by Terry Odell
Sarah felt like she’d gone over the first drop of a roller coaster. She waited for her stomach to catch up. “Hallmark? A card shop?” As if Diana had a clue how franchising worked.
“Oh, come on. They sell other things too.” Diana pointed to some bears. “Stuffed animals, like those.”
“Those are handmade and one-of-a-kind,” Sarah said. “Hallmark shops don’t sell them.”
“You know what I mean. Come on, Sarah. It’ll solve both our problems. I already know someone who’s interested. He thinks this is a great location.”
“Well, you tell that someone to get uninterested. There’s no way this is going to be a card shop. It was better than a card shop when we started it.” She whirled into her office and counted to ten, then twenty, then wrote Diana a check. She put the checkbook into the safe and kicked the door shut. The pain in her toes was worth it. She found her sister-in-law wandering through the shop, fingering merchandise. Sarah shoved the check into Diana’s hand. “There. You’re paid in full. I’ll see you next month.”
“Why is it so hard for you to admit defeat and move forward?” Diana folded the check into thirds and slipped it into her purse. “David’s gone. Why are you still hanging on?”
“I’d think you, of all people, would know about honoring someone’s memory.” The words came out sharp, clipped, and thankfully, without a trace of crying.
Diana tugged on her skirt and sashayed to the door. “I’ll see you in a month.”
Sarah let her take five strides before calling out. “Diana? If you’re meeting someone, you might want to change your nylons. You’ve got a big run in back.” Without waiting for Diana’s reaction, Sarah closed the door. She leaned against it, afraid if she tried to walk across the shop, she’d collapse. It took several minutes before her head cleared.
She’d been juggling money for months now. She’d owe the artists from today’s sales, but she paid them monthly. There was time to recoup what she’d given to Diana before she had to pay them. First thing in the morning, she’d have to make sure today’s cash hit the bank to cover Diana’s check.
It had been a long time since Sarah had been able to draw a line between her household and shop budgets, although that had been one of David’s hard and fast rules. With a silent apology, she ran the numbers through her head, starting with this morning’s check to the locksmith. She’d have to insist the building manager reimburse her. First, she called the police station and asked to speak with Detective Detweiler. Almost relieved when the voice on the phone told her he was unavailable, she left a message that she needed a copy of the police report on the break-in. She hoped whoever gave him his messages didn’t report the way her voice was shaking.
She hung up and stared at the phone for a long time before making the next call. She’d give herself one more day.
“Chris? It’s Sarah. Thanks for the lovely flowers. Can we move dinner to Saturday?”
Chapter Seven
Sarah sat in her office, fighting off a rising feeling of anxiety as she rushed through reconciling sales and getting her bank deposit ready for tomorrow. She kept listening for the door, half expecting Diana to come back with a lawyer, or Gertie to come back with a gun. She’d been working alone for months and it hadn’t bothered her until today. She chided herself for her nerves, but she didn’t relax until she locked up and was on the bus.
On the ride, she wondered if she could squeeze out enough money to rehire Jennifer for a few hours a week. An art student and an excellent photographer, Jennifer had been great at Christmastime. Maybe she’d work strictly on commission if she could sell her own work in the shop. There was always a way.
By the time she got off the bus, Sarah felt in charge again. She dropped a spare key off with Maggie, declining the invitation for dinner and a chat. When she unlocked her door, the new deadbolt released with a satisfying thunk. Sarah started a U2 CD and headed for the kitchen. The blinking answering machine could wait until after dinner.
Poking through the refrigerator, she decided a salad and a frittata would be perfect. She even set the table with a Battenberg lace placemat and treated herself to opening a bottle of wine—one of her last Christmas gifts, which she’d been saving for a special occasion. She poured a glass into one of her good crystal wineglasses. Almost as an afterthought, she lit a candle. She whisked eggs, added some onions and zucchini and sipped her wine while she sautéed the mixture. While it cooked, she assembled her salad.
