Death Under Glass (20 page)

The dining room and kitchen windows sat too high off the ground for anyone to crawl through. Those I left open, happy to have at least their small breeze.

Back down in the workshop, I pulled closed the door that led to the garage and locked that, closed and locked the windows and the door to the yard. Clasping my hands tightly before me, I looked around the room, reviewing.
Doors locked. Windows closed. Nothing else I could do, really. I considered calling Diana, asking her if she could put in a request at the station to have a police cruiser ride by a few times.

Upstairs, something crashed to the floor. I froze. Held my breath. I'd locked everything. Who could have—

Friday came tearing down the stairs as if her tail were on fire. Every hair on her little cat body stood straight on end, effectively making her look twice her size.

“Jeez, Friday,” I said on a relieved exhale. “You scared the pants off of me.”

She leaped onto the lowest shelf of the bookshelf, where an absence of books gave her the right-size space to hide in.

“Got room in there for me?” I asked.

With the windows closed the air in the workroom was well on its way to stuffy, but it was too early to retreat to my air-conditioned bedroom for the night. I suspected, in fact, that sleep was a long way off. I gathered up my Homasote board, the spool of foil to wrap the glass edges, and the fid to flatten the foil. With those and the jig—the temporary wood framing that held the pattern and the cut and buffed pieces in place—I returned to the main floor of the house, intending to set up shop at the dining room table.

Arriving in the dining room, I located the evidence of Friday's destruction. On her way across the sideboard to—or from—the window, or in search of some fresh vegetation, she had knocked over the vase in which I'd
placed some cuttings of black-eyed Susans. The vase itself had rolled to the floor while the flowers had been scattered over the sideboard and water spread across the surface and down the front of the doors.

I muttered curses as I dashed to the kitchen for some paper towels to sop up the mess. The spreading water crept around the base of an old pewter basket of my grandmother's and under the stack of photo albums I had left there days before. Snatching up the albums, Grandy wiped dry the back cover of the bottom album and plunked the pile onto the dining table. I repeated the lift-and-dry method for the pewter basket then finally scooped up the tumbled blossoms and empty vase and carried them into the kitchen sink.

I followed the wiping up of water with some soft rags and furniture polish while marveling at Friday's wisdom in hiding from me.

After pouring myself a cold glass of water, I settled down at the head of the table and picked up my first piece of glass—a trapezoid-shaped piece of white muffle that, combined with two other like pieces, would compose one of the boat's sails.

Holding the glass in my left hand, I pulled free the edge of three-eighth-inch copper foil from its roll with the same action used to pull free a piece of cellophane tape. I pressed the adhesive side of the foil against the edge of the glass and slowly, carefully wrapped the entirety of the glass's edge with foil. Keeping the foil straight and its edges even on either side of the glass was a challenge—hence the slow and careful. Once I had the foil in place,
and had snipped the piece free of the roll, I pinched the foil-wrapped edge of the glass between thumb and forefinger and, working my way around, pressed the edges down onto the glass. At completion, the glass appeared as though it had a decorative copper outline.

I picked up the flat fid—a strip of stiff plastic that I often thought would be excellent for frosting miniature cupcakes—and used it to smooth out any bubbles or wrinkles in the foil as best I could. The more accurate I had been when applying the foil in the first place, the fewer the wrinkles.

One down, dozens to go.

I repeated the process piece by piece, working through both sails and the hull of the boat. The repetition of the deceptively simple task allowed me to keep my hands occupied while my mind wandered free. It wasn't long—and wasn't a great leap—before I went from looking at the image of the sailboat taking shape in my jig to thoughts of Tony Himmel and his long-held dream of building that marina.

What must it be like to have a plan you held in your hopes for so long finally take shape? How must he have felt at each challenge, each setback? Before I knew him I had thought him capable of going to any lengths imaginable to overcome the obstacles and see his dream realized. Once I learned to know him better, I understood there were lines he would not cross in his quest.

