Ill-Gotten Panes

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “Did you, um, happen to be in Wenwood the other day? I thought I saw you—”

  “Saw me . . .”

  I tried to swallow down my nervousness. “Going into the hardware store.”

  The wide-eyed look remained. “And you came all the way up here to ask me that?”

  “Well, no. I came to see how everything was going, what with Pete not around, just in case there was anything I could do, but it seems like everything is okay.” I knew I was babbling but couldn’t stop. Must have been the wine. “And I figured as long as I was here, I would ask about, you know, the hardware store.”

  “Since you explained so nice, no.” Matthew smirked. “I didn’t go to the hardware store. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  The tiny bit of courage I screwed up outside the dine-in shriveled to nothingness.

  “You know, everything is fine here, just fine.” Craig grinned. “Good-size crowd tonight. Nothing to worry about. Next time you see Pete, you can let him know that everything’s fine. Fine. Good really.”

  Reluctantly I turned to face Craig. “Good. Good to know.” I didn’t want to put my back to Matthew, especially when he was within an arm’s reach of an impressive variety of knives. “I’ll just—I just wanted to say thanks, Craig, for handling things here while Pete is . . .” Still I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. “Thanks.”

  Then I turned and walked away as fast as my flip-flops allowed, frightened and humiliated and wishing I’d stayed and had one more drink with Tony Himmel and not gone to the dine-in at all.

  * * *

  Friday had a way of sleeping so deeply, so completely, I could lift her from where she slept and she would drape over my hand like a wet T-shirt. In the middle of the night, following my disastrous attempt at getting information out of Matthew, I lifted the wet T-shirt/sleeping kitten off my chest and deposited her at the foot of the bed. I padded into the hallway and down the stairs into the workshop. After switching on all the lights, I rolled back the sheet covering my stained glass worktable.

  The oblongs of glass I had left the day before remained at the center of the table. I took a moment to switch on the old radio Grandy kept by the stairs. Classic rock filled the corners of the room while I unpacked my tools and laid out all my supplies.

  With plans to keep my hand steady and my mind focused, I laid my metal, cork-backed ruler against the glass, its edge less than a quarter inch from my earlier botched break. Using the ruler to brace my cutter against, I took a breath and scored the glass. To be doubly sure I didn’t blow this second attempt, I took my line-run pliers from my tool box. Pliers aligned precisely along the score line, I applied the gentlest of pressure, and the square of glass snapped cleanly in two.

  Feeling a million times better about my ability, I lay the glass pieces down, switched the pliers for the glass cutter, and scored the next line, halving the sheet again. Again I switched cutting tool for pliers and snapped the glass.

  With the glass in workable sizes, I began to cut the pattern pieces. Nature doesn’t draw in a straight line. Each piece required combinations of inside and outside curves. Outside curves at the top of petals broke clean with the help of a break plier. Inside curves took a combination of tapping the glass into breakage for some. Grozing—snicking away unwanted pieces bit by bit with the pliers—was needed for others. Free of the square, the resulting pattern pieces were little bigger than the length of my thumb. Lavender teardrops and rich blue half ovals collected on the table like a trove of jewels.

  Double-checking my work, I slid the pieces into place on the pattern copied onto the heavy paper. Each piece nestled into its intended place. So simple. So obvious. The teardrops laid flat snuggled neatly beside the ovals. Soft-cornered trapezoids accommodated free-form shapes. Matching one against the other, cutting and adding more pieces, the picture began to emerge.

  Satisfied to have cut a good number of pieces, I picked up a handful and carried them to the glass grinder I had set up in the corner. One at a time I stroked each piece along the grinder bit, water sluicing across the surface and washing away the sand-sized bits of glass the grinding created. Applying careful pressure allowed me to smooth down the edges of the glass, grinding away sharp ridges, without reducing the size of the piece. It was an important but time-consuming process.

