Finding Sarah (6 page)

“So, let’s eat,” Sarah said. She
sat down and Randy was glad to see she’d served herself a portion almost as
generous as the one she gave him. The two ate their lasagna, their silence
paying tribute to Maggie’s cooking. When they finished, Sarah suggested coffee
and dessert in the living room.

“It’ll have to be decaf,” she
said.

“Not a problem.” As she began
clearing plates, he pushed back his chair. “Let me help you.”

“No, you relax. I know where
everything belongs.”

Randy remained at the table,
leaning on his elbows, watching her work in the kitchen. Her movements reminded
him of the way she’d worked with the seniors last night. She moved with a
feline grace, rinsing dishes, measuring coffee, wrapping leftovers. Once again,
he forced himself back to reality. He was on a case. She was a victim. He
collected his thoughts and moved to the living room. Sarah followed with the
platter of brownies.

“Now,” she said. “Tell me what
you found out today.” The meal had wiped away her look of fatigue and despair.
Her expression held a look of expectant optimism.

Randy settled himself into a
corner of the couch. “I spoke with Anjolie, and she is
not
a happy
camper. A Mr. Brandt told her Pandora’s would double her profits if she’d pull
her things from your store. But when she brought her pieces to the shop, they
denied everything.”

Sarah’s eyes popped wide open. “Now
I’m totally confused. If Pandora’s isn’t trying to lure away my artists, then
who is?”

“The call to Anjolie came
during
the robbery.” Randy flipped through his notebook. “From a pay phone at a rest
stop on Interstate Five. However, nobody at Pandora’s has heard of Brandt. Have
you? Unhappy customer?”

Sarah’s brow wrinkled. “No,
sorry.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “This is too confusing. Let me
get the coffee. Maybe that and another brownie will make things clearer. How do
you take it?”

“Black, please.”

When Sarah brought the coffee, he
took a mug, and he swore her fingers lingered a second or two longer than
necessary. A faint blush colored her cheeks. She sat down facing him from the
opposite end of the couch.

“What about Gertie’s clothes? Can’t
you use them for DNA or something?”

Randy smiled. “It’s not quite
like television. Pine Hills doesn’t have that kind of a lab, but we could send
samples to the state if we thought we had something. But they’re busy with
murder cases, so a robbery like this one could take a year to process—maybe
longer. Plus, nobody has any DNA from Gertie to match it to, so it wouldn’t do
us any good. We checked her clothes, but nothing was remarkable enough for us
to track down.”

“What about the fingerprints?”
She kicked off her shoes and tucked one leg under her.

Randy watched as she adjusted her
skirt, averting his eyes once he realized he had looked somewhere he had no
business even thinking about. He shifted on the couch and cleared his throat,
holding his coffee mug in front of his lap, praying she wouldn’t detect the
effect she was having on him. “They belonged to Chris Westmoreland. I ran him
through NCIC—that’s the National Crime Information Center—the DMV, and a couple
other databases. No arrests. He’s worked for Consolidated Enterprises for the
past five years in Development, he drives an Eclipse, and has had one speeding
ticket.”

“I told you, Mr. Good Citizen.
Anything else?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Brandt, but
without more to go on, it’s tough.”

Sarah nodded, her bright eyes
peering over her coffee cup. “I’m sure you’ll find more soon.”

Randy tried to ignore the way his
heart seemed to skip a few beats every time he looked at her. He went on.

“The company Chris works for has
very far-reaching fingers. I’m going to see if any of them dip into anything
that would tie to your shop. But even if there’s a connection, there’s nothing
to indicate there’s anything untoward going on. Consolidated has holdings in
hundreds of small companies and the fact that some of them might be connected
to your store could mean nothing.”

“So, where do you go from here?”

“I keep looking. It’s going to be
another day of computer work, paperwork and phone calls.” He set his mug down
on the table.

“Can I help?”

“No, this is plain,
old-fashioned, boring police work. Just my style.”

