Etched in Tears
Page 1
Also by Cheryl Hollon
Webb’s Glass Shop Mystery Series
Pane and Suffering
Shards of Murder
Cracked to Death
Etched in Tears
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Etched in Tears
Cheryl Hollon
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Cheryl Hollon
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
GLOSSARY
INFORMATION ABOUT ETCHED GLASS INSTRUCTION
Teaser chapter
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl Hollon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1175-5
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: December 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1176-2
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1176-9
First Kensington Electronic Edition: December 2017
For Beth Campbell
BookEnds Literary Agent Extraordinaire
Acknowledgments
This book exists because my publishing family believes in the Webb’s Glass Shop Mystery Series. In these uncertain times, where a few publishers seem to ignore the loyalty and support of their readers, I’m delighted to be published by Kensington Books.
I’ve taken some artistic liberties with the timing of certain events in order to follow the general timeline of the series. The season is autumn, so I’ve moved the Orlando tragedy from June to September. I wanted to send David Parker to sort things out—he’s a good man.
Eloyne and Bradley Erickson own Grand Central Stained Glass & Graphics, the business that continues to inspire this series. Thank you for kindly answering my complicated questions with helpful expertise and an unfailing enthusiasm for these stories.
Haslam’s Book Store is a famous landmark in the Grand Central District of St. Petersburg, FL. The independent bookstore was started in 1933 during the depression by John and Mary Haslam. After World War II they were joined by the second generation, Charles and Elizabeth, and the business began to expand. In response to customers’ requests, new technical books were added, then Bibles and religious books, and finally a complete line of trade books and a large section for children. The business has moved four times to accommodate the growing number of volumes and customers, and today it covers 30,000 square feet with over 300,000 books. In 1973, the third generation came into the business: daughter Suzanne and husband Ray Hinst. Ray has been incredibly helpful in launching each of my books. His son Raymond and my son Eric went to Boca Ciega High School together. When I first met the Haslams’ Book Store staff, I was known to all as Eric’s mother. Now, when my son visits the bookstore with his family, he is known as the author Cheryl’s son. Life is good!
Mystery writers’ organizations like the Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America are continuing to support aspiring writers with the latest and most effective information on the ever-changing world of publishing. In particular, the Internet chapter of Sisters in Crime, named the Guppies (which stands for the Great Unpublished), was and is my primary source of information and support. So much so that when a new chapter launched in Sarasota this year, I quickly volunteered to be an officer. The Florida West Coast Sisters in Crime Chapter has now been officially chartered. I will serve as the vice president in the upcoming year.
Congratulations to Gina Wilkins, founder and CEO of the Kind Mouse Organization. She won a silent auction to name a character in this book. The mission of the Kind Mouse Organization is to assist families in transition and their chronically hungry children. No hardworking individual should ever feel despair due to economic hardships beyond their control. Everyone has a right to feel safe and secure in their own homes, and no one should ever go hungry. Check them out at www.TheKindMouse.org.
I am a mystery conference and reader convention addict. I wish to thank the organizers of the ones that I attended: Bouchercon, Killer Nashville, Left Coast Crime, Magna Cum Murder, Malice Domestic, New England Crime Bake, SleuthFest, and ThrillerFest. I learn something priceless each time I attend. I have also met the most amazing people that sponsor, organize, and promote these events under extreme pressure with unparalleled grace. It is not an easy task for all the volunteers involved. I’m thankful.
Thanks to feedback of my in-person critique group, I send better manuscripts to my agent and editor. They’re not perfect, but better. As a group, we learn so much from each other. Giant thanks and gratitude go to Sam Falco, Amy Jordan, and Christa Rickard. As a Novel Pod, we’re killer! I’m also grateful to my weekly goals partner, Cheryl Whitmore. For years, we have been exchanging an e-mail every week that lists our achievements for the week and our goals for next week. Talk about accountability—it works.
Thank you to the talents of Ramona DeFelice Long who guides my writing and inspires me to get my game face on each morning as part of her sprinting champions. We sign in to her early morning Facebook thread each day as a commitment to write without interruption for one hour. What a great way to start the day.
My agent, Beth Campbell at BookEnds Literary Agency, has been a champion of my writing career, not for just this book, not for just this series, but for my whole writing career. Query her. I feel lucky to have her as my advocate.
