Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) (20 page)

“Hello there, Georgia.”

I
wished the voice belonged to Detective Chip Nolan. But even before I turned, I knew I wasn’t that lucky. I knew I was about to come face-to-face with the man who killed Andy Edgers.

Moving my hands behind my back, I turned. “Bill Harper,” I said.

His smile was just as open and charming as ever. “You remembered my name.”

I tipped my head.

“You realize the store is closed, don’t you?”

Carefully, so as not to reveal any movement, I caught the handle of the tote bag in my opposite hand and began inching the fabric upward. “Really? You’re going to pretend there’s something remotely normal about this?”

“Well, I admit it’s unusual to have a customer get this far into the store after hours, but strange things happen all the time.”

I nodded—if it’s possible to nod sarcastically. “So you’re just going to let me leave.”

That smile remained in place. The longer it hung there, the less natural it looked. “Why not?”

“What are you going to do? Burn the evidence or something?” I almost had it. An inch, maybe a little more, and I’d have the tote bag hitched high enough I could grab a walnut fruit.

“There’s no need to burn anything, Georgia. What strange ideas you have.”

The potential I was wrong flittered through my mind. What if there was no evidence there? What if the spots on the trousers truly were occupational hazards for a butcher? What if Scott Corrigan had lied about seeing Bill Harper just so he could avoid animal cruelty charges?

“No.” He took a step to his left and straightened the knives adhering to a wall-mounted magnetic strip. “Thanks to Pete and Andy having such a long and recently ugly history, there’s no need for me to do anything more than escort you out.”

“You think I won’t talk?” I said. “You think I won’t tell the police—”

“Tell them what?” He ran his finger along the grip of a meat cleaver. “They won’t believe a word you say. You’re an outsider. Nothing you can say will stop my plan to lead Wenwood into a new prosperity. Besides, you’ll be leaving town as soon as Pete is convicted.”

Prosperity . . .

My mind, its habits so ingrained, followed the money to put the pieces together. “You want that marina to be built just as badly as Tony Himmel,” I said, unable to keep the amazement and disgust from my voice. “These are your properties.”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it all before. A thriving Wenwood would make Bill Harper a wealthy man. Andy Edgers spoiling the deal, threatening the construction . . .

“That’s why you killed him,” I said. “And you intended to let my grandfather go to prison.”

He sighed. “Pete
has
gone to prison where he will stay and you will leave my store now.”

“You’re wrong. Pete’s not going to stay in prison. Because those are your trousers.” I lifted my chin in the direction of the wall pegs. “And that’s Andy Edgers’s blood on them.”

Bill Harper chuckled. “You’ll never prove that. There’s blood on all those clothes. And they’re washed routinely.”

In my mind all I could hear was Detective Nolan’s voice. It was my turn to smile. “A couple of washings in store-bought detergent aren’t going to remove the evidence.”

His wicked grin faltered, and I pushed the moment. “The police labs can isolate blood evidence after up to a dozen washings,” I announced. “I looked it up.”

I was proud of myself.

I was foolish.

“Well, then,” he said. “I guess we’ll have to make sure the police never know about those pants.” He grabbed a meat cleaver from the wall-mounted magnetic strip. “How convenient we’re in a room designed to be washed of blood.”

Oh, crap.

I took a step backward, bumped into the line of butcher coats. Bill Harper stood between me and any possible exit.

He took a step closer, testing the heft of the blade in his hand. I glanced at the window above the meat case. I could make a dive for it, but if I fell, I would be wholly at his mercy.

He took another step, grinning, lifting the cleaver. I whipped my hand around from behind my back and sent a walnut screaming for his head. The baseball-hard fruit impacted the side of his head, eliciting an angry roar.

I screamed in return and dived for the steel table. Summoning all my strength, I lifted and pushed and the table crashed to its side. I didn’t wait for the table to settle, but pulled another cluster of walnuts from my tote and let the whole bunch fly before ducking behind the steel barrier. “Help!”

Bill Harper covered his face with his forearm. The walnuts impacted his skull with an audible
thwack
. He cursed and staggered backward.

