When the Cat's Away

by Dane McCaslin

  "Doesn't he remind you of Eeyore?" Merry's eyes danced with delight as she whispered behind her hand. "You know, my life's a drudge, my tail's falling off, no one will eat lunch with me."

  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud. She was spot on. I fully expected to see a pair of long ears protruding from his hair and the fabled tail hanging on by a thread from his pants.

  "If he's Eeyore, then who am I?" I asked teasingly. I already knew her answer.

  "Winnie-the-Pooh, no doubt about it," she answered promptly. "I can see you with a pile of honey pots, always on the lookout for more."

  The tail-less backend stopped suddenly outside of an open door. "Here they are," he announced without ceremony to whomever was inside, walking slowly down the hall without a backward glance. I raised my eyebrows at Merry. She shrugged back at me, and we walked into the office.

  Detective Leonides sat at one end of a highly polished conference table, a designer water carafe and four matching tumblers sitting in front of him. Without a word, he indicated the water with a gesture of his manicured hand. I, being a master of the non-verbal form of communication thanks to my years with Gregory, looked at Merry and cocked my head at the water. She stared first at me and then at Leonides before shaking her head in what looked like disgust. I allowed myself a grin.

  "Since we've gotten the niceties out of the way," I said as I poured myself a glass of water, "We'll let you begin, Offi— ah, Detective." I hadn't been able to resist a little dig at the perfection that was Leonides. I got a glare in return from the offended.

  I sat in the chair nearest him, leaving Merry to decide whether or not to sit next to me or to go around and sit on his other side. I sent her a silent message, hoping she'd choose that chair. It would be amusing to watch Leonides play to two audiences.

  My ability to transmit messages via thought or osmosis is still a work in progress, however, and Merry either did not get the hint or simply chose to ignore it. She sat down next to me, effectively putting me in the line of fire. Or, to put it in terms the detective might understand best, he had but one stage on which to ply his charms.

  Silence reigned as Leonides made a show of thumbing through a stack of papers, the tip of his tongue protruding ever so slightly from his mouth. I watched, fascinated, as it flickered in and out, depending, I supposed, on the gravity of the paper at the fore. Its movements reminded me of a baby possum, pink and hairless and blind, poking out from its den (or wherever it is that baby possums reside). Before I could get much more off-tangent, Detective Leonides cleared his throat and spoke.

  "Mrs. Browning, let me begin by asking you how you've been doing lately." Because he stopped speaking momentarily and looked directly at me, I assumed he was looking for a response.

  "I've been well, th…"

  I was wrong. Looking back down at the papers as if I hadn't opened my mouth, he resumed his monologue. Merry must have sensed my aura of frustration and sent a well-placed kick on my ankle. I yelped and Leonides paused, his mouth hanging open in a most unattractive manner.

  "Are you alright, Mrs. Browning?" The tone, while solicitous, still managed to convey his lack of concern. I gave him a tight smile and a nod to continue while returning the kick with interest.

  When Merry yelped, he ignored her. He'd no doubt already determined that women were the cause of most depravities and would always act accordingly. I made a mental note to take the depravity clause up a notch and spill my glass of water on him when I got the chance. And I'd aim for his, uh, frontal area. That image alone was worth the patronizing atmosphere he'd created.

  "Mrs. Browning," began Detective Leonides, his hands folded in front of him on the gleaming table. I wondered if he'd seen that exact pose on an episode of Law and Order or some other show. With his face set in an expression of what could only be described as 'concern with a dash of firmness', he awaited my answer.

  And I awaited the question. I think he was so concerned with appearing capable of conducting an interview that he'd forgotten to ask it. When nothing further was forthcoming, I took the conversational plunge.

  "Although you've not expressed your reasoning for calling both myself and Ms. Holmes down here, interrupting our daily schedule, I assume you do have a plan."

  There. I'd nimbly tossed the ball back into his court. I folded my own hands and sat upright in the chair, feet held primly together, lips set in my version of 'perma-smile'. Merry delivered a well-placed kick on my ankle. I returned the favor, my eyes never leaving Leonides'.

