Death Under Glass (7 page)

Grandy stirred himself enough to gulp down the rest of his tea. He pulled a sour face and set the glass on the table. “Needs sugar.”

“Nothing needs sugar.” I paused in my sketching to give him a sidelong glare. “Least of all you.”

“Hmmph.”

“Which reminds me, the garbage goes out tonight and the strudel's going with it. Don't bother looking for it in the morning.”

He peered back at me, all eighty years of experience adding a shrewd glint to his eye. “You throw away my strudel, Georgia, and I'll have your car keys back.”

It was an idle threat and I knew it. Grandy knew it, too. But it raised the specter of guilt and failure I felt at
being an adult reliant on her grandfather. “It's not a car,” I said, attempting to ignore that pesky guilt. “It's an SUV. And you're supposed to avoid sugar because of doctor's orders. Don't punish me for trying to keep you healthy.”

“Healthy? You talk on your cell phone while you're driving,” he countered. “That's not only unhealthy for you but for the rest of the people on the road.”

“Grandy.” Surrendering, I dropped my pencil into the gutter of the sketchbook and smacked the cover closed. “I'd have my own car if I could afford one. But as it is . . .”

I'd been without steady work for nearly a year now. No matter how much I tried to ignore the obnoxious little voice inside me that reminded me I was driving my
grandfather's
SUV, the voice persisted. And the voice embarrassed me. A well-paying, full-time job would put an end to my borrowing. But neither well-paying nor full-time were readily available in Wenwood. Especially for an accountant. The few pieces of stained glass that Carrie had sold on my behalf allowed me to purchase supplies for further pieces and help Grandy with utility costs. I'd begun working Friday nights at Grandy's dine-in where the minimal pay and conservative tips allowed me to have what passed for a social life: girl's night out with Carrie and Diana. If I wanted the kind of money and lifestyle I used to enjoy, I'd have to head back to New York City. I loved the city, I did. Moving back or taking a chance on another big city was definitely an appealing option but . . .

I filled my lungs with a breath of soft, clean air. The kind of breath you rarely experienced in a big city. In Wenwood, I smelled the ever present aroma of flowers
on the air. Felt the sun peeking onto the porch and warming my toes . . .

Surely Wenwood had been a better place to spend the summer than Manhattan's odorous steam bath. And surely there were a few more weeks before autumn arrived and the end of the antiques hunter traffic forced me to make a decision.

“Fine,” I relented as I stood. “Keep the strudel. Just try and eat more vegetables or something, okay?”

“Have you spoken to Drew?”

I paused in my reach for the pitcher of tea I had planned to carry into the house. “Drew Able? Your lawyer?”

I hadn't seen or spoken to Drew since the charges against Grandy were dropped. That Grandy thought I should speak with him now instantly resulted in sweaty palms and strained breath.

“Of course my lawyer,” Grandy said. “I believe he could use someone to help out with his bookkeeping. You might want to stop into his office next time you go to town.”

Oh, mercy. Next thing I know Grandy will be trying to set me up on dates. “Thanks, Grandy, but—”

“I'm not doing you any favors,” he grumbled. “He can't keep up with his own billing. I haven't seen a single notice for the work he did for me, and you need to keep your skills sharp. Talk to him.”

Talk to him. Drew Able, Esquire. The lawyer.

Grabbing the pitcher with my free hand, I nodded. “Okay,” I agreed. “I'll talk to him tomorrow.”

Maybe not about a job. But definitely about why someone stood to gain by burning down a law office.

“A
nd I ended up agreeing to talk to Drew tomorrow,” I concluded. I sat back in my chair and finally took a bite from the slice of sharp cheddar I'd been holding since I started the story.

Sunset had done little to ease the heat of the day, and Carrie, Diana, and I gathered gratefully in Carrie's air-conditioned apartment, sprawled on mismatched but cleverly coordinated furniture from bygone days, and snacking on cheese and crackers until it was time to leave for the monthly town meeting.

Diana shook her head in mock amazement, her long dark hair scraping the back of her Pace County PD T-shirt. “Your granddad's a hoot,” she said. “Was he always like that? I can't remember.”

By some measurements, Diana and I had known one
another our whole lives. By other, more accurate measurements, we had been childhood friends turned enemies during one of my years in Wenwood and had happily lost touch until adulthood and maturity and Grandy being accused of murder brought us back together. As neither Diana nor I had any immediate plans to try out for a cheerleading squad or become part of a chicky clique, this time around our friendship stood a better chance of lasting.