“You’re not plain, old-fashioned,
or boring,” Sarah said. “I think what you do is fascinating.” She jumped up and
took the coffee mugs to the sink, busying herself rinsing them and putting away
the leftover brownies, but not before Randy saw that blush rise to her cheeks
once more. Was she responding to him, too? Or embarrassed that the conversation
had turned personal? He’d better get out of here before he did something he’d
regret. He stood and reached for his coat.

“I need to get going,” he said. “It’s
getting late and I have lots to do tomorrow. Do you have someone who can stay
with you? Or a friend you can stay with?”

“I’m not leaving my home. And
Maggie’s right across the hall.”

“You’ll change the lock tomorrow,
right?”

“Yes, I promise.”

Randy stood at the door, looking
back through the apartment. Sarah stayed in the kitchen. He swallowed and tried
to keep his voice steady. “You have my cell phone number.”

She flashed a quick smile. “I’ll
even add it to my speed dial and keep the phone next to my bed.”

He knew the grin he gave her was
anything but professional. She rewashed a glass, holding it to the light,
studying it, rinsing it again.

“Lock the door behind me,” he
said.

“Yes, Detective.” She walked
toward the front door, stopping a few feet from him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,
I have to get back to my laundry.”

* * * * *

Randy smiled as he heard doors
open and close upstairs. Maggie would be giving Sarah the third degree any
minute now. He couldn’t explain why Sarah affected him the way she did. Maybe
he’d been alone too long. Six years since he and Heather had called it quits.
Not that they’d had anything serious to begin with. Being a cop didn’t leave a
lot of time for developing relationships, and he’d never found anyone who
understood what the job meant to him. A couple of short-lived flings, but no
one had hit him the way Sarah had. Like a brick wall falling on him. God, even thinking
of her made him hard.
Stop.
Letting people get close got in the way.

He paid a call to Mrs. Pentecost.
She’d been out that afternoon and hadn’t seen anything unusual. She confirmed
she hadn’t called anyone to fix a heater. He radioed Dispatch from his pickup
to report Sarah’s address, a description of Chris Westmoreland and his Eclipse.
Something about the man raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and it wouldn’t
hurt to keep an eye out. “I don’t expect anything, but if you see him, make
sure I get a call.”

Randy replaced the handset and
drove across town to his house without realizing how he got there. Damn. He
needed to focus. He grabbed Sarah’s files, retrieved his mail, and unlocked his
door. Inside, he dropped everything onto the narrow table behind the couch,
then hung up his jacket and secured his weapon. Starsky and Hutch wound
themselves around his ankles, yowling that their dinner was late. “Sorry, guys.
I got detained.”

He scratched both felines behind
the ears and went to the back porch to refill their food and water dishes. They
bounded across the house ahead of him and waited impatiently for him to finish.
“Enjoy,” he said. He left them to their meal and went back inside.

He crossed to the liquor cabinet
and poured a generous two fingers of Jameson. Tonight called for the good
stuff, the twelve-year-old he saved for special occasions. He stared at the
bottle, turning it in his hands. Almost full. That didn’t say much for special
occasions. He swirled the amber fluid, watching it trickle down the sides of
the glass, then let that first sip linger on his tongue before swallowing. The
fiery heat worked its way down his throat. With a sigh, Randy ran his fingers
through his hair and sat down on the couch. He fingered the remote and stared
at the television with unseeing eyes. The cats joined him while he made two
trips—or maybe it was four—through the channels and finished half his drink.

Sarah. Hair that smelled of
peaches. A splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Eyes the blue of the
stone in his grandmother’s brooch. The one he’d loved to run his fingers across
as a child, feeling safe and secure whenever he touched its smooth, cool
surface. Sodalite, she’d called it.

Enough. Do your job.

Randy groaned and extricated
himself from the stack of cats on his lap. He retrieved Sarah’s files, went to
the kitchen table and set his glass on the flecked yellow Formica surface. He
could hear his grandmother telling him to slow down, take things one step at a
time, think things through. What had worked for his struggles with algebra
should work here as well.

