A Bird in the Hand

by Dane McCaslin

  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 beenseemed 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.

  Her words, in the oft-repeated adage of my Irish grandmother, could have knocked me down with a feather. "Why do you have Tally's dove?"

  I admit I was baffled. I had no such item that I was aware of, and then I saw that she was staring at my hand that held the tiny silver bird. I looked from it to her and back again. That, I realized was a great question. Why did I have it? I knew, of course, how I'd gotten it, but as to why it had been in my yard to begin with I couldn't say.

  "It sounds fantastic, I do realize that, but I rescued this," here I offered the charm up for her inspection, "from two mockingbirds. They were in my yard, fussing over it, and I scared them into dropping it." I smiled at her, feeling a tad silly; I don't usually attack the local wildlife.

  Silently she reached out her hand, and I gently dropped the bird into her palm. I watched her as she inspected it closely, raising it closer to her eyes and inspecting every inch—or in this case, every centimeter—until she had satisfied herself.

  About what, I had not a clue, unless it was simply the fact of regaining one of Natalie Goldberg's possessions. Whatever the case, I decided to wait it out, to see what she would say. I still could not make a clear connection of any sort with Tally and the charm, nor had I linked either with the body in the neighborhood park. Or with my lately departed neighbor, for that matter. From where I stood, it was all a jumble of circumstance.

  By the time I'd retrieved the charm, assuring Ms. Wentworth that I would be back the following afternoon so that we might have a chat about the mystery surrounding Tally's whereabouts, I was mentally exhausted. The woman was a bundle of contradictory emotions, a far cry from the stoic, in-charge secretary I had met on my first trip to the mayor's hidey-hole. In fact, a visit to the bakery seemed the best way to counteract my return
appointment with Ms. Wentworth. With visions of sugarplums dancing about in my over-stimulated brain, I backed out of my parking place and headed downtown.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carefully setting my sugar-encrusted prize on the seat beside me, I buckled up and headed for home. I wanted my warm cozy kitchen and the comforting presence of husband and dog. And I knew Gregory well enough to recognize the need for a little bribery, especially if I was to compel him into helping with the next stage of what I now thought of as the investigation.

  Shedding shoes and jacket in the kitchen, I cocked an ear for signs of life. The familiar sounds of a cycling race eased from behind the partly closed door to the den, and I could almost make out what Gregory was watching. If the calendar said July, it was the granddaddy of them all, the Tour de France. If the calendar said springtime, as it did now, it was a recording of the previous year's Tour. I grinned to myself as I stuck my head around the door. My dear spouse was nothing if not predictable, and no matter the amount of bickering that we did, I loved him dearly, and he returned the feeling in spades.

  I should have been suspicious of the lack of canine greeting, though, particularly one from Trixie. She is a credit to her gender, curious as the day is long, and a devoted keeper of all comings and goings in our home. For once, though, the house was silent.

  Both Gregory and she were in deep slumber, curled next to one another in the recliner. Shaking my head, I advanced toward them, at the ready to shush Trixie if need be. I shouldn't have worried. Neither of them moved a muscle. In fact, it was too quiet, their breathing too deep for this time of the day.

  I leaned in, sniffing to see if perhaps Greg had indulged in a rum and coke, his drink of choice, but I detected nothing in the way of spirits on his breath. That wouldn't have explained Trixie's snoring, at any rate, unless she had taken up the habit as well.

  Well. This was certainly very odd. I reached out a hand and gave my husband's shoulder a mild shake, then a harder tug—nothing. It was then I noticed the small box sitting on the floor next to the recliner, its top open and bereft of its contents save a few crumbles of brown sugar-and-pecan topping.

  I frowned, drawing my eyebrows together in a manner that ensured more and deeper wrinkles. I remembered tossing out the empty strudel box before I left for His Honor's office, which had precipitated my decision to stop for another of the addictive goodies. Could Gregory have gone through the trash and…no, it was too ridiculous to even contemplate. Somehow, though, the strudel box had made an encore appearance.

  I decided to leave the twosome as they were for the time being. I needed to get dinner started anyway, and I could do this quicker without two pairs of eyes watching my every move in the kitchen. I started the dinner prep, setting out zucchini squash, scallions, garlic cloves, and unsalted butter. Since we were closing in on our "finally settled and stable" years, as we had christened our forties, Gregory and I had pledged to eat better, the odd pastry notwithstanding. And I figured that if the man had indulged twice today, he'd get a healthy dinner tonight whether he liked it or not. This was accompanied with a guilty glance at the bakery box sitting on the counter top.

  I paused in mid-chop. I clearly recalled taking the empty box with me when I left earlier, dropping it into the trash bin that sat near the side gate. I laid the knife down and slipped my shoes back on, ready to solve a mystery of the culinary kind.

  There it was, just where I'd tossed it, laying on top of yesterday's trash. I lowered the lid, standing perplexed for a moment as I tried to think. Unless he'd snuck out during the night, I had no idea when Greg would have had time to fit in another bakery run.

  It wasn't that I was keeping tabs on what my husband ingested, not really. I just wanted to make sure that he didn't overdo the sweets. And it was a bit odd, this afternoon nap that he and Trixie were in the midst of. A bit too odd for my liking, as a matter of fact.

