A Shattering Crime (4 page)

Mom winked at me—her own unique way of showing her agreement and approval.

“I hope you're paying attention to her lessons,” he said, tipping the teapot over his cup. “You'll need to remember all she's taught you once she moves out.”

“I'm moving out?” I asked. “What exactly did I miss while I was in the kitchen?” I looked to Grandy. Strangely comforted by the confusion I saw on his face that I reasoned mirrored my own, I turned my surprised expression on Ben. “What are you talking about?”

Ben put the teapot back on the trivet and slid it toward me.

“I'd like some tea,” Mom said.

Ben muttered an apology as he pulled back the teapot. “I understand that you needed some place to stay until you got back on your feet. But from what your mother tells me, you've had some success selling your stained glass pieces. I can only imagine you've put aside enough now to be able to reestablish yourself in an urban environment.”

I didn't think my eyebrows could lift any closer to my hairline. “An urban . . . Why would I move? I like it here.”

“Georgia, as much as I like knowing you're looking after Dad I have to agree with Ben. You're a CPA,” Mom said. “You'll have far more opportunity in a city than you do here.”

“And what's wrong with here?” Grandy asked, his voice shifting into a growl.

“Absolutely keep making stained glass pieces.” Ben reached toward me, as though he was going to put his hand on my arm. But I was seated just far enough away
to be out of his reach. “It's an excellent source of income while you work your way back up in the corporate world.”

I had to do it. I had to close my eyes in some hopeless wish that when I opened them, this moment would have turned out to be part of a dream. A wish that I was going to wake up warm in my bed with Friday curled behind my knees and a blanket of stars visible from my window.

But of course that didn't happen. Because nothing rotten in my life ever turned out to be a bad dream.

“I don't really want to go back to corporate America.” I half stood from my chair and brought the teapot and plate of cookies to my end of the table. “Besides, I didn't exactly leave it under the most auspicious of circumstances.”

“I told you, Ben, remember?” Mom asked softly. “The scandal?”

Ben waved his hand, dismissing her comment. “It's been long enough now no one will care.”

“They'll care,” I snapped. I had spent enough months searching for work after the big blowup at Washington Federal that had cost me my career, my home, and my fiancé—though that third turned out to be no great loss. I knew firsthand how much a financial scandal could wreck the career of an accountant. It was a matter of trust.

“Give it another try,” Ben said. “I think you'll be surprised.”

I gritted my teeth, forced a little smile onto my face. This was my mother's husband. What would it cost me to humor him and keep the peace? “I'll think about it.”

“Forget think about it,” he said. “Do it. Get back out
on your own. Be an independent adult again. See how it feels.”

The wooden creak of the chair as Grandy shifted his weight was the only sound in the ensuing silence. I certainly didn't know what to say to Ben, and my mom had helpfully stood and poured my tea so even the simple act of asking for the pot to be passed was unnecessary. But Grandy . . . Grandy was never at a loss for the right thing to say.

“Georgia never stopped being an independent adult,” he said. “And she doesn't need you to tell her how to continue being one. Now pass the damn cookies.”

Little Miss Independent Me, who spent her days watching her grandfather's diet, picked up the plate and passed it over. “Help yourself,” I said. “The jelly fingers are especially good.”

T
he older generations had stayed up talking long after I crept into bed. As owner and proprietor of the Dine-In Theater, Grandy was accustomed to late nights and sleeping-in mornings. Secretly I thought Ben wouldn't admit to being tired in the face of Grandy's age and apparent ability to stay awake all night long and had thought to outdo him. Whatever the reason, they were still up chatting when I nodded off some time after midnight, gratefully escaping the tumult of low self-esteem battering the corners of my mind.

In the morning I moved as quietly as I could so as not to wake anyone. I put a fresh bowl of food down for Friday, took Fifi for her morning walk, and gathered from the workshop the dozen pairs of earrings I had made, all without disturbing the peace. Everything went
smoothly right up until I grabbed my car keys and stepped out of the house.

Grandy had left his Jeep parked at curbside, the branches of the proud old cedar tree on the front lawn reaching out to keep the SUV in shade. I had been left to pull the previously owned sedan I had finally invested in into the driveway, exposing it to sunshine, bird strike, and most problematically, being blocked in by Ben's luxury sports car.

Wincing in anticipation, I turned back to the house and slipped my key in the door. As expected, Fifi sent up a vocal alarm. It made no difference that I had only left the house moments before, that I lived there, and not only fed her the best dog food in Pace County but also pretended never to notice when Grandy sneaked her bits of baked chicken from his own plate. To her, I was an unexpected intruder and the whole household needed to be alerted.

“Hush hush hush,” I said softly as I stepped into the house. I slipped my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and lifted out the spare set of keys to Grandy's Jeep. Fifi rushed toward me, her bark subsiding into what I could only call a welcoming growl. “It's me,” I whispered. “I didn't go anywhere yet, you goof.”

I patted her on the head in the same moment a door upstairs clicked open.