Once she’d finished eating and had done the dishes, she refilled her wineglass and went to deal with the phone messages. Mrs. Pentecost said the management company would be willing to pay half the lock installation charges. Better than nothing, but she’d push for a full reimbursement once she got a report from Randy.
Sarah punched the delete key and played the next message.
“It’s Randy. No problem with a report for your landlady and your phone’s not bugged. Also, I have a couple of things I’d like to run by you. Call my cell phone.”
Sarah took a sip of her wine. Eight-thirty. Not too late to return the call. Randy had sounded businesslike on the phone, nothing personal. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that she’d gone a bit beyond detective-victim last night.
Stop. Pick up the phone and call.
Sarah took the handset to the couch. Three deep breaths later, she pressed the speed dial for Randy’s cell. After four rings, she thought maybe he wasn’t available. Before she could decide if she was glad he wasn’t there, he picked up.
“Sorry. I was feeding the cats. I’ve been working on your case all day. Can I come by the shop, or you come by the station tomorrow? There are some things you might be interested in.”
“If you stop in either before opening or after closing, that would be better. I can’t predict what kind of free time I’ll have during business hours.” At least she could hope she’d be busy.
“After work, then. And I’ll have a copy of that report for you. That lock was cheap and you should have a better one.”
“I got a better one. Top of the line.” She swallowed another mouthful of wine. “The management company will pay half, but I thought with a police report, I could get them to cover the whole cost.” She wanted desperately to ask what he’d found out, but forced herself to keep quiet. “I guess I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
Almost as an afterthought, she went on. “I think you ought to dig into Diana Scofield. She came by the store today and tried to get me to sell. She says she’s having her own money issues.” Sarah thought if Diana sold some of her jewelry, or moved to a smaller house, those issues might go away.
“I’ll do that. But remember, try not to discuss the case with anyone. Chris, Diana, or anyone who you do business with.”
“Why? I’m having dinner with Chris on Saturday. Are you afraid I can’t keep my mouth shut?”
A pause. “No, it’s more like you can’t keep your face shut. You have a pretty transparent face and I’d prefer nobody knew I was digging.”
Fatigue engulfed her. “I’ll be careful. I want to get my data entry done and go to bed.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It wasn’t until after she’d hung up that his words registered. She had a transparent face. God, that line last night about keeping the phone by her bed. She was definitely going to have to keep things impersonal tomorrow. He was doing his job. No more, no less.
And she was going to do hers. She picked up the phone and called Jennifer.
* * * * *
In her shop office, Sarah rummaged through the packets of her “add boiling water” collection while she waited for the kettle to boil. Corn chowder would be today’s lunch, albeit a late one. The chimes over the door announced a customer, and Sarah pushed away from her desk.
Chris strolled into the shop, beaming. “Hi, Sarah. The flowers look wonderful in the window.” He roamed the shop, picking up one item after another before setting it down exactly where he’d found
it. Sarah wondered why he never carried one to the counter and bought it. That was the kind of help she’d accept from him. Not his charity.
Chris spoke, still roaming. “It turns out I probably saw the old lady who robbed you Monday. Some overgrown cop came by Tuesday, questioning me. Fingerprinted me. At seven-thirty in the morning, for God’s sake. Can you believe it?” He glanced back at Sarah for a moment.
“He was doing his job.” Maybe she wouldn’t have to worry about her transparent face, if Randy had already questioned Chris.
“Well, I hope he catches her.” Chris turned. “Where’s Anjolie’s silver? Did the thief take it all?”
Sarah gave him the abridged version of Anjolie’s visit. The shriek of the kettle from the back room stopped her explanation. She lifted a finger and motioned behind her. “Sorry. Be right back,” she said and escaped into her office, away from Chris.
“I’ve got to run, Sarah,” she heard him say. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Seven. Do you still have that black and white sweater? It’ll be perfect.”
