by Sarah Atwell
I still didn’t know if I should tell Matt about the car that had followed me yesterday. Maybe I had been paranoid and overreacted. I wasn’t used to this sneaking-around stuff, and I knew I wasn’t comfortable with it.
There was an easy solution: I wouldn’t do any more of it. Today we three would do something innocent and in the open, and drive away any thoughts of murder and thugs and whatever. On that note, I got out of bed.
Once again a homey scene greeted me in my main room: Allison and Cam sharing a cozy breakfast, the dogs at their feet. For a moment I felt shut out, but I squashed the thought. Cam was a grown man, and I hadn’t brought him up to spend his prime years living like a hermit, with only his eccentric spinster sister for companionship. Nope, I wanted him to have a life—a home, a wife, kids, the whole shebang. What the heck was a shebang anyway? Something I clearly didn’t have. I made my entrance.
“Hi, gang. You all look cheery. And everything smells wonderful—again.”
“I cooked,” Cam said, and beamed at me.
“You?” I said incredulously, helping myself to several pieces of perfectly browned French toast, and dousing them with maple syrup—the real stuff, I noted, not the plastic stuff that lasted forever without refrigeration.
“Em, if I hadn’t picked up some skills, I would have starved to death years ago. And I can read a cookbook, you know. It’s just a matter of following instructions.”
“Hey, I’m not going to argue,” I replied, my mouth full. I took a swig of coffee—strong, black, delicious—to chase down the bite. “So, Cam, what time do you need to hit the road?”
Silence fell. It took me a moment to notice, engrossed as I was in savoring the French toast. I looked up to see Cam and Allison exchanging conspiratorial glances. “What?”
Cam cleared his throat and put on his serious face. “Em, I’m not leaving today. I don’t want to leave you here alone until whatever is going on is sorted out.”
I sat back in my chair, wrestling with conflicting reactions. First: How sweet of my baby brother to decide he was going to protect me. I suppose his male ego needed that, and I couldn’t take that away from him. Second: Did the fact that Allison was gazing at him with shining eyes have anything to do with his decision? Maybe. But if anything was going to happen between them, it was going to take more than two days to figure it out, so I couldn’t blame him for wanting to stick around a little longer.
“What about work?” I said, as neutrally as possible.
“I can do a lot from here—I’ve got my laptop.”
He was right. I didn’t understand everything he did, but I know a lot of it consisted of some kind of computer analysis, and in these electronic days he could do that anywhere.
I decided I might as well give in gracefully. “Okay, so you’re staying. Well then, kiddies, what shall we do today? Allison, how long have you been in Tucson?”
Allison tore her gaze away from Cam. “About two months. Why?”
“And what have you seen of it?”
She shook her head. “Next to nothing. I’ve no car, and I had to find work, so I’ve done little sightseeing.”
“Well, now you have some time, and not one but two people willing to drive you anywhere you want to go. Although we should be back before the shop closes, so I can check in with Nessa. Cam, you have any suggestions? Something not too far away, but interesting?”
He mulled over my question. “The botanical gardens?”
I had to smile. Of course he would pick that, fascinated as he was by microecosystems. Or was it ecomicrosystems? But it was a good choice: It was not too far away, all the gardens should be in good shape, now that the monsoon season was over, and it would be a nice introduction to local flora for Allison—and Cam could show off his expertise. My brother was no dummy. “Perfect. Allison, sound good to you?”
“Grand.” She looked bewildered but game.
I turned back to Cam. “You want to take lunch or eat there?”
“Em, you have nothing to eat in this place except dog food. It’s a wonder you keep yourself alive.” Cam tempered his remark with a fond smile.
“I like the café at the botanical gardens,” I replied placidly. I made no excuses for my lack of culinary talent—I just didn’t care enough to bother. Not that I didn’t enjoy Elena’s and a few places like it, but that was as much for the camaraderie as for the food. Matt had taken me to a few nice places around Tucson, when he was wooing me. A long time ago, in another lifetime. Well, Matt couldn’t object if we spent this bright day at a very public place, and I thought that anyone interested in our activities, particularly if he hailed from Chicago, would stand out there like an orchid amongst the yuccas.
