Death Under Glass (4 page)

He gave me a subtle nod, but kept his gaze on Carrie.

She shrugged dismissively. “Anything's possible, isn't it? If you're asking me if I think he would do something like that, then no.”

Again, she gave a subtle shrug. Nolan may not have known Carrie well enough to recognize the motion as something telling, but I did. The double shrug meant she was unsure, doubting herself.

“Are you aware of any enemies he might have? Anyone who might want to put him out of business for a while?”

Something skittered across Carrie's face, something sour with an aftertaste of dark humor. “I really don't know.”

A check to my right showed Nolan, pen poised above his notepad, eyes on Carrie. I supposed his hesitation made sense. She wasn't listing names for him to write down. Easy enough to remember a “no.” But his perfectly still, perfectly somber consideration of her spooled out a tendril of uneasiness in my belly.

“Do you have any idea where Russ is now?” He lifted his cup and drank down coffee like it was water.

Her bitter expression morphed into a grimace. “If past experience is any indicator, he's found himself a bed other than his own to sleep in, preferably one belonging to a blonde.”

And there was the anger she shouldn't have showed. Under the table, I swung my foot out, hoping to connect with her shin. Instead, I merely scraped the side of her calf with the edge of my flip-flop. She looked to me and I widened my eyes and pursed my lips.

She grabbed for her teacup, rattling it and the spoon against the saucer in her haste. “Which is of course his prerogative,” she mumbled, then raised the cup and took a series of delicate sips.

I did the same with my coffee while Detective Nolan scratched out a few more notes.

The waitress sauntered over to the table, pulling an
order pad out of her apron along the way. “Ready to order?” She used the pad as a brace to click her pen against.

“No, I need—” I began.

“Go ahead and order.” Detective Nolan flipped his notebook closed. “That's all I have for now.” Coffee cup in one hand, notebook in the other, he pushed to his feet.

“For now?” Carrie asked in a voice made even smaller from being blocked by a teacup.

At last, he forced a tight, polite smile. He presented Carrie with a business card he pulled from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Call me if you think of anything about Russ that might be useful.”

After one last slug of coffee, he set the mug down. He took one step away from the table before turning back. His expression opened from stern, professional police detective to warm, concerned gentleman. “How's your grandfather?” he asked.

His question caught me by surprise, and I mentally scrambled for an answer. “I, um, he's good. He's good,” I stammered. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if he was . . .” He paused, searched the ceiling for the right word. “Unwell. And that his health was what was keeping you in Wenwood.”

I shook my head. “No, Grandy's fine. Same old stubborn teddy bear.”

Detective Nolan stood motionless, as though waiting for more, as though expecting me to give him the reason I remained in Wenwood. But that was something I had yet to fully discover myself, much less voice.

He sighed slightly. “Glad to hear it,” he said then turned to Carrie. “If I have any more questions, I'll let you know.”

Without further hesitation, he strode out of the coffee shop.

While the waitress hovered beside the table I pushed aside the stray thoughts the detective's unspoken question had awoken, the why I stayed and if I would leave and what's next either way. Those thoughts only ever led me in circles.

Carrie practically dropped her cup into its saucer. “What does that mean, if he has any more questions?”

“What can I get you?” the waitress prompted.

“I . . . ugh.” I held up a “one-minute” finger to Carrie and ordered up an egg and onion omelet and handed back the menu I never opened. When I'm in the mood for eggs, the variety of options present in a menu serves only to confuse.

The waitress swept up the remaining menus and left us alone.

I took a quick sip of coffee before addressing Carrie. “I think it just means he might think of more questions. I don't think there's anything sinister there.”

She sighed and sank against the vinyl cushioned backrest. “You warned me to stay calm and I blew it.”

“You didn't blow it.” Firmly shutting away thoughts of my own life issues, I softened my posture, smiled a little. “Probably if you didn't get a little cranky talking about your ex,
that
would be suspicious.”

She let out a reluctant half laugh. “I almost lost it when
he asked if Russ had any enemies. I'd be shocked if Russ hadn't cheated on some other woman who could give me a run for number one enemy by now.”

