Dot didn’t raise her head, but at least she stopped being vocal in her complaints about the unfairness of having to stay at home.
Pat pulled her sunburst-yellow car into the Wentners’ driveway and drove down it toward the studio, proud that her vehicle was more colorful than any of the flowers, real or glass, that adorned the garden in front of their farmhouse. She parked, walked to the studio door, and tugged. It was locked fast. She turned to the farmhouse, walked up the front steps, and knocked. There was no response. Finally, Pat walked along the front porch until she came to the kitchen door, the one used by Garryn Monteith and the students the week before, and knocked again.
A disheveled Lillian, barefoot and still dressed in the white flannel nightgown embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds she had worn to bed the night before slowly pulled the door open a crack. When she recognized Pat, she pulled the door open wide, collapsed into her arms, and began to sob.
“They arrested Joe early this morning. He was handcuffed and put into a patrol car, and they read him his rights. Oh, Pat, what are we going to do? Joe didn’t kill Garryn. Why won’t they believe him?”
“Have you called Mark Bellows?”
“That’s the first thing I did. He’s trying to arrange bail. The charge is first-degree murder,” Lillian’s gulping sobs began again, “he said he may not be able… he may not be able to get Joe out of jail.”
“May I come in? I have some questions for you. Your answers might help prove Joe’s innocence.”
“Of course!” The hand Lillian waved as an invitation shook as she motioned for Pat to come inside.
“I’d offer you coffee, but I’ve already had so much this morning. Would you like green tea?” Lillian asked.
“I’d love some. Lillian, how hot did the kiln get the night before Garryn’s death?”
“We fired for the second time slightly lower than the first time, at about 1300 degrees. Why?”
“Hot enough,” Pat said triumphantly. “Do you remember the ashes in the kiln?”
“Umm,” Lillian looked puzzled and frowned slightly. Then her expression changed. “Yes. Yes, I do. There weren’t many; you thought your tray was flaking.”
“That’s right. Now, I think they came from Super Glue tubes.”
Lillian seemed perplexed as Pat went on. “Aluminum mostly melts, but if the temperature is hot enough it will oxidize and leave ashes. Thirteen-hundred degrees is more than enough for that to happen.”
“I don’t understand.”
Pat ignored Lillian’s confusion and continued with her questions.
“Could anyone besides you and Joe have opened the kiln and put Super Glue tubes in it?”
“Yes, I guess,” Lillian said with some hesitation. “A kiln is just a super oven; it takes a while for the temperature to ramp up. At the start of the warm-up it’s not very hot and, if you’re quick and close the kiln again right away, it doesn’t affect the temperature more than a few degrees. I’ve done it myself, opened the kiln after I started firing, to slide in a forgotten piece. Opening it didn’t affect any of the work being fired.”
“Do you lock the studio at night?”
“We do.” Lillian had an “aha” moment. “Now I see what you’re asking, but someone slipping in at night couldn’t have opened the kiln. It would have been too hot by then. It would have to have been opened soon after firing began.”
“Like when we were having lunch?” Pat asked.
Lillian nodded her head. “That would be the perfect time to do it.”
“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Pat explained. “All of the students had Super Glue for the class, and most could have slipped back to the studio during the lunch break. They could have covered their return by saying they forgot something in the studio or slipped out during a bathroom break. All attention was on Garryn Monteith anyway, so most of us wouldn’t have noticed a fellow student’s short absence.
“I didn’t hover or hang on Garryn’s every word. I spent some time talking to Joe. Between him serving the students and our conversation, I might be able to account for his movements—alibi him, as it were—and introduce a whole class full of other potential murderers.”
Lillian began to cry softly. “Pat, how can I thank you?”
“Drink your tea. I have a few more questions,” Pat instructed. “Is it the usual procedure for the class instructor to open the kiln? I’m asking because you opened it the first day, and you seemed about to open it the second day until Garryn stepped in and insisted on being the first to look inside it.”
“Usually I would open the kiln every day I taught a class or had another instructor in, I guess because it’s in my studio, but you’re right, Pat. Whenever Garryn taught, he opened the kiln after the last firing. We had an arrangement. I was to ask him if I should open the kiln and he would say no, that he wanted to do it. It was part of his presentation and his theatricality.”
“That’s been his pattern before?”
“Always.”
“Did Joe ever come into the studio when Garryn taught?’
“He wouldn’t stay for long, but he often drifted in and out for a few minutes at a time during Garryn’s classes.”
Pat wasn’t sure she liked what Lillian just told her, however she kept her misgivings to herself. They could prove exonerating or damning for Joe’s case, and she wanted to hear Mark Bellows’s opinion before saying more.
“Lillian, you keep class records, don’t you, names, addresses, email addresses, phone numbers, credit card information?”
“Not all of those things. I do keep names and email addresses and sometimes mailing addresses if students don’t share their email, so I can let them know about upcoming classes.”
“I’ll need a copy of all the information you have from the class.”
“What are you going to do with it? I always promise we don’t share information with anyone.”
