A Dawn of Death (30 page)

WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY

by

DANE MCCASLIN

CHAPTER ONE

"You want
me
to have
this
?" She began laughing, a harsh sound that grated on the ear, sending waves of humiliation flooding over the visitor who stood at her desk. "Why would I have any need for something this cheap? I mean, really: you actually see me using something like this in my office? You'd have to hit me upside the head to make me change my mind about something this ugly." She stood up, cell phone in hand, an indication that the meeting was over. "If you don't mind, I do need to get ready for the day. Some of us," she added with a haughty sneer, "have important positions in this town."

She began walking toward the office door, one hand reaching for the brass knob. The last thing she saw was the spatter of blood that stained the polished oak of the double doors. She should have been thrilled; for once, someone had done exactly what she'd asked.

With a quick look around the office, the visitor leaned down and removed the phone from Lucia's hand, the last loose end tied up neatly.

*   *   *

It was safe to say that my week was not going as planned. I had been told that I was cantankerous, irritable, and downright unpleasant company, barring the few hours when I was asleep. Cantankerous, possibly. Irritable, maybe. But unpleasant company? I had to disagree with that assessment; I was no more irascible than usual, in my mind. Of course, the person who evaluated me might be able to claim an intimate knowledge of me since he
is
my spouse.

My name is Caro Layton-Browning, expat from Merry Olde England, and my husband—the self-proclaimed assessor of yours truly—is Gregory Browning, solicitor and professor of international law at the local university. While we've done our best to blend in with the Yankee way of life, I'm afraid that we still stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, accents notwithstanding. Our friends tell us that we sound stilted, but I have something of a disdain for ending each sentence with "know what I mean, bro," the standard rejoinder around here.

We have a dachshund named Trixie, a pleasant home in an HOA, and a quiet life that some might envy; it was precisely because of that final qualifier, however, that I had been a tad off-kilter. When I feel that nothing is happening, that everything is sailing along as smooth as silk, I get bored, and when I get bored…suffice it to say that I can be a bit, well, cranky. Since the craziness that was last year's spate of murders, our small burg of Seneca Meadows, New York had been downright dull. Aside from gaining a new neighbor and a very intriguing bookstore downtown, I could see nothing to rectify the situation.

I was sitting at my computer, trying unsuccessfully to bridge a particularly difficult plot twist in my newest book,
Died Red
(the newest installment in my
Harried Hairdresser Murders
series) when my cell phone began to shimmy across my desk. Glad for the interruption, I grabbed it up before it could leap over the edge.

"Caro here," I chirped happily, not caring if it was friend or foe on the other end of the line. "How may I help you?"

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort filled my ear and I frowned; that, if I was not mistaken, came from none other than my dear husband. Apparently I was now too cheerful for the man. It was a good thing that I still adored him.

"What do you need, Gregory?" I modulated my voice carefully, unwilling to drop the warble in my tone for one more suitable to verbal sparring. Besides, it had already given me somewhat of an advantage, something that rarely happened these days; I'd made a personal resolution to become a kinder, gentler incarnation of myself since I'd faced death head-on and won…just barely.

"I have something I need to talk to you about, Caro," he began, and the tenor of his voice made my heart skip a beat. What did he mean by that? Was he finally so weary of my moods that he was leaving me? Had I burnt the toast one too many times, or served him curdled cream in his coffee? His voice broke into my whirling thoughts. "I'm needed at Oxford on Friday next, so I'll want you to get the suitcases aired and ready, if you don't mind."

Mind? Of course I minded! How dare he scare me like that with his "I need to talk to you" comment? He could bloody well…I managed to pull myself back from the brink of a disastrous exchange with a singularly cheery thought: with him out of the way, I might be able to find something to titillate my mind.

"With pleasure, my dear," I assured him. I hung up with a smile on my face. Here was my chance to reawaken the muse and let down my hair.

My next move was a given: call my newest and nearest neighbor, Meredith Holmes, proprietor of a darling new bookshop located in Seneca Meadows' burgeoning downtown. My decision was based on nothing more than the name of her business, Murder by the Book. I figured that a gal who could specialize in literary mayhem would make a great partner in crime.

