Also by Cheryl Hollon
Webb’s Glass Shop Mystery Series
Pane and Suffering
Shards of Murder
Cracked to Death
Etched in Tears
Shattered at Sea
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Down in Flames
Cheryl Hollon
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Glossary of Terms for Flameworking Glass
Information about Glassblowing Instruction
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Cheryl Hollon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1179-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1180-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1180-7 (ebook)
To my terrific siblings:
Gary Hollon and Eileen Hoffman
Sheila Hollon Collins and Larry Collins
Mark Hollon and Deanna Wormack Hollon
Acknowledgments
I can’t believe that this is my sixth published book. How did that happen? It happened because there are people who make sure the thousands of details happen.
The Bookends Literary Agency was my dream agency from the first time I heard Jessica Faust speak at the SleuthFest conference in 2007. She is a force of nature propelled by caffeine and curiosity. When she suggested that my cozy proposal might be a perfect fit for her newest agent, Beth Campbell—she was right. Beth is the perfect agent for me. She is both sympathetic and relentless in giving me an unflinching assessment of each book. From our first meeting, Beth and I could finish each other’s sentences. It is such a joy to hone and perfect each manuscript with Beth’s guidance.
Now that Beth has left the agency to pursue another chapter in her publishing life, I’m in the skilled hands of brand-new agent James McGowan. He has the personal trait I most admire—persistence. He, like Beth, started with Bookends as an intern and simply stayed, and stayed, and stayed. I’m looking forward to his guidance on future projects.
Kensington Publishing is a delight to work with. Selena James, Rebecca Raskin, and Lulu Martinez work very hard to bring the best possible book to print. Speaking of print, thanks for the magnificent production talents of Rebecca Cremonese. There are so many more Kensington folk who are dedicated, patient, and passionate about books. I enjoy the opportunity I get to meet with Team Hollon at the Kensington offices during the ThrillerFest conference each year.
Thanks to Claire Hill for her creative publicity campaign in promoting this series. I would never have made those glass demonstration videos without your encouragement. Sometimes a push is exactly what is needed. Thanks.
This book features a new glass art for me—beadmaking. To get enough hands-on experience to give this book credibility, I signed up with Zen Glass Studio and took a three-day class in flameworking. My instructors—Josh, David, and Mike—were incredibly patient with my fumbling, stumbling, and terrified attempts to make the pieces that I planned to have Savannah teach. Check out their workshops and classes at www.zenglass.com.
My parents continue to inspire me with their enthusiasm and obvious pride in having a daughter who is a “real” author. The arts have always had first place in our family. We all sing, play instruments, write, quilt, knit, and enjoy woodworking. Some of us paint, dance, and play sports. But all of those were practiced only after all homework was finished. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
I found my tribe within the Sisters in Crime organization. I’m the Past President of the Florida Gulf Coast Sisters in Crime Chapter and enjoy the incredible support of so many wonderful writers, readers, booksellers, and librarians.
I have an incredible face-to-face critique group. We meet in my sunroom one Sunday a month to torment, terrorize, encourage, and drive each other into writing stronger, tighter, and clearer stories. We’ve been meeting since 2008 and I have learned to look forward to these word-centric tussles. Thank you, Sam Falco and Christa Rickard.
Without inspiration, nothing good comes from my writing. I depend on my muse, Lujoye Barnes, to supply copious amounts of encouragement. She’s my compass. When I get stuck, my first question is, “What would surprise Joye at this point?” Works like magic.
Thank you, Ramona DeFelice Long, for taking my early glimmers and showing me the way to make a better story. I laugh almost as much as I weep when I read through your comments. Your dedicated service is vital to my writing process. I’m so glad I found you.
The world’s greatest writer champion continues to be my trophy husband, George. He’s my first reader, trusted adviser, taskmaster, and long-suffering spouse of an obsessed writer. When I’m deep in my story world, with no sense of time, you draw me back into our wonderful life. “A bushel and a peck.”
Chapter 1
Monday afternoon,
Webb’s Glass Shop
“Fire!” screamed Rachel Rosenberg. She pointed at her twin sister. “Faith started a fire.”
Savannah Webb sniffed the distinctive odor of burning hair. She ran over to Faith’s student bench, grabbing the fire extinguisher on the way. She quickly scanned each twin’s short white hair, which appeared untouched. Faith was near tears but pointed to a pink cashmere sweater that lay in a smoldering heap on the floor behind the metal work stool.
Faith snuffled like a toddler. “I tossed it over there.”
