A Shattering Crime (10 page)

Tony ordered coffee and a slice of cheesecake; I ordered tea and a brownie. Ordinarily I would avoid
anything so sweet, so sugary. Somehow being around Tony made my resolve weaken.

“So what did you and my grandfather talk about?” I asked.

“Is that really what you want to ask me?”

I ducked my head, took a deep breath, and kept my eyes on the grooves worn into the wooden table. My cheeks warmed. “You're right,” I said, not wanting to look up. “I want to ask why you said you were always honest with me when you were obviously lying.”

“Georgia,” he said on a sigh.

“Or maybe it's like that old brain teaser about the man who says I always speak the truth but how do you know he's not lying when he says he always speaks the truth?”

“Georgia, look at me.”

I did as he asked, risked meeting his eyes, so blue, so earnest.

“Everything is fine.” He took a sip of his ice water, all the while holding my gaze. “You know, the interesting thing is, there is a connection between what I discussed with Pete and why I wanted to see you tonight.”

My stomach did a funny flip while every muscle in my body went tense.

Tony chuckled. “Relax. This is not a marriage proposal.”

I let out my breath in a noisy rush.

“You don't have to look so relieved.” He glanced around the restaurant, eyes moving from pop culture décor to tiled floor to the televisions suspended over the bar showing a broadcast of a West Coast baseball
championship playoff game. From where we sat, the score was little more than a blur. “And you could give me a little more credit than to think I'd propose someplace where beer is routinely spilled on the floor.”

I smiled and shook my head. “It's just . . . you know . . .”

“I know,” he said. “Any mention of the future makes you nervous. You can play private detective and face down murderers, yet the idea of commitment sends you into a panic.”

“Not a panic,” I said quickly. “And not commitment, just . . . okay, maybe commitment.” Because really, who knew? Maybe I would indeed turn out to be commitment averse. The potential for discovering my inclination had yet to arise.

“So what is it then?” I asked. “What's so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow? And required a face-to-face instead of a phone call?”

Our waiter arrived at the table, set down one tea, one coffee, and an assortment of sweeteners, and assured us he'd be right back with our desserts.

“And milk,” I said.

The waiter snapped his fingers and pointed at me like his hands were six-shooters. “You got it.”

Tony, the big tough construction guy, took a sip of his coffee, black and unsweetened. I, the delicate stained glass artist, suppressed a shudder.

“So?” I prompted. “What's the urgency?”

He shook his head. “Not urgent, no. But . . . The face-to-face, that's what's important.” He sighed and leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. “Here's the thing. The
marina project is wrapping up. There's no reason for me to be there every day anymore but—”

“I know,” I said, nodding. “It's your dream project. I can't imagine how amazing it must be to see it completed, and how hard it must be to walk away.”

“You might have something there. I'm not going to go get psychoanalyzed to see if you're right, though.”

I grinned. “Fair enough. Go on.”

“The project is wrapping and I need to look ahead to what's next.”

The waiter buzzed by, sliding a minuscule pitcher of milk onto the table as he passed. I grabbed up the pitcher a little too forcefully; the cold metal of the handle bit into my fingers and I splashed too much milk into the tea. My mind raced in a multitude of directions. Part of me wanted to know what Tony planned for his future, part of me didn't care, part of me cared too much.

“What are your options?” I managed.

“That's just it,” he said. “It's not about the options. Well, it is, but more importantly . . .” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. I froze. He grinned, bent his head toward mine. “Still not a proposal.”

I laughed, relaxed a fraction.

“But I realized I have these options. I have these choices. And . . .” He furrowed his brow. “I wanted to talk to you about them.”

He appeared perplexed, and that emotion may have been contagious. My own brow wrinkled as I tried to determine the cause of the confusion.

“That's . . .” I began. “I don't . . . understand why that made you shower and shave and show up at the Dine-In.”

“Georgia, I make these decisions all the time. I move from project to project on strictly business choices, all numbers and spreadsheets. But this time all I keep asking myself is what would Georgia think. For the first time in I don't know how long, someone else's opinion is important to me, important enough that I don't want to make these choices on my own.”

