|
|
For buying options, click here
|
|
Finding Sarah ISBN #9781419907821 ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® |
|
Chapter One Sarah Tucker’s hands shook with anger as she fumbled the keys into her gift boutique’s lock. Bad enough the bus driver stopped beside a puddle the size of Crater Lake, which she cleared despite the restrictions of her skirt and pumps, thank you very much. But when that headbanger in the heavy metal-blasting SUV had sped through the muddy water, any satisfaction at her nimble footwork disappeared in a dousing of muddy water. The cheerful jingle of the door chimes did nothing for her mood. Sarah rushed to her small office behind the glass sales counter and shrugged out of her coat to assess the damage. She dampened some paper towels and daubed at her mud-spattered shoes and stockings. She couldn’t go home and change and the last thing she wanted was to appear at the bank this afternoon looking like she needed a loan. If you needed money, you couldn’t get it, but if you had it, they’d give you whatever you asked for. Enough negative thoughts. Sarah hung up her keys and tossed her instant soup packet into the basket by her coffeepot. Another gourmet lunch. At a knock on the door, she checked her watch. It wasn’t quite ten, but she’d open for a possible sale. Patting her windblown hair into place, she hurried to the front door. Christopher Westmoreland stood there, looking impeccable as always. No headbanger would dare splash water on his perfectly creased black trousers. His strawberry blond hair wouldn’t dare blow in the wind. “Chris. What brings you to town?” She stepped back into the store and toward the register. “I’m getting ready to open, but if you need anything, I’ll be glad to get it for you.” As if he’d actually buy something. “Not today. I’ve got some appointments over in Salem. Thought I’d say hello before I head out.” He strolled to the counter and leaned over its glass top, close enough for Sarah to smell his sandalwood aftershave and the cinnamon gum he chewed. “You haven’t returned any of my calls. I know things have been tough since David…died. I only want to help. Why won’t you let me? For old times’ sake, if nothing else.” Memories of David flooded back. It had been over a year, but the pain lay just beneath the surface, waiting to engulf her. She shoved her emotions back into that metal strongbox in her brain, slammed the lid and turned the key. She was no longer Sarah, David’s wife. Or Sarah the daughter, or Sarah the high school sweetheart. She was Just Plain Sarah. Sarah met his pale green eyes, the ones she’d found so irresistible in high school. “We’ve been through all this before. I need to do it on my own. I can manage without your money.” Even though he’d promised ”no strings”, Sarah knew if she took a dime from him, she’d be attached with monofilament line. The kind that cut when you tried to break it. “Are you sure? You look like you haven’t slept in a month. And your hair. Why did you cut it all off?” “Well, thanks for making my morning.” Sarah fluffed her cropped do-it-yourself haircut. “It’s easier this way.” “How about dinner tonight? Come on, Sarah. We’re friends, right?” His eyebrows lifted in expectation. Dinner with Chris or five-for-a-dollar ramen noodles at home? Accepting dinner wouldn’t be selling out, would it? “Maybe. Call me later, okay?” “Great. See you later, then.” He turned to leave. “I said, ‘maybe’, remember?” Sarah walked him to the door and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open”. She rearranged the crystal in the front window to catch the light and dusted the brightly colored pottery, shifting a pot, turning a vase so its pattern was visible from the street. Once she was satisfied with the effect, she meandered through the shop, adjusting animal carvings and moving a display of stationery to a roll-top desk. An hour later, Sarah refused to let the lack of customers bother her. Easter was approaching, then Mother’s Day and people would flock to That Special Something in droves to find that perfect gift. Maybe not droves. She’d settle for a trickle right now. The door chimed. Sarah assessed the well-dressed woman who had entered the shop. Probably in her sixties, with a large designer purse draped over one shoulder. A hat with ribbon trim and black leather gloves made her a bit old-fashioned and out of place for the tiny Oregon town. Sarah gave the woman her biggest smile and stepped out from behind the counter. