Death Under Glass (18 page)

He let out a long sigh. “Okay, okay, maybe you're right. I'm sorry, okay? It's . . . this is all still a . . . I'm still adjusting to all of this. It's not easy coming home and getting hit with all this either, you know.”

“I know,” Carrie said softly.

“And we still got the insurance thing to do and then figure out . . . how am I going to work? What . . . my whole business.” He snapped his fingers. “Poof.”

Beside me in my seat, my purse vibrated a split second before the factory-preset electronic ringtone of my cell phone blared from its depths. “I'm so sorry,” I muttered, without any degree of conviction. I was mostly thankful for the interruption, for the brief respite from Russ's blather. “I'm sure it's no one.”

It had to be no one. Factory preset meant I didn't have the incoming phone number stored in my contacts. No doubt another wrong number for “Shorty.”

I lifted the phone free and read the display: Stone Mtn. Const.

Tony Himmel.

I glanced at Russ, glanced at Carrie.

I couldn't leave her; I was her moral support. But I didn't want to have to ignore the call. And it would be rude to take the call at the table.

I glanced at Russ again, and raised the phone to my ear,
pressing to connect the call as I did so. “Hi there,” I said with a smile.

Tony's voice reached deep inside me, hot cocoa on a cold day. “Hi yourself. How are you?”

“Pretty good now that I'm hearing from you.” I said it (a) because I meant it and (b) because I thought Russ deserved a little of the same treatment he'd given us. Except I suspect I couldn't keep from my voice the little thrill I felt at receiving Tony's call.

As proof, Carrie turned to me and mouthed, “Who is it?”

I shifted the speaker away from my mouth. “Tony Himmel.”

Evidently I didn't move the speaker far enough. Even as Carrie shooed me out of the booth, with a “Go talk to him,” Tony asked, “Am I interrupting something?”

I asked him to give me a minute, covered the phone. “Are you sure?” I mouthed to Carrie.

“Go,” she said.

I gave Russ a fake smile and did my own Trudy Villiers impersonation. “Excuse me won't you? I'll just take this outside.”

Sliding free of the booth, I ducked around Grace as she made her way past with a plate of spaghetti and meatballs and hustled out of the luncheonette.

“I'm back. Sorry about that,” I said when I'd reached the outdoors.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked. “I know you said to call later in the week but—”

“It's fine. It's a fine time.”

“I can call back.”

“No, no, don't,” I blurted. “What I mean is, now's fine. I'm at the luncheonette. I just came outside so I could hear better. What's up?”

He pulled in an audible breath. “Uh, here's the thing,” he began.

That fast, such a simple phrase, and the thrill drained away. My shoulders sagged and I let my head drop forward. “What?”

“Thing is, truthfully . . .” He paused, I leaned against the building behind me for support. “I'm really not that big on coffee. It's crazy, I know. I'm in construction. I should have very strong feelings about coffee, positive feelings. But that's just not me.”

“And so . . . ?” What did this mean? He'd decided he didn't want to see me again? And he was using coffee as an excuse?

“And so I was hoping you might reconsider dinner,” he said.

My eyes slid closed and I shook my head. Stupid telephones. So much easier to stand face to face with someone, read their expression, evaluate their body language. Over the phone I had no way of knowing if Tony was being earnest about the coffee, or cute. I sighed. “I don't believe this,” I said.

“Is that a no?”

“You couldn't have started with that? You had to do a whole bit about coffee?”

“I wanted to be honest,” he said. “And if you could accept my honesty about that, you might accept my honesty when I tell you I didn't want to wait until some vague
day in the future to call you and then wait for another vague day to see you. I feel like I've lost enough time with you. I don't want to wait.”

I kept my eyes closed, let the smile spread across my face. He was good. He was very good. “So what is it that you're honestly saying?”

“I'm honestly saying let's have dinner. Me, you, Cappy's Seafood, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” My voice might have cracked a little.

“Yeah, I know, it's short notice. But tomorrow's Sunday and Sunday's pretty much all I have for now. I'm at the marina site every other day. So what do you say? Take a chance on a short-notice, honest guy?”

There was no stopping my humiliating giggle. “Can I order crab legs?”

“You can order whatever you want.”

“Okay. Tomorrow. Cappy's. You're on.”

I gave him the address at Grandy's house and we said our good-byes and the smile was still stuck on my face.