  With that thought, I dashed back into the house, quickly rinsed my hands at the sink then went back into the den. They were just as I had left them, Gregory and Trixie, their heavy, even breathing almost as loud as the cycling announcer on the tube. I picked up the bakery box, gave it a suspicious sniff then paused. It smelled okay, but there was something a bit off about the crumbs. I could see among the golden bits of brown sugar and toasted pecans a few specks of white. I peered closer, trying to decide whether or not I should do the taste test, the type you see being done by detectives on television. (I've never been able to work that trick out, not even for my own books.)

  "Gregory," I all but shouted. "Wake up." This was accompanied by a vigorous shaking of his shoulders with both of my hands. To my immense relief, his eyelids fluttered, and he looked up at me through bleary eyes.

  "What's the matter, Caro?" he asked, only it came out, "Wuzza mat, Carrrro?" He sounded drunk, and the way his eyes kept fluttering shut was not helping his cause. I simply would not put up with my husband becoming a lie-about drunkard, not on my watch.

  I think I might have said something along those lines if it hadn't been for Trixie. It occurred to me that she was just as knocked out as Greg, and I simply could not imagine her tippling. Besides, we kept the rum high above the stove in that cabinet too high for me to reach without the aid of a stool. Unless my dog had developed talents heretofore not recognized, she and my husband were acting as though they'd taken a dose of my sleeping pills.

  My sleeping pills! I slapped my hand to my forehead and dashed back into the hall, hightailing it to our bedroom and over to my nightstand. The bottle stood exactly where I had last seen it, on top of the latest issue of National Geographic, the lid still firmly in place. I'd only taken one of the thirty prescribed for me, so I would know if any were missing.

  I picked up the bottle with the edge of my shirt, careful not to touch the surface. I wasn't sure what made me do that, only that something felt off, and my mind tends to be suspicious anyway. I managed to pry open the childproof cap and dumped the medicine onto the comforter. My eyes scanned the small white pills, counting under my breath. It was as I had suspected. Twenty of the tablets were gone. I had a feeling that I knew exactly where they were. How they'd gotten there was the real mystery.

  A phone call to Poison Control and the nearby animal clinic eased my mind somewhat, although I still wasn't comfortable with the alacrity that Gregory had displayed in falling asleep once more. I let my two darlings snooze, standing by with water for Trixie and a pot of strong coffee for Gregory.

  I'd quite forgotten about dinner and had lost all semblance of appetite anyway, so I returned all the ingredients to the refrigerator. I cut myself a large slab of strudel after careful inspection of its topping and sat at the kitchen table. I felt as though my world was spinning out of its orbit once again: dead bodies, doctored pastries, unanswered questions. And a manuscript that wouldn't write itself. I sighed, careful to gather up the last of the crumbs on my plate. Well, I was only one person, and I'd just have to prioritize.

  I managed to get some food into Gregory and Trixie (scrambled eggs for him, kibbles with a dollop of yogurt on top for her) and listened, dumbfounded, as my husband described his delight in finding the pastry box sitting on the counter near the kitchen door. He had assumed that I'd left it for him, a nod to his noble character or some other such nonsense, and took it as a sign to consume the entire confection.

  Really, I thought to myself as I helped him wobble down the hall and into our bed, men can be incredibly self-serving. Trixie, bless her heart, hadn't been as affected as previously thought. She'd only had the few crumbs that had fallen onto Greg's shirtfront and not much more. Her Sleeping Beauty act had been just that—an act. She'd sleep the entire day away if we'd let her, and between the two of us, we'd fallen victim to her wishes.

  In all of this, I still hadn't been able to work out how some of my sleeping pills had ended up as streusel topping. To think that someone had slipped into our home and had been cognizant of the pills and where I kept them gave me a first-class cas
e of the willies. To have known that Gregory, the public health nut, loved sweets was even stranger.

  I admit to having slept with one eye open that night.

  I sometimes look back at the Incident of the Poisoned Pastry, as I came to think of it, and can feel shivers creep up and down my spine for what might have happened. I think it was then, as I lay in bed that night next to Gregory and listened to his sporadic snores, that I realized I might have lost him. For that matter, I might have lost me as well, if that makes any sense. Someone had purposely targeted me and mine for what could have been a quiet death, a sleep-induced slide into the welcoming arms of oblivion (alright, I might have exaggerated a tad, but that was exactly how I felt).

  And that someone apparently thought we had either seen or knew something that was important. Or, at the very least, something incriminating. I wasn't certain how the body in the park, the death of my neighbor, Tally Greenberg, and now this close brush with death were connected—or even if they were related somehow—but I wouldn't let that stop me. I'd cobbled together plots with more tentacles than an octopus before, and I determined that I would figure this one out as well.

  I took a mental walk, searching for a link—anything—that would tie together the private detective's and my neighbor's demise. If Mrs. Greyson had spotted something amiss in the park, perhaps had actually witnessed the detective's murder, things might make more sense. On the other hand, it seemed that the only connection was locational. That thought gave me pause; perhaps that was the elusive tie-in. If it was connected to the HOA in some manner, then Avery Stanton deserved closer scrutiny.

  Morpheus, my dear old friend, had failed to make an appearance at my bedside, so I carefully slid out from under the covers and crept into the kitchen for a middle-of-the-night cup of tea. Trixie had awakened as well, and the sound of her nails clicking against the tile seemed to me as loud as the neighborhood Methodist church's bells on a Sunday morning. I was still jumpy—and who could blame me? Between bodies and doctored sweets, I was becoming a basket case. Trixie, however, seemed to have recovered her equilibrium, and she plopped down on the rug next to the back door and began gnawing on the toy she'd left there earlier.