Glass in hand, I hurried to the large light tables in the center of the space and carefully laid down the sheet. In so doing, I caught sight of the price written on the corner in grease pencil. Almost thirty dollars. I would need a large sheet. A little bit of financial fear gripped me. Between the outlay for this window and the cost of creating replacement pieces for the antiques shop . . . Let’s just say it was a good thing Grandy was letting me stay with him rent free.
The phone stopped ringing before I could open my purse. And even though I knew that if it had been Tony Himmel who called, the ringtone would have been the innocuous factory-installed tune—as it was for all people not in my contacts list—still I felt a little flare of hope. And that said something.
But the missed call, when I checked the screen, had come from Carrie.
I looked from the phone, to the glass, to my fellow shoppers, weighing the wisdom of returning the call right away, after having attracted so much attention.
I had just decided to mute the phone and call Carrie back later when Idina rent the air again. Quick as a blink I pressed the proper button to accept the call while at the same time hustling away from the crowd.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Is everything okay?” Two calls in fast succession did not bode well.
“Russ called,” she blurted.
“What? When?” I worked my way to the rear of the shop, in among shelves lined with bottles of soldering flux and finishing patina and varying size bottles of cutting oil. Finishing hooks and hanging chains were displayed in open cardboard boxes.
“Just now. He said as soon as he hit the state line, his phone went crazy with messages.”
“Of course it did. Cell phones are very territorial like that.”
“Yeah, well, whatever. He said he’s going to go see the building and then he’s coming here.” Her voice squeaked, and I couldn’t help but picture her pacing behind the register at her store, white-knuckling the phone and trying to straighten her wavy hair with sheer force. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t want to see him.”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t think you’re going to be able to avoid him,” I said. No sooner did the words leave my mouth, though, than I wondered why Russ would be so intent on seeing Carrie. Surely whatever they needed to discuss could be done over the phone. Unless Russ had somehow gotten it in his head that Carrie was responsible. “You know what,” I said. “Why don’t you call Diana and ask her what she thinks, you know, from a professional law enforcement perspective?”
Carrie gasped. “Yes! Good idea. I’ll call her. But can you come over to the store? Keep me company?”
I peered at the crowded shelves around me, at the stained glass panels hung from the ceiling, at the students pulling stunning sheets of glass from cubbies. “Of course,” I said. “I’m up in Chalmers, though. How far out is Russ?”
We worked out how long we thought it would take Russ to get to the antiques store. Or rather, Carrie did, as she seemed to keep a map of the state in her head. Determining I had enough time to select at least the pink glass and a few other sheets from which to make pieces for the shop, I assured Carrie I’d be there and got to work. I had less than an hour to purchase glass and an hour to get back to Wenwood . . .
Just in time to stand between my best friend and her ex-husband.
* * *
I was going to be late returning the Jeep to Grandy. Well, late according to Grandy, for whom “late” meant not arriving early. But it was his vehicle and his rules and I was willing to follow. Usually. Now and again I lost track of time. The best way to appease Grandy in those instances was to bring a peace offering.
Behind the grocery store on Wenwood’s main drag, I parked the SUV beneath the branches of my favorite walnut tree. Purse in hand, sunglasses in place, I pulled out my cell phone and made a quick call to Carrie.
“I’m going to Rozelle’s and then home and I’ll have Grandy drop me off by your store on his way to work,” I said when she picked up. “Anything more from Russ?”
“He asked me to meet him at the luncheonette after I close up here,” Carrie said.
I locked the Jeep and headed down the entrance toward the street, the sun’s heat reflecting up from the blacktop and making my knees sweat. “Did he say why he wants to talk to you?”
“I imagine it’s about the building and about Herb and all but I couldn’t ask. I had a customer. Thank goodness it’s been busy today. It really kept my mind off of . . . everything.”
“That’s a good thing,” I agreed. I waited at the sidewalk while traffic passed up and down the main road bisecting the village. “How about Diana, did you speak to her?”
“Left a message,” she said. The tone and volume of her voice shifted. “Hi there,” she said, clearly holding the phone well away from her mouth. “Welcome to Aggie’s Antiques.”
“All right. Go help your customer. I’ll see you in a little while.”
The single traffic light shined red, stopping cars long enough for me to dash across the street. I reached the door to Rozelle’s Bakery at the same time as a balding gentleman in his late forties. He opened the door and rushed inside ahead of me, leaving me dumbfounded on the sidewalk.
“Tourist,” I muttered. I shook my head and tugged open the door. One step across the threshold, the shock hit me. That man, with the sunburned bald patch and bad manners, was a tourist—to me. He was an outsider. Making me . . . a local?
Shuffling to the nearest showcase, I rested a hand against its chrome edging and gazed at the colorful frosted cookies within. My mind turned at high speed, trying to grasp the realization that I had come to consider myself a local. How had that happened? At what point had I stopped thinking of myself as a temporary resident and started thinking of myself as permanent?
“Georgia, honey! You need more bread already?” Behind the counter, Rozelle bustled toward me, pastry box in one hand, square of wax paper in the other. The tourist walked with her, display cases dividing them.
