Death Under Glass

by Jennifer McAndrews

  “But someone we were enemies with?”

  “Someone you didn’t get along with,” I said. Somehow “enemies” seemed extra harsh. “You know, like Gabe. He seems pretty ticked at Russ for the whole prenup thing. That could easily be the falling out Melanie referred to.”

  Carrie made a noise generally regarded as doubtful. “I don’t know, Georgia. I can’t see Gabe as an arsonist or a burglar.”

  “It’s always the quiet ones that end up as news headlines,” I murmured.

  She peered at me from the corner of her eyes. “You’ve met Gabe. How could he possibly sneak around unseen?”

  We turned onto the broad street that would lead to Trudy’s. Maple trees in full leaf lined the roadside, their branches spreading wide above us so that it seemed we drove beneath a sparkling green canopy.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s extra light on his feet. Have you ever seen him tiptoe? Or, you know, do ballet? Do they make tights that big?”

  I could almost see Carrie’s imagination spinning as she mentally painted the picture of Gabe creeping around like a cartoon cat burglar, complete with the special toes-only walk at which cartoon crooks excelled or bounding across a stage with a tiny girl dressed as a swan. When at last she laughed, I laughed along with her.

  * * *

  Trudy’s door swung open the moment my foot hit the curb. For a moment I feared she planned to shout out at me to go away, and I stayed put until the slam of Carrie’s door told me she was out of the car and visible. Only then did I extricate myself from the car, clutching my portfolio like a shield.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said, when I joined Carrie on the sidewalk. “I appreciate the company.”

  “She doesn’t hate you, you know,” Carrie said. “She’s always like that. I think she’s decided Downton Abbey is a tutorial on how to manage ‘the help.’”

  From the open doorway, a low-flying blur of white and tan catapulted itself in our direction. Both Carrie and I skittered backward in an attempt to soften the impact. Whether the move worked or not was hard to judge. Fifi pushed her snout into my shin with enough force to move me back one more step. Her stubby tail wagged enthusiastically, pulling her hindquarters side to side along with it.

  “See? Fifi loves you,” Carrie said, as I bent to ruffle the soft fur atop the bulldog’s head.

  I giggled as Fifi changed tactics and snuffled my toes. “She smells Friday, that’s all.”

  “In which case she should be mauling you.”

  The murmuring of voices reached us, and Fifi lifted her head. Nostrils twitching, eyes on the open door at the top of the porch steps, she emitted a rumble like a precursor to a growl.

  Two figures emerged from the doorway. One was Trudy Villiers, thin and regal and dressed in a high-necked chiffon blouse with matching ivory slacks. The other was a man with dark hair and a thick mustache in need of a trim. I was sure I didn’t know him, yet he looked familiar.

  “Who is that?” I asked Carrie, keeping my voice low.

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen him somewhere before, though.”

  “That’s what I was think—oh! That’s Curtis,” I said. “He was at the town hall meeting the other night.”

  Trudy stepped onto the porch, her good-bye carrying clearly while Curtis strode down the path toward us.

  I weighed the wisdom of greeting him by name. Diana hadn’t introduced any of us, after all. Using his name might make even small talk awkward. I settled on a simple, “Good morning,” and Carrie did the same.

  “Morning,” he said. His eyes narrowed a little, and I reasoned he might be thinking we looked familiar as well.

  Fifi shuffled sideways so that she stood in front of and roughly between Carrie and me. The rumble intensified as the man drew nearer, until he was close enough to elicit a throaty growl followed by a single bark.

  Curtis lifted both hands, palms out. “Relax dog,” he said. “I won’t come any closer, I promise.”

  “Fifi, come,” Trudy called from the porch.

  But Fifi only persisted in growling, until Curtis lunged at her, then feinted left. The poor dog barked with such vigor her front paws came up off the ground.

  Curtis laughed, a mirthless sound with a hollow echo, and headed down the sidewalk to his car.

  Fifi’s head swiveled as she tracked him. She stopped barking, but the low-throated growl continued.

