Death Under Glass

by Jennifer McAndrews

  Carrie parked her car along the street in front of the dealership, and I stepped out onto the curb and faced a gleaming row of new cars. Sedans, pickups, SUVs all waiting for the perfect owner to arrive. Alternating vehicles sported cheery blue or red balloons; every vehicle sported a ticket price I knew without even looking at that I couldn’t afford.

  “Any idea where they keep the clunker trade-ins?” I asked as Carrie came around to meet me. “They’re more in my price range.”

  She shook her head, eyes and mouth pinched. “I was only here once,” she said tightly.

  I reached a hand to her elbow, stopping her progress. “Why don’t you wait in the car or . . . ?” I glanced up and down the road, searching for a likely spot. “Or go grab a donut and some coffee? This was my idea. You don’t need to see Gabe.”

  “More food?” Carrie forced a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

  Marching on ahead, Carrie smoothed the hair away from her forehead and flicked the curls over her shoulder. With each step she stood a little straighter, her chin a little higher. Meanwhile, the tension across my shoulders grew tighter and seemed to stretch into my belly. I swept my fingers across my stomach, trying to brush away the nerves and the guilt lurking behind, but I feared nothing short of turning and running would help.

  Carrie tugged open the door to the showroom, and I followed her inside. More shiny cars mocked my bank account and employment status.

  We crossed polished floors and passed shoppers and salespeople alike, Carrie pointing to the back of the showroom anytime anyone with a salesman’s smile came near. “Service,” she announced, and they melted away.

  The cross from showroom to service meant stepping off gleaming marble and onto dull linoleum tile. Dusty letters affixed to the wall read PARTS AND SERVICE. Beneath it, a sign informing patrons about labor rates made me rethink the idea that buying a clunker would save money.

  Ahead of us at the service counter a heavyset man wearing socks with his sandals muttered profanity as he settled his bill. For that brief moment, I decided buying any car at all would be a bad plan.

  When the muttering man walked away, Carrie and I stepped into his place.

  “Afternoon, ladies.” The man behind the service counter couldn’t have been any taller than I was, but he had a friendly smile and a surprisingly clean work shirt for someone who worked in the service department. “What can I help you with today?”

  “I was hoping to, um . . .” Carrie took a deep breath. “To see Gabe Stanford, please.”

  “Is this about a repair? Are you a customer?” the man asked.

  “Sister-in-law,” I said.

  “Former,” Carrie added.

  Counter guy raised his eyebrows, looked back and forth between us.

  “It’s about his brother,” she said.

  His face paled and jaw fell. “Oh, God.”

  “Oh no, no, not that. He’s fine!” Carrie rushed to say.

  “We presume,” I put in. No need to remove any incentive the guy had for moving quickly.

  “Can you just . . . is he here? Can we talk to him?”

  Counter Guy’s sandy hair bounced as he nodded. “I’ll go see if he can take a break,” he said, already moving away from his register.

  “Oh look,” Carrie said after Counter Guy disappeared through a doorway. “There’s coffee.”

  I followed her gaze to a cup-at-a-time coffeemaker stored below a wall-mounted television playing a midday talk show. Once again I rubbed a hand against my stomach, three cups of coffee shop brew swirling within. “Pass.”

  “If you can’t drink any more coffee, how could you expect me to eat more food?” Carrie asked.

  Turning my attention back to her, I said, “I was just trying to spare you . . . the . . .”

  “Carrie. What are you doing here?”

  She spun to look at the man who had crept up behind us and robbed me of speech. I hadn’t held an image in my head of what Gabe Stanford would look like. Carrie had never shared a picture of Russ with me, leaving me uninformed on any family traits. But even if I had been expecting the dark hair and blue eyes, I never would have anticipated the apparent reincarnation of Paul Bunyan. Granted, rather than a red and black checkered flannel, he wore a grease-streaked shirt with GABRIEL stitched over the breast pocket, and fortunately he wasn’t carrying an ax because that would have utterly freaked me out. Gabe was easily six-foot-eight, with the barrel chest of a pro football player and hands the size of watermelons. I fought the conflicting urges of backing away from him and ducking under him for protection.

