Pane and Suffering

Book 1: Webb's Glass Shop Mystery

by Cheryl Hollon

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

To solve her father's murder and save the family-owned glass shop, Savannah Webb must shatter a killer's carefully constructed façade . . .

After Savannah's father dies unexpectedly of a heart attack, she drops everything to return home to St. Petersburg, Florida, to settle his affairs—including the fate of the beloved, family-owned glass shop. Savannah intends to hand over ownership to her father's trusted assistant and fellow glass expert, Hugh Trevor, but soon discovers the master craftsman also dead of an apparent heart attack.

As if the coincidence of the two deaths wasn't suspicious enough, Savannah discovers a note her father left for her in his shop, warning her that she is in danger. With the local police unconvinced, it's up to Savannah to piece together the encoded clues left behind by her father. And when her father's apprentice is accused of the murders, Savannah is more desperate than ever to crack the case before the killer seizes a window of opportunity to cut her out of the picture . . .

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Monday Morning

Savannah fingered the key ring her late father had used only a week ago. She knew each key by memory, having used them from babyhood up through borrowing his car with her newly issued driver’s license. She clenched them in her fist and took a deep shaky breath. Dad will never twirl them barely out of my reach again.

Paint flaked off the heavy, fireproofed and double-bolted back door. It’s like Dad, she thought, well-worn, but strong and solid.

How could her smart, funny, marathon running dad die of a heart attack?

Savannah unlocked the shop, stepped into his office, and keyed the alarm code. With walls built of salvaged barn wood, the tiny space awakened a vision of his shoulders hunched over a mountain of paperwork. The sharp smoky scent of his aftershave clutched her heart.

Stop thinking about him. The students will be here soon.

Forcing a slow breath, she dropped the keys onto the rolltop desk that had once been her grandfather’s. Small pilings of papers, files, bills, and Post-it notes covered every available flat surface and all the pigeonholes were stuffed like magpie nests. Grandpa Roy had used the sturdy desk for the motorcycle business he’d started after World War I. In continuous use by her family since the 1920s, it looked at her with serious expectations.

I guess you’re mine now. I’ll do my best.

She ran her hand over the top and smiled when her fingers reached the dent caused by a wildly thrown toy rocket when she was five. Her dad had yelled at her.

He seldom yelled.

Startled by the ringing of the black wall-mounted phone, she cleared her throat and picked up the receiver. “Webb’s Glass Shop. May I help you?”

“Oh my. I wasn’t expecting a real person. I meant to leave a message.”

Good guess. I don’t feel like a real person today. “It’s okay. I’m opening up. May I help you?”

“I wanted to know if class has been cancelled. I would completely understand, you know, because the funeral was on Sunday. It was so awesome—all those young men in military uniforms.”

Savannah flinched, recalling the haunting echo of Taps floating behind the gravestone that marked the final rejoining of her parents. She swallowed quickly. “Classes are being held as scheduled beginning today. Which one are you taking?”

“I’m in Beginning Stained Glass.”

“It starts in half an hour. What’s your name?”

“Amanda Blake. I signed up for more classes with John, I mean with Mr. Webb, last month, but I thought the shop might close.”

“Hugh Trevor is taking over the classes for Dad. I mean Mr. Webb. I’ll see you in—”

“Oh my goodness. Are you Savannah?”

“Yes, I’m—”

“I am so, so sorry. I saw you at the funeral. You must be devastated. Mr. Webb was so proud of you. He talked about you all the time.”

“Thank you. I have to—”

“He was so proud that you were studying at Pilchuck Glass School on a special scholarship. He told every class about how you won the Spinnaker Art Festival on your first entry when you were only seventeen.”

“How embarrassing. Every class?”

“Yes, it was always in his first lecture.”

Savannah struggled to keep her voice from breaking. “It’s going to be difficult to—”

“Your dad looked so strong, so healthy, and so positively vital . . . if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, it was a shock.”

“He was such an excellent teacher and mentor. How are you going to manage everything?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Savannah’s stomach fluttered. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in class.” Savannah clicked the receiver down before Amanda could continue.

You’re not the only one who is confused about why he died.

Savannah finger combed her short, black hair, tugged up the waistband of her skinny jeans, and rolled up the cuffs of her classic white shirt. It was her basic teaching uniform. Calm, she focused on getting the shop ready for the day’s business.

Shoving the key ring into her back pocket and picking up the waiting stack of student handouts, she walked into the classroom. Situated between the office and the retail area, the large classroom contained six sturdy worktables for students, each with a tall wooden stool. As she placed a large brown manila envelope on each of the worktables, she remembered how her dad had experimented with various table sizes, table heights, stool types, and the number of students per table.

