by Terry Odell
“She owns twenty percent of the shop. She says if I’m a day late with her payments, she’s going to demand her share. Do you have legal people at Consolidated who can look at this and tell me if she can do it?” She handed him the letter.
Chris barely glanced at it before folding it back into the envelope and sliding it into his sport coat pocket. “Monday, first thing.”
“Thanks.” She walked to the door and held it open. Sometimes you couldn’t be subtle with Chris. “I’m going to go back to bed now. I’m sorry about missing dinner.”
“I understand. I hope that cop catches whoever did this to you. But he seems more big than brains, if you ask me.”
“Randy’s a good cop. He’ll catch her.” Chris’ back stiffened, his lips tightened.
“Get some rest, Sarah,” he muttered. “I’ll call.”
Chapter Ten
Randy punched Sarah’s number into his cell phone while he sat waiting for the light to change. Sarah’s machine played out its message, and when she didn’t pick up after he announced himself, he called Colleen.
“Calm down, Detweiler. I saw her in and she was going to bed. You know how it is after the adrenaline leaves your system. The neighbor across the hall caught me as I was leaving. She’ll keep an eye out.”
Yes, Maggie would. He took a calming breath. Was this event connected to the robbery, or yet another of Sarah’s business problems? Or were they all related? He checked his watch. None of the shops in the area would be open until Monday.
“Were there any other calls?” Randy asked. “Anyone else report anything?”
“Negative. But the damage was subtle. Ms. Tucker can’t be sure when it happened. It’s possible other merchants might still find some damage.”
“I’m going to have to follow up with the owners.” Randy hesitated. He had no right to ask Colleen to go beyond her patrol duties for him.
“Ask it, Detweiler. What do you need? Your partner’s on vacation. Let me pitch in even if I’m not a detective. Yet.”
Why not? “If you could get a list of merchant phone numbers for me, I’d really appreciate it. No immediate rush, but if you could have it on my desk Monday morning—”
“No problem. You want me to make the initial calls?”
“No, thanks. You’ve done plenty. Thanks, Mac.”
“I said no problem. And Detweiler?”
“What?”
“I like her. I can understand your … concern.”
Randy heard the click of the disconnected phone. Damn. Was he that obvious? Could she read him that easily? Sarah wouldn’t have said anything to her. Or would she? Crap, that woman thing again. Solving crimes was nothing compared to understanding women.
The light changed and he let his mind chew on the new developments as he drove. Maybe kids had done the damage, to see what they could get away with. He wished he could believe it.
Randy was convinced someone had talked Gertie into robbing Sarah. Why else would she have returned to a town she’d already hit? He turned to the positive. Woodford had Gracious Gertie, whose name had turned out to be Louise Franklin, in custody. For some reason, when he heard the news, not being the arresting officer didn’t rankle the way he’d expected it to. He allowed himself a smile. Tomorrow, Sarah would ID the Franklin woman, he’d confront her and she’d talk. And maybe she could give him the connections he’d need to pull everything together.
Before going to the station, Randy made a quick trip around Sarah’s block. Her apartment was dark. On impulse, he pulled in behind Sarah’s building and went upstairs to Maggie’s unit. He tapped on the door and had almost turned to leave when it opened. Cooking smells reminded him he hadn’t eaten since too long ago.
Maggie stood in the doorway. He blinked. She grinned.
“Hi, Randy. Come in. The I Love Lucy look threw you, right? Can I get you something to eat? I’ve got some leftover chicken I can reheat.”
Randy checked his watch. After seven. Tempting, but he had work to do. “No, maybe another time. I wanted to touch base before I went to the station.” He glanced around. “Where’s Othello?”
“He was acting sluggish, wouldn’t eat. I took him to the vet. They want to watch him until Monday.”
“I hope it’s not serious. He’s a nice cat.”
“It’s probably nothing. He was out in the yard a couple of times this week. Could have picked up something there. He’s getting old. Nearly twelve.”
“I wish him a speedy recovery.”
“I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” She peered into his eyes. “Christopher Westmoreland came by a while ago, but he left. Alone.” She smiled.
“Sarah said they were going to dinner.”
“I’m certain she cancelled after the to-do at the shop. Sure I can’t get you something?”
“I’m sure. I want Sarah to go to Woodford tomorrow and identify Gracious Gertie—the woman who robbed her.” He’d never be able to think of her as Louise Franklin.
Maggie shot him a huge grin. “They caught her? Fantastic. I’ll bet you’re thrilled.”
Randy smiled down at Maggie. “I am. I need to get back and pull all my paperwork together.” He planted a quick kiss on Maggie’s forehead.
“The color grows on you,” he said. “I think I’m starting to like it.”
Maggie glowed and shut the door behind him.
Randy stopped at Sarah’s door. He placed both palms on its smooth surface. “Sleep well,” he whispered before going downstairs.
At the station, Randy sat at his desk, waded through his emails, filled out his paperwork, and read the reports Colleen filed. He scribbled a note for Connor to put as much of a rush as he could on the prints from today’s call, for all the good it would do. All his suspects had been in the shop, with plenty of opportunity to leave prints all over the place. But, there was always the possibility they’d get a hit on someone new.
