Finding Sarah (11 page)

He decided to try a piece of
toast when the phone rang. Before picking up, he plopped a slice of bread into
the toaster and depressed the handle. Sarah’s voice, sounding excited, made up
for the knives shooting through his skull.

“Maggie said you caught Gertie!”

Randy hooked the handset onto his
shoulder and retrieved his toast. “Not me, but the Woodford police have her in
custody. I want you to come to Woodford with me to identify her.”

There was a brief silence. “When?”

Randy glanced at the kitchen
clock. Eleven. He was definitely not ready to take a two-hour drive through the
mountains. “How about I pick you up around one? Will that work?”

Another silence.

“Sarah,” Randy said. “There’s
nothing to worry about. She’ll never know you’re there.”

“I can do it. That’s not it. But …
is something wrong? You sound … tired.”

“No. Shaking off a hangover.”

“Oh.” Another pause.

He couldn’t bear the
disappointment in her voice. “My cats got into some poison and I had to rush
them to the vet. I drank too much when I got back. Stupid and I’m paying for
it.”

“That’s awful.” Another silence,
longer this time. “You know, Maggie took Othello to the vet yesterday, too.”
The hairs on his neck rose. He said nothing.

“You think they’re connected.”
Sarah’s voice was tremulous.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence.
Would Chris do something like this? Or Diana?” He waited out yet another long
silence.

“I can’t imagine either of them
doing something that awful. I don’t think either of them has pets, but they
wouldn’t … they couldn’t …” Another dead interval. “I am so sorry. If someone
hurt you and Maggie because of me, I’ll—”

More silence.

“Sarah, leave this one to me. I’ll
see you at one, okay?”

She sighed. “Okay. One.”

Randy threw the cold piece of
toast in the trash and ate some more saltines. They sat like a leaden mass in
his stomach.

Randy rose from his knees in his
bathroom and rinsed his mouth. What a waste of his good Irish. Next time, he’d
stick to the cheap stuff. No, amend that. Avoid the next time altogether.

The sound of a car driving off,
followed by the beep of the motion detector on his front porch, halted his
course of self-pity.

Wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, he eased the curtain beside the front door aside just as the doorbell
rang. He yanked the door open.

“Sarah! What the—? How did you
get my address?”

She smiled up at him. “Aren’t you
going to invite me in?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed past him,
hung her coat on the rack, glanced around and marched into the kitchen.

Randy’s frantic visual search of the
house revealed no underwear strewn on the furniture. Too late to dispose of the
empty beer cans on the kitchen table. He hustled down the hall and shut the
bedroom doors. He returned to find Sarah opening and closing cabinets. The beer
cans had disappeared.

“Maybe if you’ll tell me what you’re
looking for, I can help,” he said.

“No matter. I found it.” She had
commandeered his chef’s knife and was filling a saucepan with water. A small
plastic bag lay on the counter.

He’d expended enough energy. The
room was doing its carousel imitation again. He sank onto a kitchen chair and
watched her open the bag, pull out a gnarled brown root, and slice thin discs
from its length.

She dropped several slices into
the water and turned the flame on under the pot. When she faced him, her
pallor, along with the shadows under her eyes, bothered him more than his
hangover. He took in her shapeless, faded denim jumper and scuffed sneakers.
Not her usual professional attire. Had she dropped everything to come to his
rescue?

Or maybe she didn’t give a damn
what she looked like in front of him. Not worth spending time on wardrobe
choices or makeup. His stomach roiled again. He swiped his hair out of his
eyes. Christ, he was pathetic.

A spicy scent filled the room,
reminiscent of Christmas gingerbread men. He struggled against the memory—he,
Gram and his sister rolling, cutting, and decorating. So long ago.

“It needs to steep for about ten
minutes. Ginger tea,” she said. “Old family hangover recipe. Mom and I used to
make it for my dad—kind of a Sunday morning ritual.” One corner of her mouth
turned up.

Randy swallowed and willed his
stomach to stop churning. “Must have been tough.”

“That was years ago. He and Mom
split up. She’s happily remarried. We don’t hear from Dad.” She pulled a chair
out from the table to face him and laid a hand on his knee. Her eyes, looking
so much like the stone in his grandmother’s brooch, haunted him. He bowed his
head. He felt her move behind him, felt her soft hands massaging his neck.

“I’m sorry about your cats,” she
whispered, still kneading knots from his neck and shoulders. “Have you had them
a long time?”

