A Bird in the Hand (4 page)

Now that I was actually there, waiting to speak to the mayor, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever what I was going to say. "Excuse me, Mayor Greenberg. Your business card was found this morning, clutched in the hands of a deceased man. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" No—too dramatic and not quite factual. Besides, my reason for being here was to interview the man for a book, so unless I could quickly manufacture a plot with the deceased featured in it, that avenue was blocked.

I mentally snapped my fingers. Of course! I could invent a storyline not unlike the one I witnessed myself—that is my bread and butter, after all—and watch his face for reaction when I casually slid the part about the dead investigator into the conversation. No, that wouldn't work either. I sighed. All he would have to do is to check the facts of the case: who'd found the body, what was found with the body, and be able to put two and two together. Of course, it is my experience that politicians are not the best at counting and can make two and two into five if it suits them. I had a feeling that I was up against just such an equation.

I had just decided to pack it in and return to my domicile via the local bakery when the office door opened and in stepped our town's illustrious mayor, all five foot six inches of him. I shot a critical glance his way as he conversed with Ms. Wentworth, estimating his heft, which was considerable. Of course, my point of reference is my husband, but anyone with eyes could see that Jeremiah Greenberg certainly enjoyed his groceries. Nearly three hundred pounds moved in my direction, one pudgy hand thrust forward in greeting.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Brownley."

I heard a strangled sound from the direction of the secretary's desk as the man managed to rechristen me, but I ignored it, holding my own hand and grasping the mayor's. It was all I could do to keep it there. The moistness of his palm sent a quiver up my spine, the feeling very much what you'd expect from touching a toad. Or in this case, a great bullfrog.

"And how can I help you this fine day?" He beamed at me as if the weather was his doing, which he probably thought it was. "It's a great day to live in our fair town, is it not?" Again the high-wattage smile was directed at me, and I managed to pull my hand from his and take a discrete step back.

The man sounds as if he's producing an advertisement for the chamber of commerce
, I thought as I returned his smirk with one of my own. "Yes, indeed, it is," I acknowledged, seamlessly voicing my own part of the script. "And we are so very fortunate to have a mayor who is willing to speak to his—" I paused here for effect, "—people."

I must have hit exactly the right note because I was treated to an even wider smile and a half-bow, a movement that gave him the appearance of a rather rotund fencing master. I had to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from laughing, adopting instead what I hoped was a look of adoration. My husband would have been rolling on the floor if he had seen this little performance. Never mind. He would never have the opportunity of knowing how I had to grovel in order to get the information I needed. At least until I put some distance between the mayor and me.

I followed His Holiness's rolling gait, his immense size shifting from side to side, as we walked through a side door and into an office that was the antithesis of the austere reception area. A tufted leather couch and two arm chairs that had been gilded and upholstered in a brocaded pattern dominated the office, and—most surprising of all, to my mind—a mirrored wall ran behind the large ornate desk, its length punctuated with elegantly designed scenes from New York's history. I felt as though I'd been ushered into an antechamber of the president, or at the very least, that of an Astor or Rockefeller.

"Yes, yes, it is rather impressive, I must admit," the mayor said as he lowered himself into what could have only been a custom-built desk chair, his eyes watching me as I stared around the room. His expression was that of a lord surveying his fiefdom, which I had no doubt he believed.

I managed to get custody of my face as I took a seat in one of the brocaded chairs. For all its moneyed appearance, it was one of the most uncomfortable chairs I had ever been privileged to occupy.
All the better to get in and get out as soon as possible,
I thought wryly. Perhaps our fearless leader wasn't as dimwitted as he appeared.

It might have been the silence that alerted me to get the ball rolling. Mayor Greenberg was reclining back in his chair—rather precariously, in my point of view—and his face had set itself into something akin to wariness. Friendly, of course, but still quite guarded as he waited for the expected interview to commence.

I made a great show of opening my leather bag and drawing out a small tape recorder, which I laid on the desk in front of me, and a thick notebook in which I write any new ideas I get, or a clever phrase I hear, or a juicy piece of gossip that might be woven into a plot. Finally, all implements in place, I plastered my "sincere look" on my face, grasped my pen, and began the interview. And still had no idea what I'd ask.

