Death Under Glass (11 page)

He pressed his lips tight, considered the idea. “That's how Pete thought you could help? By me hiring you?”

“You clearly need some help here, Drew.” I waved a hand at the mess. “Before this gets worse. And I could use the work.”

“I don't know . . .” His lips twitched as if he was biting the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah, I don't know how you waited this long to hire someone either,” I said, grinning, teasing. “How about we call it a temp job? I'll get this place in order and give you a listing of who owes you what, and then you decide whether or not you want to keep me on to make sure you get paid.”

“A temp job, huh?” he asked.

The pop and scrape of a heat-swollen door being opened carried through waiting room and office to reach us by the filing cabinet. Chattering voices followed.

“My next clients are here,” he said. He dashed to the table. Pushing aside one file after another he muttered, “I know I left the file right . . .”

A rap at the open door made us both turn and look over our shoulders.

A man and woman stood in the doorway, looking as though they were both cut from the same brown-haired, fair-eyed cloth. “Sorry, Drew.” The man flashed a quick grin. “The door was open. I was afraid we were late.”

The woman beside him smirked. “You were afraid we'd be billed.”

It was Drew who flushed with embarrassment, but his tone was confident. “Go ahead and have a seat. I'll be right with you.”

The pair retreated, presumably to claim the chairs on the visitors' side of Drew's desk.

“Steve and Marcy Carney,” he said, so quietly I struggled to hear. “Property sale. They're in for a nice windfall if I can find the file.” He spun back to the cluttered table. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“Property?” My forehead furrowed as I added that
information to what little I knew of Drew. “I didn't realize you practiced real estate law.”

“I practice a little bit of everything. That is, if I can find the—thank goodness!” Drew's fingers closed around a thick manila folder. Abashed, he turned around to face me. “You're right. I need help. Can you start tomorrow?”

T
he trip back to Newbridge, back to Broad Street and the scene of the crime, required just one U-turn after I went west instead of east. Considering I had only made the trip once before and as a passenger at that, I considered my otherwise direct drive a victory.

I parked the SUV on the same side street we had parked on earlier in the week, but this time found a nice shade tree to keep the vehicle cool. After locking the door behind me, I made a futile attempt at smoothing down the wrinkles in my dress and strode across the street.

Foot traffic and road traffic had increased since last I was in town. I presumed the bustle illustrated its ordinary pace. I passed by people running errands and kids gathered on the sidewalk asking one another the classic summer question, “Now what do you want to do?” My gaze
strayed across the street, where the blackened hulk of stone that was once Russ Stanford's office slouched behind the chain-link fencing Carrie had paid to have erected to keep out the curious and the daredevils. My belly went hollow at the sight of the gutted building. The charred walls and boarded windows spoke loudly of loss and violence.

Why, then? Why had the antiques store been spared?

Standing and staring at the building wouldn't make the answer come. I needed more information.

Turning my back on the damaged building, I pulled open the narrow door to the coffee shop and stepped inside. The refreshing blast of air-conditioning made me aware of the sweat and vague nausea the destroyed law office had stirred. Hand on my stomach, I took a slow, steadying breath.

At fast glance all but four of the little tables appeared occupied, with a few people seated at the counter. The door opened behind me, and I shuffled out of the way of two late-middle-aged women, chuckling, heads bent over their smartphones.

A waitress buzzed by, pot of coffee in one hand, menus tucked under her arm. “Grab a seat anywhere, ladies.”

I looked over my shoulder, realizing the waitress thought we were all one group. Worse, the waitress was not Susie, the dark-haired server I was seeking.

But the café was busy. I reasoned there had to be more than one waitress. Plus the aroma of coffee and grilled burgers scented the air. I strode to the counter and settled onto a stool, with the access to the kitchen farther down
on my left and the closed end of the counter farther down to the right. Someone had left the day's paper within reach, beside a covered cake plate containing no more than half a dozen donuts. Tempting though the donuts were, I helped myself to the paper only and prepared to wait.

I was only three pages in and wondering how much longer printed newspapers would be viable when an earthenware mug was plunked onto the counter in front of me. Seconds later, the coffee was poured.

I looked up from the paper at the same moment Susie lifted the carafe of coffee away from my mug. Relief and anxiety moved simultaneously through me. Susie was the only chance I had at locating Russ's administrative assistant, Melanie. If Susie hadn't been working, I would have been sunk. Even though she was, there was still a chance she wouldn't help me at all.

But it was because of Carrie I had made the trip. Carrie who had fast become the friend I sorely needed after arriving in Wenwood. She was worth taking the chance.

