1 Through a Glass, Deadly

by Sarah Atwell

  But what would anyone want to see through my windows? They were painted over to keep out the sun, which made it too hard to see the color of the hot glass when I was working on it. I looked more closely at my door, a heavy metal one left over from the building’s factory days, although I had added a sign for the shop. There was no sign of pry marks anywhere. Not that there was anything to steal, for that matter. The cash register was in the gallery in front, visible to anyone on the street, and Nessa was careful to empty it each night and deposit the day’s take. And most people these days paid with credit cards or checks, which were less easy to cash in on. I sighed, perplexed, then went back inside to retrieve Allison.

  “You ready?”

  She jumped a foot at the sound of my voice. “You scared me. Sure.” She followed me into the alley.

  Why is this woman so jumpy? I wondered as I turned off the interior lights and made sure the door was securely locked behind us. “Follow me.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Just to the end of the block. Elena’s—it’s kind of a hangout for the people in the neighborhood. And the food’s great. You hungry? If you like Mexican, this is the place to go.”

  “I’m not sure . . .” Her voice trailed off as she followed me.

  Sure about the hungry part or the Mexican? No matter—I’d find out soon enough. Or maybe she was worried about paying the tab. But I figured I could handle the cost of one of Elena’s meals if it meant finding out more about Allison. It took only three minutes to reach the restaurant, but I noticed Allison casting furtive glances at the shadows all the way.

  “Tucson has a ‘dark skies’ program, so they keep the streetlights to a minimum.” When she looked blank, I went on. “That’s because of the Kitt’s Peak observatory— too much light pollution and you can’t see any stars. It takes a little getting used to.” I pushed open the doors of Elena’s and walked into the dark room. It smelled of chiles and cooking smoke, no doubt soaked into the rough walls. “Hola, Elena!” I called out to the matronly woman behind the bar.

  “Emelina! Good to see you. And who’s your friend?” Elena looked pointedly at Allison, who stood out like a mushroom, pale amidst the tanned faces in the room.

  “She’s taking a class from me. You have room for us?” It was a courtesy question, since at this late hour only half the tables in the cantina were occupied.

  “For you, amiga, any time. Sit.”

  I led Allison to a quiet corner at the rear, tossing over my shoulder, “Elena, cerveza, por favor!” I turned to Allison. “You want something to drink?”

  “I don’t know. . . . You’re having a beer?” she said uncertainly.

  “I am. Remember what I told the class about liquids?” I knew full well that alcohol counteracted the effect of the liquid intake, but I hoped that it might loosen Allison up a little, at least enough to talk to me. She looked far too tightly wound.

  “All right, fine. I’d like a beer—whatever you’re having.”

  “Good.” I held up two fingers to Elena, and she nodded.

  “Now—food.” I picked up the rumpled menu. “Problem with the night classes, I never get time to eat before, so I’m always starving after. What looks good to you?”

  Allison was staring at her menu as though it was written in Sanskrit. “Why don’t you decide? What’s good here?”

  “Everything,” I said promptly, smiling at Elena as she deposited two bottles and two glasses in front of us. “Anything special tonight, Elena?”

  “The pollo poblano—my brother brought me a fresh batch of chiles today.”

  I looked at Allison. If I waited for her to decide, it would be next Tuesday. “Two, then. And maybe some of those mini chimichangas to start?” I figured I’d break Allison in slowly, to prepare her for the spicy dish to follow. Elena smiled at my choice and headed back to the kitchen.

  Relieved of decision making, Allison was studying the restaurant. “I like this place. It’s not touristy at all.”

  “No, and we like it that way.” I noticed a potter from a few blocks over, and waved. He waved back, then dove into spirited conversation with the group at his table, some of whom looked familiar. I rarely came in here without seeing somebody I knew, and sometimes we’d even share a table. As I had told Allison, that’s what I liked about this place—it was a neighborhood institution, and Elena didn’t make any effort to drag in the tourist trade. I had directed a selected few of my best customers to it, in gratitude. “So, how long have you been in Tucson?” I sat back and took a long swallow of my beer.

