Pane and Suffering

by Cheryl Hollon

  They must have taken it.

  She closed up the shop, chuckling at Jacob asking in complete seriousness if they wanted Suzy’s prints as well. Walking next door, she entered the Queen’s Head Pub for the second time. On her last fly-in fly-out visit from Seattle, the building had consisted of a derelict abandoned gas station of the 1950s variety. Now it was the hot spot for British Fusion cuisine. The transformation was amazing. Edward had kept all the architectural details and embraced the vintage feel of the building.

  Even though she was a bit early, she spied Smythe precariously and loudly perched on one of the bar stools with a bottle of Bud Light in front of him. He was smoothing and adjusting the fit of his Betty Boop tie to perfection for the selfie he was taking.

  He’s in a British pub with an opportunity to taste authentic ale, but no—he’s drinking a Bud Light. It’s official. He’s a jerk.

  Shaking her head, she walked up to the bar and pulled out the bar stool that was snuggled up right next to him. She dragged it at least two feet away from him and perched with her heels resting on the bottom bar of the stool.

  He turned to her at the sound of the stool scraping on the polished cement floor. “Hey! Thanks for meeting me. What would you like to try? You could order a sampler if you want to taste their imported beers. Apparently they specialize in British ale.”

  Savannah looked over at the long row of taps behind the bar. “No thanks. Not a sampler. Maybe some other time.” She turned to the petite buxom blond bartender wearing a NICOLE name tag. “I’ll have a pint of Guinness, please.”

  Nicole nodded and pressed a pint glass over the cold rinse fountain, then tipped the glass to the proper angle and pulled the brown liquid with its creamy head to about two inches from the rim. She set it aside to settle and smiled at Savannah. “Welcome to the Grand Central District. Edward says you’re here from Seattle. That’s a long way.”

  “Thanks, Nicole. It’s a long way in distance, but not so far in culture. A lot of things here remind me of Seattle.”

  Nicole smiled to reveal a dimple in her left cheek. “Not the weather.”

  “No, not the weather.” Savannah laughed. Turning back to Smythe, she asked, “So, how long have you been in town?”

  He wiggled to a marginally less uncomfortable perch. “I’ve been here a couple weeks scouting the candidate property opportunities in and around the Grand Central District and the Midtown area just south of here.”

  “By a couple weeks, do you mean more than two?” Savannah noticed that Nicole was gently topping off her Guinness and placed it on the beer mat in front of her. Lifting the cool glass, she admired the color, then took a short sip quickly followed by a thirsty drink of the rich, dark ale.

  Smythe took another sip from his bottle of Bud Light. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s really more like a month. But back to business, how much longer am I going to have to wait to get a contract on the shop?”

  Why do I find this disgusting? He’s only doing his job. Oh, I remember. His job is disgusting.

  “Where are you staying? At the beach?”

  “No, no, too pricy. Corporate limits, you know. I’m at the Hollander Hotel near downtown. I negotiated a great weekly rate. Do you have an answer to my question?”

  “You’ll have to do better than Frank Lattimer.” She took another sip of the Guinness. “He’s given me an almost fair offer and he won’t be tearing down the whole block for yet another huge super store.”

  “That’s an emotional response, not a business decision.” His voice jarred her nerves with a whining tone. “Whatever you decide, the rest of the owners will follow. I’ve again talked to most of them when I surveyed the buildings for estimated demolition costs and they want to know what Webb’s is going to do before they sign anything.”

  “A responsible business owner evaluates all aspects of a decision and takes into consideration the health of the community.”

  “That sounds a bit naive.”

  “Naive or not, that is something my family has held close to our hearts for decades. My dad started this business over thirty years ago. My grandfather ran a motorcycle repair shop here nearly fifty years ago.”

  “You are not your dad or even your grandfather,” said Smythe.

  “Did you even attend my father’s funeral?”

  “No, I didn’t. I’ve never been to a funeral and I’m not starting now.”

  “So then where were—”

  “Hello chaps. What are you two conspiring about?” Edward appeared by their table and stood tall between their stools with his arms folded. He looked at Savannah and then at Smythe and then again at Savannah. “Have you sold Webb’s Glass Shop to this worm, yet?”

  Smythe stood up, his bar stool scraping on the floor like fingers on a chalkboard. Standing, he was no taller than when he was perched on the bar stool.

  Edward furrowed his brow and looked at Savannah. “You didn’t tell me you were coming here to meet Smythe,” he lied smoothly.

  Savannah suppressed a smile. He was taking the bad cop routine in stride.

  Edward tilted his head down to Smythe. “Nicole told me you were here.”

  Smythe blurted, “Hey, it’s not like this is a date or anything. Don’t get riled up. We’re talking business. I’m not trying to take over your turf.”

  Edward held his hands palms up. “Savannah isn’t turf as you so politely put it. You have to look at things from my point of view. I’m deeply interested in what happens between you two. I’ve put everything I’ve got into this place and the business is beginning to enjoy a large following. My whole heart and soul goes into running this pub, you know”—he pointed his thumb at Smythe—“in the same block this bloke wants to buy up and put me out on the street and probably out of the country.”

