Finding Sarah

FINDING
SARAH

By

Terry Odell

Copyright
© 2011 by Terry Odell

Cover
art by Jason Odell

*****

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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. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products
referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.
The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or
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author's work.

To my readers. This
book was first published in 2006 by what was then Cerridwen Press, and was
written a number of years prior to that. When you read, please enjoy a tiny
step back in time, to a world when cell phones were rare, and smart phones
non-existent. Social networking was in its infancy. I've done some revisions
and updating, and there's material in this version that wasn't in the previously
published work. But, to me, it's about Randy and Sarah, and I don't think
relationships have changed much in the last decade.

For Dan, who thought
it was "cute" when I started writing.

Sarah Tucker’s hands shook with
anger as she fumbled the keys into the lock of That Special Something. Bad
enough the bus driver stopped beside a puddle the size of Crater Lake, which
she cleared despite the restrictions of her skirt and pumps, thank you very
much. But when that headbanger in the heavy metal-blasting SUV had sped by, any
satisfaction at her nimble footwork disappeared in a dousing of muddy water.

The cheerful jingle of the
boutique’s door chimes did nothing for her mood. Sarah rushed to her small
office behind the glass sales counter and shrugged out of her coat to assess her
wardrobe damage. She had an appointment with Mr. Ebersold at the bank to
discuss her loan application. She couldn’t go home and change, and the last
thing she wanted was to look like she actually needed a loan. If you needed
money, you couldn’t get it, but if you had it, they’d give you whatever you
asked for. She dampened some paper towels and daubed at her mud-spattered shoes
and stockings.

Enough negative thoughts.
Sarah hung up her keys and
tossed her instant soup packet into the basket by her coffeepot. Another
gourmet lunch. At a knock on the door, she checked her watch. It wasn’t quite
ten, but she’d open for a possible sale. Patting her windblown hair into place,
she hurried to the front door.

Christopher Westmoreland stood
there, looking impeccable as always. No headbanger would dare splash water on
his perfectly creased black trousers. His strawberry-blond hair wouldn’t dare
blow in the wind.

“Chris. What brings you to town?”
She stepped back into the store and toward the register. “I’m getting ready to
open, but if you need anything, I’ll be glad to get it for you.”
As if he’d
actually buy something.

“Not today. I’ve got some
appointments over in Salem. Thought I’d say hello before I head out.” He
strolled to the counter and leaned over its glass top, close enough for Sarah
to smell his sandalwood aftershave and the cinnamon gum he chewed. “You haven’t
returned any of my calls. I know things have been tough since David … died. I
want to help. Why won’t you let me? For old times’ sake?”

Memories of David crashed over
her. It had been more than a year, but the pain lay right beneath the surface,
waiting for her to drop her guard. She shoved her emotions back into that metal
strongbox in her brain, slammed the lid and turned the key. She was no longer
Sarah, David’s wife. Or Sarah the daughter, or Sarah the high school
sweetheart. She was Just Plain Sarah.

Sarah met his pale green eyes,
the ones she’d found so irresistible in high school. “We’ve been through this
before. I need to do it on my own. I can manage without your money.” Even
though he’d promised “no strings”, Sarah knew if she took a dime from him, she’d
be attached with monofilament line. The kind that cut when you tried to break
it.

“Are you sure? You look like you
haven’t slept in a month. And your hair. Why did you cut it?”

“Well, thanks for making my
morning.” Sarah fluffed her cropped do-it-yourself haircut. “It’s easier this
way.”

“How about dinner tonight? Come
on, Sarah. We’re friends, right?” His eyebrows lifted in expectation.

Dinner with Chris or
five-for-a-dollar ramen noodles at home? Accepting dinner wouldn’t be selling
out, would it? “Maybe. Call me later, okay?”

“Great. See you.” He turned to
leave, a broad smile on his face.

“I said, ‘maybe’, remember?”
Sarah walked him to the door and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open”. She
rearranged the crystal in the front window to catch the light and dusted the
brightly colored pottery, shifting a pot, turning a vase so its pattern was
visible from the street. Once she was satisfied with the effect, she meandered
through the shop, adjusting animal carvings and moving a display of stationery
to a roll-top desk.

