Death Under Glass (16 page)

Tony huffed a mirthless laugh and walked forward again, leading me closer to the redesigned building. “Down here I figure we'll stay open past eight o'clock.”

“You might cause a scandal.” I hoped to joke him out of his sudden bad temper, but he said nothing in the few steps we took before we reached the front of the building.

He stopped in front of a large window set alongside a double-door entrance. “I can't show you the inside—it's still a construction zone—but you can take a peek.”

Accepting his invitation, I stepped up to the window and peered inside.

What had been bare plank floors on my last visit was now covered wall to wall with drop cloths, presumably to protect the flooring as the interior dividing walls went up and were painted the same marine blue as the outer walls. I crouched a little to get a better look at the ceiling, where exposed beams crisscrossed the expanse, allowing—if I remembered the plan correctly—for mast storage.

Nothing at all remained of the brickworks.

A little knot of sorrow lodged itself in the back of my throat. Rationally I knew this was an important step for the future of Wenwood. But new beginnings seemed always to keep company with memories of things lost.

Standing straight, I turned my back on the window and gazed along the riverfront. That view, too, would change if Spring and Hamilton had its way.

I shifted to face Tony, his words echoing through my
mind. “Did you say Spring and Hamilton haven't secured all the land they need yet?”

He kicked at some loose dirt, nodded. “That's what I hear.” Then his eyes flashed to mine. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

Tony looked down at me, a breeze ruffling his hair. His expression said he didn't believe me.

“Okay.” I relented. “I was just thinking about change and when it's a good thing and when it's a hard thing. And I wondered if maybe that conundrum was holding up the property acquisition. You know, for whoever's selling.”

The quirk of his smile and his stifled laugh made me immediately doubt my theory.

“Or maybe it's a money thing,” I added, the heat of embarrassment undoing the good work of the cool breeze off the water. I waved away my words. “Forget it. I just—I don't know what I'm talking about.”

“Ah, Georgia,” he said on a heavy sigh. He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck, shook his head. “One of these days I
won't
owe you an apology. I'm sorry. I got a kick out of you using
conundrum
in a casual conversation, that's all.”

“Oh.” And yet somehow I didn't feel much better. I felt, instead, concerned about the next phrase that might fall out of my mouth. “But you don't owe me any apologies.”

“Don't I?” Hands back in his pockets, he shifted away from me and began ambling back toward the gate. “Isn't that what last night was all about? All very cool and impersonal?”

“At the dine-in?” Had I been cool? In my effort not to
appear overly interested in him, had I gone too far in the wrong direction?

“My sister is trying to figure out where you and I stand with each other. She can be a bit nosy and overbearing.” He grinned. “And I suppose her confusion makes sense. We didn't get off to such a friendly start you and I. And once construction here got past that . . .”

Still overconscious of choosing words poorly, I kept quiet, turned my attention away from him and back to the strip of riverfront property ahead and the rest of the world beyond the fence. Traffic moved briskly along the road in both directions, no one slowing, everyone intent on continuing past.

“Once we got past that supply delay the crew and I started making up for lost time around here, hoping we still had a shot at getting the project finished on schedule. I haven't had a lot of free time to make sure you and I didn't slide back into that unfriendly place.”

Bad enough I doubted my speech. Now I doubted my hearing. Or, perhaps more accurately, my understanding. “I don't follow.”

Tony's expression was apologetic. “We met for dinner. And kept things understandably . . . businesslike. I should have called you the very next day and invited you to dinner for reasons not so platonic.”

I was instantly interested in the ground beneath my toes, hoping if I kept my gaze on something dull and innocuous I wouldn't blurt out something juvenile that might change his mind. But it was mere moments before I knew I had control of my words. “I doubt it was the right time.”

He squinted against a sudden splash of sunshine. “How about now?”

Now?

A slew of thoughts assailed my mind. At their forefront, a burned-out building, shards of glass on the floor of an antiques store, and Chip Nolan's face when he sent me away from Herb Gallo's house.

Disappointment stabbed through me, leaving my limbs feeling heavy. I backstepped toward the Jeep. “How about you call me in a few days?” I said. Keeping my eyes on him, I reached behind me and opened the door on the vehicle. “And we'll talk.”

