Also by Cheryl Hollon
Pane and Suffering
Shards of Murder
Cracked to Death
Cheryl Hollon
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Cheryl Hollon
Title 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
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
INFORMATION ABOUT STAINED GLASS INSTRUCTION
Teaser chapter
Teaser chapter
Teaser chapter
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To Eric, Jennifer, Aaron, Beth,
Ethan, Lena,
Ricky, Mister, Pepper, Precious, Snowy
Acknowledgments
Eloyne and Bradley Erickson own Grand Central Stained Glass & Graphics, the business that continues to inspire this series. I am grateful to you in so many ways for loving the books and opening your hearts to an extremely curious student with a significant number of unusual questions.
I appreciate the wide variety of hobbies my friends enjoy and their willingness to share when I need a subject matter expert. Thank you, Sarah Weist and Gregg Bonert, for information about diving. If any details are wrong, the errors are mine alone.
Big hugs to my Gainesville support group. You provided encouragement at precisely the right time, laced with generous amounts of wine and book talk. I needed those retreat days at Joye’s woodland cottage to buckle down and put billions of words on the page.
Thanks to one of my strongest cheerleaders in my hometown of Dayton, Ohio, my sister Sheila Collins. She managed to round up a motley collection of friends and relations, which impressed the Books & Company event manager at the Greene Town Center. Also in Dayton, Cheryl Whitmore and I met at a writing conference, and we, the two Cheryls, reigned supreme in our corner of the room. For years we have exchanged weekly status e-mails, which have helped me persevere in getting reluctant words into my manuscript day after day after day.
I offer my thanks to editor and inspirational writing champion Ramona DeFelice Long, who has a gentle way of telling you that your wonderful prose just might need some tiny, drastic adjustments. I check in with her sprint group on Facebook every morning for companionship and focus. What a great group with which to share the grit required to stay the course.
At Kensington, I am eternally grateful to my extraordinary editor, Mercedes Fernandez, who took a big chance on this series and who pushes me to the edge of creative sanity but doesn’t let me fall. Thanks to my publicity guru, Morgan Elwell, for encouraging me to try more and more social media interactions.
Fabulous Beth Campbell and the wonderful team at BookEnds Literary Agency are a dream team to work with. They have been informative, supportive, and unfailingly encouraging in answering my approximately ten thousand questions about publishing. I’m trying to schedule a trip to meet the entire team—especially Buford.
A thank-you goes to my parents, Wendell and Marcella, for bragging about my book to every person they meet. It’s embarrassing and completely adorable. Also, I offer a big sister hug to my big little brother, Mark Hollon, who has been cheering me on from the start. Thanks go, as well, to his wife, Deana, and his daughters, Alex and Ella, for an added chorus of cheers.
I am grateful to my husband, George, for putting on the mantle of writer’s spouse with cheerful grace and endless humor. He is my voice of reason and plays the challenging part of devil’s advocate when my monkey brain tries to take on too many tasks. For you, a hug around the neck.
Chapter 1
Monday Morning
“Come on. Do the right thing—again,” Savannah Webb muttered. She stood behind the sales counter at Webb’s Glass Shop, waiting for the register to either boot up or display the blue screen of death. Relief at the sight of a normal start-up screen released the tension in her neck.
The little brass bell mounted on the front door jangled like a startled seagull.
In burst Amanda Blake, Savannah’s still novice office manager, with her pudgy arms stuffed full of notebooks, pens, and teaching posters, along with two large dark green reusable grocery bags. The bulging bags, filled with empty wine and vodka bottles, hung from each of her arms, their contents clinking.
“I’m here. I’m here. I’m here,” she huffed. “Like the little Whovians from the Dr. Seuss book.” Tiny beads of sweat rolled down the sides of her pale face.
Savannah rushed around the counter and grabbed the heavy bags of empty bottles while Amanda staggered to the counter and unloaded the teaching supplies.
“I’m not late, am I?” A bundle of pens slipped out of her grasp, and they bounced madly across the floor like escaping mice.
“You’re not late at all.” Savannah shook her head as the antiquated cash register booted up to the shop’s menu page.
I need to replace this system as soon as I can afford it.
“I’m not sure I’ve got everything.” Amanda spoke between panting breaths and wiped the sweat from her face with a plump forearm.
“Amanda, you have enough materials to teach a year’s worth of classes.”
That’s a lot of extra expense right now. Maybe I shouldn’t have given her a company credit card, but up to now, she’s been extremely conservative, even frugal.
“It’s my first class, and I want everything perfect, absolutely perfect.” Amanda turned to face Savannah. “Is my outfit okay? It may be too conservative, but I wanted to look accomplished and trustworthy. What do you think?” she said as she gave a little twirl.
