The soup lost none of its blistering temperature in the short ride home from the luncheonette. I poured it into an oversized cappuccino mug, and the sound of the splashing drew Friday from whatever furniture she’d been napping under . . . or on top of. I dished some of her canned food into her little kitty bowl and set it down on the floor in front of the sink.
“Live it up, kitty. Celebrate. It’s Saturday night.” I made stupid six-shooter motions with my hands. Friday twitched one ear and nibbled daintily from the bowl. She was unimpressed. I didn’t blame her. Saturday night and what was on my agenda? An evening of stained glass. Just me and the kitten.
After switching on the radio I kept in the corner, I opened the packaging on the glass I’d purchased that morning. The pinks I wanted for Trudy’s window, once located, I stored on end in an old apple crate I kept for such purpose. Left with the glass I had selected for antiques store projects, I looked from a white, gold, and blue mottled glass I’d bought more for its possibilities than for a plan to the glass I had cut for the sailboat panel.
When I began the piece, I had done so because the pattern caught my eye. I thought working on the project would be a good way to stir my creativity so I could design a window for Trudy. In the back of my mind I saw the piece one day hanging from one of Grandy’s windows—a just-for-fun piece turned into something decorative. Now I supposed it would do more good hanging in Carrie’s shop.
The temptation to start work on a new pattern, to begin cutting the glass I’d bought on impulse, coursed through me with the same allure as “just one more cookie” or “just one more pair of shoes.” The desire was both hard and easy to overcome. All it took was a deep breath, closed eyes, and the firm action of closing the paper wrapping over the exciting new glass and setting it aside. Best not to jump into anything, anyway.
I gathered up a small handful of already cut glass, aqua and vermillion and gold-flecked white strips that curved like waves on the water, and carried them into the garage.
Grandy had built a tool bench at the back of the garage, against the common wall between the garage and the workshop. With his permission, I’d cleared a space at the near end of the bench, closest to the doorway that led to the workshop, and there set up my glass grinder. Now, after making sure the water reservoir was full, I nudged the foot pedal out from under the bench with my toe and powered on the grinder.
At the center of the hard plastic grating, a diamond-head grinder bit spun at a respectable three thousand rpm as soon as I applied pressure to the foot pedal. I grabbed the first blue glass wave, set it flat on the horizontal grating, and pushed the edge of the glass against the whirring bit.
Water sluiced across the surface of the glass, gently washing away the miniscule shards being dislodged by the grinder, splashing them against the square of plexiglass I’d leaned against the wall to protect the pegboard.
Splashing.
I lifted my foot from the pedal and huffed. Safety goggles. Why did I never remember to put on the safety goggles first?
Taking a step to the right, I searched the tool-covered pegboard for the safety goggles I typically hung there. Not finding them, I sifted through the bits of miscellanea that had collected atop the workbench, but still had no luck. I really wouldn’t leave the workshop or garage with—
I rolled my eyes at my own forgetfulness. I had worn the goggles outside when I was doing some yard work. Not because I thought using a manual hedge shear was particularly dangerous, but because not wearing the goggles would be a foolish move. Also because Grandy insisted.
The question was, where had I left them?
I turned a circle in the garage, scanning the neatly stored collections of seasonal implements—an assortment of rakes and cases of heavy-duty trash bags for autumn, ice melt and three kinds of shovels for winter, and hedge clippers, half a bag of mulch, a spade and hoe for spring and summer. My goggles weren’t anywhere.
Thinking perhaps I had left them in the kitchen when a hot morning’s yard work required a cold glass of water, I went back into the workshop and up the stairs to the main floor of the house. I might have left the goggles on the counter or hung them from the back of a chair. But when they were nowhere to be spotted, I ducked into the dining room to check the sideboard and groaned.
Despite my best efforts, the sideboard continued to be the place where Grandy piled all the things for which he didn’t have a ready place. Months of AARP magazines, packages of opened batteries, and pages of half-finished crossword puzzles typically crowded the surface. And there, leaning atop an old scrapbook and against a ball of twine, were my goggles.
