Finding Sarah, Page 2

  That pause again. Realization hit her like this morning’s mud puddle. This was the man who’d told her to hire a private investigator. That there was nothing they could do in Pine Hills because it was out of their jurisdiction and the Polk County cops in charge had closed the case. Had he thought she was right when he’d recommended an investigator? Or was he trying to get her out of the police department’s hair when she’d demanded they keep investigating? The memories turned the muffins to lead in her stomach.

  “I’m managing.” At least she had been until an hour ago. She blinked back tears. “Can we get on with the stuff about the robbery?”

  “Of course. I understand.” He held his pen above his notebook. “How are sales? Any reason for Gertie to think your shop would be a lucrative hit?”

  She shook her head. “We’re small, but we were doing well enough. Tourism is flowing out this way from Salem and Portland, and local artisans are being recognized. We’ve had some financial setbacks, but things seemed to be coming together.” In the grand scheme of things, that Gertie woman hadn’t taken a lot, but it wouldn’t take much to put the shop out of business. Between the cash and the merchandise, she was out almost five hundred dollars. Tears threatened again. She willed them away and stared at him.

  “We?”

  Sarah twisted her napkin. “I guess I still think of the shop as ‘ours’—that David—my husband—is still a part of it. Technically, his sister owns twenty percent, but she doesn’t do anything except demand her cut every month.”

  “I’ll need her name and address,” he said. His pen clicked and hovered again.

  “Diana Scofield. Lives in Portland, but I’ll have to get the exact address for you.” While she watched Randy make his notes, she wondered where Diana’s next check, dismal as it would be, would come from. The way to keep that woman out of her hair was to give her the money on time. She concentrated on the pen, as if its clicking was the only sound in the diner.

  “Any trouble between the two of you?”

  “I would have thought that came out during the investigation of my husband’s death.” She moved her hands to her lap where he couldn’t see them tremble, wiping them on her napkin.

  “I wasn’t part of the investigation.” He paused. “I know this is difficult, but if we get the preliminary stuff done, I can start looking for Gertie and your merchandise.”

  She nodded. “Diana and David were close. He was her father figure when their parents divorced. She worshipped him and I think she resented me for marrying him—stealing him away. She blames me for his death.”

  This time, the pen was silent. Randy leaned closer. “Why would she blame you?”

  Sarah struggled to find the detachment she’d needed the past fifteen months. The ability to become a different Sarah when she had to talk about David. “We were trying to turn the store into more of a gallery than a cutesy gift shop and it was stretching the budget.” She heard her voice go flat. Reciting words she’d repeated too many times before. “Diana wasn’t good with money. David kept bailing her out, and I thought it was time he let her suffer the consequences of her spending habits. We were arguing about it the day he died.”

  Sarah raised her eyes to meet Randy’s. “David would never have killed himself because money was tight or we were having a few arguments. We were making a go of things, working them out.”

  “Does Diana think it was suicide?”

  “I think she needs someone to blame for David’s death and I’m the handiest scapegoat.” She heard the bitterness and took a deep breath. “Please. This can’t have anything to do with the little old witch who robbed me.”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to consider everything.” Three more clicks of his pen. “Do you know what kind of gun Gertie used? Revolver? Automatic?”

  Sarah shuddered. “I don’t know anything about guns. It looked … big.”

  “If you saw a picture, would you recognize it?”

  “Maybe. I usually notice things, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not unusual when you’re frightened. Let’s move on. Who else has been in the store today? It’ll help Connor eliminate more prints.”

  Sarah relaxed a little at the shift in the conversation. “Nobody was in the shop before Gertie, except me … and—”

  “And who?”

  Sarah paused a moment. “A friend. Chris. Christopher Westmoreland. He was there before Gertie came in. But there’s no way he could be involved.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I can’t see him rubbing elbows with a thief. He’s a bigwig at Consolidated Enterprises.”

  Randy made his notes. “Thank you. I’ll talk to him. Next question. How much did Gertie take?”

  “Two expensive silver pieces and a handful of small carved animals. And about two hundred in cash.” She managed a wry grin. “She left me twenty dollars.”

  “Do you have any recollection of her being in the shop before today?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s been quiet, unless she came in during the Christmas season. We were busier then.”

  “You have any other employees? Someone else who might remember her?”

  “No. Only me.” She tried not to think of working side-by-side with David, but her voice quavered.

  As if he sensed he’d taken her to the edge of her emotional limits, Randy stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Back in her shop, Sarah flinched when she saw the remnants of the black fingerprint powder smudging the counter and Anjolie’s silver. The bags of Gertie’s belongings were gone, presumably taken by Connor. She dashed into the back room and returned with a spray bottle of cleanser and a roll of paper towels, wishing she could clean away the events of the previous hour by rubbing hard enough. She showed Randy an inventory photo of Anjolie’s vase and samples of the animal carvings, and she answered the rest of his questions.

  She gave the counter one more swipe. “Look, it’s almost twelve. I should reopen if you’re done. Is there anything more you need?”

