Death Under Glass (17 page)

“Wait. Tell me. How is Carrie? So scary what happened.”

“She's okay,” I said.

“Do the police have any idea who broke in?”

I shook my head. “Not that I've heard.”

“Such a terrible thing. And poor Herb Gallo, too. My. This used to be such a nice, safe place.”

I reached across and gave her hand a squeeze. “It still is, Rozelle. The police will figure out who's responsible for all of this.”

“I hope they figure it out soon,” she said on a sigh. “A lot of people are trying to make this town something
again. I hate to see all that work come to nothing because folks are too afraid to come here.”

“It won't.” I wasn't sure I believed myself, but it seemed like the words needed to be said.

Rozelle only nodded, waggled her fingers in good-bye, and turned to help the next customer who had wandered in.

Bakery box in hand, I left the shop, thoughts of Wenwood's future clouding my mind. Rozelle was right. Between the early summer murder of the hardware store owner, the break-in at Carrie's shop, and the death-by-misdeed of Herb Gallo, not to mention the willful abandonment of the kitten who now happily curled up on my worktable each day, Wenwood was in danger of losing more than a measure of its charm.

And that brought up a whole new line of questions. Was someone out to tarnish Wenwood? Was there something to be gained by keeping the town down? But then why set fire to the law office?

As the next thought hit, it hit hard enough to make me pause just outside the grocery store. The law office was in Newbridge, burned to an unsightly, blackened crisp. Carrie's shop had been broken into and its merchandise destroyed but the building itself was undamaged. We'd thought the thief had avoided breaking the front windows to gain access because of the risk of witnesses. What if the thief kept the window intact so as not to stain the face of Wenwood's village?

A flurry of excitement in my gut told me I was onto something, something important. If the police were
looking for someone who . . . wanted the best for Wenwood? Wanted . . . wanted what? Why?

In my purse, my cell phone burst to life, the voice of a movie trailer narrator ominously proclaiming, “In a world where grown children move home . . .” Grandy. “I'm on my way,” I said by way of greeting.

“Just wanted to remind you,” he responded, “to remember the cat food. The little devil is into everything looking for something to eat.”

I grinned. “She's not looking for food, Grandy. She's looking for trouble.”

“Hmph. That's worse.” He sighed. “Why did I ever let you keep that thing?”

“Because you love me,” I said.

“That must be it.”

My grin faded, but the warmth expanded in my heart. “I love you, too, Grandy. I'll be home soon.”

*   *   *

G
randy gleefully proclaimed the cheesecake a bribe to make him forget I was late returning the Jeep. Though he swore to not forget, he did forgive and downed a generous slice before getting dressed for his night at the dine-in.

I did my own quick change, switching my cotton T-shirt for a pale green blouse and trading my shorts for jeans. The days might still have been sultry, but the nights were blissfully cool. I tried tugging my hair back into a loose ponytail, but my wayward locks were having none of that. A couple of hairpins keeping the mop off my face would have to do.

Inside the SUV, Grandy made a show of readjusting the mirrors. He turned down the volume on the radio before switching to the all-news station, and finally, after he'd shifted his seat forward and back one last time, he turned to me. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“You're not going to check the tire pressure?”

“Put your seat belt on,” he grumbled. He backed out of the driveway once I proved to him my seat belt was securely fastened, then waited until we reached the end of the block before springing the latest news on me. “Your mother phoned.”

A mélange of dread, guilt, and curiosity churned through my stomach. I knew she felt I didn't call her as often as I should, so when I did catch her on the phone she proved what a star player she was at the Irish Guilt Game. She could make me feel thoughtless in under four breaths. And still I loved her a ton and eagerly asked, “How is she? How's Ben?”

“Claims she's happier than she's been since before your father passed away.”

“That's nice,” I said, hoping she meant it, hoping this time the feeling would last for both of them.

Grandy eased the SUV gently around the corner, heading for the boulevard that led to downtown Wenwood. “She said they're thinking of making a fall foliage tour.”

