Defending the Eyewitness. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Maybe. I almost went to knock on your door, but I decided that would be rude beyond belief.”
“Next time, knock on my door,” Corey said. “This is an emergency.”
“Well,” said Daisy wryly, “the worst case would have been explaining to Grandma that I still needed to put the buttons on it. I don’t think she’d have been upset.”
Corey knew that Daisy’s grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s and could sometimes be unpredictable. She also knew that caring for the woman was a severe strain on Daisy and her sisters at times, so who needed an upset because Daisy gave her grandmother a robe and then had to take it back? It might be okay, then again... “What kind of buttons?”
“Big ones, because her fingers are arthritic. And red because the whole robe is in the brightest colors I could find. She’s always loved bright colors.”
“I hope I have them.” Corey honestly couldn’t remember. Her shop was full of so many buttons and notions that she sometimes forgot exactly what she had.
“I know you do. You have everything.”
Daisy’s exuberance had always delighted Corey. The woman bubbled nearly all the time, and sometimes Corey envied her that. Daisy had her share of problems, but nothing seemed to squash her enjoyment for long.
Daisy hurried to the back to look at buttons while Corey settled behind the counter. There was a box on the floor at her feet that she hadn’t opened yet, and a stack of mail from yesterday, most of which went straight into the trash. The bills she tucked into a drawer behind her.
Moments later she heard Daisy squeal. “Found them. Perfect.”
She came up to the register holding two packets of scarlet buttons, big enough to go on a clown suit. “She’ll be able to manipulate these,” she said as she put them on the counter and started to pull out her wallet from her purse.
“It’s on the house,” Corey said swiftly. “My birthday present to your grandmother.”
“Aren’t you a sweetie!” Daisy leaned right across the counter and managed to give Corey a hug and a big kiss on the cheek. Then she scooted to the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll bring you a photo of her in the robe.”
The bell over the door rang as she left. It was only then that Corey noticed a man looking in the window. He appeared familiar, a local, so she waved cheerily. There were certainly lovely things in the window to look at. She used them to display the projects her sewing and knitting groups had made. Sometimes people even wanted to buy them, which meant some of the women made a bit of much-needed pin money.
The man didn’t wave back, though. He just looked a moment longer, then sauntered on down the street.
“Well,” she said to the empty store, “I bet he doesn’t sign up for a class.” Then she laughed and got to work.
Sundays were always a slow time, when a few women dropped in to pick up something, or to chat for a couple of minutes. It was a good time for catching up on things that she’d let slide during the week, from neatening her stock, to putting out fresh items, to sweeping floors and cleaning the bathroom. Her back office really needed some work, but she didn’t feel like tackling it yet. She had a theory: once she put something away, she’d never remember where it was. Her stacks were her filing cabinet until she was certain she was done with an item. So far, the only way she’d managed to lose a thing was by putting it away.
Sometimes she thought she needed a highly organized assistant, but the idea of giving over control of so many important things made her hesitate. Then she wouldn’t be able to find anything at all, and what if something went wrong?
She was still shaking her head at her own hang-ups when she heard the bell again. Leaving her office, she went out front and was surprised to see Austin.
“Hi,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to see your shop. It’s bigger than I envisioned.”
“Well, being in an old house has some advantages,” she said. “We’ve got rooms in the back and upstairs for the sewing classes, and plenty of space up here for stock.”
He nodded, hovering just inside the door as if he wasn’t certain she wanted him there. Well, she wasn’t, but this was a shop, for crying out loud, and he wasn’t the first man to walk in here. “Look around if you like,” she said when he didn’t move. “I was just getting ready to close up.”
“I don’t want to keep you. I was curious. Now when you talk about it, I’ll have a mental image.”
She paused as she turned her key in the register, locking it. “Do you need mental images?”
“Don’t you?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“It’s not only images. I keep a mental map. I like to know where everything is and what it’s like, insofar as I can.”
That made sense to her, given the job Gage had mentioned. “I guess I haven’t thought about it because I’ve always been here. Seriously, feel free to look around. I need to take the trash out.”
“I can do that for you. Where do I go?”
She pointed to the big wastebasket at the end of her counter. “Down the hall. Just outside the back door is a big bin. Be sure to use the doorstop or you’ll be locked out automatically.”
“Got it.” He hefted the large can easily, with one hand and disappeared down the hallway. She returned her attention to tidying the last bits on the counter, but as she finished she found herself looking at the front window again. The day was still bright, the hour early, but that wasn’t what she was thinking about. For some reason she remembered that man who had been looking in earlier, and tried to place him. She was sure she knew him. Well, sort of. She didn’t claim to know everyone in the county or even the town, and she spent most of her time here in the store and with the women.
She sighed and shook herself. What did it matter who he was? Just a guy from around here who had probably noticed some item in the window.
Curiosity pushed her and she went to look at exactly what she had displayed there. It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten, but she wondered what might have captured his interest.
Then she saw the beaded and embroidered purse Mary Jo Suskind had made. Golden threads, tiny silver beads, it was a work of art.
That was probably it. The guy might have seen it and been wondering if his wife would like it. She was sure he hadn’t been attracted to the baby booties, kids’ sweaters or even the brightly colored block quilt. No, it had to have been the purse. She hoped he came back and bought it. Mary Jo would be thrilled.
“All done,” Austin announced from behind her. “I locked the dead bolt. Is that enough?”
“Around here it is,” she said, turning toward him with a smile. He replaced the empty can, then came toward her.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m finished.” She flipped the light switches by the door, casting the shop into shadows except for one security light. Stepping outside with him, she locked the front door.
“Walk you home?” he asked.
Something inside her froze. Too friendly too fast. She tried to push past the feeling but it was too late.
“I know,” he said. “I’m just the roomer you didn’t want.” His face shut as if a gate slammed down and he walked away, heading in the opposite direction of her house.
Damn it, she thought, suddenly furious at herself. Just how long was she going to let the past shadow her present? When was she going to become whole again?
Never, she thought grimly. Never. She ought to know that by now. Her mother had been murdered eighteen years ago, she couldn’t even remember