Death Under Glass (14 page)

Unlike Matthew, Grandy didn't scare me. I plopped the pay vouchers on the table and gave him a hard look.
“Bacon-wrapped poppers taste crazy good, and they're just spicy enough to keep the patrons ordering sodas and beers but not spicy enough to make them . . .” I stumbled in my search for a polite descriptor of the less desirable effects of spicy foods. “Uncomfortable.”

Matthew snorted. Grandy glared. I backed away. “Okay then. I'll just go get changed and let you two work it out.”

That was the other half of my Fridays at the dine-in. After I finished payroll I had roughly forty-five minutes to change out of my day clothes and into the black pants and white blouse of a dine-in waitress. There was a critical lack of glamour to the job, and waitressing wasn't my forte, but the tips were enough to keep me in sunscreen and pay for my weekly tipple of chardonnay at the Pour House. Things could be worse.

Back in Grandy's office I locked the door and did my quick change routine. I swung by the ladies' room to tuck away any stray strands of hair, then stopped back into the kitchen to shovel down the salad with grilled chicken that Matthew always had one of his cooks prepare for me.

Wendy, the other waitress, a recent high school graduate with green hair and a stud earring below her lip, joined me in the kitchen as the lobby filled with the early-show crowd. Always smaller than the eight-thirty “late” show, the early crowd tended more toward families with children, thus more toward hot dogs and soda pop. Two waitresses were enough, and I would be able to cover any tables ordering alcohol.

Between shows and against my usual dietary cautions, I stood with Wendy in the second passageway and indulged
in half a dozen (or more. Who's counting?) poppers. We were joined there by Liz, a late-twenties pistol of a girl who had been at the dine-in since Grandy opened the business, moving from concession to ticket sales to waitress.

“I have a new plan,” she announced, shaking out her wet umbrella. She tossed it carelessly into the corner beyond the pass-through to the kitchen. “I'm going to open up a shop once that new promenade down in Wenwood is done.”

“Cool,” Wendy said. “Cool” was her stock response to each of Liz's plans for financial solvency and independence. “What are you going to sell?”

“I've given this a lot of thought.” Liz picked a popper from the plate. “I figure, easiest thing to sell to tourists, you know, other than key chains and T-shirts will be—wait for it—antiques.”

With a bite of popper in my mouth, I sucked in a breath. A piece of jalapeño adhered itself to the back of my throat and ignited.

Tears filled my eyes and quickly overflowed. I coughed and smacked my chest and bent double. Wendy shouted back to the kitchen for some milk while Liz asked, repeatedly and unhelpfully, if I was okay.

I coughed and cried and wheezed. And all the while, and despite the pain of jalapeño throat, all I could think was
another antiques store
. Why had that never occurred to me before? Why had I never thought that of all those nice new stores that might one day line the waterfront, one of them might be an antiques store? Or a bakery or a luncheonette? What would become of the merchants in
the village of Wenwood? Would they survive the competition? Fold? Relocate?

Someone—I presumed Wendy—pressed a glass of milk into my hand. I braced against the urge to cough, holding my chest tense, and tried to drink. I failed to suppress the cough and spluttered into the cup. My breath against the milk forced the liquid to rise and splash me in the face, dribble down my chin.

I fared better on the second attempt and at last the fire receded. Liz slipped a paper napkin into my field of vision. With a nod of thanks, I took the napkin and wiped down my face.

“Are you all right?” she asked again.

“Duh,” Wendy said. “She just choked on a jalapeño and she has more mascara under her eyes than on her lashes. Of course she's not all right.”

Oh, mercy. I swiped under my eyes, knowing by the smudge of brown-black that came off on my forefinger that the effort was useless.

“Go get cleaned up,” Liz said, tugging the napkin out of my fingers. “I'll start your tables.”

I thanked her and handed over my order pad.

I sneaked back through the movie house, past the lobby beginning to fill with patrons, and on to Grandy's office and the meager stash of makeup I kept in my purse.

