Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  "Someone broke into your shop."

  "I know that. What did they take?"

  "I didn't ask. We'll find out when we get there."

  She wiped her hands on her slacks. "Shouldn't we leave, then? We can come back tomorrow and finish cleaning."

  "Whoever did it is gone. I've got people canvassing the neighborhood, calling the other shop owners. There are patrol officers on scene and Connor will process it. A few more minutes isn't going to make a difference."

  She clenched her jaw to keep from crying. Things were finally turning around. Why would someone break into her shop now? Hugh Garrigue's pottery? He had a following and a good reputation, but his pottery wasn't that expensive. And she kept hardly any cash on the premises. A jewelry store would have made more sense.

  Randy pressed his hips against her side, gently nudging her away from the sink. He squirted detergent into the stream of water. "I said I'd do the dishes."

  Numb, she stood at his side, watching the tiny bubbles mound into a winter snowdrift. Randy shoved his sleeves past his elbows and started washing.

  Absently, she picked up a towel and dried, putting each dish away where she'd found it.

  Randy's voice droned in the background, but the words ran together into a hum of white noise and she had no recollection of what he'd said when the last dish was done.

  Somehow, she was in his truck and the road unfurled under them. After awhile, she noticed her jaw ached from clenching it and her nails bit into her palms until she thought they might bleed. She forced a series of cleansing breaths, practicing a relaxation exercise she'd learned at the Women's Center.

  Breathe in through the nose for a count of four. Out through the mouth for a count of eight. She closed her eyes and went to her refuge place, a warm, white sand beach with turquoise seas and waving palm trees under a cloudless azure sky.

  Foam-edged waves lapped against her toes. Seagulls circled above. Golden sunlight warmed her face. As each wave receded, one of her problems floated away with it, carried out beyond the distant horizon.

  And then the truck stopped, the parking brake ratcheted, and it was as if one of the swaying palm trees had dropped a coconut on her head. She jerked back to the present.

  "Wait here," Randy said. He angled himself out of the truck and strode to a police officer standing in front of a strip of yellow and black crime scene tape stretched across That Special Something's back door.

  Sarah's stomach tightened, erasing all her peaceful imagery.

  Wait here? No way. This was her shop. Her life. She yanked the handle and shoved the door open.

  * * * * *

  "What the hell happened, Brody?" Randy asked.

  The officer's eyes widened, his jaw dropped and he took half a step backward.

  "Sorry," Randy said. "This one's personal. You're doing fine."

  "Yes, sir." He didn't look convinced.

  Randy sensed Sarah's approach and turned. The sparks in her eyes said she wasn't going to wait in the truck no matter what he said. He made the introductions, defusing some of her fire.

  She gave Brody a polite hello before saying, "I want to see what happened."

  Brody arched his eyebrows at Randy. "Connor's inside shooting pictures."

  "Sarah," Randy said. "Wait here one minute. Let me check the scene. Once we've got it photographed, you can go in and tell us what's been disturbed."

  Brody's mouth opened, then closed. When Randy slipped inside the door, closing it behind him, he saw what had caused Brody's reaction. His gut twisted as he thought of Sarah coming in here to check for damage. More like what hadn't been damaged. Broken glass, her fixtures knocked over, piles of merchandise strewn helter-skelter.

  Connor emerged from the back office, camera around his neck. He gave Randy a look that bordered on pity. "This is a real mess. She's going to take it hard, isn't she?"

  Randy looked at Sarah's dreams lying in shattered ruins all over her shop. He swallowed several times before he could answer. "Yeah. I'd better get her."

  "I've tried to print the desks, the counter—the big stuff that might give us something, but hell, half the town's probably been in this place. I concentrated on printing the office, since the perp was obviously in here and it's got more limited access."

  "Smart thinking." Randy picked his way back through the rubble. He composed his expression and opened the door. Sarah's blue eyes glistened and she looked at him, hoping, waiting, he knew, for him to say it was a minor break-in, that he couldn't tell what was missing, that she'd need to inventory everything to find a few stolen items. His expression must have betrayed the truth, because her face crumpled.