  "Yes." The single syllable hung for a moment between us, then fell flat. A conversationalist he was not. And I had more to do than sit and watch a man, no matter how gorgeous, play at policing. Merry, it appeared, felt the same as I.

  "Detective Leonides." Merry's voice was firm as she leaned forward, palms flat on the table. I fully expected her to rise and lean over me, a la television police procedurals. "I'm a busy woman with a business to run. Caro Layton-Browning is a busy woman as well. What. Did. You. Want?" The words materialized from her mouth in succinct fashion, each one neatly clipped off from the one before it. She would have made Greg, the denizen of succinctness, quite proud.

  "Well said, my friend!" I exclaimed with admiration. Merry had a backbone of steel under that well-bred southern facade; it didn't show often, but when it did, the impact was definite.

  The detective's own spine drew itself up a little straighter in response to the challenge.

  "It's come to my department's attention that you two might have more information on the O'Reilly gang than you've preciously cared to share." He folded his well-muscled arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, affecting a confident pose: Detectivus Americanus, hard at work in his natural habitat.

  The O'Reilly gang? As in a horde of hoodlums? Or a gaggle of gangsters? Mick O'Reilly, kindly baker-slash-chef and Candy's right-hand man, came to mind; I simply could not see him in the role of thug. I was stumped and was about to say so when Merry stepped into the conversational breach, metaphorical claws unsheathed.

  "What we know about the 'O'Reilly gang' would fill the space between your ears if it wasn't already crammed with so much nonsense." She stood to her feet, bright red patches on her cheeks. "Mick O'Reilly was a decent man, a hard worker, someone who cared more for those around him than the latest in men's fashion. Caro, I don't know about you, but I'm not hanging around for Detective Look-At-Me and his so-called theories. Let's get out of here and breathe some clean air."

  I silently applauded. If it had been the movies, she'd have won an Oscar.

  Only a brief tightness of the jaw betrayed Detective Leonides' ire; I had to admire his self-control.

  "It was a figure of speech, Ms. Holmes," he replied stiffly. "I only meant to…"

  "Then I'd suggest you come up with a different figure." Merry was not going to back down. "What you're implying could end up as a slander lawsuit."

  "I don't think so," he said, a small smile twisting his lips. "He's not here to press charges, so I'm probably safe in that quarter."

  "What a low-down, insensitive thing to say!" Merry was on her feet, face flaming. "Caro, this cretin is polluting the air. I'm outta here."

  "What's wrong with the air?"

  Officer Scott stood in the doorway, his friendly face looking from Merry to the detective. Focusing on the heated exchange between Leonides and Merry, I hadn't heard him come in.

  "This sorry excuse for an officer—"

  "Detective," interrupted Leonides—"

  "Officer just insulted Mick's good name, and I'm not gonna listen to it. He's not even here to defend himself." With a tiny sob, Merry turned to me and threw her arms around my neck.

  "There, there," I said, patting her back and rolling my eyes at Officer Scott. "You know that some people don't give much thought to what they say, Merry. Especially those ignorant of the truth," I added, managing to get my own dig in. Behind me, Detective Leonides threw his hands in the air, letting them fall with a thump o
nto the table.

  "Alright, I give! Uncle! You win, Ms. Holmes."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  With the sniffling Merry reseated, this time barricaded between Officer Scott and me, the conversation continued. What had we noticed about Mick and the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Seneca Meadows? When we'd visited the bakery, was there anything that seemed amiss, out of the ordinary for a family-run business?

  That particular question brought me up short. I had noticed quite a few odd practices, from the over-zealous busboys to the "no fly zone" that was the back office area. Of course, there aren't that many businesses that encourage the customers to wander around at will, but the server's reaction when I'd gone back there had seemed exaggerated. I mentioned this to Detective Leonides and felt validated when he took copious notes as I spoke.

