Finding Sarah

by Terry Odell

  “It’s Mom. If you’re not home yet, I hope you’re having fun, whatever you’re doing. Don’t bother to call back. I’m going to bed. Talk to you next weekend. Love you.”

  He picked up Sarah’s green sweater from the couch. He turned it in his hands, absorbing her scent. He folded it carefully and sat down to check her purse. She would have taken it if she’d left on her own. He spilled the contents onto the cushion beside him and suppressed a pang of guilt as he peeked into her private life. Her keys, wallet, a cosmetic case—all there. The steel band tightened another two notches. Wherever Sarah was, it was not someplace she had planned to go, and she’d left in a hurry.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sarah wiped her hands on the handkerchief she’d found in the trunk. The pounding of her heart almost masked the footfalls coming toward the door. She took deep breaths, trying to ignore the ringing in her ears. Stay calm. Don’t get him angry. Thank goodness the veil would hide her face.

  The door opened. Chris stood before her, decked out in a black tuxedo with tails, silver cravat, cummerbund and pocket square. Strains of Wagner’s wedding processional issued from the living room. Chris handed her a bouquet of white silk roses. Her knees threatened to give way, and Chris took her arm and led her from the room.

  “You look exquisite,” Chris whispered in her ear as he stopped in front of the television. Through the haze of tulle, she made out some sort of clergyman reciting the first words of the traditional wedding ceremony from the screen. He looked vaguely familiar. She stood at Chris’ side, dumbfounded, as she watched a television wedding ceremony, complete with attendants and guests. When the clergyman used Chris’ name, then hers, she snapped to attention. Chris had recorded some wedding and doctored it so that their names were inserted into the ceremony. She looked again. Good Lord, a TV show wedding, not even a real ceremony. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Now it was her turn to say, “I do.” Unable to speak at first, she felt Chris squeeze her hands and she managed to croak the words. He beamed at her and reached into his pocket. He held her left hand in his and placed a gold band on her fourth finger. The ring burned like fire against her chilled hands. “You may kiss the bride,” seemed to reverberate through the room. Chris lifted her veil. She closed her eyes in dread. His lips pressed against hers. She would bite his tongue if he went any further, but his kiss was a chaste one. The music changed to Mendelssohn’s recessional and Chris led her to the kitchen where a platter of cheese and microwaved hors d’oeuvres awaited. A silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne sat next to a tray of cookies.

  He dropped her hand long enough to open the champagne and pour two glasses into plastic flutes. “To the new Mrs. Christopher Westmoreland,” he said, raising his glass and handing her the second. He touched her flute with his and Sarah stifled a snicker at the dull click of the plastic glasses.

  “Drink, my bride,” he said.

  She touched the glass to her lips and placed it on the table.

  “Let’s sit in the living room and join the party,” Chris said. He filled a large paper plate with an assortment of offerings from the table and handed Sarah back her glass. “Don’t forget your champagne. It’s a special occasion, after all.”

  With a sigh, she carried her champagne to the living room. Chris had stoked the fire while she was dressing, and he gestured to one of the chairs. The television set displayed a ballroom filled with elegantly clad guests dancing to the music of a small orchestra. Chris set the plate on the hearth and lifted a cookie to her lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have a real wedding cake, but it wouldn’t have survived the trip. This will have to do.”

  So much for stabbing him with a cake cutter. She nibbled a bit of the cookie.

  “Don’t be so dainty,” he said. “Eat the whole thing. Then you feed me one.”

  Sarah chewed the cookie, although sawdust would have been easier to swallow. She took a sip of champagne to force it down. Tempted as she was to smash a cookie into Chris’ face, she held one to his mouth. He grasped her hands and guided the morsel into his mouth, licking her fingers in the process. She almost gagged.

  Get him talking. Keep him occupied, out of the bedroom. “Why don’t you get the champagne?” she asked. “Like you said, it’s a special occasion.”

  “Good idea. You wait right here, my love.”

