Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) (13 page)

Grace ambled by with a menu, checking to see if I wanted coffee. I requested a double. She headed off without even blinking, and I knew right then she intended to bring me a regulation-sized cup.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?” Drew leaned back, tugged at the collar of his pale blue polo shirt.

“I wanted to ask you to look at something for me.” I set the photocopies of the Town Council’s agreement with Tony Himmel on the table.

“You need legal advice?”

“I need a decoder ring,” I admitted. “It looks straightforward enough, but I can’t help thinking I’m missing something.”

Drew nodded. “We lawyers like to sneak innocuous-looking clauses into contracts that in reality demand payment in blood.”

“Yes, that’s my understanding as well.” I slid the agreement toward him. “So if I’m reading this correctly, Stone Mountain Construction made this deal with the Wenwood Town Council promising any building or decorating materials that can be ordered through a Wenwood business would be ordered through a Wenwood business.”

Without looking at the agreement, Drew nodded vigorously. “Exactly. The granting of building permits to Stone Mountain was contingent upon that proviso. I was there.”

“Okaaaay. But what I can’t dope out from reading this is what the penalty is if the construction company violates the terms of this agreement. What happens then?”

Coming to a stop at the end of the table, Grace plunked down a heavy porcelain coffee mug. “Then we put ’em in the stockade and throw rotten vegetables at them.”

She hooted at her own joke while I pictured Tony Himmel locked in the stocks, his broad shoulders stretched to accommodate the distance from wrist-lock to wrist-lock. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be one to throw tomatoes at him, or help him escape.

“Heard you stopped by the station house yesterday,” Grace said, pulling an order pad from her apron pocket.

“Umm . . . yeah . . .” was the best I could do. Diana had been less than friendly, yet she mentioned my visit to her aunt?

“You went to the station?” Drew asked.

I met Drew’s gaze. “I wanted to talk to Detective Nolan, but he wasn’t in. Come to think of it, I left a message at the desk asking him to call, but I haven’t heard back.”

“I’m sure Diana let him know.” Grace’s tone held a slightly defensive lilt.

“I’m sure she did,” I said, “even if she wasn’t thrilled to be doing something on my behalf.”

The words sneaked out. I didn’t mean for them to. I didn’t mean for my inner insecurities to be released in the light of day, right there in the luncheonette.

Grace caught me in the crosshairs of her glare. Brow furrowed, mouth turned down, she put a fist on her hip and asked, “Did something happen between you girls again?”

“If it did, I don’t know what it was,” I said. A little afraid of Grace, I explained to Drew instead. “Okay, I probably screwed up by mentioning cheerleading as a poor career choice but how was I supposed to know?”

Not to be distracted, Drew asked, “Why did you go to the police station?”

“Diana doesn’t like to talk about her past,” Grace said.

“Can we just order?”

Drew bowed his head over his menu and Grace put the tip of her pencil to the pad. “Shoot,” she said.

Of course, I hadn’t looked at the menu, but how tough could breakfast be? I faked my way through an order of eggs over easy then waited while Drew recited precise instructions for the preparation of his western omelet with a side of well-fried hash browns and just-this-side-of-golden toast.

Grace collected the menus and bustled off, muttering.

“The police station?” Drew prompted.

“The penalty for failing to order building supplies in Wenwood?” I shot back.

Drew lifted the photocopies as though in salute. “Let me check.”

While he skimmed the pages, I tipped some cream into my coffee then pulled my smartphone from my bag. A quick review of my e-mail—or lack thereof—reminded me of what I kept trying to forget: I wasn’t simply in some location where my friends couldn’t reach me. I was in a life where my friends refused to follow. I was on my own.

Feeling a wee bit sorry for myself, I dumped some sugar into the coffee cup and added a little more cream, thus turning a breakfast beverage into a high-calorie comfort drink.

I waited while Drew skimmed, flipped pages, read, reread, flipped pages again. By the time he finished, Grace had arrived with our food order and I was in need of a coffee refill. Pulling his plate close with one hand, he tapped the papers with his other. “Mind you, I’m not sure this would hold up in court,” he said, as though completing a thought he’d already shared. “But it could certainly be a long and ugly fight.”

“Interesting.” While I tried to make sense of the implications of Drew’s assessment, I centered my breakfast plate in front of me. Etiquette be damned, I broke my egg yolk with a corner of toast, held the toast in place while the yolk soaked in. “If the agreement won’t hold up, why write it up in the first place?”

“Now, I only said I’m not sure it would hold up. I don’t do a lot of contract law, so I can’t say for sure.”

“But why would the town even try?” I popped the egg-dipped toast into my mouth and savored the mixture of creamy egg and crunchy toast. “And why would Stone Mountain agree?”

