"I can't believe how lucky Candy was to have found a baker like Mick," I said around a mouthful of fries. "These are amazing." I swallowed, then asked, "How's your sandwich, Meredith?"
"Merry," she corrected me, adding, "it's fabulous. Mick is such a great find." Color swept across her face as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
I grinned across the table at her. "It's okay, Mere—Merry," I said with a wink. "If he can do everything else as well as he cooks and bakes, you've got a keeper."
Her face turned an even deeper shade of pink, but her eyes were sparkling. "Let's just say that I don't have a comment about that." And she popped the last fry into her mouth and winked back.
Since nothing else was happening either murder-wise or with my latest manuscript, I decided to go along with Merry to the bookstore and make a start on the enormous undertaking of inventory. I couldn't see the sense in leaving it until the following week; besides, I've discovered that when my hands are busy with inane tasks, my mind is free to work on other things, such as finding out who killed Lucia. With Gregory due back soon, I needed to get my brain in gear.
I was making headway on the Cozy mystery stock when my mobile phone began its staccato vibration in my back pocket, alerting me to an incoming text message. I debated ignoring it, having managed to get as far as the E's without giving in to the temptation to read each book; when I get off-task, I might as well call it quits.
Which was exactly what I did after I read the text. Candy was in a panic: Mick had stepped out for a smoke and had not returned. Only his coffee cup and lighter were left to indicate that he had been there at all.
* * *
"I have absolutely no idea where he might have gone!" Candy's face was blotchy, and her voice trembled. "I just hope, you know, with everything else going on…" Her words trailed off, and she began to cry, large tears sliding silently down her cheeks. I impulsively drew her into a hug.
"I'm sure he's just off on an errand and has lost track of time," I said in as soothing a tone as I could.
The truth was that I felt troubled as well, recalling what Candy had reported about Mick getting someone here to "help take care of business." Had that "business" been Lucia Scarantelli? And had that someone decided that Mick was a liability as well? I shivered inwardly, recalling the murders that Gregory and I had gotten involved with the year before; we'd nearly become victims of the killer as well. A repeat performance was not exactly what I'd had in mind when I told Merry that I'd help figure out who'd dispatched the Diva of Downtown. And I could just hear Gregory now, telling me to think before I acted. Well, this is what I was thinking: I didn't want to be the next target.
"Have you tried calling him?" Merry's face looked as stressed as her voice sounded, lips compressed tightly together and her shoulders riding high with tension.
Candy nodded, using one edge of her apron to swipe at her wet cheeks. "That was the first thing I did. Well, actually I texted him since I was too busy to stop and talk, and when he didn't text back, I got mad." She began to cry again and Merry joined in the hug from the other side, the three of us standing there in the bakery, oblivious to the curious stares of customers.
I thought quickly, trying to come up with a plan that would keep Candy's business going in the meantime—she needed Mick to create those magnificent salads and sandwiches—and keep Mick from getting fired once we found him. I was certain that he'd met up with someone, more than likely a female someone, and had lost track of time. I shot a sideways glance at Merry. Poor thing. If he hurt her, he was going to have to deal with yours truly. And I would not be a kinder, gentler Caro Layton-Browning.
"Let's do this," I began, pulling away from our group hug. "Merry, why don't you drop me off at the bookstore so that I can pick up my car. Candy," I went on, "do you have enough salads and things to tide you over for a few hours, maybe until closing?" When she nodded, I let out a sigh of relief. At least that was one point in Mick's favor. "If you can give me his address, I'll go by and make sure that he didn't just forget where he was supposed to be at the moment."
Candy snorted derisively, a sure sign that the waterworks were done for the time being. "He'd better have a good excuse. That's for sure." With one last swipe at her face, she slipped her smart phone from her back pocket and thumbed through its directory. "I can text the info to you if you give me your number, Mrs. B."
I complied, and soon my mobile was buzzing merrily in my pocket. Sometimes technology does make life easier. I quickly put the address in my phone's GPS system (a lifesaver for someone such as me) and headed out for Mick O'Reilly's apartment after retrieving my sedan from the bookstore. I crossed my fingers, toes, and eyes that he was there…and still in the land of the living. I certainly did not need another body to muddle things up around here.