“Sure,” she called. She wasn’t in the mood for an argument. “See you tomorrow.” She ate her soup, trying to forget about tomorrow night, about Diana, about losing her shop. When Randy invaded her thoughts, she reminded herself it was natural to be thinking about him. He held the key to solving the robbery, and if what he said was true, maybe more.
* * * * *
Randy adjusted the visor against the afternoon glare and pulled on his sunglasses. Diana Scofield was his next and, thankfully, his last interview today. He’d gotten the same story from the artists he’d talked to. Chris had never been a middleman. None of them admitted knowing him.
He found the address Sarah had given him in a neighborhood of well manicured lawns tucked behind privacy hedges or stone walls. He left his pickup on the street and ambled up the long driveway to Diana’s house. The wraparound porch with its carved stone columns dwarfed Chris’. Owen Scofield made his fortune in a dot-com before the bust and must have known how to invest it, because he wasn’t hurting for bucks. Owned an art gallery, two restaurants, and a night club. He could handle the mortgage payments on this house without sneezing, and that was his only leftover expense from his marriage to Diana.
Randy ran his handkerchief across his face, stuffed it back in his pocket and rang the bell. Ascending and descending tones chimed behind the double doors. He glanced up at the security camera and suppressed the urge to make a face. The door opened a few inches and a dark brown eye peered through the opening.
“Diana Scofield?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Detective Detweiler, Pine Hills Police,” he said. He displayed his badge and ID, and the door shut to release the security chain and then opened, revealing a tall, leggy blonde exuding too much expensive perfume. She wore black leggings that left nothing to the imagination and a tightly fitted white t-shirt that didn’t reach her navel, which sported a silver ring.
“Police? Pine Hills?”
“I have a few questions, ma’am. I shouldn’t take up much of your time.”
She stepped back, not disguising the once-over she was giving him. “Come in, Detective. We can sit down and be comfortable.” She flipped her hair back from her face and pivoted, her three-inch heels clicking on the tile floor.
Randy shook his head as she walked ahead of him, knowing damn well that wiggle in her ass was for him. What the hell? He enjoyed the brief trip to a formal living room, where she sat on an uncomfortable-looking yellow sofa.
He gave her an easy smile and sat across from her in a matching upholstered chair with spindly carved legs he hoped would take his weight.
“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? A drink? Oh, but you’re on duty. Would you mind if I fixed myself something?”
“Nothing for me, but be my guest.”
She leaned forward to rise from the couch, revealing her generous cleavage, and crossed to a bar at the far side of the room. Randy enjoyed the view once more, both coming and going, before she returned with two glasses. She held a rocks glass and set a tall glass of a clear liquid on the coffee table between them. “Ice water,” she said. “In case you get thirsty from all the questions.” She settled herself onto the edge of the sofa and ran the tip of her tongue across red-painted lips. “Now, is this where you ask me where I was at the time of the robbery?”
Praying for strength, Randy thanked her and opened his notebook. “Why not? Where were you on Monday morning—let’s say between nine and noon?”
She locked her gaze on his. “Monday? I had a session with my personal trainer from nine-thirty until eleven. I’m sure he’ll remember. We had an excellent workout.” She winked. “And I had lunch at the tennis club with friends. I’ll be happy to provide names. Besides, it was a little old lady who robbed Sarah. Surely I don’t fit that description, Detective.”
Randy reached for the water, suddenly grateful she’d provided it. Once he was sure he could keep his face straight and his voice even, he answered. “No, I don’t think you do, Mrs. Scofield.”
“Oh, call me Diana. Everyone does.”
“Yes, ma’am. I need to cover the bases here. I imagine the robbery came as a shock. But nobody was hurt, and the thief didn’t get much.”
“Yes, thank goodness for that. My loss—well it’ll hardly be noticeable. My share is twenty percent, you know.”
“Yes, your loss was negligible. I’m thinking maybe someone put that little old lady up to the robbery.”
