Finding Sarah (2 page)

As if it were happening to
someone else, Sarah watched him ink and roll her fingers. He slipped a card
into an envelope and handed her a paper towel dipped in some gooey cleanser.
She held it, transfixed, until she felt a warm touch and realized Detective
Detweiler was wiping the ink from her fingers. She snatched her hands away and
scrubbed them herself.

“Ms. Tucker can give me the
details over coffee,” Detective Detweiler said to the tech. “We’ll be at Sadie’s
down the block.”

“Is that normal police procedure?”
Sarah asked.

“It is when the victim of a crime
is in obvious distress. Where are your keys?”

“In the office. On a hook by the
door.”

His long legs covered the distance
in three strides and he returned with Sarah’s coat as well. “Let’s go.” He
draped the coat over Sarah’s shoulders and held the door for her.

“The back door locks
automatically,” Sarah said to the tech. “You can go out that way when you
finish.”

The fresh air, damp with traces
of rain, revived her and she navigated the short distance to the café with only
an occasional hint of support from Detective Detweiler.

They found a booth in the back,
and the detective ordered coffee and muffins. “You want your usual decaf,
Sarah?” the waitress asked.

“Please.”

When the waitress left, Sarah
eyed Detective Detweiler. “What? No doughnuts?”

“Don’t let it get out. I hate ’em.
Probably have to turn in my badge if anyone found out.”

Sarah was surprised to feel a
grin tug at the corner of her mouth.

The waitress appeared with coffee
and a napkin-covered basket. Detective Detweiler lifted the napkin and pushed
the basket toward Sarah. “Now, eat a muffin. We’ll talk later.”

She broke off a small piece of
blueberry muffin. The jittery feeling in her stomach hadn’t disappeared, and
she hesitated before putting it in her mouth.

“Please. Eat. You look like you’re
bordering on shock.” He took her coffee cup and stirred in a liberal amount of
sugar. “The sugar will help. Cream?”

She nodded and he poured. “I
skipped breakfast, that’s all.”

“That and a gun in your face will
do it every time.”

Sarah swallowed a morsel of the
sweet muffin. Suddenly ravenous, she relished the rest of it. She looked up
into those deep brown eyes again, glimpsing flecks of hazel this time. “Thank
you. I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

“Eat another one and relax while
I make some notes.” He pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen open.

Sarah resisted an instant before
plucking a muffin from the basket. The detective seemed engrossed in his notes
and she was grateful for his silence. Once she finished her coffee, she grasped
the table’s edge. “I guess we’d better do whatever we have to do, Detective
Detweiler,” she said.

“Please. Call me Randy. Detective
Detweiler doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

“Then it’s Sarah.” She studied
his face again. “I’m sorry, but you look familiar. Have we met?”

His expression turned somber. “Briefly,
after your husband’s … death.”

That pause again. Realization hit
her like this morning’s mud puddle. This was the man who’d told her to hire a
private investigator. That there was nothing they could do in Pine Hills
because it was out of their jurisdiction and the Polk County cops in charge had
closed the case. Had he thought she was right when he’d recommended an investigator?
Or was he trying to get her out of the police department’s hair when she’d
demanded they keep investigating? The memories turned the muffins to lead in
her stomach.

“I’m managing.” At least she had
been until an hour ago. She blinked back tears. “Can we get on with the stuff
about the robbery?”

“Of course. I understand.” He
held his pen above his notebook. “How are sales? Any reason for Gertie to think
your shop would be a lucrative hit?”

She shook her head. “We’re small,
but we were doing well enough. Tourism is flowing out this way from Salem and
Portland, and local artisans are being recognized. We’ve had some financial
setbacks, but things seemed to be coming together.” In the grand scheme of
things, that Gertie woman hadn’t taken a lot, but it wouldn’t take much to put
the shop out of business. Between the cash and the merchandise, she was out
almost five hundred dollars. Tears threatened again. She willed them away and
stared at him.

