Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) (3 page)

Grandy turned his gaze to the detective, a question in the lift of his brow.

Nolan shook his head. “You’re dressed enough.”

“In that case, Georgia, when you come, bring me a shirt and trousers, will you?” He turned to the door, and the uniformed officer preceded him onto the porch, but glanced back over his shoulder. “And some shoes?”

Arms wrapped around my body, hugging myself, I nodded. All at once, reality was something I was observing, not participating in. My mind couldn’t grasp any scenario in which Grandy would be taken in for questioning. What could he have done wrong? Mixed whiskey with his prune juice?

I stirred myself enough to cross to the open door. Outside, Detective Nolan shut himself inside a deep blue sedan while the uniformed officer assisted Grandy into the back of a squad car. Grandy didn’t look my way, instead looking straight ahead with a calm sort of dignity.

Not until both cars had pulled away did I close the door and get it into gear. I didn’t want Grandy sitting in the police station any longer than necessary.

I raced around the house, dressing, gathering clothes and shoes for Grandy, and shoving them into one of my trusty reusable shopping bags. With no time to do anything elaborate, I scraped my wild curls back into a soft ponytail. Flip-flops, purse, and keys to the Jeep and I was out of the house.

Crossing to the car, I spied the little cluster of gawkers across the street. Of course. Nothing brings neighbors together like a little police action.

“Everything okay?” one of the ladies called. “Pete all right?”

“Fine,” I shouted back. “Thanks for asking.” And I ducked into the car before any further questions could be lobbed in my direction.

I shoved the key in the ignition and wasted no time backing out of the driveway and racing down the street, away from curious neighbors.

Of course, once I reached the end of the street, I realized I had no idea where the police station was located. Yeah, I’d call that a flaw in the plan.

After putting some distance between me and Grandy’s street, I steered the Jeep to the curb and threw it into park. With the engine’s motor still running, and the dappled sunshine of a spreading maple tree shading me from the morning sun, I grabbed my smartphone out of my purse and did a map search for Wenwood Police Department.

The search returned no results. Drat. The jurisdiction must fall to the county. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the details of the uniform the officer wore to the house. My memory showed me a field of deep blue, a shield and name tag over the left breast. But it was the points of his collar I was interested in. I could visualize a precinct number there. The more I tried to focus, the more I worried my memory was painting in details from the city police uniform with which I had become so familiar.

Double drat.

I eased back onto the road and pointed the Jeep in the direction of the village. Someone there would be able to tell me where the station was, if I didn’t get struck by luck and pass it along the way.

Less than fifteen minutes had passed before the Jeep bumped along the old cobbled road bisecting the village. I rolled slowly along, reading shop signs in search of one wherein I thought someone would be able to help. When I spied the bakery, I knew I’d found a solution. What I needed to find was a parking spot. What I found instead were two more police squad cars and a yellow caution-tape barrier preventing anyone from entering the hardware store.

That knot once again took hold of my stomach. I flipped a U-turn and parked the Jeep on the opposite side of the street. Grabbing my purse, I hurried to the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and peered through the plate glass display window. All the lights were on, but I could see nothing beyond the rows of shelves I had wandered through two days before.

Determined to get some info while at the same time afraid of what I might learn, I headed up the street a little. Ahead, in front of Village Grocery, a cluster of senior citizens stood as if in conference. It reminded me of the scene across the street from Grandy’s house. Sweat prickled my scalp, from nerves or the heat or both, and I quick-timed it to Aggie’s Gifts and Antiques and burst through the door.

“Carrie?” I called over the jingling of the bell. “Hello? Are you here?”

Impatient, I circled the perimeter of the store, passing by jewelry armoires, quilt racks, an old vanity table to where the register sat midway along the western wall. Back to me, she was climbing down from a step stool, feather duster in her hand, when I found her.

“Carrie,” I said again.

Her eyes found me and opened wide. “Oh my gosh! Georgia, is it true? It’s not true, is it? It just can’t be.”

“I—uh—is what true? No, wait.” I squinched my eyes shut for a moment, as if that action alone could pause the conversation. “What happened at the hardware store?” I asked then opened my eyes.

Carrie’s eyes remained wide, and were now accompanied by a slack jaw. “It’s Andy Edgers,” she said. “Bill Harper found him yesterday morning, dead in the back room with . . . with . . .” She swallowed hard, and I imagined she had a knot in her throat as big as the one in my stomach. “With his . . . head . . . bashed in. Murdered.”

The knot burst open into a rush of queasiness. “Oh, my gosh,” I murmured. “Murdered? Holy cow.”

