Ill-Gotten Panes Page 17

  The police had to know this. They had to know Grandy left the hardware store in daylight, empty-handed, in clean clothes. They had to know finding the supposed murder weapon behind the dine-in meant anyone could have put it there.

  So if they knew all those things, why was Grandy under arrest?

  * * *

  As expected, the bell over the door jangled when I entered the luncheonette. The scent of burgers, fried onions, and fresh coffee assailed my senses, making me wonder how such disparate aromas could smell so appealing.

  I made the quick left, past the rack of dusty postcards, and walked the length of the counter. Two of the stools were occupied by people I didn’t recognize hunched over white bread sandwiches. The next two stools were empty, and on the fifth, Tom sat sipping coffee and gazing out the window.

  Perching on the edge of the empty stool beside Tom, I gave him a polite hello and waited to see if he would remember me.

  He lowered his coffee cup and gazed at me over the rim. “You back again?” he shouted with a grin. His pale blue eyes were bright, practically twinkling in his age-wrinkled face.

  Tom hadn’t been sitting in his counter seat when I’d had breakfast with Drew, leaving me to wonder whether he knew who he was talking to or if he was mistaking me for someone else. I smiled. “Just can’t get enough of Grace’s coffee.”

  “Nectar,” he said at a surprisingly normal decibel, before taking another sip of his own. He set the cup down with a satisfied sigh and fixed his gaze on the window behind the counter. “Pretty day, wouldn’t you say?”

  I followed his line of sight out the window, knowing full well the shuttered hardware store was directly opposite but, oddly, needing to reassure myself. “We’re having a nice summer so far.”

  “How’s Pete?” Tom asked.

  His question hit me like a bang on the shin in the dark—sharp, unexpected, and painful. I moved my mouth around, waiting for words to form, but all I managed in the end was to lean over the counter and call out, “Hey, Grace! Can I get some coffee to go? And a tea?”

  Grace shouted back a “Sure thing, sweetie” and I settled on my stool again.

  I let the noise of the luncheonette wrap the space around Tom and me. People chatted at tables, flatware clacked and clanged against stoneware, and laughter rolled out of the kitchen.

  Grace would pop out at any moment. I had wasted enough time. “Tom, can I ask you something?”

  He turned his merry blue eyes on me. “What can I do you for?” He was back to shouting.

  “Do you, um, do you remember the other day I stopped in and asked Grace if she’d seen Pete leave the hardware store?”

  He scratched at his poorly shaved chin. “What day was that?”

  “Do you mean what day did I ask or what day did Grace see Pete?”

  Continuing the scratching, he looked away from me, down at the counter. “I haven’t had a good chin wag with Pete since, oh, couple of months now. Met him and Terry for lunch. Pete had the Reuben.”

  “Terry,” I repeated, running the name through my memory. “I thought Terry moved.”

  Tom lifted his head. “Terry moved?”

  In and out of coherence, Carrie had said about Tom. That seemed about right. “Yes, Terry moved. He went . . .” My memory failed, and I had a surge of sympathy for how Tom must struggle.

  Grace appeared from the back, empty paper hot cups in hand. “Terry moved down to North Carolina to be with Amy, Tom. You know that.”

  Tom scowled. “Of course I know that,” he bellowed, then repeated it softly to himself. “Of course I know that.”

  I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, but wasn’t sure if he would appreciate or resent the gesture.

  “Same way I know Grace said she didn’t see Pete leave the hardware store that day before they found Andy.”

  Ah ha! He was back. “What about you, Tom? Did you see anyone that day?” I asked.

  Grace set the cups side by side on the counter and turned for the coffeepot.

  “Nope, didn’t see anyone leave,” he said.

  Coffee splashed into the cup, dispersing its heavenly aroma and giving me a little thrill at the idea of the caffeine-induced energy to come.

  “Not leave.” I leaned a little closer to Tom. “I’m not worried about anyone leaving. I’m wondering if you saw anyone go in.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. You should have asked that in the first place. I saw Pete go in, sure enough. And Bill Harper, too. I remember because I thought he’d come over here after.” Tom shook his head. “He didn’t.”

  “Bill Harper? From the grocery?”

  Settling covers over the hot cups, Grace rolled her eyes.

  “How many Bill Harpers we got in Wenwood?” Tom shouted. “Of course that Bill Harper.” He lifted his coffee cup, quickly lowered it before taking a sip. “But there was another guy. Didn’t recognize him.”

  Grace rested a hand on the counter, leaned her weight in. “You probably just forgot who he was.”

  “No, no, this was a different guy. Tall fella, brown hair. Seemed kinda angry, walkin’ all puffed up and hurried.” He waved a hand over his chin. “Had a . . . a beard you know.” He shrugged. “I’d say it’s too hot for a beard, but what do I know. I probably just forgot what summer feels like.”

  Tom glared good-naturedly at Grace, who backed away and gave me a grin. “Three dollars, sweetie.”

  I dug out the money and set it on the table, mind racing. Tall guy with brown hair and a beard. Angry.

  It sounded like Grandy’s head cook, Matthew. But it couldn’t be Matthew. Could it?

