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"No, thank you. But if you have gift boxes, I would appreciate it."

Sarah ducked beneath the counter for the boxes, calculating what the sale would mean to her bottom line. When she rose, she stared into a gun barrel.

Her mouth went dry. Her knees wobbled and she grabbed the edge of the glass, transfixed by the gleaming metal.

"I'm sorry, my dear." The woman's voice seemed to come from nowhere. "I'm a bit short at the moment, but I do want these lovely things." She slid the picture frame into her purse.

"What?" The word came out as a hoarse croak.

"I believe you heard me." Keeping the gun trained on Sarah, the woman stepped around the counter. "Unlock the register … Sarah, is it? I could use a little spending money."

Time froze. Sarah glanced toward the street, but saw no one who could have heard her scream, if she'd been able to get a sound past the tightness in her throat. She kept a pair of shears in a drawer, but the woman was standing in front of it. Not that she'd have the nerve to stab someone holding a gun. The woman leaned over Sarah, her breath smelling of peppermint. Sarah felt the press of cold steel against her back.

"Do it," the woman said. "Slowly."

"I will. Please. Don't hurt me." Barely able to get the key into the lock with her trembling fingers, Sarah did as the woman asked, relieved that all she had in the drawer was her opening bank.

"Give me the cash," the woman said. "Just the bills."

Sarah's fumbling fingers scooped out the money.

The woman snatched it from Sarah's hands, then dropped a twenty on the counter. "You see, I'm not leaving you penniless." Without lowering the gun, the woman backed toward the door. "I don't want to appear greedy, but I think I'll take a few of these animal carvings, too. Give my compliments to the artist." Still training the gun on Sarah, she set the vase down on the display table and filled it with the small wooden creatures. "Have a nice day." She picked up the vase and backed out the door.

*****

Sarah struggled to decipher the legalese of her insurance policy as she awaited the arrival of the police. She dreaded the thought of another claim. Getting everything straight after the electrical fire in January had been a nightmare. She'd been reading the same paragraph over and over when a knock and a voice at the front door set her heart pounding.

"Ms. Tucker? It's Detective Randy Detweiler, Pine Hills Police."

She unlocked the door to a tall, lanky man dressed in black denim pants and a gray sweater, gripping several bulky plastic bags. At five-four, Sarah didn't consider herself exceptionally short, but she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

"No problem. Normally, we'd send a uniform to take your statement, but you've described someone we call Gracious Gertie. I've worked her case, so I thought I'd speed things up."

He brushed past her, spread the bags on the counter, then flashed a leather case with a gold badge. "Gertie's a sore spot with me. Do these look familiar? I found them in the alley about half a block away."

Sarah froze at what appeared to be Gertie's head in a bag on the counter, until she realized it was a wig, still attached to the black hat. The suit coat, shoes and even the large designer bag filled the rest of the counter space. "What—?"

"It's her typical MO, although this is the first time she's left her costume behind. Usually, she hits places that don't get a lot of traffic, always disguised differently and she never takes much from any one place. She hit several shops on the other side of town about a year ago. Looks like she's back."

"Then you should be able to catch her, right?" She forced herself to slow down. "You don't understand. I need my things. You have that stuff. Can't you find some clues or something?" Sarah heard her voice quaver. No way was she going to break down in front of this police officer. Hands clutched across her middle as if to still the churning inside, she turned and walked away.

"I know you're upset, ma'am, but I have to be honest. She's been getting away with this in small towns all over Oregon for at least two years. Believe me, I'd love to be the one to bring her in, but I don't think you should get your hopes up about recovering your merchandise."

Sarah leaned against a display table and fought nausea, dizziness and then fury. She took a deep breath.

"Why don't you tell me as much as you remember," the detective said. His voice seemed to float from the distance.

"What?" She started to walk toward him and her legs gave way. A strong hand grasped her elbow.

"Take it easy. You've been held up at gunpoint. Sometimes it gets worse once you realize you're safe. Let's sit down. No need to rush into the paperwork."

"No, I want to do this." She looked into the detective's face, saw an aquiline nose and scrutinizing brown eyes. A wayward lock of dark brown hair hung over his forehead, calling attention to a small scar above his left eyebrow. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but before she could summon the memory, the door chimed and she turned away.

A slender man sporting a stubble of beard, dressed in blue coveralls and baseball cap, stood in the doorway, taking a slow look around. He held a large metal case. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detective. "You think we'll get anything?"

