It took me fully half a second to understand. Carrie was a local. I was still an outsider. At the beginning of the summer that treatment made sense. Now, after all that had gone on, my response to being viewed as an outsider was shifting from annoyance to hurt. A tiny little poison bubble floating dangerously close to my heart.
And yet, I rumpled my forehead and nodded as though his differing treatment made perfect sense and I should have thought of it myself. “That’s . . . that’s fine. No problem. I’ll just . . .” What? Wait in the car? Wander around the grocery store?
Carrie rescued me, looking at me with clear eyes from her tragic pose on the stool. “Do you think you could get me a cup of tea?” she asked, stressing the second you.
I wasn’t sure what she was getting at, if she was trying to convey some hidden instruction to me. But I was happy enough to have an excuse to escape Fred’s lack of trust for a bit.
For his part, Fred was happy to escort me out the front door, locking it behind me. I knew the locking was nothing personal. Didn’t stop me feeling that it was.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment and weighed my options. Across the street to the left was Rozelle’s Bakery. Because of her—ahem—affection for Grandy, I reasoned she wouldn’t ask many questions about what I was doing in the village so early in the morning. And in her hope of moving on quickly to news of Grandy she would only half listen to the answers I gave about myself, so a simple fib about helping Carrie with inventory would suffice. The drawback was having to wait for water to boil and potentially miss the arrival of the police.
Across the street to the right was the luncheonette, where there was always hot water. There was also Grace and Tom and Dave and a potential host of regulars who had plenty of time to chat and weren’t likely to let my story of something as dead boring as inventory stop them from asking a good dozen follow-up questions.
I could eeny-meeny but the wind gusted—a hot breeze with a metallic finish. Rain would come sooner than later. And my umbrella was in Carrie’s car.
With a resigned breath, I checked for traffic then dashed across the road. Over and over in my mind I told myself the inventory lie, so that when I pulled open the door to the luncheonette and spotted Tom in his usual place at the counter I nearly blurted out the story instead of hello.
“Jeannine,” Tom called. “Good morning, good morning, good morning.” He raised his plain stoneware coffee mug in salute and gave me a giggly grin.
I approached cautiously, switching my gaze from Tom to Grace. She stood in her usual position behind the counter, one hand on her hip, the other tapping the eraser end of a pencil against the morning paper. “That’s Georgia,” she said.
Tom shrugged, boney shoulders shaping an inverted V beneath his New England Patriots golf shirt. “I got the name wrong, but the face is right,” he said.
Well, that was good to know. I’d hate to have been running around with someone else’s face. “Hi, Tom,” I said, sliding onto the vacant stool beside him. “How are you?”
He flashed a grin. “Feel great.”
“He saw some new doctor out in East Waring,” Grace said. “Got poor Tom here taking hundred-dollar supplements to help improve his memory.”
“It’s working,” Tom said. “Didn’t I tell ya it’s working?”
“You know, sometimes the right balance of nutrients really can work wonders,” I said, not that I really thought any supplement, no matter how costly, could fully bring Tom back from his perennial forgetfulness, but I was happy to have his perhaps previously unreliable memory forestall the usual question of what brings me to town.
“See?” Tom jerked a thumb in my direction. “Jeannine knows.”
“Georgia,” I said.
But Tom laughed, slapping his palm lightly against his thigh. “I’m kidding. I know you’re Georgia. My mind is clear as a bell. I remember everything.”
Grace scowled. “Sure you do. Ask him about Terry,” she suggested.
“Why?” I had never even met Terry, but knew from time spent at the luncheonette that he and Tom had been constant companions until Terry moved south to be with his daughter. At Grace’s encouraging nod I swiveled the stool so I was facing Tom. “What about Terry?” I asked.
“Heard from him last night.” Tom thunked his coffee mug onto the counter, smacked his lips. “How about a refill, Gracie?”
“You spoke to Terry?” I asked.
