Gregory's beatific smile behind his coffee mug could have adorned a saint. He stretched the silence out until I could almost feel the snap of electric atmosphere before he answered. Even then, he played it close to the vest.
"Well." He paused and took another sip of coffee, then stood to grab the apple strudel left over from last night's dinner. With arched eyebrow, he silently offered me a slice, and I answered in kind. My eyebrows, however, were bunched together in frustration, and I wanted information more than the delicious dessert from our local bakery. However, I chose to play along and waggled my eyebrows in response. And the strudel wasn't so bad the second time around, either.
Finally, pastry consumed and crumbs carefully dispatched, Gregory spoke. As I was trying to get everything he knew out of him, I kept my frown to minimum wattage. He has been known to clam up whenever he thinks folks need to learn patience.
"Apparently he is, or was, a private investigator from the city." He took another sip of coffee, running an inquisitive tongue around the edge of his mouth in search of stray crumbs. I shook my head in distaste and handed him a serviette (napkin in Yank-speak). The man may be close to perfection, but he still has issues with table manners that I've never been able to correct.
When we townies refer to "the city," it is the city we mean—New York City. Our smallish burg, located in upstate New York, is as far removed from the hustle and bustle of NYC as the earth is from the moon, yet anyone who finds out where we are from seems to think that we should be on intimate terms with Broadway and Central Park.
I raised my eyebrows at Greg, tacitly asking for more.
"He had a business card in his pocket that the police department wants to keep hushed up for the time being," he went on. "But since I've already seen it, I imagine it would be alright to let you know what it said."
"And?" I risked Gregory's ire with my question, but either the sugar had mellowed him or he was tired from his ride. Whatever the cause, he spilled the beans without seeming to hesitate.
"It's a business card from the mayor's office."
Now I was entirely flummoxed. Why in the world would the mayor be running a private investigation company? I said as much, and the look I got in response told me my error.
"Aha!" I countered his stare with an innocent one of my own. "The mayor has hired the man in question. And has not employed him, so to speak." I took a sip of coffee, keeping my mouth occupied while I watched my husband struggle with his self-restraint. It was certainly a sight to behold, and I found myself quite enjoying the spectacle. Gregory dislikes losing control in any form, and I was witnessing a mighty battle right at my kitchen table. Finally he was able to answer. Unfortunately, most of it was not repeatable, but it was definitely worth the wait.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I rose and placed my mug in the sink, pausing to kiss the little bare spot on the top of my husband's head. (It is only a swirl, he likes to point out, but I recognize a burgeoning bald patch when I see one.) Knowing his character as well as my own, I knew that he'd come clean sooner rather than later, and I'd have the information I desired.
In addition to my interest in crime, I'm also enthralled with the inner workings of the legal system (my spouse's influence) and our local HOA (my own curiosity). The latter has my interest because of an ongoing battle with one of my neighbors, the dreaded Cat Lady of the neighborhood. I am convinced that she has taken in every stray since this subdivision was built, and probably began her collection long before that. I have tried to keep count of the myriad felines seen slinking around her house, first with a journal that held descriptions of said cats, but that soon became an exercise in futility. I discovered that it was nearly impossible to keep track of every cat according to markings and color, since after a while they all appeared alike to me.
The next step was to employ my rarely used high-powered birding binoculars, a gift from my husband in yet another attempt to lure me into the great outdoors. Of course, I kept my enterprise to myself, knowing how Gregory feels about the principle of individual privacy. He deems it nearly as sacred as the right to share the road with large trucks, something that keeps me in a state of agonized suspense whenever he heads out for one of his rides. I have threatened to put neon flashing signs on the back and front of his jersey to give fair warning to drivers that might not notice his slight frame peddling away on the side of the road. I traded my damp clothing for my favorite bedtime ensemble, feeling the need for comfort rather than fashion. Snuggled deep into a ratty chenille bathrobe, I headed into my study and settled in for a session of spying on Mrs. Cat Lady. Notebook and several sharpened pencils at the ready, I retrieved my binoculars from my desk drawer and held them up to my eyes in order to check the lenses. I aimed them out the window toward the offending domicile and nearly dropped them in my astonishment. Staring back at me, a grim smile playing on her lips, was my neighborhood nemesis herself. I had been caught red-handed, and there was no doubt about it.
I froze as I was, hands glued to the binoculars, taking the position that less movement was to my advantage, and if she couldn't see me move, then she could not see me. Alas, I seem to recall a nephew believing the same erroneous adage. Whenever he wanted to sneak into the kitchen for some forbidden treat, he would plop his pudgy hands over his eyes and declare that I couldn't see him. Of course, such sweetness always earned him said forbidden treat, so perhaps there was a method to his madness after all.
I had a feeling, though, that my neighbor would not be as understanding.
"What in Heaven's name are you doing, Caro?"
I nearly fainted for a second time that day as Gregory entered my study, careful eyes noting my stance at the window and the binoculars in my hands. There was no hiding my guilt, and I did what came naturally to me: I turned the tables to the best of my ability.
