A Shattering Crime

by Jennifer McAndrews

  The voice said, “Okay. Friday. Feline. Yeah, you can come pick her up anytime.”

  I blinked. “Are you sure she can come home?” I asked eagerly. “Dr. Bucherati said she’d be there overnight.”

  “Says here she can be released. She’s been ready for at least an hour.”

  I gritted my teeth momentarily, squinted one eye shut. My cat could come home and no one called me? “I’ll be right there,” I said, and switched off the call. I dropped the greenhouse plans back in their box without another thought. Stained glass could wait. I wanted to know if my cat was okay.

  * * *

  In the car, with no distractions other than the occasional falling leaf or passing vehicle, I couldn’t stop myself from replaying the conversation on the lawn, with highlights of talk from the night before. It was strange for me to realize that once I’d stopped planning on returning to the city, I had also stopped thinking of moving, well, anywhere. What Ben and Mom were saying about me leaving Grandy felt like all new thoughts. Move out? I had long since decided I was staying in Wenwood for as long as I could keep my head above water financially. I had succumbed to its charm, its quirks, and its nearly tangible sense of community. And while the idea of moving out didn’t necessarily mean leaving Wenwood, it did mean leaving Grandy, and that was a whole different issue.

  Sure, when I’d first arrived at his doorstep with a U-Move-It trailer filled with a selection of my personal possessions and a key in my pocket to a storage facility that held the rest, I viewed my upcoming stay with Grandy as temporary. At that time I had envisioned “back on my feet” as back to the city—any city—back to the accounting department of some faceless, soulless corporation whose ultimate goal was unimaginable wealth and perhaps world domination. Wenwood, and Grandy in particular, in a short while had taught me that life really could be better without an expense account and an apartment in a building with a doorman. And me and Grandy, we made a good team, a good family. I had no desire to leave.

  But then . . . maybe Grandy wanted me to go. Maybe he’d had enough of me and my glass and my propensity to bring home strays. Maybe he was eager to be on his own again and didn’t have the words to tell me. Not that Grandy was one to keep his thoughts or his emotions to himself. He was a pretty straightforward guy, not known for pulling his punches. So what would stop him from being honest? Unless he worried he might hurt my feelings. Really hurt my feelings. Not like he did when he told me even Fifi would refuse to eat my lentil salad in favor of a classic bologna sandwich. A deeper hurt. The kind that risked driving an immovable wedge between us.

  I couldn’t quite believe that was the case. But once the idea took hold in my mind, it would be a challenge to dislodge.

  Sighing, I slowed the car and turned into one of the three vacant spots in front of the veterinarian’s office. I needed to stop letting Ben’s commentary get under my skin. I had bigger things to worry about. Probably.

  The glass rattled in the door as I pulled it open. I hustled inside the waiting room of the vet’s office and straight to the reception desk. “I’m here to pick up Friday,” I said.

  The receptionist looked up and for a moment I was convinced she was going to tell me to sign in and wait. Instead she nodded toward the benches wrapping the waiting room. “Have a seat. I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.”

  Having studied earlier in the day the chart of dog breeds and the reasons you needed to care for your pet’s dental health, I did what I’d become increasingly inclined to do while waiting. I pulled out my phone and texted Carrie. We still on for tonight? I wrote.

  As I hit “Send,” I realized just how much I was looking forward to seeing my friends for our regular girls’ night out. Ordinarily, spending an evening with Carrie and Diana was relaxing good fun. I had a feeling tonight’s get-together for me would be more like therapy.

  “Friday?”

  I looked up to find Dr. Bucherati standing at the end of the reception counter, folder in hand. She smiled and waved me toward her. “Come on back.”

  She led me into a different exam room than the one we had been in that morning. This one was slightly larger, with a window in the wall opposite the door and a wall of cabinets above and below a countertop facing the aluminum exam table. Atop the table was my pet carrier, and Friday crouched within it growling softly.

  “Her x-rays are clear,” Dr. Bucherati said, opening the folder. Checking what was written there, she continued, “There’s no evidence she ingested any foreign substances and her bones show normal growth.”

  As confident as I had been that Friday hadn’t swallowed glass or worse, still I went a little limp with relief. I popped open the carrier door and peered in at her.

  She growled louder, clearly not as happy to see me as I was to see her.

  “She is due, though, for her second dose of FeLV. Do you want to do that now or wait until you bring her for her spay?” Dr. Bucherati had already stepped back to the cabinets and pulled open a drawer. From where I stood, it was easy to spy the collection of prepackaged injections arrayed in containers.

  “Um . . .” I stalled, guilt awakening in my belly.

  Dr. Bucherati smiled gently. “You already paid for this one when we did the first.”

  I shook my head, lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry. I hate to reduce things to money. Yes, if you can do the injection now, that would be fine.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, turning her back to me as she sorted through the selection of paper-wrapped syringes. “I understand the cost of pet care can be prohibitive. We can always work out a payment plan if it becomes necessary.”

  “Really?” I said. “But . . .” I looked to the door, which was about all I could do to convey the idea that the receptionist had a different perspective.

