A Bird in the Hand (7 page)

I snatched up the prize from the damp lawn, taking a moment to observe Mrs. Grayson's house. I had no idea what would happen to it, but I had enough on my plate not to begin a real estate inquiry. This was one time that I was happy to leave the job to the professionals. One of the only times I've felt that way, I might add.

Turning, I went back inside, my fingers curled around something small, sharp edges digging into my hand. I could hardly wait to get a closer look at it, but I did need to get back to my manuscript. I slipped it into my jeans pocket and headed toward my office for another exercise in futility.

Three hours and two pages later, I shoved my chair back from my desk and stood, groaning as I stretched my arms above my head, trying to work the kinks out. True to my word, I'd managed to work in the car incident, placing my murderer behind the wheel as he attempted to run down a witness. That was as far as I'd gotten though. My calendar insisted on telling me the date, reminding me that I had less than three weeks to wrap this effort up and get it to my editor. I stuck out my tongue at the kittens that tumbled above the rows of numbers that continued in their inevitable march toward my deadline. Childish, I know, but I really did feel better. Besides, I've never been a cat person.

I slipped one hand into my pocket and drew out the tiny treasure that I'd stolen from the birds. Moving nearer to the window, I lifted it to my tired eyes, playing air-trombone until it came into focus.

It was quite delicate, a tiny dove with an eyelet dangling from its head, apparently meant to hang from a chain or a bracelet. One wing was slightly tarnished and roughened from the avian tussle. Closer inspection, again with more arm movement, revealed that the dove carried a sprig of something in its beak.
The dove of peace
, I thought. That was exactly what I needed at the moment. I slipped it back into my pocket, a talisman against the maelstrom that was my life.

I would be hard-pressed to find another time in my years that held as much excitement as these last few days. It was all very exhausting, maintaining emotional equilibrium in both my marriage and in my professional life, i.e. my writing career. Of course, approximately ninety-five percent of said professional career occurred in my own domicile, but that brings it around to the marriage issue again.

Gregory and I met, quite literally, over a cup of bad coffee in the university cafeteria. The kitchen had closed at ten, a ridiculously early hour from a student's point of view, and the twin coffee pots were almost empty. My tired mind was running on autopilot, but I was still conscious enough to spot coffee from across the cafeteria. Unfortunately for me, or fortunately, from a matrimonial viewpoint, Gregory was on the same mission as I. We both reached for the carafe at the same moment and nearly spilled the little elixir that was still in the pot. As fate would have it, we agreed to split the brew, and ended up talking for most of the night.

Coffee and conversation have defined our happy union since that time. It carried us through late nights as undergraduate students and into the first years of marriage, and provided the get-up-and-go when careers and deadlines came along. A proffered cup of coffee patched up an argument, and a cup delivered to the spouse still in bed defined love in our world.

I was thinking along these lines when I heard the television shut off and Greg's footsteps heading toward my office. I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did, but I shoved the charm further into my pocket and then adopted a casual posture, leaning against my desk as I gazed out the window as though admiring the view. He kept walking, however, and my audience was lost. Of course, this piqued my own curiosity and I gave him a few minutes before I followed him to our bedroom.

My poor hubby. He had lain back down on the bed, not bothering to remove shoes or clothes, and he looked so forlorn that my unused maternal side revved into life. I sat down on the bed beside him, laying one hand lovingly on his arm.

"You need to snap out of this funk that you're in, Gregory," I stated without preamble. "This will get us absolutely nowhere, and I need you to be the strong one here." I gave his cheek a kiss. "And besides, I need you around to keep me out of trouble."

I craned my neck to see over his shoulder, noting that his eyes had closed and a familiar stubbornness had settled on his handsome features. (I say "stubborn" while he has always maintained "firm.") Resolute or obdurate, I could see that he had shut down for the time being. I sighed, giving him a final pat. Knowing my sweet spouse as I did, there was nothing that I could do at that moment to get Gregory to budge. When he decided to stop taking his students' grades so personally, he'd be alright.

Actually, that played right into my game plan. This would be the perfect time to step out and pay Ms. Wentworth another visit. I could still recall her tears and the way that she sobbed over His Honor's daughter, and I was curious to see exactly why she had reacted the way that she did. And I could swing by the bakery again.

I didn't bother to muffle my preparations. If Greg wanted to come along, that was fine with me. If he wanted to continue to ignore the world in general and me in particular, that was acceptable as well. Either way, it was a win-win for Caro Layton-Browning.

Downtown Seneca Meadows can be extremely quiet, sedate to the point of tedious. To outside eyes, it might appear as dead as doornails, although why doornails are considered especially lifeless I do not know. And I tend to prefer the almost-rural quiet, especially after a trip to the big city and a hectic meeting with my agent.

A majority of the buildings are rather old, certainly, but I appreciate the fact that they are still standing after all these years. To me it speaks of endurance. There is something comforting, in my mind, about a landscape that remains static. Not everyone agreed with me though, and our great mayor was one. If he could have grabbed the edges of the town like a tablecloth and given it a good shake, he would certainly have done so. Hopefully he would not be around when I stopped by his office. I had a plan, however, and had forearmed myself with coffee cake and two lattes before parking in front of the grand old edifice that housed our town's offices.

It was as still inside as it was outside. A sense of placidness, of time standing still, pervaded the air. I took a quick peek inside the registrar's office but saw no one applying for a license, marriage or otherwise. Apparently those so inclined were in the minority today. I rode the elevator to the second floor and exited into a corridor as silent as the grave. I shivered involuntarily at the idea. I had no desire to actually be anywhere near another dead body.

