A Shattering Crime (7 page)

In my haste to escape, I pushed open the door and practically tumbled out of the SUV, bag of groceries in hand. Someday my mother and I would make it through more than forty-eight hours without any reference to Grandy's blissfully brief and completely unjust incarceration. Until then, I fully intended to run away from her every time the subject came up.

“Something wrong with the tree?” I called then slammed shut the car door.

Grandy kept his head tilted back, eyes on the bare branches overhead.

Ben folded his arms and faced me. “I was pointing out to Pete you've got a little fungus up there. It could weaken some of the larger branches. Then all you need is a heavy, wet snow and those branches could fall. They're a hazard.”

Grandy rolled his jaw and turned to face me. “We'll have to get a tree specialist out to have a look.”

“A specialist?” I repeated. “Because a general practice tree doctor won't be good enough?”

“What's wrong with the tree?” Mom asked, joining us in the middle of the lawn.

“Apparently it's a hazard,” Grandy said.

“You don't want to wait too long,” Ben said. “You folks get snow pretty early up here, don't you?”

“Not that early,” Mom said. “And besides, Dad has a snow blower.”

I felt my eyes crease in equal depth with my confusion. I had been in and out of the backyard shed about a billion times over the summer, planting, pruning, fertilizing. And the garage held every implement too delicate or valuable to be left in the shed. “There's no snow blower,” I said.

“Of course there is,” Mom said. She looked to Grandy. “You bought one two years ago, didn't you?”

Grandy shot quick daggers at me before he pursed his lips and turned his gaze to the branches overhead.

“Dad?” Mom prompted. “Dad! Who's been shoveling the snow?”

“I'm capable of shoveling snow, Joanne,” he said. “I'm not an invalid.”

“At your age—” Mom began, but Ben cut her off.

“Pete, you know that for every five years over the age of fifty, a man's risk of heart attack increases by twenty percent. You shouldn't take chances.”

“Don't worry about it, okay?” I said. “I'm here. I can shovel the snow.”

“You don't have to shovel the snow,” Grandy said. “I'll hire someone.”

“That's what you said year after year, Dad, and it was a lie every time. You finally agreed to buy a snow blower, and then that turns out to be a lie, too.” My mother raised her arms, let them fall with a slap against her thighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“How about we go shopping for a snow blower later in the week, huh, Pete?” Ben suggested. “Give me a chance to see more of the area.”

“Please, Ben,” Mom said, and for a minute I thought she was going to ask him to stay out of the conversation, but no such luck. “Maybe if you're there, he'll really get a snow blower.”

“I can shovel the snow,” I repeated. “There's no reason to spend all that money on a machine.”

“Don't be silly,” Ben said. “What happens when you move out? A snow blower will make things a hundred times easier.”

“Why—” I began, but Grandy met my eyes, shook his head ever so slightly. “No harm in looking,” he said. He pointed to the reusable grocery bag I held. “More food?”
he asked. “I don't suppose you got me any more of Rozelle's cookies.”

I noted that he avoided asking about cookies for us. Us would include Ben, who had eaten his way through all but the one mini Linzer tart Mom had eaten, leaving Grandy with none for his after-dinner indulgence.

“Rozelle didn't open today,” I said.

“And the police insisted on talking to Georgia.” Mom sounded angry about it, as though her taking offense somehow proved the insanity of the police.

Grandy shrugged. “The police always want to talk to Georgia. Don't worry,” he said with a grin. “You get used to it.”

Mom looked back and forth between us. “The two of you!” She huffed. “I have groceries to put away.”

I had a bag of groceries, too, and would have to follow her into the house. Just how lucky could one girl
get?

I
n the days and early weeks after I had arrived in Wenwood, I divided what belongings I hadn't put into storage between my bedroom and my workshop. My summer clothes and personal items I unpacked right away. My stained glass supplies I left in boxes but labeled each carton carefully and kept them unsealed. Glass wasn't the sort of thing you left lying around. But I had worked my way through much of my stash in making pieces for both Carrie's shop and special orders, and when I moved the last carton out of its corner in the spare room—the tiny room to which I had been banished thanks to Mom and Ben's visit—three remaining boxes were exposed. Each bore the same scrawled word:
AUTUMN.

Now after leaving the boxes sealed like there was
some final slim chance I would cart them back to the city before the temperature dropped below seventy, I dragged the boxes out of their corner and tore open the tape keeping them closed. I needed sweatshirts and sweaters, a proper coat to keep me warm, and maybe a nice pair of boots. It didn't occur to me to view the opening of the cartons as some sort of defiance over Ben's conviction that I should be leaving. I supposed if I asked him, he would have recommended keeping the boxes closed until I found a new place as a means of adding an urgency to my move.

So when I found a paper-wrapped bundle of glass sheets tucked between a bulky cardigan and a Florida Gators sweatshirt, I got the shivering sense that whatever was in the package, I needed to use it to make something for me, for this new phase of my life.

I set the package of glass on the bed and tore away the masking tape holding the folds of paper together. Carefully pulling away the paper, I sucked in a surprised breath.