  Savannah smiled at Edward. “Excellent point. I don’t have anything to hide in my dealings with Smythe here, and since you have a stake in this, why don’t you join us. Let me buy you a pint.”

  Edward smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but as I said, it’s my pub. You don’t need to buy.” He grabbed an empty bar stool and placed it between her and Smythe, making a small triangle. He perched one leg onto the stool and glanced behind the bar. “Nicole, a cold Stella Cidre would be very welcome.” He turned back to Savannah and Smythe. “Now, catch me up, please.”

  The real estate developer grabbed his Bud Light and dragged his screeching bar stool as close as possible to Savannah. He looked pointedly at her. “We were discussing a fair offer for Webb’s Glass Shop in light of supporting the wishes of the other business owners on the block.” He stretched his collar and smoothed his tie down along its entire length.

  Savannah gave a sideways look at Edward, then turned to Smythe. “So, in the month you’ve been here, you’ve gathered the future wishes of everyone in the Grand Central District and you believe it is their desire to demolish all the shops and turn the space into a super store?”

  Edward looked at Smythe. “You’ve been here a month? Why didn’t you contact our district association when you arrived?”

  “I just told Savannah—” His voice began to shake so he cleared his throat. “I just told Savannah that I was investigating another location in the Midtown neighborhood. It seemed very promising, but in the end, I just didn’t think that neighborhood could support a super store.” Betty Boop got another smoothing adjustment.

  “I thought you had talked to my dad quite some time ago,” said Savannah.

  “No, it was only about two weeks before”—he cleared his throat again and took another sip of his Bud Light—“before his heart attack. Things would be a lot simpler now, if he were still alive.”

  Edward leaned forward between Savannah and Smythe to place his downed cider on the bar. He signaled Nicole for another by pointing to his empty glass. Nicole showed that dimple and took the glass.

  Savannah scrunched her face. “I don’t understand. Why does that make things simpler?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yo
ur dad had agreed to sell and also convince the others. It was a handshake, but basically a done deal.” Betty Boop got another full adjustment and several smoothing strokes down the full length of the tie.

  “That’s rubbish.” Edward stood and looked down on the red-faced Smythe. “He would have told me. Why are you lying?”

  “Look,” Smythe croaked. “I’m not going to discuss my business practices or,” he looked over to Savannah, “personal whereabouts here in public. I’ve got to go. Savannah, I’ve made my position clear. After you’ve come to the right decision, give me a call when you’re ready to deal.” He handed her another business card. “I’ve prepaid the tab, so enjoy yourselves on me.” He scraped the bar stool back and quickly left Queen’s Head.

  Savannah motioned for Edward to use Smythe’s stool and appreciated his long, lean grace in such close proximity. “That was certainly not what I was expecting.”

  “Not what I thought at all.” Edward reached for the cider that Nicole placed in front of him. “How much lying would you need to do to—”

  “If Dad was going to sell, Smythe wouldn’t have poisoned him.”

  “Yes, but the other explanation is far more chilling.”

  “What?”

  “That he was lying his butt off just to keep off the list of possible murder suspects.”

  “Then for the record, he’s at the top of my list.” She drained the last of the Guinness. “We need to see where he was when Dad and Hugh died.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I don’t know at the moment, but I’m going to figure it out.”

  “Brilliant,” said Edward. “I’ll brainstorm as well.”

  It feels good to have people helping me. Savannah fingered her empty pint glass. Her eyebrows lifted. “Wow, this was almost as good as the Guinness in Dublin. It’s better than I expected by a long shot.”

  Edward smiled. “You have exceptional taste in beer.”

  “That’s another reason I think Smythe might be lying.”

  “What reason?”

  “Who drinks Bud Light in a British pub? Liars, cheaters, and killers. Oh my.”

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday Evening

  Savannah parked the van in the church lot. She automatically pulled up against the hardy oleander bushes into the same parking space her family always used. It felt surreal that she was the only one who would be looking out for it. Like her dad, she usually arrived early to any appointment or event.

  She recalled that he always said, “For me, on time means I’m late.” She felt uncomfortable that she had arrived a bit late, quite a bit late.

  The funeral was only three days ago, but it feels like an eternity . . . and also like a moment ago. I’m back too soon. Things are going too fast.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized it was already twenty minutes until eight. The 7:00 PM Grief and Bereavement Counseling meeting had to be well under way and practically ready to end. After talking to Edward and running home to take care of Rooney, she had completely misjudged her timing.

  She hurried down the stairway just right of the entrance and walked softly down the tiled hallway. It was a nervous, spooky dark because several of the overhead fluorescent bulbs were burnt out.

  Savannah stood outside the community room and looked through one of the windows in the double door. About fifteen members sat in folding chairs arranged into a circle with Reverend Kline a little separated from the rest of the participants.

  The slim man sitting to the left of the reverend was reading something aloud from a red leather journal he held open across his knees. “Mostly I see her in the kitchen pulling dishes from the dishwasher and telling me about our plans for tomorrow.”

  This is ridiculous. I’m not ready to read from a journal. I’m not ready to write in a journal.

