by Terry Odell
“What about the fingerprints?” She kicked off her shoes and tucked one leg under her.
Randy watched as she adjusted her skirt, averting his eyes once he realized he had looked somewhere he had no business even thinking about. He shifted on the couch and cleared his throat, holding his coffee mug in front of his lap, praying she wouldn’t detect the effect she was having on him. “They belonged to Chris Westmoreland. I ran him through NCIC—that’s the National Crime Information Center—the DMV, and a couple other databases. No arrests. He’s worked for Consolidated Enterprises for the past five years in Development, he drives an Eclipse, and has had one speeding ticket.”
“I told you, Mr. Good Citizen. Anything else?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Brandt, but without more to go on, it’s tough.”
Sarah nodded, her bright eyes peering over her coffee cup. “I’m sure you’ll find more soon.”
Randy tried to ignore the way his heart seemed to skip a few beats every time he looked at her. He went on.
“The company Chris works for has very far-reaching fingers. I’m going to see if any of them dip into anything that would tie to your shop. But even if there’s a connection, there’s nothing to indicate there’s anything untoward going on. Consolidated has holdings in hundreds of small companies and the fact that some of them might be connected to your store could mean nothing.”
“So, where do you go from here?”
“I keep looking. It’s going to be another day of computer work, paperwork and phone calls.” He set his mug down on the table.
“Can I help?”
“No, this is plain, old-fashioned, boring police work. Just my style.”
“You’re not plain, old-fashioned, or boring,” Sarah said. “I think what you do is fascinating.” She jumped up and took the coffee mugs to the sink, busying herself rinsing them and putting away the leftover brownies, but not before Randy saw that blush rise to her cheeks once more. Was she responding to him, too? Or embarrassed that the conversation had turned personal? He’d better get out of here before he did something he’d regret. He stood and reached for his coat.
“I need to get going,” he said. “It’s getting late and I have lots to do tomorrow. Do you have someone who can stay with you? Or a friend you can stay with?”
“I’m not leaving my home. And Maggie’s right across the hall.”
“You’ll change the lock tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, I promise.”
Randy stood at the door, looking back through the apartment. Sarah stayed in the kitchen. He swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady. “You have my cell phone number.”
She flashed a quick smile. “I’ll even add it to my speed dial and keep the phone next to my bed.”
He knew the grin he gave her was anything but professional. She rewashed a glass, holding it to the light, studying it, rinsing it again.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said.
“Yes, Detective.” She walked toward the front door, stopping a few feet from him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my laundry.”
* * * * *
Randy smiled as he heard doors open and close upstairs. Maggie would be giving Sarah the third degree any minute now. He couldn’t explain why Sarah affected him the way she did. Maybe he’d been alone too long. Six years since he and Heather had called it quits. Not that they’d had anything serious to begin with. Being a cop didn’t leave a lot of time for developing relationships, and he’d never found anyone who understood what the job meant to him. A couple of short-lived flings, but no one had hit him the way Sarah had. Like a brick wall falling on him. God, even thinking of her made him hard. Stop. Letting people get close got in the way.
He paid a call to Mrs. Pentecost. She’d been out that afternoon and hadn’t seen anything unusual. She confirmed she hadn’t called anyone to fix a heater. He radioed Dispatch from his pickup to report Sarah’s address, a description of Chris Westmoreland and his Eclipse. Something about the man raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out. “I don’t expect anything, but if you see him, make sure I get a call.”
Randy replaced the handset and drove across town to his house without realizing how he got there. Damn. He needed to focus. He grabbed Sarah’s files, retrieved his mail, and unlocked his door. Inside, he dropped everything onto the narrow table behind the couch, then hung up his jacket and secured his weapon. Starsky and Hutch wound themselves around his ankles, yowling that their dinner was late. “Sorry, guys. I got detained.”
He scratched both felines behind the ears and went to the back porch to refill their food and water dishes. They bounded across the house ahead of him and waited impatiently for him to finish. “Enjoy,” he said. He left them to their meal and went back inside.
He crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured a generous two fingers of Jameson. Tonight called for the good stuff, the twelve-year-old he saved for special occasions. He stared at the bottle, turning it in his hands. Almost full. That didn’t say much for special occasions. He swirled the amber fluid, watching it trickle down the sides of the glass, then let that first sip linger on his tongue before swallowing. The fiery heat worked its way down his throat. With a sigh, Randy ran his fingers through his hair and sat down on the couch. He fingered the remote and stared at the television with unseeing eyes. The cats joined him while he made two trips—or maybe it was four—through the channels and finished half his drink.
Sarah. Hair that smelled of peaches. A splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Eyes the blue of the stone in his grandmother’s brooch. The one he’d loved to run his fingers across as a child, feeling safe and secure whenever he touched its smooth, cool surface. Sodalite, she’d called it.
Enough. Do your job.
Randy groaned and extricated himself from the stack of cats on his lap. He retrieved Sarah’s files, went to the kitchen table and set his glass on the flecked yellow Formica surface. He could hear his grandmother telling him to slow down, take things one step at a time, think things through. What had worked for his struggles with algebra should work here as well.
