There was nothing to think about. Claudia cleared the arrangements with Sandi’s grandmother, then told the girl she’d pick her up at nine-thirty.
The phone didn’t ring for the rest of the night.
Chapter 7
In terms of size, the boot maker was a show-stopper. His presence so consumed the small shop where he crafted boots that at first Claudia didn’t even notice them lining the shelves on the walls. Four hundred pounds? Four-fifty? She put him somewhere in that range, and automatically reviewed the CPR steps she knew in case he decided to have his coronary while she and Sandi were in his shop.
The place smelled of leather, deep and pungent and masculine. Tools Claudia couldn’t identify lay atop a wooden bench where the boot maker worked, fussing with something that resembled a giant cookie cutter. He wore a sweat-stained bandanna around his bald head, and sported a single ruby earring on one ear. He looked like a giant egg in clothes. So this was Buddy’s Boots. The boot maker caught her watching him and paused.
“Welcome. I’m Buddy. Buddy Dunn. And this instrument you’re looking at, it’s called a die. It’s what’s used to cut out sections of a boot. Hasn’t changed much since boots were made for a range instead of a dance floor.” He hesitated between sentences, wheezing words as if from a worn bellows. “You folks looking to be fitted?” He leaned into his work bench to better see Claudia’s feet. “I’m guessing you at a nine and a half, maybe a ten. I can probably get an accurate measurement in about twenty minutes.”
Claudia shook her head, a little annoyed. Her feet felt plenty comfortable in a nine. “No. Thanks.” She touched Sandi’s shoulder. “We’ve come to pick up a pair of boots. Hemmer?”
Dunn’s eyes flickered recognition. “Got ’em. Finished up just last night. Wish I could’ve had them sooner.”
“Is it a problem that we don’t have the receipt with us?”
“No. The boots were paid in advance. Four hundred dollars.” Dunn labored off a stool and came around, wiping his hands on a towel. It did little to remove the permanent stain of leather and dye from his fingers. “You’re Mr. Hemmer’s daughter?” he said to Sandi. She nodded. “Thought so. You look just like he described you. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s a hell of a thing, losing someone close. Your daddy seemed a nice fellow.”
He didn’t wait for a response, turning instead toward a shelf just above his head. Four pairs of boots stood smartly on top, each spaced a few inches apart with military precision. He pulled the smallest boots off and handed them to Sandi.
“Here you go, young lady. They’re calfskin, so they’ll wear nice and long if you treat ’em good.” He grunted. “Had to talk your daddy out of ostrich. No sense in a pricey skin for someone who’s never worn boots at all. Especially no sense in ’em when all I had to go by for measurement were some old worn shoes your daddy snuck in when you weren’t looking.”
The vamps of the boots were mahogany colored, complemented by a deep cream shade inlaid to the collars with butterflies and yellow roses. The pull straps and piping picked up the mahogany again. Claudia didn’t need to be an expert to admire the precision that had gone into the footwear.
Sandi held the boots as if they were as fragile as crystal. “They’re beautiful,” she said softly.
Dunn grunted. “Your daddy pretty much designed the pattern himself.” He took another pair of boots off the shelf. He eyed them critically, then blew dust off the toes, his face pinking up with the effort. “See here how there’s cactus and thistle running up the sides of these? Your daddy took a liking to the way that looked. He changed the colors some and then asked could I do butterflies and roses instead of cactus and thistle.”
Sandi looked at the cactus boots wistfully. “Those are nice. I . . . if he’d just taken them, he could’ve had them for me in time for camp. That’s what he wanted.”
Faint perspiration lined the boot maker’s upper lip like a thin mustache. He wiped it off and looked at Sandi sympathetically. “I don’t get around much, but one thing I’ve learned even from my stool is there are a lot of ‘ifs’ in the world. Problem is, not a one of us can ever truly predict which way those ifs are gonna go. All we do is hurt ourselves trying.” He blew on the boots again. “And anyway, if the fella who ordered these boots ever shows up to claim them, I’d be hard pressed to explain that I sold ’em to someone else. He’s only two payments away from calling them his own.” Dunn chuckled. “Well, two payments and a year, give or take.”
