Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) Page 14

  All right. That might be an extreme reaction, ice cream being the frozen miracle of deliciousness that it is, but it had been a tough seven days.

  While I wrote up the vouchers, Grandy wandered off to take inventory for the kitchen and concession. This allowed me to happily change the station and turn up the volume on the little office radio. Better, it kept Grandy from pacing behind me, peeking over my shoulder to check my progress and warn me to double-check my addition.

  Best yet, Grandy’s absence gave me the opportunity to review his box office records without interruption. He may have been dependent on paper while the rest of the world moved on to computer records, but his organization rivaled any file management system to come out of Silicon Valley.

  With payroll tidied away, I returned the withholding binders to the cabinet and took down the binders for the prior two years’ receipts. Comparing week-on-week gave a narrow view of change, month-on-month a bit broader. For a true picture of trends I would need more than numbers. Honest as they were, numbers were only part of the story. Other factors played into totals: weather, feature film, current events, overall economy, and more.

  Even without knowledge of all the variables, a simple eyeballing of the totals—attendance, kitchen receipts, concession receipts—revealed an insignificant deviation year on year. So Grandy was wrong. Folks weren’t avoiding his theater because of his potential involvement in Andy Edgers’s murder—at least not yet. Attendance wasn’t a worry. But in flipping through the books, seeking the information I needed, I spotted a troubling pattern.

  I dialed down the volume on the radio until the music was more of a background hum, reducing my chances of distraction. Payroll work had a strange sort of routine to it, a straightforward exercise in core mathematics. The puzzle that had caught my curiosity required a close focus.

  One hand scratching notes on a scrap paper, the other flipping pages, I assembled a financial picture that left my belly leaden and my palms slick with sweat.

  The dine-in had been losing money. Not a great deal, not all at once, but little by little, month by month, a steady trickle downward from slim profit to no profit to straight loss.

  I sat back in my chair, let out a long breath. Why hadn’t Grandy said anything?

  Of course he wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t want to worry me, wouldn’t want me to mention anything to my mother, wouldn’t want either of us for a moment to question his ability to maintain his own business.

  Thing was, I had no such doubt. In the preceding couple of weeks of being with Grandy, he’d given me no cause for worry. Though there was no argument of his age, neither did I have any doubt about his mental acuity. True, he had been shaken by the police questioning, but that sort of reaction was to be expected of anyone.

  “Right, then,” I told myself. Hands on the arms of the chair, I pushed myself out of my seat, resolved to find Grandy and confront him about what I’d learned.

  Grabbing up the payroll vouchers, I switched off the radio. Outside the office, I crossed the back of the theater, popping open the door to the lobby and peeking out as I passed. No sign of Grandy. I kept on, through the access doors and on into the kitchen.

  He was perched on the edge of a step stool, bent double and leaning his head into the interior of a cabinet. A spike of fear shot through me. Considering his age as I had been, my first terror was of his having a heart attack while counting the jars of cooking oil.

  “Grandy?” I hurried to where he sat crumpled. “Grandy!”

  “For Pete’s sake, Georgia, you’ve made me lose count.” He straightened, his expression showing more exasperation than anger. “Now I’ll have to start again.”

  I let out a sigh of relief—cranky was still alive—then I looked pointedly at the massive cans. “There can’t be more than seven cans in there, Grandy. How could you lose count?”

  He grimaced, pushed himself up off the stool. “Finished with the payroll, are you?”

  “Never mind about payroll.” Still clutching the vouchers, I crossed my arms and attempted to give Grandy back the same glare he’d been giving me for the entirety of my life whenever I displeased him. “I looked at your receipts. You’re not having a significant downturn in attendance over last year.”

  His lips quirked to the side as though he were biting the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. The troubled furrow in his brow smoothed quickly. “That’s good news, then. I was sure things were falling off.”

  “A little,” I conceded. “But it’s not a result of the Edgers thing. Grandy, when were you going to tell me the theater is in trouble?”

  He straightened as though I’d slapped him, but his eyes revealed no surprise. “What are you talking about? How much looking did you do?”

  “Enough. This place is losing money week after week, Grandy. Why didn’t you—”

  “You have no right to go poking into my business, Georgia.” The grumble returned to his voice.

  “You asked for my help. You told me you were worried about attendance. Well, now I understand why.”

  “Georgia.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything, Grandy? Why do you insist on keeping things to yourself?”

  “It’s my business, not yours.”

  “Yes, technically, on paper, this is your business. Sole proprietor, I get it. But that doesn’t make you alone in this. You have a neighborhood, you have a staff, you have family. There are other people that care about you and this theater and its success.”

  He shook his head, turning away from me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe it’s all guessing. But I wouldn’t have to guess at these things, Grandy, if you’d just be honest with me and tell me what’s going on.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he snapped.

  Leaned up against a center-aisle counter, I folded my arms and glared at him. My dear grandfather had plenty to tell. I intended to stand there waiting until he caved and spilled.

  The air-conditioning kicked on with a metallic rumble. Air shooshed through vents and fluttered the edges of dish rags dangling from cabinet pulls. A black fly circled busily around the clock mounted above the grill.

