Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) (17 page)

Rozelle had a couple of extra helpers in the store, rushing back and forth behind the counter. High school girls, I guessed. I had no real need for bakery goods, having binged on three-layer pastries the day before. In hopes the police would release Grandy, I ordered his favorite. “Loaf of rye bread, no seeds,” I called across the counter.

The fresh-faced high school kid nodded and bustled off before I could tell her not to slice the loaf.

Pushing up on to tiptoe, I tried to spot the clerk. I opened my mouth to shout for her at the precise moment my phone vibrated to life. The humiliating Bon Jovi ringtone followed. I tugged the device from my bag, prepared to hit
Ignore call
. But the caller ID read
PACE CNTY PD
.

Maybe Grandy was miraculously being released. How did police departments work? Did they function the same way as hospitals, calling the next of kin to let them know their loved ones could go home? Or even the other end of the extreme—which I really didn’t want to think about.

Either way, I couldn’t ignore the call. Etiquette violation be damned, I tapped the green button and hello’ed into the phone.

Such a simple motion earned me scowls and cross looks from the patrons surrounding me. I mouthed “Sorry” and attempted to remove myself to a quiet corner of the bakery. Still I needed to hold my other hand over my ear to hear. “Sorry, Detective, can you repeat that?”

Detective Nolan spoke up. “Your grandfather wanted me to call you.”

“How is he? Is he okay? Does he need anything?” Several patrons, so recently annoyed, now looked at me with concern.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Nolan grumbled, and I relaxed and angled my body away from the onlookers. “To tell the truth, it’s your call I’m returning,” he admitted. “But I’ve got less than five minutes so talk fast.”

“How can you be returning my call? I—”

“You called the station looking for me. You want to take up the little time I have for this conversation with me explaining how caller ID works?”

Rats. That meant Diana was fully aware I was the one who’d called and chickened out of leaving a message. “I wanted to know what happened to my laundry,” I said.

“That’s it? That’s why you called?”

“Well, I’d wanted to know what happened at Grandy’s arraignment.” I spoke as quietly as I dared. “But I figured I’d start with something I had a chance of you answering.”

He exhaled; the noise came through like static on the line. “I would have to confirm with evidence but I believe your clothing can be returned. Pete’s has gone on to the state crime lab.”

Warm fuzzy thoughts of getting back my Pink Panther bra vanished at the mention of the crime lab. “Why would—why is that necessary? What’s going on?”

“Look, Georgia, let me just say that this is all pretty routine, all right? Pete’s shirt and pants had blood on them so—”

“But they were washed,” I blurted out.
Then
I wanted to kick myself. More so when Detective Nolan let a measurable amount of silence elapse.

“Bloodstains. A couple of washings in standard detergent aren’t going to have much effect. Ten aren’t going to have much effect. Blood is pretty tough stuff.”

All I could manage to say was, “Oh.” Which was probably best. I wasn’t doing a stellar job of keeping the light of innocence on Grandy. “But if you don’t know yet whose blood you found, how can you keep Grandy in jail?”

“He’s been charged with voluntary manslaughter. He hasn’t been convicted. And let’s just say the town would prefer to show its diligence in a murder case. You can pick up your belongings any time you’re ready.”

“What about Grandy? When can . . . can I see him?”

“It’s up to him. He needs to get your name on the approved visitors list. You might want to remind his lawyer.”

He sounded regretful when he said he had to go, and I faltered through polite thanks and good-bye.

I stood so long motionless in the corner, it took an alert suburban-mom type to reach out and grab me by the forearm and tell me my bread was ready.

Of course, I wouldn’t need the bread, but I could hardly tell this woman that. I had a vague recollection of my mother saying you could freeze bread. Or was that you shouldn’t freeze bread?

I stumbled over to the counter, where the clerk patted a white-paper-wrapped package. “You wanted that sliced, right?”

“Oh, no. Oh, beans. Did you slice it?” Grandy had his preferences in how thick the bread should be sliced, and the automatic slicers at the bakery did not meet his specifications.

But then, would it matter?

“You know what, that’s fine. It’s fine. What do I owe you?”

She gave me a price and scuttled away with the money as though afraid I’d change my mind about the slicing, or about the bread entirely.

With the loaf tucked under my arm and my mind gone to panicked silence over the prospect of coming up with bail money, I elbowed my way out of the crowded bakery and onto the sidewalk.

