Death Under Glass

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “Maybe you were kidding, but it’s not really a joke.” Diana lifted her hair up off the back of her neck. Tugging a coated elastic band free from her wrist, she wrapped her hair in a casual ponytail. “Tonight’s the announcement.”

  “What announcement?” Something tickled the back of my mind, something trying to tell me I knew all about the announcement. The knowledge, though, was too deeply buried for a little tickling to bring it to the surface.

  Carrie looked over her shoulder at me. “Of which new merchant application the town council has approved?”

  Two more steps and I was walking level with them and resisting the urge to smack my forehead. “That’s right. The merchants.”

  After the untimely death of Andy Edgers, his son had slowly but thoroughly removed all stock from the hardware store Andy had owned and left the space vacant. For a while Carrie—among other residents, I had no doubt—had tried to convince young Edgers to take over the business and keep the hardware store in Wenwood. But he was among those who had grown up and left town for better opportunity and wasn’t eager to move back.

  Now, the town council, with recommendations from the merchants’ association, would cast their votes to determine which business would be allowed to take over the space once filled with spackle, screwdrivers, and sandpaper.

  Though we walked quickly, we were overtaken by two laughing, rushing women. “Stella. Regina,” Carrie called.

  The women stopped and turned. Dressed in soft blouses and denim skirts, with fashionable ropes of jewelry adding sparkle, both ladies smiled. “Carrie,” the short-haired brunette said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

  “You’re here to celebrate with us, right?” The other, a thin woman whose red hair I would have bet was mixed in a salon, grinned and offered a hand to me. “I’m Regina Henry.”

  “Georgia Kelly.” I shook her hand, nodded to my right. “This is Diana Davis.”

  They said their hellos then the handshakes repeated as Stella Mason introduced herself.

  “What is it we’re supposed to be celebrating?” Diana asked.

  Regina held up crossed fingers. “The announcement that the town council approved Sweets—”

  “Hush,” Stella said on a laugh. “You’ll jinx it.”

  Together we resumed the walk, heading to the end of the cement sidewalk and shuffling up the steps. Moving quicker than the rest of us, Diana raised a hand to acknowledge a man coming down the steps as we went up.

  “Hey, Curtis,” she said.

  He stutter-stepped to a stop, then paired a brief nod with an “Evening” that seemed a feat of ventriloquism. A heavy, dark moustache hung so low I never saw his lips move. “Here for the meeting?” he asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his polo shirt.

  “No,” Diana said as we passed him. “I’m here to apply for docking privileges for my mega-yacht.”

  He gave a smile so slight I couldn’t tell if he thought Diana’s sarcasm was amusing or if he didn’t understand her statement as sarcasm at all. “Yeah, uh, good luck.”

  Lifting the cigarette pack in a strange sort of salute, he continued down the remainder of the steps.

  Stella spluttered a laugh. “Does that man have no sense of humor at all?”

  Diana paused at the top step, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. “One of the volunteer firemen,” she told Stella. “Takes himself a little too seriously.”

  “You mean you were kidding about the mega-yacht?” I jogged up the last few steps. “Rats. I guess that means I can’t catch a ride with you to Fiji.”

  We walked as a group through the grand double doors and down the stairs to the basement auditorium, where rows of folding chairs filled the floor and town residents filled the room. Standing, sitting, laughing, or chatting, there were enough people gathered in that relatively small space to fill Grandy’s theater.

  “Front? Back? Anywhere?” Diana asked.

  Regina and Stella excused themselves to go check in with the meeting organizers while Carrie and I scanned the room.

  “I don’t think we’ll have many choices,” Carrie said. “Not if we want to sit together.”

  Diana tipped her chin toward the far side of the room. “Seats over there by my Aunt Grace.”