Savannah’s brows launched upward before she could control them. She covered her reaction with a big smile and checked out Amanda’s lime-green headband holding yellow-orange, shoulder-length hair, a perfectly matching lime-green cotton shirt over a white camisole, and white stretch leggings. She sported new lime-green Converse sneakers with white laces.
Nodding slowly, she replied, “Perfect. Simply perfect.” What she actually thought was that only Amanda could get away with an outfit like that. Anyone else would come off looking like a clown. “Your outfit says you’re fashion forward, serious, but also artistic. Perfect.”
Quickly running a hand through her black, close-cropped curls, Savannah looked down and assessed her own everyday work outfit. The white cotton button-down shirt tucked into khaki Dockers was heavy enough to afford protection while she was working with glass, but cool in the steamy heat of a west coast Florida July. A limber six feet, she towered over Amanda’s plump figure. “Absolutely perfect.” Savannah formed an okay sign with her index finger and thumb.
Amanda scrambled around the floor, picking up the pens, and gathered everything from th
e counter. “I’ve got to get the classroom set up before the students get here.”
“You take the small stuff. I’ll get the bottles.” Savannah grabbed the grocery bags. They walked through the door behind the sales counter and into the classroom. “Why all the bottles? I thought the students were to bring their own.”
Amanda dumped her armload of supplies onto the nearest worktable in the first row. The room was arranged into three rows, with each row containing two standing-height worktables that faced a whiteboard at the front of the room.
“I’m so nervous, I can’t think properly. I kept having a recurring nightmare that no one brought any bottles, and so we couldn’t have class, and then I got fired. As soon as I decided to bring these, I started sleeping.” She stepped behind the instructor lectern and opened up her notebook to the first page. “Thank goodness you made me create a teaching plan.” She looked up with a blinding smile. “If I get lost, I know what should come next.”
Savannah placed a wine bottle and a vodka bottle on each worktable. “I’ll get these, while you arrange the distribution of the handouts. We’ll be done in a few minutes.”
Even though it was Amanda’s first teaching experience, Savannah felt confident the new class would be a success. Everyone loved Amanda’s sunny disposition and eternally cheerful optimism. Students already sought her advice about the color choices among the racks of sheet glass available for sale at Webb’s.
Capitalizing on a new crafting trend called upcycling, they had created a workshop to convert ordinary wine bottles into cool cheese trays, transform long-neck beer bottles into quirky spoon rests, and flatten vodka bottles into wall clocks. They touted the workshop’s value for those interested in striving toward a responsible, green, zero-footprint lifestyle.
Once the bottles and handouts were distributed and the classroom was ready for teaching, Savannah stood in the doorway with her arms folded. “Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be terrific. You know your subject backward and forward. Plus, who wouldn’t like you as their teacher?” She grabbed Amanda and gave her a bear hug. “Besides, I’ll be only a quick phone call away if anything horrible comes up.”
“Horrible?” Amanda’s eyes opened wide, and she clutched Savannah’s arm like a fledgling barn owl. “What do you mean by a phone call away?”
“I need to open up the new Twenty-Second Street warehouse studio. This is the first time Jacob will be working in the new workshop. His mother is driving him down there, but she wants to speak to me first before dropping him off. Understandable, since he doesn’t like new routines.”
“He is eighteen now. I was working on my own when I was sixteen.”
“You weren’t diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome when you were a small child. Working with my dad in the glass shop has made an incredible difference to his self-confidence, but he still hasn’t learned to drive, and he still hates talking on the phone.”
The warehouse studio was a new venture inspired by the growing number of glass students who had taken classes at Webb’s and had graduated from beginner’s status. These students needed a work space, as well as continued guidance and instruction in technique. The historical family-owned Webb’s Glass Shop didn’t offer the amount of space required for this, since there were only four small rooms. Customers entered the display room, which was filled with student artworks for sale, along with a sales counter. There was a supply room to the right, filled with everything an artist might need, from sheets of glass to soldering irons. In the back was a classroom large enough for six students and an instructor. At the very back end of the shop was an office, a restroom, and a rear door that opened to the alley.
In order to start Webb’s Studio, Savannah had used some of her inheritance to buy a run-down warehouse. It was a risky and bold move, but one she hoped would pay off. She had found the perfect site not more than a ten-minute walk away from the shop, on the corner of Fourth Avenue South and Twenty-Second Street South.
Amanda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Of course, but could you stay until all the students arrive? Pretty please.” She pressed her hands together as if in prayer.
Jacob Underwood was the only carryover staff member from when Savannah’s late father owned Webb’s Glass Shop. Although he had managed his Asperger’s syndrome well, it had been a lucky day when Jacob discovered the joy of glasswork. Now he thrived in his role as apprentice and stained glass restoration expert. Still, an eighteen-year-old of any sort needed firm guidance and frequent reminders. She remembered her dad’s frustration with her tardiness on homework when she was a senior in high school. Teens grew up at different rates.