Drew. I needed to speak to Drew. I could reach him by phone—potentially. At the very least I could leave more messages, asking him to call me, asking him to convince Grandy to allow me to visit. In the mean time, I would have to test the freezing bread theory.

L
aying down the loaf of bread on the luncheonette counter, I climbed up on the vacant stool next to Tom.

“You brought your own food,” he shouted in my ear. “Smart.”

As I winced away from his surprising decibel level, I figured out why the stool had been empty in the otherwise crowded restaurant. I leaned as far to my left as I could reasonably get away with without offending. “Service that slow?” I asked.

Tom nodded, raising a corner of toast to his mouth. “Hope you’re not hungry.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Grace said. She strode through the doorway connecting the kitchen to the counter, pot of coffee in hand. Without question, she banged a porcelain mug down on the counter in front of me and poured. “It’s always busy at breakfast but no one ever goes home hungry.” She slid a sour glance at Tom.

“Good to know,” I said. Not that I had much of an appetite anyway, despite the inviting aroma of fried eggs and bacon filling the air. All I really wanted was a cup of hot coffee and a place to sit down and work up the fortitude to call my mother.

Grace stowed the coffee carafe below the counter. Setting both hands on the counter’s edge, she leaned close to me. “Diana told me about Pete,” she said in the voice of a conspirator. “If my own niece wasn’t one of ’em, I’d have plenty of bad to say about that police department.”

I struggled to find the appropriate response, but the realization that a member of the “general public” knew of Grandy’s predicament slowed my mental processes.

“I want you to know, I know and the folks in this place know”—she tipped her head to indicate the restaurant area behind me—“Pete would never do . . . what they say he did. He’s a good man, your grandfather. Don’t forget that.”

The lump in my throat formed long before I could get a swallow of coffee down to prevent it. “Thanks, Grace.”

She nodded firmly, certain and reassuring. “Now what can I get you, sweetie?”

I hadn’t even checked the menu. But then, I would no doubt be unable to make a selection before the luncheonette closed at the end of the day. “Just some pancakes, maybe? Side of bacon?”

As Grace disappeared through the doorway, my cell phone jangled. I wrestled it from the narrow confines of my purse, one wary eye on Tom. If anyone in the place were to make a “darn kids and their phones” outburst, I figured him to be the one.

He dropped the last nibble of toast onto his plate. “Must be for you,” he said.

Caught off guard, I picked up the call without checking the incoming caller information.

“I’m calling about the kitten,” the voice on the other end announced.

All I registered was a female voice and the feeling of being wrapped in defeat. Because the day wasn’t going bad enough, someone was going to claim Friday to make it really abysmal.

I pulled in a resigned breath. “Are you the owner?”

“Me? So not. I gave the kitten to my boyfriend. When we broke up, he
swore
he would take care of it. Swore. I knew he was lying. I never should have believed him.”

“Wait.” I needed to get a word in; I had a suspicion there was a tirade in the works. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same kitten? Maybe—”

“White. Female. Fluffy. Spot of gray on her head that looks like someone dropped cigarette ashes on her.”

Gross, but accurate. My heart sank a little more. “So you think it got out on him?”

“I wish. I think he let it out and locked the door. The jerk.”

She sounded young. But even given our age difference, I felt a twinge of kinship for her. She had a boyfriend who was a jerk. I had a former fiancé who was . . . worse words. I wondered for a moment if jerk boys were supposed to prepare us for jerk men, then I refocused on the issue at hand. “And you want the kitten back?”

“I can’t. My mom’s allergic. Like, violently allergic.”

“So . . .”

“You should totally call the police and have the jerk arrested for animal cruelty.”

Oh, yes, because the police were so eager to be of service to me. Then again, when it came to Friday, I was fairly certain I had an ally in Sergeant Steve. Still . . . “I’d like to check with your ex-boyfriend first before I call the police. Pets have been known to wander off on their own.”

The girlfriend sighed forcefully, but gave me the phone number and address of her ex-boyfriend, Scott Corrigan—which I cleverly wrote down on the paper wrapping my loaf of rye.

Once the call with the girlfriend concluded, I punched in Scott’s number. I sipped coffee while I listened to the line ring. The strong java didn’t mix well with the anxiety and upset churning through my stomach. If this guy wanted Friday back, would I be able to return her? Would she fare better than she had in the past?

