Etched in Tears

by Cheryl Hollon

  She stretched around his back to hang up the phone. “I didn’t want to start it, but I couldn’t wait for Hugh any longer. Who are you?”

  He peered into the monitor. “Good. Coming online and”—he looked for a certain sign from the monitor—“brilliant. It’s happy.” He pulled back, then turned to her. “I have the same system next door and I had a meltdown with mine this morning.”

  “Right, but who—”

  The tinkle of the door opening interrupted Savannah’s question. A plump young woman with wildly spiked pink and yellow hair entered the shop. Wearing a white peasant blouse and patchwork midi skirt, she shouldered through the door balancing a huge purse, a canvas bag of tools, a briefcase overfilled with glass remnants, and a large plywood square for mounting stained-glass work.

  A green-eyed man lunged to hold open the door. “Amanda, you shouldn’t try to carry everything at once.”

  Savannah’s eyebrows lifted.

  Puffing like an espresso machine, Amanda said, “It’s all right. Two trips would take too much energy. My aura has been weak since I heard the terrible news about Mr. Webb.” She made a beeline for the classroom.

  Savannah scurried over to push the classroom door out of the way. She nudged a doorstop in place to keep it open.

  Amanda grunted and plopped her bundles on the worktable in the first row. “I want to sit where I can see.” She nudged her bold orange glasses back onto her nose. “Savannah! Oh my goodness. You’re just as beautiful as John said.” She clamped Savannah in a round tight tug, stepped back, and looked into her face. “And you have his cobalt blue eyes. I’m so happy to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Amanda. Welcome to class.”

  Savannah turned to stare pointedly at the green-eyed man.

  Again, the doorbell jangled and two slender elderly women entered, wearing matching gray ruffled blouses with gray polyester pants over gray ballet flat shoes. They carried large gray tote bags. One carried hers over the left shoulder. The other twin carried hers over the right shoulder. Even their round black glasses were identical.

  Savannah gulped. I’ll never be able to tell these two apart.

  “Let’s sit in the back. I don’t like others to overlook my work,” said one twin.

  “Silly. Everyone walks around and looks at each other’s projects. It’s how we learn. Let’s go for the front so we can hear properly,” said the other twin.

  The first twin put her materials on the far back worktable. “It’s my turn to pick the seats. You chose for the pottery class.”

  “Very well. But don’t whine if you can’t hear the instructions.”

  “It’s my turn.”

  Savannah turned to Green Eyes and whispered, “Have they been here before?”

  His eyes crinkled, and he leaned closer and whispered, “The Rosenberg twins, Rachel and Faith, are addicted to craft classes.”

  “So, they’re good?”

  “Let’s just say they make everyone else feel above average. They take classes for the sheer joy of criticizing each other. And they lie. About the quality of each other’s work, about who made what mistake. They lie when there’s no need to lie. They’re the biggest liars in the district.”

  The bell announced the arrival of a deeply tanned couple. He was brown-haired with brown eyes, wearing khaki cargo shorts, a closely tailored navy golf shirt, and Topsiders without socks. She was blonde with sky blue eyes, wearing a perfectly tailored khaki skirt with a teal sweater set accented by a single strand of pearls. They were perfectly on trend and looked more like they should be boarding a cruise ship rather than attending an art class. They slipped into the remaining open row of worktables.

  The early-forties trying to look late-twenties woman looked around as though welcoming them into her living room. She smiled at each person until she caught their eye, and when she had everyone’s attention, she said, “Good morning, y’all. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Young. I’m Nancy and this is my groom, Arthur. I’ve called him my groom since the day Daddy announced our engagement. I’m the Director of Programs at the Museum of Fine Arts and my groom plays third chair cello for the Florida Orchestra. We’re so happy to be here taking this wonderful class with y’all.”

  Green Eyes grinned a wide smile and turned to Savannah. He caught himself and the smirk disappeared behind an uncomfortable cough. He shifted his weight slightly foot to foot. “Look. I wanted to offer my sincere condolences. I think the loss of your father is one of life’s most devastating events.”