From where I stood and because one doorknob sounded much like another to me, I had no way of knowing who Fifi had awakened. Much as I wouldn't have minded seeing Grandy or Mom, there was an equal potential the person moving around up there was Ben,
and I was in no mood to hear more of his thoughts on what I should be doing with my time and my life.

I ducked out of the door and double-timed it to the Jeep with only the slightest swirl of guilt disturbing my digestion. I simply wasn't ready to repeat last night's delightful conversation.

Key in the ignition, engine engaged, I tore away from the curb with a haste rarely experienced in Wenwood. Though I'd had a good night's sleep, and most of life's tribulations seemed easier and more manageable in the morning, I felt the need to put a physical distance between myself and the emotional stew I had ingested the night before.

I liked Wenwood. I was rapidly nearing the love point. I had begun to believe in staying in the small town long term. And in the span of one conversation, all the doubts I thought I had overcome came crashing back.

Funny how I never considered living with Grandy as being dependent. Maybe because I paid my share of the bills, did the bulk of the housework so that Grandy didn't have to, and shared in meal preparation tasks I saw myself as equal in the arrangement. I wondered, perhaps far later than I should, if the rest of the world saw me as a family member moved back home or as a family member sponging off her grandfather. But then, did how other people saw me really matter?

I could tell myself no, it didn't. But that didn't stop the wicked little voice of self-doubt in my head that suggested I was using my list of chores and cooperations as a means of lying to myself, making up excuses to stay with Grandy instead of facing the truth: Not only was
I a thirty-two-year-old woman with a string of part-time jobs and no home to call her own. I was a failure.

Yes, extreme, I know. I did say that little voice was wicked.

Feeling less than happy with myself and thus wholly unwilling to be sociable with others by the time I reached Wenwood's version of downtown, I avoided the road that bisected the village. Instead of my customary activity of parking behind the market and walking up to the luncheonette for a cup of coffee and some gossip before heading to Carrie's shop, I guided the Jeep along the access alley that ran behind the stores. With the road not as well kept as the public street, the Jeep swayed and bounced along the uneven and potholed pavement until at last I came to a stop, nose against the fence dividing the alley from parkland.

I grabbed the canvas tote in which I'd put the earring sets and climbed out of the SUV, eyes already on my destination, the back door of the village's newest retail establishment, Sweets and Stones.

Having been through this particular drill before and knowing full well that I could knock on the steel door until my knuckles bled and still no one inside would hear me, I turned my back to the door and “knocked” with the flat of my foot.

As I turned back, Regina Henry stood in the opening door, one hand on the frame, the other on her hip. “This some kind of incognito visit?”

I smirked. “You could say that. I'm just not in the mood to bump into anyone I know and have to be nice.” Too late
I realized how I sounded. “I didn't mean you. I'm sorry. I meant . . .” I sighed. “I'm having a crap day.”

Regina smiled, threw the door open wide, and waved me in. “Right this way,” she said. “I have just the thing.”

I moved into the comparatively dim lighting of the back room and waited while Regina closed and bolted the door.

“Come on out front,” she said, and led the way through the storage area and out to the sales floor.

As a result of a vote among the Wenwood Town Council and those residents interested enough to attend town meetings, Sweets and Stones had won the right to rent the space previously occupied by the hardware store—closed due to the untimely and criminal death of its owner. They had faced some competition from a nationwide chain of liquor stores who proposed to open a discount wine shop in the village, and in my present mood, I wasn't entirely convinced the liquor store was a bad idea. Somehow a drink sounded like just the thing.

And yet reaching the sales floor, I became a believer.

“Hot or cold?” Regina asked as she ducked behind a glass-cased counter. The L shape of the counter tucked into the back corner of the shop precisely duplicated the location of the cashier's table from when the shop was a hardware store. But the lighted shelves of gourmet chocolates were a vast improvement over displays of ant spray and nails.

“Hot or cold what?”

“Chocolate, of course,” Regina said.

“Oh. Um. Thanks, but I don't need—”

“Do we need to have the chocolate and endorphins talk again?” she asked. “You need this. Now. Cold or hot?”

“Hot, please,” I said. I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, decadent, and comforting fragrance of fine chocolate. Boxed chocolates in various weights decorated the wall opposite the display case where Regina prepared my hot chocolate, while the displays in the front of the shop combined those same classic bon bon boxes dispersed among costume and trendy jewelry. The little fairy chime earrings I made for the shop were ordinarily scattered atop a curling blue ribbon, but from where I stood, I could spy only one pair.

I wandered across the cream and robin's egg flooring and peered into the case. An additional pair was tucked at the end of the ribbon, a pair done in shades of coral and pink that, looking at them, reminded me of cheesy seventies movies. What had I been thinking?

“What's got you down?” Regina called a split second before she switched on a quiet blender.

“Nothing,” I said automatically. We got along well enough, Regina and I, but sharing serious thoughts and giggling together were still a ways off. “Family stuff.”

