Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  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."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  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.

  O
nce 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."

  She twisted around to the backseat. "Muffins," she said, putting the bag on the console. "Maybe a little stale, but they should tide you over."

  "Thanks." He swung through the parking lot and stopped at the bottom of the path leading to the Art buildings. Sarah jumped out of the truck and took off at a rapid clip, waving over her shoulder.

  He got that twinge of emptiness again. He shook his head in wonder and drove down B Street, finding a slot behind the Business Service Building.

  Fifteen minutes later, thanks to Rachel Michaelis, he had the address he needed, plus a few more owned by the same person. He figured he'd be back in under an hour, plenty of time to catch up with Sarah.

  He plugged the first address into his GPS and headed out, ending up in a lower-middle-class residential neighborhood. According to the Rachel, a Gloria Osgood owned the house. Whether she lived here or not remained to be seen. She owned three other properties in Eureka as well, one of which was the listed address Kovak had found for Walter Young, who was employed by the University as a janitor.

  The third property, about a mile away, was rented to a Trent Wallace, who also had a university job. The one on this street and the fourth came up with Gloria Osgood's name. He guessed she lived in one of them. What he didn't have was an ID on whoever was using Walter Young's ATM card.

  He circled the block. Behind the house was a detached double garage, butting up to a vacant lot. Returning to the street where the house sat, he parked a few doors down and strapped on his ankle holster with his off-duty weapon. He opened the back of the truck, took a clipboard from his kit and tucked a pen behind his ear. Sarah was pretending to be a potential student. He'd be inspecting something. Or taking a survey, he decided. He'd play it by ear. From the house next door, a dog barked and a curtain moved aside in a front window.

  He stopped at the sidewalk, faked making notes and approached Gloria Osgood's house. The knee-high lawn was as much weeds as grass. One of the windows was boarded up, the wooden porch steps sagged. He dismissed this as the current residence of Gloria Osgood, or anyone else, for that matter, but he'd go through the motions.

  Like someone who had every reason to be there, he strode up the cracked concrete walkway toward the porch and rapped on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked once more, then walked around back, still scribbling on his clipboard. The ever diligent survey-inspector man. He punched the telephone number for the house into his cell. After listening to an out of service recording, he disconnected and turned toward the garage behind him.

  He paused. Listened. Strains of the Grateful Dead filtered from that direction. A weed-infested brick walkway led from the back porch of the house to the structure. Hairs on his neck stood up. Glancing around to make sure no one could see him, he slipped his off-duty gun from his ankle holster into the waistband of his jeans and pulled his jersey over it.

  The music stopped. Randy crept forward, moving around the padlocked garage door. The side wall had a small window, curtained, but he crouched low, staying beneath it. Beyond the window was an entry door. He debated his options and decided to stick with his cover. Too much trouble explaining being a cop this far out of his jurisdiction. Rising, he gripped his clipboard, arranged his features into bored friendliness and raised his hand to knock.

  * * * * *

  Sarah took a calming breath and found the office of Bradley Quinn, head of the ceramics department. She paused in the open doorway. He glanced up from a mound of paperwork on his desk. Bushy black eyebrows jutted over dark eyes. "You must be Sarah Tucker. Come in. I'll be with you in a minute."

  When she'd made the appointment yesterday, nobody had asked for a reason and she hadn't given one. Randy's idea of being a prospective student made sense. Returning to school after a life crisis. Certainly David's death qualified for that.

  She took a seat in one of the two wooden chairs facing his desk. "Thank you for being willing to see me on such short notice. I'm not normally this impulsive, but I decided it was time to get on with my life and, well … here I am, getting on with it."

  "So, what is it I can do for you?" he asked. His blue oxford cloth shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves were rolled up.

  "I have a bachelor's in Art." She dived into her rehearsed speech. "I've worked in a variety of media, but ceramics has always been a favorite. I managed a gift boutique with my husband until he died about two years ago. I woke up one morning and realized I missed the creative end of things. Selling pottery wasn't as fulfilling as making it." She gave him what she hoped was a prospective graduate student smile and waited.

  "You know you'd have to go through the formal application process," he said. "We don't exactly sign up grad students off the street." His bushy eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. He rummaged in his desk drawer and came up with a manila envelope. "All the information's in here."

  "Oh, of course. I didn't mean I was expecting to enroll today. I've been taking a trip down the coast with a friend who had business in town. I've seen some great things come out of Humboldt, so I thought I'd stop by, maybe take a tour, talk to some students, get a feel for the atmosphere. I'd hoped to talk with Hugh Garrigue—I'm a big fan of his work—but the woman I spoke with yesterday said he wasn't available. Do you know if he'll be ba
ck soon?"

  The man's eyebrows bunched again and he looked at the papers on his desk. He frowned. "Only the renowned Hugh Garrigue knows. He's adjunct faculty. Some of us real faculty actually teach for a living."

  He clawed his fingers through his thick, black hair. "Sorry. That was uncalled for and I apologize. The man's gifted with clay, but he sometimes forgets about the day-to-day responsibilities. I've been left in the lurch here and I'm taking it out on him." He smiled. "Obviously, the man has brought recognition to our little campus."

  "I understand your frustration. I'm happy to fend for myself if you're busy." A little time to snoop on her own would be perfect.

  He glanced at his watch, rested his hand on the stack of papers and looked at the ceiling as if searching for a message in the stains on the acoustic tiles. He smoothed his eyebrows and put one hand on his phone, giving Sarah a half-smile that said she ought to be grateful for the service he was about to do for her. "Tell you what. I'll see if I can get in touch with one of Hugh's teaching assistants. If she's free, she can show you around."

  A few minutes later, she was walking through campus to the ceramics lab building with Nikki, a twenty-something throwback to the Sixties wearing torn jeans, Birkenstocks and a tie-dye t-shirt. Come to think of it, the entire town of Arcata was a throwback to the Sixties. They even had an eatery called Alice's Restaurant. Maybe she and Randy could go there for lunch.

  "So, like what are you looking for?" Nikki asked, pulling the door open. "I've got a lab to supervise at eleven-thirty."

  "Nothing in particular." They turned a corner and the drone of potters' wheels floated through the space, along with the smell of wet clay. "How long have you studied with Hugh Garrigue? His work is getting harder to come by, it seems. Must be nice to be able to be exclusive."