That fast, Tony Himmel went from successful, grown man to despondent puppy.

“Maybe over coffee,” I said with a grin, then ducked into the Jeep and slammed the door behind me.

I forced myself to keep my eyes ahead and not look back at Tony. I didn't want to know yet whether I had chosen my words wisely or poorly. For a little while at least, I wanted to hold on to a fun mystery.

I
n my three-plus months in Wenwood, I'd made only a few trips to the stained glass shop, primarily because it was more than an hour's drive in each direction. More than that, glass could get expensive.

I parked the Jeep around the corner from the store where an old maple tree provided shade. Breathing deep of the dry inland air, I steered my wayward mind back to the business at hand: Trudy Villiers's window. In my purse was a rough copy of the design and broken bits of glass closest to the colors and types the design required. I only hoped the design and glass would come together as I envisioned.

The electronic door chime sounded as I entered the shop, sharp and unsettling. I much preferred the delicate jingle of the store bells in Wenwood.

Unlike previous visits when I had been one of very few
customers in the store, today the shop floor was crowded with men and women, patterns in hand, strolling back and forth along the glass-filled cubbies. I spotted the proprietor—a tall, thin woman with dark hair caught in a heavy bun at the back of her neck—mingling among them.

“Be brave,” she called out. “If you see something that intrigues you, pull it out. Take a good long look. You can't get a true impression of the glass without handling it and holding it up to the sun or resting it on one of the light tables.”

She spotted me hovering just inside the doorway and smiled. “Hi there. Anything I can help you with today?”

A short, round woman paused near my left and gazed down at the pattern she held. A simple tulip. I guessed no more than twelve shapes in the design, and that's when the pieces clicked together. I had not stumbled into an unexpected rush at the glass shop, but rather I'd stumbled into a beginner's class.

“I need some glass,” I said, as if stating the obvious were somehow illuminating.

The woman pointed to the start of the glass cubbies along the east-facing wall. “Right over there.”

Of course, I knew that already but smiled my thanks all the same and ambled over to the wooden cubbies. Large, nearly two-foot-by-three-foot glass sheets resting on their short edges filled the lower cubbies. Sheets cut to half or a quarter of the size filled the upper cubbies, and it was from those upper cubbies that I pulled the first sheets of glass.

I wanted first to find the streaky pink and violets for the magnolia blossoms. Without the right mix of color—that ideal combination of soft and bright—the flowers would
be lost in the overall design. Not to mention that the cost of the opalescent pinks would require a big chunk of my budget. I needed to be cautious with my selections to prevent having to skimp anywhere.

As I slid the square of violet glass out of its cubby, my cell phone erupted with Idina Menzel's voice declaring it was time to defy gravity. Heat suffused my cheeks. “Sorry,” I muttered to several startled stained glass students. “Sorry.”

Glass in hand, I hurried to the large light tables in the center of the space and carefully laid down the sheet. In so doing, I caught sight of the price written on the corner in grease pencil. Almost thirty dollars. I would need a large sheet. A little bit of financial fear gripped me. Between the outlay for this window and the cost of creating replacement pieces for the antiques shop . . . Let's just say it was a good thing Grandy was letting me stay with him rent free.

The phone stopped ringing before I could open my purse. And even though I knew that if it had been Tony Himmel who called, the ringtone would have been the innocuous factory-installed tune—as it was for all people not in my contacts list—still I felt a little flare of hope. And that said something.

But the missed call, when I checked the screen, had come from Carrie.

I looked from the phone, to the glass, to my fellow shoppers, weighing the wisdom of returning the call right away, after having attracted so much attention.

I had just decided to mute the phone and call Carrie back later when Idina rent the air again. Quick as a blink
I pressed the proper button to accept the call while at the same time hustling away from the crowd.

“What's up?” I asked. “Is everything okay?” Two calls in fast succession did not bode well.

“Russ called,” she blurted.

“What? When?” I worked my way to the rear of the shop, in among shelves lined with bottles of soldering flux and finishing patina and varying size bottles of cutting oil. Finishing hooks and hanging chains were displayed in open cardboard boxes.

