Ill-Gotten Panes

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “I know, it’s sentimental.” Warren grimaced. “But I’d like to have it.”

  Still, words swirled in my mind, complicated by surprised and confused thoughts. They didn’t know. The discovery of a blood-covered brick—a brick I could only surmise was the exact one Warren was looking for—was not yet common knowledge.

  I had that knowledge. But how could I tell Warren the object potentially used to kill his father had been found? It wasn’t the sort of news I was used to delivering. It also wasn’t the sort of news I was accustomed to keeping to myself.

  My internal argument over giving up the information or keeping my mouth shut created a conversational gap quickly filled by awkwardness.

  Carrie looked from Warren to me and back again. “Um, we could help you look? That is, if you’re okay with that? Unless Georgia has other things . . .”

  “I’d be grateful for the company, and the help,” Warren said, eyes on Carrie, “but I don’t want to keep you from your store.”

  “I’ve already got my OUT FOR LUNCH sign up,” Carrie said, a slightly higher pitch in her voice.

  The tone was enough to snap me out of discordant thoughts and into full awareness of the moment. Carrie stood with her body angled toward Warren, fingers pulling at the ends of her hair. Why, the shameless flirt!

  But Carrie flirting with Warren had the potential to distract him sufficiently to allow me to look for something more than the brick I knew wasn’t there.

  I tried for a smile again and believed I succeeded. “I’m happy to lend a hand.”

  Warren inclined his head, stood back, and waved us toward the door to the hardware store.

  He had no overhead lights on across the sales floor, leaving illumination to what sunlight passed through the window. A soft glow came from the back of the store, where the register was located.

  “Careful,” Warren said. “And just come straight back.”

  Carrie followed behind Warren; I followed behind Carrie. Air that had been scented with dust and must days earlier now held the remnants of an additional odor. I didn’t want to examine too closely what my brain was trying to tell me about the source of the odor, no more than I wanted to examine too closely the stretch of sales floor to my right, where police tape remained in place.

  I hugged myself against the sudden chill, though the feeling was more internal than external. The knowledge I was walking through a space where someone had been murdered, passing feet from the spot where a man had died, unsettled me. Too, it made me realize anew that Grandy would have had nothing to do with this. The police had the wrong person in custody. I needed to find a way to convince Detective Nolan of that fact.

  We trailed behind Warren, back behind the makeshift sales counter and into the backroom-slash-office behind. The wide space, well lit, featured a full wall of filing cabinets, another wall of cubbies, and a desk opposite the filing cabinets, papers and binders strewn haphazardly across its surface. Beside the door leading to the back parking lot, a staircase led up.

  “There’s a second floor?” I said, because obvious things often surprise me.

  “More of a loft, really.” Warren rested a hand on the stair rail and gazed up into the shadowed space. “There’s off-season stuff up there. Shovels and ice melt and things like that.”

  Edging closer to him, Carrie asked, “Do you think you’ll move back here? Take over the business?”

  He kept his eyes on the staircase. “I don’t know. Wenwood . . .” He shook his head, shook away whatever thoughts threatened to distract him from our purpose. Releasing the railing, he moved to the center of the small space. “I thought the brick would be back here somewhere. I don’t think my father would put it out on the sales floor.”

  “Are you sure he kept it?” Carrie wandered to the wall of cubbies, tugged out a drawer whose contents clinked and clunked. Some type of building hardware, no doubt.

  “When I came up last Christmas, he had it by the register.” He headed back through the pass-way to the register.

  On her way past, following Warren’s path, Carrie stopped beside me. “Are you okay?” she asked, concern wrinkling her brow.

  “I . . . yeah.” I sighed. The tumult of the morning came crashing back. “I’ll tell you after.”

  The sound of rustling paper and heavy items being moved carried easily to the back room. The conversation between Warren and Carrie, though, was little more than a murmur.