  “That’s very kind, but who—”

  “Most of us along this street were at his funeral. I stayed behind to run the pub so most of my staff could attend. John made such a difference in standing up for the small businesses on this block. We’ll miss his advice and experience in negotiating with the mayor and city council.”

  “Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the pub.” He walked out, then turned to lean back through the front door. “If you need anything, I’m right next door or you can call. My number is on the list under Edward, Edward Morris. I own the Queen’s Head Pub. Welcome to the Grand Central District.” He quietly closed the door with a small click.

  Savannah smiled and let out a sigh of relief. She was glad he was right next door. It looked like she might have more on her plate than she originally expected, especially if Hugh made a habit of running late. She checked the list of contact numbers and there was Edward’s number standing out clearly on the smudged list. She plugged it into her cell.

  Checking her dad’s roster, the five registered class members had all arrived. She frowned. Where was the sixth and even more worrying, where was Hugh? She glanced at the large plain clock on the wall. It said 10:00 sharp as did her watch.

  I’m going to have to start teaching his class until he gets here. I haven’t taught beginning stained glass since I left for Seattle. Yikes, that’s over five years ago. I hope it’s like riding a bicycle.

  She softly stepped behind the instructor’s workstation and cleared her throat. “Good morning. I’m Savannah, Mr. Webb’s daughter.” Her voice shook at the mention of her dad. Ducking her head, she covered her mouth with her fist to clear her voice and stabilize it to a lower tone. “Welcome to Beginning Stained Glass. Each class will be structured roughly the same. First, a short lecture followed by a skill demonstration. Then you’ll practice on a small piece to reinforce the skill. Hugh Trevor will be your instructor. He’s a master glass craftsman who—”

  Amanda’s hand shot up into the air. “What’s the project?”

  “A small sun catcher panel.” Savannah picked up her little green turtle sun catcher and held it high. “It’s a simple design, but looks complicated. You will learn the skills of cutting glass, applying copper foil, soldering, and bending zinc came.”

  “What’s that zinc cane stuff? I thought we were learning to make proper leaded stained glass,” said Nancy.

  “Good question.” Savannah turned and wrote C A M E on the whiteboard. “Lead is a heavy metal that can, over time, leach into your skin. The new came is a preformed miniature U-shaped channel of zinc that can be bent to follow the edges of the panel. Modern knowledge sometimes overtakes tradition.”

  She looked at the door once again. Hugh better have a damn good excuse for not coming in today.

  “Now, for a quick history lesson. Honest, I do mean quick. As a material, stained glass is colored by adding metallic salts during its manufacture. In ancient time, the colored glass was crafted into windows held together by strips of lead and supported by a rigid frame. The oldest known—”

  A scraping shuffle and the jangle of the doorbell turned all heads to the front of the shop.

  Thank goodness. That must be Hugh.

  A gangly blue-jeaned young man with a black backpack over his shoulder rushed through the display room and into the classroom. He stopped cold in front of Savannah. “Sorry, I signed up for this class,” blurted the pale-faced teen. He looked down at
the floor. “Mr. Webb told me I could attend this class. He promised me his apprentices don’t have to pay.”

  Okay, here’s the last student. How on earth could I forget about the apprentice? This must be Jacob. Dad was wildly enthusiastic about his talent, raving in fact. He said Jacob reminded him of me at eighteen. But, really, where is Hugh?

  Savannah pointed to the remaining vacant work space. “It’s no problem. You see we have plenty of room.”

  “I’ve been working with Mr. Webb and Mr. Trevor.” The young man’s eyes widened to owl-sized intensity.

  “You must be Jacob. Mr. Webb told me so much about you, I feel like we’re already friends.” She pressed her hand over her heart. It was so like her dad to take this awkward fledgling under his wing as an apprentice. “My name is Savannah Webb. I’m Mr. Webb’s daughter.”

  He gulped and nodded vigorously, then stepped forward to solemnly shake her hand. “My name is Jacob Underwood. Pleased to meet you.”

  She smiled. “Dad’s apprentices are always invited to classes. Go ahead and get yourself settled.” Savannah guided him to the remaining worktable.

