Cracked to Death (3 page)

“I've got it all laid out on these two large tables. I don't know what I was thinking when I agreed to such a tight deadline for a monstrous five-panel installation.” The paper templates placed on the table tops outlined the intricate design, which incorporated grapevines and grapes draped along wooden trellis supports. The grape branches were heavily laden with wisteria blooms.

“When is it to be finished?”

“In about three weeks, but I need the final payment as quickly as possible, so I'm trying to finish it early. Luckily, the deposit covered all the materials.”

“You'll get it done early, then. You always do what you say.”

Savannah smiled. “My problem is overcommitting. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? You mean every time.” Edward looked at his watch. “I've got to get back to the pub. The lunch crowd will soon be arriving. Thanks for the coffee.” He leaned over to kiss her good-bye and then walked out of the studio.

The rumbling of Edward's Indian motorcycle rose and then faded, and Savannah stood in front of the commissioned pieces, enjoying the feeling of warmth he had left behind
.

Her ex-boyfriend in Seattle had been controlling and demanding, and their breakup had shaken her confidence in recognizing a good relationship. She felt lucky to have Edward in her life.
Now what am I going to do? I need to commit soon or let him know I'm not interested. It seems too soon after my breakup with my Seattle boyfriend, but it's now been about six months.
When Edward's parents had visited him a few months ago, his mother had assumed they were in a relationship.
Such an adorable pair. They made me feel like I have known them forever. I'd like to be part of a family again. Is it time to step up?

Shaking off those thoughts, she made herself another espresso and made her way over to her cozy little office. The office at the studio reflected her personality as much as the office at Webb's Glass Shop was modeled after her father. A light-giving wall-to-ceiling window had dictated the placement her height-adjusting computer desk so that it faced the window so she could see the large monitor. The bright office also contained a stained glass worktable, which stood against the opposite wall, for her small jewelry projects. She had a comfortable modern desk chair and a tall work stool, which provided her the ability to shift easily from working on paperwork to working on glasswork and back again.

As she took a seat on her work stool, she jumped into her morning routine and started checking all the tasks that needed to be completed to keep both businesses running smoothly. Trudging through invoices, orders, collections, and payments didn't take long, because she tackled this several times each day, determined not to mimic her father's approach. She remembered how he detested the piles of paper, and as a result of this loathing, many opportunities had slipped through the cracks. He hadn't minded the actual paperwork but had preferred giving his time to his students and working on complicated stained glass panels that no other glass shop could handle.

Her father's death, along with that of his assistant, had brought Edward, Amanda, and Jacob together to help her find their killer. That had led to an investigation into a death at an art festival, and this had transformed their friendship into a tighter-than-family bond.

The
tap, tap, tap
of Suzy's protective booties warned Savannah that Jacob was on his way to her office. He peeked around the door.

“Miss Savannah, I'm ready for you to check my work.”

Delighted to be distracted from her thoughts, she hopped up and followed Jacob into the large workshop. He stopped, standing barely inside the door, and lifted Suzy into a stiff embrace.

He's nervous
.

“Don't worry. Your work is always perfect. But you are still learning, so that's one reason why I want to check on your work. That way if there is anything to fix, it's easier to catch it and correct it now, while the work is still in progress. The other important point is that all professionals need to get feedback from one of their peers. It's so easy to overlook an obvious flaw in your own work. Now, let me take a look, Jacob.”

The restoration project had been brought to them in a five-gallon bucket by the owner of the penthouse in the Snell Arcade Building downtown. The glass pieces had provided Jacob weeks of satisfying effort as he reconstructed the original layout. He loved a good puzzle. The final panel was a traditional oblong, about seven feet long and three feet wide. It appeared to be about two hundred years old.

She ran her fingers along the cleaned pieces of glass and tried to detect which were new and which were older. It was difficult to tell. The teal color had been easy to match with a popular cathedral glass. The ruby pieces had presented a more difficult challenge.

“Well, Jacob, your idea of using the new ruby replacement pieces along the bottom edge and using the vintage glass in the main body of the panel has worked out beautifully. If I didn't know about that approach, I wouldn't be able to detect the slight color variation.”

Jacob nuzzled Suzy with his chin and smiled. “Good.”

Savannah stepped back and looked at the overall piece. “It's beautiful. Our client is going to be so pleased. Start soldering it together.” She scratched Suzy behind the ears. “You'll soon be helping me with the five-panel commission. Well done.”