  He covered the last few feet in a single stride and folded her into his arms. She leaned against him briefly, then stiffened and pushed away. "Let me see."

  With her hand in his, he led her through the door. Her fingers dug into his palm. He accepted the pain. It couldn't come close to what she had to be feeling.

  "Can I touch anything?" she asked. "Or do you have to do more fingerprinting?"

  "Connor's done for now," Randy said. "But maybe you should wear gloves, just in case." He searched out Connor who was packing his kit in a relatively clear corner and got two pair. Snapping one onto his own hands, he held back, letting Sarah absorb the chaos around her. She stepped carefully, her fingers pressed over her mouth. No tears, he noticed.

  They'd met under similar circumstances, when she'd called the police to report being robbed. She'd been scared, but then she'd had a gun in her face. Now, she seemed dazed. Robotic.

  He handed her the gloves. "They're going to be big on you." She worked her fingers into the tips, pulling the excess latex past her wrists.

  He let her wander. She stopped from time to time, picking up broken pieces, ferreting out ones that had escaped damage. She held each item at arm's length, then wiped it tenderly with a gloved finger. When she struggled to right an overturned library table, he moved to help her. He set the wooden piece upright, but it was as if he wasn't there—as if she accepted that the law of gravity had been revoked and the table had levitated into position. He retreated and watched her group and regroup the intact pieces. A tiny smile played across her lips as she found an arrangement that seemed to satisfy her.

  Relieved she was coping, at least outwardly, he crossed to the other side of the room and picked through the debris for more salvageable items, surprised to find it calmed him as he set them in a row along the wall.

  The chief's words about dissolving the department rang in his head, knocking back the calm with a roundhouse punch to his solar plexus. He'd have to show the town council why they had to keep their police force. On or off the clock, he needed to catch whoever did this, probably more than find whoever murdered the mystery man. Who might not be a mystery anymore.

  "Sarah?"

  She looked over her shoulder at him, her face void of any emotion again, which threw another load of worry over him.

  "Are you up to answering a few questions?"

  She repositioned some figurines, her fingers playing over the arrangement on the table. "Can we do it here?"

  He'd rather go to the station where he could record it, but he conceded. She seemed to need the comfort of her things, to see there was merchandise to salvage. "All right. Do you have paper in your office?"

  "I don't know." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I used to." She crossed the room and he intercepted her. He rested his hand at her waist. She didn't move away, but he couldn't tell whether she was aware of his touch. She tensed as they entered her office. Stepping over empty boxes and piles of Santas, hearts, and bunnies, she went to her file cabinet and yanked open drawers, flipped through folders. She sank into her chair. Lowered her head into her hands.

  "Problem?" he asked. "Something missing?"

  "I can't tell. It looks normal enough, but it's possible someone took papers out of folders. Unless I was looking for a specific piece of paper or file, I might not ever know it's gone."


  "Credit card receipts? Stealing credit card account information?"

  She shook her head. "That's all done electronically. And the account numbers don't print on the receipts."

  "Customer data?"

  Another head shake. "I keep most of that at home. Otherwise I'd never get out of here."

  "What about these?" Randy gathered colored papers scattered on the floor into a pile.

  She glanced at what he held. "Holiday fliers," she said. "You can put them on my desk. I stashed them in the storage boxes, but it would be smarter to file them."

  He squared them off and set them on desk, then rested a hip on the corner. "What about the rest of this?"

  "Basically window dressing. We'd been working on decorating for fall and I was looking for things I could use."

  He noticed the neat writing on the upturned storage boxes. Valentine's Day. Winter. Fall. Easter. He'd never thought about all the behind-the-scenes efforts Sarah put into her shop. She went to the center of the room and picked up a headless pottery bird, about twelve inches tall. Her face went as pale as the white ceramic and she screamed.

