by Sarah Atwell
But to my own surprise, I didn’t make a move to get out of the car. What the heck did I think I was doing here? Why did I think I could find anything, if the police had failed? But, I acknowledged reluctantly, that wasn’t really the issue. The real question was, why was I involving myself in Allison’s complicated affairs any more than I already had? Because I wanted to wrap up whatever was going on and give her a push out the door, to get on with her own life? I was the one who had reached out to Allison, thinking she needed a friend. I had been right, obviously, but was I the friend she needed? And was I doing this for her, or for me? I knew I had a tendency to play mother hen, as Nessa liked to point out, and I didn’t get many opportunities to exercise that. But usually that didn’t involve dead bodies and police.
I shook myself: This waffling wasn’t accomplishing anything. I was here because something I had seen in my brief glimpse of Allison’s apartment had troubled me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It nagged at me like a hang-nail. So I was going to take a quick look and see if I could figure it out, and that would be the end of it. And I wasn’t doing anything wrong, was I? The police had had their shot at it, and surely Allison wouldn’t mind.
Decision made. I got out of the car and walked to Allison’s door, unnoticed. When I turned the knob, the door opened inward, so I stepped in and closed it quietly behind me. Before going any farther, I surveyed the small space. The room, by daylight, looked even worse than it had the night before, especially now that what I assumed was fingerprint powder covered most surfaces. Amazing how many fingerprints people leave behind them. The police must have taken Allison’s when she first went to the police station, although she hadn’t mentioned it. That would give them something to compare to.
The place was tiny, but Allison must have struggled to pay even this meager rent. It had one room, with a minuscule bathroom built into a corner, and nestled against its wall, the bare minimum of cooking equipment: a half-fridge, a two-burner stove, a sink, and a couple of cupboards. But I wasn’t here to admire the architecture.
I studied the chaos that the intruders and the police had left behind. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. The furniture had all been pulled away from the walls. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied, then turned over. The single mattress and box spring had been gutted, as had the only upholstered chair. The contents of the kitchen cabinets and the fridge lay scattered around the floor, and even the ice cube trays had been emptied, lying abandoned in the sink. I tiptoed across the room to check the bathroom and found the same devastation there. The door to the small medicine cabinet was ajar, and bottles of over-the-counter medicine were open, their contents sprinkled everywhere. The rod for the shower curtain had been ripped from its supports. A box of tampons lay on the floor, and I noted that each and every tampon had been systematically shredded. No stone unturned, indeed.
I sat gingerly on the edge of the flimsy fiberglass bathtub and willed myself to look carefully. What was odd about this search? Its obsessive thoroughness? This was unquestionably more than an average break-in. What on earth could the thieves have been looking for? I stood up and wandered back into the main room. Not much paper: Allison’s few battered paperback novels had been flung hither and thither, pages fanned out. No secret hideyholes in them, obviously. Something thin? Hot credit cards, bearer bonds, a stolen Leonardo sketch . . . I was getting silly—or desperate.
Then I realized what had been troubling me: Nothing was broken—apart from the door lock, which any fifthgrader could have gotten around. Yes, the cushions and bed had been slashed, but this whole place reeked of a deliberate and careful search, not a smash and grab. It seemed to me, if I were a criminal and I were stupid enough to try to rob a studio apartment in a low-rent end of town, and I hadn’t found anything worth stealing, I would have trashed the place in frustration. Or I would have ripped through everything in a hurry, wanting to get in and out before anybody noticed anything out of the ordinary. So . . . this thief or thieves had been both methodical and quiet. And they hadn’t wanted to break anything—for fear of damaging whatever it was they were searching for? Or just overlooking it?
Clearly, whatever it was they had been looking for was small. The intruders had looked in each tampon. Although large bills could certainly have been rolled to fit in those. Marijuana lurking in the oregano, or cocaine in the sugar bowl? But both herbs and baking materials had been dumped onto the countertops, and if I wasn’t mistaken, somebody had raked his (or her?) hands through the piles. Microchips? Or had those gone out with James Bond? I kept turning over alternatives in my mind. An incriminating audio- or videotape? I knew cassettes kept getting smaller— if they even used cassettes anymore. Maybe one of those portable data-storage thingies that fit in a computer?
And if Allison didn’t have it, where was it?
I stood up to my ankles in the shambles of Allison’s life and wondered if I should share my insights with the police. No, let them sort it out. So far they hadn’t inspired any great confidence in me. After all, Agent Price and his minions had managed to misplace an entire person, so what good would he be looking for something much, much smaller? And I wasn’t about to call Matt and offer my brilliant deductions because he’d just tell me to butt out. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to him. I had planned to avoid talking to him for the rest of our natural lives. I certainly did not need to talk to him about this piddling discovery. If it was even that.
After one last look, I left, closing the door behind me, reflecting on the destruction inflicted on such a modest home. That made me sad: Allison had so little to show for thirtysomething years of life. Not a photo, not a souvenir, not a single treasured memento. She had said she didn’t want to go back to Ireland, but what was there for her here?
