get.
Beside me, my other fan rolled his eyes. He takes my local notoriety with a grain of salt. I controlled an urge to aim a kick his way, instead smiling back at Candy with what I hoped passed as approval for a job well done.
"Thank you, Candy," I began. "I certainly won't let it slip that you told us, and I'm sure Mr. Browning won't either. Will you, dear?" I added, this time with a not-so-gentle nudge of my booted foot when he didn't respond. With a yelp, he moved away from me, muttering something about "wolves in sheep's clothing" or something equally idiotic. I ignored him.
"Could you describe the man—it was a man, wasn't it—who was so kind?" I smiled at Candy with what I hoped was encouragement. She had always struck me as the taciturn type, and I wanted to keep her talking.
Candy hesitated as the bakery's doorbell jingled. "I really can't talk right now, Mrs. B. Can you come by later?" She began sidling away from me as a young couple with several extremely loud children moved toward the counter. I gave her a waggle of my fingers and turned to see my feckless husband seated at one of the tables, munching on an enormous bear claw.
"So." I stood over him, stretching my short frame into a tower of intimidation.
He glanced up, pieces of cream cheese frosting clinging to the short beard he wore. I forced my eyes away, not feeling as charitable as I should at the moment. Let him walk around like that.
"What?" Gregory continued eating, and I watched, fascinated, as he nibbled around the edges, taking equidistant bites of the pastry. Truly weird, but then, in my experience…well, it was best just to leave that thought unfinished. We still had some serious sleuthing to do.
"Gregory," I said briskly, pulling out a chair and settling myself on the uncomfortably hard seat, "we really need to find out who has been gifting us strudels." I waited for a comment. When none was forthcoming, I continued.
"I mean, doesn't it seem odd, or coincidental at least, that a strudel was what nearly did you and Trixie in?" Still no response, although I did notice that the tic near his left eye had made an appearance.
I went on in a gentler tone, reaching out to place one hand on his arm. "Gregory, don't you want to know who tried to kill you?"
Gregory's placid blue eyes looked into mine as he delivered his verbal knock out. "Did you ever stop to think that they might have been after you, Caro?"
Well. That certainly tossed a wet blanket over the rest of my day.
* * *
The next morning arrived earlier than I would have liked, and I was about as pleased as a cat tossed into water. The thought of cats led to poor Mrs. Greyson (amazing how a little thing like "deceased" after one's name garners the pity that was never garnered while she was alive), which led to the conversation of the night before and the resulting requested appearance at Seneca Meadows Police Department. We'd finally agreed that yes, we needed to tell someone about the first strudel, especially since it appeared that someone clearly had our worst interest at heart. I didn't want to get dressed and drag myself downtown, although the thought that Gregory would have to accompany me cheered me up considerably.
When my husband managed to make it out of bed and down the hallway to the kitchen for some breakfast, I made sure to remind him of our morning's appointment. My reward for being so thoughtful was a grimace across the table, although it might have been a response to the toast that I'd managed to…well, toast . I ignored his expression and plunged blithely into the day's agenda. I'd been frightened enough to call SMPD and report the aforementioned poisoned strudel. The result was another invitation to join Officer Scott for yet another formal statement. "The first thing I thought we'd do," I announced as I daubed a layer of butter on my toast (which had miraculously come through the toasting process just fine), "is to attend to whatever it is we need to do
Beside me, my other fan rolled his eyes. He takes my local notoriety with a grain of salt. I controlled an urge to aim a kick his way, instead smiling back at Candy with what I hoped passed as approval for a job well done.
"Thank you, Candy," I began. "I certainly won't let it slip that you told us, and I'm sure Mr. Browning won't either. Will you, dear?" I added, this time with a not-so-gentle nudge of my booted foot when he didn't respond. With a yelp, he moved away from me, muttering something about "wolves in sheep's clothing" or something equally idiotic. I ignored him.
"Could you describe the man—it was a man, wasn't it—who was so kind?" I smiled at Candy with what I hoped was encouragement. She had always struck me as the taciturn type, and I wanted to keep her talking.
Candy hesitated as the bakery's doorbell jingled. "I really can't talk right now, Mrs. B. Can you come by later?" She began sidling away from me as a young couple with several extremely loud children moved toward the counter. I gave her a waggle of my fingers and turned to see my feckless husband seated at one of the tables, munching on an enormous bear claw.
"So." I stood over him, stretching my short frame into a tower of intimidation.
He glanced up, pieces of cream cheese frosting clinging to the short beard he wore. I forced my eyes away, not feeling as charitable as I should at the moment. Let him walk around like that.
"What?" Gregory continued eating, and I watched, fascinated, as he nibbled around the edges, taking equidistant bites of the pastry. Truly weird, but then, in my experience…well, it was best just to leave that thought unfinished. We still had some serious sleuthing to do.
"Gregory," I said briskly, pulling out a chair and settling myself on the uncomfortably hard seat, "we really need to find out who has been gifting us strudels." I waited for a comment. When none was forthcoming, I continued.
"I mean, doesn't it seem odd, or coincidental at least, that a strudel was what nearly did you and Trixie in?" Still no response, although I did notice that the tic near his left eye had made an appearance.
I went on in a gentler tone, reaching out to place one hand on his arm. "Gregory, don't you want to know who tried to kill you?"
Gregory's placid blue eyes looked into mine as he delivered his verbal knock out. "Did you ever stop to think that they might have been after you, Caro?"
Well. That certainly tossed a wet blanket over the rest of my day.
* * *
The next morning arrived earlier than I would have liked, and I was about as pleased as a cat tossed into water. The thought of cats led to poor Mrs. Greyson (amazing how a little thing like "deceased" after one's name garners the pity that was never garnered while she was alive), which led to the conversation of the night before and the resulting requested appearance at Seneca Meadows Police Department. We'd finally agreed that yes, we needed to tell someone about the first strudel, especially since it appeared that someone clearly had our worst interest at heart. I didn't want to get dressed and drag myself downtown, although the thought that Gregory would have to accompany me cheered me up considerably.
When my husband managed to make it out of bed and down the hallway to the kitchen for some breakfast, I made sure to remind him of our morning's appointment. My reward for being so thoughtful was a grimace across the table, although it might have been a response to the toast that I'd managed to…well, toast . I ignored his expression and plunged blithely into the day's agenda. I'd been frightened enough to call SMPD and report the aforementioned poisoned strudel. The result was another invitation to join Officer Scott for yet another formal statement. "The first thing I thought we'd do," I announced as I daubed a layer of butter on my toast (which had miraculously come through the toasting process just fine), "is to attend to whatever it is we need to do
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