Two hours later, having perused the Sunday paper, cleaned up the kitchen, and walked the dogs, we pulled into the parking lot at the botanical gardens. I had been there many times before: Being horticulturally as well as culinarily challenged, I enjoyed seeing what other people could make grow in this very dry environment. I also found the place soothing, and it was nicely laid out for casual strollers, with carefully placed benches surrounded by pots of whatever was at its peak at any given time. Cam had been there with me on more than one occasion, although I had to believe that he was seeing very different things about the plantings than I was. But that was fine. Allison had never been, so she was in for a treat.
We paid the nominal admission fee and started wandering at a leisurely pace. Although many plants were past their prime in the fall, there was no shortage of color and scent to entertain us, not to mention the occasional bird or darting lizard. I found myself looking at the sites with an artisan’s eye: How could I capture the many subtle shades of green in a glass piece? Could I use a variety of powdered frits and let them overlap? And the sinuous curves of the lizards were appealing—what about a simple vase with lizard handles in a contrasting color? Of course, I’d need a helper for that, to manage the attachment process. . . .
I fell behind Allison and Cam, and when I dragged my mind away from matching colors and textures, I studied them for a bit. Allison was hanging on Cam’s every word, but she looked completely sincere. Cam was in his element, explaining the complexity of desert ecosystems, gesturing broadly at the vistas before them. I took my time catching up.
When I drew closer, I said, “Well, Allison, I’ll bet this is nothing like Ireland.”
She turned to me with a bright smile. “No—it’s like another world altogether. I know everyone always says how green it is in Ireland, and it’s true. And it rains a lot, or if it’s not actually raining, it might be what we call a ‘soft’ day, which is pretty much the same thing. Here, it’s like everything is reversed—dry all the time, rather than wet. But it’s handsome in its own way, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” I said. I’d had much the same reaction when I moved here from the East Coast, and it had taken me a while to learn to appreciate the subtleties of this desert landscape, so different from what I had grown up with. But it was something like a badge of honor, coming to love this rather unforgiving landscape—and I had earned it. Cam had come to share it although he had chosen to live closer to the ocean. I couldn’t blame him: I craved an ocean fix every few years, just to remind myself it was still there. But by and large I was happy where I was, and it was a great climate for glassblowing.
We had reached the cactus garden, which was the farthest point from the entrance. And it was conveniently located next to the café. “Lunch?” I said hopefully.
Cam smiled. “Em, we just finished eating—what, two hours ago?”
“I know, but I’m a pragmatist—I figure I’d better eat when I can, because I never know where my next meal is coming from. Besides, we can sit and admire the cacti while we eat.”
We made our way to a table with the promised view and staked it out. Once we were settled with our food, Allison turned curious eyes to the array of plants outside. “I know that those are cactuses—cacti?—but they’re so big.”
“Th
ey’re saguaro—Carnegiea gigantea,” Cam responded promptly. “Unique to the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. The ones you’re looking at are probably over a hundred years old—they grow very slowly, and it takes years just to put out a side shoot.”
I chewed a bite of my sandwich before adding my two cents. “And don’t forget, the saguaro is the state flower of Arizona.”
Cam ignored me and went on with his lecture. “You see the ridges?” His eyes lingered on Allison, who nodded. “They’re covered with spines, so try not to run into one. But what’s interesting is that when it rains, the saguaro soaks up water and actually expands, kind of like an accordion. Its root system is broad rather than deep, but that helps anchor it in rocky locations.”
“And the flowers smell wonderful,” I countered. I wasn’t going to let Cam have all the fun. “And animals love the fruit. You’ll have to see it at the other times of the year to really appreciate it.”