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to That Special Something. Are you looking for anything in particular?” “My niece is getting married. I thought I might find something out of the ordinary here.” Her voice was clipped, with a touch of sophisticated arrogance that said she was used to getting her way. “Unique gifts are my specialty.” Sarah motioned to a display of crystal. “Perhaps she’d like these hand-painted wine goblets? Or some of these Egyptian perfume bottles?” “Thank you. I’ll browse for a while, if you don’t mind.” “Take your time. I’m Sarah. Feel free to ask any questions.” Fighting the urge to follow her customer around, Sarah retreated and let the woman roam the shop. The way Chris had referred to David’s death churned through her thoughts. That horrible pause. The same one everyone else used. But Sarah knew it had been an accident. David would never commit suicide. This afternoon, she’d get a loan from the bank and rehire the private investigator or find a better one. The investigator would get the police to reopen the case and they’d find out it wasn’t suicide. Then she’d get the insurance money, which would pay off the loan and the shop would be safe from foreclosure. It all made perfect sense. And maybe it would take away some of the guilt. Sarah dragged her thoughts to the present, straightened her shoulders and found her professional smile again. Her customer was studying some silver picture frames. Expensive ones. She thought about how hard it had been to get Anjolie to display her work in the shop, that her work was too good for a mere boutique. She telegraphed mental messages to her customer—Please, show Anjolie she was wrong. Buy one. Buy six. The woman set the frame down and turned away. Sarah wouldn’t let her disappointment show. “Can I show you something else?” The woman strolled back and fingered the frames again. “You know, I like this one.” She picked up the most expensive one, the one with the lacy pattern of roses and leaves. “And I think I’ll take the matching vase over there.” Not good to let a customer see you jumping up and down clapping your hands. Instead, Sarah called up her most professional tone. “Excellent choices, ma’am. Would you like them gift-wrapped?” “No, thank you. But if you have boxes for them, I would appreciate it.” Sarah ducked beneath the counter for the boxes, calculating what the sale would mean to her bottom line. When she rose, she stared into a gun barrel. Sarah’s mouth went dry. Her knees wobbled and she grabbed the edge of the glass, transfixed by the gleaming metal. “I’m sorry, my dear.” The woman’s voice seemed to come from nowhere. “I’m a bit short at the moment, but I do want these lovely things.” She slid the picture frame into her purse. “What?” The word came out as a hoarse croak. “I believe you heard me.” Keeping the gun trained on Sarah, the woman stepped around the counter. “Unlock the register…Sarah, is it? I could use a little spending money.” Time froze. Sarah glanced toward the street, but saw no one who could have heard her scream, if she’d even been able to get a sound past the tightness in her throat. There was a pair of shears in a drawer, but the woman was standing in front of it. Not that she’d have the nerve to stab someone holding a gun. The woman leaned over Sarah, her breath smelling of peppermint. Sarah felt the press of cold steel against her back. “Now,” the woman said. “Slowly.” “I will. Please. Don’t hurt me.” Barely able to get the key into the lock with her trembling fingers, Sarah did as the woman asked. At least there wasn’t much in the drawer. Sarah watched the woman empty the register of all but a single twenty-dollar bill. “You see, I’m not leaving you penniless.” Without lowering the gun, the woman backed toward the door. “I don’t want to appear greedy, but I think I’ll take a few of these animal carvings, too. Give my compliments to the artist.” Still training the gun on Sarah, she set the vase down on the display table and filled it with the small wooden creatures. “Have a nice day.” She picked up the vase and backed out the door. * * * * * Sarah struggled to decipher the legalese of her insurance policy as she awaited the arrival of the police. She dreaded the thought of another claim. Getting everything straight after the electrical fire in January had been a nightmare. She had been reading the same paragraph over and over when a knock and a voice at the front door set her heart pounding. “Ms. Tucker? It’s Detective Randy Detweiler, Pine Hills Police. We spoke on the phone.” She unlocked the door to a tall, lanky man dressed in black denim pants and a gray sweater, gripping several bulky plastic bags. At five-foot-four, Sarah didn’t consider herself exceptionally short, but she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “No problem. Normally, we’d send a uniform first, but you’ve described someone we call Gracious Gertie. I’ve worked her case.” He brushed past her, spread the bags on the counter, then flashed a leather case with a gold badge. “Gertie’s a sore spot with me. Do these look familiar? I found them in the alley about half a block away.” Sarah froze at what appeared to be Gertie’s head in a bag on the counter, until she realized it was a wig, still attached to the black hat. The suit coat, shoes and even the large designer bag filled the rest of the counter space. “What—?” “It’s her typical MO, although this is the first time she’s left her costume behind. Usually, she hits places that don’t get a lot of traffic, always disguised differently and she never takes much from any one place. She hit several shops on the other side of town about a year ago. Looks like she’s back.” “Then you should be able to catch her, right?” She forced herself to slow down. “You don’t understand. I need my things. You have all that stuff. Can’t you find some clues or something?” Sarah heard her voice quaver. No way was she going to break