Death Under Glass (2 page)

“That sounds marvelous,” she announced. “What color can you make the blossoms?” She shifted her attention to Carrie. “Can we bring the color into this room? Drapes? Pillows? Throw rugs?”

As Carrie and Trudy batted ideas back and forth, I reclaimed my seat next to Fifi. The pooch had rolled onto her back and let out a grumbling whimper as I sat. She stretched and pushed her nose against my thigh. Hoping it was attention she wanted and not some flesh to nibble on, I reached out and carefully rubbed her exposed belly while admiring the rhinestone-ringed name tag hanging from her collar. The sparkle stirred my mind, and I belatedly wondered where Trudy was getting the money for the renovations to the house. Of course it wouldn't be impossible that she simply had a good deal of money
socked away somewhere. And perhaps the hints of neglect outside and in were the result of frugality rather than financial limitations. But Wenwood had been known more for its work ethic than its wealth, and yet there Trudy sat, spine straight in her wingback chair, gold watch heavy on her wrist and precious gems winking over her fingers.

The theme song from
Mission Impossible
blared from Carrie's purse, making her flinch, wide-eyed, and bringing me back from my contemplation of Trudy's bank balance. Carrie and I spent a fair amount of time together, and I recognized that particular tune as her default ringtone for calls from people outside her contact list.

“I'm so sorry,” Carrie said, glancing back and forth between me and Trudy. “I thought I switched it off . . . I . . .” She tugged open her purse, dug frantically for the phone. “I'm sure it's nothing. I'll just—” Her eyes fell on the display screen and the number appearing there. The pink flush of embarrassment drained as quickly as it had bloomed, leaving her skin magnolia pale. “I'm sorry,” she said softly, standing. “I need to take this.”

While Carrie ducked into the foyer, I smiled at Trudy, searching my brain for the right question to engage her with while I worried over who or what might have caused such a reaction in Carrie. “So, um, Fifi had a different owner. How did she end up with you? Did you adopt her from a shelter?”

Trudy peered closely at me as though looking for an answer to a question only she knew. “Georgia Kelly,” she said again.

“Why do you keep saying that?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly, the movement barely disturbing her drop earrings. “There's something about you, dear. Something not right with you being a Kelly.”

I fought to keep the surprise and hint of offense from showing on my face. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn't figure it was anything good, or possibly, you know, sane. I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant by such a remark in the same moment Carrie rushed back into the room.

“We have to go,” she said, reaching over me to grab her purse. I froze in response to her sudden haste; Fifi scrambled to her feet, alert to the new charge in the air.

“What is it? What's wrong?” I jumped to my feet, steeling myself for whatever news she might hurl my way.

Swinging her purse over her shoulder, she said, “My husband's business is burning. I have to go.”

“D
o you want me to drive?” I asked, rushing down the path away from Trudy's house.

“It's fine. I'm not upset.” Carrie fumbled the keys and they hit the sidewalk with a heavy metallic thud. She hissed a curse, grabbed the keys, and continued stomping her way to the car.

“Are you sure? I only ask because you seem a little, um, wound up.” And I didn't want either one of us to die in a motor vehicle accident. I stood beside the car, waiting for her to reach the driver's side, waiting for her to change her mind and hand me the keys.

Instead, she took the time to meet my eyes over the top of the sedan. “Why would you say that? I'm fine.”

Once she was in the car with the door shut behind her,
I climbed into the passenger seat. “I say that because we're speeding off to a fire at your ex-husband's business.”

“And?”

“Your
ex
-husband. This is Russ you're rushing to help. The guy you divorced. And you're going off with lights and sirens and a death grip on the wheel. Any reason?” I pulled my seat belt into place without taking my gaze off of Carrie. I had never had the pleasure/experience/bad luck of meeting her ex; they were divorced before I even met Carrie. But over the past couple of months, she and I had shared a good number of tales of woe featuring our former flames. As could be expected, she had little good to say about Russ, though I knew—even though I could be faulted for the same behavior—she was hardly being unbiased in her complaints.

She maneuvered the car into a smooth U-turn, and we sped up the block of grand old houses, centennial trees shading lawns and road alike. I sat in silence for a while, giving Carrie the time she needed to gather her thoughts and answer my question. I did not want to prompt her, or pressure her, and in any case had learned from the beginning that she wasn't one to stay quiet for long.

“It's hard, you know?” she asked as she signaled a turn onto the highway. “Well, you do know. You go for so long thinking of someone as your husband”—she shot me a glance—“or your fiancé, your
partner
, and when everything's calm and normal you remember they're not that person anymore. But when things get stressy and crazy . . .”