Meredith was new to the neighborhood, moving into the house of the not-so-dearly departed Mrs. Grayson, our local cat lady. I hadn't asked, but I could only imagine the amount of cleanup that had gone into the house; the after effects of dozens of felines would have made for some interesting souvenirs.

Tossing a light cardigan over my shoulders as a barrier to the spring afternoon chill, I put action to my thoughts and headed across the lawn toward Meredith's. As I stood waiting for her to answer the door, I noticed that she'd planted violets and alyssum, two of my favorite plants, in the porch's terra cotta pots. I'd just leaned over in order to get a better whiff of the sweet blossoms when the door opened, giving Meredith an ample view of my rather, well, ample backside.

"Caro!" Her voice was amused, her tone underpinned with that unique accent born and bred in southern climes. "It's good to see you enjoying my flowers. Come on in."

I straightened up and turned to meet her dancing eyes. With her bountiful red curls and freckled skin, the woman was a walking advertisement of the need for sun block. How she ever survived living in a sunny climate without contracting melanoma was a mystery to me, but I tend to look for the enigmatic; everything is fair game for my books.

"Look, Meredith," I began briskly, stepping into her home. "I need to do something to stir up the literary juices." I slipped off my sweater and hung it on the coat tree. A cat hair-free coat tree, I might add; the fact that there was nothing that required a litter box in Meredith's domicile gave me no end of pleasure.

"I'm starting inventory next week," she offered, leading the way into her bright kitchen. "You could always lend a hand." She took down a brown teapot that might have come straight from my own mother's cupboard. "Black or green?"

"Green, please, and checking off lists is not my idea of fanning the flames of the fantastic, Meredith." I plopped down at her table, a Formica and steel monstrosity surrounded by a mélange of chairs that didn't match. "I need something—I don't know—something that will generate ideas, a new twist for my plots."

"Not enough dead bodies?" Her tone was teasing, but I still blushed. Gregory had intimated that very thing just the night before, as if I needed the real deal in order to create my best-selling murder series. "We could bump off a few of those Chamber of Commerce folks," she added, sitting down and sliding a steaming mug across to me. I caught it as it headed for the table's edge. "Make life easier for us small business owners."

"Really?" I was interested, and I gestured for her to continue, grimacing as the tea burnt my tongue. "Anyone in particular?" I forgot about my manuscript woes; this sounded like just the distraction I needed. Seneca Meadows was
not
the most scintillating of places, so I took my intrigue wherever I could find it.

She snorted. "If we could get rid of Ms. Lucia 'Everyone Adores Me' Scarantelli, I'd be the happiest gal on the planet." Meredith took a sip of her tea, then added, "
And
her sycophantic sidekick, Bethany Jorgenson. That one really overcooks my grits." She shook her head in disgust. "She acts as though Lucia is God's gift to the business world. If she only knew how often she's been dissed by her so-called role model."

Parallel frown lines had appeared between her brows. Since I'd rarely seen my neighbor in any mood except cheerful, this surprised me.
She must really have a reason to dislike those two
, I thought. As I am curious by nature, of course I needed more information. Getting someone to reveal secrets is a skill that I have honed to perfection, so I set the tea aside and prepared to excavate.

Thirty minutes later, I felt it was time for a recap and a refill. As Meredith brewed more tea and placed a plate of cookies on the table, I began ticking items off.

"Let me see if I've gotten this straight," I said. "First, this Lucia Scarfarcelli—"

Scarantelli," said Meredith, wrinkling her nose as if the name itself was distasteful.

"—is the queen bee of Seneca Meadows' Chamber of Commerce." Meredith nodded. "And Bethany Jorgenson is her secretary-slash-fan-slash-gofer." Another nod. "And between the two of them, they've made your life miserable." And another nod, this one so emphatic that it set her red curls bouncing.

