A Bird in the Hand (19 page)

Shaking his shoulder, I hissed, "Greg! Wake up!" A final snort emanated from behind the trousers, followed by a wild thrashing about. Good grief. If I didn't stop him, he would tear the closet up as well as the letter.

"Get hold of yourself, Gregory," I scolded, reaching out to push open the closet door. "We need to get out of here now before mister and missus arrive." I struggled to my feet and reached out a hand to help my spouse stand. Hopefully the Stanton offspring—I assumed that was who had been yelling down the house—had not noticed our car parked just opposite.

With Greg in tow, I tiptoed toward the front door. I was feeling the need to quit the residence as quickly as possible.

"The next time I have an idea like this," I muttered, "stop me."

"As if I could," Greg snorted, twisting his hand out of mine. "Caro, hold on a minute. I'll check to make sure the coast is clear." He cautiously opened the front door.

It was my turn to snort. "You sound as if you're playing a cheesy movie role, Oh Great One."

When the Stantons pulled into the driveway, I was certain my life as I knew it was over.

"Now what do we do?" I grasped my husband's arm in a full-fledged panic. In my estimation, we had approximately ten seconds between escaping and being caught red-handed in a place where we had no business.

"Back to the closet, Caro. Move it!" Greg spun me around, pushing me ahead of him. We made it back to our hiding places just as the front door opened once more, this time ushering in the pater and mater of the Stanton familia.

And I prayed with all my might that they weren't the type of folks to come home and change into more comfortable garb. I wasn't sure how we could explain our presence, tucked in among the dresses and trousers as if we had come to shop and stayed to hide.

The unmistakable clomping of Louise's heavy footsteps moved toward the bedroom, and I held my breath. I was, to coin a phrase, scared enough to wet my pants. However, the very idea that I might humiliate myself distracted me, creating the impetus I needed to get moving.

I reached out for Greg's hand, finding instead a pair of stiletto heels that were the antithesis of Louise's fashion sense. It would provide a handy weapon if needed, though, so I picked up the mate as well.

"Greg!" I said
sotto voce
. "Take this!"

I held out the shoe blindly. It took a nerve-wracking moment to make the transfer. I heard a grunt from his sector, and I rightly interpreted it as disgust.

"Use the heel to defend yourself, dear," I hissed into the darkness, only just stopping myself from adding, "You nitwit." Men amaze me at times with their lack of common sense.

Louise walked into the room, and I listened in amusement as she decompressed noisily, my genteel way of indicating a fa—no, I cannot bring myself to even write the word, but suffice it to say that even behind a closed door, I could smell her. Apparently the woman had digestive issues.

To my horror, I also detected the sound of clothes being unsnapped and discarded. If she intended to open the closet for more apparel, I would greet her with a stiletto to the face. I could not tell what Gregory was doing, but I hoped that he was also ready to attack if need be. With pounding heart, I mentally followed her around her room (fully clothed, of course) as she opened and closed dresser drawers, continued decompressing, and whistling tunelessly. When I finally heard the door to the
en suite
bathroom shut behind her, I let out the breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

It was now or never. As quietly as I could, I slipped out from my hiding spot and felt around for Greg. Grabbing his hand, I tugged him toward the closet door, opening it with as much stealth as any cat burglar. All that was needed was a dash down the hall, out the door, and we were home free…
if
the missus stayed in the shower and the mister was otherwise occupied.

Louise was now singing—bellowing, rather—the latest song by Katy Perry. I almost laughed aloud listening to her proclaim that we'd "hear her roar." As if we had a choice! She was roaring loud enough to be heard all over Seneca Meadows, but it was loud enough to cover our exit from the closet and the room, so I couldn't fault her.

"Hey! What were you doing in my house?"

The outraged shout from the front room startled us both and put wings on our feet. We raced the rest of the way to the entrance as if we were being chased by Old Scratch himself. Avery hadn't even noticed us, though. He was busy yelling into his cell phone, most likely directing his ire toward his hapless office aide. I grinned at Greg as we left by the front door, closing it quietly behind us. The Caro luck had held again.