As normal, the twins had been the first students to arrive. Also, as usual, they dressed alike and wore head-to-toe vibrant pink. From pink ballet flats and slacks embroidered with flamingoes, to cotton sweater-sets with flamingos screen-printed on the front. All topped by large flamingo earrings and pink polished nails.
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Using two rapid spurts from the extinguisher, Savannah sprayed the burning sweater. Then she stomped on the remains for good measure. She turned to her perennial students, her throat still pulsing from the surge of adrenalin. “Are you all right? Did you get burned?”
“No.” Faith sat very still with her eyes wide, staring at the sodden lump of pink char. “I forgot about the rule banning loose clothing. I got a chill and drew the sweater over my shoulders. My sleeve must have dangled across the flame.” Faith’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I’m sorry.”
The twins were typically aloof, tightly controlled, but friendly. Emotion at this level felt awkward.
Savannah heard the pitch of her voice rise. “What possessed you to turn on the torch? We haven’t started class.”
Faith’s eyes grew even wider. “I just don’t know. It seemed to call to me to turn it on. I couldn’t resist. I’ve never had that happen before.”
Savannah covered her mouth with a hand and pressed her lips together. I’m so relieved they’re okay!
Rachel huffed a great breath and put both hands on her hips. “You’ve always been clumsy. You should have waited for Savannah to tell us exactly how to light the torch. Perhaps this class isn’t such a good idea.”
Savannah put an arm around each twin and drew them into a warm side hug. “Ladies, you know that at Webb’s Glass Shop, a class wouldn’t be complete without you two. You’ve attended every class offered for the last—how many years?”
The twins looked at each other and Rachel shrugged. “It’s been at least five years, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Faith. “We were walking by and noticed the poster in the window offering beginning stained-glass classes and we went right in. You know, of course, that your dad was a wonderful instructor.”
Savannah smiled. “Yes, he was.” She paused for just a second. His loss was still a raw spot. “Now that he’s gone, you’ve been my security blanket and my dear friends. I need you. Don’t decide about the class right now.”
Faith wrung her hands. “But I could have burned the shop down. You might have lost the whole building.” She put her hands over her eyes and began to cry.
“Stop that. I’m well prepared for any little accident. My friend over at Zen Glass Studio says that if there’s not at least one fire a day, he’s not making money. He runs a lot of students through his shop. Close calls are part of the deal.”
Savannah felt her heart pounding and she huffed out a breath. Near accidents caused an aftereffect, but they were far better than a real accident. She felt her confidence drop as she thought of her six beginner students wielding molten glass inches in front of their faces.
Rachel gently pushed Savannah back and folded Faith into her arms. “Don’t fret, sister. It wasn’t a problem. You saw how quickly Savannah put out the fire.”
Faith lowered her hands and gulped a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry.”
Savannah put a hand on each twin’s shoulder. “You both enjoyed the sand-etching class, didn’t you?”
The twins stepped apart, looked at each other and then glanced away.
“Remember that and give flameworking a chance. I won’t hear a word about quitting until you’ve gotten to the end of today’s class.”
“But—” chirped Faith.
Savannah pointed like a teacher. “Back to your workstations.”
Rachel and Faith returned to their work stools. They folded their hands and raised their chins. They looked ready to pay attention to the first lesson in making a glass bead.
Savannah sighed deeply. Her relief that no one had been injured was both personal and calculating. An accident could tarnish the reputation of the family-owned glass shop that she had inherited from her father. Even though her small business was doing well, it would all collapse in the wake of burning the whole building down.
She turned to the other three new students. “This might have been the best unplanned lesson ever. This is not a risk-free art form.” They were wide-eyed and solemn with nodding heads. “I’ll expect your full attention during the safety briefing.”
She scooped up the sodden lump of burned sweater with a dust pan and dumped it into the trash bin. It stood next to the fifty-gallon drum that contained their unusable glass. It was nearly full and would need dumping into the bright blue city recyclables bin in the next day or so.
Today was her first afternoon teaching a workshop in glass-bead creation. The method called flameworking, or sometimes lamp-working, utilized acetylene torches fastened to the front of each table, facing away from the students. The beads were formed by manipulating colored glass rods through the flame.
Safety for the students was always Savannah’s primary worry when working with an open flame, so she had been testing the torches one by one when Faith let the sleeve of her sweater catch fire.