  “What a jackass,” I said, none too quietly, not caring if my voice carried.

  He pointed a key fob at a late-model Toyota that had a volunteer fireman’s emblem on the back window and the faded outlines of a stick figure family. The car chirped its response.

  Carrie shook her head in disbelief, gaze on Curtis as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know,” she said. “Jackass might not be a strong enough term.”

  “Girls come inside, come inside.” Trudy beckoned us closer with her fingertips. “And bring Fifi if you will.”

  With my toe I nudged Fifi’s back paw, hoping she would precede me into the house. I kind of liked having a defender, even though that defender was less than two feet tall and had failed to take a chunk out of Curtis when she had the chance.

  The dog ambled forward, rolling a bit from side to side. Carrie and I trailed behind her, climbing the top step of the porch well after Fifi had disappeared indoors.

  “Sorry about all that,” Trudy said, her voice every bit as proper as I recalled. Stepping back to allow us to enter the house, she continued, “Fifi just gets so riled up when she sees him. And I haven’t got the heart to lock her away in the bathroom. I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s still here once I have paying guests.”

  We waited inside the foyer while Trudy closed and locked the door. I couldn’t help noticing, though, that her hand was trembling as she turned the lock. When she faced us once again, I took a second to really look at her, study her face without worrying what she thought of my behavior. And what I saw surprised me.

  Trudy Villiers was shook. Distressed. Her cheeks were in high color, her brow and lips pinched. Her fingers fluttered at the fashionable gold chain draped low on her chest, and her gaze remained resolutely on the floor.

  “Ms. Villiers, are you all right?” I asked. In the same moment Carrie said, “Trudy, is everything okay?”

  She clutched at the gold chain. “Oh, he rattles me so. And then all of Fifi’s barking.” She tsk-tsked, presumably to herself, and gestured for us to continue on through to the living room where once again we took seats on the ivory couch. Within moments, Fifi jumped up and wedged herself into the space between us.

  Trudy huffed as she settled into the wingback chair opposite. “And now she’s on my couch again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carrie said, sliding a hand beneath the dog’s belly. “Do you want me to move her?”

  “No, no, don’t bother. I believe it’s already too late for that couch.”

  “Would you like me to keep an eye out—” Carrie began, but I interrupted her. I had to. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Who was that guy?” I blurted. “He got you all upset and Fifi ready to snack on human flesh. What was he doing here? Do you know him?” I simply couldn’t believe Trudy would willingly associate with someone like Curtis.

  Her rigid posture softened and her eyes momentarily slipped closed. “I suppose you might call him the rightful heir to that dog.” She tipped her head toward Fifi. “But you’ve seen how well they get on. I really thought I’d seen the last of him when I agreed to watch over her until I could find her a home. Some people, though . . .” Her voice and her gaze trailed away, and she shuddered.

  I looked to Carrie. She was so much better at the little social graces than I.

  “Well, um, let’s talk about some pleasant things,” she said brightly. “Georgia brought some design concepts for you.”

&nbs
p; Taking a deep breath for courage, I laid my portfolio on the coffee table. I unzipped the portfolio and withdrew the sheaf of papers showing sketches and color concepts for her window. On the first, the text read MAGNOLIA. I had surrounded the stylized lettering with an oval of blossoms. Keeping that sketch to the top, I fanned out the remaining pages.

  “What’s this?” Trudy shifted her weight to the forward edge of the wingback chair and leaned toward the table without relaxing her spine. She reached out and slid one of the sketches free of its place below a pair of others. “These look like roses.”

  “A-a-and magnolias,” I muttered.

  Carrie gave my side a quick jab with her elbow, disturbing Fifi who grumble-growled her displeasure.

  I shot Carrie a look that asked what it was she expected me to do.

  Her eyes went wide and she tipped her head in Trudy’s direction.

  Right. Sell the idea.

  I forced a smile. “I thought since you have such a beautiful rose garden you might like the flowers included.”

  Trudy arched a brow. “Magnolias and roses?”