  “Where’s Mr. Trevor?” Jacob perched on the work stool with his feet resting on the bottom rung and placed his backpack on his lap without letting go of the straps.

  She moved back to the instructor station. “Mr. Trevor is delayed and I’m filling in until he arrives. Now, where was I?”

  Amanda launched her plump hand into the air like a rocket. “You were telling us about the origins of stained glass.”

  “Yes. As I said, they crafted the colored glass into windows or objects held together by strips of lead and then supported by a rigid frame. The oldest known stained glass window was pieced together using ancient glass from an archeological dig.”

  “What did she say?” One of the twins leaned into the other’s ear, whispering loud enough for everyone to look back at them.

  Faith flushed from her throat to the roots of her white hair and whispered even louder, “Turn on your hearing aid, Rachel. You’ve forgotten again.”

  “Oops,” muttered Rachel, turning the tiny volume control up with her polished blood red fingernail until there was a high-pitched squeal.

  Gotcha! Rachel wears nail polish. Faith doesn’t.

  “Now, it’s too loud!” Faith frowned. “Turn it down and be quiet.”

  Rachel adjusted the volume and ducked her head in a sheepish grin to everyone. “I’m ready now.”

  Savannah started again. “First things first. Before we start learning to cut glass, make sure your work surface is clean and clear of debris. If even the smallest glass chip is under your work, it will break in the wrong place and ruin your day. The best thing is to use a very soft brush on the entire work surface before you start anything. A well-worn paint brush works great, but Dad always used an old drafting table brush.”

  He gave me mine when I took my first class. It’s back in Seattle. She swept her worktable clear and spread newspaper on the work surface.

  “I want everyone to take out their clear windowpane glass for scoring and breaking practice.” She held up a small nine-by-nine-inch square piece for everyone to see. “The green piece of glass is for your project. Just put that aside.”

  “Ouch!” Arthur dropped his practice pane onto the worktable in a shattering crash. “I cut myself.” He squeezed his thumb until a large drop formed, stuck it in his mouth, and began to suck the blood.

  “Don’t, honey bunny. It’ll get infected. You have to be ready for the next concert.” Nancy dived a hand into her purse, hopped off her stool, pulled Arthur’s thumb out of his mouth with a soft pop, and pressed a tissue onto the cut. She looked around and eyed Savannah. “Is there a first aid kit?”

  Savannah crossed the room to the large Red Cross first aid kit attached to the wall. A quick rummage produced a square compress pad and some ointment. She handed them to Nancy who was right behind her.

  “Let me see,” said Amanda, leaning over Arthur’s hand. “I’m a trained caregiver, you know. I work in a nursing home.”

  Ah, she must liven up that atmosphere considerably. Savannah edged in between the women to get to Arthur. “I’ve got this, ladies. I can’t even begin to tell you how many cuts I’ve dressed here and in Seattle. I’ve a finely tuned judgment for stitch count.” She gently removed the sodden tissue, refolded it to expose a clean section, and then pressed it firmly onto the cut. “Good, it’s small. No stitches.”

  Nancy fanned her face. “Thank our lucky stars, Arthur. You know that second chair cello player is unreliable.” She mimed that he was a drinker. “You must be prepared to step into first chair at any performance.”

  Amanda peered over Savannah’s shoulder. “It is quite small, but glass cuts are the evil older brother of paper cuts—so much blood for such a tiny nick.”

  “Miss Savannah, Miss Savannah.” Jacob hugged his arms around his chest and rocked his weight from side to side. “I need to get my tools.”

  “Of course.” She softened her voice and tilted her head. “Where are they?”

  “Mr. Webb let me keep ’em in the workshop.”

  “No problem.” Savannah pulled the key ring from her back pocket and handed them over to Jacob. “Go fetch them, please. It’s the blue key.” She turned back to deal with the Arthur situation.

  “No need, Miss Savannah.” He returned the key ring. “I have a set of my own.”

