The Drowning Tree by Carol Goodman

would be.
    “Yeah, and if I had balls, said the queen … but I hear you’re at least putting the factory to some good again. It’s not my idea of a great neighborhood to live in, but hey … how about a tour?”
    “I’m happy to show you around, Detective Falco, but I can’t help but think you’ve got better things to do with your Sunday.”
    “Like find out what happened to your friend?”
    I nod.
    Detective Falco runs his hand over his mouth and jaw. In the morning light he looks older than I took him for yesterday—closer to fifty thanforty. The creases along the sides of his mouth are deeper, the shadows under his eyes darker. I realize he was probably up half the night filing reports on Christine’s death but still he got up early to go to church. I imagine there’s some elderly relative who counts on him to take her to church—his mother? a maiden aunt? I’m about to apologize for my remark when he smiles. “Who says that’s not what I’m doing?”
    I SHOW HIM THE OLD LOADING DOCKS AND WAREHOUSE AND, BECAUSE OF HIS FAMILY background, the furnaces where the glass was blown. If this tour is just an excuse to question me about Christine he does a good job feigning interest in the history of the factory and its possible uses for the future.
    “You mean these arts organizations are really interested in using these old factories for museums? And the government hands out grants to do it?”
    “The Dia Art Foundation is converting the old Nabisco factory in Beacon to house its permanent collection. MASSMoCA did it with an old mill in North Adams, Massachusetts, and it also houses working studios on-site. The Rose Glass Works is perfect—close to the train station, clean of any industrial contaminants, and just look at this light! We’ve already got several artists working here and more would come with government funding. It would be great for the downtown area. An influx of artists can really turn an urban area around; look at DUMBO in Brooklyn. That stands for Down Under—”
    “The Manhattan Bridge Overpass. One of my classmates from John Jay works in that precinct.”
    When I let him into the McKay studio he immediately heads for the unlit light table where a section of the Lady window—stripped of its lead caming and cleaned—lies in pieces like a giant jigsaw puzzle.
    “How do you know how to put it all back together?” he asks, tilting his head to get a better look at the lady’s darkened face.
    “We do a rubbing first—” I point to the drawing on white vellum lying on the table. “—and then place the glass pieces on top of the rubbing.”
    “It looks like some of the paint has come away here and there,” he says, laying a finger on the lady’s lips.
    “Yes, the enamel Penrose used wasn’t very stable.” I switch on the light box and the lady’s face comes to life as if waking after a long sleep. The scratches in her cheeks and lips become even more apparent.
    “So do you repaint those parts?”
    “No. The new paint could cause further deterioration of the old paint. We might do something called plating, where we paint in the missing details on another plate of glass and place it behind the original.” I pick up a piece that Ernesto has been experimenting with and slide it under the original glass. Instantly the lady’s cheeks and lips glow bright red.
    “Nah, now she looks tarty.”
    I laugh. “Yes, that’s the problem; we can’t have Eugenie Penrose looking like a streetwalker …”
    “Even if she’s not Eugenie Penrose, but her crazy sister, Clare?”
    I look up from the window to the detective’s face. He’s still studying the figure on the table and I suddenly realize that this is just how he stood above Christine’s body yesterday—and no doubt will stand above her body after it’s been autopsied.
    “Where did you hear that?” I switch off the light box—as if I could, by shielding the lady, make up for not being able to spare Christine’s poor body