A Bird in the Hand

by Dane McCaslin

  "Ah, Mrs. Browning! How nice to see you in such good spirits!"

  Avery's jovial greeting amused me. Perhaps he was attempting to channel the late mayor's bonhomie, or maybe he assumed that was how a mayor-in-waiting should behave. At any rate, his present demeanor was a far cry from the meek leader of our HOA.

  Gregory shot me a quizzical look, ascertaining my current frame of mind, I was sure. I returned his look with a prim smile, and I could swear I heard his teeth grinding.

  "How are you, Ave—Mr. Stanton?" No need to remind him of my sparring incidents under his watch at our neighborhood gatherings. I was determined to follow the formal tone he'd used. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?"

  I've adopted many Americanisms since our move to the States, and it always amazes me when I see the odd looks I get. Perhaps it is my British accent that throws them off. Be that as it may, I was truly inquisitive as to the reason behind this little visit. From my dear spouse's upright posture, I could tell that he was curious as well.

  "I just wanted to see that you were not suffering because of the several, ah, traumatic, ah, incidents these past few days." Now this was the Avery Stanton that we knew and loved: All stammer and uncertainty. I took pity on him.

  "Please, have a seat." I kindly patted the chair next to mine and then turned to Greg. "Be a dear and pour Mr. Stanton a cup of coffee, darling." I gave him my sweetest smile, and this time I could see his jaws bulging with the effort of not responding. Two endearments in one sentence was definitely a sugar overload for him. If I wasn't careful, there would be heck to pay later.

  The very thought was titillating, to say the least.

  Greg placed the mug of coffee on the table along with the bowl of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of cream that we keep for guests. Both of us prefer ours black, but I have been known to indulge in the various specialty creamers that appear during holidays. Peppermint is a favorite, as is the spicy taste of gingerbread. I was mentally weighing the merits of both flavors when I was yanked out of my musings by a slight kick to my ankle.

  I swung my gaze on the kicker, narrowing my eyes slightly. A slight tilting of his head in Avery Stanton's direction made me realize that I'd completely missed a comment that had been aimed at me. Oh, well. I could always plead deafness due to trauma if need be.

  "I'm so sorry," I said into the silence, widening my eyes in an attempt to appear convincing. "I've had so much on my mind, as you well know." I followed this comment with a deep sigh and a lowering of my eyes. My emotive radar was on high alert, and I knew that I had Avery eating out of my proverbial hand. I also knew that my husband was barely stifling his exasperation with my performance, so I flicked my soulful eyes toward him for a moment before I turned back to our guest. "Thank goodness I have my husband with me, Mr. Stanton. He is such a comfort."

  Gregory managed to mask his response with an exercise in clearing his throat. "Beg your pardon," he said to Avery Stanton. "Swallowed my coffee the wrong way."

  "My goodness, dear," I said sweetly. "Do be more careful." I reached over to pat a shoulder, which was as stiff as a board. Drat. I'd have to do my penance later with a massage.

  We chatted about various goings on in the town as well as in the HOA, and I put a suitably solemn look on my face when the topic of animal control came up. "I am sure that we would all agree, even my dearly departed neighbor, that it is in the best interest of all animals to have, ah, a safety net of sorts." I smiled sadly, glancing out the window toward the Cat Lady's house. "I wish we could have come to a more amicable understanding before she passed." I didn't need to look over at my husband to know exactly what his response was.

  There was an awkward silence for a moment, then Avery spoke up. He took another sip from his mug, wiping his mouth with exaggerated care. "Well, folks, I just had to see for myself that you were doing alright."

  He smiled at me and something hard flickered in his eyes so briefly that perhaps I imagined it. After all, I thought—a tad uneasily, I must admit—this was a man without one tough bone in his body. When he reached out to take my hand in his, he was solicitude incarnate.

  "Please take care of yourself, Mrs. Browning." He turned his smile toward my husband. "Seneca Meadows would be but a shell of itself without our very own author."

  I heartily concurred.