But that was Tony. Plenty of other people were willing to cross even the deepest line in the sand to get what they wanted. People like the guy who had burned down Russ's
law office, killed Herb Gallo, and broken into Carrie's shop and home. There was a reason behind those actions, a plan someone had that was being threatened, a dream that faced death. But who was that guy? What was that plan? And was he yet lurking in shadows preparing to cross another line?

I
was still asking myself those questions the following day, as Sunday brought residents and travelers alike into the village of Wenwood. The line of patrons waiting to choose their treats at Rozelle's Bakery seemed inexhaustible despite the occasional light rain shower. Umbrellas were employed as needed and carried dripping into Aggie's Antiques as folks wandered in searching for the something rare, something eccentric, or something that brought their memories back to earlier days—their own or someone else's.

Carrie threw herself into her work at the store, wrapping herself in her shopkeeper persona as though wearing armor. She chatted with every customer who came through the door. She laughed, she cajoled, and she rang up sale after sale. And in the lulls when the sales floor was empty, she
wandered into the back room to check up on my progress—or reassure herself she wasn't alone.

“How hot is that?” she asked, pointing to the soldering iron I had plugged into an extension cord that allowed me to work on my stained glass at the shipping table. The iron sat in its station while I double- and triple-checked that the foil-edged glass pieces I had tacked together with minimal drops of lead were correctly aligned, with even spaces dividing one piece from the next.

I carefully lifted the tacked piece out of the jig and held it briefly on its edge. Now that the piece was assembled, the image as a whole showed the light passing through, the blues and greens bright and translucent. I nodded approval at my own work, then carefully laid the work flat on the Homasote board. “That regulator keeps the soldering iron at a fixed temperature.”

“It keeps it from cooling down?”

I grinned. “It keeps it from getting too hot.”

“Really? Why? What happens if it gets too hot?” Carrie's eager fascination struck me as more than somewhat peculiar. True, soldering was one of my favorite parts of the stained glass craft process, but even I would admit it wasn't a riveting topic of conversation.

I laid my palms flat against the table. “What's bugging you?”

“Nothing.” She took a half step back and crossed her arms over her belly. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because soldering irons are not that interesting.”

“Georgia, all of your stained glass stuff is interesting,” she said.

I let my raised eyebrows speak for me.

“Fine. I was . . .” Carrie let out a long, slow sigh. “I know the locks on my apartment are all new and I wouldn't be surprised if Diana intimidated the locksmith into putting in top-of-the-line locks for half the price.”

“But?” I prompted.

“But. But what's to stop whoever broke into my apartment from coming back?”

“Why would he or she—”

“Or they.”

I shuddered. “Why would you think anyone would come back?”

Carrie leaned a hip against the table. Arms folded across her chest, she rolled her shoulders inward as though hugging herself. She ducked her chin. “I keep thinking about Herb Gallo,” she murmured. “Diana said his house was . . . well, she said it was trashed, too. This . . . whoever . . . is looking for something. Who knows what Herb went through before the intruder killed him? What if he was, sort of, tortured?” she asked in a small voice.

Knee-jerk reaction made me want to crack a joke just to pull her up out of the sea of worry she was bobbing in. But the time wasn't right. As much as I thought she was worrying needlessly, I knew nothing I could say was likely to ease her fears, mainly because mine were too close to the edge as well.

Her weekend bag, with toothbrush, hairbrush, and whatever else she deemed essential, was still in the car. All it would take was a swing past her apartment so she
could grab a few changes of clothes. And after all, Grandy called it a spare room for a reason.

There was only the one complication.

The bell over the front door jingled. Carrie pushed off the table and hurried out to the sales floor to greet her customer while I stood frozen by the vagaries of luck. Tony was picking me up at seven. After all those weeks I could once again sit down across a table from him, enjoy a good meal with a nice guy. But that wasn't where I needed to be.

With a sigh, I grabbed the bottle of flux and replaced its cap. Heading out of the back room, I stopped at the threshold to the sales floor. “So you'll stay with me and Grandy for a couple days.” I leaned a shoulder against the doorway, a casual pose for a casual comment. If she thought I was worried she would worry even more. I couldn't let my concern show. “But I can't promise Friday won't crawl into your purse if you leave it on the kitchen table.”

