Death Under Glass (5 page)

“Exactly where is Russ?” Carrie asked.

Melanie huffed, placed a hand on her waist, and cocked out a hip. “Fishing trip.”

Carrie flashed me a smug smile. “Fishing. Up at Gabe's cabin?”

It was Melanie's turn to look smug. “Mmm, you haven't talked to Russ in a while, have you?” she asked, and Carrie's smile fell. “Let's just say I doubt he's at Gabe's cabin, okay? Look, I gotta run. Now that I know I don't have to work today, I'm way behind.”

“Hold it.” Carrie jerked a thumb at the U-Move-It carton on the counter. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”

Melanie tugged a set of keys from her purse. “I guess go through it and talk to Russ about it when he gets back?” She shrugged. “Okay then. Bye all.”

“Bye!” The little girl waved her fork.

“Call me, okay?” Susie called out.

She waved a farewell as Melanie dashed through the door.

Carrie turned and gaped at me. “Now what?” she asked.

A seed of an idea took root. “I guess we're loading this stuff into your car,” I said. “And then . . .”

“And then what?”

“Well, if you're not in any rush to get back home . . .” I said.

She put a hand on her hip. “Spit it out.”

“Do you know where Gabe lives? Or, I guess, where he works?”

“Of course but—” Her eyes widened in unhappy understanding. “No. Absolutely not. We are not going to go see Gabe.”

“Yes. Absolutely yes,” I said just as firmly. “Look, Russ might not be at Gabe's cabin, but Gabe still might know where he is. Mutual friends? Neighbors? That kind of thing.”

Shaking her head, Carrie lifted the yellow plastic bag Melanie had left behind and passed it to me. “Let the police do it.”

“I'm sure the police will, but I suspect you might be in a bigger hurry to find Russ than they are.” I paused while she hefted the carton off the counter, then held open the door for her to pass through.

“They're going to be more interested in finding out whether or not that fire was an accident, and if not, whodunit.” We ambled down the sidewalk, heading for the car that had been baking in the sun. “You're the one who'll end up fielding all the questions and talking to the fencing people and dealing with insurance and the gas company and the phone company and if we can find Russ . . .”

“Georgia.” Carrie came to a stop and turned to face me. “Did you get some kind of Miss Marple disease when you were figuring out who killed Bill Harper? And now you need to feed the sickness?”

“Um. No.” I resumed walking, slowly, considering how best to answer the question. “That's not it,” I said at last.
“In fact, I only have a vague idea who Miss Marple is.” I was wise enough on the walk back to give the gutter puddle wide berth. “I think that helping figure out who killed Mr. Harper and getting Grandy out of jail, that made me feel—I don't know—useful somehow? Like I'm contributing?”

At the car, Carrie balanced the carton against the rear fender. She dropped her purse on the trunk and fished around inside the bag. “I don't understand. How could you not feel useful?”

“Maybe unwelcome is more like it. I don't get the warmest reception from the good people of Wenwood,” I said on a sigh. “If I can help, then maybe I could be, you know, less of an outsider?”

Her brows drew together across the bridge of her nose. “So sticking your nose into crime is your way of sucking up to the townspeople?”

I opened my mouth, waited vainly for a coherent noise to come out. In the end, I shrugged. Oftentimes things sounded less crazy in my head than they did out loud.

Lifting a set a keys from her purse, Carrie shook her head in a manner that made me think she'd make a good mom. “Fine. Let's go look at cars.”

C
arrie had the good sense to call the dealership before we took the ride and make sure Gabe was working. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” she said, as we headed south on the highway. “Really. I could just ask him over the phone if he knows where Russ might be.”

“Phones are nowhere near as much fun as road trips.” I flipped down the sun visor and perused the collection of CDs Carrie kept there. “Besides, I really do need to start thinking about buying my own car. May as well get my research going.”

She checked the rearview mirror and smoothly changed lanes. “You could research online.”

“Blind shopping on the Internet inevitably ends with two hours lost to YouTube. I need a place to start.” I selected
classic Alanis Morissette and popped the disk into the CD player.

“Buying a car, worrying about fitting in . . . Does this mean your trial period is over and you're going to commit to staying in Wenwood permanently?”

Settling back in my seat, letting the air-conditioning blow the frizz of my hair away from my face, I sighed. “I think so. But I go back and forth. I like it here, you know?” I gazed out the window, where even the highways were surrounded with thick green trees and cheerful wildflowers. “But this wasn't exactly the way I pictured my future. I pictured big city, power lunches, and mass transit, not front porches and the luncheonette.”