To accommodate her growing student clientele, Savannah had installed all the student workstations in the newly acquired expansion space of Webb’s Glass Shop. She owned the entire building, so when one of her long-term tenants retired and closed their art-supply retail business, she took the opportunity to expand. Luckily, the expanded classroom was adjacent to her current location. Savannah hired contractors to remove the adjoining wall and created a larger student space.
That left two more businesses in her building that still held on to their leases. One was a nail salon and the other a consignment shop. She rarely raised her rent more than two percent a year because loyalty meant so much more to her than risking an empty rental.
Because the flameworking torches needed powerful exhaust fans to remove noxious fumes and expel clouds of glass dust, she had placed the workstations on the back wall facing the alley and had a contractor knock small holes into the outside wall for the fans. The construction work on the six-station teaching space was finished mere minutes before the class began at one o’clock this afternoon.
There was a little space for her personal station, but students brought money in the door, so that work would be finished later. All but one student had shown up early to learn bead-making. They had also gotten an unplanned show and prime example of the dangers of working with an open flame.
The bell over the entry door jangled. “Am I too late?” asked a thirty-something tall woman dressed in muscle-hugging black athletic wear. “Have I missed something important?” Her pale face flushed and a sheen of sweat formed on her brow.
Savannah walked into the display room and led her into the new classroom. “A little, but you’re in good time.” Savannah shook her head. “We’ve had a bit of delay getting started. Anyway, you’re the last one to arrive, so our class is complete. If you could take a seat at the end workstation, we can all make our introductions. After that I’ll make some important safety and housekeeping announcements, and then we’ll begin.”
Savannah pointed to the late-arriving student. “Welcome. We’ll start introductions with you. Give us your name, where you live, and what you want to get out of this class.”
The pale lady looked extremely uncomfortable at the notion of speaking. She cleared her throat not once, but three times. “I’m Myla Katherine Nedra, but everyone calls me Myla Kay. I’m a seasonal resident from Ann Arbor, Michigan. I’m recently widowed, and I couldn’t stomach the idea of a cold winter in our big house all alone, so I rented one of the tiny bungalow cottages in a courtyard within a few blocks of here. This class should be a great distraction and will hopefully be a way to get to know the neighborhood.”
Savannah raised her eyebrows. That’s an unusual way to introduce yourself—recently widowed. Most women would be reluctant to admit that so quickly. She’s confident.
“Thank you, Myla Kay. You must be in that street of tiny houses near my house. I live right down the block from you. I find the tiny-house zone in the Kenwood Historic Neighborhood fascinating, although I could never live in one. Which one did you rent?”
“I chose the converted Blue Bird school bus.”
/> Savannah bobbed her head. “I walked through that one while I was at the Tiny Home Festival last year. The bus has a very colorful history. Remind me to tell you about it.”
She’s awfully young to be a widow.
Savannah looked toward the next student. He adjusted the collar of his green Columbia fishing shirt and stood in front of his work stool. He said in a booming voice, “My name is Lonnie McCarthy. I’m from Pittsburgh. My wife and I are staying downtown with friends for a few weeks and I have some basic experience with making stained glass. I want to present my wife with some handmade beads for her fancy Pandora bracelet.” He gave everyone a politician’s wide-toothed smile and sat.
The third student, with brown hair framing soft brown-eyes, looked as gawky as her sixteen years of age. She popped up before Savannah could signal her turn. “Hi, I’m Patricia Karn.” Her voice was high and thin, exactly like her teenage figure. “I’m here from Indian Rocks Beach. I’m a native Floridian but my parents are from Akron, Ohio. I want to make beads as Christmas gifts to send up to my six cousins up North. I’m home schooled and this class will fulfill my art elective credits for the year.”
“Thanks, Patricia. Did you bring your signed release?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Patricia pulled a folded slip of paper from her back pocket and handed it over.
The next student sat until Savannah nodded toward him. He was white-haired with a close-clipped beard and mustache. He gripped the back of the chair and stood, favoring one knee. Even at his full height, he was a little stooped. “I’m Herbert Klug.” He gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “I’m here because my wife wants me out of the house.”
Everyone laughed. His timing and stage presence reminded Savannah of a stand-up comedian.
He smiled at the reaction. “No, I’m kidding. That’s not exactly true. I’m a retired research professor. My lab was downtown at the Bayboro Campus of the University of South Florida.” His well-modulated voice had everyone’s attention. “Although I haven’t created anything in glass as an artist, I have certainly made plenty of glass pipettes for my lab. This is my chance to explore flameworking as an artist.” He maneuvered cautiously back onto his work stool.
Down in Flames Page 1