Thoughts of the riverside promenade troubled my mind as I did my best to repair the damage the jalapeño popper had wrought.

The new marina was under construction on the faith that the restoration of the old brickworks would bring new
visitors to Wenwood. If shops along the promenade could meet all of a visitor's needs, what reason would they have to venture into town? Grandy's visions of the future of Wenwood took on a new and troubling possibility. Would staying in Wenwood permanently be the smartest choice? Or would it soon be time for me to plan my return to the city?

For certain, it was past time for me to get back to work. Satisfied I no longer looked like a raccoon in mourning, I scrambled back to the theater to reclaim my order book from Liz.

“You only have one table with kids,” she said. “Trade?”

“How many do you have?”

“Three.”

Tables with kids were never as profitable as tables with beer- or wine-drinking adults. It was simple percentages. Still, Liz had done me a favor. “Fine,” I said. “I'll take the kids' tables.” Drat
Star Trek
and its cross-generation appeal.

“Here.” She held out her own order pad. “Let's just swap the house.”

For waitress stations, the theater proper was divided into three sections in much the same way theaters with stadium seating were set up: lower tier, upper left, and upper right. Wendy worked the lower tier, and Liz upper right, leaving me upper left. Left, right, kids, beer . . . I had more important things on my mind.

I traded pads and flipped through pages to see if any early drink orders had been taken. Spotting a pair of alcohol orders, I went back to the kitchen to draw two beers and pour two glasses of red wine.

The house was packed, as was typical for the second show on a Friday night. I took no special notice of the patrons filling the seats until I left off the beers with a couple of middle-aged men in Starfleet T-shirts and moved to the fair-haired couple who had ordered the wine.

I might have continued to only half-register them until I had settled both glasses atop a cocktail napkin, but the gentleman greeted me by name.

My gaze flicked up from the table, and locked onto blue eyes the color of morning glories. Tony Himmel. Handsome enough to slow my breathing—humiliating though that might be—and charming enough to make my knees a little weak—even more humiliating.

“Georgia,” he said again. “It's good to see you.”

I nodded, thoroughly unable to close my gaping jaw. To me Tony was completely out of place. He ran a construction business, he drove a Jaguar, he wore ties to dinner. He did not belong here, in my grandfather's movie house, waiting to watch
Star Trek
.

“This is my sister, Karin. Karin, Georgia Kelly.”

Mouth already open, I managed to squeak out a “hi.”

Karin, a female version of Tony—same blue eyes, pale hair, elegant jaw—smiled. “It's nice to meet you,” she said. She glanced sidelong at Tony. “Since you know my brother, should I expect preferred service, or deplorable service?”

I returned her smile, but faced Tony. “I, er, I suppose that remains to be seen.” I tucked my tray under my arm. “I'll be back to take your order.”

Putting my back to the Himmels, I headed up the steps
to the top of the auditorium, ready to begin collecting dinner orders . . . as soon as my pulse slowed.

For the love of all that's holy. Tony Himmel. The man behind the marina, the face of Stone Mountain Construction. We'd had dinner together once, after Andy Edgers had died and while I was trying to determine why anyone would kill the man. At the time I made an effort to keep the dinner impersonal—as in, all business, nothing romance-y. At the time, with residual aches from my breakup with my fiancé, all-business was my best choice. And for weeks after, I told myself I was grateful he never phoned again.

Now . . . now I watched the back of his head as he leaned toward his sister. His hair was longer, lighter, and he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt that fit snugly in the right places. Now maybe keeping that dinner on a platonic level looked like an error.

At least I had the good fortune to have incinerated my throat on a jalapeño, thus necessitating fresh makeup. I reached a hand to my hair and ran the tips of my fingers against the ends of bobby pins, assuring myself all the strands remained in place. I didn't look tragic, I reasoned. I had that going for me.

