Death Under Glass (21 page)

“Hey, you know,” Carrie said overbrightly. “The pictures from the albums in that box I was supposed to give to Russ don't fall off the page like this. What do you think? Better glue or stickier spit?”

Skipping right past rumble, thunder cracked. I took a slow deep breath before a flash of lightning brightened the room.

“Well that doesn't make sense,” I muttered, fighting to focus my mind away from my single status and onto a thought that was just out of reach. “The pictures in those albums are older even than these.” I recalled blurred faces and sepia tones. Little boys in short pants and women in long dresses. “If these photo corners aren't holding, the others shouldn't either.”

Carrie shrugged. “Maybe—what was her name? Heaney? Maybe Mrs. Heaney redid the albums.”

My eyebrows crept up my forehead. “Why would she do that?”

“Why not? Preserve memories.” She took a bite of her sandwich.

“No.” I shook my head. “Why go to all the trouble of resetting old photographs in the same old album? If you're preserving, why not get something new? Something that protects the pictures?”

Her chewing stilled. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and said, “What are you thinking?”

Pushing my chair back, I stood. “I'm thinking there's something important about those pictures. Can we get that box out of your trunk?”

Carrie sprang from her seat. “The keys are in my bag.” She hustled out of the dining room and in seconds I heard her dash up the stairs, followed by “Get off my purse, Friday!”

I inverted the Styrofoam containers over each of our plates in case little paws—displaced from the splendor of Carrie's handbag—came seeking. When Carrie returned to the main floor, keys in hand, I waved her ahead of me through the open door.

“What could be special about the pictures?” she asked as we crossed the lawn.

A fat raindrop broke across my nose. “I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe it's whatever the arsonist/burglar/murderer is looking for. I figure it's worth finding out, don't you?”

“Oh my gosh, is it raining? Now?” She increased her speed, reaching the car well ahead of me. I was in no rush. For me—and my hair—humidity was far worse than rain.

I looked on as she slipped the key into the lock, and left the key ring in place as the trunk rose. The trunk light burst on, making me blink in discomfort, making me suddenly aware of the encroaching darkness.

Nestled beside the milk crate stocked with automotive necessities in the trunk was the carton and bag Melanie had turned over to Carrie's care. She reached into the trunk and tugged open the flap of the carton. “How many photo albums are there?” she asked, peering inside.

“There's a bunch,” I said. “Do you remember which ones had all the pictures still stuck in place?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing more than an
ummm
escaped.

“Maybe take the whole box,” I suggested.

Nodding, she wrapped her arms around the carton and lifted it free of the trunk. When she was clear, I reached up and slammed shut the trunk. Raindrops hit forcefully against the top of my head and my shoulders as I tugged the keys free and matched Carrie's quick pace back into the house.

She brought the carton directly into the living room
and set it down atop the coffee table. Wasting no time, she pulled open the remaining flaps keeping the box closed and withdrew a pair of photo albums. “Here.” She held one out to me as she sat down on the couch.

Taking the album, I sat down beside her and laid it across my lap. I opened the album and went directly to the first page.

I suppose I expected to see the same pictures I had seen when glancing through the album at Carrie's apartment. Subconsciously I may have been looking for the solemn parents, the restless child, the cascade of lace concealing an infant. So that what I did see registered no deeper than a vague sense of familiarity.

The photos were more recent than those I had previously seen, but still old enough to be thick-papered black-and-white photos, many with deckle-edged borders. I tried to pull one free of the photo corners holding it in place, but the picture came away from the page with its dried-out corners still in place. It came away cleanly and effortlessly, and I knew before I even checked the back that there would be nothing there out of the ordinary.

Memorial Day, 1941.

I sighed, and Carrie looked up from her album.

Seeing what I'd done, she tugged at the picture on the page in front of her.

The photo slipped out of its corners, and left no need to check the back for secrets. The paper that had been tucked behind it fluttered into Carrie's
lap.

S
he blew out a breath and began reading. “I, Margaret Mary Heaney, residing at 97 Riverside Drive . . . blah blah . . . declare this to be my last will and testament. I revoke all wills and—” Carrie glanced up at me. “She underlined
revoke
three times.”

My fingers itched to take the paper from her hands. I closed the album in my lap and gripped it tightly, keeping my hands to myself. “Guess she changed her mind about something,” I muttered.

Carrie's gaze moved rapidly across the page before she gasped. “She's named Herb Gallo as her executor,” she said on a breath.

I shifted closer to her, attempting to read for myself the page that she held. “I'm sure a lot of people appoint
a lawyer as executor. Of course,” I added, “not everyone's lawyers were murdered.”

We shared a look between us, the kind that said we understood whatever was in the document was important.

“What else?” I asked, tipping my chin toward the will.

She cleared her throat and returned to the paper. Though her voice remained steady, the paper fluttered from her slight trembling. “Okay, um . . . devise, bequeath, and give the property at 97 Riverside Drive to the SPCA. Oh, that's nice.”

I nodded agreement.