"I'm not sure," Detective Detweiler said. "You'll have to dry the clothes—I found them in a puddle."

"You get pictures?" the man asked.

"Yes." Detective Detweiler turned to Sarah. "This is Mike Connor from the lab. He'll dust for prints. Can you remember what she touched?"

"The silver over there." Sarah pointed to the table. "Those animal carvings and I think she was looking at the baskets. I know she was wearing gloves when she came in." She faltered. "I can't be positive she still had them on when she came to the register. All I remember is the gun." Speaking the word aloud brought back the fear.

"I'll need her prints for elimination." The lab tech faced Sarah. "This won't take long."

As if it were happening to someone else, Sarah watched him ink and roll her fingers. He slipped a card into an envelope and handed her a paper towel dipped in some gooey cleanser. She held it, transfixed, until she felt a warm touch and realized Detective Detweiler was wiping the ink from her fingers. She snatched her hands away and scrubbed them herself.

"Ms. Tucker can give me the details over coffee," Detective Detweiler said to the tech. "We'll be at Sadie's down the block."

"Is that normal police procedure?" Sarah asked.

"It is when the victim of a crime is in obvious distress. Where are your keys?"

"In the office. On a hook by the door."

His long legs covered the distance in three strides and he returned with Sarah's coat as well. "Let's go." He draped the coat over Sarah's shoulders and held the door for her.

"The back door locks automatically," Sarah said to the tech. "You can go out that way when you finish."

The fresh air, damp with traces of rain, revived her and she navigated the short distance to the café with only an occasional hint of support from Detective Detweiler.

They found a booth in the back, and the detective ordered coffee and muffins. "You want your usual decaf, Sarah?" the waitress asked.

"Please."

When the waitress left, Sarah eyed Detective Detweiler. "What? No doughnuts?"

"Don't let it get out. I hate 'em. Probably have to turn in my badge if anyone found out."

Sarah was surprised to feel a grin tug at the corner of her mouth.

The waitress appeared with coffee and a napkin-covered basket. Detective Detweiler lifted the napkin and pushed the basket toward Sarah. "Now, eat a muffin. We'll talk later."

She broke off a small piece of blueberry muffin. The jittery feeling in her stomach hadn't disappeared, and she hesitated before putting it in her mouth.

"Please. Eat. You look like you're bordering on shock." He took her coffee cup and stirred in a liberal amount of sugar. "The sugar will help. Cream?"

She nodded and he poured. "I skipped breakfast, that's all."

"That and a gun in your face will do it every time."

Sarah swallowed a morsel of the sweet muffin. Suddenly ravenous, she relished the rest of it. She looked up into those deep brown eyes again, glimpsing flecks of hazel this time. "Thank you. I guess I was hungrier than I thought."

"Eat another one and relax while I make some notes." He pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen open.

Sarah resisted an instant before plucking a muffin from the basket. The detective seemed engrossed in his notes and she was grateful for his silence. Once she finished her coffee, she grasped the table's edge. "I guess we'd better do whatever we have 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 deep breath. "Please. This can't have anything to do with the little old witch who robbed me."

"I'm sorry, but we have to consider everything." Three more clicks of his pen. "Do you know what kind of gun Gertie used? Revolver? Automatic?"

Sarah shuddered. "I don't know anything about guns. It looked … big."

"If you saw a picture, would you recognize it?"

"Maybe. I usually notice things, but—"

"Don't worry about it. It's not unusual when you're frightened. Let's move on. Who else has been in the store today? It'll help Connor eliminate more prints."

Sarah relaxed a little at the shift in the conversation. "Nobody was in the shop before Gertie, except me … and—"

"And who?"

Sarah paused a moment. "A friend. Chris. Christopher Westmoreland. He was there before Gertie came in. But there's no way he could be involved."

"You know him well?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I can't see him rubbing elbows with a thief. He's a bigwig at Consolidated Enterprises."

Randy made his notes. "Thank you. I'll talk to him. Next question. How much did Gertie take?"

"Two expensive silver pieces and a handful of small carved animals. And about two hundred in cash." She managed a wry grin. "She left me twenty dollars."

"Do you have any recollection of her being in the shop before today?"

"I don't think so. It's been quiet, unless she came in during the Christmas season. We were busier then."

"You have any other employees? Someone else who might remember her?"

"No. Only me." She tried not to think of working side-by-side with David, but her voice quavered.