Pane and Suffering (5 page)

“What's a cache?”

“It's a hidden storage space where you squirrel away things like food or supplies or even weapons for outdoor sports.”

Holding Suzy securely, he asked, “What outdoor sport?”

“Oh my goodness, I remember, now. We played a kind of search game with latitude and longitude readings. There's an organization for that. What was it called?”

Jacob hugged Suzy up in his arms to kiss the top of her head.

Savannah rapped her forehead with a knuckle, forcing her brain to find the word she wanted. “Okay, I remember. It's called geocaching.”

“Geo what?”

“Geocaching. It's like a grown-up treasure hunting game with some high-level navigation thrown in. Look here,” she turned to the office computer on the table next to the desk and typed
www.geocaching.com
into the search icon and clicked on the website. The main screen played a video of people of all ages finding weatherproof boxes, film canisters, and disguised containers hidden in trees, under benches, and among flower beds.

“Mr. Webb was interested in that?”

“I remember that Dad joined the organization and used a global database to keep track of our finds. He created a few by himself. This clue leads to our first geocache back when I was only ten. I think that's where he wants me to search.”

She stood and placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched. She already missed the strenuous activity required of a glass blower. One of those boot camp workouts would feel very good. Sitting with paperwork and standing around teaching—not good if she wanted to keep herself fit.

“I'm not exactly sure what it means right now, Jacob, but I'll think about it.”

She thought back to how excited her dad had been when he'd discovered the game of geocaching. It seemed a perfect way to introduce his motherless daughter to an outdoor activity that also exercised her brain. That first cache was created to keep her grounded and active in the aftermath of her mother's long fight with cancer.

She felt a smile tickle her face and enjoyed the bittersweet memory of her dad's excitement when she found his first geocache. “That's where he means for me to go. The next clue is at Crescent Lake.”

Chapter 4

 

S
avannah's cell phone rang to the tune of ABBA's “Super Trooper.” It was the ring tone for her roommate.

“Ivy! Oh, thanks for calling.”

“What's going on? I just got back from New Orleans and found your message on the machine. I'm so sorry I was out of town when I heard about your dad. What a horrible thing and I wasn't around. I'm sorry. How are you holding up?”

“Hang on just a second.” Savannah sheltered the phone against her heart and looked over to Jacob still holding Suzy. “Excuse me, Jacob. I need to take this call. If you need me, I'll be in the classroom.”

He nodded.

Walking slowly out of the office, she replied, “It's so good to hear from you.”

“I'm so sorry I couldn't come to the funeral. That stained glass conference was a breath of fresh air. Well, except for one dolt. Anyway, I'm completely inspired to try some new techniques. Luckily, the financial grant I just snagged covered the entire expense. Anyone who tells you that New Orleans has a recovered infrastructure hasn't actually tried to use that infrastructure. It was miserable. Even worse, my cell phone went belly up after the second day so I had no coverage for the whole week.”

“I miss you. It's good to hear your cheery voice.”

“Bull. You miss our apartment and your glass studio.
Hovel
would be a better description, but it is ridiculously quiet around here without you and your Ken drama.”

Savannah's stomach sunk into a black pit at the thought of her ex-boyfriend. “I am
not
a drama queen. You know that.”

“I know. I just couldn't resist riling you. Sorry. I shouldn't have done that. You already know I have no sense of social awareness. Anyway, I am truly sorry about your dad and the funeral and all that stuff. Really.”

Savannah choked up. “Yes, I know.”

“What?”

“Yes, you're right as usual. I miss Seattle.” Savannah wandered around the classroom and perched on one of the student stools.

“So how is selling the business coming along?”

Savannah sighed deeply. “Things have gotten complicated.”

“What? How?”

“Dad's long-time associate, Hugh Trevor, was found dead in the custom workshop this morning.”

“Oh no. Savannah, that's horrible. That's unspeakable. What can I do? Do you need me to come out there and—”

“Hold on.” Savannah took a long breath. “I'm okay for now. It's a shock and I'm not sure if I'm thinking straight.”

“You? You're the straightest-thinking person I know.”

“Apparently not when I lose my dad and Hugh in the space of a week.”

“Oh, right. Didn't you leave a message that Hugh was going to stay on? At least during the ownership transition?”

“Yep. He wanted to keep on teaching so I was going to symbolically hand over Dad's keys to him tonight after class. I really thought I would be on my way back sometime tomorrow.”

