A Bird in the Hand

by Dane McCaslin

  Before I could fire off another salvo in my defense, Gregory rose and walked around the table, leaning over to carefully kiss my bruised face. I closed my eyes and felt the sting of tears. My husband, as wonderful as he is, can annoy the socks off me at times, but I know that he loves me and only wants me safe. I reached up to pat his cheek.

  "Alright, round one goes to the husband." I smiled crookedly, my eyes feeling as though they'd been plopped down into sockets a few sizes too small. "I need to get moving with my next book anyway."

  That was not a lie. I'd been ignoring emails from my agent marked urgent, aware that he'd already promised my publisher that I'd have the next manuscript ready for editing by early fall. I'd probably need to do some research for this—lots of research. And if I happened to run into information concerning the mess next door, so be it. Could I help what landed in my lap? I should say not!

  I spent the next several days willing away the swelling and bruising on my face, and by the weekend I was almost presentable for appearing in the public eye. I'd never gotten that luscious cheese pastry from the bakery, although my car now sat in its usual place inside our garage. A trip out for a treat might be just what the doctor ordered.

  As my husband pointed out, rather cogently, I might add, I had the perfect excuse for sitting and writing my heart out. The only problem was that my muse had managed to do a disappearing act, and I had not the slightest desire to create. What I really wanted was another chat with Ms. Wentworth and a look at the police report concerning Mrs. Grayson.

  And I was still curious about those cats. I hadn't noticed anyone hauling them away and my still-rattled brain was busy concocting Hitchcock-like story lines. I sincerely hoped that the entire pack—or herd, or whatever a group of cats are called—was safe and sound. And out of my neighborhood.

  I was stretched out on the sofa in our front room, the better to watch the locals perambulating through the picture window, when I noticed a slow-moving car pass down our street, then pull over to the side. I had come to a place in my manuscript where I couldn't decide how best to connect the victim and the murderer and was letting my mind gambol through its own tangents, and so I welcomed the distraction. I was watching the driver with detachment, still mulling over several avenues of plot, when it occurred to me that he—or possibly a rather large she—was staring rather fixedly at poor Mrs. Grayson's house.

  Well, that certainly kick-started the old ticker. I sat up abruptly, nearly dropping my laptop as I did, and swung my feet onto the floor. I debated whether to sit and watch so as not to miss a second of whatever was going to happen, or to hop up and get my binoculars. Or—and here is where I congratulated myself for my cleverness—I could make use of Gregory's telescope that sat in one corner of the room, part décor and all dust-catcher.

  I sidled over to the telescope, crossing my fingers that the proper lens was in place. I recalled the last time we'd used it, we'd discovered that one of the lenses had a slight crack, and I could not, for the life of me, remember if it had been replaced.

  I managed to move the scope into place about five or six feet back from the window and took a trial glance through the eyepiece. The world was a jumble of colors and weird shapes, and I realized that I'd inadvertently turned the wrong end my way.

  I soon remedied the problem and was just getting a clear view of the car when the man of the house came through the back door, mumbling something about folks who shouldn't be allowed to drive on public roads. I grinned to myself. Gregory, inspired by one of his numerous races, had been out cycling, eager to try out a maneuver he'd seen a professional cyclist complete. From the various sounds coming from the kitchen, I hazarded a guess that it hadn't worked out so well.

  Neither was my attempt at voyeurism, for that matter. The driver, perhaps sensing my eager eye, had unfolded a newspaper and was turned sideways in the driver's seat, his—or her—face obscured by the day's headlines. I straightened up and stood looking out the window, trying not to frown. I still had some residual aches around the old schnozz that seemed unwilling to go away.

  Either my hearing was going, or my dear husband had learned the secret of levitating. When he spoke up just behind my shoulder, I nearly decapitated him with a flailing arm.

  "Caro, you've got to stop this," he said firmly, taking me by the elbow and steering me back toward the sofa.

  "Stop what, dear? And do let go of my arm," I added, trying not to sound as peevish as I felt. "All I was doing was…"

  I stopped. What was it that I was doing? Gathering material for my book? Keeping the neighborhood safe? I risked a look at Greg and decided that silence was golden, at least in this case.

  As I fished around in my mind for a conversational detour, the sound of an engine firing to life made us both turn back to the window. Together we watched the car move away from the curb and pull out into the street, then swing wildly around and pick up speed.

  "Greg!" I shouted, digging my nails into his arm. "It's headed right for Mrs. Grayson's house!"

  At this point I feel the need to assure the reader that I do not, as a rule, spend my days ranting and shrieking. I can only think that my recent behavioral reflexes are due to the fact that I have been exposed to not just one but two dead bodies in the space of a few days. Although I can describe death and all its aftermath with the best of them, I am of the school of thought that one does not need to experience something in order to write about it.

