Finding Sarah (7 page)

Sarah let her take five strides
before calling out. “Diana? If you’re meeting someone, you might want to change
your nylons. You’ve got a big run in back.” Without waiting for Diana’s
reaction, Sarah closed the door. She leaned against it, afraid if she tried to
walk across the shop, she’d collapse. It took several minutes before her head
cleared.

She’d been juggling money for
months now. She’d owe the artists from today’s sales, but she paid them
monthly. There was time to recoup what she’d given to Diana before she had to
pay them. First thing in the morning, she’d have to make sure today’s cash hit
the bank to cover Diana’s check.

It had been a long time since
Sarah had been able to draw a line between her household and shop budgets,
although that had been one of David’s hard and fast rules. With a silent
apology, she ran the numbers through her head, starting with this morning’s
check to the locksmith. She’d have to insist the building manager reimburse her.
First, she called the police station and asked to speak with Detective
Detweiler. Almost relieved when the voice on the phone told her he was
unavailable, she left a message that she needed a copy of the police report on
the break-in. She hoped whoever gave him his messages didn’t report the way her
voice was shaking.

She hung up and stared at the
phone for a long time before making the next call. She’d give herself one more
day.

“Chris? It’s Sarah. Thanks for
the lovely flowers. Can we move dinner to Saturday?”

Sarah sat in her office, fighting
off a rising feeling of anxiety as she rushed through reconciling sales and
getting her bank deposit ready for tomorrow. She kept listening for the door,
half expecting Diana to come back with a lawyer, or Gertie to come back with a gun.
She’d been working alone for months and it hadn’t bothered her until today. She
chided herself for her nerves, but she didn’t relax until she locked up and was
on the bus.

On the ride, she wondered if she
could squeeze out enough money to rehire Jennifer for a few hours a week. An
art student and an excellent photographer, Jennifer had been great at
Christmastime. Maybe she’d work strictly on commission if she could sell her
own work in the shop. There was always a way.

By the time she got off the bus,
Sarah felt in charge again. She dropped a spare key off with Maggie, declining
the invitation for dinner and a chat. When she unlocked her door, the new
deadbolt released with a satisfying thunk. Sarah started a U2 CD and headed for
the kitchen. The blinking answering machine could wait until after dinner.

Poking through the refrigerator,
she decided a salad and a frittata would be perfect. She even set the table
with a Battenberg lace placemat and treated herself to opening a bottle of
wine—one of her last Christmas gifts, which she’d been saving for a special
occasion. She poured a glass into one of her good crystal wineglasses. Almost
as an afterthought, she lit a candle. She whisked eggs, added some onions and
zucchini and sipped her wine while she sautéed the mixture. While it cooked,
she assembled her salad.

Once she’d finished eating and
had done the dishes, she refilled her wineglass and went to deal with the phone
messages. Mrs. Pentecost said the management company would be willing to pay
half the lock installation charges. Better than nothing, but she’d push for a
full reimbursement once she got a report from Randy.

Sarah punched the delete key and
played the next message.

“It’s Randy. No problem with a
report for your landlady and your phone’s not bugged. Also, I have a couple of
things I’d like to run by you. Call my cell phone.”

Sarah took a sip of her wine.
Eight-thirty. Not too late to return the call. Randy had sounded businesslike
on the phone, nothing personal. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that she’d gone a bit
beyond detective-victim last night.

Stop. Pick up the phone and call.

Sarah took the handset to the
couch. Three deep breaths later, she pressed the speed dial for Randy’s cell.
After four rings, she thought maybe he wasn’t available. Before she could
decide if she was glad he wasn’t there, he picked up.

“Sorry. I was feeding the cats. I’ve
been working on your case all day. Can I come by the shop, or you come by the
station tomorrow? There are some things you might be interested in.”

“If you stop in either before
opening or after closing, that would be better. I can’t predict what kind of
free time I’ll have during business hours.” At least she could hope she’d be
busy.

“After work, then. And I’ll have
a copy of that report for you. That lock was cheap and you should have a better
one.”