I looked at my watch again, and sped up my pace. I still needed to get groceries and something for my lunch, and get back to the studio in time to teach my class. I started the car and pulled away from the curb. As I drove the familiar route to the supermarket, I began a mental shopping list. It included almost anything that a normal person would expect to find in a kitchen: milk, butter, eggs (apparently bacon was covered), flour, meat, chicken . . . The list was too long to keep straight in my head, and I decided to just grab a cart and buy one of everything. Let Allison sort it out later.
I had gone only a block when I noticed the car behind me. At first I didn’t think anything of it. The streets were fairly busy at midday on a Saturday, and there were plenty of other cars around. I made a right, and the other car followed. I slowed, trying to tempt the driver to pass, but he slowed to match my pace. With a small tingle of alarm I studied the car and its sole occupant. Nondescript, middle-aged car, covered with dust—including the license plate. How handy. The driver was equally nondescript, as far as I could tell beneath the sunglasses and baseball cap. Nothing scary about either car or driver.
I turned again, and so did my companion. Wait— hadn’t Matt said something about posting someone to keep an eye on me? Maybe this was my official escort, undercover. It was possible. I hadn’t noticed him when I left the studio. But if he was really good, I wouldn’t have noticed him. So why was he being so blatant now? I was coming up on the supermarket, and I had to make a decision. I could pull in, do my shopping like an ordinary person, and hope that this person was long gone by the time I came out. But then I wouldn’t know if he was actually following me, would I? Instead, I saw a gap in traffic and made a sharp left, then quickly pulled into a driveway between two buildings and watched in my rearview mirror. Sure enough, thirty seconds later my mystery car went by slowly. Had he seen me?
I waited a full minute by my watch, then pulled out and onto the street, turning back toward the way I had come. And there, a few car lengths behind me, was my shadow. Hell, I needed to call him something, and “friend” was not appropriate. Creep, maybe? At the stop sign at the corner, I reviewed the options again. The market still sat there in front of me, looming large and solid and filled with good
citizens. But something about the idea of parking and walking away from my car bothered me. What was to stop Creep from doing something nasty to my car? Planting a bomb? Cutting some vital part or slashing my tires?
Or say I went inside—what if he followed me and jabbed me with some fast-acting poison that left me babbling incoherently, or dead? Or what if he hustled me out of the store to . . . what?
Get a grip, Em. Your imagination is running amuck. But while I sifted through those cheerful alternatives, I realized something: If someone was following me, he hadn’t found what he had been looking for at Allison’s. With that, some part of my mind made a decision—I was heading for home. My own turf; familiar ground. Heartened, I sped up. So did my faithful companion, Creep. I slowed again—no point in getting killed, or squishing some innocent pedestrian, since no doubt this guy knew exactly where I was going, if he was already following me. Nonetheless, the sight of my shop cheered me immeasurably, and I pulled into the alley behind the studio faster than I should have. And almost ran over Cam.
He flattened himself against the wall as I came to a rocking halt inches from him. Once I threw open the door, he yelled, “What the hell were you doing? You almost killed me!”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be here, and I was kind of in a hurry.”
When he looked at my face, his tone changed. He knew me too well. “What happened?”
“Nothing, really. Look, don’t tell Allison, but I went over to her place and checked it out.”
“Why? Didn’t everyone tell you to stay out of it?”
“Yes, but something was bothering me, and I think I figured it out. Do you want to know what? Wait—don’t you have a lunch date?”
He glanced at his watch quickly. “I’ve got five minutes. Spill it.”
“It was a very careful, very thorough search, and I don’t think they found whatever they were looking for. And I think it was small.”
“That’s not exactly an earthshaking revelation, Em. And it doesn’t explain why you came tearing into the alley.”
“I think someone was following me on the way back from Allison’s place.”
“A cop?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Matt said he wasn’t going to bother keeping watch days, because there would be plenty of other people around.”
“Did this person threaten you?”
“No. Nothing like that. But he wasn’t trying very hard to hide either. He knew I knew he was there, if you follow my drift.”
“Close enough. Just sending a signal? Like, ‘we’re watching you’?”
“But why would anyone watch me? I haven’t done anything.” Except find a body in my studio.
“They think you’re connected to Allison.”
“But I wasn’t, until all this started! Why would they assume that?”
“You’re connected now. I get the nasty feeling that if these guys are still looking for that special something, maybe they think you have it now.”
“How could I? I didn’t know Jack, and he was in my place maybe two minutes before he was dead. Heck, for all I know he was already dead, and these guys just thought my furnace would be a handy place to dispose of him. Although I pay for a perfectly good Dumpster that would have been much more convenient.”
For a moment I felt a strong urge to stamp my feet like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum. It passed.
Cam was staring at me, waiting for the explosion.
“Cam, don’t worry. I’m back safely, and nothing happened, really. Go on and have your lunch.”
“Are you going to tell the cops?”
“I . . . don’t know. What can I tell them? That the break-in was too thorough, and oh, by the way, somebody I can’t identify might have been following me? Does that sound significant to you?”
He sighed. “Then promise me you’ll stay here until I get back, all right?”
I laughed. “I don’t have a choice—I’ve got six students coming in about twenty minutes, and I haven’t even had time to eat. Yes, I will stay right here for the rest of the day. And then we will have dinner—oh, damn, I never got to the market.”