  Yet here I was, clutching my husband's arm with all the desperation of a drowning woman, watching in horror as a car barreled down on my now-deceased neighbor's house. What in the name of heaven had she done—or seen—to make someone behave in this manner?

  Just when I thought impact was imminent, the car changed course once again and bumped back over the sidewalk and back on to the road. With a final squeal of the tires, it was over.

  Gregory began prying my fingers from his arm, for once without comment about my sensitive nature and over-active imagination. I slowly turned my head to look into his face. I don't know when we've ever been as eloquent in our silence as we were just then.

  Without a word, I turned and began walking toward the kitchen, mind racing and feet moving on autopilot. I needed caffeine, and I needed it now, and judging by Gregory's shuffling steps behind me, he needed it worse than I.

  I will say this about myself: When the situation calls for it, I can be as clear-headed as the best of them. I could see that my normally in-charge husband had migrated to a state of disbelief and, for once, needed to be the leaner rather than the leaned-upon. It was an exhilarating feeling, and I took to it like a duck to water.

  "Sit right down, Gregory, and I'll have coffee ready in just a sec." I steered him toward a chair with one hand and reached to my coffee machine with the other, deftly flicking the switch that began the heating process. He sat, hands clasped before him on the table and staring straight ahead. I was truly beginning to worry about him when he finally spoke.

  "I think you might be right, my dear." The words came out softly, taking hesitant steps into the silence as I froze, coffee suspended in mid-air.

  "I beg your pardon?" I slowly turned to face my husband, carefully placing the steaming mug of coffee in front of him. "I'm afraid that I didn't quite catch that, Gregory."

  Of course I'd heard him. I simply wanted to hear it again.

  "You know," I pointed my fork thoughtfully at Gregory, "I think I can use some of this in my book." I set the fork down and used my fingertips to trap the last of crumbs from the luscious pastry that my husband had so thoughtfully procured following the incident with the car. Everyone (at least everyone in Great Britain) knows that sugar is wonderful for steadying the nerves.

  Gregory's normally mild eyes widened at this pronouncement but wisely, in my perspective, added nothing to the comment. Instead he focused on cleaning his own plate, gathering up the last of the sugary remains as if his life depended on it.

  "Why shouldn't I?" I pursued the topic, having
cleaned my plate and the surrounding area, leaving no evidence of strudel behind. "It's the perfect fit for my book, Gregory, and I could consider this research on the hoof, so to speak." I was addressing my words to the top of his head.

  He glanced up at me, raising one eyebrow in that almost Gallic manner of his then concentrated on his plate once more. I sighed. There's nothing less productive, in my opinion, than having to conduct a discussion entirely without words from one side, but my husband is expert in this area, and much practice on my part allowed the conversation to continue.

  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," I retorted. "This entire week has lent itself to a great mystery plot, and I intend to make use of it." There. That should goad him into speech. I've never known Greg to pass over a direct challenge

  I watched as he slowly raised his head, his eyes now the placid blue of a spring day. I let out the breath I hadn't realized that I was holding.

  "I think, Caro, that you should do whatever you wish. You're going to anyway, and I'm up to my ears in legal briefs at the moment." He shook his head. "It's going to take those students more than fancy verbiage to earn a passing grade. He pushed back from the kitchen table and stood, reaching over to pick up his plate and fork. I handed my own over, moving on autopilot, as I digested what he'd said.

  If I hadn't been there myself, I never would have believed that Gregory Browning, whom I had known for nearly half of my lifetime, had just capitulated without as much as a shot fired across the bow. And with that, he calmly took himself into the den and flicked on the television. In his world, there was nothing that a little competitive cycling couldn't fix

  I stayed at the table, idly watching as two noisy mockingbirds on the front lawn tussled over a particularly tasty tidbit as I worried over Greg's mood. He'd had iffy students before, so something must truly have been troubling him. Guilt stole over me, then rapidly receded. After all, I'm a woman whose mantra is: It can't be my fault.

  My coffee was lukewarm by now, and as I rose to pop it into the microwave for a quick zap, something flashed in one of the bird's beaks. That caught my attention. I gave a quick glance toward the den, an ear cocked for sound. Good—the television was still on, muffled voices rising and falling as one cyclist after another was discussed. If I did this quickly but casually, I would be able to get out there and see exactly what it was that had caught the interest of the mockingbirds. It was pathetic when even the antics of birds were suspect, but that was the world I occupied at that moment.

  The air outside was cooler than I expected for this time of the year, but I certainly was not complaining. Once spring was over and summer had settled in for the long haul, I'd miss the lightness of the spring air. Summer's bounty came wrapped in days so thick with moisture that curly heads like me completely gave up any attempt at straight locks.

  The two birds paused a moment as I stepped closer, black button eyes watching my approach. I clapped my hands at them and they rose into the air, and the bauble fell back toward the grass as the pair circled above my head. Squawking their intense displeasure, the mockingbirds flew away.

  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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.