Tom nodded. “He’s coming back up for a few weeks. Staying through September, he says. Too hot down Carolina in the summertime.”
I checked with Grace, who raised her brows as the corners of her mouth turned down.
“He says Terry’s going to take the train,” she said, in a tone of shrewd disbelief.
I glanced at Tom then back to Grace. “And why is this doubtful?”
The bell over the door jingled in the same moment Grace said, “Tom says he’s going to pick him up at the station. As if he’s still got a driver’s license. If Terry is really planning—”
“Ned!” Tom called.
Grace dismissed talk of Terry with a wave of her hand and a heavy sigh.
“It’s Herb, Tom,” the gentleman said, joining us at the counter. “You know that. Morning, Grace.” He slid a careworn fishing hat from his head, revealing a wealth of freckles and age spots hunkered beneath a very few strands of hair. “And who is this young lady?” he asked.
“That’s Georgia Kelly,” Grace replied for me. “Her granddad runs the Downtown Dine-In.”
“Oh, come now, Grace. I’m sure Miss Kelly has something to recommend herself apart from her relationship to someone else.” He gave me a crooked smile bright with kindness and genuine interest. “How about it?”
“Okay, um . . .” If I wasn’t Pete Keene’s granddaughter, and I could no longer legitimately consider myself an accountant, then what was I? “I, um, first of all it’s just Georgia,” I said. “And I guess I might be a stained glass artist?”
Herb’s smile widened. “That’s wonderful. My wife, God rest her, was a big collector of blown glass. Picked some up everywhere we went. They’re still attracting all the dust in my house, those pieces. I just haven’t had the heart to pack them away.”
“Well there’s . . . no reason you have to,” I said, hoping it was the right thing to say. “You’re allowed to enjoy them, too.”
“Now that is true. That is true,” he said. “But where are my manners? Name’s Herb Gallo.”
I grasped the hand he held out to me but rethought a firm shake. His grip was cautious, and made me think at once of Grandy—still a strong bear of a man despite his age, whose handshake could still be intimidating. Herb Gallo, who looked to be of a similar age, shook hands with the force of a lazy breeze.
“We haven’t seen you around here in some time, Herb. Been working hard, have you?” Grace asked.
“Oh, you betcha. On vacation this week though. Couldn’t resist stopping by for some coffee and one of your cinnamon donuts.”
Grace grinned. “Coming right up. How about you, Georgia honey? What would you like?”
“Just a cup of tea for Carrie and a coffee for me, please.”
“To go?”
“Please,” I said. Herb settled onto the stool to my left. He pulled close a copy of the latest Town Crier and scanned the cover page.
“Hey, how about my refill?” Tom shouted.
“Aw, it’s coming. Quit your griping.”
While Grace busied herself pouring hot beverages, Tom leaned forward to look past me at Herb.
“Say, Herb, what’s your take on all this property Spring and Hamilton are grabbing up?” Tom had a habit of shouting, both when he thought he needed to speak over the noise in the room and when he had forgotten his hearing aid and couldn’t even hear his own voice. Whatever the case may have been, I pretended to smooth down my hair, keeping
my hand strategically over my ear to muffle what I could of Tom’s voice.
“Well, I can’t say as I’m opposed,” Herb said without looking up from the paper. “I don’t want to see Wenwood turn into some of those other rundown ghost towns. If this new shopping promenade can stop that from happening, then I don’t want to be the man who stands in its way.”
“But all those houses, Herb. All those people selling out to that company,” Tom said. “For more shopping?”
“Oh, here we go again.” Grace set two covered paper cups down on the counter, then tugged an empty paper bag free of the stack beside the register. “Not everyone got to retire wealthy like you, Tom.” She winked at me to show her teasing as she nestled the cups inside the bag and pushed the package my way. “Some people still gotta make a living, and a little string of shops on the waterfront could be a blessing.”
