by Sarah Atwell
That was a rather scanty collection of facts. On the flip side, I had a lot of questions. Question: What was John Flannery doing in Tucson? Chasing his wife? Question: What was John Flannery doing dead in my furnace? Question: Who had killed John Flannery? Question: Who was going to find out? The FBI? The police? Me?
That last thought made me laugh. What did I think I could do? On the other hand, as I had told Allison, I wasn’t willing to do nothing. And protecting my good name and reputation happened to coincide with protecting Allison from the bullies at the FBI. Now all I needed was to figure out how.
After I fed myself and the pooches. Then the dogs reminded me they had other priorities, so I walked them. When we returned, I surveyed the contents of my fridge. Depressing. I reminded myself I needed to shop, then suddenly remembered that Cam was coming tomorrow, for the weekend. My spirits lifted, then tumbled. I love my brother, and I’m always thrilled to see him, but this weekend might be a little busy, what with a murder investigation and breaking in a new employee. . . . The wheels in my head spun again. Cam and Allison, Allison and Cam. It might work. Only one way to find out: Get them together. Dinner tomorrow would be a good start—if I bought food. Preferably food that required a bare minimum of cooking, because I really don’t like to cook. I’d be happy if I never had to cook, but unfortunately I like to eat, and my budget doesn’t stretch to many restaurant meals. At least Cam had no false expectations about my culinary abilities, and it was nice to know that he loved me for myself alone and not because I fed him so well.
As I fed Fred and Gloria, I contemplated, not for the first time, just eating dog food alongside them. Finally I settled for half a very stale bagel and a cup of reheated coffee. I needed to check in with Nessa before closing to see if there were any fires to put out, but that left me a free hour or two. How could I use it effectively?
The computer. I kept forgetting about the cyberworld, immersed as I was in a profession that ate up most of my free time. I used it mainly for the business’s e-mail queries, and for sporadic attempts to keep in touch with old friends. But I knew there was a wealth of information available out there somewhere, if you knew how to find it. Might as well give it a shot.
The bulky desktop model—a far cry from the sleek laptops I saw students using these days—lived in a dusty corner of my living room. I went over, booted it up, and waited for it to wake up, then logged on to the Internet. Then I sat, staring stupidly at the screen. Search engines I knew about, but what could I search for? What did I know? John Francis Flannery, aka Jack. Had lived in Boston and Chicago. Had done something that had attracted FBI attention, which meant it had to be illegal. I didn’t assume I could access any criminal records or court proceedings, and I doubted that there would be a tidy profile of him on an FBI website, but I had to start somewhere. Carefully I typed in “John Flannery Chicago,” and hit “Go.”
I was rewarded with a page full of sources, with a few hundred more promised. Some I could eliminate immediately: I didn’t think we were dealing with a professional baseball player or a lawyer, or the California PhD speaking at a pharmaceutical conference. Then pay dirt: an archived article from a Chicago newspaper. I clicked on the reference and scanned the information. I didn’t see the connection immediately, but somewhere down in the body of the text was a perfunctory reference: “Also arraigned on that day in Superior Court were Salvatore d’Agostino, Aaron Lipschitz, and John Flannery.” Arraigned—that sounded promising. I scrolled back up to the beginning of the article—only to find a lot of vague language with mysterious hints. I printed out the article, thinking furiously.
Now I had a clue as to why the FBI might be looking at dear dead Jack, but I thought I should check for any Boston references, even though they were earlier. I was surprised to find more references there—apparently our Jack had been involved with the notorious Whitey Bulger gang in Southie. Even I had heard about them a few years back. Very interesting. And Jack had bailed out and headed for Chicago before things had gone bad in Boston— smart move on his part.
