Down in Flames

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Who?”

  “Why, Jacob, of course. He looks at everything from such a different point of view. It might also be a bit of useful therapy or at worst a distraction for him to study it closely.”

  “You’re right. I’ll round up some pictures of SNARK’s graffiti for Jacob to compare to when we get the painting. He can write down his analysis for me.”

  “Another way he could help would be to investigate the background of Nicole’s family.”

  “Great idea, if he’s up for it. Remember that friend of his? She’s a reference librarian with a keen interest in historical St. Petersburg. Okay, I’ll leave you to get your class underway while I find this rescue farm that Alan runs.”

  Chapter 23

  Thursday morning,

  rescue farm

  Savannah pulled up to a mailbox at the end of a dirt road that her GPS barely recognized. It seemed remote, although she was only a few miles from US Route 19, the main north/south thoroughfare. The carved wooden sign on the rickety gate across an even sketchier dirt and sand road read, WELCOME TO THREE PINES ANIMAL RESCUE. A plastic-coated index card was tacked to the sign.

  VISITORS PLEASE ENSURE THE GATE IS FASTENED BEHIND YOU.

  Following those instructions, she drove down the sandy road to a cluster of outbuildings that surrounded an old cracker-style farmhouse. In the center of the circular drive stood three tall Ponderosa pines that had shed enough pine needles over the years to ensure nothing grew underneath them.

  She parked beside the main building. At least, it was most likely the main building, although not a single structure had a lick of paint anywhere to be seen. She got out of her Mini and a scruffy sandal-clad young man in a holey T-shirt and even more ragged denim shorts barged through the screen door, letting it slam behind him.

  “Welcome to Three Pines. I’m Alan Borawski.” He stretched out a callused hand with fingernails black with imbedded dirt.

  Savannah shook his hand. “I’m Savannah Webb. I own Webb’s Glass Shop and I was a friend of your sister, Nicole. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Loss?” Alan put his hands on his hips. “That’s choice. She screwed up our whole family. I never forgave her for that. She was Mom and Dad’s favorite. They’ve never been the same since she outed herself with that money-grubber, Elizabeth.”

  Savannah stepped back. “I’m sorry that you feel that way. Nicole was the manager of my fiancé’s restaurant, Queen’s Head Pub. I’ve had nothing but wonderful times with her. You know that her accident is under investigation, don’t you?”

  Alan dropped his hands, dropped his head, and his mouth dropped open. He stood absolutely silent for a few long moments. “I did not know that.”

  “You haven’t heard from Officer Williams of the St. Petersburg Police Department?”

  He shook his head, then looked straight at Savannah. “I let the machine answer the phone in the mornings. I’ve got animals to feed and water, and pens to muck out. I’m just finishing my chores for the morning or I wouldn’t have heard you drive up.”

  “Would you mind if I ask you some questions about Nicole? I’m investigating her relationship with a graffiti artist named SNARK.”

  Alan crossed his arms. “I’ve still got to fill up the water tub for the horses and donkeys, feed the sheep, and check on the sick animals. If you can wait ten minutes, I’ll tell you what I know. Otherwise, you’ll have to come back some other time.”

  “No need. I can stay.”

  “Come on in. You may as well wait in comfort.” He held the screen door for Savannah and she stepped into the dark, low-ceilinged kitchen. “There’s coffee but no cream and no sugar. I’ll get along now.”

  The kitchen was basic to the point of austere. Cups and plates were stacked on open shelving. Underneath were narrow, hand-crafted cupboards that closed with a bit of wood that swiveled on a nail. There was a 1950s chrome dining set with original red plastic–covered chairs so well used that much of the red was worn pink. Savannah grabbed a sturdy white mug and poured her coffee from the vintage Mr. Coffee machine.

  On a shelf over the dining table was a row of books on every kind of farm animal she had ever heard about. Dairy cows, steers, pigs, horses, mules, donkeys, chickens, and dozens more. There were also vintage veterinary textbooks mixed in with Farmers’ Almanacs dating back to 2002. Someone does his research. She had nearly finished her coffee when Alan burst into the kitchen, again letting the screen door slam.