  “Don’t worry about Lee,” she said. “If I tell her it’s okay, she’ll set up the plan. I don’t want anyone to risk their pet’s health because they fear the cost of care. Now. If you could take her out of the carrier and hold her, this will only take a moment.”

  Gratitude rose an unexpected lump in my throat. Swallowing against the threat of tears, I carefully extracted Friday from the carrier, thanking Dr. Bucherati as I did so. It hit me then that my day had been a roller coaster of emotions from family to pets to police.

  I was definitely in need of a night among friends.

  * * *

  Back when I told Terry I had no leanings toward being a sleuth, I might have been bending the truth. No, I had no great desire to hang out a shingle as a private detective or join the police force and patrol the county with Diana. However . . .

  Yeah, the first time I went knee deep into a crime investigation, it was more of an accident. Grandy had been arrested on suspicion of murder. Sure, the victim and Grandy were definitely on the outs at the time the man was killed, but I knew Grandy was innocent. So I did what I could to figure out who really wielded the murder weapon. My grandfather . . . Well, I didn’t have a lot of family. I wasn’t going to lose him.

  The second time, okay, I stuck my nose into that one on purpose, too. But the nut job not only trashed my best friend Carrie’s antiques shop, but also broke into her apartment, burned down her ex-husband’s office, and murdered the ex-husband’s law partner. If there was anything I could have done to help identify the miscreant before Carrie got hurt, I was more than willing to give it a try.

  Still. I didn’t know David Rayburn beyond recognizing his face from the local paper. Even if he had been the victim of foul play, I was content to let the police handle the investigation.

  “But what about Rozelle?” Carrie asked when I announced my resolution to keep my freckled nose out of it. “How can you not help her? What happened to being a useful resident or a valuable citizen or whatever it was you wanted to be?”

  We sat in one of the few booths at the Pour House, Wenwood village’s one and only watering hole. Its déc
or was all exposed wood and dark leather, and its clientele was as well aged as the top-shelf Scotch. Carrie, Diana, and I met there every Thursday for our girls’ night out. With each of us only just north of thirty, we were routinely the youngest demographic in the bar. “Carrie, really. Rozelle? There’s nothing to help her with. You know as well as I do she had nothing to do with David Rayburn’s death. Everyone knows that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But can we prove that? As I recall, the police are pretty big on proof.”

  I shook my head and sighed. “The police took a boatload of samples out of the bakery and I can pretty well guarantee you they won’t find anything in the flour other than, you know, flour. I’d take that as proof.”

  “I suppose I would, too. You’re right. This is Rozelle after all.” She took a ladylike sip of wine. “What does Pete have to say about all this?”

  “I don’t think he knows yet. If he does, someone else told him.”

  “News travels fast around here.”

  “You don’t say.” I grinned. Briefly. Wenwood was a small town. News traveled faster through its streets than it did on social media. “Well, if he knows, he hasn’t said anything to me. Not that he’s had a chance with—”

  “Oh my gosh! That’s right. Your mom is in town.”

  “You mean my mom is in my bedroom.” I grimaced. I know, I know. There are way bigger issues in the world than my frustration at having to surrender my room, with my nice, big bed, for the week or so Mom and Ben planned on staying. But it’s hard to keep perspective when you haven’t slept well.

  Carrie chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”

  I was saved from arguing—and displaying how truly shallow I can be—by Diana’s arrival. She dropped her purse on the seat next to me then pointed to me then Carrie and back again. “Sorry I’m late. You guys ready for another?”

  Our standard was one drink. One drink was enough to relax and be social and feel like being out was somewhat special. If conversation was really rolling, we’d move on to club sodas for me and Carrie and diet cola for Diana.

  “More wine, please,” I said.

  Carrie’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Carrie?” Diana asked.

  She shook her head—“No thank you”—and waited for Diana to move to the bar before furrowing her brow at me. “A second glass? That’s not like you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a second glass of wine.”

  “I didn’t say there was. I just said it’s not like you. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Worried about what my eyes might give away if I continued to allow Carrie to study me, I angled my head so I could see Diana at the bar tapping her foot while she waited for the bartender to bring her wine.

  “Georgia . . .” Carrie tried to sound stern—she always sounded like she was holding back a burp when she attempted this—but failed to pull it off.

  “Nothing,” I said. I tried to catch the score on the hockey game playing on the flat screen at the end of the bar. Instead I caught the eye of one of the Pour House regulars. Not wanting to give the impression I was interested in him, I glanced away quickly.

  Carrie took in a noisy breath and sat back. “You know, I have a mom who comes to visit, too. It’s not easy.”

  I flapped a hand at her, dismissing her comment. “I’m fine with my mom visiting. I’m just being a baby about the bedroom thing.”

  She narrowed one eye at me.

  “There’s nothing,” I insisted.

  In the same moment, Diana lifted the two glasses of wine from the bar and headed back to our booth. “What’s nothing?” she asked.

  “My mother being here,” I said before Carrie could. “Apart from the fact that I’m stuck in the tiny guest room for the duration, I’m fine with it. Now tell us what’s going on with Rozelle.”