The bright fluorescent lights in the kitchen brought things into sharper focus. He pulled a yellow legal tablet from a drawer and began making lists. Lists of the companies Sarah bought from. Lists of the companies Consolidated owned. Lists of shipments gone awry, of damaged merchandise. Next, he got out the highlighters. Eventually, he had rainbows of lists. Somewhere, there had to be connections, common denominators, but whatever they were, they hung just out of reach.
Chapter Six
Sarah floated up from the depths of sleep to see faint patterns of light playing around the room. Her fingers fumbled for the clock at her bedside, encountering instead a cut crystal bowl of wax fruit. Right. Maggie’s guest room. She’d insisted Sarah spend the night.
Fully alert now, Sarah wriggled her way out of the old waterbed. Once she had become accustomed to the faint gurgling every time she moved, she’d spent a restful night. She hoped to get back to her own apartment before Maggie woke, but instead found her neighbor humming tunelessly in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Sarah. I hope you slept well.”
“Like a baby. Thanks again for putting up with me. Sorry to dash off, but I have to call a locksmith to change my locks and still get the shop open on time.”
“Call the locksmith from here, sweetie. You can eat breakfast while you’re waiting. Or you can ask Mrs. Pentecost to take care of it. She is the manager and ought to do something besides making us listen to Lydia practice piano for hours on end.”
“You like to listen to Lydia and you know it, Maggie.”
Sarah stepped over to the workspace where Maggie had a small desk and wall-mounted phone. Why was she not surprised to find the Yellow Pages open to “Locksmiths”? And a red circle around one ad, no less. She suppressed a smile and dialed the number.
“Okay,” Sarah said to Maggie after hanging up th
e phone. “They’ll be here within an hour.”
“That’s the company we recommend at the Women’s Center. You’ve got plenty of time to eat. Come. Sit.”
Sarah knew better than to argue. Maggie set a plate of pancakes, scrambled eggs and sliced honeydew in front of her.
“Start on that while I get the juice and coffee.”
Sarah nodded, her mouth already full of eggs. How long had it been since she’d taken the time to eat a real breakfast? She reached for the syrup container. Genuine maple, not the imitation stuff. After pouring a liberal quantity over the pancakes, she smiled at Maggie.
Maggie beamed back at her. “You eat every bite of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah applied herself to the task at hand.
Maggie flopped onto a chair and sipped her coffee. “Did you notice your new neighbors?” she asked.
“No. Where?”
“The building next door, where the Fredericks lived. I saw a couple of guys carrying some chairs and things up. I thought I’d give them a day before welcoming them to the neighborhood. If it’s even a ‘them’. I haven’t seen much evidence of anyone.”
“That place has been empty almost a year. It’ll be nice to have someone living there. Any idea who might be moving in? Kids? Young? Old?”
“Not yet, but I’ll find a reason to pop over. Maybe you can give a shout when you see some activity. Your kitchen window looks right into their dining room.”
“I’ll do that.” Her plate empty, Sarah carried it to the sink. “Maggie, this was delicious. Sorry to dash, but I have to get dressed before the locksmith comes. Thanks again.”
“Think nothing of it. I enjoy the company. I need to get ready myself. Thursday is my day at the hospital.” She paused. “But I could come and work with you—I’ll worry about you being alone.”
“Don’t, Maggie. Randy said this woman doesn’t hit the same shop twice. I’ll be fine.” She leaned over and kissed Maggie on the cheek. “I’ll stop by after work.”
With only slight trepidation, Sarah entered her apartment. Everything looked the same as always, but she missed that warm feeling of welcome. Trying to ignore her uneasiness, she hurried to shower and dress. She had to wait until her hands stopped trembling before she could apply her makeup. The doorbell put a stop to her fussing and she hurried to the living room.
“Triple A Locks,” came the voice from the other side of the door.
“Be right there.” Sarah peeked out at the distorted image of a man in green coveralls, three entwined As embroidered over the pocket, before opening the door. The man handed her a business card.
Sarah read his name off the card and pointed out the lock. “Thanks, Mr. Foster. I need something a little more burglarproof here and on the back door. We’re pretty sure someone picked it the other day.”
“I’ve got the deadbolts you asked for, and spare keys. Shouldn’t take long to switch them over.”
Sarah left the man to his work and went to her kitchen window to see if there were any clues to who the new neighbors might be, but their blinds were closed.
The locksmith finished his work in efficient silence and handed Sarah four keys and an invoice. Her stomach sank. She’d have to revisit her budget. No, she would take it to Mrs. Pentecost. The building management should have to pay at least some of this charge. “Let me get my checkbook.” She returned and recorded the amount in the register, afraid to do the math beyond knowing she could cover the check.
The locksmith latched his toolbox. “Nice neighborhood here. We don’t get many calls in this area.”
“Glad to know I’m the exception,” Sarah said under her breath. She handed the man his payment. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Call us any time.” He whistled something that sounded like “Oh Susannah” as he packed his tools.
“One more thing,” Sarah said. “Can you verify the lock was picked?”