The office door was ajar, and I paused before using my backside to bump my way inside. I could hear the steady click-clack of Ms. Wentworth's fingers on the computer keyboard and the hum of voices, presumably coming from His Honor's inner sanctum. As long as he stayed occupied, I'd have ample time to talk to his secretary. I plastered my social smile on my face and walked in.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Wentworth," I said in my cheeriest voice. "I wanted to thank you for all you did for me the other day."

She looked up sharply at my words. We both knew that all she'd really done for me was to knock me out and give me a bloody nose, but I was determined to put that behind me for the sake of a solid scoop. I sat the coffee cake down on the edge of her desk, careful to place the end loaded with the crumbly topping nearest her. Ms. Wentworth's hands hung above the keyboard, fingers still curved in proper position. She eyed the dessert, reaching for a loose piece of sugary sweetness that had drifted down to the desk. I willed the morsel to her lips, certain that she was a woman who could be bought with free goodies.

Ms. Wentworth glanced at her wristwatch. "I think it's time for my break." She pushed a few buttons on the enormous phone then flicked the computer screen off with a deft touch. Standing, she smiled at me. "Would you care to come back to the kitchen with me? I've got plates and forks, and maybe we could visit for a few minutes."

She'd read my mind. That was exactly what I had wanted her to say, and it was so easy I almost felt guilty. Almost. Returning her smile in spite of the twinge it propelled toward my nose, I grabbed up the bakery box and lattes and followed her out of the office.

I have to admit that I was stunned—no,
shocked
would be a better descriptor—when I saw said kitchen. I suppose that I was expecting the typically drab, utilitarian alcove like so many others that I had been in, certainly not what met my eyes as I came around the corner behind Ms. Wentworth.

A gleaming stainless steel fridge, complete with water and ice dispensers in one of the side-by-side doors, stood in streamlined elegance against the far wall. The countertop looked, to my untrained eye, like granite, and the deep sink that split the counter in two shone with the same elegance as the refrigerator. A pub-style table and four stools, gleaming wood polished to perfection, sat under a low hanging stainless steel light fixture. In short, this kitchen would be at home in one of Seneca Meadows' better neighborhoods.

Ms. Wentworth glanced over her shoulder, correctly interpreting my silence. "It is a bit much, I admit, but…" here she shrugged. "I suppose he thought he'd have guests in here as well." The look on her face spoke volumes. The woman's emotional limp was as apparent as the overdone décor.

"The better question," I said, carefully setting my guilt offering down on the counter, "is who footed the bill?" I smiled my sweetest to take the sting out of the words.
Softly, softly, Caro
, I chided myself, feeling the
bonhomie
drain out of the room as quickly as water from a bathtub.

Ms. Wentworth's mouth curved upward in a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her teeth stretching the edges of her lips back in a predatory manner. Suddenly I wondered what had made this visit such a great idea. And Greg, I recalled with an inward shudder, had no idea where I was.

"You might be happy to know that donations from some of the mayor's more influential supporters paid for this," she said, turning to retrieve the promised plates and cutlery. I nervously followed her movements, hoping that she wouldn't think it necessary to bring out a knife, but to no avail. The instrument she drew out of the drawer seemed to be as long as a fencing foil and twice as sharp.

It was clear I would need to take the situation and mold it to my advantage, especially if I wanted to find out anything about His Honor and his daughter.
And
walk away without punctures from that wicked looking knife. Ms. Wentworth, still preening over the kitchen as though it had been created for her alone—and for all I knew, it had been
seemed in a good enough frame of mind to share information. Drawing on my innate charm, I beamed at her as I settled myself at the table.

"Well, I can clearly see who the important person is in this operation," I said, forcing myself to glance admiringly around the room once more. I could feel Ms. Wentworth's eyes on me, assessing my comments. I looked back at her, smiling brilliantly.

She slid a plate in front of me, her arm passing more closely to my face than was comfortable. Taking her own portion of dessert, Ms. Wentworth settled herself into the chair opposite. Taking a sip of her coffee, she eyed me over the edge of the to-go cup.

"And to be so close with the mayor's family as well," I continued brightly. "You must love working with him." I noticed a slight tic at the corner of her mouth.
Uh oh,
I thought.
Better not get too personal.
I cleared my throat.

"What a great set-up you have here." My voice practically dripped with admiration, so much so that I nearly gagged on its saccharine tone. What Gregory would have said if he could have heard me!

Carefully Ms. Wentworth set her to-go cup down on the shining tabletop. "I suppose," she said, her intonation neutral and nothing like the emotional response I'd witnessed before.

I was beginning to feel a mite uncomfortable. This was not going the way I'd envisioned it, and I wasn't certain if dragging this out would help or hurt my investigation of the matter. Without thinking, I slipped my hand into my pocket and took out the small charm I'd stolen from the birds. Casually I flipped it from finger to finger, watching the light catch as it moved in my hand. To say I wasn't prepared for the reaction it got from Ms. Wentworth is the understatement of the century.

For the second time in as many days, Ms. Wentworth's face crumpled and she began to sob.

I sat there a moment, waiting to see if the storm would abate on its own. I had no desire to experience a repeat performance of the other day. My fingers strayed to my still-sore nose in a gesture that caught Ms. Wentworth's eye. Unfortunately, it also seemed to renew the waterworks.

"Ms. Wentworth," I began, careful to keep my voice modulated. It would never do if she kept crying. I needed her focused and in control of herself and her emotions. "Ms. Wentworth, could you please tell me how I can help?" Here I smiled at her encouragingly, dipping my head down in order to look into her tear-swollen eyes.