A Shattering Crime (12 page)

“We have company,” Mom said.

“It's just for a minute. I only want to see the score.” Despite his words, he shifted so that his upper body bulk blocked the remote from anyone foolish enough to try and grab it from his hand.

Mom glanced at the screen, where the score showed clearly in the upper left corner. “It's right there. It's three to two. Will you turn it off now?”

“Three to two?” Tony said. No doubt I was the only one who realized he spoke somewhat louder than usual. “Who's ahead?”

“Red Sox,” Grandy grumbled.

Tony gave a say-it-isn't-so huff. “Yankees left two men on base?”

Grandy made an agreeing grunt. “They haven't had a decent cleanup batter since Jeter retired.”

“No kidding.” Tony moved past me, threw a wink over his shoulder, and sat himself down on the sofa end closest to Grandy. He kept to the edge of his seat, eyes on the game. “I thought they had a shot with Freeman, but . . .”

Grandy scoffed. “Lot of good he turned out to be.”

And they were off, two avid sports fans solving the league's problems from a living room in Wenwood. At length, Ben took a seat and focused on the television. His brow furrowed as though he was deep in thought, or trying very hard to behave as if he were interested.

Mom lifted her hands in surrender. “They're all the same. I give up.”

Together we retreated to the kitchen. Mom poured another glass of wine and I got to work chopping and dicing and grating for the salad. By the time dinner was ready for the table, the Red Sox had a four-run lead on the Yankees, and the men were happy to switch off the disappointment of the game and join us in the dining room.

Fifi took up her traditional place at the corner between Grandy and me while Friday perched on the back of the
club chair, keeping a wary eye on the humans and an eager eye on the broccoli in cheese sauce.

“Everything looks delicious.” Tony flicked open his napkin and laid it in his lap. His gaze bounced from dish to dish until it landed on the same broccoli dish that held Friday's attention. He glanced over at me and smiled. “Nice touch.”

I grinned back and raised my glass. “Something told me you might like that.”

The room filled with the clatter of silver, the pleases and thank-yous of passing platters, and finally the appreciative noises and compliments on tasty food.

It wasn't long before the silence that accompanied people digging in to their meals edged over into the silence of people who didn't know what to say to one another. Or what to say that was safe. No politics, no religion. Something polite that was neither cold nor prying.

“So you're a Yankees fan?” Grandy said. “Were you raised in New York or were you a bandwagon fan?”

Tony flashed a smile. “When you're a kid, it's hard not to be a bandwagon fan. It takes a good amount of self-confidence to be a fan of a losing team and I think kids are generally lacking that. Or I was at least.”

“But not a New Yorker?” Grandy slid a healthy cut of meat into his mouth and instantly washed it back with a sip of cold tea.

“Not by birth. Only a temporary resident.”

“Oh, you're not a local?” Mom asked.

“No, I'm not. Just the son of a man who was fond of scenic road trips. That's how I found Wenwood and the brickworks.”

Ben sipped his wine, set the cup down on the table with a thump. “So you're, what, a contract worker? Where's home if it's not here?”

“If you mean where did I grow up, the answer is New Jersey. Warren County to be exact.” He lifted his knife and cut with gusto into the meat. “If you mean where's home now, the answer is Asheville, North Carolina.”

I may have imagined the silence I thought I heard—or didn't hear, as it were. I may have imagined the paused breath, the reluctance to make a single movement. That's what it feels like when time is suspended.

“So,” my mother began, drawing out the word. “You'll be heading back there when the marina's done?”

I wanted to keep my eyes on my plate, wanted to continue my avoidance of the topic.

But I couldn't let Tony answer the question without giving any indication that his answer mattered to me.

I lifted my chin, met his fixed blue gaze waiting for mine.

“I might. Nothing's definite yet,” he said.

Grandy's fork clattered onto his plate. I looked quickly to him. His smile was swift in coming and going. “My apologies,” he said. “Slipped right out of my hand.”

He left the fork where it was, reaching instead for the glass of wine he had, up until that point, left untouched.

“So you're thinking of staying in Wenwood?” Mom had one eye narrowed, brows slightly furrowed.

Poor Tony. He'd finally gotten to take a bite of food before her question.

“Can we do twenty questions later?” I asked. “Let the man eat.”

“Georgia, your mother's just making conversation,” Ben said.