With an inward sigh and a steadying breath, I marched to my first table and managed to keep from stammering while my heart rate slowed and I recommended the jalapeño poppers. Table by table I announced the evening's special menu item, reminded guests to order all items at once—there would be refills on beverages but no additional food items—and promised kids our chocolate milk was extra chocolaty. All the while, anxiety simmered in
my belly. I would have to face Tony again, and though I promised myself I would treat him and his sister with the same courtesy I provided to guests at my other tables still I wondered whether, given the option, I would rather treat him with preference or indifference.

At Tony's table, I did my best to remain professional as I delivered my spiel. Of course, professionally I was an out-of-work accountant, not a movie theater waitress. I spent a lot of time trying not to meet his gaze and shuffling from foot to foot.

When I finished the speech and requested their order, Karin narrowed her eyes speculatively. “Hm. Interesting,” she said. She flicked a glance at her brother. “This is a new response. Are you sure you two have met?”

Tony sighed and lowered his head. He rubbed—one-handed—at his temples. “Karin . . .”

I tried a small smile and searched for the right thing to say to keep her from speculating. “Your brother was a big help when I needed some information on the agreements between the town and his construction project.”

Then I made myself look directly at Tony without flinching, without breaking eye contact. “How are things progressing down at the brickworks—I mean—the marina?”

“We're back on schedule,” he said, pride broadening his chest. “You should really come down and see it. A lot has changed since you were last there.”

“Ah, well.” The one and only time I had stopped at the site I had been politely sent on my way. I wasn't eager to repeat the experience. I lifted a shoulder. “I'd hate to trouble you while you were working.”

A measure of brightness left his eyes.

“And here we are holding you up while you work,” Karin said. She lifted her menu, held it like a script while she ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, hold the bun.

“Same,” Tony said.

I collected their menus and opted not to press them about ordering the jalapeño poppers.

The poppers. Liz's plan to sell antiques. The promenade.

Two steps away from their table I paused, turned back. No sense passing up an opportunity.

“Tony,” I said, leaning nearer than I would if I were asking if he wanted ketchup. “Can I ask you something?”

His face softened as he smiled. “Of course.”

Balancing with my fingers against the edge of the table, I knelt down beside his chair. “What do you know about the Spring and Hamilton plans for the riverside? Do you know anything?”

He sighed and gave a short, sharp nod. “Some,” he said. His smile, and whatever emotion it represented, vanished.

I had the vague sensation my question disappointed him somehow, but didn't have the time to reason out what the cause might be. I let the feeling go and pressed on. “The town council,” I began, and Tony grimaced, having had his own issues with the controlling board of Wenwood in the past. “They set a deadline for—”

“Miss? Excuse me, miss?”

Letting my eyes fall closed for a moment, I smiled at Tony, then turned to the summoning voice. “Yes?”

“We have a question about the menu.” At a table behind and to the left, a woman with twin boys perhaps eight
years old held out the menu. With her attention on me instead of them, the boys took speedy advantage of her distraction and shot spitballs at one another. The woman might have been spared that knowledge, but I wasn't, and I would have to clean up before heading home.

“Excuse me,” I said to Tony. “Sorry.” I stood and hustled to the troublemakers, doing my best to replicate Grandy's displeased scowl.

I must have nailed it. The boys' eyes went wide as they put their straws and ammunition on the tabletop. “And clean it up,” I said, before turning to their aunt or mother or whomever was brave enough to take them to the movies. “What can I help you with?” I asked.

And before I could finish my testimonial on the charm of the jalapeño poppers, the house lights dimmed and advertisements began playing on-screen.

Duty called. I had to get my dinner orders into the kitchen and get the drinks service under way. Once again any questions I might have for Tony Himmel would have to
wait.

F
riday lay half on my shoulder, half on my neck, her head tucked under my chin. I peered at my alarm clock and was surprised to see I'd woken before the alarm sounded. Must have been the weight of my living scarf.

