Pane and Suffering (6 page)

“You must be the developer everyone's talking about.”

He smiled like a Cheshire cat, then immediately frowned. “I'm sorry for the loss of your father.”

“Thank you.”
No, you're not sorry at all
.

“I'm looking at the properties on this block in the interest of the corporation. We are interested in making a fair market offer for your building. I believe we have already sent an offer to Mr. Webb.”

“Yes, I found the offer letter on his desk earlier.”

“That's great. Can I come in for a minute and discuss it with you?”

For a fleeting second, Savannah considered refusing, but in truth she was curious. She virtually towered over the pudgy little man—he was no threat to anything but her temper.

Nodding, Savannah walked back into the shop with Smythe following. As soon as he entered, he looked up at each corner in the ceiling and poked his head into the classroom and tried to peek into the other rooms.

Not subtle,
she thought. She stood behind the sales counter with her arms folded. “What's your pitch?”

“Do you know the construction details of this building? Do you have any architectural drawings?”

“There might be some in my dad's older papers. I'm not sure, but I think he still has all the original drawings that were used for the construction of this building. Why?”

“I'm trying to estimate the cost of demolishing the individual properties on the block. The amount of concrete in each foundation is a critical cost factor in determining the effort required to remove the debris. It's part of my report to the corporate office.”

Savannah dropped her chin to her chest.
If I sell out, then I sell out. I'll have no business to complain about after the sale.
She looked back at the slimy excuse for a real estate developer.
If I don't agree, he'll pester me until doomsday.

“I'll look into the shop's records, but I'm not making any promises. I have your card. I'll contact you if I find them.” She guided him to the door and opened it for him to leave the shop.

“Thanks for your time,” he said, absolutely oblivious to the effect he had on the owner of a business that he was callously measuring up for demolition. Savannah watched as he moved over to the building next door and began pointing his laser at its roof.

She turned back to the workshop and saw Jacob deep in concentration working on painting the next piece. She addressed the errant cut she made and split the glass along the impromptu tangent. Then she scored the curve again using a lighter hand. She split the glass again and took it over to the panel and trial fitted the new piece. It was nearly perfect. Maybe she could do this.

The bell on the front door jangled again.

“I thought I locked the door.” She dashed into the display room and nearly bumped into Edward who was carrying a tray with a plate of cranberry scones along with two cups.

“You need to eat something, so I thought you should meet up with my scones.”

“They smell heavenly. Come on back to the office. She raised her voice. “Jacob! Mr. Morris has brought us some scones.”

Jacob peered around the corner of the workshop door and glanced at the tray. “I've eaten lunch, Miss Savannah.” Then he disappeared.

Edward shrugged. “His diet is strictly controlled by his parents . . . and also himself by that token. Food issues have an unusual interest as one of his obsessions. One week he refused to eat anything but blueberries. His lips turned
Smurf
blue.”

“Exactly how long has Jacob been here?” Her father had told her when he took Jacob on, but she couldn't remember how long ago that had been.

“Only a few months, but I understand he's doing quite well.” Edward set the tray down on a little table against the wall of the office. He lifted both to a spot near the desk and moved a gray metal folding chair next to the desk. He picked up one of the cups and placed it in Savannah's hands. “Now, tuck in.”

She sat in the desk chair, took the cup, and sipped the tea. She looked up. “Bold?”

“Oh, yes. It's my version of English Breakfast. I mix all the teas for Queen's Head and we get some very fussy customers, indeed. I still don't have the Earl Grey right. The occult bookshop owner keeps telling me it's too mild.”

“Did you bring scones to Dad every day? This looks like a regular routine for you.”

“Well spotted.” Edward grinned wide. “We had a breakfast coffee and afternoon tea ritual going on since I opened Queen's Head three months ago. He reminded me so much of my pa back in London. He missed you as well. I think it did us both good.”

“I'm ashamed that I didn't know that. He mentioned the pub. Said I would like the beer.”

“How's the exhibit coming along? John mentioned that it would be soon, right?”

“Very soon. It opens two weeks from tomorrow. I need to call my partner today and let him know things are a little more involved here.”

“Partner?”

“Um, not in that way at the moment. Ken Silver-hawk is co-artist for the joint exhibit. He's also my assistant when I'm creating a large piece in the glass studio and my ex-boyfriend. It's complicated.” She shrugged and took another sip of tea as she glanced at Edward. Should she tell him about her dad's note? Could she trust him?

“I found a note from Dad.”

Edward sipped his tea and looked up at Savannah over the rim. “I'm not surprised. He was worried about something but wouldn't talk about it.”

