Death Under Glass (13 page)

“Are you kidding me? Have you forgotten you live in a small town?” Her tone was a bit too far into the realm of mocking, and I gave her a nudge. “What?” she asked me.

“Be nice,” I said. “You're supposed to be being nice.”

She raised her brows at me. “I am being nice. This is me being nice. Me being angry is why I don't carry a gun off duty.”

I huffed and did half an eye roll.

“Fine.” She turned back to Carrie. “Just so you know, I was on the desk the morning the call came in from the
fire department about your ex's place. That's where I heard the news. It wasn't gossip I picked up at the luncheonette, okay? I don't know of anyone talking about it.”

“So being on the desk, um, have you heard anything else?” Carrie asked, her hesitant speech and soft voice in danger of being drowned out by sudden cheering from the baseball fans.

“What do you mean?” Diana asked.

“Any leads yet on who might have set the fire?” I clarified. It hadn't taken the fire marshal long to officially declare the blaze the result of arson. But beyond that, Carrie had no further news. At least, none that she'd shared.

“Nolan has his theories. So he says.” She downed the remains of her wine and called a club soda order to the bartender. “But he wouldn't tell me what they are since he knew I was meeting you two tonight and didn't want me to divulge anything you couldn't learn from the six o'clock news.”

I met Carrie's gaze. The pinching around her eyes told me she was thinking the same thing I was thinking: If Detective Nolan didn't want any information shared with us, he still considered Carrie a suspect.

Maybe it was the wine working—all four sips of it—but another thread of guilt passed through me. The guilt suggested I was somehow at fault for Carrie's predicament. I was pretty sure none of my friends or family had been suspected of a crime prior to my relocating to Wenwood. And now, in three short months, my grandfather and my new best friend had become murder suspects, and a man I'd met only once had been killed. If I had just
stayed put in the city, would any of this have happened? Mercy. How did Jessica Fletcher live with herself?

With a shake of her head, Carrie tossed her big brown curls back over her shoulder. “I'm sure Detective Nolan has reasons for managing the flow of information,” she said.

Diana pulled a face. “I don't think he has any reasons. I think he just likes to act mysterious. But we can ask him if he shows up.”

I managed to swallow my wine rather than spit it out. “Shows up?”

Swirling the ice cubes in her club soda, she nodded. “After I told him we come here every Thursday he said he might stop by and check this place out.”

My stomach lurched. I didn't want to see Detective Nolan. No, I certainly did not. If I saw him again, with my mind so recently on my lack of romance, would I experience once more whatever heat-induced madness I had fallen victim to outside the torched law office and decide he has soulful eyes and strong hands? No. It was definitely best to avoid the detective. No good would come of me being involved with a cop.

“Drink up,” I said, raising my glass. “If we can escape before he gets here we can still safely call this girls' night.”

Of course, the problem with wine is that chugging it down is tactless. The problem with cheap wine is that chugging it down is nearly impossible; it was too sharp and bitter to be consumed at speed.

Despite a valiant effort from me, if I do say so myself, we were still bellied up to the bar when Detective Nolan arrived.

He stopped inside the door and took in the room in a sweeping glance. His gaze shifted quickly from patron to patron but I had no doubt that, if asked, he could recite a string of details about each one. When he returned his detective's attention to where we stood, I feared not only would he see the green top and jeans shorts I wore, he would also see evidence of every single cat hair I had painstakingly removed.

“Well. There goes the fun,” Diana muttered.

The detective still wore suit pants, but he had discarded his jacket and tie and opened the top few buttons on his dress shirt and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. His clothes and his posture belonged to someone who was relaxed. His gaze remained intense.

He made no effort to pretend he had merely happened into the same bar where we were gathered. Instead, he greeted us with, “Good. You're still here.”

This was enough to have Carrie and I check in silently with one another, trying to determine who it was the detective was addressing. By mutual, though still silent, agreement, we concluded he must be talking to Diana. Or maybe the conclusion would have been better termed as “hope.”