“I was curious what sugar-free special you have today,” I said, aware that even the fact that Rozelle made different sugar-free concoctions was something she didn’t advertise. She always had sugar-free cookies, but Wenwood residents knew there was always something more.
“I’ll have to check,” she said before turning her attention to her other customer.
I looked on as the balding gentleman pointed to different trays of cookies. Rozelle, whose sensible shoes might have put her one gray curl over five foot, expertly scooped the cookies with the wax square and dropped them in the pastry box. Her movements were economical and sure, and after each handful went into the box she gave the box a little shake. Having witnessed this behavior enough, I knew she was estimating the weight. Further, I knew her estimates were accurate to within an ounce.
“Eat,” she said, handing me a jelly finger. “You have to learn to appreciate the sweet things.”
“I do appreciate them,” I said.
Rozelle gave me a look that called me a liar.
I took a bite of the cookie and made an extra-loud mmmmm noise so she would be sure to hear me. Of course, I could have told her about the donut I’d treated myself to at the coffee shop. She might have told Grandy, though, and the last thing I needed was Mr. Kettle crying foul against Ms. Pot.
As Rozelle walked back to the register, the sweet goodness of the cookie woke my taste buds and my belly. Sudden, intense hunger followed. I tried to calculate how long it had been since my last meal but apparently it had been so long the brain cells containing my math skills had starved to death. Leave it to me to be so distracted by a good-looking man and a store full of glass that eating lunch became a nonnecessity.
Of course, I was chomping on the sort of bakery cookie for which a tall glass of milk was not only a good idea, it was a requirement. Tasty? Yes. Dry as dirt? Ditto.
One of
Rozelle’s counter helpers came out of the back of the shop and took over ringing up the sale for the bald tourist. Rozelle ambled back to me, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron. “Now then,” she said. “You need something special for Pete?”
I swear her eye twinkled. Rozelle had been sweet on Grandy since long before I arrived in Wenwood. I didn’t know how long before; I was frankly afraid to ask. If I knew how long she’d carried her torch, I ran the risk of feeling sorry for her, and I’d much rather be encouraging than sorry.
“I’ve had his Jeep out all day,” I said.
Rozelle nodded sagely. “That might put him in a mood.”
“I just don’t understand why.” I huffed. “That is, I do. It’s his, but—”
“Pete’s lived on his own a long time now. Maybe too long?” she asked, almost hopefully. “I expect he’s still adjusting to sharing his home and his things.” I opened my mouth to protest, to remind Rozelle that I was Pete’s granddaughter not some stranger, but she kept on speaking before I got a word out. “It’s not about you, Georgia. He’s happier to have you than he lets on. It’s no fun being old and alone. But it’s still an adjustment when things are no longer where you left them, from a coffee cup to a car.”
I sighed. “Or all the hard candy I take away.”
Her giggle would be best described as a titter. “That especially.” She straightened her shoulders, smoothed down the creases in her baker’s apron. “Let’s see what I have to take his edge off today.”
She wandered farther along the counter and I wandered with her, passing by the two tiny tables squeezed into the opposite side of the store, and eyeing, as always, the collection of teapots and cup-and-saucer sets filling the cubbies along the wall.
“How about a cheesecake?” Rozelle suggested.
“Sugar free?” I asked, as the entrance of another customer set off the bell over the door.
“Sugar free. I used a little artificial sweetener. Only a little, I promise.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
Rozelle’s eyes widened in surprise. I’d been in the bakery enough looking for sugar-free deliciousness for Grandy that she knew my reservations about artificial sweeteners. But in Grandy’s case, sugar was the greater evil.
“Really,” I said. “It’s fine. I’ll take it.”
Without further comment, she boxed the cake and rang up the sale, while her fresh-faced employee waited on the other customer. The clerk, one of the girls Rozelle hired to help out during the summer, had the clean-scrubbed, pony-tailed appearance of a New England college student. When her school years were done, would she remain in Wenwood to begin her life? Would there be anything here to keep her?
Rozelle snapped me from my thoughts by handing my change over the counter. “Thanks, Rozelle.” I accepted my change and the cake and smiled my gratitude.
“You’ll be sure to give Pete my regards, won’t you?”
I forced my smile wider, forced down the little flare of feeling badly for her. “Of course.” I took a step back to leave but stopped at Rozelle’s next question.
“Wait. Tell me. How is Carrie? So scary what happened.”
“She’s okay,” I said.
“Do the police have any idea who broke in?”
I shook my head. “Not that I’ve heard.”
“Such a terrible thing. And poor Herb Gallo, too. My. This used to be such a nice, safe place.”
I reached across and gave her hand a squeeze. “It still is, Rozelle. The police will figure out who’s responsible for all of this.”
“I hope they figure it out soon,” she said on a sigh. “A lot of people are trying to make this town something again. I hate to see all that work come to nothing because folks are too afraid to come here.”
“It won’t.” I wasn’t sure I believed myself, but it seemed like the words needed to be said.
Rozelle only nodded, waggled her fingers in good-bye, and turned to help the next customer who had wandered in.