She turned to the open desk, pulled out the envelope marked SAVANNAH and handed it to him. He glanced at the warning, pulled out the notebook, and scanned the writing. His eyes first widened to saucers and then narrowed in concentration. “What does this mean?”

“After the warning is a cipher that Jacob helped me solve. Well, honestly, he solved it. It tells me to go to a location that only Dad and I knew about. I expect to find something there, as well.”

Edward put his cup down on the little table. “This puts everything in a new light. You need to call the police and tell them that you found this.”

“I called right after I found it. Dad was a bit paranoid. I think it was mostly because of the work that he did for the government years ago. But it's only a note—not really much of anything.”

Edward handed Savannah a scone. “You really do need to eat. I mean it. You're not thinking straight. He meant for you to protect yourself.”

Savannah munched on the scone and looked into those green eyes again. “I know you're right. There was always an edge to him after Mom died. I mean I still carry a Swiss Army knife on me because he said you never knew when you might need it.”

“What did the police say? What are they doing?”

“The officer who was here when Hugh was found took down the details. But I have so little information. I don't think they're taking it seriously. My suspicions sound childish, even to me.”

“Okay. But what if this is a real threat? How do you feel about Hugh? Is it possible he could have been saved if you'd found the message sooner?”

“Good point.” She looked at Edward. “It was humiliating. The officer treated me like a crazy child.”

“You had to call. It was the right thing to do.”

“Okay. Again, you're right.” She picked up another scone. “Look, I know I'm starving, but these things are ridiculously good.”

“Thanks. I enjoy bringing them. They're my favorite comfort food.”

He looked a bit uncomfortable as the moment of silence between them stretched into a minute. Clearing his throat, he finally said, “We need to think about how to protect you. Your dad gave you a pointed warning. We should take it seriously.” He let the words hang in the air. “I've got to get back to the pub and see what needs doing before the dinner crowd arrives. Let's get our heads together tomorrow and figure out what we can do. Cheers.” He waved and scooted quickly out the door.

After Edward left, Savannah made herself sort through the papers and put them into two stacks. One short stack of drawings for the demolition estimate and another stack of last year's tax return and this year's financial statements from her dad's accounting program. The remaining papers were filed into the four-drawer oak filing cabinet right beside the desk.

She slowly read through the statements. According to the reports, the shop was doing quite well even before the profits from the church windows were projected. The reports indicated that her dad made most of his money on commissions but also a surprising amount on the materials that were purchased for the classes. This could actually grow into quite a nice living if she decided to stay.

She grabbed a sheet of notebook paper and began to calculate the total net worth of the business. She labeled the columns and then found herself staring at them through sand-filled eyes as if the figures had just turned into dancing Sanskrit. Her watch said 4:30.

She tidied the stack of papers in preparation for completing the evaluation tomorrow, got up, and went into the custom workshop. “Jacob, it's time to clean up and put everything away and close up the shop. We've had a busy day.”

Chapter 5

 

S
avannah pulled her dad's van into the attached carport of the family Craftsman house in the Euclid/St. Paul neighborhood. It was about ten blocks east of the Grand Central District and close to the downtown section of St. Petersburg. Most of the surrounding houses were built in the twenties and thirties, but many of them had been transplanted to these quiet streets from other sections of rapidly developing early St. Petersburg.

Her parents' Craftsman was one of the originally built two-story houses on a double lot, and her dad had been a founding member of the local neighborhood association. As an active and supportive group, they welcomed all new owners with a personal invitation to a monthly porch party. The association was determined to defend its eclectic charm of brick streets and giant live oak trees. Each tree was still circled with the traditional bright purple azalea plants that thrived with the constant falling of the acidic oak leaves.

One of the things her parents were most pleased about was when visitors remarked, “What a charming home. It feels so comfortable here.”

Maybe I should go find the clue from the cipher. It's not far, and I know right where it is.
Standing on the porch jingling the keys, she heard a short yip. That settled it—it wasn't fair to keep her dad's Weimaraner puppy out of the action. Rooney needed exercise and as her sore back testified, so did she. Besides, if she found the clue she might have more to tell Edward . . . and the police.

She walked up three steps and across the wide porch that contained a porch swing and two comfortable white wicker rockers arranged to look out over the street and entice neighbors to stop and chat. Her mother had always kept a pitcher of iced sun tea on the glass table in front of the window. Her dad had continued the small custom and it became an unspoken invitation to all that he was ready for visitors.

The barking from inside the house increased in volume and pitch. It was a fearful sound and one of the reasons she was uncomfortable about spending much time away at Webb's. She pulled a doggie treat from her backpack, then unlocked the door to find Rooney crouching by her dad's recliner rumbling an uncertain growl. At nine months he was still pretty much a puppy with long gangly legs and big feet that he hadn't grown into yet.