  “As you see,” I slipped another colored drawing out from beneath the image of plain magnolias, “including roses also allows more color.”

  Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, Trudy turned toward Carrie. “Did you know about this?”

  My pride stirred. It straightened my spine and lifted my chin and reminded me I had faced far more intimidating people than Trudy Villiers and I had not bent before them.

  I kicked my vocal volume up a notch. “Before we came I informed Carrie that I would be presenting several options. And that is all they are. Options. As you can see, I’ve prepared two with magnolias alone.” With my fingertips I fanned the drawings separate.

  “But you mistake me, my dear. I quite like this floral mix.” She centered the drawing over the table and released her hold, allowing the paper to float down among the other renderings. “It’s the colors.” Her attention remained fixed on Carrie. “Would you be able to incorporate these colors in your search for decor? Nothing large. Perhaps a few accent pillows or lamps.”

  A better, more experienced businesswoman than I, Carrie confined her response to a sage nod.

  Trudy blew a breath through her nose—the subtlest of huffs—and shuffled the other drawings around.

  I raised a hand to my cheek, allowing me to cover my mouth with my palm and preventing me from speaking. Better to let her reach her own decision.

  At last she lifted the first drawing, the one of MAGNOLIA surrounded by an oval of blossoms. “Can you add roses to this design?” She raised her eyes to look at me and her face fell slack. “My word,” she said on a whisper.

  I dropped my hand and slouched a little.

  Carrie half rose from her seat. “What is it? Trudy, are you all right?”

  For a moment she sat as frozen as a statue of a queen, holding forth the drawing, chin dropped. “So familiar,” she murmured.

  I sneaked a peek at Carrie, but her attention was fixed on the older woman.

  “Kelly, you say your name is?” Trudy asked.

  Wheels spun in my mind and I offered the information I determined she was after. “My mother was Patricia Keene. She was Peter and—”

  “Florence’s daughter,” Trudy finished for me. She bobbed her head slowly, a physical motion that seemed to say the pieces had come together for her. “Flo’s granddaughter. That’s why your appearance is so familiar. I didn’t see it until . . .” She laid a hand alongside her cheek.

  That made twice in one week someone had remarked on my resemblance to my grandmother. I conjured a memory of her—standing in front of the range top, wooden spoon in hand and grinning over her shoulder. Over her dress she wore a pink apron with little images of poodles drawn in black and on her feet a pair of low-heeled black shoes. Her hair lay in tight curls against her head, and her lipstick was a vivid red. In this memory my grandmother was the image of at-home elegance, and I wondered if I would ever feel as self-assured as she always seemed to be.

  “We played mah-jongg together, Flo and I,” she said. “Oh, my. I haven’t thought of that in years.”

  “Did you know my grandfather—Pete—also?” I asked.

  She let out a short laugh. “It was another time,” she said. “I never met Peter. I never met many of the husbands, only those whose wives I was very dear friends with. Dotty Crawford. Adele Chesterton. Madge Heaney.” Her voice softened with each name until it faded away entirely.Her gaze drifted around the room. “It’s Madge’s generosity that’s allowing me to make these changes. Yet all I have to remember her by is a dog I can’t keep.”

  Then she took a breath that halted any melancholy and smiled. “At least Betty Weeks is still among the living. She’s the last of that old crowd. Apart from myself, that is.”

  Once more, Trudy extended the drawing toward me. “Please make this.” She pulled another sheet from the table and passed that to me as well. “With these roses added in.”

  The blooms in the drawing were yellow and coral and a delicate sienna. Their color would offset prettily the slight pink and lavender and bright white magnolia blossoms. A tremor of excitement danced through my veins at the prospect of finding those colors in glass. If I didn’t linger after Carrie dropped me back home, I could easily drive to the stained glass shop and return in time for Grandy to leave for the dine-in.

  I gathered up the sketches while Carrie asked a few additional questions about the antique pieces she would be on the lookout for. I was anxious to get to work, ready to put fires and break-ins and murders and devastatingly handsome construction foremen behind me.

