At the cutout window, I rapped my knuckles against the paneling below. As I should have expected, the wall shook. Something within the office clunked to the floor. And Mr. Harper jumped as if something had bitten his butt.
Hand over his heart, he glanced at the window, blew out a breath. “Georgia,” he said. “What a surprise.” With one hand he pushed the papers on his desk into a semblance of a stack and set a brick atop them. “What brings you by?”
“I . . . uh . . .” He was smiling at me. Like he was happy to see me.
“Mr. Harper,” he offered, smile stuck in place.
“Right. Mr. Harper.” Maybe he’d forgotten how annoyed he’d been with me? Or maybe he had some legitimate mental disorder that caused his moods to swing wildly from one day to the next? I couldn’t guess at what had led to his change in the way he treated me, but I could certainly use it to my advantage. I held up a flyer. “Mind if I put this up in your window?” I threw in a big smile, in case his mood flipped the other way.
He stood and approached the cutout, leaning a bit so he could see me through it. “Of course not, you go right ahead.”
“Super, tha—”
“Say, how’s Pete?”
“Fine.”
“Good, good,” he said. “I heard the police had him in custody, wondered how he was holding up.”
Ah. Of course. The gossip grist for the rumor mill—goes in fact, comes out fiction. “He’s fine,” I repeated, more confidently this time. “He’s not in custody, just had to answer some questions.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” His brow creased as he adjusted to this information. “Well.” He cleared his throat, loosening whatever words were caught there. “I’m glad to know that. Been thinking about him. Tough thing to have an old friendship that ended badly make a person look suspicious. Must be hard.”
Nuts. On the odd times I’d retreat to this town with my mom as a kid, I thought folks were just being polite when they asked her about her plans. Now older, knowing the members of the town would all collect in one place to swap stories whether they had the facts or not, I felt my skin prickle. The sense that Bill Harper was looking for information, that he would pass it along at the first opportunity, gave me goose bumps.
I forced my mouth into a smile. “I’ll let Pete know you were asking after him.”
Mr. Harper grinned back. “You do that.”
As I walked the length of the street-facing windows, the goose bumps got so bad it felt like a colony of ants were crawling across my skin. Stopping in front of a patch of window barren of oversized posters for special prices, I shuddered.
Maybe this was small town living. Maybe everyone got up in everyone else’s business. And if they kept track of one another’s lives out of kindness and concern, then that was the sort of thing from which the world could benefit. What worried me were the folk who kept tabs for less than friendly reasons. No, they weren’t limited to small towns by any means. In big cities, though, those sorts of folk were easier to avoid. You could cut those folks out of your circle and still have friends to spare. Well, if you got custody of the friends in the breakup, that is.
I dropped my tote bag to the ground, fished around in its depths for the cellophane tape while my mind reviewed the friends I’d lost. All indications to the contrary, I didn’t think my former fiancé had intentionally set about to separate me from my friends. He and they simply kept on with the life they were accustomed to living: dinners out, martinis at a downtown bar, brunches at the latest overpriced trendy spot. Out of work and money-conscious, I kept having to decline invitations. I couldn’t really blame any of them for their failure to keep asking.
Of course, I could blame them for not being more sympathetic about my finances and not suggesting we meet at a place with a dollar menu. After all, I’m no saint.
I slapped the flyer against the window with somewhat more force than necessary and fixed it in place with enough tape to hold the paper immobile during a tornado. In the midst of my overachievement, my gaze fell on the bakery across the street. Fresh baked goods. Not overpriced and trendy. Just tasty. Probably fresh blueberries in the muffins.
Okay, so technically I was plotting to drown my friendless sadness in warm, sweet carbs. I could have worse faults.
Flyer taped in place, I waved good-bye to Maura and went straight from the grocer’s to the bakery across the street.
8
Grandy had brought me by the bakery on my first weekend after arriving in Wenwood. Or returning to Wenwood as the case may be. He introduced me to what felt like the entire population of the town, but the only name I remembered was Rozelle. Hey, if you’re going to remember a name, remember the owner’s.
The bell over the door that announced my arrival in the bakery sounded magical. Pretty much any tinkling sound would be mistaken for magic in the presence of decorated pastries, king-sized muffins, and the knee-buckling aroma of freshly baking bread. Saliva accumulated in the back of my mouth. I couldn’t get my wallet out of my tote fast enough.
A “be right there” carried from the back of the bakery. I shouted an okay and rested my hands on the edge of a display case featuring shelf after shelf of cookies. Sprinkles, frosting, layers, and sweet centers, all in a heady range of colors, sizes, and shapes—how was I expected to resist?
“I’ll just be another minute,” the woman from the back called. “It’s tricky timing. What is it you were interested in?”
I shuffled toward the back of the sales floor, closer to the door that led to the back rooms. “Some blueberry muffins?”
“Yup. I should still have those. Check by the front.” Her words were followed instantly by the buzz of a timer and something that sounded suspiciously like “yippee.”
Smiling, I wandered back toward the front, admiring the display of old-fashioned teacups and cake plates tucked into cubbies opposite the display cases. I had an absurd vision in my head of pouring cream into one of the pretty little saucers and presenting the treat to Friday. Not that cream was at all healthy for cats; it still made a cute picture in my imagination.
