As I began rinsing off the fresh spinach, I let my mind wander back to Bea's strange behavior. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain that it was a farce. Unless she truly had an history with psychosis, it appeared more than likely that she was either setting the stage for an insanity plea, or she just enjoyed watching us play along with her. And for someone who claimed to be innocent of murder, she was acting like a suspect in one of my books.
I firmly put Bea and the entire situation out of my mind while I whisked eggs, added in both parmesan and feta cheese, milk, sun-dried tomatoes, and seasoning. The spinach was cooking in a cast iron skillet, wilting alongside chopped onion browning in olive oil. Once the leaves were completely wilted and the onion was translucent, I poured in the egg mixture, lifting the spinach to allow the egg to run underneath. I added a sprinkling of feta on top, popped the lid on, and slid the entire skillet into the fridge. Served with fresh fruit and croissants from Candy's bakery, it would be the perfect meal for talking murder and crazy women.
I decided to walk over to Merry's and offer my apologies for not taking her as seriously as she thought I ought. It wouldn't hurt me to do that, and it would serve to smooth things out before dinner. I didn't want to begin the evening with an awkward moment in front of Officer Scott.
I could hear music coming from her house as I approached, and I smiled as I recognized the theme song of the latest Disney offering, a soaring soprano exhorting listeners to "let it go." It didn't matter whether one had a child in the house or not: this song had permeated the entire nation.
I was still smiling when the door opened to show a defeated-looking Merry. Her posture shouted "I give up" as loudly as a neon sign, and I reached out to give her a hug. This was one gal who took things to heart in the biggest way, and her fight for the underdog—i.e. Beatrice Lemon—was not going as planned.
"How about a walk?" I asked impulsively. This was a sacrifice on my part, being allergic to exercise and having just recovered from my bout with yoga.
"Sure, why not," she said listlessly. "Maybe I can do that without screwing it up."
"You are not 'screwing it up,' Merry," I said firmly. "Don't blame yourself for Bea's breakdown, or whatever it is." I reached behind her and pulled the door shut. "Look, we'll just stroll back and forth on the sidewalk." I snapped my fingers as an idea hit me. "You know, I really should take Trixie for a walk as well. I've been neglecting that part of things since Greg's been gone."
"Yep," she said, whether in response to my canine negligence or my admonition I didn't know. I gave her another quick squeeze and hurried back to get Trixie, grimacing as my calves began complaining again. Two forms of exercise in one day had to be a new record for me. Greg would never believe it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Now that hit the spot, Mrs. B." Officer Scott leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. "That Mr. Browning is one lucky customer if that's the way you cook all the time."
"Thank you," I replied, nodding my head in modest acknowledgement. "Yes, that husband of mine is quite the lucky man." I noticed Merry was suddenly finding her plate very interesting, her eyes fixed firmly on the remains of frittata. "And who cooks for you, if you don't mind me asking?" Merry's eyes met mine, suspicion written across her face. I gave her my most innocent smile.
"Well, now, Mrs. B, that entirely depends on where I'm at when my shift ends."
"Oh?" Merry and I were both staring at him now, waiting for an explanation. I didn't care for his answer, and I could see that Merry wasn't thrilled either. Did the man have a woman in every neighborhood who took care of his nutritional needs? That did not bode well for his reputation or his chances with Merry.
"If I'm near Rosa's Carniceria, I'll stop and have chicken tacos, maybe refried beans. If it happens that I'm in the area of The Farmhouse, I'll have a steak and twice-baked potato. And if I'm near Candy's, well, whatever she's serving is good enough for me." He grinned affably at the two of us. "It's either that or nuke something. I'm pretty good with ramen soup or a frozen dinner, but that's about the range of my skill in the kitchen." He looked over his shoulder at the counter, a hopeful smile on his face. "Isn't it about time for dessert, Mrs. B? I'm thinking you've got that angle covered as well."
"In fact I do," I said as I stood up. "Merry, if you'll clear these plates away and get us fresh silverware, I'll get the fruit."