  Gregory escorted him to the door, his voice cordial as he said his goodbyes. From the careful way he shut the front door, though, I knew something was afoot. And since I was feeling slightly guilty about the way I'd needled him in front of company, I figured the something was me. I steeled myself for another round in the battle of the wills, but one look at my spouse's grim face wiped that from my mind.

  "What's wrong?" I asked him, careful to keep my voice modulated. Whenever Greg is feeling unsettled, I don't want to make it worse by sounding accusatory.

  He motioned to the coffee mug that Avery left sitting on the table and I looked at it curiously. Was there something there that I'd missed?

  "No, Caro, not the coffee," said my spouse impatiently. "Avery Stanton. He said something that struck me wrong." Greg was looking at me expectantly, waiting for the light to go on. I just stared at him, though, not making the same connection he'd made.

  "Well?" In spite of my good intentions, I broke into his spiel. To my amazement, he didn't react, instead looked at me with a troubled gaze. This actually upped my anxiety level, as this is one thing that very rarely happens.

  "Caro," he began slowly, "Did you catch what he said about Seneca Meadows not being the same without its own author?"

  The penny dropped. In fact, it hit the ground with the same thunderous sound one might expect from a large boulder falling from the top of a very high mountain. I understood what Greg was trying to say, and I knew precisely why Avery Stanton had stopped by. He was delivering a message of the threatening kind. As I am not the swooning type—unless my head has been bashed in or I find a dead body—I merely stared at Greg.

  The last thing I remember clearly before coming to in my own bed were twin orbs of blue fading into darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "I am not getting out of this bed, so leave me alone!"

  I was huddled under layers of bedclothes, one pillow atop my sweating face, refusing to look at either my dear husband or my sweet Trixie, whose nose was snuffling close to my ear. At least I presumed that it was Trixie's. Unless Gregory had sprouted a rather wet proboscis, complete with a sandpaper tongue, I supposed it was the dog.

  "Caro, you're being a baby." Daylight hit my eyes as Greg yanked the pillow off, giving Trixie free rein in licking my face. Wrinkling my delicate, retroussé nose (I absolutely love that word, although I'm sure it doesn't apply to my own rather battered-as-of-late appendage), I gently pushed her away. Was there anything worse than dog breath?

  Yes, indeed there was. My impending demise. That thought made me tug the covers back over my head.

  A very loud sigh emanated from somewhere above. "Fine, Caro. Hide there if you wish. I, on the other hand, am not going to sit here and wait for you to die."

  That brought me around in a hurry, as he had intended. I flipped the covers back and fixed my very solicitous spouse with a frown, one that I'd perfected from dealings with my agent. "What do you mean, 'wait for you to die?' "

  The only answer I received was the sight of his back as he marched out of our room.

  Since I detest getting my information second-hand, especially from one who delights in making me work for said info, I was not about to let Greg tackle this alone. I joined him in the kitchen, Trixie tangled about my feet as I attempted to maintain a supercilious air. Unfortunately for me, I nearly did a face plant on the floor, thereby running the risk of injuring my poor nose yet again. It didn't help that Greg simply grinned as he caught me by the arm. One of these days I will prove to that man that I do not—I repeat do not—need him to rescue me all the time.

  I sat down in my accustomed chair, trying to settle the rags of my
torn dignity around me and keep Trixie at bay with one foot. That dog will insist on joining us at the table if she thinks there is food in the offing. Of course, a nicely warmed pastry would not be unwelcome, I thought, glancing over at the counter where last I saw the remains of a delicious coffee cake. There was nothing there except countertop. Greg grinned at me, returning my animus with amusement.

  "I propose," he began as I sat fuming, "that we first go over your rather ingenious, ah, collection of information," he held up a hand as my sputtering gained momentum, "and just see if there is anyone else to consider except young Miss Greenberg."

  I felt a need to return the suggestion. "Might we do that, dear, after I have some of the luscious dessert that you have apparently hidden from me?" I crossed my arms, preparatory to verbal sparring. I could hardly wait to hear his excuse for eating the rest of said pastry without me.