Mick's apartment was located in an older part of the town, not far, in fact, from Beatrice Lemon's house. Judging by the peeling paint and overflowing rubbish bins, the complex was not in Seneca Meadows' higher rent area. I parked in front of the office—in the "prospective renters" space—and headed for apartment B201. According to logic, that would be found in building B, second floor. Nothing ever goes according to logic, however; I finally found Mick's apartment in the farthest building from the office, first floor, last door at the end of a very long and musty-smelling corridor.
It might have been the surroundings, or it might have been my over-active women's intuition that made me hesitate in front of the door, hand lifted to knock. It was too silent, the atmosphere static, and even the noise of children playing in the common area seemed muted. Still, I was already there, so I gave the door a quick rap with the side of my closed fist. As I suspected, no one answered. I wavered another moment and then spun on my heel and retraced my steps back to the office. I'd have to search for Mick somewhere else.
As I walked away, I imagined hostile eyes following my every move.
* * *
As I pulled into my driveway, I glanced over to see if Merry was home. No red Mini Cooper sat huddled in her driveway, and I felt a quick jump of my pulse. I hoped that my neighbor and friend was alright and not caught up in the ongoing intrigue. Before I could tap a text message to her into my mobile phone, though, the bright toot of her car horn sounded as she came down the street, causing me to let go the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. At least Merry was safe—and maybe she had information on Mick's whereabouts.
I crossed the lawn, waving my hand in greeting. "Merry! I hope you had more joy with Mick than I did." From the startled look on her face I realized I'd worded that poorly for her American-bred ears, so I hastily added, "I meant had luck with finding him."
Merry shook her head, clicking the key fob to set the alarm. "No luck here either," she replied. "I'm beginning to worry, Caro. It isn't like him to do a disappearing act, especially from work."
"I agree." I was beginning to worry about the missing baker, although to be honest, I was more worried over the bakery's menu. "Do you have any idea who he might be, uh, visiting?" I couldn't think of a more delicate manner to inquire into his dating status.
"No."
By the terseness of her response, I deduced that a rival—or perhaps the specter of a rival—existed. Poor Merry. Although our friendship was still developing, I did not want to see her upset. I gave her my best don't-worry-be-happy smile.
"Why don't you let me cook dinner for us tonight?" I asked, my brain taking a quick inventory of the contents of my freezer and fridge. If I remembered correctly, I could prepare a conglomeration of ground turkey, diced tomatoes, flour tortillas, shredded cheese, and chopped green chili. With a topping of crushed tortilla chips and more cheese, I could call it Southwestern Casserole a la Caro. No one could say that I hadn't embraced American cuisine.
"Sure, that sounds fine." Merry hesitated a moment, looking around as if she was expecting to see someone else. "Give me a few minutes, Caro. I need to make a call." She gave me a lopsided smile. "I'll grab some of my homema
de muffins for dessert, if that's okay."
"Brilliant!" I infused my voice with a perkiness I wasn't feeling. "I'll just leave the door unlocked, so come on in."
As I mindlessly moved through the dinner preparations, I kept one eye fixed on the window facing Merry's house. When she still hadn't appeared after thirty minutes, I began to fret, and when an hour had passed, I worried in earnest. Tucking aluminum foil over the finished casserole, I locked up and headed across the connecting lawn toward her house.
Meredith's front door stood slightly ajar, and I stuck my head in, calling, "Merry? Are you okay?"
The sound of muffled sobs met my ears, and I stepped inside her house, my heart doing its best imitation of a timpani drum. In my experience, crying is never a good sign. Either Merry had heard bad news—hopefully not Mick-related—or she'd dropped all of the promised muffins. That option I could handle.
It was the other, of course.
I discovered Merry sitting in an easy chair next to her bed, legs drawn up and face buried in her arms as she wept. I didn't know what else to do so I grabbed a handful of tissues from a box that sat on a sturdy bureau, slipping them into one exposed hand. Settling myself on the edge of her bed, I prepared myself to wait out the storm.