"The fruit?" Merry and Officer Scott both stared at me as if I'd just sprouted horns and a tail. "Surely you jest, Caro."
I shook my head, a mischievous grin on my face. "It's the type of fruit that requires a fork, Merry. Officer Scott, if you'd be so kind to replenish the napkins?" I opened the fridge and pulled out the blueberry-topped cheesecake that sat on the top shelf in all its glorious splendor. "Ta-da! As promised, fruit, along with lots of sugar and scrumptious cheesecake, courtesy of Joey. Coffee, anyone?"
In spite of the frittata and croissants that we'd eaten, we still managed to make a hefty dint in the cheesecake. The blueberries were divine, the cake was velvety smooth, and the entire confection was heaven on earth. With mugs of coffee refilled, we sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the company and letting our stomachs rest. Finally, Officer Scott stirred, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.
"Well, if we don't get down to business soon, I'm gonna go to sleep right here." He yawned again, and I could feel my own jaws aching to follow suit. Merry, I noticed, had covered her mouth with one hand, and I suspected she'd yawned as well.
"What was it you needed to see us about?" I asked, sipping my coffee and hoping that it would keep me alert long enough to sound coherent. "If it's about my car…" I let the words hang in the air, eyebrows lifted in silent question.
"Yes. And no." Officer Scott smiled at my confusion, then turned to Merry. "Do you remember the blue truck you asked about?" Merry and I both nodded. "That's what tipped off the Brooklyn PD, making a connection between them and us." He took a sip of coffee. "That's why that good-looking detective was here, setting all the female hearts a-flutter."
"What connection did they make? Was it about Mick?" I was confused. Why would Detective Leonides be investigating a murder that happened in Seneca Meadows?
He shook his head. "It wasn't Mick. It was the truck. Once your query came to their attention, so did you."
Merry looked sad, and I knew she was thinking about Mick O'Reilly and the short time she had with him. I reached over and patted her hand, then looked at Officer Scott.
"Just so I'm following you, this is what I heard you say: a hit and run accident is more important to the Brooklyn Police Department than a murder."
"No, Mrs. B." I could hear the patience in his voice stretching thin. "Detective Leonides had been investigating a series of burglaries that were tied back to the O'Reilly's, or at least to that truck, and he was curious as to why you two were so interested in it."
"You said 'had been investigating.'" I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward, my interest definitely piqued. "Was Mick's dad involved?" With his demise, perhaps the case was closed.
Officer Scott shrugged. "Perhaps. What I'm more concerned with is the connection to Seneca Meadows."
Merry and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. This was certainly a new twist on things.
"Connected how so?" Merry was leaning forward now as well, her face alight with interest. "As in burglaries in Seneca Meadows?"
"Nope." He paused for a last sip of coffee, rising to rinse his cup in the sink.
"Well?" Merry and I chorused together. I'd never taken Officer Scott for a drama king, but he certainly knew how to draw out the suspense. He smiled beatifically as he sat back down.
"It would seem," he began solemnly, "that our lovely town has become the hub of illicit activity. Stolen goods are being traced here, but that's where things get murky. Once they're here, whoever is in charge of taking the goods in is managing to keep the entire process under wraps." He shook his head in grudging admiration. "We fi
gure that whoever is in charge has one canny business head on them. Too bad they're not legit."
We sat in silence, processing what we'd just heard. How in the world could a small town such as Seneca Meadows become such a mecca for a stolen goods ring? If I hadn't heard it directly from the proverbial horse's mouth, I'd think it laughable; after all, this is the town where everyone knows what everyone else is doing, with whom and when.
"Are the goods traceable back to the owners?" Merry sat with her forefinger tapping on her chin, an expression of intense concentration on her face. It was a fair enough question.
Officer Scott shook his head. "Not so far. The few pieces that have been recovered seem to have slid under the radar, so to speak." He paused, then added, "Makes me think it's an insurance fraud scheme gone awry, as in 'no honor among thieves.'"
"That's true," I replied. "I wonder, though, with Joe O'Reilly out of the picture, who has picked up the mantle."
