When the Cat's Away

by Dane McCaslin

  Judging by the dumbfounded expression on Candy's face, I could see she wasn't grasping my meaning.

  "Detective Leonides, God's gift to all police departments in New York and to single folks everywhere, is in town to help solve the murders," Merry interjected with a smile for Candy and a frown for me.

  Was it my fault if my lexicon had been developed according to writers of yore and not from the back of a cereal box? I waggled my eyebrows at Merry in response. She ignored me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I was beginning to think that Greg's sojourn in Oxford was never-ending. Following two more conversations via a dodgy mobile connection and a promise that he would indeed be home within the next seventy-two hours, give or take twenty-four, I was content to turn my focus on the present crises, i.e. attempting to find a neat conclusion for my current work in progress (my editor had developed the rather annoying habit of hourly emails) and the identity of Lucia Scarantelli and Mick O'Reilly's killer or killers.

  The next two days became a series of mundane tasks: sleep, eat, shower, write, take care of Trixie, repeat. Merry's bookstore inventory issues were resolved, and Joey was firmly ensconced as baker-slash-menu-renovator at Candy's Sweets and Treats. In short, all was peaceful and rote, exactly what one might expect from a town of Seneca Meadows' disposition.

  And just like the unforeseen twist in a predictable plot, everything fell apart a mere thirty-six hours into the abyss that was my life. As far as I can recall, this is how it happened:

  Merry and I were in my kitchen, drinking the ubiquitous mugs of coffee and enjoying one of Joey's latest triumphs, a cream cheese and blueberry Danish. Aside from the mouthwatering flavor of the pastry, courtesy of Joey, and the slightly acerbic taste of the medium blend coffee from Tim Horton's, nothing else was important enough to hold our attention.

  The muted sound of tires on gravel triggered Trixie's furry ears to perk up. It caused Merry's brows to lift and my shoulders to slump: I had no desire for unanticipated company. I sighed. There was nothing for it but to politely get rid of whoever deigned to knock at my door. Apart from not feeling particularly sociable, I was in no frame of mind to share the remnants of such a delectable pastry. Sighing, I rose to my feet and walked to the entrance, Trixie trotting at my heels like a miniature bodyguard.

  I stood on tippy-toes and peeked through the peephole that Greg had insisted we install. At the time I'd found the concept amusing and had given in to placate my vigilant spouse, considering I wasn't able to peer through said peephole without a boost of sorts. Still, I was happy to have a heads up of sorts when the doorbell chimed. The bad haircut and downturned mouth announced Beatrice Lemon, supporter of the Seneca Meadows Chamber of Commerce and a voice for the small business owner.

  I let go the breath I'd been holding and opened the door, inviting Bea Lemon in with a smile. Here was one of the more innocuous of Seneca Meadows citizens, and I was determined to set her mind at ease as she walked slowly into my house. Besides, after her recent weed-inspired foray into my inner sanctum, I felt the need to create a legitimate reason for her presence. After all, I'd breached the levels of propriety during my own teen years—may all that is holy forgive me—and wanted to extend the hand of forgiveness to a fellow sinner.

  Until I truly understood her intentions, that is. Beatrice Lemon was no saint.

  After settling her down in one of my kitchen chairs and reluctantly offering her some of our sweet repast, I decided it was time to get down to brass tacks, to find out exactly why she was here. Per usual, I jumped directly in to the tête-à-tête, niceties set aside.

  "So, Bea," I began, my tone one of cheerful briskness. "Exactly why are you here?" Apparently my cheerfulness was completely buried beneath the briskness, which somehow had evolved into brusqueness. From my periphery, I caught Merry's frown and slight shake of her head, but I plunged on into deeper conversational waters. "Is there anything that I—or we, that is—can help you with? Or was there something in particular you needed to see me about?"

  Although I didn't say the words, I was certainly implying that she was a bit of a bother; by the time I'd finished speaking, Merry looked like a thundercloud, and Bea looked completely bemused.

  "I think," said Merry with exaggerated politeness, "that Bea and I will go to my house and leave you in peace, Caro." She put action to her words and stood, motioning to the still silent Bea to follow. Bea, bless her confused heart, just stood there, eyes flicking back and forth between us like a pair of ping pong balls.

