 
# Table of Contents

Title Page

Be Still My Beading Heart

About the Author

Connect with Janice Peacock

More Books in the Glass Bead Mystery Series

Sample Chapters from High Strung, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book One

# BE STILL MY BEADING HEART

## A Glass Bead Mini-Mystery

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## Janice Peacock

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#### Vetrai Press

#### Lafayette, California

#### 2016
Copyright 2016 Janice Peacock

www.janicepeacock.com

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

Published in 2016 by Booktrope: Be Still My Beading Heart, A Glass Bead Mini-Mystery

Published in 2016 by Vetrai Press: Be Still My Beading Heart, A Glass Bead Mini-Mystery

Cover Design by Greg Simanson

Edited by Ellen Margulies

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

eBook (epub) ISBN: 978-0-9984819-1-3

This short story takes place four months after **_A Bead in the Hand_** , Book Two in the Glass Bead Mystery Series.

# BE STILL MY BEADING HEART

"HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY," Val said, as she placed a small package with a bright pink bow in my hands with a flourish. She ushered me over to her sofa—the same color as the bow—sat down, and patted the cushion next to her. "Come on, you've got to open it."

I tore open the sparkly wrapping paper and found a chrome-colored bottle of Chanel No. 6 perfume.

"Oh, Val, you shouldn't have. You really, really shouldn't have." And it was true; she really should not have bought this for me, or anyone else. According to Val, or at least according to the street vendor she bought it from, Chanel No. 6 was better than Chanel No. 5. I'd smelled the stuff before, and I didn't agree.

"I thought you could use it when you go on your big Valentine's date."

"I don't have one," I said.

"What? That's simply not possible. What about Zach?"

"Zachary—remember, he doesn't like to be called Zach." The stern detective I met last year during a murder investigation turned out to be much nicer than I initially thought, though he was still stiff and serious most of the time.

"He's a hunk, no matter what you call him," Val said with a wink.

"I haven't heard from Zachary. I'm not holding my breath," I said.

"And Ryan, what about him?"

"He's working all weekend. He gets all the worst shifts." I usually didn't get much attention from the opposite sex, other than from my attitudinal cat, Gumdrop, but I don't think he counts, nor does Stanley the Bassett hound. The dog snuffled into the living room at that moment, sidled up to me, and gave me a slobbery kiss on the arm. That was probably the closest thing to romance I'd see this Valentine's Day, as usual. I'd spent plenty of Valentine's Days—and many nights as well—at home with Gumdrop, and with Ben and Jerry—their New York Super Fudge ice cream, that is.

"I'm sorry, honey. I hope one of them comes to their senses and takes you out. You could use a little fun."

"I'll probably work in my studio tonight. I'm fine, really."

As a glass beadmaker, I spend most of my days working at a two thousand degree torch melting glass. Lately I'd been making beads all day, every day to fill orders placed by galleries and bead shops. I love working with glass beads, and having such high demand for my jewelry was an added bonus. But it was exhausting working at the torch non-stop and assembling necklaces and earrings when I was too burnt out to continue melting glass.

"What about you? You must have a hot date lined up for tonight," I said. Val had had a string of questionable boyfriends ever since she moved in next door. I wondered who the next unsuitable man might be.

"I'm going out with this hot new guy. Sort of a diamond in the rough." I knew all too well that one of Val's hobbies was to give a makeover to anyone who would sit still long enough for her to work her magic. "He said he'd pick me up in his Porsche. With a nice car like that, he must be respectable. Right?"

"I'm sure you'll have fun, you always do. I've got to dash. I'm going to drop off some new necklaces at a gallery downtown." Heading toward my car, The Ladybug, I shoved the bottle of Chanel No. 6 in my purse. I'd figure out what to do with it later.

The Ladybug is my red convertible VW bug—and I love her almost as much as Gumdrop. When I left my dreary life in Miami behind, I loaded the car with just a few possessions—and my cat, of course—and we drove all the way to Seattle together. I christened her "The Ladybug" with a bottle of Diet Coke at the side of the road during my move to the Pacific Northwest. The Ladybug was more than a set of wheels to me. She had helped me follow my dreams and finally live the creative and fulfilling life I yearned for.

I headed toward the 7th Street Glass Gallery, an up-and-coming shop in Seattle's Pioneer Square district. I circled the blocks nearest to the gallery before giving up and parking on the street, a little too close to a red curb to be, strictly speaking, legal. I admit it: My car was fully in a red zone. I knew my trip to the gallery would be fast. I popped the trunk and juggled a tray of loose beads while I pulled out the box of necklaces beneath it. In my rush, a few beads fell into the gutter at my feet. I grabbed them and tossed them back into the tray. I hoped that the beads hadn't broken because I needed to take them to Rosie's bead shop after I was done here. I closed the trunk and sprinted toward the gallery.

The 7th Street Glass Gallery was stunning with its high ceilings and black walls. Vibrantly colored glass art shimmered on shelves and cases around the room.

"Jax, so nice of you to come down," Susan, the gallery owner, said. Her dress was the same color as the walls—pitch black. She had matching sleek black hair.

"Sure, no problem. Here's the box of new necklaces you requested," I said, placing the tray on an onyx countertop.

"And here's the necklace that I'm returning to you. I'm sorry it didn't work for us," Susan said, handing me a small bag with my rejected jewelry inside. "Let me show you some of the newest work in the gallery."

"Thanks, but I've got to run. I'd love to see it another time," I said as I sailed out the door. I trotted down the street. Turning the corner, I expected to see my car but instead had a sickening realization:

The Ladybug was gone.

Maybe this wasn't where I parked her. In my rush to get to the gallery I hadn't paid much attention to where I was. I turned in a circle to get my bearings. The City Hall Park was across the street from where I'd left the car, I remembered that. And it was right across the street from where I was standing now. I looked down and spotted a red heart-shaped bead—one of mine—sparkling in the gutter at my feet. It must have fallen out of the bead tray and somehow I missed it when I picked up the others from the ground. This bead was proof that I hadn't forgotten where I'd parked. I pocketed the bead, hoping it would be my lucky charm and guide me to my car.

There were a couple of homeless men sitting on a park bench across the street. Other than that, the block was deserted.

"Excuse me, did you happen to see the red VW bug that was parked over there?" I asked as I crossed the street toward them.

"We didn't see nothing. At least not for free," said one of the men.

