Leaning my forearm on the desk, I said, “Honestly, Diana, I don’t know about anything going wrong. I think it’s great you’re a police officer, really. I mean, it’s not like you could be a cheerleader for the rest of your life, right? Not much chance for a career there, hey?”
Her eyes darkened, lips pinched, nostrils flared.
“Oh, crap.” I hung my head. “This really could not have gone any worse.” And she still had a hand on her gun. Terrific. “I’m sorry for everything, okay? The cop thing, the cheerleader thing, global warming, root rot, everything. Just . . . is Detective Nolan here?”
“No.”
“Any chance you can tell him I stopped by?”
Against all odds, her eyes narrowed further. “Of course. I don’t let personal feelings get in the way of doing my job.”
I nodded and stood back. “Thanks.” The butterflies were eager to get me the heck out of Dodge, but I couldn’t go without one last attempt. “For what it’s worth, I really don’t know anything about your life after, like, sophomore year in high school. And even then I was only here a few months. My grandfather’s not much for town gossip, and your aunt didn’t breathe a word. Next time we meet up, maybe you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, huh?”
I rushed from the station, down the patched steps, across the pitted parking lot. No doubt I should have asked Carrie if she knew what days Sergeant Steve was on the desk. I needed an ally in the station, not a grade-school rival.
Inside the SUV, windows rolled down, my mind scrambled for the next step, the Plan B. Even if Detective Nolan called to see why I’d stopped by, there was no guarantee he’d give me the information I wanted.
Gripping the steering wheel, I waited for my nerves to calm before starting the engine. Judging by the clock on the dash, I had more than enough time to make an unscheduled stop. With luck, I could do a little digging before heading home to get Grandy to work.
* * *
In the span of twelve miles, the GPS and Find It functions on my smartphone became my favorite things. After the simple step of switching on the locator then typing “hardware store” in the Find It search bar, I followed the instructions of the soothing phone voice to the one privately owned store between the police station and downtown Wenwood. Two more shops were situated in northern Pace County, and one off to the west, but I could only do so much in one morning.
Unlike the village of Wenwood, which despite being peppered with empty storefronts could still be described as picturesque, the stretch of stores that soothing phone voice led me to was a characterless strip mall. Dry cleaner, pharmacy, packing store . . . each shop stretched the same width, each had an entrance door set to the right, each had the same aluminum-trimmed windows—except the shop I was there to see. Prince Hardware occupied a space twice the width of the other stores and the double-door entrance sat smack in the center.
Parking in the little lot facing the strip mall was limited, and I was forced to circle the lot twice before a gentleman carrying his dry cleaning vacated his spot. Even as I zipped into the spot, my stomach began to hollow with doubt. A packed parking lot, a double-wide lot, and clutter-free windows gave me the impression that Prince Hardware wasn’t suffering. Still, impressions could be misleading.
Purse over my shoulder, I climbed out of the SUV, tugged the legs of my shorts back to a decent length, and headed for the hardware store.
As I drew closer, the colorful spots in their window resolved themselves as packets of flower and vegetable seeds. Garden tools with bright green grips and bags of fertilizer filled out the display. I paused at the edge of the sidewalk, wondering if it was too late to plant vegetables out back of Grandy’s house, or if the seeds would have to have been planted before the end of May.
I was lost in indecision as the door to Prince Hardware swung outward and Detective Nolan stepped into the sunshine.
“Well.” He half smiled. “Miss Kelly.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just Georgia.”
Smile fading, he asked, “Should I ask what brings you here?”
Probably it wasn’t a good idea to tell the police you were in the midst of doing your own investigating. “I need a caulking gun,” I blurted out. I nodded at the Prince Hardware sign. “This place was on my way.”
“A caulking gun. Still.” He nodded slowly, almost sagely, lips pursed, sunshine silvering the gray in his hair. “No chance you were planning to nose around Andy Edgers’s competition for supplying materials to the marina project?”
I adjusted the purse strap across my shoulder and tried to make my face look innocent, which felt a lot like smiling foolishly. “Why would I do that?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say because you think someone other than your grandfather belongs in jail. And wouldn’t it be convenient if some other hardware store owner had a motive for killing ol’ Andy.”
“My grandfather doesn’t belong in jail,” I said.
He folded his arms, looking me over head to toe. “Where is it you said you were going before you stopped here?”
“Did I say? I don’t think so,” I said, also folding my arms and trying to give him the same once-over he had given me. “I was at the police station, in fact, looking for you.”
“Is that so?” One step backward and he took hold of the door. “And now you’ve found me, the least I can do is help you find a caulking gun.” Pulling the door open, he swept his free arm toward the entrance in invitation.
I tried to dismiss the fleeting feeling that this was some sort of trap. I’d done nothing wrong. Even my plan to poke around the store, just as Detective Nolan suggested, was more curious than illegal. Still, a corner of my belly curdled with unease as I ducked into the store.
The cool air inside instantly chilled me. Little beads of sweat I didn’t realize had gathered while I was speaking to the detective seemed to freeze against my skin. When he set his hand against my shoulder to guide me, I shivered, though I was not entirely sure why.