“I'm pretty sure Grandy has always been the same,” I said.

“Somewhere at the crossroads of stern and sweet and scary and teddy bear,” Carrie put in, pushing to her feet. “Can I get anyone a refill?”

Diana asked for a little more water and I declined. “You sure? No more tea?” Eyes on me, she circled around the back of her chair.

My “I'm sure” was cut short by Carrie's “Yeouch!”

“What happened?” Diana asked.

“You okay?” I asked.

I pushed to the edge of my chair, ready to leap up and assist. Diana, police officer's reflexes clearly sharper honed than mine, was already on her feet and moving toward Carrie.

“This stupid box.” With the side of her foot, Carrie kicked a large carton out from behind her chair and turned it so the carton tucked beside the chair, a toe-sized dent showing beneath the diamond-shaped U-Move-It logo. She looked over her shoulder at Diana. “I can't wait until you guys find my ex-husband and I can get rid of this stuff. I spent enough years tripping over that man's junk.”

She continued on through the living room and into the galley kitchen.

“What's in the box?” Diana asked.

I sighed. “Who knows? Some stuff Russ's admin had. She said she didn't have room in her apartment for it.” I waved a hand to encompass Carrie's supply-closet-sized space. “Because this is palatial.”

Eyebrows lowered, Diana edged toward the carton. “This is Russ's? Russ Stanford's? The guy whose business got torched? And you didn't look?”

I searched for words, suddenly tongue-tied by my own foolishness. We hadn't looked inside the box, nor the shopping bag. We'd taken Melanie on faith that the contents consisted of useless scraps from a deceased individual's estate.

“Carrie,” I called, standing. “Did you look inside this box?”

From the kitchen came the clatter of ice hitting the bottom of an empty glass. “What do I care what's in the box?”

Now Diana raised her brows. A shift in her stance and a squaring of her shoulders was all it took for her to complete the transformation into cop mode. She held up a hand, palm out, in my direction. “Stay back,” she said.

“Seriously?”

Diana glowered, and I folded my arms and waited.

As Carrie appeared in the doorway leading from kitchen to living room, Diana popped open the box with the toe of her canvas sneaker. The speed of the motion and the pop of the box top startled me into flinching.

Recovering myself, I leaned forward and peered into the box.

Diana sat on the edge of Carrie's chair, and Carrie stood watching over her shoulder. With deft fingers, Diana flipped past framed photographs and knitting magazines until she reached a series of photo albums standing on their ends. “This does look like junk,” she said.

“There's a bag, too, but that's all old dry cleaning receipts and old bridge scores or something,” Carrie said. She grimaced and handed Diana a glass of ice water. “I accidentally dropped the bag and it spilled all over the kitchen.”

“You don't think this has anything to do with the fire, do you?” I directed the question to Diana.

“Don't know.” Reaching into the box, she withdrew a pair of photo albums and handed them up to me. “Take a look through these.”

“I'll get the bag,” Carrie said.

With Diana perched on the chair Carrie had vacated and Carrie curled in the chair I had moved away from, I settled on the horsehair couch with the photo albums across my lap. Covers of worn leather felt like they might crumble beneath my fingers, the paper pages like they might disintegrate at my touch. Carefully, I turned to the first page. Black paper photo corners held the pictures in place and gave stark contrast to the faded shades of gray in the images. I peered closely at the first picture, squinting to make out the figures in their rigid poses. A stiff-looking couple, he standing, she sitting. In the woman's lap, acres and acres of lace presumably wrapped a baby.

The same couple appeared in nearly all the photos, the number of children pictured with them increasing, the black-
and-white images giving way to bleached color. Outdoors, indoors, picnics and Christmases, a family chronology captured in images. Now and again there were clusters of women gathered around card tables, grinning beneath identical hairstyles. And here and there, groups of men stood smiling next to pallets of red brick. These were the good old days of Wenwood.

“You know, if I knew how to knit, this would be a really great hat for winter.” Diana held out an open magazine for Carrie and me to see.

“You don't know how to knit?” Carrie's voice cracked with disbelief.

Diana leveled a look at Carrie that would reduce a less cheerful soul to dust. “Do you know how to field strip a nine-millimeter Sig?”

