A Shattering Crime (11 page)

“Tell me about David Rayburn,” I countered.

“Oh, come on. You don't really want to know about him, do you?” She took a half step back from me. “Or are you going all Jessica Fletcher on me again? I need to know if you are because I might have to leave town. I'm sorry, I'm your friend, but I just don't think I can go through that again.”

The bell over the door jingled. Two women entered the store, one middle-aged, the other clearly her daughter. They had the same dirty blond hair, high foreheads, and narrow shoulders.

“Hey, you were caught up in the Heaney affair all on your own. I didn't do anything to drag you into it. If anything, it was the other way around.” I pitched my voice lower so as not to be overheard by the mother-daughter shoppers. “Now tell me about Rayburn. Did you know him?”

Carrie followed my example, keeping her voice soft. “Not really.”

“Town gossip?”

She shrugged, eyes on the ladies moving slowly through the shop. “You'd know as much as I do. He was the loudest mouth behind the anti-promenade movement, predicting doom and disaster for local businesses once all the retail opens on the riverfront.”

A long-forgotten memory surfaced: Liz and me outside the kitchen at the Dine-In, with Liz announcing she wanted to open an antiques store on the promenade. I'd worried then about what impact such a business would have on Carrie, but had been too shortsighted to wonder how it may affect other business owners.

I looked to Carrie. “What do you think? Do you think Rayburn is—was—right?”

She edged behind me, sidestepping her way out from behind the counter. “I think as long we keep the big chain stores out, then a little competition can actually be good for business. I hope.” With a quick grin she slithered around an inlaid entryway table and past a cherrywood washstand and greeted the shoppers.

Coffee in hand, I wandered my way toward the back room. I snapped my fingers and whistled badly as I walked, and by the time I set my coffee cup on my worktable, Fifi was standing at the threshold between the sales floor and the back room. She looked at me then looked behind her, evidently trying to choose between me and Carrie.

“You don't want to come back here with me?” I asked.

Fifi licked her chops, looked over her shoulder.

“Carrie doesn't have any food,” I said. I slid my repurposed tackle box to the right edge of the table and flipped open the latches. “You may as well stay with me.”

She made a noise between a whine and a growl then turned and waddled back onto the sales floor.

“Traitor,” I called.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, I unpacked the assortment of glass pieces I had brought with me. Dozens of red poinsettia petals and an equal number of green leaves were followed by a roll of copper foil, a small pair of scissors, and a purple fid—a hard plastic tool that oddly resembled a thick emery board. Reaching out to my left, I grabbed hold of a classic vinyl bar stool and dragged it close. I pulled my cell phone from my purse, prepared to open the application for streaming music, but the message light was blinking in the corner.

Unlocking the device, I saw the message was from Tony and I was smiling before I read a word. The message was a simple one: a reminder to have a nice day and assurance that he'd see me later. It didn't need to be elaborate to ignite an inner warmth.

I kept my focus on that sweet feeling. Streaming audio open, I lifted the first poinsettia leaf and freed the end from the spool of the copper foil. Carefully I pressed the adhesive side of the foil against the edge of the leaf then rotated the glass in one hand while wrapping the foil with the other. When the leaf edge was wrapped entirely in copper foil, I snipped the roll free.

“I think you know what you want to tell Tony,” Carrie said. She stood in the doorway, arms folded and leaning against the jamb, watching me.

“What makes you say that?” I pinched my fingers against the sides of the foil, flattening the edges of the foil onto to the front and back of the leaf.

Carrie gave me her best know-it-all tone. “You're singing.”

“So?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes to the heavens. “You're singing a love song.”

I opened my mouth to protest—not the fact that I had been singing along but her implication over the meaning behind my action—but a tiny little thought that she might be right grabbed my words away.

“Fine,” she said. With a tip of her head toward the sales floor, she said, “Terry's here to see you.”

My face rumpled, a reflexive reaction. Why would Terry be at the shop? Especially when I had just seen him at the luncheonette.

I set down the red glass leaf, switched off the audio, and followed Carrie back through displays of antique plates and pitchers to the center of the store, where Terry stood bent over Fifi. She had her belly up and her tongue
lolling out of her mouth while one foot thumped against the floor at rabbit speed.

“You found the tickle spot, I see,” I said.

Fifi didn't bother to look up at the sound of my voice. Too much doggie euphoria, I guessed.

“Fine dog,” Terry said cheerfully. “Old friend of mine, Mike Heaney, used to keep a bulldog.”

Carrie and I exchanged glances. We had no way of knowing how he might react if either of us told him that Fifi had belonged to Mike Heaney's widow, Margaret, and had only come to me after Margaret passed. He might think it a nice thing that someone had taken in the dog, but the news of Margaret's demise might be an unwanted reminder of his own advancing age.