  Both of Diana’s brows rose high on her forehead. She slid into the booth beside me, gently placed the wine glasses down on the table. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

  It was my turn to huff. “I was telling Carrie about how you guys took a bunch of samples from the bakery this morning.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Carrie said. “She’s trying to change the subject.”

  “That so?” Diana asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Carrie countered.

  “Look, I’m fine with my mother visiting. It’s strange, I know, but I do actually get along with her.”

  Diana shifted in her seat so she could face both Carrie and me somewhat equally. “Is it your stepfather then?”

  I held up a hand. “Okay, whoa. There is no way we’re going to refer to my mother’s husband as my stepfather.”

  Wrapping a finger around a low-hanging brown curl, Carrie said, “You know, technically, the man your mother marries—”

  “I don’t care about technically or legally or historically. We will be referring to Ben only as he relates to my mother, not to me, got it?” Wrapping one hand around the glass of wine Diana had brought me and keeping hold of the remains of my other glass, I lifted my elbows onto the table and pulled both glasses in close. “I’ve had enough stepfathers,” I said, my voice sounding small even to me. “I prefer not to get attached.”

  The wood grain of the tabletop wasn’t particularly fascinating, but I spent a little while tracing the swirl with my eye, keeping my head down. Too many frequently buried feelings were threatening to rise to the surface. Old-habit emotions that had no place in the present day.

  Neither Diana nor Carrie spoke. The typical Pour House soundtrack of sports television, old man laughter, and outdated jukebox surrounded us and amplified their silence.

  “Okay.” Diana tapped her fingers against the tabletop. “Now that we’re all clear on what we can and can’t talk to Georgia about.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but she grinned and shook her head. “I’m only teasing.”

  “Yeah,” Carrie said. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about your mom and your step— Ben.”

  There was no stopping the sigh that escaped me. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Sure,” Diana said.

  “Okay,” Carrie added.

  Maybe, just maybe, there was a little voice inside that warned me I was wrong, a little voice that knew there was something troubling about my mother and Ben. But it wasn’t offering up any specific wisdom, and I had other things to fill my time than trying to chase down answers that were probably best sought in therapy.

  “So can we get back to Rozelle? Please?”

  For a handful of breaths the noise of the bar was once again the only thing dispelling the silence. I was afraid Carrie wouldn’t agree because she was a deeply caring person who could never pass up an opportunity to be the shoulder her friends cried on. And I was afraid Diana would resist on some sort of police department principle. I wasn’t sure which surprised me more. Carrie echoing my request with a “Yeah, what about Rozelle?” or Diana asking, “What is it you want to know?”

  I settled back in my seat. “All those bags you took from the bakery this morning, you’re testing for poison, right?”

  Diana shrugged lightly. “You knew that. Nolan told you this morning.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “Yes, what’s next?” Carrie echoed.

  “Well, the Department of Health is going to do their thing,” Diana said. “You know, go in with their inspectors and poke and test and all, but it’s really a formality at this point.”

  “Because no one else even got sick?” Carrie asked.

  Diana nodded. “No one else got so much as the hiccups.”

  “Then, how long until Rozelle can reopen?” I took a tiny sip of wine—mostly because that was all that was left in one of my glasses—then slid the em
pty to the far side of the table.

  “She doesn’t technically need to be closed,” Diana said. “Or she only needs to be closed as long as it takes to clear out any opened flour and sugar and all that, give the place a good cleaning, and bake up some new tempting treats.”

  Carrie tapped her fingers against the tabletop, lips pursed as she shook her head in slow tempo. “But she’ll wait,” she said. “Rozelle isn’t the type to take any chances, you know? I mean, we know and everyone else knows she wouldn’t intentionally . . .” She made small circles with her hand and waited for us to fill in the blank.

  “Poison?” I suggested.

  She tipped her head to the side. “Or make anyone fall under the weather.”

  Diana rolled her eyes. “Way to tap dance, Carrie.”

  Carrie moved her wineglass a finger-length closer. “What I’m saying is, even if some sort of, like, crazy germ got into the dough, Rozelle wouldn’t take a chance on anyone else getting sick. And she wouldn’t want any of her regular customers to worry. She’ll wait until there’s some kind of lab result.”

  “If there’s some kind of result,” I said. “And what if there’s not? What if there is?”

  “We’re investigating this death,” Diana said. “We’re looking at more than the samples from the bakery. That’s just a logical place to start. But if the samples don’t tell us anything, that doesn’t mean we give up. I mean, c’mon. Give us a little credit.”

  “Wow.” I leaned back, away from the table, out of Diana’s reach. “Things getting a little tense down at the precinct house?”

  Diana took a long drink of wine, banged the glass back down on the table. “Nolan might be all smooth and friendly with you, but let me tell you, that man can be a complete jerk.”

  “He’s kind of like your boss now, right?” Carrie asked.

  “He’s supposed to be my mentor. He’s supposed to train me, and help me get ready for the detective’s test. I doubt how he takes his coffee is on the detective test.”