A Shattering Crime

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “Not enough work,” she finished for me. She set her fists on her hips and fixed her gaze on me. “And do you believe those people who don’t want the new shopping center to be built? Unbelievable. I’m a single mother. You know what it’s like trying to raise a kid around here? The sooner that thing gets built the better. I’ll finally have a chance to work more than two or three days a week and there’s people protesting? Please.”

  I shook my head in vaguely sympathetic agreement. I didn’t exactly see the new promenade as providing any kind of employment security, but I didn’t want to rain on anyone’s parade who did. My own economic pinch was enough for me to worry about. The last thing I needed was a hefty vet bill. But I wanted Friday to have the care she needed, so there was no question of backing out.

  I pulled my last-resort Visa from my wallet and handed it to the receptionist. There was only one solution to this money dilemma: I was going to have to cobble together an assortment of stained glass pieces for Carrie to sell . . . and cross my fingers that they did.

  * * *

  Back in the car, I switched the radio station from Grandy’s customary all-news programming to what passed for the region’s version of a rock station. I was rewarded with the soul-soothing sound of Freddy Mercury’s voice singing “Under Pressure.” David Bowie didn’t hurt the tune any, but it was Freddy’s voice that managed to ease both my worry for Friday and my sorrow.

  I reassured myself it was only one night that I would be without my fluffy buddy. One night this week, one night next. And as I navigated back roads and side streets on my way to Grand, I marveled at myself, at how quickly and completely I had grown attached to her, how upsetting the thought of being without her. That wicked little voice in the back of my head insinuated my attachment to the cat was the result of my childhood with my mother, the frequent moves and the less frequent stepfathers. I turned the radio volume loud enough to drown out both my thoughts and the sound of my voice. I sang along with Freddy and David, then Steven, then Axl. Song by song, focusing on the lyrics, on what came next in the music and not what came next in my life—or came before, for that matter—I made my way into the village of Wenwood.

  The summer was long gone and the seasonal traffic with it. Trees had begun to dress themselves in autumn colors and dropped a few leaves on the brick and cement sidewalks, a preview of the leaf-strewn weeks to come. I slipped the Jeep into an open space right on Grand, a space that never would have remained vacant had August gone on forever.

  I held my coat closed rather than spend time on the zipper. A few brisk paces ahead and I ducked through the door of Grace’s luncheonette. The welcoming bell jingled overhead, signaling my arrival to those gathered within.

  From the entry the lunch counter was ahead and to the left, allowing me to see the faces of those seated there and they could see me—which made things doubly odd that no one so much as looked in my direction. Stunned motionless, I stood at the end of the counter and gaped. There was Tom on his usual stool, his friend Terry beside him. Grace’s feet were on the service side of the counter, but her elbows rested on the countertop as she leaned close to Tom and Terry. And there, squeezed between Tom and the wall that divided the luncheonette from its kitchen, was my good friend Diana Davis. Better known as Aspiring Detective Davis.

  Diana, at last, glanced my way and nodded briskly, businesslike. Her lips were set in a tight, almost somber line and a quick check of the rest of the group showed her expression mirrored on each of their faces.

  The improved mood Freddy Mercury had set in motion faded faster than a cheap dye job doused in salt water. “What’s going on?” I asked, moving farther into the luncheonette. “What happened?”

  Grace straightened, swiped an imaginary crumb off the counter. “Georgia, honey. Cup of coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.” I tugged off my coat and dumped it across the back of the empty booth to my right. “Is everything okay? You all look . . .”

  Tom pointed an arthritic finger at me. “You were there. You saw.”

  “I saw?” I perched on the only vacant stool and leaned forward a tad so I could see the men’s faces.

  “You saw that man that . . . that . . .”

  “David Rayburn,” Terry said. He folded his arms across his broad chest, cleared his throat.

  I caught Diana’s eye. “The guy with the heart attack?”

  “Oh, ho ho.” Tom smacked the counter with the flat of his palm. “That was no heart attack.”

  Diana huffed. “Tom, we don’t know for sure what it was or what it wasn’t.”

  “Well, now, Diana,” Grace said, placing a porcelain mug on the counter. “You did say odds were—”

  “I know what I said,” Diana snapped. Eyes wide, nostrils slightly flared, she squared her shoulders and stood just that little bit straighter. An observant person could see anger coming on Diana like storm clouds approaching on the horizon. “I said the victim’s symptoms were inconsistent with a heart attack. Doesn’t make it impossible.”

  Arms still folded over his chest, Terry turned his swivel stool so he was facing Diana. “That is what you said. But you also said you were down at the bakery. Now, unless things have changed, the bakery still serves coffee and yet here you are, picking up three coffees to go and a couple donuts. Means you’re not entirely comfortable with the refreshments on offer down there.”

  Terry let the statement hang. While Diana’s face continued to redden, Grace pushed the porcelain cup toward me without even looking in my direction. Her gaze was locked on Terry. Though the steam was swirling above the cup of coffee, promising warmth and energy all in one tasty package, I didn’t want to pull my gaze away from Terry’s face long enough to take a sip. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  “What are you saying, Ter?” Tom asked, his voice unusually small.