  At long last, Grandy huffed. “Business could be better. It will be better. I’ve got a terrific schedule set up for this summer, guaranteed to put this place back in the black. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”

  “But you’re worried,” I said. “You’re already watching your year-on-year and you’re worried the fallout from this Andy Edgers thing is going to make things worse here, not better. So what happens then? How much longer can you keep this place running at a loss?”

  This was my grandfather I was talking to, the man who bought side-by-side burial plots as soon as he and Gran returned home from their honeymoon, the man who had a college fund set aside for my mother before she was born. The man who always had a long-range plan.

  The man shook his head. His whole body sagged, from shoulders to elbows to knees. “I doubt I’d make it to the end of the year.”

  To keep from gasping my shock, I pressed my lips tightly together. He may as well have told me he was getting remarried. It took several deep breaths before I could look at him again. Funny, I expected his appearance to have altered along with my understanding of him. “Grandy,” I said softly, “how did this happen?” I shook my head, disbelieving. “I don’t understand how . . .”

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I’m not infallible, Georgia. I’m sorry if you thought I was.”

  “Infallible? No. Careful, smart, prepared, yes. What happened?”

  “I made a mistake, all right? It happens to the best of us.”

  “What kind of mistake? Grandy, you’re not—”

  “I trusted Andy Edgers,” he said. “I shouldn’t have.”

  “What are . . . I . . .�
�� I couldn’t form a coherent thought much less give it voice.

  Grandy paced the length of the double grill, fingertips trailing the edge of the counter as he walked and spoke. “A little more than two years ago, Andy and I decided to partner in a little investment opportunity.”

  I braced myself. Investment opportunity was often a polite phrase applied to pyramid schemes and condo scams. Though I didn’t voice my conclusions, Grandy guessed at them.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and this was no scheme. It was a solid investment, a nice, diversified portfolio of stocks and properties. I did all the research, even looked things up on the computer.” He flashed a grin, proud of embracing technology however briefly. “But all the research in the world isn’t any help when the market goes bottoms up.”

  “So the money’s gone.”

  He nodded, defeated. “It’s gone. I still own my shares. Drew said I was better off waiting for a rebound than selling at a deep loss. But rebounds take time, and I’m not getting any younger. And the nest egg intended to keep this place running through the lean times . . .”

  Grandy had invested in the stock market, a concept he equated to gambling. Gambling was, of course, an activity restricted for foolish, careless, and gullible people.

  “And that’s what you and Andy Edgers had been fighting about? This investment?”

  “He blamed me,” he said, “as if it had all been my idea, as if I had some control over the stock market and had personally burst the property bubble.”

  In the quiet while I struggled to process all I had learned and formulate the next question, the kitchen door leading to the back of the theater rattled.

  The door swung open and the cooks ambled in, laughing, calling greetings, and generally bringing high energy and smiles into the kitchen.

  Grandy welcomed the intrusion with the glee of a man pardoned from his execution. I suspected the cooks were confused by Grandy’s sudden and inexplicable joviality, but they rolled right along with it, joking with him as they started the task of prepping their stations. Only the grumpy head chef, brother of the assistant manager, Matthew, didn’t participate in the unexpected fun, instead scowling and disappearing into the walk-in with the look of someone who had better things to do.

  With kitchen prep getting under way and Grandy still with inventory to do, I surmised that was the end of the conversation and likely the last time Grandy would give up any information about the loss and his partnership with Andy Edgers. I handed off the payroll vouchers and returned to the office.

  I put away the receipt books, turned up the radio, and switched on the computer.

  Gone, Grandy had said. The money was gone. In reality, it was locked into a group of stocks whose value had plummeted. Time may yet restore their value. But for people who didn’t have a lot of years ahead of them, or who needed the money now and not maybe some day in the distant future, gone was an accurate assessment.

  As I leaned back in the chair, waiting for the computer to boot up, one intriguing thought paraded through my mind.

  If Grandy’s money was gone and his business was on shaky ground, where had the investment loss left Andy Edgers? And what might he have done to recover from that loss?

  * * *

  Morning came entirely too early.

  I awoke to Friday sleeping draped across my neck like a living stole. She was very adorable. She was also making it very hard to breathe.

  As I lifted her off my throat, she came awake with an instant alertness I envied. Eyes wide and bright, tiny tail straight up in the air, she bounced across the bed in search of trouble, or maybe a bug. We spent the time it took for me to reach a somewhat functional state playing with the tie from my bathrobe. It was a delightful way to wake up, and when I finally tumbled from my bed, I was ready to face the day with a smile.

  Dressed, pressed, and ready to roll, I left fresh food and water for Friday before closing her in my room, left a note for Grandy so he didn’t stress the absence of his Jeep, and left the house.

  Smack in the middle of a James Bond car chase the night before, I’d snuck out of the theater and tiptoed through Grandy’s Rolodex. (Yes, Rolodex—I have no idea where he got the blanks for it.) It hadn’t taken much to convince Drew Able, Esquire, to meet me for breakfast at the luncheonette, just a promise to pick up the tab and treat to pastries from Rozelle’s afterward.

