Finding Sarah (3 page)

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.

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?”

“Let me think.” She tried to
replay the exact chain of events. “Chris showed up and we were talking. But no,
he definitely left before Gertie came in.” She raised her palms. “My shop is
such a tiny operation. What could anyone gain by having it robbed?”

He gave his head a quick shake setting
that wayward lock of hair bouncing. One corner of his mouth curled upward. “If
we knew the answer to that one, we might solve a lot of crimes a lot faster.”

His smile widened, and she couldn’t
help but notice how it warmed his entire face. Something inside her warmed, too,
and she blinked in surprise at her reaction. “I guess you’ve seen a lot of
this.”

“Enough to know people will do
crazy things for even crazier reasons. The first thing you learn is to leave
your assumptions at the door.”

“Well, I still don’t see how any
of this is connected to your Gertie, but I’ll help any way I can. The sooner
you find my merchandise, the better. What else can I tell you?

“That should do it for now.
Thanks.” Randy closed his notebook and placed everything back in his briefcase.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept everything relating to the case confidential.”
He pulled out a business card and handed it to Sarah. “You call me if anything
unusual happens. Any time.”

After Randy left, she studied his
card before putting it in her purse. He’d said to call any time. Of course he’d
say that. Cops were always on duty, weren’t they?

Unable to settle, Sarah ran a hot
bubble bath. Her head pillowed on a rolled-up towel, she closed her eyes, soothed
by the soft crackle of popping bubbles. As the hot water released the tension
in her body, burning tears threatened. She was not going to cry. Crying wouldn’t
solve anything. She brought her right hand to the chain around her neck where
David’s thick gold band hung. On the anniversary of David’s death, she’d gone
to his gravesite and moved her own wedding band from her left hand to her right
and vowed that the crying was over.

The chill of a bath gone cold
made her realize she’d drifted off. She got out and bundled herself into David’s
old plaid flannel robe. This was the only piece of him she hadn’t been able to
part with when she’d cleaned out the closets. Even after so many washings, she
swore she could still smell his essence when she put it on. Enveloped in the
robe’s softness, she felt the swirling tide of her emotions begin to ebb. Dwelling
on her misery wouldn’t help.

Without warning, the tears
returned, streaming down her face. Tears of self-pity? Of grief? Guilt? Or
maybe anger. Sarah didn’t care—she threw herself onto the couch and succumbed
until she was exhausted. When the phone rang, she let the answering machine
pick it up, too drained to move. Randy’s voice pulled her from the couch. Could
he have found her things already?

When he told her he needed yet
more information, her heart sank. She couldn’t deal with more questions
tonight. “Can we do it tomorrow? I’ve got a class at St. Michael’s after work,
but I’m usually home by eight-thirty.”

“Eight-thirty. It’s a date.”

She hung up and stared at the
phone. Date? No, that was a figure of speech. They were trying to solve a
crime.

First thing the next morning,
Randy jogged up the three steps to Chris Westmoreland’s massive front porch and
rang the bell. He composed his face into his friendly-but-firm interview expression
and waited, enjoying the warmth of the early morning sun. Sounds of padded
footsteps followed by a growled, “Who’s there?” came from behind the door.

When Randy identified himself,
the door swung open. Chris stood before him, unshaven, wearing leather slippers
and an expensive robe. Robe? No. A dressing gown, complete with the monogrammed
pocket. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Randy displayed his badge. “I
have a couple of routine questions. I understand you were in That Special
Something shortly before a robbery yesterday.”

Chris nodded and motioned him
inside. Randy took in the large, elegant and decidedly masculine space, with a
fieldstone fireplace and dark wood wainscoting. A group of framed
black-and-white landscapes adorned one wall, while three abstract watercolors
dominated another.

“I heard about the robbery on the
news. Poor Sarah. If I’d had any idea, I would never have left the shop. I
still wonder if I could have prevented it.” He perched on the edge of an
oversized brown sofa and gestured toward a large leather easy chair. “Please,
sit. How can I help?”

Randy set his briefcase on the
floor and lowered himself into the chair. “Do you remember seeing anyone before
or after you stopped in at Ms. Tucker’s? Older woman, well-dressed?”

Chris hesitated, as if he were
replaying the morning. “No, I went straight from Sarah’s to Salem. Sorry I can’t
be of more help.”

“Actually, you can,” Randy said. “I’d
like your fingerprints. Strictly for elimination, of course. We found prints in
the shop and it would help if we knew which ones were yours and which might
belong to the robber.”

Randy remembered what Sarah had
said and studied Chris’ reaction. She’d have been disappointed. Calm,
collected, without a hint of indignation. He could usually read his suspects.
Chris’ cool green eyes had no trouble meeting his own, yet they didn’t lock on
the way liars’ often did. Liars either stared you down or never met your gaze.

