A Bird in the Hand

by Dane McCaslin

  "Your hubby told me that I'd find you in here." Tally emitted a peculiar giggle, one that set the spiders tripping up and down my spine, and leaned against my desk. "I see you got my letter."

  Her close proximity to me turned my skin to ice and raised the gooseflesh along my arms. To my dismay, Tally noticed it.

  "You can't possibly be cold, Mrs.—what do I call you, anyway? Mrs. Layton? Mrs. Browning?" She looked at me with a perplexed expression, her eyebrows bunching together as though she was working out a complex mathematics problem.

  "Caro." I said it automatically, horrified to hear my voice shaking. "You can call me Caro."

  It hit me then, as hard as the proverbial ton of bricks. Tally had said that my hubby had directed her to my office. According to the clock on my wall, it was too early for an appearance by the offended spouse. And although I should have felt relieved that he was home, I wasn't. There was something calculated in the casual manner in which she'd announced herself that told me otherwise.

  I set my feet on the floor and slowly pushed back from my desk, preparatory to rising from my chair. I was going to find Greg and get the heck out of Dodge before this nut case did something that she'd regret. Or that I would.

  "Not so fast, Caro." A firm hand on my arm tugged me back into place, and I sat down awkwardly, one leg splayed to the side. It was all I could do not to grimace in pain. I was still feeling some of the effects of the farmhouse standoff. "I think we have a thing or two to discuss."

  My mind raced wildly, circling round and round the idea that not only was I correct—I'd nailed the killer's identity—my husband had let her into my inner sanctum. Since he knows better, I could only surmise that it was under extreme duress. Or worse. A chill that would make a penguin shiver for joy crept over me. I was truly face to face with evil. And it was smiling at me.

  I'd always written a flaw or two into my antagonist's makeup and his or her wicked plan, thus allowing my protagonist to escape at the last possible moment. I, however, could see no way out of this predicament, and I was terrified.

  As I sat unmoving before Natalie Greenberg and that dreadful smile, I noticed the door to my office moving slightly. Our house can be a bit drafty at times, the builder having taken as many short cuts as possible with the plans, so I thought nothing of it. But as it began to open wider, my heart began to race even faster than it already was. Trixie's soft, furry snout inched its way inside.

  I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise, and I had to concentrate on not sniggering out loud. Super dachshund! Little Trixie to the rescue!

  I leaned forward to call the dog over to me, patting my lap as I normally would do. Natalie, her attention momentarily divided, spun around quickly to see what I was looking at. And got a very sharp set of teeth anchored to her exposed leg. Trixie hung on for dear life, growling through the mouthful of flesh as Natalie shrieked with pain and danced about, trying to shake free her attacker.

  The scene in front of me defied belief—in fact, I couldn't have composed a better ending myself. The writer in me tucked the idea aside for use in a later manuscript even as the scared woman in me let out a blood-curdling screech. To my immense relief, someone heard me.

  The door opened with a solid crash against the wall as my dear, sweet, perfect husband arrived, phone already pressed to his ear. The other hand held a bloodstained dishcloth to the side of his head, and I could see streaks of red on the collar of his shirt. Without thinking, I grabbed up a small bronze statuette and slammed it down on Natalie's head as hard as I could. How dare she attack my husband! That was my jurisdiction.

  * * *

  Thankfully, when I was finally ensconced in my kitchen with a cup of steaming tea, liberally sweetened, in my hand, Officer Scott agreed with my action. Of course, he added kindly, it would be up to the district attorney, but he couldn't imagine anyone pressing charges against me for bashing a killer over the head. After all, my actions served to keep her out of commission until the authorities arrived, not to mention that it was done in self-defense.

  I preened as best I could. With my neck still sore, it was difficult to maintain certain poses, but I think Gregory got the idea. Giving a magnificent eye roll, he leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead. Between that and Trixie snuggled down on my lap, I felt that life couldn't get any better.

  I winked away tears of joy and took a sip of my tea, instantly incinerating my tongue. I started to say something to Greg but stopped myself in time. He was still under hero contract, and besides, I fully intended that he and I would have many more years together. There would be time enough for payback.

  Instead, I smiled. I had garnered an idea for a new book, I still had my spouse and dog and—most importantly—my life, and there was a box of chocolate-filled croissants sitting on the counter just calling my name. Pure bliss.

  Later on, when the legal dust settled and charges were brought against Natalie Greenberg for the deaths of the first detective, Mrs. Grayson, and the man next door, as well as the shootings of Helena Wentworth and Richard Beaton, we got the scoop from Officer Scott. He was our new best friend and inside informer. (I made a note to treat him with kid gloves. I needed someone who could give me the details of local crime, especially since I'd decided to set my newest series in a small town not unlike Seneca Meadows.)

