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

from curious neighbors.
    Of course, once I reached the end of the street, I realized I had no idea where the police station was located. Yeah, I’d call that a flaw in the plan.
    After putting some distance between me and Grandy’s street, I steered the Jeep to the curb and threw it into park. With the engine’s motor still running, and the dappled sunshine of a spreading maple tree shading me from the morning sun, I grabbed my smartphone out of my purse and did a map search for Wenwood Police Department.
    The search returned no results. Drat. The jurisdiction must fall to the county. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the details of the uniform the officer wore to the house. My memory showed me a field of deep blue, a shield and name tag over the left breast. But it was the points of his collar I was interested in. I could visualize a precinct number there. The more I tried to focus, the more I worried my memory was painting in details from the city police uniform with which I had become so familiar.
    Double drat.
    I eased back onto the road and pointed the Jeep in the direction of the village. Someone there would be able to tell me where the station was, if I didn’t get struck by luck and pass it along the way.
    Less than fifteen minutes had passed before the Jeep bumped along the old cobbled road bisecting the village. I rolled slowly along, reading shop signs in search of one wherein I thought someone would be able to help. When I spied the bakery, I knew I’d found a solution. What I needed to find was a parking spot. What I found instead were two more police squad cars and a yellow caution-tape barrier preventing anyone from entering the hardware store.
    That knot once again took hold of my stomach. I flipped a U-turn and parked the Jeep on the opposite side of the street. Grabbing my purse, I hurried to the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and peered through the plate glass display window. All the lights were on, but I could see nothing beyond the rows of shelves I had wandered through two days before.
    Determined to get some info while at the same time afraid of what I might learn, I headed up the street a little. Ahead, in front of Village Grocery, a cluster of senior citizens stood as if in conference. It reminded me of the scene across the street from Grandy’s house. Sweat prickled my scalp, from nerves or the heat or both, and I quick-timed it to Aggie’s Gifts and Antiques and burst through the door.
    “Carrie?” I called over the jingling of the bell. “Hello? Are you here?”
    Impatient, I circled the perimeter of the store, passing by jewelry armoires, quilt racks, an old vanity table to where the register sat midway along the western wall. Back to me, she was climbing down from a step stool, feather duster in her hand, when I found her.
    “Carrie,” I said again.
    Her eyes found me and opened wide. “Oh my gosh! Georgia, is it true? It’s not true, is it? It just can’t be.”
    “I—uh—is what true? No, wait.” I squinched my eyes shut for a moment, as if that action alone could pause the conversation. “What happened at the hardware store?” I asked then opened my eyes.
    Carrie’s eyes remained wide, and were now accompanied by a slack jaw. “It’s Andy Edgers,” she said. “Bill Harper found him yesterday morning, dead in the back room with . . . with . . .” She swallowed hard, and I imagined she had a knot in her throat as big as the one in my stomach. “With his . . . head . . . bashed in. Murdered.”
    The knot burst open into a rush of queasiness. “Oh, my gosh,” I murmured. “Murdered? Holy cow.”
    Okay, death did not stop the guy from being a jerk. Happily, I didn’t think for a minute the guy had it coming. He was mean. He deserved to have his house TPed or maybe as far as having his car egged. But murdered . . . wow. Still . . . “He must have really pissed someone off,” I murmured.
    “Georgia.” Carrie stepped close, took loose