color. Besides, C. R. wouldn't be caught dead—
She
winced as Shep tossed the jacket in the back and helped her out of the car.
"Did
I hurt you?" He released his hold on her arm.
"No,
I'm just a little stiff from yesterday's accident, I guess." Somehow her
rubberlike legs supported her. Part of her insisted the jacket was just a
fluke. She was overreacting with nerves that were frayed to the point of
snapping. Yet another more latent voice cried out, God? as if some
heavenly voice was going to reassure her.
"The
jack and spare are still there," Shep observed from behind her. He rifled
through the contents of the trunk.
Unless
C. R.'s jacket had been taken by his murderer. Unadulterated fear chilled the
very marrow of her bones, oblivious to her desperate reasoning. But how had the
man found her car when she didn't even know where she was?
"It's
a real tire, too," Charlie observed in approval as Shep pulled out an old
map that must have belonged to the previous owner from under the spare.
No,
the one who searched her place couldn't have found her, she concluded, grateful
that both men seemed oblivious to her dismay. It was simply impossible.
"Don't
see much of that anymore," the mechanic went on. "Them flimsy little
emergency jobs come standard now."
Shep
grinned. "Not in these cars, Charlie." He handed Deanna her
leather-encased portfolio. "Anything missing in this?"
As
though expecting something to fly out at her, she peeked inside. Nothing inside
was worth stealing, just plain paper and her drafting supplies. She had no real
work in progress, having been on the job just long enough to acquaint herself
with the current procedures and marketing personnel. At least her search gave
her a chance to find her voice, if not any answers to the questions bombarding
her.
"Nothing
is missing that I can tell. Like Mr. Long said—"
"Make
that Charlie," the older man interrupted. "I don't hold with much
formality around here."
"Like
Charlie said," Deanna flashed an appreciative glance at her host,
"whoever went through the car must have just been curious." And he
was likely some vagrant who lucked out at a shelter with wealthy contributors.
C. R. didn't have the only expensive jacket in the world. She took a deep
breath to override the sense of helplessness her lingering doubt instilled.
"Or
thought there might be some money tucked away," Charlie speculated.
"This model all but shouts big bucks."
"Well,
it lies," Deanna said. "Just because it looks expensive doesn't mean
it was." And just because the jacket looked like C. R.'s didn't mean it
was. Appearances could be misleading. "I'm just glad they didn't damage
anything when they found nothing worth stealing."
It had to be vandals... a fluke. Since she was certain that she couldn't
find where she was on a map, the police or the people who'd ransacked her
apartment couldn't either. End of story.
"Buck
didn't give him much time to think beyond saving his hide." Charlie
pointed to the bulldog watching them through the folds of his brow.
Buck
didn't look like Deanna's idea of a junkyard dog, despite Charlie's talking as
if the animal did more than sleep, eat, and cast a lazy eye over visitors.
Somehow she pictured a Doberman or a rottweiler, not a pudgy pooch that hardly
looked as if it could catch a burglar any more than its stub of a tail. Talk
about appearances being deceiving.
"Nonetheless,
you ought to report it, Charlie." As if his word settled the matter, Shep
started toward the Jeep. "Never can tell about these things."
Deanna
cast a quizzical look at Shep as she got in on the passenger side. His
expression was fathomless, suggesting neither suspicion nor dismissal. From
what she'd seen to date of her rescuer, if he were to err, it would be on the
side of caution.
"Aw,
I hate to bother Sheriff Barrett. And that deputy of his is more interested in
listenin' to the scanner than doin' anything productive." Charlie followed
Shep to the vehicle. "I been tellin' you,
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley