by Terry Odell
Including her own, she reminded herself. She turned to the window again, watching the trees whip by.
She was afraid to start a conversation, afraid she'd broach the topic that had begun chewing at her since their dinner date had ended so abruptly at Rob's. Four days ago. Was that all?
Stop it. She was not going to analyze this to death. She'd planned her speech and she would stick to it. Then they'd talk, and she told herself for the millionth time that she'd get some inner feeling, some cosmic message, something that would tell her if she and Randy were meant to be together. She rubbed her nose.
Although the smell of salmon was delectable on Rob's flatbread, it lost something on the fingers. She flipped the lid of the console between the seats where Randy usually kept wet wipes. A piece of paper was shoved onto the top and she set it in her lap while she searched. She found what she wanted, grabbed two packets and tore one open. As she wiped her hands with the lemon-scented towelette, she glanced at the page.
"You planning on taking up pottery now?" she asked.
Randy took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a questioning glance. "Huh?"
She tapped the paper. "You've got the chemical composition of clay here."
He snatched the sheet from her lap.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Is that a top-secret cop code or something? It was sitting there. I didn't mean to read it, but the formula caught my eye."
"No, no it's fine. Tell me more." He handed the page back to her. Now his eyes darted back and forth between her and the road, lingering on hers for longer stretches.
"Not a lot more to tell. My ceramics classes were a long time ago and I barely remember the science. I wanted to create things and I didn't care why they worked, only that they did. I know when you fire clay, it gets hard. I know what kind of clay to use for different end products, but I don't need to know what the exact percentages of all the different minerals are."
She offered the second wipe packet to Randy. He shook it off. "So how much can you tell from this formula?"
Hearing the excitement in Randy's voice, she studied the paper, trying to remember more of the lectures she'd half-slept through. Clay was mostly silicon dioxide and aluminum oxide. She recognized those symbols, but the others escaped her. Wasn't Fe iron? It had been too long since she'd worked with clay other than at Saint Michael's and there she used what they provided. "Me? Not much. But someone who knows where to look can probably tell you exactly where the clay deposits came from. What's this all about?"
He stared at the road for several long moments, as if trying to decide what to tell her. His cop face was coming back and with it, the tangles in her belly.
"It's about the murder, isn't it?" she said. "I understand if you can't say anything."
Another long moment passed before he spoke. "I should call it in."
"I said I understand. Your job isn't a gift shop you can close with the flip of a door sign."
"We can still have dinner. We're a few minutes away."
"Good," she said, although she knew the meal would be mere sustenance instead of an experience. "I'd hate to waste Sadie's chicken."
They turned off the highway and wound their way through a residential subdivision and around a park. Randy drove up a narrow, winding road. Trees shaded its surface from the fading sunlight. He took one more turn, then down a long driveway and stopped in front of a modest ranch-style house. "We're here." He fetched the bag of food from the back and opened her door.
"Where's here?"
"The house belongs to a friend of mine. He's not using it right now."
"And he doesn't mind?" She followed him up the path to the front door, where he handed her the bag. He strode to one of the flowerbeds under a window, bent over and emerged with a key.
"Nope. He's on a cruise in Hawaii."
Inside, he flipped on a light, opened windows and a slider to a rear deck that overlooked the park. "It's a bit cool out here, but the view is great."
She joined him and snaked her arm around his waist. The sky turned pink, then gold, then deep midnight blue. "I've always loved sunsets."
"Then I'm glad we caught the tail end of this one." He stepped away and it was as if she'd lost a part of her. "How about our dinner?" he asked.
She wondered if she'd ever feel like she had all of him. "I'll stick the food in the oven while you make your calls."
"No," he said. He followed her to the kitchen. "County's got the report and I left a copy on Connor's desk. I could call him, but why spoil his weekend?"
She didn't mention that until a short while ago, Randy had thought nothing of giving up his weekends to work. There was a difference in his attitude tonight.