  She forced a smile. As soon as he left the room, she threw the remains of her drink into the fireplace. The fire hissed, then glowed. She tilted the empty glass to her lips, lowering it when Chris returned with the bottle. He smiled and filled her glass with the bubbly spirit.

  “You, too,” she said. “But finish yours first. No fair if I’m ahead of you.” She watched as he quaffed the remainder of his glass and refilled it.

  He took his seat across from her, sipping his champagne and gazing into her eyes. She met his for a moment. God, where to go next? Chris thought they were at their wedding reception. What would he expect the new bride to do? Eat? Dance? Both turned her stomach. The thought of the bedroom was worse. She tried more small talk. “You did a nice job with the wedding,” she said. “How long have you been planning it?”

  “The wedding? Not that long. But marrying you? I’ve known for years we were meant to be together. I decided it was time to do something.”

  “So you decided we’d get married here, in secret? And you kidnapped me to bring me here?” Sarah scrutinized Chris’ expression, searching for any clue that he was getting upset. So far, he seemed content to be chatting away at their wedding reception. She held the platter out, and he took some cheese.

  “I’ve already told you I was sorry to have to do it that way. But I was running out of patience. I had to keep you from becoming a bad girl with that overgrown cop.”

  She heard the irritation returning to his voice, saw him clenching his fists. She smiled and stood, moving toward the television set, where the guests were still dancing. She began waltzing herself around the room, trying to see out the windows. The moonlight gave glimpses of shadows and trees beyond the front porch, dimmed by the light inside the cabin. They’d arrived in a car. Where was it now? She glanced at Chris, who was watching her with undisguised admiration as he sipped his champagne.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said and stood up to join her dance.

  An icy chill ran down her spine. Thank God, the music changed to an upbeat rock and roll tune. She could handle dancing as long as they didn’t have to touch. She watched his moves, seeing no evidence that the champagne had affected him yet. Disheartened, she vowed to try harder. When the song finished, she whirled back to the hearth and poured another glass of champagne for Chris. “Here. I’ll bet you’re thirsty after all that.”

  He accepted the glass.

  “Drink,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  “Sure. But would you mind bringing me one of those strawberries from the table? I love a strawberry in my champagne. A big one, please.” As soon as he left, she splashed the remainder of her glass into the fire.

  Chris returned with the fruit and a huge grin. “Here you go, my sweet.” He plopped it into her empty glass with a flourish.

  “Drink. Once the cork is out, it goes flat.” She added a bit of champagne to her glass. “I think I might be ahead of you again.”

  Chris drained his glass and accepted her refill. “You wouldn’t be trying to get me drunk, now, would you? It’s our wedding night, after all.”

  * * * * *

  Randy sped to Sarah’s shop. Was she inside, unconscious? The front door was locked, the “Closed” sign in the door of the dark interior space. He forced himself to calm down, to regroup. After three deep breaths, he knocked on neighboring shop doors until he found someone at the Golden Needle. Someone who hadn’t seen Sarah all day. Someone who had noticed That Special Something had been closed at noon when she’d gone to Sadie’s for lunch.

  “You didn’t call anyone?” Randy asked the clerk.

  “Who should
I have called? Sarah worked alone. If she was sick, the shop would have been closed. It’s not usual, but it’s happened.”

  “You’re right. Thank you, Ms …”

  “Parker. Peggy Parker.”

  Randy remembered to write her name and comments in his notebook before he ran for his truck. When he got back to the station, he went straight to Laughlin’s office. He rapped once on the doorjamb and barged in. “I need a subpoena for all incoming calls to this telephone for the past two months.” He extended a piece of paper with Sarah’s name and phone number to the chief.

  “Reason?” Laughlin asked.

  “Missing person.”

  Laughlin looked up and opened his mouth as if to question the request, but something in Randy’s face must have telegraphed his despair. He nodded, picked up the telephone and punched in some numbers. “Preston Laughlin for Judge Nachtigall, please. Yes, I’ll hold.” He turned toward Randy. “Go. Call the phone company. I’ll make sure everything will stand up in court.”