“Not officially. But I’m sure the cops could. You can bring the whole mechanism to them.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll do that.” Sarah loaded the old parts into a plastic bag.
She watched the locksmith leave, listening to the whistling fade down the hall. Feeling safe and secure as the key moved like a knife through butter in the new lock, she went downstairs to drop off a key and alert Mrs. Pentecost about someone coming to check the phone lines. The manager answered the door wearing a floral robe, a cup of coffee in her hand. Sounds of the morning news came from a television set somewhere in the apartment.
“It’s not my responsibility to pay for the new lock,” Sarah said. “It was a building security issue.”
“I’ll have to see what the management company says. If you can’t prove there was someone in the apartment, I don’t know if they’ll pay.”
“I’ve got the old lock. I’ll talk to the detective about getting a police report and see what he says. And I’ll bring you a copy of the locksmith’s bill.” Sarah stepped back. “Say hi to Lydia. Tell her she’s getting very good.”
“I’ll do that.” She gave Sarah a half-smile and closed the door.
A black pickup drove by as she walked toward the bus stop and Randy wormed into her thoughts. Her cheeks flamed as she remembered how she’d felt when he held her. He probably treated everyone like that, trying to comfort and help deal with traumas. She vowed to let him do his job.
* * * * *
Sarah opened the shop door and locked it behind her, glad to have an excuse to put thoughts of Randy aside while she dealt with her daily routines. The extra weight of the lock in her purse reminded her she needed a police report. Maybe she could call the station and leave a message. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.
The doorbell buzzed at the back door. “Coming,” she called. She hurried through the shop and peered through the window.
A disembodied voice came from behind an array of roses, lilies, gerbera daisies and something purple she couldn’t identify. “Delivery for Sarah Tucker.”
“I’m Sarah,” she said. She took the flowers, revealing a stocky deliveryman. “Thank you.”
“I’ll need a signature, ma’am.”
“Sure. Sorry.” Sarah set the vase down on the nearest table and signed the clipboard.
“You have a nice day,” he said and then hastened back to his van.
After making sure the door was secure, she poked through the greenery until she found the plastic pick with its tiny envelope. Her fingers trembled with a twinge of excitement as she pried out the card. She read the neat, block printing.
Forget him. Let me help. Dinner tomorrow. CW.
She dropped the card on the counter. Why would she think they might have been from Randy? She pulled the gold chain from beneath her blouse and ran David’s ring back and forth along its length. She needed Randy to find her stuff. Nothing more. She didn’t need Chris either. If things kept up, she’d be out from under in three months. She was the expert scrimper. What was a few more months of ramen noodles?
Giving the ring one final squeeze, she tucked it back inside her top. She picked up the vase and carried it to the front window. By the time she finished rearranging things to showcase the flowers, several people gathered to admire the display. She flashed the browsers a smile, then went to unlock the door and turn the sign to “Open”.
The flowers created a conversation piece, and Sarah made a mental note to change her front window display more often, and to put something unusual in there. Maybe she’d be back on top in two months.
Shortly before closing time, when the shop was empty, Sarah took the cash out of the register and went in the office to lock it up. She heard the door chime and left the safe ajar in case she had to make change. Happiness at the prospect of another sale made a smile effortless as she went to the front.
She could feel the smile drop off her face. “Diana? What brings you to Pine Hills?” Her sister-in-law stood in the doorway, the hem and necklines of her red dress threatening to meet in the middle. The diamond pendant s
he wore drew the eye to breasts Sarah didn’t remember being quite so … round.
“I wanted to give you this in person, Sarah. After all, we used to be family as well as business partners.” She held out a large, blue envelope. “I talked to a lawyer last night after you called.”
Sarah felt her face glow until she was afraid it matched Diana’s dress. “Let’s cut the legal lingo. Give me the abridged version.”
“Well, what it says is that if you’re so much as a day late with any of my checks, I’m going to get the shop.”
“You can’t do that.” At least Sarah didn’t think so.
“Oh, he says I can. There’s a bunch of stuff about liens and whatever. But look. I have a much simpler solution.” Diana strolled across the shop to an easy chair Sarah had for customers to sit in while they browsed some of the books she carried.
When had Diana called a lawyer? Why did she think it was just her luck that Diana was probably sleeping with one? That it had probably been him with Diana when she’d called? Sarah ripped open the envelope. The letterhead said, “Lincoln and Gross, Esq., Attorneys at Law.” She tried to skim the contents while she listened to Diana’s saccharine voice. She recognized lien and foreclosure, but she’d have to study this—no, she’d have to get someone to translate it. She stepped across the shop and looked into Diana’s deep brown eyes. The one trait she shared with David. “What?”
“It’s no secret I don’t want to work here. And we both need money. Let’s face it. This place is half a step from Chapter Eleven. I didn’t exactly come out on top after my divorce. So.” She leaned forward.
“Cut to the chase. I need to finish closing.” Sarah flipped the door sign and went behind the counter to settle the credit card machine.
“So. We sell. Make it a Hallmark franchise. You get to be the manager, and we split the profits.”