“It won’t be a blessing. It will be a blight,” Tom said at his default volume. “We can only hope someone doesn’t sell. That’ll stop the whole project in its tracks. I bet Pete sees it my way. Doesn’t he, Georgia?”
I tugged a handful of singles out of the zipper pocket inside my purse and handed them over to Grace. “Why don’t you ask me what I think, Tom?” I teased. “I live here, too. Don’t I get an opinion?”
He gave me the same dismissive hand wave he had given Grace. “You’re new,” he said. “You haven’t spent enough sweat here yet.”
“Now Tom,” Herb put in, looking up from the paper. “Miss Kelly has just as much right to an opinion as you.”
“Herb’s right.” Grace passed me my change. “Don’t listen to this old grump,” she said. “He’s still sore about—”
“Police are here,” Tom announced.
“Police?” Grace spun to peer through the window, following the direction of Tom’s gaze.
I grabbed the bag of caffeinated beverages. “Gotta go,” I said.
“Georgia, do you know something about this?” Grace asked.
I shot her a little smile and hustled out of the store. Rude to leave without answering her question, I guess. But she and Tom would watch out the window anyway and have an excellent view of me approaching—
Detective Nolan.
Dang it.
10
“You got here fast,” I said when I caught up to him in the doorway of the pharmacy. His presence was no doubt a result of my call to the station or he wouldn’t have parked in front of Bing’s. The marked squad car had rolled to a stop in front of Aggie’s Antiques.
He lowered his sunglasses so he could look at me from above the rim. Brown eyes serious and yet amused at the same time. “I’ve got a flashing red light that lets me exceed the speed limit.”
“Oh. Right.” I peered through the glass door, looking for signs of life within the store. I saw neither Fred nor Carrie, and opened my mouth to ask about their absence when Detective Nolan said, “Carrie went to find the proprietor. I presume he’s the one with the keys.”
“Oh. Right.”
Well done, Georgia. Way to be repetitive with the handsome cop.
I bit the inside of my lip as personal punishment for thinking such thoughts.
“You ladies all right?” he asked.
I tried to meet his gaze but he had pushed his sunglasses back in place. All I could do was meet the reflection of my own eyes. “We’re fine. That is, Carrie’s a little shook up but that’s all.”
“And you’re made of tougher stuff.” He crooked a smile.
“I didn’t go in,” I blurted.
His half smile went to full and the brightness of it hit me like a cool breeze. Oh, this was bad. This was really bad.
For once luck was with me, because Fred was slipping the key into the door lock. The activity distracted Detective Nolan’s attention from the blush climbing up my neck and onto my cheeks.
I stalled a few seconds at the doorway, allowing the detective to move well into the store before I followed.
Carrie waited beside the jewelry showcase, arms folded, shoulders inching toward her ears.
“You okay, Ms. Stanford?” Detective Nolan sounded sincerely interested rather than merely polite. At Carrie’s nod he continued, “You wanna tell me what happened?”
As she recounted the story of our arrival at the antiques store, I pulled her tea from the bag and passed it over. I took my coffee out and bent back the tab on the lid. Maybe I should have been paying attention to what Carrie was saying and what Nolan was asking, but I knew the answers and could anticipate the questions. Instead, my mind hiccupped back to the luncheonette and Tom’s talk of Spring and Hamilton and its bid for a shopping promenade.
When I teased Tom for not asking my opinion, there was perhaps more truth than jest in my words. I had refrained from raising my hand during the town hall meeting out of that same old fear of being an outsider, of thinking it wasn’t my place and those around me might call foul. Deep inside, though, I heard an annoying little voice suggesting I was the one responsible for perpetuating that outsider feeling. And having and expressing an opinion on matters affecting the town might help me believe myself more of an insider.
“When the second squad car arrives,” Detective Nolan was saying, “we’ll take a look through the store, make sure no one’s there—though I doubt anyone is.”
“Why do you doubt it?” I asked.