I did know, she was right. There had been more than a few times in the past eight-plus months after our
engagement ended when life events had gone pear-shaped and the first person I thought of was Eric. When things got tough, my addled mind still prompted me to seek his shoulder for comfort. It always took a few tough moments to remember no, he was no longer the person I ran to, no longer the rock in my life—for better or worse. Luckily, that breath-stealing moment of realization was getting shorter and shorter.

Still, I folded my arms across my chest and gave Carrie a stern stare. “I just think it's best you remember there was a time you might have derived a little guilt-ridden satisfaction from seeing his business burn to the ground, so there's no need to risk a speeding ticket, or our necks for that matter. You said no one was hurt, right?”

“Right.”

“Then maybe slow down, huh?”

Carrie gave the steering wheel one long last white-knuckle grip, then softened her hold and let up on the gas. “Okay.” She nodded. “Okay. Good point.”

We settled into a legal speed, cruising past trees in full green and wild flowers in full bloom. A general fragrance of flowers snuck into the car with the air-conditioning. Or maybe that was the candle-scented air freshener dangling from the glove box.

“Why did you get the call, anyway?” I asked. “Doesn't he have anyone else he could call? You said he got all the friends in the divorce. Couldn't he beg one of them for help?”

“It wasn't Russ who called. It was the police department.” She kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I'm still part owner of the building.”

We cruised past half a dozen ancient oak trees while I attempted to process that information. “‘Part' as in equitably divided during the divorce?”

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened again. “As in purchased when we were married. After the divorce, he wanted to buy my half but he didn't want to go into any more bank debt. And I'm embarrassed to say I wasn't kindhearted enough to offer him any kind of private loan.”

“Doesn't he have anyone who could front him the money? What about family?” I shifted in my seat, making a futile attempt to lean my arm up against the window ledge all casual-like but my elbow kept slipping down the curve of the door. “Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles?”

“His brother Gabe . . .” She shrugged and shook her head as if she were shaking away a memory not worth revisiting. “Well . . .” She let the statement fade and I opted not to push.

“What about his folks?” I asked. “Are they still around to help out Russ?”

Carrie tipped her head from side to side, lips pressed tight as she considered my question—or how best to answer. “They don't have the best relationship.”

“No?”

“No, they . . .” She took a bracing breath. “They helped me pay for the divorce.”

My mouth dropped open but no words fell out; I had none. Maybe the reason Carrie didn't speak much about her marriage to Russ—other than to inform me he was a talentless slacker with a ready smile, a quick promise, and
nothing to back up either—was because its dissolution had divided his family.

She peeked at me from the corner of her eye, then shrank a little in the driver's seat, looking abashed. “I know. I know. You don't have to say it.”

I almost laughed, my belly clenching in discomfort at the awkwardness of it all. “I can't say anything. I don't know what
to
say.” Or think. All I seemed capable of doing was picturing the special joy of dinner with Russ's family. Holidays were undoubtedly the stuff of Tim Burton's nightmares.

I kept silent for the rest of the ride, leaving Carrie the opportunity to share more surprises with me or not. Uncharacteristically, she chose not, so that in the relative quiet of the car, my thoughts bounced from those of Russ's family to my own. My mother had been home from her honeymoon with husband number five for nearly a month and I'd yet to visit them. I really had nothing against new husband Ben, the latest in a line of men Mom married in a peculiar effort to fill the shoes of my late father—Mom's “one true love.” Since Dad had passed before I turned two, I had no true memory of him, only memories I created around the stories my mother told, so I never saw the subsequent husbands as trying to fill my father's shoes. To me they were just a series of guys I got accustomed to thinking of as stepdad du jour before my mother moved on.

To the best of my knowledge, though, none of my family members had ever felt opposed enough to any of my mom's
husbands to pay for a divorce. Given the way Grandy had taken to referring to my former fiancé as “that swine,” I reasoned he would happily fork over any money it took to end a bad situation. I deeply wanted to ask Carrie for more details about her former in-laws but I risked only one more inquiry into whether she would prefer I drove, before maintaining silence until, finally, after a twenty-five minute ride, we turned onto the town of Newbridge's main commercial road. Small businesses with gold-lettered windows and retail shops with colorful awnings edged the road on either side, its full length blocked by a police cruiser.

Unable to proceed any farther by car, Carrie steered onto a side street. Little more than a wide alley divided the commercial strip from residential property. Single family homes with narrow lawns and empty driveways flanked the street where Carrie eased the car to a stop alongside the curb. As calm and cool as she was pretending to be, her choice of vacant spot betrayed the true tumult within. I climbed out of the vehicle after her, calling over the roof of the car, “Are you sure you want to leave this here?”

She stutter-stepped to a stop. “Why? Is there a sign? Can we not park?”

I pointed upward, toward the unimpeded view of a wide blue sky. “There's no shade.”

Carrie moved to reopen the car then shook her head. “It'll be fine,” she said. “Let's just go.”