  "With the possibility that the O'Reilly family is—or was—involved in some type of burglary-slash-stolen-goods ring, it occurs to me that the business might be the perfect place to hide stolen items." I'd poured myself another tumbler, giving the detective a wink as I did so. Taking a sip now, I looked at him over the rim of the glass, noting his reaction.

  "No, we've already been through the bakery, all over the place, and found nothing but legitimate storage space housing nothing but the things needed to run the business." He shook his head, sending a flash of irritation through me. "There has to be somewhere else they're stashing the loot until they can move."

  "Why can't it be there? Now hang on," I said, holding my hands up, palms out as both officers began to protest. "I wrote a book that had a plot almost like this. The goods were there, they were just hidden in an unused walk-in freezer whose door was concealed behind some shelves."

  A smile flickered across his face. "Fiction is one thing, Mrs. Browning. This is real life." His patronizing tone irritated me and made me want to come out of my chair, a la Merry, and give him a good dose of real life upside his well-coiffured head.

  "Now that's an idea." Officer Scott's calm voice interjected itself into the growing tension. "It's been done before, crooks trying to hide behind a legit business and using the premises for storing illicit goods." He paused, looking the Brooklyn detective straight in the eye. "Is this something your boys and girls in blue might be willing to do, Leonides? I say it can't hurt."

  With three pairs of eyes on him and for once not courting the spotlight, Detective Leonides gave in, hands lifted in mock surrender. "Fine. And you'll help me explain this little addition to the budget, right?"

  "Sure will," Officer Scott said affably. "Right after you help me explain why we've involved two civilians in planning a raid."

  Merry and I looked at one another and grinned. I've said it before, and I'll continue to say that having Officer Scott on our side is always a good thing.

  The ride home was quieter than usual, each of us wrapped up in our own thoughts. Mine were centered on Greg, my writer's block, and my sedan; each of these three provided its own set of issues. I decided to call the garage and get an estimated time of completion (hopefully before issue number one returned home to find the family sedan missing in action), email my editor and beg as nicely as I could for extended time, and concoct a nonchalant message for Greg when he called. By the time Merry dropped me off, I was mentally exhausted. I needed caffeine, and I needed it quickly.

  As the Keurig burbled to life, I scooped up Trixie, gave the astonished dachshund a swift kiss on her nose and an extra treat from the bone-shaped container, and debated checking the house phone for messages. A final hiss of steam settled the fate of the waiting voice mails, and I was soon seated in Greg's recliner, Trixie on my lap and a delicious mug of Southern Butter Pecan flavored coffee in my hands.

  I was itching to make another trip to the big city and O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli. I wanted to be there when the hidden freezer was discovered and see the look on the high-toned detective's face when he realized that I was right. Of course, that reaction would be predicated on the actual discovery of said hidden freezer. And if it wasn't there…well, it might be better to hear about it second-hand, after all.

  I should not have been surprised when Merry called my mobile and suggested just such an adventure.

  "But we don't even know when it's going to happen," I protested. "What do you expect Officer Scott to do? Give us a special invitation to the raid?"

  Merry's tone was impertinent. "Yup." As I sat listening to her, unable to reply, she added, "Well, I'm actually going to make a suggestion to him on the day." She laughed. "I happen to know someone who used to work there, and she might just have an idea when the nest time would be for something like this."

  "Who, who?" I sounded owl-like, but I didn't care. "Are you talking about Joey?"

  "I said 'she,' Caro," Merry laughed. "Just because he's gay, that doesn't make him a she."

  "I know." I was offended. Did she think I was that dumb? "I only meant that Joey worked—"

  "Oh, forget it." A pause, then, "I really meant a 'she,' as in Bea."

  "Bea?" I was momentarily stumped. How could Bea have worked for the O'Reilly's? I thought she was from upper New York State, not the city.

  "Yes, Caro: Bea." Merry's voice was impatient. "She lived there when she was a teen, and her after-school job was at O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli."

  I was still struggling with the connection between Bea and Mick and the Brooklyn bakery when Merry rang off. I didn't wait to call her back; I deposited Trixie on the floor with another treat and a promise to come back as soon as I could, then left for Merry's.

