Ill-Gotten Panes

by Jennifer McAndrews

  Something in his choice of words struck me as peculiar. But that was Tom. He confused his meanings. I wondered if that was an effect of age. Or maybe it was his cholesterol. The possibility reinforced my choice of fruit over cake and vegetables over pasta. Sadly, neither of those choices qualified as comfort food to me.

  I poured a double dollop of syrup over my pancakes and gazed out the window while I sliced into the short stack and forked a bite into my mouth.

  Not surprisingly, I thought of Andy Edgers as I chewed. Not surprisingly, because his hardware store was visible from where I sat. Plus, he’d found a way to earn extra money by the expedient method of overcharging Tony Himmel.

  Covered in syrup though they were, the pancakes went dry in my mouth. I could have kicked myself—you know, if I wasn’t sitting on a lunch stool, thereby making kicking my own butt physically impossible.

  Andy had invested in property and stocks with Grandy. Grandy had had savings to invest, a successful business to fall back on, as it were. The hardware store, though, its shelves coated with dust, spare parts rusting in filing cabinets in the back, the collection of unpaid bills was not the model of a thriving business. What if Andy had borrowed the money to invest?

  I grabbed my phone and punched in the number for Drew Able, Esquire. This time, I was going to get in touch with the man, or hunt him down like a dog.

  Okay, not like a dog. But the hunting part, definitely.

  * * *

  “It’s a Friday afternoon in June, Georgia.” Drew made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine. “The workday’s over.”

  “The law doesn’t take afternoons off, Drew.” I was relatively sure that wasn’t true, but thought it sounded good. The automated doors to the grocery store swung open, and alluring clouds of cool, air-conditioned air billowed out. Between the moment I sat down at the luncheonette and the time I left, the temperature must have climbed fifteen degrees.

  “The law might not, but lawyers do,” Drew said.

  “What were you going to do today? Mow the lawn?” I lifted a handbasket from the stack by the door and proceeded directly toward the produce aisle. Pitching my voice slightly lower and shifting the phone so the receiver was two millimeters nearer to my mouth, I said, “My grandfather stuck in jail is way more important than the curb appeal of your house.”

  “What do you want me to do? Pete’s in police custody. Until his trial, I’m sorry, but unless you can come up with bail, there’s nothing you or I can do for him.”

  “Not unless we find the person who really killed Andy Edgers.”

  Drew made no response. I let the idea of taking an active role in investigating the case sink in with him while I reviewed the selection of romaine lettuce.

  By the time I reached the tomatoes and Drew still hadn’t made a sound, I thought it best to press onward. “Listen, I have a theory that Andy owed money to someone. And maybe it’s that someone who was the one who really killed him.”

  “Have you been staying up late watching bad cop movies?” he asked with that same hint of whining.

  “The only way to find that person is to review the finances. Money leaves a trail,” I insisted. “If we can follow the trail, we can get Grandy out of jail.”

  “What’s this we?”

  I selected a pint container of tasty-looking cherry tomatoes and dropped it in my basket. “Fine, the police. Would you just, please, make an exception to your ‘summer Friday’ rule and call them or go down there or whatever it is you lawyer folks do? Isn’t Grandy paying you to do these things?”

  “And what am I supposed to tell them?”

  Another customer approached from the opposite end of the aisle. I backtracked to the lettuce, putting enough distance between us that I thought my phone call would remain fairly private. As quickly as I could, I told Drew about the overcharges to Tony Himmel, the abundance of overdue notices on Andy’s desk, and the investment loss Andy suffered.

  When I’d finished, Drew sounded as though he were sucking moisture from between his teeth. I took that as a sign he was considering all I’d said. “Well?” I prompted.

  “Even if they find something, Georgia, it’s not likely to get Pete released. Not with the evidence they have.”

  “One brick? That someone claims is covered in blood?” I huffed out a breath, tried to push a hand through my hair, but as always, got tangled in my own curls. “Think about it, Drew. How can anyone possibly look at a red brick and see blood?”

  “Admittedly, they may be mistaken. We won’t know with any certainty until the results come back from the lab. Until then—”

  “What about the witnesses? Rozelle told me when she saw Grandy leave the shop that he came out the front door empty-handed. She told the police that.”

  “Georgia, you’re not going around playing Jessica Fletcher, are you?”

  “I did consider breaking into the hardware store and helping myself to whatever I could find, but I’m having enough trouble coming up with bail money for Grandy without trying to do it from the cell next to his. So the police need to do it, but someone needs to encourage them. They can collect the paperwork at the hardware store and take it into evidence—it won’t hurt if it’s not needed, right? But I believe the answer is there somewhere. If you wanted to find the root of the crime, follow the money. Nine out of ten times, it will lead you straight to the source.”

  “Nine out of ten?”

  “Maybe eight out of ten. I’m making this up.”

  He sighed, but there was more energy in the sigh than there had been in his earlier hello. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all?” I asked. “That won’t work. I need you to be confident in this.”

