A Shattering Crime (15 page)

“But.” I put a hand to my head as if that would help hold in all the information Lucky was providing. “How will you know what poison was used against David Rayburn?”

He shook his head. “
If
he was poisoned and
if
the poison was naturally occurring,” Lucky said, “I won't.”

*   *   *

T
he idea that a poison could come straight out of the garden wasn't news. I'd come across any number of warnings about common vegetation as soon as I'd adopted Friday, and the list had only grown after Fifi joined the household. What I couldn't get out of my head was the little angel statue in Rozelle's garden and the proliferation of plantings surrounding it. I had dismissed what growth I saw as nothing more than decorative ground cover, but had I been right?

Snug in the passenger seat of Tony's car, I squinted at the tiny images of poisonous plants I had used my smart phone to find. At that size, the only difference the pictures showed were in the flowers and leaves. But I was snug in the car in part because of the warmth being spread by the heater. Flowering season had long since ended and even the leaves on plants had died back or shriveled in the cold. Any one of those deadly plants could have been in Rozelle's garden. For that matter, they could very well be in mine.

I huffed and dropped my head back until it bonked against the head rest.

“Did I miss a turn?” Tony asked, hand already reaching toward the console-mounted GPS.

“You're fine,” I assured him. “This is just one of those moments I wish I had a great big computer monitor in my life.”

He made a little snort and grinned. “A nice-sized laptop won't be enough?”

“No, it's got to be huge or it's useless.” I dropped the smart phone into the open purse at my feet.

“Are you thinking waiting-room huge or family-room huge?”

“I'm thinking home-theater enormous,” I said, then laughed and put a hand to my forehead as I leaned my arm against the window ledge.

“Okay.” He did a slow nod. “I'll keep that in mind.”

The voice of the GPS broke into the conversation to advise us our destination would be on our left in one thousand feet.

I couldn't guess at whether he was kidding along with me or was actually filing away the preference for sometime in the future. Worse, I didn't know how to ask, or if I even should.

I tipped a chin toward the direction we were headed. “The parking lot is on the side, just before the shop.”

“Got it,” he said.

After a moment I said, “Thanks. I appreciate you driving me all the way out here.”

His smile then was brief. “It's no trouble,” he said. And though he didn't continue, the word hung in the air, silent and yet louder than the GPS voice counting down our destination.

“But . . .” I prompted.

He shook his head. “There's no
but
.”

“There's a
but
,” I said. “
It's no trouble but 
. . .”

“No
but
, babe.”

“Yes
but
, handsome.”

He sighed and switched on the car's blinker. “It's no trouble
and
I'm happy to do it
.
How's that?”

“I don't believe you,” I said.

It wasn't until he had the car parked and the engine off that he turned to me and said, “No trouble, happy to do it, happy to do anything you ask me.” He leaned in and kissed me, and I had to let the matter go. There was a valid chance he hadn't meant
but
at all, and my imagining it was more a result of being in a frame of mind where I had begun to wonder if sweet old Rozelle, my grandfather's secret girlfriend, was growing poison in her garden.

Or more to the point, if not Rozelle—and my gut told me it wasn't—then who?

I waited for Tony to come around and open my door for me then we walked hand in hand the length of the short parking lot and around to the front door of the stained glass shop. As I had become accustomed to do when I was with him, I held back a bit when we neared the door, allowing him to reach it first. But instead of dropping my hand to open the door and wave me inside, he gripped my fingers even tighter and tugged me close. The kiss that followed was no simple matter, no quick touch of the lips to reassure each other we were happy together. This was serious business. This went straight from my head to my toes, with a long, lingering stop in my heart. When he pulled back, the chill of his absence was instant.

“It's no problem,” he repeated. “I'm happy to do whatever you need me to because I love you. There.” He nodded and reached for the door. “Now we can go inside.”

Wow. And there I was worrying about what belladonna leaves looked like. Clearly I was focused in the wrong direction.

I essentially stumbled through the door and into the stained glass shop. Lost in my internal search for “I love you, too,” I jumped in surprise at the
blong
of the electronic door chime. A gust of cool air followed behind me and quickly dissipated in the warmth of the shop.

“Look at this place,” Tony said. “This is amazing.”

I turned to find his gaze on the assortment of stained glass panels hung from the ceiling. Dragonflies on lily pads, hummingbirds and trumpet vines, roses, irises, Celtic knots, and striking geometric designs gave an indication of the variety of design to be found in glass. My gaze lingered on a vertical panel depicting a peacock, its tail feathers folded and flowing like drapes of jeweled silk. It was pieces like that, with blues and greens, teals and aquas, whose beauty helped me stick with the learning process when I first began to work with glass. The idea that someday I might be able to create something so breathtaking was enough to keep me enthused through my days of lopsided butterflies and uneven tulip petals, not to mention the unexpected challenge of cutting and soldering straight lines.