I was almost disappointed. All that lead-up and the only thing he needed was a second opinion on his next business move?

“I don't really think I'm qualified to advise you on your next . . . whatever,” I said, hedging.

“It's not about qualifications, babe. It's about . . .” He lowered his head, huffed out a breath before continuing. “About the whole idea that I wanted your input.” He looked up then, eyes clear and fathomless. “That's a first for me.”

“But you, you have business partners and whatnot and probably an adviser tucked away somewhere in your files. They're the ones you should be talking to.”

He sighed. “You're missing my point.”

No, I wasn't missing it. Try as I might to dodge it, still it grazed its mark and I pretended I wasn't hit. There was something serious, something next level about being asked to add input to your boyfriend's business decisions—something I didn't know if I would handle well.

“Or maybe I'm not explaining this right. Bottom line, I need to start setting up the next project. I can do that here, or fairly close to here, or I can do that in Virginia or North Carolina.”

Our desserts arrived, pausing the conversation while
Tony assured the waiter we had everything we needed for the moment and while I tried to work out how I was supposed to respond, if I was supposed to respond.

“So, which project appeals to you the most?” I asked, keeping my voice even, almost light. I thought I could offer input without dwelling on what it meant to be asked. “You like to lead projects that you've got something more than time invested in, so which one fits that bill?”

“Still missing the point.”

“Boy, I'm not getting anything right tonight, am I? I guess it really is a good thing I'm not poking around the Rayburn murder.” I used my fork to break off a piece of brownie. “Speaking of, what do you know—”

“No. No speaking of. Don't change the subject.”

“Okay. All right. So what's the point?” I asked. “What am I missing?”

He grimaced, as if he couldn't believe he had to spell things out for me. Or more accurately, that I was making him spell things out because my own personal issues prevented me from admitting I knew what he was getting at. “It's more than the project, Georgia,” he said, his voice soft despite what had to be frustration igniting the blue in his eyes. “It's what you would think, how you would feel, if I choose to stay.”

Yes, I knew that's where the conversation was headed. No, I was in no way ready to talk about it. Maybe this wasn't a proposal, but it was most certainly a great big What If step. I lifted my fork, poked at my brownie, while avoiding his gaze. “It's not about me,” I said. “It's your business, it's your choice.”

“But it is about you, Georgia. It's about you and it's
about us. It's about the question of if there will still be an us.”

I looked up at him then, but the melting in my heart only served to increase the clenching in my gut.

“I don't want to scare you away. Look, I know . . . you told me about what happened with your fiancé. As thankful as I am that you didn't marry him and came here instead, I know that whole experience has left you gun-shy. And I don't want my talking about staying to force you into running in the opposite direction.”

“I wouldn't,” I said. But if I heard the uncertainty in my voice, Tony did, too.

“You might,” he said, nodding to affirm the truth. He sat back and chopped at his cheesecake with the side of his fork.

I slipped a sliver of brownie into my mouth, where the chocolate tasted weak and dry. I washed it down with a sip of tea and only then did I risk meeting Tony's eyes again. “It's not about you,” I said.

“For now,” he said. “For now it's about you. But sooner or later it's going to start being about me, about whether you can overcome those fears because I've made you forget them. But it's not that time yet. Right now, I just want you to know that it's time for me to make a choice, and you're a big factor in my decision.”

“Oh, is that all?” I said over a light laugh.

He smiled. “I was hoping to slowly get you used to the idea. So this is, you know, planting the seed.” At last he forked a piece of cheesecake into his mouth.

“Planting the seed, huh?”

He nodded, spoke around a mouth full of dessert. “Maybe more like pouring the foundation.”

In that moment, I ached to grab him and hold on for as long as I could. At the same time, I wanted to drop my fork and run. Damn, but he had me figured out—maybe better than I had myself figured out.

“All right,” I said. “I'll start getting used to the idea.”

He grinned, bright, happy. He pushed the plate of cheesecake toward me. “Try this,” he said. “I think you'll like it better than that brownie.”