“It's okay, Rooney.” She bent down low to reach out the treat to the trembling dog. “It's me. It's Savannah. You don't have to be afraid of me.”

He stopped growling and lifted his head to sniff up in the air to catch the scent of the treat. Legs tentative, he took a tiny step forward, sniffed again, then another tiny step. Savannah stood and held the treat a few inches from his nose. He gently took the treat, and with a crunch and a gulp, it was gone.

The ghostly grey wiggling mass finally greeted her by placing his paws on her shoulders and licking her face sticky wet. It was a puppy response and she hadn't had the heart to begin training him to wait for a greeting until after she had put down her backpack and keys and motioned to him to approach.

She sighed. “Maybe I'll leave that to your next owner. I don't have room for a dog in my little apartment in Seattle. Down, Rooney.”

He immediately returned to the recliner and sat with his head cocked and amber eyes alert.

The next step in her routine was to check the house for signs of Rooney's disobedience. Her dad's bedroom was untouched—no issues there. She thought she had left her bedroom door closed, but must have left it ajar, because it was now wide open. Rooney had found his way inside. Her heart sank.
My shoes!

Her fears fully realized, well-chewed dress heels were lying in the middle of her bed. The tatters were strewn everywhere as he had apparently shaken the life out of them. She picked one of them up and groaned. “Rooney!”

His head appeared around the edge of the open door, but he didn't step inside.

“Why on earth do you only chew on left shoes?”

Rooney lowered his head and lay down flat, eyes looking up.

“You know this is wrong. Bad dog!”

He tried to sink even lower on the floor, looking more pathetic and adorable.

“I know. I can't stay mad at you—but really, only left dressy shoes?”

No movement from him.

“Let's go for a walk, yes?”

Rooney's short tail wagged a staccato beat in enthusiastic agreement and he whirled over toward his leash on the Stickley table by the door. Snapping it to his harness, Savannah set the alarm, grabbed her keys and phone, and they trotted out the door. The sidewalks were made of original hexagon paver stones. They were beautiful, but extremely high maintenance and worse, dangerous if not maintained properly. Her dad and his neighbors had found a specialist to make repairs twice a year and split the cost among them. As a result, the blocks were beautiful and safe.

At the end of the street, Rooney performed as expected and she made like a responsible pet owner and cleaned up after him. Back at home, he tolerated the removal of his leash, then returned to the recliner. She wanted to get things settled with her ex before going after the cipher clue.

Pulling out her cell phone and selecting Ken's number from the recent call list, she checked her watch. The three hour time difference worked to her advantage as it was still late afternoon in Seattle.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Ken. It's Savannah.”

“Where are you? I've been waiting for your call. Are you back yet? We have a ton of stuff to do before the exhibit opens.”

She took the phone from her ear, looked at the displayed image of Ken looking absolutely smoking hot, and realized that he had not uttered one word of sympathy, not one. She pressed her lips into a tight line and put the phone back to her ear. “I'm still in Florida. Things have turned out a good deal more complicated with my dad's shop.”

“I thought you were going to sell it to Hugh.”

“Yep, that was the plan. Hugh died yesterday.”

“What?” Ken's voice rose to a high pitch.

“I've got to stay a little longer and get things sorted.”
How did I not see how self-centered he is?

“What about the exhibit? We still have two pieces to create to complete the—”

“Ken, you need to find another partner to help you with those last two pieces. It won't be me.”

“Who am I going to find at this stage? The studio time is reserved, the material is already ordered. Everything is all set.”

“Ken, my dad is dead. Why do you not understand that?”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Listen carefully. I won't be back in time for the exhibit. Do you understand?”

“I can't believe you would abandon the exhibit. It's taken me over a year to get enough pieces for an individual show.”

“It's not an individual show. We were supposed to be co-exhibitors.”

“Okay, but—”

“Ken, at this point, I don't care about the exhibit. Get a new partner.” She punched the
END CALL
button on her cell, momentarily nostalgic for the satisfying feeling of slamming down an old fashioned handset.

As she passed the oak glass door bookcase handed down through her mother's family, she saw the family Bible on the top shelf.
One more chore I've been putting off
. She pulled it down, wiped a thin coat of dust off with her hands, placed it carefully on the dining table, and then opened the beautiful volume. Great-grandmother Adams signed the first pages using pale blue fountain pen ink. The year recorded was 1866. The Bible had been a rare and cherished wedding gift.

The last time she held the book was when her dad had entered the date of her mother's death. It was now her turn to enter the date of her father's death. She tilted her head from the left to the right several times to reduce the tightness in her shoulders. Then she got up and searched for the nicest pen stuffed in the coffee cup by the phone in the kitchen.

