01 - Through a Glass, Deadly by Sarah Atwell

Author:Sarah Atwell [Atwell, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2008-03-03T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

quench: a hot glass technique where the bubble or bit is plunged in and out of cold water, thus cracking the exterior surface through thermal shock while the interior remains hot and intact (Edward T. Schmid, Advanced Glassworking Techniques: An Enlightened Manuscript)

The next day, the idyll was shattered. I had planned to go down to the shop early, to check the level of glass in the furnace and to start a small batch of colored glass in my second, smaller furnace. I left Allison and Cam gazing soulfully at each other across a plate of home-baked muffins. Fueled by coffee and carbohydrates, I was going to get a jump on the day. After all, I had a business to run, and if I was going to make money selling glass, I had better make some glass to sell.

“Hey, you two, I’m going to walk the dogs, and then I’ll be in the studio.” I don’t think they heard me. I gathered up Fred and Gloria and their leashes and went down the stairs. Another beautiful fall day in Tucson—but then, most of them were. Clipping the leads on the dogs’ collars, I asked them, “Okay, pals, where do you want to go this time?”

Both of them strained toward the back of the building. Must be something tasty in the Dumpster, I mused, as I followed along. When we turned the corner to the alley, the first thing I saw was a large truck.

“What the . . . ?” It looked like Tim’s truck. I recalled that he had said something about the rest of the shipment that hadn’t arrived last week. But he would never have just left the truck here, all but blocking the alley, and certainly not overnight.

Not alive, that is. When I came around the end of the truck, I knew why he hadn’t moved it. He was lying sprawled against my back door, and he was very dead.

For a moment I fought back tears. Tim had been making deliveries to me for years. He was a good guy, a hardworking independent. He’d shown me pictures of his wife and daughters, and I’d watched them grow up. He’d always been willing to lend me a hand when I needed one.

Now, somehow, I’d killed him—or at least my association with him had. And I didn’t even know how, or why. And that made me damned angry.

The dogs looked up at me, sensing that something was not right, and I struggled to figure out what I was supposed to do next. Police. Well, duh. I’d been through this drill once already this week, and I knew how that worked. Phone—I needed a phone. Upstairs? No, let the lovebirds have a few more moments of untainted bliss. Shop, then. At least I’d brought my keys along.

I dragged the dogs away from Tim’s body and went back around the corner to unlock the front door. Everything looked exactly the way we had left it the day before. No break-in. All

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