I reached to run a hand down her kitten-soft fur. Or maybe it wasn't kitten-soft. Maybe she would be that soft forever. I had no past experience with kittens to guide me. Nor cats, for that matter. When I asked the vet, she hesitated to commit to an answer in the long versus short hair, soft versus sleek hair questions. I suspected she really did know, but only told me she didn't so that I would continue to love the feline no matter what.

As if there were any doubt.

With a turn of my head I pressed a trio of noisy kisses between her shoulders, then gently slid her off me so I
could rise. She relaxed on my pillow while I showered and dressed, then she followed me down to the kitchen where she banged her little head against my ankle and mewed pathetically until I set a dish of moist food by her paws. Then and only then, once the kitten was appeased, was I able to put up a pot of coffee.

Coffee brewing, I dashed downstairs to my workroom. I grabbed the big leather portfolio I'd found among my grandmother's things and slipped my window designs inside. The bits of glass I had identified as potential colors I had wrapped in newspaper and nestled into a small paper bag. I paused, debating whether or not to bring the samples along. The last thing I needed was for Trudy Villiers to slice open a finger handling the glass.

In the end, I decided having her approve the glass might be best, and I fished a pair of cotton gloves out of my glass-cleaning supplies. As long as Trudy would agree to wear one, all should be well.

Carrie texted me that she was out front as I was finishing up my note to Grandy. I'd told him several times that I was heading over early to Trudy's, but for him, a thing wasn't happening unless it was in writing.

I ruffled the gray patch between Friday's ears and told her to be good, then I was out the door and on my way down the still-damp sidewalk to Carrie's car.

Before I'd even closed the door behind me, I asked, “What happened after I left?”

She gave me a wry half smile and pulled away from the curb. “Rozelle brought chocolate éclairs.”

In my effort not to laugh, I nearly choked myself. For
sure, I had flashbacks of stuck jalapeño. I coughed once, hoping not to irritate my throat. “Because fresh pastries are always the answer.”

“When hot tea just isn't enough,” Carrie added. She steered the car off of Grandy's block and toward the boulevard that would take us out to Trudy's.

“Did you hear anything more from the police? Do they have any leads?” I asked. And though I said “the police” what I meant was Detective Nolan. I didn't want to risk sounding like I was more interested in the detective than the crime. Mainly because I was beginning to wonder about my interests myself. I thought it was an easy question but running into Tony Himmel had set me back on the answer. Nolan was handsome, dedicated to his work, and made me feel safe. Tony was handsome, dedicated to his work, and made me feel appreciated.

Where were the chocolate éclairs when you needed them?

“If Detective Nolan has any leads, he's not sharing them with me. The only thing he said was that he suspects it's someone from my and Russ's past—you know, as Mr. and Mrs.”

“Were you and Russ married long enough to make enemies as a couple?” I asked.

Carrie widened her eyes and shrugged, never taking her hands off the steering wheel. “I wouldn't have thought so. But I guess you never know who you're going to really tick off.”

“Did you forget to send one of your wedding guests a thank-you note?”

She shot me a sidelong glance but otherwise pretended I'd never said a word. “So now I have to make a list of anyone Russ and I had a disagreement with while we were married. Which means I have to spend my time
thinking
about when Russ and I were married.”

“What about after you split up? There's no one you were both still in contact with? I realize if we're talking about the same person being responsible for everything that's happened, we're not talking about someone you were friendly with, but . . .”

“But someone we were enemies with?”

“Someone you didn't get along with,” I said. Somehow “enemies” seemed extra harsh. “You know, like Gabe. He seems pretty ticked at Russ for the whole prenup thing. That could easily be the falling out Melanie referred to.”

Carrie made a noise generally regarded as doubtful. “I don't know, Georgia. I can't see Gabe as an arsonist or a burglar.”

“It's always the quiet ones that end up as news headlines,” I murmured.

She peered at me from the corner of her eyes. “You've met Gabe. How could he possibly sneak around unseen?”