  * * *

  Too many thoughts crowded my head: the orders at Andy’s store, Rozelle’s guilt, Tom’s confusion, and more than anything else, worry about Grandy sitting in jail. How had life gotten so complicated so fast?

  At least the entrance to the grocery store had automatic doors. In my present state, I doubted I could reliably work out whether to push or pull the door open.

  I bypassed the little selection of newspapers and shopping guides decorating the store’s entrance, grabbed a handbasket from the stack, and headed directly for the produce aisle. At the rate I went through fresh fruits and vegetables, it would have made sense for me to set up a vegetable garden in a corner of Grandy’s yard. I wondered again if it was too late to start planting.

  Turning into the aisle, I spotted Bill Harper smack in the middle, adding lemons to the citrus display. I froze. I really didn’t want to talk to the man, didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to pick up something healthy to have in the house without having to deal with anyone else asking after Grandy.

  “Well, hello again, Georgia!”

  Too late to turn tail and run. I forced myself to smile. “Afternoon, Mr. Harper.”

  He grabbed another trio of lemons from a box on the cart he stood behind, the blue of his latex gloves against the yellow of the fruit making me think of putting flowers in the garden I could plant in Grandy’s yard. The splashes of color would look nice if, you know, I planned on staying and Grandy was released from jail.

  “Everything all right?” Mr. Harper was watching me from below lowered brows. I must have been lost in thoughts of gardens longer than I’d realized.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head and tried a little laugh and a little lie. “Forgot what I needed for a second there.” I scurried to a display of honeydew. Ducking my head with embarrassment, I studied the melons.

  “How’s Pete doing these days? Haven’t seen him around much,” Mr. Harper said.

  If he didn’t know Grandy was in custody, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. I could use a few moments of denial. Besides . . . “I heard you were in the hardware store with Pete last week, the day before they found Andy.”

  “Oh?”

  At the sound of something hitting the floor, I turn
ed. A lemon had gotten away from him and was rolling toward me. I stooped to pick it up. “I was wondering, did you happen to see anyone else in the store? Tall guy, maybe? Brown hair, beard?”

  He reached a hand out for the lemon and I crossed to him, handed him the fruit so he could drop it into a little box of loose leaves and a badly bruised banana. “Sorry, I didn’t notice anyone like that.”

  I supposed I should have tried to get some idea of time frame from Tom. When he described who he’d seen, it sounded like all the men arrived fairly close together. But time appeared to move at a unique pace for Tom. If I wanted to know whether Matthew had visited the hardware store, the only way to find out was to ask Matthew himself.

  “I only stopped in long enough to remind Andy about his rent being due.”

  I tried for another smile. “It’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  I turned my attention back to the melons. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up leaving without what I came for.

  “You give Pete my regards when you see him, okay?”

  I assured him I would.

  If only I knew when that when you see him would be.

  * * *

  My call went straight to Drew’s voice mail. Three times. I phoned the police station in hopes of learning from them the outcome of the arraignment, but they had no information and only advised I contact Drew. I tried asking directly for Detective Nolan, planning to use the laundry they were holding as an excuse, but recognizing Diana as the desk sergeant who answered the phone, I opted not to leave a message requesting a return call,

  I stood in the kitchen of the quiet house, missing the rattle and clatter of Grandy’s morning routine, and listened to the ticking of the clock instead. It was the sort of sound I never noticed normally. Like the hum of the refrigerator’s compressor, it stayed in the overlooked background. In the empty house, however, this simple rhythm was amplified into a disturbing noise.

  Friday lay belly up in my arm, allowing me to stroke her stomach while I turned over thoughts in my mind. Mostly I needed to talk to Drew. I needed to know when bail would be set for Grandy and what to do if—or when—my depleted savings couldn’t cover the cost.

  Friday wriggled and let out a teeny mew. I ruffled her head one last time and lowered her to the floor. She bounded out of the room, tail straight up like a feline antenna. I couldn’t imagine where she was going in such a hurry.

  Alone in the kitchen, I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands.

  Alone. I could have turned on the radio or the television, used the electronic world to keep me company. Instead, I tugged my cell phone free of my purse and opened an Internet browser. There were at least a few things I could do that were better than sitting and feeling sorry for myself. Punching the name of the East Coast lumber giant into the search bar, I realized I was going to have to return Tony Himmel’s call.

  Learning the price per square foot of lumber presented a steep challenge. I knew numbers. I knew glass. I was learning about kittens. I didn’t know lumber. What was the difference between pine and whitewood and Douglas fir? My knowledge was limited to what would make a good Christmas tree, not what would make a good building. And the prices varied widely.

  I clicked out of the browser and stared at the wallpaper on my phone. The image was of Louis Comfort Tiffany’s dogwoods in stained glass. Typically, losing myself in the depth of color, the brilliant use of shape, the rich-hued background soothed and centered me, allowed me to tackle the next moments of my day with a fresh perspective.

  That afternoon, gazing on a place of beauty only made me restless. Maybe it was the ticking of the clock. Maybe it was the absence of human company. Maybe it was an emotion I was too much of a wimp to attempt to identify.