Yes, the timing was terrible. I was frightened for Carrie, worried about what was going to happen next, sad to be facing another wake and funeral for a Wenwood resident. But really, who was I kidding? No timing was ever ideal. And maybe, very likely, taking a chance on a little happiness was just what was needed.

Sucking in a deep, cleansing breath, I looked up and down Center Street, at the little village of Wenwood and nodded to myself. Happy was just what the doctor ordered. Not that Tony was any sort of guarantee, but it would be nice to find out.

I headed back into the luncheonette planning to rejoin Carrie and Russ. But before I'd even drawn level with the counter, Russ was moving fast toward me. Worry instantly gripped me. “What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I told you I had to leave.”

He shook his head like he couldn't understand how I would forget such a thing, then pushed past me and out the door.

Dumbfounded, I walked to where Carrie stood, arms folded at the end of the table.

I tried the same question on Carrie. “What happened?”

“I asked Grace to bring to-go containers for the soups,” she said. “This was . . . Russ left and I just . . . I just want to go home and get into bed and forget this week ever happened. Is that okay?”

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, it's okay. You deserve the break. You've been through a lot.”

With the hot soups stored in paper containers, one bagged for me and one for Carrie, we retraced our earlier steps, back through the alley and into the parking strip behind the shops. Not a word passed between us as we got into the car. Not a word passed as Carrie drove me back to Grandy's.

I broke the silence only when I stepped out of the car. Leaning back in I said, “I'll call you tomorrow, okay?”

She gave me a half smile. “You know where to find me.”

I slammed the door closed and made my way up the brick walk and into the house. All the while, I tried to keep from my mind a sudden, troubling thought.

Who else knew where to find Carrie? And would they go looking?

T
he soup lost none of its blistering temperature in the short ride home from the luncheonette. I poured it into an oversized cappuccino mug, and the sound of the splashing drew Friday from whatever furniture she'd been napping under . . . or on top of. I dished some of her canned food into her little kitty bowl and set it down on the floor in front of the sink.

“Live it up, kitty. Celebrate. It's Saturday night.” I made stupid six-shooter motions with my hands. Friday twitched one ear and nibbled daintily from the bowl. She was unimpressed. I didn't blame her. Saturday night and what was on my agenda? An evening of stained glass. Just me and the kitten.

After switching on the radio I kept in the corner, I opened the packaging on the glass I'd purchased that
morning. The pinks I wanted for Trudy's window, once located, I stored on end in an old apple crate I kept for such purpose. Left with the glass I had selected for antiques store projects, I looked from a white, gold, and blue mottled glass I'd bought more for its possibilities than for a plan to the glass I had cut for the sailboat panel.

When I began the piece, I had done so because the pattern caught my eye. I thought working on the project would be a good way to stir my creativity so I could design a window for Trudy. In the back of my mind I saw the piece one day hanging from one of Grandy's windows—a just-for-fun piece turned into something decorative. Now I supposed it would do more good hanging in Carrie's shop.

The temptation to start work on a new pattern, to begin cutting the glass I'd bought on impulse, coursed through me with the same allure as “just one more cookie” or “just one more pair of shoes.” The desire was both hard and easy to overcome. All it took was a deep breath, closed eyes, and the firm action of closing the paper wrapping over the exciting new glass and setting it aside. Best not to jump into anything, anyway.

I gathered up a small handful of already cut glass, aqua and vermillion and gold-flecked white strips that curved like waves on the water, and carried them into the garage.

Grandy had built a tool bench at the back of the garage, against the common wall between the garage and the workshop. With his permission, I'd cleared a space at the near end of the bench, closest to the doorway that led to the workshop, and there set up my glass grinder. Now, after
making sure the water reservoir was full, I nudged the foot pedal out from under the bench with my toe and powered on the grinder.

At the center of the hard plastic grating, a diamond-head grinder bit spun at a respectable three thousand rpm as soon as I applied pressure to the foot pedal. I grabbed the first blue glass wave, set it flat on the horizontal grating, and pushed the edge of the glass against the whirring bit.

Water sluiced across the surface of the glass, gently washing away the miniscule shards being dislodged by the grinder, splashing them against the square of plexiglass I'd leaned against the wall to protect the pegboard.

Splashing.

I lifted my foot from the pedal and huffed. Safety goggles. Why did I never remember to put on the safety goggles first?