As I reached to grab them, I realized what I had thought was a scrapbook was instead an old photo album.
Moving the twine to the pile of magazines, I opened the cracked leather cover of the album and peeled back the heavy tissue paper page to admire the first set of photos.
Six people gathered around a picnic table, four men, two women. One of the women wore a floppy hat, obscuring her face. The other looked boldly into the camera, smile wide, head wrapped in a cloud of red hair. Grandma Keene.
I lifted the album and turned to the dining room table, intending to take a seat and peruse the album slowly. As I spun, the photos on the first page sailed off, some sliding to the floor, others dropping to the table. I retrieved the trio from the floor, photo corners still clinging to the snapshots.
“Huh. Adhesive dried,” I muttered, flipping over the first picture. Scrawled across the back in faded blue ink were the words July 4 at Barbara’s. I looked at the front again. Barbara must be the woman under the hat. Or maybe she was the one who took the picture?
The phone rang, putting an end to my brief wonderings. Hugging the photo album to my chest, I cut through the kitchen and grabbed the handset from its dock. As I brought the cordless phone to my ear, I caught a glimpse of “Unavailable” on the caller ID display.
Dreading the possibility that someone on the other end of the phone was going to try to sell me an upgrade to Grandy’s cable television plan, I phrased my “hello” as if I’d just been dragged from my deathbed.
“Damn. Did I dial the wrong number? Son of a—”
“Diana?” I asked, voice back to normal.
“Georgia, you sounded like you were dying,” Diana said. “Don’t scare me like that.”
My forehead rumpled as new confusion overcame me. “Why are you calling my house phone? Are you looking for Grandy?”
“I’m looking for you. Carrie’s apartment was tossed while she was at dinner.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, rush to my heart, chilling me with fear. “Oh my God. Where’s Carrie? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s home. I’m on my way there. You need a pickup?”
Carrie’s apartment. What next?
I dropped the photo album on the table. “I’ll be waiting out front.”
* * *
This time I didn’t feel a moment’s surprise to find Detective Nolan on the scene. I would have been shocked if he wasn’t there.
He prowled around Carrie’s apartment, looking oddly too large for the antique furnishings, as if he alone could take up the entire span of the love seat. He’d never struck me as a big man before, though, and I registered the thought that perhaps it was his confidence that made him seem large, his self-possession.
“Evening, Detective,” I said.
He gave me a tight smile, then crooked a finger at Diana. “Davis,” he said. “Can I have a word with you?”
As she moved toward Detective Nolan, I turned to the little dining room, where Carrie sat at the cluttered table. Seated in one of the mismatched chairs, she leaned forward on her elbows and spoke softly to a uniformed officer seated at the head of the table. The officer was filling out a form affixed to a clipboard. Incident report, my late-night television brain informed me.
I shuffled in beside Carrie, careful to step over a heap of paperback novels scattered on the floor. I laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her a quick hug. “How are you doing?” I asked.
The words felt foolish on my lips. Just looking around the wreck of her home was enough to make an educated guess at how she was feeling. But to not ask seemed somehow insensitive.
She turned bright eyes on me. “Angry,” she said. “I’m feeling angry. It wasn’t enough he broke into my store, but to break into my house, too?” She shook her head as a bit of the fight seemed to leave her. “And then I think of Herb and . . . thank God, you know?”
“I know,” I murmured. I didn’t want to dwell too long on what might have happened had Carrie been home when the intruder arrived. It was enough I was aware; dwelling would cripple me.
The officer looked up from his clipboard. “You’re saying he. Do you have some idea who might have done this?”
Carrie sighed, looked back to the cop. “He. She. They. I don’t know.”
Nodding, the officer asked, “Anything else missing?”
“I wrote it down,” she said, pushing a piece of paper in his direction. “The rest is just . . .” Carrie lifted her head and gazed around the apartment.
