Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  Charlotte's voice lifted, no longer expressionless. "I think you might want to look at this," she said.

  * * * * *

  Sarah yawned as she toasted a bagel for breakfast. She wondered if Randy was still working. The morning news on television offered nothing other than what she'd seen with Maggie the night before. A dead body, male, as yet unidentified, had been found in the vacant acreage on the outskirts of town. Teenaged boys had found the body and seemed to be enjoying their celebrity status but had nothing helpful to say.

  She yawned again. Her recent nights hadn't been as peaceful as she'd led Maggie to believe. Nightmares rarely plagued her when she was with Randy. She hated to admit they'd returned while he'd been away, a sign of weakness she refused to accept. She would not be dependent on anyone. She finished dressing for work and took the back stairs to the parking area behind the building. As she approached her gray Honda Element, her turmoil continued. Randy had been the one responsible for proving David had been murdered, releasing life insurance money so she could afford a car again.

  God, what was wrong with her? Last night, she'd ached to be with Randy. If his boss hadn't called, they'd probably be having a second cup of coffee—or a morning quickie.

  She climbed into the boxy vehicle and twisted the key in the ignition. "Come on, Heffalump. Let's get to work." Being at her boutique smoothed all the rough edges. She'd be alone until one o'clock today and she looked forward to arriving early, rearranging some displays, being in charge.

  Her mood lifted as she drove through the business district, rising higher when she turned down the side street where That Special Something sat in the middle of the block, nestled among other small shops. With about an hour before she opened, she could pimp her window and make room for the pottery she expected today.

  She decided to go all the way with the fall theme, mixing and matching merchandise, using color as the underlying motif to tie everything together. Everything from delicate crystal to rugged stoneware. She propped the sign she had made announcing the Saturday debut of her new pottery into the arms of a stuffed scarecrow sitting on a low wooden chair. An eclectic mix, but overall, she thought it worked. She unlocked the front door and checked the composition of the window display from the street. Perfect. On her way back inside, she flipped the door sign to "Open."

  Customers buzzed in and out all morning, primarily to see what Sarah knew about the body, but most were too embarrassed to admit it, so they bought. Sarah took their money with a smile. When the UPS man showed up without Hugh's pottery, Sarah did a quick fume. As soon as Jennifer came in, Sarah went to the back room to call him.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Garrigue is away. I'm Gloria, his associate. May I help you?" the woman who answered said.

  Sarah asked where her shipment was and irritation that had built over the morning bled through in her tone.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Tucker. I'm only in the studio part-time, and I hadn't checked my email until moments ago. Mr. Garrigue was called away on a family emergency. I don't see your shipment here, but Mr. Garrigue normally handles shipping for these promotions personally. I'll be happy to check into it."

  Chagrined, Sarah apologized for being short. "I understand. Do you know how long he'll be gone? Is there anything I can do? I've already advertised it for a Saturday opening."

  "No. It's not like him to leave in a rush, but family is family, you know."

  Sarah thanked her again and hung up. Out front, things were relatively quiet and she motioned to her assistant. "Jennifer. Hugh's pottery will be delayed. Any ideas to fill in the gaps?"

  Jennifer turned in a tight circle, surveying the store. "I like the fall theme," she said. "What about miniature hay bales, plenty of harvest stuff, maybe some little scarecrows to play up the one in the window?"

  "Sounds like a plan. I think most of the customers today are more interested in grilling me about the dead guy than admiring the displays. I'll work on it after we close."

  "You want me to stay? I don't have any classes tomorrow and this will be fun. After all those art history textbooks, I could use a creative outlet." She dashed over to a table of carved wooden vegetables, her dark curls bobbing as she moved. "Less is more, don't you think? If it looks like there are only a few of these things, customers will think they're getting something extra special."

  Sarah cocked her eyebrows and grinned at her assistant. "Well, the shop is called That Special Something, after all."