Van Gogh glass. How had I forgotten? How was that possible? The glorious swirls of blue and gold were painted on the glass with metallic auto paint, its opposite side sealed with a layer of black paint—a method used when making mirrors that gave the glass the same illusion of depth. Unlike most of the glass I worked with, this was opaque and not intended to have light shine through to bring out its beauty. I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it. How could something so unique have escaped my memory? But of course, the placement within a box of clothes answered that question. I had
bought the glass after all my other supplies had been packed and left in storage, when I was job hunting and sharing a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls and I should have been conserving my funds for rent and food. And yet . . .

Sometimes when life is at its toughest, finding a thing of beauty makes the struggle easier to bear.

The sheets of glass were not bank-breaking expensive. They were, in fact, reasonably, even low priced. The glass contained no precious metals to drive up its value, and held no rarity. And yet the swirl of color had reached right to my heart and I couldn't resist, even though I really didn't have money to spend on glass. That made the Van Gogh sheets an indulgence, or perhaps an investment in the belief that I would land on my feet somewhere and either have space big enough for a studio or enough money I could rent a corner in a glass shop at which to work.

With a mix of reverence and determination, I rewrapped the glass and left it on the bed. It had been forgotten in a box long enough.

Returning my attention to the carton, I selected a half-dozen sweaters and placed them, folded, upon the end of my bed. I dug a little farther until I came up with a pair of sweatpants and a faux-shearling-lined jacket and tossed them to the other end of the bed, reasoning that would be enough to keep me warm for the next month, at least. After tucking the box top folds so that the flaps wedged tightly together, I took the sweaters and the paper-wrapped glass in my arms and crept down the stairs.

Fifi was sound asleep in the low sunbeams streaking
through the living room window. Her legs were stiff straight, her tongue lolling against the side of her muzzle. When she'd first come to live with us, Grandy and I had each, separately, taken this position to mean she'd either dropped dead of a heart attack or the cat had scared her stiff. Fortunately, all it took was a few seconds of careful focus, and the rise and fall of her chest became easily visible. At which point, both Grandy and I decided she was trying to give us, or the cat, a heart attack.

But looking at Fifi renewed my awareness of how long it had been since I'd left Friday at the vet's. Those were low sun beams coming through the window, and my dog was sleeping when she might otherwise be chasing the cat.

Of course, I was carrying large sheets of glass, so rushing was out of the question as was dropping everything to call the office to check on Friday. I continued on my way, making the turn and taking the stairs down to my workshop. There, I gently set down the paper-wrapped glass on my worktable before carrying my sweaters down the few steps to the laundry room. I tossed them in the dryer and threw in a scented fabric softener sheet. With the dryer set to “Fluff” and the stored-in-cardboard scent of my sweaters on its way to being evicted, I was finally free to make the call.

I raced back up to my room to grab my cell but waited until I was once again in the workshop before I scrolled for the vet's number and hit the “Dial” icon.

Listening to the phone ring on the other end, I reached for the scrapbook storage box in which I stowed glass patterns and design ideas and kept beneath the worktable.

“Wenwood Veterinary. Can you hold?”

“Sure,” I said.

I tugged the lid off the box, reached inside, and lifted out a stack of papers. Folded glass patterns mingled with pages torn from magazines and printouts of images found during one computer search or another. Back issues of stained glass “newspapers” peppered the collection, each featuring a free pattern-of-the-month. I evaluated the page on top of the pile—an image of a peacock paper-clipped to a copy of its crinkled and folded pattern. The peacock was one of those pieces I intended to make “someday.” I collected patterns the way some people collected books, with plans of taking the time at some point in the future to lose oneself. I turned the peacock aside to reveal another “someday” pattern, this one of water lilies and reeds. I would have to consider making them for Carrie's shop, but first, I wanted something suitable for the Van Gogh glass.

I turned aside the water lilies and a wistful sigh escaped me. There sat not a traditional pattern, or cartoon as they were known in the stained glass world, but a list of measurements. At the left edge of the page I had clipped a picture of the finished project: an elaborate, albeit miniature, greenhouse, its style reminiscent of Great Britain's Crystal Palace. The pattern called for nothing but clear glass and a steady hand with lead. It was the need for perfectly straight lines and delicately angled corners that made the piece challenging. That, and the fact that once complete, it wasn't the sort of piece to be packed up and moved from place to place. It was a piece for a permanent home.

“How can I help you?” The voice on the other end of the phone broke clear through my wandering thoughts.

“I'm just calling to check on my cat, Friday. Last name Kelly,” I said. “I left her for x-rays. I wanted to be sure she was all right.”

My shoulders sagged as I held the greenhouse plans, ready to turn them aside. I had a flash of a vision where the completed greenhouse sat upon the sideboard in the dining room . . . in Grandy's dining room. But Grandy's house wasn't part of “someday,” was it?

The voice said, “Okay. Friday. Feline. Yeah, you can come pick her up anytime.”

I blinked. “Are you sure she can come home?” I asked eagerly. “Dr. Bucherati said she'd be there overnight.”

“Says here she can be released. She's been ready for at least an hour.”