I did the mental math in record time. “Which means they're coming here,” I deduced.

“Ahh-huh. She's going to call with the details during the week.”

“She's going to stay with you—with us?”

“Ahh-huh.”

I allowed myself a moment to let the news sink in, to really see how I felt about the upcoming visit. “That will be nice,” I said, nodding. “It will be good to have a visit with them.”

“Good,” Grandy said. “I'm glad you feel that way. We'll put them up in your room. You can sleep in the spare.”

My brows crept up my forehead. “Great. Sure. Yeah.” The spare room. The one with the narrow single bed and faint outlines of unicorns on the walls. The room I was relegated to during childhood stays. “I can hardly wait to be twelve again.”

*   *   *

I
told Carrie the news of my mother's impending visit while I helped her close up the shop. I exaggerated a little here and there, hoping to encourage laughter to break through her tension, but she remained as nervous as a first-time actress on opening night. The prospect of meeting her ex-husband had her distracted and clumsy.

“I've only seen him once since we signed the papers.” She tugged a plastic cover over the cash register. “And that was only to close down the joint checking that funded the auto-pay for the Newbridge property.”

I swirled a feather duster across the edges of an old armoire. “It will be fine,” I said.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When she could no longer put off leaving, she locked the front door, then shut off the lights. We exited through
the back storeroom door, where I ducked out while Carrie set the newly repaired alarm.

Without another word, we walked the parking strip behind the shops and passed through the alley leading to Center Street. Across the road and to the right, the business sign above Grace's luncheonette was flickering to life. We followed it like a beacon—well, I did anyway. Carrie moved like someone was pushing her from behind.

But at the door, she took one deep breath, then another. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I'm going to be Trudy Villiers,” she said. “I'm going to be cool and elegant and unaffected by petty things.”

I refrained from pointing out that what's-his-name had rattled Trudy last time we saw her. Better to have Carrie following the strong example in her mind.

As ever, the bell overhead jingled when I pulled open the door. Carrie entered first, walking past the counter to the left and the spinning rack of postcards to the right to stand at the center of the dining room and peruse the booths.

The air smelled faintly of French fries and disinfectant—neither of which struck me as appealing. When Carrie started moving for a booth and I caught sight of Russ Stanford, still more of my appetite fled.

Though Russ was clearly three-quarters the size of his brother, he was undoubtedly Gabe Stanford's sibling. Dark hair, sharp blue eyes, and the kind of expansive posture I often saw in dine-in customers who thought they belonged to some higher echelon. Couple that with the knowledge that he had cheated on my best friend and my instant dislike was sealed.

He held a cell phone to his ear and waved Carrie closer with big, sweeping gestures.

I trailed along behind her, waited until she'd slid all the way into the booth before I took the seat next to her. Russ raised his brows at me, looked to Carrie with the question, all the while continuing his telephone conversation.

“Sweetheart, I understand. I promise I'll be there as soon as I wrap this up. I promise.” He was one of those people who didn't know how to conduct a cell phone conversation quietly. “Absolutely, I'll bring home Chinese food. You want those little fried wontons?” He held up a finger to indicate he'd be right with us, and I turned to Carrie.

“Was he always this rude?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Carrie said, softly. “I wouldn't know. I used to be the one on the other end of the line.”

I sucked in a breath, nudged her gently with my elbow. “Trudy Villiers,” I reminded her.

She nodded and sort of wriggled her way to a more upright pose.

“Okay. All right. Love you, too. Bye, honey. See you soon.” Russ disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone onto the table. “Who are you?” he asked, squinting at me.

Before I could open my mouth, Carrie said, “This is my friend Georgia. I invited her to join us.”

“What'd you do that for?”

I swear she sounded just like Trudy when she said, “I didn't want the evening to be completely unpleasant.”

“Why would you . . . ? It's not going to be unpleasant, Car. We're past that, aren't we?”