“We?”

Sarah twisted her napkin. “I
guess I still think of the shop as ‘ours’—that David—my husband—is still a part
of it. Technically, his sister owns twenty percent, but she doesn’t do anything
except demand her cut every month.”

“I’ll need her name and address,”
he said. His pen clicked and hovered again.

“Diana Scofield. Lives in
Portland, but I’ll have to get the exact address for you.” While she watched
Randy make his notes, she wondered where Diana’s next check, dismal as it would
be, would come from. The way to keep that woman out of her hair was to give her
the money on time. She concentrated on the pen, as if its clicking was the only
sound in the diner.

“Any trouble between the two of
you?”

“I would have thought that came
out during the investigation of my husband’s death.” She moved her hands to her
lap where he couldn’t see them tremble, wiping them on her napkin.

“I wasn’t part of the
investigation.” He paused. “I know this is difficult, but if we get the
preliminary stuff done, I can start looking for Gertie and your merchandise.”

She nodded. “Diana and David were
close. He was her father figure when their parents divorced. She worshipped him
and I think she resented me for marrying him—stealing him away. She blames me
for his death.”

This time, the pen was silent.
Randy leaned closer. “Why would she blame you?”

Sarah struggled to find the
detachment she’d needed the past fifteen months. The ability to become a
different Sarah when she had to talk about David. “We were trying to turn the
store into more of a gallery than a cutesy gift shop and it was stretching the
budget.” She heard her voice go flat. Reciting words she’d repeated too many
times before. “Diana wasn’t good with money. David kept bailing her out, and I
thought it was time he let her suffer the consequences of her spending habits.
We were arguing about it the day he died.”

Sarah raised her eyes to meet
Randy’s. “David would never have killed himself because money was tight or we
were having a few arguments. We were making a go of things, working them out.”

“Does Diana think it was suicide?”

“I think she needs someone to
blame for David’s death and I’m the handiest scapegoat.” She heard the
bitterness and took a deep breath. “Please. This can’t have anything to do with
the little old witch who robbed me.”

“I’m sorry, but we have to
consider everything.” Three more clicks of his pen. “Do you know what kind of
gun Gertie used? Revolver? Automatic?”

Sarah shuddered. “I don’t know
anything about guns. It looked … big.”

“If you saw a picture, would you
recognize it?”

“Maybe. I usually notice things,
but—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not
unusual when you’re frightened. Let’s move on. Who else has been in the store
today? It’ll help Connor eliminate more prints.”

Sarah relaxed a little at the
shift in the conversation. “Nobody was in the shop before Gertie, except me … and—”

“And who?”

Sarah paused a moment. “A friend.
Chris. Christopher Westmoreland. He was there before Gertie came in. But there’s
no way he could be involved.”

“You know him well?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I
can’t see him rubbing elbows with a thief. He’s a bigwig at Consolidated
Enterprises.”

Randy made his notes. “Thank you.
I’ll talk to him. Next question. How much did Gertie take?”

“Two expensive silver pieces and
a handful of small carved animals. And about two hundred in cash.” She managed
a wry grin. “She left me twenty dollars.”

“Do you have any recollection of
her being in the shop before today?”

“I don’t think so. It’s been
quiet, unless she came in during the Christmas season. We were busier then.”

“You have any other employees?
Someone else who might remember her?”

“No. Only me.” She tried not to
think of working side-by-side with David, but her voice quavered.

As if he sensed he’d taken her to
the edge of her emotional limits, Randy stood up. “Let’s go.”

Back in her shop, Sarah flinched
when she saw the remnants of the black fingerprint powder smudging the counter
and Anjolie’s silver. The bags of Gertie’s belongings were gone, presumably
taken by Connor. She dashed into the back room and returned with a spray bottle
of cleanser and a roll of paper towels, wishing she could clean away the events
of the previous hour by rubbing hard enough. She showed Randy an inventory
photo of Anjolie’s vase and samples of the animal carvings, and she answered
the rest of his questions.

