A Shattering Crime (2 page)

“Of course I know that,” she said. “These are sugar free.
They're also nut free and gluten free. But they taste nice. You'll bring some back.” She slapped the lid closed. “After. If there's any left over. You want to help?”

When I assured her that I did, she called over her eye-rolling assistant and introduced her as Nicole.

“Georgia's going to put out the cookies so give her that box,” Rozelle directed. “You make sure the coffee's ready to go.”

Nicole—smooth-skinned, bright-eyed, sweet smile—nodded and handed me the box of cookies she held. “Chocolate chips separate from oatmeal raisin,” she said, her voice a breathless high pitch. “Put some on the platters on each of the tables.”

After a moment spent removing my jacket and draping it over the back of one of the nearby folding chairs, I got to work doing exactly as Nicole had directed. Empty platters graced the center of each table, and I laid out cookies on each. I was happy to be out of the cold, happy to be finished with my part-time job for the rest of the day, and happy most of all to have scored easy and early access to an urn of hot coffee. By the time the sounds of the groundbreaking ceremony gave way to applause, signaling its end, I was already seated with a cup of coffee for me and one waiting for Tony.

Attendees shuffled in slowly, as though not quite certain how to act without a table assignment. They drifted in twos and threes to empty seats or queued up for hot beverages and the special cakes and pastries on offer. A few waved as they passed me by, but Tom shouted his hello as always. “Georgia!” he said at his customary decibel. “Georgia! I'm glad you're here.”

I waggled my fingers in greeting while he pulled out a chair across the table from me. “I'm surprised to see you away from the luncheonette. How are you going to get your crossword done without Grace's help?”

He shrugged out of a navy blue quilted jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. Grinning, he shook a finger at me. “Now, now, the day is young.” He dropped into the chair, and another older gentleman ambled up to the table and stood behind the chair next to him. “I want you to meet my friend Terry,” he said, tipping his head to the right.

“Oh, you're Terry.” I smiled and offered a hand to shake. “Tom mentioned you were coming back for a visit. I'm Georgia Kelly.”

Terry took my hand in both of his. “Glad to meet you, Georgia.”

“This is the young lady I was telling you about.” Tom rested his elbows on the table and leaned in. “She's a natural.”

“A natural?” I repeated. I hesitated to ask what I was a natural at.

Tom nodded. “Police never would have figured out who killed poor Andy without her help.”

Terry lowered himself into the vacant chair, eyebrows raised in appraisal. “Oh, you're that Georgia.”

To the best of my knowledge, I was the only Georgia in Wenwood. But I've been wrong about things like that before.

“And she's the one,” Tom said, “who worked out who killed Ned Gallo. Smart girl.”

I shifted uncomfortably against the hard folding chair. I hadn't moved to Wenwood to take up life as Nancy Drew Girl Detective. It just sort of worked out that way. And it wasn't exactly what I was hoping to build a reputation on.

While Tom embellished the extent of my involvement in crime solving, I searched the tent for some sign of Tony. By the lack of people coming through the tent entrance, it seemed most of the folks who had been outside had made their way in. Even the group that had been protesting had helped themselves to coffee while they bent the ear of one of the men from the town council. Rozelle stood calmly beside their bearded ringleader, white cake box hanging from one hand while her other hand rested on the ringleader's shoulder. She shook her head at something he said before giving his shoulder one final squeeze and moving away.

“Have you ever thought about getting involved officially in police work?”

Terry's question brought my attention back to the two men. I smiled, but only a little. “I'm really not cut out for, um, public service.”

“What is it that you do now?” he asked.

I drank down a little coffee before explaining my life situation. “I do custom stained glass work,” I said. “Some window pieces for homes and some decorative pieces I sell through Aggie's Gifts and Antiques in Wenwood and now Sweets and Stones. I also work three days a week at a lawyer's office and . . .”

I kind of didn't want to admit to the last. How lame
was it that at thirty-two years old I was still working part-time in my grandfather's dine-in movie theater? Sure, it was only waiting tables two nights a week and the tips came in handy when buying sheets of stained glass, but it wasn't the sort of job a grown woman brags over.