Randy stuffed the files into his briefcase, stood and stretched, his fingertips grazing the ceiling. What he needed was time to let his brain digest today’s new wrinkle.
* * * * *
A pizza box and six-pack balanced under one arm, Randy propped the screen door open with his foot as he worked the key into the lock of his front door. Inside, he set the pizza on the counter, popped the top off a beer, and called for Starsky and Hutch.
“Hey, guys. I’m home! Sorry I’m late. Again. Ready for dinner?” He went out to the porch to fill their food and water dishes and clean their litter box. When he had finished and still saw neither cat, he pushed the door to the backyard and whistled. Although he knew they could roam the neighborhood if they wanted to, they rarely went far. He left the porch door propped open and went back to his pizza.
The NCAA basketball season was reaching its peak and Randy spent the rest of the night caught up in a double-header. At the final buzzer, he realized it was nearly midnight. When he checked the porch, everything was exactly as he’d left it.
Randy put on his jacket, took a flashlight and whistled again, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach. As he probed shrubbery around the perimeter of the yard, he continued to whistle softly between his teeth. The breeze rustled the foliage, the clouds and moon played off one another, casting shadows that moved through the yard, but the cats were nowhere to be found. As he started up the porch stairs, a faint mewing caught his ear.
“Starsky? Hutch? That you, boys?” He lowered himself to a crouch and shone his light under the porch. Starsky lay across Hutch’s body, blinking as the light beamed across him. Randy stuck his fingers through the wooden lattice frame at the bottom of the porch and jerked away the section nearest the stairs with a resounding crack. On elbows and knees, he crawled toward them. Shit. They were limp, barely breathing. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered.
Randy bundled both cats against his chest, flew up the stairs and snagged his wallet and keys. In the truck, he placed the cats on the passenger seat, wriggled out of his jack
et and wrapped it around them. Hell and damnation, he didn’t care about regulations. He pulled out his flashers and turned on the siren as he sped to the veterinary clinic, giving silent thanks that Pine Hills and the neighboring communities had enough animal lovers to support twenty-four hour emergency vet service.
Randy screeched to a stop at the clinic’s door and carried the cats toward the clinic. “Stay with me, guys. We’re there.”
A young Asian woman in a blue lab coat had the door open and was rushing to meet him.
“I heard the siren. What’s the matter?” She reached for the cats, but Randy maintained his hold until they were inside.
Randy set his pets on the examining table. “I found them a little while ago, under the porch.”
The vet had her stethoscope in her ears and was moving it slowly across Starsky’s inert body. She looked in his eyes, pried open his mouth and ran her hands down his black and white body, then repeated the exam for Hutch. Randy shifted from foot to foot as he waited for the doctor to speak.
“They’re very weak. I can’t tell what’s wrong based on a quick exam, but I’m leaning toward poison. We have another cat here with the same symptoms.”
Randy gasped. “Othello.”
“Yes. Does he live in your neighborhood as well?”
“No, but there might be a connection. Will they be all right?”
“I can’t promise anything. I’m going to try the same treatment we’re using on Othello. He seems to be responding, but he was in much better shape when he was brought in.”
“Damn. I should have looked for them sooner. It’s not like them to skip dinner. I thought they were busy in the yard and then I got involved in the game—” He was aware of a hand on his elbow. He looked down to find the doctor gone and a young woman leading him to the waiting area.
“Dr. Lee has taken your cats for treatment. Are you a regular patient here?”
Randy nodded. “Detweiler. Starsky and Hutch. We usually see Dr. Stetter.”
“Why don’t you sit here for a few minutes? I’ll pull your files.” She stopped in front of one of the hard plastic chairs.
“I need some air,” Randy said. “Be right back.”
Outside, Randy leaned against the rear of his pickup and took several deep breaths, the fresh air washing the antiseptic smell of the clinic from his nostrils. He was upset, but more than that, he was angry. His palms burned and he realized he had clenched his fists so tightly that he’d nearly drawn blood. Had it only been Starsky and Hutch, Randy might have written the incident off as an isolated case of sadistic mischief. But not with Othello being targeted as well. This was no longer a coincidence. Sarah was the connection between him and Maggie. This had become personal.
Randy walked slowly around the parking lot, collecting his thoughts. Once he’d calmed enough to speak to the vet’s assistant he went back inside, but she wasn’t at her station. Randy leaned on the counter until she returned a few moments later.
“Dr. Lee said you should go home and she’ll call you as soon as she knows anything.”
“Thank you.” Randy said. “Let me give you my cell phone number.” He wrote the number on the back of one of his cards and handed it to her.
Randy left the clinic and got into his F-150. Not until he had trouble getting the key into the ignition did he realize his hands were shaking. He gave the steering wheel some emphatic thwacks with his fists and tried again. The key slid into the ignition this time and he drove home in a fog, too angry to think.
As he went to hang his jacket on its hook by the door, its cat smells and stains overwhelmed him, and he let it fall to the floor. He went straight to the liquor cabinet. He swigged his whiskey from the bottle as he paced through his house.
