Pane and Suffering

by Cheryl Hollon

  “Are you saying you suspect foul play?” When she didn’t answer, Edward said, “That’s quite a leap in logic. You might be overreacting or just plain exhausted.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You need to get some rest.” He lightly touched her arm. “Really, luv.”

  She gently moved her arm away, pleased and confused by his touch. She had just broken up with her long-time boyfriend and studio partner, Ken. She would have to deal with him in a new professional way when she returned to Seattle and didn’t need kind touches from a British stranger to further tangle her already stressed emotions. She was still reeling from the effects of the final breakup with Ken.

  “You’re probably right. I’ve cancelled the afternoon session. Good thing, too. I’m teaching now, and I need to brush up. I’m so unprepared.”

  “When’s the next class?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I don’t understand why Dad scheduled so many classes. I haven’t gone through his books yet, but I don’t think he needed the money.”

  “He was a victim of the same program I fell for. Some of us in this neighborhood signed up for one of those online group coupons. It seemed like a very good deal.” Edward pulled a slim bunch of keys from his back pocket.

  Why didn’t Dad tell me about this? “How does it work?”

  “For the pub, we offered forty dollars’ worth of food for a thirty-dollar coupon. We make most of our margin on drinks, so we benefit from the new customers. I’ve started running an offer every month. Unfortunately, your dad didn’t put a limit on the discounted classes, and the response surprised him.”

  “I glanced at the calendar in the office. He’s got classes booked for the next six months solid. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. It’s insane.”

  “Yes”—Edward frowned—“but he was looking for help. Didn’t he tell you about the interviews?”

  “No, but that explains a few things. Once people signed up, he would feel obligated to see that each student had a seat in one of his classes. It wouldn’t help that he firmly believed that six students was his maximum class size.”

  Edward looked down. “Yes, he was a man of his word. Old school.”

  “Maybe the paperwork for the coupon will help me decide what to do. I need to go through his desk anyway. I’ve been dreading it. It’s such a personal invasion. I don’t know how I’ll manage his bedroom.”

  “I can’t imagine. The additional classes are one of the reasons he took on Jacob. You must be aware of his Asperger’s syndrome. It seems the quiet routines are helping him. His parents are delighted with his keen interest and new level of focus.”

  “I didn’t know about the Asperger’s. I wonder why Dad didn’t tell me.” She scrunched her brow. “That explains a few more things.”

  “I can’t imagine denying Jacob’s mother anything. Frances is a Juvenile Court Judge so she is used to wielding significant power.” He fiddled with the keys. “I need to get a few emergency groceries for Chef before the evening shift starts. I’m going to shove off, luv. Take it easy.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been so helpful.” Savannah watched him climb onto an antique Indian motorbike. It was old, finished in the original cream and white, along with hand-painted pinstripes.

  “I’ll stop by later and make sure you’re on the right foot with the point-of-sale monster.” He smiled.

  “Thank you.” She smiled genuinely for the first time in many days.

  She was pleased he pulled on a helmet. She didn’t need anyone else getting hurt today.

  He waved a salute and drove away.

  Savannah watched until he disappeared. She tipped the cup and drained the last drop of the spiked tea. Rats, I didn’t give him back the cup. No matter, I’ll return it when he comes back. Steeling her nerve for the sad ordeal of going through her dad’s papers, she forced her heavy feet back to the office and stood in front of the rolltop desk. Maybe a session of ordinary paperwork will carry me out of this anxious funk. The ancient office chair squeaked a routine protest as she sat down and stared at the jumble of overstuffed cubbyholes, shelves, and drawers.

  She started with the left side and the first thing on top was a business-sized envelope from Lattimer’s Glass Shop containing Frank’s offer for Webb’s. Her mouth fell open at the number mentioned in the document. This is a pretty big number. She searched through the same pile and found a considerably lower offer from the main office of Smythe’s corporation. She sat back in the chair for a second before sorting and filing the whole stack. She slipped the two offers into her backpack.

  On top of the right hand stack by her elbow, she picked up a green short-order check pad in the greasy spoon restaurant style of the fifties. In her dad’s nearly illegible spiky hand, the last entry was listed.

  Item: Last Supper Panel 8—Splendor

  First United Christian Church

  Contact: Reverend David Kline

  She scratched her temple. Funny, there was no sign of repairs at the funeral service yesterday. All the stained glass windows were fine. Beautiful as ever.

  She dialed the number listed on the pad and a cool voice answered immediately. “Reverend Kline, United Christian.”

  Irritated with herself for not planning what she was going to say before calling, Savannah cleared her throat. “Um . . . good morning, Reverend. This is Savannah calling from Webb’s Glass Shop. One of your stained glass panels is here under repair, and I need some information about the work.”

  “Savannah? I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought you were going to sell the shop and return to Seattle later this week.”

  “Yes, Reverend, that was the plan, but there’s been a horrible, horrible complication. Hugh Trevor was found dead in the workshop.”

  “Bless you, Savannah. That is horrible. How are you?”

