The other man—the one who had been at Nellie Grayson's house the night of the shooting, the driver of the car that had nearly landed in our yard—stood with hands in pockets, a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. Honestly the man looked as if he were trying out for a part in a made-for-cable mob movie, and not a very major part at that.
What was it with all the drama queens—and kings—in Seneca Meadows?
"Hey." With a well-timed jerk of his chin, the man let fly a tube of grey ash from the end of his cigarette as he held out one rather beefy hand. Apparently he was determined to play out the Brando-like role he had assigned himself.
I remained frozen in place, using our car as a barrier between me and the possible threat that my husband was now blithely approaching. I am a firm believer in every man for himself, and I had no compunction with diving back into the car and locking myself inside. Besides, my husband, as athletic as he is, would have a great head start in a footrace against a smoker's lungs. That issue settled, I watched the scene before me with a wary eye.
"Gregory Browning." Greg's voice was firm and even, always a sure sign of impending battle in my experience. He reached out and grasped the man's hand, giving it a rather firmer than called for shake. I had to grin. Ever the territory marker, my dear husband is.
"Richard Beaton, private investigator. Pleased to meet you." He proffered a business card to my husband, who took it and gave it a quick glance before tucking it into his breast pocket. I saw that Mr. Beaton's eyes had shifted in my direction, and I shrank inside my light coat, trying to compact my pastry-padded body into nothingness. I'd personally never come across an investigator whose last visit to a neighborhood involved running from a crime scene. "And is this the missus?"
Oh, puhleeze, I thought with a mental eye roll. The missus? What decade was this guy living in, anyway? That thought spurred my feet into action, and I all but marched over to Greg's side. I'd show him missus.
"I'm Caroline Layton-Browning. And you are again?" I invested the words with all the dignity I could muster while clutching my coat around me. I felt rather than saw Greg's amusement..
"Richard Beaton." He flashed a set of nicotine-stained teeth at me. "But, please, call me Dick."
Oh, you bet I will, my mind said as my mouth replied, "A pleasure, Mr. Beaton." I turned to Gregory. "Shall I let the dog out?"
Let ol' Dickie-boy think we had a blood-thirsty hound at our disposal. My theatrics, though, were immediately dashed by the yipping that had begun behind the front door. Mr. Beaton looked at me and smiled, his lips drawn back over his teeth in much the same manner as a shark's just before that fatal bite.
"Ah," he said. "Your dog, I presume?"
"Yes," I answered stiffly. I turned to my husband. "Gregory, are we going to stand here all day or shall we go inside?" My testy tone should have worked as a warning system to both men. It didn't.
"After you, Mrs. Browning." Richard Call Me Dick Beaton performed a ridiculous half-bow as he ushered me ahead of him. Apparently his character was moving from the harsh streets of crime to a more royal venue. I completely ignored him, reaching down to scoop Trixie into my arms. Mr. Beaton reached over and gave my traitorous pooch a quick rub between the ears. If dogs could swoon from ecstasy, Trixie would have done so. Mr. Beaton, recognizing a breach of loyalty when he saw one, gave me that predator-like smile again.
"Delightful dog you have there, Mrs. Browning."
I all but stuck out my tongue at our visitor.
Over mugs of coffee—I pointedly did not offer to share any of the banana bread that sat on our counter—my husband and I listened as Mr. Beaton explained his presence.
"My firm was originally hired to find Natalie Greenberg, the daughter of—"
I interrupted his spiel. "We know who she is." I know I sounded rude, but the man had rubbed me wrong from the get-go. "And we already know what happened to the other investigator who came looking for her." I purposely did not look at my husband, instead rising to make Mr. Beaton another cup of coffee. Caffeine, I've found, can be a wonderful tongue-loosening agent, especially when served in a cozy kitchen like my own. I surreptitiously eyed the sweet bread. No—that was a bit much, even to me. I tried not to slam the refilled mug down in front of our uninvited guest.
"Thank you, Mrs. Browning," he said gravely. "May I continue?"
