A Bird in the Hand (10 page)

The quality of the silence was palpable. No matter the time or place, the idea that I can also do something that he sees as his innate right rattles his cage. It is one of those manly traits embedded in the male genetic code that occasionally rears its head in our home. He gave a deep sigh then reached over to pat my shoulder.

"Let's keep each other safe, Caro," he said with a yawn. "And I don't know about you, but I need my beauty rest."

I virtuously refused to respond but instead leaned over and kissed his cheek.

* * *

Over breakfast a la Browning the following morning—scrambled eggs with a judicious amount of Swiss cheese and mild green peppers added to the golden mixture—we read the paper and made small talk about the weather, the things that needed to get done that day, and the latest cycling race. We studiously avoided the topic of the night before, and I decided to ask Gregory for his help with some mundane task I could have done in my sleep. It was obvious to me that the underpinnings of his maleness had been shaken and needed to be restored.

"Gregory," I began, licking the last of the melted cheese from my fork. "I need you to rearrange some boxes in the garage for me. That is, if you're not planning a ride this morning," I added with uncharacteristic solicitousness. Ignoring the suspicious glance he gave me, I rose from my chair and carried my plate to the sink. "I really do need to get to some of my summer decorations and—"

He interrupted my speech with a
hmmph
and turned back to the sports section. I smiled then stooped to kiss his forehead. The boxes would remain where they were, but at least equilibrium had been restored to our happy home.

We didn't need to give our formal statements until later that day, so I spent the rest of the morning at loose ends. I needed to get into my study and write, but my mind could not focus. Why create a murder mystery when I had the real McCoy right next door?

Sometimes I wonder if the path I chose for myself as a mystery writer has crossed the line into my daily life. Mysteries by osmosis, as it were. It certainly seemed that way, what with the body count rising and the still unresolved near-poisoning event. However it was happening, it did appear that the Browning household was becoming a portal to disaster.

The visit to the police station to deliver our formal accounts went smoothly. Officer Kraemer took our statements (separately of course, so we couldn't contaminate one another's versions, or something to that effect), and afterward we decided to swing by our favorite haunt, Seneca Meadow's one and only bakery. Just thinking about the glass cases filled with luscious sugary goodness caused a Pavlovian response: My mouth began to water, and I found myself willing the car to go faster. Of course, with Gregory driving, there was no danger of this happening. The man is the poster boy for driving within the speed limit.
Well
within the speed limit, I might add.

Within a few minutes—everything in Seneca Meadows is only a few minutes away—I found myself in front of the bakery door, its old-fashioned ceramic doorknob a testament to the building's staying power. I had spent the ride over daydreaming about what confection I would choose, finally settling on an apple turnover. Or maybe a bear claw. Or perhaps…

My attention was caught by a frantic waving from within the shop. Candy, the appropriately named counter help, was flapping a hand madly. I looked over my shoulder to see who she was trying to flag down but saw no one but Old Mr. Reed (as opposed to his son, Young Mr. Reed) from Reed's Hardware, taking his daily stroll to the post office. I looked at Greg and shrugged as he reached for the door. I figured that if it were us she was trying to raise, we'd be within earshot in about two seconds. If it was someone else—well, I hadn't spotted anyone on the street behind us.

"Mrs. Browning! Boy, am I glad you stopped by. Oh, and you too, Mr. Browning," she added almost as an afterthought. I wanted to laugh, but Candy's cheeks sported splotches of pink, and her normally placid manner had all but disappeared. What in the world could be the matter? Had there been a moratorium declared on strudels? (Heaven forbid!) A sudden shortage of cream cheese? Rats in the sugar?

Ignoring the curious stares of customers enjoying an afternoon treat, I walked casually over to the counter. Whatever the matter was, I was going to at least hear it on a full stomach.

I started to point to a rather luscious-looking turnover, its sugary topping glistening like tiny crystals in the light, when it suddenly registered that Candy was still talking to me. I looked up. She was up on tiptoes, stretching over the counter's glass top as far as she could go, one hand cupped around her mouth.