“Now, then, I should have some—”
I spun at the sound of the woman’s voice. Sure enough, the owner, Rozelle, had appeared from the back room, her gray hair barely visible above the top of the tall pastry cases.
“Oh. Georgia,” she said. “It’s you.” Her face went pale as flour, her eyes as wide as the saucers.
Panic threatened. What if she was having some sort of spell? Or a heart attack? Or a stroke? “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . uh . . .” She rubbed her palms against her apron.
“Rozelle?”
“I’m all out of muffins,” she blurted out, and bustled to the pass-through at the front end of the display case. “You’ll have to get them at another bakery.”
“There is no other bakery.” Was she confused, or was I?
“Well . . . I . . . Try the grocery.” She took hold of my elbow and tugged me toward the door.
“Rozelle, what—”
“It’s just across the way.”
“But—”
“You won’t have any problem finding it.” She released me at the threshold, pushed the door open, and waved me through. “Have a nice day!” she said, a strained smile on her face.
Out on the sidewalk, I jumped clear of the path of a patron heading into the bakery before turning to gaze at the display window in confusion. All I wanted was a muffin. With blueberries. Why had Rozelle given me the bum’s rush?
Wait. The bum’s rush? Clearly I’d been spending too much time with Grandy.
Grandy.
I took one last look at the bakery window and shuffled away. Had Rozelle heard about Grandy’s arrest? Could she possibly believe he was guilty? She couldn’t. Could she?
Still craving a muffin, now caught in confusion, I picked up my pace
and hurried away. I hadn’t even had a chance to ask about putting a flyer in the window.
I crossed the access driveway that led to the parking behind the businesses on the north side of the road. The glorious scent of the bakery hung in the air around me. My stomach gave a grumble of protest. Suddenly convinced I wouldn’t have the strength to hang flyers without a dose of sustenance—and unwilling to buy supermarket muffins when my taste buds were primed for fresh made—I paused as long as it took to tape a flyer to the window of a vacant storefront, and eagerly passed through the door of the luncheonette.
Two steps in, the floor creaked, the same way it had done since I was a kid. The tiles beneath my feet were that same green linoleum with black and silver speckles, the stools at the counter the same avocado green. Wrapping my mind around the idea of those elements being the same for the past twenty-odd years took no small effort.
Of course, back when I was a kid, the six booths lining one side of the shop were always full; the small assortment of greeting cards and office supplies lining the other side of the shop were always crisp and white and free of dust. The shock of seeing the luncheonette through older eyes, without the veil of memory, without full tables and with a thin layer of dust, was enough to steal a breath.
“Sit anywhere you like.”
I snapped my gaze to the left. A woman in a robin’s egg blue waitress dress stood refilling a cup of coffee for an older gent at the counter and grinning at me. “I’ll just . . .” I pointed to an empty stool, and she nodded.
Lowering my tote to the floor, I slid onto the stool with none of the effort I remembered from my youth.
“Coffee, hon?” she asked.
My memory, stimulated to peak efficiency by my surroundings, offered up her name. “Thanks, Grace.”
She produced a white earthenware mug with the kind of efficiency that made me think she’d pulled it from her pocket. “Need to see a menu?” she asked.
“Any chance you have a blueberry muffin?”
Grace shook her head. “You’re welcome to grab one at Rozelle’s and eat it here. I won’t mind.”
“That”—did not sound particularly business savvy—“is very nice of you, but . . . a menu would be fine.”
Evidently these were kept elsewhere. Bustling off to the opposite end of the counter, Grace hummed an unrecognizable tune.
Lifting the mug of coffee, I sent a breath across its hot surface and gazed out the window running behind the back counter. The steady, cooling stream of air I had going turned into a splutter. Straight across the way was the front entrance of Edgers Hardware.
The yellow sticker the police had used to seal the door appeared to be intact, though I’d need binoculars to be sure. The windows flanking the door provided a clear view of the shelves inside the store, despite the presence of a few sun-faded power tool boxes that once were probably an appealing display. From where I sat, the sign on the aisle endcap announcing a sale on liquid drain cleaner was easily visible.
I took a tentative sip of coffee, more for temperature than for taste. Neither registered. My mind was racing with the knowledge that my seat at the luncheon counter gave me an unimpeded view of the hardware store.
Grace returned, sliding a menu onto the counter in front of me. “Just give me a shout,” she said.
She had turned away before I found my voice. “Grace, can I ask you something?”
The brow over her right eye lowered and gave a slight twitch. “You’re not going to ask how many calories are in my tuna melt, are you?”
I didn’t even want a tuna melt.
I smiled and set my cup down. “How late do you stay open?”
“Till six thirty Sunday through Thursday and eight thirty Friday and Saturday, just like it says on the door,” she said.
Not that I could see the door from where I sat. “One more question?”
At that, both eyebrows lowered, but no twitch revealed itself. “It’s not about calories, right?”
Again I smiled. “You know my granddad, Pete Keene?”
The gentleman at the other end of the counter perked up. “Everyone knows Pete,” he offered.