The bright fluorescent lights in
the kitchen brought things into sharper focus. He pulled a yellow legal tablet
from a drawer and began making lists. Lists of the companies Sarah bought from.
Lists of the companies Consolidated owned. Lists of shipments gone awry, of
damaged merchandise. Next, he got out the highlighters. Eventually, he had
rainbows of lists. Somewhere, there had to be connections, common denominators,
but whatever they were, they hung just out of reach.

Sarah floated up from the depths
of sleep to see faint patterns of light playing around the room. Her fingers
fumbled for the clock at her bedside, encountering instead a cut crystal bowl
of wax fruit. Right. Maggie’s guest room. She’d insisted Sarah spend the night.

Fully alert now, Sarah wriggled
her way out of the old waterbed. Once she had become accustomed to the faint
gurgling every time she moved, she’d spent a restful night. She hoped to get
back to her own apartment before Maggie woke, but instead found her neighbor
humming tunelessly in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Sarah. I hope you
slept well.”

“Like a baby. Thanks again for
putting up with me. Sorry to dash off, but I have to call a locksmith to change
my locks and still get the shop open on time.”

“Call the locksmith from here,
sweetie. You can eat breakfast while you’re waiting. Or you can ask Mrs.
Pentecost to take care of it. She
is
the manager and ought to do
something besides making us listen to Lydia practice piano for hours on end.”

“You like to listen to Lydia and
you know it, Maggie.”

Sarah stepped over to the
workspace where Maggie had a small desk and wall-mounted phone. Why was she not
surprised to find the Yellow Pages open to “Locksmiths”? And a red circle
around one ad, no less. She suppressed a smile and dialed the number.

“Okay,” Sarah said to Maggie
after hanging up the phone. “They’ll be here within an hour.”

“That’s the company we recommend
at the Women’s Center. You’ve got plenty of time to eat. Come. Sit.”

Sarah knew better than to argue.
Maggie set a plate of pancakes, scrambled eggs and sliced honeydew in front of
her.

“Start on that while I get the
juice and coffee.”

Sarah nodded, her mouth already
full of eggs. How long had it been since she’d taken the time to eat a real
breakfast? She reached for the syrup container. Genuine maple, not the
imitation stuff. After pouring a liberal quantity over the pancakes, she smiled
at Maggie.

Maggie beamed back at her. “You
eat every bite of that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah applied
herself to the task at hand.

Maggie flopped onto a chair and
sipped her coffee. “Did you notice your new neighbors?” she asked.

“No. Where?”

“The building next door, where
the Fredericks lived. I saw a couple of guys carrying some chairs and things
up. I thought I’d give them a day before welcoming them to the neighborhood. If
it’s even a ‘them’. I haven’t seen much evidence of anyone.”

“That place has been empty almost
a year. It’ll be nice to have someone living there. Any idea who might be
moving in? Kids? Young? Old?”

“Not yet, but I’ll find a reason
to pop over. Maybe you can give a shout when you see some activity. Your
kitchen window looks right into their dining room.”

“I’ll do that.” Her plate empty,
Sarah carried it to the sink. “Maggie, this was delicious. Sorry to dash, but I
have to get dressed before the locksmith comes. Thanks again.”

“Think nothing of it. I enjoy the
company. I need to get ready myself. Thursday is my day at the hospital.” She
paused. “But I could come and work with you—I’ll worry about you being alone.”

“Don’t, Maggie. Randy said this
woman doesn’t hit the same shop twice. I’ll be fine.” She leaned over and
kissed Maggie on the cheek. “I’ll stop by after work.”

With only slight trepidation,
Sarah entered her apartment. Everything looked the same as always, but she
missed that warm feeling of welcome. Trying to ignore her uneasiness, she
hurried to shower and dress. She had to wait until her hands stopped trembling
before she could apply her makeup. The doorbell put a stop to her fussing and
she hurried to the living room.

