A Shattering Crime

by Jennifer McAndrews

  He made no effort to keep his voice down. “I wanted to catch you before you left,” he said, completely ignoring my keep-it-down hand motion. “I knew I could count on Fi to get me up in time. Do I smell coffee?”

  Fifi gave me one final shove with her muzzle then barreled down the stairs. “There’s fresh coffee,” I confirmed. “What’s on your mind?”

  I had my suspicions as to why he’d set the canine alarm and none of them included Grandy rising early to tackle fallen leaves.

  “I want to have a word with you.”

  I nodded. “I’ll take Fifi out and meet you in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll go with you. Less chance of being overheard,” he said softly, then led the way down the stairs.

  I followed behind, nervous knots forming in my stomach. Anything that shouldn’t be overheard couldn’t be good.

  Grabbing Fifi’s leash from its hook and my jacket from where I’d left it over the back of the living room chair, I ran through possible scenarios in my mind. My first thought had been that Grandy wanted an update on my progress in finding Rozelle, but then why the need to take the conversation outdoors? Surely we could have that conversation without using words that would give away what I was up to?

  Fifi danced circles around my feet, her back end seemingly leading her front like a particularly furry hula dancer. Her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth, and as much as it sounds crazy, I would have sworn she was smiling.

  I snapped her leash in place then waited while Grandy shrugged into his ancient barn jacket.

  “You’re going out in your slippers?” I asked, tipping my head in the direction of his feet.

  “Who are you now? Your mother?” he grumbled. “Let’s go.”

  The willingness to wander outside in one’s bathrobe and slippers was a small-town mind-set that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. But the behavior seemed perfectly normal to Grandy and, to be fair, a number of our neighbors, so with Fifi leading the way to the door, we followed Grandy out and down the few porch steps.

  The morning air held that clean, dry feel, almost as if Mother Nature herself had drawn in a breath in the face of the oncoming winter. I shivered a little and slipped the loop of the dog’s leash over my wrist so I could close my jacket.

  “So tell me.” He glanced over his shoulder as we walked away from the house, as if Mom or Ben would have run into the living room and peeled back the drapes. “What have you found out? Where is Rozelle?”

  Even suspecting the question was coming, having had time—however brief—to prepare an answer, still I was caught opening and closing my mouth, hoping for words.

  “You must have learned something.” His tone was midway between hopeful and fearful, with maybe a tiny overlay of frustration. “You were gone all day yesterday.”

  “I have a job, you know,” I said, buying time.

  “You work mornings.”

  We turned to stroll along the sidewalk toward the end of the street. Fallen leaves sprinkled the cement and crunched beneath our feet.

  “Which is why I went yesterday, after work, to have a look around Rozelle’s house.”

  “Let me guess. She wasn’t there.”

  “I didn’t expect her to be,” I said over a sigh. “I wanted to get a look at the inside, see if there was any clue to where she might have gone.”

  He stopped, turned to face me. “You didn’t break into her house, did you?”

  Fifi, unaware the two humans behind her had stopped, kept right on rolling. The leash pulled taut and my shoulder made instant complaints. “Of course I didn’t,” I said. “We walked around the outside and looked in the window.”

  “We? Who’s we? Did you drag Carrie into this?”

  “She was the getaway driver.” I resumed walking. When Grandy rejoined me, I said, “I went with Terry Lister,” then went on to explain Terry’s background in investigation.

  “And were you able to learn anything at all?” Grandy asked.

  “From the looks of the kitchen, she’d made a fresh batch of cookies. There were still some cooling on the rack, but on the lower half. So I’m thinking she took the cookies from the top of the rack and maybe brought them to someone.”

  I peered sideways at Grandy. “Was it you? Was she sneaking you cookies?”

  Grandy held up both hands, palms out. “Not me. Why would you think she brought them to someone anyway? She could have eaten them herself or stored them away.”

  I shook my head. “If she were going to eat them herself, it would only have been a few. At least, I suspect as much. And if she were going to store them, why pack away only half and leave the rest out? The pans were still in the sink. She was taking those cookies somewhere, somewhere . . .” I paused a moment to follow my thoughts.

  Somewhere she had to get to in time?

  Rozelle had baked perhaps two-dozen cookies, half of which were gone. The mixing bowls were still on the counter, the baking tins in the sink. Someone whose livelihood was baking would logically have the sort of habits that made cleanup a priority. A baker wouldn’t leave mixing bowls out to crust over, not unless there was a pressing reason.

  “She took her car,” I said, mentally dragging myself back to the present. “The police are still looking for it.”

  A car could be hidden anywhere, from plain sight in a driveway, plates removed, to a garage. Unless someone saw it on the road or spotted it all alone in a parking lot . . . but that was the thing, wasn’t it? It would take more than just the police to find Rozelle’s car. It would take all of Wenwood.

  “The police,” Grandy grumbled. “If I thought they’d be of much help, I wouldn’t have asked you to look into matters.”

  “Would you kindly remember that one of my best friends is a cop? Be nice.”