  Alan nodded a greeting, then went directly to the white porcelain farm sink and washed his hands thoroughly up to his elbows with a bar of soap. He dried them on a thin towel and hung it back on a bare nail.

  He filled a mug with coffee and sat at the table. “What do you need to know?”

  Savannah noticed the word need rather than want.

  “Were you here when Nicole was hit?”

  He stood up and pointed to the door. “You can leave right now if you’re going to talk like that. She was my sister no matter what I felt about her personal choices. I had nothing to do with her death.”

  “That may be true, but you must expect that the police will be interested in the family first. In most cases, the victim of a homicide knows her killer.”

  “Is this why the police have been calling me? They think I killed Nicky?”

  “Calm down, Alan. You’re going to have to give your answers to Officer Williams anyway. You might as well tell me now, because I can always ask her after she interviews you. By the way, you would be wise to return those calls. You don’t want to be uncooperative. Call her back. She’s a good police officer.”

  He sat and expelled a breath. “I’d better get a volunteer lined up for tonight’s chores. I’m careful not to exhaust my trusted supporters. Nicole was always creating drama. Now she’s continuing that.” He sniffed and looked into the distance, his eyes unfocused. Then he spoke in a near whisper. “But this time, she can’t make it better. She’s dead.”

  “Nicole appeared to be investigating the origins of a forged painting that she gave to your Uncle Bert as a birthday present.”

  “I’ve seen it. She was intrigued about the techniques the artist used. Our uncle was curious as well. Don’t see the value in it myself.”

  “Do you know anything else about the situation?”

  Alan brought the mug to his lips and looked over the rim at her while he drank. “The problem is that it upset Uncle Bert that she had been conned into buying a forgery—even worse, a forgery of a forgery.”

  “But it was a gift. Surely he wouldn’t be angry with her for thinking of him on his birthday?”

  Cupping his hands around the mug of coffee, he leaned forward. “But that’s the thing. He was questioning her judgment on whether she was shrewd enough to handle the money in her trust fund. He still had the power to dissolve it and take back the money. She was desperate to change his mind.”

  “I know it’s a lot of money, but why would that really matter? She had a job, a house, a wife, basically real happiness.”

  “Right, but those things come at a price far higher than a bartender makes. She needed that monthly income from the trust to keep Elizabeth happy. Elizabeth is an expensive wife.”

  “In what way? I don’t get the impression that she spends a lot. Except that she does visit her family in Laguna Beach. She’s a freelance writer.”

  “She’s been trying to get a movie script accepted by one of the major studios. That’s an expensive process. Fruitless, if you ask me. Unless you’re Steven Spielberg, you need to live in Los Angeles if you want to write for Hollywood.”

  Alan took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “This has been on the warming plate for too long. I’m going to make another pot. Do you want another?”

  “No, thanks. What’s this about Elizabeth spending a lot of money?”

  “Well, in her case, she needed money to crew these fabulous yacht-racing events in expensive parts of the world. Because she was a gifted sailor and crewed nearly fo
r free, she was in demand.”

  Savannah furrowed her brow. “Really? That doesn’t sound all that expensive.”

  “Well, she was also learning how to write screenplays.”

  “Okay, I didn’t see that one coming. How could that be expensive?”

  “Attending workshops, getting feedback from script doctors, and attending pitch sessions with producers in Hollywood. All of that is very expensive. It appears that she was quite good. She had several scripts get to the development stage, but then the productions fell apart before they could be filmed.”

  Alan dumped the coffee grounds into a blue plastic bin, refilled the coffeepot with tap water, poured the water in the reservoir, and placed the pot back in the Mr. Coffee. He spooned more grounds into a fresh filter, then pressed the brew switch.

  He stood in silence for a few moments. “That was the big problem with what she was trying to do. She had a script she was pitching to the big studios. She had an agent and the whole ball of wax.”

  “That sounds serious. How close was she to selling the script?”

  “How long is a piece of string?” Alan shrugged his shoulders.