  While Counter Guy squeezed behind Gabe and took a seat on a stool behind the register, Carrie introduced me to her former brother-in-law. My hand vanished in his as we shook hands in greeting.

  That was the extent of any pleasantness.

  “I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?” Gabe repeated, his voice the growl of boulders grinding one against the other.

  “I just . . .” Carrie faltered. “Just . . .”

  Rather than take that step back, I edged forward, moving that little bit closer to Gabe than Carrie stood. “I asked her to bring me. We were hoping you would know where Russ is,” I said.

  His lips quirked in a bitter smile. “Why would I know?”

  “Because you’re his brother? He might have mentioned something to you?” Being an only child myself, I could only speculate at sibling attachment based on observations. Most of those observations of Wenwood and its Hudson Valley environs told me family around here stuck together. I should have kept in mind the brief glimpse Carrie had given me of the Stanford family.

  “Russ is a grown man. He doesn’t need to check with me for permission on anything. Just ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  “I would very much like to ask him,” I said. “But according to his administrative assistant, he’s gone away fishing and didn’t tell anyone where he was going.”

  “And we were hoping since you guys usually go fishing together, you might have some idea where Russ might go on his own,” Carrie added.

  The big man scoffed. “Wherever he is, he’s probably with Brittany. You might try asking her friends.”

  “Brittany?” Carrie practically spat the name.

  “Yeah, you know, his next wife.”

  In that moment I didn’t know what Carrie was feeling about this new bombshell. All I knew was my stomach was churning on her behalf. The twisted truth of it is, you might have made the best decision ever in getting out of a relationship, you might have been emotionally betrayed, but hearing the other party has moved on before you still stings.

  “He’s getting married again?” Carrie asked in a tiny voice.

  Gabe shuffled his feet, turning to face her fully. “He wouldn’t be getting married again if you’d have stayed with him.”

  “Russ cheated on her,” I said.

  He spread his arms wide, palms up. “That’s what men do. Men are not meant to be monogamous. It’s against our biology. If you’d have just understood that, then you two would still be together and my stupid-ass brother wouldn’t be planning to sign a prenup for wife number two.”

  All I could do was blink, buying time while I waited to see if his words would make sense or, at the very least, not infuriate me. “I’m sorry, I want to be clear on this. Did you say ‘not meant to be monogamous’ because of biology? So simply being men gives men permission to ignore their vows?”

  “All’s I’m saying is a man can’t be expected to spend the rest of his life with just one woman. It’s why I told Russ, if he signs that prenup, he’s going to lose everything he has left to that girl and all because of natural urges that can’t be ignored.”

  “Natural urges?” Carrie echoed, disbelief apparently overwhelming any lingering distress she felt over hearing of Russ’s upcoming marriage. “Natural? Your brother met that girl online.
How is that natural?”

  I shot her a look, shook my head. “So there’s a prenup.” I folded my arms, gave Gabe my shrewdest look. “And you don’t think your brother, or any man ever, should have to pay any sort of price for being unfaithful to his wife?”

  Gabe shrugged in a manner to indicate he didn’t make the rules, he only played by them. Meanwhile, behind him, where only Carrie and I could see, Counter Guy rolled his eyes.

  I glanced at Carrie. “Now I know why you don’t like this guy.”

  “Come on, let’s just go,” she said. “He doesn’t know where Russ is.”

  I narrowed my gaze at him. “Don’t you even want to know why we need to find your brother?”

  He pursed his lips for a moment, looked upward as though considering the question. “No. Don’t need to know that. So I can go back to work now?” He gave us a great big false smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  As he lumbered back through the doorway that presumably led to the repair bays, I let out a disgusted huff. “He honestly believes . . .” I said. “Natural urges?”