  The only way to get to the other side of the room was to take the long way around the rows of chairs. I followed behind Diana and Carrie as we weaved our way through the clusters of people gathered at the back of the room before we could walk up the side aisle to the vacant seats Diana had spotted. Along the way I tested myself putting faces to names, waving to some, exchanging hellos with others, trying to gauge how familiar I was with the longtime residents of Wenwood. There was Rozelle—a petite woman with tight gray curls—who owned the bakery and was sweet on Grandy; Maura, the bleached-blond music lover who worked at the grocery; Theresa, the vet; and Hector, the barber; and a dozen or more people I had become acquainted with. I had that sudden, warm sense of belonging that comforted me down to my toes and grinned all the way to my folding metal seat.

  “Hey, Aunt Grace,” Diana said as we filed into the row behind her.

  “Hiya, girls.” Still dressed in the robin’s egg blue cotton dress she wore for her workday behind the counter at the luncheonette, ash blond hair in a low tight bun, Grace turned in her chair and grinned. “Diana, I’m glad you’re here. I was just telling Marjorie about that nice fella you’re seeing but I can’t remember his name. What is it? Gary? Gregory?”

  Diana’s eyes went wide, and the muscles in her jaw bulged. “Aunt Grace,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

  “Nice fella?” I asked.

  “Gregory?” Carrie added. “Why haven’t we heard about this?”

  “Yeah, why haven’t we heard?” I echoed.

  Diana took a breath so deep her nostrils flared. “His name is Nick and I was hoping to keep things quiet.”

  “But why haven’t we heard?” Carrie asked. “You’re supposed to tell your friends these things.”

  “Not after you graduate high school you’re not,” Diana snapped. Her cheeks flushed red, and the hands that had rested loosely on her knees closed into fists.

  Catching Carrie’s eye, I shook my head as minimally as possible. Only recently Diana had been taken off the desk duty she’d been briefly relegated to while she addressed her “anger management issues” and restored to regular duty. No need for us to risk waking the sleeping cranky pants.

  “Oh, Diana, relax,” Grace said. “We all know a few good dates do not a happily-ever-after make. It’s just nice to know you’re seeing someone. No one’s going to ask you when the big day is.”

  Diana took in a very visible, very audible deep breath and blew it out in a slow stream. “Sorry, Aunt Grace. I should not have overreacted. I will try to work on that in the future.”

  Sure, it was easy enough for Diana to cling to the mantras of her anti-anger training. But I didn’t know how deeply the words had sunk in for her, and wasn’t eager to test their efficacy.

  Turning back to face the front of the auditorium, Grace said to the woman beside her, “Nick. His name is Nick. Lives up past that big Ford dealership.”

  I looked to Diana. “Sorry,” I murmured. “Didn’t mean to add to the . . . you know.”

  She held up a hand, palm out. “I need a minute.”

  Carrie shrugged while Diana did the deep-breathing thing again, and I checked the room for anything more interesting than the back of Grace’s head.

  Everyone in Wenwood was not, in fact, present. For one, few of the town’s retiree set had opted to attend. For another, not everyone would be accommodated in the small space. But the turnout was excellent, and the demographic predominately younger. It was the young professionals and families, after all, who seemed to have the greatest interest in moving Wenwood forward.
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  I scanned the groups of standees, hoping I might spot Drew. If we happened to be in the same place, I could present the whole needing someone to help out in his office as a “hey, by the way,” and then hit him with questions about law offices and the benefits of fire. I spotted the girl who helped out at the bakery laughing with the gentleman who was the new manager of the grocery, and a couple of young mothers in earnest conversation.

  Near the entrance, Melanie, Russ Stanford’s admin, stood talking with Curtis the humorless, her face a study in sympathy. As though aware of my gaze, she turned toward me and waggled her fingers. I waved back as a man of vast proportions tipped his head sideways so he could enter the room: Gabe Stanford.

  Something sour rolled across my tongue. Might have been a little cheddar cheese aftertaste, but there was an equal chance it was a reaction to Gabe. I let out an involuntary “ugh.”

