The Glass House

by Nancy Lynn Jarvis

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  On Sunday night Pat and Tim shared a picnic dinner—his creation this time—and watched a politically correct film screened by the Santa Cruz Guerilla Drive-In in a field in Ben Lomond.

  “Can I invite you to do a repeat Tuesday Taco Night?” Pat asked.

  “Things just keep getting better and better between us. Now you’re asking me out. I like that.”

  “I do want to see you, but I have an ulterior motive for where and when.”

  “Should I be crestfallen?”

  “Not at all. I said I want to see you, and I do. It’s just that Syda and I are going to do a ghost celebration at the Davenport Landing Beach with Suzanne Cummings on Tuesday evening, and it’s so close to the Roadhouse.”

  “Two birds with one stone. I’m a hurt bird,” Tim joked, “but I’ll get over it, as long as I see you again. I thought you were finally and officially off the Joe Wentner investigation, though, and hanging out with Suzanne Cummings sounds like you’re working. Did your on-and-off attorney turn on again?”

  “No. I’m freelancing. I don’t like unfinished business. That’s another thing you should know about me.”

  “I don’t mind that you don’t like loose ends. I think the fact that you’re a little OC is kind of endearing,” he teased. “I don’t like that you’re having contact with that Cummings woman, though.”

  “You said you didn’t think she was capable of murder.”

  “I’ve been wrong before, only once and it was years ago,” he grinned, “but it has happened.”

  “I don’t think you’re wrong this time.”

  “If you’re going to be a private investigator, you may come up against some nasty types. I don’t want to worry about you. Next weekend I’m taking you shooting,” Tim said firmly. “I want you to know how to handle a weapon and how to defend yourself. After I teach you how to be a markswoman, we can talk about you getting a concealed-carry license.”

  “Okay,” Pat replied.

  Tim raised his eyebrows. “You’re full of surprises. I expected resistance.”

  “Not from me. We’ll go shooting next weekend, but first we need a Taco Tuesday rerun.”

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  Syda hadn’t been mistaken about the beach access being tricky. The last five feet of the path required climbing skills. Pat launched her peony toward the sand stem-first so she could use both hands to negotiate the drop. Garryn’s attachment system—or the patented design of Leonardo Grinardi—worked well and the flower held together, protruding upward from the sand like a lustrous, as-yet-undiscovered species.

  She followed the flower with her mid-heeled, open-toed black sandals—not the best choice for hiking and sand, but something sexy she wanted to wear for dinner later with Tim—and an integral part of the all-black mourning clothing she wore for Garryn Monteith’s ghost memorial ceremony.

  Color lover that she was, she had added so many shiny bangle bracelets, such large dangly earrings, and such a chunky round-bead silver necklace to her ensemble to mitigate its oppressive darkness, that she clanked as she climbed down toward the beach. Her bare feet complained mightily on the rocky outcroppings and did make her regret her choice of shoes, but once they hit the moist, soft sand, they forgave her errors.

  Pat retrieved her shoes and her peony and jingled toward Syda and Suzanne, who were waiting for her. She approached Suzanne with outstretched arms, clutching sandals in one hand and her peony in the other.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said as she hugged the startled woman.

  “Ahh,” Suzanne faulted, “thank you?” Then she said, “Thank you,” for a second time firmly, like she meant it.

  “Yes. Garryn meant so much to you. And I think you meant a lot to him, too. You know how he could be, though. Sometimes he forgot how much you meant to him, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Suzanne nodded. “Yes, sometimes he forgot I was once his star pupil.”

  “Now, I bet you’re thinking I’m upset with you about my windshield.”

  Suzanne stammered, “I don’t know what you—”

  “Don’t be,” Pat rushed on without giving her time to deny what she had done. “My insurance covered it, and I was so rude to you that you had every right to be angry with me.”

  Suzanne forced a weak half-smile. “Well, yes. But I do sometimes overreact, at least that’s what my counselor—I’m working with someone about anger management—says.”

