"Girlfriend, I don't think you need any more caffeine this morning," she said as she followed me from the entry way. "Your eyes are already buggin' out."
"And I haven't even had any yet this morning." I turned to grin at her, adding, "It's simply my magnetic personality you're feeling."
I made her wait until we were both seated, steaming mugs in front of us and the coffee cake in the middle of the table.
Handing her a dessert fork, I said, "Feel free to eat off the cake. I have a feeling that we'll need all the sugar we can get in the next hour or so." I used my own fork to cut off a piece of the crumble-topped pastry and popped it into my mouth, dropping crumbs into my mug at the same time. I ignored them.
"What's so important that you had to text me last night?" Merry took a large bite of the coffee cake and swallowed, chasing it with a sip of coffee. "And made me wait, on top of that," she added with a wrinkled nose.
"I think I've figured out the motive, if not actually who killed both victims." I raised my coffee mug in a toast to myself. Merry half lifted hers, then took another sip.
"Okay, let's hear it."
I began laying out the plot as I'd pictured it: someone—in my mind it was a role already assigned to Gabbie—had decided to make a fast buck smuggling. And not just smuggling any old thing either, I guessed.
"I think it's drugs, Merry. That seems to be the favored method of raising funds and living the good life. If you don't partake of the goods yourself, of course."
Merry nodded, her mouth full. I looked down to see a good portion of the coffee cake was already gone.
"Hey, save some for me," I exclaimed. "It's been my mind coming up with all this, Merry, and I need the sugar more than you do."
"And I need the sugar to actually believe this mass of conjecture, Caro."
"It's as good a story line as any," I protested. "What've you come up with?"
"Nothing," she admitted with a grin. "Fine. Let's go with your ideas. How did she smuggle these imaginary drugs? In the sandwiches?"
I rolled my eyes and reached for the coffee cake, drawing the entire plate toward me.
"Oh, don't be like that, Caro. If I say I like your ideas, can I have some more?" She clasped her hands together and said, "Pretty please? With sugar and two cherries on top?"
I shook my head, but I was smiling. Sometimes Merry said things, said words or phrases I didn't need to understand to appreciate.
"How about three? I might consider it then."
"Anything, you emotional blackmailer. This is the best coffee cake I've had in years."
"Really?" I felt idiotically pleased. "I made it."
"Seriously. When do you have the time, Caro?"
Merry really did look astounded, I noticed with a smug inward smile.
"When I'm trying to figure out a murder mystery. I find that baking helps me figure things out." I shoved the cake over to her side of the table. "Here, take the rest. I can always make another."
"Don't mind if I do," she said with a grin. "Thanks, Caro."
"And you'll admit that my idea sounds as good as anything else?"
"Umm," she mumbled as she chewed a mouthful of pastry.
"Good. I'll take that as a yes," I drank the last of my coffee and stood up to make another cup. "We need to figure out how she's moving the drugs, then."
"Oh, come one, Caro, really? Drugs? On a moored canal boat?"
I shrugged, a wry smile on my face. "Actually, I haven't got that far yet. I ran out of imagination figuring out the motive and the list of possible suspects."
"I can see why." Merry grinned at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You spent a lot of brain power on this, uh, story line."
"I can always take that cake back again," I warned.
"Okay, okay." Merry held up her hands in mock surrender. "I give. Uncle. You win."
"Thank you," I said with a prim smile. "Now then. Let's get down to business, shall we?"
Three coffees and nearly two hours later, Merry and I had hashed out a possible way that Gabbie—or whomever, to be fair—could possibly smuggle drugs. Or anything on the money-making end of things.
"I can see this, Caro. I'm just not sold on Gabbie as the perp."
"Nice touch, Merry," I grinned. "I like that word 'perp.' Has someone been hanging out with a certain police officer lately?"
Merry snorted and said, "I wish. I've been too busy and he has as well, especially with two murders to solve."
"Well, then," I said with a mock bow, "let's solve them for him then, shall we?"
