Death Under Glass

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “Oh, Georgia,” Carrie said sadly.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s okay. We’ll get this cleaned up.”

  “It’s not that.” She lifted a chin to indicate the shelving that ran along the southern wall of the back room. “Your glass,” she said.

  Turning, I scanned the shelves against which two of my stained glass pieces had rested. One had been a rectangular window, a simple fleur-de-lis design. But the other had been far more involved—a sixteen-by-twenty picture frame of white roses from buds to full blooms, with foil flourishes and the occasional soft green leaf. We’d been trying to find an old-timey photo of a bride to use to show off the intention of the frame. I supposed that search was over.

  That familiar scratchy ache seized my throat. My nose twitched and my eyes burned. My heart seemed to fall into my stomach at the same moment the first tear fell. I had worked hard on that piece, had been particularly proud of it. And though I had long since come to accept that my own bridal portrait would never be framed by those white roses, still, to see the petals reduced to shards awoke an ache for losses more than material.

  I sniffled in a most unladylike way. I wiped away the tear and turned to face Carrie again. “All right. Let’s get started.”

  11

  Unsurprisingly, Grandy felt I should go see Drew in person rather than chat with him over the phone. The job hunt game had changed a great deal since Grandy’s day, but there was no telling him things were done differently now. That he had a computer in his office at all was borderline miraculous. Just don’t expect him to research job applicants online or open an e-mailed résumé.

  Still, I had to admit that doing things Grandy’s way had one unexpected bonus: I was forced out of my summer wardrobe of flip-flops, shorts, and T-shirts and into a tailored dress and linen pumps. I took the time to flatiron my hair and tie it back in a neat braid. I even went so far as to apply foundation beneath a soft swipe of blush. When I finished with some mascara and took one final look at myself in the mirror—a look at me as a whole and not the little pieces I’d been primping and polishing—my breath stuck in my chest.

  The image in the mirror might well have had a caption beneath it reading “before.” In the glass was the Georgia Kelly I had left behind all those months before. There was something sharp and sleek and downright smart about that Georgia. Gone were the frizzy red curls that made me look slightly ditzy and unkempt. Gone were the faint freckles and pale eyelashes. Gone were the shoulders rounded in defeat. I let my breath out slowly and wondered if I could still see myself in that image, if I felt more or less like myself in those shoes.

  “You’re going to be late,” Grandy called up the stairs, derailing my train of thought.

  I smoothed down the front of the aqua dress, took one last look in the mirror, and left my room. “I don’t have an appointment, Grandy,” I called back. “It’s not possible for me to be late.”

  “I’m not worried about you being late arriving. I’m worried about you being late getting back with—”

  “With the Jeep.” I sighed as I reached the top of the stairs. “I know. I’m going.”

  As I clumped down the steps in my heels, Grandy made no secret of looking me over head to toe. “Don’t you have a suit?”

  “You look nice, too,” I said.

  He smiled and looked down at his feet, abashed as a schoolboy. “Quite right,” he said. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Directions?”

  He handed me an index card on which he’d written directions to Drew’s office, complete with hand-drawn images of streets and intersections and a great big X over my final destination.

  “Any messages for your lawyer?”

  Grandy lifted his chin. “Give him my regards.”

  On my way through the living room, I paused by the couch where Friday was stretched out, belly exposed to the sunbeams streaming through the windows. “Be good, kitty,” I said, scratching beneath her chin. She wrapped her front legs around my wrist and curled herself around my forearm. For her, it was probably just a bit of play. For me, it felt like she didn’t want me to leave, and that made me feel a little bit special, a little bit loved. “I’ll be back soon,” I told her. She didn’t let go, and I was forced to pry my arm away, fearful she’d give me a sad-eye look. Instead, she rolled over, sprang to her feet, and flew off the couch on her way to her favorite hiding place under the china cabinet.

  So much for missing me when I’m gone.