“Just now. He said as soon as he hit the state line, his phone went crazy with messages.”

“Of course it did. Cell phones are very territorial like that.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. He said he's going to go see the building and then he's coming here.” Her voice squeaked, and I couldn't help but picture her pacing behind the register at her store, white-knuckling the phone and trying to straighten her wavy hair with sheer force. “What am I supposed to do? I don't want to see him.”

“Under the circumstances, I don't think you're going to be able to avoid him,” I said. No sooner did the words leave my mouth, though, than I wondered why Russ would be so intent on seeing Carrie. Surely whatever they needed to discuss could be done over the phone. Unless Russ had somehow gotten it in his head that Carrie was responsible. “You know what,” I said. “Why don't you call Diana and ask her what she thinks, you know, from a professional law enforcement perspective?”

Carrie gasped. “Yes! Good idea. I'll call her. But can you come over to the store? Keep me company?”

I peered at the crowded shelves around me, at the stained glass panels hung from the ceiling, at the students pulling stunning sheets of glass from cubbies. “Of course,” I said. “I'm up in Chalmers, though. How far out is Russ?”

We worked out how long we thought it would take Russ to get to the antiques store. Or rather, Carrie did, as she seemed to keep a map of the state in her head. Determining I had enough time to select at least the pink glass and a few other sheets from which to make pieces for the shop, I assured Carrie I'd be there and got to work. I had less than an hour to purchase glass and an hour to get back to Wenwood . . .

Just in time to stand between my best friend and her ex-husband.

*   *   *

I
was going to be late returning the Jeep to Grandy. Well, late according to Grandy, for whom “late” meant not arriving early. But it was his vehicle and his rules and I was willing to follow. Usually. Now and again I lost track of time. The best way to appease Grandy in those instances was to bring a peace offering.

Behind the grocery store on Wenwood's main drag, I parked the SUV beneath the branches of my favorite walnut tree. Purse in hand, sunglasses in place, I pulled out my cell phone and made a quick call to Carrie.

“I'm going to Rozelle's and then home and I'll have
Grandy drop me off by your store on his way to work,” I said when she picked up. “Anything more from Russ?”

“He asked me to meet him at the luncheonette after I close up here,” Carrie said.

I locked the Jeep and headed down the entrance toward the street, the sun's heat reflecting up from the blacktop and making my knees sweat. “Did he say why he wants to talk to you?”

“I imagine it's about the building and about Herb and all but I couldn't ask. I had a customer. Thank goodness it's been busy today. It really kept my mind off of . . . everything.”

“That's a good thing,” I agreed. I waited at the sidewalk while traffic passed up and down the main road bisecting the village. “How about Diana, did you speak to her?”

“Left a message,” she said. The tone and volume of her voice shifted. “Hi there,” she said, clearly holding the phone well away from her mouth. “Welcome to Aggie's Antiques.”

“All right. Go help your customer. I'll see you in a little while.”

The single traffic light shined red, stopping cars long enough for me to dash across the street. I reached the door to Rozelle's Bakery at the same time as a balding gentleman in his late forties. He opened the door and rushed inside ahead of me, leaving me dumbfounded on the sidewalk.

“Tourist,” I muttered. I shook my head and tugged open the door. One step across the threshold, the shock hit me. That man, with the sunburned bald patch and bad manners, was a tourist—to me. He was an outsider. Making me . . . a local?

Shuffling to the nearest showcase, I rested a hand against its chrome edging and gazed at the colorful frosted cookies within. My mind turned at high speed, trying to grasp the realization that I had come to consider myself a local. How had that happened? At what point had I stopped thinking of myself as a temporary resident and started thinking of myself as permanent?

“Georgia, honey! You need more bread already?” Behind the counter, Rozelle bustled toward me, pastry box in one hand, square of wax paper in the other. The tourist walked with her, display cases dividing them.

“I was curious what sugar-free special you have today,” I said, aware that even the fact that Rozelle made different sugar-free concoctions was something she didn't advertise. She always had sugar-free cookies, but Wenwood residents knew there was always something more.