  Savannah looked at her watch. She was cutting it close for getting back to the shop on time. She got up. “So as far as you know, the only questionable part of Nicole’s life was the problem of the forged forgery?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Savannah looked around the room at the sparse furnishings, the sagging screens in the open windows, the bare floors that needed a good sanding and finishing polish. “Was she helping you out with the farm?”

  “Sometimes she gave me some working cash, you know, to help with the expenses around here.” He sighed deeply. “But not lately. Especially after she married Elizabeth.” He looked sad. “In fact, not at all after she married Elizabeth.”

  Chapter 24

  Thursday afternoon,

  Webb’s Glass Shop

  Savannah grabbed a Taco Bell drive-through burrito, then made the long drive back to St. Petersburg and walked into Webb’s Glass Shop at a quarter to one.

  “Hey, I was beginning to get worried.” Amanda looked up from the desk back in the office. “It’s been quiet since my class left. How did you get on with the brother?”

  Savannah plopped down in the guest chair. “Not what I was expecting. He seems to have been ignored by everyone in his family and is struggling along by himself. The rescue farm must take enormous resources to keep running. He’s certainly not spending money on anything not pertaining to the animals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the old farmhouse hasn’t been painted in at least a decade. No air-conditioning, only a fireplace for heating, no real creature comforts at all. Apparently, Nicole was working with him prior to her marriage to Elizabeth, but not so much since.”

  “Well, that’s natural. I mean, they had a fantastical wedding, a honeymoon in Greece, and they just bought that little house in Gulfport.”

  “He also complained that Elizabeth was spending tons of money on editors and conferences trying to get a script produced out in Hollywood.”

  “I didn’t know that. I thought she was a ghostwriter for some of those celebrity books that keep coming out.”

  “Yeah, she made some scraps of money that way, but it seems she wanted her own name on the big screen, so she stopped taking on new projects. She’s still working over in Tampa writing tech manuals, but she hates that job.” Savannah noticed the time. “Hey, you’ve got to go see your mother, and my class is about to start. Let’s meet up tonight at Queen’s Head Pub and share what we know.”

  The hanging doorbell jangled. It was time for class.

  Savannah enjoyed the delight each student expressed with their completed wineglasses.

  “I think we need at least four more,” said Rachel. She compared her two wineglasses to Faith’s.

  “Oh, I agree.” Faith turned to Savannah. “Is it true that Herbert here is going to be an instructor for flameworking?”

  Herbert raised his eyebrows. “Where did you hear that?”

  “We know everything,” the twins said at the same time.

  Savannah pointed both her index fingers at the two. “That’s true, but things are not yet settled. There’ll be a trial class in a few weeks. Don’t go jinxing this for Herbert. More importantly, don’t jinx it for me. I need the help.”

  “We won’t mess it up. We want to sign up for his first class,” said Rachel.

  “Can we make martini glasses?” asked Faith. “That would suit us better. We serve lots of martinis.”

  Savannah felt her lips spread into the biggest smile of the day. “Yes, your parties are legendary. I’ll make sure you’re signed up as soon as things firm up.” She held up a small single-color glass bead. “This is what we’re going to make today. You already have most of the skills you need, but in any case, I’ll pass this around so you can see what we’re trying to make.”

  She handed it to Myla Kay, who seemed to be operating at half speed. She dreamily held the bead up to the light and looked through the hole in the center. She stared at the glass bead so fiercely, Savannah thought she was trying to bore another hole in it.

  “Is something wrong?” Savannah asked.

  Myla Kay slowly turned to look at Savannah. Wordlessly, she finally passed it on.

  After the last student quickly examined the bead, Savannah asked, “Any questions?”

  Patricia raised her hand. “My sister has one of those fancy charm bracelets. You know the kind. They’re in malls and airports everywhere.”

  “You mean a Pandora charm bracelet. Right?” said Lonnie. “I would like to make one for my mother for Christmas. Are we going to do that today?”