I shot a suspicious glance at him as I sat back down. As the reigning Queen of Sarcasm, I recognized a fellow user when I heard one. I saw an amused gleam in Gregory's eyes as he took a sip from his own mug. I all but tossed my head at him.
"Please," I replied regally. "Elucidation is a virtue, Mr. Beaton."
I could have sworn that he was hiding a smile as he took a sip of coffee. He cleared his throat, leaning against the slats of the oak chair.
"We'd already sent out one investigator, who met with, shall we say, a dead end." His solemn expression gave nothing away, and I could not figure out if he'd meant that as a pun or not. I decided to ignore it. "Mayor Greenberg, still concerned with his daughter's whereabouts, called and asked that someone else take up the case, hence my insertion into the story."
Now the man was morphing from tough guy to storyteller, his vocabulary becoming polysyllabic. I regarded him with shrewd contemplation. What other persona was this man hiding? Greg, I noted with growing interest, was sitting up a little straighter, eyes laser-like in their intensity.
Mr. Beaton abruptly stood, reaching into his pants pocket for something that he tossed onto the table. "This was found near the house next door." He jerked his head in the direction of poor Mrs. Grayson's house. "Mayor Greenberg was going to meet me there to identify it and give me more information on Natalie. I left in rather a hurry, as you probably know already."
I didn't bother looking at him. My eyes were fixed on the item lying innocently near my coffee mug. The bracelet was silver, hung with a variety of tiny silver birds. And one of the links was empty. I had a very good idea where the missing charm was.
Mr. Beaton's monologue revealed a few more points of interest, and I was glad that Gregory was paying attention. My mind was grappling with the bracelet on my kitchen table and the tiny dove that I'd found—pilfered really—in my front yard. It was all too strange. A sudden thought crossed my mind and I looked from the bracelet to our guest.
"Have you been to the bakery lately?"
From the looks on both the faces across from me, I might have been speaking in a foreign tongue. The conversational segue was apparently too convoluted for either to follow.
"The bakery?" If Mr. Beaton was guilty of procuring the strudel that nearly put my husband and dog to sleep permanently, his expression did not betray him. "Whatever for, Mrs. Browning?" He looked over at Gregory, a baffled look on his face. Greg was looking straight at me, eyes giving nothing away.
I stood, nearly tipping my chair over in my haste. "Never mind. It's not important. Well, it might be, but not at the moment." I rinsed my mug and left it in the sink. "Greg, I'm going to change and take Trixie for her walk."
Mr. Beaton stood as well. "I've got to be off anyway. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Browning." He turned to my husband, the street-wise persona making an encore appearance. "Gotta check in with the boss man, let 'em know that the mayor's out of commission for a while." He fished in a pocket and withdrew a crumpled packet of cigarettes, sticking one in the corner of his mouth. "I'll be in touch."
I watched, fascinated, as the cigarette bobbed up and down while he spoke. Gregory put out his hand.
"Thank you for sharing your information with us. We'll be in touch as well if we hear anything new."
I trailed behind the men. "Speak for yourself, John," I muttered under my breath. From the quick stiffening of Greg's shoulders, I knew he had heard my comment. And he'd gotten the message. Anyone who claims to be a New Englander—transplanted or not—is practically born knowing the story of that famous Pilgrim love triangle of Miles, John, and Priscilla.
"We cert
ainly will, Mr. Beaton," I added smoothly, stepping to the side as Greg opened the front door. "It's been a pleasure."
Mr. Beaton grinned down at me. "Thanks. And remember, call me Dick."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Would you mind explaining what that was all about?" My husband's voice followed me down the hallway, curiosity clear in his tone.
"Sorry, dear. Can't hear you," I called out blithely as I ducked into our closet for a quick change.
I chuckled to myself as I dropped my blouse into the hamper and took a well-worn tee shirt from a hanger. And nearly jumped out of my skin when Greg suddenly thrust his face into the closet.
"Good grief, Gregory! You could have given me a heart attack." I glared up at him through the tee shirt's neck.