Okay, death did not stop the guy from being a jerk. Happily, I didn’t think for a minute the guy had it coming. He was mean. He deserved to have his house TPed or maybe as far as having his car egged. But murdered . . . wow. Still . . . “He must have really pissed someone off,” I murmured.

“Georgia.” Carrie stepped close, took loose hold of my elbow.

As her worried gaze met mine, the pieces fell into place. “No,” I said. Carrie asked if it was true. Andy Edgers dead. Grandy taken to the police station for questioning. “No, that can’t be.”

“Pete was in the shop the night before last. They’re saying they had a big fight.”

“Who are
they
?”

Carrie shrugged a little uneasily, took a tiny step back. “You know, people.”

“People like who?”

Her smile was a little wobbly. “It’s really not my place.”

I shook my head to clear away the unimportant thoughts. I was chasing after the wrong fact. Who was spreading rumors wasn’t the issue. “It doesn’t matter. Gran—Pete didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t think so.” She let out a breath as though she’d been holding it. “And, I mean, you would know, right? You’re staying with him and all.”

“But okay, listen. The police . . .” Oh, mercy. I certainly didn’t want to announce Grandy had been picked up by The Detective and The Sidekick, but I needed to know which precinct house to go to. And if the town was talking, I didn’t want to add any grist to the gossip mill by asking anyone else for information.

I began again. “You know that lamp you need restored? I’ll do that job for free if you can give me some information and promise to keep a secret.”

Carrie took another small step away from me and leaned back a little. She regarded me through half-closed eyes. “It isn’t anything illegal, is it?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Carrie, of course not.” I’d have stomped out right there but Carrie was the friendliest person I’d met. I needed to trust someone. Only time would tell if I’d made a good choice. If I hadn’t . . . well, it couldn’t get much worse, right? “I just need information and discretion. Deal?”

Again with the narrowed eyes. “I get to hear what you want before I agree.”

Shrewd. “Fine,” I said under a huff. “The police picked up Gra—Pete this morning and brought him to the station for questioning.”

That made her eyes pop wide again. “No! So it
is
true.”

“Just, don’t tell anyone, okay? I need to go pick him up and I have no idea where to go. I don’t know where he’ll be. I don’t know what precinct Wenwood is in.” I stopped talking before the panic threatening within me escaped.

For longer than was comfortable for me, Carrie stood with eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. What seemed like forever later she shot into action, tossing the feather duster onto the checkout counter and racing to bolt the front door.

“I’ll drive,” she said, flipping the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
. “Come on. We’ll go out the back.”

“Wait. What?”

“Come on.” She waved me along and bustled to the back of the shop.

Rushing to catch up, I called, “All I need is a precinct number, I swear. I can get directions off the map program on my phone.”

In the back storeroom Carrie snatched a pair of sunglasses from a workbench and took her purse off a hook. “You need more than that. You’re going to a police station. You don’t want to do something like that alone. Forget the directions. You need a friend with you.”

“I can’t ask—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. Let’s go.” She pushed open the steel fire door and looked back at me. “Really, let’s go.”

Carrie was a virtual stranger. I mean, yeah, we’d gotten on okay when she showed me the lamp and all, but did I want to drive with her to the police station? Problem was, when she said I didn’t want to go to the station alone? I was fine with the idea until she suggested it was unwise. After that, the anxiety in my bloodstream increased.

So I hurried out the door into the narrow strip of parking that ran behind the stores. Sunshine nearly blinded me, and I crossed the brief stretch of faded tarmac to stand beneath a tree overhanging the back fence. Comfortably in the shade, I waited while Carrie ducked back into the store—presumably to set an alarm—then popped back out to lock the series of deadbolts lining the door.

She locked, I waited, and something squeaked.

I glanced left and right, but aside from a few empty vehicles, we were alone in the lot.

“All set,” Carrie said, turning away from the door.

She took three steps, I adjusted the purse on my shoulder, and something squeaked.

“Okay, hold it.” I scanned the lot again, but saw nothing out of the expected.

“What is it?”

“Did you hear—” It came again, louder, longer. And a little twinge of alarm warned me I’d been looking in the wrong place.

I lowered to a crouch, and scanned the ground. Beside me, Carrie did the same. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Are we hiding?”

“We’re looking.” Duckwalking to the fence that divided the parking strip from the public park it bordered, I peered along the length of the fence where it met the ground. In the back of my mind I knew time was wasting. I needed to get to the police station to bring Grandy home. But if my instincts had been correct . . .

“What are we looking for?”

At last I spotted a beer carton, several cars away and tight up against the fence as though the box had been dropped over. And the box was moving.