That little wisp of worry stirred once more, but I mentally stomped it down. Carrie may wish Russ hives in uncomfortable and embarrassing places, but she wouldn't actually put itching powder in anyone's shorts. I knew that, and I was certain Detective Nolan knew that, too.

Mostly certain.

Hopeful.

I swallowed down the last of my delicious coffee and looked around for the waitress. It was then, as I turned full around in my seat, that I noticed traffic moving along the main drag and pedestrians strolling by the coffee shop's plate glass window. Business had resumed in downtown Newbridge.

“Funny thing is,” Carrie said, sitting up again and leaning into the table, “Russ is a pain in the ass, but I really don't think he does have any enemies. He's not the type. He's more the laid-back, everyone-loves-him type.”

Catching the eye of the waitress, I lifted my coffee cup into view—a silent request for a refill. “Maybe he's changed since you guys split. Maybe his latest conquest has a jealous ex who's a bodybuilder or a boxer.”

“Or an arsonist.”

I grinned. “And Russ is in hiding from this guy because he's afraid to have his nose broken. Or his knees.”

Carrie chuckled. “That's it exactly. He's hiding out in his brother's hunting cabin, hoping—” Her jaw dropped and her eyes popped wide. “The hunting cabin. I should have told
Detective Nolan about the hunting cabin.” She huffed and put a hand to her forehead. “Russ is probably there.”

An older woman holding the hand of a smiling little girl pushed open the entrance door and cheerfully announced, “Here we are. Waffle time.”

The waitress greeted them like old friends, all the while sliding my omelet onto the table and holding a carafe of coffee. She refilled my mug and checked if Carrie wanted to order anything more.

“Why don't you have another cup of tea?” I suggested.

Carrie agreed and I waited until the waitress walked off before resuming our conversation.

“Isn't hunting usually done in cold weather?” I asked, laying a napkin across my lap. “I don't remember ever seeing advertisements for hunting shorts or tank tops.”

“In summer they fish.” She rolled her eyes and huffed again. “I should call Detective Nolan and tell him. Is his cell number on here?” She picked up the card he'd left. “Maybe I can get him back here before he's gone too far.”

I shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth and threw good etiquette to the wind by speaking with my mouth full. Anything to avoid more contact with the good detective until I understood why I had become so fascinated with the confidence of his stance or the forthrightness of his gaze. “You don't know for sure Russ is at the cabin,” I said. “I don't think there's any need to rush to talk to the detective. Besides, you shouldn't tempt him to take a cell call while he's driving.” Yes, I was babbling. I would have said anything to stop Carrie calling and convincing him it would be a good idea to change direction and return to the coffee shop.

“No, you're right.” Carrie considered this while the waitress delivered a fresh cup of tea and went through the usual “How is everything?” Once I'd assured her the eggs were fine and she sauntered off, Carrie continued. “I bet his staff knows if Russ is fishing, and they should be arriving soon. I could ask them.” She sat up straighter in her seat, peered over my shoulder.

I turned and followed her gaze. From where we sat, though, we had no view of the blackened building.

She dug in her purse and pulled out her phone. “Already after ten, though. Someone should have turned up already.”

Shaking my head, I traded my fork for my coffee cup. “You never worked in an office, did you?” I sipped while Carrie confirmed my suspicion. She had spent her career years to date working at the antiques shop that her family had handed down through generations and visiting estate sales in search of rare and sometimes beautiful objects. I had spent my career years manning a desk and suffering through some seriously bad coffee and high-profile financial scandals. This disparity made me qualified to educate my new best friend on the way the corporate world worked. “Number one rule—no, wait. Number one rule is avoid office politics. Number two rule is if the boss is away fishing, nine o'clock is overachieving. Give them time.”

Carrie slid to the farthest edge of her bench seat so she could watch for arriving employees without craning her neck while I enjoyed yet another refill of delicious coffee.

