by Leslie Nagel
Charley grinned. “Relax. It’s a compliment.” She indicated the graceful archway that would connect the two halves of her new business. “You’re kind of my hero.”
“I’m no hero.” He stood in a plaid work shirt and faded jeans, gazing at the fourteen-foot opening with shy pride. “But yeah, she turned out real good, didn’t she?”
Duncan had shown up at the jobsite on the first day, looking for work. He was a few years older than Charley, from the Dayton area, although not from Oakwood. Tall and gangly, with a soft brown beard and long brown hair pulled back into a neat tail under the ubiquitous ball cap, he’d quickly graduated from sweeping floors to assisting subcontractors with a variety of tasks, demonstrating a surprisingly broad skill set. When Penwater’s regular carpenter balked at Charley’s request for the custom archway, Duncan had waited until everyone went to lunch. Then he’d simply begun framing it in on his own. Dale had taken one look at the work and fired his carpenter on the spot, hiring Duncan full-time.
“You gave me exactly what I wanted. That’s a rare talent.” Charley’s smile turned rueful as she indicated the spilled paint. “I’d better leave you to it.”
As she prepared to retreat, he cleared his throat. “Ma’am? This is for you.”
When he dropped a small object into her palm, Charley gasped in delight. “You made this?” She held a carved wooden giraffe, about four inches long, perfect in every detail. The finely grained wood had been rubbed with oil until it gleamed, highlighting an impish grin that was most un-giraffelike. “Duncan, it’s wonderful! How did you know I love giraffes?”
He lifted a shoulder, indicating the rear storeroom. “You’ve got those four big ones all bubble wrapped and stashed on the highest shelf, like they’re real important to you.”
“So I do, and so they are.” Since she’d found the papier-mâché quartet at an estate sale two years ago, Harpo, Chico, Groucho, and Zeppo had become so much more than the foundation of her distinctive window displays. To Charley, they symbolized both her unique business vision and her independent spirit. She touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”
His face lit with a smile that transformed every feature. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d ever seen him smile. In fact, she noted, the normally taciturn young man was practically glowing this morning. “You’re surely welcome.” He hesitated. “Ma’am, I wanted to ask if you know…”
Charley’s cellphone blared, an obnoxious three-tone combo that signaled an imminent appointment. “Excuse me a sec.” She yanked it from her hip pocket and checked the display. “I’ve got to bounce. It’s bad form for the boss to be late.” She tucked the phone away. “You were saying?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Duncan took up the squeegee. “Have a good day.”
Charley frowned at the peach-colored mess. Her head throbbed. “I think that ship has sailed,” she muttered.
Penwater waited for her by the door. He jerked his chin to indicate the spilled paint. “You going to call the cops? I hear you have some connections over there.”
“A few.” Charley glanced across Park Avenue toward the French provincial façade of the Oakwood Safety Building. Her gaze rested on a pair of second-story windows that housed the detective section, temporarily down a man. Her man, she thought with a pang, wishing Marcus Trenault were here with her now, instead of doing God knew what in Chicago. “Not much point in having them examine the scene, but a few stepped-up patrols wouldn’t hurt.” Anger flared anew at the necessity. “Whoever’s doing this—if there is a someone—they’re sneaking in at night. They’d better hope I don’t catch them.”
Penwater held the door, a not-so-subtle hint that it was time to get back to work. “See you tomorrow.”
As he ushered her outside into the sunshine and soft spring air, Charley cast a final backward glance into her beloved shop. Even in its present disarray, the potential was obvious. Her hand closed on Duncan’s gift.
Was this sabotage? she wondered. If so, what was the motive? Did someone have something against small businesses in general? Unlikely, since nobody else on this charming street of shops and offices had been targeted.
Perhaps their theoretical saboteur’s grudge was personal. Charley didn’t exactly keep her head down, but she couldn’t think of anyone who wished her harm. No one who wasn’t behind bars, that is.
She decided that as soon as Marc got back from Chicago, she’d tell him about the sabotage and ask him to arrange those extra patrols. She’d let the police do what they did best. And she’d do what she did best. She’d keep one ear to the ground and both eyes wide open.
As she headed back up Park Avenue, she reflected that there was a bright side. After the morning she’d had, this day couldn’t get any worse.
Every great mystery needs an Alibi
eOriginal mystery and suspense from Random House
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