"And it's not just me, Caro," she added as she slipped back into her chair. "It's everyone in the SMCC who doesn't kowtow to her way of doing things. If I don't decorate my windows according to her guidelines, which are suggestions and not rules, by the way, or if I advertise a sale without consulting her, she sends her personal Igor down to my shop. And poor Bea, who has the second-hand shop? She's practically castigated in every SMCC meeting by that woman! I mean, Bea's doing good things, too, letting senior citizens deliver packages for her. She's helping put food on their tables!" She drew in a deep breath, and I could see the blue veins on her throat throbbing in time to her pulse. "It doesn't matter if I have customers at the time or not, either." Another shuddering breath in, then, "She is such a—a—
bully
!"

And Meredith Holmes, the happy-go-lucky purveyor of prose, Seneca Meadows' sunshine from the south, burst into tears.

I've had plenty of experience with waterworks before, both on my end and with those in my sphere, so I calmly stood and grabbed the roll of flower-printed paper towels that sat on Meredith's counter, ripping off a handful and passing them to my weeping neighbor. She buried her face in the paper blossoms, shoulders shaking and tears flowing. I allowed her time for a good cry then said in my non-nonsense tone, "Dry your eyes, Meredith. Caro Layton-Browning is on the job!"

She stopped mid-sob, and the tears disappeared as the sniffles turned into laughter.

"You sound like someone from one of those goofy mystery books I sell, Caro," she said, giving a final hiccup and a swipe at her wet eyes. I completely ignored the comment, since she keeps my books stocked for local readers, something that has added substantially to my cash flow as of late. "Just a word to the wise: no one I know has ever challenged Lucia and survived with their business reputation intact. You might rethink taking her on." She tossed the soggy wad of paper at the trash, completely missing it. "Lucia can smile at you while she stabs you in the back."

Which, of course, simply threw fuel on the fire. Ms. I-Rule-Downtown-Seneca-Meadows had never before met someone like me. The gauntlet was thrown down, the challenge was accepted: Ms. Scarantelli had better keep an eye on
her
back. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my jeans pocket and motioned for a pen.
Let the battle plans commence
, I thought with grim satisfaction. Who needed a corpse for a distraction when chaos would do just as well?

And if I hurried home, I could get those suitcases ready for my dear husband's trip across the pond.

Gregory can be something of a conundrum, which I am completely okay with, but it does tend to drive him a bit over the edge when he thinks that I'm
involved with something that he knows nothing about. With my sweetest demeanor, I served dinner, keeping up a nonsensical one-sided flow of words that required only the occasional nod from my dear spouse.

"Will you take a breath, Caro?" He'd finally managed to get a word in edgewise, and I was actually glad to stop talking; trying to keep up a monologue can be exhausting, even for someone as verbose as I.

I rested my chin on top of my clasped hands in my best I-am-listening-dear pose, smiling across at him. While he sat for a moment, appearing to consciously will his blood pressure down into a healthier range, I studied him. His hair was beginning to thin a bit on top, giving him a "swirl," as he liked to say whenever I suggested that he wear a hat to keep his scalp from reddening. An early sprinkling of gray near his temples added to his professorial demeanor, and his eyes, still the bright blue of our university years, were fixed on a spot above my head. In my eyes, my husband was one of the most elegant men I'd ever had the pleasure of knowing; he even managed to make the late thirties appear effortless. Sigh. What
is
it with men and their ability to carry off gray hair?

"Gregory, have you considered speaking with the doctor about your rapid pulse?" I assumed an expression of wifely concern and nearly chuckled aloud when I saw the vein above his right ear twitch. Poor Greg: I did love to tease him. I would certainly miss him. I stood abruptly to my feet, motioning for his emptied plate and dropping a kiss on his head. "I've got a surprise for you, dear." I smiled down at him. "The bakery has a new addition that I promised Candy we'd try."

The bakery in downtown Seneca Meadows, aptly called Candy's Sweet Treats, is one of my favorite haunts, a true oasis of confections whose tantalizing aromas can be smelled from blocks away. The strudels—to
die
for—and the cakes, the cookies, and the pastries, all held magic that could lift me from any low mood I might experience. It was my hope that it would have the same effect on Greg, especially since I was now keen for him to leave and needed to keep my newest intrigue under wraps.