We turned onto the broad street that would lead to Trudy's. Maple trees in full leaf lined the roadside, their branches spreading wide above us so that it seemed we drove beneath a sparkling green canopy.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe he's extra light on his feet. Have you ever seen him tiptoe? Or, you know, do ballet? Do they make tights that big?”

I could almost see Carrie's imagination spinning as she
mentally painted the picture of Gabe creeping around like a cartoon cat burglar, complete with the special toes-only walk at which cartoon crooks excelled or bounding across a stage with a tiny girl dressed as a swan. When at last she laughed, I laughed along with her.

*   *   *

T
rudy's door swung open the moment my foot hit the curb. For a moment I feared she planned to shout out at me to go away, and I stayed put until the slam of Carrie's door told me she was out of the car and visible. Only then did I extricate myself from the car, clutching my portfolio like a shield.

“Thanks for doing this,” I said, when I joined Carrie on the sidewalk. “I appreciate the company.”

“She doesn't hate you, you know,” Carrie said. “She's always like that. I think she's decided
Downton Abbey
is a tutorial on how to manage ‘the help.'”

From the open doorway, a low-flying blur of white and tan catapulted itself in our direction. Both Carrie and I skittered backward in an attempt to soften the impact. Whether the move worked or not was hard to judge. Fifi pushed her snout into my shin with enough force to move me back one more step. Her stubby tail wagged enthusiastically, pulling her hindquarters side to side along with it.

“See? Fifi loves you,” Carrie said, as I bent to ruffle the soft fur atop the bulldog's head.

I giggled as Fifi changed tactics and snuffled my toes. “She smells Friday, that's all.”

“In which case she should be mauling you.”

The murmuring of voices reached us, and Fifi lifted her head. Nostrils twitching, eyes on the open door at the top of the porch steps, she emitted a rumble like a precursor to a growl.

Two figures emerged from the doorway. One was Trudy Villiers, thin and regal and dressed in a high-necked chiffon blouse with matching ivory slacks. The other was a man with dark hair and a thick mustache in need of a trim. I was sure I didn't know him, yet he looked familiar.

“Who is that?” I asked Carrie, keeping my voice low.

“I don't know. I've seen him somewhere before, though.”

“That's what I was think—oh! That's Curtis,” I said. “He was at the town hall meeting the other night.”

Trudy stepped onto the porch, her good-bye carrying clearly while Curtis strode down the path toward us.

I weighed the wisdom of greeting him by name. Diana hadn't introduced any of us, after all. Using his name might make even small talk awkward. I settled on a simple, “Good morning,” and Carrie did the same.

“Morning,” he said. His eyes narrowed a little, and I reasoned he might be thinking we looked familiar as well.

Fifi shuffled sideways so that she stood in front of and roughly between Carrie and me. The rumble intensified as the man drew nearer, until he was close enough to elicit a throaty growl followed by a single bark.

Curtis lifted both hands, palms out. “Relax dog,” he said. “I won't come any closer, I promise.”

“Fifi, come,” Trudy called from the porch.

But Fifi only persisted in growling, until Curtis lunged
at her, then feinted left. The poor dog barked with such vigor her front paws came up off the ground.

Curtis laughed, a mirthless sound with a hollow echo, and headed down the sidewalk to his car.

Fifi's head swiveled as she tracked him. She stopped barking, but the low-throated growl continued.

“What a jackass,” I said, none too quietly, not caring if my voice carried.

He pointed a key fob at a late-model Toyota that had a volunteer fireman's emblem on the back window and the faded outlines of a stick figure family. The car chirped its response.

Carrie shook her head in disbelief, gaze on Curtis as he climbed into the driver's seat. “I don't know,” she said. “
Jackass
might not be a strong enough term.”

“Girls come inside, come inside.” Trudy beckoned us closer with her fingertips. “And bring Fifi if you will.”

With my toe I nudged Fifi's back paw, hoping she would precede me into the house. I kind of liked having a defender, even though that defender was less than two feet tall and had failed to take a chunk out of Curtis when she had the chance.