“That's crap in a handbag.”

Savannah shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Only Ivy can get away with using phrases like that
.

“I've got a lot more to figure out now. How to sell the shop. How to teach this week's workshop. How to . . .”—
figure out if my dad was murdered—
“Never mind. As you say, crap in a handbag. The list is getting longer.”

“Well, if anyone can juggle all that without getting a hair out of place, it's you. Hey, Ken was asking me today if I knew when you were coming back. Are you two in the falling-out or falling-in phase at the moment? It does get confusing.”

“We are most definitely in the falling-out phase and well planted into the never-getting-back-together-
ever
phase. Trust me. It's over. We will have to act like real grown-ups and cooperate professionally since our exhibit opens in two weeks.”

“Just because a guy looks good doesn't mean he
is
good. Anyway, call him. He'll want to know why you won't be back this week to set up the show and I can't lie. You know that. I'll spill the beans in a New York minute.”

“Sorry, sorry. He shouldn't be bugging you. I'll send him an e-mail right away. Thanks for calling, Ivy.”

“Now, I really mean it. If you need me to come down to sweaty old St. Petersburg, I'll do it. But just because it's you.”

“You're the best. Bye. See you soon, I hope.”

Savannah slowly walked back to the office door thinking about how drastically things had changed for her in just a matter of days.
No Dad. No Ken. No Hugh
. At least the familiar workings of the glass shop grounded her.

Jacob was sitting in front of the computer with Suzy in his lap searching the geocaching site. She calmly looked to him with the apparent intention to wait forever, for whatever was next.

She spoke softly. “Can you show me what you were working on with Dad and Hugh? Until things are settled with the shop, I think we should continue with your apprenticeship. At least for now.”

Jacob nodded, stood, and snuggled Suzy up to his cheek, then placed her carefully back on the pile of old shirts. “Stay,” he said.

Suzy circled the rags twice, then plopped back down into her sphinx pose. Her big brown eyes followed Jacob like a laser guided missile.

He turned and led the way into the custom workshop. He walked to the front wall to stand at a worktable that had a stool tucked underneath. On the wall above the table, a mounted spice rack held small containers similar in shape to those little white glue bottles found in most elementary schools. They were placed upside down and instead of written labels, each bottle had a small glass square taped to the front, representing the fired color of the liquid.

At the right side of his working table, Jacob had placed a small clear plastic cup of water along with a tiny spray bottle full of water, and a rag that was used to dry any of the four brushes that stood bristles up in a coffee cup. The brushes varied in size from an inch to a super fine brush of only a few hairs.

Because they weren't white, but a soft gray-brown, Savannah presumed that they weren't synthetic, but might be squirrel or mink. No expense had been spared.

Laying beside the brushes was a twelve-inch-by-twelve-inch square of glass that had been edged with duct tape and on it was a palette knife. In the center of the workspace, lay a clear piece of cathedral glass placed over a full color copy of the hand of Jesus. A single base coat of flesh-colored paint had been painted on the glass.

“Jacob, as part of your training, have you been duplicating the hand-painted panels for
The Last Supper
?”

“Yes, Miss Savannah. Mr. Webb helped set this up for me. He wants me to copy all the painted images for the panels.”

Savannah raised her eyebrows. “Have you finished any pieces, yet?”

“Yes, Miss Savannah.”

“Where are they?”

“Mr. Webb put them in the kiln over there.” Jacob pointed to the corner at a large white kiln placed on a layer of bricks. With the lid closed, it looked like a square claw-foot bathtub. A large chrome handle was fastened to one side of the kiln and the adjacent side had a red LED display that was flashing FINISHED.

Savannah struggled to lift the heavy lid. In the bottom, a thin coat of fine powder obscured the details of a painted oval piece. That was the normal result of the firing process. Each piece rested on a specially coated shelf paper that protected the bricks as well as the fired glass in the bottom of the kiln.

She gently slipped her fingers underneath and carried it over to the industrial sink in the other corner of the workshop. She turned on the tap, adjusted the water to a warm flow, and slipped the piece of glass beneath the gentle stream. After softly rubbing it with her fingers, the colors began to show through the dusty film and a perfect image of the face of Jesus looked at her with kind eyes.

“Jacob,” she called. “Come over here and look at this, please.”

He looked over Savannah's shoulder into the sink. “It has to match the original picture. That's what Mr. Webb told me. It has to match the original picture.”

