Death Under Glass (22 page)

“I
t's just lovely,” Trudy said.

She bent over the long table she had set up in what was once a den but would soon be the breakfast room. Her gaze traced the letters and the blossoms, the whites and pinks, the greens, lavenders, and hints of blue all coming together in a stained glass window that read
MAGNOLIA BED AND BREAKFAST
.

“Shame it's raining,” she said, looking up at the picture window at the back of the room. Sheets of water struck the pane, relentless.

“I've seen it in sunlight,” Carrie said. She formed her fingers into an
okay
sign, half-closed her eyes. “Gorgeous.”

Me, I remained crouched close to the floor, rubbing Fifi's exposed belly while she drooled happily into the antique carpet. I was pleased Trudy was happy with her
window. Even more, I was pleased Curtis Heaney had been put behind bars before he had a chance to do anything to harm her. In the few weeks since I'd had my life threatened by a plastic gun and been back and forth so Trudy could approve designs and colors, I'd become genuinely fond of her. As yet, though, I haven't agreed to learning mah-jongg.

“I wonder, is there something you can do to bring this motif into the house,” Trudy said. Her elegant fingers framed her chin and her eyes narrowed slightly as she gazed around the room.

Carrie mimicked her position right down to the pursed lips. “A mirror, maybe? With the flowers around the edging?”

I gave Fifi one last pat on the tummy and stood. “A mirror would be nice, but—” I paused, uncertain. Of the three of us, Carrie was the expert on decorating. The only expertise I could claim of late was an uncanny ability to alphabetize and a knack for breaking glass.

“But what?” Carrie prompted.

“Yes, do tell us, Georgia. Your opinion counts, you know.”

Fifi shoved her cold wet nose against my shin. I smiled. “What if the mirror was old instead of new? What if it had that veining around the edges?”

“Ooh,” Carrie said. “I like it. But not too much veining. We still want a functional mirror, right?” She looked to Trudy for confirmation.

The older woman tipped her head, raised her eyes to the ceiling as she considered. “I would suppose that depends
on where we put this mirror. If we put it over the mantel in the living room, I'd rather have a new look. It's cleaner, if you understand my meaning.”

We nodded. I hoped Carrie knew what Trudy meant, though, because I was faking.

Within my purse—lumped gracelessly atop a wooden travel trunk that served as a coffee table—my smartphone emitted a chime that signaled an incoming text message.

“Sorry, ladies,” I said, crossing the room to grab my bag. “That's my ride.”

“Georgia.” Trudy's brow wrinkled as she scowled at me. “You shouldn't race out the door at the sound of a bell like one of Pavlov's dogs. Your young man should make the effort to get out of the car and come up the walk to meet you.”

Carrie bit her bottom lip but could do nothing to quell the mirth in her eyes.

“I'll remember that next time, Trudy,” I said.

I looked down at Fifi. “Ready girl?” I asked, taking the leash Trudy held out for me. “You want to come see your new house?”

“Promise me you'll take video of her chasing that creature, okay?” Carrie asked.

Laughing, I snapped the leash onto the dog's collar. Fifi rolled swiftly to her feet and started her full-body wagging. “What if Friday's the one who does the chasing?”

She pursed her lips. “Then I don't want to see it.”

Trudy bent and patted Fifi on the head. “You be a good girl for your new mommy. I'm sure she'll take very good care of you.”

She sniffled a little as she straightened, then surprised me, and perhaps herself, by pulling me into a hug. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her classic perfume scent swirling around us both. “I'm sure Madge would be pleased to have Fifi go to such a good home.”

It was my turn to sniffle.

Trudy released me and walked to the kitchen with me and the dog. “Here's her food and her dish and this crazy purple blob of a toy. I don't know what it is,” she said, flopping the stuffed toy back and forth, “but she adores it.”

Fifi made a little leap and nabbed the purple toy from Trudy. I collected the plastic storage container of food and the ceramic bowl with the black paw print motif and wrapped the leash firmly around my hand.

“Ready for an adventure?” I asked.

Fifi let slide one little string of drool. I sent a silent plea to Margaret Heaney up in heaven, asking that Fifi please not leave too much spit in Tony's Jaguar.

After Trudy gave Fifi one final pat, I said my good-byes and walked out the door, dog at my heels, into the autumn
rain.

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