“Oh, sorry to say, we were just leaving.” Diana slipped her arm into the shoulder strap of her purse and pulled the strap up as she prepared to step off the barstool.

But Detective Nolan must have seen the move coming. He stopped behind her, blocking her escape, before her feet hit the floor. “Stay,” he said, smiling. “Next round's on me.”

“Oh, but we only have one drink each.” Carrie lifted her glass, proof she had already reached the maximum.

Diana shrugged. “They're lightweights. And you're in my way. Sir.”

Nolan signaled the bartender, making a circling motion to encompass our little group—the kind of motion that said another round for everyone.

“Just a soda,” I called. Carrie echoed. Nolan grinned, and ordered a tap beer.

“Excuse me.” Diana folded her arms and faced the detective. There was nothing friendly, nothing relaxed in the way she stood. I wondered if Nolan had somehow forgotten about her trouble with temper. Part of what was making it possible for Diana and me to build a friendship was my awareness of her anger management and aggression issues. I learned early on when not to push, when not to tease, and when to keep my mouth shut entirely. Nolan, it seemed, hadn't bothered with any of those lessons, and wasn't afraid of her willingness to throw punches.

He sighed, though, and dropped his arms. “I'd prefer you stay,” he said, then shifted his gaze to include Carrie. “I only want to talk, see if you can think of anyone at all who might be holding a grudge. Someone's going to some pretty drastic measures to put you and your ex-husband out of business. The sooner we can determine who, the happier I'll be.”

“Are you sure a bar is the right place for that?” I asked.

“It's informal.” He dropped his voice low enough to not be overheard, locked his gaze on Carrie. “I could come
back to your shop in the morning. I could send a squad car to bring you up to the station. Those are both good options if you want the whole town talking and speculating. Or we can talk here.”

My chest froze, stilling my breath. I remembered too well the sense of being watched, the cold chill of knowing the folks of Wenwood were gossiping about me. I wouldn't wish that feeling on an enemy, much less a friend.

“Maybe a booth?” I forced a smile, hoping to encourage Carrie.

“Maybe not,” she said. She turned in her seat, draping an arm over the backrest, and facing Nolan full on. “Look, Detective. I can't help you. Russ never shared his business with me when we were married and he certainly didn't start once we separated. And once we were separated, that was the end of me sharing my business with him. I don't have any more information than what I've already told you. And if I have to go up to the station and tell you the same thing just to make you understand, then I will.”

Diana glared. “Nice going, Nolan.” She huffed. “You gonna get out of my way now?”

Blowing out a breath, the detective stepped back and to the side, allowing Diana to pass. “Georgia, you need a ride?” she asked.

I pointed to Carrie. “She's driving me.”

“All right then.” Diana nodded. “I'll call you.”

As the bartender set one beer then two colas on the bar, the detective moved into the space Diana vacated. He rested his arms along the backrest of the empty barstool
and leaned in. “I don't want to make you angry,” he said, face turned to Carrie. “And I don't want to upset you. I don't want to do that to a friend of Georgia's.”

Before I could ask the meaning behind that newsflash, he continued.

“But Ms. Stanford, a building was burnt to cinders, your ex-husband is missing, your shop has been broken into, and—” He cut himself off, giving me the sense he was censoring his words. Maybe Carrie didn't fill in the blank, but I filled it in with
and Herb Gallo is dead
as easily as if the words had been spoken.

“I'm a cop,” he said at last. “I need answers. And I'm going to get them.” He reached forward and claimed his beer. Straightening, he pressed his lips tight together and nodded at Carrie. “I'll see you in the morning.”

As he turned, he gave me a short nod, then walked to the end of the bar. He slapped one of the old coots on the back and asked about the score. All-business to all-casual in the time it takes a fastball to cross home plate.

“Carrie,” I began, as gently as I could. “Maybe you should just humor him and answer his questions? Maybe something will come up that will help.”

Her eyes went from wide to watery. “But don't you see? Of all people, you should understand. I don't want to remember. I want to put everything about Russ behind me and leave it in the past. Nothing I can say will help Detective Nolan. It will only hurt me.”