  Someday I would have to learn to adjust my priorities.

  16

  When I arrived home, Grandy was ensconced in the kitchen, daily paper spread before him on the table, coffee and toast with jam at his elbow.

  “What’s news?” I asked. I dropped my portfolio on the counter and grabbed an empty coffee mug from the cabinet.

  “Our best pitcher tore a rotator cuff during last night’s game. Might as well end the season right now.” He took a man-sized bite of toast, more than half the slice disappearing into his mouth.

  “Yankees?”

  “Of course Yankees,” he grumbled through a mouthful of bread and jam.

  I lifted a shoulder. The Yankees may have been Grandy’s favorite team, but so were the Dodgers, the Padres, and the Brewers. He could have been talking about any one of them but there was no need to point that out.

  “Where were you this morning?” He pushed his plate of toast toward me and made a little noise meant to tell me to help myself. After spending months under the same roof we were beginning to operate in shorthand.

  I helped myself to a triangle of toast. “Went out to Trudy Villiers about the glass project.”

  He looked up from his paper, looked at me with sincere concern and a hint of hopefulness. “Oh? How did she like the designs?”

  “She liked them. Liked the roses.” I couldn’t stop the little smile pulling at my lips.

  Grandy grinned and nodded. “Very good. She’d have been daft not to.”

  “You have to say things like that. You’re my grandpa.”

  “I don’t have to do or say anything. I’m an eighty-year-old man and I’ve earned the right to silence or honesty as I see fit.” He gave one more short, firm nod then looked back to his paper.

  As I took a bite of toast, there was a soft tap on my leg. I glanced down, unsurprised to see Friday balanced on her hind legs, one foreleg tucked close to her body, the other braced against my calf. “Meew,” she said.

  “Beggar.” I scratched between her ears and she pushed back against my fingertips, eyes half closing.

  “She’s nearly out of cans,” Grandy said.

  He blustered about Friday being in his way, sitting on his
favorite chair, or swatting at the ticker running across the bottom of the television screen. But he kept an eye on her food and water and now and then I would catch him with telltale white hairs clinging to the breast of his navy bathrobe. Let him claim he never cuddled with the kitten; those white hairs were strong evidence.

  “There’s some in the back of the Jeep. I’ll bring it in.” I took a careful sip of coffee—Grandy’s brews tended toward hair-on-your-chest strength—and the heat nearly scorched its way down my throat.

  “You’ve got a lot of junk floating around the back of the Jeep,” he said, eyeing me over the top of his reading glasses.

  “I know. Sorry. It’s all this rain. I’ll bring them in later.” Apart from the case of kitten food and a gallon of all-purpose cleaner, better known as white vinegar, I had two twenty-pound tubs of cat sand and an industrial pack of paper towels in the back of the Jeep. It was practically extended storage.

  “Hey, by the way, are you certain you never met Trudy Villiers?” I asked. Holding my hands over the now empty toast plate, I brushed the crumbs from my fingers.

  “I said no such thing,” Grandy murmured. “I said I don’t remember her.”

  Half grinning, I rolled my eyes to heaven, making no effort to hide the gesture.

  “You try remembering everyone you ever met, see how you do.”

  I sighed. “She said she knew Grandma. Said they played mah-jongg together.”

  He thought for a moment then smiled, the way he often did when a particular memory of Gram overtook him. “Oh. Oh yes, she did play mah-jongg for a time. Every Wednesday lunchtime. That was some years ago, though. The brickworks was still running back then. Your mother was still in school.”

  I braved another gulp of coffee. “I didn’t know Gram played mah-jongg.”

  Grandy nodded. “That she did. And rummy and canasta. She and her lady friends used to sit at that table”—he pointed to the dining room, where a heavy mahogany table for six waited for a big family to gather around—“playing cards and laughing until all hours.”

  As Friday nimbly leaped into my lap and curled into a little ball, there was no keeping the smile from my face. The look of happy memory lighting Grandy’s eyes, taking years from the wrinkles in his forehead and cheeks made shared happiness irresistible.