  “What?” Diana asked.

  I glanced to the door. “Gabe.”

  “Figures,” Carrie said on a sigh.

  “Who’s Gabe?” Diana asked.

  “My ex-brother-in-law,” she replied. “Because I haven’t had enough crap this week.”

  Keeping my eyes on the man, I said, “Ignore him. There are a million other people here for him to aggravate besides you.”

  Diana glanced from me to where Gabe stood just inside the doorway, scanning the crowd. “Wait. That guy? Bruce Banner mid-shift?” She looked to Carrie. “That’s your brother-in-law?”

  “Ex,” Carrie and I said together.

  “Wow. A guy that big, I’d need a forty-four Magnum to stop him.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Regular weapons don’t stop the Hulk.”

  I should have looked away sooner; there was no need for me to keep my eyes on Gabe for as long as I did. But his scan of the room eventually brought me into his line of sight and he focused his gaze in my direction, icy blue eyes piercing through the heat of the room and slicing through me.

  I looked away, not wanting him to think I’d been staring at him because I found him interesting, appealing, or the least bit above pond scum.

  The shift in perspective allowed me, at last, to catch sight of Drew Able, Esquire. Sandy hair, pale skin, and dressed plain as ever in blue shirt and khaki slacks, he crossed the front of the room and took up position behind the podium.

  So much for catching him before the meeting.

  He tapped the microphone a few times and invited everyone to find a seat if they could, while a line of folks whom I assumed to be the town council filed through a doorway and filled the chairs behind the conference tables stretched beside the podium.

  At the podium, Drew invited those seated to stand and led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. It seemed every man and woman in attendance recited the pledge with intent and enthusiasm. My spine tingled with pride at the sound of all those voices joined in support of our country.

  The pride I felt was quickly doused as the previously empty seat beside me attracted an occupant, an occupant whose elbow pressed against my upper arm, while my shoulder pressed into his bicep. A sharp scent of disinfecting soap occupied the air around him, and he himself occupied every other square inch of space. I looked up, and up, and up at him, and Gabe smiled down at me, a little cheerful, a little superior.

  I gave no smile in return, but looked to the front of the room where Drew called the roll of the town council members. Having ascertained all were present, he handed the floor to the council.

  As the head of the council shuffled to the podium, the mood in the auditorium made a subtle downshift from convivial to cautious. I glanced left to see if Carrie or Diana seemed affected or could possibly explain the change, but they kept their eyes front, with the same sort of focus I’d witnessed in Friday when she was trying to work out what made ants move.

  In a droning voice, the councilman began to read the minutes of the last meeting. Mention of an incentive to repave Grand Avenue between Paris and Rome passed without reaction—except from me, since my imagination flashed a kindergarten map of Europe, where a paving truck chugged along between the Eiffel Tower and the Roman Colosseum. I covered my mouth to hold in the giggles.

  While I fought down my mirth and the smell of Gabe’s soap faded, the minutes were passed with the bang of a gavel and the council moved on to new business. First order, the vote on who would be occupying 120 Center.

  “Proposal 1312E, third reading. Occupation of the property at 120 Center Street by Stella Mason and Regina Henry, retail proprietors of Sweets and Stones, combination mid-range jewelry, gourmet chocolates, and traditional penny candies.”

  A smattering of applause erupted, quickly countered by general noises of dissent.

  “Proposal 1312F, third reading. Occupation of the property at 120 Center Street by American Distributors, retail owners of National Wine and Liquors, full-spectrum liquor store.”

  The same combination of applause and disapproval rumbled through the room.

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “There’s more than one shop vacant on Center. Why the battle over this one?”

  “Apparently this one has second-floor storage,” Diana whispered back. She shrugged.

