Hidden Fire, Kobo (36 page)

"What part? You
are
the owner
of a classy boutique. What's wrong with looking the way you looked all day? You
look fine in jeans."

"You're grumbling because I asked
you to change into slacks. And think positive. If the person on duty at the
gallery is a man, the scarf goes back in my purse."

"Ah, there's hope, then. I don't see
why we have to go to this gallery tonight. Didn't you see enough on campus? You
had almost three hours. We could go tomorrow."

"You are—"

"Waiting until we get back here,"
he interrupted. He raised his hands in surrender. "You sure we don't have
time?"

"Honestly, Randy, just because the
campus cops couldn't give you any useful information is no reason to get all
testy. What's so wrong about giving my plan a chance?"

"I wouldn't call what I am
testy
,"
he said, waggling his eyebrows. "And I didn't say I wasn't going to give
your plan a chance. Only that it could wait until tomorrow."

"For your information, tomorrow I
have an appointment to see the head of the ceramics department. Suck it up,
mister. Another hour won't kill you." Inside, she smiled. Randy hadn't
seen the nightie she'd packed. The one she'd bought for his welcome home from
San Francisco and still hadn't worn.

"Ready. Let's go."

She took his hand as they strolled the
waterfront in Old Town in Eureka. "There's the gallery," she said.
She picked up the pace, eager to see the ceramics. The campus exhibits had a
variety of works of students and faculty, including a display of Garrigue
pottery. Although there had been a few tea sets and mugs, most of the work was
more sculpture than functional.

However none of the mugs had the pedestal
base design she was looking for. The staff at the campus gallery said they were
showcasing pottery this month at the First Street Gallery, and she hoped she'd
have better luck there.

Sarah peeked through the window. A woman
with long, straight black hair sat behind the desk.

"Sorry," Sarah said to Randy
with an evil grin. She fingered the scarf at her neck. "You lose. For now,
anyway."

The woman greeted them as they entered.
Sarah marched up to her and smiled. "Hi. I'm Sarah Tucker, owner of That
Special Something in Pine Hills, Oregon." She handed the woman her
business card. "I'd like to browse, please. I sell a lot of ceramics in my
shop. It's primarily household, but as you might guess from the name of the
store, I offer a wide assortment of one-of-a-kind pieces. I thought I might
find a promising artist here."

"We showcase student art from the
university in Arcata," the woman said. "If you see anything to your
liking, I'll be happy to connect you with the artist." She paused, her
eyes flitting from piece to piece around the room, as if trying to find
something she thought Sarah might like. Was she trying to push the wares of her
friends? Or herself, for that matter?

"Are any of your pieces here?"
Sarah asked. The woman seemed to be in her mid-thirties, but that didn't mean
she wasn't a student.

"I don't work with clay," she
said. "But the orange and red tapestry in the case at the back is mine."

"I'll check it out." She and
Randy made a quick circuit of the gallery, looking at the ceramics, pausing
from time to time. She sensed the woman's eyes following them. There were glass
cases mounted on one wall at the back showcasing faculty and student work. She
recognized a large vase and an abstract piece as Garrigues.

"I think even I can pick out a
Garrigue now," Randy said.

"Then maybe we both learned
something today." She moved along the wall, stopping at a display of
samples of other media representing the various offerings of the university's
art department as a whole. The tapestry in question was quite good. "Nadine",
the placard underneath said.

"Wait here," she said to Randy.
She strode back to the desk. "Do you have more pieces similar to the one here?"
she asked.

The woman beamed. "Yes, yes I do."

"If you're interested," she
said, "I can take one or two on consignment."

The woman's eyes lit up. "That would
be great." She extended her hand. "I'm Nadine."

"All right, Nadine. You have my
card. I'll be back in Pine Hills next week. Call me."

"I will."

"Oh, and one question. I noticed the
Garrigue pieces in back. I was on campus today, but his studio was closed. I'd
love to study his technique. I used to throw pots, but I've never come close to
what he can do."

Nadine's eyes darted around the room,
although aside from Randy, there was nobody else in the gallery. She leaned
forward and lowered her voice. "I think he farms a lot of it out these
days. He's trained his apprentices until they can create an almost perfect
piece. He still does all the glazing and the larger art pieces, but his
household stuff—that's something he doesn't bother with anymore. He's aloof,
but that's sort of the artistic temperament, I guess. And on top of that, he's
always disappearing. Drives his students nuts."

"Do you know where he goes?"

She shook her head. "Maybe some of
his students do. Or his apprentices." Her face colored. "I probably
shouldn't have told you. It's all rumor. I'm not in his department, so I don't
deal with him."

Sarah gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I
remember what it's like on campus. Rumors fly, don't they?"

"All the time. Wait." She
opened a desk drawer. "There's a list of emergency contact numbers here. I
think Mr. Garrigue is listed as someone to call if anything happens." She
extracted a sheet of paper and ran her finger down a list of names. "Yes,
here it is. Would you like it? I have to say, it's a pretty old list and he's
not a primary contact."

"It's a start, though. That would be
great. Thanks." She tried to keep from looking too excited as Nadine wrote
it on a gallery business card.

"Good luck," Nadine said.

"Don't forget to call me."
Sarah turned to the back and motioned for Randy to join her, then started for
the door.

"Apparently Hugh disappears
regularly. I have an emergency contact number for him." She handed Randy
the card. "How did I do?"

"Your technique was superb," he
said. "But the campus police have already tried his emergency contact
number."

