Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) Read Online Free

did, the lead wouldn’t be dusty with oxidization. After tugging on one of the several pairs of disposable cotton gloves I kept in my work box, I broke into my trusty reserve of cotton swabs, and began the meticulous work of cleaning the dust from the lead.
    Caught in the hypnotic effect of the work, I lost track of time. Only the setting of the sun and the loss of light clued me in to the late hour. Grandy had long since headed out to work; I vaguely remembered mumbling a good-bye when he called down the stairs. I still had full daylight then. He liked to get to the dine-in theater he owned a solid hour before the box office opened for the seven o’clock show. As much as he swore he trusted his management staff, several times a week he would review the establishment like a general inspecting his troops.
    Since I was already on a roll, and Grandy was safely out of my hair, I made myself a quick dinner that didn’t center on meat and potatoes, turned the radio up loud, and went to work cleaning the neglected portions of the house—the baseboards and ceilings, under the stove, behind the fridge . . . all the icky places.
    Long past midnight I blindly threw all the rags and cleaning towels and clothes I’d been wearing into the washer but held off switching the machine on. I wanted to shower the grime off myself, scrub it out from underneath my fingernails, and otherwise wash away the day.
    While the dirt and tension slid down the drain, I opened the door to the basement, where the wash waited, and made a critical error. I paused. I took a breath. And on the exhale I felt every muscle, every tendon go limp. I was tired and ready for bed and in no mood to trudge down the stairs. The washer held nothing I would need immediately. I decided the laundry could wait.
    The next day followed the same path—stained glass work while the light was strong and housework while it wasn’t. Grandy stayed well out of my way and left for the theater without a word. I kept going, not resting until the house was dust-free and every inch of wood polished to a gleam.
    After two days of scrubbing, sleep claimed me quickly. Sometimes I thought I was catching up on the sleep I’d lost during years in a high-pressure job, juggling the books for Washington Heritage Financial, trying to keep a handle on the flow of billions of dollars. Sometimes I thought sleep was putting the final touches on the healing of my broken heart. Sometimes I was just tired.
    But never had I woken up to a pounding on the door quite like the pounding that woke me in midmorning. Panic gripped my gut. Something was wrong. What could be wrong? Grandy. Something had happened to Grandy.
    I flew out of bed and down the stairs, heedless of the faded T-shirt and gym shorts I wore in lieu of pajamas. Worse, heedless of the state my hair might be in after falling asleep with it wet. This was perhaps something I should have heeded. When I ripped open the door, the first thing I noticed was the look of utter horror on the face of the man standing on the porch. The second was the shiny gold badge he held at eye level. The third, a uniformed officer standing at his side.
    The twisting in my gut got a little tighter. “Yes?” was all I could manage.
    The man with the badge shook his head slightly as though calling himself back to the moment. “We’re looking for Peter James Keene. Is he here?”
    My mouth went dry. The police were looking for Grandy? Specifically? No way that could indicate a social call. I nodded and stepped back, gesturing for the gentlemen to come inside. “He should be—”
    “What the blazes is going on here?” Grandy’s voice boomed from the stairway.
    I looked over my shoulder then scampered out of the way. Grandy stomped down the stairs, turning for the front door while cinching the belt on his old-fashioned dressing gown and glaring at the policemen.
    The one in the suit brandished his badge again. “Detective Nolan, Pace County PD. Are you Peter