Cherry Creek

by Dani Matthews

  “Miss Vauss?” he asks, walking over and holding out a hand. He’s well-dressed and looks coolly professional.

  “Yes, that would be me,” I say with a smile as I shake his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me this evening.”

  “My pleasure. Let's sit while we discuss why you'd like to hire my agency,” he says, motioning towards the doorway he’d just come from.

  We enter the office, and it's a small and windowless room. It has an oddly spacious feel to it though, because it's not cluttered like you'd expect from such a small space. There are two chairs across from the desk, and I tentatively sit down.

  The investigator, Mr. Capshaw, settles behind his desk, his blue eyes focusing on me. “Tell me Miss Vauss, is this a private matter or criminal?” He studies me and says, “You look too young for it to be corporate.”

  “Private,” I respond. “I need to find my mother.”

  He nods. “You are searching for your birth mother? Do you have a name?” he asks as he picks up a pen and opens a drawer to pull out a notepad.

  “Yes. I can give you whatever information you need,” I assure.

  He glances at me. “You grew up with this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know her well, but now she's missing?” he asks with interest.

  “She’s disappeared,” I explain. “She disconnected the phone and left no forwarding address when she moved. I need to find her. It's important.”

  Mr. Capshaw is silent for a moment as he processes my statement. “Did you have an argument the last time you saw her?”

  “No.”

  “When exactly was the last time you saw her? What was the situation? Was she acting odd?” he asks as he waits expectantly for an answer.

  “We were at the airport. I was getting on a plane to come here. She seemed fine,” I say as I fight the urge to fidget in the chair. Fidgeting won’t make me look calm and collected.

  “Have you filed a missing person's report with the police?”

  “No. I think she moved out, and it was of her own free will.”

  “Then she likely doesn't want to be found,” he murmurs as he rubs his jaw before settling back in his chair. “Was she upset that you were moving?”

  “No. She seemed...excited,” I confess, and that's what burns me. Had she been secretly pleased to be rid of me? I have so many questions that I want to ask when I find her.

  “Why would she be excited?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Were you upset with her?”

  “A little,” I say without thinking.

  “Why?”

  My mind scrambles for an answer

  Mr. Capshaw studies me. “Anything you tell me is confidential,” he assures.

  I think I need to just come right out and admit I'm only seventeen. He'll figure it out sooner or later, especially if he asks to see my ID, which he will if he decides to take my case. “She made my uncle my legal guardian. That's why I'm here. I had to move to live with him,” I tell him quietly.

  “How old are you Miss Vauss?” he asks, his expression turning suspicious.

  “I'll be eighteen in September.”

  He shakes his head, setting his pen down. “I'm sorry. I can't legally take this case.”

  “I'll pay you double!” I blurt.

  “I can't help you.”

  “Please! I'm desperate. I really need to find her,” I plead.

  His eyes are apologetic as he says, “You need to be eighteen to hire a private investigator. Come back in three months.”

  I rub my aching temple and look at him with disappointment. “I don't want to be here for another three months. Do you know if there might be someone else who'd be willing to help me track her down?”

  He sighs, his expression betraying his reluctance to help me. “You can try Sheffield,” he says after a brief hesitation. “He takes just about any case, but you being a minor is going to be an issue for him, as well,” he points out.

  I recognize the name as the other private investigator in Cherry Creek. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.

  Mr. Capshaw shakes his head. “He may turn you down. He should.”

  “It's worth a try,” I say as I rise to my feet.

  He nods, standing up. “His office is a few blocks over on Dunhill Street. He should be there, he tends to put in late hours.”

  I thank him again, then walk out of the agency and back onto the sidewalk. Since it's a nice evening, I’d decided to walk here instead of driving the three blocks from the store. It’s only another few blocks to Dunhill, so I make my way briskly down the sidewalk while hoping that Sheffield is indeed working late.

  When I arrive at the doorway that announces Sheffield Investigations, I see that it lacks a closed sign. Feeling determined, I cautiously step inside. The office is much smaller than Capshaw's. The walls are painted an ugly pea green, and a large man sits behind a cluttered desk. It's a one-room office space, so I'm guessing this is Sheffield.

  He looks up from where he's typing on his computer. When he sees me, he struggles to his feet. “Can I help you?”

  I decide upon seeing him that honesty is the best policy with this man. He looks rough around the edges, and he has at least a three days growth of a beard. His belly hangs out, and his shirt just barely buttons over the protruding roundness of it. I can see why Mr. Capshaw suggested I try him. Sheffield looks shady. Under normal circumstances, I'd be leery of his type.

  “I need to hire an investigator,” I say simply.

  His beady, blue eyes flicker over my outfit, and I know he's sizing me up as a rich girl. I sure hope it works in my favor. “Have a seat,” he offers, motioning to a chair across from his desk. At his request, I walk further into the room and carefully sit down. Sheffield sits back down behind his desk, his hand running through his rumpled, dark hair. He looks at me expectantly, “So tell me, why did he turn down the likes of you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Capshaw. I'm guessing you went to him first. I have a tendency to get his leftovers,” he says with dry humor.