“Carrie said you wanted to see me?” I said, opting not to risk spoiling Terry's mood.

Terry left off scratching the dog's belly. He stood straight and met my eye. “Wanted to talk to you about who killed David Rayburn.”

I may have then tried to avoid his eye. “I don't . . . I don't know anything about—”

“Never said you did.” His eyes had a glint in them I wasn't accustomed to seeing in men over fifty. “But I'm hoping you'd be interested in learning along with me.”

I sneaked another glance at Carrie. Big help she was. All she did was open her eyes wide and ever so slightly shrug.

I ducked my head to the side, focused my gaze on Fifi—who remained belly-up on the floor and was moments away from snoring. “Look, Terry, I appreciate you thinking of me and, you know, asking me, um . . .” I blew out a breath.

“I made you a copy of my notes.” Terry pushed his hands into the pockets of his twill barn coat. “Ever since he's started those new vitamins, Tom's been pretty good at remembering things. He filled me in on what ol' David has been up to.”

He pulled a rumpled and folded piece of paper from his pocket and fought to catch the edge in order to unfold it. The slight tremor in his hands made it difficult.

I moved a step closer to him, reached out to stop him trying to open the page, but he misread my intent and handed me the paper. “Some things on there I'd like to see for myself. You know, once a private investigator always a private investigator,” he said. “Problem is, I can't drive. That's where you come in.”

The bell over the door jingled, and Carrie edged away from us, off to keep an eye on her new customer in case help should be needed.

Before I caught myself, I had the paper open, trying to decipher Terry's handwriting.

I shut my eyes tight, held out the page to him.

“No, now, that's for you to keep.”

“I can't do this. Terry, I'd love to help you . . .” I blinked as though I'd lost my focus somehow. “What is it you're planning to do? Solve the case? What about Tom? You're supposed to be visiting with him, aren't you? How would he feel if he knew you were out investigating a crime without him?”

“Not to worry,” he said, holding up a hand. “Trick to a good long visit is not spending every second in one another's company. But I do have to go now because he's my ride home and he's waiting on me. You keep hold of
those notes.” He winked. “We'll talk.” Then he turned and stepped over a sleeping Fifi on his way out of the store.

I was stuck holding a piece of paper that I didn't want to look at . . . or did I?

No. No. Absolutely not. It was going to take a lot more than a bored old gentleman to get me caught up in sleuthing again.

I folded the paper in half one more time and gave it a sharp crease with my nail. Telling myself I'd dispose of the paper as soon as I came upon a recycle bin, I shoved the piece of paper deep into the pocket of my jeans and returned to the back room with the realization that Fifi snoring sounded a lot like Fate laughing.

B
y 2 p.m. Sunday I had finished helping my mom clean up after a brunch she hosted at Grandy's house so she could catch up with all her old friends at once. I'd done my bit to smile and be polite, and refrain from shouting at women that it was none of their business why I wasn't married yet and who the new man in my life was or if I thought we had a future. By 3 p.m. I was pouring a glass of red wine for me and a glass of red wine into the beef sauce I was preparing with Ben's help while Mom took a ride with Grandy up to Newbridge to buy some pastries. By 4 p.m. the beef was in the oven, Mom and Ben were in the living room working on the Sunday crossword puzzle, and Grandy was watching baseball in his bedroom, cursing the umpires. I took advantage of
the lull to tiptoe down to my studio with a gallon of tap water.

With the water set on the table for the moment, I went to the corner of the room and switched on the radio. Technology may have changed the way we acquire and listen to music, but that old tabletop radio with its manual dial and physical antenna worked just as well today as it had when I was a kid.

I tuned to a station that played not-quite-golden oldies then turned back to my worktable. No doubt about it, the butterflies were waking in my belly the lower the sun sank. Its rays slanted through the corner windows of the workroom, bathing the floor and the lower half of the opposite walls in golden afternoon light and increasing the anxiety poised to race through my blood.

Pulling in a slow, deep breath that I told myself would be soothing, I ducked into the garage. Beneath the worktable where I kept my glass grinder was a carton containing the last piece of stained glass equipment I had bought myself before my job, my engagement, and so much more went down the drain. And then there I was, pulling out that box on the very same day the new man in my life was meeting my family.

I tried to remember the true meaning of irony, tried to figure out if my situation fit. Mulling over definitions made it easier to keep thoughts of Tony in company with my mother at bay.

While my brain was occupied with pointless thoughts, I carried the box to the workshop and got busy unpacking and setting up my ring saw. I filled the basin with the water I'd brought down, mounted the saw, checked the
blade . . . All the minuscule little tasks it took to get the saw working took focus. It was an ideal distraction.

But once the saw was ready and I'd given up on irony, there was nothing left to stop my mind from returning to Tony and his imminent arrival.

