Finding Sarah Read Online Free PDF

you’re busy. I can come back.”
    “I can’t talk now, but I could
use another pair of hands. As long as you’re here, can you help?”
    “I don’t know anything about
this.” He started inching toward the door, trying not to look at the people in
the room, trying to push away the memories they dredged up.
    She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “Neither do most of them. It’s therapy more than art. Just offer
encouragement.”
    “Hey, Sarah!”
    Randy followed the crackling
voice to its source, an elderly woman whose hand trembled as she tried to shape
a mound of clay into what Randy could only envision as a differently shaped
mound of clay. “I need one of those stick things.”
    “Why don’t you help Mrs.
Rasmussen? She had a stroke a few months ago and she needs to use her right arm
more. There’s an apron by the sink and tongue depressors on the table—help her
hold it and move it along the clay with her.”
    He could feel the color draining
from his face. “I’m not sure I can be much help.”
    “Relax. It’s not supposed to end
up being a Maria Martinez. It’s the doing that’s important.”
    Forget Gram. Maintain. “Got it.”
He rebuilt his wall and went to help Mrs. Rasmussen.
    At seven-thirty, staff escorted
the residents from the room. Randy followed Sarah, helping as she collected
tools, folded plastic sheets and wiped down tables.
    “You look happy,” he said. “How
was work?”
    Her eyes were blue Christmas
lights. “I haven’t had so many customers in weeks, even if most of them
probably came in out of curiosity. They bought, which is good enough for me
right now.”
    “And this? You obviously enjoy
it.”
    “Maggie, my neighbor, got me
started doing this about three years ago. Lately, it’s the high point of my
week.” She started covering the unfinished creations with plastic wrap. “Why
don’t you ask your questions while I finish cleaning?”
    “I can help,” Randy said.
    “No, thanks. I need to be doing
something,” she said. She turned her eyes to his, and he thought some of the
light had dimmed. His gut twisted at the thought he might have caused it.
    Randy retrieved his briefcase,
pulled out his notepad and pen. He took a seat at an empty table. “I
understand.” He clicked his pen open and printed the date and time on a clean
page. “I want to know everything about your store.”
    “There’s not much. After college,
David and I managed the shop. Back then, our merchandise was the mass-produced,
everyday stuff you could find anywhere. We wanted to add that special
something—that’s what we called the shop when we bought out the previous owner.
It took a while, but we convinced some of the local craftsmen and artisans to
let us carry their work on consignment.”
    “You’d think they’d have jumped
at the chance to have someone showcase their work.”
    Sarah collected scraps of clay
and dumped them into a large plastic bucket. “About a year later, we found out
they’d heard we weren’t reliable. Rumors in the art community, but we proved
them wrong.” She added water to the bucket, covered it, and looked at him. “Do
you think that might mean something?”
    “I told you, I like to find out
as much as possible about a case. I’m looking for common denominators. Go on.”
    “We had the normal business
snafus. Little things. Broken merchandise, shipment mix-ups. Things like that
happen. I remember some exclusive hand-painted dinnerware that ended up at a
rival shop in Cottonwood.”
    “What shop?”
    “Pandora’s. Wait a minute.
Anjolie.” She dried her hands and took a seat across from him.
    “What are you talking about?” He
could almost see the synapses firing as he waited for her to answer.
    “I don’t know how or if this
fits, but Pandora’s is one of our chief competitors. It opened right after we
took over our shop. Some of our orders ended up there. And Anjolie—it was her
silver that was stolen—showed up right after