  Carrie stood with arms wrapped around her belly and eyes on the floor. “He’s not the nice brother,” she murmured.

  A no kidding or you don’t say was waiting on my tongue. Common sense and compassion prevailed.

  I reached out and rubbed a hand against her upper arm. “I’m sorry for making you come here,” I said.

  She lifted a shoulder, tilted her head momentarily to the side. “It’s okay. Usually I can handle him. I guess the day’s been harder than I realized.”

  Putting an arm over her shoulder, I turned her back toward the showroom. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go look at cars I can’t afford. Then we’ll call Detective Nolan and let him know where to find the Neanderthal with the answers.”

  “See?” she said, giving me a shaky smile. “Some things are best left to the police.”

  5

  With the haze of the early morning burned away and the heat of the day not yet hitting its potential, I set a pitcher of tea on the front porch steps to steep in the sun then headed downstairs to my workshop.

  Windows on two sides—one facing north, the other east—provided ample natural light by which to work. I had been slacking off a bit in the prior couple of weeks, spending a good deal of time pulling weeds, fertilizing, and otherwise tending to the small garden I had planted along the back fence of Grandy’s yard. The herbs took root and flourished almost immediately. And while the vegetables had rooted well, they were only just beginning to offer up their bounty. Fresh cucumber and green beans, a smattering of onions and summer squash. Some very pathetic tomatoes hung on their vine, but I held on to hope for improvement, while the strawberry patch continued to defy any efforts I made at encouraging it to produce fruit. I loved fresh produce, and gardening was a worthy project but it was time to pick up my stained glass tools and get back to work. Especially if I was going to pull off something as ambitious as a window for a local business.

  The worktable centered in the corner of the room stood empty with the exception of a stack of old newspapers I had allowed to pile at one end. I grabbed a dust brush from the shelf hung below the table and swept the dust away from the surface.

  At the first hish of the brush, a white ball of fluff flew down the stairs, raced across the linoleum floor, and slid into my ankle.

  “Easy there.” I paused in the brushing to reach down with my opposite hand and scoop up the kitten. She was still a mite too small to jump onto the table by herself. If I didn’t grab her up in time, she would attempt to claw her way up my leg to reach her goal. I had learned this lesson the painful way and still feared permanent scarring.

  I deposited Friday the kitten beside the stack of newspapers, where I foolishly thought she would remain. But the hish-swish had beckoned her for a reason, and the moment I resumed brushing, I had her wide-eyed attention. Forelegs nearly resting on the table, butt in the air, she followed the motion of the brush for two swipes before she pounced.

  Of course, she was no match for anything longer and heavier than she was, but I moved the brush back and forth slowly and gently a few extra times, allowing her to catch the wood back beneath her paw and feel triumphant. Yes, I was letting her win. If someday she needed therapy to recover from my indulgence, so be it.

  I slid the brush back under the table, pulled a newspaper from atop the pile and laid out a few sheets. Friday “helpfully” swatted at the pages so that the newsprint rubbed onto the tips of her bright white paws, matching the natural patch of gray between her ears.

  Once the papers were in place I made quick work of lifting my basic toolbox onto the table, setting out the Homasote board—a two-foot square of pressed fiberboard that made an ideal surface for cutting glass and soldering—and retrieving a vinyl accordion folder in which I kept an assortment of patterns that had caught my eye at one time or another.

  With the folder splayed open, I flipped through folded papers, sought a pattern that would reinforce some skills and test others. I wanted to create a decorative pane, the sort that would hang in a window rather than be one. I had yet to complete a design for Trudy Villiers’s window, but trusted images and ideas would come to me while I took another project from pattern to patina.

  The folder’s sections held patterns with flowers and fish and birds, art deco and classic and European-inspired abstract designs. I had a precious few patterns for Celtic knots that tempted me, but in the end I withdrew a pattern of a sailboat at sunset.