"We might remember something if we weren't so hungry," said the other.

"Right. I get it. Here's a twenty," I said, pulling a bill out of my purse. I placed the twenty in one man's hand and it disappeared into his pocket.

"Hey! Don't rip me off, man!" said the other man.

I pulled out another twenty and gave it to him. "Okay guys, fair and square. Now, what can you tell me?"

"Sorry, lady. We just got here a minute ago. So what we saw the whole time we were here was that empty spot there on the street."

"You said you'd tell me what happened to my car!" But it was more than my car that was missing. There was a tray of handmade beads—made by these hands—that were in the trunk. They were the beads I was taking to Rosie's shop, worth upwards of seven hundred dollars. They had taken me days to make. The thought of losing them, as well as The Ladybug, left a lump in my throat.

"We told you we might have seen something. We're telling you what we saw: Nothing."

I stomped off. I was out forty bucks and no closer to figuring out what had happened. I pressed the number for Tessa on my cell phone.

"Unless this is a crisis of epic proportions, I can't talk now," Tessa said, shouting, the sound of her teenage daughters' argument in the background nearly drowning her out.

"It is a crisis of epic proportions. Someone has stolen The Ladybug."

"Dio Mio," Tessa said. She always lapsed into Italian anytime there was a crisis—which this clearly was—or when she was drunk. "How can I help?"

"Can you come and get me?" I gave her the address and she promised to be there in a flash.

The homeless men had moved from their park bench, likely having gone off to spend their windfall. I hoped they'd spend some of it on a decent meal. They certainly looked like they could use one. I needed to call the police department to report my stolen car. Taking a seat on the bench, I found a listing for Seattle's stolen vehicle hotline on my phone and dialed the number.

I glanced up from my telephone as I waited for someone to answer the hotline and spotted a tall, broad-shouldered police officer walking down the street. A tow truck was driving slowly next to him. It was Ryan Shaw, Seattle's newest police officer, and one of the most handsome men who'd ever been interested in me. As the lowest man on the totem pole in the police department, he'd been given the thankless job of working in parking and traffic, responsible for towing illegally parked cars, among other things. I watched him from a distance. He was too far away to get his attention without making a fool of myself. Ryan shouted into the cab of the truck, but I couldn't hear what he said. He continued walking down the street, away from me, clipboard in one hand, looking as hunky (as Val would say) as ever in his neatly pressed uniform. Oh, how I loved a man in a uniform.

I watched as the tow truck driver hooked a car's front bumper to his rig, yanked it out of its spot, and dragged it down the street. I shuddered at the thought of that happening to The Ladybug.

"Hello, Seattle stolen vehicle hotline," chirped the woman who had answered my call. "Hello?"

"Oh, crap." My car hadn't been stolen; she'd been towed away—by Ryan, no less.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman said.

"Sorry. I don't think I need to report a stolen vehicle after all," I said, hanging up the phone.

Tessa pulled up to the curb and I climbed into her van. It was messy as usual. She grabbed me in a warm hug that only a best friend can give.

"Don't worry, Jax, we'll find The Ladybug. Here, I stopped and bought you a coffee," she said, releasing her grip on me and handing me a cup. Tessa knew that I could cope much better if I was well caffeinated. "I can't believe someone stole your car."

"Actually, no. I think it was towed," I said, feeling foolish that I had parked the way I did and my car had been unceremoniously dragged away to an impound lot. I took a swig of my extra-large non-fat latte, which brightened my mood a tiny bit.

"What? I'm sure that was totally uncalled for! I mean, they're just randomly towing cars now?" Tessa asked. "It's not like you were parked illegally or something."

"I hate to admit this, but my car was partially—okay, mostly—in a red zone."

Tessa sighed and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, a sure sign of her disapproval. She drove in silence while I plugged the address for the towing office into her GPS. A few minutes later we arrived at a stark cinder block building, Seattle's towing office.

"This must be the place," Tessa said. As usual, there was nowhere to park.

"Why don't you circle the block, and I can call you or wave you down once I've got my car." I jumped out of the van and headed into the building. When it was my turn to be helped, I stepped up to the counter—a sheet of bulletproof glass between the customer service representative and me.

"Hi, I'm Jax—oh, that's Jacqueline—O'Connell. I think my car was towed. It's a red VW Beetle." The woman behind the glass typed something on her keyboard, looking intently at the computer screen. She pulled her reading glasses down her long nose and looked at me.

"What's the VIN?" she asked.

"The what? Can't you look up the car by my name? My driver's license?"

"No, we really need the car's VIN—that's the Vehicle ID Number." She pulled her readers so far down that they were at risk of falling off the tip of her nose and read what was on the screen in front of her. "I do see here that a red VW was towed this morning. It might be your car. Without the VIN I can't be sure."

"Can I go see it? It's got to be my car," I said.

"Sure, go around the back and wait at the chain-link fence. One of our storage staff members will bring it out for you. Once you identify your car, come back in with the registration and you can settle up your bill."

I shuddered at the thought of what I'd owe for this mess I'd gotten myself into.

"How much is it?"

"You've got to pay the citation, plus the cost of the towing and storage. The woman pushed her glasses all the way back up her long greasy nose. "Looks like it'll be two hundred eighty-nine dollars."

"Two eighty-nine? That's ridiculous!"

"Sorry, miss. You break the law, you've got to pay."

Grumbling to myself, I headed out the door. As long as I got The Ladybug back, the hassle and the cost would be worth it. I had learned my lesson—there'd be no more questionable parking for me. As I stood at the chain-link fence, a light drizzle started to fall, getting harder and harder until it was a steady downpour. The Seattle weather really gets on my nerves at times, although not enough to give up my life here and move back to Miami. I did what every other Seattleite does: I flipped up the hood on my jacket.

There was a gated entry marked CSI Evidence Storage, Automotive Unit, at the end of a breezeway between two low-slung buildings past the chain-link fence where I was standing. I was surprised to see Detective Zachary Grant exiting from one of the buildings and locking the door behind him. He must have been working on a homicide case that involved a car.

Zachary spotted me standing in the rain. He pulled an umbrella out of his briefcase and popped it open as he rushed toward me.

"Here, share my umbrella with me." He stepped close to me so the umbrella covered my head as well as his, then he pulled off his water-streaked glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. Every time that man took off his glasses he went from being Clark Kent to being Superman.

