I'd made up that last part on the fly, as they say. Why not? It made sense from a Mick-centered investigation, and it would get us out of Seneca Meadows. I could use the company as much as she needed the distraction.
The drive was pleasant. Merry didn't have much to say, and I think that she dozed a while, which was good. One of us needed to be mentally sharp. I was beginning to feel the effects of a sleepless night and began looking for the nearest coffee kiosk or drive-thru. This luxury was one of my favorite American habits that I'd acquired since coming to New York. I remembered the "secret" Starbucks located off the Belt Parkway and headed there; it was a drive-thru only establishment and served the best caramel Frappuccino in the business.
Two Frappuccinos later—Merry needed a caffeine pick-me-up as well—we were headed toward the neighborhood that Mick O'Reilly had called home. Measured against the architecture of my native country, the buildings in Brooklyn looked rundown and neglected; I couldn't imagine anything in this area being declared a historical preservation site.
Until we saw the O'Reilly Bakery and Deli. It was housed in one of New York's finest examples of brownstone, its balustrade a marvel of early twentieth century design. Gleaming red cement steps led upward to the glass door, and the ramp that had been added for easier access didn't detract from the overall feel of elegance.
"Why in the world would Mick leave this place and come to Seneca Meadows?" Merry's question mirrored my thoughts exactly as we stood on the sidewalk, staring in awe at the building and its equally well-designed neighbors. "If I had something like this for my bookstore, I'd never leave it." She glanced at her cell phone. "That reminds me. I need to check in with Bea. She agreed to run the place for me until we get back."
Now that is interesting, I thought. Beatrice Lemon, unwilling to go back out into public and run her own shop, was taking over Murder by the Book? I sincerely hoped that Merry knew what she was doing.
The door pushed open and two women walked out and down the steps, chatting happily and carrying waxed paper bags with the bright red O'Reilly logo on the side. When one of them looked back and remarked just loudly enough to be heard, "You'd think they'd never seen civilization before," I realized that I'd been standing with my mouth wide open. I snapped it shut and shot their departing backs a look that, as my husband will attest, could quell anyone at thirty paces.
"Well," I said briskly to my awestruck companion. "Let's go inside and see what we shall see." And with that, I tucked my handbag firmly under my arm and mounted the steps as if I had an audience with the queen herself.
The interior was pure mid-twentieth century kitsch. I took in the Formica tables surrounded with red leather-upholstered chairs, the walls lined with old Coca-Cola adverts, the perky red-checked pinafores on the employees. The entire atmosphere fairly sizzled with a positive energy, and again I wondered why someone would leave a business such as this, particularly an established family business. I was determined to find out.
The daily menu was listed on a chalkboard that looked as old as the building. With the coffee a recent memory, I didn't need anything else to eat or drink at the moment. Still, one must blend in with the natives when doing undercover work…not to mention that everything looked and smelled divine.
"I'll order something for us while you find a table," I said to Merry sotto voce. To the young lady who stood sentinel-like, ready to take my order, I said brightly, "We'll have two peach Bellini iced teas and the bruschetta with artichoke, please."
With receipt in hand, I joined Merry at a table for two in front of the fireplace, its hearth a veritable garden of flowering houseplants. Someone had put old enamelware containers to good use, and I mentally stored the idea for my own decorating schemes. Combined with the muted sounds of big band era music and pleasant conversations, I was quickly falling under the spell of O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli.
"What's the game plan, Caro?"
I was happy to see that Merry appeared to be out of her funk. Of course, it would be difficult to remain here and not become a Perky Polly; I'd probably hate working in a place so cheerful all the time.
"We need to find someone who knows—knew—Mick well. There has to be some reason behind his move to Seneca Meadows; I just can't get away from that idea." I smiled up at the smiling server who carried our drinks and eats balanced on a tray held high over her head. If she dropped that…
"We're friends of Mick O'Reilly," I heard Merry say. "Do you know him?"