  Natalie Greenberg was not a mentally balanced person, something that concerned her father. When she discovered quite by accident that she was being followed by a detective hired to find her and bring her to her father, it sent her over the proverbial edge into the beginnings of true insanity; her father, truly loving his daughter in spite of her personal demons, had only wanted to insure her safety. Discovering that my neighbor had spotted her dispatching the first detective lent fuel to her fire. After ridding herself of the potential witness—and my HOA of a feline fracas, I must add—she confronted her father, precipitating the heart attack that nearly proved fatal. Of course, Jeremiah Greenberg was the poster boy for heart disease with all of that excess weight he carried, and one can but wonder if Natalie's twisted logic counted on the ensuing health issues. She had heard (through Ms. Wentworth, of course) that her father's business card had been found in the dead man's pocket, and it didn't take much for her to concoct a scenario with herself as the victim. When Natalie determined that yours truly was getting too close to an answer, she had hired a small-time thug to buy and deliver a strudel to us, complete with a sleeping pill topping. It's ironic, really, that said thug felt safer behind bars than he did around Natalie, but that is very telling, in my humble opinion. Detective Richard Beaton, sent to find the culprit behind the murder of his colleague, must have tipped his hand to Natalie, a boneheaded move that resulted in his own brush with death. I can only think that this happened during the investigation into Helena Wentworth's shooting, something that came about because she had expressed her suspicions to Natalie concerning the mayor's true intention for his daughter, namely a visit to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. Helena probably assumed that their friendship would be a safety net against retaliation.

  All of this murder and mayhem had come about because of one young woman's paranoia, plain and simple. There was no plot. There was no intrigue. She killed because she felt threatened, and the thought that I had narrowly escaped my own untimely death never failed to send a shiver through me.

  As for the four Stantons, they were another case altogether. After Greg and I had discovered the impending legal action against them for laundering public funds—so that's why our HOA fees had been so high, I thought with indignation—they had decided to skip town and lie low for a while. I'm not too sure how they thought that would work. After all, this was real life, not some cheesy movie.

  Nevertheless, when they felt threatened by yours truly and spouse, Louise cooked up the plan to cook my goose. Literally. I was supposed to have been found inside the house as it merrily burned itself to the ground.

  Too bad she had such nitwits for sons. I pray that whe
rever they ended up, she isn't too hard on them. After all, they were just following the orders from a warden of a mother. As for Avery, I would think that anywhere would be better than here, sharing his life with said warden.

  Life, in my humble estimation, is to be lived to the fullest. My dear husband thinks so as well. I can hear him calling me from the front porch where he's parked our new tandem bicycle preparatory for an afternoon's ride.

  Let it be known that I refused to get on it until a few modifications were made, namely a basket for Trixie to ride along with us, a cup holder for me, and a padded backrest so that I could lean back and enjoy the ride. Feet elevated, of course.

  It's a good thing that Greg has developed such strong legs. He'll need them.

  WRITING TIPS

  Finding Your Own Voice

  William Shakespeare said it, your mother advised it, your conscience chides you to follow it, and Ralph Waldo Emerson added his two cents when he said, "To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to change you is quite an accomplishment." And to that I say a hearty, "amen!" Why would I ever want to be someone other than myself? And yet…

  When I first began writing in earnest, I experimented with various styles of the authors I most admired. The results were lacking, to say the least. I was so intent on channeling the prose of Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer and even Maud Hart Lovelace that I completely lost my own voice. It took a very honest high school teacher to suggest that I "quit trying to copy others and do my own work" that shook me out of that rut. Thus began the search for my style, my particular manner of using words and phrases to create on paper what I could see in my mind's eye.

  And here's my suggestion for you: Take a look at the scribblings you've done without thinking. Do you find yourself using a more formal tone or are you partial to colloquialism? This is a great indicator of the type of writing with which you're most comfortable. Start with that! Your voice is unique, and that's what others want to hear from you.

  * * *

  Journaling 101

  Even if you haven't been one who keeps a journal, you can still begin without much preparation. A spiral notebook (Caro's preferred vehicle for recording thoughts) or an elegantly bound leather book: Either one will suffice. Begin by talking about yourself—a topic you should be familiar with—and comment on a positive aspect. Do you like to sing? Is gardening a favorite past time, or perhaps baking? Just writing about these activities will get that serotonin stirring! Before you know it, an entire page will be filled with new ideas for that next garden, or lyrics to a song, or a recipe you'd like to try. In other words, journaling is a wonderful way to let off some steam or to plan your next adventure!

  Here are some prompts to get you started on your road to journaling…and writing:

  Scents are a strong part of the memory process. Write about a time when the smell of baking cookies reminded you of someone special.

  If a magic wand was waved over you, who would you become? (Caro would love to be the famous mystery writer, Agatha Christie.)

  We tend to use our five physical senses to describe our ideas or thoughts. Here's a challenge: Use emotion-charged words to describe something. Instead of a colorful sunset (you can see color), make it fiery! In place of a loud noise, call it explosive! This gives your writing "movement" and allows you to move past clichéd word choice.