“Of course, Detective. Do I go to
the police station?”

“No, I can do it now.” He pulled
the kit from his briefcase and rolled Chris’ prints onto the ten card. Chris
remained nonchalant, showing little interest in the process until Randy was
done. Then he examined his fingers with some disgust.

Randy handed him a foil-wrapped
cleansing towel. “This should take it off,” he said.

While Chris worked on removing
all traces of the ink, Randy packed everything back into his briefcase.

Chris escorted him to the door,
still wiping his fingers. “Sarah’s a nice woman,” he said. “We go back a long
way. Her husband’s suicide—a real tragedy.”

“I agree.” Randy pulled himself
up to his full height and smiled at Chris. “It would be a real shame if
anything else happened to her.”

* * * * *

Randy parked his pickup under a
light in the far corner of St. Michael’s parking lot and flipped pages in his
notebook. He asked himself why he hadn’t waited and met Sarah at her apartment
as planned. When he’d decided to give her a ride home from her class, it seemed
logical. But what had possessed him to get here over an
hour early? And
at a nursing home, yet. He gave himself an internal kick in the head and
started reviewing his notes. Even in the parking lot, memories of Gram threatened
to overwhelm him. He popped the plastic lid from his takeout coffee and sipped.

He let his mind float, searching
for connections, but he needed more dots to connect. Eventually, the coffee
made it clear he couldn’t sit out here much longer. He put everything in his
briefcase and quick-stepped across the parking lot to the building’s entrance.

After a stop in the men’s room,
Randy ambled down the speckled linoleum hall to the recreation center where the
silver-haired receptionist had told him he would find Sarah’s class. At least
the smell of antiseptic wasn’t so strong here. Ten feet from the open door, he
froze. After a deep breath, he found his wall of detachment. At the doorway, he
had to stop again. Gram was gone. It’d been eight years, he reminded himself.

Sarah’s voice centered him. He
stood to one side, peering through the door. His mouth dropped open and he
clamped it closed. Sarah roamed around a room of a dozen or so elderly men and
women, some in wheelchairs, some sitting at tables, some standing. All worked
with slabs of wet, gray clay. Dumbfounded, he studied Sarah as she moved from
one person to the next, offering encouragement, taking their gnarled hands and
helping them shape the clay into whatever their mind’s eye projected.

His automatic cop
assessment—white female, late twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, five-four,
one-fifteen—hardly did Sarah justice.

Deep chestnut hair that shimmered
in the light. Stone blue eyes that reflected every thought in her head. He snorted
as he thought of the way that would go over in a briefing.

She must have heard him, because
her head snapped toward the door. Wearing a plastic apron, covered to her
elbows in clay, she straightened and raised her eyebrows. And smiled.

“Keep going everyone,” she said.
She crossed the room, hands raised in front of her like a surgeon after
scrubbing. “Does this visit mean you’ve found something?”

He hated to erase the look of
hope from her face. “Sorry, not yet. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I
didn’t realize this was the kind of class you meant. That you were the teacher.
I guess I saw you sitting in some boring lecture and we’d sneak away and finish
our business early. But you’re busy. I can come back.”

“I can’t talk now, but I could
use another pair of hands. As long as you’re here, can you help?”

“I don’t know anything about
this.” He started inching toward the door, trying not to look at the people in
the room, trying to push away the memories they dredged up.

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “Neither do most of them. It’s therapy more than art. Just offer
encouragement.”

“Hey, Sarah!”

Randy followed the crackling
voice to its source, an elderly woman whose hand trembled as she tried to shape
a mound of clay into what Randy could only envision as a differently shaped
mound of clay. “I need one of those stick things.”

“Why don’t you help Mrs.
Rasmussen? She had a stroke a few months ago and she needs to use her right arm
more. There’s an apron by the sink and tongue depressors on the table—help her
hold it and move it along the clay with her.”

He could feel the color draining
from his face. “I’m not sure I can be much help.”

“Relax. It’s not supposed to end
up being a Maria Martinez. It’s the doing that’s important.”

Forget Gram. Maintain. “Got it.”
He rebuilt his wall and went to help Mrs. Rasmussen.

At seven-thirty, staff escorted
the residents from the room. Randy followed Sarah, helping as she collected
tools, folded plastic sheets and wiped down tables.

“You look happy,” he said. “How
was work?”

Her eyes were blue Christmas
lights. “I haven’t had so many customers in weeks, even if most of them
probably came in out of curiosity. They bought, which is good enough for me
right now.”

“And this? You obviously enjoy
it.”

