A Dawn of Death

by Gin Jones

  "Will you take a breath, Caro?" He'd finally managed to get a word in edgewise, and I was actually glad to stop talking; trying to keep up a monologue can be exhausting, even for someone as verbose as I.

  I rested my chin on top of my clasped hands in my best I-am-listening-dear pose, smiling across at him. While he sat for a moment, appearing to consciously will his blood pressure down into a healthier range, I studied him. His hair was beginning to thin a bit on top, giving him a "swirl," as he liked to say whenever I suggested that he wear a hat to keep his scalp from reddening. An early sprinkling of gray near his temples added to his professorial demeanor, and his eyes, still the bright blue of our university years, were fixed on a spot above my head. In my eyes, my husband was one of the most elegant men I'd ever had the pleasure of knowing; he even managed to make the late thirties appear effortless. Sigh. What is it with men and their ability to carry off gray hair?

  "Gregory, have you considered speaking with the doctor about your rapid pulse?" I assumed an expression of wifely concern and nearly chuckled aloud when I saw the vein above his right ear twitch. Poor Greg: I did love to tease him. I would certainly miss him. I stood abruptly to my feet, motioning for his emptied plate and dropping a kiss on his head. "I've got a surprise for you, dear." I smiled down at him. "The bakery has a new addition that I promised Candy we'd try."

  The bakery in downtown Seneca Meadows, aptly called Candy's Sweet Treats, is one of my favorite haunts, a true oasis of confections whose tantalizing aromas can be smelled from blocks away. The strudels—to die for—and the cakes, the cookies, and the pastries, all held magic that could lift me from any low mood I might experience. It was my hope that it would have the same effect on Greg, especially since I was now keen for him to leave and needed to keep my newest intrigue under wraps.

  I feel compelled to stop here and explain something about myself: I had a neglected childhood. Before you begin chuckling and think that I'm blowing smoke, know that I'm being sincere; my parents, while wonderful people, really had no clue on how to interact with a child. I escaped to the local library on a daily basis and coached myself on how to speak and act via the pages of Georgette Heyer, Dorothy L. Sayers, and other iconic British writers. Never mind that they were from a time where diction was overformal in comparison to modern language; I was determined to show myself as educated and refined. As to the copious amount of sweets I consume, suffice it to say that this was lacking as well, said parents being convinced that granola was a dessert and that the more organic the food, the better it was. There. Now you know.

  "Candy has a new baker," I chattered on, slicing and plating the luscious cheesecake I'd purchased earlier that day. "He's from New York, Brooklyn I think, and he makes the most wonderful cheesecake that you've ever—" I jumped and nearly dropped the spatula as Greg's palms hit the table with a resounding slap.

  "Yes, dear?" My voice was meek, and I opened my eyes wide, one hand on my heaving bosom, which actually wasn't heaving (or much in the way of a bosom), but I thought it would make for a convincing pose. It didn't.

  "Caro!" The words came out with a strangled effect. "Could. You. Be. Quiet!"

  The punctuation was evident between each word spat from between teeth that were both clenched and in full evidence, not unlike a mad horse champing at an unwanted bit. Poor Gregory. Sometimes I was too much for him to handle. He was most likely thinking of the upcoming trip as a respite from me.

  "Now, Greg," I said as I set a perfectly golden triangle of cheesecake in front of him, "If you keep this up, you won't feel well enough to go to England." I shook my finger at him playfully. "And you know they can't manage without you."

  Gregory's complexion had taken on a reddish hue, and I truly did feel a twinge of concern for his health. I had no desire to have my husband drop dead from a stroke at so young an age, so I hastily filled a glass with water and thrust it at him. He grabbed it from me and gulped it down, his color gradually returning to its normal hue.

  "What's brought on this—this newest mania, Caro?" He set the glass down with a thump, then took a bite of the cheesecake. I saw a corner of his mouth twitch, and I relaxed; Greg was returning the favor and winding me up.

  "Just eat, Greg," I said, digging into my own piece of cheesecake heaven. "Next time I'll get the one with the melted fudge topping. Or maybe the one with the cherry cordial," I added, licking my fork clean.

  Life was moving toward the interesting end of the scale, what with Candy's new baker and my blossoming friendship with Meredith Holmes. And it would become even more so as soon as I could be rid of my dearest spouse.

  * * *

  Without too much ado, I managed to get Gregory packed and on his way to Oxford. The ten days he'd be gone had already been planned out with Meredith to the last detail, and I was anxious to get Campaign Reclaim SMCC off and running.

  "You know, Meredith," I remarked, waving a forkful of salad at her, "I think I have a better idea for the first go-round with Miss Fancy Pants and her minion."

  We were sitting in the office at her bookstore, eating lunch and building up a head of self-righteous steam; as someone with a tangible stake in a local small business—my books in Meredith's bookstore—I wanted to take Lucia Scarantelli down a peg or two. Or five.

