Death Under Glass (8 page)

“I don't understand,” I whispered. “There's more than one shop vacant on Center. Why the battle over this one?”

“Apparently this one has second-floor storage,” Diana whispered back. She shrugged.

At the mention of the second-floor storage, I quickly recalled being inside 120 Center when it had been a hardware store and coming across the staircase in back that led to loft space. The amount of storage space upstairs meant more square feet for retail at street level. Part of me was surprised Carrie wasn't interested in relocating her antiques shop there, what with the current overcrowding in her back room. But I understood that the added space may not have been worth the effort. I knew all too well what a pain moving was. Sure, I'd moved personal stuff and not an entire retail store but I figured the aggravation was at least equal.

“All those in favor of granting tenancy to Stella Mason and Regina Henry? Show of hands, please.”

Hands went up around the room. I was secretly pleased to see Grace's hand shoot up in the air, since so many others of her generation appeared to be sitting with their arms tightly folded, but kept my own hands tucked beneath my knees.

The vote was repeated for the liquor store. From where I sat there appeared to be fewer hands in the air. As I turned to check behind me to see what the vote looked like over my shoulder, I caught Diana glaring at me.

“What?” I said.

“You didn't vote.”

“I'm not a resident.”

“You've lived here half your life,” she said.

“Not sequentially,” I said. “More . . . intermittently.”

Diana narrowed one eye at me. “But you're staying this time, right?”

I opened my mouth, already preparing a breezy assertion that of course I was staying, because it was so much quicker and easier than explaining my internal dilemma. But beyond a friend's insight, I knew the cop in Diana would see right through me. All I could do was shrug.

The gavel came down with a
crack
and the room quieted. Diana treated me to one last glare before facing forward.

“Popular vote goes to Stella Mason and Regina Henry. In the absence of overwhelming dissention that might require the Council to reopen discussion and by provisions of Wenwood articles of procedure, tenancy is granted to Sweets and Stones.”

Cheerful whoops and applause erupted throughout the auditorium. A cluster of women at the front of the room jumped from their seats and hugged one another. At the center of the joy, Regina's and Stella's smiles sparkled. Even the councilman cracked a grin. “Congratulations, ladies.”

Beside me, Gabe let out a huff that threatened to blow loose the bun on the back of Grace's head. He smacked his hands upon his thighs, stood, and stomped off.

Diana raised a brow. “I guess he wanted to buy whiskey by the barrel, huh?”

“If there's any justice in the world, he has no one to buy jewelry for,” I said.

Much as I didn't want to give Gabe Stanford another moment's attention, I watched as he made his way around the back of the room and out the door. Maybe I wanted to assure myself he was really leaving. And while I watched a bit longer, presumably to make sure he didn't return and rob me of shoulder room again, a steady stream of people trickled toward the exit.

But even with the shrinking of the crowd, the change in atmosphere as the next order of business was read was palpable. While the councilmen reviewed the proposal by development company Spring and Hamilton to build a shopping promenade along the riverfront, the room erupted in murmurs and what sounded, remarkably, like hissing.

“Settle down, please. Settle down,” the councilman requested.

“What's this all about?” I asked, leaning close to Diana and keeping my voice low.

Eyes on the councilman, Diana said, “Spring and Hamilton still doesn't have the approval of the town council to build their shopping center down where the new marina will be. The senior set is opposed, the younger set is in favor. What else is new?”

Carrie peeked her head around. “They'll get their approval. This is the second reading. Before next month's meeting the council will make their decision and take town sentiment into consideration. As you can see”—she waved a hand to indicate our surroundings—“there are more in favor than opposed. It'll go through.”

“They just need to complete the land purchases and
tear down all those old houses standing in their way,” Diana said.

“Your town council will hold one more roundtable meeting to discuss the pros and cons with the residents on September sixth,” said the councilman. “Due to space limitations we request interested parties advise the council's office of their intent to attend.”

Once again, murmurs rippled through the crowd, gaining volume row by row. The councilman cleared his throat, the sound crackling through the speakers like a Hollywood explosion. It took several long moments, but the room at last quieted enough for the councilman to proceed.

“At this time I would like to turn the podium over to Councilwoman Denise Cannon.”

“A new speaker? You mean it's not over?” I asked.

Craning her head over her shoulder, Grace answered, “They still have to read out the new business. You have to stay for that.”