Claudia watched him return the boots to the shelf. “Annual payments on boots? That’s some kind of layaway plan,” she said.
“That’s not what I meant. He was making weekly payments, regular as the sun rising. He just hasn’t come by to finish them off in the last year or so.”
“And you’re still waiting on him?” She shook her head, incredulous. “Talk about patience.”
“I’m a big man. I have a lot of it. Besides, the fella probably just fell on hard times. He’ll be back.” Then he winked conspiratorially. “What’s more, he had small feet for a man and one leg was a hair shorter than the other. Had to build a lift in. Truth is, it’s not likely I’ll be able to sell these to anyone else. Might just as well wait on him and let his boots sit on the shelf nice and pretty. They’re not a bad advertisement.”
So Dunn wasn’t a saint. Just practical.
He turned his attention to Sandi. “Come on. Let’s get you wrestled into your boots so you can take ’em for a test drive.”
While the boot maker sat Sandi in a chair where he could fit her without bending over, Claudia wandered the shop. It was converted from the living room of a two-story wood-frame house. She assumed Buddy Dunn lived upstairs or, as a concession to his weight, more likely in a back room. She’d never met the boot maker before, but it was impossible to live in Indian Run and not have heard of him. His custom work was well-known even outside of Florida; rumor had it that some of his boots ran upwards of ten-thousand dollars. Hemmer had paid four-hundred dollars for Sandi’s boots. Claudia hoped Robin wouldn’t want a pair if she ever saw them. It was hard enough to fork over fifty bucks for her daughter’s Nikes.
She meandered, half-listening while Dunn explained to Sandi the care and feeding of calfskin. Her mind, though, was already at the Hemmer house—their next destination. With luck, they would get in and out quickly. She craved distance from the Hemmer tragedy. And by now, whether she needed a vacation or not, she wanted one. Badly.
The door to the shop squeaked open and a man in black jeans entered, clutching a worn boot. Claudia didn’t think she’d ever seen a genuine cowboy, but from the hat on his head to the boots on his feet, she was pretty sure she was looking at one now. She stifled an impulse to ask him if he had a horse outside.
“Hey, Buddy,” he said to the boot maker.
“Hey, Dix. How you doin’?”
“Good. But I’m in need of a new heel if you got the time.”
“Be with you in a minute.”
“No rush. I’ll just poke around.”
Claudia had never heard a richer baritone voice. Then he turned and spotted her. He removed his hat, smiled, and remarked on what a hot day it was.
Now that he was looking at her, Claudia found herself struck not just by his voice, but by his eyes. And his curly hair. And his height. Whoa. A man taller than her. She thrashed about for something witty or perceptive to say. What came out was “Florida. It’s a hot state.”
He looked amused. “Keep up with the Weather Channel, do you?”
An hour later and she’d think of three perfect rejoinders. But that would be later. “The point is, it’s too hot for boots.”
“Hard to argue the perception. On the other hand, you’re in the wrong place if you’re looking for sandals.”
“No, I . . . anyway, my feet are big enough in sneakers. They’d look like canoes in boots.” Where was this coming from?
The cowboy studied her sneakers. “Oh, I imagine they’d look fine. Your feet are just sideways t
all. They suit you. They suit you perfectly.”
Claudia wasn’t a blusher. She didn’t blush now. But she felt a rise of something, some sort of man-woman chemistry thing, and stood stupidly mute in recognition of it. Dunn rescued her by calling the cowboy over and sending Sandi back to Claudia. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he might’ve winked at her before he turned away. For a second, the heat of attraction flooded her again.
Sandi tottered around the small shop in her new boots, animation on her face for the first time since Claudia had met her. “These are a little weird,” she confided on one of her sweeps. “But I think I could get used to them. I might even like them. It’ll take a while to break them in, but . . .” Her words trailed off and she looked where Claudia was looking. “Oh. That guy? Mr. Dunn said his name is Tom Dixon, but that everybody calls him Dix. He owns a ranch here and breeds cattle or something. He’s the real deal.”
