was the case here. I quickly scanned the plain blouse and skirt, non-fussy hairstyle, and boxy eyeglasses of the woman in front of me. A no-nonsense type, I thought with grudging admiration. One for getting the job done with minimum fuss or muss.

Finally, Ms. Wentworth (so it read on her nameplate) handed the card back, holding it out with her fingertips as though she'd spotted vermin on its surface.

"Mayor Greenberg has stepped out for a few minutes. If you take a seat over there," she indicated a pair of hard-looking armchairs with her chin, "you can have fifteen minutes when he returns." Before I could answer, she returned to her busy typing and proceeded to ignore me.

I walked to the chairs and took a seat, putting my bag on the floor beside me. I have to admit that I'd forgotten what the mayor's name was, so accustomed was I to calling him "His Honorableness" and a plethora of other appellations—and not with much in the way of respect, either. Gregory and I were constantly amazed that each election found the mayor running unopposed, the inhabitants of his personal serfdom content to restore him to his self-made kingdom.