  His voice conveyed the determination I wanted to hear when he said, “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  Back home with the produce stored in the refrigerator, I tucked the loaf of rye into a plastic storage bag and slid the bread into the freezer. It either would or wouldn’t keep; I considered the action an experiment to determine which.

  Friday was doing her comatose sleep routine on the back of Grandy’s favorite chair. Though I ruffled her fur, she didn’t stir. With one had resting on her warm little body, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, my heart melted a little. Sadness overwhelmed me. If it turned out she had escaped Scott’s house, would I be able to give her back? And if he had tossed her out like so much waste?

  I grabbed my phone and headed down to the workroom. Why I didn’t have the police on speed dial was a mystery. I punched in the numbers for the Pace County precinct one by one and listened to the line ring.

  When finally someone picked up the phone, that someone was female. I clicked the disconnect button as quick as a teenager hanging up on her crush. Too late I remembered Detective Nolan reminding me the police used caller ID. Oh well, so Diana knew I was hanging up on her. She would no doubt add that to the list of my transgressions.

  Leaving the lights off, I opened all the window shades, letting in the day’s bright sun. I resumed work on the lamp, losing myself for a time in the comfort of following a pattern, focusing my mind on the work at hand rather than allowing it to wander to questions and problems I could not solve.

  Now and again I paused to place a phone call to Scott. No one ever picked up the phone. Friday wandered into the room, far more alert than I ever was after a nap. I found a triangle of glass in a mottled green and held it to the light. The glass created a prism that cast a dancing light across the floor, in turn creating endless amusement for Friday, who chased the bright green spot from one side of the room to another.

  Her eagerness, determination, curiosity—heck, even the way her little tail stood straight up like she was receiving signals from her feline home planet—made me happy. One little kitten, amid all the bad luck, bad choices, and bad times, made me happy, acted as a balm for all the w
ounds life had dealt. How could I let her go?

  When at last she lay down in a patch of sunlight, I knew I had to resolve the question of her ownership as soon as possible. I tried once more to reach Scott by phone, allowing the line to ring and ring while I covered the pieces of cut glass. All that remained in repairing the lamp was to reassemble the shade; the tricky work of cutting all the pieces in all the proper sizes was done. In the morning I would begin the work of wrapping the edges of each piece with copper foil, then follow the pattern to tack together the bits of glass and leaves and background with solder, setting them carefully to create the curve required for the lampshade.

  Having had the same experience all day, I was unsurprised when again no one answered Scott’s phone. But I was determined to speak with him, and I was in possession of his address and a GPS application on my phone. For the moment, that was all I needed.

  I washed my face and hands and pulled my hair into a loose ponytail. Friday didn’t put up a struggle when I moved her from the workroom into the safety of my bedroom. She had a litter box and enough food and water there to keep her satisfied, and I closed the door to keep her from getting into unsupervised mischief.

  Grabbing my phone, my purse, and the keys to Grandy’s Jeep, I tugged open the front door.

  Diana Davis stood on the porch, finger pointed at the doorbell.

  “Diana?” I asked, by which I meant more “What the devil are you doing here?” than “Is that your name?”

  Dressed in street clothes of jeans and a plain red T-shirt, she ducked her head, hid her hands behind her back. She looked like any woman you’d meet on the street, not someone tough enough to survive the police academy.

  Apparently, I had to be more precise in my questioning. “What are you doing here?” And then it hit me: What if calling the station and hanging up was illegal?

  “Look, I . . .” She sighed, a defeated sound that lowered her shoulders and softened her spine. Her gaze met mine. “I came by to apologize.”

  I stepped onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind me. “Apologize? To me?”

  She brought her hands forward, one on her hip, one a little lower, where the butt of her gun would be were she still in uniform. “Why do you sound shocked? You don’t believe I—” Stopping herself midsentence, she held a hand up, pressed her lips tight. “I, um, I have a little problem misreading people and, you know, jumping to conclusions.”

  My brow wrinkled. “Isn’t that kind of a problem in your line of work?”

  She huffed and nodded. “Hence the desk assignment.”

  I bit back a grin.

  “And the other day when you came in, I just . . . assumed you knew all about how my life turned out and were, you know, trying to hide your glee.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know anything about your life.”

  “I know that now.” She stepped backward, keeping her eyes on me, and perched on the porch rail. “I just figured Aunt Grace had told you everything. She said you were in the luncheonette.”

  “I was hoping for a blueberry muffin,” I said, then shook my head again and waved a dismissive hand. “At the luncheonette, I mean. Grace didn’t say anything about you except that you help out waiting tables sometimes when the restaurant’s crowded.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought you knew everything.”

  I chuckled ruefully. “You’d be surprised how much I don’t know.”

  “It’s just . . . I had big plans, you know? Yeah, cheering professionally might sound lame, but c’mon. It would have gotten me out of Pace County.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “Really. I shouldn’t have laughed. I didn’t give it enough thought.”

  But she held up a hand again to forestall me. “I realize that. I do. I just never realize it in the moment. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize. So.” She stood away from the railing. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” I said, because it seemed to be important to her.

