A Bird in the Hand

by Dane McCaslin

  And neither do I.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It goes without saying that I can be devious. And that was certainly the mindset I'd developed rapidly following the sticky note exercise. I would need to figure out a reason for following up with my suspicions concerning Louise Stanton, especially since I'd need to spin it as a "we need to check out Avery" exercise. So as I sipped my coffee—today it was pumpkin spice—and contemplated my husband's noble profile across the table, I concocted a plan.

  "Greg."

  I placed my mug on the table a bit more firmly than I'd intended, earning a raised eyebrow from over the sports section of our local paper. I sighed. If I wanted things to go my way, I'd need to calibrate every word. I tried again.

  "My dear," I began, careful to modulate my tone. "Why don't we make a visit to the mayor's office sometime today? I need to run by the post office as well, so we could combine trips, conserve some energy."

  Appealing to Greg's conservancy bent, I crafted my suggestion in words designed to instill a guilt trip of the utmost size. From the frown that now creased his brow, I could tell that my hubby knew exactly what I was doing. I smiled primly as I waited for his response.

  "If we must, Caro."

  When provoked, Greg can become downright pedantic. The degree to which his "pedanticness" reaches is a reliable measurement of his ire. A four word reply indicated one level below "massive explosion," I would need to tread lightly.

  "Well, then," I said brightly. "I'll shower and dress first, if that's alright with you, my dear."

  A grunt from behind the paper was Greg's reply. I stood and walked past him, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. It was a "catching-flies-with-honey" kind of day.

  The ride to Seneca Meadows' downtown was on the silent side, but that suited me. I was in planning mode and needed to think. Greg, from his perch on the passenger's seat, exuded an air of disproval. Maybe a side trip to the bakery would take care of that, I thought. I would need him on my side.

  The post office errand dispatched with, I pulled in front of the bakery, slipping the sedan's gears smoothly into park. Pasting on my best smile, I turned to my husband.

  "Shall we stop for a bite or take it with us?" A shrug was my answer, so I chose for us. I figured a few minutes of sniffing sugar-infused air would sweeten his disposition.

  "Good morning, you two," Candy greeted us from the gleaming display case. "I just put out some cinnamon rolls if you're interested."

  I had to admit that they looked delectable. Alas, I am a creature of habit. "We'll take two slices of your freshest strudel, Candy," I smiled to take the sting from my words. It would never do to hurt the feelings of Seneca Meadows' best-loved citizen.

  "You'll turn into a strudel one day, Mrs. B.," she said in mock disapproval. "Coffee as well?" That went without saying.

  Duly loaded down with sweet treats and liquid energy in a mug, I led Greg over to a small table near the back of the bakery. We needed privacy for our planning session—at least that was my intention—and I wanted to keep my dear spouse out of the range of nosy customers. When he is in a mood, he can be surly with the best of them.

  "So." I wiped a few errant crumbs from my mouth and waited for Greg to look at me. When he didn't, I gave my best "ahem," the one that makes me sound as though I'm strangling. It also drives Greg crazy, a dividend in my book.

  "Out with it, Caro."

  His tone was as sour as expired milk, and he continued to scrape his fork across a plate that looked quite empty from where I sat. That, as you might have guessed, was the return volley in the battle of irritating sounds.

  "While you are speaking with Avery, I'll tackle Louise," I said briskly, reaching out and snagging the offending plate and silverware. "We need to ascertain where both of them went after leaving Natalie at Helena's house, although I'm not sure that direct questioning will be the best method. Ideas?" I smiled brightly at Greg, who now sat with arms folded and an almost petulant expression on his face. I tried not to gloat.

  "Actually, I do." He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. I mirrored his pose, leaning toward him in anticipation. When my husband has a notion, it's generally well-thought-out. And that was as far as he got. In rather dramatic style, Avery and Louise Stanton swept into the bakery. Apparently they believed that being the mayor demanded a fanfare—or at least a fan base.