  "You know I didn't mean it like that," Jennifer said. "But instead of all the carved vegetables on one table, maybe split them up into smaller bowls? Set out on different tables?" She darted over to the spiral staircase Sarah used as a display rack and lifted a carved teak tray. "Like in this? And that way, you don't have to set aside a big area for Hugh's pottery. You can put them here and there whenever they arrive."

  Sarah agreed. Nothing wrong with keeping the customers moving through the store.

  "So, should I stay?" Jennifer paused, her eyes widening. "Off the clock, of course."

  "Twist my arm a little harder, Jennifer." Sarah laughed. "I'm happy for your help. I've got some things in the storeroom that should work."

  The door chimes jingled. "Go," Jennifer said. "You can dig through the back room and I'll tell everyone you're busy consulting with the police."

  "Stop that." Sarah poked Jennifer's arm. "I've got my 'How should I know?' speech down pat." She looked more closely at the woman entering the shop. "Wait. That's Janie Kovak. Her husband works with Randy. Heck, she might actually know something."

  Janie smiled at Sarah and strolled across the shop, pausing at a display of dinnerware. "I love these placemats," she said. "I don't remember seeing them before."

  "They came in about a month ago, but you know me. Always moving things around."

  "Don't be so sweet, Sarah. I haven't been in here in far too long. A lot longer than a month."

  Sarah waited. Janie fingered the matching napkins, then discreetly peeked under a corner.

  "They're twelve dollars each," Sarah said. "The placemats are thirty. They're hand-dyed batik, hand-quilted and no two are exactly alike." When a flush crept over Janie's cheeks and she ran her fingers wistfully over the placemat, Sarah lowered her voice. "If you want the placemats and the napkins, I can give you a better price for the set."

  Sarah wondered if money was the issue or if there were other problems. She tried to read Janie's face, but she didn't know her that well, and aside from the blush, her facial nuances were indecipherable.

  Janie took a slow breath in, then released it with a sigh. "We'd hoped to sneak away for our anniversary, but plans have a way of changing."

  "Yeah. This murder must have thrown a monkey wrench into your life."

  "Oh, no—I mean, of course there's always the possibility schedules will change, but the cops usually cover for each other if someone has plans. This glitch was something entirely different." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's going to have to be dinner at home and when I saw this setting, I thought maybe something new for the table might make it an occasion."

  The door chimed again and Sarah caught Jennifer's quick nod that she had everything covered with the new customers.

  "When's the big day?" Sarah asked, trying to turn the subject into something Janie might find more pleasant.

  "Saturday," she said.

  "How many years?"

  "Fifteen," she said.

  Sarah's mouth dropped open of its own accord. Janie laughed and her spirit obviously lightened. "What can I say? We got married two days after we graduated high school."

  "Congratulations. Seriously, fifteen years is an accomplishment these days."

  "Oh, we've had our ups and downs. We've learned not to take anything for granted."

  Right. Like assuming your husband will be home for dinner, but he gets murdered. A chill ran through her as she realized Janie would have dealt with these worries almost daily.

  "Is something wrong?" Concern flooded
Janie's face and Sarah realized her memories of the five years she and David had together must have shown. Randy always said she had a transparent face. Damn, there they were again, Randy and David, clogging up her thoughts.

  You're Sarah. Not David's wife anymore. And you don't belong to Randy. You're your own Sarah.

  She mustered a smile. "Sorry. Woolgathering."

  Now, Janie seemed bent on cheering her. "What do you think about a bowl for a floral arrangement?"

  "Crystal's the traditional gift for your fifteenth. We have some nice ones over here."

  Janie shook her head. "We're not into that much tradition." She stepped across the shop toward another display. "I'd love a Garrigue piece, but that's a little out of my price range right now. These wooden ones are nice."

  Sarah plucked a wooden vase from the table. "This one's fifteen dollars," she said, hoping her face didn't give away the blatant lie. "And it'll look good all the time, not just when you're having special dinners. Placemats and napkins seem to end up in a drawer somewhere and you forget about them." As she spoke, Sarah peeled the price sticker from the bottom of the vase.