"Now, tell me, what are you doing here?" he asked, stepping a little closer to me. Oh my, I certainly could get used to this.

"My car was towed," I said, trying to ignore the fact that if we were any closer we'd be standing in each other's shoes.

"Tsk, tsk, our Seattle PD is really on top of parking violators," he said in mock accusation. The stern detective was not so stern today.

"My little violation is about to cost me nearly three hundred dollars," I said. "And it looks like the PD's new officer, Ryan Shaw, is the one responsible for towing my car."

"He has been quite an asset to the department, even with only a couple of weeks on the job. He takes his duties very seriously. In fact, I bet he'd tow your car even if he knew it was yours," Zachary said.

Would Ryan have had my car towed, even if he'd known The Ladybug was mine? He had seen my car when I first met him at a bead show in Portland Oregon, but he hadn't seen her since he'd arrived in Seattle. It was possible he wouldn't recognize, or even remember, my car. The Ladybug did have an I Love Beads bumper sticker plastered on the back. If Ryan had been paying attention, he might have realized that she was my car and he could have called to warn me that it was about to be towed. Ryan was slowly dropping to the bottom of my favorite person list, especially if he had done something as heartless as dragging away my car.

Having Zachary stand so close to me under his umbrella was making me sizzle. I felt like I'd been working at a hot torch for hours on a sweltering summer day. I needed to step back, but I couldn't seem to do it. It was such a romantic moment, even with the din of forklifts moving cars on the other side of the chain-link fence.

"Hm. Ah...hem," Zachary cleared his throat, a sure sign he was nervous. "I suppose you already have plans for tonight."

"I don't, actually," I said.

"Oh, well, I—thought you'd have a date with Ryan—"

"No. Apparently he's working."

Zachary cleared his throat again. I swear I heard him say, "Good."

Ryan seemed to be working all the time—so much so that I'd barely seen him since he arrived in Seattle. I wasn't too happy with him now that I suspected he'd had my car towed.

"Would you like to come over to my house?" I asked. It was a bold move. Val would have been proud.

"Yes—well, hmm, yes, but I have other plans," Zachary said. He dealt with dead bodies, murderers, and unimaginable horrors every day—something I could never do—but he turned into a basket case when talking with women, or at least with me.

"I usually see my mother on Valentine's Day," he said.

My heart melted. I may love a man in a uniform, but a man who visits his mother on Valentine's Day? That's the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.

"That's wonderful. I understand."

"I could come by your house after I see her, if that would be acceptable. Can I come by at eight? I'll bring dinner."

"That would be lovely," I said. I felt tingly all over and I didn't think it was entirely because of the cold weather.

When the rain subsided, Zachary collapsed his umbrella, wiped his glasses on his sleeve, and put them back on. Bye-bye, Superman, at least for now.

"See you soon," he said with a little swagger in his step. It was a major accomplishment: He had asked me out. Actually, I think I had asked him out, but at least it had happened. Now I'd have to wait and see what else would happen with the stern detective.

I glimpsed a red VW bug being hauled toward me by a tow truck. I was excited to see my car again, but as it approached, my heart sank: This wasn't my car. The Ladybug was a convertible and only a few years old. This car didn't have a ragtop and had been manufactured right around the year I was born, which was a lot longer ago than I liked to admit.

The driver, the size of a linebacker, got out of his truck and unlatched the gate in the chain-link fence.

"This your car, lady?"

"No, sorry, that's not it. Do you have any other red Volkswagens back there?" I asked.

"You want to come back here? Maybe we can find you a car you'd like and we could make a deal," the man said opening the gate a couple of feet.

"No, that's okay."

"Come on back, lady, I'll make it worth your while." He reached his meaty hand out through the gate's opening, trying to pull me in.

"No. Thank you," I said, slamming the gate shut on his hand and trotting back to the towing office, leaving the man gasping in pain. I hoped I didn't have to come back here any time soon. I had the sinking realization that if my car was not here, then it had, in fact, been stolen.

"Well?" said the woman behind the glass.

"No. That's not my car."

"Sorry. Sometimes it's better news to find out your car's been towed. You want me to have the PD call you to file a stolen vehicle report?"

"Yes, please." I headed out the door and called Tessa.

At least Ryan was off the hook. He hadn't towed my car. But still, I wondered if he would have towed her if she had been there when he came by. And more importantly, where was The Ladybug?

"Bad news. It wasn't my car," I told Tessa as I climbed into her van.

"Che casino!" Tessa said, which in Italian roughly means "what a mess."

"I guess my car was stolen after all."

"It was probably some joyriding teenagers who stole it. I don't think it's practical to drive through the streets of Seattle looking for The Ladybug, do you? You should file a police report and call your insurance company. Maybe someone will find her abandoned somewhere."

We drove to Tessa's glass studio, Fremont Fire, which was a short drive from the towing office. Two of Tessa's helpers, Dylan and Nick, were making glass beads in the back of the studio, their table-mounted torches emitting foot-long orange and blue flames. Dylan finished his bead, placed it in the kiln, and turned off his torch.

"Hey, Tessa. Hey, Jax," Dylan said, pulling off his glasses.

Nick completed his bead and put it in the kiln as well. "What's up? You ladies look upset."

"My car was stolen," I said.

"Oh man, that sucks," said Dylan, pushing his shaggy hair off his face.

My phone started ringing inside my purse. I rummaged through my handbag, removing my rejected necklace and putting it on the counter as I continued to search for my phone. I finally fished it out from the bottom of the bag and answered.

"Hello, Ms. O'Connell, this is Lt. Hayashi. I understand your car has been stolen," the woman said.

"Thanks for calling. Did you find my car?"

"No. I'm calling to get a statement from you regarding the details of your vehicle and the circumstances of the theft."

I told the officer all I knew and hung up the phone, then sat down on a stool and rested my head in my hands. What was I going to do if The Ladybug never turned up? Tessa pulled one of my hands toward her and pressed a fistful of Hershey's Kisses into it.

"Chocolate. Eat it. It's medicinal. It can't bring your car back, but it may help you cope a little bit."

"Thanks, Tessa, you're the best," I said pulling off the silver foil from one of the candies.

"What have you got there?" Tessa asked, noticing the necklace that had been returned from the gallery sitting on the counter next to me.

"It's a piece of jewelry that Susan at the 7th Street Glass Gallery didn't want." It was no wonder she rejected it, the beads didn't look good together. There were too many colors and clashing patterns.

