Ill-Gotten Panes (A Stained-Glass Mystery) by Jennifer McAndrews Page B

framed the main entrance, pallets of bricks peppered the side lot, waiting to be shipped out, and shiny cars filled the parking area. Now, only the shadow the building cast and the view of the river matched my recollections. Like Grandma Keene, the glory days of the brickworks had long ago been laid to rest.
    “You have to picture it,” Himmel said as he strode away from me, crossing the packed dirt expanse dividing the construction trailer from the water’s edge. “We’re starting with two small piers rather than long. That will give the impression right away of a well-trafficked location, and we can extend both piers or add more when the time comes.”
    Out on the water, rotting pilings jutted from the riverbed. I tried to picture piers stretching over the water where now there was only spoiled wood, tried to picture boats at dock—pleasure craft with families and fishermen. I had to admit it was a pleasing vision.
    “The main building,” he continued, shifting his stance to face the brickworks, “will have two floors, a marine shop below and restaurant above. We’ll be cutting back the roofline to allow outdoor dining in milder weather.”
    “Which is boating weather anyway,” I put in.
    “Precisely.” Himmel grinned. “Wenwood’s location makes it an ideal rest point for people spending the day sailing the Hudson. In good weather, you stop to enjoy a meal, maybe spend the weekend in Wenwood. In unexpected bad weather? Same thing.”
    “Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out,” I said.
    He nodded. “It’s been a long time in planning.” His gaze remained on the brickworks, as though he saw not what it was but what it would become. The spark in his eye and the eagerness in his stance nearly made me take a staggered step backward. Though his overall appearance was unchanged, the faraway look in his eye revealed another side of him—a side with plans and goals and dreams, a side that might even be considered admirable—a different sort of Anton Himmel than the scowling, angry man I’d met before.
    But the equation wasn’t adding up. “So if you’ve got everything worked out, why are you and I the only people here? Why is no one working?”
    The contented, visionary expression vanished, replaced by the tight-lipped, narrow-eyed anger I’d first encountered. “Look around,” he said. With a sweep of his arm, he encompassed the open, still area in which we stood. “What’s missing here?”
    I knew
workers
was the wrong answer, but I couldn’t guess at the right one.
    “You see any supplies here? You see pallets of lumber lined up and ready to go?”
    “Umm, no?”
    “Damn right
no
.”
    “But why not? Why is—”
    “Tell me again why you’re here,” Himmel demanded.
    “I . . . uh . . . was wondering why you were arguing with Andy Edgers the other day.”
    He raised his brows, inclined his head in a manner to suggest I already knew the answer.
    The sun beat down on my head, raised prickles of sweat along the back of my neck while I worked to pull the pieces together. And then I had them. “Andy was supposed to supply the lumber.”
    “You’re close.”
    Okay, so I
thought
I had them.
    “Part of the agreement with the Town Council was that we would go through local channels in all possible instances. Mr. Edgers was supposed to process our supply orders for lumber, nails, asphalt, you name it.”
    “Is that typical?”
    Himmel scowled—a response that required no words.
    “So why aren’t the supplies here?”
    “There are some problems with the orders.” He turned and walk back toward the Jeep.
    Quick-timing to keep up with him, I asked, “Was that why you were arguing with Edgers? Did he know about the problems with the orders? Was it on his end or yours?”
    He shoved one hand in his pocket and with the other opened the door to the Jeep. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Kelly, I need to get back to work.”
    Coming to a halt, I placed my hands on my hips. “Did he