“I’ll pick up something on my way back. And then we’ll talk—the three of us. Shoot, I’m already late. You stay put!”
“Have a nice lunch. And,” I yelled as his car pulled away, “you’d better get some more beer. And wine.” He disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Rather than face questions from Nessa and Allison, I locked my car and climbed the stairs. I should take the doggies out for their promised walk—but I wasn’t going to go far with them. They were predictably happy to see me, but just seeing their eager faces started me wondering: What if someone kidnapped my beloved pets to try to force me to reveal . . . something I didn’t know? What would I do? The rest of us were adults, albeit clueless, but the dogs couldn’t defend themselves. They were helpless, and I was responsible for them. So I knew I had better get this thing resolved before someone bad out there got any more bright ideas about threatening me.
After I had taken care of the dogs, I went back down the stairs and sneaked around to the back of the studio to let myself in. Two of the students had already arrived, and I was pleased to see that they were meticulously going through the set-up steps that I had taught them. I went to my minifridge and grabbed a random energy bar and a bottle of water: lunch. When I had finished wolfing it down, the others had arrived, and it was time for class.
“Hi, everybody. Today I wanted to go over how to work as a team. As you’ve probably figured out by now, it’s not always possible to make the transfer to a punty solo, but when you work with someone else it’s important that you work together closely and communicate effectively—and practice a lot. Let’s start with the basic rules—and don’t laugh when they seem like common sense, because you’d be surprised how often people forget them in the heat of the moment.” I waited for the snickers at my bad pun to subside. “First—always ask if the lead person—the gaffer— wants your help. Don’t assume. Second, pay attention! You have to be very aware of what your gaffer is doing, and also of what everyone else in the shop is doing. Anticipate. You all know the moves, so you should know what the gaffer’s next step is going to be. And watch him, not the glass—don’t worry, you’ll all get a turn. It’s like a dance, maybe even a ballet—but you’ve got to watch where you’re going!”
The biggest hurdle was always convincing one person that he—or she—would have to agree to serve as assistant while the other ran the show. We had enough time so that they could take turns, but there was always bickering— and the longer the team bickered, the cooler the glass became and the more time it took to work it, since it had to be reheated more often. And as I had told them, the punty transfer was tricky—stick the punty on the piece off center, and it wouldn’t rotate evenly in the glory hole, and that spelled the end of that piece. Still, by the end of the class, everyone had turned out one or more pieces (not including the duds) that we stowed in the annealer and put to bed for the night.
“Good work, everybody! You can pick your pieces up tomorrow or wait until class next week. See you then!”
The students filed out, pleased with themselves. And I was pleased for them, because they all were progressing well, learning both the skills and the art. I was interrupted by one of my more advanced students, who entered from the shop side.
“Em? I know it’s short notice, but my plans changed and I wondered if I could book some studio time for tomorrow?” Chad had been working with me for close to three years now, and I knew I could trust him not to burn the place down.
I mentally reviewed my schedule, then said, “Sure, Chad—no problem. My brother’s visiting, so I probably won’t be in, or not for long. You want me to set up anything for you? I’ve got a batch of clear in the furnace.”
“That’s fine—I’ll probably stick to that. I want to play with some frits, get the feel of it. Usual rate?”
“Fine, plus materials. And
clean up when you’re done!”
“Right, boss. I’ll see you if I see you, then.”
I followed him out of the studio into the shop. When he was gone, I turned to Nessa and Allison. “Good day?”
“Excellent. Nothing like a little adverse publicity to boost sales. Perhaps you should think about doing a commemorative piece?” When I stared blankly at her, Nessa laughed. “That was a joke. All in all, a very good day, I’d say.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you mind handling things tomorrow afternoon?” We were open from noon to five on Sundays. “Oh, and Chad will be in—he wants some practice time. I told him that was fine, as long as he cleans up again.”
“I’ll be here. You three should go do something fun.”
“Thanks, Nessa. That’s what I thought we might do.”
Although fun seemed a very distant concept at the moment, what with a body, a burglary, the FBI, and all that stuff. In the end we all made a valiant effort to appear normal: We ate a modest dinner, cleaned up, watched part of a movie on my antiquated television, walked the dogs, and went our separate ways to bed, all without talking about anything important at all.
Chapter 13
fining: the process of allowing melting glass ample time to sit, and let air bubbles . . . float to the surface and disappear (Edward T. Schmid, Advanced Glassworking Techniques: An Enlightened Manuscript)
When I pried open my eyes the next morning after a decent night’s sleep, it was after nine o’clock. More good smells: French toast, I decided, after a few appreciative sniffs, with an undertone of coffee, but no bacon today. I could get used to this.
Sunday, and we had the day free. What did I want to do with it? Certainly not chase down nameless, faceless thugs. I was a glassblower, not a detective. Maybe I wasn’t sure that the body in my studio was a fluke, but for the life of me I couldn’t see any connection to me— except Allison. And I had barely met Allison when the body showed up. With both the FBI and the police on the case, they had a far better chance of sorting things out than I did. They had more to work with.