"Maybe you should take it apart and try again," Tessa suggested, looking down at the necklace as if it were a patient in need of medical attention.

"I've been thinking about doing that. I tried to make it work, but I think the best thing I can do is simply take it apart and sell each of the beads. It seems to me that each of the beads is worth more separately than they are together as a whole necklace."

"Yeah, like those chop shops," Nick said. Dylan nodded in agreement.

"What do you mean by 'chop shops?'" I asked.

"These guys, they steal cars for what's under the hood. They gut the cars and sell them for parts—they're worth more than the whole car," Nick said.

"Yeah, you could do that with the necklace, chop it up, and sell the beads," Dylan said.

"Dylan, you're brilliant!" I said, giving him a high-five. "Nick, you too!" I gave him a high-five too.

"We are?" the two young men said.

"You most definitely are! The Ladybug may be at a chop shop—already being sliced up to be sold off bit by bit," I said. "Tessa, we've got to find her before it's too late."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin," Tessa said.

"You know, when I was living down on The Ave, there were these guys that dealt with a lot of stolen cars, especially those German ones like your VW," Nick said.

"Can you tell me where?" I asked.

"There's a Jiffy Mart on 40th Avenue and a condemned office building next to it. Just down the alley between the two buildings you'll find the shop. But these guys are pretty bad dudes. You should probably leave it to the cops."

"Will you come with us?" I asked Nick.

"Sorry, I gotta stay away from there. The cops show up and I'm toast—I've had too many run-ins to risk it." When I met Nick he was living on the streets. Now that he and Dylan were sharing an apartment and Nick was working at Tessa's studio, he seemed to be on the right track.

"What do you mean by 'us?'" Tessa said suspiciously.

"You and me, Tessa. Come on, let's go. I don't have any other way to get there."

Tessa didn't try to dissuade me from going on this foolish mission. She must've known there was no way I'd sit by waiting for pieces of my beloved car to show up on the automotive black market. She drove like a madwoman toward The Ave, a dodgy neighborhood where you could get anything you wanted, legal or otherwise, with no questions asked. With her beat-up van and her crazy driving, she was hell-on-wheels. Jiffy Mart was at the end of the street next to the rundown building, just like Nick had described.

"Turn there, that's the alley," I said. Tessa turned down the dark narrow alley, driving slowly. The rolling door entrance to an auto shop appeared in front of us.

"I'm stopping here. That way we can sneak up, peek in the door, and if The Ladybug is in there, we can call the police," Tessa whispered.

"I don't think anyone can hear us inside your van," I said at full volume.

"Shhh. Let's leave the car here," she said. We tried to open the doors, but the alley was too narrow for us to squeeze out.

"Let's drive up to the doors in a surprise attack," I said.

"No. No attacking."

"Right. I mean, we're just going to drive up and park in that wide spot by the rolling door. Maybe we can tell them that we're in the market for some spare auto parts."

"Do we look like the kind of people who are looking for hot car parts?"

"Come on, Tessa, we've got nothing to lose, right?"

"I can think of several things we could lose, starting with our lives."

"What did you think we were going to do?" I asked. "Let's go!"

Tessa gritted her teeth, started the van, and punched the accelerator. We slid to a stop next to the garage behind a black Porsche. We jumped out of the car and crept toward the rolling door. Rap music was thumping at ear-damaging levels inside. No one heard us above the music; it didn't look like anyone was working in the shop.

And there she was—The Ladybug was on a hydraulic lift six feet above us.

"Dammit! Tessa, how do we get her down?"

"We don't. We leave and call the police. That was the plan, remember?"

A man in grubby coveralls came out from behind the lift, a smoldering cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and an unlit blowtorch in one of his hands.

"What the hell are you two doing here? You're not allowed in here," the man shouted.

"We're not leaving without my car," I said, as Tessa tugged on the back of my shirt trying to pull me out of the garage.

"Sorry, we were looking for the ice cream shop," Tessa said as she backed up.

"No we weren't. We were looking for my car. And we found it."

"Listen lady, this is my car now," the man said taking several steps toward us. I didn't retreat. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to do this!" I reached in my purse, grabbed my bottle of Chanel No. 6 and sprayed it in his face. His cigarette burst into flames and fell from his lips.

"Argh!" the man shouted, spitting out expletives as his blowtorch crashed to the concrete floor and rolled toward us. The man wiped his face with his grimy hands, feeling his forehead where most of his eyebrows had been singed off when the cigarette caught fire. "Pretty funny. Is that the best you got?"

Tessa grabbed the blowtorch and pressed the ignition button while touching the tip to the glowing remains of the cigarette on the garage floor.

"No, this is the best we've got," she said, expertly wielding the torch with a foot-long flame pulsing from its tip. She looked at him with her fiercest glare, the one she usually reserved for her teenaged daughters. "I think you should take a seat. Right there." Shocked, the man showed her his hands, greasy palms outward, and sat down slowly on the floor while Tessa stood over him. She'd always been bossy, and that was a good thing right now.

I called the police. An officer was at the garage in a matter of minutes. He took our statements while his partner cuffed the eyebrow-less man and took him to the police car.

"You ladies really should have left this to the police. It's dangerous to take matters like this into your own hands," the officer said. Detective Grant was going to be unhappy to hear I'd gone to such extremes to get my car back. I'd have to figure out how to tell him tonight when he came over. It was possible he'd find out before then, but I didn't want to think about that.

"Ms. Ricci, you were very brave to subdue that man. Ms. O'Connell, I'll make sure you get your car back as soon as possible. It looks like it hasn't been damaged. We've found plenty of evidence to put this crook and his crew out of business for a while," the officer said.

"Come on, Jax, I'll take you home," Tessa said as she put her arm around me and guided me toward her van. I glanced in a garbage can as we left the garage. The beads from the tray I'd left in the trunk of The Ladybug were in it. I grabbed the can on our way out the door. I would fish out the beads and clean them up later. They had taken me days to make and I wasn't going to abandon them. I looked back at The Ladybug, still suspended above the garage floor. She was going to be okay. And so was I.

Tessa dropped me off at my house, giving me a little double-honk on the van's horn as she took off.

As I mounted the steps of my Craftsman-style duplex, Val ripped open her front door, situated just inches from mine.