She heard a car drive up on the gravel and went out through the main door. Helen, her former student, was opening the trunk to her silver car and was removing a large window–sized panel.

“Hi, Helen. Let me help you unload.”

“Thanks, Savannah. Could you grab the white canvas bag and the toolbox? I'm so excited to have my own space.”

Savannah grabbed the toolbox and slipped the canvas bag over her shoulder, making sure she had one hand free so she could open the door for Helen, who was stiff and was taking very measured steps as she carried her treasure to the studio.

After Helen had cleared the door, Savannah pointed toward the work spaces on the window side of the building. “There are eight work spaces, but only four of them have been completely furnished so far. So you get your pick of the first four. Sound good?”

Helen continued to walk very carefully as they made the thirty-foot journey to the first work space. She gently laid down her mounted panel on the worktable. “This is good. I'll take this one.” She looked at the storage shelves, the small desk, and the full-size worktable. “This is perfect. Simple but comfortable.”

“Thanks. I'll let you get settled.” Savannah placed the toolbox and the canvas bag on top of the desk. “Do you remember where everything is from your first visit?”

Smiling, Helen nodded and began to unload the contents of the canvas bag.

“Great! I'll be in my office. Let me know if you need anything.”

Savannah returned to her office and sat down at her computer. She opened the new Web site she had begun creating for Webb's Studio. It had an intro page and a contact page so far, and now she was trying to add a page to show the layout of each studio work space, but the hosting software wasn't exactly user-friendly.

The ring of her cell phone startled her. She glanced at the phone's screen and saw it was Amanda who was calling. She answered. “Hi there. Is anything wrong?” She looked at her watch, and it was nearly one o'clock.

“Nothing's wrong . . . exactly.” Amanda's voice rose. “I thought you were going to look at those old bottles Martin brought in.”

“Oh yeah. I was planning on going to the shop after the class was over to take a look at them. What's the rush?”

“Martin is pushing. I don't think they should be fused.” Amanda began talking even faster than her normal mile a minute. “I wasn't comfortable with putting them in the kiln, so I did some Internet searches, in case they are valuable. I used your dad's computer. You don't mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. You're the office manager now.”

“Well, even though it took forever to get some answers, because of the tragically slow bandwidth speed, it appears these bottles date from the early eighteen hundreds.” Amanda's voice rose even higher. “Do you have any idea what it means?”

“No. I'm not—”

“No way can they go into the kiln.”

Chapter 3

 

Savannah touched base with Jacob and Helen to make sure they didn't have any design issues. A major selling point for the studio was that she would be available for consultation and guidance to glass artists. With time and a little training, Jacob would be a great resource for students, too. It set her apart from the other artists' lofts in the area.

Then she grabbed her backpack and keys and rushed out to her car. She opened the door to the Mini and was met with a rush of stale heat. “Damn.” She hadn't put the sun shield in the window, so her car was hotter than a glass furnace. She started the car, then grabbed a small towel from the passenger seat and threw it over the steering wheel. She cranked up the air-conditioning—full fan, with maximum cold—then opened both front doors.

It took a few long minutes for the scorching heat to drop to merely Africa hot, and then she drove the half dozen or so blocks to Webb's Glass Shop. When she entered the shop through the back, Amanda was waiting for her by the large kiln in the supply room.

“At last. I want you to check out how I've loaded the kiln.”

“Sure.” Savannah bent over and looked down into the large fusing kiln and made a few minor adjustments to one of the recycled bottles that would flatten during the fusing cycle. “I'm adding a small block to prevent this one from rolling around. The spacing is important, but you also don't want one of the bottles to roll into anything else in the kiln. That would destroy two pieces.” She stood up. “This looks good. You're getting better at using the space efficiently.”

“Thanks.” Amanda closed the large, heavy lid with the help of a pulley-and-cable system attached to the ceiling. “Also, thanks for programming the kiln. I need to learn how to do it soon.”

“Let's look at Martin's bottles. I thought he was thinking of making them into cheese trays. Of course, that color would make beautiful trays. Where are they?”

“I left them in the classroom. After my bit of research, there was no way I was going to throw those bottles in the kiln. I asked Martin about it, and he didn't seem to want them slumped, either. He left them for me to research. Pretty strange.”

“I agree, but most artists are strange—which includes you and me.” Savannah winked, and they walked into the classroom, which was empty and silent now. The two deep blue bottles were standing in the center of the first worktable.