"And what in Heaven's name are you doing in here? Spying, perhaps?" Gregory hates to be accused of anything vaguely resembling a crime. "Or maybe," and here I gave him a smile that would disarm even the most persistent mole, "maybe you are checking on the health of your wife?" I all but batted my lashes, taking the opportunity to tuck the offending binoculars behind my back.
Gregory is rarely taken aback. He has lived with me for nearly twenty years and is accustomed to my whims, but he has never allowed himself the pleasure of delving into my mindset, no matter how it might or might not affect him directly. That is certainly one trait that has endeared him to me. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that he chooses not to as a measure of maintaining sanity. Mentally tossing my head at this thought, I continued to hold the smile as I began shuffling sideways in an attempt to unload the binoculars on my desk.
"You know, Caro, sometimes I can't, for the life of me, figure you out." And with a shake of his head, Gregory turned around and left my study, leaving me to finish my strange two-step without an audience.
Except for Mrs. Nosey Grayson. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder to see if I could still spot her at her window, but my eyesight has begun to act its chronological age lately, and I could see nothing but a blur where I thought her house might be standing.
Not that it really mattered, I thought as I flipped through my notebook, a smile of satisfaction on my lips. With the amount of ammo contained in those pages, I would be able to blast her from here to kingdom come at the next HOA meeting. The thought did my heart good, and I tucked all of my spy gear away to wait for that moment of triumph, when I would once and for all banish those pesky felines from using my yard—and the rest of the neighborhood—as their private litter box.
The last HOA meeting we had attended had garnered quite a bit of attention in our town's local tabloid. Apparently it is considered a form of entertainment when one chooses to speak up in a public meeting. Of course, "speaking up" is a euphemism for the shouting match that Feline Fancier and I had over—what else?—stricter laws for animals. I was for, she against, and it went something like this:
"Ladies, I must insist that y
ou let each other finish before commenting." This came from Avery Stanton, the HOA president, a rather meek-looking man whose wife sat as vice president and spent every meeting glaring at her poor spouse if he did not run the meeting to her specifications. It always amused me to think that he was also our town's vice-mayor, especially since Mayor Greenberg—also known as His Highness and several other unflattering sobriquets in our house—was as overbearing as Mrs. Stanton.
"I don't know who died and made you the queen of cats," this was me, virtually spitting the words across the room, "but I for one am sick of your brood using my yard as their litter box!" This was followed by a triumphant toss of the head to a spattering of applause from those around me.
"And I don't know who died and made you—made you queen of the neighborhood!" This was Cat Lady's rather weak response (in my opinion), but it garnered some support from the folks nearest her.
And so it went, ad nauseam, ad infinitum, and all the rest. To say the least, it was probably the closest some of our neighbors had gotten to excitement in quite a while. And it did put some color into Avery's thin cheeks. I don't think the poor man has had much to be excited about in his life.
I took another peek out the window. The sky had taken on a pearly glow as the gray clouds began to break apart, letting a feeble sun soak up the damp patches scattered around the yard and street. The sight made me perk up considerably, and I stood another moment by my desk, tapping one finger against my chin. An idea was beginning to take shape in my rather active imagination, and the more I thought about it, the more sensible it became.
The Cat Lady's back windows faced the park, I mused. It was possible—okay, more than likely probable—that she used those binoculars of hers to watch more than my window. What were the chances that she might have seen something amiss at said park earlier that morning, or perhaps the evening before? Not knowing the time of death for that poor man, I was allowing for a larger window of opportunity. Maybe, just maybe…
I immediately jumped into action, heading for our bedroom to don clothing suitable for chatting with my nearest neighbor and sworn enemy. I halted halfway down the hall, considering the reason for the enmity: her cats. I happen to be allergic to most anything that has feathers or fur. My precious Trixie a mysterious exception. I had no desire to stand at her doorway with eyes swollen shut from the dander and hair that would surely be all over the place. I considered my options, thoughtfully gnawing on a thumbnail. Well, there was nothing else to do except to send my sweet spouse over to find out what he could. He isn't allergic to anything, the lucky man.
With that point settled, I turned on my heel and marched back down the hallway and toward the family room where I could hear sounds of the latest cycling race. This was definitely not good timing for my plan. Greg lives for all things cycling, including watching groups of folks in body-hugging Lycra vie for various colored jerseys. I don't get it, but to each his own, I say. And it does leave me a lot of time to write. And spy on my neighbors. With an unconscious straightening of my shoulders, I stepped into the room.
"Greg, could you do me a favor?"
Suffice it to say that it took quite a bit of convincing on my part, as well as judiciously pointing out that the DVR not only recorded, but it could also be paused, before Gregory agreed to go over and see what our neighbor might know. From the way he walked across the lawn and to her front door, I could see that he was not a happy camper, and I had to grin in spite of myself. No matter how long you live with them and think they've finally outgrown their childish ways, men do their best to prove you wrong at every opportunity. Shaking my head, I busied myself with my laptop.
Gregory was back before I was able to get much done in the way of work. I have known him long enough to be able to gauge both his moods and his health, and from one brief glance at the set of his mouth, I deduced that he had a healthy case of irritation developing. At closer inspection, I could see why: The right leg of his trousers sported a blob of something that I didn't want to think about, and the manner in which he stomped inside and straight back to our bedroom was answer enough. Probably the result of one of those nuisance cats, I thought. Maybe now he'd back my quest to rid the HOA of such a menace.