  "Oh, for goodness sake, Merry. You might as well stay since you're here." I cocked me head to one side. "We could talk murder if you'd like. I know I've got a few thoughts floating around that I'd like to air out."

  "No, thank you." Merry could be as stubborn as the next person when provoked. "We'll be leaving."

  Giving an exaggerated sigh, I led the way from the kitchen to the front door, opening it and giving a little wave to each as she walked past. Merry pretended not to see me, and Bea gave me a sheepish shrug. I gave her a very wide grin. Merry would come around.

  I wandered around the house for a while, Trixie at my heels, as I thought through the various incidents and mishaps that had occurred as of late. My ruminations served me twofold: hopefully my current manuscript would be resuscitated and completed before my agent had a stroke, and perhaps I'd also be able to pinpoint the killer. After all, I had created characters such as that in my books, so I felt confident that I could spot one at ten paces.

  Sighing, I headed for my office and my "murder wall," a fluid work in progress as I worked out issues with my plot. I figured that a good four hours in front of my laptop would be good for all that ailed me, a missing spouse notwithstanding.

  I'd gotten in a good writing rhythm when my mobile phone began sliding across the slick surface of the desk, a light flashing to indicate an incoming call. Quickly saving the work I'd done so far, I halted the mobile's progress and pressed Accept with a well-practiced thumb.

  "Caro here."

  "Caro? Can you hear me?" The voice on the other end was whispering frantically, and I had to strain to understand the words.

  "Yes, I can. Is this Merry?" An uneasy feeling crept over me, déjà vu of the worst kind.

  "Yes, and I can't talk long. Caro, I think Bea's crazy!"

  I could have told her that.

  "What's going on? Do you need me to pop over?" I was already on my feet, heading for the front door.

  "If you could, please. She's acting all zombied out or something, pretending to make dinner like it's her house. She's nuts, Caro!" I heard her take in a sharp breath. "Just hurry!" And the call was disconnected.

  I didn't exactly run across the lawn that separated our houses, but I could have qualified for a speed-walking team. By the time I arrive on Merry's front porch, my under-exercised calves were burning, and my heart was thumping in my chest like a timpani drum. Not bothering with the manners I'd had ingrained in my psyche since I was a child, I burst through the front door.

  Merry stood in the doorway to her kitchen, eyes open wider than I'd ever seen them before, an expression of complete disbelief on her face. Motioning her to one side, I stepped into the room, stopping short when I saw Bea.

  "Oh, I'm so glad you're home, dear," she said to me in a pleasant voice. "Would you mind setting the table?" She glanced at the clock on the wall, its cat eyes shifting back and forth like a metronome. "Supper's almost finished, and you know how I like to have everyone here to eat."

  As Bea turned her back to peek into an oven that clearly held nothing but a broiler pan, I mimed using a phone to Merry, who nodded and slipped down the hallway toward her room. My job would be to keep the façade going while my neighbor called for help.

  "Well?" Bea had turned around to face me again, her hands on her hips and a querulous tone in her voice. "Don't just stand there, girl! Your father will be here any minute, and you know how he hates to be kept waiting for his food." She gestured to the cabinets. "Get the
table set, like I asked you."

  This was something beyond marijuana-laced brownies. That was certain, and I was beginning to think that Merry and I should get out of there when the faint sound of sirens became evident. Taking in a shaky breath, I began setting plates around the kitchen table, aware that Bea was watching my every move.

  Merry slipped back into my line of sight and made a motion toward the front door. I nodded at her imperceptibly, hoping that Bea wouldn't notice the arrival of the ambulance.

  She did.

  "Oh, there's your dad now," she said smilingly. "Hurry now and get his beer. You know he likes a cold one as soon as he walks in." She made a shooing motion at me, and I scooted over to the refrigerator and opened it. If anything, I could hide behind the door if things got dicey.

  Three uniformed paramedics walked in, one carrying a large black case, a worried Merry right behind them. I was relieved when Bea sat down at the table at their request and submitted to their ministrations. The family fantasy seemed to be over, for the moment at least, and Merry and I listened as she answered questions in a completely lucid manner. I skirted around the edge of the kitchen and poked Merry in the side with my elbow, motioning for her to follow me outside.