“Oh, girl.” She pulled open the drawer of a small dishwasher and lifted out a pale blue porcelain cup. “Every family has its crazy. You're not alone.”

“I suppose,” I said, wandering back. I unzipped my coat and took a seat at the single small cafe table. “Doesn't make it easier to go through.”

“Maybe not, but you get all kinds of sympathy.” She grinned. “And free chocolate.”

“Well, that
is
worth the aggravation,” I said.

“All right. All right. You bring me more earrings to sell?”

“Indeed.” I placed the tote bag on the table and reached inside.

“Good. I had some woman in here yesterday bought two pair.”

I wondered if it was the same woman I had encountered at the groundbreaking, but couldn't work up the energy to describe her to Regina and ask. “Well, I have twelve for you today,” I said. “That's probably all for a while. I need to make some Christmas pieces for Carrie.”

“You're not doing jewelry for her, are you?” Regina asked, her face stern but her tone teasing.

“Picture frames,” I said. “Don't worry. I'm not creating any competition.” Ben's words about my glass work being an excellent source of income stomped through my memory. “I don't want . . .” I let my words trail away, blew out a breath.

I don't know what Regina saw when she came out from behind the counter, mug of hot chocolate in hand, but she placed the mug down on the table in front of me without a word. She smoothed her hands over her thighs before sitting down opposite me. “Drink up,” she said. “Did you hear about what happened yesterday at the groundbreaking ceremony for the new shopping complex?”

I nodded, lifted the cup to my lips. “I was there.”

She shook her head. “All kinds of gossip over at Grace's about that poor David Rayburn. I can't imagine what might have happened. They say he might have had some kind of condition, but I tell you that man was as healthy as they come.”

I met her gaze over the rim of my cup. “You know him?” I asked.

“Not well,” she said, and pointed to the cloth-wrapped package I had taken from the tote. “These for me?”

I lifted my chin in the direction of the package. “Go ahead,” I said.

She slid the cloth across the table and lifted the top fold.

“Why would you say Rayburn is a healthy man if you don't know him well?”

She looked up at me. “I met him quite a few times but we never talked about anything other than his crusade to stop that strip mall getting built.”

“Shopping promenade,” I said.

One eyebrow lifted. “Strip mall, promenade, what's the difference?”

I'd been spending a lot of my spare time with a man whose business was construction. I had been educated on the difference, but didn't think the distinction would matter much to Regina. I shrugged. “Okay, so why was he talking to you about the, um . . .”

“His whole ‘Save the Shoreline' movement,” she said. She peeled back the next layer of cloth, exposing the first half-dozen pair of earrings nestled within. The decorative gold wire crisscrossing the drops of colored glass winked in the illumination of the overhead lights, looking as if the glass contained some secret magic that the wire was keeping in place. “He spent a lot time trying to get me and Stella to swear that if we didn't get this location we're in now, we wouldn't go on and rent a space
in the new shopping place. As if we could wait the however many years it's going to take to build that thing.”

She took a pair of earrings between thumb and forefinger and, holding them aloft, turned so they were backlit by the light of the display case. “I don't know how you make these so delicate and beautiful,” she said, a note of something akin to reverence in her voice.

I shook my head, shook off the compliment. They were bits of leftover projects, slivers of memories bound together with golden wire to tempt someone else into taking them home. To my thinking, they didn't merit praise.

“I don't know why he kept talking to us, thinking we'd change our mind,” Regina said. She put down the first pair of earrings and lifted the next. “And then once we got approved for this location here, he wanted us to sign on and protest so that we didn't have any place coming in that might siphon off our business. We got plenty of time to build up a loyal customer base, I figure. But boy, that man must have believed plenty deep in his cause.”

“He wasn't the only one, though. He had a pretty large group of people with him at the groundbreaking,” I said. “With the way the town is supporting new business and getting behind the whole rejuvenation movement, I'm surprised there's anyone around who's opposed.”

She lifted a shoulder. “People get all kinds of ideas in their heads, but that David Rayburn”—she shook her head—“he was charismatic, you know what I'm saying? And he had the physical strength to go with his convictions. I can't believe he had a single thing wrong with him to make him collapse like that.”

“Well,” I said, “sometimes there's illness on the inside that never shows on the outside.”

“I suppose that's so. Still, you gotta admit, there's something fishy about a man like that keeling over eating a Danish.”

I took another sip of the smooth, liquid sin that filled my cup. “Yeah, something fishy,” I said. “Without a doubt.”

*   *   *

“G
ood, you're back,” my mother said.

I was two steps inside the front door and had yet to close it behind me. Fifi, having ceased her vigorous intruder-alert barking, danced gleefully at my feet. As far as the dog was concerned, I had been gone for weeks rather than a couple of short hours. While I patted her head with one hand, my other hand held the keys to Grandy's Jeep inches above the bowl where he kept the spare set. My expression must have conveyed a question, because my mother continued.

“We need to go to the grocery store,” Mom said.