He cut into his omelet with the side of his fork. “Why they would agree, I couldn’t say. Why the town would try, the council’s pretty vested in keeping Wenwood businesses successful. There’s a lot of crossover between the Town Council and the merchants’ association.”

“And the politicians or whoever at Town Hall always just do whatever the Town Council asks them?”

I had to wait for an answer while Drew chased down a bit of omelet with a sip of coffee.

“Council members give a lot of money to those politicians and whoever. Grease the wheels a little and you have a say in where the car goes.”

“All right, all right.” The small town thing was making my brain hurt. I waved a hand as though I could brush away the detour in topic. “Let’s get back to this agreement,” I said, pointing with my fork at the photocopies. “Would you tell me what the penalty is for getting materials from outside of Wenwood?”

Drew swiped a napkin across his lips. “Well, it starts in Wenwood, but then moves out to nearby towns in the county and then—”

“I got that part. What happens if that chain is broken at any point?”

“Then everything is invalidated. All the deals are void, and Stone Mountain’s building permits expire.”

It took me a moment to remember to swallow the food I’d chewed. “All of them? So . . . construction just . . . stops?”

“Like I said, it would make a tough fight in court.” He broke off a chunk of home fries that looked crunchier than my toast. “But with construction, lost time is lost money.”

“And even if the company didn’t argue and simply applied for new permits . . .”

Drew bobbed his head, following the thread of thought. “They’d be starting all over again, and no doubt have to agree to even more absurd terms in order to get the town’s blessing.”

More absurd than having to source all your materials through Wenwood and the remainder of Pace County? It struck me anew how much Tony wanted to see that marina built if he was willing to put up with the Town Council’s crazy demands.

The jingle of a cell phone wrenched me away from thoughts of Tony. Drew set down his fork and shifted in his seat. The snap of a cell phone belt case was followed by Drew lifting a phone to his ear. “This is Drew Able,” he said. “How can I help you?”

I hadn’t intended to watch him while he took the call. There was little else to look at in the luncheonette, though. Thus, the change in his features from relaxed and somewhat happy to alert and somewhat steamed was instantly apparent. He said no more than “uh-huh . . . uh-huh” before disconnecting the call and returning the phone to his belt.

“You might want to come with me,” he said quietly, sliding out of the booth. “Your grandfather’s been arrested.”

D
rew drove to the police station, taking the interstate rather than the scenic river road. Though I’d already acquired a preference for the river road, on that particular ride to the station, I welcomed the speed and sameness of the interstate. It was easier to panic about Grandy when I wasn’t being distracted by beautiful vistas or grand old lady houses.

When we made the turn into the lot at the station, my heart sunk. Three times in the span of a week were too many visits for someone not employed by the police department or delivering their mail. That feeling of “here I am again” weighed on my shoulders like a yoke. I didn’t want to be eligible for my own parking space. At the glass shop, yes, but not at the Pace County PD.

Nonetheless, I hustled up the cement-patched steps beside Drew and into the waiting area. Sergeant Steve stood behind his desk, phone to his ear. He looked up as we approached. Any semblance of the kitten-loving nice-guy I met earlier in the week had vanished. His hard-ass, world-weary cop mask was tightly in place.

“Steve,” Drew said with a nod.

Sergeant Steve nodded in return. His eyes flicked in my direction but gave no impression of greeting.

I wrapped my arms around myself and hoped for strength.

“Got a call that Chip was bringing in Pete Keene. They here yet?”

Sergeant Steve muttered a thanks and good-bye into the phone and lowered the receiver to its cradle. Resting both hands on the edge of the counter, making him look bigger than he probably was, he grimaced. “They’re processing. Have a seat. I’ll let you know when you can go back.”

Egg-soaked toast slid uncomfortably in my belly, but I sat in the molded plastic chair, Drew Able, Esquire, to my left, a table of outdated and careworn magazines to my right. “When will we know why he’s been arrested?” I asked.

Drew picked at the crease in his khakis. “He’s been arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“I know that. You told me that much. When will we know why? What happened that made them arrest him? I thought after the questioning the—”

“I don’t know, Georgia,” Drew said. “I’ll find out as soon as I get to talk to Chip.”

“You said that before. Chip. Who’s Chip?”

“Detective Nolan.” He caught the crease in his trousers between thumbnail and forefinger, scraped back and forth as though pressing the crease with his nails. The motion created a soft whistling, sounding loud in the quiet of the waiting area. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking when I said you should come. They may not speak to you. You’ll be stuck out here while I go in to talk—”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you can call someone who—”

“I’ll wait.”

It was another half hour before Sergeant Steve told Drew he could go back and meet with Detective Nolan. He gave me a glare that said “stay put” louder than ankle shackles would have.

Alone in the waiting area, I resorted to checking my phone again. It was that or last year’s
Car & Driver
, or half an issue of
Time
magazine. Looking at the display, I was surprised to find the missed-call icon illuminated. I’d have to remember to ask Carrie if there was a dead zone on the interstate.