  I dropped into the office chair in front of the desk, discovering too late that any cushioning on the seat had long since flattened to the consistency of cement. My lower spine complained of the impact, and I leaned into the desktop to relieve the compression.

  Binders were stacked beside a tumble of parts catalogs. Clumps of papers covered every surface. There was no safe place for me to lower my head and feel sorry for myself. Anything could be lurking beneath the chaos.

  Planning to clear a space and at least present the illusion I was looking for a brick I was relatively certain wasn’t there, I grabbed a handful of papers and lifted.

  The center of the stack of papers slipped out, causing a cascade of paperwork to flutter down around me like oversized confetti. Inspiration struck. If I made a thorough mess of the papers, I could focus on “putting them back in order,” thus being able to quickly review the text on the pages while cleaning up my disaster and not looking for a brick.

  Loving the idea, I reached for a couple of the catalogs and dragged them toward me. More papers floated to the floor. I voiced a mild curse in case anyone was paying attention, and stood from the chair.

  I knelt on the floor and began pulling the papers toward me, one by one, taking my time. Each paper I added to the pile at my feet I scanned as quickly as I could. There were lists that resembled part numbers—combinations of letters and numbers and slashes and dashes—and lists that looked like rough inventory. There was a notice about a holiday parade planned for July, and there was a survey from the state about the number of trees on the property.

  And there were invoices marked SECOND NOTICE, and bills marked FINAL NOTICE. I thought of Grandy’s confession about losing money in an investment plan with Andy Edgers, of the dust in the store, of the Town Council’s requirements for Stone Mountain Construction.

  No great intellectual leap was required to realize Edgers was in a financial tight spot. Was it tight enough to overcharge the construction company?

  I snatched up more papers, searching for a lumber order, a wire order, anything that looked like it might have been written for Tony Himmel’s marina project.

  “What happened here?” Warren ambled into the room, knelt beside me, and scooped up some papers.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Knocked them off the desk trying to see if maybe the brick was under the catalogs. Guess I’m not a whole lot of help.” I said a silent prayer my skin didn’t go red from the embarrassment of being a bad liar. Though not being a lot of help—that part was true.

  “My fault,” Warren said, throwing the papers back onto the desk. “I’m the one that made that mess in the first place, doing the same thing—looking under the catalogs.”

  Oh, mercy. Guilt made my shoulders droop and my stomach ache. He was being so nice and understanding, and I was basically spying on him.

  I opened my mouth to tell him the truth.

  Who was I kidding? I couldn’t tell him the truth. The poor guy’s father was just murdered. My grandfather was arrested on suspicion. Warren was going to hate me enough when he learned that part. The last thing he needed was for me to confess I was spying on him.

  Grabbing for the edge of the desk to help get to my feet, I got one foot under me before my fingers slipped. A new set of papers slicked onto the floor.

  “I’m hopeless,” I muttered. And I meant it wholeheartedly.

  Rather than kneel, I simply bent down and shoved the papers into a rough pi
le. As I was handing them to Warren, my new habit made me skim the top sheet.

  And damn it, that’s what I was looking for. An order written out to an East Coast lumber giant whose radio commercials played more frequently than the weather report. The order was calculated in square feet, but the cost shown meant little to me; I had no knowledge of what was considered fair.

  “None of this would have happened,” Warren said, straightening, “if my father had put paperwork in the filing cabinets instead of plumbing supplies.”

  I shrugged, forced my brain to kick out an innocuous response. “Everyone has their own system.”

  “Yes, but it makes it a little tough on the next guy.”

  Crossing to the file cabinets, I slid open the middle drawer on one. Sure enough, some sort of burnished metal thing-a-ma-whosit was nestled in the center of the drawer, with smaller, plastic-wrapped parts lining the bottom. It was the sort of filing system I was certain Grandy would approve of.

  “I looked through most of those already,” Warren said.

  I nearly slid the drawer closed, but instead kept it open and turned to him. “Second set of eyes?” I suggested.