I pushed to my feet. “Kitten, I think.”

Carrie’s face curled in disbelief. “Are you crazy? What would a kitten be doing back here?”

I didn’t want to tell her I thought the kitten might be getting more than a little bit hungry, so I answered her with a shrug and headed along the fence in the direction of the beer carton.

“You must be imagining things. No one would abandon a kitten back here. Wenwood isn’t that sort of town.”

I paused to look over my shoulder at her. “You can have a murder but not a homeless feline?”

She huffed, waggled her fingers a bit. “Well . . .”

With a few more steps I was beside the box, peering inside. A teeny pair of blue eyes peered back at me, followed by that squeak I’d heard. Now the sound was clearly audible, and definitely the
mew
of a kitten.

What can I say? I melted. Grandfather in the clink, murder scene up the road, and I went all gooey over that teeny tiny
meeew
.

“Hey there,” I said softly, “how did you get in that box?” I reached down and, one-handed, scooped up the kitten. A little ball of white fluff with a gray streak atop her head gazed up at me and mewed, and I tucked that fluff against my chest and I swear long-broken pieces of my heart began to mend.

“What are you doing? Don’t pick it up. What if it’s rabid?”

I turned the kitten’s little face to her. “This is not the face of a rabid animal. This is the face of future world domination.”

Carrie set a hand on her hip. “Unless it’s a face that can give your grandfather an alibi, I suggest we get moving.”

“Absolutely. There’s just one thing I have to do first.”

N
ot surprisingly, Carrie was opposed to standing watch over the kitten while I ran down to Village Grocery, but really we had little choice. I had no idea how long it had taken for the little white puff with a tail to eat the two tiny cans of food left in the box with it and I couldn’t let it dehydrate or starve now. As opposed as Carrie was to watching the feline, she was more opposed to buying supplies to keep it happy. Thus, Carrie waited, I shopped.

Having no sound idea how much kittens eat, I grabbed a few cans of moist food and a six-pack of bottled water. With a packet of disposable plastic bowls, I hurried up to the register and dropped the collection on the belt.

The cashier—a college-aged girl with yellow-blond hair and black roots—reluctantly tore her gaze away from the wide plate windows stretching across the front of the store. Her distracted gaze found mine. “Have you heard about Andy Edgers?” she asked.

I shoved the kitten food a little closer to her. Mention of Edgers renewed my urgency in getting to the police station and getting Grandy home. “I did hear, yes. Terrible,” I muttered. “I don’t need a bag for these.”

She rang up the purchase in slow motion, pausing after each item to check the collection of townsfolk gathered in front of the store. “I hope no one takes over the hardware store,” she said. “There should really be a music store here, you know? Classic vinyl and stuff. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

At a loss for words—seriously, poor Mr. Edgers hadn’t been gone a day and already there were plans to take over his retail space?—I thrust some cash at the girl, shoved the cat food in my purse, and practically ran to the back exit.

I hurried Carrie into the car, and settled kitten and beer carton on the floorboards at my feet. The little miss (I checked) nibbled at the fresh can of food I had opened and placed inside the box, but it wasn’t long before she was clambering out of her confines and into my lap. For a moment I worried she’d get in Carrie’s way and we’d be put to the side of the road, but the kitten curled up happily in the crook of my arm and fell asleep shortly after we left the stretch of road Wenwood considered downtown.

“I can’t believe you’re planning on taking that thing home,” Carrie said on a resigned sigh. She’d already lost the battle about me bringing the kitten into the car.

“You don’t like cats, I guess.”

She slanted a glance at me. “I’m more of a dog person.”

“But this is a kitten. Everyone loves kittens.”

“Everyone except the person who threw it out like trash.”

To her credit, she sounded angry. She might prefer a rottweiler, but there was a hint of stubborn animal lover about her that made me smile.

With the ball of fluff sleeping peacefully, I paid attention to the roads Carrie took on our way to the sixth precinct police station. The station could be reached by taking the interstate, Carrie informed me, but the road along the riverside was prettier and less prone to mysterious midday traffic snarls.

I felt the threat of guilt hovering over my shoulder—out of reach of contented kitten—as we cruised along the river road. The beauty of the area—pale summer sky stretched overhead, thick green leaves on the trees lining the road, the lush blue river rolling along speckled with small sailboats and large cabin cruisers—pushed the thought of Grandy in the police station into another realm. There along the road, a lazy summer day promised nothing but sunshine and good times.