"You're the cop," she said. She took the foil pan out of the bag, set it in the oven and adjusted the temperature.
Randy took a smaller container and placed it on the counter. "Salad."
She opened a cabinet looking for plates, not meeting his eyes. "So, can you tell me why you have the formula for clay in your truck? You know I won't say anything."
He paused, as if trying to decide if this was a part of his work he could share. Or wanted to. He shrugged. "It's lab results. They found it under the victim's fingernails."
The plates crashed to the floor. Her face grew hot, then cold.
"Hey. Easy." Randy's hand was around her waist and then she was sitting in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. A glass of water appeared in her hand, Randy's warm fingers wrapped around it. "Sip."
She pushed it away. "I'm all right. I had this horrible thought. When Hugh's shipment was late, his assistant said he'd been called out of town on a family emergency, but she hadn't heard from him. What if he's your dead guy?"
* * * * *
Sarah's words hit him like a smack with a baton. For an instant, he couldn't draw a breath. His heart thudded. He pinched the bridge of his nose and ran the possibilities through his mind.
Back up. Don't jump to conclusions, he reminded himself. Rookie Detective Handbook Lesson One.
"You know what he looks like?" Randy asked.
Sarah, color returning to her cheeks, shook her head. "I've never met him. His picture's on his website, though."
"Where does he live?"
"Northern California. Arcata. He's adjunct faculty at Humboldt State."
California. Which would explain why they hadn't found him yet. If it was him. "Any reason to think he might be in Pine Hills?"
She rubbed her hands together. "No. I thought clay, missing potter and my brain made a huge jump. A really huge jump. It's probably not Hugh at all. I mean, why would he be here? And who would want to kill him? Forget I said anything."
"I agree, it's probably not Hugh Garrigue. But since there's a one-in-a-million chance it is—" Farfetched or not, he still needed to call it in. He reached for his cell, then hesitated. Would another hour matter?
She lifted her chin. "Do it. I'd hate myself if I was sitting here eating dinner—even if it is Sadie's chicken—and there was something I could have done."
He leaned down and cupped her face. Her blue eyes reflected an inner sadness. For Hugh? Or them? Over the past few months, she'd seen plans changed, dates canceled, dinners interrupted. Was that what their talk was going to be about? He touched her lips with his. She returned the kiss, lips parted enough to admit the tip of his tongue. Friendly, but certainly not passionate. One level beyond chaste.
She slipped her hands over his, her fingers brushing his knuckles. "Make the call."
He stepped onto the deck and leaned against the railing. The cool night air against his face helped refocus him. He thumbed through his cell phone's contact list, debating who to call first. It didn't take long to decide.
"Connor? Detweiler." He heard television, male voices in the background. "Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night."
"No problem. I'm ten bucks in the hole. Whatcha got?"
"Possible ID. Remote, but it should be checked."
"Whoa." Connor's voic
e shifted. Randy heard the excitement. "How? Who?"
"Who first. Hugh Garrigue. Lives in Arcata, California. The how isn't important. There's a fax on your desk at the office with a formula for clay. We might be able to get a handle on whether this was the kind of clay Garrigue uses in his pottery."
"Probably. I'll have to go to the station." He paused. "You got the word, no overtime, right?"
Randy shoved a lock of hair off his face. "I know. It can wait until Monday. Hell, listening to myself saying it makes it sound all the more ridiculous. The guy doesn't live anywhere near Pine Hills and has no reason we know of to be there."
"You've pushed my curiosity button. It won't take long and the poker game will go on without me. They probably won't notice I'm gone."
"I have to call County, too."
"Go for it. They can do a lot more than I can, especially if there are warrants involved. Their manpower means more eyes on the prize."
From Connor's responses, Randy didn't think he'd heard the rumors that the entire Pine Hills Police might be a thing of the past. Would he care? Hell, with his skills, the man could probably work anywhere.