“Get away!” I shouted. “Help! Help me!”

“Georgia, where are you?”

Clearly it wasn’t Harper asking; he knew right where I was and had no intention of allowing me to leave. Neither did the voice belong to Diana.

“Carrie! Call the police! Get help!” I popped my head up above the table while digging into the tote for another walnut. Bill Harper wiped at his balding head, checked his fingertips as though looking for blood. When his gaze again fell on me, the fury in his eyes made liquid of my insides.

“Georgia, where are you?” Carrie was somewhere in the store. Near? Far? I had no way of knowing.

“Bill Harper is trying to kill me. Get help!” I threw another cluster of walnut fruits, but the bunch was heavier than the last and fell short of my mark.

He growled and started toward me.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh God
. I gathered the tote bag. I could use the weight of the walnuts, swing the bag, knock the cleaver from his hands.

I said a quick prayer, clutched the tote, and stood . . .

. . . in the same moment Carrie burst through the double doors.

I swung the tote bag forward. Carrie swung at Harper’s shoulder with the business end of a steel roller sponge mop. Our makeshift weapons impacted in the span of a breath. Harper shouted and dropped the knife. Carrie and I struck again and he fell to the floor. I scrambled out from behind the overturned table and kicked the cleaver clear. We were both wound up to hit again, Harper crouched in a fetal position on the floor, when a chorus of shouts and a swarm of motion in my peripheral vision penetrated my panicked haze.

Sergeant Steve crashed through the swinging doors, revolver trained on the sprawled, cowering form of Bill Harper. “Freeze! Pace County PD!” Two more uniformed officers hurried in behind him. It wasn’t SWAT, but it was all the cavalry I needed.

I dropped my shopping bag of unripe walnuts and staggered toward Carrie. “What are you doing here?”

“Stayed late to do inventory and then saw Diana lurking around the back lot. She explained what you were doing and I just . . .” She shrugged. “Thought I could help.”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I threw my arms around her and hugged her hard.

“Hey,” she said, hugging me back, “what are friends for?”

*   *   *

I
n an ideal world, Grandy would have been released the moment Bill Harper was taken into custody. Unfortunately, the real world of Wenwood, the heart of Pace County, did not qualify as ideal. It qualified as small and self-interested and populated by people who—with the exception of a small, murderous percentage—truly cared for one another.

While the police went through the routine of bringing Bill Harper in and charging him with suspicion of murder, I accepted a ride home from Carrie, Diana following behind in Grandy’s Jeep. For some reason, they didn’t want me to drive. I was in no position to argue.

At the start of the ride I planned to invite them both in for a soothing cup of tea, or a measure of something stronger. But in the brief distance between the village and Grandy’s house, the adrenaline drained away, taking all of my energy with it. I thanked Carrie and Diana equally and profusely, apologized for my lack of good manners, and dragged myself up the steps to the front door.

I swung the door open and took a step inside, the sound of Diana starting her car and pulling away disturbing the quiet of the neighborhood. In moments, the headlights of Carrie’s car flashed across the house as she U-turned to head home, exposing the living room for what it was: an empty room filled with empty furniture, not a hint of a sound in the still air.

Reaching to flip on the light, I felt the same emptiness yawn within me. All the little sorrows I’d managed to forget in my worry over Grandy reminded me of their painful presence . . . or maybe . . .

Friday bounded up the stairs from the studio. Eyes wide, stopping just out of reach, she gave me a friendly “mew” and raced across the living room, under the polished wood coffee table. And I smiled a little, and realized the sorrows weren’t as painful as they had been, and I would only be alone in the house until Grandy was released—hopefully in the early morning. Until then, I had Friday to keep me company, and a pillow to lay my head on, and that was enough for one night.

*   *   *

I
n the morning I woke early and drove past the old brickworks on the way to the county jail. The construction site buzzed with activity, heavy machinery rolling across the weed-infested parking lot, and excavators digging into the ground. And there was Tony Himmel, striding across the site in a pair of blue jeans and a heather gray T-shirt. He looked happy.