  Greg rose to his feet majestically, back straight, head held stiffly as if to move it even a fraction would cause the unseen crown to tumble to the floor.

  "But of course, my sweet." He all but swept a bow in my direction. "Would you like another cup of coffee to go with it?" And opening the door of the cupboard above the microwave, he produced the pastry with a flourish.

  Drat. Round one to husband. I rallied, however, and answered in my most saccharine tone, "Absolutely I would, darling." I do love him. He knows when to play his role and when to ignore me.

  Finally settled in for our confab, each with a generous slice of streusel and mugs of steaming coffee, I threw out the first idea. "Although I am leaning toward the one person having a connection to each of the mur—to each of the victims," I began, still loathing to use the M word since I could feel its tenacious claws reaching out for me, "I'm open to any suggestions you might have."

  Not really, but I was feeling slightly more congenial with sugar in my system.

  Greg nodded thoughtfully, using his forefinger to collect errant crumbs on his plate. He would have made a wonderful subsistence farmer, I thought as I watched him carefully lift his finger to his mouth. Nothing would have gone to waste in his world. I had to force my mind back to the current issue, which was an increase of bodies, not crops.

  "Who else might want each of them dead? I'm trying hard to make a connection from detective one all the way through to detective two, and I can only come up with Avery Stanton." He finished off the rest of his crumbs. I waited for him to actually lick the plate clean, but he simply pushed it aside.

  "Well?"

  I came back to the conversation with a jolt, having once again removed myself to observe Greg's table manners, or the lack thereof. The man with a dearth of manners was looking at me expectantly.

  "Avery Stanton." I said the name with some trepidation, as you might expect, having just been threatened by him. "And you think he has a connection to all, even the private investigators?"

  "Of course." Greg said as he sat straighter and began ticking off his points on his now-clean fingers. "First off, Mayor Greenberg, who was responsible for employing the first detective, was also Avery's boss, and therefore had daily contact with him. Secondly," this was the point assigned to the still-moist forefinger, and I couldn't help but eye said finger in distaste, "there is the fact that Helena Wentworth was also a close contemporary of Avery in her position as the mayoral administrative assistant."(Here I interrupted him with kudos for remembering not to say "secretary.") as well as his 'bit on the side', as some might say." I crinkled my nose in distaste. I did not need that particular visual. "Thirdly," he continued, "our dear neighbor, lately departed to the great cat depository in the sky, was well-known to Avery via the HOA." I squirmed a bit, recalling my own role in the cat skirmishes. "And lastly, he could have seen Beaton as he left Helena's house." He leaned back in his chair in triumph, daring me to contradict.

  I stood up, letting Trixie slide to the floor. "I can see that you've thought this out thoroughly, my dear," I said with a little pat for his shoulder as I placed my own plate in the sink and pushed the button on the Keurig for another cup of coffee. "But really. Avery? He shrinks if he sees his own shadow. And when he sees his wife," I added, clearly recalling how she had barreled past me at Helena's, almost using her body as a battering ram to gain entrance.

  The coffeemaker gurgled to life and began spewing out my current favorite flavored coffee, White Chocolate Mint. (I prefer my coffee unsweetened, just flavored, a fact which I am sure must mystify those who have seen me in action at the bakery.) I waited until the last drop fell into my mug then returned to my seat.

  "In the first place," I said, ticking off my own points on impeccably clean, non-crumby fingers, "how would Avery manage to do away with the first detective, then the Cat Lady, without making some sort of mistake? I mean really, Greg," I said, taking a sip of the luscious brew. "The man is not exactly known for his ability to organize and do anything without the help of that Amazon he calls his wife."

  The cup remained suspended as the impact of what I had just said hung in the space between us. Could it be—just maybe—a joint venture with a sinister bent? The image of master and mistress filled my mind (her image a bit more substantial than his), and I banished that thought as quickly as it had manifested itself. What impetus would either of the Stantons have for doing murder?

  My husband, though, was deep in thought, one finger (not the crumby one, I was glad to see) tapping against his chin. This is always a sure indicator of wheels revolving at light speed inside his brain, so I sipped and waited for his take on my latest comment.