The young lady gave a small gasp and nearly toppled the loaded tray on me. "Uh, I can't talk about it. Mr. O. said we can't say anything." She practically ran out of the room after plunking down the two tall glasses and large platter on the table.
Merry and I looked at one another in surprise. Whatever reaction I had anticipated, it hadn't been this. And I, being one who operates on the principle of surprise as a means of attack, rose and followed the upset server.
I left Merry at the table to guard our food and drinks from over-anxious bussers and headed down a narrow passage that led, I assumed, to the employee-only region of the bakery. I could hear muted weeping to my right. Opening a door marked Employees Only, I saw the server sitting at a table, head on folded arms, crying as if her heart were broken. Maybe it was. Mick O'Reilly was both good-looking and a great baker, so it stood to reason that more than Merry would fall for him.
"Excuse me," I said softly so I wouldn't startle her. "Is it alright if I sit with you a moment?" When there was no answer, I sat down anyway, careful to stay outside of her "personal space," an Americanism that amuses me. I'd never even thought about bubbles or space or anything of that ilk before moving here; I only knew when someone was too close for comfort.
"I'm not supposed to talk to anyone," said the muffled voice. "Go away before Mr. O finds you here."
Not being a woman who enjoys directives, I settled back in my chair more comfortably, preparing to outwait her. It didn't take long.
* * *
"I swear, Caro, you nearly gave me heart failure!" Merry was sitting sideways in the passenger seat to get a better view of me as I drove blithely back to Seneca Meadows, mission accomplished. "When I saw that man come out and start looking around, I just knew he was after you!"
I smiled in my best enigmatic manner, the one that Gregory refers to as my cat-that-got-into-the-cream style. The look on Joseph O'Reilly's face when I'd slipped past him and back in to the main dining area was, to say the least, priceless. I'd gotten the information I'd come for, however, and I could not fault Mick O'Reilly one bit for wanting to leave his home and come north.
"I can't say I blame him, Merry," I replied smugly. "Mr. O'Reilly has good reason to play his cards close to the vest, especially when it comes to his business." I joined the sparse traffic headed toward Seneca Meadows and set the cruise control for something between the speed limit and I-can't-wait-to-get-home. "Let's just say that if I worked for him, I'd be looking for a way out as well."
"How bad could it be?" Merry sounded genuinely perplexed, still under the spell of kitschy cheer and good food. "I mean, if I didn't have my own business to run, working somewhere like that bakery would be ideal! Well, except for those dreadful looking pinafores, maybe. Gingham's just not my style." She gave a theatrical shudder. "All those tucks and pleats would make my hips look twice their size."
And I don't want to know how I'd look either, I thought with distaste. I dragged my mind from ample hips back to the present conversation and Mick's reason for leaving Brooklyn.
"If I didn't know better," I began, "Mick's father is your garden variety shyster." I glanced at the rearview mirror, my eye arrested by the blue pickup that had been edging ever closer to my bumper since we'd left the main highway. "He pays his employees via an outrageous barter system"—here Merry snorted derisively—"and apparently he's done this for as long as the business has been open."
"That wouldn't fly in Seneca Meadows," Merry said. "Can you imagine the SMCC letting this happen?"
; Hmmm…was that the connection between Lucia Scarantelli and Mick O'Reilly? Wait—that didn't make sense. They were both dead, so if she'd threatened him with exposure of his father's business practices, wouldn't Mick still be alive? My train of thought hit a good-sized bump just then, or rather it was my car: the blue truck had crept close enough to give my old sedan a rude push with its bumper.
When the next hit came, I knew it was more than a love tap. Merry and I were in some serious trouble—and there was no one around to help us.
CHAPTER SIX
The shriek of metal on metal, that fingernails-on-a-chalkboard sound, seemed to last for eternity. The final stop was abrupt. With one last roar of its engine, the blue truck swerved back onto the highway, leaving me and Merry dazed in my decidedly crumpled car.
"I'll call 9-1-1," I heard myself say. Quivering and high-pitched, I sounded more like an adolescent boy going through puberty than the grown confident woman I was. I gave the dispatcher our approximate locus, said that, no, I wasn't injured and neither was my passenger, and would they please hurry.