* * *
I spent the rest of the day plotting in earnest. Merry had gone to her bookstore, telling me that she'd neglected it long enough.
"Besides, I need to get some new stock in to fill up the space where Sarah Lawson's and Lisa Caldwell's books used to be."
I gave a short laugh. "How about more of mine? I could use the exposure."
"You know I love ya, Caro, I really do, but I need to spread the wealth. I've just gotten some publicity material for a new author. Ever hear of Jacinda Power?"
I shook my head. "But you're good at ferreting out high sellers, Merry. I'll be sure to check out her books when you stock them."
Now I sat on the floor in my office, a mosaic of multi-colored sticky notes spread out on the floor in front of me. I'd rearranged them several times trying to make the Gabbie angle fit. At last I thought I'd gotten it right. The problem, I discovered, was that Viviana would have to be the killer instead of the victim.
"Great," I said aloud as I looked at the mess on my floor. "I hate it when Greg's right. There are enough holes to sink a ship here."
"How about moving that paper over there?"
I nearly fell over as my husband walked in the room on silent feet. Trixie, with what I was certain was an amused expression on her pointy little face, was at his heels. She walked over to the middle of the papers, sat down, and proceeded to clean her paws.
"No respect for genius, obviously," I said as I shook my head in pretend seriousness. "And how did you get out so early? Were you let go?"
Greg laughed, bending down to kiss my upturned face. "I could only be so lucky. No, I decided to cancel my last class today. The students now think I'm the biggest hero on campus."
I held out my hand for Greg to help me stand. "And if you can help me figure out this mess," I said with a gesture toward the floor, "you'll be an even bigger hero. I might even give you a mention in my next book."
"Definitely on my bucket list, Caro. Make sure I have a good role, okay?"
I reached down to pat Trixie, forgiving her for being such a pill. The pieces of paper weren't making any sense to me anyway. As I stood back up, one orange square caught my eye. I paused, looking at it and then at the neon pink paper lying just two spots over. Quickly, I reached over and reversed them. And smiled.
"How about this?" I pointed to the new arrangement, a sense of satisfaction at having cracked the case filling my mind.
"It's not Colonel Mustard in the library with a candle stick, Greg. It's Lisa Caldwell in the secondhand store with the dead body."
He just stared at me, then down at the floor. "How in the world did you come up with that, Caro? That's as hard to prove as anything else, if not more difficult. Don't forget she's got a pending order against Merry right now."
"I thought you'd taken care of that."
"I did," he said, "but the wheels of justice can grind incredibly slow at times. In the meantime, I'd advise prudence."
"Speaking of which, do these pants make me look fat?"
I loved the startled expression on his face. Laughing, I reached over and hugged him, snapped my fingers at Trixie, and headed for the kitchen. Let him figure out the whole "prudence" angle for himself. It was a lesson all husbands could use at times. I couldn't resist an extra wiggle of the, shall we say, ample area in question.
"If you want a coffee," I called over my shoulder, "I'll have it ready in a few minutes."
"I do
and I'll be there in a few. Let me get out of these clothes first."
"Oh, yeah? Sounds like an invitation to me," I said, peeking around the kitchen door in case something interesting was happening. Unfortunately, I didn't see anything too titillating. At least Trixie was a happy camper: I'd just given her a bacon-flavored treat, and she was as satisfied as a pig in mud.
I'd just sat down when a relaxed-looking hubby strolled in.
"I thought dinner would be a bit later because of your work. How about we make it a 'forage for yourself' night?" I sipped my coffee, eyeing him over the rim of the mug. "Does that sound all right?"
He shrugged. "Sure. No problem. Just out of curiosity, what would we have had for dinner had I come home at the regular time?"
I grinned. "Probably 'forage for yourself.'"
"Just as I thought." He shook his head but he was smiling. "Tell you what, Caro. I'll scramble up some eggs for us. You can keep working with that mess on the floor in your office, all right?"