“I devise, bequeath and give only”—Carrie glanced at me; “More underlining,” she said, before continuing—“the assets in my account at First Federal Savings to my grandson, Curtis Adam Heaney, who has much to learn about the value of money and the importance of making your own way in the world.”

“Only?” I repeated, in the split second before the implication fell into place. “‘Revised' and ‘only.' Curtis was cut out of the will.”

“If in the original will he was to inherit the house—”

“On Riverside,” I said. “Where Spring and Hamilton are buying up property—”

“He stood to make a lot of money.”

“If,” I put in, “this revised will stayed hidden.” I shifted to the edge of my seat, and lifted my purse from the coffee table. Digging within for my smartphone, I asked, “What are the odds Curtis Heaney is the same Curtis we met that night at town hall?”

“Probably pretty good. How many men are named Curtis these days? And are jackasses.”

I pulled my smartphone out and opened a search app. Keying in “Curtis Heaney” and “images,” I sat back on the couch and waited for the less than blistering data speed to deliver me content. “What else does it say?”

Carrie shook her head, scanned the page. “That's pretty much it. It—oh no.”

“What oh no?”

“The witnesses,” she said, turning the paper so I could see. “Adele Chesterton and Trudy Villiers.”

“Trudy?” I sat up straight. Memories of Trudy talking about her younger days in Wenwood swirled in mind. “Didn't she mention something about an Adele who died?”

My Internet search completed at the same moment Carrie asked, “What if she didn't die of natural causes?”

On a single breath, I let out every vile curse I knew.

The man on the screen, the one Curtis Heaney, was indeed the same man we'd met at the town hall meeting, the man who was later talking with Melanie. We'd encountered him on the path in front of Trudy's house. And he'd been sitting in Grace's luncheonette not two hours ago. For Pete's sake, I'd
waved
to the slimeball.

I showed the screen to Carrie.

“Oh my God,” she said. “It is him.”

I sprang from the couch, grabbing my purse and hers as I did so. “We have to get to Trudy,” I said.

“What about this?” She held up the will. “What do we do with this?”

I handed over her purse. “I don't know. Call your ex? Let's go.”

I took a step toward the door, but Carrie stood frozen to the spot, hugging her purse to her chest. “Maybe we should call the police.”

Waving my cell phone, I said, “I got it. You just have to drive. Come on.”

As if she'd been hit with an electrified prod, Carrie sprang into motion, scurrying to meet me at the door.

I opened my contact list on my phone, found the number for the precinct at the top of my list under “##.” Carrie stepped out onto the porch while I pushed “Dial” and followed her, pulling the door shut behind me.

“Why hide the will, though?” I asked. I held the phone to my ear, waiting for the call to connect, and dashed down the steps beside Carrie. “Why not file it with, I don't know, the county clerk or whoever keeps these things?”

“Lawyers keep originals,” Carrie said. She raised a hand to her forehead, warding off the rain now falling in steady sheets.

A man's voice stopped us both in our tracks. “How about you stop right there,” he said.

We both turned, startled.

Curtis Heaney stood in the middle of Grandy's brick walkway. Rain soaked his dark hair against his head and glinted off his mustache. No bolt of lightning was needed to reveal the gun in his hand.

My body went liquid. Strength drained from my muscles. The arm holding the phone to my ear drifted downward.

“Get rid of the phone and give me the will.”

Carrie sidestepped closer to me. Being elbow-to-elbow with her gave my confidence a jolt.

“I really can't afford a new phone and if I drop this one in the rain it—”

“Disconnect it and drop it.” Curtis raised the gun. Clearly I had mistaken stupidity for confidence.

I looked down at the phone, at the sound wave icon that told me the phone was ringing on the other end. Reaching to the side, phone in my outstretched hand, I let our connection to help fall into the wet grass.

“Is this where we make a break for it?” Carrie asked, her voice barely audible.

“Can you outrun a gun?” I asked.

“Now give me the will,” Curtis said.

“Oh. I don't . . .” Carrie began.

“If the will gets wet, it might be ruined,” I said, because of the aforementioned stupidity.

Curtis laughed a great, barking laugh. He stopped just short of letting his head fall back. “You think I want that thing readable? You think I've been following you for days because I wanted that thing to be seen?”

He took a step toward us, as though closing the distance would make the gun more effective. It was with that movement that I realized there was no silencer on the gun. If Curtis fired, the neighborhood would hear.

In fact . . .

“Curtis Heaney!” I shouted. “What are you doing with that gun?”

“Georgia,” Carrie cautioned.

“Just put the gun down,” I shouted again. “Put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”

Curtis took another step closer, and did the same laughing thing. “No one's going to hear you,” he said over a slightly amused, mostly manic laugh. “It's hot. It's raining. No one's windows are open except yours. Thanks for that, by the way. I might not have seen where you found that will but I heard enough.”

Drat.

“Now hand over the will.” He enunciated each word, letting them out one at a time like the bang of a drum.

“Fine. Fine.” Carrie shifted her purse around so it covered her belly. Unzipping the main pocket, she looked to me from the corner of her eye. Head down, she asked, “Should I give it to him?”