Savannah picked one up and looked at the bottom of it. There was a small image pressed into the bottom near the edge, but it was indistinct. She rubbed her finger over the center of the bottom of the bottle. “This looks like it was mouth blown using a mold.”

She held the bottle up to the light and saw the wavy shimmers typical of blown glass. “What did you find out in your online searches?”

“Mostly, I found out how difficult it is to identify vintage glass bottles.” Amanda picked up the other bottle. “According to one Web site, these are typical of British bottles that were exported beginning in seventeen twenty. Then I found another site that claimed they were made after eighteen eighty.”

Amanda put the bottle down and folded her arms. “Here's the rub. The bottles could be real artifacts, or they're counterfeit and not worth anything but the value of the glass itself. I thought you were going to find an expert.”

“Hold your horses, Miss Blake. I'm not exactly flush with free time right now. I have a couple of ideas. I'm going to ask an old friend of mine. She's an antique dealer,” said Savannah.

“Does she specialize in glass bottles?”

“No, but she will know someone who does. I'll take one of them along and see what she recommends.” She put down the bottle she was holding. “Could you please wrap one of them up while I give her a call?”

Amanda grabbled one of the bottles, and they both returned to the display room. While Amanda rolled the bottle in brown paper and put it in a brown paper gift bag, Savannah picked up the phone on the counter and dialed her friend.

Her friend's phone rang only once before the call was answered. “Good afternoon. This is Robin Jefferson Rackley at Main House Antique Center. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Robin. This is Savannah. Do you have time to look at an old bottle that one of my students brought in for flattening into a cheese tray? I think it's rare and possibly too valuable.”

“Sure. I'm here all afternoon.”

“Great. I'll be over later this afternoon. Thanks, Robin.”

* * *

Savannah found Robin sitting on a tall chrome-and-red-leather bar stool at the Main House Antique Center's checkout counter. Located in the heart of St. Petersburg, the building housing the Antique Center, a multi-dealer antique mall, was formerly a three-bedroom home. Each participating vendor had an individual space to display antique furniture, Depression glassware, art glass, vintage pottery, retro jewelry, and more. Family owned by Robin's parents and operated for more than twenty-eight years, the little mall supported over twenty antique and collectible dealers.

Robin ran from behind the counter and wrapped Savannah in a monster hug. “What a great surprise. I haven't seen you since . . . Well, I guess the last time was about six months ago, a few weeks after your dad's funeral. That was certainly a difficult time. How are you holding up?”

Savannah took a moment to think about her answer. “I'm doing pretty well. It was a bitter shock in the beginning, but I'm really starting to rebuild my life here.”

“You're the only person I know who has been involved with murder investigations. I get the deal with your father, but what about the young woman who was killed at the Spinnaker Festival? How did you get drawn into it?”

Savannah cleared her suddenly raspy throat. “Well, I didn't really have a choice. I was the only one who believed it was murder in my father's case, and I found the body of the young woman in the second case. I think it concentrates your mind wonderfully when you are the prime suspect in a murder. I had no choice but to get involved if I didn't want to be convicted.”

“Good point.” Robin's perfectly applied makeup and expertly groomed hair completely belied the fact she was in her midfifties. She had been friends with Savannah's mother, Dorothy, and after she died of cancer at only thirty-nine, Robin became Savannah's friend and confidante. Those flashing eyes held a spirited joy of life and a love that had sustained Savannah when in need of nurturing, non-judgmental advice.

Savannah placed the bag containing Martin's bottle on the counter. “Anyway, tell me what you think of this.”

“Sure, little Vanna.” Robin took the bottle out of the bag, removed the brown paper it was wrapped in, and stood it on the counter. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head to one side. “Yep, this is old. Ancient perhaps. There are a few reference books over in my dealer space I want to use for research. Wander around if you like. This may take some time.”

Feeling a bit like she was playing hooky, Savannah enjoyed her stroll among the little nooks and crannies stuffed with each of the dealers' individual taste in wares. While browsing, she managed to appraise casually most of the furniture in her family Craftsman home and was stunned at the prices marked on some of the older pieces. She knew they were beautiful and skillfully made, but she hadn't kept up with their increasing value.

I need to review the assessment values for the furniture covered by my homeowner's insurance
, she thought.

“Vanna!”

“I'm over at the front door.” Savannah scurried back over to the counter.

Robin was beaming with a pink flush. “Wow. You've got a great find here.” She cradled the cobalt blue bottle in her arms like a tiny infant. “I'm not an expert at all, but from what I can find in my books on collectible bottles, this is worth five hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“That is very good news. I'll tell my student.”