By the time I finished my omelet, I was well into the third cup of coffee. My stomach was beginning a protest
when a dark-haired young woman dashed past the window and slammed open the door. The older woman and little girl enjoying waffles at the counter jumped at the noise. Okay, I did, too. The only one unaffected was Carrie, who had no doubt seen the woman coming all along.

“Susie,” she shouted. “Susie, are you here? What the hell happened?”

Our waitress spoke as she hurried out of the kitchen, more animated than she'd been all morning. “I've been trying to call you. Is your cell off? There was a fire,” she said.

“Obviously,” the dark-haired girl snapped.

“Firemen and cops were in and out most of the morning,” waitress Susie said, joining the newcomer by the door. “You just missed them.”

“What about Russ? Did anyone get hold of him?”

Carrie abandoned all pretense of not listening to strangers' business and slid from the booth. “Russ wasn't answering his phone and he wasn't at home. Do you have any idea where he is?” she asked.

The girl turned, annoyance bunching her brow. “Who are you?”

As Carrie reached the middle of the café, she extended a hand. “I'm Carrie Stanford, Russ's ex-wife. The police called me when they couldn't reach him. You are?”

Go, Carrie. Cool and calm and a little bit snippy. Not a guaranteed method of grabbing the upper hand but fairly reliable and masterfully executed.

Pink flushed across the dark-haired girl's cheeks. “I'm Melanie, Russ's administrative assistant.” She took
Carrie's hand, but from where I sat, her grip looked a little tentative.

“Melanie, would you be able to tell me where Russ is, please?”

But Melanie narrowed her eyes, calculating. “Hold it. You're Russ's ex?”

“Yes, now can you tell me—”

“He's mentioned you. You guys are on pretty good terms, right?”

“Well, we—”

“Great.” Melanie's grin was wide and somewhat alarming in its sudden appearance. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

I had just wedged myself out from behind the table by the time she exited the restaurant. I climbed, with one knee, back upon the bench and leaned to watch her out the window.

“Where's she going?” Carried asked waitress Susie. When Susie only shrugged, Carrie directed the question to me. “Where is she going?”

I shook my head, no idea. Wherever she was going, she was going in a hurry. If she kept up that speed, she'd be covered in sweat in no time. “She said she'll be back,” I muttered, then turned back to face Carrie. “You'll just need to find out where Russ is and then we can get out of here.” I didn't have anywhere I needed to be until the evening, but the back of my mind, the quiet place that foments ideas while I'm not paying attention, was urging me to get started designing a window for Trudy's bed and breakfast.

“I'll get your check,” Susie said.

It took her only moments to present us with the bill, at which point I realized Carrie and I were paying for
Detective Nolan's coffee. Not that the cost of a cup of coffee was going to overdraw me at the bank, but the very idea that he left without throwing so much as a couple of singles down on the table was irksome.

Carrie and I were quibbling over how much we should tip our waitress when Melanie returned to the café, shuffling gracelessly under the weight of the large cardboard carton emblazoned with U-Move-It's diamond-shaped logo that she held before her. A yellow plastic grocery bag hung heavily from her wrist.

She backed her way through the door, stumble-spun to the lunch counter, and dropped the carton on the counter's shiny blue surface. “There,” she said, prying the plastic bag from her wrist and plunking the bag atop the carton. “Your problem now.”

Carrie side-stepped toward the counter, eyes on the carton, face scrunched in apprehension, as though the box might contain an assortment of spring-loaded snakes. “What is all this?”

“This”—Melanie flapped her hand toward the box—“is what's left of the Heaney estate. Russ asked me to pick these up from Hudson Estate Sales and bring them to the office. But seeing as there is no office and Russ said you might be interested in this stuff, I'm giving it to you. No way am I storing that musty crap in my apartment.”

Cautiously, I slid the bag to the side of the carton and attempted to peer inside the carton. “What's in there?” I asked.

Melanie sounded annoyed by the question. “Junk. Trinkets and letters and old pictures and . . . crap Russ thought
you”—she lifted a chin in Carrie's direction—“might want to have in your shop. You're into antiques or something, right?”