  Was I imagining it, or did a brief flash of panic cross Allison’s face? I hurried to reassure her. “Hey, it’s obvious that you haven’t been here long—you’re too pale, although you’ve got a nice crop of freckles coming. Irish, aren’t you?”

  Allison blushed. “I am. Although it’s been quite a while . . . I thought I’d lost the accent.”

  “You have, mostly. Every now and then there’s a word, or a turn of phrase, that gives you away. But it’s lovely, so please don’t change. Born there?”

  She nodded. “Do you own your studio?”

  Ah—was she trying to change the subject? I thought I might as well go along. “Yes. I moved here with everything I owned stuffed in the back of my parents’ old Caddy. I bought the building, but it was kind of a wreck back then. It used to be some sort of machine shop, but it had gone out of business long ago, so I got it cheap. But I was happy—it was a great space, and I could build it out to meet my needs. I had to start small, since I didn’t have a lot of cash, so I bought a secondhand furnace and a glory hole, and things took off from there.”

  “You’ve been doing it long, then?”

  “I’ve been here ten years, and I was an apprentice before that, back east.” That was the short version—I wasn’t about to start in about my first choice of career, working as a stockbroker back in my twenties. The one I had unceremoniously dumped to take up glassblowing, much to the chagrin of my parents and colleagues. But I was happy with my choice, and with where it had brought me.

  The chimichangas arrived, steaming, their crisp shells begging for dipping in the dishes of green guacamole and white sour cream that came with them. I admired the colorful array for about two seconds before plunging in. Allison waited before trying one, watching my dunking, then took a cautious bite. Then another, larger one.

  “Good, aren’t they?” I grinned. “So, when did you get to Tucson?”

  Allison chewed and swallowed. “No more than a month ago, now. I’m still getting to know the place.”

  “Where’d you move from?”

  Allison’s eyes shifted away. “Here and there. I was in Oklahoma City before.”

  I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. Curious, that she seemed to be trying to avoid talking about herself. I filed that thought away. “How’d you stumble on my shop?” I took a second chimichanga. Heaven.

  “I walk a lot. I don’t have a car, only a bicycle, so I do a lot of wandering around. It’s a good way to get to know places.”

  “I agree—and I love to explore new places. What do you think of our city?”

  Allison shook her head. “It’s all so different from— any place I’ve lived before. I keep looking up and being surprised to see mountains in all directions. And there’s so much sky!”

  That was a second time she had ducked the issue of where she came from. I was beginning to wonder what she could be hiding. “Where are you living?” Sometimes I think I took lessons from Gloria—I could be persistent.

  “I found a studio apartment, near the university. It’s pretty small, but it’s all I could afford. I’ve got a couple of part-time jobs, mostly waitressing, but they’re kind of unpredictable.”

  Good, she had volunteered something. That was progress. “So that’s why you can’t afford my classes. Frankly, I’m amazed at how many people can, but since it’s how I make my living, I’m not complaining.”

  Poor woman—it sounded as th
ough she must be living from day to day. Still, she had shown up tonight at the class, which told me that it must have been important to her. Or maybe she was just desperate for a friend in a strange place. I knew what that was like. And looking at her now, wolfing down her food, I wondered when she had last had a decent meal. I made another quick decision. I figured Nessa would understand.

  “Listen. I know you can’t pay for the class, but maybe there’s a way to work things out. You say your schedule’s pretty flexible?”

  She nodded silently, a mixture of hope and apprehension in her eyes.

  “Well, I’ve got a woman who takes care of the shop most days—you met her. Nessa, older woman?”

  “Yes. She’s the one who let me stay after, to watch.”