Oh, God. Anger, fury, rage. Those
feelings he understood. Those he could deal with. But anguish pushed itself to
the surface and his eyes burned. That was the last straw. Even when his
grandmother had died, he’d kept everything locked inside. He jerked away,
ignoring the spinning of the room, stumbled to the living room, and threw
himself onto the couch where he turned on ESPN as loud as he could stand it.
Sarah stayed in the kitchen.

He sensed her approach, raising
his gaze enough to see she held a steaming mug in her hand. She extended it. “Sip
it slowly. It should help.”

When he didn’t move, she said, “I’m
not going anywhere. Drink.” Her tone brooked no nonsense.

Randy reached for the mug and
took a sip of the spicy liquid. A hint of honey underscored the ginger. He
raised his eyebrows and looked at her. It was surprisingly good, and he managed
a weak smile.

Sarah perched on the arm of the
couch. “I’m not moving until it’s finished.”

He took another sip. Whether it
was due to her presence or the tea, the knots in his stomach loosened, the
churning eased.

“You going to tell me how you
found me?” Randy asked.

“Maybe I’m not such a bad
detective myself.”

He looked at her over his mug,
waiting.

“I called the station, asked for
Colleen. Anyway, we worked a deal and she drove me over.”

“A deal. What kind of a deal?
What have you two been doing?” He hoped the heat rising in his face was from
the tea.

“Nothing. Don’t be mad at her. I
told her I’d take a cab, but she insisted on driving me.”

“She never should have given you
my address.”

“Technically she didn’t. She
drove me over. And if it makes you feel better, we were talking, so I wasn’t
paying attention to where we were going. Plus, I have no sense of direction. I
get lost in elevators, so I don’t think I could find my way back here.” She
nodded at his mug. He drank some more.

“Please don’t blame her,” she
went on. “I can be pretty insistent. And,” she continued, her voice lowered, “she
told me the cats were your grandmother’s. Starsky and Hutch?”

“Yeah. My grandmother got them as
kittens. She died before they were a year old. I’ve had them ever since.”

The phone rang and Randy went to
the kitchen. The room had stopped spinning, and the up and down motion was a
fraction of what it had been. Dr. Lee’s voice on the phone sent the adrenaline
surging. He clutched the edge of the table.

“I wish I had better news,” she
said. “Your cats survived the night, but they’re still extremely weak. Othello
is improving, but I’m still trying to identify the poison. Once I know what it
is, I can begin more specific treatment. I can’t make any promises.”

Randy nodded. “Thanks for
calling.” He hung up the phone. Sarah stood behind him, her hand on his back.

“They’re alive,” he said. “But
that’s about all.”

Sarah crossed in front of him,
took both of his hands in hers and squeezed them. “They’ll make it.”

Her compassion stretched his
control to the limit. Unable to get words past the lump in his throat, he
walked back into the kitchen and added the remaining ginger tea to his mug.

Sarah followed. “Think you can
eat something? I saw the crackers. Smart move.”

“I can’t say that they’re still
with me,” he admitted. “I tried some toast, but couldn’t face it.” He lifted
the mug. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Sit down and I’ll make you some
more toast.”

Randy finished three slices of
toast, then called the Woodford police department. Gertie-Louise still wasn’t
talking. They had three reliable eyewitnesses to tie her to the robberies in
Woodford and another one in Maple Grove. Sarah would make her the prime suspect
for the Pine Hills crimes as well, and he could close those cases. And
something told him he’d find another link to Consolidated.

He watched as Sarah wandered into
the kitchen, found an apple, took two bites and set it down. She read a section
of the paper, got up for a drink of water, then went back to the couch.

“What’s the matter?” Randy asked.
“Nervous?”

“That’s not it. It’s … I can’t
believe anyone would do this. Or why. Poison cats? Hurt innocent animals to get
at me? Every time I think of it, I get furious all over again.” She tugged on
her hair. “It’s got to be some sort of strange coincidence.”

“To a cop, coincidences send up red
flags.” He went to the sink and rinsed his mug, then grabbed a pen and his
legal tablet and sat in a chair opposite Sarah. “We should talk.”

She eyed the tablet and her
posture stiffened. “About what? I thought all I had to do was identify Gertie
for you.”

Randy tried to ignore the new
roiling in his stomach. “I think the robbery is only part of it. I think a lot
of your shop problems might not have been everyday business snafus.”

Her lips tightened. “Diana,
right? She tried to make it so I’d sell the shop, but when the sabotage didn’t
work, she went all legal.”