  At the mention of the second-floor storage, I quickly recalled being inside 120 Center when it had been a hardware store and coming across the staircase in back that led to loft space. The amount of storage space upstairs meant more square feet for retail at street level. Part of me was surprised Carrie wasn’t interested in relocating her antiques shop there, what with the current overcrowding in her back room. But I understood that the added space may not have been worth the effort. I knew all too well what a pain moving was. Sure, I’d moved personal stuff and not an entire retail store but I figured the aggravation was at least equal.

  “All those in favor of granting tenancy to Stella Mason and Regina Henry? Show of hands, please.”

  Hands went up around the room. I was secretly pleased to see Grace’s hand shoot up in the air, since so many others of her generation appeared to be sitting with their arms tightly folded, but kept my own hands tucked beneath my knees.

  The vote was repeated for the liquor store. From where I sat there appeared to be fewer hands in the air. As I turned to check behind me to see what the vote looked like over my shoulder, I caught Diana glaring at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You didn’t vote.”

  “I’m not a resident.”

  “You’ve lived here half your life,” she said.

  “Not sequentially,” I said. “More . . . intermittently.”

  Diana narrowed one eye at me. “But you’re staying this time, right?”

  I opened my mouth, already preparing a breezy assertion that of course I was staying, because it was so much quicker and easier than explaining my internal dilemma. But beyond a friend’s insight, I knew the cop in Diana would see right through me. All I could do was shrug.

  The gavel came down with a crack and the room quieted. Diana treated me to one last glare before facing forward.

  “Popular vote goes to Stella Mason and Regina Henry. In the absence of overwhelming dissention that might require the Council to reopen discussion and by provisions of Wenwood articles of procedure, tenancy is granted to Sweets and Stones.”

  Cheerful whoops and applause erupted throughout the auditorium. A cluster of women at the front of the room jumped from their seats and hugged one another. At the center of the joy, Regina’s and Stella’s smiles sparkled. Even the councilman cracked a grin. “Congratulations, ladies.”

  Beside me, Gabe let out a huff that threatened to blow loose the bun on the back of Grace’s head. He smacked his hands upon his thighs, stood, and stomped off.

  Diana raised a brow. “I guess he wanted to buy whiskey by the barrel, huh?”

  “If there’s any justice in the world, he
has no one to buy jewelry for,” I said.

  Much as I didn’t want to give Gabe Stanford another moment’s attention, I watched as he made his way around the back of the room and out the door. Maybe I wanted to assure myself he was really leaving. And while I watched a bit longer, presumably to make sure he didn’t return and rob me of shoulder room again, a steady stream of people trickled toward the exit.

  But even with the shrinking of the crowd, the change in atmosphere as the next order of business was read was palpable. While the councilmen reviewed the proposal by development company Spring and Hamilton to build a shopping promenade along the riverfront, the room erupted in murmurs and what sounded, remarkably, like hissing.

  “Settle down, please. Settle down,” the councilman requested.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked, leaning close to Diana and keeping my voice low.

  Eyes on the councilman, Diana said, “Spring and Hamilton still doesn’t have the approval of the town council to build their shopping center down where the new marina will be. The senior set is opposed, the younger set is in favor. What else is new?”

  Carrie peeked her head around. “They’ll get their approval. This is the second reading. Before next month’s meeting the council will make their decision and take town sentiment into consideration. As you can see”—she waved a hand to indicate our surroundings—“there are more in favor than opposed. It’ll go through.”

  “They just need to complete the land purchases and tear down all those old houses standing in their way,” Diana said.

  “Your town council will hold one more roundtable meeting to discuss the pros and cons with the residents on September sixth,” said the councilman. “Due to space limitations we request interested parties advise the council’s office of their intent to attend.”

  Once again, murmurs rippled through the crowd, gaining volume row by row. The councilman cleared his throat, the sound crackling through the speakers like a Hollywood explosion. It took several long moments, but the room at last quieted enough for the councilman to proceed.

  “At this time I would like to turn the podium over to Councilwoman Denise Cannon.”