  Terry shot Diana a quick glance. “I’m saying that poor man that died—and he did die, didn’t he?”

  Diana made no response. Terry continued. “That man was poisoned.”

  * * *

  I would call the statement a bombshell, but somehow I think bombshells ought to create noise and some measure of havoc. Terry’s theory caused a resounding silence. It seemed even the kitchen—whose noises were usually a constant background hum of clattering dishes and running water—had gone still and quiet.

  I sneaked a peek at Diana, and her eyes met mine like she was seeking a lifeline. It was a rare expression from her, and one I couldn’t ignore perhaps because of that rarity.

  I gave Terry a friendly tap with my elbow. “Heck of a theory,” I said. “But there were a lot of people in that tent. You and I were among them. If it was poison, how come we’re okay?”

  “Poison. Bah.” Grace produced a counter-wipe towel from the pocket of her ever-present apron and swiped at the counter with it. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Right? Not to mention Rozelle,” I added in. “Not even possible.”

  Even Tom shook his head. “I gotta agree, Terry. That’s not something Rozelle would do. She wouldn’t hurt a mosquito, that one.”

  Terry raised a hand as though to pause the conversation. “I didn’t say anything about Rozelle. But something in that bakery—”

  “But we all had that coffee yesterday,” I said. “Well, most of us had coffee anyway.” There was also tea and cocoa on offer—which is to say an urn of hot water behind tea bags and hot chocolate packets.

  “And everyone had cookies and whatnot,” Tom added. “Even you.”

  “Care to make another guess as to why the police are down at the bakery right now?” Terry asked.

  If there had been a back on the stool, I’m sure he would have leaned into it. He had that look of subdued pride on his face—the subtlest of smiles and a little glint in his eye.

  Diana pulled in a slow, deep breath, eyes slipping closed momentarily. “I really wish I hadn’t come in
here.”

  From the open walk-through doorway separating the counter service area from the kitchen, a tall, reedy man ambled out, brown paper shopping bag in hand. He lifted the bag—handles straining against the weight of the sack—and rested it atop the counter. “Here you go, Diana. All set.”

  “Thank God,” she muttered. She took the shopping bag from the counter, eased out from the corner space she had been tucked into. “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

  Tom sat straighter. “You can’t go yet. You didn’t tell us if Terry’s right or not. Was David Rayburn poisoned or wasn’t he?”

  Her smile was just the slightest bit evil and a big bit smug. “At this time we have no definitive cause of death.” She nodded a brief good-bye and took a few steps toward the exit, which put her even with where I sat. “Pour House tonight?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” I assured her.

  I thought a measure of tension left her shoulders before she continued on her way out of the luncheonette and onto the sidewalk. When she was past the window and headed for the bakery, I turned to Terry. “Do you really think Rayburn was poisoned?”

  “What do you think?” he countered. “Tom speaks pretty highly of your skills as a sleuth.”

  I nearly choked on my coffee. “I don’t have any skills,” I said. “Not really. Not as a sleuth, I mean. I just have a habit of being in the right place with the wrong people.”

  He gave me a little sideways smile. “That’s not a bad habit to have for a detective.”

  I held up both hands, palms out. I don’t know if I was signaling surrender or hoping to create some invisible barrier that would keep his words away. “Oh no. No thanks. I have a job. I have several jobs. And none of them involve encountering criminals.”

  Grace laughed, picked up a folded newspaper that I knew from long experience was open to the crossword puzzle. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Georgia. You never know who’s sitting in the dark at your granddad’s movie house.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I said as the bell over the door jingled. “That fills me with all kinds of confidence.”

  “Georgia.”

  My mother’s voice cut through me like a cold shard. There was a certain note her voice hit only when I did something she was going to make me regret, which in the past had ranged anywhere from cutting my own hair to staying out past curfew. A long time past curfew.

  I looked over my shoulder to where she had come to stand behind me.

  “The police are inside the bakery, and one of them is looking for you. Care to tell me what that’s all about?”

  5

  Life had settled into a comforting routine since last I had to face any member of the Pace County Police Department other than Diana. I wasn’t eager to reintroduce the police into my every day anytime soon. Sure, at some point in the future I would no doubt encounter them when the Heaney case went to trial. Until then, I was content to operate like an average citizen who had no need to keep the number for the precinct listed in her cell phone under frequent contacts. There was also the small matter of one Detective Chris “Chip” Nolan, who, when his invitation to dinner had shocked me speechless, wrongly presumed my silence meant I had no interest. Now, whether I did or didn’t made no difference. I was as committed to Tony as I could be without, you know, declarations and promises and rings and whatnot. But I hadn’t seen Chip since he had taken my statement after the disowned heir to the Heaney estate had threatened Carrie and me at gunpoint. I was uncertain whether things would be at all awkward between us. And yeah, throw in my mother’s presence for added amusement.

  I gave it my best shot, but there was no convincing her to wait at the luncheonette while I checked in with the police. She walked beside me along the sidewalk, head high, handbag tucked tight under her arm. I might have had a momentary flashback, a long-buried memory of walking with her like this along the halls of yet another unfamiliar school so she could introduce me to yet another principal pretending to be interested. But the scene through the bakery window dispelled those visions from my past.