He’d tried to rope in Hugh to help, but his long-time assistant had no empathy for a student’s environment. However, the crusty Hugh could teach a mule about the beauty, art, and mystic nature of always-liquid glass. Her dad’s meticulous research had resulted in the current configuration of three rows of two worktables facing a whiteboard on the front wall and an instructor worktable facing the class. He’d practically wiggled with joy after he’d found the perfect environment for his students to create great glass art.

She switched on the overhead natural lighting that illuminated the projects of former students displayed around the walls. Her heart wrenched when she noticed her dad had placed her first piece, the traditional green turtle sun catcher panel, on the narrow shelf of the whiteboard. He had been planning to use it for the first demonstration project. Tears immediately formed and she pulled a tissue from her back pocket to press them away.

In her mind’s eye, she saw her nail-bitten child’s fingers struggling with the pieces of green glass. She had desperately willed them to be nimble and sure as she assembled the little turtle under her dad’s watchful guidance. It must have pleased him to no end to use it as an example for the class.

After switching on the task lighting lamp for each worktable, she walked to the room at the front of the shop facing the street. It served as the student display gallery and retail section. It was neat and orderly as he’d always kept it.

Off to her right, she looked at the closed door of her dad’s custom workshop. They had spent many, many hours working on delicate restorations, complicated repairs, and amazing consignments from almost every church in the city.

Deliberately delaying opening up the workspace that held her oldest and strongest memories, she found the right key and unlocked the front door. If I don’t open the workshop door, I can imagine that he’s still in there working on his latest project. I know it’s childish, but I don’t have to be a grown-up all the time.

At twenty minutes before ten, it was a little early to open the shop, but some students preferred to arrive early so they could lay claim to their work area. She looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the storefront to see a short man with an elaborate comb-over getting out of a red BMW, then striding up to the door.

“Rats,” she muttered. It was the owner of Lattimer’s Glass Shop, her dad’s competitor. She pushed down a rush of panic and put on her face reserved for welcoming customers. Savannah opened the door. “Hi Frank. What brings you down here to the Grand Central District? Your shop is still downtown, right?”

Frank pursed his soft lips into a thin line. “Good morning, Savannah. I see you’re opening up. I thought we could talk about my offer to buy Webb’s Glass Shop.” He stepped closer, but she blocked him from entering.

“I’m not ready.”

“What’s to get ready? Why are you torturing yourself when you could accept my offer and be on your way back to Seattle?”

Not slamming the door in his face took willpower. “I’m on bereavement leave. My scholarship will still be there when I get back. Besides, I haven’t worked out all the finances yet.”

“You can trust me on this. It’s a generous offer.”

Savannah started closing the door, “Yours is not the only offer, you know.”

“Oh sure, that land shark Smythe can mention a tempting figure,” he said, putting a name to the corporate real estate tycoon who wanted to buy the block to build a Super Store. “But he has to work through his corporate office and get the other stores to sell along with you. I’m only trying to save you time and trouble. Come on, Vanna. Your dad would have signed in a heartbeat.”

Savannah snapped, “That’s a bald-faced lie. The two of you hadn’t spoken in ten years.”

“You know he was a good businessman. That doesn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t approve.”

“Approve? You didn’t even come to the funeral. He would expect me to have thrown you out on your ear.”

Frank was quiet and the silence between them grew large and heavy. He looked down. “I’m sorry. I was busy. We did have some pretty wide differences. But that’s only natural between teacher and student. He really was a wonderful teacher. I never thanked him for all he taught me. Now it’s too late.”

Savannah looked at the floor and took a calming breath. “Look. I need to check the books. I’m not turning it down. Quite the opposite. I need to make sure everything is ready and that there are no financial surprises.”

“No one was a better businessman. John would have approved.”

“He sounded stressed the last few . . . Never mind. Let’s meet downtown for lunch, say Wednesday at the Casita Taqueria just down the street. I promise I’ll give you either an answer or a counteroffer.”

“Fair enough.” Frank nodded his head. “I’ll see you then. Vanna, trust me. John would have approved.”

She leaned out the door. “Don’t call me Vanna,” she yelled as an afterthought, watching him scrunch back into his sleek status symbol, screeching tires as he drove away.

She had been lying. She had no intention of selling to Frank. If all went well, she would leave for Seattle the next day and let Hugh handle everything else. I should have told Frank, she mused. A little suffering would do him good.

Closing the door gently enough not to jangle the bell at the top, Savannah slipped behind the retail counter facing the entry door and tentatively pushed the power ON button to the point-of-sale PC. She watched it nervously, her fingers crossed that it would start up. Pushing the button was all she knew how to do.

I hope Hugh is on his way. It’s more than strange for him not to be here already. I better call again. We need to finalize the transition plan of ownership of Webb’s. I also need him to teach this class.