  Whenever I look back at that particular moment, I can see the flaw in my next plan of action, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing to do. Grabbing Greg's arm, I all but dragged him from his chair and past the Stantons, nodding farewell to Candy as we left.

  "And just what prompted that little scene, if I might ask?" Greg was back to being irritated with me, but I completely ignored that. My mind was racing ahead with a most wonderful, most daring plan. Breaking into the Stanton's house.

  "Just get in the car, Greg." I jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine with gusto, giving the accelerator an extra tap for good measure. "And call the bakery. I need to talk to Candy."

  To my amazement, he did as I asked, dutifully handing over the phone as it began to ring. When Candy answered, I took a deep breath. The entire plan rested on how successful she would be.

  "This is Caro," I began, then added hurriedly, "and don't say my name." I went on to explain what I needed her to do, and she agreed, although she didn't sound nearly as upbeat as I thought she should. Still, all we needed was twenty minutes—surely she could keep them occupied for that length of time. I rang off with her rather dubious promise in my ear then tossed the cell back to Greg.

  "I don't want to know what you've got up your sleeve," he said, buckling up as I backed out of the parking spot and headed in the direction of the acting mayor's home. I smiled smugly and focused on driving, nudging the car to the edge of the speed limit.

  "When we get inside," I began, ignoring Greg's groan of protest, "I want you to go through Avery's desk. That is, if he has a desk," I added. "If not, check the dresser in their room." I indicated a left hand turn and narrowly missed a cyclist, earning a growl from my passenger. "I will be in the kitchen."

  "Looking for what, if I might inquire? A secret recipe? Minutes for that last HOA meeting?" Greg's voice held an unmistakable tone of scorn, which I chose to ignore.

  "For receipts, memos, correspondence." I whisked the car around a corner and drew up in front of a neat bungalow. "If Louise has saved any of those items, she'll have plastered the refrigerator with them."

  Greg looked out of the window at the house. "Do you think it's wise to park in front of the house we intend to burgle?"

  "We are not here to burgle, dear," I said in a deceptively sweet voice. "We are simply gathering information that might help to solve some rather nasty deaths. And I didn't park in front of their house," I added. "It's the one across the street."

  "Brilliant," my partner in crime muttered. I thought so as well.

  It took just a few minutes of the allotted time to break and enter. God bless the Stantons—they actually left their back door unlocked. Someone needed to warn them about housebreakers.

  The Stantons went in for minimalism, which was apparent from the lack of furniture. One couch—a red leather monstrosity—and an armchair that looked as though it had been fashioned from plastic sat squarely in the middle of the front room. A quick peek into the dining area showed much of the same. I shuddered, wondering how in the world Louise Stanton's massive bottom could be comfortable on those hard chairs.

  "I found something," my husband announced from the nether regions of the house. I practically skipped down the hall in my enthusiasm, colliding with said husband as he stepped out from what was clearly the master bedroom.

  "Good grief, Caro." Greg rubbed his nose, a flush of red spreading across the offended appendage. "Can't you act your age?"

  Not the best thing to say to any woman—that much was certain—so onto the list of retribution it went. At the rate Greg was going, I would have enough ammo
for at least three decent clashes of the wills. With that satisfying thought tucked safely away, I smiled up at my disgruntled spouse.

  "And what did you find, my dear?" I held my head up a tad higher, conscious that my neck had begun to take on a crepe-like appearance lately. I wanted to appear as though I could still skip at will, sans the racing heart that now threatened to give me away.

  "This," Greg replied, thrusting an envelope into my hand. "From what I can see, this is a notice of intent to prosecute."

  "To prosecute what? I mean, whom? And why?" I sounded as muddled as I felt, and I quickly scanned the paper the envelope had contained.

  "The Stantons, it would appear, have been indicted for money laundering."

  Greg made to whisk the paper from my hand. I hung on, determined to read it in its entirety. The sound of tearing paper filled the space between us, and we let go as one, watching the two halves as they drifted to the floor—just as the unmistakable sound of the front door opening reached our ears.