A finger of sympathy poked at my heart. I reached out to rest my hand on her forearm. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

She laid her hand over mine. “He's going to show up at
the shop in the morning, Georgia. He's going to ask more questions about Russ.” Eyes downcast, she sniffled. “Will you stay there with me until he comes, even if all the cleaning is done? I don't want to face him alone.”

“Of course,” I promised. “Of course.” Because as Carrie herself had told me at the start of our friendship, no one should have to face the police
alone.

A
s I had done earlier in the week, I set my alarm extra early and spent those peaceful morning hours in the workshop humming show tunes and cutting glass for the sea and sailboat panel. Friday exhausted herself trying to take down a fly from midair, so that by the time Carrie arrived to pick me up for the drive to her shop, the kitten had fallen asleep at the foot of the staircase, so utterly and so deeply she didn't stir when I rubbed her belly and promised to see her later.

“Hey,” I said, climbing into the car. “Do you know if it's supposed to rain today?”

Carrie made miniscule adjustments to the mirrors while I wrestled with the seat belt. “I didn't hear the weather.”

I froze with my hand over the seat belt latch. Carrie always heard the weather. She sought it out on television
and radio. In summertime a good portion of her business was foot traffic; the weather forecast was the same as a business forecast. “Are you okay?” I asked softly.

She nodded. “Yeah, I'm okay. I mean, I'm better today.” She flicked on the indicator light and pulled away from the curb.

“As opposed to . . . ?”

“Last night. I took some time this morning to just try and get my head together, and . . . I'm calmer, you know?”

I let her statement sit for a while before admitting, “I'm not sure what that means.”

She wrapped her fingertips around the steering wheel, eyes scanning the road. “Like, I thought about it really hard and I think I can do it. I think I can talk to Detective Nolan about Russ. I mean, I'm not promising the claws won't come out if we start talking about his inability to remain faithful to a woman for more than six minutes, but I think I can get through whatever questions Detective Nolan throws at me.”

I shook my head, puzzled by this new attitude. “What changed? Last night you didn't want to have to dredge up any of your history with Russ. And now . . . ?”

“I still don't want to do any dredging, and I think I won't have to. Detective Nolan can ask all the questions he wants. I doubt I'll know the answers to any of them.”

Her fingers rolled tighter around the wheel and her knuckles began to brighten. A peek at her face revealed eyes a little too wide, lips a little too tight.

“You might,” I said. Still, I wasn't ready to let my
question go. “But what
happened
? What made you change your mind? You were so adamant last night.”

She shook her head. I couldn't tell whether she meant the motion to indicate she didn't know or she wouldn't tell me. Either way, I let silence overtake the cab of the car while Carrie drove us toward the highway.

“Did you ever meet him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Who?”

“Herb Gallo.”

I nodded. “Once. Just the other day.” In the time it took for Carrie to turn onto the highway, the penny dropped for me. “Oh, gosh. Herb was Russ's partner. You must have known him really well. Oh, Carrie, I'm so sorry.”

She waved away my sympathy even as her eyes welled with tears. “He's a sweet man.” Several hundred feet of highway blurred by before she spoke again. “It's only that . . .”

After giving her the space to continue, I finally resorted to prompting. “Only what?”

“First the fire, then my shop, now Herb. Who's doing this? What do they want? And how far . . .”

Her voice trailed away, and I did my best not to let the question complete in my mind, but it was no use. “How far are they willing to go?” I asked.

Silent, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, Carrie nodded.

We both knew the answer, neither wanted to speak the words. Whoever was behind all this was willing to go all the way to murder.

*   *   *

I
spent the morning with Carrie, answering more of Detective Nolan's questions and listening to his advice to be careful, but not give in to panic. The police department was confident that some of the avenues Herb Gallo's death pointed to would prove invaluable in the investigation. He never said right out whether they were narrowing the suspect pool, whether the new source of clues would lead to an arrest. He only reassured us the case was a top priority and he was doing everything in his power to find the person or persons responsible.