Looking away from what I was somehow sure would be disappointment in Terry's eyes, I finally spied Tony over by the coffee urns, deep in conversation with one of the suited men still wearing a hard hat. By the easy way he stood and the relaxed manner in which he held his coffee cup, Tony was enjoying the conversation. A little twinge of sadness jolted through me like a hiccup. I selfishly wanted him to stop having business-y chats and come and sit by me. But despite the job at the movie theater, I was in fact a grown woman with a measure of independence and I reminded myself I did not need a man's companionship in order to enjoy a town event. In the same instant, I tried hard to ignore the little voice inside me pointing out that I couldn't exactly call myself independent while I was living in my grandfather's spare room.

Oh, lord. I took another slug of coffee, wishing there was a bit of Irish in it. Why? Why does my mind wander down these paths?

“Lawyer's office and?” Terry prompted.

I opened my mouth, ready to gloss over the movie theater thing and instead fall back on the old “looking for a permanent job in accounting,” but Terry's gaze shifted away from me, and he turned to look over his shoulder seconds before I registered the change in the rhythm of the conversation around me. What had been a continuous rumble of indistinct words and short bursts of laughter
had transformed into a series of gasps and shrieks of distress.

Terry was the first of us to rise, but I pushed to my feet in time enough to witness the leader of the protesters take a deep, sucking breath, shudder once, and topple to the
ground.

M
y first-aid skills were nil, but that didn't stop me from jumping out of my chair and rushing toward the fallen protester. I had no idea what I would do when I reached him, but that didn't stop me. Perhaps it's some sort of human instinct, to hurry to the aid of the needy. In any case it seemed to be, given the number of folks who did the very same thing. Tables were pushed aside and chairs toppled as a crowd formed around the protester.

“I'm a nurse.” A stocky man with a clean-shaven head elbowed his way through the ring of onlookers. “I'm a nurse, let me through.”

Different suggestions were tossed out as to how to best help the man: “Get him on his side,” “Try CPR,” “Elevate his feet.”

Even with my limited knowledge, I knew elevating the man's feet probably wouldn't help. But I didn't have anything better to offer.

“Give me some room here,” the nurse said.

“You heard the man,” Terry called out. “Everyone go back to where you were. Take a seat.” Folks shuffled backward, and the nurse disappeared from view as he lowered himself to the ground.

Someone tugged at my elbow. I turned to find Rozelle gazing up at me. “Georgia, what's going on? What happened?”

“Someone . . . choked, I think,” I said. Even as the words left my mouth, I felt the first twinge of doubt. The man had pulled in a breath. Loudly. Choking people didn't breathe—that was the whole problem. “Or a heart attack maybe?”

“Who someone?” Rozelle asked. “Who is it?”

A woman beside me saved me from admitting I didn't know the man's name. “David Rayburn,” she said.

Rozelle's hand fluttered at her throat, and heat suffused her cheeks. “David? Oh no. The poor man. So young for a heart attack.”

I estimated Rozelle to be in her early seventies. She was spry enough, full of energy, but that didn't mean she didn't still think a man in his fifties was young.

“Did someone call 911?” Terry shouted out.

Answers in the affirmative sounded from several different people. I realized then I'd left my phone inside my purse, and my purse at the table. Craning my neck to see if it was still slung over the back of the chair, I spotted Tom tugging it across the table and Tony moving toward me.

I met him halfway between the cluster of onlookers and the table I had vacated.

“What happened?” he asked. “Someone pass out or something?”

I held tight to the hand he held out to me. “Something like that.” I told him what little I knew, including the name of the man who had taken ill. “Do you know him?” I asked.

He considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Doesn't sound familiar.” He tipped his head, leaned in a bit to catch my eye and hold my gaze. “What do you say we grab a cup of coffee over at the site? I think things around here are going to be breaking up.”

I looked back to where the crowd had gathered and out to the rest of the tent. People were wandering off in twos and threes. Only those standing watch around David Rayburn looked as though they intended to remain.

“Let me get my bag,” I said.

Nodding, Tony pulled out his phone and bent his head over its small screen. He had the considerate habit of only checking messages when I was occupied doing something else. I kind of liked that about him.

“Georgia,” Tom said when I reached the table. “Have you seen Terry?”

I pointed toward the group of onlookers. “He's over by there, helping out, I think.”

“Oh.” Tom's brow furrowed and his lower lip jutted out a bit. He held my purse aloft. “You left this,” he said.

