A Shattering Crime (5 page)

I let go the keys, and they hit the bowl with a
clink-thunk
. “I did all the grocery shopping already. There's barely any space left in the fridge. What else would we need?” Kneeling in front of the dog, I unzipped my coat before taking her wide head between my hands and ruffling her jowls.

“I just want to pick up a few things.” She slid open the closet door and tugged her seasonally appropriate coat off its hanger. “I thought we could go together.”

Her statement set off conflicting desires. Spending some time with her, even doing something as mundane
as strolling the supermarket, would be pleasant. I had not gotten in a good visit with my mother in months. And yet I had work to do—patterns to evaluate and an inventory of the glass I had on hand, which I could completely do while obsessing over Tony's interest in meeting the family. Wandering the supermarket for the second time in as many days was not in my plan.

“What's the problem?” she asked.

“There's no problem,” I said, maybe too quickly. Are all mothers clairvoyant? If I should ever have children of my own, would I be able to read their minds with such ease? Or will I have used up my allotment of miracles simply by finding a man worth having children with? “Where's Grandy?” I asked, standing.

She slipped her coat on. “Your stepfather took him to buy some leaf bags and a new rake.”

“Don't call him my stepfather,” I said. “I'll be a millionaire in Wenwood before I call him Dad.”

“Don't be silly, Georgia.” She zipped her coat in one swift go. “No one expects you to call him Dad.”

“Good.”

“That doesn't make him any less your stepfather,” she said. “Let me get my purse.”

I put a hand to my forehead. My mother and I had wrestled along this path before, and I wasn't eager to trip down it again.

From the dining room, where she was riffling through her purse, she called, “And what's wrong with your cat?”

“What . . . what about the cat?” A beat of fear pulsed through me. My cat? Friday? What could be wrong with her?

Mom bustled through the living room, pulling her handbag over her arm. “She's walking around yowling.”

“Yowling?”

“You don't suppose she swallowed some of those pieces of broken glass you keep lying around.”

I never kept pieces of glass lying around. I was fastidious about cleaning my workspace, brushing down my table, and putting my tools away where they belonged. Nothing was left to put the cat or the dog at risk, or even a wandering, nosy grandfather. Still, that thread of fear tugged at my confidence.

Sidestepping around Fifi, who was still sitting in front of me hoping for more attention, I passed through the living room and jogged down the few steps to the room I used as my stained glass workshop. Windows wrapped the exterior walls, flooding the room with light, weaker now as the autumn advanced. The worktable at the center of the room was as clear as my recollection of it, with toolboxes stored on shelves beneath. Whatever the cause of the cat—

“
MmmrrrooOOW. MmmrrrooOOOOWWW
.”

Holy cats.

“
MMMRRROOOWWW
.”

“Friday?” I called.

“That's the yelling,” my mother said from the top of the stairs.

“Friday?” I called again. The yowling sounded so loud she had to be in the room, didn't she?

“She's up here,” Mom said.

As I turned for the stairs, Friday meandered from the direction of the kitchen, heading straight for my mother's
denim-clad ankles. Another curdling yowl escaped my previously charming kitten. Friday rubbed the length of her body along my mother's jeans, leaving a trail of white fur behind.

Finding Friday in a beer carton out behind my friend Carrie's antiques shop and deciding to keep the adorable kitten (or more accurately, falling in love and refusing to part with her) launched me on my newfound path of cat ownership. As a kid, my mother and I changed locations a great deal. There was never any chance of a pet that couldn't live its entire life in a ten-gallon fish tank joining our family. When Friday became part of my permanent future plan, I augmented my collection of litter pans, canned fish, and stuffed mice with a few books on cat care. But the noise that came from my sweet kitten's mouth could not be accounted for within the pages.

“Okay, something's not right,” I murmured. I knew she hadn't eaten glass—at least none that came from my workshop—but that didn't mean she hadn't eaten something else that was causing her distress.

“Should I take her to the vet?” I asked. For no good reason, I directed this question at my mother. As if she would know. Because moms know everything, right?

Her brow creased in confusion. “We need to go to the market.”