On the other hand, if it turned out the guy had discarded Friday, then what? The good news was, I got to keep her. The bad news was, the guy was guilty of . . . something. Sergeant Steve would know the precise name of the crime. Maybe the girlfriend was right and it was animal cruelty.

With no answer on the phone, I ended the connection and set the phone down on the counter. I hated myself a little bit for getting worked up over the kitten when Grandy was sitting behind bars in the county jail. Thing was, Grandy had a lot of years behind him, years which gave him enough fortitude to withstand a night or two in lockup. He was a veteran, for heaven’s sake. But the kitten—harmless, helpless—she needed someone else to look out for her. Teeny sharp claws were only so much protection.

Grace reappeared with a plate of pancakes and a tea saucer piled with bacon. “There you go, sweetie. On the house.”

“What about me?” Tom shouted, drowning out my meek
thank you
.

“You pay double,” Grace said cheerfully.

I passed him a piece of bacon.

His smile, his genuine appreciation of such a small gesture, eased away the prickliest edges of my anxiety.

“Don’t spoil him,” Grace said. “He’s got to watch his cholesterol.”

“Since Andy stopped coming, no one shares their bacon with me.” Tom took a bite off the end of his slice and grinned.

Something in his choice of words struck me as peculiar. But that was Tom. He confused his meanings. I wondered if that was an effect of age. Or maybe it was his cholesterol. The possibility reinforced my choice of fruit over cake and vegetables over pasta. Sadly, neither of those choices qualified as comfort food to me.

I poured a double dollop of syrup over my pancakes and gazed out the window while I sliced into the short stack and forked a bite into my mouth.

Not surprisingly, I thought of Andy Edgers as I chewed. Not surprisingly, because his hardware store was visible from where I sat. Plus, he’d found a way to earn extra money by the expedient method of overcharging Tony Himmel.

Covered in syrup though they were, the pancakes went dry in my mouth. I could have kicked myself—you know, if I wasn’t sitting on a lunch stool, thereby making kicking my own butt physically impossible.

Andy had invested in property and stocks with Grandy. Grandy had had savings to invest, a successful business to fall back on, as it were. The hardware store, though, its shelves coated with dust, spare parts rusting in filing cabinets in the back, the collection of unpaid bills was not the model of a thriving business. What if Andy had borrowed the money to invest?

I grabbed my phone and punched in the number for Drew Able, Esquire. This time, I was going to get in touch with the man, or hunt him down like a dog.

Okay, not like a dog. But the hunting part, definitely.

*   *   *

“I
t’s a Friday afternoon in June, Georgia.” Drew made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine. “The workday’s over.”

“The law doesn’t take afternoons off, Drew.” I was relatively sure that wasn’t true, but thought it sounded good. The automated doors to the grocery store swung open, and alluring clouds of cool, air-conditioned air billowed out. Between the moment I sat down at the luncheonette and the time I left, the temperature must have climbed fifteen degrees.

“The law might not, but lawyers do,” Drew said.

“What were you going to do today? Mow the lawn?” I lifted a handbasket from the stack by the door and proceeded directly toward the produce aisle. Pitching my voice slightly lower and shifting the phone so the receiver was two millimeters nearer to my mouth, I said, “My grandfather stuck in jail is way more important than the curb appeal of your house.”

“What do you want me to do? Pete’s in police custody. Until his trial, I’m sorry, but unless you can come up with bail, there’s nothing you or I can do for him.”

“Not unless we find the person who really killed Andy Edgers.”

Drew made no response. I let the idea of taking an active role in investigating the case sink in with him while I reviewed the selection of romaine lettuce.

By the time I reached the tomatoes and Drew still hadn’t made a sound, I thought it best to press onward. “Listen, I have a theory that Andy owed money to someone. And maybe it’s that someone who was the one who really killed him.”

“Have you been staying up late watching bad cop movies?” he asked with that same hint of whining.

“The only way to find that person is to review the finances. Money leaves a trail,” I insisted. “If we can follow the trail, we can get Grandy out of jail.”

“What’s this
we
?”