“Or you could wait until Friday and read about it in the
Town Crier
,” Diana muttered.

“So by staying we've got an inside scoop?” I said.

“Something like that.” Diana folded her arms and sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed appraisingly at the short, rounded woman who ambled to the podium.

“As you are no doubt aware,” the speaker began, her voice shrill and certainly not in need of a microphone, “the state has awarded licenses for four casinos to be built in the areas surrounding Pace County. Your town council has been meeting with representatives from neighboring towns
to discuss the implication and repercussions these resorts may have on our local economies.”

The woman continued to speak, providing highlights from meetings that seemed to have resolved nothing, and reinforcing the importance of the success of the proposed Spring and Hamilton promenade.

“That's what they're banking on?” I whispered to Diana. “They're hoping with successful retail they can get a cut of the tourist money headed for the casinos?”

Diana shook her head. “They're hoping to get retail in place, so when the next round of licenses are issued there aren't casino resort developers eyeing our waterfront.”

I nearly asked why they wouldn't want a casino nearby but then recalled the crowded streets of Atlantic City, the neon lights of tower hotels, the weed-like increase of fast-food establishments. A town like Wenwood, with its quiet riverside charm and air of a simpler time, would lose its identity entirely were the sleek lines and hotel towers of a casino resort to cast their shadow.

I listened intently to the rest of the speaker's presentation and cheered and stomped my feet with the remaining attendees when she concluded.

If I were to make a home in Wenwood, my vote would fall cleanly in favor of kitschy gift shops and waterfront restaurants over roulette wheels and all-you-can-eat buffets.

All I needed to decide was if this was
home.

C
arrie had threatened to pick me up at nine forty-five so together we could open Aggie's Antiques at ten. Carrie was never on time. Nonetheless, I set my alarm as if she would be early, and by eight I was dressed and downstairs in the space I used as my glass workshop, making use of both the early light and the time I would normally spend waiting for Carrie to arrive.

When my grandmother was still alive and she used the room as an art studio, she set up her still lifes in the light from the windows. Now my stained glass worktable sat where those vases of flowers and bowls of fruit had once sat.

At the end of the table opposite the stack of outdated newspapers, pieces of my latest personal project—the sailboat on the blue-green sea—lay safe beneath an old
floral sheet I had unearthed in the basement. Reclaimed Wenwood bricks weighed down the cloth, preventing curious paws from lifting corners—or worse.

I left the covering in place and opened my sketchbook in the center of the table. The covers had barely hit the surface before Friday attempted to leap onto the table by jumping for a corner of the sheet. The same sunlight that made this the perfect place to work lit her bright white fur with an angelic glow while her devil claws dug in and made me doubly grateful for the bricks.

I pried her narrow, fur-too-soft-for-words body off the sheet and placed her atop the table. She was only four months old, and I was new to owning a cat, but it seemed to me the fuzz I had taken for kitten fur truly was an indicator of long hair to come. A long-haired white cat. I could hear Grandy grumbling about it already.

Wide blue-green eyes fixed on the notebook, and she took a tentative step forward. I knew I had limited time before she plunked herself in the center of the paper, and for once, that was best.

Keeping one eye on Friday, I reached beneath the table and withdrew the old crafters' storage box—another basement find—from the shelf below and brought it up to the tabletop.

With the latch undone, the cover lifted to expose rows of square cubbies within. Bits of broken glass gleamed from inside each cubby, some larger than the others but none too terribly small. They were remainder bits from older projects, and I had taken to storing them so I had my own mini-library of colors and textures.

I had done my best to sort the pieces by color—moss with sage, sunflower with buttercup—though some were such a gorgeous conflagration of color variety that they had no single color place. But for this piece, for Trudy Villiers's window, I suspected she would prefer the simpler blends.

“Magnolias,” I murmured.

Friday mewed back.

“Magnolias,” I said, louder, smiling at her little white face. “They come in different colors.”

The trick was to find a white with enough pink or a pink with enough white that the subtle color variation of the magnolia blossom would shine.

Again reaching below the tabletop, I blindly sought the box of latex gloves I kept below and pulled one free. I tugged the glove onto my hand as my eyes scanned the box of color. An assortment of pale pinks nestled in the upper left corner of the box. I stuck a gloved finger into the cubby and flicked past pieces one by one.

