Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  "Two expensive silver pieces and a handful of small carved animals. And about two hundred in cash." She managed a wry grin. "She left me twenty dollars."

  "Do you have any recollection of her being in the shop before today?"

  "I don't think so. It's been quiet, unless she came in during the Christmas season. We were busier then."

  "You have any other employees? Someone else who might remember her?"

  "No. Only me." She tried not to think of working side-by-side with David, but her voice quavered.

  As if he sensed he'd taken her to the edge of her emotional limits, Randy stood up. "Let's go."

  Back in her shop, Sarah flinched when she saw the remnants of the black fingerprint powder smudging the counter and Anjolie's silver. The bags of Gertie's belongings were gone, presumably taken by Connor. She dashed into the back room and returned with a spray bottle of cleanser and a roll of paper towels, wishing she could clean away the events of the previous hour by rubbing hard enough. She showed Randy an inventory photo of Anjolie's vase and samples of the animal carvings, and she answered the rest of his questions.

  She gave the counter one more swipe. "Look, it's almost twelve. I should reopen if you're done. Is there anything more you need?"

  "I don't think so. If she was wearing gloves and a wig, it's doubtful we'll get much, but sometimes the lab folks can pull rabbits out of very tiny hats. I'll do some door-to-door and see if anyone else noticed Gertie. If I need anything else, I'll call."

  "Thanks." She walked over and held the door for him. When he left, she reached for the "Open" sign, but couldn't face customers yet. She turned and leaned against the closed door, contemplating the shop. Their life. Hers and David's.

  Sarah meandered through the space, seeking comfort from the merchandise. She remembered working with David—refinishing the old shelves and tables they used instead of conventional store fixtures, the arguments about whether to carry high-priced oil paintings, the joy when they discovered a new artisan at a craft show. As she had so many times, she pushed the memories away, but now they refused to relinquish their hold.

  She had no idea how long she'd been daydreaming when the back doorbell summoned. She peered through the small glass window. Anjolie. What was she doing here? Sarah opened the door.

  Anjolie pushed past Sarah, her waist-length raven hair swaying as she marched to the table where her silver sat on display. She set a large cardboard box down on the floor and began loading it with her picture frames. "Someone from Pandora's called and said I would do better over there."

  Sarah's heart sank. "Wait. Can't we talk about it?"

  "There's not much to talk about." She fisted her hands on her hips and stared at the display. "You didn't mention you'd sold the vase and one of my frames," Anjolie said. She looked at Sarah with narrowed eyes. "I'll take my check now, please."

  "They were stolen. This morning. The police were here. They think they know who took them, and I'm sure they'll get them back soon." She lifted her chin and met Anjolie's gaze. "Can't you leave your work with me for a few months longer? I know things will pick up." She heard her voice rise in pitch and hated herself for it.

  "Sorry. It's settled. I agreed to bring my work to Pandora's."

  Too drained to think, much less argue, Sarah went to the storeroom for some tissue paper. Without speaking, the two women wrapped and packed Anjolie's silver.

  "I'll give you a week," Anjolie said. "If the cops don't find my stuff, I'll expect a check."

  Sarah watched Anjolie load the carton into her van. When the phone rang, Sarah let the heavy back door swing shut and hurried through the shop. At the sound of Mr. Ebersold's condescending voice, her stomach sank. Her bank appointment. She looked at her watch. She was twenty minutes late. Her attempts to explain were cut short.

  "I'm sorry Sarah, but there's no reason to reschedule. I've reviewed your loan application and it wouldn't be prudent for us to grant the loan at this time."

  "I understand." The words barely made it past her constricted throat. "Thank you for your time." She waited until she heard him disconnect before she slammed the phone down. She would not be defeated. Not by some little old lady, not by a temperamental artist, not by a cheapskate banker. This shop was her life and by God, she would see it survive.

  Sarah stormed into the storeroom and dragged out the boxes of Easter merchandise. She was too upset to open the shop and it seemed as good a time as any to begin her new displays.

  Even the fingernail she broke when she ripped open a carton didn't bother her. She dug through Styrofoam packing material and pulled out hand-painted wooden tulips, their smooth surfaces soothing her nerves. She fetched some vases from another display and arranged wooden bouquets.

  After an hour lost in the creative process, Sarah stepped back. The store reflected a vision of a springtime garden, replete with wooden bunnies hiding among caches of decorative eggs. She let that familiar glow of satisfaction wash over her as she surveyed the results of her labor, remembering how she and David had agonized over the carpet. It had to be neutral to set off the artwork, but beige or gray was so boring. They had finally settled on an amber brown and now it became freshly turned garden soil.

  Outside, ominous rumblings of thunder sounded in the distance. Sarah clutched her arms around her waist, her thoughts returning to the rainy night the Highway Patrol officer had come to her door. In that instant, Sarah had known her life would never be the same. Her David, her soul mate, dead at twenty-six. He had finished her thoughts, known what she needed before she did.

  She touched her chest, feeling David's wedding band on the chain beneath her sweater. Even a year after he'd died, she still felt incomplete without him.

  He couldn't have killed himself. It was an accident, no matter what anybody said. In good weather, the mountain road was dangerous enough with its twists and turns and it had been stormy that day.

  The pangs of guilt returned. If she'd been with him, would he still be alive? They'd never had secrets. Or had she missed something?

  Accident or suicide, could she have had anything to do with his death? Had his mind been on their quarrel and not the road? Her eyes and throat burned. She might as well go home. She gathered the insurance papers, locked up and hurried toward the bus stop, hoping the bus would arrive before the rain.

  About the author

  Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she'd be a good mom and watch it so they'd have common ground for discussions.

  Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fan fiction, then through Internet groups, and finally with groups with real, live partners.

  Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. She belongs to both the Romance Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America.

  Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband in the mountains of Colorado. You can find her online at:

  Her website - http://terryodell.com

  Her blog - http://terryodell.com/terry's place

  Facebook -http://www.facebook.com/terry.odell

  Twitter - http://twitter.com/authorterryo