  Laughlin began talking to the judge. Randy mouthed a thank-you and went to his desk to call Victoria. He had explained what he needed when Laughlin appeared in the doorway.

  “My office. Now.”

  Randy thanked Victoria and followed the chief to his office. He knew he was in for it, and he didn’t care. He thought about all his cases where a loved one was involved. He’d always thought he’d been understanding. He hadn’t been close. How had they stood it? Not knowing, wondering what someone was going through, if they were hurt, or—

  “Out with it. What’s going on?” Laughlin’s concerned expression belied the gruffness of his tone.

  Randy slumped down in his chair. “Sarah Tucker’s been missing since last night. I found out about it a little while ago and went to her place.”

  “Signs of violence?”

  “No, but—”

  “Not even twenty-four hours.” Laughlin said.

  “I know that she wouldn’t have left of her own free will.”

  “Didn’t we have the talk about not getting your personal life involved in your cases?”

  “Yes, sir.” The steel band tightened again. “And because of that, I followed the rules and didn’t dig when my gut told me there was something going on that didn’t fit within the boundaries of a legitimate case.” His heard his voice getting louder, but didn’t bother to lower it, or to disguise the anger. “And now whether it’s personal or not, someone is missing and fuck the rules, I’m going to find her.”

  “We’re going to find her. I have permission for the subpoena—you start the paperwork, but put Kovak’s name on it. Get your phone numbers, get whatever you can out of the computer and turn it over to Kovak. It’s his case now.”

  “But—”

  “Randy.” Laughlin’s tone was even. “Kovak is the lead. I don’t want you doing something that will destroy the case or cost you your job. You can back him up, but from your desk.”

  “Yes, sir.” Randy returned to his office. After kicking the desk a few times, he felt no better. He dug the heels of his hands into his temples. Sarah would be fine. They’d find her and she would be fine. She could take care of herself. Kovak came in with two cups of coffee. He put one on Randy’s desk.

  “Chief says you have a case for me.”

  Randy handed Kovak the subpoena form. “Chief’s got the judge’s approval. Needs a signature and I’ll fax it over to the phone company. They’re already working.”

  “I’ll get on it, but what’s the case?”

  “Sarah Tucker. She hasn’t been seen or heard from since last night.”

  “Shit.” Kovak dragged his hand across his hair. “What do you have?”

  Randy stood and stormed to the window. “Nothing. A whole lot of nothing.”

  “Hey, take it easy. We’ll find her. One step at a time. Chief was right. You’re way too close. Start at the beginning. When’s the last time someone saw her?”

  “I saw her last night. Dropped her off at her place at eight-thirty. According to her answering machine, her mom called at nine-fifteen, but Sarah didn’t answer, so I think she’s been gone since then.”

  “You checked with friends? Neighbors?”

  “Dammit, I checked what I could. I don’t know that much about her friends, but her neighbor assures me that she wouldn’t have left her purse behind if she was going somewhere.”

  “Relax. You said you had reason to believe someone was trying to sabotage her business.”

  “Yeah, but all I have is a bunch of names that don’t seem to exist.” Randy pulled out the sheet of paper where he’d written them down and handed it to Kovak. “None of these show up anywhere.”

  Kovak raised an eyebrow. “Any of your suspects into photography?”

  “What?”

  “Big guy, these names are all famous photographers, except you spelled Muybridge wrong.”

  “Shit, give me that list.” Randy snatched the paper from Kovak’s hand. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, Janie took two years of photography at night school. I helped her study.”

  Randy felt the adrenaline surge. “Owen Scofield. Owns an art gallery. Big photography exhibit going on. Sits on the board of Consolidated. It connects.” He jumped for his windbreaker. “I’m going to his place.”

  “Shit, Randy. Chief took you off the case.”

  “So, I’m not on the case. You are. You can get the judge’s signature, wait for the phone records, and I’ll bet some number registered to Owen Scofield will show up. Meanwhile, I’m going to find him and have a little chat.”

  “I thought Laughlin told you to stay put. You don’t want to compromise the case.”

  “Ringing someone’s doorbell isn’t compromising anything.” He took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. Dammit, he was not going to be too late again.