And hadn’t there been some headlines about FBI involvement there? An agent gone wrong, or something. I shook my head: How did any of this lead to Arizona? I wasn’t naïve enough to think that there wasn’t at least some organized crime activity even in Tucson, but I couldn’t make John Flannery fit. At least not yet. Maybe I could ask Matt to dig a little deeper. Well, no—he would already have done that, wouldn’t he? And he had declined to share whatever he had found with me, under orders from Agent Price. Obviously Price knew something, but he wasn’t going to tell me either. Which left me holding a page with a few hints and not much more.
Frustrated, I logged off again, then went to find some unrumpled clothes so I could put in an appearance in the shop to see if Nessa had run into any problems. I stayed with her for a couple of hours, checking inventory and my supply list. I had an intermediate class scheduled for Saturday. I debated briefly about canceling it, what with Cam’s visit and, oh yes, a pesky murder on the premises, but decided I really couldn’t afford to refund the money right now. And besides, I was feeling the itch to get my hands back on a blowpipe. No matter how chaotic the rest of my life was, I always found it soothing to concentrate on the liquid glass and nothing but the glass. Maybe the class would help me focus.
I persuaded the dogs to take an abbreviated walk, then brought them into the shop. “We all set, Nessa?”
“I think so, dear. Hello, pups.” She knelt to give Fred and Gloria their due attention, then stood again, a bit creakily. “I have a feeling there may be more press interest tomorrow, so be prepared.”
“And I asked Allison to come in early, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I’m sure between us we can handle it all. I’ll see you then.”
When she was gone, I locked up behind her, then turned again to the studio. It was time to get back to business.
Chapter 8
parison (or paraison): balloon of molten glass formed when the glassmaker blows through the blowpipe and expands the gather (Phoebe Phillips, ed., The Encyclopedia of Glass)
The next morning I awoke curiously refreshed— nothing like a good night’s sleep. I felt ready for almost anything. Why, I wondered? On the plus side, I had a new employee, who might also be a friend—that was good. Cam was coming—that was even better. On the minus side, there had been a dead body in my furnace, and now the press would be circling like vultures. There had to be some way I could turn that to my advantage, but I wasn’t sure how.
And there was Matt. I wasn’t sure whether he was a plus or a minus. We’d had something good, but I had walked away when his wife had reappeared, and I knew that was the right thing to do. I’d gotten over it. Him. But there hadn’t been anyone since. And that was probably good, because I’d poured all my energy into my work and the business, and both had prospered. I liked my life the way it was. Still, it had been good to see him, even if he did look a bit more frayed around the edges than he used to. And I’d probably have to deal with seeing him again, in order to solve this bizarre murder.
Enough! I was starting to think of myself as a real detective. I had to get a grip. I hauled my carcass out of bed, fed the doggies, showered, fed myself, walked the doggies, and was downstairs before eight o’clock.
I loved walking into the studio when it was empty, early in the day. It held so much promise. The slanting sun cast shafts across the room, picking out a glass piece here and there, calling out a flash of color. This was my domain, and I was its queen. And right now, I needed to exorcise the ghost of John Flannery.
I started the normal set-up ritual, with a touch more care than usual. I had turned the furnace on the night before, and a clean batch of clear glass was ready and waiting. I turned on one of the glory holes to heat up, then went about the soothing mundane tasks. Empty the pipe buckets. Clean out the block buckets (nothing stinks worse than the stale water in an unchanged bucket). Sweep up around the benches, burn off the excess wax
on the tool area. Clean my tools, then lubricate them with beeswax— I loved the smell of that. Scrub the marver. Light the pipe warmer, fill the pipe cooler. I’d been doing this long enough that it took me no more than half an hour, and by eight thirty I stood back and did one last check. Everything in its place, surfaces clean and ready—and glass waiting.
Nessa was just unlocking the front door when I came into the shop, and Allison was hard on her heels, I was happy to see.