“Are we done looking through this stuff?” I asked loudly. “Isn't it time to head over to town hall? Don't we want to get good seats . . . or something?”

Diana left off glaring at Carrie and turned to me. “You find anything interesting?” she asked.

I held up the photo album. “I think this woman only owned two dresses.”

She huffed and looked to Carrie. “How about you? Did you find anything?”

“Nothing.”

Diana sighed. “Nothing here either.” She stood, brushing dust off her palms. “That's too bad.”

“
That's too bad?
” I echoed.

She shrugged. “So I was thinking of becoming a
detective. Getting a lead on the arsonist who blazed that office might look good in my file. Maybe. And plus I'd get to help you out,” she told Carrie.

“Win-win,” I commented, fighting to keep a straight face.

Carrie fought valiantly, pressing her lips tight and avoiding eye contact. But she couldn't hide the humor lighting her eyes.

It was only moments before Diana huffed and shook her head. “Fine, fine. Let's just go to this town mudfest then. Maybe there'll be something worth investigating there.”

W
enwood Town Hall was a stately building comprised of Wenwood brick and hometown pride. It sat like a sentry atop a gentle hill, keeping the town safe since the time of its founding, strong enough to do so for many years to come.

By the time we arrived, the sun had set in my rearview mirror and was sinking below the horizon ahead. Lamps blinked to life at strategic points across the front lawn, their spotlights on the half-dozen marble steps and double set of tall white columns.

I cruised past the flagpole where both the U.S. and the New York State flag, brightly lit from below, hung limp in the still air and turned into the parking lot that ran alongside town hall. The lot was crowded with cars, leaving me to take a spot toward the back, where the streetlamps were
buzzing their way to illumination. Diana and Carrie piled out of the SUV before I'd even pulled the keys from the ignition.

“Why are we in such a rush?” I asked, hurrying to catch up with them. “I was only kidding about the whole getting-a-good-seat thing.”

“Maybe you were kidding, but it's not really a joke.” Diana lifted her hair up off the back of her neck. Tugging a coated elastic band free from her wrist, she wrapped her hair in a casual ponytail. “Tonight's the announcement.”

“What announcement?” Something tickled the back of my mind, something trying to tell me I knew all about the announcement. The knowledge, though, was too deeply buried for a little tickling to bring it to the surface.

Carrie looked over her shoulder at me. “Of which new merchant application the town council has approved?”

Two more steps and I was walking level with them and resisting the urge to smack my forehead. “That's right. The merchants.”

After the untimely death of Andy Edgers, his son had slowly but thoroughly removed all stock from the hardware store Andy had owned and left the space vacant. For a while Carrie—among other residents, I had no doubt—had tried to convince young Edgers to take over the business and keep the hardware store in Wenwood. But he was among those who had grown up and left town for better opportunity and wasn't eager to move back.

Now, the town council, with recommendations from the merchants' association, would cast their votes to determine
which business would be allowed to take over the space once filled with spackle, screwdrivers, and sandpaper.

Though we walked quickly, we were overtaken by two laughing, rushing women. “Stella. Regina,” Carrie called.

The women stopped and turned. Dressed in soft blouses and denim skirts, with fashionable ropes of jewelry adding sparkle, both ladies smiled. “Carrie,” the short-haired brunette said. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here.”

“You're here to celebrate with us, right?” The other, a thin woman whose red hair I would have bet was mixed in a salon, grinned and offered a hand to me. “I'm Regina Henry.”

“Georgia Kelly.” I shook her hand, nodded to my right. “This is Diana Davis.”

They said their hellos then the handshakes repeated as Stella Mason introduced herself.

“What is it we're supposed to be celebrating?” Diana asked.

Regina held up crossed fingers. “The announcement that the town council approved Sweets—”

“Hush,” Stella said on a laugh. “You'll jinx it.”

Together we resumed the walk, heading to the end of the cement sidewalk and shuffling up the steps. Moving quicker than the rest of us, Diana raised a hand to acknowledge a man coming down the steps as we went up.

“Hey, Curtis,” she said.

He stutter-stepped to a stop, then paired a brief nod with an “Evening” that seemed a feat of ventriloquism. A heavy,
dark moustache hung so low I never saw his lips move. “Here for the meeting?” he asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his polo shirt.