Robin placed the bottle gently on the counter and noticed the laptop on the table behind the counter. “Let me scan the online auctions now that I know that we're searching the auction sites for cobalt blue bottles. There should be a ton of pricing information.”

Savannah looked over Robin's shoulder as she brought up the most popular sites and searched for vintage cobalt blue bottles. Robin's estimate was confirmed. They found bids up to twenty-five hundred dollars.

“Where did your student get the bottle?”

Savannah shook her head. “He said he found it near the Intracoastal Waterway while he was diving for salvage. It will be interesting to see his reaction when I tell him tomorrow.”

Robin raised a calculating eye to the ceiling. “You know, if we can confirm that they date to the time of Gaspar the Pirate, then they could be worth many, many times that value. There are lots of rumors, but no solid confirmation, that Gaspar buried treasure in the area, but if this is even remotely possible, the value will go through the roof.”

The earliest parade in Savannah's memory was the annual Gasparilla night parade through the streets of downtown St. Petersburg. It was a raucous affair, with brightly lit floats in the shape of pirate ships, populated with men and women dressed as Spanish royalty, who threw candy and beads to the crowds lining Central Avenue. The floats were each accompanied by dozens of costumed pirates firing flame-shooting pistols to celebrate Gaspar the Pirate.

“I know only about the celebrations we have. You know, the Gasparilla Day pirate invasion in Tampa, the Gasparilla race along Bayshore Boulevard, and I always went to the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts to look at the glass exhibits. I know nothing about the pirate himself.”

Robin patted Savannah on the shoulder. “You poor little thing. I can't believe you've escaped all the hype over the past few years about finding one of his treasure troves. There's been a lot of hearsay that he used the Intracoastal Waterway along the Gulf of Mexico for stashing booty for years and years. That's how Treasure Island got its name.”

“I knew that, but why the new interest?”

Robin's eyes brightened. “Coins dating to that era have been showing up in very quiet collector circles. That can only mean that treasure has been found. Where there is treasure, there may also be more ordinary artifacts, like bottles.”

* * *

On the drive back to Webb's, she wondered where Martin could have come across such a bottle. He had said it was on the sea floor where he was diving. It could be a cover-up story. Family heirloom? Flea market? Maybe even in a Dumpster. Martin didn't wear the look of the comfortably well off. He didn't look like he could afford the price of the upcycling class he was taking. Maybe someone had paid the fee as a gift.

When she got to Webb's, Amanda was making the final rounds, turning off the lights and closing up the shop. When she saw Savannah enter from the back door, she flipped the light back on in the classroom and walked over to Martin's worktable.

“What did you find out?” she called out.

Savannah entered the classroom and placed the brown bag next to the unwrapped bottle on Martin's classroom worktable. “Your instincts were right. The bottle could be worth as much as twenty-five hundred.”

Amanda squealed and clapped her hands. “Oh, wonderful! That would be five thousand dollars for the set. What a difference it will make to him.”

“Do you know where he got them?”

“I think . . .” She hesitated for a moment and then started again. “I remember he said he found them on the sea bottom where he was diving, but he didn't say exactly where. He seemed a bit reluctant to talk about the exact site.”

“Well, when he gets here tomorrow morning, we'll tell him the good news and find out how he came into possession of such valuable artifacts.”

Amanda turned pale under her pearled makeup. “Okay. Well, I've got to hurry to see my mother. She's not doing so well at the nursing home, and I promised to go over right after work.” She grabbed her purse and keys, then almost flew out the front door. “See you tomorrow,” she called out over her shoulder.

Savannah stood in the large silence left in Amanda's wake, feeling a little confused. It wasn't like Amanda to rush away without asking tons of questions and thoroughly discussing in detail all the interesting facts she had discovered about the bottles.

Walking into each of the rooms of the glass shop, she checked that the lights were turned off. In the supply room, she walked over to the large kiln. The lid was down, but it was still attached to the rigged pulley system. Peeking inside the kiln viewing hole, she saw the bottles that the students were expecting to have slumped and fused for tomorrow's class. She bent over to look at the control panel. It was apparent that the programming was complete and that all that was left to do was to press the START button.

Savannah pressed the START button, and when she was sure the kiln's automatic programming had safely started, she keyed the shop's alarm and locked the door behind her. It was not like Amanda to forget such an obvious part of the fusing cycle. Maybe teaching the first day of class had been more stressful than Amanda expected.