Savannah picked up the phone beside the screen and ran her finger down the tattered list of contacts taped to the counter top, stopping at Hugh Trevor. She dialed the number and heard his answering machine message. “I’m out. You know the drill.” Beep.

“Hugh, are you there? It’s Savannah. I need your help to open the shop. I hope you’re on the way. Please be on the way. Please. See you soon.”

As she spoke, the doorbell jangled fiercely and a tall man dressed in black western boots, black jeans, and a French blue oxford shirt topped with a black string tie bolted through. “Don’t touch it,” he cautioned in a BBC-newscaster accent. “If the cash register starts up wonky, it’ll be ages before it sorts itself out.”

Savannah looked into his seriously green eyes and caught a faint whiff of Polo Black. He crowded her to the side and peered at the PC screen. As she was six-foot in stocking feet, not many men looked down on her.

She stretched around his back to hang up the phone. “I didn’t want to start it, but I couldn’t wait for Hugh any longer. Who are you?”

He peered into the monitor. “Good. Coming online and”—he looked for a certain sign from the monitor—“brilliant. It’s happy.” He pulled back, then turned to her. “I have the same system next door and I had a meltdown with mine this morning.”

“Right, but who—”

The tinkle of the door opening interrupted Savannah’s question. A plump young woman with wildly spiked pink and yellow hair entered the shop. Wearing a white peasant blouse and patchwork midi skirt, she shouldered through the door balancing a huge purse, a canvas bag of tools, a briefcase overfilled with glass remnants, and a large plywood square for mounting stained glass work.

Green-eyed man lunged to hold open the door. “Amanda, you shouldn’t try to carry everything at once.”

Savannah’s eyebrows lifted.

Puffing like an espresso machine, Amanda said, “It’s all right. Two trips would take too much energy. My aura has been weak since I heard the terrible news about Mr. Webb.” She made a beeline for the classroom.

Savannah scurried over to push the classroom door out of the way. She nudged a doorstop in place to keep it open.

Amanda grunted and plopped her bundles on the worktable in the first row. “I want to sit where I can see.” She nudged her bold orange glasses back onto her nose. “Savannah! Oh my goodness. You’re just as beautiful as John said.” She clamped Savannah in a round tight hug, stepped back, and looked into her face. “And you have his cobalt blue eyes. I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Thank you, Amanda. Welcome to class.”

Savannah turned to stare pointedly at the green-eyed man.

Again, the doorbell jangled and two slender elderly women entered, wearing matching gray ruffled blouses with gray polyester pants over gray ballet flat shoes. They carried large gray tote bags. One carried hers over the left shoulder. The other twin carried hers over the right shoulder. Even their round, black glasses were identical.

Savannah gulped. I’ll never be able to tell these two apart.

“Let’s sit in the back. I don’t like others to overlook my work,” said one twin.

“Silly. Everyone walks around and looks at each other’s projects. It’s how we learn. Let’s go for the front so we can hear properly,” said the other twin.

The first twin put her materials on the far back worktable. “It’s my turn to pick the seats. You chose for the pottery class.”

“Very well. But don’t whine if you can’t hear the instructions.”

“It’s my turn.”

Savannah turned to Green Eyes and whispered, “Have they been here before?”

His eyes crinkled, and he leaned closer and whispered, “The Rosenberg twins, Rachel and Faith, are addicted to craft classes.”

“So, they’re good?”

“Let’s just say they make everyone else feel above average. They take classes for the sheer joy of criticizing each other. And they lie. About the quality of each other’s work, about who made what mistake. They lie when there’s no need to lie. They’re the biggest liars in the district.”

The bell announced the arrival of a deeply tanned couple. He was brown-haired with brown eyes wearing khaki cargo shorts, a closely tailored navy golf shirt, and Topsiders without socks. She was blonde with sky-blue eyes wearing a perfectly tailored khaki skirt with a teal sweater set accented by a single strand of pearls. They were perfectly on trend and looked more like they should be boarding a cruise ship rather than attending an art class. They slipped into the remaining open row of worktables.

The early-forties trying to look late-twenties woman looked around as though welcoming them into her living room. She smiled at each person until she caught their eye, and when she had everyone’s attention, she said, “Good morning, y’all. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Young. I’m Nancy and this is my groom, Arthur. I’ve called him my groom since the day Daddy announced our engagement. I’m the Director of Programs at the Museum of Fine Arts and my groom plays third chair cello for the Florida Orchestra. We’re so happy to be here taking this wonderful class with y’all.”

Green Eyes grinned a wide smile and turned to Savannah. He caught himself and the smirk disappeared behind an uncomfortable cough. He shifted his weight slightly foot to foot. “Look. I wanted to offer my sincere condolences. I think the loss of your father is one of life’s most devastating events.”

