Finding Sarah Read Free

to do, Detective
Detweiler,” she said.
    “Please. Call me Randy. Detective
Detweiler doesn’t roll off the tongue.”
    “Then it’s Sarah.” She studied
his face again. “I’m sorry, but you look familiar. Have we met?”
    His expression turned somber. “Briefly,
after your husband’s … death.”
    That pause again. Realization hit
her like this morning’s mud puddle. This was the man who’d told her to hire a
private investigator. That there was nothing they could do in Pine Hills
because it was out of their jurisdiction and the Polk County cops in charge had
closed the case. Had he thought she was right when he’d recommended an investigator?
Or was he trying to get her out of the police department’s hair when she’d
demanded they keep investigating? The memories turned the muffins to lead in
her stomach.
    “I’m managing.” At least she had
been until an hour ago. She blinked back tears. “Can we get on with the stuff
about the robbery?”
    “Of course. I understand.” He
held his pen above his notebook. “How are sales? Any reason for Gertie to think
your shop would be a lucrative hit?”
    She shook her head. “We’re small,
but we were doing well enough. Tourism is flowing out this way from Salem and
Portland, and local artisans are being recognized. We’ve had some financial
setbacks, but things seemed to be coming together.” In the grand scheme of
things, that Gertie woman hadn’t taken a lot, but it wouldn’t take much to put
the shop out of business. Between the cash and the merchandise, she was out
almost five hundred dollars. Tears threatened again. She willed them away and
stared at him.
    “We?”
    Sarah twisted her napkin. “I
guess I still think of the shop as ‘ours’—that David—my husband—is still a part
of it. Technically, his sister owns twenty percent, but she doesn’t do anything
except demand her cut every month.”
    “I’ll need her name and address,”
he said. His pen clicked and hovered again.
    “Diana Scofield. Lives in
Portland, but I’ll have to get the exact address for you.” While she watched
Randy make his notes, she wondered where Diana’s next check, dismal as it would
be, would come from. The way to keep that woman out of her hair was to give her
the money on time. She concentrated on the pen, as if its clicking was the only
sound in the diner.
    “Any trouble between the two of
you?”
    “I would have thought that came
out during the investigation of my husband’s death.” She moved her hands to her
lap where he couldn’t see them tremble, wiping them on her napkin.
    “I wasn’t part of the
investigation.” He paused. “I know this is difficult, but if we get the
preliminary stuff done, I can start looking for Gertie and your merchandise.”
    She nodded. “Diana and David were
close. He was her father figure when their parents divorced. She worshipped him
and I think she resented me for marrying him—stealing him away. She blames me
for his death.”
    This time, the pen was silent.
Randy leaned closer. “Why would she blame you?”
    Sarah struggled to find the
detachment she’d needed the past fifteen months. The ability to become a
different Sarah when she had to talk about David. “We were trying to turn the
store into more of a gallery than a cutesy gift shop and it was stretching the
budget.” She heard her voice go flat. Reciting words she’d repeated too many
times before. “Diana wasn’t good with money. David kept bailing her out, and I
thought it was time he let her suffer the consequences of her spending habits.
We were arguing about it the day he died.”
    Sarah raised her eyes to meet
Randy’s. “David would never have killed himself because money was tight or we
were having a few arguments. We were making a go of things, working them out.”
    “Does Diana think it was suicide?”
    “I think she needs someone to
blame for David’s death and I’m the handiest scapegoat.” She heard the
bitterness and took a