  "No! Damn you to hell." Tears streamed down her face. She threw the bird against the wall, shattering what was left of it.

  He grabbed her, curled her against his chest and let her sob.

  Her sobs turned to hiccups and she squirmed away. "Sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "Not you. That was the center of our first window display. David and I …" She lifted her tear-stained face to his. "It was … special."

  "Hey, don't apologize for loving David. He was your husband for five years and I don't want you to think you can't remember him, or talk about him, simply because I'm here." He found a box of tissues on the floor and handed her one.

  She dried her eyes. "I'm all right. Ask your questions. I want this guy caught. And five minutes alone with him."

  From the venom in her tone, Randy didn't want to be there. Or maybe he did. "You'll have to wait in line."

  "We'll decide that one later." She sat down again. "What can I tell you?"

  "Let's start with the obvious. Do you have any idea who'd want to do this? Think about it. Anyone given you any trouble lately?"

  She nibbled her lower lip for a minute. "No. Not that I'm aware of. I don't think anyone would do this because I overcharged him, or shortchanged him, do you?" Her tone had lightened and there was almost a smile at the corner of her mouth.

  He smiled back. "Depends on how much, I guess."

  "Seriously, nobody's given me so much as a raised eyebrow about my prices. I can't see this being the work of a disgruntled customer." She paused. "But then, I totally missed Chris, didn't I?" Her mouth dropped open. "You don't think he could be behind this, do you? He's in prison in New Jersey. Isn't he?"

  The thought had crossed his mind, although this didn't seem to be the kind of thing Chris would do. The man had been sneaky. Devious. Subtle. "I'll make the call, but we'd both have been notified if he'd been released and an escape would have made the news."

  "Well, in a way that's too bad, because if it was Chris, then we'd get him, right?"

  "In a heartbeat." He clicked his pen a few times. "Okay, if it's not a customer, who else could it be? Your sister-in-law?"

  "Diana? No way. She took off with some Greek kazillionaire and spends most of her time on a yacht somewhere."

  He jotted a note to check anyway. "Okay, how about from your non-work circles?"

  Her laugh was more of a snort. "Like I have a life outside the shop? Aside from the classes I teach at Saint Michael's, I haven't exactly been in circulation lately. I can't see any of the senior set capable of doing this. And over what? We have a good time. They tell me about their grandchildren, or great-grandchildren and I listen. I bring them treats sometimes. As far as I can tell, they like me, although Mrs. Rasmussen didn't like that I put walnuts in my oatmeal cookies."

  Relieved to see Sarah seemed in control again, he went on. "Okay, what about the other direction? Not one of your customers, but someone you have business dealings with."

  "Like who? The other shopkeepers? You think they're jealous and would come over here and do this? For what?"

  "I have no idea. Nobody's approached you with a business deal you turned down?"

  "Not really."

  She nibbled her lower lip again and he squelched the desire to kiss her. "You had to think about that one."

  "Well, after all the problems with Chris, Don Farrabee at The Bookworm asked if I wanted to sell. He'd been considering expanding, but I said no and he seemed fine with it. You can't think he'd vandalize my shop to get me to sell."

  "It's not what I think. It's what I can prove or disprove. For now, everyone's on my list. Think. Who would be happier if you were out of business?"

  She stared at the ceiling. "My mother, maybe. She wants me to move back to Indy." She gave a terse laugh. "You going to add her, too?"

  The strain was back. "Okay, Sarah. That's enough for me to start with. Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "I was thinking my place."

  "No, take me home." She climbed to her feet.

  "Will you be all right? Do you want to call Maggie, or someone to be with you?"

  Her eyes flashed sapphire. "No, thank you very much. I'm capable of taking care of myself."

  "I didn't say you weren't. I thought you might like company." Shit. Where was his brain. Sleep-deprived and sharing too much blood with lower parts of his anatomy. "Hang on for a second." He grabbed his cell and went to the other room. Sarah didn't need to hear this conversation. She had enough to worry about.