“Good morning!” I said brightly. Nessa gave me a skeptical look—apparently I wasn’t always this perky in the morning. Too bad. I felt energized, and ready to take on whatever the day might hold. When I looked out the door, I observed that it appeared to hold newshounds. The word must be out, and I could look forward to an appearance on the local midday news shows. I was faced with an immediate choice: hide, or welcome them with open arms. I didn’t see any virtue to the first option, so I opened the door, gave them my brightest smile, and said, “I’ll bet you’re here about the body. Come on in, and I’ll show you where it happened.” The best defense is a good offense, right? Hungry for good visuals, the news crews followed me happily to the studio—which meant that they didn’t notice Allison lurking behind the counter, which was fine by me. I could take the heat of publicity, but I wasn’t sure she could.
Inside the studio, I walked them through the site, pointing out the furnace and the ghostly outline on the floor in front of it. I kept my smile plastered in place, and I tried to stand in front of the most vivid glass pieces in the shop—nothing like a little free advertising. It was easy to answer most of the questions pitched at me: No, I didn’t know the dead man. No, I had no idea what he was doing in my shop. No, I didn’t know if the police had any suspects. I was relieved that they hadn’t noticed that the FBI had taken an interest, and I wasn’t about to tell them. I tried to steer them away from the more gruesome aspects, but without a corpse on the scene, there wasn’t much to film. Finally they trickled out the back, taking a few last shots of the alley behind the studio, which looked completely innocent in the bright sunlight. My sign on the back door stood out nicely. Maybe viewers would remember the name and not the body. I hoped.
When I had shooed the last of them away, I relaxed my stiff face and went back inside. I was surprised that it wasn’t even ten. In fact, Nessa was just flipping the window sign to indicate that the shop was open. “Everything okay in here?”
“No problems.” Nessa beamed. “Allison’s a quick learner—she’ll do fine. And how did it go with the newsies?”
“Not bad, all things considered. I told them what I knew, which was next to nothing. But at least it will get our name out there.”
“They don’t know about me, do they?” Allison asked, her voice trembling.
“Nope—nobody asked. I’d guess that Agent Price would try to keep a lid on things. Well, let’s do some business. Allison, let me explain a little about some of the techniques that are represented here. . . .” We spent a pleasant half hour examining the pieces offered for sale. Nessa was right: Allison learned fast, and the way her slender fingers caressed the pieces told me that she did appreciate their beauty. Maybe her scattered lifestyle in the past few years had deprived her of lovely things and she was hungry for them. It remained to be seen if she could sell well, but I was encouraged. Maybe this would all work out.
The morning flew by. Traffic in the shop was slightly heavier than usual, but if the gory news brought people in, many were impressed enough to buy, so I couldn’t complain. By lunchtime I remembered that I needed to buy food for the weekend—and I also remembered that I hadn’t invited Allison to dinner yet.
“Hey, Allison?”
She looked up from the stack of receipts she was sorting. “Yes?”
“You free for dinner tonight? I thought we could go over your impressions, talk about scheduling, that kind of thing.” I didn’t mention Cam. Fancy that.
“Oh . . . Yes, I guess so. I don’t want to be any bother.”
“No bother at all. Just don’t expect haute cuisine. I put all my creative energies into my glass.”
“No matter.” Allison smiled. “I’ve been living from hot plates and takeout for a while now—anything would be a treat.”
“Great.” Now all I needed was food. “I’m going to run to the market at lunch—think you two can handle things?”
Nessa nodded, so I left.
After I shopped, I stashed my groceries and walked the dogs before heading back to the studio. I knew that I had too much on my mind to attempt any serious or tricky pieces, but I could always turn out small and simple ones—the ones that sold best in the shop. And seeing me hard at work at the glory hole was a good draw for passersby, and usually resulted in a sale or two. It was easy to spend a few hours working with glass, falling into the comfortable rhythm of the work.
By the end of the afternoon, the annealer was full, and I badly needed a shower. I ducked upstairs quickly, sluiced off, walked the dogs, and went back to the shop to collect Allison.
Nessa was showing her how to close out the till. I waited until they were done and Nessa had departed with the nightly bank deposit, and then closed up.
“Ready?”
Allison flashed a quick smile. “If we’re done here. That was lovely, and Nessa is so kind. Has she been with you long?”