  Working with the glass, letting my mind wander on its own, I realized what troubled me about the things I’d learned was the missing piece. In the story of Andy Edgers’s charging practices, Tony had presented the picture of a man manipulating prices to increase his profit margin. From the volume of business the marina project brought in, that margin was poised to shift from the thousands into the tens of thousands.

  Yet the paperwork on Andy’s desk consisted almost exclusively of unpaid bills, some of which appeared to have gone unpaid for longer than generally accepted. The hardware store itself featured nothing out of the ordinary, no new developments. Even the register resembled something I’d find at Carrie’s antiques store.

  What had prompted Andy to overcharge the way he had?

  What had become of the money?

  Realizing the question of the money was what was troubling me allowed the troubled part of me to relax. All at once I was overcome with profound fatigue. I did not hesitate to pack up my tools, store the liquids, and replace the sheet over the worktable.

  When my head hit the pillow again, I slept as deeply as Friday, waking midmorning in the precise position in which I’d fallen asleep. For a few moments I entertained the thought of rolling over and hiding from the day, but my mind was eager to remind me of the questions that needed answers, the phone calls unreturned, and Grandy’s detainment.

  I threw the covers off and tumbled out of bed. I had a killer to find.

  * * *

  Wenwood does not have a large population, so I was stunned to find a line stretching out the door of the bakery. Where had all those people come from? Was there some sort of Friday morning special I was unaware of? Had they driven in from neighboring towns to pick up a pound of Rozelle’s Linzer tarts?

  Wishing I’d thought to bring a travel mug of coffee, I took my place in line among a couple dozen people I’d never met before. I kept an eye on people joining the end of the line, and people exiting the bakery. I couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching me, whispering about me, but neither could I catch them in the act.

  Rozelle had a couple of extra helpers in the store, rushing back and forth behind the counter. High school girls, I guessed. I had no real need for bakery goods, having binged on three-layer pastries the day before. In hopes the police would release Grandy, I ordered his favorite. “Loaf of rye bread, no seeds,” I called across the counter.

  The fresh-faced high school kid nodded and bustled off before I could tell her not to slice the loaf.

  Pushing up on to tiptoe, I tried to spot the clerk. I opened my mouth to shout for her at the precise moment my phone vibrated to life. The humiliating Bon Jovi ringtone followed. I tugged the device from my bag, prepared to hit Ignore call. But the caller ID read PACE CNTY PD.

  Maybe Grandy was miraculously being released. How did police departments work? Did they function the same way as hospitals, calling the next of kin to let them know their loved ones could go home? Or even the other end of the extreme—which I really didn’t want to think about.

  Either way, I couldn’t ignore the call. Etiquette violation be damned, I tapped the green button and hello’ed into the phone.

  Such a simple motion earned me scowls and cross looks from the patrons surrounding me. I mouthed “Sorry” and attempted to remove myself to a quiet corner of the bakery. Still I needed to hold my other hand over my ear to hear. “Sorry, Detective, can you repeat that?”

  Detective Nolan spoke up. “Your grandfather wanted me to call you.”

  “How is he? Is he okay? Does he need anything?” Several patrons,
so recently annoyed, now looked at me with concern.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Nolan grumbled, and I relaxed and angled my body away from the onlookers. “To tell the truth, it’s your call I’m returning,” he admitted. “But I’ve got less than five minutes so talk fast.”

  “How can you be returning my call? I—”

  “You called the station looking for me. You want to take up the little time I have for this conversation with me explaining how caller ID works?”

  Rats. That meant Diana was fully aware I was the one who’d called and chickened out of leaving a message. “I wanted to know what happened to my laundry,” I said.

  “That’s it? That’s why you called?”

  “Well, I’d wanted to know what happened at Grandy’s arraignment.” I spoke as quietly as I dared. “But I figured I’d start with something I had a chance of you answering.”

  He exhaled; the noise came through like static on the line. “I would have to confirm with evidence but I believe your clothing can be returned. Pete’s has gone on to the state crime lab.”