"I can't believe it," she said, voice thick with tears, muffled by her arms. "I can't believe that someone would do that to him!" And a new bout of weeping began.
"Him who?" I asked her, sounding like a confused owl.
"It's Mick," she hiccupped. "He's dead, Caro!"
Wait, I thought in confusion, Mick as in Candy's baker-slash-chef Mick? That Mick?
"I thought he'd have returned to work by now, Merry," I began, careful to control my tone. The last thing I wanted was to sound accusatory, as if somehow it was Merry's responsibility.
"That's what's so weird." She blew her nose with a healthy honk and tossed the used tissue on the floor. I shuddered. Trixie would have gobbled it up in a trice. "I have no idea why he'd leave work, especially without telling Candy." She sat up straight, stretching her arms over her head with a small sigh. "That's just not the Mick I know—I mean knew."
"I agree," I said hastily, not wanting to wait out another crying jag. "Do you have any idea if he was meeting someone?" I paused as another thought occurred to me. "Did they tell you where here was he found?"
Merry nodded, a somber expression in her red-rimmed eyes. "At the fairgrounds." She was silent a moment, then added, "Apparently he fell from the Ferris wheel."
CHAPTER FIVE
I've never been a fan of heights, and just the thought of Mick O'Reilly plummeting to his death made my skin crawl. I sat silently, trying to process the information as Merry began weeping again, this time softly, sorrow evident in her face. I reached over and took her rather moist hand, trying not to cringe as my over-active imagination conjured up what might be lingering on Merry's skin. Memories of snot-nosed godsons did nothing to dislodge my thoughts.
"I wonder if anyone has told Candy about Mick." I couldn't bring myself to add "and his death;" for someone whose creative energy had been in evidence just that day, relegating him to the realm of the underworld seemed heartless.
Merry wiped her eyes and sniffed. "I don't know. I found out from Bea." She stood up stiffly. "I need a cup of tea. You?"
I didn't answer. I was still thinking about the timid Bea Lemon and the fact that she'd known about Mick's demise so quickly. Who had told her?
"Caro? Did you hear me?" Merry's eyebrows lifted slightly as she waited for an answer.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I was wondering how Bea found out about, you know, Mick."
Merry shrugged. "I think she was supposed to meet him at the fairgrounds. She's been over there helping to set up a Chamber of Commerce booth for the county fair, so it was easier for Mick to go there."
"That still doesn't explain how and why she found out before we did," I persisted.
"I guess she was the one who found him." She gave a shudder, wrapping both arms around her middle. "I don't even want to think about it. It's just too awful, falling that far. I'll never ride a Ferris wheel again, so help me God."
"Why did they need to meet up in the first place?" I was puzzled since the only connection I could see concerned the chamber of commerce.
"Bea's in charge of the chamber of commerce booth for the upcoming fair and Mick is, I mean was, supplying a few samples from the bakery." She shook her head. "I'll be surprised if the fair still goes on after this."
Poor Merry. And poor Beatrice. Things certainly were not going her way lately.
* * *
It was difficult to maintain a nonchalant tone when my husband called later that evening. Was the man sleeping at all? If I had the calculations correct, it was only two in the ante meridian in England, an ungodly hour for an intelligent—and intelligible—conversation.
"It's going well," I announced in as cheery a tone as I could muster. "Merry's quite organized already, so it's been easy to inventory the stock." I waited for a response, hoping that I'd sounded somewhere between I'm-bored-to-tears-and-am-eagerly-awaiting-your-return and yes-I-am-thinking-before-I-act.
A vaguely dissatisfied rumble, accompanied by the sound of rustling papers and a muted television, echoed in my ear from across the Atlantic. I grinned. Nonresponses from Gregory meant one of two things: he was either preoccupied with something besides our conversation, or he was on the cusp of admitting I was correct. Perhaps a few days with such staid company had convinced him that my idea of cognitive stimulus—the odd murder or two—was the preferred method of adding excitement to one's otherwise boring life. I decided to take the conversational bull by the horns.