When Tony returned his attention to me, all I could do was smile. “Now you know how I got hooked,” I said.

He shook his head, chin lowered beneath a slow smile. “I never would have decided learning to make it myself was a solution,” he said. “That's your gift.”

“Oh, please,” I said, shuffling toward the front corner of the shop, where narrow, vertical wooden cubbies filled with sheets of colored glass lined the walls. “It's not a gift. Grandy would call it Irish stubbornness and I think he's right.”

Tony ambled the length of one of the light tables, paralleling my own progress. “Don't sell yourself short, Georgia,” he said. “You have a unique bent for finding it in yourself to do things other people would, well, leave to someone else.”

I laughed a little, finally finding my balance after his proclamation. Something about being surrounded by glass helped me return to my emotional center. “Also an Irish thing,” I said. “Better to do it myself than hire someone. That's how I ended up mowing the lawn every weekend.”

“You mowed the lawn because you wouldn't agree to letting me do it.” He rested his elbows on the wood frame of the light table and leaned in. “And you wouldn't let me do it because that would have meant I'd end up spending time with your grandfather. You weren't ready for that.”

Fingers resting on a sheet of glass I had yet to pull from its cubby, I froze. “That's not—”

“It is true, even if you didn't realize it. And I'm sorry . . .” He paused, took a breath. “Sorry that I forced the issue and insisted on dinner with the family.”

I slid a few sheets of glass free then spun and set them on the table. Across the lit tabletop, I met Tony's focused gaze. “Don't be ridiculous. You—”

“Georgia,” he said, “I forced it, and I most likely shouldn't have but I've been getting the impression if I wait for you, I'm going to be waiting a long time.”

It was a good thing I had already put the glass down. “What—what do you mean?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You're understandably reluctant to have me spend time with
your family. And you're downright gun-shy when it comes to talking about anything that's taking place more than a week in the future.”

Something warm, heavy, and sluggish stirred deep in my gut. Something familiar yet forgotten and unwelcome. Something like fear. Fear of heartbreak and emptiness. Tony had me pegged. Gun-shy indeed.

I kept my eyes on my task while I separated the sheets of glass, placing them one by one on the light table. Each pane was clear, though not all were translucent. Subtle designs had been incorporated into each, from the gentle wave in the aptly named water glass to the cross-hatched randomness of a crackle pattern. I lifted a square of double glue chip from the stack and set it to the side.

Willing the anxiety to remain in check, I risked facing him. “Look, Tony, I'm sorry I—”

“This is my apology, not yours. As usual,” he said with a slight smile. “And I don't want you feeling guilty or thinking there's something you've done wrong. I don't expect you to jump into our relationship without some sort of trepidation, okay?”

I did a little more slow nodding, trying to wrap my mind around what he was trying to tell me so quickly following a declaration of love. A huff marked my surrender. “Okay, I don't understand,” I said.

When I tried to look away, he angled his head to maintain eye contact. “I don't want you to think that because I told you I love you that you have to say it back. Or that I'm going to start talking moving in together and buying expensive kitchen knives. I'm okay with waiting for you to feel ready to . . . move . . . forward.”

He kept quiet while I took it all in, while the sensor over the door chimed again and a heavyset gray-haired man wandered into the shop. “What if I make you wait a really long time?” I asked, only half kidding. “What if I never get to the point where—”

Tony lay his hand over mine. The rough skin of his palm, rather than scraping or chafing, seemed to fit like a tongue and groove above my own hand. “You'll get there. I only hope it's with me.”

The gray-haired man wandered in our direction, and I straightened and slipped my hand out from beneath Tony's. “Why, um, why are we having this conversation now?” I asked. I backed away from the table. I needed to find a large sheet of plain, clear glass, but didn't want to take my eyes off Tony. He looked so earnest, and not a little bit adorable. “Wouldn't dinner be a better time to discuss these things? You know, when it's just us.”

That earned me a sour smirk from the gray-haired man, but I'd been confronted by worse threats.

“Because at dinner,” Tony began, “I'm going to ask you if you've given any thought to the idea of me staying in Wenwood and I thought I ought to prepare you for that ahead of time.”

My fingers closed on the corner of a sheet of glass, and I learned the hard way that a chip had fallen from the pane and left a sharp edge in its place.