She crossed her hands over her ample chest. “You can’t think I had anything to do with it.” Diana picked up her drink and swirled it around. “You should look at Sarah. She could have set up the robbery herself. Like you said, she didn’t lose much and it made for some good publicity, I’ll bet.”
Randy gave her a noncommittal nod. “Do you get along with Ms. Tucker?” He waited, pen poised, watching her eyes narrow for an instant before she brought them under control.
“She’s my sister-in-law. Or was. I’m not really sure how that works, but it doesn’t matter. I have my share and I tried to convince Sarah to give me half—if she had, we’d be splitting the losses fifty-fifty now. But she’s pigheaded about doing everything by herself.” She downed half of her drink, extending her cleavage as she placed the glass next to his.
“Do you know anything about business problems other than the robbery?”
“Like what?”
“Orders not showing up, broken merchandise, things like that.”
Diana gave him a blank stare and fanned her fingers through the air. “Oh, I leave those details to Sarah. It’s too much trouble to drive to Pine Hills to check up on things. She sends me reports with my checks, but she doesn’t cheat me.”
“You seem very trusting.”
“Hey, I see the auditor’s reports. Before the divorce, my husband insisted on them, and things don’t seem much different now. It’s a struggling business, and we’d both be better off if she’d wake up and get out.”
“You think she should sell?”
More cleavage when she picked up her glass again. “Yeah. My checks are chicken feed. If she’d sell the stupid place, I’d get my lump sum and have a little nest egg. But she’s going to have to go bankrupt before she’ll quit.”
Randy looked at his notes. “You know a man named Brandt?”
“Maybe. I know lots of people. What’s his first name?”
“I don’t have one.”
Diana studied her nails, turning her palms away and spreading her fingers. “Could be Billy. Haven’t seen him in months, though. I think his name might have been Brandt.”
Randy enjoyed the quick hit of adrenaline. “Can you give me anything more?”
She shrugged. “Not much. Tall, blond, killer blue eyes. I met him skiing. He was an instructor at Timberline.”
And probably did a lot of après ski tutoring, too. “You have an address or phone number?”
“No. He moved around a lot. But he
came into town from time to time during the off-season. We had … drinks.”
“Thanks.” This might eliminate twenty-six of the twenty-seven Brandts he’d found in the Marion County databases and save a lot of legwork. “What about Consolidated? Do you know anyone who works there?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not that I’m aware of. I don’t usually discuss work with people. And most of them are from around here, not out in the sticks like Pine Hills. Unless you mean Owen, of course.”
“Owen? Your ex-husband?”
“The one and only. He sits on the board of Consolidated.” She snorted. “He sits. That’s what they call it and that’s about all he does for them, it seems.”
Randy jotted a note. Somehow his search into Owen Scofield hadn’t discovered that one. “Would he have any reason to want to put your sister-in-law out of business? Maybe see her as competition?”
“Not that little shop. Trust me, Sarah’s idea of art is nothing like what Owen exhibits. Besides, if he wanted it, he’d find a way to walk in and take it over. He never was one for subterfuge. Does what he wants when he wants with whoever he wants.”
Randy ignored the bitterness he heard in her tone. He figured Diana had probably given her husband his share of headaches.
“Where might I find him?” It looked like Diana wasn’t going to be his last stop after all.
She gave him a wicked grin. “Oh, are you going to talk to him, too? That’ll be rich. It’s Friday—he’s probably at the gallery getting ready for their new show. Some avant-garde photography exhibition, I think.”
He read off the names of companies from Sarah’s problem files. “Any of these ring a bell?”
“Only one—Kavelli. They make excellent crystal. I’ve got a few pieces. Sarah sells it. I get a discount.”
Randy felt the beginnings of a headache at the base of his skull. He drained the water and handed Diana the empty glass. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”
“I’m glad to do whatever you need. Are you sure I can’t do anything else for you?”