I tossed the high-heeled shoe in the Stantons' flowerbed and strolled to our car, Greg right behind me, still clutching the mate to the shoe. I just shook my head at him in amusement. He could keep it as a souvenir for all I cared.

To describe the drive home as sedate wouldn't be far from the truth. The goal had been accomplished. We'd made it out without being arrested for breaking and entering, and the promise of comfort food loomed large on my culinary horizon. I would be preparing my famous avocado and turkey sandwiches for dinner, along with an enormous batch of homemade sweet potato fries, an American delicacy that I had embraced with both hands.

This is the point in a novel where the protagonist is confronted by the local police department, or by some busybody, but this, thankfully, was real life. We were able to gain the sanctity of our home without further ado, and it was a treat to join Greg in his inner sanctum with Trixie snuggled in my lap. It was twice as nice when my sweet spouse handed me a glass of my favorite Pinot Grigio, nicely chilled and buttery smooth.

"Caro."

Greg's voice was stern but not unkind, so I continued to sip my wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. Trixie was half asleep, stretched out with complete abandon, her soft belly showing like the hussy she was. I obliged her with a tummy rub.

"Yes, my dear?" Another sip, more to keep my mouth occupied than anything else.

"If. You. EVER," he began, "involve me in any activity that requires me to break a law, ANY law, I will personally duct tape you to a chair until you come to your senses."

By the end of his pronouncement, he was back to regular punctuation, so I just smiled at him. One of my fabulous sandwiches would bring him back around to my way of thinking. I stood up, placed the sleeping princess on Gregory's lap, kissed the top of his head, and took myself off to the kitchen. My husband's heart did indeed reside in his stomach.

"Ah. That was delightful, Caro." Greg brushed the last of the crumbs from his lips and smiled across at me. "I always enjoy your cooking."

I glanced sharply at him, trying to ascertain any hint of sarcasm on his face, but I saw none. I preened, nodding my head graciously. I had learned early on from my mother how to handle an angry man—feed him.

"Yes, I do think the addition of spinach and roasted red peppers was especially brilliant." I reached across for his empty plate. "Now. How about watching a bit of cycling?"

It was his turn to examine me for cynicism. I was thoroughly sincere, though. I needed him occupied while I searched for more information on the money laundering Stantons. When I handed him a fresh mug of coffee, he obliged me. The last thing I heard as I tiptoed to my office was the creak of his chair as he leaned back, footrest extended. I smiled to myself. He'd be asleep in no time. My husband was nothing if not predictable.

I sat down at my desk, powering up the laptop, as I contemplated the view out of the window. Spring had turned into summer without much fanfare, and the burnished sky still held the heat of the day. I loved it, though—being reared in the cold mists of England had given me a deep appreciation for warmth. And there was something to be said for the heartier blossoms that grew locally. They seemed stronger than the delicate roses and violas that had populated my mother's garden, mirroring of the vigor of my new country. In short, I loved it here.

Correction. I loved it here when I wasn't stumbling over dead bodies. That would have to change, and I was determined to aid the Seneca Meadows Police Department with my own brand of expertise. I, after all, crafted and solved crime for a living.

After one hour of diligent trolling through court documents, I still hadn't found out more than we already knew. Yes, the couple had been caught red-handed funneling monies from our HOA directly into an account set up under the name of their eldest son. Yes, it was the infamous Cat Lady who had reported them; perhaps that accounted for her demise. And yes, they had indeed been indicted by the district attorney's office, with trial pending the appointment of a new mayor. I grinned. Louise Stanton's days of playing at politics were numbered. I idly wondered about running for HOA president myself.

And then I spotted it, the name leaping out at me as if in neon colors, flashing across my screen in blazing light: Louise Greenberg Stanton. How in the world had I not known this about her? She had been related to the late mayor, was still related to Natalie, and had motive aplenty when it came to ridding herself of those who would get in her way, personally or politically. And to think I'd been hunkered down in her closet a mere few hours ago! I shuddered, considering just how close Greg and I had come to being victims six and seven—to being scarred by the sight of Louise in the buff.

