by Terry Odell
FINDING SARAH
By
Terry Odell
Copyright © 2011 by Terry Odell
Cover art by Jason Odell
*****
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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To my readers. This book was first published in 2006 by what was then Cerridwen Press, and was written a number of years prior to that. When you read, please enjoy a tiny step back in time, to a world when cell phones were rare, and smart phones non-existent. Social networking was in its infancy. I've done some revisions and updating, and there's material in this version that wasn't in the previously published work. But, to me, it's about Randy and Sarah, and I don't think relationships have changed much in the last decade.
For Dan, who thought it was "cute" when I started writing.
Chapter One
Sarah Tucker’s hands shook with anger as she fumbled the keys into the lock of That Special Something. 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 by, any satisfaction at her nimble footwork disappeared in a dousing of muddy water.
The cheerful jingle of the boutique’s 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 her wardrobe damage. She had an appointment with Mr. Ebersold at the bank to discuss her loan application. She couldn’t go home and change, and the last thing she wanted was to look like she actually 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. She dampened some paper towels and daubed at her mud-spattered shoes and stockings.
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 want to help. Why won’t you let me? For old times’ sake?”
Memories of David crashed over her. It had been more than a year, but the pain lay right beneath the surface, waiting for her to drop her guard. 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 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?”
“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.” He turned to leave, a broad smile on his face.
“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 throngs of people would descend upon That Special Something to find the perfect gift. Throng? Right now, she’d settle for a trickle.
The door chimed. Sarah assessed the well-dressed woman who 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, but a customer was a customer. 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 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. It made perfect sense. And maybe it would eliminate 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 creations were 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 gift boxes, 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.
Her 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 been able to get a sound past the tightness in her throat. She kept 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.
“Do it,” 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, relieved that all she had in the drawer was her opening bank.
“Give me the cash,” the woman said. “Just the bills.”
Sarah’s fumbling fingers scooped out the money.
The woman snatched it from Sarah’s hands, then dropped a twenty on the counter. “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’d 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.”
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-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 to take your statement, but you’ve described someone we call Gracious Gertie. I’ve worked her case, so I thought I’d speed things up.”
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 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’re 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.
“Take it easy. 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 want to do this.” 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 summon the memory, 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?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Detective Detweiler turned to Sarah. “This is Mike 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.” The lab tech faced Sarah. “This won’t take long.”
As if it were happening to someone else, Sarah watched him 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 the details over coffee,” Detective Detweiler said to the tech. “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 the tech. “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 morsel 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 clicked his pen open.
Sarah resisted 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.”