“What?”
“A cowboy, or at least close as you can get to one in Florida.”
Sandi looked disappointed when Claudia didn’t respond. “I thought you’d be interested. You keep checking him out.”
“I’m not checking him out.”
“It kind of looked like you were.”
“It’s a small shop. It’s hard to turn around without someone being in your line of vision.” Claudia made a point of assessing Sandi’s boots. “They look good on you. Are you supposed to—”
A door upstairs slammed and an old woman spewing profanities clomped down the stairs. She stopped short when she saw Dunn’s customers.
Dunn looked up, unperturbed. “Folks, meet my grandmother, Mae Dunn.”
“Didn’t know you had company,” she huffed. “Place is downright crowded. Dix, I know.”
“Hi, Mae,” said Dixon.
She ignored him. “Who are all these other people?”
“Customers. What’s got you all agitated, Grams?”
“I’m not agitated. I’m just annoyed. And it’s HTML that got me that way.” She looked at Claudia and Sandi in turn. “That’s hypertext mark-up language. It’s the code you use to make a web page a web page, and it’s a lot worse than anything you might’a overheard me sayin’ a heartbeat ago.”
“Grams has this idea my shop should be on the Internet,” said Dunn. “She’s busying herself putting it together.”
“You make it sound like I’m crocheting a doily, Buddy.” She came around and made a beeline for Claudia. “You look familiar. Who are you?”
As accustomed as she was to blunt-speaking people, Claudia was nevertheless caught off guard by the woman who positioned herself six inches away and gazed up through eyes beginning to cloud with age. She was shorter than Sandi and thin, with skin blotchy from weather or medications or both. She had to be at least eighty.
“I admit to being a little hard of hearin’ now and then,” Mae Dunn said, “but I would’ve seen your lips movin’ if you’d answered me.”
“Sorry. I’m Claudia Hershey.”
“Hah! That’s why you’re familiar. I saw you on TV, bunched up under a blanket. This your daughter?”
“Grams . . .” said Dunn from his stool.
Mae looked at her grandson sharply. “What? Just because I’m an old lady I can’t be curious?”
“It’s okay,” said Sandi. “My name’s Sandi Hemmer.”
The old woman thought. “Huh. If you’ve been on TV I missed it. But you’re a fine-looking girl and you look even better in one of Buddy’s boots. He’s an artist. It’s why I’m tryin’ to put him on the World Wide Web.” She leaned in closer to Claudia and Sandi. “Buddy’s a sweetheart, but he’s clueless when it comes to business.”
“I heard that, Grams,” said Dunn. “I have all the business I can handle.”
“It’s not just about business, Buddy. It’s about image.” She shook her head and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He knows boots, is all he knows. And the truth is, he’s afraid of technology. Now me, I’m not. Hah! I mail-ordered a digital camera and took great pictures of Buddy and his boots. I got a computer you wouldn’t believe, and figured out how to get the pictures right into it. Simple! Everything I bought has all the bells and whistles.” Her expression darkened. “It’s just this HTML crap that’s slowin’ me down. Either of you know how to write HTML?”
“Sorry,” said Claudia.
Sandi shook her head.
“Didn’t figure you did.” She sighed.
“Actually, I might know someone who could help you,” said Claudia. “He helped me get my work computer up and running.”
“Yeah? Does he work cheap?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Then he’s likely no good.”
“He is good. He’s just young.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that to begin with? Except for me, it’s usually young people who pick computer stuff up quickly. Got his number?”
Claudia fumbled through her handbag for her address book. She heard Tom Dixon chuckling.
“When I was your age, I could give you every phone number I had by memory alone,” Mae Dunn said. She shifted impatiently. “Still can, most of ’em.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Claudia mumbled. She paged through her book and read off a number. “His name is Booey Suggs.”
“Hah! There’s a name I won’t likely forget. All the same, I wouldn’t object if you were to write it down along with the number. No telling how much that HTML might’ve fogged my immediate recall.”