  “Right. Well, she’s not getting any younger, so she’s starting to cut back her hours, and I’ve had a bunch of part-timers picking up the slack, mostly university kids. But they’re not exactly dependable, and by the time they learn the merchandise, they’re gone again. Maybe you could fill in? It might be only ten hours a week, but that would cover the cost of classes, at least.” And if Nessa had a problem with that, I’d tell her she needed to go visit her grandkids for a week or two, and let Allison cover that period, with the same result. But I had a feeling Nessa would get the message.

  “Oh, wow. That would be great. There are so many beautiful things there.” Her eyes were glowing again.

  “You know how to work a cash register?” When she nodded, I went on. “Then I’m sure you’ll pick up the jargon quickly. Maybe you can come in for a bit and follow Nessa around, see what she does. And I can explain some of the techniques to you, so you’ll know what you’re selling. You ever sold before?”

  Elena arrived with two steaming platters of stuffed poblano peppers and set them in front of us. “Está bien?”

  “Terrific. Oh, and could I get an iced tea, please? How about you, Allison?” When she hesitated, no doubt calculating the costs, I added, “Look, it’s my treat. Consider it employee orientation.” After a moment she nodded.

  I lifted my fork, but before I dug in, I cautioned Allison, “These are going to be spicy, so be prepared.”

  Allison probed a breaded chile with her fork, then broke off a small piece and raised it to her mouth. I watched with bated breath: This was an important test. Flub the chile test, you didn’t stand much of a chance in Tucson. Allison put the bite in her mouth; she chewed. Her fair skin reddened, and tears sprang into her eyes. But she chewed gamely and swallowed—and to her credit, she didn’t even grab for her water glass.

  “Wow! That’s great.”

  Gold star for you, girl! I dug in with enthusiasm. As usual, Elena knew exactly what she was doing. “Elena’s a great cook. But for newcomers, sometimes it takes a little adjustment. It took me a while, but look at me now—I’m a convert. They sure don’t grow peppers like these back east.”

  “Is that where you’re from, then?” Allison took up another, bigger forkful.

  “Grew up in New Jersey, but I haven’t been there for a long time.” Not since my parents’ funeral. “Went to school in Rhode Island.”

  “Ah. When I came from Ireland, I had a job on Cape Cod. Or do you say, at Cape Cod? Just for the summer.”

  I nodded. “I’ve been there. Pretty, isn’t it? A lot of nice beaches.”

  “There are. And then I met someone, and I just kind of stayed. . . .” A cloud fell over her features. Poor woman—with an expressive face like hers, she didn’t make a very good liar. And it was becoming more and more clear to me that she was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. Was it worth pushing now, or should I wait until she had been in the shop for a while and knew me better, trusted me?

  I hadn’t quite made up my mind when I looked up from my rapidly dwindling dinner to see her face change. If I thought she had been pale before, I had sorely underestimated the possibilities. She was now white as a sheet—if a sheet were sprinkled with little copper-colored dots. For a moment I worried that the chiles were wreaking havoc with her digestive system, but then I realized that her eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere behind me, toward the front of the restaurant. She half stood in an undecided crouch, then slumped back into her chair, looking shrunken.

  “Allison? What’s wrong?” I said quickly. I laid a hand over hers, and she flinched, but I could feel her trembling. It was a moment or two before she dragged her eyes back to me.

  “I thought I saw . . .” She shook her head, and said almost to herself, “No, it couldn’t be.” She shut her eyes for a moment, then looked at me. “I’m sorry, Em, but I’m not feeling so well. I’ll think I’ll just go along home.” She stood up, still shaky.

  I stood up as well. “How’d you get here?”

  Allison looked at me as though I had spoken in Swahili. “Oh . . . I rode my bike—it’s still back at the studio.”

  “Allison,” I said firmly, “I do not want you riding your bicycle back to your place at this time of night. Not that it’s unsafe, but obviously you’re upset about something, and I’d feel terrible if you didn’t make it all right. Let’s go back to the studio, get my car, and I’ll drive you home. All right?”

  Allison wavered, but I could see she was still shaken. “I don’t want to be any bother.”

