Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) (7 page)

“Which is boating weather anyway,” I put in.

“Precisely.” Himmel grinned. “Wenwood’s location makes it an ideal rest point for people spending the day sailing the Hudson. In good weather, you stop to enjoy a meal, maybe spend the weekend in Wenwood. In unexpected bad weather? Same thing.”

“Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s been a long time in planning.” His gaze remained on the brickworks, as though he saw not what it was but what it would become. The spark in his eye and the eagerness in his stance nearly made me take a staggered step backward. Though his overall appearance was unchanged, the faraway look in his eye revealed another side of him—a side with plans and goals and dreams, a side that might even be considered admirable—a different sort of Anton Himmel than the scowling, angry man I’d met before.

But the equation wasn’t adding up. “So if you’ve got everything worked out, why are you and I the only people here? Why is no one working?”

The contented, visionary expression vanished, replaced by the tight-lipped, narrow-eyed anger I’d first encountered. “Look around,” he said. With a sweep of his arm, he encompassed the open, still area in which we stood. “What’s missing here?”

I knew
workers
was the wrong answer, but I couldn’t guess at the right one.

“You see any supplies here? You see pallets of lumber lined up and ready to go?”

“Umm, no?”

“Damn right
no
.”

“But why not? Why is—”

“Tell me again why you’re here,” Himmel demanded.

“I . . . uh . . . was wondering why you were arguing with Andy Edgers the other day.”

He raised his brows, inclined his head in a manner to suggest I already knew the answer.

The sun beat down on my head, raised prickles of sweat along the back of my neck while I worked to pull the pieces together. And then I had them. “Andy was supposed to supply the lumber.”

“You’re close.”

Okay, so I
thought
I had them.

“Part of the agreement with the Town Council was that we would go through local channels in all possible instances. Mr. Edgers was supposed to process our supply orders for lumber, nails, asphalt, you name it.”

“Is that typical?”

Himmel scowled—a response that required no words.

“So why aren’t the supplies here?”

“There are some problems with the orders.” He turned and walk back toward the Jeep.

Quick-timing to keep up with him, I asked, “Was that why you were arguing with Edgers? Did he know about the problems with the orders? Was it on his end or yours?”

He shoved one hand in his pocket and with the other opened the door to the Jeep. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Kelly, I need to get back to work.”

Coming to a halt, I placed my hands on my hips. “Did he know about the problems, or what?”

“Miss Kelly . . .”

“Georgia.”

“Georgia. I need to get back to ordering supplies from my own sources now so I can get this site working again. Thanks for stopping by.”

He let go of the door to the SUV and hustled back to the trailer. I supposed
gentlemanly
only went so far when there were questions you didn’t want to answer.

But why? Why would Edgers’s familiarity with the problems surrounding the supply orders be enough for Himmel to send me on my way?

I climbed into the SUV, pulled the door shut, and started the engine. I didn’t know how I would learn the answer to that question, but I was darn sure going to find a way.

A
t the office supply store, I made fifty copies of my “Found: White Kitten” flyers and picked up a roll of tape. The problem, I realized as I set the flyers and tape in the car, was that a tiny voice in the back of my mind had already named the kitten Friday, because her soft cuddles soothed my tension the same way as a Friday afternoon of a stressful workweek. The possibility of returning her to someone who had either let her get loose or dropped her over a fence gnawed at my happiness . . . because having Grandy under suspicion of murder hadn’t done enough damage.

Luckily, there was a glass shop in my future. Having that craft wonderland at the end of the road made the hour-plus drive along the interstate bearable. Either that or the miles of green foothills leading on to lush mountains soothed me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. By the time I reached the shop, another half an hour east from the mountains and back toward the river, I felt as though I had truly escaped the troubles I’d left in Wenwood.

With the selection of pieces from the broken lamp wrapped in cloth and tucked in my ever-present reusable shopping bag, I rolled down the windows of Grandy’s Jeep to keep the cab from becoming hell hot in the parking lot and headed for the store.

Colorful panels of stained glass art hung at intervals across the plate windows stretching the front of the shop. Images of waterfalls and waterfowl, fish and boats and lighthouses, decorated the panels, mixing the beauty of the glass craft with the flavor of the riverside town.

I pulled open the door, the electronic beep that alerted the shopkeep to my presence sounding harsh in my ears after the gentle tinkling of Wenwood’s bells. I side-eyed the front window from inside the door, gratified to see tracks of the type used for sliding doors installed on the sills. Such a design made it possible to set one end of a piece of colored glass between the tracks, rest the opposite end against the window, and evaluate the glass based on the way the sun struck the colors.

“Afternoon,” a woman called cheerfully.

Turning to the interior of the shop, I looked past the light table, past the cubby shelves of glass surrounding it, and found a reed-thin, dark-haired woman perched on a step stool. She held a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other. Inventory, I guessed. I had interrupted her counting the shade forms stacked high on open-backed shelves.

“Hi there,” I said. “I called about your selection of Kokomo?”