  The words had no sooner left my mouth than a Pace County PD squad car turned the corner at the end of the street and shortly zoomed past us. Fifi barked at the leaves the passing vehicle kicked up and blew our way, but she wasn’t brave enough to try and catch any. Both Grandy and I, out of some strange-formed habit, looked behind us to see if the car would slow and stop at the house. Oddly I was surprised when the car kept on its way.

  “See? Maybe they’re looking for Rozelle’s car right now.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief, tucked his hands into his pockets.

  “Since you were getting so friendly with her, where do you think she might have gone? Did she ever mention her friends to you? Or family?”

  It struck me anew how little I knew about Rozelle’s personal life. Until I went snooping around the outside of her house, I’d never even realized she lived alone. I suppose if I had stopped to think about it, I would have concluded as much, but I never gave Rozelle much thought beyond her role in the bakery and her long-standing crush on Grandy. A little seed of guilt threatened to sprout and I squished it down. Small-town living meant I had grown accustomed to keeping up with gossip, but that didn’t mean I instantly knew everything about everyone.

  “She has a good friend in that assisted-living place in Newbridge,” he said. “Dolores, I think she said.”

  “Any last name?”

  “I’m quite certain she has one, but I do not know it.”

  It was my turn to stop and face him full on. “You asked for my help,” I snapped at him. “Why not try being helpful?”

  He flinched back as though I’d slapped him. He worked his jaw as though pushing back words he suddenly realized he should rethink. Finally, he nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s the tension. It’s getting to me. I can’t imagine a worse time to have your mother visiting with her latest beau.”

  I would have giggled at beau if I wasn’t instantly swamped by sympathy. “Maybe you should spend a little more time out of the house.”

  “I took time off so I could be in the house, or wherever it
is I can be to spend time with my family. It’s not every day we can all be together. You might do well to remember that. You didn’t come home at all last night,” Grandy said when we turned the corner. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, not sparing me a glance.

  I lifted my chin and sought my grown-up voice. “I stayed at Tony’s,” I said.

  “I presumed as much.”

  My breath went shallow as I waited for his next comment. I reminded myself I was, in fact, an adult and as such was capable of making my own decisions. Somehow, though, no matter how hard I focused on that fact, having left my mother asleep in the house while I went for a walk with my grandfather made it tough to shake the feeling of being a misbehaved child.

  “I worry, you know,” he said.

  I glanced up at him. The morning stubble clung to his chin, gray and white whiskers plentiful along his jaw. “I didn’t mean to make you worry,” I said. “Tony and I were . . . negotiating.”

  He gave a half snort. “Negotiating. There’s a new term for it.”

  I wasn’t sure if the pain in my cheeks was the result of the cold or a blush. Not that Tony and I were even doing anything worth blushing over. Just the thought that my grandfather’s mind went there. “We were talking. It got late. That’s all.”

  “And what were you talking about that was so important you couldn’t take a moment to call and say you’d be out until morning?”

  Fifi stopped abruptly, nose pressed to the dry, dying grass at the sidewalk’s edge.

  “He’s planning to stay in Wenwood.” I said it so softly I half expected Grandy to ask me to repeat myself.

  “I fail to see how that requires negotiation.”

  Fifi snuffled her way toward a tree.

  “I don’t want Tony to stay here be—” But I couldn’t finish.

  “Because of you,” Grandy said for me. “And why not?”

  I had no answer for him, any more than I’d had an answer for Tony. I didn’t want to be the cause of a mistake, but even that somehow made it feel like I was giving myself far too much importance, as if Tony’s choice to stay or go was based solely on me.

  Grandy let out a disgruntled huff, and Fifi circled the base of the oak. “You’d prefer he go back to wherever it was he came from?”

  “Asheville,” I said. “And it’s not that. It’s if he leaves now, then . . .” I sighed.

  “Then he can’t break your heart six months from now.”

  “Sure, if you put it like that, I sound silly.”

  “You are silly. You truly think if you sent him off tomorrow, you’d be spared some heartache?”

  “Well. I—”

  “Never took you for a fool, Georgia.”

  I tugged Fifi back to my side. “What if it doesn’t work out? We’ve only been together a couple of months. That’s nothing to change your career plans for.”

  The muscles of Grandy’s jaw rolled as he ground his teeth. “Oh, I wish your mother had left you here for good when you were six. You might have had a shot at growing up understanding that happiness is something you take a chance at and not expect to be a guarantee.”

  “Hold it. Are you telling me I should have stuck with my asshat fiancé?”

  He gave a most Grandy-like harrumph. “I’m saying life is short. And Tony Himmel is a good man. Trust what your heart is telling you.”

  My discomfort manifested as a laugh. “I don’t think my heart has much to say yet.”

  Grandy made a point of meeting my gaze. “That’s because you can’t see the look on your face when you think no one is watching, especially him. The moments you let your guard down, Georgia, that’s where your truth is.”

  Fifi chose that moment to leave a particularly odorous clump of doggie extract on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road. I suppose it said something about me that I was more eager to clean up poo than I was to face what Grandy was saying. But I had yet to sort through the tumble of the emotions the previous night had left me with. And rushing to get my cat to the vet and returning to look for clues as to where Rozelle might be would have to take priority for the day.