Merry was silent, eyes closed and head back, and I admit it gave me a start. When she opened her mouth, though, I had to grin in spite of it all.
"There are easier ways to meet a gal."
I laughed at her words, a quavery sound to be sure but reassuring all the same; I wasn't hurt, I wasn't hysterical, and I wasn't alone.
"Maybe he's one of those men who stutter, or who still lives with his mother. In the basement. With his action figures."
"Ew, Caro! Shades of Norman Bates! Give me a blue collar man any day."
We fell silent again, the sound of distant sirens coming closer. I groaned as I tried to sit up straighter.
"Here comes the circus, Merry. I hope my hair isn't too mussed. I'm a sucker for a man in uniform."
We were still giggling hysterically when the paramedics opened the car door.
* * *
After a multi-hour sojourn in the nearest hospital's emergency room, Merry and I were free to continue the short distance home. Thankfully my car was still drivable, aesthetic issues notwithstanding, and we arrived in Seneca Meadows just as the sun was sinking behind my house.
"Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?" I asked as I pulled my sorry-looking sedan into the driveway. "Or something stronger? It's been one doozy of a day, and I'd appreciate the company. If you're feeling up to it, that is," I added hastily. I was beginning to sense every bump and bruise and figured that Merry was feeling just as poorly.
"I'd love to, Caro, but no thanks." She opened the passenger door, an audible groan of protest from both her and the compacted metal frame. "What I'd really like is an hour in a hot tub and to sleep for a year." She smiled over the top of the car at me. "I'm thinking that we need to take a day off from playing detective and recover."
I smiled back. "Of course. Let's make it another time then." I glanced at my wristwatch and started when I saw the time. "Oh, good grief! Greg's probably called already and is wondering where I am." I gave Merry a cheery wave and headed for the kitchen door.
The red light on the answering machine—I still wanted to call it an answer phone—was blinking laconically, indicating a single message. I groaned inwardly; there was no doubt who I would hear once I pressed the button.
"Caro, Greg here." I smiled at his clipped tones, so business-like and familiar. I was definitely missing him, particularly after the day's misadventures. "I'm going to be held up for two more days. Sorry. Apparently I'm needed to facilitate what is amounting to be a rather cantankerous group of dons here at Oxford." There was a pause and the ubiquitous rustling of papers. "I'll call you again tomorrow evening. And Caro, I do hope that you're not creating, ah, issues." Another flurry of paper noise, then, "I'll talk with you later."
Well. I was relieved, of course, since that would give me a few days to get both my story and my car in order. And it would give Merry and me additional time to do more ferreting into the murders of Mick and Lucia.
Calling Trixie to follow me, I headed for bed and hopefully a good night's rest.
I dreamed that night of a phalanx of blue trucks, each one driven by a Mick O'Reilly look-alike, each one headed directly for my house. I frantically waved my arms and yelled to get his attention, and then noticed that he had changed into Merry—and not a very friendly-looking Merry, either. I woke in a sweat, tangled in the covers and with a very disgruntled Trixie glaring at me from atop Greg's pillow.
A bleary-eyed glance at my alarm clock showed me that it was almost morning anyway, so I changed out of my sweat-drenched nightgown into an oversized T-shirt and headed for the kitchen and my beloved Keurig. One dose of White Chocolate Mint coffee and I was feeling better; another cup and I was nearly myself again. Unfortunately, the more awake I became, the more I was aware of the myriad aches in my body. Merry's hot tub idea was sounding splendid as I inventoried the various areas that ached; at least I did not have the dreaded whiplash, although my legs and arms were definitely stiff.
My typical strategy when beginning a new book is to plaster the walls of my study with ideas: character descriptions, possible victims, probable motives, and methods of murder. Different colors of the all-purpose sticky note served to keep me organized—and my editors from having heart failure when reading my manuscripts. I decided to employ this method in order to organize my thoughts on the current "issues," as Greg called them, so with coffee in hand and Trixie at my heels, I headed down the hall to my study. I didn't think I'd have the energy for leaving the house today anyway.
