Dead Between the Lines (4 page)

C
HAPTER 4

N
ormally, Shadow Bend’s village square was my favorite part of town. It was the soul of the community and always reminded me of why I never wanted to leave the area. But tonight, as I turned right onto Main Street, the moonlit bandstand with its cast-iron columns and decorative arches didn’t charm me the way it ordinarily did.

Instead, as I cruised the four blocks leading to my store, a sense of dread settled on my chest like a beached sumo wrestler. Passing the familiar landmarks increased my fears. Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank, in its Greek Revival building, reminded me of my mortgage. What if my store had burned to the ground? The newspaper’s unadorned cinder-block structure had me picturing a headline that read
DEVEREAUX’S DIME STORE AND GIFT BASKETS VANDALIZED!
And as I zoomed past the movie theater, with its limestone facade and Art Deco entrance, the marquee advertising
The Hunger Games
made me wonder if something had happened to destroy my business, would Gran and I starve?

When Brewfully Yours or the dry cleaner didn’t inspire any further doomsday scenarios, I tried yoga breathing in a vain attempt to settle down. But as I turned left at the hardware store and had to stomp on the brakes to avoid bursting through the yellow crime-scene tape strung across the road, my blood pressure skyrocketed. What in the world had happened? Why had the police cordoned off the entire block in front of my store?

At twelve thirty in the morning, few people were gathered at the barricade—mostly only older teens or twentysomethings who had probably been heading to the theater’s five-dollar midnight movie. No doubt they’d decided that real-life drama was more exciting than the cinematic version.

Realizing I would have to walk if I wanted to get any closer to the dime store, I backed up and parked my sapphire black Z4 in the nearest spot. The BMW was the only truly valuable asset I had kept after quitting my job with Stramp Investments. Although I rationalized that in this economy I’d never get what it was worth if I sold it, if the truth be told, I adored that car, and I knew there was more chance of me starring as the next James Bond girl than ever owning a vehicle like it again.

As I approached the barrier, I hoped that the chief had left word to allow me through the blockade. While I had at least a nodding acquaintance with most of the officers on the Shadow Bend police force, it wasn’t as if they were my buddies, so their fear of their boss made it a safe bet that none of them would bend the rules for me.

Now, if my BFF, Poppy, was with me, it might be a different story, especially if there was a male cop on duty. Not only was Poppy the chief’s daughter, but her incredible beauty also made men stupid. Something she was more than willing to cash in on.

It took me a few seconds to attract the attention of the cop on duty—he’d been flirting with a pretty girl carrying a crossbow and with a quiver full of arrows on her back. At first, I wondered if we had skipped straight from Easter to Halloween, but then I realized she was supposed to be Katniss Everdeen from
The Hunger Games
. A lot of people dressed in costume for the twelve o’clock show. The crowd was a sight to behold during a
Star Wars
marathon.

I was counting my blessings that it wasn’t the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
weekend when the young cop finally pulled himself away from the object of his lust and sauntered over to me. He jerked his thumb behind him and said, “Whole street’s blocked off.”

“So I see.”

“Something happened at the dime store,” he offered, expanding his chest. “Only official police personnel allowed past this checkpoint.”

“Yes, the chief called me to come in.” I squinted at the guy’s name tag, which read
CURLY WATSON
. Talk about false advertising. His thinning hair didn’t hold even a hint of a wave, and he certainly didn’t appear to have any great powers of deduction, since I was wearing a sweatshirt with the store logo on it. “I’m Devereaux Sinclair.” I pointed to the writing on my chest. “The owner.”

I didn’t recognize Curly, which was odd. With a population of 4,028, Shadow Bend was your typical small town; everyone knew everyone, which made me wonder if the cop had just moved here. The population explosion had skidded to a near halt a few years ago when the real estate bubble burst, but we still had the occasional newcomer.

Instead of the standard uniform, Curly wore a light blue shirt with navy epaulets and black pants, indicating he was a member of the auxiliary police force, a group of volunteers who provided traffic control, helped on searches, and supplied manpower for our poorly funded, perennially understaffed police department. Unfortunately, the imitation cops were often not the smartest cats in the litter box.