“That’s very kind, but who—”

“Most of us along this street were at his funeral. I stayed behind to run the pub so most of my staff could attend. John made such a difference in standing up for the small businesses on this block. We’ll miss his advice and experience in negotiating with the mayor and city council.”

“Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”

“I’ve got to get back to the pub.” He walked out, then turned to lean back through the front door. “If you need anything, I’m right next door or you can call. My number is on the list under Edward, Edward Morris. I own the Queen’s Head Pub. Welcome to the Grand Central District.” He quietly closed the door with a small click.

Savannah smiled and let out a sigh of relief. She was glad he was right next door. It looked like she might have more on her plate than she originally expected, especially if Hugh made a habit of running late. She checked the list of contact numbers and there was Edward’s number standing out clearly on the smudged list. She plugged it into her cell.

Checking her dad’s roster, the five registered class members had all arrived. She frowned. Where was the sixth and even more worrying, where was Hugh? She glanced at the large plain clock on the wall. It said 10:00 sharp as did her watch.

I’m going to have to start teaching his class until he gets here. I haven’t taught beginning stained glass since I left for Seattle. Yikes, that’s over five years ago. I hope it’s like riding a bicycle.

She softly stepped behind the instructor’s workstation and cleared her throat. “Good morning. I’m Savannah, Mr. Webb’s daughter.” Her voice shook at the mention of her dad. Ducking her head, she covered her mouth with her fist to clear her voice and stabilize it to a lower tone. “Welcome to Beginning Stained Glass. Each class will be structured roughly the same. First, a short lecture followed by a skill demonstration. Then you’ll practice on a small piece to reinforce the skill. Hugh Trevor will be your instructor. He’s a master glass craftsman who—”

Amanda’s hand shot up into the air. “What’s the project?”

“A small sun catcher panel.” Savannah picked up her little green turtle sun catcher and held it high. “It’s a simple design, but looks complicated. You will learn the skills of cutting glass, applying copper foil, soldering, and bending zinc came.”

“What’s that zinc cane stuff? I thought we were learning to make proper leaded stained glass,” said Nancy.

“Good question.” Savannah turned and wrote C A M E on the whiteboard. “Lead is a heavy metal that can, over time, leach into your skin. The new came is a preformed miniature U-shaped channel of zinc that can be bent to follow the edges of the panel. Modern knowledge sometimes overtakes tradition.”

She looked at the door once again. Hugh better have a damn good excuse for not coming in today.

“Now, for a quick history lesson. Honest, I do mean quick. As a material, stained glass is colored by adding metallic salts during its manufacture. In ancient time, the colored glass was crafted into windows held together by strips of lead and supported by a rigid frame. The oldest known—”

A scraping shuffle and the jangle of the doorbell turned all heads to the front of the shop.

Thank goodness. That must be Hugh.

A gangly blue-jeaned young man with a black backpack over his shoulder rushed through the display room and into the classroom. He stopped cold in front of Savannah. “Sorry, I signed up for this class,” blurted the pale-faced teen. He looked down at the floor. “Mr. Webb told me I could attend this class. He promised me his apprentices don’t have to pay.”

Okay, here’s the last student. How on earth could I forget about the apprentice? This must be Jacob. Dad was wildly enthusiastic about his talent, raving in fact. He said Jacob reminded him of me at eighteen. But, really, where is Hugh?

Savannah pointed to the remaining vacant work space. “It’s no problem. You see we have plenty of room.”

“I’ve been working with Mr. Webb and Mr. Trevor.” The young man’s eyes widened to owl-sized intensity.

“You must be Jacob. Mr. Webb told me so much about you, I feel like we’re already friends.” She pressed her hand over her heart. It was so like her dad to take this awkward fledgling under his wing as an apprentice. “My name is Savannah Webb. I’m Mr. Webb’s daughter.”

He gulped and nodded vigorously, then stepped forward to solemnly shake her hand. “My name is Jacob Underwood. Pleased to meet you.”

She smiled. “Dad’s apprentices are always invited to classes. Go ahead and get yourself settled.” Savannah guided him to the remaining worktable.

“Where’s Mr. Trevor?” Jacob perched on the work stool with his feet resting on the bottom rung and placed his backpack on his lap without letting go of the straps.

She moved back to the instructor station. “Mr. Trevor is delayed and I’m filling in until he arrives. Now, where was I?”

Amanda launched her plump hand into the air like a rocket. “You were telling us about the origins of stained glass.”

“Yes. As I said, they crafted the colored glass into windows or objects held together by strips of lead and then supported by a rigid frame. The oldest known stained glass window was pieced together using ancient glass from an archaeological dig.”

“What did she say?” One of the twins leaned into the other’s ear, whispering loud enough for everyone to look back at them.

Faith flushed from her t. . .