Well, for heaven's sake
, I thought. Couldn't the girl just come around the counter if she needed to tell me something that badly? Apparently not, which was evidenced by the way she was carrying on. You'd have thought she was about to share a state secret.

"I said I wouldn't say anything, Mrs. Browning, but I don't want you to spend your money. Someone has already picked up your dessert for you." This was delivered in a stage whisper, the words hissing out with enough velocity to foster a mini tornado.

I drew back slightly, trying to stay downwind. Candy liked her cigarettes, and I was getting a face full of ashtray fumes. Being the wife of a husband who also takes the occasional puff, albeit with cigars, I've nearly perfected the art of talking while holding my breath. I managed to ask, without gasping too obviously, the who, what, and when of this intriguing problem.

Candy shrugged, apparently not noticing my little trick. "I don't have a clue, Mrs. B. I mean, I've seen him in here before, so he's got to be from around here, but I don't know his name. He's one of those people who only use cash," she said disdainfully as if those proffering plastic were of better quality than those still handling paper money. "So I can't tell you anything about him. It's the second time he's bought a strudel for you, though, so I figured it's probably someone you know." She stopped, nearly winded by this speech. "Or maybe one of your, you know, fans."

Candy is a great believer in my limited success as a writer, equating my output with the likes of a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or an Agatha Christie. Although I know the truth, that I'm nowhere near their league as far as writers go, I take it as my due. Besides, it's as close to stardom as I'll ever get.

Beside me, my other fan rolled his eyes. He takes my local notoriety with a grain of salt. I controlled an urge to aim a kick his way, instead smiling back at Candy with what I hoped passed as approval for a job well done.

"Thank you, Candy," I began. "I certainly won't let it slip that you told us, and I'm sure Mr. Browning won't either. Will you, dear?" I added, this time with a not-so-gentle nudge of my booted foot when he didn't respond. With a yelp, he moved away from me, muttering something about "wolves in sheep's clothing" or something equally idiotic. I ignored him.

"Could you describe the man—it was a man, wasn't it—who was so kind?" I smiled at Candy with what I hoped was encouragement. She had always struck me as the taciturn type, and I wanted to keep her talking.

Candy hesitated as the bakery's doorbell jingled. "I really can't talk right now, Mrs. B. Can you come by later?" She began sidling away from me as a young couple with several extremely loud children moved toward the counter. I gave her a waggle of my fingers and turned to see my feckless husband seated at one of the tables, munching on an enormous bear claw.

"So." I stood over him, stretching my short frame into a tower of intimidation.

He glanced up, pieces of cream cheese frosting clinging to the short beard he wore. I forced my eyes away, not feeling as charitable as I should at the moment. Let him walk around like that.

"What?" Gregory continued eating, and I watched, fascinated, as he nibbled around the edges, taking equidistant bites of the pastry. Truly weird, but then, in my experience…well, it was best just to leave that thought unfinished. We still had some serious sleuthing to do.

"Gregory," I said briskly, pulling out a chair and settling myself on the uncomfortably hard seat, "we really need to find out who has been gifting us strudels." I waited for a comment. When none was forthcoming, I continued.

"I mean, doesn't it seem odd, or coincidental at least, that a strudel was what nearly did you and Trixie in?" Still no response, although I did notice that the tic near his left eye had made an appearance.

I went on in a gentler tone, reaching out to place one hand on his arm. "Gregory, don't you want to know who tried to kill you?"

Gregory's placid blue eyes looked into mine as he delivered his verbal knock out. "Did you ever stop to think that they might have been after you, Caro?"

Well. That certainly tossed a wet blanket over the rest of my day.