What about you?
He thanked Connor and called Lieutenant Eldridge next. There was no point in disturbing Kovak's anniversary celebration. Bad enough his own evening was sinking like a creep hit with a Taser.
Eldridge answered on the second ring, an underlying impatience in his tone.
Randy relayed what little he knew about Hugh Garrigue. "I asked our lab to search the clay. Thought it might move things along."
"Excellent. Our guys are backed up like a constipated cow. I'll touch base with Connor later. Meanwhile, we'll work on the Hugh Garrigue angle. Good work."
What had he meant by "we"?
And what was the matter with him? Crap, this was not a competition. Despite an underlying impatience in his tone, Eldridge sounded genuinely appreciative of the lead. Connor had no problems sharing the workload with County.
"Anything else you want me to do?" Randy asked, wondering what answer he wanted to hear.
"Not necessary. It's still going to be database searches and a watched computer never beeps. It's Saturday night. If you don't have to work, don't. I never listened to my ex, which is why she's my ex and I'm sitting in my office doing paperwork. Talk to you Monday unless something hot breaks."
Randy ended the call and stared out into the night.
You are one total coward. Go face the music.
Reluctantly, he turned. Sarah sat on the couch, hands in her lap, watching him. Guilt and confusion pierced his gut and twisted it like wringing out the wash. He was avoiding Sarah. She wanted to talk and he couldn't face what she might say. What did that say about him? About the relationship he thought they had?
He made himself smile as he crossed the living room and approached her. Eyebrows lifted in question, she started to rise and he motioned her down. "Relax." He settled beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders. "We're going to eat dinner and you can have your say."
"You're not going back in? What if it's Hugh?" She clutched his forearm.
He shook his head. "If it is, they'll call me. Nothing much I can do. County's got all the big guns. You've given them something to look for." Her hand was cold through his long-sleeved shirt. He covered it with his. "I hope it's not Hugh," he said.
She studied his face, her stone blue eyes piercing through to his soul. "It would make your job easier," she said.
"It's not about the job, Sarah. Death is bad enough. To have someone you know, even distantly, murdered the way that victim was, is not something I'd wish on anyone. Especially you." He pulled her against his chest. "C'mere. Let's sit for a while."
She leaned into him. He ignored the tightening in his groin and inhaled the peach perfume of her hair.
"You're not staying because you feel guilty, are you?" she asked softly.
"Absolutely not."
"Or horny?" The question shook him, not only in its tone, which held no inkling of humor, but also because she'd never used that term with him before. She'd always teased, cajoled, using the play on words with his name.
The bulge in his pants was obvious enough. "Do I want you, Sarah? Of course. I always do." He ruffled her hair. "Hell, I can't even eat a peach anymore without getting a hard-on. But that's not why I'm here."
She leaned away, but he wouldn't let her go.
She sighed. "This is tough, isn't it?"
"Tell me what you want, Sarah. I'm out of my league."
"Maybe we should eat first."
He wasn't sure he could. "You're right."
She jumped up too quickly and went toward the kitchen. He moved more slowly, listening to the sounds of the refrigerator door closing, drawers opening, silverware clicking against dishes. He hung in the doorway, taking in the way she moved. Determined, focused. Not her normal smooth grace. She must have found a broom earlier, because the shards of broken plates were gone. He'd have to square that one with Rich.
"Need some help?" He pasted on another smile and strode into the room. "I was supposed to be taking you to dinner. You weren't supposed to have to do anything."
Her shoulders bunched. "I don't mind doing my share," she said, her voice strained.
Fuck. What had he done now?
Chapter Eight
Sarah concentrated on portioning the salad onto the small plates. After careful consideration, she placed them on opposite ends of the rectangular table. "I'll let you do the dishes."
"It's a deal." Randy pulled out one of the chairs and sat, then popped up again.
"What's the matter?" Had his damn cell gone off? Damn his damn commitment to his damn job.