“I'll have to check,” she said before turning her attention to her other customer.

I looked on as the balding gentleman pointed to different trays of cookies. Rozelle, whose sensible shoes might have put her one gray curl over five foot, expertly scooped the cookies with the wax square and dropped them in the pastry box. Her movements were economical and sure, and after each handful went into the box she gave the box a little shake. Having witnessed this behavior enough, I knew she was estimating the weight. Further, I knew her estimates were accurate to within an ounce.

“Eat,” she said, handing me a jelly finger. “You have to learn to appreciate the sweet things.”

“I do appreciate them,” I said.

Rozelle gave me a look that called me a liar.

I took a bite of the cookie and made an extra-loud
mmmmm
noise so she would be sure to hear me. Of course, I could have told her about the donut I'd treated myself to at the coffee shop. She might have told Grandy, though, and the last thing I needed was Mr. Kettle crying foul against Ms. Pot.

As Rozelle walked back to the register, the sweet goodness of the cookie woke my taste buds and my belly. Sudden, intense hunger followed. I tried to calculate how long it had been since my last meal but apparently it had been so long the brain cells containing my math skills had starved to death. Leave it to me to be so distracted by a good-looking man and a store full of glass that eating lunch became a nonnecessity.

Of course, I was chomping on the sort of bakery cookie for which a tall glass of milk was not only a good idea, it was a requirement. Tasty? Yes. Dry as dirt? Ditto.

One of Rozelle's counter helpers came out of the back of the shop and took over ringing up the sale for the bald tourist. Rozelle ambled back to me, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron. “Now then,” she said. “You need something special for Pete?”

I swear her eye twinkled. Rozelle had been sweet on Grandy since long before I arrived in Wenwood. I didn't know how long before; I was frankly afraid to ask. If I knew how long she'd carried her torch, I ran the risk of feeling sorry for her, and I'd much rather be encouraging than sorry.

“I've had his Jeep out all day,” I said.

Rozelle nodded sagely. “That might put him in a mood.”

“I just don't understand why.” I huffed. “That is, I do. It's his, but—”

“Pete's lived on his own a long time now. Maybe too long?” she asked, almost hopefully. “I expect he's still adjusting to sharing his home and his things.” I opened my mouth to protest, to remind Rozelle that I was Pete's granddaughter not some stranger, but she kept on speaking before I got a word out. “It's not about you, Georgia. He's happier to have you than he lets on. It's no fun being old and alone. But it's still an adjustment when things are no longer where you left them, from a coffee cup to a car.”

I sighed. “Or all the hard candy I take away.”

Her giggle would be best described as a titter. “That especially.” She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down the creases in her baker's apron. “Let's see what I have to take his edge off today.”

She wandered farther along the counter and I wandered with her, passing by the two tiny tables squeezed into the opposite side of the store, and eyeing, as always, the collection of teapots and cup-and-saucer sets filling the cubbies along the wall.

“How about a cheesecake?” Rozelle suggested.

“Sugar free?” I asked, as the entrance of another customer set off the bell over the door.

“Sugar free. I used a little artificial sweetener. Only a little, I promise.”

“That's fine,” I said.

Rozelle's eyes widened in surprise. I'd been in the bakery
enough looking for sugar-free deliciousness for Grandy that she knew my reservations about artificial sweeteners. But in Grandy's case, sugar was the greater evil.

“Really,” I said. “It's fine. I'll take it.”

Without further comment, she boxed the cake and rang up the sale, while her fresh-faced employee waited on the other customer. The clerk, one of the girls Rozelle hired to help out during the summer, had the clean-scrubbed, pony-tailed appearance of a New England college student. When her school years were done, would she remain in Wenwood to begin her life? Would there be anything here to keep her?

Rozelle snapped me from my thoughts by handing my change over the counter. “Thanks, Rozelle.” I accepted my change and the cake and smiled my gratitude.

“You'll be sure to give Pete my regards, won't you?”

I forced my smile wider, forced down the little flare of feeling badly for her. “Of course.” I took a step back to leave but stopped at Rozelle's next question.