Cold Case, Hot Accomplice. Carla Cassidy
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could buckle a woman’s knees.
With a new flash of irritation, she nibbled on her thumbnail until they pulled into Aunt Liz’s driveway. Roxy dug a set of keys from her purse, and then together they got out of the car and approached the house.
Roxy unlocked the front door and shoved it open; the absence of sweet baking scents shot a stabbing pain through her center.
When they had been here the day before, they had only done a cursory search, looking for her aunt. She knew that today Steve would be looking for other things or the lack of items that might provide a clue as to what had happened yesterday morning that had kept Aunt Liz from her usual schedule.
He stopped her before she walked from the entry into the living room. “I want you to stand here and look around. See if anything looks out of place or is missing,” he said.
She nodded and studied the living room as if seeing it for the first time. The sofa was a floral print, slightly worn and matching the overstuffed chair nearby. Behind the chair, a floor lamp sat to provide Liz additional light as she quilted or embroidered in neat little stitches. Her quilting material was all in a blue-flowered tote next to the chair, an embroidery hoop visible with a pattern half-completed by colorful threads.
The bookshelves that lined one wall held a variety of items, including photos of her and her sisters, mementoes from the time Liz had worked in Hershey at the Hershey factory and plenty of books.
“Nothing missing and nothing out of place,” she announced. Nothing except her aunt, who wasn’t in her chair with her quilting in her lap and her glasses propped down on the lower end of her nose.
“Okay, let’s move into the kitchen.” He placed a hand at the small of her back as they walked through the living room. Roxy wanted to protest the touch, but she found it oddly comforting.
When they reached the kitchen it was just as they’d left it the day before, the baked goods still on the countertop along with Liz’s purse and car keys.
After looking around and seeing nothing else amiss, Roxy opened the pie containers. Lemon meringue and chocolate silk. “These need to be thrown out,” she said, and he watched as she tossed the pies into the trash container. She opened the cake pan to see a black forest cake. “I can’t serve this at the restaurant, but it’s still good. Do you want to take it home with you?”
He looked at her suspiciously, as if perhaps she might be offering him a poisoned apple. “Why can’t you serve it in the restaurant?”
“Because it’s a day old. I promise you it’s perfectly good. I just won’t allow day-old desserts to be served at the Dollhouse.”
“Okay, then I’ll take it to Sunday lunch tomorrow at my mom’s.”
“Oh, your mother lives around here?”
“Yes, and I have lunch with her every Sunday. My father passed away eight months ago from a heart attack. Where did you think I came from? Under a rock?”
“Actually, I thought maybe you crawled out of a seashell. You’ve got the surfer dude attitude down pat,” she replied honestly.
“Surfer dude?” His amazing blue eyes stared at her blankly.
“You know, the shaggy sun-streaked hair, the laid-back attitude, the chicks that follow you around everywhere...” She allowed her voice to trail off, wondering how they had gotten so far off track.
“You obviously know nothing about me or my life, whatever your impression or my reputation might indicate.” There was a touch of irritation in his tone as he gestured her out of the room and down the hallway.
His cell phone rang, and he dug it out of his pocket and checked the caller identification. “I’ve got to take this. It’s a private call.” He ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Probably one of those girlfriends of his, Roxy thought. She walked into the first bedroom that used to belong to Sheri and Marlene when they’d all been growing up together. It still held twin beds with pink spreads, two matching upright dressers and a single nightstand between the beds.
Rather than an array of clothing for two growing girls, the closet now held quilts already made and boxes of material and thread, along with a large standing hoop.
The bathroom door opened, and Steve rejoined her. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“There’s nothing missing.” Roxy thought they were wasting time and was irrationally irritated by his private phone call.
The second bedroom had been Roxy’s, but it had since been transformed into a storage area with shelves that held baking items, storage containers and utensils the small kitchen couldn’t hold.
By the time they reached Liz’s bedroom, Roxy had a mere finger grasp of patience left. Seeing the neatly made double bed where Roxy had often spent stormy nights snuggled with her aunt and younger sisters nearly cast her to her knees in worried grief.
She turned to Steve, who stood just outside the door in the hallway. “It’s all the same. Nothing is missing, so whatever happened to her didn’t involve a robbery. There are no signs of a struggle anywhere in the house. We’re wasting time here. It’s obvious she isn’t here, and there’s nothing to point to where she might be right now.”
“Roxy, this is all going to be a process of elimination. We had to check the house in order to eliminate any clues that might be here.” He spoke in slow, measured words, as if explaining something to a two-year-old.
Before she could respond, a knock sounded from the back door in the kitchen. Roxy started down the hallway to answer, but Steve grabbed her by the arm and pushed her behind him at the same time that he pulled his gun.
It was at that moment that Roxy realized two things—that Steve was taking this far more seriously than she’d thought he was, and that there was absolutely no guarantee of a happy ending.
* * *
The man at the back door wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a beard that instantly identified him as one of the Amish from the nearby settlement. The older man’s eyes widened as he saw Steve with his gun through the door window.
“That’s Mr. Zooker,” Roxy said from behind Steve. “Put your gun away before you give the poor man a heart attack.”
Steve holstered his gun and opened the door. The tall, muscular man was clad in the traditional white shirt and black trousers, and beyond him in the driveway Steve saw the horse and buggy that he’d arrived in.
His blue eyes softened as Roxy stepped in front of Steve. “Good morning to you, Mr. Zooker,” she said.
He nodded. “A good day to you. I have a delivery for your aunt. Could I speak to her?”
“I’m Detective Steve Kincaid.” Steve took control by once again stepping between Roxy and the man at the door.
“Abraham Zooker. Is there a problem with Mrs. Marcoli?” A line of concern deepened in his broad forehead.
“We aren’t sure. When was the last time you saw or spoke to her?”
Zooker frowned and pulled on the end of his long salt-and-pepper beard. “It would have been three weeks ago. I was at the Roadside Stop delivering some of my furniture to Miss Marlene and Miss Sheri when Mrs. Marcoli approached me and ordered a piece from me.”
“Was she expecting you today?” Steve asked.
“Not specifically. I told her I would deliver it once it was ready, and I’d planned a trip into town so I decided to attempt to deliver it today. If she isn’t here, I can always come back another time.”
“You’re here now so you might as well drop off whatever you brought. Have you been paid?” Roxy asked.
Abraham nodded. “I was paid in full when your aunt ordered the piece.” He backed away from the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Steve