Читать книгу A Priceless Find - Kate James - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

CHELSEA’S HEART TRIPPED at the sight of the bright yellow Do Not Cross police barricade tape and blue-and-white flashing lights. Peering through her windshield, she couldn’t tell for certain this far down Willowbrook Avenue, but it looked as if all the activity was in front of the Sinclair Art Gallery.

It was too early for any of her colleagues to be at work. Whatever was going on, at least none of them would be hurt...or worse.

That was her overactive imagination again, she chastised herself. It was probably something as mundane as a malfunction in the gallery’s security system.

No. That would explain the police cars but not the barricade tape.

But what else could it be?

Then she thought of the gallery’s curator, her friend and mentor, Mr. Hadley, the only person who was occasionally at work before she was.

Chelsea’s heart rate kicked up another notch, and she had trouble breathing.

All she could think of was Mr. Hadley.

Pressing down on the accelerator, she sped toward the gallery. As she got closer, she realized the tape wasn’t in front of the gallery, after all. Her relief was short-lived, since whatever was going on involved the jewelry store next door. She was very fond of Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, the elderly couple who owned All That Glitters and Shines. She didn’t want any harm to befall them, either.

She slowed her ancient Honda Civic to a crawl near the storefront. Judging by the shards of glass strewn across the sidewalk, it had to be a break-in.

How many times had she urged Mr. Rochester to install an enclosed display cabinet on the outside wall—or, at a minimum, security bars—so something like this wouldn’t happen? Mr. Rochester always dismissed the idea good-naturedly, saying it wasn’t necessary in a friendly place like Camden Falls.

Craning her neck to see inside, she could make out shattered cases and toppled shelving before her view was obstructed by a tall man wearing a Camden Falls Police Department jacket. He was assisting someone across the room. As they turned toward a seating area, she glimpsed the other person.

“Oh, no!” Chelsea quickly pulled over to the curb behind a police cruiser. She slammed her vehicle into Park and jumped out. Ducking under the police tape, she rushed toward the entrance.

“Ma’am!” a police officer who’d been standing by the door called after her. “Ma’am, that’s a crime scene. You can’t go in there!”

He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp. Her only thought was of Mr. Rochester. “I most certainly can! I’m a friend of the owner’s,” she stated and pushed her way in through the door.

She couldn’t hold back a gasp when she saw Mr. Rochester. He was sitting on a settee, slumped over, his normally ruddy complexion parchment white. A paramedic crouched in front of him and was working to staunch the flow of blood from a wound on his temple.

Ignoring the officer who’d followed her in and dodging another who’d moved to intercept her, she ran over to Mr. Rochester. Dropping to her knees next to where the paramedic was, she touched his knee. “Mr. Roch—”

Before she could finish, a hand clamped around her upper arm and tugged her back up on her feet.

“Hey!” she started to protest, but the words died in her throat as her eyes met the steely blue ones of the cop she’d seen through the window. He was wearing plain clothes under his CFPD jacket and exuded an air of authority.

“Miller!” he called, apparently to the cop who’d been outside. “Who is this and how did she get in here?”

Miller shot Chelsea an exasperated look. “I have no idea who she is, other than that she says she’s a friend of his.” He pointed at Mr. Rochester. “She ignored the tape and ran past me. I tried to stop her...” He glanced down, but not quickly enough for Chelsea to miss the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. “She got by me, Detective,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” the detective retorted. “Well, get her out of here.”

“No. Wait!” Chelsea interjected. The detective and Miller both turned to her, but she barely noticed Miller. There was something commanding in the detective’s eyes, in his bearing. She supposed he was good-looking, in that tough-and-rugged way, but the frown and obvious exasperation in his eyes didn’t do much for his appeal. “It’s not the officer’s fault,” she said. “So there’s no point scolding him.”

The detective raised a brow, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I’m Chelsea Owens,” she continued and stuck out her hand with such resolve she didn’t give him much choice but to shake it. “I’m a sales associate at the Sinclair Gallery next door. Please, let me stay with Mr. Rochester. He’s hurt and...” She motioned around them. “And all this. This store means everything to him and Mrs. Rochester. He could use a friend right now,” she said, as the paramedic finished applying a bandage and joined his colleague at a nearby gurney.

The detective held her gaze for several heartbeats. The strong jaw and sharp features seemed to soften—definitely adding to his attractiveness—and he nodded. “All right. But stay with him. Don’t move around and don’t touch anything. Miller,” he called to the other officer. “Don’t let her contaminate the scene. If she causes any problems, I’m holding you responsible.” Lowering his voice, he murmured something to Miller that Chelsea couldn’t hear.

“Understood, Detective Eldridge,” Miller responded.

“Just a minute,” Chelsea interrupted, drawing Detective Eldridge’s attention again. The look in his eyes, not altogether unfriendly but...daunting, made her think better of arguing.

She remained silent and watched him move away. He was tall. At least a couple of inches over six feet. Broad-shouldered, with a confident, efficient gait. Admonishing herself for getting distracted at a time like this, she turned back to Mr. Rochester.

* * *

SAM ELDRIDGE WALKED OVER to a couple of crime scene technicians who were taking pictures and dusting for prints.

The older technician, Mike Kincaid, looked up at him. “What’s your call on this one?” he asked with a grin. “Prints or no prints?”

It was a game the techs liked to play with Sam. He was right far more often than he was wrong about whether they’d find any evidence. In this case, he didn’t want to hazard a guess. Pros tended to leave very little behind. He’d dealt with enough of them in Boston to know that for a fact. But he was getting mixed signals about this incident. There were indications that pros were involved. They hadn’t come in through the broken front window. They’d entered from the back without forcing the door open. On the other hand, once they were inside, not only had they broken the large front window, they’d gone to town on the interior. There was too much damage for a pro. Whoever did this would’ve had time to steal much more if he—or they—had caused less damage. Could it have been personal? “I’m not putting odds on this one,” he replied.