down in front of this police officer. Hands clutched across her middle as if to still the churning inside, she turned and walked away. “I know you must be upset, ma’am, but I have to be honest. She’s been getting away with this in small towns all over Oregon for at least two years. Believe me, I’d love to be the one to bring her in, but I don’t think you should get your hopes up about recovering your merchandise.” Sarah leaned against a display table and fought nausea, dizziness and then fury. She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you tell me as much as you remember,” the detective said. His voice seemed to float from the distance. “What?” She started to walk toward him and her legs gave way. A strong hand grasped her elbow. “Are you all right? You’ve been held up at gunpoint. Sometimes it gets worse once you realize you’re safe. Let’s sit down. No need to rush into the paperwork.” “No, I’ll be fine.” She looked into the detective’s face, saw an aquiline nose and scrutinizing brown eyes. A wayward lock of dark brown hair hung over his forehead, calling attention to a small scar above his left eyebrow. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but before she could bring a memory forward, the door chimed and she turned away. A slender man sporting a stubble of beard, dressed in blue coveralls and baseball cap, stood in the doorway, taking a slow look around. He held a large metal case. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detective. “You think we’ll get anything?” “I’m not sure,” Detective Detweiler said. “You’ll have to dry the clothes—I found them in a puddle.” “You get pictures?” “Yes.” Detective Detweiler turned to Sarah. “This is Connor from the lab. He’ll dust for prints. Can you remember what she touched?” “The silver over there.” Sarah pointed to the table. “Those animal carvings and I think she was looking at the baskets. I know she was wearing gloves when she came in.” She faltered. “I can’t be positive she still had them on when she came to the register. All I remember is the gun.” Speaking the word aloud brought back the fear. “I’ll need her prints for elimination,” Connor said. He faced Sarah. “This won’t take long.” As if it were happening to someone else, Sarah watched Conner 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 all the details over coffee,” Detweiler said to Connor. “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 Connor. “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 bit 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 started writing. Sarah resisted only 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. Are things all right?” 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? 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 half an hour ago. She blinked back tears. “Can we just 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.” She couldn’t tell him that the robbery probably meant she would have to sell the shop. 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 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 only 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 all of 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 that 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. We can come back to this if it seems to fit.” Three more clicks of his pen. “Do you know what kind of gun she 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—” “It’s all right. And 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. Just 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 all over 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 guess not. If she was wearing gloves the whole time and the wig, it’s doubtful we’ll get much here, 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.” The muffins congealed in Sarah’s stomach. “Wait. Can’t we talk about it?” “There’s not much to talk about.” She put 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 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. Chatsworth’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. Outside, ominous rumblings of thunder sounded in the distance. Sarah clutched her arms around her waist, her thoughts returning to the rainy night the Highway Patrol officer had come to her door. In that instant, Sarah had known her life would never be the same. Her David, her soul mate, dead at twenty-six. He had finished her thoughts, known what she needed before she did. She touched her sweater, feeling David’s wedding band on the chain beneath it. Even a year after he’d died, she still felt incomplete without him. He couldn’t have killed himself. It was an accident, no matter what anybody said. In good weather, the mountain road was dangerous enough with its twists and turns and it had been stormy that day. The pangs of guilt returned. If she’d been with him, would he still be alive? They’d never had secrets. Or had she missed something? Accident or suicide, could she have had anything to do with his death? Had his mind been on their quarrel and not the road? Her eyes and throat burned. She might as well go home. She gathered the insurance papers, locked up and hurried toward the bus stop, hoping the bus would arrive before the rain. |