* * *

The next morning arrived earlier than I would have liked, and I was about as pleased as a cat tossed into water. The thought of cats led to poor Mrs. Greyson (amazing how a little thing like "deceased" after one's name garners the pity that was never garnered while she was alive), which led to the conversation of the night before and the resulting requested appearance at Seneca Meadows Police Department. We'd finally agreed that yes, we needed to tell someone about the first strudel, especially since it appeared that someone clearly had our worst interest at heart. I didn't want to get dressed and drag myself downtown, although the thought that Gregory would have to accompany me cheered me up considerably.

When my husband managed to make it out of bed and down the hallway to the kitchen for some breakfast, I made sure to remind him of our morning's appointment. My reward for being so thoughtful was a grimace across the table, although it might have been a response to the toast that I'd managed to…well,
toast
. I ignored his expression and plunged blithely into the day's agenda. I'd been frightened enough to call SMPD and report the aforementioned poisoned strudel. The result was another invitation to join Officer Scott for yet another formal statement. "The first thing I thought we'd do," I announced as I daubed a layer of butter on my toast (which had miraculously come through the toasting process just fine), "is to attend to whatever it is we need to do at the police station." I took a large bite and closed my eyes in satisfaction. There is nothing quite as good as the taste of real butter, especially when faced with unpleasant tasks and a grumpy spouse.

"Next," I continued, licking the excess from my fingers, earning a glare from my ever-so-proper husband (except when
he
is eating, of course), "we need to see Ms. Wentworth. At His Honor's office," I added helpfully. Here I paused, the better to gauge Gregory's reaction.

He rewarded me with one quirked eyebrow. I responded in kind.

I've always thought that if someone who didn't know us were to observe this mode of communication, they would think us mad. Or at the very least an alien life form. I know that I certainly feel that way at times. Nevertheless, the amount of meaning that can be gotten across with one simple gesture is amazing.

This, unfortunately, was to be the extent of our breakfast conversation.

* * *

Officer Scott appeared in the doorway of the station's foyer, his buoyant mood underscored by the wide grin on his face. Actually, I had the feeling that
we
were the cause of his good humor, an idea validated by the soft chuckles that followed us down the corridor to an empty interview room.

Officer Scott settled into a chair just across from us and began asking questions. His jovial tone was getting to Greg, evidenced by my spouse's short answers. Thankfully, the officer seemed not to notice, and we were able to record our statements and leave the police station behind in record time.

At least I thought the timing was good. In my books, the interviews were long and tedious, full of innuendo and double-talk, and the perpetrator of the crime—initially offended by the mere thought of having to answer questions—would have confessed and the case would be wrapped up, nice and neat. The perp, of course, would not have been the source of amusement.

I waited until we were seated in the sedan before I broached the next topic, the stop at His Honor's headquarters. "Gregory," I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone, "would you prefer to stop for a coffee now or after the chat with Ms. Wentworth?" I glanced sideways, using the peripheral vision that I'd developed to near-superhuman levels whenever our rambunctious godchildren came to visit. This allowed me to watch them without appearing to do so. It always managed to freak them out a bit, which tickled me to no end. The way his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel was answer sufficient but I was perverse enough to wade into deeper, more dangerous conversational waters. I waited patiently for him to speak.

"Caro." My name came out between his gritted teeth, and I flinched. If he wasn't careful, my dear husband would require a trip to the dentist. I wasn't sure if our insurance would pay for Much Put-Upon spouse syndrome.

"Yes, dear?" I'd reverted to innocuous, something I do rather well.

"Never mind." This was said with great longsuffering punctuated by a stomp on the accelerator.

I turned my head to look out the window and smiled. Gregory is as predictable as the weather. Which, come to think of it, had cleared up gloriously over the past few days. I was just trying to decide if I dared to take Trixie out for another perambulation—hopefully without the body count rising—when the car swerved, jerking both my neck and my attention back to the present.

"What is it?" I craned to look at whatever it was that had caused my normally cautious husband to brake like a maniac, but all I could see was a line of traffic stretching from a point just past the bakery to where we were. Some of the cars had pulled to the side of the road, the cause of which I spotted by flattening the side of my face against the passenger window to see past the cars.