  “I’m all right for the moment, but now I need to teach the ongoing classes that Hugh was going to handle. Then I’ll need to find another glass artist to help me finish the projects my father and Hugh were completing. I thought I could get everything done this week so I could get back, but now I don’t know how to get it all wrapped up.”

  “Oh, of course you would need to bring things to a sensible closing. It’s so distressing when a small business just closes the doors without giving any indication to their clients. As your father’s daughter, I am not surprised that you want to close it in an orderly manner.”

  “Thanks. I’m so glad you understand. I’m evaluating the offers, but in the meantime, I’m trying to clear up the works in progress. Your name is listed in his order book. It says Last Supper Panel Eight, then there’s a dash followed by the word Splendor.”

  “No, no. That’s a mistake.”

  Savannah picked up the pad. “Oh, maybe I have an old order pad.” She squinted closer at the date. “The order was placed two months ago.”

  “I’m sorry. We do have an open account with Webb’s since we have so many windows, but I don’t recall any recent repair orders.”

  “There must be a mistake, because it’s—”

  “No.” His chuckle turned into a smothered cough. “No, Savannah. How silly of me to mislead you. It’s not a repair. It’s part of the duplication project for our most vulnerable panels. There was a fierce competition from Frank Lattimer for the contract, but Mr. Webb won over the committee as he is an excellent craftsman.”

  “I thought it was a repair.”

  “Your dad repaired and maintained our panels for many years. In fact, he was training his apprentice to take over some of the maintenance. The mistake is that he is duplicating panel three, not panel eight. Panel eight won’t be duplicated for several years down the road. I’m sorry about what has happened. I would like to encourage you to participate in bereavement counseling. Just call for an appointment. I hate to rush, but I must go now. ”

  “But—” Savannah heard a soft click followed by the dial tone.

  Well that explains why Frank wanted to finalize the purchase so quickly. He wanted th
e duplication job. His wish may well be granted. She looked at the order pad again turning it around to look at it from several angles. The panel number could be either a sketchy eight or a sloppy three.

  She pulled at her hair with both hands. What was going on? There’s no way both Hugh and Dad could accidentally die within a week of each other. No way.

  She went into her dad’s custom workshop and automatically stared at the section of floor where Hugh had been. There was still a sour smell. It hit the back of her throat with a stomach-churning threat.

  She walked back to the office and opened the storage cupboard. She grabbed a spray bottle of cleaner and a torn strip of T-shirt to use as a rag.

  Back in the custom workshop, she sprayed and scoured the area with enough vigor to make the room smell like a pine forest. She got back to her feet satisfied with her efforts and tossed the rag in the trash.

  She stowed the cleaner back in the storage cupboard in the office and returned to the custom workshop, staring at the large double-sized worktable. She lifted the corner of the sheet of white cotton that completely covered the large panel.

  She hesitated. Why didn’t he tell me about this?

  She pulled the sheet completely away from the project. It was the central panel of The Last Supper. It was nearly complete, but Jesus had no face.

  Chapter 3

  Monday Afternoon

  Leaning over the large stained glass panel, Savannah reached up and switched on the overhead work lamp. Its beam focused on Christ’s missing face.

  After folding the sheet into a tidy square to store under the table, she found several smaller areas in the panel that were missing, as well. From the look of it, the pieces were areas of the panel that were hand painted, then fired repeatedly in a kiln to achieve a three-dimensional illustration effect.

  What was Hugh working on in here?

  She leaned down to peer at the craftsmanship and admired the clean lines of the design, the perfect color choices. She ran her finger down the soldered joins that held the glass pieces together. Their velvety smoothness was the hallmark of a true craftsman. It was a stunning work of art. “There must be more written down somewhere. Dad was meticulous about documenting the progress of an important work.”

  Savannah went back to the desk and repeated her search through each drawer and storage space, sorting, filing, and straightening as she went. Nothing.

  Where could the paperwork be? Why isn’t it here with his other project notebooks? Is this another secret? She pushed back the chair and studied the desk. If he were going to hide something, where would it be?

  She pulled out one of the two small drawers nestled in the cubbyhole section and emptied its contents onto the desk. The underside of the drawer was clean and there was no sign of a compartment inside the cavity. She tidied the contents as she was putting them back, then dumped the contents of the second drawer onto the desk.

  A small brown envelope had been taped to the underside of the second drawer. There was something small inside. She removed the tape and turned the envelope over. A cold chill zipped down her spine. Her dad’s spiky writing scrawled across the front.

  Savannah, if you find this, I’ve been murdered and you are in danger.

  She dropped the envelope like a hot potato and stood up. He’s been murdered! Her hands were shaking, but she clasped them together and tried to think clearly. I should call the police—that officer that came today.

  In her front pocket, Savannah found the card that the police officer had given her that morning. The name on the card jumped out. “He said to call.” She dialed the number, listened to the directions, and punched in the extension number.

  “Officer Boulli.”

  “Hello, my name is Savannah Webb. I met you this morning at the glass shop in the Grand Central District. We had a man who had died in our workshop. You said I could call you if I had any questions.”