"Honey! I'm so glad you're home! Your hunky boyfriend Ryan—"

"Not really my boyfriend—"

"He stopped by on his way to work and left you this bottle of champagne and a bouquet of flowers." Val flashed her best smile, the one that said, "I can help you drink that."

"I think we should drink this right now," I said. I was ready for a drink.

"Great idea!"

Gumdrop was waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I opened my front door. Val was close behind me.

"How did you get up there?" I asked my cat.

"Yellllooo?" Gumdrop asked with a plaintive howl.

"Okay, okay, just one cube." I pulled the pink tray of Gummie's special catnip ice cubes from the freezer and used a knife to flick a cube into his bowl. He launched himself off the counter, landing right on top of his dish. My furry drug addict kitty writhed around on the floor with his green ice cube, as usual.

As I put the flowers in a multicolored art glass vase, Val popped the cork on the champagne bottle in a well-practiced move that didn't spill a drop. She grabbed two champagne glasses, settled onto my sofa, and poured us each a glass.

"Cheers, sweet-cheeks!" Val said holding up her flute.

"Cheers!" I said clinking glasses with her. "No plans for Valentine's Night? What happened to your date?" I asked.

"Oh, he stood me up! He said he owns an auto shop down on The Ave, so I guess he had to work late," Val said, taking a sip of sparkling wine. "So, it's just us gals tonight."

I was pretty sure Mr. No Eyebrows was in jail by now, and I was proud I'd had a lot to do with that.

"Actually, I have a last-minute date," I said.

"What?! Do. Not. Tell. Me! Is it Zach? Because he's so hot, in that serious Clark Kent sort of way."

"It is. It's Zachary. But he won't be here for a while," I said.

"Oh, goodie! We wouldn't want this champagne to go flat," Val said, pouring herself another glass. "Make sure you wear something sexy that shows off your curves. Oh, and use the Chanel No. 6."

"I promise I will," I said, fibbing. I was never going to wear Chanel No. 6. I still smelled vaguely of the vile scent after spraying it during The Ladybug's rescue. I told Val that my car had been stolen but that the police had found her, safe and sound, which was another fib. Someday I'd tell her how her perfume broke up of a ring of auto thieves and saved The Ladybug from certain dismantlement. But, I'd never confess that I was the reason her new boyfriend missed his date with her on Valentine's Day.

"Now you've got to get ready for Zach. What are you two going to do?" she said, splitting the last of the champagne between our two glasses.

"He's bringing dinner. I'll let you know how it goes."

"You'd better," she said with a sly smile. Once the champagne was gone, Val gave me a little air kiss and sashayed toward the door. "Have fun. A lot of fun. I mean, really, real—"

"Good-bye, Val. Thanks for the advice," I said as I shut the door before she could add any more "reallys."

As I rushed to my bedroom to get ready for my date, my cell phone rang. I answered, distractedly, without looking at my caller ID—a big mistake.

"Hello, beautiful." It was Ryan. Oh dear. "Sorry I've been out of touch. I'll make it up to you—big time. Did you get my presents?"

"I did. Thanks for the champagne and flowers. They were a great way to end the day after all I've been through."

"What happened?" Ryan asked.

"My car was stolen. Actually, I saw you down in Pioneer Square around the time it went missing. You were working with a tow truck and taking away illegally parked cars."

"A red VW?"

"Do you remember it from Portland?"

"No, I was just about to have it towed. It was about three feet in a red zone," Ryan said. "I went to call a tow truck and by the time I got back it was gone."

"Right. Because a thief stole it. But, if you knew it was my car, you wouldn't have towed it, right?"

"Sorry Jax, the law is the law. You can't go breaking the parking regulations—not on my watch."

I certainly was learning a few things about Ryan. I wouldn't want him to break the law on my behalf, but he could have at least called me to give me a heads up that my car was about to be towed.

"Gosh, Ryan, I'm sorry, I need to go, I've got, um, a pot boiling over on the stove. Bye," I said. I was the worst liar ever. I'd have to deal with Ryan later. I needed to ask Val how to handle this situation, because I had absolutely no experience in how to juggle more than one boyfriend or how to tell one of them to shove off. For now, though, I was going to get ready for Zachary. I threw on my best cat-hair-free black stretch pants and a long pink satin tunic—it was Valentine's Day, so pink seemed appropriate. I added my favorite glass bead necklace, made of a perfect set of a dozen oval beads in a vivid pink glass called rubino oro in Italian. I fluffed up my hair and whipped on my standard tinted lip balm.

At precisely eight o'clock, Zachary Grant rang the doorbell.

"I hope you're hungry," he said, pulling a picnic basket from behind his back.

"As a matter of fact, I can't remember the last time I ate."

"Let's start with this." He pulled a checkered tablecloth out of the basket and placed it on the table. I pulled it off the table. He looked at me, puzzled.

"You have a picnic basket and this looks like a picnic blanket. I don't know about you, but I don't eat picnics at a table." I laid out the tablecloth on the Oriental rug in the living room.

"I think we can make that work," Zachary said. He sat down on the floor and pulled out a feast: roasted chicken, brie, crunchy French bread, a citrus salad, and a tiny heart-shaped chocolate cake. "I stopped at the market on the way over. I hope this is okay with you."

"It's wonderful. Just wonderful," I said, sitting down at the edge of the tablecloth next to him. Gumdrop came cruising over to us, a little spacey and content after his catnip fix. Gummie walked right past me and put his front paws on one of Zachary's knees. The cat stretched toward his face, gently sniffing him.

"Ah-choo!"

"You're not allergic to cats, are you?" I asked. It would be terrible if he were allergic to Gummie.

"I like cats—I'm not allergic. I think it must be something else. Your perfume?"

"Good old Chanel No. 6," I said with a laugh. "Don't worry, I won't be wearing that ever again." Although I thought I might keep it in The Ladybug's glove compartment for self-defense, in case I ever needed it.

Undeterred by Zachary's sneeze, Gumdrop crawled into his lap and cranked up a loud purr.

"I guess he likes me," Zachary said.

"I do too," I said. In a move that would have made Val proud, I leaned over and kissed him. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," he said, taking off his glasses, smiling, and returning my kiss.