An hour later, Sarah refused to
let the lack of customers bother her. Easter was approaching, then Mother’s Day,
and throngs of people would descend upon That Special Something to find the
perfect gift. Throng? Right now, she’d settle for a trickle.

The door chimed. Sarah assessed
the well-dressed woman who entered the shop. Probably in her sixties, with a
large designer purse draped over one shoulder. A hat with ribbon trim and black
leather gloves made her a bit old-fashioned and out of place for the tiny
Oregon town, but a customer was a customer. Sarah gave the woman her biggest
smile and stepped out from behind the counter. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to
That Special Something.
Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“My niece is getting married. I
thought I might find something out of the ordinary here.” Her voice was
clipped, with a touch of sophisticated arrogance that said she was used to
getting her way.

“Unique gifts are my specialty.”
Sarah motioned to a display of crystal. “Perhaps she’d like these hand-painted
wine goblets? Or some of these Egyptian perfume bottles?”

“Thank you. I’ll browse for a
while, if you don’t mind.”

“Take your time. I’m Sarah. Feel
free to ask any questions.” Fighting the urge to follow her customer around,
Sarah retreated and let the woman roam the shop.

The way Chris had referred to
David’s death churned through her thoughts. That horrible pause. The same one
everyone used. But Sarah knew it had been an accident. David would never commit
suicide. This afternoon, she’d get a loan from the bank and rehire the private
investigator, or find a better one. The investigator would get the police to
reopen the case and they’d find out it wasn’t suicide. Then she’d get the
insurance money, which would pay off the loan and the shop would be safe. It
made perfect sense. And maybe it would eliminate some of the guilt.

Sarah dragged her thoughts to the
present, straightened her shoulders, and found her professional smile again.
Her customer was studying some silver picture frames. Expensive ones. She
thought about how hard it had been to get Anjolie to display her work in the
shop, that her creations were
too good
for a
mere boutique
.

She telegraphed mental messages
to her customer—
Please, show Anjolie she was wrong. Buy one. Buy six.

The woman set the frame down and
turned away.

Sarah wouldn’t let her
disappointment show. “Can I show you something else?”

The woman strolled back and
fingered the frames again. “You know, I like this one.” She picked up the most
expensive one, the one with the lacy pattern of roses and leaves. “And I think
I’ll take the matching vase over there.”

Not good to let a customer see
you jumping up and down clapping your hands. Instead, Sarah called up her most
professional tone. “Excellent choices, ma’am. Would you like them gift-wrapped?”

“No, thank you. But if you have gift
boxes, I would appreciate it.”

Sarah ducked beneath the counter
for the boxes, calculating what the sale would mean to her bottom line. When
she rose, she stared into a gun barrel.

Her mouth went dry. Her knees
wobbled and she grabbed the edge of the glass, transfixed by the gleaming
metal.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” The woman’s
voice seemed to come from nowhere. “I’m a bit short at the moment, but I do
want these lovely things.” She slid the picture frame into her purse.

“What?” The word came out as a
hoarse croak.

“I believe you heard me.” Keeping
the gun trained on Sarah, the woman stepped around the counter. “Unlock the
register … Sarah, is it? I could use a little spending money.”

Time froze. Sarah glanced toward
the street, but saw no one who could have heard her scream, if she’d been able
to get a sound past the tightness in her throat. She kept a pair of shears in a
drawer, but the woman was standing in front of it. Not that she’d have the
nerve to stab someone holding a gun. The woman leaned over Sarah, her breath
smelling of peppermint. Sarah felt the press of cold steel against her back.

“Do it,” the woman said. “Slowly.”

“I will. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
Barely able to get the key into the lock with her trembling fingers, Sarah did
as the woman asked, relieved that all she had in the drawer was her opening
bank.

“Give me the cash,” the woman
said. “Just the bills.”

Sarah’s fumbling fingers scooped
out the money.