“There are other people at the table she can make conversation with,” I snapped. And just as quickly, I sighed. My regression to teenager was unending. As an added bonus, my boyfriend was a witness.

I let my eyes slip closed. “Sorry,” I said. “It's just that I would appreciate it if you—”

Beneath Grandy's chair, Fifi scrambled to her feet, sounding the canine alarm. Friday came to her feet on the back of the couch, eyes wide, fur puffed. She took a panicked leap off the couch and disappeared in the general direction of the stairs. Fifi's nails scratched against the hardwood floor, digging grooves into the wax until she got her purchase and scurried to the door.

No humans moved. We were all still trapped in the freeze frame my outburst had caused.

A loud rap sounded against the door, and Fifi's defensive bark grew more purposeful. And still we sat, looking at one another like gunslingers at high noon, waiting to see who would make the first move.

At last, determining the silence and the impromptu game of statues were mainly my fault, I tossed my napkin beside my plate and stood.

My chair scraped as the backs of my knees pressed against it. The awful noise was enough to snap the rest of the family into action. Glasses were lowered, knives and forks dropped, and chairs were pushed back in a cacophony of noise while I headed for the door.

Fifi pressed her nose to the sliver of air sneaking between the bottom of the door and the top of the saddle.
Her barking subsided to be replaced by a faint whine and the side-to-side wobble of her back end that meant someone she wanted to see was on the other side of the door.

It was based on that behavior, the wisdom of a dog, that I didn't think twice before I pulled the door
open.

T
he inward whoosh of the door brought with it the crisp scent of a deepening autumn and the woody aroma of Detective Nolan's cologne. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other resting on his thigh, in a suit that looked somehow limp and unkempt, as though he had been in it for days. Beside him, Diana bent to try and stop Fifi from jumping against her with glee. Fifi was probably Diana's biggest fan.

Happy though the dog was, and indulgent though Diana was, I took hold of Fifi's collar and tugged her back into the house. I barely got a hello out of my mouth before Grandy was at my elbow. “What are you doing here?”

I hauled Fifi back behind the gathering of family at the door and ordered her to stay.

“Who is it, Dad?” Mom asked.

I turned back to find my mother on tiptoe, trying to peer over Grandy's shoulder. “Oh, hello there, Detective,” she said.

“Detective?” Ben repeated, alarm in his voice.

To have Diana drop by on a Sunday evening was not that unusual. She often stopped for a visit, sometimes talking through her week or venting about her frustrations working toward detective status with Nolan as her assigned mentor. She was especially fond of being around while I was working with glass—she was always eager to help break things when needed. But to have her here unplanned? With Nolan? That couldn't mean anything good.

“What's going on?” I asked, then became instantly annoyed with myself for having echoed Ben in any way.

Nolan opened his mouth to speak. In the brief pause before words emerged, I felt Tony's hand at the back of my waist. With the five of us huddled in the doorway, we must have made quite a familial sight.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, folks,” the detective said. His gaze bounced off mine and settled on Grandy. “We won't keep you long.”

I shifted my attention to Diana, looking for some clue in her posture or her eyes. Her shoulders were relaxed, her lips halfway to a smirk, and her eyes wide in what was likely an effort to keep them from rolling. I couldn't guess at whether she thought Detective Nolan was lying about the prospective duration of their stay or whether some conversation had transpired between them earlier that caused her attitude.

Tony edged marginally closer to me, his warmth
making me all the more conscious of the cool air breezing across the porch.

“What can we do for you?” Ben asked, all puffed and official.

The muscle at the back of Grandy's jaw bulged.

Nolan kept his eyes on Grandy. “We were wondering if by chance you had seen or heard from Rozelle Schurz.” It was somewhere between a statement and a question, and I glanced from him back to Diana.

The smirk and sarcasm had faded.

“Rozelle?” Grandy repeated. His spine stiffened and he shook his head. “I've not spoken to her since . . .” He raised his eyes to the lintel, as though that was where he stored his memories.

Despite the comfort of being surrounded by family and friends, a shiver of cold discomfort worked its way through me caused either by Nolan's careful control or Diana's uncharacteristic quiet. She was as accustomed to making herself at home here as Fifi was. Something was keeping her on the visitor's side of the door.

“Who's Rozelle?” Ben stage-whispered.

“She owns the bakery,” I said. “I saw her yesterday at Grace's. Grandy, I don't think you've mentioned going into the village since—”

At eighty, Grandy was too old to blush. But the careful way he avoided my gaze, the subtle shrinking in his bearing, told me he was keeping something from me, keeping something from everyone.