"I sincerely doubt that, my dear," he replied. "You seem to be in fairly good health. Good enough," he continued, "to take our dog out for a walk, something that you never do, I might add."
"Trixie needs some fresh air, and after that little session with the oh-so-great detective, I do as well." I jerked the shirt down over my head and thrust my hands through the armholes. "And a pair of hip boots for all that manure he just shoveled out. Really, Greg," I continued as I reached for my rarely-used walking shoes. "Just-Call-Me-Dick seemed a little too forthcoming with information that should have been kept confidential, don't you think?"
From my husband's silence, I gathered that he hadn't considered that angle, most unusual for such an acutely legal mind. Ha—another point for the wife, I thought smugly. I tossed him a self-satisfied smile as I pushed passed him and down the hallway.
I set out with Trixie protesting slightly. The dog is as much of a homebody as I am and goes outside just long enough to do her business and get back inside. If she knew how to use the indoor facilities, I suspect she'd never leave the house at all.
The afternoon was still nice, a slight breeze blowing in from the southeast, bringing with it a promise of the warmer, more humid days to come. If I had my way, we'd head for the dryer climes of the American desert, preferably Arizona. It's a dry heat there, after all, not the sticky blanket we New Yorkers wear during the summer as penance for the beautiful springs and autumns.
I found myself turning toward the community park, retracing the path I took the day I found the corpse under the HOA's precious shrubbery. That thought led me to consider the sitting president of said HOA, also Seneca Meadow's vice mayor. I supposed that with the demise of His Holiness Mayor Greenberg's term in office due to his coronary issues, meek and mild Avery Stanton was now the sitting mayor.
Correction, I thought with a grin. Mrs. Stanton is now the sitting mayor. I could hardly wait to see how she and Ms. Wentworth would get along.
We stayed out just long enough to turn Trixie into a bundle of whimpering fur, barely able to lift one paw after the other. That took all of ten minutes, a sure sign that she was probably in worse shape than I. And dreadfully spoiled, come to think of it. I took pity on her and scooped her up, and the look of reproach she turned my way made me laugh.
"Oh, give it a rest, Trixie," I said aloud, giving the pitiful pooch a little squeeze of affection.
And then noticed the young lady standing across the street, watching me with curiosity. I flushed. I could talk to my dog if I wanted to.
If I had been paying more attention, I would have seen her reach into her pocket for a cell phone and use it to snap a picture of me as I walked toward home.
* * *
Gregory was sitting at the kitchen table when I returned, his refilled mug clutched between his hands as he sipped absent-mindedly, staring off at a point only he could see. Clearing my throat, I slipped into the chair opposite of his, waiting for his eyes to focus back on the present.
"I've been thinking." Carefully he placed the mug on the table and looked at me, blue eyes once more placid. I smiled at him encouragingly. My husband, I have found, can ruminate with the best of them and dislikes any form of impatience in others as he does his ruminating.
"I've been thinking," he repeated, "about a different angle on this entire dead-body-a-day episode. For some reason still unknown to me, this Beaton decides to pay us a visit and offer information that he probably should have held in confidence."
I nodded, careful to modulate the triumphant look in my eyes. Greg looked at me suspiciously, but I smiled benignly at him. I'd save the witty banter for later.
"If he was to meet up with the mayor as he indicated," this with a nod toward the direction of our late neighbor's house, "why there? And why at night?" He fell silent. I knew enough to recognize rhetoric when I heard it, so I said nothing.
"This is what I think happened."
I held up one hand, effectively interrupting the train of thought. "Look, I need a cup of coffee if this is going to go on much longer." Ignoring the offended look that crossed his face, I stood and headed for my faithful one-cupper. That and a slice of sugary goodness would just about hit the spot and replace the calories that I had lost in my jaunt around the neighborhood.
The upshot of Greg's thought process was this. Beaton was playing both ends. We knew about the mayor's concern, but who was holding the other end of the rope? Beaton apparently knew and had decided to use this to his advantage.