  “I don’t think so. If she was wearing gloves and a wig, it’s doubtful we’ll get much, but sometimes the lab folks can pull rabbits out of very tiny hats. I’ll do some door-to-door and see if anyone else noticed Gertie. If I need anything else, I’ll call.”

  “Thanks.” She walked over and held the door for him. When he left, she reached for the “Open” sign, but couldn’t face customers yet. She turned and leaned against the closed door, contemplating the shop. Their life. Hers and David’s.

  Sarah meandered through the space, seeking comfort from the merchandise. She remembered working with David—refinishing the old shelves and tables they used instead of conventional store fixtures, the arguments about whether to carry high-priced oil paintings, the joy when they discovered a new artisan at a craft show. As she had so many times, she pushed the memories away, but now they refused to relinquish their hold.

  She had no idea how long she’d been daydreaming when the back doorbell summoned. She peered through the small glass window. Anjolie. What was she doing here? Sarah opened the door.

  Anjolie pushed past Sarah, her waist-length raven hair swaying as she marched to the table where her silver sat on display. She set a large cardboard box down on the floor and began loading it with her picture frames. “Someone from Pandora’s called and said I would do better over there.”

  Sarah’s heart sank. “Wait. Can’t we talk about it?”

  “There’s not much to talk about.” She fisted her hands on her hips and stared at the display. “You didn’t mention you’d sold the vase and one of my frames,” Anjolie said. She looked at Sarah with narrowed eyes. “I’ll take my check now, please.”

  “They were stolen. This morning. The police were here. They think they know who took them, and I’m sure they’ll get them back soon.” She lifted her chin and met Anjolie’s gaze. “Can’t you leave your work with me for a few months longer? I know things will pick up.” She heard her voice r
ise in pitch and hated herself for it.

  “Sorry. It’s settled. I agreed to bring my work to Pandora’s.”

  Too drained to think, much less argue, Sarah went to the storeroom for some tissue paper. Without speaking, the two women wrapped and packed Anjolie’s silver.

  “I’ll give you a week,” Anjolie said. “If the cops don’t find my stuff, I’ll expect a check.”

  Sarah watched Anjolie load the carton into her van. When the phone rang, Sarah let the heavy back door swing shut and hurried through the shop. At the sound of Mr. Ebersold’s condescending voice, her stomach sank. Her bank appointment. She looked at her watch. She was twenty minutes late. Her attempts to explain were cut short.

  “I’m sorry Sarah, but there’s no reason to reschedule. I’ve reviewed your loan application and it wouldn’t be prudent for us to grant the loan at this time.”

  “I understand.” The words barely made it past her constricted throat. “Thank you for your time.” She waited until she heard him disconnect before she slammed the phone down. She would not be defeated. Not by some little old lady, not by a temperamental artist, not by a cheapskate banker. This shop was her life and by God, she would see it survive.

  Sarah stormed into the storeroom and dragged out the boxes of Easter merchandise. She was too upset to open the shop and it seemed as good a time as any to begin her new displays.

  Even the fingernail she broke when she ripped open a carton didn’t bother her. She dug through Styrofoam packing material and pulled out hand-painted wooden tulips, their smooth surfaces soothing her nerves. She fetched some vases from another display and arranged wooden bouquets.

  After an hour lost in the creative process, Sarah stepped back. The store reflected a vision of a springtime garden, replete with wooden bunnies hiding among caches of decorative eggs. She let that familiar glow of satisfaction wash over her as she surveyed the results of her labor, remembering how she and David had agonized over the carpet. It had to be neutral to set off the artwork, but beige or gray was so boring. They had finally settled on an amber brown and now it became freshly turned garden soil.

  Outside, ominous rumblings of thunder sounded in the distance. Sarah clutched her arms around her waist, her thoughts returning to the rainy night the Highway Patrol officer had come to her door. In that instant, Sarah had known her life would never be the same. Her David, her soul mate, dead at twenty-six. He had finished her thoughts, known what she needed before she did.

  She touched her chest, feeling David’s wedding band on the chain beneath her sweater. Even a year after he’d died, she still felt incomplete without him.

  He couldn’t have killed himself. It was an accident, no matter what anybody said. In good weather, the mountain road was dangerous enough with its twists and turns and it had been stormy that day.

  The pangs of guilt returned. If she’d been with him, would he still be alive? They’d never had secrets. Or had she missed something?

  Accident or suicide, could she have had anything to do with his death? Had his mind been on their quarrel and not the road? Her eyes and throat burned. She might as well go home. She gathered the insurance papers, locked up and hurried toward the bus stop, hoping the bus would arrive before the rain.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah sloshed her way to her four-plex apartment building, its faded pink paint looking even duller under the cloud-filled sky. What else could go wrong? True, she’d beaten the rain to the bus, but the skies had opened while she walked the last block home. She stepped up the boxwood-lined concrete stairs, pushed open the heavy wooden door and wiped her sodden shoes on the mat inside.

  Standing in the foyer, Sarah let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Broken strains of Beethoven’s Minuet in G drifted from Mrs. Pentecost’s apartment. Eight-year-old Lydia was practicing her piano lessons. Sarah trudged up the flight of carpeted stairs to her apartment.