I dialed into my voice mail and stood. I felt that picking up messages was a good excuse to pace, and I was in sore need of some pacing. Sergeant Steve had obviously decided I would behave myself and had disappeared into the little space with all the gun belts and radios.

The voice that spoke to me from my messages stopped me in place. “Georgia, I’m hoping . . . that is, if this is actually Georgia’s phone, give me a call back.” And then Tony Himmel rattled off his phone number.

I clicked out of my voice mail. I stared at an outdated flyer for Prescription Drug Take-Back Day. I racked my brain for a reason Tony would call me.

And then I questioned the wisdom of calling him back while waiting to talk to my grandfather’s lawyer about his murder charge.

I had returned to Wenwood to start over, to find a solid base from which to relaunch my life. Wenwood was supposed to be a sleepy little town where the biggest obstacles I would face would be how to deal with Grandy’s sweet tooth and where to find high-speed Internet. I was supposed to move forward from Wenwood with renewed confidence and determination. I was not supposed to run screaming from it in search of yet another place from which to relaunch my life.

Hand to my head, I resumed pacing. With each step, I focused on pushing away thoughts of my personal drama. For sure I’d hit a low in life. There was no denying that. But Grandy had been there to soften my fall, no questions, no assumptions, no judging. It was my turn to return the love. In time I would sort out my life. For the foreseeable future, I needed to put Grandy first.

Veering off my back-and-forth path, I turned for the desk and shouted for Sergeant Steve.

He stuck his head around the corner, not committing to actually coming out of the little room to talk to me.

“I need to see Detective Nolan,” I announced.

Steve smirked. “He’s busy.”

“He’s going to talk to the lawyer, Drew, and then Drew is going to go talk to my grandfather, Pete. So while Drew is talking to Pete, Detective Nolan would be free to talk to me.”

He held his eyes closed for a long moment before meeting my gaze again. “That’s probably right.”

“Would that be now?” I asked. “Is Detective Nolan free to talk to me now?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Can you go find out?”

“Miss Kelly, I don’t—”

“Just go find out. How long could it take? One question. Simple.”

“Miss—”

“One question.” I made a hurry-up motion with my hand. “Go.”

Sergeant Steve did not appear pleased to have me giving orders. The aggravated sigh and the bunched jaw kinda gave away his slow-bubbling anger. But he disappeared, and his shoes scuffed along the floor as he walked away from the little room.

I sucked in a quick breath for courage and ducked behind the desk.

Sergeant Steve was the desk sergeant. The desk sergeant kept a log—at least, he did on television cop shows. That meant somewhere on the desk was a list that would tell me what had precipitated Grandy’s arrest.

Careful not to disturb the stacks of paper, listening close for the sound of Sergeant Steve’s return, I scanned the edges of files, the clipboards pegged to the edge of the desk, and the scratch pad beside the phone.

What the hell was I doing? If I could just be patient, Drew would tell me everything I needed to know. But patient meant waiting. Meant doing nothing. I needed to do
something
.

A door slammed somewhere in the building, and I jumped. I was convinced in that precise moment my deodorant failed. My courage slipped several notches, and I leaned my weight toward the pass-through out from behind the desk and to the waiting area, poised to make a run for it.

It was then I realized I was a big idiot. It was then I spotted the spine of a blue binder on which an adhesive label read
DUTY LOG
.

Carefully, I lifted the binder toward me. Ignoring a sudden need for the ladies’ room, I opened the binder. Quietly as I could, I flipped the pages until I reached a series of blanks, then worked my way back until I reached the entries for today. Again, I worked backward, learning everything that had transpired in the precinct.

Traffic accident mile marker 8, River Road.
(Lucky us, taking the interstate.)

Domestic disturbance
. (I didn’t read on for the address.)

Suspected break in.
(Some town I didn’t know.)

And then came the line that left my mouth dry and my knees weak:

Anon. call: blood-soaked brick found behind the Downtown Dine-In

I found the information I was looking for . . . and understood the cat that was killed by curiosity was one lucky duck. Because sometimes, finding the answer was the worst thing that could happen.

*   *   *

W
hen Drew spoke to me after his meeting with Detective Nolan, I pretended shock at the news of the discovery of a brick behind the dine-in. Shock, I figured, was a better option than distress. Distress required continued acting. For shock I could feign stunned, at which point no communication would be required.

Detective Nolan briefed me with the same information Drew had and told me I couldn’t visit with Grandy until after he’d been arraigned and either relocated to the county jail or released on bail. No acting required there; the tears that filled my eyes were as real as they get.

I sat in silence while Drew drove me back to Wenwood, back to the lot behind the grocery where I’d left Grandy’s Jeep. The shade of the walnut tree no longer seemed comforting. It seemed sad, the car sitting all alone away from sunshine.