  The image reminded me of the construction going on down at the old brickworks, the construction that promised to take an abandoned, tumbledown factory and give it new life as a boat shop and restaurant overlooking the piers. More, it made me think of the man at the helm of the renovation: Anton Himmel.

  I sighed. Friday blinked big blue eyes at me. It had been weeks since I met Tony for an event best described as a business dinner. He had been kind enough to answer my questions about the deal he’d struck with the Wenwood town council that allowed his construction project to take place. At the time, despite his good looks and easy demeanor, I had been intent on keeping the dinner businesslike, telling myself I wasn’t ready for anything else. But now . . .

  Now maybe I was. Maybe that readiness to let someone else close again accounted for my new awareness of Detective Nolan. Maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was time to stop being alone.

  Moving to the corner of the room, I switched on the radio I kept there, always tuned to the greatest hits of decades past. An old Pearl Jam tune dispelled the quiet of the room and helped me force my thoughts away from Chip Nolan and Tony Himmel.

  But no sooner had I relegated the men to the back of my mind than memories of Russ Stanford’s burned-out building took over the front spot. Despite his careful use of “probably” and “likely,” the fire marshal had seemed certain the blaze was purposefully set. What would anyone gain from burning down a law office? “Who would do that?” I asked Friday.

  The kitten yawned.

  “Pay attention. This could be important,” I told her. I stooped down to locate some poster board and carbon paper. Noting I was running low on both, I set the supplies on top of the table while I dug a three-quarter-inch-thick piece of wood from an untidy stack I kept propped against the wall. Last up, a hammer. “What reason would someone have to burn down a building, huh?” I asked.

  Friday hopped up onto the stack of newspapers. I reached over to her and scratched the bunny-soft fur atop her head. She squinched her eyes closed in kitty bliss and a quiet purr rumbled through her.

  “Do lawyers keep evidence? No, the police keep the evidence, right?” Sadly, I knew that from having marathon-watched Court TV during a particularly long battle with the flu. I smoothed Friday’s fur flat and went back to my project.

  With the pattern on top of the carbon paper, poster board below,
I pinned the assemblage to the piece of wood with tacks and gently tapped the tacks with the hammer—hard enough to hold, loose enough I’d be able to remove them.

  “So there’s probably nothing incriminating in the office. Nothing I can imagine, anyway.”

  One more yawn and Friday curled herself into a circle the size of a honeydew melon and closed her eyes.

  “Fine,” I said, eyeing the kitten. “Have a nap. I’m the crazy person talking to a cat anyway.”

  Though I kept quiet while tracing a pen across the pattern, the pressure and the presence of carbon paper transferring the design to the poster board below, my mind continued to ask the same questions I had no answer to, until I hit the point where I reminded myself I was focused on the wrong thing.

  Trudy Villiers wanted a window. A custom-made, custom-designed window. I should be worrying about that.

  My pen traced over horizontal lines that curved to resemble waves, over the gentle slope of the sailboat’s hull and the swell of the sail. But the images in my mind were swirls of pinks and lavenders, the cluster of a blossom, the turn of a petal. Magnolias. There were a few varieties, I thought. Weren’t there?

  I forced myself to finish tracing over every line in the pattern on the table before giving in to my mental wandering. As I had expected, even hoped, I was suddenly eager for a sketchbook and pencils.

  After tucking the pen into my toolbox, I crossed to a little bookcase underneath the north-facing window. My grandmother—who had used this same space for painting when she was alive—had a collection of field guides and encyclopedias of flowers. They may have been outdated, with the glue along the spine dried and the pages pulling away, but the appearance of the blooms hadn’t changed.

  I selected two of the flower books, grabbed my sketchbook, and scrounged around the bottom of my toolbox until I came up with a pencil.

  Toolbox closed and locked, I said to the sleeping kitten, “I’m going outside. Stay here.”