I did the same, taking in the scattered books and emptied knitting basket, balls of yarn unraveled across the carpet as though they’d been used for peewee soccer practice.
Pinning Carrie’s list behind the incident report, he clicked his pen closed and stood. “Call the precinct tomorrow. They’ll be able to give you a report number for your insurance. You’ll have to—”
“I know,” Carrie said, making no move to rise. “I have to file a claim.”
Slipping his cap back on his head, the officer tucked the clipboard under his arm and gave a nod of finality. “I’m sorry for your trouble, ma’am.” Then he eased away from the table and headed for the door.
As Carrie met my gaze, the rumble of men’s voices reverberated along the entrance hall. Diana strode into the living room, came to a hard stop as she took in the obstacle course the apartment had become.
“Don’t worry about it,” Carrie said with a wave. “At this point it doesn’t matter what you step on.”
“No, I won’t step on anything. It’s not that bad.” Diana picked her way across the debris on the floor to the opposite side of the table and leaned her hands against the back of a chair. “Officer Beaumont is going to do some canvassing, see if any of your neighbors heard or saw anything.”
“Someone must have.” I infused my voice with as much certainty as I could fake. “No one could make this much of a mess without making noise enough to draw attention. Right?”
My statement was met with silence.
“Fine,” I said, standing. “Let’s at least get this place cleaned up.”
“Leave it,” Carrie snapped.
Diana met my gaze across the table, wordlessly agreeing that this behavior was out of character for the usually chipper Carrie.
“Carrie, sweetie,” I began, bending down to bring my head more level with hers. “How about I make you a cup of tea? Some chamomile or Soothe Me?”
“Or a hot toddy?” Diana put in.
“I don’t need tea,” Carrie said, biting off one word at a time. “Or whiskey. I just need this nightmare to end. My property, my shop, my apartment. What’s next?”
I didn’t want to think about what was next, didn’t want to recall the scene outside Herb Gallo’s house. For all the hardship Carrie had suffered, she’s also been lucky. So far. I had to hold on to that.
I put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do.” I locked gazes with Diana, silently asking her to back me up. “Diana and I are going to pick up a little bit—”
“I said don’t—”
I kept talking, speaking louder to drown out her protests. “And while we’re doing that, you’re going to pack a bag with whatever you think you’ll need for the next few days. You are not staying here. You’re going to come stay with me and Grandy.”
I expected a protest. I expected her to insist she wouldn’t be frightened out of her home. But Carrie raised her head and looked at the wreckage surrounding her. As she stood from her chair, I stepped back out of her way.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
Relief relaxed my shoulders, and I noted Diana’s posture softening also. We both watched as Carrie walked over strewn papers, kicked a remote control out of her path as she made her way out of the dining room and through the short hallway to her bedroom.
“It’s a good idea,” Diana said, “having her stay with you.”
Bending to lift a tumbled bookend from the floor, I shook my head. “I just couldn’t imagine her staying here by herself. At least not tonight, not until we can get this cleaned up, get new locks installed, all that.”
Diana crouched and scooped together a half-dozen matched coasters. “Smart,” she said. “Whatever this guy is looking for, there’s no way to tell if he found it, if he’ll be back.”
“That’s what worries me.”
We worked in silence for a little while longer, gathering papers into neat stacks, blotting moisture from the floor where a vase of flowers had fallen. Neither one of us was inclined to attempt to rewind all the yarn. Instead we lifted the strands as neatly as we could and laid the tangle of color in the basket from which they’d come.
A tap on the door made both of us jump. My heart pounded and fear clogged my throat in the split second before I recalled burglars didn’t knock.
Detective Nolan ambled back into the living room, one hand tucked in the front pocket of his jeans.
“I thought you left,” I said.
He shook his head, turned to Diana. “Where’s Carrie?”
“Getting a bag together. She’s going to stay with Georgia for a couple days.”