“I got a better one. Top of the
line.” She swallowed another mouthful of wine. “The management company will pay
half, but I thought with a police report, I could get them to cover the whole
cost.” She wanted desperately to ask what he’d found out, but forced herself to
keep quiet. “I guess I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

Almost as an afterthought, she
went on. “I think you ought to dig into Diana Scofield. She came by the store
today and tried to get me to sell. She says she’s having her own money issues.”
Sarah thought if Diana sold some of her jewelry, or moved to a smaller house, those
issues might go away.

“I’ll do that. But remember, try
not to discuss the case with anyone. Chris, Diana, or anyone who you do
business with.”

“Why? I’m having dinner with
Chris on Saturday. Are you afraid I can’t keep my mouth shut?”

A pause. “No, it’s more like you
can’t keep your face shut. You have a pretty transparent face and I’d prefer
nobody knew I was digging.”

Fatigue engulfed her. “I’ll be
careful. I want to get my data entry done and go to bed.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t until after she’d hung
up that his words registered. She had a transparent face. God, that line last
night about keeping the phone by her bed. She was definitely going to have to
keep things impersonal tomorrow. He was doing his job. No more, no less.

And she was going to do hers. She
picked up the phone and called Jennifer.

* * * * *

In her shop office, Sarah
rummaged through the packets of her “add boiling water” collection while she
waited for the kettle to boil. Corn chowder would be today’s lunch, albeit a
late one. The chimes over the door announced a customer, and Sarah pushed away
from her desk.

Chris strolled into the shop,
beaming. “Hi, Sarah. The flowers look wonderful in the window.” He roamed the
shop, picking up one item after another before setting it down exactly where he’d
found it. Sarah wondered why he never carried one to the counter and bought it.
That was the kind of help she’d accept from him. Not his charity.

Chris spoke, still roaming. “It
turns out I probably saw the old lady who robbed you Monday. Some overgrown cop
came by Tuesday, questioning me. Fingerprinted me. At seven-thirty in the
morning, for God’s sake. Can you believe it?” He glanced back at Sarah for a
moment.

“He was doing his job.” Maybe she
wouldn’t have to worry about her transparent face, if Randy had already
questioned Chris.

“Well, I hope he catches her.”
Chris turned. “Where’s Anjolie’s silver? Did the thief take it all?”

Sarah gave him the abridged
version of Anjolie’s visit. The shriek of the kettle from the back room stopped
her explanation. She lifted a finger and motioned behind her. “Sorry. Be right
back,” she said and escaped into her office, away from Chris.

“I’ve got to run, Sarah,” she
heard him say. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Seven. Do you still have that black
and white sweater? It’ll be perfect.”

“Sure,” she called. She wasn’t in
the mood for an argument. “See you tomorrow.” She ate her soup, trying to
forget about tomorrow night, about Diana, about losing her shop. When Randy
invaded her thoughts, she reminded herself it was natural to be thinking about
him. He held the key to solving the robbery, and if what he said was true,
maybe more.

* * * * *

Randy adjusted the visor against
the afternoon glare and pulled on his sunglasses. Diana Scofield was his next
and, thankfully, his last interview today. He’d gotten the same story from the
artists he’d talked to. Chris had never been a middleman. None of them admitted
knowing him.

He found the address Sarah had
given him in a neighborhood of well manicured lawns tucked behind privacy
hedges or stone walls. He left his pickup on the street and ambled up the long
driveway to Diana’s house. The wraparound porch with its carved stone columns dwarfed
Chris’. Owen Scofield made his fortune in a dot-com before the bust and must
have known how to invest it, because he wasn’t hurting for bucks. Owned an art
gallery, two restaurants, and a night club. He could handle the mortgage
payments on this house without sneezing, and that was his only leftover expense
from his marriage to Diana.

Randy ran his handkerchief across
his face, stuffed it back in his pocket and rang the bell. Ascending and
descending tones chimed behind the double doors. He glanced up at the security
camera and suppressed the urge to make a face. The door opened a few inches and
a dark brown eye peered through the opening.

“Diana Scofield?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“Detective Detweiler, Pine Hills Police,”
he said. He displayed his badge and ID, and the door shut to release the
security chain and then opened, revealing a tall, leggy blonde exuding too much
expensive perfume. She wore black leggings that left nothing to the imagination
and a tightly fitted white t-shirt that didn’t reach her navel, which sported a
silver ring.

“Police? Pine Hills?”