  Planning to pass through the market after breakfast to pick up some fresh fruit, I parked the Jeep behind Village Grocery, in the shade of my favorite walnut tree. I had no idea who had planted the tree on the other side of the fence—black walnuts weren’t indigenous to the area—but I was happy to make use of its reliable shade.

  With the sun still low in the sky, the air retained its overnight cool. Town Council agreement in hand, I walked along the access driveway that divided downtown Wenwood into two blocks, and I kept on smiling as I crossed the street and entered Grace’s luncheonette.

  The counter stretched to my left. Tom sat on his stool, tucked into the corner by the wall. Grace stood before him, reading aloud to him from the paper. I paused long enough to determine she was reading the horoscopes. Some lucky sun sign might meet their lifelong partner . . . if they’re open to the possibility.

  I continued on to one of the half-dozen tables, sliding into the booth opposite Drew Able. “Am I late?”

  He grinned as he looked up from the laminated menu. “I’m early. I’m always early. My mother’s influence. I can’t quite shake it.”

  “That must be why Grandy hired you. He’s big on punctual.”

  “I’d like to think that was the case, but I’m afraid he hired me because I’m the last lawyer left in town.”

  “That could be it, too. Shop local and all that.”

  Grace ambled by with a menu, checking to see if I wanted coffee. I requested a double. She headed off without even blinking, and I knew right then she intended to bring me a regulation-sized cup.

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure?” Drew leaned back, tugged at the collar of his pale blue polo shirt.

  “I wanted to ask you to look at something for me.” I set the photocopies of the Town Council’s agreement with Tony Himmel on the table.

  “You need legal advice?”

  “I need a decoder ring,” I admitted. “It looks straightforward enough, but I can’t help thinking I’m missing something.”

  Drew nodded. “We lawyers like to sneak innocuous-looking clauses into contracts that in reality demand payment in blood.”

  “Yes, that’s my understanding as well.” I slid the agreement toward him. “So if I’m reading this correctly, Stone Mountain Construction made this deal with the Wenwood Town Council promising any building or decorating materials that can be ordered through a Wenwood business would be ordered through a Wenwood business.”

  Without looking at the agreement, Drew nodded vigorously. “Exactly. The granting of building permits to Stone Mountain was contingent upon that proviso. I was there.”

  “Okaaaay. But what I can’t dope out from reading this is what the penalty is if the construction company violates the terms of this agreement. What happens then?”

  Coming to a stop at the end of the table, Grace plunked down a heavy porcelain coffee mug. “Then we put ’em in the stockade and throw rotten vegetables at them.”

  She hooted at her own joke while I pictured Tony Himmel locked in the stocks, his broad shoulders stretched to accommodate the distance from wrist-lock to wrist-lock. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be one to throw tomatoes at him, or help him escape.

  “Heard you stopped by the station house yesterday,” Grace said, pulling an order pad from her apron pocket.

  “Umm . . . yeah . . .” was the best I could do. Diana had been less than friendly, yet she mentioned my visit to her aunt?

  “You went to the station?” Drew asked.

&n
bsp; I met Drew’s gaze. “I wanted to talk to Detective Nolan, but he wasn’t in. Come to think of it, I left a message at the desk asking him to call, but I haven’t heard back.”

  “I’m sure Diana let him know.” Grace’s tone held a slightly defensive lilt.

  “I’m sure she did,” I said, “even if she wasn’t thrilled to be doing something on my behalf.”

  The words sneaked out. I didn’t mean for them to. I didn’t mean for my inner insecurities to be released in the light of day, right there in the luncheonette.

  Grace caught me in the crosshairs of her glare. Brow furrowed, mouth turned down, she put a fist on her hip and asked, “Did something happen between you girls again?”

  “If it did, I don’t know what it was,” I said. A little afraid of Grace, I explained to Drew instead. “Okay, I probably screwed up by mentioning cheerleading as a poor career choice but how was I supposed to know?”

  Not to be distracted, Drew asked, “Why did you go to the police station?”

  “Diana doesn’t like to talk about her past,” Grace said.

  “Can we just order?”

  Drew bowed his head over his menu and Grace put the tip of her pencil to the pad. “Shoot,” she said.

  Of course, I hadn’t looked at the menu, but how tough could breakfast be? I faked my way through an order of eggs over easy then waited while Drew recited precise instructions for the preparation of his western omelet with a side of well-fried hash browns and just-this-side-of-golden toast.

  Grace collected the menus and bustled off, muttering.

  “The police station?” Drew prompted.

  “The penalty for failing to order building supplies in Wenwood?” I shot back.

  Drew lifted the photocopies as though in salute. “Let me check.”

  While he skimmed the pages, I tipped some cream into my coffee then pulled my smartphone from my bag. A quick review of my e-mail—or lack thereof—reminded me of what I kept trying to forget: I wasn’t simply in some location where my friends couldn’t reach me. I was in a life where my friends refused to follow. I was on my own.