Yup, he had me figured out. Now if I could just figure out how I was going to become accustomed to the idea of him staying. Which is not to say I'd given a great deal of thought to the reality that one day his project would be completed and he would pick up and move on to the next one. Basically I'd been going along one day at a time. But now . . . now . . . what if . . .

L
ate-night dessert and coffee had made me worried about Tony being late to work Saturday morning, but of course, he made my worries unfounded. He got up on the first alarm, stopped at the drive-thru coffee shop on his way to drop me off at home, and still arrived at the marina site on time. Me? I made the mistake of lying back down “for just a minute” after my shower and ended up dashing out of the house in a panic with Fifi at my heels. With my hair scraped back into a French braid to keep it from exposing its pillow-dried wildness, I headed into Wenwood village without so much as an apple in my belly to keep it from rumbling—despite my mother's insistence that I shouldn't dash out on an empty stomach and with a wet head to boot.

The plus side of my rush was not having time to try
explaining to my mother that I was a grown-up and knew where to find food, and not having to think about Tony's talk of staying in the Wenwood area or giving up his rented house and hitting the road.

Okay. Not having to think
deeply
about Tony. Obviously considerations of him and his decision continued to float on the surface of my thoughts. Even as I unpacked what amounted to a portable stained glass studio from the trunk of my car and pounded on the back door of Carrie's shop, fresh memories of Tony talking about whether to break camp and move on or renew his rental house agreement occupied my awareness.

The door creaked open and Carrie held it for me, smiling down at Fifi as we passed through into the back room of Aggie's Gifts and Antiques. “Let me guess,” she said. “You overslept.”

“Sort of.” I set my modified tackle box down with a thump then released Fifi from her leash. Body rolling side to side, Fifi trotted back to Carrie, plunked her back end on the floor, and gave a quiet woof. I started unzipping my jacket before I thought better of it. “Did you eat?”

Grinning, Carrie pulled shut the door then bent to scratch behind Fifi's ears. “Ah. You spent the night at Tony's again, huh?”

I held up a hand, palm out. “I don't want to talk about it yet.”

“Oh. That's mysterious and intriguing.” After giving Fifi a final pat, she turned and reset the alarm on the back door. “I can't wait until you're ready.”

“Meanwhile,” I said, “food?”

“I ate.” Carrie ranged up beside me and we walked together onto the sales floor with Fifi leading the way. She trotted ahead to her favorite resting place behind the cash wrap and looked over her shoulder at us as though she didn't understand what was taking us so long. “But if you're going to pick up some food, would you bring me back a cup of tea?”

I raised my eyebrows. “As if you had to ask me?”

Pushing through the front door of the shop, I let my gaze wander across the street not to Grace's luncheonette but to Rozelle's bakery. The large plate glass window in front was dark, and for the first time in memory there was no Saturday morning line snaking out the front door. I couldn't say with certainty that the sign in the door remained turned to
CLOSED
but I reasoned it was a safe bet.

Not for the first time I felt a little pang of sorrow for Rozelle. It seemed there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Rozelle had nothing to do with the poisoning of David Rayburn. And yet her shop, her livelihood, was closed, waiting for the Department of Health to come along and inspect it and prove what every resident of Wenwood already knew. Whatever had killed David Rayburn it didn't originate with Rozelle.

But if the poison wasn't delivered with one of Rozelle's Danishes, how did the poison get into Rayburn's system? And who put it there?

I shook my head, shook the thought away, and, checking both directions first, proceeded across the street to the luncheonette. Whether or even if there was poison involved and where it originated were none of my concern.
The police were working on the Rayburn case. Diana was working on the case. This time I could peacefully mind my own business and let the authorities do their job.

As ever, when I pushed open the door of the luncheonette, the little bell overhead jingled. Heads swiveled, the regulars lined up at the counter turning to see who had entered. I hadn't taken two steps inside before my mouth watered and my stomach ached in anticipation. Morning at the luncheonette meant the savory aroma of coffee and bacon and fried potatoes filled the air, and I was instantly aware of how long it had been since my last meal.

