time destroying the place. We didn’t find any prints, nothing we could use, am I correct?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. Most of the prints we found were those of the owners and their nephew, who also works at the store.”
“But you had enough doubt not to bet on it.”
“Yeah. I can’t ignore the conflicting signals. My theory’s a stretch, so this is where I need you to keep an open mind. I know we haven’t seen this in Camden Falls—not to the best of my knowledge, anyway—but Willowbrook Avenue is where we have our concentration of high-end retailers. When I worked the beat in Boston, it wasn’t unusual for pros to prepare for a major heist by creating a disturbance nearby to test police-response times. I’ve been wondering if that might be the case in this situation.”
“As you said, it’s a stretch. I haven’t heard of that happening here, either. Besides, Camden Falls is a small town. No retail or commercial business is that far from us, and our department isn’t large. There’d be significant variability in response times, based on what else we might have on the go at any moment and how many of us would be otherwise occupied.”
“That occurred to me, too.”
“Have you considered an addict, looking for some quick drug money?”
“Yeah. The cash drawer wasn’t tampered with. If that was the case and even if the perp was flying high, he’d have gone for cash or the flashier items, in my opinion. What got me thinking about the response-time angle is the fact that it wasn’t the security company that alerted us. As we both know, when an intrusion alarm goes off, more often than not, it’s a failure in the system or a false alarm. It also means that the overall response time is longer, since it goes through the monitoring company, and they’ll attempt to contact the premises first. If they can’t reach anyone and if their standing orders specify it, they call us. That could take anywhere from five to ten extra minutes. In this case, the intrusion alarm had already been deactivated by the owner when the perp entered. The panic button, linked directly to us, was triggered.”
“That makes sense, since the owner was on the premises.”
“But Arnold Rochester doesn’t recall activating the panic button.” Sam gestured to keep Colin from interrupting. “Yeah, we could speculate that although he doesn’t have a concussion, the trauma might’ve caused short-term memory loss. But we found him some distance from the location of the panic button, and that idea just doesn’t ring true to me.”
“So, how do you plan to proceed?”
Sam shrugged. “I’ll have a closer look at some of the stores along that stretch of Willowbrook. And it wouldn’t hurt to route some extra patrols through that area for the time being.”
Colin stood up. “I can do that in the short-term, but if you’re right and we’re dealing with pros, who knows how long they might wait before acting. You’re aware of our resource constraints. We won’t be able to keep it up for more than a couple of weeks.”
“Understood.”
Sam was satisfied with how their discussion had gone. It probably worked in his favor that Colin had started his policing career in a big city, too. Without that, he might have dismissed Sam’s theory outright. But it was the only plausible one Sam could come up with, short of a random act perpetrated by a very stupid person.
He brought up a mental image of the street and the dozen or so stores. The Sinclair Gallery came to mind, along with a spirited woman with short dark hair. Chelsea Owens. He remembered her name without having to check his notes. She’d said she worked as a sales associate. He’d never set foot inside the gallery. His taste in art wasn’t eclectic. He liked his art plain and simple, and as realistic as possible. Photographs were even better. He wasn’t big on abstracts or old paintings, with their gloomy colors and depictions. He frankly found them depressing. But Sam knew some of that stuff was valued ridiculously high. He had no idea what the pieces at the Sinclair Gallery cost.
Maybe it was time to have a look and find out.
He’d read in the morning paper that there was going to be an exhibit and auction at the gallery Saturday evening. Ever since Katherine had left him and moved back to Boston, his social calendar had been meager, and he had no plans for the weekend.
The exhibit presented an ideal opportunity to check out the gallery.
THE GALLERY’S SHOWROOM looked perfect. Chelsea had worked darn hard to make sure it did. The annual exhibit and auction tended to draw a big crowd and was an important event for them. The gallery itself was a dominant presence on Willowbrook Avenue and in the community. It had been ever since Mrs. Sinclair established it when she’d moved to Camden Falls from Cambridge. She was already widowed at the time. Her son and daughter-in-law had died in the same tragic accident as her husband, so she was also Joel’s guardian. Mrs. Sinclair was a bit of a celebrity in Camden Falls, and the gallery’s annual gala was on many townspeople’s social calendars, but it also attracted patrons from Boston, Cambridge and well beyond.
The event was a big deal, and Chelsea had nagged Mr. Hadley until he’d agreed to let her handle it mostly on her own. Joel had coordinated the media, public relations and advertising, but the showroom was all hers!
It was another test she’d set for herself. Despite being her own worst critic, she was pleased with how everything looked.
The hors d’oeuvre stations had been set up and the members of the waitstaff were finishing final preparations in the kitchen. The area where the auction would be held was ready and cordoned off. Nothing seemed out of place.
Chelsea relished these quiet moments before the guests started to arrive and she could be alone to take pleasure in her work.
Mr. Hadley was in his office, changing into his tuxedo, and Joel had gone to his apartment to get ready. He’d pick up his grandmother on his way back. Tina, the gallery’s administrative assistant, and Deborah, the gallery’s other full-time sales associate, had already changed into their dresses. The event was advertised as black-tie optional, but Mrs. Sinclair expected the gallery team to dress up, as did most of their regular patrons. Mrs. Sinclair might be a sweet old lady, but she had exacting standards for herself and the people who worked for her. And her resolve, once she’d set her sights on something, was unwavering.
No, there was no room for Chelsea to make a mistake.
She moved to where she’d positioned a wingback chair for Mrs. Sinclair. Vital and youthful though she looked, she was nearing eighty and—as much as Chelsea knew she hated her own weakness—she could no longer be on her feet all evening. She needed short rests whenever time allowed.
After taking one last look around the room, it was time for Chelsea to get ready, too. In the women’s washroom, she changed into the black cocktail dress she’d bought for the occasion. It was plain other than a sheer-lace panel across the shoulders, and some lace at the hemline just below her knees. Chelsea removed the two jewelry boxes from the case she’d brought with her. She opened the long slender one and carefully pulled out the beautiful single-strand pearl necklace. Admiring it first, she secured it around her neck. Next, she took the matching earrings out of their box and fastened them to her earlobes. The set had been her beloved grandmother’s, who’d passed it on to her mother. Chelsea’s mother had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday. Chelsea treasured it, because