I raised the sheet I used to cover the table and lifted the marked square of glass I had left there. Poinsettias were characterized by the contrast in their leaves. The flower, in fact, was the cluster of tight yellow buds at its center. I'd selected a yellow shot through with gold and traced on the glass a series of small circles.

The wheel of the traditional, hand-held glass cutter was set in a fixed mount. From model to model the type of grip changed from standard to pistol grip to pencil hold. The one feature they all shared was the inability to curve, making cutting circles a tough task. Not impossible, but tough. And the smaller the circle, the harder it got. There were tools made specifically to cut circles, but I had chosen to go with a ring saw and its ability to cut complicated or deeply curved patterns, patterns that really would be impossible to achieve with a simple cutter.

With safety goggles in place, I reached for the first piece of glass and switched on the saw.

Friday scared a curse out of me as she bolted from some secret space I hadn't spotted her in and streaked up the stairs like a Great Dane was after her. I pressed a hand to my heart and blew out a breath.

Returning my attention to the saw, I watched as the water flowed through tubing that led from the reservoir below to the edge of the diamond grit saw. Keeping both glass and saw blade cooled with water was mandatory.
Assured everything was working as it should, I lay the sheet of glass on the platform above the water reservoir and guided the glass gently toward the spinning saw blade.

The trick to cutting on a ring saw was maintaining even pressure and moving in straight lines—forward and back, side to side. Cutting a circle meant always pushing in a forward direction, and following the curve by turning the sheet of glass rather than turning the blade.

“Georgia!”

The trick was also not to have your mother shouting your name.

I switched off the saw and lifted my goggles to rest against my forehead, turned to my mother.

She stood at the top of the half-dozen stairs, hands on her thighs as she bent to look at me. “What are you doing? What is all that noise?”

I imagine my face must have shown my disbelief. “Cutting glass,” I said. It was perfectly obvious to me; I wasn't sure where the question came from.

“Do you have to do that now?” she asked.

I opened and closed my mouth without any words escaping. I blinked. Twice. “I thought I'd get some of this done, yes.”

Huffing, she clomped down the stairs, her feet heavy with the latest thick-soled athletic shoes. “Can't you do this another day? During the week maybe?”

“It's sort of one of my jobs,” I said. “Among the two others you think are taking me nowhere. I need to get this done while I have the time.”

She gave a shallow sigh and folded her arms. “Why
must it be now? Can't you come up and visit with Ben and I? We're only here for a few more days. I feel like I've barely seen you.”

She had a point there. Of course, she hadn't seen me because I'd mainly been avoiding her. A person can take only so much of her mother telling her she isn't living up to her potential. “That's the whole purpose of tonight,” I said. “Visiting, relaxing, talking.”

Tipping her head a fraction to the side, she said, “I want a few moments when it's just us. Just the family.”

Just the family. Me, Mom, and Grandy. And Ben. I tugged the goggles off and tossed them onto the table. “Okay. We'll visit.”

“Georgia,” she began in a very don't-get-smart-with-me tone.

I forced a smile, backtracked to the corner of the room to switch off the radio. “You're right,” I said. “We should visit. Just us.”

The smile seemed to appease her, seemed to mask my insincerity sufficiently that she smiled, too, and preceded me up the stairs. “I'll open some wine,” she said. “You get your grandfather.”

“Um, Grandy's watching the ball game.” I stopped my progress up the steps.

Mom continued to the top, turned around to speak to me. “I'm sure he can make an exception.”

“It's the play-offs,” I said.

“Family,” she said, “is more important than baseball.”

I looked to the heavens. Honestly, it was like she didn't know her own father. More important than baseball indeed.

*   *   *

G
randy was sunk in his favorite chair, a classic leather club chair with nail-head accents. The chair was ancient. On more than one occasion Carrie had eyed the chair with the appreciation and borderline greed of an antiques dealer. On this occasion, Grandy was staring at the television that sat in the corner, his teeth clenched, the muscles of his jaw bunching and rolling. The television screen was black.

“But it would make better sense,” Ben said, “to get a full-time job, one with benefits. That way you can build a career at the same time you're securing your future.”

On those same occasions Carrie eyed the furniture, she also turned a knowledgeable eye on the crystal, with its sharp cut glass and heavy stems. Those sharp edges she admired threatened to leave permanent indents in my hand as I gripped the bowl of the glass tighter with each word Ben uttered.

I took a steadying breath, tried to inhale calm. “I'm not averse to a full-time job,” I said. “I am actively looking for one. In the meantime, I pick up what work I can get.”

Ben's eyes slipped closed as he shook his head. “No. You'll never find a job while you have one. Finding a job is full-time work. You need to do away with these little diversions and focus on the job hunt.”

“I need to pay bills,” I snapped. “I need to put gas in my car. And I have an inconvenient fondness for food.”

“Now, Georgia,” my mother said. “Ben's only trying to help. You should be grateful for his advice.”