  I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out. The early morning cool had burned off and left the air outside well on its way to steaming. Across the street, leaves on the neighbor’s maple tree hung motionless, sun glowing off the green. My luck. A perfect flip-flop day and I was in pumps.

  At least the Jeep had air-conditioning. It kept me nice and cool while I struggled with the adjustments necessary to smoothly depress a gas pedal while wearing heels.

  The ride to downtown Wenwood passed with the speed of familiarity. One minute I was backing out of the driveway, the next I was cruising past the grocer’s where a large UNDER NEW OWNERSHIP banner stretched across two windows. Opposite the grocery was Rozelle’s Bakery and, I suspected, the cause of Grandy’s new strudel habit, Rozelle herself, sitting on a lawn chair in front of the shop chatting with a passerby. There was Grace’s luncheonette, catty-corner to Carrie’s shop, Aggie’s Antiques, where Carrie had placed a pair of my stained glass panes in her window, and finally the vacant hardware store that Regina and Stella would soon take over with their candy and jewelry shop. From there the strip shifted from retail to private businesses—real estate (by appointment only), medical (same), and barber (both appointment and walk-in).

  At the end of the strip, for the first time in memory, I turned left. Grandy’s written instructions began at that turn, and I followed the left-right-straight indicators on his map until I reached the little white Cape Cod house with the shingle that read DREW ABLE, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW hanging from a signpost. A smaller version of the same sign was propped in the picture window beside the front door.

  I parked the Jeep at the curb, switched off the air conditioner in the last possible second before turning off the engine. With a deep breath and a self-deprecating shake of my head, I walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door and let myself in—per Grandy’s further instruction.

  The door opened into a small waiting room as nondescript as Drew himself. White blinds, beige walls, brown faux-leather couch. A coffee table held a selection of magazines guaranteed to never become dog-eared—Scientific American, American Law Journal, and The Real Deal.

  Opposite the window was another door, this one open and showing a continuation of the riveting decor of the waiting room. A pair of button-tuck leather chairs faced the broad cherrywood desk behind which sat Drew Able—brown hair, white polo, pale skin.

  “Georgia.” He grinned and stood, revealing his customary khakis, these with a stain along the thigh that looked suspiciously like coffee. “Come in. Come in. What brings you by?”

  I crossed the threshold into his office, then grasped the hand he extended in my best all-business shake. The little knot of nerves twisting in my belly gave an insistent tug. How best to approach him about hiring me for a job that didn’t exist?

  “To be perfectly honest, Gran—er, Pete Keene suggested I talk to you, but, uh . . .” Other than needing a brightly colored print or, ideally, a stained glass lamp or two, Drew’s office didn’t appear as disorganized as Grandy led me to believe.

  “How is Pete?” Drew gestured to the visitors’ chairs as he circled around me to close the door.

  “He’s well,” I said, eyes on the door. “Am I interrupting anything? Are you expecting a client?” In other words, can I change my mind and escape?

  “Oh, no, no. Not for another”—he checked his wristwatch—“twenty minutes or so.”

 
It had not occurred to me that a small-town lawyer would have clients in on a Thursday morning. I somehow pictured Drew as having more time on his hands than work to do. Foolish, but not knowing much about how a lawyer keeps busy I’d come to my own conclusion. And yet . . .

  A memory gnawed at the back of my mind, a passing comment Grandy made when he told me why Drew was his lawyer. He’d described Drew as the only decent lawyer left in Wenwood. I wondered if Russ Stanford had ever maintained an office in Wenwood. And if he did, was it important? Did it have a link to the fire at his office? Were Russ and Drew competing for the same client pool? Where did the break-in at the antiques shop fit in?

  “What’s on your mind?” Drew prompted.

  I mentally shook myself back into the moment, gave a delicate little cough to buy time to recall why Grandy had suggested I seek out Drew. “I, um, Pete was concerned about not getting billed for your time from . . .”