I pulled a hissing breath between my teeth and snatched my hand away from the glass. “Nuts,” I said. Then I opened my palm to inspect its potential damage—a foolish move knowing what I already knew about glass and my propensity for cutting myself on the smallest
shard. Sure enough, a streak of bright red blood had begun to spread along the pad beneath my pointer finger. A matching streak was forming on the side of my thumb at the knuckle. Just my luck.

Tony rushed around the table. He grabbed my hand and pulled my arm up over my head.

“What are you doing?” I asked, fighting for control of my arm.

“Keep it elevated,” he said. He released my arm then patted down his pockets, presumably searching for a tourniquet.

“It's okay,” I said. “It's just a couple of cuts.” I tried to lower my arm, but Tony took hold of my elbow and forced my appendage aloft.

“I see injuries like this on the site all the time,” he said.

“You see injuries from saws and power tools. This is just some jagged glass. Eleanor keeps Band-Aids up by the register.”

He produced a rumpled paper napkin with a donut shop logo from his coat pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Put some pressure on it,” he said.

He kept his hand firm against mine, wrapped his fingers around mine to keep the pressure. I couldn't stop the smile. Yes, I had a couple of cuts on my hand that were going to be painful for a couple of days based mostly on their locations, but certainly they were not life threatening. Yet there was Tony, leaping into action and taking care of me.

Embarrassing tears burned at the corners of my eyes. It had been a long time since I'd felt like there was someone else looking out for my well-being. You know,
someone who wasn't eighty years old and biologically related to me. And the simple fact was, it felt nice. More, it felt right. And that was enough for the moment.

“You know what?” I said.

His eyes cut to mine and creased with worry. “Are you starting to feel light-headed?”

I smiled. “No. The opposite. I think, um.” I paused for a breath of courage. “I think it would be good if you stayed.”

Wisely, he said nothing, only kept his gaze on mine and let the slight rise of his brows ask the question.

“Yes.” I nodded. “I'm sure. No guarantees I'll even like you in three weeks,” I teased. “But I think it's worth finding out, don't
you?”

T
he moment I popped the metal spring latch on the pet carrier, I knew I'd made a mistake. A big one. Previously stretched along the back of the living room couch like a well-worn rubber band, Friday rolled to her feet and catapulted off the couch with the speed of a cheetah presented with easy prey. Her little paws must have touched the ground as she ran but I never saw the evidence. She was across the room and up the stairs before I even swung open the door of the carrier.

“Nuts,” I muttered, and let my chin fall to my chest in momentary defeat. It had been a late one the night before, and having to crawl out of bed even thirty minutes earlier than my usual waking time had felt brutal. I should have been pouring a bracing cup of coffee-to-go. Instead, I was going to have to catch the cat.

With a dramatic sigh that no one was awake to hear, I followed Friday's path through the room and up the steps. As I reached the landing, the sound of her scary sharp claws digging at a wooden door gave away her position.

“Not that bright, are you?” I asked. She was clawing to be let into my room, the room currently occupied by Mom and Ben, as if either one of them were going to let her in.

I bent at the waist, dropped my hands low, and started toward her. My plan was to scoop her up and wrestle her into the carrier. Her plan went better. She ran straight for me, her speed exceeding my reflexes. When my hands came together, all I had hold of was the end of a fluffy white tail. Before my mind processed the fact that I had, in fact, stopped her—though I was bent over with my hair in my eyes and my hands between my calves—she let out a yowl fit to peel the paper off the walls. Afraid of holding on and somehow dislocating her tail, not knowing if that was even possible, I released my grip and she was off again, down the stairs and out of sight.

I breathed out a curse then swiftly slapped my hand over my mouth. Yes, I was an adult. But my mother was on the other side of a closed door and probably asleep. The habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

As I straightened and mentally prepared to continue my pursuit of the cat, the telltale clack-scratch of Fifi pawing at the door sent new frustration through me. Catching the cat wouldn't be any easier with the dog in the mix, but I had woken her and she would have to go outside.

Thinking to avoid Fifi waking Grandy early with her demands for release, I moved to the opposite end of the hall, hand outstretched to open the door.

Before I reached it, the door swung open and Grandy stood in its frame. He tightened the belt of his classic navy blue bathrobe while Fifi bolted from her confines and came at me, body in full waggle.

I bent to rub her velvet-soft head but kept my gaze on Grandy. “Sorry,” I stage-whispered. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

He made no effort to keep his voice down. “I wanted to catch you before you left,” he said, completely ignoring my keep-it-down hand motion. “I knew I could count on Fi to get me up in time. Do I smell coffee?”