The woman snatched it from Sarah’s
hands, then dropped a twenty on the counter. “You see, I’m not leaving you penniless.”
Without lowering the gun, the woman backed toward the door. “I don’t want to
appear greedy, but I think I’ll take a few of these animal carvings, too. Give
my compliments to the artist.” Still training the gun on Sarah, she set the
vase down on the display table and filled it with the small wooden creatures. “Have
a nice day.” She picked up the vase and backed out the door.

* * * * *

Sarah struggled to decipher the
legalese of her insurance policy as she awaited the arrival of the police. She
dreaded the thought of another claim. Getting everything straight after the
electrical fire in January had been a nightmare. She’d been reading the same
paragraph over and over when a knock and a voice at the front door set her
heart pounding.

“Ms. Tucker? It’s Detective Randy
Detweiler, Pine Hills Police.”

She unlocked the door to a tall,
lanky man dressed in black denim pants and a gray sweater, gripping several bulky
plastic bags. At five-four, Sarah didn’t consider herself exceptionally short,
but she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“No problem. Normally, we’d send
a uniform to take your statement, but you’ve described someone we call Gracious
Gertie. I’ve worked her case, so I thought I’d speed things up.”

He brushed past her, spread the
bags on the counter, then flashed a leather case with a gold badge. “Gertie’s a
sore spot with me. Do these look familiar? I found them in the alley about half
a block away.”

Sarah froze at what appeared to
be Gertie’s head in a bag on the counter, until she realized it was a wig,
still attached to the black hat. The suit coat, shoes and even the large
designer bag filled the rest of the counter space. “What—?”

“It’s her typical MO, although
this is the first time she’s left her costume behind. Usually, she hits places
that don’t get a lot of traffic, always disguised differently and she never
takes much from any one place. She hit several shops on the other side of town
about a year ago. Looks like she’s back.”

“Then you should be able to catch
her, right?” She forced herself to slow down. “You don’t understand. I need my
things. You have that stuff. Can’t you find some clues or something?” Sarah
heard her voice quaver. No way was she going to break down in front of this
police officer. Hands clutched across her middle as if to still the churning
inside, she turned and walked away.

“I know you’re upset, ma’am, but
I have to be honest. She’s been getting away with this in small towns all over
Oregon for at least two years. Believe me, I’d love to be the one to bring her
in, but I don’t think you should get your hopes up about recovering your
merchandise.”

Sarah leaned against a display
table and fought nausea, dizziness and then fury. She took a deep breath.

“Why don’t you tell me as much as
you remember,” the detective said. His voice seemed to float from the distance.

“What?” She started to walk
toward him and her legs gave way. A strong hand grasped her elbow.

“Take it easy. You’ve been held
up at gunpoint. Sometimes it gets worse once you realize you’re safe. Let’s sit
down. No need to rush into the paperwork.”

“No, I want to do this.” She
looked into the detective’s face, saw an aquiline nose and scrutinizing brown
eyes. A wayward lock of dark brown hair hung over his forehead, calling
attention to a small scar above his left eyebrow. There was something vaguely
familiar about him, but before she could summon the memory, the door chimed and
she turned away.

A slender man sporting a stubble
of beard, dressed in blue coveralls and baseball cap, stood in the doorway,
taking a slow look around. He held a large metal case. Eyebrows raised, he
looked at the detective. “You think we’ll get anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Detective
Detweiler said. “You’ll have to dry the clothes—I found them in a puddle.”

“You get pictures?” the man
asked.

“Yes.” Detective Detweiler turned
to Sarah. “This is Mike Connor from the lab. He’ll dust for prints. Can you
remember what she touched?”

“The silver over there.” Sarah
pointed to the table. “Those animal carvings and I think she was looking at the
baskets. I know she was wearing gloves when she came in.” She faltered. “I can’t
be positive she still had them on when she came to the register. All I remember
is the gun.” Speaking the word aloud brought back the fear.

“I’ll need her prints for
elimination.” The lab tech faced Sarah. “This won’t take long.”