  “You’re seeing a counselor?” Pat couldn’t believe her luck: Suzanne had just given her the perfect lead into what she wanted to talk about. “But if what you did to my car is an example… Suzanne, I provoked you. Why does your counselor think you overreacted? What else have you done?”

  Sunset was approaching and the sky was going to pink and orange, so Pat couldn’t be sure of it, but she thought color might have risen in Suzanne’s cheeks.

  “I’ve broken a few things,” she hung her head and spoke barely above a whisper, “and maybe sent a note or two that I shouldn’t have that made it sound like I was going to hurt someone, but I never have.” Suzanne raised her head and met Pat’s gaze. “I never would.”

  Syda tried to be helpful. “You mean like you get road rage sometimes? We all do, don’t we, and we don’t necessarily need counseling.”

  “No,” Suzanne said softly. “It’s not like road rage.”

  “It’s because of Garryn, isn’t it?” Pat asked gently.

  “Yes. Like I did with your car. What you said made me angry, but what really hurt me was that you were right.”

  “The things you broke, the notes you wrote, were they to women Garryn gave special attention to in other classes?”

  Suzanne was silent, but she nodded her head.

  Pat made sure she didn’t sound confrontational as she directed their dialog. “Joel and Lillian told me you were a regular at classes Garryn taught at their studio. He taught there so often, didn’t anyone ever say something to them about you, about you breaking things or writing notes? I’m surprised they let you come back all those times if you were disruptive.”

  “I never acted out there; there was no need to. Garryn never paid special attention to other women at the Glass House. Not with Lillian there.” Suzanne trained pained eyes on Pat. “At least not until you.”

  “Because they had a relationship?” Pat asked.

  “Yes. I knew I couldn’t compete with her.”

  “Then why did you keep going to their classes?” Syda queried.

  “I knew one day Garryn would get tired of her. I wanted to be there when he did.”

  The sun began to dip into the ocean, and the nearby cliffs relinquished their greens and golds in favor of shades of gray and charcoal.

  “Shouldn’t we get started?” Suzanne asked, clearly indicating she had had enough of their conversation.

  It was okay. Pat had the information she needed, even if she hadn’t completely made sense of it yet.

  They arranged their peonies in a line in front of the setting sun and sat in the sand saying kind words about what Garryn meant to them. Suzanne cried openly and Syda snuffled occasionally.

  Pat even wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, not because of Garryn Monteith’s death, but because of what a mess his actions had made of so many lives, and because she knew there was more pain to come.

  Syda and Pat left after Suzanne when the sun was fully down. “Here, Pat.” Syda produced two small objects from her bag. “Greg got these for me. They’re clip-on flashlights so we can get up the path to the cliff top hands-free.”

  “Thank goodness for deputy sheriffs,” Pat smiled mischievously as she secured her flashlight on the neckline of her top.

  “Should we hurry?” Syda asked as they neared the path. “Aren’t you worried she might damage your car again?”

  “Not at all. I believe she’s over me. Besides, I parked my car a couple of hundred yards up the road where she won’t drive by
it on her way home,” Pat giggled.

  It took her more than five minutes to reach her vehicle, remove the clip-on flashlight, climb into her car, and use the flip-down mirror to check her makeup and finger comb her hair to make it tidy after the beach breezes. Even after all that, she dawdled before starting her car. The last thing she wanted was to have Syda spot her making a U-turn on Highway 1 and heading toward the Roadhouse instead of home.

  The Roadhouse parking lot was a short walk from the restaurant entrance, not lit, but not oppressively gloomy either, because of passing car headlights. Pat’s car was old enough that it didn’t have a remote locking feature. She put her key into the door lock and was about to turn it when a hand clamped on her mouth and an arm wrapped around her waist. She was pulled abruptly back toward a dark figure who leaned his lips toward her ear.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  Her heart pounded and her hand began a quick descent into her purse until she realized it was Tim who had her in his grip.