"Nothing. Be right back." He dashed out the door.
She didn't care. She sat down, put a napkin in her lap and began eating her salad.
When Randy came back, she glued her eyes to her plate, making a point of cutting a cucumber slice into four precisely equal sized pieces. Behind her, cabinets opened, glass clinked and a cork popped. Liquid gurgled. When a wineglass appeared in front of her, she raised her eyes.
"It's a Ponzi Pinot Noir," he said, his tone guarded.
One of her favorites. A bit beyond her price range, definitely a special occasion wine. Her face flamed until she knew it matched the ruby color of the wine in her glass. "Thank you."
He crossed the room and turned off the lights. One by one, he lit a half a dozen votive candles and placed them around the table until the room was cast in a glow of flickering gold.
She placed her knife and fork across her plate and waited for him to sit. Words stuck in her throat. She lifted her glass in a silent toast. A truce. He raised his in return, nodded and took a sip.
A few faltering starts at conversation crashed into brick walls, so she focused on finishing her salad. With the crunch of lettuce filling the room, she couldn't stand it anymore. "Randy, I—"
He cut her off with a wave of his fork. "This was supposed to be a nice dinner. It doesn't take much detecting to figure out you're upset about something. Apparently I've screwed up and I'm sorry. I promise to listen to everything you have to say, but let's not spoil the meal, okay?"
As if there was any pleasure left, even in Sadie's cooking. "All right. It's kind of hard to talk, anyway. You can't talk about your work and right now, even if you could, it's not exactly what I want to hear at the dinner table."
"I'd be happy to listen to your day," he said.
His smile melted her bones. Why was it so hard to know what to do? One minute he had her juices running and her engine revved, the next, she was tied in knots.
"Maybe later. I keep thinking about Hugh."
"You're right. I keep forgetting you're not used to this."
Like having dinner and discussing dead bodies? That was something she had no desire to get used to. Ever.
They were halfway through the main course when a cell phone cut through the strained silence. She glared at Randy.
He lifted his hands and shook his head. "That's yours."
With a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity, she rushed toward the sound, finding her purse where she'd dropped it on a chair in the living room.
"Hello?"
"Is this Sarah Tucker?" A male voice greeted her with more conversation buzzing in the background.
Great. Another telemarketer. Without waiting, she blurted out, "Yes, but I'm on the do-not-call list and you're in violation. It could cost you five hundred dollars if I report you."
"Ma'am, this is not a solicitation call. You're the owner of That Special Something in Pine Hills, are you not?"
She wandered toward the kitchen. "Yes, why?"
"Ma'am, I'm Officer Brody of the Pine Hills Police Department. There's been a break-in. We'll need you to come to your store."
She clutched the back of the nearest chair. "A break-in? My shop? When? How?" Her heart flapped against her sternum and her ears rang. Randy grabbed the phone from her hand.
"This is Detective Detweiler, Pine Hills PD. To whom am I speaking?"
Sarah leaned in close, straining on tiptoe to hear both sides of the conversation. Randy wrapped his arm around her, held her close and pushed the loudspeaker button.
"It's Greg Brody, Detective. Looks like someone entered through the back door of Mrs. Tucker's store. I've secured the scene, but we need her to come in."
"Tell Connor to get over there, start processing the scene and wait for me. We're in McMinnville." He ended the call and ran his fingers along her jaw. She shivered. He handed her the phone and reached for his own at his belt.
"I'm going to make a few calls," he said. "Get some uniforms out looking for witnesses."
"I guess dinner's over. I'll clean up." She half-stumbled into the kitchen. Hands trembling, Sarah blew out the candles and turned on the lights. She scraped leftovers into the trash, went to the sink and started rinsing the dishes, trying not to let the feeling of violation overwhelm her.
Randy's hand at her waist made her jump. She pivoted, splashing water on him. "What happened?"