Carrie chuckled. “What we picture our future to be and what it turns out to be isn't always the same thing. But we adjust.”

“When everything fell apart for me, I came here to rest and figure out how to start over. I figured the starting over itself would be elsewhere. If the starting over happens here, is that adjusting? Or giving up?”

She shot me a sidelong glance, one filled with compassion but empty of an answer.

We rode the final miles to the dealership in silence. What ran through Carrie's mind along the way I couldn't guess at; what ran through my mind was the same old circular indecision about whether to fully commit to Wenwood or move on. By the time the enormous U.S. flag flying over the dealership came into view, all I had concluded was that, stay or go, I was going to need money and I was keeping my cat.

Carrie parked her car along the street in front of the dealership, and I stepped out onto the curb and faced a gleaming row of new cars. Sedans, pickups, SUVs all waiting for the perfect owner to arrive. Alternating vehicles sported cheery blue or red balloons; every vehicle sported a ticket price I knew without even looking at that I couldn't afford.

“Any idea where they keep the clunker trade-ins?” I asked as Carrie came around to meet me. “They're more in my price range.”

She shook her head, eyes and mouth pinched. “I was only here once,” she said tightly.

I reached a hand to her elbow, stopping her progress. “Why don't you wait in the car or . . . ?” I glanced up and down the road, searching for a likely spot. “Or go grab a donut and some coffee? This was my idea. You don't need to see Gabe.”

“More food?” Carrie forced a smile. “It'll be fine.”

Marching on ahead, Carrie smoothed the hair away from her forehead and flicked the curls over her shoulder. With each step she stood a little straighter, her chin a little higher. Meanwhile, the tension across my shoulders grew tighter and seemed to stretch into my belly. I swept my fingers across my stomach, trying to brush away the nerves and the guilt lurking behind, but I feared nothing short of turning and running would help.

Carrie tugged open the door to the showroom, and I followed her inside. More shiny cars mocked my bank account and employment status.

We crossed polished floors and passed shoppers and
salespeople alike, Carrie pointing to the back of the showroom anytime anyone with a salesman's smile came near. “Service,” she announced, and they melted away.

The cross from showroom to service meant stepping off gleaming marble and onto dull linoleum tile. Dusty letters affixed to the wall read
PARTS AND SERVICE
. Beneath it, a sign informing patrons about labor rates made me rethink the idea that buying a clunker would save money.

Ahead of us at the service counter a heavyset man wearing socks with his sandals muttered profanity as he settled his bill. For that brief moment, I decided buying any car at all would be a bad plan.

When the muttering man walked away, Carrie and I stepped into his place.

“Afternoon, ladies.” The man behind the service counter couldn't have been any taller than I was, but he had a friendly smile and a surprisingly clean work shirt for someone who worked in the service department. “What can I help you with today?”

“I was hoping to, um . . .” Carrie took a deep breath. “To see Gabe Stanford, please.”

“Is this about a repair? Are you a customer?” the man asked.

“Sister-in-law,” I said.

“Former,” Carrie added.

Counter guy raised his eyebrows, looked back and forth between us.

“It's about his brother,” she said.

His face paled and jaw fell. “Oh, God.”

“Oh no, no, not that. He's fine!” Carrie rushed to say.

“We presume,” I put in. No need to remove any incentive the guy had for moving quickly.

“Can you just . . . is he here? Can we talk to him?”

Counter Guy's sandy hair bounced as he nodded. “I'll go see if he can take a break,” he said, already moving away from his register.

“Oh look,” Carrie said after Counter Guy disappeared through a doorway. “There's coffee.”

I followed her gaze to a cup-at-a-time coffeemaker stored below a wall-mounted television playing a midday talk show. Once again I rubbed a hand against my stomach, three cups of coffee shop brew swirling within. “Pass.”

“If you can't drink any more coffee, how could you expect me to eat more food?” Carrie asked.

Turning my attention back to her, I said, “I was just trying to spare you . . . the . . .”

“Carrie. What are you doing here?”

She spun to look at the man who had crept up behind us and robbed me of speech. I hadn't held an image in my head of what Gabe Stanford would look like. Carrie had never shared a picture of Russ with me, leaving me uninformed on any family traits. But even if I had been expecting the dark hair and blue eyes, I never would have anticipated the apparent reincarnation of Paul Bunyan. Granted, rather than a red and black checkered flannel, he wore a grease-streaked shirt with
GABRIEL
stitched over the breast pocket, and fortunately he wasn't carrying an ax because that would have utterly freaked me out. Gabe was easily six-foot-eight, with the barrel chest of a
pro football player and hands the size of watermelons. I fought the conflicting urges of backing away from him and ducking under him for protection.