"You've got a deal," I said. "Can you add cheese and spinach? I'd love a veggie omelet."
"Your wish is my command." He stooped and dropped a kiss on my hair. I looked up at him, noting the new wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. We were getting older, the pair of us.
And I loved it. The craziness of my teenaged years and the floundering of my twenties were behind me. My thirties were, so far, absolutely perfect. The adventure of moving from England to Canada to the States, the joy of finding a good friend right next door, and the settled feeling of belonging to the fabric of Seneca Meadows was more than I could have hoped for.
Fabric. The word had jostled something lose in my mind, but for the life of me, I couldn't grab hold of it. What was it about material, about something tactile, that I'd caught on to? I took a moment to concentrate, closing my eyes and letting my mind wander where it would.
I remembered mentioning that I hated Spandex. I recalled stopping by Twice Upon a Time and going over clothes with Viviana Drake, talking about the fall festival and my part in it. I stopped there, trying to recall every detail from that day. Was it possible that Viv had said something to me that day that might have hinted at a problem with someone, a serious issue that led to her death? I let that sit in my thoughts for a minute and then shook my head in frustration. There was something there, I was sure of it.
Or was it someone? With my eyes still closed, I let myself go back and roam around the store. I'd seen the latest displays, smiled at the signs hanging above the different areas of the store. Had I also seen someone else there?
Maybe I had. When I'd walked in, I was looking for Viv. She'd been sorting out a box of donations, seated on the floor and looking frazzled. I paused that scene in my mind, thinking about her actions.
She'd mentioned that someone had left it at the back door and that she was tired of getting other people's throwaways. Looking back now, it did appear that she'd been more than usually out of sorts over that box. Déjà vu, I thought with a shiver. This store had a history behind it, and not a very pleasant one. I sincerely hoped that said history was not going to repeat itself.
"Food's ready, Caro," called my husband. "In here or in there?"
I was already heading to the kitchen. I needed to think about something besides those little squares of papers.
"Something on your mind?" Greg sat a plate in front of me with a spinach and mushroom omelet on it, strings of melting Havarti cheese looking like abstract art. "Besides the investigation, I mean."
"Actually, that's what troubling me." I used the side of my fork to cut off a bite of the omelet and blew on it before popping it into my mouth. "This is so good, Greg. Love the Harvati in it."
"There's some white cheddar in there as well." He sat down across from me with his own plate, shaking out a paper napkin and reaching for the pepper. "So what is it that's worrying you?"
"Clothes," I said promptly.
"As in garments? Dresses, pants, that sort of thing?" He sounded as puzzled as he looked.
I nodded. "It was something about my visit to see Viv Drake. To get a costume of sorts for the fall festival's Mystery Walk," I added. "Merry wanted me to wear something slinky and tight, and I wanted a dress that would, uh, flatter my shape a bit more." I waited for my husband to laugh or crack a joke but he didn't.
"I see." He chewed a bite of his omelet thoughtfully, tiny furrows appearing between his eyes. I'd seen that expression before when he was considering a case, turning facts over and over until they made sense to him. Finally, he spoke. "Was it something about Viv that you're questioning, or something about the store itself?"
"I don't know," I admitted with a shrug. "It's just that I feel I saw something there that should have rung bells and didn't."
"There must be something about that place," he commented, and I gave a short laugh.
"Isn't that the truth, though," I said dryly. "It might not be a bad idea to get it blessed by a priest."
"Hmm."
He was still thinking about something. I left him to it and turned my attention to the excellent omelet.
We went to bed that night with no further revelations on the killings. I decided to sit up and read for a while, more to take my mind off things than anything else, but I soon found myself engrossed in the book. Greg was sleeping with a legal journal opened on his chest, and Trixie was at her best, snoring heartily with her head sandwiched between my pillow and Greg's. I looked down at her, shaking my head. If she kept this noise up, it would be the kitchen and her own bed for her.
