A Bird in the Hand (23 page)

Gregory has often boasted that he is "never early, never late, but always right on time." I whole-heartedly agree with him. As the dynamic duo opened the door and prepared to exit with yours truly roughly in tow, a patrol car pulled into the yard, my wonderful, amazing husband waving at me from the front seat. I was able to return the gesture since I found myself suddenly free of restraints, said restrainers having turned tail and run back into the house, slamming the door behind them. A house, I might add, that was still filled with noxious gasoline fumes.

The ensuing explosion knocked me off my feet and nearly across the yard.

After the dust settled, both literally and figuratively, it was generally agreed upon by one and all that to the very end, Avery Stanton was still concerned about the town. He saved the community coffers from both a trial and a funeral, since all four of the Stantons were all but incinerated.

As for me, I recovered nicely from the various bumps and bruises incurred during my less than graceful flight across the yard. Greg became my nurse, my cook, my masseuse (yes, I definitely milked this for all it was worth), and housekeeper. He made sure that I was kept supplied with my favorite goodies—think croissants and coffee, dark chocolate and white pizza—and dealt with the dog issues on his own. In short, he was a paragon of a partner.

For the first two days, that is. After that, I was on my own. Of course, I was sore, but then again I've felt worse after a round of miniature golf. It's all in one's perspective, isn't it?

Still, I thought I would have earned at least a few kudos from an adoring public, ridding them of a four-headed scourge and setting things to right as I had done. Alas, it was not to be. Between the growing impatience that my dearest spouse exhibited and the town's search for a new mayor, I was left by the proverbial wayside. No matter. I was able to finish my list of plot ideas with all of the material I had gathered, and I was enjoying a brief respite between contracts. Unfortunately, things took another turn soon after the inauguration of Seneca Meadows' newest leader.

I, along with the other inhabitants of Seneca Meadows, assumed that the murderer was no longer amongst us, and it didn't seem to matter if that honor went to Avery or to Louise. We were simply happy to have put that all behind us—or so we thought.

It was one day soon after the holiday season when I began to feel uneasy. I couldn't define it, and I certainly was not going to open myself up to criticism. Gregory, bless his heart, had exhausted his recorded racing programs and was restless. Without classes to teach—the university was on its winter break—he had nothing to entertain him, and he had taken to shadowing me. I did my best to find things for him to do, and I put my jumpiness down to the unusual proximity of said spouse.

Until I received a most unsettling letter, that is. Even Greg could not discount this, I thought, and I felt confident enough to share my own perception. I shouldn't have been surprised at the welcome my pronouncement earned.

We had repaired to the kitchen, mugs of coffee and the ubiquitous plate of sweets in front of us. I slid the letter across to Greg's side of the table, confidently munching away on my piece of sugary goodness. When the letter came sliding back to me post haste, I almost choked.

"You've spent too much time reading and writing about this, Caro," my husband said, not bothering to disguise his cynicism. "How do I know that this isn't something you've done yourself?"

He should have ducked. When I last saw him, prior to stalking out of the kitchen, Greg was wearing my pastry on his right cheek.

"You think you're so smart. Too bad you didn't get the real killer."

I sat in my office, feet propped on the desk and the offending letter taped to the wall above it. The more I read it, the higher my blood pressure became. Someone—apparently the killer—was not only baiting me, but also calling into question my deductive abilities. He—or she—really should have known better. As my husband can attest, nothing goads me into action more than a challenge.

Since the fiasco of the strudel, as I tended to think of my rather impetuous response to Greg's criticism, the climate in our house had been decidedly on the chilly side. This was not surprising, as one might guess, but it had lasted much longer than any of our more recent spousal skirmishes. I had hoped that going back to his precious lecture hall would have restored his emotional equilibrium. Alas, I would need to provide another type of diversion when I could get his attention. Until then, he was spending longer hours at the university than were absolutely necessary, stomping in the house in time for dinner and an evening of recorded cycling.