  “It’s no trouble. You’re near the university, right? It should only take a few minutes. And if you’re worried about your bike, we can put it inside the studio and you can collect it tomorrow when you come back. All right?”

  I fished a few bills out of my wallet and tucked them under my plate—if it wasn’t enough, I’d square it with Elena next time. I waved at her as I led Allison out into the night air. It was after eleven, and the streets were quiet; the air smelled faintly of mesquite smoke. Fall, and people were already using their fireplaces. The air was perceptibly cooler now, and I could see Allison shivering in her flimsy denim jacket. “Come on,” I said.

  When we approached the studio, its soft lights gleaming through the darkness, I asked, “Where did you leave your bike?”

  She roused herself with a start. “What? Oh, it’s around back—I didn’t want to clutter up the front of your place.”

  “Fine. That’s where the car is too. Come on.” As I rounded the corner I could see her nondescript bicycle chained to a pipe. It should be safe enough there until morning, and I knew from experience that there was no way it would fit in my car.

  “Get in the car,” I said. “Your bike will be fine where it is.”

  She obeyed silently, and silent she remained on the short ride to her apartment complex, except for a few necessary directions. When we got there, I recognized the place—it was a bit shabby but not bad, catering mainly to the university students who came and went. Nothing that would scare their parents, who were footing the bills. Allison had chosen well or had been lucky.

  I turned off the car and faced her. I had known her only a short time, but any idiot could see that she was in some kind of trouble. And I also knew that I couldn’t keep my nose out of her problems. As Nessa had said, I had a long track record in that area—not all of it good.

  “Listen, Allison. If there’s anything you need to talk about, if there’s something wrong, you can talk to me, and maybe I can help. I know what it’s like to be the new kid in a strange place, and maybe whatever it is, isn’t as bad as you think it is.”

  She turned to me, and I caught a glimpse of the whites of her eyes. “It’s not . . . No, don’t worry about me. Please.”

  “All right. But you’re coming by in the morning, right?”

  “If you still want me.”

  “Of course I do. We open at ten, so come around about nine and I’ll show you the ropes, and you can talk to Nessa. Deal?”

  Finally she summoned up a smile. “Thank you, Em. I’ll be there. And thanks for the meal—that’s a great place. I’m glad I came tonight.” With a last smile, she slid out of the car.

  I sat watching as she unlocked the door to her apa
rtment. And I thought: That woman’s scared of something. Really scared. I only hoped she’d be able to talk to me about it before it consumed her.

  Chapter 3

  stiff: a term which refers to working property of molten glass (Edward T. Schmid, Advanced Glassworking Techniques: An Enlightened Manuscript)

  There was no traffic to distract me as I drove home and pulled into my usual parking space in the broad alley behind my building. But before I got out of the car, I looked around carefully. Maybe Allison’s paranoia was contagious—but it never hurt to check. Nothing moved, nothing was out of place, now that the Dumpster was back where it belonged. Some lights were on among the few upstairs apartments that faced the alley, but all the blinds were drawn. I sighed. It was late, and I had a long day ahead of me tomorrow. I really loved teaching, loved showing off my art, but the night classes took a lot out of me. Getting old, Em.

  Upstairs, Gloria and Fred greeted me as though I had just returned from a three-year voyage to the Amazon. They probably recognized the good smells from Elena’s— every now and then, if I didn’t finish my meal, I brought back doggie bags to share. Fred had a surprising fondness for chiles, and sometimes I wondered if he was trying to be macho. I had fed them before the class, but they needed their last walk, so I dropped my bag inside the door, stuffed my keys in my pocket, and collected leashes from the hook on the wall beside the door along with plastic bags. Tucson and Pima County between them had pretty strict laws about animals, and while I didn’t enjoy the pooper-scooper patrol, as a local businessperson, I didn’t want doggie deposits littering the sidewalks. But it made walking Gloria and Fred that much more complicated.