“Triple A Locks,” came the voice
from the other side of the door.

“Be right there.” Sarah peeked
out at the distorted image of a man in green coveralls, three entwined As
embroidered over the pocket, before opening the door. The man handed her a
business card.

Sarah read his name off the card
and pointed out the lock. “Thanks, Mr. Foster. I need something a little more
burglarproof here and on the back door. We’re pretty sure someone picked it the
other day.”

“I’ve got the deadbolts you asked
for, and spare keys. Shouldn’t take long to switch them over.”

Sarah left the man to his work
and went to her kitchen window to see if there were any clues to who the new
neighbors might be, but their blinds were closed.

The locksmith finished his work
in efficient silence and handed Sarah four keys and an invoice. Her stomach
sank. She’d have to revisit her budget. No, she would take it to Mrs.
Pentecost. The building management should have to pay at least some of this
charge. “Let me get my checkbook.” She returned and recorded the amount in the
register, afraid to do the math beyond knowing she could cover the check.

The locksmith latched his
toolbox. “Nice neighborhood here. We don’t get many calls in this area.”

“Glad to know I’m the exception,”
Sarah said under her breath. She handed the man his payment. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Call us any time.”
He whistled something that sounded like “Oh Susannah” as he packed his tools.

“One more thing,” Sarah said. “Can
you verify the lock was picked?”

“Not officially. But I’m sure the
cops could. You can bring the whole mechanism to them.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll do that.”
Sarah loaded the old parts into a plastic bag.

She watched the locksmith leave,
listening to the whistling fade down the hall. Feeling safe and secure as the
key moved like a knife through butter in the new lock, she went downstairs to
drop off a key and alert Mrs. Pentecost about someone coming to check the phone
lines. The manager answered the door wearing a floral robe, a cup of coffee in
her hand. Sounds of the morning news came from a television set somewhere in
the apartment.

“It’s not my responsibility to
pay for the new lock,” Sarah said. “It was a building security issue.”

“I’ll have to see what the
management company says. If you can’t prove there was someone in the apartment,
I don’t know if they’ll pay.”

“I’ve got the old lock. I’ll talk
to the detective about getting a police report and see what he says. And I’ll
bring you a copy of the locksmith’s bill.” Sarah stepped back. “Say hi to
Lydia. Tell her she’s getting very good.”

“I’ll do that.” She gave Sarah a
half-smile and closed the door.

A black pickup drove by as she
walked toward the bus stop and Randy wormed into her thoughts. Her cheeks
flamed as she remembered how she’d felt when he held her. He probably treated
everyone like that, trying to comfort and help deal with traumas. She vowed to
let him do his job.

* * * * *

Sarah opened the shop door and
locked it behind her, glad to have an excuse to put thoughts of Randy aside
while she dealt with her daily routines. The extra weight of the lock in her
purse reminded her she needed a police report. Maybe she could call the station
and leave a message. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.

The doorbell buzzed at the back
door. “Coming,” she called. She hurried through the shop and peered through the
window.

A disembodied voice came from
behind an array of roses, lilies, gerbera daisies and something purple she
couldn’t identify. “Delivery for Sarah Tucker.”

“I’m Sarah,” she said. She took
the flowers, revealing a stocky deliveryman. “Thank you.”

“I’ll need a signature, ma’am.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Sarah set the vase
down on the nearest table and signed the clipboard.

“You have a nice day,” he said
and then hastened back to his van.

After making sure the door was
secure, she poked through the greenery until she found the plastic pick with
its tiny envelope. Her fingers trembled with a twinge of excitement as she
pried out the card. She read the neat, block printing.

Forget him
.
Let me help. Dinner
tomorrow. CW
.

She dropped the card on the
counter. Why would she think they might have been from Randy? She pulled the
gold chain from beneath her blouse and ran David’s ring back and forth along
its length. She needed Randy to find her stuff. Nothing more. She didn’t need
Chris either. If things kept up, she’d be out from under in three months. She
was the expert scrimper. What was a few more months of ramen noodles?