When he left, Carrie was once again facing two options: She could give in and hide from the world, locking herself away in her apartment until the investigation concluded. Or, she could give her fear the respect it deserved, be careful and cautious, and keep on living her life.

She opted against cowering in her apartment. I opted against trying to convince her that getting a cat to keep her company would make becoming a recluse much more palatable. Then I gave her a hug, and vowed to watch her back.

We passed the afternoon in the slow process of reorganizing the backroom stock. We sorted and counted and shelved until Grandy swung by the store to pick me up on his way to the dine-in. I didn't like to leave Carrie, but she was wearing her brave face and I knew she wouldn't be alone for long. As soon as word had gotten out about the break-in different merchants from downtown Wenwood had begun taking turns stopping by the shop, helping Carrie clean up the mess and put her sales floor back
in order, offering lunch, or just offering company. She was in excellent care. And besides, no way could I blow off going to the dine-in, not on payroll day.

Grandy drove through the late-afternoon thunderstorm while I sat in the passenger seat, visor down, mirror open, and fought with my hair. On an average day the kinky, curly mop was tough to manage. On a humid day it reached cartoon monster proportions.

“Who had this hair, Grandy?” I asked, shoving a bobby pin so tight against my scalp I feared blood. “Does this come from the Keene side, or the Kelly side?”

He kept his hands at ten and two and merely flicked a glance my way. “Your grandmother had hair like yours.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Darker, though. More bronze than brass.”

“Why don't I remember that?” Grandma Keene had passed away when I was eleven. I had been old enough that I should remember her, but young enough that I forget much of her.

A smile played along Grandy's lips. “She liked her kerchiefs. Said they kept the dust out of her hair and her hair out of trouble.”

I smiled myself, to hear the tone of fondness in Grandy's voice. It was so unlike his typical rumble. It was audible evidence of the loving man residing deep inside in his tough old soldier persona.

Twisting a hank of hair with one hand, I fished another bobby pin from my lap with the other. “I don't think I'd look especially fashionable wearing a kerchief.”

He smiled wider. “No, I suppose not. In those days . . .
Well, it was a different time. We were different. The town was different. Brickworks was still running. I hadn't even conceived of buying a movie theater.”

Not that I didn't like hearing Grandy talk about “the old days”—he could tell a good story when the mood was on him—but often as not he'd end up morose. From there it was a very short trip to cantankerous, and we had a long afternoon and night ahead of us. “Speaking of,” I began, though I had no intention of staying on the same topic. “I ran into Tom Harris the other day at the luncheonette.”

Grandy made a noise between a huff and a laugh. “Tom Harris. What's he done this time? Mistaken you for your grandmother?”

“Um. No.” I made a mental note to dig out some old pictures to see if that was even possible. “He asked what you thought about the plan to open that shopping promenade on the riverfront.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything. Well, I did tell him he could ask my opinion, but he's only interested in yours. You haven't said anything about the plan though. I figured I'd get your take on it.” I shoved the last bobby pin in place and sat back in my seat, content to have wrestled my hair into a vaguely elegant twist back bun that had the added bonus of reducing my odds of getting hair in the customers' food.

Grandy scowled at the road ahead. “Must we talk about this now?”

“Ah. That means you're not in favor. Why not?”

“It means no such thing. All it means is this is bad weather and I need to concentrate.”

For nearly a mile I let the car fill with the sound of wipers sluicing water off the windshield. Then I couldn't take the quiet anymore.

“So that means you are in favor?” I asked.

This time it was a full-on huff. “As it happens my feelings are mixed on the subject.”

I waited, knowing if I gave him the time he would explain.

“I like to think there's something that can be done to bring this town back from the brink. The marina is a good start, but it's not enough to turn the town back into a place where people want to stay and build a family. It's not easy watching all you young people run off and leave the rest of us here to wither away.”

His voice sounded like he meant to continue. Instead he fiddled with the wiper speed until I prompted him to continue. “But?” I said.