THE END

# About the Author

Janice Peacock decided to write her first mystery novel after working in a glass studio full of colorful artists who didn't always get along. They reminded her of the odd, and often humorous, characters in the murder mystery books she loved to read. Inspired by that experience, she combined her two passions and wroteHigh_Strung: A Glass Bead Mystery, the first book in the cozy mystery series featuring glass beadmaker Jax O'Connell. Janice went on to write many more books in the series, including:   _A Bead in the Hand_ ,  _Be Still My Beading Heart_ ,  _Off the Beadin' Path_  and  _To Bead or Not to Bead_.

When she isn't writing about glass artists-turned-amateur-detectives, she makes glass beads using a torch, designs one-of-a-kind jewelry, and makes sculptures using hot glass. An award-winning artist, her work has been exhibited internationally and is in the permanent collections of the Corning Museum of Glass, the Glass Museum of Tacoma, WA, and in private collections worldwide.

Janice lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, three cats, and an undisclosed number of chickens. She has a studio full of beads...lots and lots of beads.

# Connect with Janice Peacock

www.JanicePeacock.com  
jp@janicepeacock.com

Sign up for Janice's newsletter:  
<http://tinyurl.com/janpeacsignup>

@JanPeac on Facebook, Instagram  
Twitter and Pinterest

Did you enjoy this book?

Please write a review on the website where you purchased it.

##

# More Books in the

# Glass Bead Mystery Series

## HIGH STRUNG

## Glass Bead Mystery Series

## Book One

After inheriting a house in Seattle, Jax O'Connell is living the life of her dreams as a glass beadmaker and jewelry designer. When she gets an offer to display her work during a bead shop's opening festivities, it's an opportunity Jax can't resist—even though the store's owner is the surliest person Jax has ever met.

The weekend's events become a tangled mess when a young beadmaker is found dead nearby and several oddball bead enthusiasts are suspects. Jax must string together the clues to clear her friend Tessa's name—and do it before the killer strikes again.

Read sample chapters of High Strung

* * *

## A BEAD IN THE HAND

## Glass Bead Mystery Series  
Book Two

A bead bazaar turns bizarre when jewelry designer and glass beadmaker Jax O'Connell discovers a dead body beneath her sales table. Suspected of murder, Jax and her friend Tessa scramble to find the killer among the fanatic shoppers and eccentric vendors. They have their hands full dealing with a scumbag show promoter, hipsters in love, and a security guard who wants to do more than protect Jax from harm. Adding to the chaos, Jax's quirky neighbor Val arrives unexpectedly with trouble in tow. Can Jax untangle the clues before she's arrested for murder?

* * *

## OFF THE BEADIN' PATH

## Glass Bead Mystery Series

## Book Three

Jax O'Connell and her friend Tessa have no idea what challenges await them when they head to the small town of Carthage to take a glass blowing class with Marco De Luca, a famous Italian glass artist. While Jax loves melting glass to make beads, she discovers that standing in front of the glass furnace's inferno frightens her.

After the first night of class, Tessa sees a dead body through the water-streaked window of the studio. The next morning there's no sign of Marco—dead or alive—and one of the studio owners is also missing. The local sheriff doesn't take the disappearance seriously, so Jax and Tessa take matters into their own hands.

Jax must face her fears to find the body, track down the clues, and uncover the killer—and do it all before another life is shattered.

Off the Beadin' Path is the third book in the Glass Bead Mystery series.

##

## TO BEAD OR NOT TO BEAD

## Glass Bead Mystery Series

## Book Four

When a wealthy theater owner is killed by a falling art glass chandelier, glass beadmaker Jax O'Connell's boyfriend, Detective Zachary Grant, quickly determines it was no accident. Jax and her friend Tessa try to carry on with a charity fashion gala at the theater, but with only a few days before the big event, they have to scramble to keep things from falling apart. The emcee quits, and to make matters worse, Tessa's daughters are suspects in the murder. As the chaos unfolds, Jax discovers new suspects at every turn, including an edgy glass blower, an agoraphobic socialite, and a hunky former-cop-turned-actor. Can Jax piece together the clues to find the killer and uncover the dark secrets behind the victim's family or will it be curtains for her?

#

# Sample Chapters from  
High Strung, Glass Bead Mystery Series, Book One

# ONE

GREAT-AUNT RITA DIED two years ago on Miami's hottest day of the year. You'd think the old woman died of the heat, but she didn't live with us in Miami. She lived in Seattle, Washington, in a house she'd split right down the middle.

A month after my aunt died, a stiff white envelope arrived at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Jerry. It contained a letter written by Great-Aunt Rita, forwarded to me by the attorney settling her estate.

That letter would change my life forever.

Dear Jacqueline,

I've always felt a connection to you, because you and I are much the same. I know inside your tired heart is a woman waiting to start living. I'm going to help you break free. My attorney has my Last Will and Testament. In it, I have given you my house, as well as a savings account with a substantial sum of money.

Mr. Prescott can fill you in on the details. My only stipulation is this: You must live in my house and find your creative passion. I hope my gift helps you live a life you love.

You are in my heart,

Aunt Rita

Mr. Prescott's business card fluttered to the floor. Dumbfounded, I sat in the dim kitchen for a long time, staring at the card, rubbing it between two fingers. I'd been sitting there so long I hadn't realized it was dark outside. Jerry wasn't home from work yet. I was never sure if he'd come home right after work or if he'd stop at the bar to see his buddies and stumble in the door long after I had gone to bed.

Did I have the guts to call the attorney?

It was now or never.

"Yello?" said the voice on the other end of the phone.

Who answers the phone by saying YELLO?

"Uh, yes, Mr. Prescott? This is Jax—Jacqueline—O'Connell. I'm the great-niece of Rita...uh, uh..." I couldn't remember her last name. I could barely remember my own last name right now.

"Oh, yes, Ms. O'Connell. You're calling about the Rita Haglund property," he said. He did this every day. I didn't.

"I've never inherited anything before. What happens now?"

"Well, I suppose you come to Seattle, take ownership of the house, and live in it."

"But what if I don't want to move there? What if I like it here?" As I said the words, I knew they were a lie. I was tired of being in Miami, the land of pink flamingos and bugs the size of golf balls. I hated this apartment with its brown shag carpeting and harvest gold appliances, still around from the 1970s.

"Unfortunately, if you choose not to live in the house, I'm afraid I've been instructed to sell the property and donate the proceeds to charity."