I huffed out my frustration. Friday had made similar noises last night, both when Mom and Ben arrived and later when that arrival required us to move from our nice double bed in the corner room to the little single sizer in the tiny spare room. I thought she was offering a feline critique of our temporary quarters. But there she was,
out and about and still kitty-yelling. I made up my mind in a snap. “Grab the cat.”

“What do you mean, grab the cat? What do you want me to do? You don't want me to pick it up, do you?”

Seriously. What was it about the people in my life and their aversion to cats?

“Never mind,” I said. “I'll get her. Just stay still.”

Not wanting to spook Friday, I walked calmly up three steps, getting close enough to scoop her up without my mother having to disrupt the cat twining around her ankles.

The cat gave one more curdling
mmrrooww
but allowed me to pick her up and hold her close. She butted her head against my jaw, rubbed her soft fur against my chin.

I gave her a tentative squeeze before setting her down on my worktable. Holding her in place with one hand, I ran my fingers down the length of her little body, feeling for any unusual lumps or protrusions, waiting for any sound of discomfort or protest from her. But I hadn't held her long before she lowered her head to the table, rolled sideways, and began to purr.

I shook my head, bewildered. “I don't see anything wrong with you,” I said in a whisper.

Lifting her into my arms again, tucking her against my chest, I opened the door to the garage and reached in to switch on the light.

“Where are you going?” my mother asked.

“I'm getting the cat carrier,” I called back as I plunged into the garage, took a right, and continued on to the laundry room.

“What about the market?”

“Vet first,” I replied.

I slid the cat carrier off the shelf and dropped it atop the clothes dryer. Catching sight of the carrier, Friday squirmed and did her best to back her way out of my grasp. I held her tighter, flipped open the latches on the carrier. From a bin of clean—and as yet unfolded—laundry I took a bath towel with frayed edges and dropped it into the carrier. I dropped Friday on top of the towel and closed the carrier in a hurry.

“Okay,” I said, returning to the workshop, doors closed behind me. “We'll take her to the vet and then stop at the market on the way back.”

“Oh, really?” My mother folded her arms and fixed me with a sarcastic glare. “And what are you going to do with the cat while we're in the store? You know you can't leave it in the car, don't you?”

“Of course I know that,” I said. She backed away and turned for the front door, struggling for a moment with her hand on the doorknob, trying to tug open the sometimes sticky door. “I'll leave her with my friend Carrie.”

Because what are friends for if not to babysit animals they despise so their friends can go shopping?

*   *   *

I
n the end Mom decided against the potential for waiting around the vet's office and in favor of “wandering around downtown” until I could retrieve her. She made this sound like “downtown” had some sort of urban bustle. I half expected her to be disappointed when we cruised under the town's one traffic signal and onto the
stretch of Grand Street that was the whole of downtown. To mitigate that reaction, I pulled to the curb in front of Aggie's Gifts and Antiques. “This is my friend Carrie's shop,” I said.

One hand on the door latch, my mother asked, “What happened to Aggie?”

“She moved to Florida.”

From the backseat, Friday let out a howl of protest. Though the noise was her customary complaint when confined to her carry kennel, my stomach clenched a little. I frowned, the lowering of my brows and subsequent pulling against the skin of my forehead abstractly reminding me I had forgotten to moisturize. As if dry skin were anywhere near as important as my poor, sick Friday.

“And what's this Sweets and Stones?” Mom put one foot out the door of the SUV.

It would be wrong to push her out, wouldn't it?

I opted for forgo the inevitable charges of cruelty to a matriarch. “It's new. You'll like it. Try the chocolate mint drops.”

“Oh, good. I will. Oh, and I want to say hello to Grace while I'm here.” She had two feet out and turned back to talk to me through the open door. “Maybe you can pick me up there.”

Pick up Mom at Grace's luncheonette. I wondered if Tom would be in his usual place at the counter, perhaps with Terry in tow. That might be too much to hope for, that the men would spend any of their visiting time doing crossword puzzles at the lunch counter. But there had been a to-do at the post-groundbreaking cookies and coffee event. Tom may have overhead some cause for David
Rayburn's collapse, may have news of his condition. “Sounds good,” I said. “I'll meet you there.”