“Coffee, right?” Susie asked after the fact.

“You remembered.” I smiled, reaching for the cup.

“Menu?”

“Umm.” I eyed the donuts. I knew I should opt for real food, opt for something with more protein and less sugar. Something whose ingredients were all sourced from a produce aisle. “Donut. Thanks.”

The reduction in Susie's interest in me was almost a tangible thing. With coffee and a donut there wouldn't be much of a tip for her, making me a customer who required a little less attention. I needed to act fast.

“And I was hoping you could help me with something,” I said.

“Jelly?” Susie asked.

“Jelly's good,” I said. “You know Melanie who works—worked—across the street?”

She used a paper square to remove a jelly donut from the cake plate. Nodding, she withdrew a saucer from beneath the counter and set the donut atop it.

“I need to get in touch with her.” I left the statement there, hoping Susie might offer her assistance. But her gaze flicked over my head and swept the room. She had other customers to see to, customers whose forks were tapping against plates and glasses were thunking onto tables. She shifted her weight, almost leaning, and I knew she was preparing to leave. “I don't suppose you could give me her number?”

Susie smirked, rolled her eyes, and took off to the closed end of the counter.

Drat.

I rested my elbows on the counter. Leaning forward, I kept my eyes on Susie, knowing she would have to come back past me.

When at last she spun around to head back to the kitchen, I held up a finger to flag her down. “Menu?” she asked again.

“If I give you my number, would you call Melanie and ask her to call me? Or maybe she could meet me here?”

“I'm working,” she said, and kept going.

It took two more attempts, one solemn oath that all I wanted to talk to Melanie about was her job, and one plea
that her boss's ex-wife might be in danger before Susie agreed to call Melanie on my behalf.

Rather than give Melanie my number and tell her to call me, Susie went right to the point and asked her to come down to the coffee shop. I suspected this was a ploy to get me to order something more substantial than a donut. But when Susie clicked off the call and slid her phone back into her apron, she said, “She can't come.”

Stunned, I let my mouth hang open a moment before I found words. “Why didn't you give her my number? Or even just put me on the phone with her?”

“Because I'm not your secretary. Relax.” Susie pointedly took away my coffee. “She's having a mani-pedi at Mindy's. You can go meet her there.”

From the coffee shop it was a five-minute fight with my GPS and a fifteen-minute ride to Mindy's Nails. The cup of decaf I'd purchased for the ride tasted like the coffee was brewed with twice-used grounds and made me regret leaving an exorbitant tip for Susie. Still, she didn't make the coffee, and though she hadn't been quick to help, she had called Melanie in the end and that's all that mattered.

Unable to find a parking spot in front of the strip mall in which the nail salon was located, I left Grandy's SUV two blocks away and hoofed it. As I walked, seriously regretting my choice of footwear, sweat collected in my palms and across my lower back. I swore I could feel the sun burning my skin, transforming my Irish pale into freckled lobster faster than Friday chasing a firefly.

I waited to enter Mindy's while another patron waddled out, bright red toes held off the ground, car keys in
hand. In that brief moment at the entrance to the shop, noise from inside assailed me. The television was blasting the midday news and the shop staff was busy shouting over it to converse with one another. The air smelled of nail glue and floral air freshener and my nose twitched with the threat of a sneeze. But the air, just that brief tease of it, was cooler, and I ducked inside gratefully.

Just over the threshold I moved out of the path of the doorway and paused, taking in the bright yellow walls, string of white manicure tables, and trio of beige pedicure chairs. In the chair farthest from the door, Melanie sat flipping through a magazine while a wiry gentleman with a thick head of black hair applied polish to her toes. I risked a deep breath, trying to still the sudden rush of anxiety cramping my gut. What made me nervous? It was just a few questions . . . that I had to ask of a virtual stranger.

As I blew out the breath and stepped forward, one of the blue-aproned manicurists rushed over and asked if I wanted a manicure. I pointed to the back of the salon. “Just here to see someone,” I said, adding some volume to my voice to beat out the blare of the television.

Melanie glanced up, her gaze a mixture of curiosity and wariness. She flipped one more page of her magazine before setting the publication on the wide armrest and leaning forward. Her short denim skirt and pale pink camisole showed off newly sunned skin. Getting out of the office seemed to have done her good.

“Okay,” the man at her feet said. “Now manicure?”

“Yes,” she said, then turned to me. “Come have a manicure.”

I did a quick mental calculation of my cash situation and a surreptitious check of the price list affixed to the wall. Knowing I would need to make a large cash outlay soon in order to buy sheets of stained glass I really should have avoided the little luxury. But I reasoned having my nails done would seem more congenial than straight out questioning Melanie. Plus, I was better at being pampered than I was at being an interrogator.