“This way.” He slipped past me, moving quickly into the center aisle that divided the store. Shelving ran east to west on either side, each aisle clearly marked, with well-stocked endcaps and signs for special deals on things like garden hoses and citronella candles.
Detective Nolan ducked into an aisle to our left and slowed. An impatient glance over his shoulder made me rush to catch up to him. Checking the floor for chip marks (none) and the endcap products for dust (also none) had clearly slowed me down.
“Sorry,” I muttered, coming to a stop beside him.
With a wave of his hand, he indicated the lowest shelf, where metal bins displayed a variety of caulking guns. “There you go,” he said. “You even have your choice of color.”
“Green or darker green.” I squatted in front of the bins, examined the guns for some difference other than price, and tried to find the best way to start the conversation I wanted to have.
Before I could, Detective Nolan shifted to his left, making it easier for me to reach the devices at his feet, and said, “You should go ahead and buy one of those. You won’t find anything different at Miller’s Hardware.”
I held a caulking gun in each hand, feeling the difference in grip, the difference in weight, pretending I cared deeply. “I might,” I said.
“Trust me. I went by earlier and there’s nothing different between there and here.” I tossed the guns back in their bins and stood. “How do you know? Were you looking for caulking supplies?”
He shook his head, eyeing me as though I’d disappointed him somehow. “Look, Miss Kelly—”
“Georgia.”
“Miss Kelly. You and I both know you’re here to check out the potential heirs to the marina supply contract. So let me put your mind at ease. The department has already spoken with the owners at Miller’s and here at Prince and we don’t consider them as suspects.”
Though I really
did need to get that bathtub caulked, I let go of the pretense of why I was there. “How does that put my mind at ease?”
Lips pressed tight, he tipped his head side to side, considering. “Okay, so it puts my mind at ease. I don’t need a civilian poking her nose in police business.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit back while you continue to wrongly keep my grandfather’s name in the suspect column?”
“Georgia,” he said on a sigh.
“Now it’s Georgia? This is my grandfather. He might hurt his share of flies and do serious damage to a box of cupcakes, but he’s more the type to shout and glower than pummel and bludgeon.”
Too late I realized someone had come up behind me. Detective Nolan gave a young mother, baby in her arms, a tight smile and a nod. She scurried back the way she’d come, leaving us alone again surrounded by plumbing supplies.
“Is this why you were at the station looking for me? To tell me about Pete Keene’s . . . cupcake habit?”
The slightest hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth did little to slow me. “I wanted to know who it was that told you they’d seen him leave the hardware store that afternoon.”
“Is that all?” His eyebrows rose. “Now why would I tell you that?”
I couldn’t even claim he should tell me because I asked nicely. I ducked, grabbed a caulking gun from the bin, and pointed it at the detective.
His eyebrows rose higher. Gaze on the caulking gun, he had no need for words.
I lowered my arm, letting the device fall to my side. “Please. Will you tell me who said they saw Grandy?”
“I’m sorry, Georgia. I can’t.” He paused while a voice on the overhead speaker requested someone go to custom paint. “That’s confidential information. Part of the investigation.”
I breathed out a mild curse.
“Sorry you made the trip for nothing.”
“Yeah,” I conceded, lowering my head. Someone had told the police they’d seen Grandy leave, had told them they saw Tony Himmel. Who would see? Or was the person who claimed to see really the person who killed Andy Edgers, giving the police false suspects to divert attention from himself?
Detective Nolan ran his hand around the back of his neck. “If there’s anything else I can help you with . . .”
I nodded slowly, resigning myself to the fact that I would have to learn another way who gave the police Grandy’s name. I wasn’t sure how. I had to figure out a way. In the meantime, I met the detective’s surprisingly friendly gaze. “As a matter of fact,” I said, “what do you know about caulking bathtubs?”
* * *
Wenwood Town Hall occupied a slight rise several blocks south of the town center. Like so many of the structures in town, it had been built of homegrown Wenwood brick over a century earlier. Unlike other historic buildings in town, though, there were no gaps or concrete patches, no sign of crumbling brick or pockmarked mortar.
Walking from the parking lot at the back around to the front of the building, I tried to see the façade the way a native of Wenwood might. But I hadn’t lived my life surrounded by Wenwood brick, hadn’t gazed on it or walked on it every waking day. If I had, would I look on this building with pride? With a sense of tradition and maybe a feeling of home?
I stopped and stared. With the sun warming my shoulders, I focused my gaze on brick after brick, waiting for some sense of connection to the town to bloom within me. Instead, all I felt was hot, and all I really saw was new brick and mortar within its time- and weather-worn surroundings.
Neatly trimmed hedges appeared to wrap the building, but appearances can mislead. An almost two-foot gap separated the hedges from the wall, easily wide enough for one curious redhead to squeeze in between.
I backtracked to the back corner of the building, where some variety of machinery—likely an air-conditioning unit—prevented any plantings. From there it was a simple matter to sidestep the length of the wall with the bushes to my back. My exposed legs took no small amount of abuse from prickly branches, and each step I took included hisses, ouches, and a selection of muttered curses.