“Nonsense. You’re completely prepared—maybe too prepared.” Savannah squeezed Amanda’s hand and tried to sound sympathetic. “I’ll stay until you start your lecture, but I’ve got to get to the studio. Once you get started, trust me, you won’t even notice when I slip out the back.”
“But . . .”
“No buts.” Savannah pointed to the lesson plan. “We have a few minutes before class. Let’s look at your teaching plan and review the points for—”
The front bell jangled. Savannah gave Amanda a stern, no-nonsense look. “I was saved by the bell. Now, Instructor, go greet your students.”
Amanda walked into the display room and met a pair of spry elderly women.
“Rachel and Faith! I’m so glad you’re taking my class.” Amanda hugged them both.
They had arrived in extreme twin mode, evident not only by their identical features but also by their identical head-to-toe outfits. Both women were dressed entirely in magenta—from custom magenta glasses and oversize button-down magenta shirts, with white T-shirts underneath, to magenta capri-length trousers and magenta flats with matching bows at the toe.
“We always take Webb’s classes.” Rachel tipped her head back at her sister. “We wouldn’t dare miss—”
Faith interrupted her sister and, in true twin form, finished her thought. “The chance to be here for your first class as an instructor.”
“Did you bring some bottles?” Amanda led them into the classroom. “When you signed up for the class, you should have received an information package with instructions and a list of the materials needed for this class.”
“Yes, we brought bottles, and we received the information package,” they said in perfect unison.
They stared at each other for a long moment and then burst into giggles. Faith finally composed herself enough to take a look around the classroom.
“Good,” she said. “We’re early enough to get our regular seats. I’ll sit here, against the wall, so you can be on the outside.” She looked pointedly at Amanda. “Remember? Lefties need to be aware of their poking elbows.”
“No need to point that out. We have always managed to suit ourselves,” said Rachel.
Amanda helped them settle in and asked that they place the bottles they had brought in on top of their worktables, in addition to the two bottles Savannah had placed on top of the worktables earlier.
“I’ll bet we get a lot of different types of bottles,” Amanda stated excitedly. But as she watched the twins take out bottle after bottle of Belvedere Vodka, her excitement started to wane. “Whew! You have quite a lot of vodka bottles. Do you drink only Belvedere?”
“Oh, yes,” Faith chirped. “We have our ‘teenies’ out on the deck every night. Rachel makes such divine—” Faith didn’t have a chance to finish.
“Cosmopolitans are actually cocktails, dear. But apple martinis—shaken, not stirred, are a special treat for us. They’re so much colder that way,” Rachel said as she mimicked the motions of agitating a cocktail shaker. “We also like apple martinis. They’re even sweeter. On most days, I count the mixing as my aerobic exercise of the day.”
Faith giggled and patted her sister on the shoulder. “Now, Rachel, you know we love our walk around the lake!”
The ringing bell announced the arrival of the next student, who called out in a low, raspy drawl,
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Savannah turned from the chatter between Amanda and the Rosenberg twins to greet a slim middle-aged woman with silver-white hair pulled into a luxurious ponytail. “Hi. I’m Savannah.” She extended her hand. “Welcome to Webb’s Glass Shop. Are you here for the upcycling workshop?”
“Oh yes, darlin’. That’s exactly what I need.” The woman transferred a bulging red canvas bag to her left hand and shook Savannah’s hand with surprising firmness. “I always make my Christmas gifts for all my family and friends. Reusing my discarded bottles will be a bonus.”
“Well, then, you’re at the right place! I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh, my stars. How rude of me. I’m SueAnn Dougherty.”
“Welcome, Sue.” Savannah waved her arm toward the classroom.
“SueAnn. My name is SueAnn, just like it sounds, but it’s all one word. Oh yes, with both a capital S and a capital A.”
“Got it. Well, good morning, SueAnn.” Savannah gave a tiny tilt of her head. “Your teacher is Amanda Blake, and she’s right there in the classroom.”
The door jangled again, and two lovely pale young women entered the shop, one with short brown hair and one with long amber hair. They were fresh-faced and modestly dressed in navy skirts and buttoned up white polo shirts. They smiled, and the long-haired girl spoke.
“Good morning, ma’am. Is this the place for the bottle class?”
“Yes. You must be from Roosevelt Prep School. I met with your artistic director last month to arrange for this special off-site workshop. I’m so happy it meets the curriculum for your studies.” Savannah smiled and shepherded them into the classroom. “You can sit anywhere you like.”
The girls exchanged hurried whispers behind discreet hands, then scooted themselves into the second row, probably because SueAnn had taken the worktable against the wall in the first row.
Amanda looked at her watch. “Okay, class. It’s ten o’clock right now. Although I should be starting the class, there’s still one more student left to arrive.”
Cracked to Death Page 1