“Friday lunchtime,” Grandy said.

Friday? Lunchtime?

“Did she give any indication she would be away for
the weekend?” Detective Nolan reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced his worn leather notepad. From the same pocket he pulled out a pen. “Mention anything about visiting friends or family?”

Blowing out a noisy breath, Grandy folded his arms. “What business is it of yours?”

Mom leaned forward a fraction, trying to make eye contact with Grandy from over my shoulder. “Dad,” she said, using the same tone she favored when accusing me of pushing my luck.

“Pete, you might consider speaking nicely to the police,” Ben said.

Grandy turned his scowl on Ben. “And you might consider not telling me what to do in my own home.”

“Pete,” Diana said softly. The very gentleness of her voice, so unlike her, turned the shiver of cold I had felt earlier to heated fear. “No one has seen Rozelle since she left the luncheonette yesterday morning. A bunch of us are getting kind of worried.”

“So you see why it's important,” Detective Nolan said. He took a moment to shoot a quelling look in Ben's direction before looking back to Grandy. “Did Mrs. Shurz tell you anything about her plans for the weekend? Have you heard from her at all?”

To the unfamiliar eye, Grandy would have appeared unmoved, unconcerned. I had been living with him long enough to qualify as being quite a familiar eye. For me, there was no hiding the worry bubbling beneath his stoic exterior.

“Not a word. Why would you expect her to tell me?” Grandy asked.

Diana smiled. “Rozelle's got a thing for you, Pete. We figured if she was going to share her plans with anyone, it would be Grace or you.”

“And she said nothing to Grace?” Tony asked.

Detective Nolan's gaze snapped to Tony, bounced over me, and returned to Grandy. “If Grace had any information, we wouldn't be here.”

Grandy unfolded his arms, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. He shook his head. “She never said a word.”

Silence hung in the air as though we each waited for someone else to offer some tidbit of information about Rozelle.

Detective Nolan produced a business card from the back of his notebook. He held it out toward Grandy. “If you remember anything, if anything comes back to you, give me a call.”

I opened my mouth, intending to remind Detective Nolan that I had his cell number so the business card was unnecessary. Luckily I kept that thought to myself.

“Of course I will,” Grandy said. He kept the card in his hand as good nights and promises to call with any news of Rozelle were exchanged. Diana and Detective Nolan turned to head down the porch steps while Mom, Ben, Tony, and I backed away from the door so Grandy could close it.

Head down, I reached out for Tony. He caught my shoulder as I ran my arm around his waist, concern for Rozelle unnerving me, making me seek that extra support.

But Tony stopped short, and I lifted my head to learn the cause. I didn't even have to ask. All I had to do was follow the direction of his gaze.

Atop the dining room table, Friday stood beside my dinner plate batting a piece of broccoli across the tablecloth and toward the edge to where Fifi sat below, eyes begging, tongue lolling, waiting for the food to drop.

Grandy huffed out a sigh. “Turn your back for a moment and your whole world spins into chaos.”

*   *   *

I
waited until the following morning to return the serving platters and good dishes to the sideboard. I wanted the work done before anyone in the house awoke and so I moved from the kitchen to the dining room as quietly as possible, clutching the plates tightly to keep them from rattling. All that effort and I nearly dropped them to the ground when Grandy said, “Georgia.”

I had the presence of mind to slide the plates onto their shelf before turning my death glare on Grandy. “You scared the bejeezus out of me, Grandy,” I said.

He shushed me, pressed his palms downward on the air. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “You want to wake the whole house?”

“If I wanted to wake everyone, would I be tiptoeing?” I straightened, grabbed Friday off the table, and put her on the floor before edging closer to Grandy so I could speak softly but still be heard. “What are you doing up?”

“I wanted to talk to you alone, without the possibility of your mother or . . .” He ran a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, and it was only at that moment the thread of unease began to unspool.

Without looking, without conscious thought, I
reached for a chair back and grabbed hold, tried to look casual. “All right. What's up?”

I could almost picture the words coming out of his mouth, drifting into a speech bubble above his head.
It's about Tony Himmel
, the words would say. But what he said in reality was, “I know I've told you time and again not to stick your nose into police investigations.”

Relief flooded through me. I let out more breath than I'd taken in, my spine softened, and my shoulders sagged. “Grandy, don't worry I—”

“This time I . . . I have to ask you to, well, stick your nose in.”