“Thanks.” I leaned across the table to retrieve my bag. “You want me to send Terry back over?”

Tom waved away the suggestion. “He can't go anywhere without me. I drove.”

Self-preservation sensors deep inside my brain sounded an alarm. Perhaps Tom was an excellent driver; I didn't know for sure. What I did know was that he wasn't known for having a sharp memory. One wrong turn because he forgot where he was going and it could be next stop Illinois—or whatever westernmost state he reached by the time the gas ran out.

I bundled into my too-thin coat, said my good-byes, and rejoined Tony for the walk across the riverfront. One last look over my shoulder showed me that the folks gathered around David Rayburn had gone very still, and I sent up a silent prayer that the poor man would be all right.

As we stepped out of the tent and into a gust of wind off the river, Tony laid his arm across my shoulders and pulled me in for a quick hug. “You okay?” he asked.

“Why wouldn't I be okay?”

The wind flattened a hank of sun-blond hair against his cheek. I didn't even want to think about the rat's nest my own hair would be in that wind if I hadn't taken the time to restrain it with a tight braid.

He nodded vaguely in the direction of the tent. “I don't have a good feeling about that guy in there.”

“I'm trying to think positively.” I pushed my hands into the pockets of my jacket and shifted a little closer to him, nearer to his warmth. The walk between the reception tent and the construction site wasn't a long one, a thousand feet, maybe less, but I was acutely aware of the time it was taking us to make the walk. Yes, Tony was
the boss. The construction project, the new marina, it was all under his control. To me, that meant he should be able to take a lunch break for as long as lunch took—or for as long as the groundbreaking event lasted. To Tony, that meant leading by example, and putting in more hours than anyone else on the crew. The longer it took us to change locations, the less time we'd have to actually sit in each other's company.

Still, I would take what I could get, and happily sat in the sparsely—and cheaply—furnished trailer that served as the location office and thanked Tony sincerely for the hot cup of coffee he handed me.

“Looks like you were having a nice chat with one of the men who pretended to shovel dirt,” I said before sending a little cool breath across the surface of the coffee.

Tony's grin flashed briefly and he leaned back against his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Bennett,” he said before continuing in a slow, careful tone. “We've been in touch.”

I waited, but he said no more. I risked a sip of the coffee then prompted him. “About?”

His gaze met mine but only for a moment before skittering away. “About who he's thinking of using for this project.”

“I thought they already had a construction company lined up. I thought they'd be using the same group that's been leveling the area.”

But he shook his head, still slow and careful. “Demolition and construction are as different as they sound.”

“So,” I began, drawing out the O, choosing my words. “You're looking to have them consider Stone Mountain
for the job?” I couldn't say “hoping.” Not only did I not know if that was what he hoped, either for himself or for his construction company, but I also didn't want to accidentally make it sound like I myself was eager for his company to get the job—because I wasn't sure how I felt, and didn't want to explore it either. And I certainly didn't want to risk learning our feelings on the matter were, well, about a thousand feet apart.

“Trying to get a feel for whether our bid has a shot,” he said. Again his gaze bounced off mine. He gripped the edge of the desk, put his weight into his hands for a moment. “Your mom and her husband on schedule to arrive tonight?”

I blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. “Um, yeah, last I heard.” I had told him as much via text message. Why the confirmation?

“They have plans while they're here?” he asked.

“They're just visiting as far as I know. Mom has some old friends she wants to catch up with.” I turned my head a bit, looked at him from the corner of my eyes. “Why the sudden interest?”

His grip on the desk tightened, white showing across his knuckles. “What, uh, what would you say if I told you I'd like to meet them?”

“Wait. My . . . my mother?”

Tony nodded. “I'd like to get to know her. And her husband.”

“I barely know her husband.”

He kept nodding. “And I'd like to spend more time with your grandfather, have a conversation that lasts longer than the latest pop music hit.”

I hit the point beyond words and merely gaped at him.

He stood and took a step toward me. “Georgia, I own my own company. I've never been divorced—or married. I pay my taxes, I eat right, and by current standards I believe I might be considered somewhat attractive.”

Well, at least he didn't say, “According to my ex-girlfriends, I'm hot.”

“So what it is that makes me not the kind of man you want to introduce to your family?”