Taking a step to the right, I searched the tool-covered pegboard for the safety goggles I typically hung there. Not finding them, I sifted through the bits of miscellanea that had collected atop the workbench, but still had no luck. I really wouldn't leave the workshop or garage with—

I rolled my eyes at my own forgetfulness. I had worn the goggles outside when I was doing some yard work. Not because I thought using a manual hedge shear was particularly dangerous, but because not wearing the goggles would be a foolish move. Also because Grandy insisted.

The question was, where had I left them?

I turned a circle in the garage, scanning the neatly stored collections of seasonal implements—an assortment of rakes and cases of heavy-duty trash bags for autumn,
ice melt and three kinds of shovels for winter, and hedge clippers, half a bag of mulch, a spade and hoe for spring and summer. My goggles weren't anywhere.

Thinking perhaps I had left them in the kitchen when a hot morning's yard work required a cold glass of water, I went back into the workshop and up the stairs to the main floor of the house. I might have left the goggles on the counter or hung them from the back of a chair. But when they were nowhere to be spotted, I ducked into the dining room to check the sideboard and groaned.

Despite my best efforts, the sideboard continued to be the place where Grandy piled all the things for which he didn't have a ready place. Months of AARP magazines, packages of opened batteries, and pages of half-finished crossword puzzles typically crowded the surface. And there, leaning atop an old scrapbook and against a ball of twine, were my goggles.

As I reached to grab them, I realized what I had thought was a scrapbook was instead an old photo album.

Moving the twine to the pile of magazines, I opened the cracked leather cover of the album and peeled back the heavy tissue paper page to admire the first set of photos.

Six people gathered around a picnic table, four men, two women. One of the women wore a floppy hat, obscuring her face. The other looked boldly into the camera, smile wide, head wrapped in a cloud of red hair. Grandma Keene.

I lifted the album and turned to the dining room table, intending to take a seat and peruse the album slowly. As I spun, the photos on the first page sailed off, some sliding to the floor, others dropping to the table. I retrieved the
trio from the floor, photo corners still clinging to the snapshots.

“Huh. Adhesive dried,” I muttered, flipping over the first picture. Scrawled across the back in faded blue ink were the words
July 4 at Barbara's
. I looked at the front again. Barbara must be the woman under the hat. Or maybe she was the one who took the picture?

The phone rang, putting an end to my brief wonderings. Hugging the photo album to my chest, I cut through the kitchen and grabbed the handset from its dock. As I brought the cordless phone to my ear, I caught a glimpse of “Unavailable” on the caller ID display.

Dreading the possibility that someone on the other end of the phone was going to try to sell me an upgrade to Grandy's cable television plan, I phrased my “hello” as if I'd just been dragged from my deathbed.

“Damn. Did I dial the wrong number? Son of a—”

“Diana?” I asked, voice back to normal.

“Georgia, you sounded like you were dying,” Diana said. “Don't scare me like that.”

My forehead rumpled as new confusion overcame me. “Why are you calling my house phone? Are you looking for Grandy?”

“I'm looking for you. Carrie's apartment was tossed while she was at dinner.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, rush to my heart, chilling me with fear. “Oh my God. Where's Carrie? Is she okay?”

“She's fine. She's home. I'm on my way there. You need a pickup?”

Carrie's apartment. What next?

I dropped the photo album on the table. “I'll be waiting out front.”

*   *   *

T
his time I didn't feel a moment's surprise to find Detective Nolan on the scene. I would have been shocked if he wasn't there.

He prowled around Carrie's apartment, looking oddly too large for the antique furnishings, as if he alone could take up the entire span of the love seat. He'd never struck me as a big man before, though, and I registered the thought that perhaps it was his confidence that made him seem large, his self-possession.

“Evening, Detective,” I said.

He gave me a tight smile, then crooked a finger at Diana. “Davis,” he said. “Can I have a word with you?”

As she moved toward Detective Nolan, I turned to the little dining room, where Carrie sat at the cluttered table. Seated in one of the mismatched chairs, she leaned forward on her elbows and spoke softly to a uniformed officer seated at the head of the table. The officer was filling out a form affixed to a clipboard. Incident report, my late-night television brain informed me.

I shuffled in beside Carrie, careful to step over a heap of paperback novels scattered on the floor. I laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her a quick hug. “How are you doing?” I asked.

The words felt foolish on my lips. Just looking around the wreck of her home was enough to make an educated guess
at how she was feeling. But to not ask seemed somehow insensitive.

She turned bright eyes on me. “Angry,” she said. “I'm feeling angry. It wasn't enough he broke into my store, but to break into my house, too?” She shook her head as a bit of the fight seemed to leave her. “And then I think of Herb and . . . thank God, you know?”