“Well, good morning, Georgia,” Tom called from his usual counter stool. He lifted a hand in added greeting and waved me over—as if there were somewhere else in the little six-booth shop I would be going. Every booth was occupied and several people were wandering around the stationery-goods side of the establishment as though killing time waiting for their turn at a table rather than shopping.

I took up position at the end of the counter, between the register and the first stool, where at least there was room to stand. “What's going on in here?” I asked.

Seated on that first stool, Tom's friend Terry looked up at me and opened his mouth to answer. In that same instant, Rozelle bustled out from the pass-through behind the counter that led to the kitchen. “Oatmeal raisin, one dozen, McAnn,” she called.

One of the men wandering amid the shelves of boxed envelopes and index cards rushed forward, hand in the air. He wore a black-and-red-checkered jacket and smelled vaguely of horse. “Right here,” the man said.

Terry inclined his head toward the exchange taking place between Rozelle and the man in the plaid jacket. “Cookie sales,” Terry said.

Rozelle nodded in my direction, a wide grin on her face. “Good morning, Georgia.” She turned back to her customer, accepted the ten-dollar bill he held out. Sliding her hand into the pocketed apron at her waist, she pulled out a folded wad of cash and peeled off two singles before slipping the ten into its place. She handed the man his change and spun back toward the kitchen. “I've got to get the next batch.”

I looked back to Terry, my brows raised in a manner that typically conveyed a question without using words.

Yet it was Tom who addressed my silent query. He leaned in front of Terry to say, “Grace is letting Rozelle use one of the ovens to bake cookies in the mornings.”

“Only until she gets that bakery open again.” Grace herself strode through the kitchen bypass, two plates of eggs balanced on her forearm. She set down one each in front of two women occupying the stools beyond where Tom sat before joining us at the opposite end of the counter. “She sings in the kitchen, did you know that?”

I pressed my lips tight to hold back a giggle.

“And it's not a melodious sound. Not by a lot.” Grace pulled a cloth from the white apron she wore with her robin's egg blue cotton uniform dress and brushed stray crumbs from the countertop.

“It's a nice thing you're doing,” Terry said, lifting his coffee cup in salute.

Though Grace grimaced, her eyes remained warm. “It's madness. We have enough cooks in that kitchen as
it is,” she said, then looked to me. “One coffee, one egg sandwich?” she asked.

“And a tea?”

She nodded and buzzed back to the kitchen to put in the order.

“So, Georgia,” Tom said. “What'd you find out about that David Rayburn fella?”

“Uhh . . . nothing?” I said. “It doesn't concern me. I have other things going on.”

“Oh, I know that. I know that,” he said. “You're busy. You got your mom in for a visit and all.”

I didn't even want to try and work out which Wenwood rumor mill had served that information to him.

“It's only that I figured you'd have the inside scoop from Diana,” he finished.

Terry took a gulp of his coffee then set down the cup. “I keep telling ya, Tom, it doesn't work like that. The police aren't going to speculate and they're not going to give out any information if they're in the middle of an investigation.”

I nodded along as Terry spoke. “It's true. Diana hasn't shared anything, except to say it's going to take a few weeks before any of the lab reports come back on Rayburn.”

“Exactly.” Terry jabbed a finger at the air. “Until they know exactly what killed him, everything is on hold.”

“But wait,” I said. “I thought it was pretty well accepted that he was poisoned.”

“But with what?” Tom said.

“And by who?” Terry said. “That's the million-dollar—”

He cut himself off and I almost prodded him to continue. But Rozelle had reappeared behind the counter—
he must have seen her approach the pass-through—and he gave her a great big smile as she bustled by, bakery box in hand.

She smiled back—a little nervous, a little shy—before looking out across the luncheonette and calling the next name on her cookie order list.

Terry kept his focus on her as she went through her transaction and I admit I had to take a fresh stock of Rozelle.