Grandy filled his chest with a deep breath. “But I also worry that catering to seasonal tourists will change the town for the worse. Summer is a short season. What happens when winter comes? What keeps us from becoming the kind of place no one would even dream of raising children?”

I thought of some of the seaside towns I had been dragged through by my wandering mother. When I was young those towns looked bright and exciting and filled with fun. As I grew older, I began to see the other side of
the fun. I saw the cheap plastic that the shiny keepsakes were made from. I saw people barely scraping by in the shadow of a luxury resort. I saw the broken and desperate side that Grandy didn't want to see in Wenwood. My heart ached a little.

“That makes sense,” I said. “I can see why you'd be conflicted.”

“Conflicted.” He harrumphed. “Fancy psychiatrist talk.”

“I know, I know. You're not fancy,” I teased, perhaps more to cheer myself than him. “What I mean to say is that I understand your concerns. They're good concerns. I don't know if there's any answer, though. Things can't go on as they are.”

“Hmph. Regulation, might be an answer. Proper zoning laws.”

“Resulting in more fireworks at town meetings.”

“I told you not to go.”

“I know. But what else do I have to do on a Wednesday night?”

Grandy wisely didn't answer. Not that I truly thought he would, but now and again he'd suggest I do something more than “fiddle with glass”—like pull weeds or clean out the back shed. Oddly, he never suggested I find another job and get out on my own.

I think he enjoyed having me around, but knew he would never admit it.

We reached the Downtown Dine-In without managing to overtake the storm. Grandy parked the Jeep in his usual spot opposite the front door and we slogged through the
rain to the shelter of the marquee overhanging the lobby doors.

Through the lobby, past the ticket booth, and inside to the gray and navy interior, we shook off the rain that clung to our shoes and umbrellas and went our separate ways. Grandy went off to check with the kitchen staff on the night's dinner preparations and specials and to make certain there were sufficient supplies. I went to Grandy's little office at the back of theater, on the opposite side of the house from the kitchen, and settled in to do payroll the old-fashioned way, with bound charts and a ten-key adding machine. Tools from a different time. I had tried more than once to get Grandy to update to an easy computer program or outsource the task to one of the dozens of companies that prepared payroll, but he preferred retaining the ability to backtrack to find every penny if the need arose.

In under two hours I had the payroll complete and I wandered out of the office in search of Grandy. In the lobby, the high school kid who worked concessions was opening the stand and I waved the pay vouchers at her in greeting. She gave me a silent, double-fisted cheer and I laughed as I kept on my way.

I pushed through the doors into the theater auditorium, where the seating area no longer held rows of auditorium seating but strings of tables and club chairs, where moviegoers could order a light meal brought to their seats and enjoy it while they watched the evening's film. A door in the back of the house led into a short corridor that terminated in another door, the duplication intended to keep
the noise from the kitchen out of the auditorium. Once past that second door, the heavenly aromas of cheese and bacon swirled through the air and made my mouth water. I followed my nose through the swinging door into the kitchen and directly to where Grandy's head cook, Matthew, stood, hands on hips, glaring at Grandy.

“Don't you think I thought of that?” Matthew demanded. Even at eighty years old, Grandy was a good foot taller than Matthew, but Matthew didn't appear inclined to let Grandy's size intimidate him. “I'm removing the top and stripping the seeds out, that reduces the heat by, like, a million.”

“Is that a unit of measure you learned in culinary school?” Grandy practically sneered. “
Like a million?
”

For a long time Matthew made me seriously nervous. For a short time I thought he killed Andy Edgers. One of those reasons was why I still approached cautiously. But neither Grandy nor Matthew had any fear of each other. For reasons I could only blame on testosterone, snarling at one another was how they got along.

“So . . . what's tonight's menu fight?” I asked, purposely keeping my tone light.

“No specials tonight,” Grandy said at the very same time Matthew said, “Jalapeño poppers.”

“Poppers?” I inched closer to the metal worktable across which the men had drawn their line in the sand. “Would you be wrapping those in bacon by chance?”

“Georgia, I'll thank you not to interfere,” Grandy said.