I took my time shutting down my computer, giving him enough space to cool off and be able to speak without verbally harpooning me. From the sheer volume of the television emitted from the family room, though, I had a feeling that it might take him a while to descend from the Olympian heights of vexation and ire. I sighed, rising from the table to make myself a cup of tea. I'd need to come up with another method of obtaining information on the investigator.
I was reaching for the canister that holds my eclectic collection of tea bags when genius struck again: the mayor's connection to the crime. Not that I thought for one moment that His Honorableness personally had a hand in the murder, but why had he needed to hire a private investigator in the first place? One would think that given his stature both politically and socially—certainly not physically, since he is a short, rotund man with a ridiculously pursed mouth—he would have on hand those who could gather information for him.
Unless, my suspicious mind commented, it was about something that he would not have wanted anyone local to know about. Like maybe personal business. Now that particular angle made sense. I set the canister down and started walking back to the family room, then stopped abruptly. I most likely would not get any further cooperation for my cat-crazed scheme from Greg, for today at least, and surely this was something I could tackle on my own. After all, don't writers need to interview folks every now and again when they're researching for a new book? I mentally patted myself on the back. This was definitely something that carried legitimacy. Spinning around, I grabbed my cell phone and asked Siri to connect me to the mayor's office. I have to admit that I was surprised at the ease in which I obtained the desired appointment. Of course, it was an election year, and perhaps His Honor thought that I might be able to give him positive press. Silly man. My intentions were probably more self-serving than his, a neat turn-the-tables trick that amused me.
I debated sneaking out, leaving my still-steaming spouse to his own devices. It wouldn't do either one of us a good turn if I added to his emotional load and suggested that he go with me. But—and this was a big one—if he discovered I had left the premises without letting him know where I was going, I risked another tantrum. He is very protective, which some see as a sure sign of devotion, but how I've dealt with it all these years and remained sane, I have no idea.
After a shower that found me moving a bit gingerly—I'd done a number on my back and shoulders when I'd fainted—I dressed in what I tend to think of as my working clothes: A crisp white shirt tucked into a pair of black linen trousers, finished off with a black leather belt and low-heeled pumps. A pair of simple silver hoops in my ears, a swipe of lipstick and powder, and I was ready. At least I was set for the interview. Whether or not I was ready to face my husband was the real question. With one more flip of my short hair, I grabbed up my leather bag that doubled as a purse and strode confidently out of our bedroom.
It was as I thought. Gregory was still ensconced in front of the television, but at least the volume had come down a bit. A good sign, I encouraged myself, and I coaxed my face into a pleasant attitude and stuck my head around the family room door.
Bless his heart. My hubby was sound asleep, recliner back and remote hanging precariously from his hand, soft snores coming from a slightly opened mouth. Trixie was tucked under one of his arms, and I almost giggled when I realized that she was snoring as well. They were certainly a matched set.
I tiptoed over to his chair, removing the remote and placing it gently on the butler's table that sat next to his chair. At least I would not need to explain my decision to go out so soon after my harrowing adventure in the park.
Of course, Trixie had other ideas. She detests being left out of anything that might prove to her advantage. With one tiny yip, she alerted Greg to my dep
arture. I froze mid-step, risking a peek over my shoulder to see if he had been awakened. His eyes were still closed, but I know him well enough to see that he was now awake, ears tuned to my frequency. I decided to take the bull by the horns, Gregory being the bull in this case. Replacing the smile on my face, I turned around and leaned casually against the doorframe.
"I'm headed out for a bit, my dear. Could I get you anything while I'm gone? Maybe one of those iced coffees that you like?"
Bribery, in my view, generally gives the briber one up on the bribee, especially if a soft spot is known to said briber. Of course, not everyone is married to my husband—obviously—and I knew that my chances of leaving the house without interrogation were a little more than nil.
"You may." He responded without so much as turning his head to look at me, but I could see the beginnings of a smile hovering on his lips. Dratted man. He can smell an enticement at one hundred yards. I sighed. The matter of a peace offering would still need to be addressed.
"Anything else? I could swing by the bakery, grab another one of those strudels. Or perhaps a pull-apart bread. You enjoy those as well."
The only response I got this time was a turn of his head and a strained expression on his face, all signs of the emerging smile erased.
Uh oh, I thought. Here it comes. I shot Trixie a venomous glare. This was all her fault. She snuggled deeper into Greg's side and closed her eyes with a smug look on her pointy face.
"Would this trip to the bakery be before or after whatever it is that you're up to now?"
I'm very good at many different personalities, or so I've been told. The self-righteous Caro popped to the surface with a vengeance, and I all but clutched at my heart with a dramatic moi? Instead, I settled for a slight widening of the eyes as I returned look for look with my husband.
""I'm sorry that you had to deal with the cat la—Mrs. Grayson," I began, which I instantly recognized as the wrong tack. "If you wish, I could swing by the dry cleaners and…" I got no further.
A Bird in the Hand Page 2