While Counter Guy squeezed behind Gabe and took a seat on a stool behind the register, Carrie introduced me to her former brother-in-law. My hand vanished in his as we shook hands in greeting.

That was the extent of any pleasantness.

“I'll ask again. What are you doing here?” Gabe repeated, his voice the growl of boulders grinding one against the other.

“I just . . .” Carrie faltered. “Just . . .”

Rather than take that step back, I edged forward, moving that little bit closer to Gabe than Carrie stood. “I asked her to bring me. We were hoping you would know where Russ is,” I said.

His lips quirked in a bitter smile. “Why would I know?”

“Because you're his brother? He might have mentioned something to you?” Being an only child myself, I could only speculate at sibling attachment based on observations. Most of those observations of Wenwood and its Hudson Valley environs told me family around here stuck together. I should have kept in mind the brief glimpse Carrie had given me of the Stanford family.

“Russ is a grown man. He doesn't need to check with me for permission on anything. Just ask him, he'll tell you.”

“I would very much like to ask him,” I said. “But according to his administrative assistant, he's gone away fishing and didn't tell anyone where he was going.”

“And we were hoping since you guys usually go fishing
together, you might have some idea where Russ might go on his own,” Carrie added.

The big man scoffed. “Wherever he is, he's probably with Brittany. You might try asking her friends.”

“Brittany?” Carrie practically spat the name.

“Yeah, you know, his next wife.”

In that moment I didn't know what Carrie was feeling about this new bombshell. All I knew was my stomach was churning on her behalf. The twisted truth of it is, you might have made the best decision ever in getting out of a relationship, you might have been emotionally betrayed, but hearing the other party has moved on before you still stings.

“He's getting married again?” Carrie asked in a tiny voice.

Gabe shuffled his feet, turning to face her fully. “He wouldn't be getting married
again
if you'd have stayed with him.”

“Russ cheated on her,” I said.

He spread his arms wide, palms up. “That's what men do. Men are not meant to be monogamous. It's against our biology. If you'd have just understood that, then you two would still be together and my stupid-ass brother wouldn't be planning to sign a prenup for wife number two.”

All I could do was blink, buying time while I waited to see if his words would make sense or, at the very least, not infuriate me. “I'm sorry, I want to be clear on this. Did you say ‘not meant to be monogamous' because of biology? So simply being men gives men permission to ignore their vows?”

“All's I'm saying is a man can't be expected to spend the rest of his life with just one woman. It's why I told Russ, if he signs that prenup, he's going to lose everything he has left to that girl and all because of natural urges that can't be ignored.”

“Natural urges?” Carrie echoed, disbelief apparently overwhelming any lingering distress she felt over hearing of Russ's upcoming marriage. “Natural? Your brother met that girl online. How is that natural?”

I shot her a look, shook my head. “So there's a prenup.” I folded my arms, gave Gabe my shrewdest look. “And you don't think your brother, or any man ever, should have to pay any sort of price for being unfaithful to his wife?”

Gabe shrugged in a manner to indicate he didn't make the rules, he only played by them. Meanwhile, behind him, where only Carrie and I could see, Counter Guy rolled his eyes.

I glanced at Carrie. “Now I know why you don't like this guy.”

“Come on, let's just go,” she said. “He doesn't know where Russ is.”

I narrowed my gaze at him. “Don't you even want to know why we need to find your brother?”

He pursed his lips for a moment, looked upward as though considering the question. “No. Don't need to know that. So I can go back to work now?” He gave us a great big false smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

As he lumbered back through the doorway that presumably led to the repair bays, I let out a disgusted huff. “He honestly believes . . .” I said. “Natural urges?”

Carrie stood with arms wrapped around her belly and eyes on the floor. “He's not the nice brother,” she murmured.

A
no kidding
or
you don't say
was waiting on my tongue. Common sense and compassion prevailed.

I reached out and rubbed a hand against her upper arm. “I'm sorry for making you come here,” I said.

She lifted a shoulder, tilted her head momentarily to the side. “It's okay. Usually I can handle him. I guess the day's been harder than I realized.”

Putting an arm over her shoulder, I turned her back toward the showroom. “Come on,” I said. “Let's go look at cars I can't afford. Then we'll call Detective Nolan and let him know where to find the Neanderthal with the answers.”

“See?” she said, giving me a shaky smile. “Some things are best left to the
police.”