Looking back to me, he tipped his head in the direction of the door. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Who? Me?” I squeaked.
“You. Georgia Kelly. Let’s walk.”
I glanced at Diana, who said, “I’m here. Go ahead.”
I grabbed one more stray magazine off the floor and set it on an end table. Detective Nolan waited to be sure I was coming then turned and led the way out of the apartment. He stayed a couple of paces ahead of me down the hallway to the top of the stairway.
“You know,” I began, finally catching up to him. “When someone suggests taking a walk, they usually intend to walk with the other person, not race ahead. What’s the rush, Detective?”
He sighed. “Christopher.”
“What?”
“My name is Christopher.” He walked down the stairs, and this time it was my hesitation that made me have to rush to catch him.
“I thought your name was Chip,” I said from a step behind him. “That’s what Drew Able says.”
Detective Nolan—Christopher—reached the landing and paused. “I was Chip in grade school. And middle school. And people that knew me then are having a tough time letting me grow out of it.” He leaned toward me, bringing his face closer to mine. “But I promise you, I’m all grown up now. And you can call me Chris.”
All the wayward thoughts I’d had about the man returned in one knee-rattling rush. Eyes shrewd and warm, enough salt in his hair to wipe away youthful foolishness, smile all the more delightful because of its rarity.
I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath as I shook those thoughts away . . . again. “Um. Okay. Chris. Where are we going?”
He jogged down the remaining half flight of stairs and this time I decided he could just wait until I caught up. No way was I going to run.
Plus, it gave me a few more moments to gather my wits and remember Tony’s call, remember his laugh, remember we had plans. A little shiver of happy anticipation danced across my skin. Tony. I was going to a non-platonic dinner with Tony. At last.
At the bottom of the stairs, the detective held open the glass and steel door leading onto the steps of the apartment building. I passed through with a muttered thanks, dimly aware that the air-conditioned indoor temperature was a few degrees warmer than the outdoor air.
“So what’s on your mind, Chris?” I skipped down the trio of steps and kept walking once I hit the sidewalk. Two could play the chase-me game.
He fell into step beside me. Once again he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to get your take on all of this.”
I opted against pretending cluelessness. “Mine? What good is my opinion? You’re the professional here. And come to think of it, why are you here? Aren’t there other detectives? Don’t you ever have a night off?”
And there was one of his rare smiles. Wow, that was hard to resist. You know, for some people.
“Pace County currently has three detectives. We really could use one more, but no one’s hitting exhaustion while we’re short staffed.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But yes, I do have the occasional nights off. Yes, tonight was one of them. But at this point, the desk gets a call from anyone connected to Russ or Carrie Stanford, I’m the one they contact.”
“Okay. So it’s your case is what you’re saying? And you really have connected the dots and admit these crimes aren’t random?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I connected those dots a long time ago, Georgia.”
We walked without speaking for ten feet or so, long enough for the subtle sounds of the neighborhood—a loud radio somewhere out of sight, the splash and shrieks of kids in a pool—to make an impression on me, and for one and only one car to zip past on the street.
“So then what do you need from me?” I asked. “What’s the point of this stroll?”
“You know Carrie better than I do,” he said. “Naturally.”
“Naturally,” I echoed.
“And she’ll tell you things she wouldn’t necessarily tell me.”
“You mean you, Chris? Or you, the Pace County detective?”
He gave me a tight smile. “Both. Either.”
I stomped on a weed growing boldly in the crack of the sidewalk. “What makes you think I’d tell you anything she’d rather keep private?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he said. “What I am asking is your impression. She’s insistent that Russ Stanford is her ex, but she still co-owns property with him, she still uses his last name, and she had dinner with him tonight.”
“So?”
“So are there any lingering feelings there?”
My forehead scrunched as I tried to sort through the logic. “What difference does that make?”
“Emotions are a difficult variable to pin down. If she still has feelings for him, she may be withholding information, suspicions . . .”