Giving the ring one final
squeeze, she tucked it back inside her top. She picked up the vase and carried
it to the front window. By the time she finished rearranging things to showcase
the flowers, several people gathered to admire the display. She flashed the
browsers a smile, then went to unlock the door and turn the sign to “Open”.

The flowers created a
conversation piece, and Sarah made a mental note to change her front window
display more often, and to put something unusual in there. Maybe she’d be back
on top in two months.

Shortly before closing time, when
the shop was empty, Sarah took the cash out of the register and went in the
office to lock it up. She heard the door chime and left the safe ajar in case
she had to make change. Happiness at the prospect of another sale made a smile
effortless as she went to the front.

She could feel the smile drop off
her face. “Diana? What brings you to Pine Hills?” Her sister-in-law stood in
the doorway, the hem and necklines of her red dress threatening to meet in the
middle. The diamond pendant she wore drew the eye to breasts Sarah didn’t
remember being quite so … round.

“I wanted to give you this in
person, Sarah. After all, we used to be family as well as business partners.”
She held out a large, blue envelope. “I talked to a lawyer last night after you
called.”

Sarah felt her face glow until
she was afraid it matched Diana’s dress. “Let’s cut the legal lingo. Give me
the abridged version.”

“Well, what it says is that if you’re
so much as a day late with any of my checks, I’m going to get the shop.”

“You can’t do that.” At least
Sarah didn’t think so.

“Oh, he says I can. There’s a
bunch of stuff about liens and whatever. But look. I have a much simpler
solution.” Diana strolled across the shop to an easy chair Sarah had for
customers to sit in while they browsed some of the books she carried.

When had Diana called a lawyer?
Why did she think it was just her luck that Diana was probably sleeping with
one? That it had probably been him with Diana when she’d called? Sarah ripped
open the envelope. The letterhead said, “Lincoln and Gross, Esq., Attorneys at
Law.” She tried to skim the contents while she listened to Diana’s saccharine
voice. She recognized lien and foreclosure, but she’d have to study this—no,
she’d have to get someone to translate it. She stepped across the shop and looked
into Diana’s deep brown eyes. The one trait she shared with David. “What?”

“It’s no secret I don’t want to
work here. And we both need money. Let’s face it. This place is half a step
from Chapter Eleven. I didn’t exactly come out on top after my divorce. So.”
She leaned forward.

“Cut to the chase. I need to
finish closing.” Sarah flipped the door sign and went behind the counter to
settle the credit card machine.

“So. We sell. Make it a Hallmark
franchise. You get to be the manager, and we split the profits.”

Sarah felt like she’d gone over
the first drop of a roller coaster. She waited for her stomach to catch up. “Hallmark?
A card shop?” As if Diana had a clue how franchising worked.

“Oh, come on. They sell other things
too.” Diana pointed to some bears. “Stuffed animals, like those.”

“Those are handmade and
one-of-a-kind,” Sarah said. “Hallmark shops don’t sell them.”

“You know what I mean. Come on,
Sarah. It’ll solve both our problems. I already know someone who’s interested.
He thinks this is a great location.”

“Well, you tell that someone to
get uninterested. There’s no way this is going to be a card shop. It was better
than a card shop when we started it.” She whirled into her office and counted
to ten, then twenty, then wrote Diana a check. She put the checkbook into the
safe and kicked the door shut. The pain in her toes was worth it. She found her
sister-in-law wandering through the shop, fingering merchandise. Sarah shoved
the check into Diana’s hand. “There. You’re paid in full. I’ll see you next
month.”

“Why is it so hard for you to
admit defeat and move forward?” Diana folded the check into thirds and slipped
it into her purse. “David’s gone. Why are you still hanging on?”

“I’d think you, of all people,
would know about honoring someone’s memory.” The words came out sharp, clipped,
and thankfully, without a trace of crying.

Diana tugged on her skirt and
sashayed to the door. “I’ll see you in a month.”