I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping my chamomile tea and staring at nothing in particular when suddenly a slight—what was it? A noise caught my attention. That gave me a jolt, sending my already overloaded nervous system into spasms. Should I get Greg? I glanced over at where Trixie lay. She was still chewing contentedly on her stuffed toy, so maybe I'd imagined it. I was tired after all, and I knew that the ears could play tricks.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, trying to think sleepy thoughts and salvage at least part of the night. Sometimes though, when my eyes are shut, my ears seem to pick up the slack, and the next time I heard the noise from outside, it thundered through my head. So much so that I bolted from my chair and sloshed tea across the tabletop, my heart a frantic bird trying to escape my chest.
Surely Gregory had heard it that time, I thought, giving feet to my fear as I sped along the hallway toward our room.
I really had no idea what it was I was hearing. It might have been a cat on the prowl or an errant raccoon for all I knew, but I was taking no chances. I was determined not to be caught unaware, and my husband, whether he liked it or not, was needed for bulwark duty.
He lay exactly as I'd left him, on his side, one hand tucked innocently under his cheek. That did not deter me from grabbing his shoulder and giving him a firm shake, however. To his credit, his eyes opened straight away, and he lifted himself to an elbow, which was certainly more than I could have managed had the shoe been on the other foot. His resiliency amazes me.
"Greg," I whispered, tossing the blankets back from the bed. "I heard something! I think it's coming from Mrs. Grayson's."
I actually thought no such thing, but I knew which button to push in order to get my spouse up and out of bed. Saying the noise was emanating from a neighboring house tended to bring out the hero in him. Why that was, I had no idea, unless…hmmm. Was my dear husband used to me crying wolf? That thought made me feel a bit snippy, so I gave the blankets an extra tug.
Could I help it if they landed on the floor?
With a minimum of grumbling, I got my partner in crime ready and out the back door. I'd managed to find two penlights with batteries that worked and their light created a small path through the yard. Abruptly I stopped, causing Gregory to run into me.
"What the heck, Caro?" he hissed in my ear. I raised a hand and waved it in his face, effectively shushing him. I really had seen something at the late Mrs. Grayson's.
"Look, see that back window?" I pointed with my chin at the back of our late neighbor's house. I could just make out a faint light shining from under the edge of a lowered window shade. "Let's head for the back porch. I think we might be able to hear better from there."
"Hear what?" Greg was rapidly descending into grumpy old man status, but who could blame him at this hour? "Caro, if this turns out to be one of your wild goose chases—"
He broke off and grabbed my arm just as a muffled thump reached our ears. A car door had closed somewhere nearby, causing my heart to jump into overtime. I started to speak. Greg's hand tightened on my arm. Someone was walking up to the Grayson house.
The front door opened, emitting a thin stream of light into the front yard. Whoever had just arrived slipped inside, and the light disappeared. This was getting better and better. Or weirder and weirder, depending on the tack my thoughts were taking.
I'd written a book a few years back that included a scene in which the main character—an amateur sleuth who managed to solve every mystery, even those that stumped the local police department—caught the killer by trapping him at the scene of the crime by wedging a door shut. That's what we'd do, I thought: We'd block the front and back doors, then call Seneca Meadow's finest. Block it with what, I had no idea. I hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Thankfully, my husband was pretty good at figuring things out on the fly. I'd let him work out the logistics.
"Let's get a bit closer to the house," Gregory whispered. "I want to hear what's going on in there. By the way, did you remember your cell?"
I mentally slapped my forehead. I'd been so concerned with checking out the flashlight batteries that I'd forgotten the portable lifeline.
"No, I left it lying on the kitchen table," I whispered back. "Want me to go back and get it?" This was delivered in a hopeful tone as I did my best to appeal to his chivalrous side. I didn't want to have to wait out in the dark by myself.
"No, just stay here. I'll get it." From the annoyance in his voice, it didn't take a genius to know his me-Tarzan-you-Jane was still asleep. "Are you sure it's in the kitchen?"
I was about to give him an elbow when the sound of raised voices came across the yard. We both froze. Whoever it was in Mrs. Grayson's, they didn't sound too friendly.
"…and you've just about ruined…I have a good mind to….don't you dare threaten me!" This last comment was punctuated with a popping noise, and we instinctively crouched down.
Someone had brought a gun to the party.
"Great," I hissed. "Let's get out of here, Greg!" I put action behind my words and began scooting, crab-like, toward our back door.
The front door of Mrs. Grayson's house was flung open with an alacrity that slammed it back against the wall. I tried to flatten myself into the grass, hoping that the person leaving was too angry to look over my way. Unfortunately, along with my allergies to various items, Bermuda grass ranks right up there. I felt the inevitable sneeze building in intensity, working its way up from deep in my sinus cavities. And knew that there wouldn't be a silencer on this one.
It was a dozy. I must have taken some of the yard right up into my nasal passages, pollen, bugs, and all. Whoever had come slamming out of the house closed the car door just as loudly, so I don't think I was heard. Which turned out to be a very, very good thing for us. The list of bodies was growing longer, and I preferred to stay off of it.