  “Sorry if I scared you, but Syda and Greg are inside getting ready to have dinner. You won’t believe what I had to do to keep from being seen,” he chuckled. “We’re going to have to get our fish tacos in town at El Palomar on Pacific. My nondescript Highlander is parked a row behind you and a few cars over. I’ll follow you, but you better scoot right now before one of them decides the wait for dinner is too long and they come back out to the parking lot to leave.”

  After the beach memorial, Pat had shelved Suzanne Cummings as a killer. She’d previously ruled out Angela Grinardi as a murderess, too. That left Kandi Crusher and Joe Wentner as her remaining prime suspects.

  Kandi’s motive for murder seemed weak, and Pat was inclined to believe her when Kandi said she only wanted to embarrass Garryn Monteith. Still, Kandi was named as the source of rumors about Garryn and Lillian, and if she was spreading rumors, was it possible she felt more animosity toward him than Pat thought and was planning to do something else to him other than hold up her completed flower and say, “Me first”?

  She had to call Kandi again and find out why she had conducted a whisper campaign. If Kandi had a satisfactory explanation for why she was telling tales, she’d have to rule Kandi out, too, and accept the fact that, much as she liked him and much as her gut told her he was an innocent man, Joe just might be a murderer. Kandi or Joe? It felt like Sophie’s Choice to her; she didn’t want either of them to be guilty.

  Pat put off the call to Kandi for most of the day, but by Wednesday evening the weight of ignoring what she had to do had become too heavy a burden for her to carry.

  Steeled, she made her call to Kandi, but she didn’t reach her. She was thwarted by the voice of George Crusher, Kandi’s husband.

  “Yeah, well she’s not here. She went up to the City to take care of her mother. Mom had a fall—she missed the last three steps into her basement—lives in San Fran in a hundred-year-old house in the Mission where houses have narrow steps and laundry in the basement—didn’t break anything, which is a miracle ’cause she’s in her eighties and has osteoporosis—but she’s bruised and real sore and pretty upset—I don’t blame her, I would be, too, if I did something like that at her age.”

  Pat wondered how many more details he had to give in his narrative of misfortune and woe.

  “So Kandi’s up there for a few days. I can tell her you called. What was your name again?”

  “Perhaps you could give me Kandi’s cell number and I could call her at her mother’s.”

  “Oh, yeah, that would work. Mom’s probably making her crazy by now. I bet she’d welcome someone to talk to about anything but near-death experiences,” he laughed.

  Pat wrote down the number George Crusher gave her. She read it back to him to be sure it was correct; she didn’t want to call him again.

  She checked the clock; it was only 7:10. She could call.

  Kandi answered her phone after two rings. A cacophony of jingles, clinks, and murmurs in the background competed with her voice.

  “Kandi, it’s Pat Pirard. You said to call if I had more questions.”

  Kandi’s voice boomed, “Yeah, I did. Give me a minute to get to another room.”

  Pat waited for Kandi to speak again as the background noise faded.

  “Hi, Pat. My mom’s a bit hard of hearing. We were watching Wheel of Fortune with the volume up pretty high.”

  “Your husband told me about her fall. Is she recovering?”

  “She’s recovered physically; psychologically she’s still shaken up. I’ll stay one more day and then I’m heading home. What’s up?”

  Pat decided to be straightforward. “I’ve been calling our classmates. Your name came up several times and not necessarily in a good way. Why did so many of them say they heard rumors about Lillian and Garryn from you?”

  “Because it’s true. I was telling stories about them.”

  “You were repeating what your brother told you about them? Why, Kandi? I get it that you didn’t like Garryn and saying negative things about him must have felt good. Telling students that he was a philanderer imputes his character, but to link him with Lillian demeans her, too. Joe insists he didn’t know about his wife and Garryn. If what you were saying was news to him, hearing it might have hurt him badly, especially with an audience around to watch his reaction. Why were you doing that?”