"We've had some excitement around here," I began, adopting a casual tone. I paused, waiting for my words to wind their way across the Atlantic and into my husband's ear. The dead silence—pardon the pun—let me know that he'd heard me; from habit, I waited for the incoming verbal missile. When there was none forthcoming, I became worried. Was the man ill? I should have known better.
"Caroline." His voice was low and controlled, and the use of my full given name took me back to my childhood; my mother—may God rest her soul and forgive me for plaguing her foray into motherhood—automatically looked to me for the cause of all mischief in the Layton household. Adding the Browning name to my own had done nothing to change that.
"Yes, dear?" A slight sound near my feet alerted me to Trixie's presence. I scooped her up and thrust her muzzle at the phone. "Trixie wants to talk to her daddy," I said. "Go ahead, Trixie. Tell your daddy how much you miss him." Bingo. I'd found a way to disarm Greg, even from several time zones away. I let her yap away to the sounds of his protests for a minute before taking the phone back. "I'm sorry, Greg. You were about to say something?"
"I was about to say—never mind." He cleared his throat, then added, "I'll be home tomorrow evening, Caro. We'll talk then."
We spent a few more minutes with our farewells and flight information then rang off. My mind was whirling a bit; I needed to get all my ducks in a row, as they say, before I saw my dear husband again.
I spent a fairly restless night; even Trixie got weary of my tossing and left to sleep in her own bed. I kept visualizing Mick O'Reilly's last moments and trying to find the connection between his demise and the death of Lucia Scarantelli. When the sky outside my window began to lighten and the streetlights went dark, I wearily arose and shuffled toward the kitchen and a much-needed cup of coffee. Maybe an injection of white chocolate mint-flavored caffeine would awaken my brain cells.
Lucia and Mick. Mick and Lucia. What was the connection? Did they both know something that the killer wanted kept quiet? Or—and this seemed more likely—had Mick overheard or seen something he shouldn't have concerning Lucia's murder? Maybe they were from the same place; I knew that Mick had family in Brooklyn and perhaps the SMCC Dragon Lady did as well.
A sharp knock on the back door shook me out of my reverie, and I stood to admit a somber-looking M
eredith. The deep purple shadows under her eyes told me that she'd had as bad a night as I.
"Coffee?" I waggled an empty mug in her direction, and she nodded, slipping into one of the kitchen chairs.
The Keurig spluttered and foamed as it dispensed another dose of caffeine. I slid the steaming mug under Merry's nose and plated a slice of cheesecake; who said it was only for dessert? I got my own dessert-is-the-new-breakfast and sat down across from my neighbor.
With the morning sun spilling through the window, I could clearly see the marks on her face left by rumpled sheets. She must have come straight here from her bed, and that upped the worry ante; as long as I had known her, Merry had not gone out in public with so much as a blemish on either herself or her clothes.
I sipped and ate, enjoying the creamy contrast of the cheesecake and the hot coffee. I'd need to make another trip to Candy's before Gregory came home—and then it hit me. The creator of my newest favorite sweet treat was no longer able to produce such goodness. If it killed me—and hopefully it would not—I was going to find out who'd taken it away from me. I took another bite, set my fork down with purpose, and looked at Merry.
"This has gone far enough," I declared, pointing my chin at the cheesecake that still sat in front of her. "Without Mick, we have no more of this, no more pesto and turkey paninis, no more anything!" This last comment was a slight exaggeration, of course; Candy had managed nicely before the gastronomical advent that was Mick O'Reilly, and she'd be alright after him. I hoped.
"What can we do?" Merry's voice was as dull as her appearance. I needed to get some life back into her but quick!
"To begin with, you can eat that delicious cheesecake. You'll need the sugar for what we're going to be doing." She reluctantly picked up her fork, and I beamed at her as if she'd just completed an amazing feat. "That's better. Next, you run home and get ready. I suggest something comfortable as we might be doing quite a bit of walking." When she looked quizzically at me, fork suspended in midair, I added, "We're headed for the city, Merry. Brooklyn, to be precise."
When the Cat's Away Page 4