I was struggling for some sort of closing when first the scent of woodsy, spicy cologne broke through the fragrant haze of lily and the prayer kneeler canted to the right.
Having made the trip to the funeral parlor with Carrie, I stood no chance of mistaking her flowery perfume for the scent occupying the air beside me. Eyes wide, I gaped at the man sharing the kneeler with me.
Tony Himmel held my gaze for as long as it took to bless himself then turned to the casket as his eyes closed.
What in heaven . . . Who does that?
Regaining my feet, I smoothed my skirt as though that surface motion would sooth the jangle of my nerves.
At that last wake, my former fiancé had accompanied me to the viewing. He’d held my hand while we walked in, kept his fingers at the small of my back while I offered condolences. He’d knelt beside me as I fumbled through prayers at the casket. That’s what the people who love and care for you do. Sharing a prayer stool with someone you just met and tended to argue with was not the behavior of a casual acquaintance.
Of course, the front of a viewing room was not the place to take Himmel to task for his personal-boundary-breaking behavior. I was limited to shooting daggers at him before turning fully and seeking a seat.
It was then, as I turned, that I spotted Detective Nolan meandering through the door. Perhaps it was my frozen-in-shock response that cued the other attendees to something unusual happening. I was, after all, standing at the front of the room. Or perhaps it was an instinct for drama. In either case, the few gathered in the room shifted in their seats and watched the detective stroll to the chairs lining the back wall. With an audible sigh, Nolan lowered himself into a chair, his gaze on nothing in particular.
Behind me, the prayer stool creaked as Tony stood. I shifted my weight. No one spoke a word. No one made eye contact. I’m fairly certain everyone held their breath.
Did they all know who Detective Nolan was? Or did his status as a nonresident of Wenwood brand him as suspicious?
Twinges of nerves I’d tried to smooth down flared to life. Detective Nolan’s presence was one more chance for me to say something stupid that might implicate Grandy further. Super. Problematic detective ahead of me, personal-space-invading contractor behind me. And for crying out loud, where had Carrie gotten off to? She’d said ten minutes tops, but I doubted she had left me behind in her eagerness to keep our time short.
That moment’s hesitation gave Tony all the time he needed. His hand slid around the curve of my shoulder. His voice, little more than a whisper of wind in my ear. “If I could speak with you . . .”
I should have flinched away from him. Instead I scolded myself for feeling the urge to melt into his touch. Stepping out of his reach helped. Storming away from him was also good. Not until I arrived at the love seat in an adjacent alcove did I risk facing him again.
Sitting was out of the question. Sitting invited the sort of cozy companionship we’d shared at the casket. Instead I stood and folded my arms so my forearms covered my belly. I held a breath, waiting for Tony to speak.
He took a look at the way I was standing, eyes sweeping from my patiently straightened hair to my pump-pinched toes, and puffed out a sigh. “Relax, please. I want to apologize, not upset you.”
Damn. I lowered my hands to my sides while silently berating myself for letting my emotion show in my posture. When had I lost the ability to stand impassively through any situation, never giving anything away? Had I lost that skill with my job? Or had it fallen victim to a failed engagement and the loss of my old life? Behind my back, my hands came together, fingers twining.
“I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you yesterday. My troubles with Andy . . .” He paused, tipped his head slightly in the direction of the casket. When his gaze came back to mine, the earnestness held me immobile. “They were nothing you caused, nothing I should have treated you badly over.”
I caught the inside of my lip between my teeth. Should I accept his apology? He hadn’t actually said he was sorry. My fingers untwined and my arms slid to my sides. “And the police station? You weren’t exactly kind and gentlemanly there either.”
His smile stretched tightly across his face, an expression of chagrin more than joy. “That was . . . It hasn’t been an easy week, Miss Kelly.”
“Georgia,” I said automatically.
He nodded. “Tony.”
I took the hand he offered. A strong grip and calloused palms gave me the impression he didn’t spend all his time sitting in an office wearing expensive suits. Before my imagination explored the potential behind those strong hands, I asked, “If Andy created such a problem for you on your construction site, why are you here?” And what was it Hollywood would have us believe? That the murderer always attended the services? Was that what had brought Detective Nolan to the Palmer?
Tony pulled in a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. “I wanted to pay my respects. He may not have been the best businessman, but he had his share of good qualities.”
“I’m kind of thinking that people with an abundance of good qualities don’t get murdered.”
“Good people get murdered all the time,” he said. “If bad guys were the only ones who died, the world would make sense. And wouldn’t that confuse us all?”
My search for an appropriate response led me not to a logical comment, but to a question that had been gnawing quietly at the back of my mind. “Speaking of confusing, there’s something I don’t understand. If construction on the marina was held up because you didn’t have the supplies, why not push the orders through, either through Edgers or somewhere else?”
Tony’s eyes flared wide and his lips pressed tight, as though I dared speak ill of the dead at the worst moment in the most inappropriate location possible.
“That day at the store. Andy said he needed you to place an order. Why didn’t you? Why let—”
“There you are.” Carrie arrived in the alcove, anxiety filling the air around her. “We have to go. Oh, hi, Tony. You ready, Georgia?”