  She exchanged her rain-soaked clothes for leggings and an old, faded sweatshirt and curled up on the couch to pore over the insurance papers. The value of the pieces stolen by that Gertie crook barely met the deductible. Not much point in filing another claim. Two claims in three months would wreak havoc with her premiums—if they didn’t cancel her policy altogether.

  As Sarah rubbed her neck, the blinking light of the answering machine caught her eye. She punched the message button and heard Chris asking why she wasn’t at work and reminding her about dinner.

  Would dinner be so bad? But as dejected as she felt right now, she’d probably give in to his offers of charity. There had to be another way, a way that didn’t entail being in debt to anyone but the bank. Not that the bank wanted her in any more debt than she already was.

  Sarah hit the redial on Chris’ message, got his machine and begged off dinner. Blue funks were best wallowed in alone. She’d barely hung up when the shrill ring of the phone made her jump. Her heart quickened at Detective Detweiler’s voice. “Did you find her? Did you get my things back?”

  “No, but I have some more questions. I think it’ll be easier to do this in person. I can be there in about an hour.”

  The blue funk evaporated into hope of solving the robbery. Sarah blew her hair dry and repaired her makeup. She pulled off her old sweatshirt and replaced it with her favorite kelly green sweater. She’d scarcely finished putting away the weekend’s clutter when the doorbell rang.

  Randy stood in the doorway, holding a canvas briefcase, raincoat dripping, that one lock of hair hanging over his eyebrow. Wet, it was almost black. She motioned him inside.

  He hung his coat on a hook by the front door, then crossed to the dining room table. “Is this a good place to talk?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. Sarah took a seat across the table. Randy reached into his briefcase and extended a stack of photographs. “Do any of these look like the gun you saw?”

  Sarah took the pictures and leafed through them, trying to be objective, trying to forget the way her mouth got dry just looking at them. She handed him two. “More like these, I think.”

  She searched Randy’s face for a hint that he was pleased with her choices, but his expression was unreadable. “I could be wrong, though.”

  “No, these are semi-automatics, and that’s what other witnesses said she used.”

  “Other witnesses? Did someone else see her?” Maybe this would be over. When he put the photos back in his briefcase, she relaxed. Stupid. They were pictures, not real guns.

  “No, he said. “I’m talking about last year’s robberies. They’re still open cases.”

  “That’s right. You said she was here last year, but I must have totally missed it.” She lowered her eyes to the table. “Of course, back then, there was a lot I was missing.”

  He was silent and she raised her gaze. His brown eyes locked on hers for a moment, then he looked back at his notebook, clicking his pen. “Gertie hasn’t turned up anywhere else lately, so it’s possible she’s back in Pine Hills. We’ve alerted the other merchants. Maybe I’ll get her this time around.”

  She thought of that black powder all over her shop counter. “Did you get any fingerprints?”

  “Some. We’re running them, but Gertie’s never left prints before, so we don’t have anything to compare them to. If Christopher Westmoreland was in the shop, I’ll need to get his for elimination as well.”

  She laughed. “I’d love to be there when you do. I can picture his face when a cop comes to the door.”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s hiding something?”

  “Oh, no. He’s always seemed—above us mere mortals, you know. Image is everything. Nothing ever goes wrong for him.”

  “Really. What can you tell me about him?”

  “I can’t believe he had anything to do with this. He’s so … proper.”

  “I don’t make any assumptions when I’m working a case. Gets in the way. But the more I know, the better I can see the big picture. Eliminating data is as important
as finding it. Are you seeing Chris?”

  She raised her eyebrows, but he sat, his expression neutral. “As in dating?”

  “As in anything.” The words were spoken casually, but there was a hint of anticipation in his tone. “I’m simply trying to get as much information as I can.”

  She dismissed the fleeting idea he’d asked for personal reasons. “Not really. Chris came around after my husband died, trying to get back together, but—well, I don’t think of him that way. He pops in from time to time—coffee, the occasional dinner. He’s a friend. Like I said, he showed up at the shop this morning.”

  “What did he want?”

  “The usual—to help me. But I don’t want his help. I get the feeling there would be too many strings attached. I’d rather flip burgers than be indebted to him. I like being in charge of my own life.”

  “Go on, please,” Randy said. “About Chris.”

  Right. David was dead, and now she was talking to a cop about Chris. She waited for the twisting in her belly to pass. “Chris and I went our separate ways after high school. When he came back for Christmas break the first year, he seemed upset that I’d found David, but he got over it. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d been faithful to me. Rumor had it he was pretty popular with the girls.”

  “Do you know anything about what Chris did while he was away at school?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  He nodded. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Not much. After I got married, he was friendly enough—even pointed us to some local artists from time to time.”

  Randy’s pen clicked again. “Do you remember which ones? Are they still with you?”

  “Some.” She met his gaze. “I know. You’ll need their names. I’ll get you a list.” She went to her desk and turned on the computer. Once she’d printed the list for Randy, she circled the current artists and went back to the table. “I don’t think this will be much help—there’s not much they have in common, aside from being artists, of course.”

  He looked up, pen at the ready. “Was he in contact with Gertie while he was in the shop?”