  “Ah.” He nodded. He leaned back in his chair, its springs making a soft creak. “From the . . . yeah. Well. I didn’t really do much, did I? You did more to get him exonerated than I did.”

  “You did plenty and Pete would like to pay you what you’re owed.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, they disintegrated. Then I really did shake my head. “I don’t believe it. How stupid can I be?”

  Drew leaned a little away from me. “Sorry?”

  “Grandy—Pete—sent me here because he’s convinced you haven’t sent out a bill because you’re completely disorganized and in need of my help. But in reality, you’re being kind, aren’t you? You know he’s been low on funds, but really, business at the dine-in is picking up and—”

  “Georgia.” The tips of Drew’s ears flushed red. “I wish I could agree to being the kind person you think I am but . . .” The red swooped down his neck. “Truth is, Pete’s right. Sort of. Look, I know Pete doesn’t have a lot of ready cash but he really needed my help. You, of all people, know how he is. He won’t take anything for free.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Free is the same as charity to him.”

  “Exactly. So we came up with a structured billing plan where he pays me—”

  “A little each month,” I put in.

  “Exactly. But, I haven’t sent out any bills because Pete’s right. I really am disorganized.”

  With an effort at appearing overly obvious, I cast my gaze around the room. Sure, the furnishings were sparse, but that only enhanced the everything-in-its-place decor. The one aspect that hinted at disorganization was the closed file on Drew’s desk, and that only because paper edges were sticking out at random points. “Yes, I can see you have a real problem.”

  Sighing, he stood, and crooked a finger at me. He led me to a narrow door in the corner of the office that I had presumed opened onto a water closet. But as I bravely followed Drew (because who wants to walk into a tiny bathroom with a lawyer?) I realized we were moving into another full-sized room. Filing cabinets big and small lined the walls. A table with four chairs gathered around it sat at the room’s center. And atop the table, stacked on cabinets, in piles on the floor, were papers and files and files and papers. Every surface was covered.

  I might have gasped.

  “Current cases are on the table,” Drew admitted in a small voice. “The rest . . .”

  I nodded my understanding of the implication. “Grandy’s file is in there somewhere.” I took a moment to let the extent of the mess sink in. Then I turned to face Drew. “Have you ever billed anyone?”

  “Of course!” He tucked his head back, affronted. “I’ve just been really busy lately.”

  “How long is lately?” I asked, eyeballing a collection of papers that had yellowed under accumulated dust.

  “I keep meaning to get this cleaned up.” He pushed a hand through his hair, sighed. “There’s just no time.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that Grandy had been right in his theory on why he hadn’t received a bill. Grandy was sharp that way—and very likely had stumbled into this room at some point in a search for the bathroom.

  “Isn’t it, I don’t know, dangerous to leave these papers lying around like this?” I asked, tracing my finger along the edge of a file.

  He lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Doubtful. Rules of disclosure make these files practically public record.”

  I raised my brows.

  “All right, not public record. But nothing is lying around that needs to be kept under lock and key. For those I have a fireproof safe.”

  “Fireproof?” I repeated.

  Drew gestured to the far corner, where a boxy black safe huddled beneath a stack of phone books. Real, tangible phone books. I wondered if Carrie could use them for atmosphere at the antiques store. “I may be sloppy,” Drew said, “but I’m not careless. Wills, prenups, powers of attorney, my computer passwords . . . all the important stuff goes in the safe.”

  My mind spooled out the memory of Russ’s fire-damaged office. If the truly important papers needed to be kept in a fireproof safe, what good would it do to burn down the office? Nothing within the safe would be destroyed. Whatever the firebug had been looking for would have to have been tucked into a desk or a filing cabinet or something similarly minimally secured for the fire to do its job. Which meant whatever the arsonist was trying to destroy wasn’t sensitive enough to warrant being stored in the safe. But then, what was easier to burn than steal?