She gave the counter one more
swipe. “Look, it’s almost twelve. I should reopen if you’re done. Is there
anything more you need?”

“I don’t think so. If she was
wearing gloves and a wig, it’s doubtful we’ll get much, but sometimes the lab
folks can pull rabbits out of very tiny hats. I’ll do some door-to-door and see
if anyone else noticed Gertie. If I need anything else, I’ll call.”

“Thanks.” She walked over and
held the door for him. When he left, she reached for the “Open” sign, but
couldn’t face customers yet. She turned and leaned against the closed door,
contemplating the shop. Their life. Hers and David’s.

Sarah meandered through the
space, seeking comfort from the merchandise. She remembered working with David—refinishing
the old shelves and tables they used instead of conventional store fixtures,
the arguments about whether to carry high-priced oil paintings, the joy when
they discovered a new artisan at a craft show. As she had so many times, she
pushed the memories away, but now they refused to relinquish their hold.

She had no idea how long she’d
been daydreaming when the back doorbell summoned. She peered through the small
glass window. Anjolie. What was she doing here? Sarah opened the door.

Anjolie pushed past Sarah, her
waist-length raven hair swaying as she marched to the table where her silver
sat on display. She set a large cardboard box down on the floor and began
loading it with her picture frames. “Someone from Pandora’s called and said I
would do better over there.”

Sarah’s heart sank. “Wait. Can’t
we talk about it?”

“There’s not much to talk about.”
She fisted her hands on her hips and stared at the display. “You didn’t mention
you’d sold the vase and one of my frames,” Anjolie said. She looked at Sarah
with narrowed eyes. “I’ll take my check now, please.”

“They were stolen. This morning.
The police were here. They think they know who took them, and I’m sure they’ll
get them back soon.” She lifted her chin and met Anjolie’s gaze. “Can’t you
leave your work with me for a few months longer? I know things will pick up.”
She heard her voice rise in pitch and hated herself for it.

“Sorry. It’s settled. I agreed to
bring my work to Pandora’s.”

Too drained to think, much less
argue, Sarah went to the storeroom for some tissue paper. Without speaking, the
two women wrapped and packed Anjolie’s silver.

“I’ll give you a week,” Anjolie
said. “If the cops don’t find my stuff, I’ll expect a check.”

Sarah watched Anjolie load the
carton into her van. When the phone rang, Sarah let the heavy back door swing
shut and hurried through the shop. At the sound of Mr. Ebersold’s condescending
voice, her stomach sank. Her bank appointment. She looked at her watch. She was
twenty minutes late. Her attempts to explain were cut short.

“I’m sorry Sarah, but there’s no
reason to reschedule. I’ve reviewed your loan application and it wouldn’t be
prudent for us to grant the loan at this time.”

“I understand.” The words barely
made it past her constricted throat. “Thank you for your time.” She waited
until she heard him disconnect before she slammed the phone down. She would not
be defeated. Not by some little old lady, not by a temperamental artist, not by
a cheapskate banker. This shop was her life and by God, she would see it survive.

Sarah stormed into the storeroom
and dragged out the boxes of Easter merchandise. She was too upset to open the
shop and it seemed as good a time as any to begin her new displays.

Even the fingernail she broke
when she ripped open a carton didn’t bother her. She dug through Styrofoam
packing material and pulled out hand-painted wooden tulips, their smooth
surfaces soothing her nerves. She fetched some vases from another display and
arranged wooden bouquets.

After an hour lost in the
creative process, Sarah stepped back. The store reflected a vision of a
springtime garden, replete with wooden bunnies hiding among caches of
decorative eggs. She let that familiar glow of satisfaction wash over her as
she surveyed the results of her labor, remembering how she and David had
agonized over the carpet. It had to be neutral to set off the artwork, but
beige or gray was so boring. They had finally settled on an amber brown and now
it became freshly turned garden soil.