“I know,” I murmured. I didn't want to dwell too long on what might have happened had Carrie been home when the intruder arrived. It was enough I was aware; dwelling would cripple me.

The officer looked up from his clipboard. “You're saying
he
. Do you have some idea who might have done this?”

Carrie sighed, looked back to the cop. “He. She. They. I don't know.”

Nodding, the officer asked, “Anything else missing?”

“I wrote it down,” she said, pushing a piece of paper in his direction. “The rest is just . . .” Carrie lifted her head and gazed around the apartment.

I did the same, taking in the scattered books and emptied knitting basket, balls of yarn unraveled across the carpet as though they'd been used for peewee soccer practice.

Pinning Carrie's list behind the incident report, he clicked his pen closed and stood. “Call the precinct tomorrow. They'll be able to give you a report number for your insurance. You'll have to—”

“I know,” Carrie said, making no move to rise. “I have to file a claim.”

Slipping his cap back on his head, the officer tucked the clipboard under his arm and gave a nod of finality.
“I'm sorry for your trouble, ma'am.” Then he eased away from the table and headed for the door.

As Carrie met my gaze, the rumble of men's voices reverberated along the entrance hall. Diana strode into the living room, came to a hard stop as she took in the obstacle course the apartment had become.

“Don't worry about it,” Carrie said with a wave. “At this point it doesn't matter what you step on.”

“No, I won't step on anything. It's not that bad.” Diana picked her way across the debris on the floor to the opposite side of the table and leaned her hands against the back of a chair. “Officer Beaumont is going to do some canvassing, see if any of your neighbors heard or saw anything.”

“Someone must have.” I infused my voice with as much certainty as I could fake. “No one could make this much of a mess without making noise enough to draw attention. Right?”

My statement was met with silence.

“Fine,” I said, standing. “Let's at least get this place cleaned up.”

“Leave it,” Carrie snapped.

Diana met my gaze across the table, wordlessly agreeing that this behavior was out of character for the usually chipper Carrie.

“Carrie, sweetie,” I began, bending down to bring my head more level with hers. “How about I make you a cup of tea? Some chamomile or Soothe Me?”

“Or a hot toddy?” Diana put in.

“I don't need tea,” Carrie said, biting off one word at
a time. “Or whiskey. I just need this nightmare to end. My property, my shop, my apartment. What's next?”

I didn't want to think about what was next, didn't want to recall the scene outside Herb Gallo's house. For all the hardship Carrie had suffered, she's also been lucky. So far. I had to hold on to that.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, this is what we're going to do.” I locked gazes with Diana, silently asking her to back me up. “Diana and I are going to pick up a little bit—”

“I said don't—”

I kept talking, speaking louder to drown out her protests. “And while we're doing that, you're going to pack a bag with whatever you think you'll need for the next few days. You are not staying here. You're going to come stay with me and Grandy.”

I expected a protest. I expected her to insist she wouldn't be frightened out of her home. But Carrie raised her head and looked at the wreckage surrounding her. As she stood from her chair, I stepped back out of her way.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Relief relaxed my shoulders, and I noted Diana's posture softening also. We both watched as Carrie walked over strewn papers, kicked a remote control out of her path as she made her way out of the dining room and through the short hallway to her bedroom.

“It's a good idea,” Diana said, “having her stay with you.”

Bending to lift a tumbled bookend from the floor, I shook my head. “I just couldn't imagine her staying here
by herself. At least not tonight, not until we can get this cleaned up, get new locks installed, all that.”

Diana crouched and scooped together a half-dozen matched coasters. “Smart,” she said. “Whatever this guy is looking for, there's no way to tell if he found it, if he'll be back.”

“That's what worries me.”

We worked in silence for a little while longer, gathering papers into neat stacks, blotting moisture from the floor where a vase of flowers had fallen. Neither one of us was inclined to attempt to rewind all the yarn. Instead we lifted the strands as neatly as we could and laid the tangle of color in the basket from which they'd come.

A tap on the door made both of us jump. My heart pounded and fear clogged my throat in the split second before I recalled burglars didn't knock.

Detective Nolan ambled back into the living room, one hand tucked in the front pocket of his jeans.

“I thought you left,” I said.

He shook his head, turned to Diana. “Where's Carrie?”

“Getting a bag together. She's going to stay with Georgia for a couple days.”

Looking back to me, he tipped his head in the direction of the door. “Let's take a walk.”