  He didn’t respond immediately, but did finally nod his assent. “Good idea.”

  I smiled until he left the room then slid the drawer closed and opened another. I was ninety-eight percent certain I wouldn’t find a brick, but I was betting I’d find a caulking gun.

  13

  “So dish. Tell me what’s bugging you.” Carrie leaned on the counter inside Rozelle’s Bakery and bounced her eyebrows at me. “This morning’s breakfast date with Drew Able not go well?”

  Breakfast seemed a million years before. I wasn’t sure what was most surprising: that I’d forgotten all about breakfast, or that Carrie thought I’d been on a date.

  I kept my attention on the glass display showcasing row after row of cookies. For all Grandy’s love of sweets, he never brought cookies home from Rozelle’s. He did, however, refuse to buy bread at the grocery. “Drew is my grandfather’s lawyer,” I said firmly.

  The humor left Carrie’s face. “Is Pete okay?”

  “He’s fine.” The response was a reflex, and I had to shake my head and take back the statement. “Wait. That’s not right.”

  “What’s wrong with Pete?” Rozelle’s voice was sharp with strain.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him.” My voice betrayed my strain and frustration. In an instant all I wanted to do was go back to Grandy’s house, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head. I had no experience trying to function in public while a member of my family sat in jail. I had no idea it caused such exhaustion.

  “So you were having breakfast with his lawyer and it wasn’t a date but everything’s okay with Pete?” Carrie asked. “That doesn’t sound, you know, right.”

  “What’s wrong with Pete?” Rozelle asked, louder. “Is he all right?”

  How was I supposed to answer that? I wasn’t sure myself if Pete was all right. I hadn’t seen him since the night before when we returned from the dine-in.

  I met Rozelle’s gaze over the counter, the question of whether she thought Grandy was guilty still coloring my opinion of her. Though this visit had not yet ended with her ushering me from her store, still I wasn’t filled with fondness. “He’s fine,” I snapped. “Can I have a pound of these cookie cake things?”

  She frowned as she pulled a waxed paper square from the container on the counter and used it to transfer the cookies from the display case into a bakery box. “You don’t have to be short with me,” she said, and in a flash, guilt wormed its way into my anger. “I would take it back if I could. How was I to know why the police wanted to know about Pete being at the hardware store? I was just trying to be a good citizen.”

  I glanced at Carrie, pulled a face to silently ask if she knew what Rozelle was referring to. In response, Carrie shrugged, the corners of her mouth turning down.

  “What does this have to do with the cookies?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know, you see. When the police came and asked if I saw anyone coming out of the hardware store that day? Of course I told them. You can’t not tell the police things. But I swear I didn’t know they were going to arrest him.”

  A little late, no doubt, but clarity struck. Rozelle was the reason Detective Nolan had taken Grandy in for questioning the first time.

  I wanted to grab her and shout, demand to know what she thought was going to happen after she told the police she saw Grandy leave the scene of a murder. But I simply lacked the energy. Worn down, I asked, “Why were you even watching?”

  Eyes cast down, Rozelle hid her hands behind her apron. She took a shuffling step to the side, opened and closed her mouth a few times before the words finally escaped. “Because it was Pete,” she nearly whispered. “I saw his Jeep go by, so I watched for him. Like I always do. I was hoping he’d stop in here.”

  Carrie made the tiniest squeaking noise ever, the sort of gleeful noise I make when Friday curls herself into some overboard adorable pose. “You’re sweet on him,” she said.

  Rozelle fluttered her fingers behind her apron, making her look as though she were fanning her thighs with a napkin. “You girls take the cookies and go. I have to check the . . . the . . .”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Carrie reached across the counter. She would have put an arm around Rozelle if only her arms were longer.

  Though I rarely saw that side of him, I knew Grandy could be a big charmer. Rozelle having a crush on him was not so far outside the realm. Nonetheless I struggled to find the right words to both apologize and reassure her while my attention lapsed. My mind was gnawing on something else entirely. It had taken an idea off into a corner to examine until my conscious was ready to learn what my subconscious had determined.