  We remained frozen in place, a tableau of terror. I recovered first, of course, grabbing the rigid arm of my spouse and spinning him around in the direction of the master bedroom.

  "Quick!" I hissed. "In there!" I pushed Greg ahead of me into the vast closet, dragging him down to the floor. "Get behind those trousers, Greg. And tuck your legs under you," I added as I arranged my own limbs. If our luck held, no one would even know we'd been here. Unless…

  "Greg!" I kept my voice as quiet as possible. "Do you still have the letter?"

  A quiet groan was my answer. Fabulous. We'd just left a calling card, complete with flashing neon sign, in the middle of the hallway.

  The voices we heard, though, were not those of the elder Stanton pair. Rather, from what I deduced, there were at least two out there, young males from the basso profundo tones emanating from the hall. Or at least they were basso until they got closer to our hideyhole. Then they demonstrated a pitch that would make any soprano weep with joy.

  "Get Ma on the phone—quick!" That was Voice One, clearly the elder of the two by the bossiness he exhibited.

  "No way, dude! You tell her!" Voice Two sounded terrified of the mater, not that I could blame him. Louise Stanton could run roughshod over whomever she chose.

  "Whatever. I'll do it, sissy boy."

  They moved back down the hallway toward the front room, and soon I could hear One's voice lifted in protest. He was probably taking the heat. That, I felt certain, would not bode well for Two.

  There had not been a solitary sound from Greg's side of the closet, and I began to worry. Perhaps he had fainted. Or worse. I'd heard tales of perfectly healthy men in their prime—and he was definitely in his prime—dropping dead for no apparent reason. With racing heart, I crawled out from behind a collection of Louise Stanton's tent-like dresses and listened intently. A soft snore reassured me and then brought my blood to a boil. How in Heaven's name could he sleep at a time like this? I was tempted to leave him behind for Avery Stanton to discover.

  Shaking his shoulder, I hissed, "Greg! Wake up!" A final snort emanated from behind the trousers, followed by a wild thrashing about. Good grief. If I didn't stop him, he would tear the closet up as well as the letter.

  "Get hold of yourself, Gregory," I scolded, reaching out to push open the closet door. "We need to get out of here now before mister and missus arrive." I struggled to my feet and reached out a hand to help my spouse stand. Hopefully the Stanton offspring—I assumed that was who had been yelling down the house—had not noticed our car parked just opposite.

  With Greg in tow, I tiptoed toward the front door. I was feeling the need to quit the residence as quickly as possible.

  "The next time I have an idea like this," I muttered, "stop me."

  "As if I could," Greg snorted, twisting his hand out of mine. "Caro, hold on a minute. I'll check to make sure the coast is clear." He cautiously opened the front door.

  It was my turn to snort. "You sound as if you're playing a cheesy movie role, Oh Great One."

  When the Stantons pulled into the driveway, I was certain my life as I knew it was over.

  "Now what do we do?" I grasped my husband's arm in a full-fledged panic. In my estimation, we had approximately ten seconds between escaping and being caught red-handed in a place where we had no business.

  "Back to the closet, Caro. Move it!" Greg spun me around, pushing me ahead of him. We made it back to our hiding places just as the front door opened once more, this time ushering in the pater and mater of the Stanton familia.

  And I prayed with all my might that they weren't the type of folks to come home and change into more comfortable garb. I wasn't sure how we could explain our presence, tucked in among the dresses and trousers as if we had come to shop and stayed to hide.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The unmistakable clomping of Louise's heavy footsteps moved toward the bedroom, and I held my breath. I was, to coin a phrase, scared enough to wet my pants. However, the very idea that I might humiliate myself distracted me, creating the impetus I needed to get moving.

  I reached out for Greg's hand, finding instead a pair of stiletto heels that were the antithesis of Louise's fashion sense. It would provide a handy weapon if needed, though, so I picked up the mate as well.

  "Greg!" I said sotto voce. "Take this!"

  I held out the shoe blindly. It took a nerve-wracking moment to make the transfer. I heard a grunt from his sector, and I rightly interpreted it as disgust.