“Do you have any identification?” Pomposity flowed off Curly like stink off an onion. “I got a shirt with
Peyton Manning
written on the back.” He sucked his teeth. “That don’t make me no football star.”

I so wanted to retort that the badge on his chest didn’t make him a cop, either, but instead I forced a smile, dug through my purse, pulled out my wallet, and slid my driver’s license from behind its plastic window. I kept my voice even as I said, “Here you go.”

He examined the laminated rectangle as if it were written in Sanskrit and ran a fingertip over both sides. Did he think there was a secret message stamped in Braille on the plastic-coated card?

Finally, he keyed the radio strapped to his shoulder and said, “There’s a woman down here claiming to be Devereaux Sinclair. Says the chief called her. Should I let her past the barricade?”

Through the static I heard, “You’d better not be the reason it’s taking her so long to get here. The chief’s ready to spit nails.”

Curly’s demeanor changed from dictatorial to cowering, and he shoved my license at me. While I was putting it into my purse, he grabbed my elbow, untied the tape from the lamppost, and yanked me through the opening. Now that my mind wasn’t occupied in dealing with a moron, the anxiety about my business returned full tilt and I raced down the block toward the pulsating red lights.

As I neared the dime store, my pulse kicked into overdrive, but as I examined the building, it appeared undamaged. There weren’t any flames billowing out from the roof or windows, and I couldn’t see any hook-and-ladder trucks parked nearby, so I felt safe in concluding that the shop wasn’t on fire.

Blowing out a tiny puff of air, I let my shoulders sag in relief. Seeing my dream go up in smoke would have been a blow from which I might not have recovered. So many of my hopes had been dashed throughout my lifetime, and I didn’t know how many more times I could pick myself up, dust myself off, and start over again.

A nanosecond later, a chilling realization struck me. In the rush to get home, I had left the day’s receipts in the safe rather than take them over to the bank’s night-deposit box. If there had been a break-in and the thief had managed to open the safe, I was in big trouble. I couldn’t remember how much I had in there, but I was fairly certain my insurance wouldn’t cover a cash loss, since I had opted for the cheapest policy.

Racking my brain, I tried to come up with a third alternative for the extensive police presence at my store. Certainly a simple act of vandalism wouldn’t have necessitated closing off the street or the presence of so many officers. What else could be going on? Biohazard? Bomb threat? No. I didn’t carry dangerous material, and who would want to bomb a dime store?

Out of breath, I skidded to a halt in front of my building. A squad car was parked on the sidewalk, blocking the entrance, and another cruiser was positioned diagonally across the mouth of the alley. As far as I could tell, the display windows were unbroken and the front door didn’t appear to have been forced open.

Spotting Jessie Huang, one of two female officers on the force, I trotted over to her and asked, “What happened? Was there a burglary?”

“The chief’s in the back.” She looked somewhere over my shoulder, clearly avoiding my gaze. When I opened my mouth to repeat my questions, she interrupted, “You’d better hurry. He’s waiting for you and he’s not in a good mood.”

“Fine.” A chill ran down my spine. What was the big secret?

As I sprinted toward the alley, I heard her mutter, “Better you than me.”

Emerging from the dark passage, I blinked, temporarily blinded by the 1,800 watts of illumination that were aimed at the rear of my building. Half a dozen lights mounted on tripods were arranged in a semicircle, and several people wearing white Tyvek coveralls, booties, and rubber gloves were swarming over the tiny parking lot. One was kneeling beside an unzipped wheeled duffel, and another had a professional-looking camera hanging around his neck.

Oh. My. God!
No way could this be good. I had watched enough
CSI
and
Law & Order
episodes on television to know that this kind of crime-scene activity could mean only one thing—a dead body.

Before I could jump to any more conclusions, Chief Eldridge Kincaid materialized at my side like a snake springing out of a hole, scaring the bejeezus out of me. I stepped back, stumbled on an electrical cable, and ended up on my butt with gravel embedded in my palms.