  “I’m sure Pete would be flattered,” I managed.

  Rozelle shook her head. “Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t like that at all.” Her eyes flashed to mine, narrowed with command. “You won’t say a word about this.”

  Absolutely not. With Grandy’s affinity for breads and cakes, the last thing his cholesterol needed was a romance with the owner of a bakery.

  “Not a word.” I set a ten-dollar bill on the counter and pulled the cookies toward me.

  The bell over the door jingled. Both Carrie and I turned as one of Wenwood’s senior citizens shuffled in. Carrie greeted the patron, exchanging small talk that showed she’d known this woman for some time. I focused on the bell hanging over the door. A classic bell and clapper hung from the ceiling at the right height so the opening door would clip it. It could have been installed yesterday; it could have been installed a hundred years ago. Like all the other shops in the village.

  My brain coughed up the results of its deliberation.

  Rather than shout the question down the length of the counter, I waited until Rozelle returned with my change. “Rozelle,” I said, keeping my voice down. “You saw Pete leave the hardware store the day Andy Edgers was killed.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but not enough to hide a hint of sadness. “Don’t mock me, missy.”

  “Not mocking you. I just want to be sure. If you saw him leave, that means he left through the front door.”

  “I think you’re mocking me.”

  I scooped up my change and lifted the cookies off the counter before she decided mockery was cause for taking them away. “Was he carrying anything?”

  Rozelle pursed her lips. For a moment I feared she was going to accuse me of disrespecting her. But she turned her gaze to the ceiling, tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the display case. “Nothing I saw,” she said. “I imagine he had his keys in his hand.”

  “What’s this?” Carrie asked, turning back to us.

  “And if you saw him,” I said, “it had to be maybe late afternoon? What time do you close u
p here?”

  “Four thirty,” Rozelle pronounced. “Unless we have a rush.”

  My mind ran back to its private corner with the idea of any shop in Wenwood having a rush. I would giggle at the idea later. Repeatedly. For the time being, I nodded and smiled. “Thanks,” I said as brightly as I could. “I appreciate it.”

  “You’ll give my regards to Pete?” she asked.

  Around the sudden lump in my throat, I managed to assure her I would, then hurried from the shop, heedless of Carrie’s progress behind me.

  “Hold up,” she said, bursting through the door. “What’s going on?”

  I strode along the sidewalk, one hand clutching the bakery box, the other hand held to my forehead, physically holding on to my thoughts.

  “Georgia,” Carrie called.

  I stopped, turned.

  “What’s going on? Something’s not right with you. You’ve been acting weird all afternoon. Now either talk to me or I’m going back to the store.”

  In her shorthand way, Carrie was right. She’d extended her lunch break to help Warren and kept the store closed to walk with me to the bakery. I owed her an explanation.

  Checking the street, which was alive with pedestrians running afternoon errands, I walked back to Carrie and handed her the bakery box. “Take these,” I said. “I’m going over to the luncheonette to get some coffee. I’ll meet you back in your store. You want coffee?”

  “Tea,” she said. I got the feeling she was asking for tea just to be contrary, and that made perfect sense. In her shoes I would do the same thing.

  On the remaining walk to the luncheonette, I decided to explain everything to Carrie. I determined to share the news of Grandy’s arrest and the why, the information I’d learned from Drew about the Town Council’s agreement with Stone Mountain Construction, and the puzzle Rozelle’s information created.

  Rozelle had told the police she saw Grandy leave the hardware store through the front door. I was no expert, but I strongly suspected crashing a brick against someone’s skull would make a mess of your wardrobe. Who would be brazen enough to walk out the front door? Plus, even on the day they questioned Grandy, the police didn’t have a murder weapon. It stood to reason, then, that whoever had murdered Andy Edgers had left with that weapon.