“It’s daylight,” he said. “Anyone looking through the window would see an intruder.”
“There could still be someone in back,” I said. Carrie made a little whimpering noise.
“Could be, but not likely. Still. Can’t be too cautious in a situation like this.”
Fred Bing bustled out from the dispensary, tugging the door shut behind him. He held a flat plastic bin filled with small wrapped packages. He scuttled behind the customer service counter and slid the bin out of view. “I’ll be opening soon,” he announced in a tone that suggested we should think about other accommodations.
Detective Nolan squared his shoulders. “I want the ladies to remain here until we’ve completed a search of Ms. Stanford’s store,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t be in the way.”
Pharmacist Fred scowled but thought better of arguing with the police.
Once the squad car arrived and Nolan went out to meet the officers, Carrie and I huddled shoulder to shoulder in the passageway to the back door, waiting for an all-clear.
“Don’t you think it’s weird,” I asked. “First Russ’s building and now your shop?”
As soon as the words were out I wished I could have them back. They seemed the sort of idea that shouldn’t be uttered in a brightly lit space but whispered in darkness, as one might whisper about conspiracy.
“I don’t know what to think.” Carrie sipped at her tea. “I don’t know if I want to think.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to think either. But once the idea was out, it seemed to somehow solidify into a concept worth investigating.
We didn’t wait long before one of the uniformed Pace County PD officers swung open the back door looking for us, letting us know Aggie’s Antiques was free of intruders and we could return. After thanking Fred for his hospitality and managing to keep a straight face as I did, Carrie and I hurried back to the antiques shop.
Anxiety pinched the corners of Carrie’s eyes and kept her shoulders tight. I didn’t know how she hadn’t given herself a headache. But then, maybe she had purchased some aspirin while hiding out in the pharmacy.
The officer tugged open the back door and held it while we passed through.
Every light in the back room was lit. In that brightness, what in my imagination was a tumbled mess was in reality a heartbreaking tableau. The poured concrete floor was coated with little shards of glass that we ground into both the floor and the soles of our shoes as we wandered into the center of the space. Crumpled papers, mangled pi
cture frames, and empty jewel boxes littered the old table Carrie used to pack treasures for shipping. The only part of the room that appeared untouched was the spools of brightly colored curling ribbon affixed to the bottom edge of the table. I fingered a length of brilliant emerald as Detective Nolan stepped over a toppled floor lamp to meet us.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this,” he said, leaning down a little to catch Carrie’s eye, “but I’m going to need you to take a look around and tell me if there’s anything of value missing.”
She lifted her chin. “Anything of value? Detective, all my merchandise is valuable.”
Glass ground beneath his feet as he adjusted his stance. “Not valuable enough to have motion sensors installed though?”
In the same moment that her eyes glossed over with tears, she lowered her gaze. “Motion sensors are expensive.”
“Everything in the shop is valuable to someone,” I put in. “But these are antiques, grandma’s attic type stuff, not highly prized collectibles. And if there was something worth stealing, why do all this?” I raised a palm to the ceiling and spread my arm, the gesture encompassing the surrounding destruction.
Nolan folded his arms, a movement that managed to pull his slate-colored tie a little farther askew. “This could be a diversion,” he explained, “calculated to deflect attention away from what was stolen.”
“No.” Carrie shook her head. “Nothing that valuable.”
The detective nodded. “In that case, what we’re going to do is I’m going to write up a statement from you, and you’re going to have to put together a list of what’s missing.”
“Or destroyed,” Carrie whispered.
We stood in a silent triangle, letting the word destroyed fade away.
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Stanford.” He paused. “I’m going to go out to the car and grab the paperwork. I’ll only be a minute.”
His departure didn’t raise the same noise of grinding glass my and Carrie’s footsteps had. I glanced over my shoulder at the oddity. Detective Nolan was tiptoeing through the mess, zigzagging his progress in an effort not to do any further damage.
Death Under Glass Page 9