A gentle tapping at the front door halted me in mid-step and I smiled: Merry, of course, here for coffee and company. Only it wasn't. A very tired, very frightened Beatrice Lemon stood on my front steps, her face as forlorn as a child who'd lost her favorite toy. Impulsively, I drew her into my house and into an embrace. Cue the waterworks, of course.
"I'm just so scared, Mrs. Browning—"
"Do call me Caro," I interrupted.
"—of whoever is out there, killing off these lovely people." Beatrice blew her nose with a boisterous honk and wiped her eyes with the same tissue. I winced, distracted by the notion of germs populating there.
"Of course you're frightened," I said hastily when I realized that she was waiting for a reply. "But I wouldn't call the Dragon La—I mean—Lucia Scarantelli a lovely person," I added with feeling. "That woman single-handedly intimidated Main Street and nearly ran most of our businesses out of town."
Bea nodded. "And I agree, Caro. She was not very nice, but maybe she was just doing her job." She resumed blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. I made a mental note to sanitize everything she was touching.
"Her job?" I hooted. "I think not, Bea. Since when is terrorizing a small business owner part of the Seneca Meadows Chamber of Commerce charter?"
She gave a small shrug. "And again, I agree. I'm just trying to find some goodness in her. If I can," she added with a watery smile.
I managed to keep control of my innate impulse to stick out my tongue. Gregory would have been so proud.
"First things first," I said briskly, guiding my guest toward the kitchen. "Do you prefer coffee or tea?"
With Bea settled at my table with a cup of English breakfast tea, I hurried to wash up and change. I'd have to postpone my sticky note planning session.
* * *
"I really have no idea," I said somewhat peevishly. I had spent the past hour trying to either convince Beatrice Lemon that she was not a target of a deranged killer and moreover, trying to send her on her merry way so I could get down to the business of organizing my "murder wall."
"If you say so, Caro," she said. "I just don't feel safe alone in my own house." Her voice began to shake and her eyes to fill, and I felt a surge of irritation. I'd just have to show the woman some tough love.
"I'm on a deadline, Bea," I said, standing abruptly and sending my chair skittering across the floor with the backs of my knees. "If I were you, I'd head for work, enjoy a
day of selling, and get a take-out on your way home this evening." I smiled down at her, trying to will her out of my kitchen. "Doesn't that sound lovely?"
Bea gave a piteous sniffle, swiping at her red nose with a soggy tissue. I suppressed a shudder as I watched her crumple the offending item and put it back into her pocket. "I guess." She looked at me as though waiting for an invitation to stay.
I continued to smile without saying a word, teeth beginning to feel dry behind my lips. Finally she gave a deep sigh and stood. "I'd better head for the shop. There might be someone waiting to find the perfect addition to their gently-used clothes collection." And with a crooked smile, Beatrice Lemon shuffled dejectedly out of my house.
I sighed with relief as I turned the lock on the door. I was mentally exhausted and needed another mug of restorative brew before beginning the morning's activity. A few minutes later, steaming coffee in one hand and a generous slice of leftover cheesecake in the other, I headed back down the hall and to my office. Naturally, my mobile phone began trilling. I hurried to my desk and set the mug and plate down, retrieving my phone with a quick glance at the LED readout: New York Police Department. Frowning, I tapped the "accept" button.
"This is Caro." I made my tone as light as I could, mentally sending out good karma to whomever was on the other end. "How can I—" That was as far as I got.
"Mrs. Browning." The voice was officious, pushing back against the positive vibes from my end of the line. "This is Detective Leonides, NYPD." He paused, and I wondered if I'd missed my conversational cue. Before I could chime in, however, he continued in the same self-important tone. "We understand that you were involved in a hit-and-run yesterday." Another pause. "I would appreciate a statement from you." This time I jumped into the exchange before he could speak again.
When the Cat's Away Page 5