Drew promised he’d call me later on and waved out the window as he left the parking lot.

For longer than perhaps I should have, I stood in the lot, watching long after he drove away. I was at a loss for what to do next. There was still the grocery store to contend with; my need for fresh produce hadn’t magically vanished even though my desire for a pound of milk chocolate had appeared. And I knew it would be best to get the grocery shopping done before word of Grandy’s arrest spread. Yet I found myself walking not toward the back door of the market, but toward the access driveway, intent not on buying lettuce and limes but on visiting with Carrie.

She’d been right when she said trips to the police station required a friend. I hadn’t realized it before, not having made any. Now it was a lesson I would never forget.

When I turned the corner and stepped onto the sidewalk running parallel with the storefronts, I spied Carrie standing in front of her store, arms crossed as she conversed with a tall, balding man. Not until I got closer did I recognize the man to be Warren Edgers.

My pace slowed, feet clinging to the pavement longer than necessary. Indecision held me back. That, and fear. How could I face Warren Edgers knowing my grandfather had just been arrested on suspicion of murdering his father? Was Warren already aware of the arrest? Had he yet made the connection between me and Grandy?

I had just determined to be a chicken and retreat to the grocery store when Carrie spotted me. She called out a big hello, waved me over.

I considered running in the opposite direction. But already my frozen pose on the sidewalk was attracting attention. A young couple slowed as they passed me, no doubt trying to figure out what my problem was. Across the street, Rozelle watched from the doorway of the bakery. I imagined Tom and his cronies sitting at the counter in the luncheonette, gazing out the window at me standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting to remember what had brought me to town. Running would only have given them more cause for gossip.

When Warren met my gaze without a hint of animosity, I figured I was safe to approach—at least for now.

Still, it took an effort for me to smile, to walk toward them as if my feet were not attached to my reluctant and guilty conscience.

“What’s eating you?” Carrie asked when I was within earshot.

Great. Who knew my acting range was limited to stunned silence?

“I had a . . . um . . .” I shook my head. “Morning. Bad. Better now.” I tried the smile again. “How are you?”

Carrie looked sideways at me, eyes narrowed as though peering for something hidden. “I’m fine.”

She knew I was lying. I could see the knowledge in the crease beside her eye, the line of her mouth. But she smiled in return and gestured to Warren. “You remember—”

“Warren,” I said, extending my hand. “Of course I do. But what are you two doing standing out here in this heat? Will there be a parade coming through that no one told me about?”

“I was just coming back from lunch,” Carrie said with a nod to the luncheonette, “and Warren came out to say hi.”

He shrugged. “I was trying to get a handle on the store. Got a lot of work to do in there.”

A wave of guilt washed over me. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

Taking a step backward, Warren lowered his head. “Thank you. It’s been . . . a lot to deal with.”

“I just can’t imagine . . .” Carrie said.

We stood in a silent triangle. Across the street, Rozelle went back into her bakery. People walked along the sidewalks, flip-flops slapping against their heels. Cars rolled slowly past, tires softly thumping on the cobbles. Not a breeze stirred.

“At any rate.” Warren sucked in a breath. When he spoke again, his speech was halting, hesitant. “I was looking for a place to start. Trying to come up with a plan. Thought I’d start with the receipts, paperwork, that sort of thing. I noticed my dad’s brick was gone and it just threw me for a loop.”

My jaw worked, doing its best to aid my mouth in the formation of words. None came.

Carrie took my lack of eloquence for confusion. “We all have bricks,” she said. “Original Wenwood bricks. It’s a goofy thing that Bill Harper did a few years back, gave all his tenants a brick with the shop name engraved in it. Bill’s the only man in town with a stash of original brick left.”

I felt my brow crease with confusion. “Why Bill? Who would save bricks?”

The good-natured huff Carrie let out reminded me that I still didn’t grasp the devotion to Wenwood brick. I pushed aside the niggling fear that my lack of understanding had more to do with a lack of hometown pride and a lingering longing for city life.

Warren swiped a line of perspiration from his temple. “It had something to do with his family. His father was a foreman at the brickworks, or . . .” He looked to Carrie.

Slipping her hands in the back pockets of her khakis, she said, “Bill’s family worked brick for generations. It was his first job. To hear him tell it, the Harpers built this town. I guess there were some leftovers when the brickworks closed and they went to the Harpers. Now Bill hands them out like golden trinkets,” she finished on a laugh. “Only for his favorite people.”

“I know, it’s sentimental.” Warren grimaced. “But I’d like to have it.”

Still, words swirled in my mind, complicated by surprised and confused thoughts. They didn’t know. The discovery of a blood-covered brick—a brick I could only surmise was the exact one Warren was looking for—was not yet common knowledge.