  "Oh, yeah?" Meredith lifted one eyebrow as she took the last bite of her turkey and avocado panini. "Pray tell how that will happen, Caro." She picked up a chunk of avocado and popped it into her mouth. "Bethany guards her like she's a flippin' rock star or something."

  "Bah." I dismissed her words with a wave of my hand and fished out a rather battered spiral notebook, flipping to a back page. "According to my contacts—" Here Meredith gave a hoot of laughter, shaking her head at me. I frowned at her. "—Bethany leaves for lunch and to do Lucia's errands at eleven sharp. With her out of the way, the Dragon Lady will be alone in her den. Or cave." I finished with a dramatic gesture and managed to fling my notebook across the table and onto Meredith's plate.

  "I sincerely hope your plan goes over better than this," she said drily, tossing the arugula- festooned pad back at me. She glanced at the antique schoolhouse clock standing on her desk. "And if we're going to confront Lucia, we need to get going."

  Meredith owns a bright red Mini Cooper that's decked out with the Union Jack fluttering from the antenna, something I find rather ironic for a Southern gal now residing in the great state of New York. If anyone should drive that, it should be yours truly, a genuine British import.

  At any rate, we took her car into the heart of Seneca Meadows' downtown, past the hardware store and a recently renovated secondhand shop that now boasted signage reading Second Time's the Charm. I sniffed. Highly unlikely, I thought. If no one wanted the stuff to begin with…

  My thoughts were interrupted by a sharp jolt as Meredith swung the Mini into the parking lot that lay between the bank and drugstore and abruptly shut off the engine. She kept her hands on the wheel, fingers tapping out an impatient tattoo.

  "What in the world?" I looked around the lot, trying to see why we'd stopped. "Are we walking from here?" I certainly hoped not; my recent foray into cycling with my husband—on the back of a tandem—had solidified my opinion that exercise was not for the likes of me.

  "No." Meredith's voice was as strained as her face, and by the way she was checking her wristwatch every five seconds, it didn't take a genius to see that something was troubling her.

  "Look, Meredith," I began, careful to keep my voice low and comforting. I'd talked others (and myself, to be honest) down from many an emotional ledge before, and I had a feeling that she was teetering on the brink. "You don't have to do this. In fact, I'd rather that I face the dragon alone and keep the spotlight off of the small business owner." I patted her arm and smiled encouragingly, meaning that I had pasted on a ridiculously happy face and beamed like a deranged clown. From the way she jerked her arm out of my reach, I could see that I hadn't been successful.

  "Nope. I need to do this, Caro
." With one last flick of the wrist to check the time, Meredith turned the key, and we took off with a flourish, completely missing the lot's entrance and bumping into the street from the sidewalk. Brilliant. I only hoped that she would be able to park in front of the town's offices and not in them.

  As a fairly recent arrival to the United States in general and to Seneca Meadows in particular, I still find the local weather amazing, no matter the season. Just now we were in the throes of spring with summer still a few tantalizing months away, and the clear blue skies thrilled my heart to no end. Having been brought up on an island—which is what Great Britain is, technically—I was used to the misty mornings and overcast days of springtime. Here the rain was a welcome respite, not something to be borne with a grudge aimed at Mother Nature.

  I gave the sky one more appreciative glance before we entered the rather imposing edifice that housed the mayoral chambers, the town manager's office, and the Chamber of Commerce. Meredith stayed behind me, whether from nervousness or for protection I wasn't certain. I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath, punching the elevator's up button. I was ready for battle.

  "May I help you?" The SMCC's receptionist, a plump pseudo-blonde with a pseudo-convention name badge (Hello! My Name is Jetta!) glanced up from the tell-all magazine she was perusing and turned a dazzlingly white smile on us. What is it with Americans and their fetish with teeth? I wondered to myself, returning her display with my own recently whitened smile. After all, when in Rome, as they say…

  On closer inspection, I could tell that she was at least a decade older than her style projected; maybe she was under the illusion that her low-cut blouse would disguise the beginnings of a wrinkled décolletage.

  I took the initiative. "We've come to see your boss, Jetta." I allowed the slightest of enigmatic smiles to cross my face then leaned forward as if to impart a secret. "It's a surprise."

  Jetta squealed, clapping her hands together like a child given a present. "I'll bet that's why Ms. Jorgenson is so late today." She pointed across the lobby to a set of double doors. "Ms. Scarantelli is in there." She smiled at us roguishly. "Have fun!" The magazine came back out, and we were dismissed in favor of the latest Kardashian gossip.

  "Don't you think we should knock first?" Meredith spoke in a whisper, and I had to grin at her reticence. She was really too nice to be involved in a confrontation. I, on the other hand, was neither reticent nor nice.

  "Absolutely not, my book-selling friend!" I reached for both of the door knobs and gave them a smart twist, opening the doors in quite a dramatic fashion…and promptly tripped over the sprawled body of Lucia Scarantelli, the late and unlamented leader of Seneca Meadows' Chamber of Commerce.

  Someone had beaten us to the punch—and had beaten the SMCC Dragon Lady to death.

  WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY

  available now!