The mayor's chest pocket began to vibrate until I thought it was a pacemaker gone off-line. To my intense relief, both for his health and my lack of questions, he placed his beefy hand against his chest and pulled out a thin cell phone.

The look on his face when he glanced at the digital readout was telling. Either something was very wrong or someone was calling with yet another honey-do list. Recalling the reason I was in his domain to begin with, I opted for the first explanation.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Brownstone," he said, frowning down at the phone. "I really need to take this call. Would you mind…?" He waved a vague hand in the direction of the office door, and I sprang to my feet with as much energy as I could muster. By the time I crossed the room and opened the door, he had already turned his back to me and was muttering into the phone.

I hesitated near the closed door. At least I had a moment or two to get my act together, but it was very tempting to tiptoe out and pretend that I had never been here. I felt rather than saw Ms. Wentworth's laser-like stare, and I turned my head and gave her a weak smile. Maybe if I portrayed myself as citizen-done-wrong, I'd garner sympathy.

"Oh, do take a seat, Mrs. Browning," Ms. Wentworth clearly saw through my ruse, dismissing me as though she were a veteran teacher and I a recalcitrant student. Indeed I felt that way, and I all but skulked over to the familiar chairs and once again took my place.

When I felt confident enough to raise my eyes from perusing the floor, I saw that Ms. Wentworth's steel gray eyes were focused on me, rouged lips pursed as though tasting something rather sour. I managed another insipid smile, and to my surprise it was returned.

"Can I get you something to drink, Mrs. Browning? Perhaps a cup of coffee?" She rose from her chair and looked in my direction. I nodded, unable to form a sensible response.

"Right then," she replied brusquely. "I'll just be a moment. Cream and sugar?" I nodded dumbly in response.

Unsure of what had just happened, I remained where I was, eyes darting around the austere office, noting the outdated prints on the walls and the threadbare patches on the carpet. It was clear to me that His Highness's decorating budget had been tapped out in his ostentatious lair. I wondered if the public was aware of such a discrepancy.

I was still pondering the merits of brocade versus faux leather when Ms. Wentworth returned, a mug of steaming coffee in each manicured hand. I reached gratefully for mine and took a sip, only managing to keep my expression neutral as I got a mouthful of coffee sans sugar or cream. It was industrial strength, enough to put hair on your chest, as Gregory would say. It was all I could do not to take a peek down the front of my blouse.

We sipped in silence. I could still hear muttering coming from beyond the mayor's office door, and I strained to listen. Perhaps he was already aware of the dead man and was concocting damage control. Or maybe it was Mrs. Greenberg, calling to give him grief. I slid my eyes toward Ms. Wentworth and caught her looking at me over the rim of her mug. I blushed. Between her and the HOA's feline friend, I simply couldn't catch a break in the spy business.

Very deliberately, I lowered the mug and looked directly into Ms. Wentworth's eyes. I figured a straight-on stare wouldn't do any more harm than my surreptitious attempt had done.

"Do you suppose that His Hon—I mean, Mayor Greenberg will be available before too much longer?" I groped through my mind for a reasonable excuse for escape. "I do need to run by the bakery." As silly as it sounded, it
was
the truth, I consoled myself.

Ms. Wentworth raised one eyebrow in my direction, still continuing to sip her coffee. I've always admired that talent in a person. It looks quite elegant when done properly, not bunched together like my own brows do whenever I try to use them as communication tools. Of course, a serious plucking session might help to overcome that caterpillar look, but I can't see up close well enough to take care of things, being far-sighted.

The natural vacuum created by silence is abhorred both by nature and myself, and I felt the urge to stuff it full of conversational tidbits, such as, "Do you like your boss," or, "Where do you shop?" Or why did he need to hire a private investigator? I was saved from foot-in-mouth disease by the wrenching open of the mayor's office door, and at the sudden sound I nearly sloshed coffee onto my lap. His Honorableness was no longer in such a congenial mood, it would seem.