  Finally he spoke. "As much as it pains me to admit that you might, for once, be correct, Caro," he pronounced, getting to his feet and going over to make his own second cup of coffee, "you just might have hit on something a bit closer to the truth than I did."

  I was tempted to ask him to repeat himself. I restricted myself to a gracious nod choosing to acknowledge his words in the same spirit in which they were offered.

  "If I might suggest something," I began with what I hoped was a genuine smile. "I'd like to bring my whiteboard in here so that we can get a visual on what we're discussing."

  I was halfway back to the kitchen with the whiteboard/poster when it occurred to me that perhaps my cycling fanatical spouse might not appreciate my handiwork as much as I would hope. I entered the kitchen in a crab-like side scuttle, holding the makeshift whiteboard at an angle that I hoped would hide its true incarnation. Alas. I managed to trip over an enthusiastic Trixie who was cavorting about my feet as if she had not seen me in months. My burden flew through air, landing poster-side up.

  "Caroline."

  My breath seemed suspended somewhere between lungs and mouth. Whenever he uses my entire given name rather than the more friendly shortened version, I tend to freeze. Call it a reflex from childhood, but it still gets me every time.

  "Yes, dear?" I stayed where I was, seated on the floor with Trixie now ensconced on my lap, happily licking my hand.

  "May I ask where you got this particular poster?" His tone implied, do I even need to ask?

  "Of course you may, Gregory," I replied, scrambling to my feet rather awkwardly. I plopped myself back in my chair and waited for the next verbal shoe to drop.

  I like to think of myself as a wordsmith, a painstaking artist whose choices in diction are always carefully considered. And I did mean what I said. Of course he could ask. Only he didn't. Instead, he very gently leaned the poster sans my many sticky notes against the wall and just as carefully exited the room.

  I sighed. Apparently solving the murders was still my job.

  I set about regrouping my notes. This was quite a task since some of them had secreted themselves under the table while others had landed sticky-side up.

  "You know, Greg, you might at least have stayed to help me." I kept my voice at a conversational pitch, knowing that my husband was most likely across the hall in his sanctuary. I knew very well that he could hear me, whether he responded or not. "I suppose this will become a one-
woman job. Per usual," I added with a deep sigh for effect.

  Still nothing. I was beginning to get hot under the collar when I heard a faint dragging noise making its way down our hall, accompanied by Trixie's excited yips. I left my notes on the table and stepped out of the kitchen to see Greg half-carrying, half-dragging a piece of plywood toward me, his face an interesting shade of light puce, whether from the exertion or from ire I couldn't tell.

  Whatever was the man doing? It would do absolutely no good to ask him, though. His motto is all in good time or something equally irritating to those of us who crave instant information. So of course I inquired, using my most annoying mother tone. "Gregory Browning! Whatever in the world are you doing, besides ruining the floor?" I had to admit that the plywood provided a sturdier background for the plethora of sticky notes. And it provided a barrier between me and an irascible spouse. I really should learn to keep my thoughts to myself…

  While it didn't work quite as efficiently as the CSI folks would have us believe, Greg and I were able to make some progress with our version of a smart board. I tend to think that my sticky note method is effective, so we stayed with it as we moved names and incidents around on the plywood, Greg's precious cycling poster propped against the wall in isolation like the troublemaker it was.

  "I'm still looking at Avery Stanton as the killer," Greg commented, arms akimbo as he gazed at the board.

  I sniffed in contempt. From my point of view, Greg had manipulated the notes to come up with this novel idea. When he has his mind set on an outcome, nothing will change it, not even my board that, to me, shouted Louise's name loudly and clearly.

  I chose not to point this out, however. I would simply continue on in the vein of thought that I had developed and not let my spouse's narrow-mindedness hamper my progress. When I declined to comment, instead standing to my feet and inquiring about dinner, I had the satisfaction of seeing his brows bunch together—but only briefly. He has as much like for showing his hand as a professional poker player.