I took a breath, let it out in a sigh. The simple truth was such a cliché, I knew he would think I was lying. It wasn't him. It was me. How was I supposed to find words to convey that and make him believe it?

I made my voice gentle, patient. “Tony,” I said. “You know that I—”

“It's because of my past, isn't it?”

“That's not—”

“It's all right, Georgia. I understand. I understand your reluctance. Parents—or grandparents—are careful about who their daughter dates. And rightly so. But this is only a problem—”

“Right. It's only a problem if I make it one. But I'm not making it one. There's—”

The door swung open and a burly man wearing a scuffed blue hardhat and carrying a clipboard shuffled into the trailer. “Yo, boss,” he said. He nodded an acknowledgment to me but otherwise showed no concern for my presence, or what he may have interrupted. “We got a problem with the backflow in the secondary pipe.”

“Don't suppose you could handle that on your own, could you, Fred?” Tony asked.

Fred shrugged. “If I could, I wouldn't be standing here jawin' about it.”

I got up from my chair, set the coffee on the edge of Tony's desk. “I need to get going anyway,” I said. Not that I had anywhere I had to be, but because Fred had unwittingly given me an out and I was only too happy to take it. Pushing up on my toes, I swiped a kiss against Tony's cheek. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Georgia,” he said in a way that might have stalled me. But there was no conviction in his voice. No “wait” following “Georgia.”

I waggled my fingers and hurried out of the trailer. Yes, I'm a chicken. Tony and I had been dating long enough to count by months rather than weeks—but only just. Still, given the duration of our relationship, it made sense that one or both of us would ask that anxiety-inducing question: “Where is this relationship going?” My belief that such a question could raise anxiety made clear my feelings on the matter. I didn't know where we were headed as a couple. I was simultaneously afraid it would all end by the time the marina project wrapped and afraid it would progress to something more, something serious and even the slightest bit committed. And Tony meeting my family definitely skewed toward serious.

Outside the door, the sight of emergency vehicles circling the party tent yanked me away from thoughts of my own meager problems. I might have issues with bringing my boyfriend home to meet my family, but the ambulance was a reminder things could always be worse.

Family could be coming for a visit.

*   *   *

“G
eorgia, did you remember to pick up extra toilet paper?”

Grandy walked steadily down the steps from the living room to the space I had adopted as my workshop.

“Georgia?” he prompted.

It wasn't that I hadn't heard the question or needed time to recall the answer. I'd only just begun creating a lead join between two pieces of crimson glass. With soldering iron in one hand and spool of soldering wire in the other, I didn't dare look up and certainly wasn't about to take the hot tip of the iron away from the lead wire. Once I started the process of running hot lead along a join, there was no stopping until I reached the seam end.

“I remembered the toilet paper,” I said, setting the soldering iron back on its base. “I guess you didn't remember that you already asked me that.”

Letting out a deep sigh, he crossed the few feet from the bottom of the steps to the end of the table where I was working. He set both hands against the surface and leaned in. “When you get to be my age, Miss Smart Ass, see how well you remember inconsequential conversations.”

I grinned. “Toilet paper is hardly inconsequential.”

He huffed in response, tipped his chin in the direction of the stained glass piece. “What are you working on there?”

Plucking at a corner of the glass, its pieces tacked together with strategic solder joins, I rotated the glass
so Grandy could get at least a hint of the light-through-color effect. “Sun catcher on steroids,” I said.

“Are those”—his brow rolled and rumpled—“poinsettias?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Christmas? It's too early even for Halloween.”

“Not in crafts and retail,” I said. “The more of these I can get into Carrie's shop . . .”

As the dog kicked up a ruckus upstairs, I let my words fall away. There was no use trying to compete against Fifi's bark. She may be small for an English bulldog—or so my vet tells me—but she has a bark that would send shivers of fear down a soldier's spine.

Friday, my kitten who was threatening to become an actual cat, let out an alarming yowl from somewhere on the main floor of the house then streaked down the steps like the little blizzard she was and came to a sliding stop beneath my worktable. I knew from past experience that she would crouch there, wide-eyed and motionless, until the dog quieted down and peace once again reigned.

Grandy's eyes lit from somewhere deep in his heart. “They're here.” He pushed off from the table and clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms one against the other.