Carrie's right eye twitched, and I couldn't tell if she was dubious or trying not to cry.

“Okay, kids,” Grace began before she'd even reached us, “what can I get you?” She set three glasses of water on the table, then stood, hand on her hip. “I got open roast beef with a side of fries on special tonight.”

“Just coffee for me,” Russ said before Carrie or I could speak.

It was a little thing, a minor thing. Maybe I was still a little raw over having to wait for him to conclude a cell call. Maybe I'd been living too long with Grandy and his values were rubbing off on me. Maybe I'd always had my own ideas about what constituted a gentleman and Russ was simply reminding me of them. Regardless the reason, I couldn't stop the little sting of insult I felt at Russ giving his order first instead of politely deferring to the ladies at the table.

“A bowl of today's soup, please,” Carrie said in the tone of a minor royal.

I ordered the same, and Grace held herself to one disbelieving look before walking away.

Russ leaned back, rested his arm atop the back of the booth. The woman in the booth behind him turned to glare before shifting to her left, out of range of his elbow. “You look good, Car,” he said.

The compliment hung in the air a few seconds before Carrie responded. “Thank you,” she said carefully.

A busboy strolled by, slid the cup of coffee onto the table with practiced ease.

“I guess this whole fire-and-murder thing isn't really bothering you, huh?” Russ tugged the cup closer to him.

Carrie huffed and shook her head. “You still have no idea how to say something nice without saying something worse.”

“Fine. You're right. I'm sorry.” He poured what I considered an excessive amount of sugar into his coffee. “Okay? I'm sorry.” He stirred his coffee, the spoon clanging against the porcelain cup. “Look, I gotta get home, so let's make this quick,” Russ said.

“You have to get home? You're the one that asked me to meet you,” Carrie said. “And now you're in a rush?”

“Gimme a break, Carrie, huh? I had a long day.”

“You?” Carrie asked.

Russ ignored the question. “I come home from what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation to find out my office has burned to the ground, my partner's been murdered, and the police think I had something to do with it. Then I spend the whole afternoon at the police station answering questions for some uptight detective before—”

“And my shop was broken into and half my stock destroyed,” she put in.

“Before . . .” Russ paused, tipped his head in concession. “And your shop was broken into. I was sorry to hear that,” he said. He had the shred of decency necessary to wait a polite amount of time before returning to his own agenda. “But at least your business is still standing.”

“Oh come on, Russ.” Carrie huffed and slumped a little, totally breaking character. “Don't turn this into a competition.”

He held up a hand. “I'm just saying—”

“What did you tell the police?” I asked, reaching for my glass of water.

“What?”

“What did you tell the police?” I repeated. “What did they want to know?”

Russ's forehead furrowed, his brows crinkled and dimmed the blue of his eyes. “What business is it of yours?”

“It's just a curiosity question,” I lied. “We've—Carrie and I—we've spent no small amount of time answering questions for the police. I wondered if they asked you the same questions they asked Carrie.”

He cut his gaze to Carrie. “And what questions would those be?”

I spoke up quickly, forcing him to return his attention to me and keep it there. “How much the building was insured for, whether you owe anyone any money, whether you had any kind of damning evidence in your office that would be better off not found, that sort of thing.”

As soon as the extensive fibbing left my lips, Russ's jaw dropped. He swiveled his head toward me, the motion exaggerated, and he lowered his arm from the back of the bench. “Are you . . . are you insane? No, I don't owe anyone any money and no I'm not defending any kind of underworld criminal.” Innocence seemed writ large in his wide eyes and easy breathing. If I was still harboring any suspicions about Russ Stanford burning down his own business, they would have faded to nonexistent. “What kind of a friend are you?” he asked.

“The best kind,” Carrie said. “She's just looking out
for me, Russ. The police have been asking me those questions about you for days, questions about your work and why I didn't sell my half to you and who we knew in our past that might want to ruin us.” She took hold of a glass of water and downed a few gulps. “It hasn't been easy.”