  "Use the heel to defend yourself, dear," I hissed into the darkness, only just stopping myself from adding, "You nitwit." Men amaze me at times with their lack of common sense.

  Louise walked into the room, and I listened in amusement as she decompressed noisily, my genteel way of indicating a fa—no, I cannot bring myself to even write the word, but suffice it to say that even behind a closed door, I could smell her. Apparently the woman had digestive issues.

  To my horror, I also detected the sound of clothes being unsnapped and discarded. If she intended to open the closet for more apparel, I would greet her with a stiletto to the face. I could not tell what Gregory was doing, but I hoped that he was also ready to attack if need be. With pounding heart, I mentally followed her around her room (fully clothed, of course) as she opened and closed dresser drawers, continued decompressing, and whistling tunelessly. When I finally heard the door to the en suite bathroom shut behind her, I let out the breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

  It was now or never. As quietly as I could, I slipped out from my hiding spot and felt around for Greg. Grabbing his hand, I tugged him toward the closet door, opening it with as much stealth as any cat burglar. All that was needed was a dash down the hall, out the door, and we were home free…if the missus stayed in the shower and the mister was otherwise occupied.

  Louise was now singing—bellowing, rather—the latest song by Katy Perry. I almost laughed aloud listening to her proclaim that we'd "hear her roar." As if we had a choice! She was roaring loud enough to be heard all over Seneca Meadows, but it was loud enough to cover our exit from the closet and the room, so I couldn't fault her.

  "Hey! What were you doing in my house?"

  The outraged shout from the front room startled us both and put wings on our feet. We raced the rest of the way to the entrance as if we were being chased by Old Scratch himself. Avery hadn't even noticed us, though. He was busy yelling into his cell phone, most likely directing his ire toward his hapless office aide. I grinned at Greg as we left by the front door, closing it quietly behind us. The Caro luck had held again.

  I tossed the high-heeled shoe in the Stantons' flowerbed and strolled to our car, Greg right behind me, still clutching the mate to the shoe. I just shook my head at him in amusement. He could keep it as a souvenir for all I cared.

  To describe the drive home as sedate wouldn't be far from the truth. The goal had been accomplished. We'd made it out without being arrested for breaking and entering, and the promise of comfort
food loomed large on my culinary horizon. I would be preparing my famous avocado and turkey sandwiches for dinner, along with an enormous batch of homemade sweet potato fries, an American delicacy that I had embraced with both hands.

  This is the point in a novel where the protagonist is confronted by the local police department, or by some busybody, but this, thankfully, was real life. We were able to gain the sanctity of our home without further ado, and it was a treat to join Greg in his inner sanctum with Trixie snuggled in my lap. It was twice as nice when my sweet spouse handed me a glass of my favorite Pinot Grigio, nicely chilled and buttery smooth.

  "Caro."

  Greg's voice was stern but not unkind, so I continued to sip my wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. Trixie was half asleep, stretched out with complete abandon, her soft belly showing like the hussy she was. I obliged her with a tummy rub.

  "Yes, my dear?" Another sip, more to keep my mouth occupied than anything else.

  "If. You. EVER," he began, "involve me in any activity that requires me to break a law, ANY law, I will personally duct tape you to a chair until you come to your senses."

  By the end of his pronouncement, he was back to regular punctuation, so I just smiled at him. One of my fabulous sandwiches would bring him back around to my way of thinking. I stood up, placed the sleeping princess on Gregory's lap, kissed the top of his head, and took myself off to the kitchen. My husband's heart did indeed reside in his stomach.

  "Ah. That was delightful, Caro." Greg brushed the last of the crumbs from his lips and smiled across at me. "I always enjoy your cooking."

  I glanced sharply at him, trying to ascertain any hint of sarcasm on his face, but I saw none. I preened, nodding my head graciously. I had learned early on from my mother how to handle an angry man—feed him.

  "Yes, I do think the addition of spinach and roasted red peppers was especially brilliant." I reached across for his empty plate. "Now. How about watching a bit of cycling?"