Secrets of the Rose

The sting of reality dissolved her memory of those halcyon days in the past. Though the reminder hurt, it helped Shelby center herself, refocus. She nodded, pinched her lips together to stem the prick of nearby tears.

“Grant died ten months ago. Ten months tod—yesterday.”

“Ten months to the day?” Natalie lifted an eyebrow at her nod. “Well.” She made a notation. “Can you tell me what happened to him?”

What would Grant say if he knew she’d lost their precious child? Or did he already know? Was Aimee with him?

No! Please God, not Aimee, too.

Come home, sweetheart. Please come home to me.

Shelby closed her eyes, drew several deep breaths, then dashed away the storm of tears.

The policewoman studied her as if she wasn’t sure what to do next, then she reached out for the tissue box and held it toward Shelby. Another detail to store—the woman was good at reading people. But then she would be, in her job.

Shelby took one, wadded the softness into a ball and forced herself to go back in time.

“I’m sure this is all in your files,” she muttered, unable to quench the bitterness that always boiled up at the unfairness of it. “You’d only have to read it.”

“I’d rather you told me.”

“Fine.” Shelby unclenched her fists and began. “We owned—I own a business called Finders, Inc. Someone asks us to recover something they’ve lost—stolen art, heirloom jewelry, that sort of thing. Or they ask us to find someone they need to get in touch with—a friend, a brother, heirs. We employ a team of specialized investigators who are trained to discreetly locate these things or people and, if possible, restore them to the client. At the time of his death, Grant was working on a project.”

The utter silliness of those words struck Shelby as she said them. Grant was always working on a project. He loved nothing more than the thrill of the chase, the rush of tracking down a special order and presenting it to a buyer with that grand flourish only he could pull off. He would never do it again.

Would it be the same with Aimee?

No! She wouldn’t think that. Stabs of pain radiated from behind her eyes. She squeezed them closed, breathing deeply to regain control. Focus, she ordered her brain.

“Can you go on?”

“Yes.” Shelby forced herself to speak of a time when life had been simple, happy. “The thing you need to understand is that I didn’t work Grant’s case.” She struggled to pull up whatever scant details her brain possessed. “Anything I say is secondhand information. I don’t know many of the particulars, but that he’d been hired to find something a client had lost years ago—in Europe, I think. At one point Grant had information that the object was in Greece, but the lead never panned out. He’d returned and was following something new when the ex-explosion took place. He was killed in the fire.” She bit her lip, the loss bitter still.

“I see.” Natalie wrote something on her little black pad in precise letters. She tapped a pencil against the paper. “Can you tell me what the object was?”

Shelby and Grant had created two rules when they’d developed their plans for Finders, Inc. He’d insisted that in order to protect themselves, they must refuse to be involved in anything illegal. The second rule was Shelby’s idea—once accepted, Finders would always finish the case. Underlying both rules lay the implicit understanding that a client’s identity would never be revealed.

Finders never broke a confidence. Never.

“Why would you need to know that?” Shelby took a second assessing look at the detective who appeared more like a model. “My husband is dead. Are you implying that Aimee was taken because of something he couldn’t find? Are you implying that she, too, might be dead?” She could barely say it. Only by clenching her fists could she force the unspeakable words past her lips, even while steeling herself for the worst.

“I’m not saying that. No! Not at all.” Natalie’s warm hand closed over Shelby’s. “Please don’t think that for a moment. But if we knew who his client was, what he was searching for and why, we might have an idea about who may be behind Aimee’s abduction. Perhaps your client was angry that your husband didn’t find his or her item. Perhaps your husband did find it and sold it elsewhere.” She held up a hand as Shelby began to protest. “It’s all supposition, but barring any other leads, I have to consider every angle. We want to find your daughter, Mrs. Kincaid.”

Was this woman trying to smear Grant’s reputation? Would that help her find Aimee? Shelby hated her sudden suspicion of everyone, of every situation. Grant would never have endangered her or Aimee. Never.

If Aimee was all right, then she was being held by someone. But there had been no ransom request. Nothing made sense. Who would steal a child from her home, from the mother who loved her beyond anything else in the world, for no reason?

“I can’t imagine what any of Grant’s work would have to do with Aimee’s abduction. And remember, my husband died ten months ago. Why wait this long?” She saw Natalie’s lips part and realized she was wasting time by arguing. “Never mind. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“Just tell me what you can recall.”

Shelby thought for a moment, organizing the bits of information her brain had retained.

“I never knew exactly what my husband was trying to recover. I was busy, working my own cases. When we were home, we deliberately focused on each other and our child, not on work. I do remember that Grant said his client was an older woman—over ninety, I think.” Was that what he’d said? Shelby reconsidered. “Or maybe the client hired him to find someone over ninety. Anyway, age was one reason why he wanted to conclude his investigation quickly.”

She reached toward the phone.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the client’s name offhand, but I can find out if you must know. Though I can hardly imagine she’d be a threat.”

Natalie frowned, shook her head.

“No. You’re probably right, a woman that old wouldn’t be involved in kidnapping. Perhaps something else connected with the business then? Some new client whom you’ve offended in some way?” she asked hopefully.

Shelby shook her head.

“Not me. Since Grant’s death, I haven’t even gone in to the office. Daniel, that’s Daniel McCullough, is in charge now. He was one of our operatives, but he’d ceased most of his fieldwork and begun to fill a role as coordinator when the business grew too much for Grant and I. Since Grant’s—well, lately Daniel’s been handling everything. If you want to know about other clients, you’d have to talk to him.”

“Okay. I’ll call him later. He’s trustworthy?”

“Completely.” At least there Shelby had no hesitation.

“Good. Now, I have more questions for you.”

Shelby rose, her mind moving into the automatic mode it would have used if this had been someone else’s child she’d been hired to find.

“Yes. You’ll want a picture, of course.” She started toward the door, but was prevented from moving by a firm hand on her arm.

“It’s okay, Shelby. We already have one. Your neighbor came over a few minutes ago. He woke up, saw the cars and was worried about you. He found a photo of himself and Aimee. We’re using that. For now.”

There was a look on Natalie’s face that Shelby didn’t understand.

“Tim? Tim is here?” She looked around, then realized that they would keep him away from her until they had all their answers. “Thank you, Lord, for Tim.”

“How well do you know Tim Austen, Shelby?”

Some flicker in the detective’s midnight-blue eyes added a waver of unease to the moment. Shelby frowned. There was something suspicious in her question.

“How well?” She shrugged. “As well as I know most people. Better, actually. He’s lived next door for about six months. No, maybe it’s been longer than that.” She drew a hand through her mussed-up hair and realized she hadn’t combed it, hadn’t yet showered. As if that mattered.

“I don’t remember exactly when Tim bought the house. But he never knew Grant. He came after that.” She smiled. “Aimee loves Tim. And he loves her. Tim often used to watch her playing while I was busy arranging details for the garden.”

“The garden?” Natalie stood at the window, her eyes on the newly tilled earth beyond the windows.

Shelby sucked in a breath of courage. Rehashing all these details seemed futile to her, but she supposed the police had to start somewhere.

“The rose garden. Yes.” She walked to the doors, pulled them open and motioned to the area beyond. “My husband loved roses. This was his garden. I’m working on plans to make this house and its grounds a public attraction, as a sort of memorial to him. He’d want to share the beauty he and Gran planned. Grant was my grandmother’s soul mate when it came to roses.” She couldn’t help the little smile that bubbled up at the memories.

Natalie scribbled in her book.