“I’m not going to share it. I’m going to find out who had a motive for killing Garryn Monteith. That’s the best way to exonerate Joe.”
Lillian produced a class list from her laptop and printed out a copy for Pat. “I don’t understand how you’ll be able to solve a murder from this,” Lillian said as she handed the sheet to Pat.
“Neither do I—not yet—but I plan to figure it out.”
Pat used her cell phone to call Mark’s office as she drove along Highway 1 toward Santa Cruz. When she asked to speak to him, his receptionist informed her he wasn’t expected back in the office for most of the day.
“Could you get a message to him?” Pat asked. “I have some interesting information for him about the Joe Wentner case, too much to leave as a message. Would you ask him to call me?”
Mark called just as Pat reached home. She sat in her car while they talked.
“My receptionist says you need to speak with me. I’m swamped right now; did you hear Joe Wentner was arrested? He’s being arraigned this afternoon so I have a lot to do.”
“I have some information that may affect the case against him.”
“Then let’s meet for dinner tonight. Oswald’s at 7:00? I’ll make a reservation.”
Even though she knew the planned dinner was definitely a working consultation, Oswald’s served wine. Pat decided it was time to wear her green dress.
When she went inside, Pat tried to begin researching her suspects list, which was essentially the glass class list with three candidates in prime position, but lack of sleep after last night’s late finish, the excitement of contemplating another dinner with Mark Bellows, and thinking her business card—set up hastily and more in fun than in earnest—might portend her future, fuzzed her brain and her process.
She struggled to focus, and Dot’s displeasure with her didn’t help. Dot complained about being neglected as only a dog could and demanded her promised trip to the beach. By the time they got home, early afternoon had passed and Pat gave in to her tiredness.
There were certain advantages to being unemployed
and a taking a midday nap was one of them, so she told herself that she wanted to hear what Mark thought of her first bit of research before spending time in front of a computer screen. She curled up on her sofa under her favorite quilt and wiggled until she was extremely comfortable. Wimsey climbed on her hip, but even his pumping and purring couldn’t keep her awake.
The walk at the beach had so exhausted Dot that she didn’t move from her dog bed as Pat, newly refreshed from her power nap and shower and sporting perfect hair, freshly reapplied makeup, and wearing the green dress that looked even more impressive than she remembered, left the house at 6:30 without doing any more investigation.
“I hope you have some good news for me,” a haggard-looking Mark said as he and Pat were shown to their table at Oswald’s. After seating them, the server shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. Pat smirked. Good service was appreciated; being made to feel like a child was not. Pat felt only slightly better when the server did the same thing to Mark.
“I know him. I used to think he did his napkin thing because I looked forgetful, but that’s just what he does,” Mark laughed. “Don’t take it personally. He said he trained in an upscale New York restaurant, and he’s trying to raise the standards in Santa Cruz. I suggested he try for a job at Shadowbrook with its chilled forks, but he says he likes it here.
“I’m surprised to hear from you so soon,” Mark said after the server presented them with menus.
“I didn’t expect to have anything for you this soon, either. And I may not, so don’t get your hopes up too high. It’s just that I found something that may throw a room full of suspects into the mix. I think I know how Garryn Monteith was murdered, and it had nothing to do with him ingesting cyanide.”
“You said that yesterday. You didn’t think he could have eaten poison without showing immediate distress.”
“I did. The problem was, if he didn’t ingest cyanide, how did it get somewhere where he could inhale it? I believe the answer is Super Glue, and if I’m right, everyone in the class becomes a viable suspect because we all had both the glue and access to the kiln, where it was placed.”
Mark closed his eyes and held up his hands. “Whoa. You’re losing me.”
“We all used Super Glue on our flowers, and Super Glue contains cyanide. We put a dab of it on our pieces to hold them in place before firing. It burned off in the kiln, leaving nothing behind but a harmless amount of vapor, which dissipated the moment the kiln was opened.”
“Then how could such tiny amounts of vapor kill Monteith?”
“It couldn’t. It would have taken the cyanide in several full tubes to be deadly. I think someone put multiple tubes in the kiln right at the front of it so Garryn Monteith inhaled a lethal dose when he opened the kiln and leaned in for a look at our flowers.”
“Maybe I’m just tired, it’s been a looong day,”—Mark drew out the length of the word—“but I don’t understand. Wouldn’t there be melted Super Glue tubes left in the kiln? And how could someone put glue in the kiln without being observed?”
“Lillian gave me the answers to both of those questions. The kiln was turned on for firing just before we left the studio at lunchtime. Anyone could have slipped out to the studio and opened the kiln while we were on our lunch break. There’s nothing tricky about locking and unlocking the kiln, and the temperature fires up gradually, so it could have been opened soon after the firing process started.
“As for the tubes, they would have been oxidized by the heat inside the kiln. I was a last-minute add to the class and there weren’t enough trays for me, so Lillian improvised mine. After Garryn Monteith died, when I slid my tray forward to take it out of the kiln, I observed some ashen residue and thought it was coming from my tray. I told Lillian, but she assured me that wasn’t possible. We looked inside the kiln and discovered there was a bit of ash right at the kiln door. I think it was from oxidized tubes of Super Glue.