Since I met her, I had thought of Rozelle only as the nice woman who owns the bakery and is sweet on Grandy. I'd never really looked beyond her gray curls and baker's apron. But standing at the luncheonette, watching Terry watch Rozelle with a fond look in his eye, I saw at last a woman whose gray hair was a pretty, soft-looking silver, whose face was sweetly shaped and relatively unlined, and whose happiness and inner joy were evident in her bright eyes and impish smile.

And then it hit me. What was wrong with Grandy that he couldn't see how lovely Rozelle was? He had to know she had a soft spot for him. He always had nice things to say about her. What was he waiting for?

“Coffee, tea, and an egg sandwich.” Grace snapped open a paper bag, and I flinched at my abrupt return to the moment.

“Sorry,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

Grace gave me the total. I dug money from the depths of my coat pocket to pay my bill, by which time Rozelle had returned to the kitchen presumably to box more cookies.

“The million-dollar question,” Terry said. “Why would
anyone want to poison David Rayburn? You always have to find the motive. Once you find the motive, you can start rounding up suspects.”

One hand on the edge of the counter, he spun on his stool to look at me head-on. “What kind of man was David Rayburn? Was he single, married, divorced? Kids? Debt? What did he do for a living? What did he do in his spare time?”

His questions seemed to pin me to the spot. I reached blindly for the change Grace owed me. “I have no idea,” I replied.

Terry gave a slow nod. “Learn everything you can about the man, and you'll have a pretty good idea who killed him.”

*   *   *

I
took one more bite of egg sandwich, happy to have a full belly once again. The rest I tossed to Fifi, whose jowls fairly bounced with joy as she chomped down on her treat.

Eyes on me, Carrie shook her head, a movement of disbelief. “And you see Tony telling you he's considering you in his choices as a problem?”

We were clustered behind the cash wrap counter, Fifi gazing longingly up at us and hoping more food would fall, Carrie and me facing the empty sales floor. It was yet a little too early for the fall foliage vacationers to pass through Wenwood and towns like it in search of true antiques rather than vintage reproductions. Even the local populace, who shopped Carrie's store for unique
birthday and holiday gifts, tended not to arrive before noon.

Wadding up the white paper Grace had wrapped my sandwich in, I met Carrie's gaze. “I don't like being put in this position.” I tossed the wad of paper into the trash bin, and Fifi grumbled her disappointment. Abandoning her good-dog begging position, she rolled to her feet and meandered out onto the sales floor.

“It doesn't sound like he's put you in any sort of position.” Carrie lifted her tea, took a moment to blow a cooling breath across its steamy surface. “Sounds like he wants to know where you stand. In fact, it almost sounds like he wants to know whether you think you guys have a future together.”

My stomach muscles seized. I reached for the paper cup of coffee, immediately needing something—anything—to hold, to assist in keeping me conscious and upright.

“Why does that make you anxious?” Carrie asked.

I shot her a glance. “Why do you have to be so observant?”

“Well, I hate to tell you this,” she said, tipping her head in a motion that indicated sympathy. “But I'm not that observant. It's completely obvious. And if I can see how that makes you nervous, so can Tony.”

“Carrie, you know—”

She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. Evil no-good loser fiancé, broken heart, messy life, I know. I understand all that. But this is Tony we're talking about, not the other guy. Tony, who lets your drool-y bulldog slobber on his
car seats and picks you wildflowers from the riverside. You have to know by now Tony is nothing like your ex. You must have learned at least that much.”

The echo of her words and their reminder of what could be learned brought Terry's comments about David Rayburn back to the forefront of my mind. I held up a finger while I took a deep sip of coffee, letting thoughts of Tony and his dilemma wander back into the mental strongbox I had set up for them.

Setting down the coffee cup, I asked, “Did you know David Rayburn?”

Carrie closed her eyes, shook her head, exasperation evident. When she opened her eyes, she gaped at me like I'd lost my mind. “I can't believe you're trying to change the subject.”

“I don't know why you're surprised. You know the idea of Tony staying in Wenwood to see how things work out between us stresses me.” I forced a smile. “Please? Let me change the subject this time?”

She blew out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But we're coming back to this topic before the day is over.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You're welcome. Now tell me about your mother's husband instead.”