“You know I do,” Grace said.
Uh-oh. I riffled through the pages of my memory, but nothing sprang to mind. No recollections of Grace beyond the dim images of my youth, and not even a guess at who the guy was at the end of the counter.
One hand on her hip, Grace glared at me good-naturedly. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I clutched the handle of my coffee cup. There was no good answer. I didn’t want to own up to forgetting whatever it was she was thinking of. Even faking it . . . somehow I knew Grace would see right through my evasions and spot the truth.
In the end, I lowered my head in shame. “I’m sorry.”
“You went to middle school with my niece, Diana. The two of you tried out for cheerleading at the start of the school year. Diana made the cheer squad and you got pep squad.”
Of course it all came crashing back, every clap, every stomp, every split, every tear. Even Diana’s face returned to my mind—her neat dark hair, big bright eyes, perfect elfin nose, gleaming white smile.
Okay, so maybe my imagination and fragile self-esteem exaggerated on the nose and teeth. Bottom line, I remembered Diana. I remembered her as the first girl who made me feel not good enough.
With age, I came to understand Diana hadn’t intended for me to feel inferior. But the emotion of those days wasn’t given to understanding.
I made myself smile. “Thanks so much for reminding me of my awkward and disappointing childhood.”
The gentleman at the end of the counter barked out a laugh. Grace waved a dish towel at him. “You keep out of this, Tom. Eat your cookie.”
“Don’t listen to her, Tom,” I said. “I may need an ally.”
“Why do you think you need him for an ally?” Grace asked. “You forget who served you up a piece of apple pie with strawberry ice cream the day you heard the news? You sat right there with your Granddad Pete and he insisted you have whatever it was Diana was having to celebrate, because you were every bit as talented as she was.”
As she spoke, the day came back to me in a rush: the late summer sunshine, the after-school crowd filling the luncheonette, and Grandy on the stool beside me, his hair only beginning to thin.
“Whose idea was apple pie and strawberry ice cream? Those are not two flavors that belong together.”
She lifted a shoulder. “That was Diana’s favorite.”
My stomach rolled, either from the thought of the dessert or the memory of an event I’d happily repressed. “Grandy was always good to me,” I conceded. “Speaking of, did you happen to see him going into the hardware store on Monday?”
Tom leaned left in my direction. “You mean the day ol’ Andy was murdered,” he shouted.
I froze. It felt somehow disrespectful to announce such a horrible thing using an outdoor voice. Seemed like the kind of thing that invited a bolt of retribution from heaven.
“That what you’re asking?” Grace said.
“I’m just curious,” I began. “Grandy—Pete—said he stopped by the store on his way to work.”
“And you’re doubting that?”
Esh. The guilt. The guilt. “I don’t doubt it,” I said as firmly as I could muster. Because I didn’t doubt it. I knew he was there. It troubled me, though, to have the townsfolk think I doubted Grandy. “I just wondered what time.”
I could ask Detective Nolan what time he had on his report. But the issue wasn’t a matter of what time. The issue was a matter of who saw Grandy, of who told the police they had seen him there.
Gripping tightly to the coffee, I lifted the mug to my lips. I didn’t doubt Grandy. I didn’t. Not for a second did I even suspect he was guilty of what the police thought he was, of murdering Andy Edgers. None of
my beliefs, however, changed the fact that someone had killed the man. I didn’t think it was too far-fetched to suspect the guilty party of trying to make Grandy out to be the perpetrator.
But Grace shook her head. “I don’t much remember. Sorry, Georgia.” She pulled a dish towel from where its corner was tucked into her apron and set to wiping down the counter. “We can get quite the rush here toward the end of the day.”
“Gets crowded,” Tom affirmed, again with the outdoor voice. “Diana helps.”
One eye on Tom, Grace nodded. “Diana helps out if she stops here for dinner, mostly handles the tables.”
I glanced behind me at the six vacant tables, tried to wrap my mind around their capacity being considered a rush. I figured in time I would get there. In time I would adjust to the small-scale, slow pace of Wenwood. Portions of my mind—like my imagination, for instance—were still stuck on city settings. All I needed was some time to grow accustomed to the pace of my surroundings. Problem was, sticking around long enough for that to happen was not part of my plan.
“Terry’s here,” Tom announced. He patted the empty stool beside him. “And Dave stops for coffee. Andy won’t come anymore.”
Tom’s gaze rested on the window, but I doubted he saw the same scene I did. I glanced at Grace and she gave the slightest shake of her head. “Terry’s gone almost a year now, Tom, remember?” she asked.
Tom shifted his attention to Grace and the present. “Gone?”
“Gone down to North Carolina with his daughter, remember?”
For a moment the only sound in the luncheonette was the clang of pots and shush of water from the kitchen.
“Oh, sure,” Tom said. “Sure.” He lowered his head, focused on the half cookie in front of him. So complete was the motion that it felt almost as though a light had gone off, or a door closed. Tom had somehow left, even though he stayed in place.
“You may want to ask Diana when she comes in later,” Grace said. “She might have noticed Pete stopping at the hardware.” She brightened. “Plus it would be nice for you two to catch up.”
Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) Page 9