"Oh," she said, feeling like a
deflated balloon. "Well, I might have picked up a new artist. It wasn't a
total waste of time."

"How about some ice cream? I saw a
shop down the block."

She remembered how their first night
together had started with bowls of ice cream. From the look in Randy's eyes, he
was thinking the same thing. Besides, it would probably be good for his
stomach. "Sounds good."

They ordered cones and strolled the
waterfront. She swirled her tongue around the creamy scoop of chocolate,
savoring the rich taste. Randy's hand snaked around her waist.

"I like that technique," he
murmured.

She gazed up at him. "Really? How
about this?" She took the top of the ice cream into her mouth, then slowly
withdrew it, drawing the softening scoop out in an elongated shape. She
repeated the move, her eyes half closed.

"Now that's not bad," he said. "Not
bad at all." His voice rasped.

She used her tongue again, circling the
peak, then working down to the cone. She smiled. "You're dripping."

"Your fault."

"No, silly." She pointed at his
ice cream. "Your cone. Lick." Rivulets of ice cream trickled down his
fingers.

He cleaned the drips from his cone, his
tongue flicking around the edge.

"Your action's not so bad yourself,"
she said. She grabbed his hand and sucked the ice cream from each of his
fingers in turn. Slowly.

When she finished, he pulled his hand
free and scarfed the rest of his ice cream, then tossed the cone into a trash
can. "Eat," he said. "Now. Fast." He shifted gears from
stroll to haul ass and took her hand. "Hotel. You. Me. Bed."

Randy stood on the balcony of the hotel
room, staring at the lights shimmering from the waterfront. Behind him, Sarah
slept. Content, he hoped. He turned and leaned against the rail, shifting his
attention to her. She lay curled on her side, her hands folded under her
pillow. The lights from outside illuminated her face. A smile played around her
lips. Dreaming of what they'd done tonight? In the hotel, different beds,
different shadows, different sounds added a new level of pleasure to lovemaking.
And her nightgown. He looked at the silk and lace draped over the chair beside
the bed. Nothing like the woman she'd been at breakfast, sitting with three
cops, fitting in. Or this evening, being part professional boutique owner, part
detective.

Lately, she seemed to be doing a better
job of straddling their two worlds than he was.

Because she understands they
are
two worlds, idiot.
He'd fallen
in love with Sarah, assuming she would move into his personal life, completing
it the way the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle finished the picture. He'd never
given much thought to how many sacrifices it would take for her to buy into the
whole package.

And what sacrifices had he made? Would he
make? That familiar ache threatened his belly and he remembered his promise to
Sarah to see a doctor. He could start with that one, for whatever good it would
do.
Watch the stress, cut back on caffeine.
Right.

She'd been so proud, so excited to have
uncovered a phone number for Garrigue. So what if it was a duplication of information?
His skeptical detective's mind returned. He took his notebook and briefcase and
crept across the room to the bathroom, closing the door behind him before
turning on the light. Lowering the lid on the toilet, he sat and leafed through
pages until he found what Rachel Michaelis had given him this afternoon. He
found the numbers she'd given him for Hugh Garrigue. Campus studio and an
emergency contact. Which did
not
match the number on the card Heather
had given Sarah at the gallery.

Once he thought about it, it made sense.
The emergency contact number he gave when he filled out forms was his sister's.
She's the one they'd call if the worst happened. He had a fleeting thought of
Sarah's number going into that slot on his own forms, but shoved it aside for
now. He looked at the number from Rachel Michaelis again. A totally different
area code. This was probably the "in case of personal emergency"
number. The one Sarah had was likely the "in case something happens to the
gallery" number.

First thing in the morning, he'd check it
against a reverse directory and see where it led. Meanwhile, lying beside Sarah
was better medicine than a giant-economy-size bottle of Tums. He packed
everything away and shut off the light. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the
dim room, listening to her even breathing. Emotion swamped him, filling his
chest.

Slipping into the bed behind her, he drew
her to him. As she snuggled against him, transferring her warmth, he knew he'd
do whatever necessary to keep her in his life.

The next morning, he laced his sneakers
as he waited for Sarah to finish in the bathroom.

"I can't believe we slept this late,"
she said when she emerged. "My appointment's at ten-thirty." She
grabbed the hair dryer and bent over, blowing the air over her hair with one
hand, ruffling it with her fingers with the other. "That'll have to do.
Let's go."

She wore jeans again, with a blue and
white t-shirt. With her clean-scrubbed face and damp hair she looked no older
than an average university student.

"Is it okay if I drop you off?"
he asked. "It turns out you picked up a good lead last night." He
shut the hotel room door behind them, making sure it was locked.

"I did? Really? What?" Her eyes
sparkled.

He explained his late-night discovery
about the other phone number. Since he didn't get so much as an answering
machine when he'd called earlier, he thought a personal visit might be a better
approach. "I'll drop by the campus police department and get an address to
go with it. I'll check it out and meet you … where? The ceramics lab?"

"Call my cell to find me. No telling
where I'll end up."

By now, they were on the highway. "Relax,"
he said after he caught her looking at her watch for the third time in three
minutes. "We'll be there in plenty of time."

She opened the truck's window, frowned,
fluffed her hair again, then put on some lip gloss.

"You look fine, Sarah. You're not
going in as the classy boutique owner today. You'll probably get a better
response from students if you look like one. Heck, you could pass as someone
thinking about transferring here."

"You think?" The worry lines
disappeared. "That's a great idea. My cover, right?"

"Right. We can hook up for lunch. Or
brunch, I suppose, since we didn't have breakfast."