“No,” Diana said as we passed him. “I'm here to apply for docking privileges for my mega-yacht.”

He gave a smile so slight I couldn't tell if he thought Diana's sarcasm was amusing or if he didn't understand her statement as sarcasm at all. “Yeah, uh, good luck.”

Lifting the cigarette pack in a strange sort of salute, he continued down the remainder of the steps.

Stella spluttered a laugh. “Does that man have no sense of humor at all?”

Diana paused at the top step, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. “One of the volunteer firemen,” she told Stella. “Takes himself a little too seriously.”

“You mean you were kidding about the mega-yacht?” I jogged up the last few steps. “Rats. I guess that means I can't catch a ride with you to Fiji.”

We walked as a group through the grand double doors and down the stairs to the basement auditorium, where rows of folding chairs filled the floor and town residents filled the room. Standing, sitting, laughing, or chatting, there were enough people gathered in that relatively small space to fill Grandy's theater.

“Front? Back? Anywhere?” Diana asked.

Regina and Stella excused themselves to go check in with the meeting organizers while Carrie and I scanned the room.

“I don't think we'll have many choices,” Carrie said. “Not if we want to sit together.”

Diana tipped her chin toward the far side of the room. “Seats over there by my Aunt Grace.”

The only way to get to the other side of the room was to take the long way around the rows of chairs. I followed behind Diana and Carrie as we weaved our way through the clusters of people gathered at the back of the room before we could walk up the side aisle to the vacant seats Diana had spotted. Along the way I tested myself putting faces to names, waving to some, exchanging hellos with others, trying to gauge how familiar I was with the longtime residents of Wenwood. There was Rozelle—a petite woman with tight gray curls—who owned the bakery and was sweet on Grandy; Maura, the bleached-blond music lover who worked at the grocery; Theresa, the vet; and Hector, the barber; and a dozen or more people I had become acquainted with. I had that sudden, warm sense of belonging that comforted me down to my toes and grinned all the way to my folding metal seat.

“Hey, Aunt Grace,” Diana said as we filed into the row behind her.

“Hiya, girls.” Still dressed in the robin's egg blue cotton dress she wore for her workday behind the counter at the luncheonette, ash blond hair in a low tight bun, Grace turned in her chair and grinned. “Diana, I'm glad you're here. I was just telling Marjorie about that nice fella you're seeing but I can't remember his name. What is it? Gary? Gregory?”

Diana's eyes went wide, and the muscles in her jaw bulged. “Aunt Grace,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“Nice fella?” I asked.

“Gregory?” Carrie added. “Why haven't we heard about this?”

“Yeah, why haven't we heard?” I echoed.

Diana took a breath so deep her nostrils flared. “His name is Nick and I was hoping to keep things quiet.”

“But why haven't
we
heard?” Carrie asked. “You're supposed to tell your friends these things.”

“Not after you graduate high school you're not,” Diana snapped. Her cheeks flushed red, and the hands that had rested loosely on her knees closed into fists.

Catching Carrie's eye, I shook my head as minimally as possible. Only recently Diana had been taken off the desk duty she'd been briefly relegated to while she addressed her “anger management issues” and restored to regular duty. No need for us to risk waking the sleeping cranky pants.

“Oh, Diana, relax,” Grace said. “We all know a few good dates do not a happily-ever-after make. It's just nice to know you're seeing someone. No one's going to ask you when the big day is.”

Diana took in a very visible, very audible deep breath and blew it out in a slow stream. “Sorry, Aunt Grace. I should not have overreacted. I will try to work on that in the future.”

Sure, it was easy enough for Diana to cling to the mantras of her anti-anger training. But I didn't know how deeply the words had sunk in for her, and wasn't eager to test their efficacy.

Turning back to face the front of the auditorium, Grace
said to the woman beside her, “Nick. His name is Nick. Lives up past that big Ford dealership.”

I looked to Diana. “Sorry,” I murmured. “Didn't mean to add to the . . . you know.”

She held up a hand, palm out. “I need a minute.”

Carrie shrugged while Diana did the deep-breathing thing again, and I checked the room for anything more interesting than the back of Grace's head.

Everyone in Wenwood was not, in fact, present. For one, few of the town's retiree set had opted to attend. For another, not everyone would be accommodated in the small space. But the turnout was excellent, and the demographic predominately younger. It was the young professionals and families, after all, who seemed to have the greatest interest in moving Wenwood forward.