Claudia ached to get out of the shop. She scribbled the information on the back of a business card and handed it to the old woman.
Mae Dunn didn’t thank her, but she nodded, satisfied. “This works out, I’ll see that Buddy gives you a five percent discount on a pair of boots.” She disappeared up the stairs, chattering to herself.
A few minutes later, Claudia and Sandi made their exit. There was no horse outside.
Chapter 8
Someone had been busy. It’s not the sort of thing you’d notice right off. Claudia wouldn’t have noticed at all if not for Sandi’s dispirited remark about the police not tidying up when they were finished at the Hemmer house. She wasn’t talking about the family room; Claudia had deftly steered her past that. She wasn’t talking about her own room, either. She’d moved swiftly through it, plucking clothes off hangers and stuffing them in a suitcase, then filling a purple duffel bag with music CDs, a jewelry box, and other remnants of the young girl she’d been when she left for camp.
Her complaint concerned the bedroom next to her own, which Steven Hemmer had converted into a home office. She’d paused in the doorway to take a last look, maybe to etch into memory better times. But just as she started to turn away something caught her eye and she stepped further into the room.
“Dad would have a stroke if he saw this,” she said.
The office was decidedly cramped, what with two desktop computers and a laptop, but it appeared neat and organized, as efficient as Hemmer had described himself to Claudia. She looked at Sandi, perplexed.
“Dad never, never would’ve left his office junked up this way.” Sandi scowled and pointed things out like a tour guide, automatically repositioning a pencil cup on the edge of the desk. “Dad spent a lot of time in here. It’s where I could always find him. We’d talk about school, his work . . . you know.”
It bothered her that papers and file folders on her dad’s desk were haphazardly stacked, that two file cabinet drawers were slightly ajar, and that one of the bifold closet doors stood partially opened. She assumed the police had poked around as a routine part of their investigation, disturbing Hemmer’s carefully cultivated order. Little things, she told Claudia. They were just little things. But it bothered her just the same.
“Look at that,” she said, pointing to a bookcase. “They couldn’t even leave his books alone.”
The bookcase was tall and narrow, with four shelves. Claudia owned a similar one, except the books on hers were mostly novels with no attention
paid to the order in which they were arranged. Hemmer’s shelves held nothing but nonfiction, most of them related to the computer industry. A dozen or so others were devoted to the film business, a few to social policy, and a handful to general reference. Claudia noted that Hemmer had the same fat dictionary she did, but it certainly didn’t make them literary kin. Hemmer’s books were serious business—no Dummies titles here—and they were categorized by type and neatly aligned, their spines almost compulsively flush with each other, except . . . three books on the second shelf and another on the bottom jutted out, their spines out of whack with the others, as if they’d been hastily shelved after a fast reference check. Claudia examined the titles. They were upside down. One of them, a fat tome detailing the history of Hollywood, edged out from amid the computer titles.
“I know what Dad did at the end was awful,” Sandi said, her finger tracing the edge of the bookcase, “but couldn’t they have shown just a little respect for all the good things he did the rest of his life?”
Claudia barely listened. No cop had fooled with Hemmer’s books. After the violence in the family room, one might’ve taken a fast look at his file folders, maybe even opened the closet for a look-see to ensure Hemmer the Hostage-Taker wasn’t also Hemmer the Secret Mass Murderer with garish photos of his victims tacked to the wall inside. So, sure. There would’ve been a cursory check. In and out. Wrap the case. Call it a day.
Somebody else had been here, though. Somebody nervous. Somebody in a hurry, trying to be careful but too rushed to make sure things were left exactly as found.
There was little point in alarming Sandi and if the girl hadn’t reached toward the bookcase to do some straightening, Claudia might’ve chosen a better time and way to explain why her house would have to be violated by strangers yet again. As it was, she barked “hold it!” so sharply that Sandi flinched. Before she could straighten Claudia was already apologizing and then explaining that it was best not to touch anything else in the room in case—just in case—someone other than a police officer had been in her father’s office.
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