  And that was okay. For the time being at least, Tony wasn’t going anywhere.

  * * *

  Not a spot was open in the parking lot in front of the veterinarian’s office. Of course, there were only four spots to begin with so it wasn’t too shocking that they were all occupied. It was, however, frustrating.

  Proceeding at a crawl, I drove past the office itself and searched for an open spot along the street. The car behind me wasn’t thrilled with my snail-like progress, and was less thrilled with my intention to parallel park. I got an earful of annoyed car horn as the vehicle whooshed around me, and that was the one sound that managed to eclipse the growls of protest coming from the cat carrier.

  If someone had told me before I became an owner of one that cats could growl, I doubt I would have believed them. Dogs growled. In fact, Fifi’s growl was something to strike fear in the hearts of pseudo-stepfathers and mailmen alike. But once my initial shock at Friday’s ability to growl had passed, and I was content she would not suddenly start barking, I learned to ignore the noise and give her a wide berth.

  Trapped inside a cat carrier also constituted a wide berth.

  Alone on the road at last, I parked the car like a pro—city driving required a very particular skill set—then checked my side-view mirror before opening my door. I waited while an enormous land yacht of a car rolled by and wondered what it was about cars like that one that the older generation found so appealing. Smaller cars were so much more fun to drive than these great big Crown Victorias and Grand Marquises. How old does a person have to be before the fun of driving is gone?

  Grrrmmmooww.

  “Oh, hush now,” I told Friday. I climbed out of the car, circled to the passenger side, and hauled out the cat carrier. Of course, the cat insisted on cowering in one corner as we walked the distance back to the vet’s office, throwing off the balance of the carrier and making it seem twice as heavy.

  On the walk back to the office, gaze trained on the little brick building that was my destination, I was able to see the structure that sprung like an appendage from the back of the office. A shed row extended away from the office proper. In front of its weathered shingle exterior ran a length of fencing a good eight feet high and divided into narrow sections. It reminded me of a horse barn made of chain-link fence, but of course, it was a large dog kennel, and I recalled the vet also offered boarding services. What I could see looked clean and nicely shaded. Not that I could envision ever needing to board either of my pets, I nonetheless was pleased to know I had a good option should the need arise.

  Hauling a bulky carrier with a distressed cat inside, I’d worked up a bit of sweat by the time we reached the door to the office, and I was breathing heavily to boot as I skirted around an older man with a black German shepherd waiting outside. He was talking loudly into his cell phone, completely oblivious to my struggle to get the door open.

  At last I slipped inside. The entire pet-owning population of Wenwood was there to greet me.

  Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But there wasn’t a seat open for humans, and the floor was crowded with dogs of all sizes—some whining, some panting, one apparently sleeping—and the occasional small animal carrier.

  I stepped my way carefully to the counter. The same bleached-blond receptionist stood behind the half wall, and I expected her to ignore my presence as she had in the past. She stunned me by looking straight at me.

  “Dr. Bucherati is running behind, Miss—” She squinted down at the clipboard, squinted up at me. “Miss Kelly. She’s just finishing up emergency surgery on a Rottweiler who swallowed a ball of twine. You’re welcome to wait or reschedule.”

  I glanced around the room, at the assortment of pets and owners. “I’m only supposed to be dropping off m
y cat. She’s due for a spay today.”

  She huffed out an audible breath, nostrils widening with the passage of her aggravation. “Have a seat. One of the assistants will be out to collect your cat in a few minutes.”

  Surely she was kidding about the seat part. Or had she completely blocked the waiting crowd from her awareness?

  I shuffled away from the counter, scanned the room for a spot to wait. I knew there was no hope of a seat, but there didn’t appear to be anyplace simply to stand either. Outside German shepherd man suddenly made sense—and seemed like the best idea.

  I turned back to the blonde. “I’ll wait outside, okay?”

  She gave me a glare that told me she didn’t really care where I waited, and I lugged Friday and her carrier back out through the door.

  More mrrrows of complaint emanated from the carrier. As I set it down on the sidewalk, I peered within. Friday’s big green and gold eyes, wide with distress, peered back at me. She gave another half growl, half meow, never opening her mouth. “You’re creepy when you do that,” I told her.

  Something pushed against my thigh and I sucked in a breath when I looked down to find the black shepherd furiously sniffing at the knee on my slacks. The knee would be right where Fifi’s nose reached before I put on my heels. “Um, hi there,” I said. The dog exhaled with a flumph, while the man holding her leash continued his cell phone conversation. The sniffing recommenced, and I edged backward, away from the dog’s range. Just because I’d adopted Fifi didn’t mean I was comfortable with other canines. Fifi was harmless. This big black beast could bite my hand off, I just knew it. And I wasn’t entirely sure her cell phone–absorbed owner/handler would even notice.

  I backed away from the reach of the dog’s leash, sliding the cat carrier with me as I went, and elected instead to stand as still as possible, eyes on the dog, just in case.

  When the door cracked opened behind me, I nearly yelped in shock.

  “Bliss?” a girl’s voice called.

  The shepherd turned its attention away from me, ears pricked, tail wagging.

  “Bliss?” the voice repeated.