The woman nodded and pointed to the set of cubbies farthest to my right. “Over there,” she said. “You need help, just let me know.”

I nodded, turned away without answering. I was eager to get to the glass, to lose myself even further in the brilliance of the color, the white wisps pulled through to create soft swirls, the hint of opposite color blended in to make the hues bolder, brighter.

One by one I set samples from the broken lamp on the light table. The illumination from below revealed subtle shifts of color and patterns in the glass. It was this detail that I tried to find a replica for as I sifted through the sheets of glass filling the cubbies. I pulled shades of lavender, blends of white and periwinkle. Some sheets measured one foot square, others one foot by two feet. Sheets of three by three . . . well, those would be a last resort.

I lined the light table with smaller sheets, set the larger ones in the tracks on the windowsill at the front of the store. Once I had the blues, the greens, the whites, and the gold-threaded pinks and lavenders selected, I collected up my samples and carried the sheets to the checkout. The excitement of working with the glass I selected bubbled within me. With a plain lampshade form added to my haul, the shopkeep happily took my credit card, and I grinned past the specter of a dwindling bank account that came to hover over my shoulder and burst a couple of my bubbles.

Money concerns gnawed at the edge of my consciousness on the drive back to Wenwood. I was by no means in dire straits, and had sufficient funds to keep me a few more months if I was careful. But having been financially sound for so many years, the fear of losing that security had the power to get under my skin and ratchet up my anxiety.

I pushed it away as best I could, kept it in a dark corner of my mind while I unpacked the glass sheets in my work area at Grandy’s house, the kitten looking on in wide-eyed fascination. But the echoing concern struck while I took the ride with Grandy to another night at the dine-in.

“What’s got into you?” he asked. “You’re not sulking about that cat again, are you?”

I’d left the flyers on the dining table, electing to delay their posting for one more day. “What have you got against Fri—the kitten? You never had a problem with pets before.”

“I’ve gotten wiser in my old age.”

“I would have thought this acquisition of wisdom would include the understanding that pets actually extend a person’s life expectancy.”

Steering the car into the parking lot, he said, “Georgia, having a cat under my feet would kill me.”

“Grandy,” I countered, “you’re too tough to let one little cat get in your way.”

He huffed. “Why did you have to bring home a cat? Can’t you be like a normal person and bring home a stray dog?”

“I haven’t come across one but I’ll keep my eyes open. Fair enough?”

With the Jeep tucked into Grandy’s usual parking space, he cut the engine and turned to me. “A deal’s a deal, Georgia. If no one claims the little beast and your mother doesn’t find out about my trip to the police station, you can keep it. Try and cheer up until we know for sure.”

Sighing, I reached for the door handle. “It’s not the kitten.” I climbed from the SUV, reached back in to lift my laptop bag from the floor.

“What is it then? Have you gotten another message from that good for nothing you were engaged to?”

The thought of my former fiancé hit me like a fist to the gut. Any memory of him I kept locked securely in the farthest recess of my mind, undisturbed until someone else mentioned him to me, and then the lock sprang open and recollections—good and bad, joyful and painful—rushed out.

I leaned for a moment against the side of the Jeep, waiting for the surge of sorrow to pass.

“Georgia?” Grandy asked, a break in his voice. He took my elbow in his gentle yet sturdy grasp. “Something wrong? Are you all right?”

Forcing the memories back into the dark corners of my mind, I nodded, got my legs under me, and stood straight.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His face rumpled briefly in regret before he took a breath, schooled his expression, and looked to the sky. “He was a swine who didn’t deserve you. Now let’s go inside.”

Silently I followed Grandy across the parking lot and waited while he unlocked one of the dine-in lobby doors. I clung tightly to my laptop bag, steeling myself against the residual tug of regret. I reminded myself I was through with the past, that it was time to look forward.

Accompanying Grandy into the lobby, I wandered ahead of him while he relocked the door—which inevitably included dropping the keys, cursing like I couldn’t hear him, and starting over again.

Inside the burgundy and gray lobby, Grandy’s head cook, Matthew, leaned against the darkened concession stand, back to me and white-knuckling a cell phone held against his ear. “Hey, I’m not happy about this . . . What am I supposed to do? The guy’s . . . whaddaya call it . . . Teflon . . .” He lifted his head and sighed loudly. “Look, I don’t know. You figure an old guy like that would spend less time working, not more. It’s gonna take an act of Congress to get him to retire.”

He glanced casually over his shoulder. On spotting me, he straightened, muttered, “I gotta go” into the phone, then turned toward me. “How did you get in?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Pete.” I tipped my head toward the lobby, where the crash of keys hitting the marble floor and the following profanity repeated itself.

The cook swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple betraying his concern. He smoothed down the edges of his mustache, considering. “How long . . .”

Presuming he wanted to know how long I’d been witness to his conversation, I replied, “The whole time.”

Of course I had only heard a snippet, and lying to him was unkind, but I didn’t care for the way he spoke to Grandy. The wicked streak in me wanted to see the cook squirm.