Many writers I’ve met do not have the support of their families in their desire to get published. Some struggle on alone even after achieving success. I can’t imagine how difficult that would be. Thank you to my parents, Wendell and Marcella Hollon, for raising me in a family spirit that encouraged us all to try anything. Success was not the point. The joy of the experience was the point.
I am grateful for the full support of my family circle: Eric, Jennifer, Aaron, Beth, Ethan and Lena. They are proud of my successes and sympathize at the disappointments.
There are those unbelievers who scoff at the i
dea of a writer’s muse. They are wrong. My muse has a name and it is Lujoye Barnes. She is a true believer in the power of good books, good writing, and several times a year she welcomes me to her woodland cottage to write in a bubble of rustic inspiration. I am deeply grateful.
My husband George inspires, prods, bribes, cajoles, and sometimes aggravates me into writing more than I expected in faster time and better quality. His motivation is simple—just so we can spend time walking together in our vibrant downtown to a small café and visit one of the many art galleries. Bribing me with food and art works every single time. We’ve been married so long that neither of us remembers being single. I love you a bushel and a peck.
Chapter 1
Sunday evening
“They call it The Enigma,” said Savannah Webb as she stared up at the dark blue glass structure ballooning out of the Dali Museum.
It stood proud against the warm evening light on the calm waters of Tampa Bay. The square concrete structure contrasted with the huge geodesic bulbous glass windows that oozed from the front of the building around to the other side. It fired the evening with an air of anticipation for a surrealistic experience.
“The building is as much an exhibit as anything inside.” Savannah’s balance wobbled and she quickly grabbed the arm of her boyfriend Edward Morris. She hadn’t worn heels this high since, well, since high school. It was taking a little longer than she expected to find a comfortable stride.
Edward folded her hand securely into the crook of his arm. He lifted his chin as they approached the entrance. He wore the tux his parents had bought him when he’d graduated from University. It had been a good investment. One of the many advantages of growing up British—elegance and frugality traveled comfortably hand in hand.
Savannah relaxed and her balance returned. “Thanks for the arm. Pitching onto the concrete in a face splat is not the way I want to be remembered at this reception.”
Edward squeezed her hand. “I’m the lucky one. You look spectacular.”
Savannah smiled. Her dress choices had been small. As the owner of the venerable family-owned Webb’s Glass Shop, her wardrobe was basically logo shirts with comfortable slacks or jeans. Luckily, this little black dress fit like it was born to party. Using bits of red, orange, and cobalt blue, she had created a statement necklace of kiln-formed glass medallions with a matching pair of small button earrings. She had also created a barrette that she’d clipped into her black curly hair.
“The building opened on January 11th, 2011. It’s apparently an auspicious date that adds up to a lucky number seven. I wouldn’t know, but the museum has been incredibly successful. So, who can say whether that choice was lucky or predisposed to shower the museum with good fortune? Not me.”
“It looks like a bunker,” said Edward.
“Well, with such a valuable collection inside, eighteen-inch-thick hurricane-proof walls seem like the minimum precaution. I love it—perfectly Dali.”
Edward handed the invitation to the uniformed security guard at the members-only reception desk. A name tag declared him to be Lucas Brown, Security Manager. “Thank you for attending the opening reception for our special exhibition.” He looked at his display monitor and picked up a bright red Tyvek wristband. “Welcome, Miss Savannah Webb of Webb’s Glass Shop.” He peeled off the backing and circled it around her left wrist. He looked back at his monitor. “And Mr. Edward Morris, owner of Queen’s Head Pub, guest of Ms. Webb.” He fastened an orange band around Edward’s wrist.
Lucas waved a hand to his left. “Refreshments are being served in the café. The exhibit is on the third floor and the celebrated artist is receiving invited guests in the Community Room. That’s the large room behind and to the right of the Gala café.” The monitor beeped a message, which he bent over to read. Then he leaned over to Savannah’s ear. “You are most particularly requested to meet the artist.” He straightened back up. “Make your way through the gift shop and you’ll find the circular stairway to the right of the café. The elevators are just beyond the stairway. Please enjoy yourselves!” He smiled briefly and turned to the next guest.
They walked through the extensive gift shop to the café. Edward flagged down a server holding a tray of bubbly flutes. He grabbed two. “Here, luv.” He handed her a flute. “I know you love champagne.”
Savannah smiled. They clinked glasses and sipped. She licked her lips, then smiled. “Delicious. That’s an excellent vintage. They’re not stinting on the caliber of the refreshments.” She looked at Edward’s puzzled frown over the rim of her flute. “It’s pretty common to get cheap eats at these exhibits. The artists usually have to buy everything.”