Savannah grabbed a T-shirt rag, dried the painted face, and took the piece over to the worktable. Jacob followed on quiet feet and even quieter breath.

“This isn't the first time you've painted glass, is it?”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Savannah. I started glass painting a few months ago. I've been painting at the art center for a long time, but it got too noisy. I like it here much better.”

At the far end of the worktable, taking up the full width, was a full-sized color collage of the painted pieces. She compared the fired piece with the image of the face of Jesus. “They match perfectly. If anything, your painted image has better eyes. It's subtle, but they are definitely more expressive.”

Jacob stood by her side looking at the two pieces. “That's what Mr. Webb said. It has to match the picture.”

Savannah blinked and shook her head.
He doesn't realize his talent
. She understood why the duplication contract had been awarded to her dad. The glass painting technique alone was reason enough, let alone the combined skill of Hugh and her dad.

“Jacob, who worked on the glass pieces of the panel?”

“Mr. Hugh worked on cutting and shaping the glass pieces. Mr. Webb was supposed to start working on the structure stuff.”

Savannah sat on the tall work stool by the panel and let the enormity of the glass contract sink into her skull. She had been reasonably good with stained glass when she was growing up, but she had been working as a glass blower for the last few years and they were completely different skills. Stained glass is cutting and shaping cold glass into rigid designs. Glass blowing involves inflating molten glass into a bubble with the aid of a blow tube, then working the glass with a torch to form glassware.

Am I still good enough
? She wondered to herself.

“Well, Jacob”—she got up, found a worn work apron, put it over her head, and tied the strings around her back—“now is the time to find out if I can still cut glass.”

He looked at the door and back at Savannah. “May I check on Suzy, please?”

“Of course. Make sure that you are free of any glass bits before you pick her up. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Savannah.” Jacob vigorously scrubbed his brush along his arms, chest, and legs, making a little humming noise as he worked. He practically skipped from the room.

She turned back to the duplicate panel
,
thinking
little Suzy is a gift.

The panel was nearly complete. Under the worktable on the shelving underneath lay more than enough cathedral glass to finish the project. Even if more than one attempt was needed for each of the remaining pieces, at least she wouldn't have to worry about color matching the expensive glass with another order from the manufacturer.

Savannah selected a piece that consisted of about eight square inches and only one curve. She tore a piece of butcher paper from the vertical cutter on the far wall and put it in the center of the worktable that Hugh had used.

Not yet ready to stand in her dad's place, she traced a template of the piece onto a small piece of butcher paper. She cut the paper with an X-ACTO knife and pasted it to the glass with a glue stick. Next, she protected the edges of the paper with wax. She moved over to the cutting section of the workbench and made the straight cuts with no problem. Picking up her dad's cutter, she placed it precisely on the curve and began to score.

“Miss Savannah?” Jacob appeared at her elbow.

Savannah flinched and the cutter threatened to veer off the line, but she pressed her lips tight and continued to guide the cutter off to the edge of the glass.
Well, that proves I need practice
. She turned to Jacob and smiled.

“Did Hugh tell you about when you should talk and when you should wait?”

“Yes, Miss Savannah, but—”

“It's important to wait until I'm finished cutting a piece of glass. I haven't looked at the invoice, but I think this is German glass and it's quite expensive. I could have ruined the whole piece.” She stopped as Jacob began to breathe loudly and faster.

He looked down at his shoes. “I'm sorry, Miss Savannah.” He gulped in a new breath and blurted, “There's a man outside.”

“What? We're closed. I know I turned the sign around to CLOSED.” She went out of the workroom and stopped just at the front of the display room.

A man was pointing a small black device up to the roofline of the shop. He was quite short in a sharkskin gray suit with a black shirt and cartoon tie featuring Felix the Cat. It was not a local look. His hair was so thin that he must have faced a daily decision whether to comb it over or shave it clean.

Savannah opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the shop. “May I help you?”

He smiled with brilliant white teeth that nearly glinted in the bright afternoon sun. “Good afternoon.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed her a business card. “Are you Miss Webb?”

She took the card without looking at it. “Yes, I'm Savannah. May I help you?”

“I'm Gregory Smythe of the ACME Land Development Company. That's
S-M-Y-T-H-E.
” He enunciated each letter, stretched out to shake her hand, then cleared his throat. “It's the European pronunciation handed down from my British relations.”