  Janie took the creation, turning it in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth pecan wood. She frowned and pursed her lips. "It's lovely. Really, it is, but," she furrowed her brows and looked at Sarah, "do you think it's an anniversary present?"

  "Wait a minute. I have an idea. Come with me." Sarah rushed across the room with Janie at her heels. She took two blue glass bowls from the spiral staircase. "These are perfect."

  Janie's brow furrowed even deeper. "Sarah, I know I'm on a tight budget, but bowls?"

  "Ah, but the real present is what you do with them. After your special dinner, which undoubtedly will be delicious, you get your husband to wash the dishes—or at least clear and rinse. Then you have him fill each bowl with some double-rich ice cream you happen to have in the freezer and some hot fudge sauce waiting to be nuked. He can manage that, right?"

  Janie laughed out loud. "Yes, after fifteen years, he's trained in the kitchen department."

  "Good. While he's attending to dessert, you're in the bedroom changing into the slinky number you're going to buy, or the one you set aside for these occasions. Or maybe nothing but a piece of jewelry he gave you. Anyway, you have him bring dessert into the bedroom and—"

  "Sarah, you're a devil. Or a genius. I can see why Randy loves you."

  Sarah almost dropped the bowls. "What? How do you know that?"

  "Come on. It's no secret is it? I saw the way he looked at you at the Fourth of July picnic. Mooney-eyed, I think, my grandmother would have called it."

  "Oh," she said in a tiny voice. "I didn't realize it was common knowledge."

  "Only to anyone who's seen the two of you together." She looked at her wrist. "Good heavens. I've got to run and pick up the kids." She opened her purse. "How much are the bowls?"

  "Consider them my contribution to your anniversary present."

  "No, I'll pay."

  Sarah took the bowls to the counter and began wrapping them in tissue paper. "It's my gift. But I would like to talk to you sometime. About living with a cop. How do you cope? I mean, people have been coming in here all day wanting details about the murder. Don't they ask you, too?"

  "They used to. But they've learned I'm not privy to any juicy cop stuff and even if I know something, I won't tell them without clearance, so they leave me alone." She grinned. "That's probably why they're bugging you. Be glad it's not reporters. They're the real sharks. They've even had the nerve to call us at home at ungodly hours. They can take 'no comment' and make it sound ominous."

  Sarah thought about Penny Scholnik's serial murder question. "Yeah. I agree. Their motto seems to be, 'Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.' But even if the customers want gossip, they're buying, so I won't complain. But will you answer one question, if you've got clearance?"

  "If I can." Janie's expression turned cautious.

  "Randy's never referred to your husband as anything but Kovak. He must have a first name."

  Janie's laugh bubbled like the river after a spring rain. "He does, but I'm sworn to secrecy."

  Sarah put the bowls in a bag. "Surely you don't call him Kovak."

  "No, I call him Peek. But I'm afraid you'll have to get permission from him as to why." Janie breezed toward the door.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte's tone snapped Randy alert. He leaned over her for a closer look at the man's pulpy face and swallowed involuntarily. "What am I supposed to see?"

  "Hang on." She shook her head. "Whoever was on duty last night left it out of his report. Won't happen again," she muttered under her breath. She stuck her gloved fingers in what was left of the man's mouth and twisted. "Here."

  Randy smiled, his queasiness banished by the adrenaline rush of a possible lead. "Bridgework. Maybe we can track down the dentist."

  "That, my detective friend, is your job. You and the CSI folks." Her camera documented the find and she cleaned the bridge and bagged it for him. "The CSIs set up a countywide network of dentists so you can send the information to everyone at once. Not all of them signed on, but it should save you some time."

  "Thanks, Doc." He set the bag on the counter. "Can you identify the tool the killer used for the carving?"

  "It was sharp." She poked and pointed at the edge of the cut. "Single-edged blade would be my guess. But the ants and roaches have obliterated much of what might be identifiable tool marks."

  "So if we find a weapon, you couldn't say it was the one used on the victim?"