“Maggie, my neighbor, got me
started doing this about three years ago. Lately, it’s the high point of my
week.” She started covering the unfinished creations with plastic wrap. “Why
don’t you ask your questions while I finish cleaning?”

“I can help,” Randy said.

“No, thanks. I need to be doing
something,” she said. She turned her eyes to his, and he thought some of the
light had dimmed. His gut twisted at the thought he might have caused it.

Randy retrieved his briefcase,
pulled out his notepad and pen. He took a seat at an empty table. “I
understand.” He clicked his pen open and printed the date and time on a clean
page. “I want to know everything about your store.”

“There’s not much. After college,
David and I managed the shop. Back then, our merchandise was the mass-produced,
everyday stuff you could find anywhere. We wanted to add that special
something—that’s what we called the shop when we bought out the previous owner.
It took a while, but we convinced some of the local craftsmen and artisans to
let us carry their work on consignment.”

“You’d think they’d have jumped
at the chance to have someone showcase their work.”

Sarah collected scraps of clay
and dumped them into a large plastic bucket. “About a year later, we found out
they’d heard we weren’t reliable. Rumors in the art community, but we proved
them wrong.” She added water to the bucket, covered it, and looked at him. “Do
you think that might mean something?”

“I told you, I like to find out
as much as possible about a case. I’m looking for common denominators. Go on.”

“We had the normal business
snafus. Little things. Broken merchandise, shipment mix-ups. Things like that
happen. I remember some exclusive hand-painted dinnerware that ended up at a
rival shop in Cottonwood.”

“What shop?”

“Pandora’s. Wait a minute.
Anjolie.” She dried her hands and took a seat across from him.

“What are you talking about?” He
could almost see the synapses firing as he waited for her to answer.

“I don’t know how or if this
fits, but Pandora’s is one of our chief competitors. It opened right after we
took over our shop. Some of our orders ended up there. And Anjolie—it was her
silver that was stolen—showed up right after the robbery yesterday. She pulled
the rest of her stuff. Said she got a better offer from Pandora’s. I could
understand if she wanted to move her things. We didn’t have a contract.” Her
eyes widened. “Do you think Anjolie’s lying about Pandora’s? Do you think she
had something to do with the robbery?”

“I need to pay Anjolie a visit
and ask her. What’s her full name?”

“Anjolie Gaudet.”

“Do you have her address?”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Was there any kind of pattern to
the stuff that was lost or broken?” Randy asked. “Same kind of merchandise,
same manufacturer, anything that would connect them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Any other problems? Unhappy
customers? Someone trying to buy you out?”

“Not really.”

The way she hesitated told him
there was more than she was saying. “Not really, but …?”

Sarah manipulated a leftover
scrap of clay. “When we were trying to expand, David and I needed money. Diana’s
husband—he was her fiancé at the time—thought owning part of a gift shop would
be a nice wedding present and his investment helped us out. Diana tried playing
shopkeeper a couple of times, but between the commute from Portland and fact
that it entailed actual
work
, she stopped caring. Now, it’s strictly a
financial relationship. As long as she gets her check every month, she’s
satisfied.”

“You think she wants more?”

When Sarah locked her blue eyes
on him, Randy knew he was dredging up memories she wanted to put away, and
every question he asked caused her pain. But, painful or not, doing his job was
the way to make things right. He shoved those thoughts deep down where they
couldn’t disturb his objectivity.

“Our will said that if anything
happened to both of us, Diana would get the shop. She’s saying that since he’s
gone, she deserves half.”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“She didn’t get a whole lot after
moneybags Scofield divorced her. The house, a small allowance, and her twenty percent
of That Special Something. And twenty percent of not much doesn’t even cover
her nail appointments. God forbid she should have to get a real job. She keeps
telling me to sell, or make it into a Hallmark franchise or something. As if
she has a clue how that could happen.”

Randy heard the bitterness. But
he also heard the pride. “You don’t want to do that, do you?”

Her eyes flashed bright blue. “Never.
Things were bad after the accident. I held on. I can ride this out.”

“I’m sure you will.” He glanced
at his notes. “Not much more. You talked about some waylaid shipments, mixed-up
orders. Do you remember when the problems started? Before or after your husband’s
accident?”

Sarah’s lips tightened and the
muscles in her jaw clenched.

Damn. He’d hurt her again.
Without thinking, he reached across the table to take her hand, catching
himself before he did, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes to disguise his
stupidity. “Sorry if this is painful.”

“No. David’s gone. I have to get
used to that. But sometimes … We were so happy … It’s hard …”

She lifted her head. When their
eyes met, his physical response had him shifting in his seat. He was working a
case, for God’s sake. “Go on.”