  Time to just get it out there. “I don't turn eighteen until September, but I need an investigator now.”

  Sheffield shakes his head. “I can't accept a case from a minor.”

  “What if I don’t legally hire you? What if it's a favor?” I ask boldly.

  “Darlin', I don't do favors.”

  I cross my leg over my knee and look at him steadily. “I'll pay you triple your normal fee for this 'favor.'” Sheffield's eyes narrow. “I can give you half now and half when you find my mother.”

  “You got a name?”

  Triumph flares within me, but I hide it. “That and more. I lived with her for seventeen years. I don't think she'll be too hard to find, but I don't have the resources to search for her myself.”

  Sheffield rubs his double chin thoughtfully. “You pay in full today, and I'll find her.”

  This causes my eyes to narrow. “If this if off the books, how do I know you'll follow through and find her?”

  “You don't. If paying in full doesn't work for you, you'll have to find someone else that will take your case.”

  At this point, I don't have a choice. I have a willing investigator, so I'll have to trust him to do the job. At least it's not my own money I'm using. “We have a deal.”

  After filling out the necessary paperwork with information on my mom, I walk back out of his office twenty minutes later—my purse a whole heck of a lot lighter. It's going on seven, and I'm hungry. I decide to grab something to eat at a little diner I'd passed as I'd walked to Sheffield's.

  It's a seat yourself type of diner, so I make my way to the very back and settle into a booth next to a window. The diner is country themed, and it's strange seeing so much chicken décor all in one place. Considering the booths and tables are almost full with patrons, I'm guessing the food is well worth seeing all the chickens on the wall. When the waitress notices me, she walks over, and I order a burge
r and fries. As I wait for my food, I grab a napkin and pull out a pen.

  I need to figure out what's going on with the Deveroux's, because things are just not adding up. I begin to make a list.

  1. Mom never mentioned a brother. She's always been adamant she's an only child.

  2. Young rich uncles don't just suddenly pop out of the woodwork to sweep up a niece they've never met before.

  3. Was Khristos prepared? The bedroom is decorated in my favorite things—how could he know all that? And I hadn't smelled fresh paint, either. Plus, the closet is full of clothes, he has a new car on hand, and credit cards and a debit card all ready and in my name. It almost feels like this was all set up before he even showed up in Missouri. Or am I imagining things?

  I chew the tip of the pen cap as I study the list. My food arrives much sooner than I expect, and I eat while continuing with the list.

  4. Roman's said some weird things. He also doesn't seem like your average seventeen-year-old. Khristos doesn't treat him like a teenager.

  5. I swear someone's watching me. Is it possible Khristos is having me followed?

  My eyes dart out the window as I mull over the last question I'd written down. After a moment, I look back at the paper and write one more sentence.

  6. Why is mom suddenly gone?

  I reach for my soda to take a sip, and my eyes lift as I glance around the small restaurant. I freeze when I see Trace enter the diner. He walks up to the counter, his expression friendly as he speaks to the waitress.

  My eyes narrow. Is he following me? Surely not. I watch him until he turns away to walk towards the booths. He spies me, looking genuinely surprised to see me and begins walking over. I remember the list on the napkin. I quickly yank it off the table, and I crumple it up and shove it into my purse without looking.

  Just as he pauses near my booth, his eyes flicker to my purse sitting next to my thigh before focusing back on my face. “Evening, Livvy. Are you here with friends?” he asks lightly.

  “I'm by myself. I just left work and thought I'd eat out tonight.”

  “Mind if I join you for a few? I ordered take-out, so it should be up shortly.”

  “Go for it,” I say as I try not to stare at him for too long. He really is hot. I still feel that strong pull towards him, but it's not as strong as it had been the first time we'd met. He sits down across from me, and I try not to admire his broad shoulders or the fact that his blue shirt brings out the gray in his eyes.

  Trace smiles, focusing all his attention on me. “How are you settling in?”

  “It's taking some getting used to.”

  His expression turns curious. “I get the feeling that you're still less than thrilled to be here. Anything happen to put you off of our town?”

  Yeah, all the secrets are pissing me off. I keep my mouth shut, though, and remind myself that Trace works for Khristos. Everything I say might just be repeated. “Everything is fine,” I lie. “It's just an adjustment, that's all.”

  He nods. “Is Roman introducing you around?”

  “We don't really have all that much in common,” I say as I push my empty plate aside.

  Trace looks surprised. “Why do you say that?” He reaches for a pink packet of sugar from the small, ceramic container at the edge of the table. It looks tiny in his large, tanned hand, and he begins to idly roll the packet between each of his fingers.

  “He seems kind of...wild,” I say tactfully as I watch him play with the packet briefly before I look back at his face. I find his gray eyes fixated on me. “I'm about as opposite from wild as you can get,” I reveal.

  “He's your cousin. You should try to get to know him. Roman’s a bit reckless, but that doesn't mean he expects you to change who you are. He'll meet you halfway if you let him,” he assures. “How are things going with Khristos?”

  “He's always busy.” Fact is, I'm glad he's so busy. The man is good at making me feel apprehensive.

  “Have you asked him for his time?”

  “Well, no. Not really. He's always gone,” I say a bit awkwardly.