Mom slammed the door shut, and a whole new breed of dread washed over me.

I wasn't so much worried about David as I was curious what the scuttlebutt was. Oh, holy donkeys. I'd become a small-town resident.

Grasping the steering wheel, foot firmly on the brake, I let my head fall forward until my forehead hit the wheel. My transformation from city dweller to small-town girl was
complete.

T
he local veterinarian was only local two days a week. It said something about the low cost of rent in Wenwood that keeping the office shuttered for the remaining days was financially feasible. It also said something about the pet population.

But I was glad to be able to take Friday to Dr. Bucherati's two-exam-room, one-surgery building at the residential end of Grand. Had it not been a Wenwood office day for her, I would have been stuck driving all the way up to the emergency vet in Newbridge. Fifteen minutes in the car with a yowling cat was tough enough on my nerves and my emotions. Forty might have brought me to tears.

I steered the car into the tiny four-car parking lot spanning the front of the building and cut the engine. Without
the hum of the engine and the constant background rumble of the radio, Friday's complaint seemed three times as loud. I wouldn't have been surprised had the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

Out of the car, with the back door open, I tugged the portable kennel closer and slid my fingers through the top bars hoping to make contact with the soft swipe of gray fur on top of Friday's head. “It's okay,” I said, though she pressed herself into the corner and out of my reach. “Doctor's going to take good care of you.”

I hauled the carrier out of the backseat and lugged it through the glass door into the waiting room, where a mother and son sat holding the leash of a coal-black puppy. Under normal circumstances I would likely have been rendered motionless by the cuteness. But I had a cat with a problem.

I rushed across the pitted linoleum floor to the reception desk. “Hello,” I said, fully expecting the bleached blond woman behind the counter to return the greeting. Or, you know, ask how she could help me.

Without looking up, without uttering a word, the receptionist pushed a clipboard toward me.

“There's something wrong with my cat,” I said.

Eyes on the paperwork beneath her fingertips, she asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Is the cat bleeding or showing any signs of broken bones or broken skin, any kind of trauma?”

“No, but—”

“Sign in and have a seat.”

I used the office's pen on a chain to chisel my name
on the sign-in sheet affixed to the clipboard then took a seat on the hard-cushioned bench lining the side wall. From that point it took nearly half an hour before Dr. Bucherati called us into the examination room.

Down the wood-paneled hallway I followed the vet into the second room on the left and put the cat carrier on the stainless steel table while the doc closed the door.

“And why are we seeing Friday today?” Dr. Bucherati asked. She stood across the table from me, waiting while I unlatched the carrier and lifted out the cat.

Holding Friday steady on the table while Dr. Bucherati checked my baby's teeth, eyes, and coat, I explained Friday's recent vocalizations, confessed my worries, and even admitted to my mother's broken-glass theory.

Dr. Bucherati—at least one full head shorter than I was—looked up at me from beneath her brows, her brown eyes wide with sympathy. “From what you say,” she said, “I have every confidence there is nothing wrong with this cat. Only that she has come into heat. For many cats . . .”

Dr. Bucherati continued, patiently explaining to me the birds and the bees as they pertain to felines. I didn't need a mirror to confirm the heat that was making my cheeks feel huge was, in fact, a bright red blush. The burning sensation was one I knew well. She was in heat. Of course. How had I failed to misread the signs? Some cat mommy I was.

I became fascinated with everything in the room that was not Dr. Bucherati's patient expression: the filing cabinet shoved into a corner, the old-fashioned white-painted aluminum medicine cabinet behind the doc, the glass-fronted shelves on the wall over her shoulder with their
row on row of containers and phials and little boxes—sodium something or other, blah blah benzoate, atropine, omega-3 tablets. Omega-3 tablets? Weren't humans supposed to take those?

“Of course, since you say there is a possibility she ingested glass,” Dr. Bucherati said in a grave tone, “I have to recommend we do an x-ray, to be certain this is not the case. After this, we can make an appointment to spay Friday. You will have her spayed, yes?”