Seriously, Aunt Rita put this stipulation on her house? I couldn't believe it. I saw her once a year when she'd fly out to my parents' house for a few weeks around Christmas. It was her chance to get away from the cold Seattle weather. I'd been close to Aunt Rita, but close enough for her to give me a house? It was hard to fathom. Everyone in my family described my great-aunt as a "free spirit," which was code for "an artist who never married and never had kids."

"Have you seen this house, Mr. Prescott?" I asked, hoping I could get some idea about whether this was a reasonable thing to consider.

"Yes, as matter of fact, I helped your aunt complete her trust in her living room a few months before she passed away. Since she never had children, she wanted her home to go to someone in her family who could use it to change his or her life. She chose you."

I could use a life-changing experience. "Is it nice? If someone gave you this house, would you be happy?"

"Oh yes, it's an excellent house. But it does need some renovation. In her later years she let the house fall into disrepair. Oh, and you might like to know that it is, in fact, two houses. Your Aunt Rita was a savvy lady. She had a spacious house, and she was the only one living in it. She split it and made a rental unit out of one side."

"Who's living there now?"

"The property is vacant."

"When do I need to give you my decision?"

"Officially, you have until the end of the month."

"What? That's the day after tomorrow."

"Why, yes it is. You've got some thinking to do, Ms. O'Connell."

Without saying good-bye, I ended the call.

Jerry came home later that evening and went straight for the TV.

"What's for dinner, babe?" he asked, not even looking my way.

"Seattle..." I murmured, returning the letter to its envelope and pressing it flat on the table.

"Seattle? Is that a new restaurant or something?"

"No, it's a city. Seattle, Washington." I stared out the window at the dark sky, the streetlights starting to blink on.

"Well, babe, let's order a pizza. I'm starving and the game's about to start," Jerry said, plopping into the vinyl recliner as he clicked the remote. The announcer's voice blared from the TV.

Frightened by the sound, Gumdrop jumped into my lap, staring up at me with his big green eyes. My cat thought he had psychic powers. Or, more precisely, I thought he had psychic powers.

"What do you think, Gumdrop?" I asked the fluffy gray cat.

"Pepperoni," yelled Jerry.

Gumdrop stared at me, trying to send me a message.

Jerry tossed the phone to me. "Thick crust."

I took the phone and dialed.

"Hello, Mr. Prescott? My answer is YES."

I tossed the phone back to Jerry. "I think you're going to have to order your own pizza from now on. Maybe you'll want to get a small one, since you'll be eating alone."

# TWO

I WAS WORKING IN the studio, making a glass bead with the torch blazing, when the phone rang. I don't usually answer the phone when I'm in the middle of manipulating a molten blob of glass just inches from my face. To make things extra challenging, I can't stop twirling the hot glass because if I do, the whole thing will get saggy and out of balance. I was using both hands and most of my brain. I'd cranked the volume of my '80s playlist up to 11 on the iPod, and the giant ceiling fan hummed loudly.

As the little calypso tune played over and over on my phone, I knew I needed to answer. It was Val, and the fact that she was calling instead of barging in my front door meant trouble.

"Jax! Ahhhhgggg! Help! FIRE!" I heard the sound of the phone clattering to the ground. I jammed the bead I was making into the kiln, hoping it would be salvageable, and flicked off the torch. I ran out of my studio, through the house, out the front door, and made a quick U-turn into Val's door. As I burst in, I was immediately hit with the smell of burnt chocolate.

"Val, what happened?" I yelled as I ran toward the kitchen, a cloud of gray smoke lingering just above my head.

"Oh, Jax, it's awful. Awful!" Val said, stepping back from the smoldering oven.

"You look terrible." She was covered in chocolate from her elbows to the tips of her shiny red fingernails. Little bits of brown goo hung from her fluffy red bangs.

"What did you do? Why did you call me in such a panic?"

"I didn't think an exploding cake was a reason to call 911, so I called you instead," Val said.

"Well, you could have at least told me you weren't over here dying. I was worried one of your crazy boyfriends had come back to visit and was attacking you."

"Oh, only about half my boyfriends have been crazy. Still, I suppose that means there are a lot of crazy guys out there who are not particularly happy with me. Hmmmm...I'll have to evaluate my choice in men sometime," she said, attempting to wipe the chocolate cake batter off her face but instead adding more across her cheek.

"What were you trying to do here—make something new?" I asked, grabbing a dishtowel so I could mop up some of the mess.

"I was experimenting with a new recipe that has chocolate and chipotle peppers. I thought it would be a good combo, you know—sweet and heat—it's on every trendy menu these days."

I looked at her doubtfully.

"I don't know what happened. Maybe I put a teensy-weensy too much baking soda in the batter—I threw in a couple extra teaspoons since I added some extra peppers. I was getting ready to pull the cake out of the oven, and I looked in. All I could see was this molten lava pouring out of the top of the cake pan. Everything is cooler now, but wow, it was scary there for a minute. That's why I called you. I thought you'd know what to do, since you work with fire and molten glass."

"I'm not sure what to do, other than get a hose and spray the place down, including you."

"Don't you dare. You'll ruin the new throw pillows," she said.

I glanced over at a pile of animal print pillows with pink fur trim. No great loss if those awful things got destroyed.

"Let's take a look," I said, bending over and peeking inside the smoldering oven. "Actually, what's left in here looks okay." I jabbed my finger into the crust of the cake still in the pan.

"Ow! That's scorching hot." My hands had become used to high temperatures from working with hot glass, but this was a little more than I could handle.

I blew on the brown goop and then tasted it. So far, so good. I grabbed a wooden spoon off the counter and plopped myself down on the floor. I gingerly pulled the pan out of the oven with a dishtowel and scooped up some batter. "Yum. This is delicious. Have a spoonful."

With a not-so-graceful thump, Val sat down on the floor next to me, snatched the spoon, and had a taste. "You're right, it's super yummy. I'll have to try to perfect the recipe and see if I can make it so it doesn't explode."

"Yes," I agreed, "exploding desserts are not good. We should never, ever waste chocolate."

Fortified with spicy half-cooked cake batter, we cleaned up the kitchen. Since I resisted using the hose to clean up, Val's new zebra pillows were safe for now. Val still looked like a wreck and needed a shower.

"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up?" I suggested. "I'm heading over to Tessa's to help get her studio ready for some beadmaking demos, plus I've got to give my necklace and beads to the JOWL lady for the exhibition at Aztec Beads."

"Jowl? I don't think it's polite to say that a woman has jowls. I hope you don't say that to her face."