“That’s a shame,” Mike said. “I might’ve had you this time.”

“You’ve got something for me?” Sam asked hopefully.

“No, but if I was to put money on it...” Mike looked around. “This is sloppy. Amateurish. I’d say we’ll find some kind of evidence.”

Sam slid his hands into his pants pockets and nodded. “I hope you’re right.” He glanced over at a display table filled with sparkly diamond engagement rings. He’d done plenty of research when he’d bought Katherine’s ring, wanting it to be perfect. The bittersweet memory of the giddy excitement he’d felt back then at the prospect of marrying his high-school sweetheart taunted him. In the years since she’d left, he’d resigned himself to the likelihood that he’d never feel that way again. But despite the passage of time, he remembered enough to know that the display case contained pricey pieces. None appeared to be missing.

It didn’t make sense.

Looking around, Sam considered again whether the motivation was something other than theft or if whoever had broken in had lost his temper during the process. But if theft wasn’t the point, what was?

He turned back to where Rochester, the owner, was sitting. The guy had to be in his seventies. He’d been injured, which—considering the time of the break-in—probably hadn’t been part of the plan. Blunt-force trauma had rendered him unconscious. For how long was undetermined. The paramedics had bandaged his temple and were getting ready to transport him to the hospital to be checked for concussion.

The young woman—Chelsea Owens—was sitting close to Rochester, an arm draped around his shoulders and one of his hands held in her own. She was talking to him so softly that Sam couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious that she cared about the old man.

The way she’d charged into his crime scene was...peculiar. It was extraordinary enough that he’d asked Miller to run her to see if anything popped.

Sam took a moment to study her.

She had enormous green eyes, delicate features and a full mouth painted a strong red. She had short black hair. He figured it took some sort of product to get it all spiky like that on top. She wasn’t very tall, five foot four or five at most. She wore a short black dress under a black coat and appeared to have a slim, athletic build. He glanced down and noticed her black stockings. They had a sexy pattern on them. He had to admit there was no faulting her legs.

Not that he’d dated much since Katherine had left him, but when he did, his taste ran to the tall, blonde, leggy type. Chelsea had the legs, but that was about it. Yet he felt a stirring, a tug of attraction that wasn’t customary for him. It wasn’t entirely because of how she looked. It was the courage she’d shown. She was feisty, and that appealed to him. So did how gentle and caring she was with the old man.

He caught himself smiling. How many people would barge into a crime scene out of concern for the well-being of an acquaintance? And, no small feat, get by a couple of burly cops to do it? He knew that the psychology of some criminals was to come back to the scene of the crime while it was under investigation. That was the reason he’d asked Miller to run her, although he hadn’t truly believed Chelsea Owens had anything to do with the break-in. As he’d expected, Miller reported that other than a speeding ticket, she was clean. There was nothing on her record that suggested criminal activity.

Sam turned his attention to Rochester again. If he hadn’t come in early—deviating from his normal routine because he hadn’t been able to sleep and thought he’d get the month-end inventory done before the store opened—the place would’ve been unoccupied. Rochester hadn’t seen his assailant, nor did he have any recollection of what had happened. Short-term memory loss wasn’t uncommon with the type of head injury he’d sustained.

Did the perpetrator or perpetrators go ballistic because they’d expected to find the store empty, and Rochester had spoiled whatever they’d had in mind? Then again, the intruder should’ve known someone was inside since the alarm system hadn’t been armed. If not, that pointed to an amateur again.

At Rochester’s age, the blow could’ve been fatal. Sam’s anger, immediate and intense, was unproductive, but he couldn’t help it. Despite having been in law enforcement for over a decade, he hadn’t become so calloused that he wasn’t affected by the plight of a victim. He hated to see anyone hurt, but children, the elderly and—label him what you will, he was old-school in some ways—women getting injured bothered him the most.

On the topic of women... After his initial irritation at Chelsea, he was grateful she’d appeared. When he’d asked Rochester whom they could call, he’d been vehement that they not contact his wife. He’d explained she had a weak heart and he didn’t want to worry her. Sam had to respect the man for caring about his wife and wanting to protect her. Instead, Rochester had given them contact information for his nephew, Adam. Adam worked at the store, too, he’d said. But both numbers he’d provided had gone straight to voice mail. Rochester had cautioned that Adam wasn’t an early riser.

So, Sam was glad Chelsea had come along to soothe Rochester and keep him company until either the nephew arrived or the paramedics transported him to the hospital. Sam had been worried about the man’s pallor and how fragile he’d seemed. She’d obviously eased some of his tension, and his color was much better.

Watching her smile at one of the paramedics, he felt a strange churning in his stomach. Her big green eyes were filled with warmth, and the smile accentuated her well-defined cheekbones and delicate nose and chin.

As the paramedics were helping Rochester onto a stretcher for transport to the hospital, a slim, agitated man rushed into the store.

“What the heck is going on here?” Sam asked Miller, not hiding his frustration. “Do we have a c’mon-in sign hanging out there?”

Miller’s cheeks colored again. “He’s the nephew, Adam Rochester. You said to let him in when he got here.”

It wasn’t Sam’s nature to lose his temper and take it out on members of his team. “Sorry, Joe,” he said with a pat on the young officer’s back. “Coffee’s on me when we drive back to the station.” And he hoped they could wrap up here and be on their way soon.

There was something that didn’t sit right with him about the break-in, and it wasn’t just that occurrences like this were rare in the small town of Camden Falls.