“Yes,” I said, “I just—”
“Price,” Tony said. “Hello, Carrie.”
“What? Price?” I repeated.
He unfolded his arms, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “It may be impolite to speak ill of the dead, but I wasn’t getting a fair price from Andy’s supplier. It’s one thing to pay a little extra to keep a small business going or keep the money in a community. But there’s extra, and there’s unfair. A project the size of the marina, overpriced anything can blow your budget to pieces.”
Carrie’s eyes widened. “You’re not suggesting Andy cheated you?”
“Not suggesting anything.” Tony’s cheeks flushed an angry red. “I’m saying I wanted a fair price. If I couldn’t get a fair-price quote from Andy, my project would go so far over budget the marina would be at risk. This town needs the marina, Carrie, you know that. And Andy Edgers needed the business as much as I need the supplies. We should have been able to negotiate.”
“But you made a deal with the town,” Carrie said. “You agreed to—”
Bill Harper popped his head around the corner. “Hiya, kids. Getting a little loud in here.” He bounced his eyebrows as if to lessen the sting of his reprimand. Not that it helped. I hadn’t even been the one arguing and still my shame took me back to my childhood. Blast this town.
“Mr. Harper,” Carrie began, waving him in, “the Town Council’s agreement with Stone Mountain Construction requires the marina materials be sourced from Wenwood, right?”
Straightening his spine as he joined our little group, Mr. Harper cast his gaze momentarily to the ceiling, seeking his memory there. “Ahh-uh, yes, I believe it does.”
“See?” Carrie arched her brows, glaring triumphantly at Tony.
“I’m aware of the agreement.” Amazing how clearly he spoke despite the clenched jaw. “But it also al
lows me to seek supplies throughout Pace County if Wenwood is unable to accommodate our requirements. And forgive me for saying this, but with no one running the hardware supply now, we’re free to source our materials elsewhere. I may be a lot of things, folks.” He glared at each of us in turn. “But the one thing I’m not is a dishonest businessman. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
He ducked out of the alcove, leaving us silent in his wake.
“It appears you struck a nerve there, Carrie,” Mr. Harper said.
She shook her head, lowered her gaze to the floor. “He agreed to the terms, Bill. He has no right to be looking for other suppliers.”
“Is this a legal agreement? Is it on file somewhere?” I asked. The issue aroused my curiosity. What exactly were the terms of the agreement? What were the contingency provisions? How much was at stake? If Andy Edgers couldn’t fill the orders for Stone Mountain, they were free to find another supplier. Was supplying material to the marina project enough to kill for? Was there another small town hardware store out there for whom the commission on the supply order would make or break the bottom line?
“Certainly,” Bill said. “Wenwood may not be the big city you’re accustomed to, Georgia, but we’re not a back creek town either. The papers are on file at Town Hall.”
I looked to Carrie, who nodded. “I’ll give you the address.”
“Thanks.” I turned back to Bill. “And they’re available there for anyone to review?”
Mr. Harper tipped his head like a puzzled bulldog. “Whatever would you want to be looking at those for? I’m sure they make for very dry reading. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
At least he didn’t tell me not to worry my pretty little head. “I’d like to see them. I’d like to understand more about Wenwood.”
“You can’t understand Wenwood by reading its building codes,” he said.
“No, but how the town does its business isn’t a bad start.” I kept my voice as light as possible, but Bill Harper’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed.
“To understand Wenwood, you have to live here,” he ground out. “You have to be a part of it. You have to love it. Someone whose heart isn’t in this town can never understand.”
My heart wasn’t in Wenwood. I hadn’t realized that showed. Bill Harper saw it, though. And he scowled and shook his head as he left Carrie and me in the alcove.
“We’re getting under everyone’s skin here, huh?” Carrie joked, but she twined a curl of hair around her finger, an action I was beginning to suspect indicated a momentary lack of confidence.
I sighed. “It’s a gift.” Wrapping my fingers around my elbows, I asked, “What do you know about the agreement between Tony’s company and Wenwood?”
She frowned. “Not enough.”
If I wanted to understand the agreement, I would have to go to Town Hall. But I was afraid the agreement was only half the puzzle. What I needed to see were Andy Edgers’s sales records. If his lumber prices were above fair market, how much would ordering supplies through Edgers cost Tony Himmel in overages? And what lengths would Himmel go to in order to see his project completed on time and on budget?
I peeked past the corner of the alcove to where Andy Edgers’s closed casket was flanked by funereal flowers. I reminded myself I didn’t doubt Grandy’s innocence in the matter of Andy’s murder. Still, I’d feel better if I knew who did kill Andy. And, I figured, the first step to figuring out who was figuring out why.
10
With clear morning sunshine slanting through the windows, I slid the sheet of opalescent glass free of its protective newspaper wrapping and held it up to the light. Lavenders and blues, pinks and purples flared across the textured plane. I carefully tipped the sheet of glass against the window, studying it, looking for the bright spots and soft spots, the direction of any visible wisp lines. It was one of my favorite parts of the process. Those were the moments that allowed me to put aside the worries of the day and focus on the craft at my fingers. Those were the moments when all else disappeared for me, and all I knew was the pattern of the glass and where its truest colors lay.