  If you could change just one aspect about the world you live in, what would that be? (Who knows? This might become the catalyst you need to step out and make a lasting contribution, something that Caro is determined to do with her books.)

  Finally, just write. It's as simple as that. Getting thoughts down on paper and giving them form is the first step—and you can do it!

  * * *

  Creating Characters Who Speak

  Dialogue and character creation are part of the fun when writing a book. I've based a lot of my characters on real people—"based" is the operative word—and that gives me a foundation on which to mold them. If you've ever thought about writing a book, start with your characters; they often decide for themselves where they'd fit best.

  Using that handy notebook, create lists of personality quirks, actions which are unique, and physical descriptions. When you're ready to begin writing, you've got enough information to cobble together a distinctive character that readers will remember.

  The same method works with dialogue. I keep a running list of phrases and words I overhear that are interesting. I never know when I'll need something to spice up a character's conversation, and it certainly gives it a more realistic flavor. (And yes, I've met a few folks who speak much as Caro and Gregory do—and I've filled pages with examples.) The trick is to keep your eyes and ears open: You never know when you'll "meet" your next character!

  Note: If you don't have a "fancy" journal and would like to have one, you can create it yourself. The internet is full of great sites that will guide you through the process. Whatever type of journal you prefer, use it! In no time at all you will have discovered that "voice" that is yours alone. And that, dear reader, is what the world needs more of.

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dane McCaslin, author of the new Proverbial Crime mystery series, resides in the state of Arizona with her very patient husband. She has been writing all of her life: poetry, short stories, journals, letters (yes, those old-fashioned epistles that require pen and paper), and now she brings her talents to the cozy mystery genre.

  In addition to being an author, Dane McCaslin is an educator. She currently teaches advanced language arts classes for grade 11; additionally, she teaches beginning writing classes at the local university. Being an educator is an important part of her life, and passing on her passion for reading and writing is one of her great joys.

  To learn more about Dane McCaslin, visit her online at: http://www.danemccaslin.co

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY DANE MCCASLIN

  Proverbial Crime Mysteries:

  A Bird in the Hand

  Other works:

  Murder at the Miramar

  Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour

  Legend

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Proverbial Crime Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  CHICKEN SOUP & HOMICIDE

  by

  JANEL GRADOWSKI

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Are you ready to rumble?" Chef Jake Sawyer asked the question in a booming sports-announcer voice. The Chicken Soup Showdown would begin in a few hours, and Amy was ready. Or at least she kept telling herself she was ready in a fake it until you make it kind of way as she walked around the civic arena and tried to enjoy the Eat Local Expo. Chef Jake pointed the faux microphone, a wooden spoon, toward her. "Who's going to take down the egomaniac, Chef Britton?"

  Amy smiled at the pro wrestling-style commentary. Chef Jake had delivered the questions with a smile and a wink, but there was a sharp edge to his description of their rival. The afternoon could get very interesting. What she had thought would be a friendly charity competition might not be so friendly after all. She had no idea what an amped-up wrestler sounded like, so she just answered in a normal tone of voice. "I have no idea who will win. I think we're all pretty evenly matched teams."

  "Very diplomatic. I think you are a nicer person than I am." He swept his arm over the array of food samples on the table between them. "Would you like to try something?"

  "I would love to." She studied the display for Nibbles & Noshes restaurant, Jake's foodie business baby. On the white linen tablecloth, small cups of walleye ceviche were lined up beside glistening cubes of braised beef short rib on tiny plates. She selected the fish, flecked with bits of purpl
e onion and green jalapeños. The ceviche was perfectly tangy and spicy. She held up the empty cup in a toast. "Mmm…I could make a meal of this. I'm sure you've been busy keeping up with the demand for samples. Are you ready for the showdown, especially the talking-to-the-crowd part?"

  He nodded and flashed another toothpaste commercial-worthy smile. His dark hair was twisted into a small knot on the back of his head. He had a full, closely trimmed beard and sapphire blue eyes that glittered in the harsh arena lighting. In short, he was so hot he could melt a stick of butter by looking at it, despite having dark moons under his eyes. Prepping for the Eat Local Expo must've been exhausting. He rolled his eyes and said, "I'm going to pretend it's just another dinner shift. I figure if I focus on one person, like I'm talking just to them, I won't get stage fright and freeze up. Are you ready to cook a meal in the spotlights?"

  She had been trying to forget about the fact that they were going to be cooking in the theater at one end of the civic arena. It had 500 seats. Considering the event had sold out weeks earlier, whenever she thought about it, the nervous butterflies in her stomach turned into giant bats. So she and her best friend, Carla, were wandering around the expo, munching on food samples while Amy tried to distract herself from worrying. Hopefully her stomach would stop grumbling and settle down soon so she could concentrate on making soup and a salad for the competition. "I'm ready, but the audience-participation thing is freaking me out too. We're really supposed to try to get the audience wound up like they're at a game show? I'm not used to being a cheerleader while I cook. Rah, rah…I'm putting chopped celery in the pot."