A mini silence fell, colored by the unspoken question: Where would Allison be when the saguaro bloomed again? I rushed to fill the gap. “And would you believe that some of the local natives have used the ribs for construction? There’s a place not far from here, the Mission San Xavier, where you can see them in the cloisters.”
Allison threw back her head and laughed. “Stop it, the two of you! Too much information! Can’t I just admire the things? They’re wonderful.”
I couldn’t disagree. We all ate in respectful silence for a bit. Then Allison asked, “What’s wrong with that one?” She pointed to an old saguaro whose top was anything but lovely; instead it was gnarled and twisted, deformed.
“Ah,” said Cam smugly. “That’s called ‘cristate’ or ‘crested.’ Sometimes the growing top is damaged early in the cactus’s life, and that’s what happened. It looks a bit like a cross, doesn’t it?”
“That it does.” Allison gathered up her trash neatly. “Well, then, there’s more to see, isn’t there?”
I had to smile at her enthusiasm. Freed from the burden of eluding her husband, Allison was blossoming like a flower herself. Or maybe that was Cam’s influence. But it looked good on her, and I wasn’t about to quash her honest interest in my adopted hometown and all its flora and fauna. I bundled up my trash as well and said, “Let’s go.”
We meandered happily back by a different path, enjoying the small areas devoted to low-water gardening, traditional local crops, and wildflowers. When we emerged back at the parking lot, our visual senses were sated. And, I realized with surprise, we hadn’t seen a single lurking thug. Fine by me. “Home, guys?” I looked at the two of them.
“Home,” Cam agreed. “But then I’m going food shopping.”
“No complaints. I want to check in with Nessa and see how Chad’s doing. He has a tendency to overreach, but he’s learning. Oh, Allison—you haven’t had any hands-on experience yet, have you? Maybe tomorrow—the shop’s closed on Mondays, and I can get you started.”
“That would be wonderful!”
If Allison got any happier, she’d burst. And it took so little to make her happy, I mused on the quick trip home. Once there, I looked at Cam. “Can you walk the pups? I’m sure they’ll enjoy sniffing you—all those exotic smells, you know.”
“Sure. You’ll be up soon? Because I want to get to the market.”
“Give me half an hour. Allison, you coming?”
Allison looked torn, but this was business, so she dutifully followed me around to the shop door.
The shop was empty of customers when I walked in. “Hi, Nessa. How’s everything?”
“Just fine, Em. It’s been a good day. Winding down now, I’d say.”
I could see Chad through the windows into the studio. It looked as though he had reached the clean-up stage. “Let me just make sure that Chad’s got everything under control. Nessa, why don’t you and Allison figure out a schedule for next week?” I left them with their heads together and opened the door to the studio. “Hi, Chad. How’s it going?”
He shrugged. “Not bad. I worked out a few things that had been bugging me. But I was fiddling with the technique you used on that one”—he pointed to the little frit-encrusted vase I had made last week—“and I just couldn’t get it to work.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Chad—I’ve been working on that for a while, and that’s the first one that looks the way I want it to. It takes time and practice. Everything in the annealer?”
“Yup. And I put all my tools away and cleaned up my bench too, teacher.” He flashed me a grin, and I grinned back. He definitely had talent, and I was teaching him discipline.
“Well, then, far be it for me to interrupt your labors. Give me a call when you want some more studio time.”
“Will do,” he said cheerfully, then went back to sweeping the floor.
I made sure the annealer was set correctly, then rejoined Nessa and Allison up front. “All set?”
“Just fine, Em. And I’m giving Allison some more hours next week—I could use a little time off. Oh, before I forget—Allison, there was a man in here looking for you earlier.”
Allison and I both stiffened. I managed to speak first. “What kind of man?”
“Oh, not a creep. Or a cop. He seemed quite nice— older gentleman, with some kind of accent—maybe English? Very polite, and a bit of a flirt, if you know what I mean. I didn’t tell him anything, just said that Allison would be here later and he should check back. He didn’t seem too concerned. He didn’t come back either.”