"That's assuming he was the ring leader." Merry stood up and headed for the Keurig. "More coffee, anyone?"
After my dinner guests left, I sat for a while in the darkened den, curled up in Gregory's recliner, Trixie at my side. Looking at the deaths of Mick and Lucia as links in a chain of burglaries was certainly thought-provoking; I wondered if Lucia had connections to Brooklyn as well, or if she was an innocent casualty. If that was the case, had she come across an item that connected the killer to the stolen goods ring? Or—and this was more to my liking, since I hadn't liked her—was she instrumental in bringing the operation to Seneca Meadows?
Lots of food for thought there, as they say. In the meantime, I was getting anxious to see my spouse. His commonsense approach to the issues at hand would be greatly appreciated. And I wouldn't even offer an argument.
My sleep that night was not the most restful. I dreamt that I was chasing Merry through the police department, one hand holding a bundle of Bea's old dish towels and the other trying to keep my pants up: I, for some strange reason, was now dressed in Ms. Greenbriar's clothing, and she is a tad huskier than I. I awoke entangled in the bed sheets, one hand waving madly in the air, with Trixie nowhere to be found. She'd probably escaped my flailing for the more peaceful clime of the kitchen and her bed.
I shuffled down the hallway toward the kitchen, still thinking about my dream and wondering if there was a website that could interpret it for me. There seemed to be a site for everything these days, from estimating the amount of income needed for a comfortable retirement—Greg and I were just hanging on in the investment department—to the amount of calories needed for maintaining, losing, or gaining weight. I wished there was a site that could take the facts of a case, do a few calculations, and produce a solution. In the meantime, I'd be content with my own site of cognizance, i.e. my Keurig coffee maker that sat on my kitchen counter, ready to dispense alertness, cup after cup.
When Merry showed up at my door, I was surprised to see how perky she looked. There was no other word for it: the girl was nearly bursting at the seams with an energy I wished I could bottle.
"I've been thinking," she began as she busied herself pushing buttons on the Keurig. I watched her, worried; she was acting as jittery as if she'd already consumed her quota of caffeine for the day. "Does it seem to you that Bea is faking this whole 'I'm crazy' stuff?" I stared at her, waiting for her to go on; for Merry to suspect her friend of underhandedness was a colossal move on her part. "I mean, it seems that every time something else happens, Bea pulls this stunt. Makes me wonder what she's hiding."
I nodded, careful to keep my expression neutral. "There's always the possibility that it's all a performance." I sipped my coffee, trying to think of a nice way to say what I'd suspected all along. "I'm wondering if she has anything to do with this stolen goods issue that Office Scott told us about. The way I see it, crazier things have happened."
"And that's exactly my point, Caro!"
Merry punctuated her words with the coffee mug, and I watched as a few rivulets of coffee dripped down the side. Handing her a napkin, I motioned for her to go on.
"There's just something fishy about a woman who gets done up for murder, cries her way into my sympathies, and begins turning in lunatic performances worthy of an Oscar." She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Look, I'm all for giving someone the benefit of the doubt, but this is getting downright nuts! Caro, what kind of coffee is this?"
"It's Tim Horton's decaf, Merry; you have to add creamer if you want it flavored." I rose and went to the refrigerator. "Try this. It's a new gluten-free, fat-free, sugar-free, and most likely flavor-free creamer I picked up yesterday."
Merry's nose wrinkled as she looked at the label. "No, thanks. I'll take a chance with real milk and real sugar. I can't even pronounce most of those ingredients, and I probably shouldn't be putting them in my body either."
I laughed. There was some truth to that. And then I stopped laughing. Something had just connected in my mind, something to do with the dream and chasing Merry with the handful of Bea's old dish towels.
"What?" Merry was watching me, a puzzled look on her face. "Is it something I said?"
"No," I said slowly. "It's something I dreamed about last night. There's a connection there, maybe with Beatrice Lemon and the burglaries." I shook my head, trying to catch the elusive thought. "Although in my experience, the most obvious choice for villain is usually not the one we should be looking at." I frowned, trying to connect the proverbial dots and coming up with nothing.