“You mean like if Russ was actually the guilty party here and Carrie was still in love with him, then she’d keep certain details to herself to protect him.”
He nodded. “Exactly that.”
“Or do you mean,” I started, and almost couldn’t believe I was going to ask, couldn’t believe I was suddenly worried about the answer, “that if Carrie is still in love with Russ, there’s no point in you asking her out?”
Detective Nolan came to an abrupt stop. He pulled his hands from his pockets and set them on his waist. “Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly,” I said.
He shook his head. “No. I mean honestly, that’s what you’re getting out of this? I thought you had sharper skills of observation.”
I stood still, managed to do nothing other than blink rapidly. I knew the ground beneath my feet was solid, flat, and steady, yet I somehow felt I had lost all balance. “I’m . . . really confused.”
Huffing, he looked away from me, up the street where no traffic passed. “I have no interest in Carrie Stanford that isn’t professional. And may I repeat, I thought you had sharper skills of observation.”
Shuffling backward a little, putting enough space between us that I could see his face and his posture and potentially read both, I nonetheless remained confused. It was my turn to huff. “Look, you know what? It’s been a long day. And the first person in this town that I could call a friend is packing her bags in a crime scene. So please, can you just ask direct questions and not play this police interrogation game where you try and trick me into giving up information I’d rather keep secret?”
His smile started slowly, but grew into a grin that seemed to dislodge the weight of law enforcement from his shoulders. “All right, then. Do you think Carrie is protecting Russ?”
“No. Next question.”
“Do you believe Russ’s brother Gabe may have set fire to his office to destroy the prenuptial agreement between Russ and his new fiancée?”
I drew a breath through my teeth. “Not sure. He has motive, he has access to accelerants, and he’s a serious jerk. But he would have no reason to break into Carrie’s shop or her home. So I have to go with no.”
His brows rose and he nodded appreciatively. “What about the fiancée? Could she be trying to scare Carrie away, make sure she has no place in Russ’s life going forward?”
I tipped my head. “Could be. Can I interrogate the fiancée?”
“No.”
“Then no comment. Next question.”
“Will you have dinner with me on Wednesday?”
Prepared to shoot back a quick yes or no to a question about Carrie or Russ, I opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish navigating sparkling water. The only word that threatened to fall from my tongue was Tony.
“Okay.” He nodded. “That’s a no. Fair enough. You were right about asking direct questions. Much faster.”
“Oh, no, wait.” I had to explain. I couldn’t let him think I had no interest at all, right? Because there was interest. And because what if me and Tony didn’t really click after all?
Detective Christopher Nolan held up a hand to stop me. “One more question. Do you have any theories on what our perpetrator is looking for among Carrie’s things?”
“No,” I said. “But can we get back to—”
Again, the hand came up. With his other hand, he reached to his belt and pulled a cell phone from its case. And in that one move, he put the cloak of law enforcement over his shoulders once more. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s all I have. You can go back upstairs now.” He turned his back on me, phone to his ear, and started walking. “Nolan.”
I took one step, ready to hurry after him.
“Yeah, Steve, what do you have?” His voice faded as he moved away, and I stood still, incapable of taking another step. Unbidden, Grandy’s voice rumbled through the back of my mind. Don’t chase after boys, Georgia, the voice advised. If he’s really interested, he’ll be back.
Frustrated and disappointed in myself, I scanned the sidewalk cracks for more weeds. Reaching down, I grabbed a handful of dandelion leaves and wrenched them out of the earth. With a grunt of aggravation, I threw the weeds at the street. But they were weeds, leaves heavy with moisture from humidity and rain. Rather than sail toward the street and land where a passing car would crush them beneath unforgiving wheels, the weeds dropped directly to the ground in a stunning display of the effects of gravity.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Just perfect.” I sighed and headed back toward Carrie’s apartment building.
“Well,” I told myself. “At least I will always have my cat to keep me company on a Saturday night.”
And then I swallowed down the lump of self-pity in my throat and went back inside.