  She thought the best thing to do was to talk to Reverend Kline for a few minutes after the meeting broke up. She backed out of their sight line and watched as the next person began to read from another journal.

  I’m really not ready for this. Why would Reverend Kline think I need this kind of help? I’m a little emotional, but certainly not crippled. I’ve got bigger things to do. I need to find out who killed Hugh and my dad.

  Not wanting to eavesdrop on another recital, Savannah took the stairs up and walked slowly down the sanctuary aisle, recalling the large crowd that had been there on Sunday afternoon for her dad’s service. Frank had been conspicuously absent.

  She stepped up to the altar and realized that the Russian icons hanging just below the north window were a different set from the ones she remembered hanging there during the memorial service. She had a clear memory of them because that was where she’d focused her eyes to avoid looking at the coffin.

  This collection was very faded with large cracks running through the figures. Most of the delicate gold foil had worn away to just a few stray flecks.

  I guess the reverend rotates the collection.

  She returned down the aisle and stood underneath the beautiful stained glass Last Supper. It was dark outside and the streetlight wasn’t angled properly so it was difficult to make out details. Even in the poor light, she could tell that the craftsmanship was superb. The solder joins were practically invisible and the painted segments stunning. It was easy to lose herself completely in the glass. She recognized the seed of fear in her stomach. What if she couldn’t replicate this exquisite panel?

  She made a mental note to come back during the day to get some reference photographs. Although there were already a pile of them in the custom workshop, she preferred to make a personal study of a commission piece.

  She pulled out her phone and took a quick reference photo, forgetting that the flash would fade most of the detail until she saw the washed out image blink onto her screen. How am I ever going to find someone to help me do this? Ugh. Maybe Frank’s idea of hiring someone from the original company who might be ready to move south to St. Petersburg might be the best approach. That would annoy him. Enough reason to try it.

  Her watch said two minutes past eight when she heard the noisy chatter of the group breaking up and making their way up the stairs. The sounds were getting closer and the tinkle of their companionable laughter was more than she could bear.

  It’s too soon.

  Anxieties gripped her and accelerated the beating of her heart. She rubbed the center of her chest.

  It’s too soon.

  She took a last glance at the timeless beauty of The Last Supper. I’ll be back when I’m ready. I promise. She bolted out the door like a cat that suddenly discovered it was in the wrong room.

  Pulling away in the van, she looked back at the entrance. Reverend Kline had walked out behind her. He stood on the bottom step with one hand on his hip and the other waving her a farewell. She felt a moment of relief. He didn’t look disappointed at all, even though he had wanted her to come.

  He’s trying to tell me it’s okay. That’s good.

  Driving home took only a few minutes, but her thoughts returned to the nagging question of finishing the panels. Maybe she should trust her skills as much as her friends did. She should also trust in the selection process for her scholarship.

  Savannah tossed her keys into the Craftsman-style pottery bowl on the table by the front door. At least Rooney hadn’t sounded his intruder bark. But he didn’t run to greet her either. From the central hallway, he eyed her with a steady sullen gaze and returned to her dad’s bedroom. She heard his nails clicking on the wooden floor as he turned three times and plopped down on the small pile of T-shirts still beside the bed.

  There would have been no question of him sleeping in the bed with her dad. That was rule number one in the Webb household—no sleeping with the pets.

  It was a bit early for the last walk of the day, but she felt restless and couldn’t settle to television. She stepped over to the built-in bookcase beside the fireplace. A shelf had been dedicated to puzzle mysteries—Agatha Christie’s The Clocks
, Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, and the complete works of Arthur Conan Doyle.

  She absently ran her finger along the spines of her dad’s first-edition collection of novels by Dan Brown and beside each one was an advanced review copy released a few months before publication. She grabbed the one that was sticking out a bit, The Da Vinci Code, and opened to the title page.

  “To John, thanks for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you. Your cipher friend, Dan Brown.”

  She pulled out another and it also had a personal inscription. Curious, she flipped to the acknowledgment pages, but there was no reference to a John Webb.

  I wonder how Dad helped. This collection must be worth a mint.

  She wandered back to the sofa, but wasn’t able to get into the novel. Casually reading a novel seemed frivolous so soon after Dad and Hugh’s deaths.

  The second cipher was once again resting on the dining table next to her morning coffee cup. She picked up the onionskin and then put it back. No one could figure it out, but they could continue investigating without it . . . she hoped. At least she had plenty of excuses to talk to Frank and Smythe. Hopefully they would give her something to go on. The world and its problems can wait. I’m not ready to go further with this.

  She rinsed the cup in the original porcelain farm sink and put the kettle on to boil for some strong mint tea. Maybe that will calm my nerves. She took her brewed cup over to the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. How many evenings had they sat this way and talked about her day in school and his day in the shop?

  Not enough in her view. Not enough. I should have come home a lot more. I regret it.

  The phone rang and the caller ID displayed KLINE. Her head drooped and she automatically ran through a hundred excuses. Maybe she should let the answering machine take the call.

  Do the right thing. Answer.

  She picked up the cordless phone. “Hello, Reverend.”

  “Good evening, Savannah. Did I see you in the parking lot tonight?”