Good thing I hadn't loosened my grip on the chair. I could have been knocked down by a heavy sigh. “You want me to . . .” I shook my head. “Grandy, you . . . Why?”

And there was that heavy sigh. “I haven't been precisely forthright with you about my relationship with Rozelle.”

My brows rose high. “Can you be forthright now?”

He scratched again at the stubble gathered on his jaw. “I didn't see any reason to tell you I'd been seeing Rozelle socially. It was only lunch now and again.”

“Lunch,” I repeated dumbly. How could he have been leaving the house to meet Rozelle and I had never noticed? But of course, he had already given me the answer. “Let me guess,” I said. “You and Rozelle met for lunch on days I was working at Drew's law office.”

His nostrils flared as he exhaled, and that was all the confirmation I needed.

I wanted to be angry with him, wanted to feel some
sort of offense at his unwillingness to share this development with me. Instead, I felt the stirrings of what could only be hurt. “Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, my voice almost impossibly quiet.

Friday leaped onto the table again, her paws landing with a thud that seemed thunder-loud in the stillness of the room.

Grandy glanced in her direction but made no move to shoo her away. “It's my business,” he said, voice gruff. “My personal business.”

I supposed I could understand the sentiment. “But—”

“I don't have to tell you everything,” he said. “I'm allowed my privacy.”

The sense of being on the wrong side of the conversation threatened to make me dizzy. Those were my lines, weren't they? Words the younger of the household had been uttering for eons.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking the time to allow all the news to sink in. “Okay, so you've been . . . lunching . . . with Rozelle.” I nodded—another move to encourage sinking in—and finally smiled. “That's so sweet. I'm so happy for you. It's nice to know—”

“Which is exactly what I didn't want.” His voice practically boomed in the hush of the room, startling Fifi out of her resting place under the kitchen table. The sounds of her nails on the linoleum as she lumbered to her feet gave away her movement. “I don't want you giggling with your friends about how cute it is or pushing for information or, heaven forbid, telling your mother.”

I pulled in a deep breath, preparing to defend myself—and my friends—from his impressions when
the deeper implication struck me. Nolan and Diana had showed up at the house looking for news of Rozelle, which meant . . . “Who did Rozelle tell?” I asked.

“Georgia, can you focus, please, before the whole house is awake?”

“I bet she told Grace,” I said. “And Grace told Diana—”

“Georgia . . .”

“Which is how Chris Nolan knew to come here.”

Grandy's wispy gray eyebrows popped high. “Chris?” he asked. “I didn't realize you were on a first-name basis with the officer.”

“Detective,” I corrected automatically.

“Well, good.” He folded his arms and glared down at me. “That will help you get the information you need to find Rozelle. Won't it?”

“Grandy, I doubt Rozelle is truly missing,” I said as gently as I could. “She's probably taking advantage of the bakery being closed and she's gone off to a friend's house.”

“And told no one?”

“Maybe she's got the same approach to life you do,” I said, “and she wants privacy.”

“She would have said something,” he insisted. “Maybe not to me, but certainly to Grace or a member of her staff. She wouldn't just up and disappear. There's something not right about her going missing.”

I thought to argue his point, telling him maybe a little time alone was just what she needed most after all the upset with the death of David and the suspicion cast on the bakery. But it was that very thought that stole the argument from me. For someone like Rozelle to vanish might be unbelievable. For her to vanish at the same
time her business was at the center of a police investigation was chilling.

No doubt Grandy saw the understanding in my eyes. “You'll help, won't you?”

I reached out and grasped his arm. Squeezing lightly, I said, “I'll do what I can.”

*   *   *

I
n the past when I got myself into the middle of a police investigation, I had a ton of insider knowledge to work with—with Grandy falsely accused of murder, I had a lifetime of background information. With Carrie and her ex-husband as targets of a murderous arsonist, I had Carrie helping me out by sharing all the knowledge I may have needed. But with Rozelle . . .

Rozelle was something of an unknown to me. She was the kind old lady that ran the bakery and had been sweet on Grandy since before I returned to Wenwood. Because of Carrie I knew Rozelle and her husband had divorced after only a few short years of marriage when Rozelle was in her forties. She had no children, a sister who had retired to Boca Raton ages ago, and a brother who had passed away in the late nineties. In short, Rozelle was alone.