We rounded a curve and a time-worn structure came into view. Wrapped by chain-link fencing with construction equipment huddling motionless inside the perimeter, a large wooden structure resembling an oversized barn sat partially demolished, its riverside wall open to the air. Bright, new wood virtually gleamed from the dark interior.

“What’s going on over there?” I asked Carrie, tipping my head in the direction of the river.

A hint of sadness weighed down Carrie’s response. “That’s the old brickworks.”

She didn’t need to say more for me to understand her sadness. Once upon a time Wenwood was a thriving town. The Hudson River provided water, the riverbed below provided clay, and at the mill on the river’s edge, brick after brick was molded, baked, and shipped across a young nation. Wenwood was a place for hardworking folk to build a good life.

The nation aged and the world expanded. Cheaper stone came in from Europe, and people started building with glass and aluminum, and brick making declined. Wenwood went from a bustling little village to a ghost of its former glory. And now it looked like even the old building was surrendering.

“What are they doing to it? Tearing it down?” I kept my voice soft, in the manner of someone speaking of a tragedy.

“To start with.” Carrie shut her lips tight for a moment before continuing. “They’re going to put a marina there, with a boatyard and a restaurant and everything. Figure it will attract some tourism to the area.”

At a loss for words, I nodded. Tourism made sense. Wenwood was an old town, not without its charms, and the view along the river was certainly alluring. By the same token, you never knew what shape a town would take once it began relying on something like tourism for funds.

The kitten awoke and stretched and dug its claws into my forearm. I cursed soundly, and Carrie gave a triumphant sort of cackle and slowed for a left-hand turn. She guided the car away from the river, back inland. Seconds before I could ask how much farther, the police station came into view.

A boxy brick building, perhaps two stories, with windows at ground level indicating the presence of a basement, sat far back from the curb of an industrial-looking street. The front lawn featured a flagpole from which both the U.S. and the state flags flew, and a weathered bronze statue of a policeman stood watch over a half-grass, half-clover lawn.

Carrie steered the car into the lot running parallel to the station and pulled into a spot marked
VISITOR
, helpful since all the unmarked slots were taken by green and white squad cars. I swallowed against a rising sense of anxiety and climbed out of the car. My legs felt rubbery beneath me, not because we’d been sitting long or the heat of the day was getting to me, but because worry has a strange effect on musculature. I tucked the kitten back into her box and tucked the box under my arm.

“You’re not bringing that thing into the station, are you?” Carrie stood at the back fender of the car. She dropped her keys into her purse and squinted at me like she could see the jelly my legs were made of.

“It’s a kitten, not a nuclear device.”

“Until it meets a K-9 unit.”

“It’ll be fine.” I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder and marched toward the police station as proudly as I could manage while holding a somewhat fragrant carton emblazoned with a beer logo. Cheap beer at that.

The building that had appeared almost stately from the road looked a whole lot different close up. Weeds poked up below scraggly hedges, the sidewalk was cracked and uneven, and the brick building looked as if nothing more than a huff and a puff would blow the station house down.

“Is there some budget deficit in this county?” I asked, grimacing a little while gazing up at the building façade.

Carrie waved my question away. “Who can keep up with weeds this time of year? And after such a wet spring.”

We shuffled up the steps—crumbled brick patched with mismatched mortar. “Not the weeds. The building. Why not replace the brick instead of filling it in with this ugly crap?” I toed a bit of concrete, and reached the top of the steps before realizing Carrie was no longer beside me.

She stood on the bottom step, her hand resting on the brick wall beside her as though it were resting over her heart. “These,” she said fiercely, “are Wenwood bricks.”

“Yeah, huh?”

She sighed. “Do you have any idea how old these bricks are?”

I peered at the brick dust collecting at the base of the wall. “Pretty old, I’m guessing.”

“Georgia. These bricks are from the original Wenwood factory.” Her tone was reverent, her eyes bright. “Wenwood bricks have been used in historical buildings all along the East Coast, dating as far back as the early seventeen hundreds. They’ve housed presidents, for goodness’ sake.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “And right now they’re housing my grandfather, so can we do the town pride parade later?”

Without waiting for her response, I tugged open the door to the station and stepped inside.

Moving from the bright morning outside to the dim station house interior required a moment’s pause for my eyes to adjust. I shuffled forward enough for Carrie to enter behind me, but otherwise stood still and waited and blinked.

And yet, all the blinking and all the waiting had no effect. By the time I figured out the dim interior would be dim regardless of time of day or intensity of sunlight, Carrie was already across the pitted linoleum and rapping on the tall wooden desk at the far end of the narrow room. Paneling lined the walls, and here and there a community policy flyer was taped to the wall: Clean up after your dog, don’t let trees interfere with power lines, possession of gunpowder is a prosecutable offense. Who knew?