My jaw fell. I looked to Grandy, hoping for help from his corner. The muscle at the back of his jaw twitched. At the same time I wanted him to leap to my defense, I appreciated his allowing me to defend myself. In that moment when I was close to feeling like a child again, it was nice to know someone believed I was an adult.

“Maybe,” Ben said, his voice at an almost gentle pitch, “you ought to consider looking out of state. There's bound to be more opportunities for an accountant in a larger town, or even a city.”

“But I like it here.” I didn't like the soft sound of my voice. I cleared my throat and repeated, “I like it here.” I felt, all it once, like I had said the same words a hundred times, but no one seemed to hear them.

Fifi picked up the sound of the car door first, earning her keep by behaving like a proper watchdog. From her napping position beneath the kitchen table, she scrambled to her feet and bounded to the door, barking her warning along the way.

“Ah. That must be your gentleman friend,” Ben said.

Grandy's eye twitched briefly, and I bit back a “thank heavens” while I set my glass of wine down on the coffee table and stood.

Mom pushed to her feet, faced me across the table. “I'll get it, Georgia, you sit.”

“It's fine, Mom. I've got it.”

An even-measured thump sounded from the porch—Tony jogging up the steps—and Fifi mixed a little whining in among her barking.

“It won't do to look too eager.” Ben raised his glass as
though his words were a toast. I raised my eyes to the heavens and ducked out from behind the coffee table.

“I've got it,” I repeated.

The first chime of the doorbell hadn't completed before I yanked open the door and slipped outside.

Startled, Tony looked at me with concern in his eye. “What's wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head, tugged the door closed. “You don't want to go in there.” My hand against his chest kept him from advancing. “Really. Trust me on this one.”

He grinned, and rested his hand over mine. A cool evening breeze wafted the scent of his cologne toward me. “What are you going to do to stop me?”

“Give me a minute. I'm sure I can come up with something.”

“Can I make suggestions?” he asked. There was a tease in his voice and a hint of mischief in his eyes—if only for the split instant before the door whooshed open behind me.

“Well, hello there,” Ben said.

I might have flinched.

“You must be Tony,” he said. Then he was out the door and standing beside me on the porch, as Fifi wriggled through the gap left in the door. “Ben Sutter.” He stretched out a hand toward Tony, and Tony the traitor, dog snuffling at his slacks, obliged.

“Anton Himmel,” he said. He released Ben's hand then bent to pat Fifi on the head.

“Happy to meet you. Georgia's told us nothing about you.”

My mother appeared in the doorway. “We were beginning to think you didn't exist,” she said.

I was obliged to shuffle to the side to let my mother join the growing huddle on the porch. My movement disturbed Fifi from her inspection of Tony's ankles. She waddled off down the porch steps and onto the front lawn.

“In or out,” Grandy called. “But shut the door. I'm not paying to heat the whole neighborhood.”

Mom reached behind her and pulled the door closed. She took a breath and looked out across the yard. “Georgia, call the dog back before she wanders into the street.”

“She won't wander into the street,” I said. Fifi, her canine priorities intact, located a patch of fading sunlight and flopped onto the ground.

“Oh, now, you can't be too careful,” Ben said.

Tony shifted his stance, legs wide, arms crossed. “I installed an electric fence. Poor dog's owner had passed away. Georgia may have told you. We didn't want to risk the dog trying to get back to its original home and getting hurt. She won't leave the lawn unless she's on a leash.”

A silence of unusual magnitude overtook the porch. Seconds ticked away at the pace of hours. At last, Mom put on one of her broadest smiles. “That's right. Georgia told us you're in construction. I imagine putting in an invisible fence would be a piece of cake for someone like you.”

“Well.” Tony gave a lopsided grin. “Every task has its challenges.”

This was a highly delicate way of referring to Grandy's
supervisory skills, which Tony had borne with an endless supply of good nature.

“But isn't there some concern with those fences not really keeping a dog in if it spots something it wants to chase, like a squirrel or a cat or another dog?”

Ben directed the question at me, whether because it was my dog or because he'd decided not to tangle with Tony.

I made an effort to duplicate my mother's smile. “Why don't we all go inside?”

With a call to the dog, I followed Mom and Ben into the house, Tony's hand gently at my back.

Fifi pushed past me and bumped up against Ben, making him take a stumbled step to the side. I determined to share my portion of beef with her.

Stepping back into the house from the clean air of the outdoors, I was enveloped by the savory scent of beef tenderloin, which filled me with a feeling that was more than appreciation, more than hunger. In some unnameable way, the aroma comforted me.

“Dad.” Mom stood at the edge of the living room, hands planted on her hips.

Grandy remained in his favorite chair but his expression no longer looked like he'd been chewing sour lemons. He had the television remote clenched in his fist and the ball game showing quietly on the TV.