I gritted my teeth momentarily, squinted one eye shut. My cat could come home and no one called me? “I'll be right there,” I said, and switched off the call. I dropped the greenhouse plans back in their box without another thought. Stained glass could wait. I wanted to know if my cat was okay.

*   *   *

I
n the car, with no distractions other than the occasional falling leaf or passing vehicle, I couldn't stop myself from replaying the conversation on the lawn, with highlights of talk from the night before. It was strange for me to realize that once I'd stopped planning on returning to the city, I had also stopped thinking of moving, well, anywhere. What Ben and Mom were saying about
me leaving Grandy felt like all new thoughts. Move out? I had long since decided I was staying in Wenwood for as long as I could keep my head above water financially. I had succumbed to its charm, its quirks, and its nearly tangible sense of community. And while the idea of moving out didn't necessarily mean leaving Wenwood, it did mean leaving Grandy, and that was a whole different issue.

Sure, when I'd first arrived at his doorstep with a U-Move-It trailer filled with a selection of my personal possessions and a key in my pocket to a storage facility that held the rest, I viewed my upcoming stay with Grandy as temporary. At that time I had envisioned “back on my feet” as back to the city—any city—back to the accounting department of some faceless, soulless corporation whose ultimate goal was unimaginable wealth and perhaps world domination. Wenwood, and Grandy in particular, in a short while had taught me that life really could be better without an expense account and an apartment in a building with a doorman. And me and Grandy, we made a good team, a good family. I had no desire to leave.

But then . . . maybe Grandy wanted me to go. Maybe he'd had enough of me and my glass and my propensity to bring home strays. Maybe he was eager to be on his own again and didn't have the words to tell me. Not that Grandy was one to keep his thoughts or his emotions to himself. He was a pretty straightforward guy, not known for pulling his punches. So what would stop him from being honest? Unless he worried he might hurt my feelings. Really hurt my feelings. Not like he did when he
told me even Fifi would refuse to eat my lentil salad in favor of a classic bologna sandwich. A deeper hurt. The kind that risked driving an immovable wedge between us.

I couldn't quite believe that was the case. But once the idea took hold in my mind, it would be a challenge to dislodge.

Sighing, I slowed the car and turned into one of the three vacant spots in front of the veterinarian's office. I needed to stop letting Ben's commentary get under my skin. I had bigger things to worry about. Probably.

The glass rattled in the door as I pulled it open. I hustled inside the waiting room of the vet's office and straight to the reception desk. “I'm here to pick up Friday,” I said.

The receptionist looked up and for a moment I was convinced she was going to tell me to sign in and wait. Instead she nodded toward the benches wrapping the waiting room. “Have a seat. I'll tell the doctor you're here.”

Having studied earlier in the day the chart of dog breeds and the reasons you needed to care for your pet's dental health, I did what I'd become increasingly inclined to do while waiting. I pulled out my phone and texted Carrie.
We still on for tonight?
I wrote.

As I hit “Send,” I realized just how much I was looking forward to seeing my friends for our regular girls' night out. Ordinarily, spending an evening with Carrie and Diana was relaxing good fun. I had a feeling tonight's get-together for me would be more like therapy.

“Friday?”

I looked up to find Dr. Bucherati standing at the end
of the reception counter, folder in hand. She smiled and waved me toward her. “Come on back.”

She led me into a different exam room than the one we had been in that morning. This one was slightly larger, with a window in the wall opposite the door and a wall of cabinets above and below a countertop facing the aluminum exam table. Atop the table was my pet carrier, and Friday crouched within it growling softly.

“Her x-rays are clear,” Dr. Bucherati said, opening the folder. Checking what was written there, she continued, “There's no evidence she ingested any foreign substances and her bones show normal growth.”

As confident as I had been that Friday hadn't swallowed glass or worse, still I went a little limp with relief. I popped open the carrier door and peered in at her.

She growled louder, clearly not as happy to see me as I was to see her.

“She is due, though, for her second dose of FeLV. Do you want to do that now or wait until you bring her for her spay?” Dr. Bucherati had already stepped back to the cabinets and pulled open a drawer. From where I stood, it was easy to spy the collection of prepackaged injections arrayed in containers.

“Um . . .” I stalled, guilt awakening in my belly.

Dr. Bucherati smiled gently. “You already paid for this one when we did the first.”

I shook my head, lowered my eyes. “I'm sorry. I hate to reduce things to money. Yes, if you can do the injection now, that would be fine.”

“Don't worry,” she said, turning her back to me as she
sorted through the selection of paper-wrapped syringes. “I understand the cost of pet care can be prohibitive. We can always work out a payment plan if it becomes necessary.”

“Really?” I said. “But . . .” I looked to the door, which was about all I could do to convey the idea that the receptionist had a different perspective.

“Don't worry about Lee,” she said. “If I tell her it's okay, she'll set up the plan. I don't want anyone to risk their pet's health because they fear the cost of care. Now. If you could take her out of the carrier and hold her, this will only take a moment.”

Gratitude rose an unexpected lump in my throat. Swallowing against the threat of tears, I carefully extracted Friday from the carrier, thanking Dr. Bucherati as I did so. It hit me then that my day had been a roller coaster of emotions from family to pets to police.