  Warm fuzzy thoughts of getting back my Pink Panther bra vanished at the mention of the crime lab. “Why would—why is that necessary? What’s going on?”

  “Look, Georgia, let me just say that this is all pretty routine, all right? Pete’s shirt and pants had blood on them so—”

  “But they were washed,” I blurted out. Then I wanted to kick myself. More so when Detective Nolan let a measurable amount of silence elapse.

  “Bloodstains. A couple of washings in standard detergent aren’t going to have much effect. Ten aren’t going to have much effect. Blood is pretty tough stuff.”

  All I could manage to say was, “Oh.” Which was probably best. I wasn’t doing a stellar job of keeping the light of innocence on Grandy. “But if you don’t know yet whose blood you found, how can you keep Grandy in jail?”

  “He’s been charged with voluntary manslaughter. He hasn’t been convicted. And let’s just say the town would prefer to show its diligence in a murder case. You can pick up your belongings any time you’re ready.”

  “What about Grandy? When can . . . can I see him?”

  “It’s up to him. He needs to get your name on the approved visitors list. You might want to remind his lawyer.”

  He sounded regretful when he said he had to go, and I faltered through polite thanks and good-bye.

  I stood so long motionless in the corner, it took an alert suburban-mom type to reach out and grab me by the forearm and tell me my bread was ready.

  Of course, I wouldn’t need the bread, but I could hardly tell this woman that. I had a vague recollection of my mother saying you could freeze bread. Or was that you shouldn’t freeze bread?

  I stumbled over to the counter, where the clerk patted a white-paper-wrapped package. “You wanted that sliced, right?”

  “Oh, no. Oh, beans. Did you slice it?” Grandy had his preferences in how thick the bread should be sliced, and the automatic slicers at the bakery did not meet his specifications.

  But then, would it matter?

  “You know what, that’s fine. It’s fine. What do I owe you?”

  She gave me a price and scuttled away with the money as though afraid I’d change my mind about the slicing, or about the bread entirely.

  With the loaf tucked under my arm and my mind gone to panicked silence over the prospect of coming up with bail money, I elbowed my way out of the crowded bakery and onto the sidewalk.

  Drew. I needed to speak to Drew. I could reach him by phone—potentially. At the very least I could leave more messages, asking him to call me, asking him to convince Grandy to allow me to visit. In the mean time, I would have to test the freezing bread theory.

  15

  Laying down the loaf of bread on the luncheonette counter, I climbed up on the vacant stool next to Tom.

  “You brought your own food,” he shouted in my ear. “Smart.”

  As I winced away from his surprising decibel level, I figured out why the stool had been empty in the otherwise crowded restaurant. I leaned as far to my left as I could reasonably get away with without offending. “Service that slow?” I asked.

  Tom nodded, raising a corner of toast to his mouth. “Hope you’re not hungry.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Grace said. She strode through the doorway connecting the kitchen to the counter, pot of coffee in hand. Without question, she banged a porcelain mug down on the counter in front of me and poured. “It’s always busy at breakfast but no one ever goes home hungry.” She slid a sour glance at Tom.

  “Good to know,” I said. Not that I had much of an appetite anyway, despite the inviting aroma of fried eggs and bacon filling the air. All I really wanted was a cup of hot coffee and a place to sit down and work up the fortitude to call my mother.

  Grace stowed the coffee carafe below the counter. Setting both hands on the counter’s edge, she leaned close to me. “Diana told me about Pete,” she said in the voice of a conspirator. “If my own niece wasn’t one of ’em, I’d have plenty of bad to say about that police department.”

  I struggled to find the appropriate response, but the realization that a member of the “general public” knew of Grandy’s predicament slowed my mental processes.

  “I want you to know, I know and the folks in this place know”—she tipped her head to indicate the restaurant area behind me—“Pete would never do . . . what they say he did. He’s a good man, your grandfather. Don’t forget that.”