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah watched Randy bolt out of her office. With a sigh, she reached for the carton labeled "Easter" and began setting decorations inside. Unlike the front of the shop, not much here appeared broken. Great. She'd have gorgeous window displays and nothing to sell.

  Don't think about it. Just clean up. One piece at a time.

  Randy could go do his cop stuff and she'd work until the office was habitable. Her ears pricked when she heard Randy giving someone her home address. She dropped a pink bunny into the box and rushed out front.

  "I'll hold," he said. He stood in the far corner, pacing a tight circle, clenching and unclenching his free hand.

  Her heart broke into a rapid trot. She held her breath, waiting, listening to what Randy would say next.

  "Thanks. Boost patrols to every thirty minutes. I'll handle the rest." He clipped the phone to his belt.

  "Handle what?" she asked. His silence said he was searching for the right words. "Tell me. I heard you give someone my address. I have a right to know what's going on. Who were you talking to?"

  He paused, as if deciding how to relay unpleasant news.

  "Oh, for God's sake," she huffed. "It was my shop that was vandalized and it's my life we're talking about. Stop trying to keep me in some kind of isolation chamber. I'm a grown woman and can take care of myself."

  His lips thinned to a white line. "All right, Sarah. You want it? Someone came in here and for reasons unknown, destroyed half your merchandise. You haven't been able to give me a motive or a suspect, so I have to consider all the possibilities, one of which is this creep is after you. I called the station and had them send a patrol car to your apartment to see if anything was wrong. And to create a visible presence all night, so if someone planned to do anything, they'd think twice."

  His expression softened. "I didn't want to scare you." Before she could protest, he came over and enveloped her in his arms. He rubbed his face in her hair. "I care about you. I want to protect you. It's not that I don't think you're an independent woman. It's—" His voice caught. "I love you, Sarah. And a man protects the people he loves."

  She accepted his embrace, wrapped her arms around him. "I love you, too. But—"

  He cupped her head with one hand while keeping her close with the other. "Shh. Don't say anything else. We'll work this out."

  She hoped so. How could she tell him th
at she didn't know if loving him was enough? She trickled her fingers down his chest.

  "I guess I'd better dig out the insurance policy." Again. She found the thick folder in her file cabinet. Hefting its weight, she figured she'd be lucky if they'd continue her coverage.

  Randy stood by the front window, talking on his cell again. Being a cop. Which she should be grateful for, if he'd stick to the cop stuff and not the smothering protector.

  He twisted around, saw her and ended his call. "I have to go to the station. I don't want you alone here."

  She didn't particularly relish the idea of being alone in an ocean of vandalized merchandise, but she refused to let her fear show. "I suppose I'll need a police report for the insurance company. Do we do that there?"

  "Yes. I'll take care of it."

  Half an hour later, they sat in his office while she answered more questions and he filled out paperwork. He handed her a copy and she added it to the insurance folder. "I'd like to go home now, please."

  "I told you before. I'm not sure that's a good idea tonight."

  "Fine. Have it your way. Will you take me home? Or I'll call a cab." The worry in his eyes sparked anger inside her. Why wouldn't he let her make her own decisions? And why was she fighting the ones he was making when deep, deep down she agreed? For whatever reason, she refused to bow to his authority. "It's my home. I belong there."

  He shoved his chair away from the desk and went to the window, his hands fisted at his sides. "I wish you wouldn't fight me. I know my job."

  "I said, please take me home."

  "Stay with me," he said softly.

  "You'll be working, won't you? I'd be alone there, too."

  "I have an alarm system. And I'd feel better knowing you were somewhere harder to find."

  "If whoever did this is local, they'll have a pretty good idea where to look if I'm not home, don't you think?" She got up from her chair and dragged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "You're having my place watched, right? If it was anyone else, would you forbid them access to their own home?"