  Rozelle kept only two small tables inside the bakery with a total of six chairs between them. She was seated at one. Detective Nolan was standing beside her.

  “Him,” my mother said as I suffered a figurative punch in the gut at the sight of the CLOSED sign hung on the door and reached for the handle. “That’s the man who was asking for you.”

  I turned back to face her. “What were you doing down here anyway? You were supposed to meet me at Grace’s.”

  “How was I supposed to know the bakery was closed? I wanted to get some fresh bread for your grandfather,” she said. “He likes the rye.”

  I almost said I know, that I always kept a spare loaf in the freezer in case of emergencies requiring toast or roast beef, but before I could get the words out, Detective Nolan called my name.

  “Come on in,” he said once he had my attention.

  I waved my mother ahead through the door and followed her inside. As predictable as sunrise, the gorgeous aroma of fresh-baked breads and sweet cakes filled my senses, making my mouth water and my belly protest its need of a treat. The misbehaved voice in the back of my mind tried to make me believe since I had to leave my beloved cat at the vet that I deserved something highly fattening to ease the upset. But the display cases filled with Rozelle’s amazing baked goods stretched along the right side of the shop, and Detective Nolan stood on the left, hands in his pockets and elbows holding open his suit jacket. I had a feeling the pose was calculated to show off the gleaming detective’s shield clipped to his belt.

  “I heard you were looking for me,” I said, looking away from Nolan and instead searching the shop for Diana. Rozelle remained seated at the little table, hands clasped tightly in her lap, gaze locked on the display counter, and a single uniformed officer stood admiring the cups and saucers that decorated the far wall. Diana was nowhere to be found. “Or someone was anyway. Where’s Diana?”

  Detective Nolan tipped his head toward the back ovens. “Working,” he said. In two long strides he stood before us, extended his hand to my mother. “We didn’t meet properly. I’m Detective Nolan, Pace County Police Department.”

  “Joanne Sutter.” My mother laid the tips of her fingers against his palm, as though she was far too old-fashioned to shake hands with a man.

  If Detective Nolan was at all surprised to hear my mother refer to herself as Sutter while my last name was Kelly, it did nothing to disturb his impassive cop face. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Sutter? I’d like to talk to Georgia for just a few minutes.”

  Mom looked from Nolan to me and back again. “What business do you have with my daughter, Detective? Don’t tell me she’s in some kind of trouble,” she said over a laugh.

  Nolan treated her to a lightning strike of a smile—a brilliant flash that was gone as fast as it came. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said.

  I knew he was kidding. I knew I hadn’t done anything to warrant suspicion from the police. So why did my stomach knot? What was my conscience guilty of?

  “You know when she was a teenager, she had a bad habit of driving without a license,” my mother offered.

  “Once.” I folded my arms. “Once I drove without a license. Once does not create a habit.”

  Mom gave me an indulgent smile before renewing her efforts at charming Detective Nolan. “She’s never been one to follow orders.”

  His smile then was slyer, almost mischievous, and directed at me. “I never would have guessed.”

  “Oh, the stories I could tell you,” Mom said.

  “I’d love to hear them sometime, Mrs. Sutter.” He gestured toward the empty chair opposite Rozelle. “But right now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Mom finally acquiesced. She joined Rozelle at the little round table, immediately launching into a conversation about Grandy’s fondness for fresh-baked rye
bread, while Detective Nolan tipped his head toward the front door.

  I preceded him out onto the sidewalk, surprised to find that after leaving the sweet, yeasty aroma of the bakery, the early autumn air carried a delicious fragrance all its own, a crisp, clean scent as refreshing as a soft breeze over new snow.

  Turning my face to the sky, I took a deep breath, let my eyes slip closed. One deep breath to keep thoughts of my cat and my mother and the question of who had sharper claws from intruding on my thoughts and making it tough to focus on whatever it was Nolan wanted to talk to me about this time. One deep breath to help me face the good detective, just the two of us, for the first time in months.

  “So that’s your mother, huh?” Nolan asked once the door had shut behind him.

  “According to all reliable accounts,” I said. “Maybe some unreliable ones, too. It’s possible.”

  I don’t know why I expected him to look somehow different since the last time I had seen him. A couple of months would not have changed his appearance, yet I found myself peering close, looking for a few more laugh lines around his eyes, a wider swath of gray at his temples, but neither were there.

  “What, um, what did you need to talk to me about?” I asked. Again I folded my arms across my chest, somehow bracing myself.

  He met my gaze, eyes locked on mine as seconds ticked away. I nearly shivered with the feeling he was trying to see inside me something I wasn’t willing to show. One breath before the situation went from awkward to uncomfortable, he finally spoke. “According to Rozelle, you entered the reception tent early yesterday.”

  I nodded. “I went to see if she needed any help setting up.”

  “You want to walk me through that?”

  I didn’t think there could be anything illuminating in my story of heading for the tent before the speeches were over and offering to put napkins on tables, but for Nolan’s sake, I went back through it, step by step, as best I could recall.