  “Crap. I didn’t think about the audience part. I like Joe. I don’t believe for a minute, though, that he didn’t know about what was happening right under his nose. He’s a kind man, weak though, I think, to let his wife carry on like she did for so long. If I were in his shoes, I would have left her or at least given her an ultimatum. But I shouldn’t judge their marriage—and I never meant to hurt him.

  “And Lillian? I didn’t care about her. I don’t like the way she treated her husband, but at least it was all ending.”

  “You mean she was finally leaving Joe?”

  “No. I told you before, didn’t I? Garryn dumped her.”

  Pat frowned. “Why do you think that? Did someone tell you something?”

  “No one told me anything; my knowledge is firsthand. I forgot my purse in the studio after the first day of class. I went back to get it before I drove home. I heard them the minute I opened the studio door. They were in the kiln alcove and all lovey-dovey at first, and Garryn was saying”—Kandi slipped into an imitation of him—“‘When are you going to leave that wimp of a husband and come back to New York with me?’ Lillian got all giggly and said”—Kandi mimicked again—“‘As soon as the class is over.’ She said she had even told Joe she wanted a divorce.

  “I couldn’t see them because of where they were, but they got really quiet. I thought they were probably planting big sloppy kisses all over one another. I grabbed my purse and started to leave when I heard Garryn say, ‘What do you mean? No. No you can’t come with me.’ Then Lillian said, ‘But you asked me to. You want me to, don’t you?’ And Garryn said, ‘No, I don’t.’ Their voices started getting louder and Lillian yelled, ‘Then why did you ask me to go with you?’ and Garryn yelled back, ‘Because you always say no!’

  “That did it. They started having a huge fight. Lillian was screaming with rage and Garryn was yelling back. Garryn was awful. Cruel. No surprise. He said he’d been over her for years, but considered his classes at the Glass House as a ‘lucrative booty-call.’ Can you imagine?”

  “Lillian must have been devastated.”

  “Big time. No more Same Time Next Year for him.”

  “So Garryn was the one who ended their affair?” Pat asked incredulously.

  “Absolutely. I could still hear Lillian howling from outside after I slipped out of there, that’s how loud their fight had become. Then last thing I heard him yell was that tomorrow was the final day for him, that he was never going to teach another class with her.

  “I started spreading rumors about them so when I exposed him as a thief and a rat, the class would already be looking at him sideways. I neve
r thought about how it might make Joe look, and I didn’t care how it might make Lillian look. Now I’m kind of sorry I did it.”

  “Kandi, there’s a witness who heard Lillian asking Joe for a divorce. It looks bad for him, like Lillian leaving him gives him a good motive for killing Garryn Monteith. If the affair was over, his motive gets weaker. Are you willing to testify in court to what you just told me?”

  “Of course, especially if it helps Joe. There may be someone else who can back up my story, too. The bathroom crier hadn’t left the property yet, either. When I came out of the studio, I saw her hovering—hiding is a better description of what she was doing—in the plants by the alcove window. If I could hear Lillian and Garryn from outside, she could have, too. She may even have been able to see them if she peeked in, which is what she seemed to be trying to do. I passed her on my way to my car, but she was so intent on spying, I don’t think she even saw me leave. Talk to her.”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do next. Thanks, Kandi. Give my best to your mother.”

  Pat ended the call and started to call Syda, thinking she might have to be the one to get through to Suzanne, but she hit cancel before the call started. After last night, Pat decided she should try herself. Amazingly, Suzanne answered.

  “Suzanne, it’s Pat Pirard.”

  “I know. My caller ID said it was you.”

  Pat was unsure what to expect from mood-swinging Suzanne. She’d answered her phone so that boded well, but were they still on cordial terms, or had the bond they established the night before disintegrated? With Suzanne it was impossible to predict.

  Pat spoke softly, seeking permission before she continued. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you witness Lillian and Garryn’s breakup?” She held her breath after she asked.