I selected a pint container of tasty-looking cherry tomatoes and dropped it in my basket. “Fine, the police. Would you just, please, make an exception to your ‘summer Friday’ rule and call them or go down there or whatever it is you lawyer folks do? Isn’t Grandy paying you to do these things?”

“And what am I supposed to tell them?”

Another customer approached from the opposite end of the aisle. I backtracked to the lettuce, putting enough distance between us that I thought my phone call would remain fairly private. As quickly as I could, I told Drew about the overcharges to Tony Himmel, the abundance of overdue notices on Andy’s desk, and the investment loss Andy suffered.

When I’d finished, Drew sounded as though he were sucking moisture from between his teeth. I took that as a sign he was considering all I’d said. “Well?” I prompted.

“Even if they find something, Georgia, it’s not likely to get Pete released. Not with the evidence they have.”

“One brick? That someone claims is covered in blood?” I huffed out a breath, tried to push a hand through my hair, but as always, got tangled in my own curls. “Think about it, Drew. How can anyone possibly look at a red brick and
see
blood?”

“Admittedly, they may be mistaken. We won’t know with any certainty until the results come back from the lab. Until then—”

“What about the witnesses? Rozelle told me when she saw Grandy leave the shop that he came out the front door empty-handed. She told the police that.”

“Georgia, you’re not going around playing Jessica Fletcher, are you?”

“I did consider breaking into the hardware store and helping myself to whatever I could find, but I’m having enough trouble coming up with bail money for Grandy without trying to do it from the cell next to his. So the police need to do it, but someone needs to encourage them. They can collect the paperwork at the hardware store and take it into evidence—it won’t hurt if it’s not needed, right? But I believe the answer is there somewhere. If you wanted to find the root of the crime, follow the money. Nine out of ten times, it will lead you straight to the source.”

“Nine out of ten?”

“Maybe eight out of ten. I’m making this up.”

He sighed, but there was more energy in the sigh than there had been in his earlier
hello
. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all?” I asked. “That won’t work. I need you to be confident in this.”

His voice conveyed the determination I wanted to hear when he said, “I’m on it.”

*   *   *

B
ack home with the produce stored in the refrigerator, I tucked the loaf of rye into a plastic storage bag and slid the bread into the freezer. It either would or wouldn’t keep; I considered the action an experiment to determine which.

Friday was doing her comatose sleep routine on the back of Grandy’s favorite chair. Though I ruffled her fur, she didn’t stir. With one had resting on her warm little body, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, my heart melted a little. Sadness overwhelmed me. If it turned out she had escaped Scott’s house, would I be able to give her back? And if he had tossed her out like so much waste?

I grabbed my phone and headed down to the workroom. Why I didn’t have the police on speed dial was a mystery. I punched in the numbers for the Pace County precinct one by one and listened to the line ring.

When finally someone picked up the phone, that someone was female. I clicked the disconnect button as quick as a teenager hanging up on her crush. Too late I remembered Detective Nolan reminding me the police used caller ID. Oh well, so Diana knew I was hanging up on her. She would no doubt add that to the list of my transgressions.

Leaving the lights off, I opened all the window shades, letting in the day’s bright sun. I resumed work on the lamp, losing myself for a time in the comfort of following a pattern, focusing my mind on the work at hand rather than allowing it to wander to questions and problems I could not solve.

Now and again I paused to place a phone call to Scott. No one ever picked up the phone. Friday wandered into the room, far more alert than I ever was after a nap. I found a triangle of glass in a mottled green and held it to the light. The glass created a prism that cast a dancing light across the floor, in turn creating endless amusement for Friday, who chased the bright green spot from one side of the room to another.

Her eagerness, determination, curiosity—heck, even the way her little tail stood straight up like she was receiving signals from her feline home planet—made me happy. One little kitten, amid all the bad luck, bad choices, and bad times, made me happy, acted as a balm for all the wounds life had dealt. How could I let her go?

When at last she lay down in a patch of sunlight, I knew I had to resolve the question of her ownership as soon as possible. I tried once more to reach Scott by phone, allowing the line to ring and ring while I covered the pieces of cut glass. All that remained in repairing the lamp was to reassemble the shade; the tricky work of cutting all the pieces in all the proper sizes was done. In the morning I would begin the work of wrapping the edges of each piece with copper foil, then follow the pattern to tack together the bits of glass and leaves and background with solder, setting them carefully to create the curve required for the lampshade.