I nodded slowly, using my finger to scoop up the last of the crumbs. It made sense. I could see Beaton, as smarmy as he was, doing exactly that.
"He'd better be careful, though," I commented. "He might just find himself sharing a nice cold slab with that other investigator, not to mention the man next door. And Mrs. Grayson," I added.
"Unless," Greg said casually, "he is the one who did said slabbing, to coin a phrase."
I stared at him, trying to translate this observation into everyday English. When the meaning hit me, a chill ran down my spine. I might have made coffee for a bona fide killer. This, combined with the intrigue of Helena Wentworth and her participation in the ongoing drama, I certainly had enough to keep my brain spinning for a while.
* * *
The next few days brought several changes to our little neck of the woods. Avery Stanton was sworn in as interim mayor, his wife standing at his side like Seneca Meadow's version of the Colossus, solid legs planted firmly between her husband and the city manager. Judging by the pictures that later appeared in the newspaper, both men looked a tad intimidated to be standing in such a presence.
Ms. Wentworth was replaced with a younger version of Mrs. Stanton, a move that smelled suspiciously of nepotism. That move alone would have been earthshaking, but it was accompanied by the installation of several minor Stanton family members as well, serving as both greeters and interrogators. They had been well trained in the art of cross-examination, whether by nature or nurture I could not tell. Still, it made getting the causal appointment with His Meekness—my own name for the timid mayor—as difficult as going before the queen of England.
Richard Beaton had swiftly and silently been relieved of his job, or at least that was what we were told; with the mayor now recovering at home, it was determined by a very helpful Avery Stanton that he did not need added stress. Gregory, upon considering the suspicious circumstances surrounding the appearance of the detective, had decided to verify the man's intentions by contacting his employer. What followed was an interesting conversation. With the expiration of the first investigator, the agency had deemed the circumstances too dangerous and had withdrawn itself from the contract. Beaton, apparently, had discovered a few items of interest on his own and had taken up the case without the sanction of his boss.
I found this to be puzzling. From all of the research I had done when writing my books, I knew that private detective agencies kept fairly close tabs on their employees' whereabouts, so to have one go rogue was definitely not the norm. Rather than answering our questions, it had only given cause for more.
And the mystery of the doctored strudel was solved. Sort of. The person who had purchased the dessert was indeed a local man, and he had let it slip that
he was making the purchase as a surprise for Professor and Mrs. Browning. His name, it turned out, was Tim Tate, a small-time crook whose modus operandi had included breaking and entering. Something or someone must have really spooked him. To the amazement of the SMPD and me, he turned himself in for the "safety of the jail," as he put it.
As I sat at the kitchen table and jotted down all of this new information, I felt suddenly weary. The web seemed to be stretching further and further out instead of coming together neatly. The more we learned, the more we were led away from the original issue, the mayor's concern for his daughter. What that meant I had no idea, but I was determined to find out.
No one except Ms. Wentworth still had a connection to Natalie Greenberg, at least from my vantage point, and I thought of her removal as secretary to the mayor with mounting irritation. An ineffectual HOA president such as Avery Stanton would not have orchestrated such a move, I was fairly certain. The situation smacked of his wife's interference.
Swiftly coming to a decision, I stood up and grabbed up my car keys from the hook near the back door. Trixie, who had been snoozing at my feet, gave a startled yelp and turned baleful eyes my way. I ignored her, calling out to my husband that I was going out for a while.
"I've got my cell if you need anything while I'm out, dear," I added, almost as an afterthought. Seneca Meadows was small enough for Gregory to find me no matter where I went, but having my cell with me gave me a sense of autonomy. I could choose to answer it when and where I wanted.
I headed straight for the bakery. If anyone had information on the whereabouts of Ms. Wentworth, I figured that Candy did. I've always found it to be particularly amazing the way folks will talk in front of the hired help. It's as if those who work the counters and refill our coffee cups are a part of the furnishings and nothing more. Candy not only managed to create an air of invisibility while working behind the counter, she also kept those rather prominent ears of hers wide open.
A Bird in the Hand Page 9