We had discussed the pros (so many) and cons (so few) of spaying the cat when first I decided to keep Friday. The choice to spay had been a simple one. But I thought I'd have a few more months to save up for the fee. And now, making things even more fun, we would be adding on the cost of an x-ray, which would no doubt require sedation to keep the sweet but active furball in one place.

“So x-ray and spay,” I said.

“If you choose to spay her, that is correct.” She shifted her head so she was looking at me from the corner of her eye. “Will you . . .” she began in the manner of a schoolteacher looking for a correct answer.

“I choose to,” I said.

Dr. Bucherati's contented nod told me I had chosen wisely. She scooped Friday up in her arms and deposited the cat in the carrier with all the effort it took to drop a piece of bread in a toaster. “We will keep her overnight for the x-ray,” she said. “I will call you with the results as soon as I am done. Make sure you tell Lee at the front desk that you need an appointment for spaying next week.”

“Wait. Overnight? But—”

“I will have to give her a little sedative so she will
be still for the x-ray. It is best she remain in our care until the effect wears off.”

“But you're not here in the morning.” Distress squeezed my heart. “How will I be able to bring her home?”

Dr. Bucherati smiled, a surprisingly comforting and sympathetic smile given that she thought I'd allowed my kitten to chew on glass. “It is true I will not be here myself, but there will still be someone here to care for those animals boarding with us. Speak with Lee and she will tell you when it is best for you to come.”

My heart ached a little to watch Dr. Bucherati pull Friday's carrier off the exam table and prepare to take her away from me. The little one had slept beside me on my spare pillow (or my neck, depending on her mood) every night since I first brought her home. Hers was the presence that made me feel less alone, that smoothed over the raw patches on my soul and reminded me I could still love another being. Without her close by, how was I going to rest? How could I let Dr. Bucherati take her away from me, even if it was just for one night?

I knew without doubt that she had not ingested any glass. She had never even caught a sliver in her paw. Maybe the x-rays weren't necessary.

I took a steadying breath and mentally shook myself. When it comes to all creatures in your care, better safe than sorry. I could last one night without Friday.

Cat carrier in hand, Dr. Bucherati left the examination room. Shoulders sagging, I departed behind her, steadfastly retracing my steps to the waiting room rather than following the vet across the hall to the door leading to the surgery and boarding area.

In the waiting room I sidestepped a big black German shepherd whose paws, I would swear, were bigger than the steering wheel of my car. The dog whined a little as I sneaked past, and I tamped down the urge to reach out and pet its head; I had no way of knowing if the dog wanted affection or a snack.

I stopped at the counter to make the appointment for the spay while waiting for Dr. Bucherati to appear with Friday's file. The receptionist would need the doctor's notes in order to assemble the charges.

I got a good look at the dark roots beneath the receptionist's bleached blond 'do, easy to notice with the way she kept her head down until it was convenient for her to look up and acknowledge my presence. I studied the clock behind her—old school circular—the calendar below it, and the mini-fridge nestled into the corner. “Hello?” I said.

She sighed but didn't look up. “I don't have the file from the doctor yet.”

“I know. I have to make an appointment to have my cat spayed.” I rested my purse atop the counter, crossed my arms over it as though keeping my wallet extra safe.

“Tuesday mornings are surgeries here, or you can make an appointment for Monday at the Clarkston office.”

“Tuesday would be fine.”

Long fingernails clacked away on the keyboard as she brought up the scheduling software. We settled on a time and reviewed the presurgical procedures for the cat, with Dr. Bucherati arriving with Friday's folder and confirming the importance of sticking strictly to the instructions.

With all the information at hand, the receptionist hit me first with the cost of the office visit with x-ray and sedation and then with the estimate for the spay. I clutched my purse tight, willed the sinking dread from showing on my face. My money was going out faster than it was coming in. “Is that all?” I murmured, a squeak of distress lifting my tone.

“I understand,” the receptionist said. Her softened voice and a nod of her head made her seem surprisingly sympathetic. “It's not easy living around here, is it?”