I scanned the groups of standees, hoping I might spot Drew. If we happened to be in the same place, I could present the whole needing someone to help out in his office as a “hey, by the way,” and then hit him with questions about law offices and the benefits of fire. I spotted the girl who helped out at the bakery laughing with the gentleman who was the new manager of the grocery, and a couple of young mothers in earnest conversation.

Near the entrance, Melanie, Russ Stanford's admin, stood talking with Curtis the humorless, her face a study in sympathy. As though aware of my gaze, she turned toward me and waggled her fingers. I waved back as a man of vast proportions tipped his head sideways so he could enter the room: Gabe Stanford.

Something sour rolled across my tongue. Might have
been a little cheddar cheese aftertaste, but there was an equal chance it was a reaction to Gabe. I let out an involuntary “ugh.”

“What?” Diana asked.

I glanced to the door. “Gabe.”

“Figures,” Carrie said on a sigh.

“Who's Gabe?” Diana asked.

“My ex-brother-in-law,” she replied. “Because I haven't had enough crap this week.”

Keeping my eyes on the man, I said, “Ignore him. There are a million other people here for him to aggravate besides you.”

Diana glanced from me to where Gabe stood just inside the doorway, scanning the crowd. “Wait. That guy? Bruce Banner mid-shift?” She looked to Carrie. “That's your brother-in-law?”

“Ex,” Carrie and I said together.

“Wow. A guy that big, I'd need a forty-four Magnum to stop him.”

“Don't be silly,” I said. “Regular weapons don't stop the Hulk.”

I should have looked away sooner; there was no need for me to keep my eyes on Gabe for as long as I did. But his scan of the room eventually brought me into his line of sight and he focused his gaze in my direction, icy blue eyes piercing through the heat of the room and slicing through me.

I looked away, not wanting him to think I'd been staring at him because I found him interesting, appealing, or the least bit above pond scum.

The shift in perspective allowed me, at last, to catch sight of Drew Able, Esquire. Sandy hair, pale skin, and dressed plain as ever in blue shirt and khaki slacks, he crossed the front of the room and took up position behind the podium.

So much for catching him before the meeting.

He tapped the microphone a few times and invited everyone to find a seat if they could, while a line of folks whom I assumed to be the town council filed through a doorway and filled the chairs behind the conference tables stretched beside the podium.

At the podium, Drew invited those seated to stand and led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. It seemed every man and woman in attendance recited the pledge with intent and enthusiasm. My spine tingled with pride at the sound of all those voices joined in support of our country.

The pride I felt was quickly doused as the previously empty seat beside me attracted an occupant, an occupant whose elbow pressed against my upper arm, while my shoulder pressed into his bicep. A sharp scent of disinfecting soap occupied the air around him, and he himself occupied every other square inch of space. I looked up, and up, and up at him, and Gabe smiled down at me, a little cheerful, a little superior.

I gave no smile in return, but looked to the front of the room where Drew called the roll of the town council members. Having ascertained all were present, he handed the floor to the council.

As the head of the council shuffled to the podium, the mood in the auditorium made a subtle downshift from
convivial to cautious. I glanced left to see if Carrie or Diana seemed affected or could possibly explain the change, but they kept their eyes front, with the same sort of focus I'd witnessed in Friday when she was trying to work out what made ants move.

In a droning voice, the councilman began to read the minutes of the last meeting. Mention of an incentive to repave Grand Avenue between Paris and Rome passed without reaction—except from me, since my imagination flashed a kindergarten map of Europe, where a paving truck chugged along between the Eiffel Tower and the Roman Colosseum. I covered my mouth to hold in the giggles.

While I fought down my mirth and the smell of Gabe's soap faded, the minutes were passed with the bang of a gavel and the council moved on to new business. First order, the vote on who would be occupying 120 Center.

“Proposal 1312E, third reading. Occupation of the property at 120 Center Street by Stella Mason and Regina Henry, retail proprietors of Sweets and Stones, combination mid-range jewelry, gourmet chocolates, and traditional penny candies.”

A smattering of applause erupted, quickly countered by general noises of dissent.

“Proposal 1312F, third reading. Occupation of the property at 120 Center Street by American Distributors, retail owners of National Wine and Liquors, full-spectrum liquor store.”

The same combination of applause and disapproval rumbled through the room.