“Hmmm.”

Mew.

I reached absently for her and scratched under her chin.

“Magnolia Bed and Breakfast,” I mused. “She's got all those roses in the back. Maybe she'd rather have roses?”

I lifted a broken corner of milk-white glass streaked with pink and held it up to the light. “But she wants magnolias.” I looked to Friday as though we were having a true conversation. “And I have a feeling Trudy gets what Trudy wants, always.”

She had brand new sidewalks in a town that clung to its old brick walks with the tenacity of a cat on a mouse and she had someone keeping the lawn trim and the bushes shaped. I peered past the glass in my fingers, out the window onto Grandy's yard. There was some trimming and shaping to be done there as well. If only I had the money to hire someone to snip the boxwoods into shape.

“Some day,” I said to Friday, giving her a final pat on the head.

She rubbed her soft cheek against my palm, emitted an uncertain purr.

“Yeah,” I said on a sigh. “I don't know how long either.”

*   *   *

T
here was a storm in the forecast for the afternoon, which was nice in its promise for a cool evening to follow, but bad news for people like me, who planned on walking home from the village shops with a fresh supply of bananas. Figuring with my luck I'd be walking when the storm was due to begin, I grabbed a compact umbrella on my way out the door and ran through ominously humid air to jump into Carrie's car.

“Sorry I'm late,” Carrie said as I pulled closed the door behind me.

“Oh, don't worry about it. Worked out fine. I was all caught up picking colors for Trudy Villiers's window.”

“Speaking of Trudy . . .” She smiled a little. “I got an e-mail from her last night. She wants to know if you can stop by tomorrow with sketches for the window.”

The urge to squirm in my seat was so strong I nearly
twitched from the fight. “Just me? What about you? Wouldn't she rather work with you?”

Carrie let out a light bark of a laugh. “Georgia, you're the one designing the window. That makes you the one Trudy has to work with.”

“No. No. You could just bring her the designs and let me know what she thinks. I'm fine with that.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She glanced at me from the corner of her eyes. “Wait, are you . . . You're not afraid of Trudy are you?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I'm not afraid of her. I just . . . don't think she likes me very much.”

“Why would you say that?” Carrie asked over a barely contained giggle.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe the way she kept squinting at me and saying ‘Georgia Kelly' for starters.”

Carrie chuckled as she turned onto Center Street. “You're sounding a little paranoid.”

“Paranoid? She said flat out there's something wrong with me, which is exactly the sort of thing someone who doesn't like a person says.”

“I wouldn't say she doesn't like you. More like she doesn't trust you.”

While I wrestled with the quick-rising indignation—I was perfectly trustworthy, thank you very much—Carrie steered the car past the grocer's and turned into the access alleyway leading to the parking area. A turn to the right at the end of the alley would put us in the lot behind the market, but a turn to the left took us to the limited strip of spaces behind the smaller shops, Aggie's Antiques among them.

“All the more reason, then,” I said. “You'll have to come with me or Trudy may not let me in.”

Sighing, she parked the car and cut the ignition. “You're still acting like this is a personal affront. To people like Trudy who have lived here their whole lives, you're still an outsider—no matter how many years of your childhood you lived with Pete.”

Those years weren't even consecutive. On and off my mother would move us back to her hometown, typically when she was between husbands. I'm hard-pressed to remember spending winters anywhere other than Wenwood.

“It's the adult Georgia they don't know,” Carrie continued as we made our way across the thin strip of tarmac.

I huffed. “You didn't know the adult Georgia and yet we're friends.”

She slid her key into the lock set in the steel door. “Yes, but I—” Before she had turned the key, the door creaked open.

It was only a fraction, but no locked door should pop open unless its lock had been released. Which could only mean one thing.

Carrie and I gaped at one another, jaws slackening.

“Did you forget to lock that?”

She shook her head. “I never forget. Not ever.” Tentatively, she curled her fingers around the handle and tugged.

“Carrie, I don't think you should—”

“Oh, Georgia, I'm sure it's fine.”

The door swung open and Carrie ducked inside. Maybe I did have a bit of paranoia going on. All those years living
in the city might have made me somewhat overcautious. This was Wenwood for Pete's sake. It was more realistic for me to expect her to shut off the store alarm and shout to me it was safe to enter.

I did not expect a
scream.