Carefully, she added the date of her dad's death and wondered who would be around to update it for her when she died. A chill crawled up her spine.
Stop that. Morbid thoughts are not helping
.

Looking over to the table that held the phone, she saw the red light blinking on the old-fashioned answering machine, the type that had a cassette tape inside. She punched the PLAY button and Edward's voice announced, “Hi, Savannah. I'm calling to see if you're doing okay after today's—well, you know what. Give me a call if you need to talk. I'm told I have a great shoulder to cry on.”

Savannah pressed her lips together in a slight smile. “That was really sweet. Don't you think so, Rooney?” She looked down into the confused amber eyes. He tilted his head and looked up expecting an explanation.

“I don't think I'll call just yet.” She reached down with both hands to waggle Rooney's head, but he cowered down into the recliner trying to disappear. “I know, I know. I'm not Dad, but right now, I'm all you've got. Time to eat?”

He scrambled off the recliner into the kitchen, toenails clicking on the wood floors.

She fed Rooney in the kitchen and made herself a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich on sourdough bread. She poured a glass of milk, wrapped the sliced sandwich with a paper towel, added a snack bag of chips, and put them on a small tray. On her way to the living room, she looked at her dad's fancy recliner. He'd bought it last year for his aching back. Glass artists were prone to back problems. She looked around. What on earth was she going to do with this big house and all the furniture? She put the tray on the coffee table and settled in her usual place on the comfy sofa. As she was about to take a bite of the sandwich, the doorbell rang.

Rooney galloped in from the kitchen, barked once, and sat by the front door.

Savannah put the sandwich down and peeked out the security peephole. It was Mrs. Webberly from across the street holding a large dish wrapped in aluminum foil. She was a tall, loose-jointed yoga instructor who had been looking out for Savannah since her mother died.

Lately, she looked in on Rooney several times a day. Savannah exhaled quickly and relaxed her shoulders in preparation for the nosy grilling that was certainly coming her way.

She pasted a friendly smile on her face and opened the door.

“Hey there, Savannah. I've brought you a nice casserole so you don't have to cook.” Mrs. Webberly stepped into the living room and spotted the tray. “Oh, another sandwich. I know you've never been much of a cook, but it's nice to have a hot meal after a stressful day. I'll just pop this in the oven for a few minutes.”

“Please don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Webberly. I'm just fine with my sandwich. I don't feel like eating anything heavy. I had a shock today and I'm not over it yet.”

“Oh, sweetie, it's no trouble at all. I understand completely.” She talked over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen. “I'll just put this in the fridge for you so you can heat it up later tonight or even better, tomorrow.”

“That's very kind, but I really don't need—”

“I find that most of my casseroles are so much better the next day.” She found room in the refrigerator, returned to the living room, and plopped herself into the comfortable recliner with the satisfied look of a zealous parishioner who had satisfied a moral obligation.

Savannah's mouth opened to protest and then she snapped it shut. Her dad really wouldn't have minded and the sad truth was that he wasn't coming back to use it.

“What was your shock today? Hugh was there to help with the class, right?”

“You haven't heard?”

Mrs. Webberly sat straight up in the recliner, “Heard what?”

“We found Hugh in the custom workshop. The police think he died of a heart attack.”

Mrs. Webberly went pale as she cupped both hands over her mouth. “Oh my goodness. That's both of them gone.”

“Are there any relations that I should contact?”

“Well, the last I heard, his only cousin died last year. He did have a financial manager, though. I have his name and phone number.” She stood and stumbled forward a step. Savannah hopped up to catch her by the arm, but Mrs. Webberly had already regained her balance. “Goodness, how clumsy. I'm sorry but this is a horrible shock. Hugh was a dear friend of mine. He would come by for supper and well, company, at least once a week.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm going to be just fine. Eat your sandwich, dear. You need your strength.”

Savannah returned to her seat. “I didn't know that he didn't have anyone. He was like an uncle to me and he was around for all our holidays. I know he lived close by, but I've never been to his place.” Savannah took a bite of her sandwich.

“He lived in a small garage apartment near the glass shop. It was all he needed and he didn't want to own anything that would require any trouble.”

“I need to check up on that tomorrow. Can you give me the name of his financial manager? I'll give him a call in the morning.”

“Oh, I know just where it is. Let me pop into my kitchen and get it from the bulletin board. That's where I keep it.” Mrs. Webberly bolted out the front door, leaving Savannah and Rooney staring after her like the chorus in an opera.

As she said, she was only gone a minute and returned with a small yellow index card in her hand. She handed it to Savannah and stood with one hip canted and her arms folded across her stomach.