Slinging my purse strap over my shoulder, I rounded the car and joined Carrie in the middle of the side street,
quiet save the occasional
woof
of a dog and the shouts of a couple of boys on bicycles.

We walked diagonally across the road to the corner from which we could once again see the squad car blocking access. Clusters of people stood along the sidewalk, talking quietly, shaking their heads. I followed the angle of their quick glances. Eyes on the scene beyond the squad car, I walked full stride into a gutter puddle.

I huffed out a sigh. It was going to be one of those days.

Water swept over my foot and splashed against my ankles. I had just enough sense to keep my other foot dry, and hopped over the remainder of the puddle to join Carrie on the sidewalk.

Side by side, we walked toward the center of the area cordoned off by police with a combination of caution tape, vehicles, and cruisers. My footsteps squeaked from the water coating the sole of my flip-flops and droplets of water splashing up the back of my calf, handily undermining the aura of High Noon that hung over the street.

A Pace County police officer climbed out of the squad car at our approach. “Excuse me, ladies,” he called. “This road's closed to non-business owners.”

Carrie stopped short. She fluttered a hand against her throat, looked left and right as though searching for someone to give her stage directions. “I—I was asked to come,” she said.

The officer moved toward us, one hand on the butt of his gun in classic patrolman style. “Sorry, can you speak up?” Not to say that I didn't respect the Pace County PD,
but the officer's toes-out stride, gangly frame, and peach fuzz goatee made him look like a boy scout who'd donned the wrong uniform. And I had never been able to consider a boy scout any manner of authority. It might have been the neckerchief.

I touched my fingers against Carrie's arm, silently encouraging her to move forward. “It's okay,” I called. “She is a business owner.” Waving to a vague spot up the street, I edged behind Carrie, just enough to force her to pick up the pace so I didn't catch the back of her foot with the front of mine

“Georgia,” Carrie whispered as I hustled her along. “We can't lie to the police. It's wrong.”

“It's not a lie. You own your own business, right? And half of an office building. You qualify.” I guided her past a Laundromat with a sandwich board sign out front, big letters advising patrons to enter through the back.

“I don't own a business
here
,” she said, but the tension had gone from her voice.

“Someone here wanted to speak to you but I doubt it was the rookie in the squad car. He didn't look like he was expecting anyone.” I glanced around, looking for some sign of other police officers but finding none. “We'll find whoever is looking for you.”

A stout man in a gold shirt and a kitchen apron stood in the doorway of a coffee shop, arms folded and eyes on the scene across the road. Even his presence did little to shatter the feeling of walking into a ghost town.

“I don't suppose you've remembered the name of the cop who called you yet?” I asked.

“Officer Reinhart or Reinbach or—” Carrie shook her head. “Something with an
R
. Once he told me why he was calling, all I could remember of his name was
Officer
.”

She stopped again and turned to face the other side of the road. After keeping the sight in the corner of my eye, the full-on view of what had, until yesterday, been Russ Stanford's law office should have been less shocking. But the cream-colored stone façade was streaked black around the windows and door, as though something evil had gripped the jambs and sashes in its violent escape from within. Broken glass glittered, jagged and deadly, across the sidewalk, while police tape cordoned off the entirety of the ruins.

I looked to Carrie, tried to discern from her expression what emotions might be overtaking her, whether any memories—fond or otherwise—may have been awakened by the evidence of fire in her former husband's place of business. Her face remained unchanged, eyes clear and wide open. Only a hint of resignation tugged down the corners of her mouth.

“All right,” she said. “Let's see what they want.”

With the squad car blocking vehicular access to the road, we safely crossed the street without looking both ways first. The only thing we might have been struck by was a stray pigeon, or maybe a mosquito.

As we drew nearer the building, a trio of men emerged from behind it, their steps slow and measured, their eyes on the scorched façade. Two of them were unknown to me. The third I previously had tangled with . . . as it were.

He looked our way in the same moment I extended my
elbow to nudge Carrie. His eyes narrowed, and I tried to tell myself the action was the result of sun glare and not something personal.

“Miss Kelly,” he said as he and his cohorts ambled toward us.

I nodded, either acknowledging his greeting or agreeing that was indeed my name. “Detective Nolan.”

“I can hardly wait to find out what brings you here,” he said, the barest hint of a smile tugging on his lips.

A scant two months earlier it had been Detective Nolan who had turned up on my doorstep, waking me from a dead sleep and hauling my grandfather—Grandy—into the police station for questioning in relation to the murder of a Wenwood shop owner. Following the ordeal I felt a dozen years older; Nolan, annoyingly, looked the same as he had that morning on Grandy's doorstep. The same dark hair softly graying at the temple, the same watchful brown eyes, the same tough jaw clenched above a somewhat askew tie—the somewhat askew tie terminating in the gold detective's badge clipped to Nolan's belt.