The staff picked up on Melanie's plan and a manicurist positioned herself behind the empty table next to Melanie's, smiling while I dashed to the wall lined with row upon row of polishes and grabbed the first soft copper shade I could find.

I passed the polish to the technician and settled into the chair to Melanie's left.

“So Susie says Russ's ex-wife had her shop broken into . . .” Melanie began in a fill-in-the-blank tone.

“Night before last.” I rested the heels of my hands on the paper-wrapped block. “Did a lot of damage.” The nail technician sprayed my fingertips with the scented sanitizer, and I realized this was the source of the floral fragrance, not air freshener.

“A lot of damage.” Melanie scoffed. “Damage isn't as bad as burnt to the ground.”

“No, it's not,” I murmured. She was right, of course. The fire had done far more destruction to property. But at Carrie's antiques shop, more than just glass had been shattered.

When the technician inquired, I asked her to shape my nails nicely rounded. She set to work filing with an abandon
I wouldn't dare at home and I returned to questioning Melanie. “Have you heard from Russ at all?” I asked.

“Should I have?” She peered sidelong at me, big brown eyes shrewd.

“Doesn't he check in when he's away?”

Melanie lifted her shoulders in shrug. “Not with me. You know, Herb Gallo is the other attorney. If Russ checks in, that's who he calls.”

“Wait. Herb Gallo? Older gentleman, widower, very polite?”

“Sounds like Herb,” Melanie said.

Of all the dumb luck. I'd had him. He had been right there in the luncheonette and I never even knew. Of course, there was a slim—super slim—chance there was more than one Herb Gallo in the area. But I wouldn't bet on super slim.

“He might have spoken to Russ. Herb handles clients and covers cases and all that, so if there was anything needing to be done, he's the one Russ would call.” She huffed a little and shifted the hair off her shoulder with a toss of her head. “All I can do is make photocopies and phone calls.”

“I'm sure you do more than that,” I said.

“No. That's about it.”

If that was true, I may have spent my time better by hunting down Herb. But how to know for sure?

I waited while the nail technician guided my right hand into the soak then took the file to my left.

“You know, it's funny, really, that I came up to see you today because I just got a temporary job working for a lawyer myself.”

“Yeah? Good for you.” It was the look she gave me that conveyed the sarcasm more than her tone.

I chose to pretend I didn't understand her subtlety. “I'm a little nervous about it, honestly. It's my first job in a law office and I have no idea what kind of boss this guy's going to be.”

Letting the statement lie, I focused for a bit on the technician sawing away at my nails with gusto. By the time she moved my hand into the soft soak and gestured for me to take my other hand out, curiosity prevailed.

“What's the lawyer's name?” Melanie asked.

“Drew Able? Down in Wenwood?” I waited for a nod of recognition, could practically see her mentally scrolling a contacts list.

“I don't think I know him,” she said. “What kind of law?”

I bit back the “umm” I wanted to mutter. “A variety, I'd say. Criminal law and some real estate.”

She sniffed a breath. “Russ and Herb don't do that stuff. That's probably why I don't know the name.”

“No? What kind of law does Russ practice?” I sucked air through my teeth as the technician got a little overzealous with the orange stick, pushing my cuticle back farther than nature intended.

“Didn't his ex-wife tell you?” Melanie's look was wary, suspicious almost.

I tried a smile. “She doesn't like to talk about him much. You know.” I told the technician, “Careful, please.”

She merely titched at me like I was being a baby.

“Funny. Russ likes to talk about her,” Melanie said around a grimace.

“Really?”

“Russ does divorces, you know? So he's always telling his clients about his own divorce to kind of win their confidence.” She looked away from me, then looked back quickly. “You're not divorced, are you?”

“Never married,” I said, choosing to leave it at that. She didn't need my whole story. I doubted sharing details on my broken engagement would significantly endear me to her anyway. “So, is Russ working on any divorce cases now?”

“Oh, probably. Things are a little slow now, though. You know, summer.”

I sighed. “But divorce. That doesn't fit,” I muttered. The nail technician put down the orange stick and picked up the cuticle trimmer. I nearly whimpered in fear.

“What doesn't fit? Are you thinking there's some connection between the fire and the break-in?” Melanie asked.

I didn't know whether I was thinking or hoping. “How can there not be? But I can't figure out what that connection is. I can't imagine it being a divorce case. Sure, a bitter spouse on the losing end of a settlement might go after Russ for spite, but Carrie?”