Before long I reached a patched section of wall, the brick below a window that perhaps had been itself replaced. I ran my hand across both old and new brick, seeking some difference in their texture. But fingertips accustomed to the smooth shift of surfaces in glass proved incapable of sensing a difference in brick. Or maybe all brick always felt the same? I didn’t know enough. Grandy would know, but the information wouldn’t help after I left my spot outside Town Hall.
What I did know was the richer, darker color of the brick meant they were recently placed. But why would Town Hall use non-Wenwood brick when even the Pace County Police Station refused?
As I shifted to return to the back of the building and escape the shrubbery prison, from the corner of my eye I caught sight of one of the bricks at the lowest line of repair. In its corner, the distinct WND stamp. A Wenwood brick. An old brick newly reset?
Bending to bring my line of sight even with the brick, I used both my eyes and my fingertips to explore the edges of the brick. If someone had simply relaid an old brick, would its edges be smooth and sharp? Or rough and crumbly?
Yet the brick must have been reused. There were no more new bricks.
Running a hand around the back of my neck, clearing away the perspiration gathered there, I shook my head. Too long in the sun could inspire freckling in people like me.
I extracted myself from the shrubbery and returned to the pathway leading to the front of Town Hall. Head down to keep myself from getting distracted, I marched up the few marble steps and through the mullion-windowed doors.
For a moment I remained still, letting the air-conditioning cool my skin. A quick review of my arms and legs showed an assortment of crisscrossed scratches, but thankfully no blood. Given the damage Friday had already done to my legs, a few more scratches would complete the look.
A set of double doors was ahead, with a plaque beside them that read COURTROOM. On the opposite side, a pegboard directory listed various offices and their locations. For such a small town, there were an impressive number of entries on the list. I moved closer to locate the number for my destination. No matter how many times I read through the list, no “Department of Gentlemanly Agreements” turned up.
Settling for the Department of Community Services as a good enough place to start, I followed the appropriate arrows to the staircase and down the hall to Room 203. As I pushed through the door, the big-haired brunette behind a utilitarian steel desk stood and settled her purse on her shoulder. She looked up at my entrance, jaw slackening enough to display her disbelief at her own bad luck.
“Sorry,” I said. “Were you going to lunch?”
“Twelve to one, every day.”
I’d left Grandy’s Jeep in the lot at eleven twenty. Even with the brick-studying delay, no way had it taken me forty minutes to reach this woman’s desk. I tugged my cross-body bag around to my front from where it had migrated to my back and unzipped it with the intent of pulling out my cell phone and checking the time. “I really just have a quest—”
The brunette huffed and dropped her purse on the desk. “Fine,” she said. “You have fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t even know if I’m in the right place,” I said, cell phone in hand. “And you’re all leaving in fifteen minutes? Everyone takes the same lunch?”
“What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if I could look at an . . . an agreement or contract or . . .”
She sighed and sat, as though my request was already exhausting her.
I began again, explaining in as many words as I could muster that I wanted to see the agreement between the Wenwood Town Council and the new construction at the old brickworks.
“The marina project?” she asked, rising.
“Umm, yeah, I guess, yeah.”
Really, I was an accountant, a glass worker, and a tresses-challenged redhead. I was not an investigator.
She came around the desk, pointed to a visitor’s chair. “Have a seat,” she said on her way to the door. “You know what you’re looking for or you need a copy?”
“I can have a copy?”
With an eye roll she said, “Two dollars,” and disappeared.
I could have a copy? For the bargain price of two dollars?
Okay, so it was only a bargain if there was useful information in it. Trouble was, I didn’t know what would be considered useful.
From somewhere beyond the doorway came the sound of drawers slamming followed by the creaking complaints of what I guessed to be a prehistoric copy machine.
While I waited, I pulled up my e-mail, scrolled through the usual morning barrage of sale notices, social media updates, and international news overnight headlines. Nothing caught my attention sufficiently to make me click open the message, which was perhaps a good thing as it left me free to answer the incoming call.
“Don’t worry,” I said in lieu of hello, “I’ll be back in time.”
Grandy’s morning grumble had the sound of a car engine rumbling reluctantly to life. “Where’s my car?”
“With me.”
“And you are where?”
“Town Hall.” It didn’t occur to me to lie or to dodge. Certainly there were a lot seedier places I could have got off to.
“For Pete’s sake, Georgia, what the devil are you doing there?”
“Just checking on a couple of things.” I stood, somehow feeling like I needed to be on my feet to defend myself to my grandfather. “Why? Did you need something? You want me to bring something back for you?”
His sigh carried with gale force. “I need to go to the bank. I’ve got to pick up change for the week. This would be infinitely easier if my car was where I left it.”
No, I had no idea why Grandy persisted in calling his Jeep a car. Maybe it was a generation thing. It would always be an SUV to me. “I’ll be home in—” I had to pull the phone away from my ear to check the time. “Fifteen minutes, twenty tops. Plenty of time to make the bank.”
Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) Page 12
