decked another unsuspecting soul in the chops. I reached up and tenderly touched my nose. I felt their pain, whoever the victim was.
CHAPTER TEN
We waited through the traffic jam—a relatively unknown phenomenon in our small burg—then found a parking spot around the corner from the town hall. With the line of cars gone and the gawkers occupied with other issues, the street was once more its normally serene self.
In fact, the inside of the building was silent as well—much too silent. The few folks we passed on our way to the elevator all seemed to be huddled together, whispering among themselves, work halted, and not a customer in sight. The atmosphere had taken an eerie turn, reminding me of a late night B-rated horror movie, the one with the young woman whose superpowers allow her to see the zombies under the skin of her fellow townspeople. I shook my head to dispel the image. I could picture His Honorableness—no, that wasn't charitable. The man might be clueless, but I'd wager he was no zombie. Maybe.
Gregory opened the door to the mayor's office, ushering me in first with a slight push to the small of my back. This was cowardice disguised as chivalry, I decided. Neither of us wanted to see what was on the other side of the door. Oh well, I sighed. If I must, I must…
And immediately dropped that train of thought. Ms. Wentworth was all but lying across her desk, sobbing so hard that she made no discernible sound. Concerned, I rushed forward, dropping my capacious bag in the process and nearly tripping my husband.
"Ms. Wentworth, it's Caro Browning." I gestured madly with one hand for Greg to join me, but he stayed where he was, watching the scene in front of him with something akin to distaste. Really , I thought. Men. Well, it was up to me. I jumped in, per usual, with both feet. "Ms. Wentworth, can you hear me?"
* * *
Two steaming mugs of coffee and thirty minutes later, I'd managed to get an almost coherent story out of the mayor's secretary. We'd moved from the front office to the kitchen, and I saw that my husband had much the same reaction that I did when I first saw it. That was not the time to discuss the mayor's fiscal soundness, I decided. Gregory could wait for the explanation.
With a few pauses to catch her breath, Ms. Wentworth recounted her morning. Coming into work later than usual—the mayor had called her the night before and had asked her to adjust her schedule—and finding Mayor Greenberg slumped in his desk chair, one plump hand held to his chest as he gasped for breath.
"And the ambulance came right away, of course," I prompted her when she paused and seemed to lose her train of thought.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course," she said, sounding as if she had only just then remembered what the conversation was about. Odd, yes, but I was well aware of how shock manifested itself differently in different individuals, so I let it pass.
My husband, ever the vigilant legal hound, did not.
"Please explain, if you will, Ms. Wentworth." The tone was polite, the words a directive that I didn't understand, and apparently neither did the secretary. "What might have caused the mayor to have a heart attack? Perhaps stress of the office?" I wanted to laugh but managed to remain sober.
"I'm sorry?" Ms. Wentworth's face was a study in consternation, and the flick of her eyes in my direction seemed to bear this out. Again, Gregory pushed the point.
"Is there anything going on that might have affected the mayor so profoundly?" My husband's voice was firm, a redoubt against the look of irritation I shot at him. I really didn't need Ms. Waterworks to spring another leak. Crying can be very tiresome.
"I don't know." Her voice was indignant, as stiff as her spine had become. "I thought perhaps something had happened to his daughter, if I only knew where she was. I need to talk to her, to make sure that she's alright." Ms. Wentworth stared straight at me although her words were aimed at Greg.
CHAPTER TEN
We waited through the traffic jam—a relatively unknown phenomenon in our small burg—then found a parking spot around the corner from the town hall. With the line of cars gone and the gawkers occupied with other issues, the street was once more its normally serene self.
In fact, the inside of the building was silent as well—much too silent. The few folks we passed on our way to the elevator all seemed to be huddled together, whispering among themselves, work halted, and not a customer in sight. The atmosphere had taken an eerie turn, reminding me of a late night B-rated horror movie, the one with the young woman whose superpowers allow her to see the zombies under the skin of her fellow townspeople. I shook my head to dispel the image. I could picture His Honorableness—no, that wasn't charitable. The man might be clueless, but I'd wager he was no zombie. Maybe.
Gregory opened the door to the mayor's office, ushering me in first with a slight push to the small of my back. This was cowardice disguised as chivalry, I decided. Neither of us wanted to see what was on the other side of the door. Oh well, I sighed. If I must, I must…
And immediately dropped that train of thought. Ms. Wentworth was all but lying across her desk, sobbing so hard that she made no discernible sound. Concerned, I rushed forward, dropping my capacious bag in the process and nearly tripping my husband.
"Ms. Wentworth, it's Caro Browning." I gestured madly with one hand for Greg to join me, but he stayed where he was, watching the scene in front of him with something akin to distaste. Really , I thought. Men. Well, it was up to me. I jumped in, per usual, with both feet. "Ms. Wentworth, can you hear me?"
* * *
Two steaming mugs of coffee and thirty minutes later, I'd managed to get an almost coherent story out of the mayor's secretary. We'd moved from the front office to the kitchen, and I saw that my husband had much the same reaction that I did when I first saw it. That was not the time to discuss the mayor's fiscal soundness, I decided. Gregory could wait for the explanation.
With a few pauses to catch her breath, Ms. Wentworth recounted her morning. Coming into work later than usual—the mayor had called her the night before and had asked her to adjust her schedule—and finding Mayor Greenberg slumped in his desk chair, one plump hand held to his chest as he gasped for breath.
"And the ambulance came right away, of course," I prompted her when she paused and seemed to lose her train of thought.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course," she said, sounding as if she had only just then remembered what the conversation was about. Odd, yes, but I was well aware of how shock manifested itself differently in different individuals, so I let it pass.
My husband, ever the vigilant legal hound, did not.
"Please explain, if you will, Ms. Wentworth." The tone was polite, the words a directive that I didn't understand, and apparently neither did the secretary. "What might have caused the mayor to have a heart attack? Perhaps stress of the office?" I wanted to laugh but managed to remain sober.
"I'm sorry?" Ms. Wentworth's face was a study in consternation, and the flick of her eyes in my direction seemed to bear this out. Again, Gregory pushed the point.
"Is there anything going on that might have affected the mayor so profoundly?" My husband's voice was firm, a redoubt against the look of irritation I shot at him. I really didn't need Ms. Waterworks to spring another leak. Crying can be very tiresome.
"I don't know." Her voice was indignant, as stiff as her spine had become. "I thought perhaps something had happened to his daughter, if I only knew where she was. I need to talk to her, to make sure that she's alright." Ms. Wentworth stared straight at me although her words were aimed at Greg.
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