I slowly raised my head and saw that Gregory was still supine. "Close call, huh?" I said, nudging him with a grass-stained elbow. Although it was dark, I could still see the sour look he turned on me.
"Next time, Caro," he said, "will you kindly keep your face out of the grass?"
"Next time, dear husband," I retorted, "I don't intend to get caught out in the back yard."
"Caro, you have got to be the most—"
Whatever he was going to say was broken off by a series of thumps, and there was no second-guessing this time where they were coming from. The back door to Mrs. Grayson's house had come open, and someone was slowly descending the back steps. On his stomach.
"Oh, my goodness! That has to be the person who was shot!" I started to rise and Gregory grabbed my arm, pulling me back down.
"Keep quiet." I could tell by the way the words slithered out that he was seriously irritated with me. He gets an almost snake-like hiss in his voice, usually my cue to sit down and shut up. "It's okay," I assured him. "I don't think whoever it is can do much to us at the moment."
And it certainly appeared I was right. The movement on the back porch abruptly ceased. Without another word, I rose to my feet and walked as swiftly as my stiff knees allowed, training the penlight on a face whose pallor had nothing to do with the darkness.
I knew a dead face when I saw one. And this one was as dead as yesterday's dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A hypnotic swirl of blue and red lights flashed through the trees and bounced off the roofs of the surrounding houses. Gregory and I stood off to one side, banished by a Seneca Meadows paramedic. I was beginning to get slightly irritated, having recovered from the shock of finding yet another body in my usually placid neighborhood. It occurred to me that this was becoming a regular gig, and I felt another surge of hysterical giggles working their way up into my throat. I did my best to swallow them down and ended up making a squawking sort of noise that earned me a jab of my husband's sharp elbow.
"Get a grip, Caro," he muttered from the corner of his mouth, his eyes intent on the proceedings next door.
Well, really, I huffed to my
self. I was doing my best to stay calm and focused, and how else did he expect me to act? I'd been closer to death in the past week than I would prefer, and I still had a deadline—oops! Maybe I needed a new word—to meet for my editor. It was a miracle I could still function at all. Gregory simply did not appreciate the pressure of discovering bodies and dealing with an impatient editor.
"I can't help it," I hissed back, returning the elbow with interest. "Some people hum when they're nervous, some people cry, and some people," punctuated with another jab, "get the giggles."
He slipped an arm around my waist. I knew that if anyone had been listening to us, they'd find our deep affection for one another something of a misnomer. I shivered and cuddled closer to Greg; so much death this close to home was not my idea of a family-friendly neighborhood.
* * *
"Looks like we've got the cavalry this time," I whispered to my husband as we walked through our back door. We were followed by three officers, their radios emitting static bursts of conversation that sounded unworldly, rather like something from an alien movie.
"Would anyone like tea? Or perhaps coffee?" I beamed at the officers in my best hostess manner, earning a disagreeable look from Gregory and a grateful nod from our visitors.
As they set up shop around the table, I bustled about the kitchen, brewing single serving mugs of coffee and putting the electric tea kettle on to boil. We still had some strudel, amazingly enough, so I quickly sliced and plated it. From the sideways glances I was getting from my dear husband, I knew that he was none too happy to be sharing. I mentally tossed my head at him. Tough. That strudel was mine as well.
"I'd like to ask you both a few questions," began the one I had pegged as the lead officer, assiduously wiping his fingers clean of crumb topping. I am fairly good at reading people, if I do say so myself.
My pulse picked up a bit, but in a good way. I often work better under pressure. Gregory, I observed with something akin to jealousy, sat calmly, sipping from his coffee mug with a steady hand. I almost hoped for a zinger tossed his way, just to shake things up a bit.
"I'm sorry?" I blushed, realizing I'd just missed the first question directed at me.
"Can you tell me how you came to find the victim tonight?" He sat with pen poised over paper, ready to take notes.
"I couldn't sleep, so I came out to the kitchen to find a snack." I met Greg's eyes with the slightest hint of defiance. Yes, I said telepathically, I was going to eat the entire pastry all by my lonesome. From the slight grin on his face, I saw that he'd gotten the message loud and clear.
"So you were awake?" Officer Scott—I had stolen a quick glance at his badge—gave me a verbal nudge, and I continued.
"Yes, I was awake and sitting right here at the table. I heard a noise, and it startled me, especially with all that's been going on lately, so I went to get my husband." I paused, more for effect than to gather my thoughts. "When we got outside, we heard a car pull up and saw someone go up and open the front door."
Scott frowned up at me from his notes. "Open the front door?"
I nodded. "They just walked up and acted like it was normal to visit someone who's been dead a few days."
"Okay. Then what did you hear? Or see?" His pen was poised once more, waiting for me to begin speaking.
I glanced at Greg. Was this where I should confess our intention to actually go over and see for ourselves what was going on? A slight shake of his head stopped me. I waggled an eyebrow at him, earning a frown in return.
"Then we heard shouting and what sounded like a firecracker going off, and whoever had just gone inside the front door came back out, got into the car, and took off." Slightly breathless, I ended my recitation and smiled at the officer.