Standing by the register and allowing her customers to browse without pressure, Carrie turned to me. “You have plans,” she said. “And I don't want to impose.” But her eyes were unmistakably hopeful.

I gave a one-shoulder shrug—the other being busy holding up the doorframe—and grinned. “So you'll buy me dinner instead. Don't worry. I don't eat much.”

*   *   *

C
arrie took my teasing seriously. While she closed up the shop at the end of the day, I walked across the street to the luncheonette to collect our take-out order.

Pushing the door open, I let a little of the appetizing aromas from inside the luncheonette escape into the humidity of the early evening. A little hint of friend onions, the savory scent of grilled beef, and an appealing mélange of salt and spices wrapped the air around me as I moved inside.

The kitchen would be closing within the half hour, and with Wenwood residents aware of closing time and the last of the tourists having already passed through on their trip back south, only one table was occupied. A dark-haired man sat bent over one of the luncheonette's enormous burgers. He lifted his head a fraction and his eyes met mine.

Out of place as he seemed to be, it took me a moment to recognize him. Curtis. The volunteer fireman who had been so mean to Fifi at Trudy's house. The man who Trudy said “rattles me.”

It was too late to look away, pretend I hadn't seen him. I forced myself to smile politely and gave a little wave. He returned the gesture with a hesitant nod.

Niceties completed, I gratefully turned my back on him.

Off to my left, Tom sat in his usual place at the counter, cup of coffee at his elbow and Sunday's plus-sized crossword puzzle open on the counter.

“Georgia,” he said as I scooted up beside him. “What's a seven-letter name for a character from
Dynasty
?”

“Um . . . maybe
Crystle
?”

“Georgia, is that you?” Grace's voice carried clearly from the kitchen, so quiet in the luncheonette she had no need to shout.

“It's me,” I said.

“That can't be it,” Tom said. “There's no
C
.”

“I'll be right out with your order,” Grace called.

I shouted back my thanks and leaned closer to Tom. Over his shoulder, I reviewed the puzzle. I checked the clue and the empty boxes and shook my head. Nothing else would fit other than
Crystle
.

“What's the down clue?” I asked.

Tom read it out and I shook my head again, a bit more emphatically. “That's where the problem is,” I said. “If the down should be
Eureka
, just spell
Crystle
with a
K
.”

“That can't be right.” Tom leaned in, peering closely at the newspaper. “That's too easy.”

“What did I tell you?” Grace asked, bustling out of the kitchen with a pair of Styrofoam containers balanced on one hand. “Sometimes the answer is so simple you dismiss it as impossible. You shouldn't overthink all the time.”

“You have to think,” Tom said, vocal volume on the rise. “That's what the puzzle is for, to make you think.”

Grace rolled her eyes and set the containers on the counter. “How's Carrie making out?” she asked.

“She's okay. Still a little shook.” I reached for the wallet at the bottom of my purse. “What do I owe you?”

She gave me the total and pulled a plastic bag from under the counter. Slipping the containers into the bag, she said, “The poor thing. I hate to think of her on her own right now.”

“She's not. She's staying with me and Pete until the police can settle things.” I dropped a twenty on the counter before scrounging in my pockets for the coin change.

“She's staying with Pete?” Tom repeated.

“And me,” I said, triumphantly plunking a quarter down on the counter. “Until the police find the guy who broke into her apartment.”

“Terry's gonna stay with me when he comes,” Tom announced.

My forehead rumpled, my brain lurched at the sudden change of topic. “That's really nice for you,” I managed, as Grace sighed and shook her head.

“Maybe they'll never find him,” Tom announced.

“Who? Terry?” I asked, a little lost.

“No, the police,” Tom said. “They might never find the guy who burgled the antiques place.”

“Hey,” Grace snapped. “That's my niece you're talking about.”

“What niece?” Tom asked.