  "Merry?" The front door was unlocked so I went in, calling out as I did. "I need more information about Bea and O'Reilly's, if you don't mind." I stuck my head in the kitchen. "And I could use another cup of coffee."

  Merry was sitting at the kitchen table, her mobile phone tucked into the crook between her ear and shoulder, busily scribbling notes on a small pad of paper. She raised one finger in my direction—I was happy to see it wasn't the one I probably deserved—and I silently mouthed an apology as I slipped into the chair across from her.

  "I see. Okay, that sounds good." She jotted something else down, underlining it with a bold stroke. "Thanks again." A laugh, then, "We'll be there by lunchtime, promise. Bye now."

  I waited for her to divulge the caller's identity, but all I got was, "Let's get ready, Caro. We're heading to O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli."

  Of course we were.

  I've often wondered if my life has taken on the aura of the books I write, i.e. my protagonist seems to think best over mugs of strong coffee and a plateful of anything edible. Or perhaps it's the other way around, and I'm simply channeling myself into my character. Whatever the case, once again I found myself headed out of Seneca Meadows with Merry, on our way to yet another meeting over food. I wasn't complaining, mind you, but I did wonder.

  "Can't this thing go any faster?" Merry's foot was pressed down on the Mini Cooper's gas pedal, and she leaned forward, straining against the seat belt as she urged the little car on. I was certainly curious about her obvious anxiety but wisely held my tongue; the answer would become evident soon enough.

  O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli was busy, the line of customers extending into the dining area. I spotted a gaggle of teen girls leaving and dashed over to secure the table, one step ahead of a young couple with two toddlers in tow. I feigned surprise that someone else had designs on the table and settled myself firmly into a chair with a "pardon me, please." With a barely muted comment about "rude tourists" (I suppose that was due to my accent), they stomped back to the dining room's entrance, ready to pounce on the next available place.

  Merry joined me, carrying two glasses of iced tea, trailed by a very young server balancing a tray of food. The panini sandwiches looked divine, the crisped edges oozing a perfect mélange of melted Swiss cheese and thick slices of roast beef. In spite of the large latte I'd consumed on the journey to Brooklyn, my stomach gave an appreciative growl at the sight.

  "Can I get you
two anything else?" The server's voice was soft, and I had to strain to hear the words. With an assurance that we were fine, she all but scuttled away, the tray tucked under her thin arm. I watched her go, a bemused look on my face.

  "That was quick," I commented, turning back to Merry. "How'd you manage that?"

  "I texted in our order ahead of time," she said casually, taking a bite of sandwich. "Eat before yours gets cold, Caro."

  As the sandwich was all but sizzling, I highly doubted that. Still, Merry had an agenda that was yet to be revealed, and I figured that I'd need the fuel. Holding the warm panini by my fingertips, I sank my teeth into the toasted sour dough bread, savoring the taste of real butter. I'm one who insists on real products, not the many imitations available, and I appreciate those who insist on quality as well. Surely a place like O'Reilly's would never be involved in criminal activity.

  "Are we waiting on someone to join us?" I watched Merry's expression as I posed the question, hoping to catch some indicator of who—if anyone—it might be. From the blush that crept up her neck and spread across her face, I made my guess. "When will he get here?" I added, raising the color intensity to something just this side of ripe tomato.

  "When will who get here?" she managed to ask, and I gave in: that alone was worth one magnificent eye roll.

  "Officer Scott," I said briskly, adding, "I'm assuming it's reciprocal."

  "Of course." Merry's tone was decidedly miffed as if I'd inquired about her driving abilities.

  "And who's minding the shop today?" I attempted to steer the conversation into calmer waters; the ensuing squall took me by surprise.

  "I asked Bea if she could do just one favor for me, just one measly favor! And could she?" Merry's voice was rising, and I reached across the table to pat her arm, hoping my non-verbal signal would help her off the emotional ledge. "Of course not! She's so almighty concerned with her store. Never mind that it's closed for inventory today!"