Chief Kincaid sighed, extended a hand, and hauled me to my feet. When I was once again vertical, he asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“No!” I brushed the pebbles out of my wounds. “I just tripped on a cord.” No way was I admitting to Poppy’s father that he had frightened me. I had my reputation as a tough chick to maintain. “What’s going on here?”

“Let’s go sit in my car.” The chief tilted his head toward the black Chevy Suburban parked behind us. “You can clean up your injuries while we talk.”

He took off without checking to see if I was following him, and I hurried to keep up. Chief Kincaid’s heavily starched khaki uniform looked as if he’d just put it on a few seconds ago, and his gray buzz cut was impeccably barbered. Eldridge Kincaid demanded perfection from both himself and all the people around him.

Although I was getting sick and tired of everyone ignoring my questions, I held on to my patience. There was no rushing the chief, and I’d find out what was happening faster if I cooperated with him. A lesson Poppy had yet to learn, which was why they weren’t speaking.

Once we were seated, he tossed me a first-aid kit and said, “What time did you lock up the store?” His steel blue eyes drilled into me.

“About nine fifteen—give or take.” I tore open a foil pouch and took out a moist towelette. “I didn’t look at my watch, so I’m not sure.”

“Why so late?” He took a notepad and mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket. “The dime store closes at six on Fridays, doesn’t it?”

“The Stepping Out Book Club held their meeting here tonight.” After wiping my palm, I squeezed some antiseptic cream on the scrapes. “It ended at nine. The members helped me put the chairs and tables back in the storeroom; then we all went home.”

“You’re sure everyone was out of the building when you left?”

“Well, I didn’t search the place.” I frowned. Had I seen everyone leave?

“Were there any cars in the rear lot when you drove away?”

“Nope.” I stuck a couple of bandages on my abrasions. “And none in front of the store, either.” I had glanced back to make sure I’d remembered to turn off the lights. “But earlier I heard some people mention that they had walked over, since it was such a nice night.”

“Are you still wearing the clothes you had on at the book-club meeting?”

“Yes.” I pursed my lips. Was another man questioning my choice?

“How many sweatshirts like that do you have?” Eldridge’s words were short and clipped.

“Seven. One for each workday and an extra in case of emergencies.” I fingered the aqua material. “But they’re all different colors.”

The chief suddenly changed the subject. “How many people were at the book-club meeting? Do you have a list of the members?”

“Nineteen attendees and the author.” I crumpled up the debris from my medical ministrations and looked around for a litterbag. Not seeing one, I tucked the trash in my purse. The inside of the Chevy was immaculate and I wasn’t about to be the one to mess it up. “The list is probably still on my computer, or you could get it from Mrs. Ziegler. She’s the club president.”

“Anything unusual happen at the meeting?” Chief Kincaid jotted something down.

Where to begin?
I paused to gather my thoughts, then told him everything—including the late arrival of the guest speaker, the disastrous Q-and-A session, and the poet’s storming out.

When I stopped, the chief said incredulously, “All of that over poems?”

“Apparently.”

“Do you recall who seemed the most offended by the content of the verses?”

“Let me think.” While I tried to remember who had gone toe-to-toe with the author, I stared at the Tyvek-suited figures, most of whom were now working near the Dumpster by the back door.

How did a town as small as Shadow Bend have such an extensive crime-scene team? Not to mention the white pimped-out RV with
SHADOW BEND POLICE CRIME-SCENE UNIT
painted in navy blue along its side.

Oh, yeah, the infamous grants. Because Chief Kincaid and our esteemed mayor, Geoffrey Eggers, didn’t get along, the city council had been voting down police-department budget increases for years. In frustration, the chief had begun applying for federal funds to remodel the station, train personnel, and purchase up-to-date gear.

Everyone had been surprised when the chief’s applications began to bring in money. So far, he’d been able to complete all three of his projects. Evidently, he must have hit the mother lode if he’d been able to purchase his very own crime-scene unit and mobile lab, and train his people to use them.

I hid a smile. His Honor the mayor must be beyond livid that once again the chief had managed to get what he wanted without financing from the town’s coffers. Geoffrey Eggers hated being bested at his own game.

Focusing back on the question, I said, “Addie Campbell was the most upset. The others were more annoyed than angry at the author’s attitude.”