  Nancy wedged her body between Arthur and Savannah. “Excuse me. I can take care of my Arthur, thank you. Just hand over everything I need.”

  Amanda flushed a bright hot pink and returned to her seat, struggling to control her trembling lip.

  Savannah used her teacher voice. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m the only one present who is authorized to give first aid in this shop. If you want to treat him yourself, that’s fine, but you’ll have to leave the class.” She looked from Nancy to Arthur’s bleeding finger, then back to Nancy. “Both of you.”

  The woman pressed her lips into a thin scarlet line. “Very well. Of course, I didn’t understand that. We have similar rules at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

  The class watched silently as Savannah removed the tissue, applied an ointment, and taped the sturdy bandage to Arthur’s wound.

  As one, the class looked up at Savannah.

  “Okay, first blood goes to Arthur. Well done. Amanda is right. Glass cuts bleed like fury, but by their nature, the cuts are clean and normally heal quickly.”

  “Miss Savannah,” shrieked Jacob, his voice breaking. “Miss Savannah, please come quick!”

  Savannah nearly jumped out of her skin, then bolted through the door of the classroom, ran through the gallery and into her dad’s workshop. Amanda was on her heels.

  Jacob was pointing to the far wall of the custom workshop behind a long workbench. “Mr. Trevor won’t wake up.”

  Savannah saw Hugh lying on his side with his face toward the wall. “Uncle Hugh, Uncle Hugh!” She could hear her voice shriek as she struggled to roll him over onto his back. His kind face was ash gray and he had been sick on his clothes. The sour smell was sharp and fresh. His chest was still and he wasn’t breathing.

  “Amanda, call 911!”

  She was aware of Amanda’s sharp gasp and heard her feet pound steps toward the phone. Savannah straightened him as much as possible in the tight space. Making a fist with one hand and the other hand wrapped around it, she started chest compressions to the rhythm of “Staying Alive” as her CPR coach had taught her. She didn’t know that she was crying until the tears dropped one by one onto her forearms.

  No way was she stopping. Uncle Hugh was all the home she had left. He needed to stay alive.

  She dimly heard the ambulance arrive and numbly got to her feet when the paramedic gently lifted her up from the floor by her elbow.

  Uncle Hugh can’t be dead, too.

  Catch up with Savannah in

  Shards of Murder

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  Chapter 1

  Friday Evening

  “You’re going to love the Beach Blonde.” Savannah raised her glistening pint of straw-colored beer to clink her former mentor Keith Irving’s glass. “It reminds me of my favorite ale back in Seattle.”

  “You had a favorite? I seem to recall that you were determined to try a different beer every time we walked into a brewery.”

  Is he saying that I was flighty? When she had been Keith’s student back in Seattle, she had been a little prone to fancy. She was always exploring new glass-working techniques before she had completely mastered the old ones. That must have been frustrating for him—he drew on an unlimited reserve of patience with her erratic experimentation.

  Keith sipped the ale and his dark bushy eyebrows raised over his iris blue eyes. Putting his pint back on the beer mat, he looked around the 3 Daughters Brewing tasting room. “You have a point, though. This is as good as anything back home.”

  “Damn straight,” Savannah grinned wide. It was a warm reminder of how much she desired his approval. She and Keith were sitting at a high top near the back of the tasting room. The noisy after-work happy hour crowd had gone and the Friday night date crowd hadn’t yet arrived. That meant that the modern industrial décor felt cozy and intimate rather than raucous and celebratory.

  Keith looked down into his beer. “My condolences on the death of your father. He was a significant loss to the stained glass world. I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that. I didn’t realize how well respected he was until after he was gone.”

  “How are you coping?”

  “Not as well as I would like. It was a—” She was startled by the tightening of her throat. It had already been a couple of months. “It was a difficult time. It still is, for that matter. But now, I’ve got some great help. My office manager, Amanda Blake, is an outrageously cheerful person and I’ve taken on Dad’s apprentice, Jacob Underwood. He’s incredibly talented, and the deep concentration required for the craft helps him manage life with Asperger’s syndrome. Jacob is flourishing to the real benefit of Webb’s.”