“From the beginning. She’s not young”—I pulled the door shut, tested the lock—“but she needed a job, and a lot of people didn’t want to hire a middle-aged woman with little experience. I was just starting out. How I thought I was going to handle making the pieces and selling them at the same time I don’t know, but I didn’t have much money and couldn’t pay much. Nessa was a godsend—happy to have the job, and willing to settle for what I could offer, bless her. And it all worked out. After a few years I had enough time to offer classes, and that helps too. Come on.”
“Is it far?” Allison asked.
I laughed. “Not exactly.” We rounded the corner of the building, and I pointed to the stairs. “Voilà.”
“You live over the shop?”
“I do. I own the building.”
“Oh, how grand!”
“It has its moments—not when I have to write the mortgage check, though.” I unlocked the door and stood back to let her pass. Fred and Gloria came trotting out to greet the guest. I was pleased that Allison knew the proper etiquette: She knelt and extended a hand, palm down, and let each of them sniff, before trying to pet them. Fred took to her immediately—fickle male!—but Gloria, more reserved, waited her turn.
“It’s lovely that you can have the pets here. I’ve moved around so, I’ve never been able to have one.” She straightened up and walked into the main room. “Oh, this is grand! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I was warmed by her enthusiasm. “Thanks. I did it all myself.” I don’t believe in false modesty. “Can I get you something to drink? Juice, wine, beer?”
Allison was standing in the middle of my living area, pirouetting. “Oh, whatever you’re having will be fine. And I want to hear more about this place.”
Wine, I decided. And I should throw together our meal. I had said I wasn’t a great cook, and I meant every word of it. Food really didn’t interest me much, except to keep me alive and strong enough to wrestle with glass. But tonight I had company coming, and I was planning to make one of Cam’s favorites: mac and cheese with sliced hot dogs. And as a nod to health nuts, I would open a bag of prewashed salad and offer a tasteful array of bottled dressings. I’d gone all-out for dessert: three kinds of ice cream. But I always bought the good kind of mac and cheese— the one with the sauce in a pouch, not the powder kind. I have standards.
I poured two glasses of jug wine and joined Allison in the main living space. She took one glass and sipped the wine absently, her eyes still on the structure of the place. “Tell me about all this.”
I checked my watch. Water on the boil, and Cam wouldn’t arrive from San Diego for at least another hou
r. I had time to give her the long version.
“Sit.” I gestured toward one of the shabby but comfortable armchairs. Most of my furnishings had come from secondhand shops, yard sales, and friends’ cast-offs. Luckily I could drape colorful fabrics over them to hide the worst of the wear. Besides, with two dogs, nice furniture would have been wasted.
Allison sat, and Fred stationed himself at her feet, looking up at her with adoring eyes. Gloria took a seat on the floor by me. At least she was loyal. “My life story. Quit the financial job my folks wanted me to have, went back to school and learned glassblowing from the ground up. Did some homework and decided that Arizona was a good place for artisans, and that Tucson looked like it was ready to break out in the arts. Piled whatever would fit into an old car and sold the rest. Arrived here, nosed around a bit, then made an offer on this place.”
“I’d never have the courage. . . .” Allison said.
“Believe me, it wasn’t easy. This was, oh, ten years ago, before the Warehouse District became trendy. This was actually a machine shop—big open floor downstairs, storage space and a couple of offices up here. But it was big enough for the glassblowing equipment, and I could afford it—barely. I figured from the start that I could live here too, which helped.”
“It’s so big. Did you do all the work yourself?”
“As much as I could. Hey, I’m not Superwoman, and there are some things the building inspectors wouldn’t let me do. But I planned it, and I did as much of the finish work as I could. And,” I added in a wry tone, “I left as much unfinished as I could get away with.” I looked around at the exposed pipes and girders of the ceiling, the bare brick walls, trying to see it from someone else’s point of view. I didn’t do a lot of entertaining.