  Drew’s voice shattered my musings. “Pete thought you could help with this?”

  I nodded, distracted, thoughts shifting back to “the only decent lawyer” comment. What kind of lawyer was Russ? What if, despite being the nice guy Carrie claimed him to be, as a lawyer he was unscrupulous?

  “Do you know Russ Stanford?” I asked.

  Drew blinked rapidly, whiplashed by the question. “Wh-what?”

  “Russ Stanford. Also an esquire. Do you know him?” I faced him, arms crossed against my chest, as he adjusted to the change in topic and considered the question.

  His answer came slowly. “I knew him. Not well. Why do you ask?”

  Why indeed? “Is he a good lawyer, reputable?”

  Drew straightened a little, his shoulders squared. “I make it a point not to comment on the work of my fellow attorneys.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a no comment.”

  His face was inscrutable. And I was really looking. But his calm brown eyes and softly squared jaw revealed no emotion. I surmised his expression to be his “lawyer face.” I bet it worked really well in front of judges. “Why did you come here, Georgia? To ask me about Russ Stanford, to settle Pete’s account, or to offer to help me organize my office?”

  Sadly, my bank balance was in no shape to settle Grandy’s account. But he was right on the other two. Since I’d asked about Russ and got a politician’s response, there was only one thing left. The nerves in my gut gave another twist. I ignored them. “All of the above, actually.”

  “You do filing?” he asked.

  “I do books, Drew. I’m an accountant. And if you want to actually earn money as a lawyer you need someone to handle your books.” I glanced around the room. “It doesn’t look like you’re much of a do-it-yourselfer in that area.”

  He pressed his lips tight, considered the idea. “That’s how Pete thought you could help? By me hiring you?”

  “You clearly need some help here, Drew.” I waved a hand at the mess. “Before this gets worse. And I could use the work.”

  “I don’t know . . .” His lips twitched as if he was biting the inside of his cheek.

  “Yeah, I don’t know how you waited this long to hire someone either,” I said, grinning, teasing. “How about we call it a temp job? I’ll get this place in order and give you a listing of who owes you what, and then you decide whether or not you want to keep me on to make sure you get paid.”

/>   “A temp job, huh?” he asked.

  The pop and scrape of a heat-swollen door being opened carried through waiting room and office to reach us by the filing cabinet. Chattering voices followed.

  “My next clients are here,” he said. He dashed to the table. Pushing aside one file after another he muttered, “I know I left the file right . . .”

  A rap at the open door made us both turn and look over our shoulders.

  A man and woman stood in the doorway, looking as though they were both cut from the same brown-haired, fair-eyed cloth. “Sorry, Drew.” The man flashed a quick grin. “The door was open. I was afraid we were late.”

  The woman beside him smirked. “You were afraid we’d be billed.”

  It was Drew who flushed with embarrassment, but his tone was confident. “Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  The pair retreated, presumably to claim the chairs on the visitors’ side of Drew’s desk.

  “Steve and Marcy Carney,” he said, so quietly I struggled to hear. “Property sale. They’re in for a nice windfall if I can find the file.” He spun back to the cluttered table. “Where is it? Where is it?”

  “Property?” My forehead furrowed as I added that information to what little I knew of Drew. “I didn’t realize you practiced real estate law.”

  “I practice a little bit of everything. That is, if I can find the—thank goodness!” Drew’s fingers closed around a thick manila folder. Abashed, he turned around to face me. “You’re right. I need help. Can you start tomorrow?”

  12

  The trip back to Newbridge, back to Broad Street and the scene of the crime, required just one U-turn after I went west instead of east. Considering I had only made the trip once before and as a passenger at that, I considered my otherwise direct drive a victory.

  I parked the SUV on the same side street we had parked on earlier in the week, but this time found a nice shade tree to keep the vehicle cool. After locking the door behind me, I made a futile attempt at smoothing down the wrinkles in my dress and strode across the street.