"Maybe if you write it down, you'll be able to see whatever it is your brain's trying to tell you," Merry suggested.
"Maybe," I agreed. "In the meantime, I think that you and I have a date with a cute detective."
Merry rolled her eyes. "I think that one is playing for the other team, if you know what I mean."
"You mean as in Team Joey?"
"Well said, friend," Merry chuckled. "Did you see how they looked at each other?"
I had noticed, now that I thought about it.
"Well, be that as it may, we still need to talk with him." I checked the clock on my microwave. "If we leave now, we can grab something from Candy's to take with us."
"To sweeten him up, you mean?" Merry grinned. "I swear, Caro," she added in mock disapproval, "hanging out with you has turned my sweet tooth on something fierce."
"Jus' doing my duty, ma'am," I said in my best southern drawl. "Jus' doing my duty."
I ducked out of the way as Merry aimed a friendly punch at my shoulder.
The skies were doing their best to showcase the temperate spring weather of upper New York State, azure blue with a few puffy decorative clouds for contrast. I squinted up at the sun, happy to be living in a place where I could see that magnificent orb more than a handful of days each year. I was also happy to be living in Seneca Meadows in spite of the odd murder or two; after all, no place is perfect.
With my sedan still perched on the mechanic's rack, we took Merry's car. I loved the way it handled, and when she managed to tuck it in between two behemoth gas guzzlers, I was impressed. She grinned at me as she shut her door with a flourish.
"There's something to be said for the little things in life, right?" This time it was her turn to duck.
Per usual, the inside of Candy's Sweets and Treats was redolent with amazing aromas. I sniffed appreciatively as I approached the counter, Merry in tow. What I wanted—no, what I craved—was something buttery, sweet, and crunchy, with maybe a touch of caramel.
Joey was behind the counter, swathed in a spotless apron. He grinned when he saw us, motioning us down toward the end of the counter.
"Hey, I heard you two were going back to talk to that delicious detective again." He leaned on the glass, arms crossed and smile lines bracketing his mouth. "How 'bout you stay here, and I'll go have the chat in your place? I'll even toss in a free coffee cake."
I rolled my eyes at Merry, who responded with a magnificent one of her own "I don't think that will fly with the great man, Joey. And how in th
e world did you know about that anyway?"
"I'll never tell," he said as he walked back to the baker's rack he'd been unloading. And then he looked back at us and winked.
"Oh, really?" Merry squealed. "Joey, you get back here right now! You can't drop a bomb like that and not explain yourself!"
I was inclined to agree, although I had my suspicions about the way the conversation would go.
"Let's just say that I'll never kiss and tell, cuz." And with that, Joey and the rack disappeared into the kitchen, an exaggerated swish of his hips sending us both into a fit of giggles.
"I will not be able to look that man in the eyes, I swear!" Merry said once she'd caught her breath. "Let's get something and get out of here. We don't want to keep Romeo waiting."
The Seneca Meadows Police Station was quiet save for a lone officer sitting behind a desk, busily typing on his laptop using the two-fingered hunt-and-peck method favored by the technologically challenged. When I approached him, he held up one hand in a "wait a moment" gesture. I was tempted to offer to do his typing for him; with his hunched posture, he reminded me of a recalcitrant student completing a missing school assignment.
Finally the chore was completed, and he looked up at us, and I could see that the lines between his brows were etched in permanently. Even when he smiled, an act that produced a myriad of crinkles near his eyes, he still retained a somber expression. I decided it was from years of dealing with the public.
"My name is Caro Layton-Browning. Meredith Holmes and I have an appointment to meet with Detective Leonides." I gave him my best smile, reaching behind me to pull Merry next to me. "Could you please let him know that we're here?"
The officer, whose polished name badge read Dunnford, sighed, his lugubrious face becoming even more hangdog than before. "If you'll follow me, I'll walk you back."
When the Cat's Away Page 15