  "I could give you pretty good odds, but any decent defense attorney would toss it. I'll give you the best I have in my report." She peered up at him, as if anticipating his next question. "Which you'll get when it's ready. Stomach contents are being analyzed and they're doing a tox screen. Given how long it takes to get results, your best bet's going to be a match on the carvings. My guess is a right hander."

  "Well that eliminates what, ten percent of the population?" Randy said. "Leaves us ninety percent."

  "This kind of signature is usually male, so that cuts your list almost in half." She smiled as she delivered the words. "And you can probably rule out children. See you've narrowed your search already."

  "Yeah. Down to right-handed adult males. Thanks, Doc. You're a big help."

  Once the autopsy reached the tissue sampling phase, Randy left Charlotte to her work. Any additional discoveries would have to wait for lab reports.

  Randy took the bag with the man's dental work down the hall to the lab. A genuine lead. Leads were good. His step lightened despite the fatigue. He might meet Kovak for lunch after all.

  After scrubbing his hands and face with institutional-strength soap to get rid of some of the morgue smell, he hit the vending machine for a couple of candy bars. The sugar and caffeine would do the job of yet another dose of coffee without the acid kick and he could use the energy boost. He glanced at his watch, not wanting to calculate how long it had been since he'd slept—or how long it would be until he could. He strolled once around the building, breathing in the pine-scented air until he felt refreshed enough to tackle the drive back to Pine Hills.

  An hour later, seated in a back booth of The Wagon Wheel, exchanging information with Kovak helped him straddle the next wall of fatigue, but the obstacles to clear thinking were arriving closer and closer together, the way commercials did during the last ten minutes of a television show.

  "We're at that waiting phase," Randy said. "Maybe we can both crash for a couple of hours."

  "I agree. I think I'm starting to hallucinate, or is your hamburger dancing?"

  Randy lifted his burger and waggled it on the way to his mouth. "Don't they always?" His phone rang and vibrated. "See. There's the music." He set the burger down and checked the phone's display. "Damn."

  "Let me guess. The chief."

  "Got it in one." Randy took the call. "Yes, sir. On our way." He scarfed down the rest of the burg
er, gulped his soda and tossed bills on the table. "Let's roll."

  Kovak's eyebrows lifted expectantly. "Good news? An ID? A lead?"

  "We should be so lucky. A damn press conference and our presence is required."

  "Crap." Kovak wrapped the remains of his corned beef sandwich into his napkin and headed for the door, snagging a few peppermints on his way.

  Less than thirty minutes later, they stood at attention on the Municipal Building steps while Chief Laughlin fielded questions. Randy picked a point in the distance and stared, trying to look like the man his chief was now describing as an expert in his field, a true professional, with the welfare of all Pine Hills citizens at heart. He almost gagged. Media relations were not his thing. His mind wandered, then went blank. A nudge to his ribs brought him back. He gave Kovak a quick nod of thanks and scanned the crowd, looking for—what? Someone holding a sign saying, "I'm the killer"? Besides, surveillance cameras were in place and they could review the tapes later. Faces blurred.

  The next thing he knew, Kovak nudged him again. "Hey, big guy. Better crash before you collapse and embarrass the force."

  "Huh?"

  Kovak clapped a hand onto Randy's shoulder and guided him inside. "You're out on your feet. I'd say go home, but you'd probably kill yourself or some poor unsuspecting citizen. Get a uniform to drive you."

  "No, I'll catch a nap downstairs." He'd done it before—crashed on a mat in a corner of the gym. Hell, he'd crashed at his desk enough times, too, but the chief wouldn't approve during a high-profile case. "You go home. I'll have someone alert me if anything breaks, but we've done everything we can at this point. If I don't call you, I'll see you in the morning."

  "You sure?"

  "You gave me the lead. I'm taking it. Go home."

  His brain whirled, the caffeine surged, but his body demanded downtime. After instructing the duty officers where to find him and what was not important enough to wake him, Randy dragged three mats to a corner of the gym in the basement of the station and plopped down, laying his cell beside his head. Visions of the autopsy wouldn't leave him alone, triggered, he assumed, by the odor that had permeated his clothes.