  The lump in my throat formed long before I could get a swallow of coffee down to prevent it. “Thanks, Grace.”

  She nodded firmly, certain and reassuring. “Now what can I get you, sweetie?”

  I hadn’t even checked the menu. But then, I would no doubt be unable to make a selection before the luncheonette closed at the end of the day. “Just some pancakes, maybe? Side of bacon?”

  As Grace disappeared through the doorway, my cell phone jangled. I wrestled it from the narrow confines of my purse, one wary eye on Tom. If anyone in the place were to make a “darn kids and their phones” outburst, I figured him to be the one.

  He dropped the last nibble of toast onto his plate. “Must be for you,” he said.

  Caught off guard, I picked up the call without checking the incoming caller information.

  “I’m calling about the kitten,” the voice on the other end announced.

  All I registered was a female voice and the feeling of being wrapped in defeat. Because the day wasn’t going bad enough, someone was going to claim Friday to make it really abysmal.

  I pulled in a resigned breath. “Are you the owner?”

  “Me? So not. I gave the kitten to my boyfriend. When we broke up, he swore he would take care of it. Swore. I knew he was lying. I never should have believed him.”

  “Wait.” I needed to get a word in; I had a suspicion there was a tirade in the works. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same kitten? Maybe—”

  “White. Female. Fluffy. Spot of gray on her head that looks like someone dropped cigarette ashes on her.”

  Gross, but accurate. My heart sank a little more. “So you think it got out on him?”

  “I wish. I think he let it out and locked the door. The jerk.”

  She sounded young. But even given our age difference, I felt a twinge of kinship for her. She had a boyfriend who was a jerk. I had a former fiancé who was . . . worse words. I wondered for a moment if jerk boys were supposed to prepare us for jerk men, then I refocused on the issue at hand. “And you want the kitten back?”

  “I can’t. My mom’s allergic. Like, violently allergic.”

  “So . . .”

  “You should totally call the police and have the jerk arrested for animal cruelty.”

  Oh, yes, because the police were so eager to be of service to me. Then ag
ain, when it came to Friday, I was fairly certain I had an ally in Sergeant Steve. Still . . . “I’d like to check with your ex-boyfriend first before I call the police. Pets have been known to wander off on their own.”

  The girlfriend sighed forcefully, but gave me the phone number and address of her ex-boyfriend, Scott Corrigan—which I cleverly wrote down on the paper wrapping my loaf of rye.

  Once the call with the girlfriend concluded, I punched in Scott’s number. I sipped coffee while I listened to the line ring. The strong java didn’t mix well with the anxiety and upset churning through my stomach. If this guy wanted Friday back, would I be able to return her? Would she fare better than she had in the past?

  On the other hand, if it turned out the guy had discarded Friday, then what? The good news was, I got to keep her. The bad news was, the guy was guilty of . . . something. Sergeant Steve would know the precise name of the crime. Maybe the girlfriend was right and it was animal cruelty.

  With no answer on the phone, I ended the connection and set the phone down on the counter. I hated myself a little bit for getting worked up over the kitten when Grandy was sitting behind bars in the county jail. Thing was, Grandy had a lot of years behind him, years which gave him enough fortitude to withstand a night or two in lockup. He was a veteran, for heaven’s sake. But the kitten—harmless, helpless—she needed someone else to look out for her. Teeny sharp claws were only so much protection.

  Grace reappeared with a plate of pancakes and a tea saucer piled with bacon. “There you go, sweetie. On the house.”

  “What about me?” Tom shouted, drowning out my meek thank you.

  “You pay double,” Grace said cheerfully.

  I passed him a piece of bacon.

  His smile, his genuine appreciation of such a small gesture, eased away the prickliest edges of my anxiety.

  “Don’t spoil him,” Grace said. “He’s got to watch his cholesterol.”

  “Since Andy stopped coming, no one shares their bacon with me.” Tom took a bite off the end of his slice and grinned.