Fifi gave me one final shove with her muzzle then barreled down the stairs. “There's fresh coffee,” I confirmed. “What's on your mind?”

I had my suspicions as to why he'd set the canine alarm and none of them included Grandy rising early to tackle fallen leaves.

“I want to have a word with you.”

I nodded. “I'll take Fifi out and meet you in the kitchen.”

“I'll go with you. Less chance of being overheard,” he said softly, then led the way down the stairs.

I followed behind, nervous knots forming in my stomach. Anything that shouldn't be overheard couldn't be good.

Grabbing Fifi's leash from its hook and my jacket from where I'd left it over the back of the living room chair, I ran through possible scenarios in my mind. My first thought had been that Grandy wanted an update on my progress in finding Rozelle, but then why the need to take the conversation outdoors? Surely we could have
that conversation without using words that would give away what I was up to?

Fifi danced circles around my feet, her back end seemingly leading her front like a particularly furry hula dancer. Her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth, and as much as it sounds crazy, I would have sworn she was smiling.

I snapped her leash in place then waited while Grandy shrugged into his ancient barn jacket.

“You're going out in your slippers?” I asked, tipping my head in the direction of his feet.

“Who are you now? Your mother?” he grumbled. “Let's go.”

The willingness to wander outside in one's bathrobe and slippers was a small-town mind-set that I couldn't quite wrap my head around. But the behavior seemed perfectly normal to Grandy and, to be fair, a number of our neighbors, so with Fifi leading the way to the door, we followed Grandy out and down the few porch steps.

The morning air held that clean, dry feel, almost as if Mother Nature herself had drawn in a breath in the face of the oncoming winter. I shivered a little and slipped the loop of the dog's leash over my wrist so I could close my jacket.

“So tell me.” He glanced over his shoulder as we walked away from the house, as if Mom or Ben would have run into the living room and peeled back the drapes. “What have you found out? Where is Rozelle?”

Even suspecting the question was coming, having had time—however brief—to prepare an answer, still I was caught opening and closing my mouth, hoping for words.

“You must have learned something.” His tone was midway between hopeful and fearful, with maybe a tiny overlay of frustration. “You were gone all day yesterday.”

“I have a job, you know,” I said, buying time.

“You work mornings.”

We turned to stroll along the sidewalk toward the end of the street. Fallen leaves sprinkled the cement and crunched beneath our feet.

“Which is why I went yesterday, after work, to have a look around Rozelle's house.”

“Let me guess. She wasn't there.”

“I didn't expect her to be,” I said over a sigh. “I wanted to get a look at the inside, see if there was any clue to where she might have gone.”

He stopped, turned to face me. “You didn't break into her house, did you?”

Fifi, unaware the two humans behind her had stopped, kept right on rolling. The leash pulled taut and my shoulder made instant complaints. “Of course I didn't,” I said. “We walked around the outside and looked in the window.”

“We? Who's we? Did you drag Carrie into this?”

“She was the getaway driver.” I resumed walking. When Grandy rejoined me, I said, “I went with Terry Lister,” then went on to explain Terry's background in investigation.

“And were you able to learn anything at all?” Grandy asked.

“From the looks of the kitchen, she'd made a fresh batch of cookies. There were still some cooling on the rack, but on the lower half. So I'm thinking she took the
cookies from the top of the rack and maybe brought them to someone.”

I peered sideways at Grandy. “Was it you? Was she sneaking you cookies?”

Grandy held up both hands, palms out. “Not me. Why would you think she brought them to someone anyway? She could have eaten them herself or stored them away.”

I shook my head. “If she were going to eat them herself, it would only have been a few. At least, I suspect as much. And if she were going to store them, why pack away only half and leave the rest out? The pans were still in the sink. She was taking those cookies somewhere, somewhere . . .” I paused a moment to follow my thoughts.

Somewhere she had to get to in time?

Rozelle had baked perhaps two-dozen cookies, half of which were gone. The mixing bowls were still on the counter, the baking tins in the sink. Someone whose livelihood was baking would logically have the sort of habits that made cleanup a priority. A baker wouldn't leave mixing bowls out to crust over, not unless there was a pressing reason.

“She took her car,” I said, mentally dragging myself back to the present. “The police are still looking for it.”

A car could be hidden anywhere, from plain sight in a driveway, plates removed, to a garage. Unless someone saw it on the road or spotted it all alone in a parking lot . . . but that was the thing, wasn't it? It would take more than just the police to find Rozelle's car. It would take all of Wenwood.

“The police,” Grandy grumbled. “If I thought they'd
be of much help, I wouldn't have asked you to look into matters.”