  Trace nods slowly as he sets the packet of sugar back in the ceramic holder. “He has the club to run, so his evenings are taken up with business. If you want to spend time with him, I'd approach him in the morning or afternoons.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.” I'd rather learn more about Trace, so I ask, “What do you do for Khristos? What exactly is your job title?”

  “I guess you could say I'm his personal assistant. I do things he doesn't have time for,” he says as he picks up my plate and sets it in the far corner of the table.

  “Like what?”

  “Running errands,” he says, shrugging his shoulder. “Or I take meetings with clients or employees if he's unavailable at the time.”

  “And you drive him around?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I think over what he said, and I can't help but think that he's awfully young to be an assistant, especially to someone like Khristos—who's quite successful for his age. Unless Khristos likes surrounding himself with people closer to his own age. I guess if that's the case, it makes sense.

  The waitress walks up to our booth with a take-out bag for Trace. He smiles warmly at her before she turns her attention on another table. His gaze shifts back to me, and he looks at me questioningly. “I'm all paid up, so I'm good to go. I'll walk you out,” he offers.

  “Sure.” I'm always up for spending more time with him. We exit the diner, and it's now going on eight. The sun is still bright, but it's beginning to sink in the sky as the evening wears on. I make a move to turn right, to walk back towards Sinfully Yours while Trace turns left—to go towards the diner parking lot.

  He stops walking and looks back at me questioningly. “Didn't you drive here?”

  “I was in the mood to walk.”

  “I'll walk you back to the store,” he says as he walks over to me.

  “That doesn't make any sense. Then you have to walk all the way back to get your own car,” I point out.

  “I can drive you,” he offers as he smiles down at me.

  My feet are beginning to ache from all the walking I've done today in these heels. “You win,” I say with a smile. It’s not really my feet that has me caving, though. It’s that quick smile of his that seems to make my heart clench.

  We begin to walk to the parking lot, and I'm conscious of Trace standing close to me. So close that our shoulders brush slightly, and I fight the urge to lean closer so I can touch him more. These feelings he evokes within me makes me uncomfortable, because I can't understand where they are coming from. I'm relieved when we reach his SUV and there's some distance put between us. The drive is short since it's only four blocks. I thank him for the ride and flash him a genuine smile before I walk to my own car. Well, it's not really my car. It’s only temporary, I correct myself.

  When I get back to the Deveroux mansion, I settle in my room and think over my meeting with Sheffield. After the amount I paid, he better come through with information. He'd warned me that I might have to pay more depending on how much it costs him to track her down. If he racks up bills and she's difficult, I'll owe even more.

  After I change for bed, I remember the list I'd made at the diner. I should transfer it over onto the computer and start making notes of all my suspicious findings or thoughts. Unfortunately, when I search my purse for it, I can't find it. I dump everything out of my purse, but it's gone. Had it fallen out? I could have sworn I'd shoved it inside my purse, but I wasn't looking at the time because I'd been focused on Trace. I suppose there's a chance it might have fallen out.

  Unless Trace stole it.

  No way.

  That would be ridiculous.

  ***

  I'm back to being paranoid the following morning. The items in my room are seriously beginning to bug me. I've felt this way for a while now, but I never tried to figure out why I'm so bothered.

  Until today.

  As I look around, I try to make s
ense of what I feel when I look around the room. It’s as if I've seen a lot of this décor before. No, I know I've seen some of it before. I can't help but start walking around the room, peering at the assortment of figurines and accent pieces. I pick up a vase and study it, looking carefully at the delicate design that seems oddly familiar. Where have I seen this before?

  For a couple minutes, I simply stand there, staring at the vase. Then, it comes to me. I have seen it before. There was a store back in Missouri I walked past daily when the city bus dropped me off at the diner where I'd worked. This vase had been sitting in the window, and I remember pausing at the window to gaze at it more than once.

  But how would Khristos know about it?

  A bad feeling creeps over me, and I quickly set the vase down before picking up the hummingbird figurine. I go through each and every item carefully. I can't find any tags, but some of them I remember seeing back in Missouri. Lastly, I walk over to the pretty, blue lamp. My first day here, I remember thinking how odd it had been that Khristos had bought the exact same lamp that I could have sworn I’d seen before. I don't know what makes me think to do it, but I carefully tilt the lamp to the side to peer at the bottom.

  Bingo.

  I carefully peel off the price tag and gently set the lamp upright again. First of all, the lamp had cost a whole hell of a lot more than I'd originally thought it'd cost. Second, the store name is on the sticker. A minute later, I settle into one of the blue chairs by the fireplace and search the internet for the store's website. Sure enough, its address matches up with the store I'd seen it in. In Missouri.

  That intuitive feeling that something isn’t right comes back to me. Almost everything in this room is from Missouri. There is absolutely no way Khristos could have just happened upon all my favorite things in only the short week he was there. Not to mention I hadn't left the apartment after Brad's attack until I'd had no choice but to go out to breakfast with my mom and Khristos. After that, I’d refused to leave the apartment. I’d spent a lot of time in my room once I’d learned my mom was sending me off to Minnesota.