"Did you hear any words, names, anything like that?" This was from the youngest of the three, an Officer Kraemer. I nearly did a double take. He looked as though he should still be in college. Or high school.
I looked back at my husband. "We did hear a few things. Greg, can you remember what was said?" With a neat flick of the verbal wrist, I had tossed the conversation his way and smiled sweetly. It was his turn to play.
Greg returned the smile, albeit with lupine effect, and turned to face the officer. "We didn't hear much, but there was something about threats, and 'don't you dare,' and someone ruining something. It wasn't all that clear," he added with an apologetic shrug.
I noticed that he was now completely ignoring me. I took a sip of tea to hide my grin. Point to me.
The rest of the interview went swiftly. We reviewed the body in the park, the death of Mrs. Grayson, the person who almost crashed into her house, and the victim on the back porch. I mentioned the sleeping pill-laced dessert, feeling slightly silly, but they dutifully added this detail to their notes. The trio of Seneca Meadow's finest had already stood to their feet and said their goodbyes when the dove charm popped into my head.
"Officers?" I began hesitantly, ignoring the glare my husband volleyed in my direction. "I found something the other day that may or may not be important, but I thought I should at least show you."
Turning, I walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the tiny silver charm with my fingertips, placing it in the palm of my hand. I held it out for Officer Scott's inspection.
"This," I said, "is a charm that belongs to Natalie Greenberg, Mayor Greenberg's daughter."
I saw the skeptical glances that passed among the three officers then Kingsley asked me, "How do you know that it's hers?"
"Ms. Wentworth, the mayor's secretary—pardon, administrative assistant—told me." I dropped the little bird into his outstretched hand, failing to mention that the information had come my way during my own investigation.
And I mentally patted myself on the back for not replying, "A little birdie told me so."
I saw that Officer Kraemer's face had acquired a speculative look, and I steeled myself for an interrogation. It was always the young ones who felt the need to impress, and that usually meant more work for those around them. Or, in my case, more questions to answer. I sighed and waited patiently for the fun to begin.
* * *
"Are you asleep, Greg?" I raised myself up in bed, leaning on one elbow and trying to ascertain if he was really out or playing possum. He grunted in response then turned over to my side of the bed.
"Not at the moment, Caro." He spoke with his eyes still closed, and Trixie, who had been snuggled between us, opened one brown eye and gave me a baleful look.
Typically it was beneath my dignity to argue with a dog, but I was willing to make an exception as the situation called for. I shot my own glare at Trixie, who simply closed her eyes and drifted back off to sleep. Whatever. Just wait until she wanted someone to—"…possessed you to tell them that?" I'd missed the first part of Gregory's comment, but I'd heard enough to get the idea. I rarely miss the opportunity for a good round of mind games, and I rolled over onto my back and grinned. I was locked and loaded. If anything, my husband and I were a matched set when it came to debating, another element of our romance that others might find odd.
"What possessed me, as you so succinctly put it, was the need, no, the burning desire, to keep you safe. The idea that some crazed killer is running loose in the neighborhood—and probably against all HOA rules—stirs up the protector in me. Not to mention," I added, "that little business of the doctored streusel." There. That little shot over the bow should just about do it.
The quality of the silence was palpable. No matter the time or place, the idea that I can also do something that he sees as his innate right rattles his cage. It is one of those manly traits embedded in the male genetic code that occasionally rears its head in our home. He gave a deep sigh then reached over to pat my shoulder.
"Let's keep each other safe, Caro," he said with a yawn. "And I don't know about you, but I need my beauty rest."
I virtuously refused to respond but instead leaned over and kissed his cheek.
* * *
Over bre
akfast a la Browning the following morning—scrambled eggs with a judicious amount of Swiss cheese and mild green peppers added to the golden mixture—we read the paper and made small talk about the weather, the things that needed to get done that day, and the latest cycling race. We studiously avoided the topic of the night before, and I decided to ask Gregory for his help with some mundane task I could have done in my sleep. It was obvious to me that the underpinnings of his maleness had been shaken and needed to be restored.
"Gregory," I began, licking the last of the melted cheese from my fork. "I need you to rearrange some boxes in the garage for me. That is, if you're not planning a ride this morning," I added with uncharacteristic solicitousness. Ignoring the suspicious glance he gave me, I rose from my chair and carried my plate to the sink. "I really do need to get to some of my summer decorations and—"
He interrupted my speech with a hmmph and turned back to the sports section. I smiled then stooped to kiss his forehead. The boxes would remain where they were, but at least equilibrium had been restored to our happy home.
We didn't need to give our formal statements until later that day, so I spent the rest of the morning at loose ends. I needed to get into my study and write, but my mind could not focus. Why create a murder mystery when I had the real McCoy right next door?
CHAPTER NINE
Sometimes I wonder if the path I chose for myself as a mystery writer has crossed the line into my daily life. Mysteries by osmosis, as it were. It certainly seemed that way, what with the body count rising and the still unresolved near-poisoning event. However it was happening, it did appear that the Browning household was becoming a portal to disaster.
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