* * * * *
Sunlight forced its way past closed eyelids. Randy squinted against the daylight, saw the open whiskey bottle on the floor by his side. His fingers fumbled for the bottle, and he lifted it to the table. Half empty. That explained the pounding in his head. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and pushed himself to a half sitting position. God, who’d turned his living room into a merry-go-round? He staggered to the kitchen and forced himself to brew a pot of coffee.
A drink of water came up as fast as it went down, but he felt a little better. He hadn’t been like this since his grandmother died. He knew better than to drink to excess, especially in anger.
Careful not to move his throbbing head, he picked up the phone. Dr. Lee wasn’t in. The tech told him Starsky and Hutch showed no signs of improvement, but they were holding their own. The news did nothing for his headache. He headed for the shower.
Randy started the water as hot as he could stand it, then gradually brought the temperature down until he shivered under a frigid waterfall. He dried off, put on khakis and a long-sleeved polo shirt and went back to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He brought it to the couch, reached for the remote and tolerated about ten minutes of Sunday morning evangelists before shutting off the noise.
Sarah. He’d better wait before he called her. He’d thought about suggesting a picnic lunch before the drive to Woodford, but his stomach flipped cartwheels at the thought.
With a grunt, he pushed himself up and into the kitchen. He found a box of saltines in the cabinet and fought with the waxed wrapper, finally ripping it apart with his teeth. He nibbled on the corner of one of the salty squares. Not bad. He chewed his way through half a dozen and his stomach settled a bit.
He decided to try a piece of toast when the phone rang. Before picking up, he plopped a slice of bread into the toaster and depressed the handle. Sarah’s voice, sounding excited, made up for the knives shooting through his skull.
“Maggie said you caught Gertie!”
Randy hooked the handset onto his shoulder and retrieved his toast. “Not me, but the Woodford police have her in custody. I want you to come to Woodford with me to identify her.”
There was a brief silence. “When?”
Randy glanced at the kitchen clock. Eleven. He was definitely not ready to take a two-hour drive through the mountains. “How about I pick you up around one? Will that work?”
Another silence.
“Sarah,” Randy said. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’ll never know you’re there.”
“I can do it. That’s not it. But … is something wrong? You sound … tired.”
“No. Shaking off a hangover.”
“Oh.” Another pause.
He couldn’t bear the disappointment in her voice. “My cats got into some poison and I had to rush them to the vet. I drank too much when I got back. Stupid and I’m paying for it.”
“That’s awful.” Another silence, longer this time. “You know, Maggie took Othello to the vet yesterday, too.” The hairs on his neck rose. He said nothing.
“You think they’re connected.” Sarah’s voice was tremulous.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Would Chris do something like this? Or Diana?” He waited out yet another long silence.
“I can’t imagine either of them doing something that awful. I don’t think either of them has pets, but they wouldn’t … they couldn’t …” Another dead interval. “I am so sorry. If someone hurt you and Maggie because of me, I’ll—”
More silence.
“Sarah, leave this one to me. I’ll see you at one, okay?”
She sighed. “Okay. One.”
Randy threw the cold piece of toast in the trash and ate some more saltines. They sat like a leaden mass in his stomach.
Chapter Eleven
Randy rose from his knees in his bathroom and rinsed his mouth. What a waste of his good Irish. Next time, he’d stick to the cheap stuff. No, amend that. Avoid the next time altogether.
The sound of a car driving off, followed by the beep of the motion detector on his front porch, halted his course of self-pity.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he eased the curtain beside the front door aside just as the doorbell r
ang. He yanked the door open.
“Sarah! What the—? How did you get my address?”
She smiled up at him. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed past him, hung her coat on the rack, glanced around and marched into the kitchen.
Randy’s frantic visual search of the house revealed no underwear strewn on the furniture. Too late to dispose of the empty beer cans on the kitchen table. He hustled down the hall and shut the bedroom doors. He returned to find Sarah opening and closing cabinets. The beer cans had disappeared.
“Maybe if you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, I can help,” he said.
“No matter. I found it.” She had commandeered his chef’s knife and was filling a saucepan with water. A small plastic bag lay on the counter.
He’d expended enough energy. The room was doing its carousel imitation again. He sank onto a kitchen chair and watched her open the bag, pull out a gnarled brown root, and slice thin discs from its length.
She dropped several slices into the water and turned the flame on under the pot. When she faced him, her pallor, along with the shadows under her eyes, bothered him more than his hangover. He took in her shapeless, faded denim jumper and scuffed sneakers. Not her usual professional attire. Had she dropped everything to come to his rescue?
Or maybe she didn’t give a damn what she looked like in front of him. Not worth spending time on wardrobe choices or makeup. His stomach roiled again. He swiped his hair out of his eyes. Christ, he was pathetic.
A spicy scent filled the room, reminiscent of Christmas gingerbread men. He struggled against the memory—he, Gram and his sister rolling, cutting, and decorating. So long ago.
“It needs to steep for about ten minutes. Ginger tea,” she said. “Old family hangover recipe. Mom and I used to make it for my dad—kind of a Sunday morning ritual.” One corner of her mouth turned up.
Randy swallowed and willed his stomach to stop churning. “Must have been tough.”