I tapped a forefinger on my teeth—note to self: call dentist to set up cleaning appointment—and thought over the entire escapade, beginning with that fateful stroll with Trixie in our HOA pocket-sized park. The first question, the most glaring one, would be aimed at the planter of the deceased detective among the flora of said park. Who had a motive?

The first name that flashed into my mind was Avery Stanton, but since he was, shall we say, permanently out of commission, I took him off of my list. Ditto Louise Stanton. Ditto, ditto Helena Wentworth and Mayor Greenberg—both still incapacitated-and Richard Beaton. Which left just one name: Natalie Greenberg.

I sat mulling over the obvious choice, looking for connections between the late mayor's daughter and the rest of the players. I needed to get this down on paper, create a mind map of sorts. I worked busily for a few minutes, writing names, drawing lines, and identifying possible links between Miss Tally and the others.

And when I was finished, it was so obvious that I should have suspected the little darling from the beginning. The considerable mental kicking I was giving myself had me both irritated and chagrined…and completely preoccupied. I didn't notice the door to my office opening until it was too late.

Natalie Greenberg stood just behind me, arms crossed over her chest and a bemused expression on her face. She didn't frighten me. Rather, she had that "little girl lost" appearance that she did so well, the one that had until now kept her off the list of suspects.

"Your hubby told me that I'd find you in here." Tally emitted a peculiar giggle, one that set the spiders tripping up and down my spine, and leaned against my desk. "I see you got my letter."

Her close proximity to me turned my skin to ice and raised the gooseflesh along my arms. To my dismay, Tally noticed it.

"You can't possibly be cold, Mrs.—what do I call you, anyway? Mrs. Layton? Mrs. Browning?" She looked at me with a perplexed expression, her eyebrows bunching together as though she was working out a complex mathematics problem.

"Caro." I said it automatically, horrified to hear my voice shaking. "You can call me Caro."

It hit me then, as hard as the proverbial ton of bricks. Tally had said that
my
hubby
had directed her to my office. According to the clock on my wall, it was too early for an appearance by the offended spouse. And although I should have felt relieved that he was home, I wasn't. There was something calculated in the casual manner in which she'd announced herself that told me otherwise.

I set my feet on the floor and slowly pushed back from my desk, preparatory to rising from my chair. I was going to find Greg and get the heck out of Dodge before this nut case did something that she'd regret. Or that I would.

"Not so fast, Caro." A firm hand on my arm tugged me back into place, and I sat down awkwardly, one leg splayed to the side. It was all I could do not to grimace in pain. I was still feeling some of the effects of the farmhouse standoff. "I think we have a thing or two to discuss."

My mind raced wildly, circling round and round the idea that not only was I correct—I'd nailed the killer's identity—my husband had let her into my inner sanctum. Since he knows better, I could only surmise that it was under extreme duress. Or worse. A chill that would make a penguin shiver for joy crept over me. I was truly face to face with evil. And it was smiling at me.

I'd always written a flaw or two into my antagonist's makeup and his or her wicked plan, thus allowing my protagonist to escape at the last possible moment. I, however, could see no way out of this predicament, and I was terrified.

As I sat unmoving before Natalie Greenberg and that dreadful smile, I noticed the door to my office moving slightly. Our house can be a bit drafty at times, the builder having taken as many short cuts as possible with the plans, so I thought nothing of it. But as it began to open wider, my heart began to race even faster than it already was. Trixie's soft, furry snout inched its way inside.

I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise, and I had to concentrate on not sniggering out loud. Super dachshund! Little Trixie to the rescue!

I leaned forward to call the dog over to me, patting my lap as I normally would do. Natalie, her attention momentarily divided, spun around quickly to see what I was looking at. And got a very sharp set of teeth anchored to her exposed leg. Trixie hung on for dear life, growling through the mouthful of flesh as Natalie shrieked with pain and danced about, trying to shake free her attacker.

The scene in front of me defied belief—in fact, I couldn't have composed a better ending myself. The writer in me tucked the idea aside for use in a later manuscript even as the scared woman in me let out a blood-curdling screech. To my immense relief, someone heard me.