“I have a few questions, ma’am. I
shouldn’t take up much of your time.”

She stepped back, not disguising
the once-over she was giving him. “Come in, Detective. We can sit down and be
comfortable.” She flipped her hair back from her face and pivoted, her
three-inch heels clicking on the tile floor.

Randy shook his head as she
walked ahead of him, knowing damn well that wiggle in her ass was for him. What
the hell? He enjoyed the brief trip to a formal living room, where she sat on
an uncomfortable-looking yellow sofa.

He gave her an easy smile and sat
across from her in a matching upholstered chair with spindly carved legs he hoped
would take his weight.

“Can I get you something? Coffee?
Tea? A drink? Oh, but you’re on duty. Would you mind if I fixed myself
something?”

“Nothing for me, but be my guest.”

She leaned forward to rise from
the couch, revealing her generous cleavage, and crossed to a bar at the far
side of the room. Randy enjoyed the view once more, both coming and going,
before she returned with two glasses. She held a rocks glass and set a tall
glass of a clear liquid on the coffee table between them. “Ice water,” she
said. “In case you get thirsty from all the questions.” She settled herself
onto the edge of the sofa and ran the tip of her tongue across red-painted
lips. “Now, is this where you ask me where I was at the time of the robbery?”

Praying for strength, Randy
thanked her and opened his notebook. “Why not? Where were you on Monday
morning—let’s say between nine and noon?”

She locked her gaze on his. “Monday?
I had a session with my personal trainer from nine-thirty until eleven. I’m
sure he’ll remember. We had an excellent workout.” She winked. “And I had lunch
at the tennis club with friends. I’ll be happy to provide names. Besides, it
was a little old lady who robbed Sarah. Surely I don’t fit that description,
Detective.”

Randy reached for the water,
suddenly grateful she’d provided it. Once he was sure he could keep his face
straight and his voice even, he answered. “No, I don’t think you do, Mrs.
Scofield.”

“Oh, call me Diana. Everyone
does.”

“Yes, ma’am. I need to cover the
bases here. I imagine the robbery came as a shock. But nobody was hurt, and the
thief didn’t get much.”

“Yes, thank goodness for that. My
loss—well it’ll hardly be noticeable. My share is twenty percent, you know.”

“Yes, your loss was negligible. I’m
thinking maybe someone put that little old lady up to the robbery.”

She crossed her hands over her
ample chest. “You can’t think I had anything to do with it.” Diana picked up
her drink and swirled it around. “You should look at Sarah. She could have set
up the robbery herself. Like you said, she didn’t lose much and it made for
some good publicity, I’ll bet.”

Randy gave her a noncommittal
nod. “Do you get along with Ms. Tucker?” He waited, pen poised, watching her
eyes narrow for an instant before she brought them under control.

“She’s my sister-in-law. Or was.
I’m not really sure how that works, but it doesn’t matter. I have my share and
I tried to convince Sarah to give me half—if she had, we’d be splitting the
losses fifty-fifty now. But she’s pigheaded about doing everything by herself.”
She downed half of her drink, extending her cleavage as she placed the glass
next to his.

“Do you know anything about
business problems other than the robbery?”

“Like what?”

“Orders not showing up, broken
merchandise, things like that.”

Diana gave him a blank stare and
fanned her fingers through the air. “Oh, I leave those details to Sarah. It’s
too much trouble to drive to Pine Hills to check up on things. She sends me
reports with my checks, but she doesn’t cheat me.”

“You seem very trusting.”

“Hey, I see the auditor’s
reports. Before the divorce, my husband insisted on them, and things don’t seem
much different now. It’s a struggling business, and we’d both be better off if
she’d wake up and get out.”

“You think she should sell?”

More cleavage when she picked up
her glass again. “Yeah. My checks are chicken feed. If she’d sell the stupid
place, I’d get my lump sum and have a little nest egg. But she’s going to have
to go bankrupt before she’ll quit.”

Randy looked at his notes. “You
know a man named Brandt?”

“Maybe. I know lots of people.
What’s his first name?”

“I don’t have one.”

Diana studied her nails, turning
her palms away and spreading her fingers. “Could be Billy. Haven’t seen him in
months, though. I think his name might have been Brandt.”