“Would you kindly remember that one of my best friends is a cop? Be nice.”

The words had no sooner left my mouth than a Pace County PD squad car turned the corner at the end of the street and shortly zoomed past us. Fifi barked at the leaves the passing vehicle kicked up and blew our way, but she wasn't brave enough to try and catch any. Both Grandy and I, out of some strange-formed habit, looked behind us to see if the car would slow and stop at the house. Oddly I was surprised when the car kept on its way.

“See? Maybe they're looking for Rozelle's car right now.”

He gave a snort of disbelief, tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Since you were getting so friendly with her, where do you think she might have gone? Did she ever mention her friends to you? Or family?”

It struck me anew how little I knew about Rozelle's personal life. Until I went snooping around the outside of her house, I'd never even realized she lived alone. I suppose if I had stopped to think about it, I would have concluded as much, but I never gave Rozelle much thought beyond her role in the bakery and her long-standing crush on Grandy. A little seed of guilt threatened to sprout and I squished it down. Small-town living meant I had grown accustomed to keeping up with gossip, but that didn't mean I instantly knew everything about everyone.

“She has a good friend in that assisted-living place in Newbridge,” he said. “Dolores, I think she said.”

“Any last name?”

“I'm quite certain she has one, but I do not know it.”

It was my turn to stop and face him full on. “You asked for my help,” I snapped at him. “Why not try being helpful?”

He flinched back as though I'd slapped him. He worked his jaw as though pushing back words he suddenly realized he should rethink. Finally, he nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “I'm sorry. It's the tension. It's getting to me. I can't imagine a worse time to have your mother visiting with her latest beau.”

I would have giggled at
beau
if I wasn't instantly swamped by sympathy. “Maybe you should spend a little more time out of the house.”

“I took time off so I could be in the house, or wherever it is I can be to spend time with my family. It's not every day we can all be together. You might do well to remember that. You didn't come home at all last night,” Grandy said when we turned the corner. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, not sparing me a glance.

I lifted my chin and sought my grown-up voice. “I stayed at Tony's,” I said.

“I presumed as much.”

My breath went shallow as I waited for his next comment. I reminded myself I was, in fact, an adult and as such was capable of making my own decisions. Somehow, though, no matter how hard I focused on that fact, having left my mother asleep in the house while I went for a walk
with my grandfather made it tough to shake the feeling of being a misbehaved child.

“I worry, you know,” he said.

I glanced up at him. The morning stubble clung to his chin, gray and white whiskers plentiful along his jaw. “I didn't mean to make you worry,” I said. “Tony and I were . . . negotiating.”

He gave a half snort. “Negotiating. There's a new term for it.”

I wasn't sure if the pain in my cheeks was the result of the cold or a blush. Not that Tony and I were even doing anything worth blushing over. Just the thought that my grandfather's mind went there. “We were talking. It got late. That's all.”

“And what were you talking about that was so important you couldn't take a moment to call and say you'd be out until morning?”

Fifi stopped abruptly, nose pressed to the dry, dying grass at the sidewalk's edge.

“He's planning to stay in Wenwood.” I said it so softly I half expected Grandy to ask me to repeat myself.

“I fail to see how that requires negotiation.”

Fifi snuffled her way toward a tree.

“I don't want Tony to stay here be—” But I couldn't finish.

“Because of you,” Grandy said for me. “And why not?”

I had no answer for him, any more than I'd had an answer for Tony. I didn't want to be the cause of a mistake, but even that somehow made it feel like I was
giving myself far too much importance, as if Tony's choice to stay or go was based solely on me.

Grandy let out a disgruntled huff, and Fifi circled the base of the oak. “You'd prefer he go back to wherever it was he came from?”

“Asheville,” I said. “And it's not that. It's if he leaves now, then . . .” I sighed.

“Then he can't break your heart six months from now.”

“Sure, if you put it like that, I sound silly.”

“You are silly. You truly think if you sent him off tomorrow, you'd be spared some heartache?”

“Well. I—”

“Never took you for a fool, Georgia.”

I tugged Fifi back to my side. “What if it doesn't work out? We've only been together a couple of months. That's nothing to change your career plans for.”

The muscles of Grandy's jaw rolled as he ground his teeth. “Oh, I wish your mother had left you here for good when you were six. You might have had a shot at growing up understanding that happiness is something you take a chance at and not expect to be a guarantee.”

“Hold it. Are you telling me I should have stuck with my asshat fiancé?”

He gave a most Grandy-like harrumph. “I'm saying life is short. And Tony Himmel is a good man. Trust what your heart is telling you.”