The desk sergeant shuffled through a doorway behind the desk, in no particular hurry to assist. “Hey, Carrie,” he said. “What brings you by today?”

“Steve, you guys have Pete Keene here?” she asked.

Sergeant Steve’s lip curled suspiciously as he watched me approach. “Who’s asking?”

“I am,” Carrie and I both said at once.

“Pete’s my grandfather.” I stopped in front of the desk, peered over the sergeant’s shoulder to the doorway he’d come through. Racks with empty gun belts and radios ran from the ceiling to—presumably—the floor. “Detective Nolan came by the house this morning and brought him here for some questioning?” Before I’d finished speaking, the officer was nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s here. He’s in the back.”

I glanced to my left, where another doorway led to a hall that at some point in time—perhaps in an earlier century—had been painted a pale green. “Can I go back there?”

“Only if you’re in handcuffs,” he said.

“Oh. Well, we’re here to drive him home,” I said.

Sergeant Steve lowered his chin, looked at me from below his brows. “He’s not available just yet.” He narrowed his eyes. “Whatcha got in that box?”

“Nothing,” Carrie said.

“Kitten,” I said. Carrie shot me a quelling look and I shrugged. “What? Again, not a nuclear device.”

Pointing a finger at the box, the desk sergeant said, “Open it up.”

I can’t be sure, but I think he was resting his hand on his gun. And I can’t say as I blame him. I had just walked into a police station carrying a carton. All manner of objects could be concealed within its depths. But still, probably not . . . you know . . .

Using my body to brace the box against the counter, I lifted the loosely folded flaps and scooped out a wriggling puff of white fur. With no better option, I set the wee wonder on the top of the desk. The kitten blinked its wide blue eyes, sat, and let out a heartbreaking
meeew
.

Sergeant Steve made a noise typically reserved for women. It was something between an
oooh
and an
eeeh
, and I swear he melted where he stood. “Now that’s the cutest little thing to come through those doors.” His oversized man hand hovered above the kitten before he lowered a forefinger and stroked its head. “You just pick it up from a breeder or something?”

“Found it in a parking lot,” I said.

The cop froze. All-business eyes looked down at me. “You found it?”

“In the parking lot,” I repeated, somewhat less assured. “Will my grandfather be much longer?” I had a sinking feeling the kitten conversation wasn’t going to end in my favor, and I really, truly wanted it to. Though new to the pet thing, I was on a crash course to understanding that there were few things in the world that couldn’t be improved by the presence of an animal.

“What was it doing in a parking lot?”

“Hiding in a beer carton,” Carrie murmured.

“Someone left this little guy in a box?” Outrage tinged Sergeant Steve’s words. I wasn’t sure if I was glimpsing Steve the cop or Steve the animal lover. Either way the thunder forming across his brow made me uneasy.

“Honestly, we don’t know whether someone put the kitten in the box or the kitten got out of its house and found the box all on its own,” I fibbed, hoping to defuse his impending wrath.

The officer pressed his lips into a tight line, making his cheeks bulge like a hamster storing seeds. He exhaled volubly through his nose, while somewhere off to my left a door creaked open. Subdued male chatter drifted in my direction. Neither of the voices had Grandy’s natural growl.

“About my grandfather?” I prompted.

Sergeant Steve scooped up the kitten, gave it a rub between the ears, and handed it back to me. “He’ll be at least another hour. At least.” He nodded at the kitten. “Meantime you could get to work making signs, find out who that kitten belongs to.”

My jaw dropped inelegantly. I was feeling very possessive toward the kitten, and pretty confident some hard-hearted human had discarded the little thing. But I was afraid if I admitted that last bit to the police, they’d make me leave it with them or, worse, bring it to a shelter, where it would be incarcerated with other homeless animals while it awaited trial—or whatever it is they have to wait for. And what if I didn’t get custody?

“That’s a great idea, Steve,” Carrie said. She turned to me, eyes bright, smile wide. “We could make flyers, don’t you think? And then the”—she waved at the creature—“
that
could be reunited with its rightful owner.”

I squelched the urge to glare at her, focusing instead on setting the kitten back in its box. Since I had only one free hand, the flaps were presenting a problem.

“You,” a male voice declared.

Keeping pressure on the carton with my hip, I turned to peer along the hallway to my left. Headed in my direction in the company of a uniformed officer was the blue-eyed guy from the hardware store.

He was stopped in the hallway—eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, jaw muscles bulging—and he was pointing at me.