  She turned to face the steps, looked back over her shoulder at me. “And hey, next time you call the station house and I answer, say something, okay? You don’t have to hang up.”

  My cheeks tingled, warning me of an impending blush. “I won’t, thanks.”

  She was down the steps before I thought to call her back.

  “Hey, Diana, can I ask you a question?”

  She turned back to me, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

  I flinched backward. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” I deeply wanted to retreat into the house, but that would look really weak. Better to linger on the porch until she was gone.

  Again she held up a hand, palm out. Closed her eyes and visibly took a deep breath before returning her gaze to me. “Sorry,” she said. “I promise, I’m working through my aggression issues. I am. What’s the question?”

  I slid to my right, putting the porch railing between me and her, just in case. “What, uh, what kind of crime is it to abandon an animal? Like, say, a kitten?”

  “That’s cruelty to animals.”

  “And that’s a crime, right?”

  “Misdemeanor.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Why?”

  The question popped out of my mouth before I could think better of it. “You wanna take a ride?”

  16

  We took the Jeep. No offense to Diana. I’m sure she was a fine, though aggressive, driver. But I would be no good to Grandy, or Friday, if I landed in the hospital following a motor vehicle accident. Besides, Diana had been on her way home when she stopped by to apologize, so it wasn’t like she had a nice, intimidating, steel-reinforced patrol car in which to roll up to Scott Corrigan’s house.

  On the drive over, with the anonymous voice on the GPS calling out the turns, I explained to Diana about finding Friday, about putting up the flyers, and finally hearing from Scott’s girlfriend.

  “Could just be this girl wants to make her ex-boyfriend sweat,” she said. “He may have nothing to do with the discarded cat.”

  “Will you stop calling her that? Her name is Friday.” I turned right as commanded by the disembodied voice. “Besides, the girlfriend described the kitten.”

  “She may have discarded the cat with plans to blame it on the boyfriend.”

  “Beans. I never thought of that.”

  “You got her name? Her number?”

  “No. She called me. So her number will be in my phone.”

  Diana flicked down the visor, blocking the sun streaking through the windshield following our last change of direction. “If she called from her phone.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “Okay. Let’s start with the boyfriend and go from there.”

  I glanced at the GPS display, unconvinced the voice was giving the right directions.

  “By the way,” Diana said, “your granddad . . .”

  My stomach instantly knotted. “Yeah?”

  “He’s doing okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He’s, you know, not happy. But he’s doing all right. I got a friend over in county keeping an eye on him. Says Pete spent most of the day working on the crossword and conning the guard into bringing him tea.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate you telling me.” I had to smile. The image of Grandy spending his morning much the same as he would have at home comforted me—right up until I mentally drew in the bare mattress and steel bars. “Do you know if his lawyer spoke with Detective Nolan?”

  “If he did, the call didn’t come to the station. Chip’s off today.”

  Chip. Detective Nolan. It was strange trying to envision the same official-looking man who’d questioned me and arrested Grandy as the sort of man who had a nickname, probably a family, maybe a dog.

  I made a mental note to give Drew another call and stored it in my mind conveniently ahead of the mental note to call Mom. If I could avoid cal
ling and explaining to her the entirety of the situation and begging for help coming up with bail money, I would, without question. Making the final turn to Scott’s house, I was still holding out hope the police would uncover a new lead in Andy Edgers’s office. A scary, cartoonish loan shark would be ideal.

  The voice on the GPS advised me I’d reached my destination, but the voice didn’t see the cars lining the road in front of the house. I hung a U-turn and parked the car across the street from the faded blue in-line ranch.

  Diana was out of the Jeep before I pulled the key from the ignition. “Let me ask the questions, okay?”

  “Why you? It’s my cat. I mean, it’s my problem.”

  She offered a grim smile and whipped a badge out of her back pocket. “We’ll get to the truth a lot faster if he knows he’s talking to the police.”

  “Fair enough.” I mean really, what was I going to do? Flash my library card?

  At least Diana let me ring the bell. We stood side by side on the plain cement step, waiting for someone to answer the bell.

  As I reached to ring again, the door opened inward, revealing a cheery, heavyset woman with short hair and an impressive array of freckles. “Can I help you ladies?” she asked, squinting a bit, as if she was trying to place our faces.

  “We’re here to see Scott. Is he home?” Diana kept her badge concealed, kind of like a secret weapon.

  “Big Scott or little Scott?”

  Diana looked to me. I shrugged. “Little Scott, I guess.”

  Nodding, the woman turned away. She called for Scott, telling him someone was at the door for him.

  While we waited, I admired a basket of fuchsia hanging beside the door. In the light of the lowering sun, the pinks and purples of the blossoms shined like gems. If I could find glass to replicate those colors, the leaves and flowers of the fuchsia plant would make a lovely night table lamp. Maybe online—

  “What’s up?” A string bean of a teen sporting red hair and freckles clearly inherited from his mother’s side lounged inside the door.