“Have you just gotten here?” Grandy asked, striding into the lobby.

The cook slid his cell phone into the pocket of his chef’s coat. “Just came out to take a peek at the weather.”

“You have a door out the back of the kitchen, don’t you?” Grandy asked. “Did you expect the front of the house to have different weather than the back of the house?”

With a shake of his head and a clenched jaw, Matthew turned his back on us and returned to the kitchen.

Okay, so maybe Grandy could get under a person’s skin. Just because he was my granddad, that didn’t make him a saint. But I was obligated to take his side, right?

“I don’t think he likes you,” I said once the passageway door to the kitchen swung closed.

“I don’t like him much either,” Grandy grumbled.

I stuck beside him until we reached his office then preceded him inside, switching on the overhead light and setting my laptop on his chair. The air in the space was close and warm, the air-conditioning having not yet dispelled the heat of the day. “If you don’t like him, why is he still working for you?”

Grandy shrugged, pulled his chin to his chest. “He’s my assistant manager’s brother. I lose him, I lose the ability to take a night off. Plus, Matthew’s a damn fine cook.”

“This place serves burgers and chicken fingers.
I
could prepare that.” I dropped into the threadbare love seat opposite the desk. “And I wouldn’t give you an attitude.”

“Yes, you would.” He moved my laptop bag to the floor and lowered himself into the desk chair.

“Yeah, I probably would. But I gotta tell you, Grandy, I’m starting to think I might be wrong about you. First I find out you and Andy Edgers have some old, nasty business between you, and now you and your head cook don’t get along? How do you explain that?”

Keeping his back to me, he said, “How I run my business is not your business.”

“Is that what you told the police?” I asked. “Did you tell them your relationship with Andy Edgers was none of their business?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So you’ll tell perfect strangers what happened but not your own family?” I waited for a response from him. When only the faint squeak of his chair filled the silence, I went on. “Does my mother know?”

This brought an over-the-shoulder scowl. “Would you call to get the story from her if I said yes?”

I wouldn’t and he knew it. He had me there. I needed to accept he wasn’t going to share with me the Andy Edgers story. But one thing still bothered me—all right, more than one, but only one I could ask about. I kept quiet until Grandy seemed to settle into his nightly paperwork; the better to catch him off guard. “How did the police know you stopped at the hardware store?”

He stilled, let a full count of three pass between us before he answered. “It didn’t come up.”

“You didn’t ask them?”

“I wasn’t precisely in charge of the conversation.”

I shifted forward in my seat, as though it would move me closer to an answer. “Well, why—”

“Georgia,” he cut in loudly, “didn’t you come here to accomplish something other than badgering me?”

Only a few simple words and suddenly I felt eight years old again and guilty of distracting Grandy from more important, adult things. I cleared the lump from my throat. “Yeah.” I rose just enough to pull my laptop bag to the love seat. “I need to use your Wi-Fi here to look for a job.”

He spun his chair so fast I feared he might complete a 360. “A job?”

“Sure.” Tugging the laptop free of the bag, I slid back in my seat. “I’m supposed to be getting my life back on track. That means a job, a place to live . . . can’t impose on you forever, can I?” I grinned to cover the anxiety gnawing at my confidence.

“No,” Grandy said softly. “No, of course not.” He spun the chair, putting his back to me again. “You’ve got your life ahead of you. Best get on with it.”

*   *   *

A
fter another disappointing night at the dine-in, with attendance far lower than a Bond film typically draws, the drive home was silent and despondent. Even my relief at having finally updated my résumé couldn’t overcome the weight of the mood.

Call me a coward, but I woke up early the next morning and headed on foot into Wenwood village rather than risk the rumble of the Jeep luring Grandy from his slumber. The walk into the village was short enough to be pleasant but long enough to count as exercise.

I made my way along streets lined with oak and elm. Thick canopies kept the sun from my head. Below my feet, sidewalks lifted and dipped from the pressure of spreading tree roots. And the brick walks leading to gentle, old homes consisted invariably of worn, sun-faded brick stamped in the corner with a small
WND.
The history and legacy of Wenwood brickworks surrounded me, but its past way of life could no longer seep into my veins. I couldn’t help wondering if the marina project would be enough to bring Wenwood back to a semblance of its former prosperity, and what would happen if it failed.

A single traffic light divided residential Wenwood from the little village of stores serving it. Adjusting the tote bag on my shoulder, I crossed against the light—there was no traffic to prevent this—and walked into town.

To my right stretched the windows of Village Grocery, the first stop on my path.

The entrance opened automatically at my approach, welcoming me to the bright lights and battered shopping carts of the market. Produce lay straight ahead, and for a moment I expected to find Bill there right where I’d left him days before. Of course, the only person in the produce aisle was a gray-haired woman surveying the cantaloupe.

I made the turn toward the checkout registers and stopped at the first lane. Again, the dyed blond cashier was on duty. “Hey,” I said, pulling her attention away from the tabloid paper she was reading. “Is it okay if I put a flyer in your window?”