I narrowed my eyes at Curtis, which, as a bonus, kept the rain out. “Go ahead. Give it to him. You said yourself, lawyers keep originals.”

Curtis grinned. “Too bad old man Gallo didn't take better care of them.”

The impact of his words sunk in perhaps a little slower than they would have had Curtis not been holding us at gunpoint. “We have the only copy,” I said on a breath.

“I'm running out of patience,” Curtis snapped.

“Here,” Carrie said, shoving her hand in her bag. “Here. Just take it and go.”

I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to stop her from pulling the will from her purse and giving it to the man who had very likely been the cause of theft and fire and murder. But I had no idea how.

When no better option sprang to mind, I reached to block her arm with my own. “No,” I said. “Don't give it to him.”

Again he raised the gun, straightening his arm so his gaze seemed to reach down the barrel. “Do. Now. No more delays.”

One deep breath, and I ripped the purse from Carrie's grasp. “Run!” I shouted. “Run for help!”

Roaring like an injured bear, Curtis lurched forward. With his empty hand he reached for the purse I held tucked to my chest.

Carrie, caught unaware by my command to run, stood rooted.

I spun, putting my back to Curtis even as his arm wrapped around me. Anticipating his grab for the purse, I held it tighter. When his arm instead clamped tight around me, he had me pinned.

His breath was hot on my ear. The barrel of the gun pressed to the side of my head surprisingly . . . prickly? But there was no time to focus on mistaken expectations.

“I can shoot you right now,” he said, “and your skull will muffle the noise.”

“Georgia,” Carrie whimpered. Eyes wide and glistening she glanced left and right.

“Go,” I managed before the weight of my muscles, the challenge of staying upright while my body melted with fear, became too much.

Somewhere between muscle failure and a swoon, I slid downward. Sinking to the wet ground, the gun barrel slipped against the top of my head, losing contact.

I kept hold of the purse. So did Curtis. He tugged. I held fast. No way was I going to let go of that bag. It's a girl thing.

“Georgia just give him the bag,” Carrie pleaded.

“Can't,” I said.

“Please,” she said.

But Carrie was facing us, her back to the street. She didn't see.

I sunk farther, spine curving, tail tucking. The last thing I saw before my view was blocked by the purse I wouldn't release was the green and gold stripe of the Pace County PD squad car.

The vehicle
shoosh
ed to a stop in the rain. A split second later, my new favorite phrase rang out.

“Freeze! Police!”

“Oh thank God,” Carrie said.

“Drop the weapon,” the officer commanded. “Drop the weapon!”

The gun fell onto the grass beside me. Literally. The stupid thing sat on top of blades of grass like they were a bed of nails. Two thoughts hit me at once:

The damn thing was plastic. That's why he didn't shoot. Plastic.

And I was going to have to mow the lawn, if it ever stopped raining.

*   *   *

“I
t would be best, really, if all these squad cars and flashing lights could be gone before my grandfather gets home,” I said.

Detective Nolan smirked.

“Really. It's not about you,” I said. “He's an old man. I don't want to give him a heart attack or anything.”

“First of all, I have no doubt the neighbors have already called him.” Standing beside the couch where I sat, the detective folded closed his notebook and slipped it into the back pocket of his worn, frayed jeans. His T-shirt had a faded Captain America logo, and it, along with his hair, was rain soaked. “Second of all, your grandfather is a tough old goat who's going to outlive us all.”

He was probably right on both counts.

“What happens to Curtis?” Carrie asked as she set a cup of hot tea down on the coffee table. It seemed wrong, suddenly, to have tea on a coffee table. I giggled quietly. “Tea on a coffee table,” I murmured. “Tea. Coffee.” I giggled a little more.

“He'll be spending the rest of his night being questioned,” Nolan said.

“Don't give him any tea,” I said, reaching for my own.

“She might be a little out of it after the stress,” Nolan said. I looked up to find him facing Carrie. “You think you could stick around, make sure she's all right?”

“Of course,” Carrie said.

I might have been addled after having a gun held to my head, even if it did turn out to be a toy old enough to predate the neon-colored toy-gun law. But I was still aware enough to know Nolan was nice, and Carrie was a good friend.

“Davis—I mean, Diana—will be by after ten to check up on things,” he said.

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” Carrie said.

I took a sip of tea, discovered it was very hot, and set it gingerly back on the table.

“It's not about ‘necessary,'” Nolan said. He rested a hand against my shoulder, briefly. “We'll be in touch.”

He strode from the room, back out into the rainy night. The room, in his absence, seemed somehow emptier.

“He's a nice guy.” Carrie dropped to the couch beside me and let her head fall back against the cushions.

I nodded. “He's a cop.”

“Yes, he is. And I think he likes you.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But I'm having dinner with Tony next Sunday.”

Evidently having decided the coast was clear, Friday raced into the room and catapulted into my lap. I buried my fingers in her warm silky fur and pressed a series of kisses against her head.

“So,” Carrie said, “you're having dinner with a construction worker and you've got an admirer who's a cop. If you ever find yourself without a date, I guess you can just pick one of the other Village People.”