  “If she’s there and I don’t do something …” Randy took his badge case and slapped it on his desk. Placed his service weapon beside it. He gave Kovak an even stare. “I’m going.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sarah tried not to think about what her wedding night meant to Chris. Maybe she should get flat-out drunk. Would Chris do anything if she passed out? She’d have to figure out a way to stall. She smiled. “Get you drunk? Of course not. Like you said, it’s a celebration.”

  “It’s getting late, don’t you think? The guests are leaving.”

  Aware of a sudden silence, she twisted to see the television displaying the closing credits. Chris crossed to the set. He pressed the rewind button on the VCR and stood there while the machine whirred. “I can’t tell you how happy I am this finally worked out. David was never right for you. And then, after you married him, you were never supposed to make a go of it in that store.”

  She blinked. What a fool she’d been, an ostrich with her head in the sand, thinking Diana was the one behind everything.

  Chris went on talking, sounding proud of his accomplishments. “I knew if you lost money, you’d get tired of David and come back to me. It wasn’t hard. People do what I want. They could mix up shipments for me, or tell people not to let you sell their stuff. But no matter what problems you had, you and your store kept coming back.”

  “You? You were trying to put us out of business from the time we opened?”

  “The store was holding you and David together. If the store was gone, you’d come back to me. But it didn’t work.”

  Sarah’s mouth felt like sandpaper. She reached for her glass before remembering she was avoiding the alcohol. Chris was talking again, still watching the VCR wind down. She wondered why he didn’t have a remote, but, for whatever reason, was glad he didn’t. It meant he had to stand by the machine, which meant he wasn’t standing beside her.

  “I never wanted you to be hurt. You were supposed to need me and let me take care of you. The fire didn’t work, and I remembered that hold-up woman. I thought if I frightened you a little, you might sell the store, so I hired someone to rob you. Bu
t then your nosy neighbor and that cop started poking around. I needed to make them leave me alone, too.”

  “Diana? Did you—did you make her—?”

  “She was a lucky coincidence, but I don’t think I’d really have bought her out. Now that we’re married, we’ll sell the store. You’ll have plenty to keep you busy at home.” He twisted to face her. “But I’m not sure I’ll let you get a kitten—I’m not much of an animal lover.”

  His satanic grin turned her stomach. “You really did poison the cats.”

  Without thinking, Sarah flew across the room and swung the champagne bottle as hard as she could at Chris’ head. A look of incredulity crossed his face. His arm came up to block it, but not quite fast enough. She heard a dull thwack. The impact of the blow surged through her wrist and up her arm. His eyelids flickered and he slumped to the wooden floor.

  The pulsing blood in her ears blocked all but the sounds of her own rasping breaths. Her brain refused to function. Some instinct took over and she reached down and dragged him into the bedroom. She patted his pockets, found a slim wallet, but no keys.

  He groaned. Was he moving? Her panic mounted. There was nothing in this room to hit him with. She had to get out, get away from him. She raced out the door and locked it behind her. How long would he be unconscious?

  She stumbled to the second bedroom. On the dresser were Chris’ keys. One of them had to open the front door. She fumbled through them until one released the lock.

  “Sarah. What’re you doing?”

  She gasped and turned to the bedroom. The door was still shut. Chris’ speech was slow, groggy-sounding, but he wasn’t out cold. On television, people who got hit on the head stayed unconscious until the other guy got away. Crap. Shuffling sounds came from behind the door. Hiking up her gown, she scrambled across the porch and down the steps. She had to get away. Away from Chris. Behind the cabin, the SUV faced a stand of trees. Clicking the entry remote, she saw the interior lights flash. She pulled open the driver’s door and climbed in. Trembling fingers managed to insert the key into the ignition. She turned the key, but nothing happened. Double crap. Maybe the battery was dead. After three more tries, she looked down and saw a third pedal. A clutch. A stick shift. She had no clue how to drive a manual transmission, especially not backward. Did she hear pounding and shouting? She was breathing so loudly she couldn’t be sure.