I met Grace's gaze across the counter. We shared a sympathetic little smile, and I said good night to both her and Tom before leaving her to explain to Tom, yet again, that her sister's daughter was an officer in the Pace County Police Department. And my good friend.

Sadly, neither one of those facts was sufficient for me to ignore Tom's comment. What if he was right? What if the police never did figure out who was causing all the havoc? Then what?

*   *   *

“A
ll right,” I said, dropping my purse on the wingback chair in the living room. “I'll get the plates, you turn on the television. We'll eat in the dining room.”

“Deal.” Grace's take-out bag in hand, Carrie headed for the television.

I continued on into the kitchen, switching on the light. Ensconced in the middle of the kitchen table, Friday rolled to her feet and arched her back in a stretch. I scratched between her ears, enjoyed the soft fur and the blissful half-mast of her eyes for the brief minutes before she raced away, no doubt to climb inside Carrie's purse and sharpen her claws on her wallet.

I grabbed a pair of plates and the necessary flatware and carried them into the dining room, where Carrie stood at the head of the table, one eye on the television, the other on the stack of photo albums I'd left there.

“Can I move these?” Carrie asked, nodding toward the albums.

Thunder rumbled outside, promising the rain that had threatened all day. “Yeah, be careful with them. They're old.”

“Obviously.”

Leave it to me to try to tell the antiques expert what was old.

I laid out the plates and cutlery while Carrie carefully shifted the albums to the other end of the table. “Grandy left them out so I could look at pictures of my grandmother when she was my age,” I said, dropping into a chair. “Which also means there's pictures of Grandy at my age.”

“Really?” Carrie grinned.

“Really. Do you know he used to have a whole head of hair?”

She chuckled. “Do you mind if I take a peek?”

If pictures of my grandparents in their youth were
going to cheer her up, I wasn't about to stop her. “Be my guest.” I popped open the lid on the first container. Peering inside, I identified the sandwich as something in the red meat realm, something I might possibly eat once a year. I shoved it in the direction of Carrie's plate and pulled the other container closer. Opening the lid, I inhaled the aroma of melted cheese over tuna and my stomach gurgled in anticipation.

Carrie lifted the top album and set it down next to her plate. She opened the cover and reverently turned to the first page before I could warn her about the pictures falling loose from their pages. “Ooh, you'll have to fix that,” she said, running a hand over the empty page, gently lifting the photographs from the album's gutter.

“Oh my gosh.” She sank down into her chair and I pushed her food container closer to her. “Will you look at the plaid pants?”

I smiled in agreement, sliding my tuna melt free of the container and onto my plate. As Carrie moved on to the next page, I glanced to the television, assuring myself
Hollywood Hoofers
hadn't yet started. Another rumble of thunder seemed to shake the shingles on the house and for a scant few seconds the picture on the television pixilated. “I hope we don't lose the cable,” I said.

Carrie was paying no attention. She was gazing down at the photos in the album, a contented smile softening her face.

Seized with envy, I grabbed the next album from the pile and embarked on my own walk back in time. Careful to keep my food away from the photographs, I eased
through the book page-by-page, mindful of the pictures slipping free of their assigned places and sliding into the book's gutter or down into my lap. I squinted at pictures of my grandmother, smiled at pictures of Grandy, and marveled at pictures of my mother. To think she had once been so young.

Yes, Grandy had been younger then, too. But by the time I was grown enough to build memories of him, he had settled into the style and bearing of the man he would always be. In that regard, he was timeless. He stood with people I should have recognized, that I struggled to place as part of his family or Grandma's. Smiling faces, birthday cakes, couples. Always couples.

And there I sat, eating takeout, waiting for
Hollywood Hoofers
to come on the television, and looking at photographs of people I didn't know instead of being out, being part of a—potential—couple.

The sigh slipped out before I could stop myself.

“What is it?” Carrie asked.

I shook my head, not ready to share my thoughts, not prepared to acknowledge much less confess that l might be feeling even the slightest, tiniest, teeniest bit lonely. But apparently, the tears welling in my eyes were enough to give me away.