But as I placed the glass on the worktable and began taping down the pattern pieces I’d copied from the intact side of the lampshade, the usual sense of peace and focus eluded me. Reaching for my marker, I tried to turn away the thoughts campaigning to be admitted to my consciousness. With each pattern line I traced on the glass, I tried to push aside the questions troubling me: How did one go about discovering the fair price of lumber? And why would Andy Edgers charge above it?
With the pattern drawn on the glass and the pieces removed, I lifted my glass cutter from the old olive jar it rested in, a pool of kerosene lining the bottom. Deliberately, I ran the cutter in a straight line, scoring the glass from one side of the sheet to the other, dividing the sheet to make it easier to cut the pattern pieces.
And still the question of whether Tony Himmel wanted his marina built so badly he would . . .
I set down the cutter and lifted the sheet. The next step required breaking the glass along the score, using even pressure on both sides of the score. Thumbs on either side of the score, I applied the required pressure and snapped the glass.
The glass broke clean along the score line—for a while—then veered off at a thirty-degree angle, breaking through one of the marked pattern pieces.
I cursed quietly. I’d blown the score, had failed to apply even pressure. Damn. So many thoughts swirling through my head . . . My mind just wasn’t in it. The ride to the glass shop was too long to have to repeat because I had wasted glass trying to break it when I had no business doing so.
I stared at the split sheet on the table, at the glancing sunlight on its gentle peaks, the subtle shadows in its textured valleys. I took a deep breath in, held it, and released it slow and even. My gaze never wavered from the glass, but my thoughts continued to stray. Thoughts of Andy Edgers’s receipts, his order book. If I wanted answers, if I wanted a way to prove Grandy had nothing to do with Edgers’s death, I needed to see those books.
Friday came bouncing down the stairs, pausing on each step before continuing to the next. Big blue eyes in a fluffy white face, she looked at me as though trying to implant a telepathic thought in my mind. Really, though, what sort of thoughts would a kitten have? Food, water, play about summed up her repertoire to date.
In surrender to a wandering mind, I decided to pack it in for the day. I closed the cover on the kerosene jar and stored it under the table, then lay a bedsheet over the top of my worktable, folded so no tempting linen edges were exposed from a kitten’s eye view.
On my way up the stairs, I scooped her up and tucked her against my chest. Thus far the flyers I’d hung had yielded no result. As Friday snuggled under my chin, I felt a little thrill at the prospect of learning just how far I’d have to drive to get her to a vet. I almost regretted putting my real phone number on the flyers. But if she was truly someone else’s lost kitten, I was sure that person was heartbroken.
In the kitchen I set Friday down and scribbled a quick note to Grandy assuring him I would be back in time to help him out with payroll. I grabbed the keys and headed out, wondering if the combination of curiosity, doubt, and anxiety I felt was the same emotional mix investigative reporters felt. Of course, they probably didn’t go hunting down information wearing walking shorts and flip-flops.
With the radio retuned to a station that played more than the headline news Grandy favored, I followed the roads Carrie had driven days earlier, out of Wenwood and north along the river road, past Himmel’s idle construction site then inland again to the Pace County Police Department.
The butterflies in my belly went into a frenzy as I parked the car and made my way to the front door. I tried to assure myself the worst that could happen was that Detective Nolan would deny my request, but my self wasn’t listening and apparently butterflies are not conversant in English.
Three quick—thus nowhere near deep and soothing—breaths and I was inside the station house. And Sergeant Steve, my cat-loving ally, was nowhere to be seen. In his place . . .
“Diana?” I squeaked.
Her dark eyes met mine, and as I closed the gap between door and desk, I understood what had surprised me so—apart from the police uniform, that is.
Her sleek hair was pulled back in a low, almost schoolmarmish bun, and her face appeared entirely devoid of makeup. Years in the sun had not been kind. But among the wrinkles were an encouraging abundance of laugh lines. Or was it all those cheerleading smiles and not true happiness that had carved them?
“Georgia Kelly,” she responded, straightening. The movement of her arm indicated she was reaching for her gun. I froze, butterflies suddenly smug, having known all along this was a bad idea.
But Diana’s gun never appeared. She kept her hand braced against the grip of the gun, the most intimidating hand-on-hip pose known to man.
“Um.” That was all I could manage.
“Go ahead, say it.”
“Say what?”
She tipped her head and popped her eyes wide. In a mocking voice she said, “Oh, my gosh, Diana Davis. You’re a cop? What went wrong?” She resumed her natural pose and glared at me, waiting.
“Okay, I’m surprised to see you as a police officer, so you’re right on that. But the other part I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her brows rose, disbelief writ in evenly plucked arches.
“And I was just at the luncheonette yesterday. Your Aunt Grace never mentioned—”
“Give it up, Georgia. What do you need?”
I needed a favor. I didn’t think she was disposed to assisting me, though. Time to invent a Plan B.
Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) Page 11