“I don’t know—”

“No, listen.” Sarah’s eyes went
stormy blue. “Diana wanted more money. Twenty percent of a mass market shop
would be more reliable than what she was getting from me. But I wouldn’t sell.
If she bankrupted me, she’d be stuck with nothing. The answer was for her to
convince me I couldn’t make a go of things on my own. Little things. Chip away
until I gave up. Don’t you get it?” She stopped to take a breath. “You’re not
writing anything. You’re not even clicking your pen.”

“What?” Randy looked at the pen
in his hand.

“You click your pen when you’re
thinking. You assume because you’re the cop, you’re right, and how could I know
anything?”

His head throbbed. “No, that’s
not it. Let’s forget the earlier snafus for now. The fact that she’s gone to a
lawyer put her lower on my list. Why would she damage your merchandise once she’s
decided to force you to sell? It would make the shop less valuable, not more.”

Randy could see the scenario
playing out in Sarah’s head. It was a good thing she wasn’t a crook—she
telegraphed every thought. She ducked her head and rubbed her temples before
meeting his gaze.

“The way you put it sounds
logical, I guess. But she’s still on your list, right? You ran her through the
computers like you did Chris, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Everyone’s on my
list. I’m trying to put them in order.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Am I on
your list?”

There was nothing teasing in her
tone and his stomach lurched. Because he knew she’d insist on the truth, he
gave it to her. “Not anymore.”

“You investigated me? I was the
one who got robbed, remember.”

“Standard procedure.”

“When you came to St. Michael’s
that night. Was all that standard procedure, too?”

He fisted his hands in his hair.
Studied the floor. Then met her eyes in an even stare. “I showed up early
because I wanted to see you. Not a suspect. Not a victim. You.”

She was quiet for a long moment,
her eyes never leaving his. “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m more nervous than I thought.
You have a job to do.”

“Yes, I do, and I’m sorry when it
hurts you.” He set the tablet on the coffee table and leaned forward. He kept
his voice neutral, did his best to muster a comforting smile. “I’d like to know
more about David’s accident. Did you hire one of the PIs I suggested?”

She nodded and her eyes went from
stormy to blank. “Mr. Dobrovsky. But according to him and the Highway Patrol,
it was suicide.”

“I was at a convention in Florida
when the accident happened. Tell me about it.”

He could see her searching to
center herself. When she spoke, her voice was dull and flat. “First they
thought it was an accident, but they found the note.”

“He wrote a note?”

“No. It was a card.”

“Maybe you should start at the
beginning.”

She inhaled, then exhaled a slow,
shaky breath. “David had an appointment with an artist—to sign a contract for
exclusive handling of his work. Before he left, we had another argument about
giving money to Diana.” She folded her arms across her belly. “When the cops
found the card, they started thinking suicide.” She snorted, almost a laugh. “It
was a Hallmark card—one of those generic ‘I’m sorry’ ones. He was apologizing
for the argument, not saying that he was going to kill himself. But nobody
listened.”

“That wouldn’t have been enough
for a suicide ruling.”

“They found an insurance policy
he’d taken out a few months before. I tried to explain that his best friend had
died suddenly, and he realized anything could happen. Ironic, isn’t it? He was
trying to protect me and instead, I’m up to my eyeballs in debt.” Her voice
grew quiet. “And we were talking about starting a family.” Tears brimmed, but
she wiped them away. Anger filled her voice now. “And then they found
antidepressants in his blood.”

Randy wiped his palms on his
jeans. “Was he—”

“Say it. Depressed? A mental
case?” She stood, rubbing the small of her back. “I don’t know, dammit. He
never said a word to me, never complained and I never saw him take pills. But
they added everything up and said it was suicide. The report was full of mumbo
jumbo about something jamming the accelerator, skid marks or no skid marks,
tire tracks or no tire tracks.”

Her voice had faded and he went
to her. “Come here.” He gathered her into his arms. She relaxed into him for a
minute, then pushed away.

“I don’t know what’s worse.
Knowing or not knowing. The private investigator said he couldn’t find enough
to dispute the official findings and that it would be a waste of my money to go
further. And since I didn’t have any more money, it seemed like calling it off
was the best plan. But—even if it wasn’t the insurance money, everyone looks at
you funny. Sometimes I get angry. At David, at everyone.”

“Survivor’s guilt,” Randy said. “You
wonder if you’d done something different, maybe he wouldn’t have died. But
there was nothing you could have done.”