They each took a skewer of grilled shrimp from another of the many servers.
“Scrumptious.” She grabbed his hand. “Come around to the outside. There’s something back there I think you’ll appreciate.”
They took a left at the café and exited the building through two sets of double doors onto an outdoor space populated by Dali-inspired sculptures. The most prominent was a giant up-curled black mustache with a space in the center for posing.
Savannah pulled on Edward’s hand and stopped at an opening in the hedges at the far back of the property. “This is it.”
“Is this a maze?” He looked at the entrance with his arms out wide as if to hug the world. “I love them.”
“I know. I can’t believe you didn’t know this was here.” She smiled and stepped into the graveled pathway on her tiptoes to prevent her heels from sinking into the sandy soil below the thin layer of gravel. “Come on. The party can wait a few minutes.”
It took less than five minutes of curving loops and whirls to make their way to the central circle of the maze. Edward pulled her into his arms for a warm kiss. “Thank you. I enjoyed my surprise.”
“I know these things are popular in Europe, but pretty rare here.” She had given him a key to her house last month. Since her father’s murder, she was finding it hard to commit to a permanent live-in relationship. “We need to get—” She screeched and began to fall. Edward caught her around the waist and lifted her up to extract her heels from the soft ground.
“Those delicious shoes are a hazard to your ankles in this footing. I’ll have you back in a jiff.”
“No need.” Savannah wiggled herself out of his grasp and carefully onto the path. “I think I stepped on something. I’m fine now.” She straightened her dress and looked down on the path. “There it is. That’s what tripped me.” She bent and picked up a cardboard hamburger container. “This is a strange place to eat fast food. Who would do something like this? I’ll put it in the trash can inside.”
“Speaking of inside, we need to get going,” said Edward.
They returned to the building, and Savannah tossed the wrapper into the first waste can she saw. They replaced their empty flutes with fresh champagne then climbed the white spiral stairway to the third floor and entered the main exhibit hall reserved for visiting collections. A ten-foot-tall freestanding banner announced the exhibit with a picture of Dennis Lansing beside a tall, bloodred, heart-shaped vessel etched with scribbled writing and images of lilacs and daffodils.
Edward stood in front of the banner. “What an unusual combination. My mother is fascinated with the Victorian secret language of flowers. She would know what they mean.”
“That’s a thing?” asked Savannah. “Really? Explain.”
He grimaced. “Ugh! Mum gave me this lecture frequently. She couldn’t fathom that I might not be interested. You might as well have the short version. History relates that during the reign of Queen Victoria, the language of flowers was as important to people as being well dressed. For example, the recognizable scent of a specific flower sent its own unique message. Flowers adorned almost everything . . . hair, clothing, jewelry, gowns, men’s lapels, home décor and china, and stationery, to name a few. A young man could either please or displease a lady by his gift of flowers. They had a silent meaning of their very own, an
d could ‘say’ what was not dared to be spoken.”
The exhibit space was filled with about thirty glass vessels, each resting on a tall white pillar standing about four feet high. Overhead track lighting illuminated the glass from several angles to show off the deep colors and highlight the intricate etchings. Savannah tucked her hand into Edward’s arm as they walked slowly through the exhibit. It seemed a little intrusive to overhear the quiet crowd admiring and commenting on Dennis’s skill and talent.
When they were approaching the last of the pieces, Savannah saw a familiar-looking fiftyish woman in a plain black cotton shirtwaist standing in front of the large red glass vessel. “Mrs. Lansing? Do you remember me? I’m Savannah Webb. I knew Dennis from St. Petersburg High School.”
“My goodness. Yes, I remember you.” The small lady’s bright blue eyes lit up her warm smile. She grasped Savannah’s hand with both of hers. “Savannah, it’s wonderful to see you here. I do so wish that things had worked out differently between you and Dennis. It would have made such a difference.” Her phone pinged from within a pearl evening bag. She slipped it out and her face stiffened. “Oh, excuse me. I should have been downstairs by now. I’ve dawdled among the display pieces for too long, again. Dennis’s wife will be annoyed.” She left and they watched her hurrying down the spiral staircase.
Edward tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “I am beginning to suspect that you have a certain history with this artist. Am I right?
“Yes, but it was a long time ago. I was a freshman in high school. We dated for a few weeks.”
“So, here in the States, as a freshman, you would have been about fourteen?”