I shut off my light and closed my eyes shortly before one. Trixie, thank goodness, had stopped the nasally sounds she was making, but Greg had picked up the cue and was now snoring softly. Sighing, I reached for my ear buds and put them in my ears as far as I could get them without fear of losing them in my ear canal. I'd need some help from a recorded book to block out all the night noises in the bed with me. Trixie would probably be at it again sometime in the night, and then it would become a duet. I drifted off listening to the adventures of M.C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin, the soft voice of Davina Porter in my ears and my dreams.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning found me sitting at the kitchen table, back slumped, head in hands. I felt as badly as if I'd tied one on the night before. My mouth was dry, my forehead felt like an anvil had fallen on it, and my eyes were almost glued shut.
"Caro, that's exactly why I don't read books at night. It prevents a good night's sleep." My husband sounded almost supercilious, sipping his coffee across the table from me as he thumbed through his emails on his smartphone. "Now my bedtime plan is perfect. A little television to catch up with my recorded programs, a glance through a legal magazine, and voila—I sleep like a baby."
"And you sound like one as well—a baby rhino," I muttered. "Not getting a good night's sleep has nothing to do with reading in bed, Greg. It's you and Trixie. The two of you snore like a loud concert. And I'm not talking about Vivaldi either. More like Metallica."
"Mmm." He'd either heard me and was ignoring my commentary, or he'd not heard a thing I'd said. I suspected the second option. Setting his phone aside, he picked up the morning's newspaper and began riffling through the sections. Silence reigned for a moment, then: "Caro, have you heard about this?" He snapped the newspaper for emphasis and looked at me across the top, eyebrows lifted in question.
"Since I can't see through the paper, Greg, I have no earthly idea what you're speaking of." I looked up briefly from my own phone, then returned to perusing the chat room that was devoted to the latest bestselling mysteries. When he didn't respond, I looked back at him and saw that he was reading something with great interest.
"Fine, Greg. I'm listening. What, exactly, is it that I'm supposed to have heard about?"
"Handbags."
"Handbags? As in women's purses? That sort of handbag?" I was confused, particularly as the topic was not one that interested my husband by any means.
He nodded, eyes still on
the newspaper. "Listen to this: 'New York Police Department Detective Leonides issued a statement warning of the rise in the selling of counterfeit designer handbags. Leonides suggests that women interested in purchasing designer items use a reputable store instead of the street carts that pop up from time to time. "If it's too cheap, it's not real," he adds. Anyone with information pertaining to the counterfeit handbags is urged to call the NYPD.'"
I quirked one eyebrow in sardonic amusement. "So Leonides is giving fashion advice now? That sounds about right."
"Not fashion advice, Caro. He's letting women know about the fakes out there. Although," he added, "it probably won't do anything except encourage the ones selling the counterfeits to raise their prices to make the bags seem 'real.'"
"And that wouldn't surprise me in the least. You haven't mentioned why I might have heard about this," I added, curiosity beginning to creep into my voice. "Does it have to do with someone we know?"
My husband shook his head, and I noticed the silver in his hair glinting in the morning light. Note to self, I thought: make appointment with the local salon for a root touchup soon. For myself, not my hubby.
"Not anyone in particular, Caro. I'm just curious if you've noticed an influx of designer handbags around town lately."
The question was so unexpected that I just stared at him.
"Designer handbags? In Seneca Meadows?" I shook my head. "Not that I've noticed, Greg. Most of the women around here either use those recycle bags to haul their stuff around, or they do like me and use the same one for years. Speaking of," I said with a sly smile, "I could use a new bag myself."
"And what's wrong with the one you have?" He folded down on side of the newspaper to see me better.
I shrugged in answer. "Nothing, probably."
"What do you mean by 'probably'?"
"It's just old, Greg. A woman needs a new handbag every year or two, or in my case, every decade."
He snorted, flipping the newspaper back. "Listen, Caro. I've used the same wallet since university. And that's what now? Over ten years?"
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (Proverbial Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 15