“Such a nice area but not enough . . .” I bit back the rest of my complaint. No, I wasn't saving a lot of money. I wasn't going to be rich anytime soon, but I was getting by.

“Not enough work,” she finished for me. She set her fists on her hips and fixed her gaze on me. “And do you believe those people who don't want the new shopping center to be built? Unbelievable. I'm a single mother. You know what it's like trying to raise a kid around here? The sooner that thing gets built the better. I'll finally have a chance to work more than two or three days a week and there's people protesting? Please.”

I shook my head in vaguely sympathetic agreement. I didn't exactly see the new promenade as providing any kind of employment security, but I didn't want to rain on anyone's parade who did. My own economic pinch was enough for me to worry about. The last thing I needed was a hefty vet bill. But I wanted Friday to have the care she needed, so there was no question of backing out.

I pulled my last-resort Visa from my wallet and handed it to the receptionist. There was only one solution to this
money dilemma: I was going to have to cobble together an assortment of stained glass pieces for Carrie to sell . . . and cross my fingers that they did.

*   *   *

B
ack in the car, I switched the radio station from Grandy's customary all-news programming to what passed for the region's version of a rock station. I was rewarded with the soul-soothing sound of Freddy Mercury's voice singing “Under Pressure.” David Bowie didn't hurt the tune any, but it was Freddy's voice that managed to ease both my worry for Friday and my sorrow.

I reassured myself it was only one night that I would be without my fluffy buddy. One night this week, one night next. And as I navigated back roads and side streets on my way to Grand, I marveled at myself, at how quickly and completely I had grown attached to her, how upsetting the thought of being without her. That wicked little voice in the back of my head insinuated my attachment to the cat was the result of my childhood with my mother, the frequent moves and the less frequent stepfathers. I turned the radio volume loud enough to drown out both my thoughts and the sound of my voice. I sang along with Freddy and David, then Steven, then Axl. Song by song, focusing on the lyrics, on what came next in the music and not what came next in my life—or came before, for that matter—I made my way into the village of Wenwood.

The summer was long gone and the seasonal traffic with it. Trees had begun to dress themselves in autumn colors and dropped a few leaves on the brick and cement
sidewalks, a preview of the leaf-strewn weeks to come. I slipped the Jeep into an open space right on Grand, a space that never would have remained vacant had August gone on forever.

I held my coat closed rather than spend time on the zipper. A few brisk paces ahead and I ducked through the door of Grace's luncheonette. The welcoming bell jingled overhead, signaling my arrival to those gathered within.

From the entry the lunch counter was ahead and to the left, allowing me to see the faces of those seated there and they could see me—which made things doubly odd that no one so much as looked in my direction. Stunned motionless, I stood at the end of the counter and gaped. There was Tom on his usual stool, his friend Terry beside him. Grace's feet were on the service side of the counter, but her elbows rested on the countertop as she leaned close to Tom and Terry. And there, squeezed between Tom and the wall that divided the luncheonette from its kitchen, was my good friend Diana Davis. Better known as Aspiring Detective Davis.

Diana, at last, glanced my way and nodded briskly, businesslike. Her lips were set in a tight, almost somber line and a quick check of the rest of the group showed her expression mirrored on each of their faces.

The improved mood Freddy Mercury had set in motion faded faster than a cheap dye job doused in salt water. “What's going on?” I asked, moving farther into the luncheonette. “What happened?”

Grace straightened, swiped an imaginary crumb off the counter. “Georgia, honey. Cup of coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” I tugged off my coat and dumped it across the back of the empty booth to my right. “Is everything okay? You all look . . .”

Tom pointed an arthritic finger at me. “You were there. You saw.”

“I saw?” I perched on the only vacant stool and leaned forward a tad so I could see the men's faces.

“You saw that man that . . . that . . .”

“David Rayburn,” Terry said. He folded his arms across his broad chest, cleared his throat.

I caught Diana's eye. “The guy with the heart attack?”

“Oh, ho ho.” Tom smacked the counter with the flat of his palm. “That was no heart attack.”

Diana huffed. “Tom, we don't know for sure what it was or what it wasn't.”