My spine relaxed, just a bit. “That’s fine, Nessa. And thanks for mentioning it. So, have a nice day off tomorrow, and I’ll see you Tuesday, right?”
“You will. Oh, has Cam gone home already? I didn’t see much of him.”
I smiled at Nessa’s curiosity. “No, he’s still here. He’s decided to take a few days off and hang out with his sister.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Nessa said complacently. “Well, see you Tuesday.”
I locked up behind her, then turned to Allison—and was dismayed to find her bloom had wilted. “What?”
“There’s no one who knows my name around here, no one who would think to look for me here. That man—he can only be the police, or worse. Em, I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. The police would have identified themselves, left a message of some sort. But Nessa hadn’t sensed anything wrong about the man, and after years of dealing with strangers, she had pretty good radar. Which left me with no ideas at all about his identity. “Let me lock up, then we can go up and maybe take a shower and watch Cam make dinner.”
“Oh, I’ll be happy to help,” she said eagerly.
I didn’t doubt it.
We passed another evening in domestic tranquillity. If this kept up much longer, I would need a new wardrobe— I wasn’t used to eating this much or this well. Fred and Gloria were in doggie heaven, because they had not one but three people to cater to their every whim. In some obscure way it pleased me that Allison was a “dog person.” I trusted my dogs’ judgment, and if they hadn’t liked her, I would have taken a long, hard look at her. But she passed with flying colors.
It was almost possible to forget about dead Jack and all the rest of it.
Chapter 14
quench: a hot glass technique where the bubble or bit is plunged in and out of cold water, thus cracking the exterior surface through thermal shock while the interior remains hot and intact (Edward T. Schmid, Advanced Glassworking Techniques: An Enlightened Manuscript)
The next day, the idyll was shattered. I had planned to go down to the shop early, to check the level of glass in the furnace and to start a small batch of colored glass in my second, smaller furnace. I left Allison and Cam gazing soulfully at each other across a plate of home-baked muffins. Fueled by coffee and carbohydrates, I was going to get a jump on the day. After all, I had a business to run, and if I was going to make money selling glass, I had better make some
glass to sell.
“Hey, you two, I’m going to walk the dogs, and then I’ll be in the studio.” I don’t think they heard me. I gathered up Fred and Gloria and their leashes and went down the stairs. Another beautiful fall day in Tucson—but then, most of them were. Clipping the leads on the dogs’ collars, I asked them, “Okay, pals, where do you want to go this time?”
Both of them strained toward the back of the building. Must be something tasty in the Dumpster, I mused, as I followed along. When we turned the corner to the alley, the first thing I saw was a large truck.
“What the . . . ?” It looked like Tim’s truck. I recalled that he had said something about the rest of the shipment that hadn’t arrived last week. But he would never have just left the truck here, all but blocking the alley, and certainly not overnight.
Not alive, that is. When I came around the end of the truck, I knew why he hadn’t moved it. He was lying sprawled against my back door, and he was very dead.
For a moment I fought back tears. Tim had been making deliveries to me for years. He was a good guy, a hardworking independent. He’d shown me pictures of his wife and daughters, and I’d watched them grow up. He’d always been willing to lend me a hand when I needed one.
Now, somehow, I’d killed him—or at least my association with him had. And I didn’t even know how, or why. And that made me damned angry.
The dogs looked up at me, sensing that something was not right, and I struggled to figure out what I was supposed to do next. Police. Well, duh. I’d been through this drill once already this week, and I knew how that worked. Phone—I needed a phone. Upstairs? No, let the lovebirds have a few more moments of untainted bliss. Shop, then. At least I’d brought my keys along.
I dragged the dogs away from Tim’s body and went back around the corner to unlock the front door. Everything looked exactly the way we had left it the day before. No break-in. All the pretty pieces gleamed and glittered in the morning sun—and there was a dead man at my back door. I dialed 911.