The dog ambled forward, rolling a bit from side to side. Carrie and I trailed behind her, climbing the top step of the porch well after Fifi had disappeared indoors.

“Sorry about all that,” Trudy said, her voice every bit as proper as I recalled. Stepping back to allow us to enter the house, she continued, “Fifi just gets so riled up when she sees him. And I haven't got the heart to lock her away
in the bathroom. I don't know what I'll do if she's still here once I have paying guests.”

We waited inside the foyer while Trudy closed and locked the door. I couldn't help noticing, though, that her hand was trembling as she turned the lock. When she faced us once again, I took a second to really look at her, study her face without worrying what she thought of my behavior. And what I saw surprised me.

Trudy Villiers was shook. Distressed. Her cheeks were in high color, her brow and lips pinched. Her fingers fluttered at the fashionable gold chain draped low on her chest, and her gaze remained resolutely on the floor.

“Ms. Villiers, are you all right?” I asked. In the same moment Carrie said, “Trudy, is everything okay?”

She clutched at the gold chain. “Oh, he rattles me so. And then all of Fifi's barking.” She tsk-tsked, presumably to herself, and gestured for us to continue on through to the living room where once again we took seats on the ivory couch. Within moments, Fifi jumped up and wedged herself into the space between us.

Trudy huffed as she settled into the wingback chair opposite. “And now she's on my couch again.”

“I'm sorry,” Carrie said, sliding a hand beneath the dog's belly. “Do you want me to move her?”

“No, no, don't bother. I believe it's already too late for that couch.”

“Would you like me to keep an eye out—” Carrie began, but I interrupted her. I had to. I couldn't take it anymore.

“Who
was
that guy?” I blurted. “He got you all upset and Fifi ready to snack on human flesh. What was he doing
here? Do you
know
him?” I simply couldn't believe Trudy would willingly associate with someone like Curtis.

Her rigid posture softened and her eyes momentarily slipped closed. “I suppose you might call him the rightful heir to that dog.” She tipped her head toward Fifi. “But you've seen how well they get on. I really thought I'd seen the last of him when I agreed to watch over her until I could find her a home. Some people, though . . .” Her voice and her gaze trailed away, and she shuddered.

I looked to Carrie. She was so much better at the little social graces than I.

“Well, um, let's talk about some pleasant things,” she said brightly. “Georgia brought some design concepts for you.”

Taking a deep breath for courage, I laid my portfolio on the coffee table. I unzipped the portfolio and withdrew the sheaf of papers showing sketches and color concepts for her window. On the first, the text read
MAGNOLIA
. I had surrounded the stylized lettering with an oval of blossoms. Keeping that sketch to the top, I fanned out the remaining pages.

“What's this?” Trudy shifted her weight to the forward edge of the wingback chair and leaned toward the table without relaxing her spine. She reached out and slid one of the sketches free of its place below a pair of others. “These look like roses.”

“A-a-and magnolias,” I muttered.

Carrie gave my side a quick jab with her elbow, disturbing Fifi who grumble-growled her displeasure.

I shot Carrie a look that asked what it was she expected me to do.

Her eyes went wide and she tipped her head in Trudy's direction.

Right. Sell the idea.

I forced a smile. “I thought since you have such a beautiful rose garden you might like the flowers included.”

Trudy arched a brow. “Magnolias and roses?”

“As you see,” I slipped another colored drawing out from beneath the image of plain magnolias, “including roses also allows more color.”

Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, Trudy turned toward Carrie. “Did you know about this?”

My pride stirred. It straightened my spine and lifted my chin and reminded me I had faced far more intimidating people than Trudy Villiers and I had not bent before them.

I kicked my vocal volume up a notch. “Before we came I informed Carrie that I would be presenting several options. And that is all they are. Options. As you can see, I've prepared two with magnolias alone.” With my fingertips I fanned the drawings separate.