Needless to say, Greg's nap was interrupted by my babbling about closets and killers and cats. By the time I'd managed to make myself clear, both he and I were "'het up," as John Wayne might say—me from screeching and he from irritation at being awakened so rudely. Even Trixie, that little traitor, wrinkled her nose at me.

I didn't care. I now had solid proof that Louise was the Killer of Seneca Meadows. In a flash I was up and out of the house. I, the savior of the Seneca Meadows Police Department, was on my way to deliver the good news in person. They could thank me later.

* * *

"Mrs. Browning, please explain it to me one more time, if you could."

Officer Scott sat across from me in a small interview room, a rather bored looking Officer Kingsley at his side. I sighed. Men were men, no matter the garb they wore. Why couldn't they understand things the first time around? Taking in a deep breath, I patiently began again.

"My neighbor, the one found dead with all those cats,"—here both officers grimaced, clearly recalling the mess they'd encountered in that house—"apparently saw Louise Stanton killing that detective, the one I found in the park." I paused to make sure they were following my train of thought, although by the look on Kingsley's face, he was still off-track. I managed to control an eye roll and focused my attention on Officer Scott.

"That led to the mayor's heart attack—I'm still working on that one—as well as Helen Wentworth's shooting. I am surmising that they both knew about Louise's attempts to hush up the money laundering indictment since one was her brother and the other his secretary." I had to pause for breath here while both men stared at me in consternation.

"Are you saying, Mrs. Browning, that you believe Mrs. Stanton to be the sibling of Mayor Greenberg?" Kingsley's expression was one of amusement, something that tends to rile me, particularly in situations where I am trying as hard as I can to make myself understood.

"Yes." I practically spat the syllable at him from my side of the table. "Yes, that is indeed what I am trying to say." I looked from one smiling face to the other. "What? Have I gotten the relationship incorrect? Perhaps they are cousins?"

Officer Kingsley let go a snort of laughter but was quickly silenced by the withering look aimed at him by his superior. That would be
moi
, of course. I stood to my feet with all of the dignity I could muster. I had bigger fish to fry than these two guppies.

"Mrs. Browning," began Officer Scott in a kindly tone.

"That's Ms. Layton-Browning to you, sir," I snapped.

"Before you go around making accusations, please get your facts straight. Louise Stanton, née Greenberg, is not now and never was a relative of our late mayor." He started to smile then stopped, no doubt feeling the heat of my laser-like glare. Even Gregory cannot withstand me whenever I employ my schoolmarm scowl.

"Is there anything else that you feel must be corrected?" I continued to stare both men down, but Officer Kingsley lacked the discipline of his fellow officer—he actually grinned at me! With a flounce, I headed for the door, not missing the laughter that followed me down the corridor.

Fine. I would do this on my own. And when I solved the case for them, I'd make sure that everyone within the sound of my voice knew that I was the one who had done it. Alongside my spouse, of course. I still needed him to do the heavy lifting.

In spite of being goaded into action, I found myself moping on the couch in the front room, Trixie sprawled out on the floor beside me. The more I thought, the more tangled the once clear connections became until I had all but convinced myself that everyone involved had succumbed to natural causes. That was silly, of course. No one died "naturally" of a bullet to the head. Still, I'd lost the impetus. Maybe a nap would restart my engine.

In my dream I was standing in front of my house, binocs held against my eyes as I surveyed the chaos next door. Louise, Avery, Natalie, and the late mayor ran in and out of the Cat Lady's house, each carrying with them armfuls of screeching felines. The resulting hullabaloo was enough to wake the dead…as well as me. I was jerked awake by a racket not typically heard this side of a movie screen.

"Caro! Caroline! Wake up!" Gregory's voice was forceful, the hand that shook my shoulder heavy and firm. "Officer Scott would like to speak with you." He gave me another shake that wasn't warranted. I was already struggling to sit up.

"Please refrain from dislocating my arm, if you would be so kind," I said, standing to my feet and wavering slightly. I have never done well under circumstances such as this, preferring instead to awaken slowly and naturally. Preferably with a cup of coffee brought to my bedside.