  “Yeah, I remember the EMTs were saying that he died of a heart attack, right?”

  “Yes, but I’ve found something in my dad’s office that might change that.”

  “Found what?”

  “I found an envelope from my dad. The writing on the outside said he had been murdered and that I was in danger.” Savannah knew she was making a terrible impression, but she couldn’t calm her nervous voice into behaving like a rational adult.

  “An envelope?”

  “Well, so far. I haven’t opened it just in case you wanted it as evidence. I’m reporting this to make sure that you know that Hugh’s death might not be a heart attack. My dad’s death might not be a heart attack, either.” Hearing the shrill shake in her voice, she swallowed and took a short breath. “My dad used to work for the government and I think he found some information that got him killed.”

  “Wow, little lady. That’s a huge leap. So, you think that because your dad left you a note, we should open a murder investigation?”

  Savannah reacted as if freezing water had been thrown in her face. Little lady? “My father was a senior cryptographer specializing in cold war ciphers and surveillance. There must be some basis behind his suspicions. I don’t know why else he would have tried to warn me.” She stood up and began to pace as far as the phone cord would permit.

  “I think you’ve got your Nancy Drew imagination working overtime. I don’t think you’ve got any reason to feel threatened.” The officer sounded bored and annoyed.

  She formed a fist and waved it at the phone. “Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

  “Whoa. No need to get snippy. I’ll report this up the chain and see what happens . . . but I seriously think you need to dial back your imagination and just accept that old guys die of heart attacks.”

  “I’m not imagining this. There’s an actual envelope in my hands! Doesn’t that warrant an investigation?”

  “We’ll get back to you if we have any questions.” A solid click was followed by the dial tone.

  Savannah replaced the phone handset. Dad, I tried. I really tried.

  After plopping back into the chair, frustrated with her trembling fingers, she picked up the small brown envelope, turned it over, and pried open the brass clasp on the back. She drew out a thin tan Moleskine notebook. The cover was neatly labeled THE LAST SUPPER—SPLENDOR.

  Savannah had been holding her breath. Exhaling in a short huff, she drew in a calming breath then opened the notebook.

  GURAR KGVFP NPURQ VABHE SVEFG

  She felt a familiar fury. He was playing yet another code game. Why can’t he play it straight and just tell me what I need to know? What is wrong with that? She clapped her hand to cover her open mouth.

  This is his last game. Maybe he was working on it for my next visit? He loved giving me these puzzles so that we could work them out together. It was the highlight of my visits. Have I falsely called the police based on one of his games?

  Savannah cleared a space on the desk by taking the piles of paper and making neat stacks off to the side. Ugh! She frowned as she shuffled and sorted. At least I don’t see late notices in the piles. She pulled out a lined tablet and grabbed a pencil.

  At the jangle of the front door, she dropped the pencil and held her head in both hands. Now what?

  A low professional voice called from the front. “Miss Webb? Hello. Are you here, Miss Savannah Webb?”

  She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. A quick glance in the mirror over the sink confirmed that she looked reasonably neat and not at all frantic. She walked to the front of the shop to find Jacob standing outside in front of the door with a smartly suited woman at his side holding the door open.

  “Hello, Savannah. I’m Frances Underwood. I thought it was time for us to meet. Especially after Jacob’s alarming experience this morning.” She held out her hand.

  Savannah was surprised at the firmness of the grip. “Oh, you’re the judge. Hi. It’s nice to finally meet you, as well. I’ve heard a lot about Jacob from my dad. He believed that working in glass would be
helpful for his . . .” She looked over to Jacob.

  “His Asperger’s? We don’t mince words around his condition. Jacob is an expert about his syndrome and is comfortable hearing it discussed. John explained what positive effects a creative art might have on Jacob’s behavior, and I’ve noticed an increase in his self-calming abilities. I will do anything you need to make sure that he can continue studying here.” She looked up at her son and a tiny smile wavered on her perfectly glossed lips.

  Savannah followed her glance to Jacob.

  He held his head down, looking at a small beagle on a bright red leash wearing a blue service animal pack with a pocket on the side. He shifted his feet from side to side. “This is Suzy. She’s my service animal.” He looked over to his mom. “I think the service she is providing is peace of mind for Mom. I have a severe form of asthma and Suzy has my asthma inhaler in her pack, so she’ll stay with me all the time.”

  Savannah bent down. “Got it, Jacob. Suzy is absolutely adorable.” She presented the back of her hand to Suzy for sniffing and scratched the little dog behind the ears. “Mrs. Underwood, I’m not sure this is a good idea. We’re not set up for a service dog.”

  “Please call me Frances. We were lucky that Suzy was available earlier than we planned. Jacob is nervous because I’ve insisted that she must be with him at all times and that if you aren’t able to accommodate her, he will not be able to return to his glass studies.”

  Jacob continued to focus his gaze on Suzy. “You said I could return to be apprentice, but I can’t work by myself.” He patted Suzy, then lifted his eyes to look at one of Savannah’s earrings. “I am just starting and there is more to learn.”