The door opened with a solid crash against the wall as my dear, sweet, perfect husband arrived, phone already pressed to his ear. The other hand held a bloodstained dishcloth to the side of his head, and I could see streaks of red on the collar of his shirt. Without thinking, I grabbed up a small bronze statuette and slammed it down on Natalie's head as hard as I could. How
dare
she attack my husband! That was
my
jurisdiction.

* * *

Thankfully, when I was finally ensconced in my kitchen with a cup of steaming tea, liberally sweetened, in my hand, Officer Scott agreed with my action. Of course, he added kindly, it would be up to the district attorney, but he couldn't imagine anyone pressing charges against me for bashing a killer over the head. After all, my actions served to keep her out of commission until the authorities arrived, not to mention that it was done in self-defense.

I preened as best I could. With my neck still sore, it was difficult to maintain certain poses, but I think Gregory got the idea. Giving a magnificent eye roll, he leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead. Between that and Trixie snuggled down on my lap, I felt that life couldn't get any better.

I winked away tears of joy and took a sip of my tea, instantly incinerating my tongue. I started to say something to Greg but stopped myself in time. He was still under hero contract, and besides, I fully intended that he and I would have many more years together. There would be time enough for payback.

Instead, I smiled. I had garnered an idea for a new book, I still had my spouse and dog and—most importantly—my life,
and
there was a box of chocolate-filled croissants sitting on the counter just calling my name. Pure bliss.

Later on, when the legal dust settled and charges were brought against Natalie Greenberg for the deaths of the first detective, Mrs. Grayson, and the man next door, as well as the shootings of Helena Wentworth and Richard Beaton, we got the scoop from Officer Scott. He was our new best friend and inside informer. (I made a note to treat him with kid gloves. I needed someone who could give me the details of local crime, especially since I'd decided to set my newest series in a small town not unlike Seneca Meadows.)

Natalie Greenberg was not a mentally balanced person, something that concerned her father. When she discovered quite by accident that she was being followed by a detective hired to find her and bring her to her father, it sent her over the proverbial edge into the beginnings of true insanity; her father, truly loving his daughter in spite of her personal demons, had only wanted to insure her safety. Discovering that my neighbor had spotted her dispatching the first detective lent fuel to her fire. After ridding herself of the potential witness—and my HOA of a feline fracas, I must add—she confronted her father, precipitating the heart attack that nearly proved fatal. Of course, Jeremiah Greenberg was the poster boy for heart disease with all of that excess weight he carried, and one can but wonder if Natalie's twisted logic counted on the ensuing health issues. She had heard (through Ms. Wentworth, of course) that her father's business card had been found in the dead man's pocket, and it didn't take much for her to concoct a scenario with herself as the victim. When Natalie determined that yours truly was getting too close to an answer, she had hired a small-time thug to buy and deliver a strudel to us, complete with a sleeping pill topping. It's ironic, really, that said thug felt safer behind bars than he did around Natalie, but that is very telling, in my humble opinion. Detective Richard Beaton, sent to find the culprit behind the murder of his colleague, must have tipped his hand to Natalie, a boneheaded move that resulted in his own brush with death. I can only think that this happened during the investigation into Helena Wentworth's shooting, something that came about because she had expressed her suspicions to Natalie concerning the mayor's true intention for his daughter, namely a visit to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. Helena probably assumed that their friendship would be a safety net against retaliation.

All of this murder and mayhem had come about because of one young woman's paranoia, plain and simple. There was no plot. There was no intrigue. She killed because she felt threatened, and the thought that I had narrowly escaped my own untimely death never failed to send a shiver through me.

As for the four Stantons, they were another case altogether. After Greg and I had discovered the impending legal action against them for laundering public funds—so
that's
why our HOA fees had been so high, I thought with indignation—they had decided to skip town and lie low for a while. I'm not too sure how they thought that would work. After all, this was real life, not some cheesy movie.