Bakery box in hand, I left the shop, thoughts of Wenwood’s future clouding my mind. Rozelle was right. Between the early summer murder of the hardware store owner, the break-in at Carrie’s shop, and the death-by-misdeed of Herb Gallo, not to mention the willful abandonment of the kitten who now happily curled up on my worktable each day, Wenwood was in danger of losing more than a measure of its charm.
And that brought up a whole new line of questions. Was someone out to tarnish Wenwood? Was there something to be gained by keeping the town down? But then why set fire to the law office?
As the next thought hit, it hit hard enough to make me pause just outside the grocery store. The law office was in Newbridge, burned to an unsightly, blackened crisp. Carrie’s shop had been broken into and its merchandise destroyed but the building itself was undamaged. We’d thought the thief had avoided breaking the front windows to gain access because of the risk of witnesses. What if the thief kept the window intact so as not to stain the face of Wenwood’s village?
A flurry of excitement in my gut told me I was onto something, something important. If the police were looking for someone who . . . wanted the best for Wenwood? Wanted . . . wanted what? Why?
In my purse, my cell phone burst to life, the voice of a movie trailer narrator ominously proclaiming, “In a world where grown children move home . . .” Grandy. “I’m on my way,” I said by way of greeting.
“Just wanted to remind you,” he responded, “to remember the cat food. The little devil is into everything looking for something to eat.”
I grinned. “She’s not looking for food, Grandy. She’s looking for trouble.”
“Hmph. That’s worse.” He sighed. “Why did I ever let you keep that thing?”
“Because you love me,” I said.
“That must be it.”
My grin faded, but the warmth expanded in my heart. “I love you, too, Grandy. I’ll be home soon.”
* * *
Grandy gleefully proclaimed the cheesecake a bribe to make him forget I was late returning the Jeep. Though he swore to not forget, he did forgive and downed a generous slice before getting dressed for his night at the dine-in.
I did my own quick change, switching my cotton T-shirt for a pale green blouse and trading my shorts for jeans. The days might still have been sultry, but the nights were blissfully cool. I tried tugging my hair back into a loose ponytail, but my wayward locks were having none of that. A couple of hairpins keeping the mop off my face would have to do.
Inside the SUV, Grandy made a show of readjusting the mirrors. He turned down the volume on the radio before switching to the all-news station, and finally, after he’d shifted his seat forward and back one last time, he turned to me. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“You’re not going to check the tire pressure?”
“Put your seat belt on,” he grumbled. He backed out of the driveway once I proved to him my seat belt was securely fastened, then waited until we reached the end of the block before springing the latest news on me. “Your mother phoned.”
A mélange of dread, guilt, and curiosity churned through my stomach. I knew she felt I didn’t call her as often as I should, so when I did catch her on the phone she proved what a star player she was at the Irish Guilt Game. She could make me feel thoughtless in under four breaths. And still I loved her a ton and eagerly asked, “How is she? How’s Ben?”
“Claims she’s happier than she’s been since before your father passed away.”
“That’s nice,” I said, hoping she meant it, hoping this time the feeling would last for both of them.
Grandy eased the SUV gently around the corner, heading for the boulevard that led to downtown Wenwood. “She said they’re thinking of making a fall foliage tour.”
I did the mental math in record time. “Which means they’re coming here,” I deduced.
“Ahh-huh. She’s going to call with the details during the week.”
“She’s going to stay with you—with us?”
“Ahh-huh.”
I allowed myself a moment to let the news sink in, to really see how I felt about the upcoming visit. “That will be nice,” I said, nodding. “It will be good to have a visit with them.”
“Good,” Grandy said. “I’m glad you feel that way. We’ll put them up in your room. You can sleep in the spare.”
My brows crept up my forehead. “Great. Sure. Yeah.” The spare room. The one with the narrow single bed and faint outlines of unicorns on the walls. The room I was relegated to during childhood stays. “I can hardly wait to be twelve again.”
* * *
I told Carrie the news of my mother’s impending visit while I helped her close up the shop. I exaggerated a little here and there, hoping to encourage laughter to break through her tension, but she remained as nervous as a first-time actress on opening night. The prospect of meeting her ex-husband had her distracted and clumsy.
“I’ve only seen him once since we signed the papers.” She tugged a plastic cover over the cash register. “And that was only to close down the joint checking that funded the auto-pay for the Newbridge property.”
I swirled a feather duster across the edges of an old armoire. “It will be fine,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
When she could no longer put off leaving, she locked the front door, then shut off the lights. We exited through the back storeroom door, where I ducked out while Carrie set the newly repaired alarm.
Without another word, we walked the parking strip behind the shops and passed through the alley leading to Center Street. Across the road and to the right, the business sign above Grace’s luncheonette was flickering to life. We followed it like a beacon—well, I did anyway. Carrie moved like someone was pushing her from behind.
But at the door, she took one deep breath, then another. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I’m going to be Trudy Villiers,” she said. “I’m going to be cool and elegant and unaffected by petty things.”
Death Under Glass Page 17