  One deep breath, and I tapped on the missed call icon on the phone, selected the option to return call.

  Moving the phone to my ear, I gripped the device tighter than necessary while I listened to the ringing on the other end. Two cycles elapsed before Tony picked up the call, giving his name as a greeting.

  “Tony. Georgia Kelly returning your call.”

  “Georgia, how are you?”

  Yeah, I was in no shape to answer that question. “How did you get my number?”

  He responded with one of those heh-heh chuckles that only men can pull off. “I took a chance that the number on the ‘Found: White Kitten’ flyers belonged to you.”

  “Are you calling to tell me it’s your kitten?”

  “Not a chance. I’m still recovering from puncture wounds sustained during our first meeting.”

  “So you called to request reimbursement for medical expenses. How much do Snoopy Band-Aids go for these days?”

  “I called to ask if you would meet me for a drink, or dinner, whichever you’re comfortable with. Tomorrow night? I’d like a chance to apologize for my bad behavior. Again.”

  A measure of unease prickled my spine. Meeting with Tony would be an ideal time for me to learn what he was being charged for lumber. It also meant I might be meeting with someone who would benefit a great deal by Andy Edgers’s removal from the supply chain. But I wanted answers, and neither Detective Nolan nor Drew was around to consult with. Mostly, though, the house was too quiet. I would have gone mad there. A crowded restaurant sounded not only safe but far more pleasant than sitting in the house alone.

  “Dinner sounds fine. But I’m going to need a favor.”

  14

  Tony had graciously allowed me to select a restaurant and having been secretly harboring a craving since leaving the city, I suggested Italian food. This turned out to be a stroke of luck. Nothing was as comforting to me as a big plate of pasta, and when Drew had called the prior afternoon with the news Grandy’s bail had been set at sixty thousand dollars, I developed a need for serious comfort. I neither had that kind of money nor any property to use as collateral against a bond. Grandy would be stuck in jail until his trial date, or until the police found the real killer. Any information I could gather to help the police with that was well worth the effort, and Mr. Jaguar definitely had information, if not outright guilt.

  Arriving at the restaurant, I made sure to locate Tony’s car and park on the complete opposite side of the lot. This, I reasoned, would allow me to part company with him at the door, announcing, “I’m this way.” And yes, I purposely arrived late to facilitate that plan.

  Dressed in a summer top, narrow skirt, and flip-flops, I sidestepped the maître d’ by pointing to the interior of the tiny restaurant and announcing, “I’m meeting someone.”

  Those damned butterflies were once again doing aerial exercises in my belly as I wove my way between tables. Tony had been easy to spot, the only table with one occupant, the only occupant who made my hopeless heart skip. Was it possible for someone to be too handsome to be a murderer? Or wait. Weren’t there statistics that showed most murders were committed by family members? If that was the case, the odds of Tony having murdered Andy were slim.

  But slim wasn’t the same as zero. And women who have recently emerged from a heartbreaking engagement need to remain impervious to handsome men, rather the same as people just recovering from surgery need to avoid crowds because they are more susceptible to disease.

  Patting my hair to be certain it remained in its loose ponytail, I gave myself the same silent pep talk I’d used when walking into a boardroom full of skeptical men. You’re every bit as smart as these guys, I’d tell myself. It’s okay to let it show.

  As I reached his table, I announced my presence by stating, “Tony.”

  He glanced up from the smartphone he had set on the table. He grinned and half stood from his chair. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. Please, sit. I just have to finish up this message.”

  Regaining his seat, he focused his attention on the phone, typing madly with one finger.

  On the one hand, I was put out by his di
smissal. On the other, his actions proclaimed the dinner all business, no romance. The clarification put me marginally at ease. A two percent margin, I estimated.

  A busboy rushed over and pulled my chair out. As I settled into the seat, he filled my glass with water and promised to send the waiter over to take my drink order.

  I sipped at the water, blissfully cold after the heat of the outdoors.

  Tony punched one final button on his phone. He looked up at me as he slid the phone to the far edge of the table. “My apologies.” He nodded to the phone. “My sister. She’s considering breaking off her engagement and was asking my advice.”

  My first instinct was to offer unsolicited advice based on my own experience. The second, overpowering instinct was to heed the alarm bells going off in my mind. It was mighty convenient, wasn’t it? Tony Himmel just happened to have a sister with a troubled engagement? He just happened to be e-mailing or texting with her when I arrived? What were the odds?

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  Tony nodded. “She deserves to be happy. I keep telling her if this guy isn’t making her happy, it’s not going to get any better. She should call it off.”

  I took another sip of water.

  “Do you agree?” he asked.

  Lifting a shoulder, I looked around the restaurant, hoping to make eye contact with a waiter. “I really couldn’t say. I don’t know your sister.”

  When I returned my gaze to Tony, I found him watching me with a speculative expression generally reserved for reviewing expense accounts. “So,” he said. “Anyone contact you yet about the cat?”

  “You’re the only one who’s called.”

  “What happens if you don’t find the owner?”

  “You mean if I don’t find the person who threw her away?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’d like to keep her, but my grandfather’s not too keen.”