"It stands for 'Jewelry-makers of Washington League.' Someone thought that was better than Beaders of Washington League. Apparently they were worried people would called them 'Bowel' rather than 'Bowl'."

"Someone decided JOWL was the best choice?" asked Val, examining the chocolate gunk wedged under her long fingernails. "Whoever that was didn't understand that jowls are not something anyone should ever want to be associated with. I personally plan to never have jowls, or date anyone who has them."

Time to leave before I heard any more of Val's diatribe about jowls or other signs (heaven forbid!) of aging. I glanced at my phone.

"I've got to get out of here. Tessa hates it when I'm late." Tessa Ricci had been my best friend since kindergarten. She was punctual, bossy, and petite. In other words, she was the opposite of me in almost every way. And she was one of reasons I decided to move to Seattle. She had moved here with her husband Craig nearly 18 years ago.

I popped my head back into Val's doorway. "Oh, if the painter comes by, let him into my side of the house, so he can give me a bid on painting the kitchen."

I went out Val's front door and made the usual U-turn back into my place. I nearly stepped on Gumdrop, who was standing in the open doorway.

"Oh, Gumdrop, you're a good kitty for not running away. You do such a superb job as my guard-cat."

I'd left the front door open when I went to rescue Val, and he could have easily made a break for it. Gummie was an inside cat. He loved the idea of an adventure, but he had never actually been brave enough to go outside.

"Come on, big fella, I'll get a yummy treat for you."

I scooped him up, my arms underneath his fat gray belly as I carried him out to the kitchen, and set him down on the white tile counter. He probably shouldn't have been on the kitchen counter, but they were old and funky like the rest of the kitchen, so he wasn't going to damage them. And I washed the counters often. And I didn't really cook much. And I lived alone, so no one complained. It wasn't really that bad that he was on the counter. Really.

I pulled out a green ice cube from the cute pink plastic tray in the freezer and popped it into the cat's empty food bowl. As soon as Gumdrop saw the frozen cube of catnip, he went wild, jumping down from the counter, landing on the bowl, and skidding across the hardwood floor into the hallway. He started writhing around, licking the frozen lump, pawing at it, and pressing his furry head into it.

"Gummie, you are a little drug addict," I said, leaving him to his vice and heading to my bedroom to get changed.

I walked down the long hall of my skinny house with all of its rooms set in a straight line. The kitchen was the first room past the entry, followed by a cozy living room full of "vintage" furniture—by which I mean "used items from my dead aunt and cast-offs from friends."

Next was an office, which doubled as my guest room and had also become the overflow space for my studio. Tessa called this room the "Bead Lair," but I'd been trying to break her of that habit.

My bedroom followed, tiny but cozy, and smack in the middle of it was a beautiful cherrywood sleigh bed I'd inherited from Aunt Rita along with the house itself.

And finally, all the way in the back was my bead studio.

Val's side of the duplex was a mirror image of mine except at the back, where I had one more room than she did. My side of the duplex had a room that ran the full back width of the house, giving me a doublewide space for crafting my beads and jewelry. Working with beads full-time wasn't exactly what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but here I was, and I was happy.

In the bedroom, I looked in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. What was I going to do with myself? I was a mess. I'd been working in the studio all morning, making a few last-minute beads for this weekend's exciting events—a bead sale, plus beadmaking and jewelry classes. My usual outfit was jeans and a T-shirt, long sleeves in the winter and short sleeves in the summer. I'd promised myself I'd try and look my best for this important weekend.

The T-shirt I was wearing was speckled with chocolate, thanks to Val's culinary catastrophe. I changed into a clean top and decided jeans and clogs were going to have to be good enough for today. I ran my hands through my light brown hair—my version of combing since I'd cut it short.

No one should ever arrive at a bead event without wearing beads. I found some fun earrings, each with a purple cone-shaped bead dangling from the ear wire. I knew I'd have to try and dress better tomorrow. Val was forever after me to look nice and act pretty. Or was it look pretty and act nice? I could never remember. I wasn't particularly good at either—at least not at the same time.

I went back to the studio to get ready to go. Boxes and trays of beads were stacked in every corner, on every shelf, and even marching up the staircase to the attic. When I created jewelry, I used all sorts of pre-made beads to complement the ones I'd hand-crafted. My stash included everything from the tiniest seed beads to large silver pendants from Thailand. The studio was my creative zone, the place I was happiest—a place I could work and play, and most of the time there was no difference between the two.

This week, the chaos wasn't too bad. Since I'd had a group of Girl Scouts over last week for a jewelry-making demonstration, I'd cleaned up a little—well, a lot—before they arrived. I'd put the bits and pieces of necklaces in progress into shallow ceramic bowls to try and corral everything from each project into the same place: glass beads, silver beads, other small beads I'd purchased, a clasp, and all the other components needed to complete a necklace. Since making jewelry was less intense than handling a torch that spewed a foot-long flame, I worked on necklaces and earrings each night to relax.

The necklace project bowls ran in long rows along the table below the back windows spanning the length of the room. Those windows let in gorgeous light, even on the dreariest of days.

This had been Aunt Rita's sewing room, where she'd created stunning quilts well into her 80s. She'd left behind four massive tables with bolts of fabric stored on shelves below each work surface. The bolts were gone now, replaced by trays of beads, bundles of wire, and equipment for working with glass. On the widest table I had set up a torch, attaching it firmly to the work surface I'd covered with old kitchen tiles I'd found in the attic. They'd probably been there since the house was built at the turn of the century. Not this century, the one before it.

On the smallest table by the back door were trays of the beads I'd made, and a sample necklace made with them. Everything was packed and ready to take to Aztec Beads, the new bead store in town. The owner, a woman named Rosie, decided she'd have a gallery show and sale featuring the work of glass beadmakers as part of a grand opening celebration. She'd added some free workshops on how to make jewelry, to entice customers to visit her shop. She hoped they'd stick around afterward to buy everything they needed to complete the projects they'd learned about in the workshops.

Rosie had teamed up with a woman named Judy, a member of the local bead society, recently—and unfortunately—renamed JOWL. Judy was coordinating the exhibition, sales, and classes at Aztec Beads. I packed my lovely red VW Beetle, the Ladybug, with the trays of beads, and headed for Tessa's glass studio. It was going to be a great weekend.

But, it didn't turn out as I expected.