  "What in the world is going on in there?" I asked sotto voce, not wanting my words to carry. "First she acts like a lunatic, and now she's suddenly sane?" I shook my head in consternation. "She's got to be playing a game with us."

  Merry stood silently, chewing a thumbnail and frowning.

  "When did she start the whole 'I'm making dinner for my family' scenario? Was it right after you two left my house?" I purposely left out "in a snit" at the end of the sentence, but Merry still flushed.

  "No, she was perfectly fine when we got here." She stooped over to pluck a few dead blossoms from a flowerpot, tossing the detritus into the yard. "In fact, she was truly upset, thinking she'd done something to make you mad at her."

  I grimaced. "So I'm the cause of, what, a psychotic episode?" That was all I needed. "Are you sure she didn't take something, maybe more of those happy pills her doctor prescribed?"

  Merry shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. Hopefully she'll get checked out at the hospital, and we'll find out what's going on with her."

  "Who's 'we', my friend?" I raised my eyebrows as I spoke. "Surely you jest if you suppose I want to be involved any more. Beatrice Lemon seems to be, at least to my own observant mind, certifiably insane."

  "Oh, c'mon, Caro!" Merry protested. "The poor woman was accused of murder, for heaven's sake! That would send anyone over the edge!" Her eyes narrowed. "And if you won't help her, that's fine by me. I'm still going to do what I can for her, as long as I can." She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "That's what friends do, Caro. They help each other."

  I stood there on the front porch a moment longer, then began walking slowly back to my side of the lawn. Merry was getting too involved in something that wasn't her concern, and I was afraid that this was not going to end well, especially with someone as unstable as Bea seemed to be. I sighed. I really needed Greg home.

  I managed to muddle through another thousand words in my manuscript before calling it a day. I dashed off a few emails, including one to my agent and another to my editor, hoping to buy more time with what was becoming a never-ending storyline. Satisfied that I'd done what I could to soothe both of their latest rants, I headed for my kitchen to make a mug of coffee. A caffeine restorative was exactly what I needed.

  Freshly brewed coffee in hand—today it was a luscious blend called Coconut Mocha—I walked outside the back door and settled myself on the bench we kept handy for removing our muddy shoes. Trixie had followed me outside and was now snuffling around the yard, pausing occasionally to answer nature's call. I watched her progression as I sipped, letting my mind wander at will.

  I'd heard the ambulance leave while still in my office and idly wondered if they'd taken the local cuckoo bird with them. I smiled to myself as an image of Bea's face as she moved around Merry's kitchen came into my head. If she really wasn't insane, she played the part to the hilt like a true professional.

  I paused, debating the thought. Was that it? Was this a role, a persona? There was such a thing as "crazy like a fox," and I had a feeling that the seemingly reticent Beatrice Lemon might very well be a little on the foxy side.

  I'd been so wrapped up in my current book that I'd pushed aside all thoughts of murder and Beatrice Lemon. It was time to share my suspicions with someone who could do something about it, manuscript deadlines be damned.

  Officer Scott was out on patrol when I called the Seneca Meadows Police Department, but I recognized the voice on the other end of the line at once: my newly-acquired nemesis, Ms. Greenbriar. I debated disguising my voice but decided against such subterfuge. After all, the phone number would be traceable back to me, and I was already in her bad graces. I decided to employ a friendly tone instead, hoping she wouldn't simply disconnect my call.

  "May I leave a message for Officer Scott?" I put as much affability into my voice as I could, along with a smile. I'd heard that smiling while you're speaking actually translates itself to the listener, and now was the perfect time to test the theory.

  "Go ahead." The words were delivered brusquely, but the sound of paper rattling in the background gave me hope that she would actually take down my message.

  "Please ask him to call me as soon as he can. It's about—" Here I hesitated, unsure of what to reveal. "It's about a friend of mine who has a question about a situation. Of sorts, that is."