"Ah, Mrs. Brownsby," Mayor Jeremiah Greenberg said. "I am sure that you will forgive me, but I do need to go out and speak with one of my constituents." He closed the door to his office, his bulky shape effectively cutting off my line of sight. "Perhaps we can reschedule for another day." This was a statement, not a request, and I felt my hackles rise. I detest being ordered about, something that Gregory has learned not to do.

"I can do that for you, Mrs. Browning, if you'd like," Ms. Wentworth interjected smoothly, drawing an appointment book toward her and opening it to a fresh page. "Would you like to check your schedule first?" Her eyes were non-committal, but I felt a frisson of something lurking beneath her words—was she trying to convey a message?

"Oh, yes indeed," I agreed hastily, reaching down into my oversized bag and pulling out my rather battered notebook. I made a show of flipping through its pages as if in consultation then looked up. "I'm free tomorrow or the next day," I said, for once controlling my blushes. I am not a good liar, and my complexion tends to give me away.

"Ah." Ms. Wentworth bent her head over the appointment book and wrote rapidly, adding what I assumed to be my name. I had no idea which day or time I was to make my appearance, and I had a hunch that it really didn't matter. Apparently His Lordship didn't think so either.

"Well, then." He set his bulk in motion and began his rolling gait toward the main door, already having dismissed me as flotsam in his wake. I waited until he had closed the door behind him before I spoke.

"Ms. Wentworth," I began. And stopped. I had no idea of what I wanted to say, or ask, and I wished, not for the first time, that my spoken words could be as expansive as my writing.
Or at least be able to string more than a few scant words together
, I thought with irritation.

She picked up her mug of coffee again then abruptly sat it back down. "You do realize, Mrs. Browning, that the man has a fire escape where his moral scruples should be."

I gaped at her, whatever it was I'd been formulating in my mind completely gone now. Whatever in the world was the woman talking about?

"I beg your pardon?" I didn't stammer, not precisely, but it was a fair enough facsimile.

"The mayor. His comings and goings. His dealings. His daughter. His need to—to have her spied on! He should have known that I'd side with her any day!" Her expression had darkened, and I felt genuinely startled. Why did this all suddenly feel like a trip down the proverbial rabbit hole?

"And you are telling me this…why?" I admit I was intrigued, wanted to hear more of what was rapidly becoming a rant—what
had
she put in her coffee, I wondered—but knew I probably should end this conversation here and now.

Ms. Wentworth drew herself up, took in a deep breath, and spoke.

"Natalie Greenberg. Tally, dear sweet Tally."

And promptly burst into tears.

I sat and observed Ms. Wentworth with concern, although I myself have been guilty of the same response. When I am misunderstood, I can howl with the best of them. However, Ms. Wentworth's tears, which were threatening to undo the little makeup she was wearing, did not seem to fall in that category. I believed that the woman genuinely loved the mayor's daughter, although in what capacity precisely I could not say. Still, she was asking for my help, at least tacitly, and who was I to refuse?

I replaced my notebook into my bag and left it sitting next to the chair as I walked across to Ms. Wentworth's desk. I believe in inspiration of the moment, going with the flow, as they say. I placed a hand gently on her shoulder and felt a renewed burst of sobbing. Fabulous. Now what was I to do?

I cast about the room for any sign of tissue, finally spotting a box tucked onto an alcove shelf near the door. I strode across to it, seized it quickly, and fairly skipped back to the weeping woman. I extracted several tissues and gently placed them in the vicinity of Ms. Wentworth's hands. Thankfully, she took said tissues and lifted them in a clenched fist to pat at her eyes. I stepped back around the desk and stood in the middle of the office, waiting for the waterworks to subside.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Browning." She was putting the tissues to good use, rolling the soggy ball around her face and ultimately smearing her mascara into thick black streaks. "I have no idea why I did that." She finished dismantling her makeup and tossed the used tissues into a trash can that sat next to her desk.

I can recall a dinner that I attended shortly after the publication of my first book. I was nervous amid the company of other authors and publishers, and I was tickled pink to find myself sharing a table with one of my favorite writers. Unfortunately, I spent most of the evening trying not to stare at the glob of pesto sauce trapped in his rather generous moustache, and I admit that I've not been able to read one of his books since without recalling that night. Not to mention that I've permanently been put off of anything slightly resembling pesto since then.