“Lillian said she usually opens the kiln for classes, but Garryn Monteith opened it after the second firing, right before his alleged heart attack. Lillian started to open the kiln, but he brushed her aside, opened it, and stuck his head inside for a first look at our projects. That’s when he collapsed.”
“So you think that’s when he inhaled cyanide?”
“I do. I can’t prove it, though.”
“We wouldn’t have to prove it. We just have to convince a jury that’s what happened.”
Mark smiled for a moment, but his smile faded quickly. “You may be exactly right about how Monteith was poisoned, but if you are, a good prosecutor might still make Joe look like the killer. ‘Couldn’t Joe have been the one to slip out and put the tubes in the kiln?’ he’d ask.”
“I talked to Joe during the lunch break. He was busy serving lunch. He didn’t leave the house,” Pat said.
“‘You talked to him for the entire lunch break? You never let him out of your sight?’ That’s what the prosecutor’s next question would be.”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I spoke with one of the other students, with Kandi Crusher, later in the break, but I think I glanced at Joe often enough to know he was always in the kitchen.”
“Gotcha. Or rather, got Joe. ‘Ms. Pirard, is it possible that you became so involved in your lunch conversation with Ms. Crusher that you missed Joe Wentner being absent from the kitchen for just a few minutes? Since he is so familiar with the studio, couldn’t he have moved quickly and been back before you missed him?’ That’s what you’d be asked, and your answer would reluctantly be, ‘It’s possible,’ wouldn’t it?”
Mark perked up. “I just had a great idea, a counter to the possibility Joe put the glue in the kiln. He loves his wife, right? I could argue Joe would never risk putting the tubes in the kiln. Suppose Lillian had opened it; he wouldn’t have taken the chance.”
Pat squirmed. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Lillian said she usually did open the kiln after the first firing, but she told me Garryn Monteith always opened the kiln after the final firing. She said that was part of his showmanship. I asked her if Joe was ever in the studio during Garryn’s classes and she said he sometimes was. If he had seen Garryn make a big deal about opening the kiln on the last day…”
A defeated Mark said, “Lillian may convict him.”
“Then I better get to work finding the real killer in the class.”
“So how did it go?” Syda crooned.
“I told you we were having a business dinner.”
“You told me you liked him.”
“I do.”
“You weren’t just saying that so I’d back off trying to find Mr. Right for you, were you?”
“What would be the point of that? I know you’ll keep trying until the day you are my matron of honor.”
“You said you were going to wear your green dress. That doesn’t sound like strictly business to me.”
“Well, it was.”
“Did you invite him in?”
“We had separate cars so there was no would-you-like-to-come-in-for-coffee chatter.”
“Did he walk you to your car?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And was there a little goodnight kiss at the car door?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
Syda heaved a disappointed sigh. “Then when are you going to have dinner with Greg and me so we can introduce you to Greg’s fellow deputy sheriff?”
“Not anytime soon. Remember, I have been officially hired by Mark Bellows to work on Joe’s case. I have to look good for the sake of future business, not to mention Joe. I’m going to be busy for the foreseeable future.”
“You have to eat even when you’re working.”
“No, Syda. No dinner. Not now.” Pat tried to sound as firm as she could without hurting Syda’s feelings.
“She’s disappointed, but she’ll live,” Pat told herself after their conversation ended. She had too much on her mind to entertain guilty feelings for not making her best friend happy.
Pat still had Dick Drinker’s number in her phone. She was going to need his permission for what she wanted to do, and she wanted to ask a favor while he was still feeling guilty for downsizing her. No guilt for Syda, useful guilt from Dick. She smiled; interesting how guilt worked.
“Dick, it’s Pat Pirard,” she greeted him when he answered his private line. “I need to ask you for a tiny favor.”
“What do you need?”
“Your permission to access a database that’s at the Law Library, but not available to non-employees.”
She could feel his frown over the phone. “Why and which database?”
“You shared my employment situation with Mark Bellows—thank you for that—and he has kindly hired me to help him work on a defense for a client. I’ll be doing some background checks on suspects. I need access to the LexisNexis database with its people finder and background checker.”
“That’s not something that has privileged information in it, is it?”
“No, I wouldn’t ask for anything confidential or privileged,” she giggled charmingly. She didn’t add that she might if she needed that kind of information now that she had ordered business cards proclaiming her a private investigator, but what she wanted was only access to the US Persons Location and Public Records section of a data bank. “Everything in the database is a public record. It’s just awfully handy because it’s all in one place. It’ll only take a few minutes to get what I need.”
“Okay. I’ll call Jefferson and tell him I told you it’s okay with me if you use the database, unless he has a problem with it. If he agrees to it, you’ll be good to go.”
“Thank you, Dick. I’ll go to the Law Library this afternoon.”
“High-five,” Pat said to Dot, who had been sitting near her feet while she was on the phone. She had trained her Dalmatian to elevate a paw on hearing that phrase, and she tapped her pet’s paw with gaiety as Dot responded.
The Glass House Page 6