  I knew I sounded ambiguous, and I prayed Ms. Greenbriar would just go with it, as Merry might say. Obviously, my prayers needed a bit of work: the distinct sound of paper being crumpled reached my ears just before the humming dial tone. I'd been cut off.

  I restrained myself from throwing my mobile across the room. Although it would feel wonderful to release some of the annoyance the lovely Ms. Greenbriar had stirred in me, it would be more of a hassle to have to purchase a new phone. Instead, I decided to turn on the beginner's yoga DVD that I'd purchased on Officer Scott's recommendation. Maybe I could pose my way into calmness.

  If you've ever been told that yoga is perfect for those who don't like to exercise, do not—I repeat—do not listen to them. After twenty minutes of tortuous limb stretches and impossible poses, some that actually required me to balance on one foot, I finally gave in and flopped down into Gregory's recliner. Trixie, curled up in contented sleepiness near the doorway, gave a startled yelp, and shot me a glance that clearly said "you've just awakened the princess—now feed me" as she trotted on stubby legs toward the kitchen.

  "Give me a chance to rest," I groaned after her. My legs felt as unsteady as a newborn lamb's, and I ached in places that I didn't know I had. Yoga, I thought dryly, was not for the weak of heart. Or muscles. When I finally caught up with Officer Scott, I'd give him a piece of my stretched-out mind.

  With Trixie fed, I headed to my bathroom for a relaxing soak in the tub. A dash of Epsom salts, the latest book I'd been reading, and a well-deserved glass of Pinot Grigio were my post-yoga first aid implements of choice. I estimated that I'd need to soak for at least as long as I'd exercised—I shuddered at the word—in order to feel human again.

  The trill of the house phone woke me. It took a few moments to ascertain where I was and why I was there in the middle of the day. Standing carefully in the now-cooled water, I gave a groan as I reached for the bath sheet I'd placed next to the tub. If I was still this sore after such a prolonged soak, I dreaded how I'd be feeling by morning.

  Trixie was curled in her basket, slumbering on in spite of the repeated rings. I grabbed the handset, careful not to trip over the trailing towel, and promptly dropped it on the sleeping dachshund. The ensuing yelps nearly deafened me, and before I'd had time to calm down the squirming armful of indignant dog, the phone began its incessant ringing once more. Snatching up the handset, I said, "This is Caro!" with a touch more vigor than I normally used.
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br />   "And this is Officer Scott," came the mild voice on the other end of the line. "I heard you needed to talk to me."

  "How did you hear that?" I was confused, knowing that Ms. Greenbriar's crumpled message was lying in a waste can somewhere at the SMPD.

  He laughed. "I have my sources. Now what was so important?"

  "It's Beatrice Lemon," I said. "Again. That woman is fodder for the funny farm, officer, and I mean that!" I proceeded to tell him about morning, about the panicky call from Merry and Bea's very strange actions in the kitchen, concluding with, "And now that she's been taken to the hospital, or at least I hope that's where she is, you and I and Merry need to have a sit down. This can't keep happening."

  "I see." There was a brief silence, then, "Let me have the local social services check on her today, maybe keep her at the hospital overnight. That would give us at least a day to figure out what's going on with her." He paused, then added, "I was going to call you today anyway, Mrs. B. It seems that the detective from the city wants to have a small chat with you and Merry again."

  "With me and Merry? Whatever for?" I was confused. "They've already written the report for my insurance. Is there something else he needs to know?"

  "We'll talk about it when I see you, okay?" He paused, and I could hear him flipping through pages. I had to smile; did Officer Scott actually write down his appointments? "How about this evening around six? Would that work for you?"

  "It's fine with me," I assured him. "You'll just have to check with Merry. I'll make dinner, practice my cooking skills again."

  He laughed. "Better get those down before the man returns, right? Okay, six it is, at your place. I'll call Merry myself."

  We exchanged a few more words and then rang off.

  Dressing quickly, I went through the contents of my freezer and pantry. After a few judicious minutes of looking at recipes and finding ingredients to match, I finally settled on my version of spinach and feta frittata. I like to get it put together and let it sit in the refrigerator for at least two hours so that the flavors have a chance to meld. Since it would only take fifteen minutes in the oven, this dish would be easy to time with my guests' arrival.