  “Not in this class, but I’m considering setting up a one-day workshop just for that purpose. They require a larger diameter mandrel—which I have on order, but I won’t receive them until next week. This class would be a prerequisite for the workshop, anyway. How many of you would be interested?”

  All but the twins raised their hands.

  Savannah tilted her head. “I thought you two would jump at the chance. Why not?”

  “Oh, we’ll be there all right,” said Rachel.

  “But we don’t wear bracelets,” said Faith. “Especially charm bracelets that make noise.” She shivered. “Too distracting.”

  “But we have friends with charm bracelets who need birthday gifts, so that makes it unanimous—we’ll all attend.” Rachel smiled at a smiling Faith.

  “I’ll set that up then. Now back to this lesson. It’s the oldest of the glassmaking techniques, glass beadmaking. The resulting beads can be worn on a charm bracelet, on a necklace, or on a keychain. You’re going to find making them takes a good bit of practice, but it’s well worth the effort. Watch closely.”

  She lit the small torch and picked up one of the mandrels she had coated in bead-release liquid last night. “The mandrel is the support rod for making your glass bead.”

  She looked squarely at Rachel and Faith in turn. “Do not attempt to make a bead anywhere else on the mandrel except this gray section. Let me repeat that. Do NOT attempt to make a bead anywhere else on the mandrel. If you do, it will fuse there and become a permanent part of the mandrel. I’ll have to throw it away. There’s no recovery.”

  Next, she held up a thick cobalt-blue glass rod. “Notice that I’m holding it with my left hand like a pencil. I’m turning the mandrel in my right hand slowly toward myself.” She looked up. All the students were spellbound. “You may need to experiment. Try it this way first and then if it doesn’t feel comfortable, switch hands and try again. If that doesn’t work, let me know. I’ve seen some creative approaches that I can show you.”

  “Heat both the mandrel and the glass rod.” She put both into the sweet spot of the flame. “You are also heating the bead glass so that it will form easily around the mandrel. It’s a Goldilocks thing. Too cool and it won’t form onto the mandrel. Too hot and
it will be unstable, and your bead will be uneven.”

  She held the blue rod close to the mandrel and began pressing the glass onto it while rolling the mandrel. She applied the color for several turns.

  “Now that I have enough material around the mandrel, I can finish off shaping it by using a small marver.” She heated the bead and pressed it gently onto the flat surface of the marver paddle. She repeated those steps until she had a cobalt-blue bead about the size of a dime.

  She walked down the row of workstations, letting everyone see the finished bead. “You can make the bead slimmer or wider, but the important part is to keep the glass on the coated part of the mandrel. When you’re happy with the shape, you put it in the oven. After about thirty minutes, we’ll take them out and the bead should release. We’ll use a toothpick to clean out the center and then it will look like this one I passed around a few minutes ago. Now, it’s your turn.”

  The students began the delicate process.

  As an exception to their normal classroom attempts, Rachel and Faith were reasonably competent at making a bead.

  Herbert concentrated on keeping the pressure of the colored rod even so that the bead was uniformly round. Savannah stood beside him while he used the marver to even out the bead.

  “That’s great, Herbert. Now, for your advanced assignment, make a bead three times as wide out of three colors.”

  Herbert grinned like a child.

  By this fourth day of class, Savannah usually knew which students needed extra instruction—like the twins—and which students were practically independent, like Herbert. Myla Kay confounded her. It appeared to Savannah that Myla Kay’s skills fluctuated up and down every day, and she was sometimes both brilliant and dull during a single classroom session.

  Today was a needy day for Myla Kay and Savannah practically took over making each bead that Myla Kay attempted. Savannah wondered if she had a drug problem that would cause frequent concentration lapses.

  * * *

  Just as Savannah was cleaning up the flameworking workstations and making sure she had enough supplies for tomorrow’s session, a couple entered the shop. The man opened the door for the woman to walk through. They were dressed in jeans, rubber sandals, and oversized fishing shirts with a bright red logo over the chest pocket. The logo was the silhouette of a fishing boat and the writing said BORAWSKI FISHING GUIDES.