At the jail I brought in a clean change of clothes for Grandy. I handed them off to the sergeant on duty and sat down for the final wait.

Grandy emerged nearly a half an hour later, in need of a shave but standing tall as always. I hugged him tight, held on long enough to show him I loved him. He wasn’t the mushy type who liked to hear the words.

When I stepped back and looked up at him, I caught him blinking away tears. “How did you get here?” he asked.

I pointed in the general direction of the parking lot. “I brought the Jeep.”

He huffed. “You took my car again without asking.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said with absolutely no remorse. I took hold of his arm. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Halfway to the door, he asked, “Anything else you need to tell me about?”

I thought for a moment. “Yeah, you’re out of Devil Dogs.” We reached the doorway. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You need to call Mom.”

*   *   *

A
s I drove down the cobbled main road of Wenwood village, I stuck my hand out the window and waved at Rozelle, sitting on a patio chair in front of the bakery enjoying the sun. I parked the Jeep in front of the vacant shop that used to be Andy Edgers’s hardware store and tried to guess who might rent the space next. But I was afraid no matter how deep my cravings, Wenwood just wasn’t the sort of town for a sushi restaurant.

I climbed out of the SUV and into the enveloping heat of an early July morning. I squinted across the road but the glare against the luncheonette window prevented me from seeing inside. Nonetheless, I waved, just in case Tom was at the counter gazing out.

After a little effort, I had the fully repaired and protectively bubble-wrapped stained glass lamp out of the back of the vehicle and safe in my arms.

Rather than put the lamp down, I used my elbow to knock on the door of Aggie’s Gifts and Antiques. I waited only moments until Carrie pulled the door open.

“Is that it?” she asked. “Is that the lamp? Get in here. Get in.”

“Sure, easy for you to say,” I said, backing into the shop. “You have no idea how heavy this thing is.”

I glanced over my shoulder, making sure I had room to turn around without knocking down some display of very old, very fragile things.

“Just put it right on the counter,” Carrie said. “I can’t wait to see this.”

She rushed ahead of me to the sales wrap counter. Smile splitting her face, she clapped her hands a bit when I set the lamp down.

“Sheesh.” I huffed. “You could have helped me carry it.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Can I open it? I want to see.”

I gave her the go-ahead and assisted in the removal of the wrappings and bits of cardboard I had used to secure the lamp for transport.

Though the light from the front window didn’t reach as far back as the counter, the glass in the lampshade glittered and sparkled with color. Carrie let out an appreciative sigh.

“You did it,” she said reverently. “This is . . . amazing.”

She moved this way and that, watching the light play on the glass. Coming out from behind the counter to see the other side, she swore she could no longer tell where the damage had been. I could find it with embarrassing accuracy, but Carrie declared the new work flawless. She gushed and complimented and I blushed and pushed her praise aside until finally she stopped and rested her hands on the counter. “Georgia . . .”

Something in her tone, in the solemn look in her eye, made me take a step back and put a hand to my head. “Is it my hair?” I asked. “Again?”

She ignored my paranoia. “How many stained glass pieces do you have?”

Lowering my hand, I pictured the workspace at Grandy’s—the few pieces I’d used to brighten the room, the boxes with works still packed. “I dunno.” I hadn’t left any behind for fear my idiot ex-fiancé would try to sell them at the flea market. “A bunch, I guess.”

“What would you think about letting me sell some of them?”

“Sell?” I repeated. Did I look as dumbstruck as I felt?

Carrie waved toward the window. “We’re in full-on summer here and the tourist traffic has started. I bet your work would get snapped right up. Antiques hunters come through here all the time and you know there’s my online shop, too.”

Sell my work. Part of me thought Carrie was crazy. Who would spend money on my little therapy projects? But the other part of me, the confident part that had risen to the challenge of repairing a Tiffany-style lamp, knew it was possible.

“This way,” Carrie continued, “you could be making a little money while you look for work here.”

I blinked away my momentary fog and gaped at her. “Look for work here?”

“Well, not
here
, here. But somewhere in Pace County. Nothing’s really that far away. I mean, that is the plan, isn’t it?”