Who says opposites can’t find love?

A robbery followed by the discovery of a forgery at a respected art gallery thrusts Chelsea Owens into the center of an investigation headed by Detective Sam Eldridge. The instant chemistry between the high-spirited aspiring curator and the tall, dark, brooding cop is a classic case of opposites attract.

Complications arise when Chelsea uncovers a connection to an unsolved art heist. Teaming up with Sam to find the stolen paintings ignites feelings that could lead to lasting love. But Sam isn’t ready to move beyond the tragedy in his past, no matter how promising his future with Chelsea could be...

Her emotions were in turmoil.

Chelsea was concerned about Sam’s injury. She was also excited about her feelings for him and that he’d been so open with her. Overwhelmed, she breathed deeply, fighting for control.

Sam nudged her. “Chelsea. Please don’t be upset. Whatever it is, it’s not a problem. Truth be told...” He took her hand and pulled her close to his chest, resting his head on top of hers once more. “I needed this more than I realized. I missed you and I want to start seeing you again. Are you okay with that?”

Her tears were blurring her vision and clogging her throat. Not ashamed to let him see how she was feeling, she drew back and looked at him and nodded.

“I’m glad,” he said softly, before lowering his head to brush his lips across hers.

That kiss was unlike any that Chelsea had shared with Sam before. It left her a little breathless...and more stirred by a kiss than she could remember.

Dear Reader,

The idea for A Priceless Find has been around for a while. Chelsea Owens, my heroine, first appeared in my November 2014 release, A Child’s Christmas, and she’s been clamoring for her own story ever since. Once you’ve read A Priceless Find, you’ll appreciate that if Chelsea sets her sights on a goal, she goes after it wholeheartedly! In the face of that sort of good-natured determination, I had to give in and write Chelsea’s story.

One aspect of writing A Priceless Find that I particularly enjoyed was having the famous Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist for inspiration. For those readers who are interested in learning about the actual heist, you can do so through the Gardner Museum’s website. The crime remains unsolved to date.

If you would like to use A Priceless Find for your book club, discussion questions are available on my website at kate-james.com/book-clubs.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading Chelsea and Sam’s story as much as I did writing it!

As always, I would love to hear from you. You can connect with me through my website (kate-james.com), Facebook page (Facebook.com/katejamesbooks), Twitter (Twitter.com/katejamesbooks) or mail me at PO Box 446, Schomberg, ON, L0G 1T0, Canada.

Thank you for choosing to spend your valuable leisure time with one of my books.

Kate

A Priceless Find

Kate James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE JAMES spent much of her childhood abroad before attending university in Canada. She built a successful business career, but her passion has always been literature. As a result, Kate turned her energy to her love of the written word. Kate’s goal is to entertain her readers with engaging stories featuring strong, likable characters. Kate has been honored with numerous awards for her writing. She and her husband, Ken, enjoy traveling and the outdoors with their beloved Labrador retrievers.

To all the readers and book reviewers who support my work and make it possible for me to do what I love.

Once again, I would like to recognize the hard work, dedication, professionalism and sheer brilliance of the Harlequin team working behind the scenes to help make each of my books the very best it can be. I would especially like to thank Victoria Curran, Kathryn Lye and Paula Eykelhof for their support and invaluable contributions.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

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.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS NEARING six thirty that evening when Chelsea, balancing her dry cleaning, a large pizza box and a bag of groceries, let herself into her second-floor apartment. As she nudged the door closed with her foot, Mindy, her oversize gray-and-white cat, emerged from the bedroom. Mindy made her annoyance at Chelsea’s late arrival abundantly clear with a haughty lift of her head and a testy meow.

“I’m sorry I’m late. How about salmon for dinner to make up for it?” Chelsea asked to appease the cat.

Mindy responded with a mournful grumble as she sauntered toward the kitchen.

Chelsea tossed her keys on the hall table, hung her dry cleaning in the coat closet and slipped off her shoes. Following the sound of Mindy’s meowing, Chelsea headed for the kitchen. She put the pizza box on the counter, opened a can of Mindy’s favorite food and scooped the contents into the cat’s dish. Then she hurriedly put away the groceries she’d picked up.

With the late start to her workday because of the time she’d spent at All That Glitters and Shines, and subsequently everyone wanting to talk about the robbery, she’d left the gallery quite late. Luckily, considering all the excitement, she’d remembered Paige was coming over for dinner.

Paige and her adorable son, Jason, had been her downstairs neighbors from the time Chelsea moved in until Paige had married Daniel Kinsley. Paige was also Chelsea’s closest friend. The house Paige and Daniel had bought wasn’t far, but Chelsea still missed seeing Paige nearly every day, as she had for almost three years. And it wasn’t just Paige. She missed Jason, too. He was ten and a half now, and how wonderful that he’d been free of cancer for almost three years.

This was one of the rare nights that Paige wasn’t with her family, since Daniel and Jason had a father-and-son event at Jason’s school, and Daniel’s parents had insisted on watching baby Emily for the evening. Chelsea had planned to cook dinner, but she’d run out of time. Thankfully, Paige was undemanding and understanding...and it was probably for the best. Cooking wasn’t one of Chelsea’s strengths, which was why she liked to practice on Paige when she had the opportunity.

She selected a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from her little wine rack and uncorked it to let it breathe.

Checking her watch, Chelsea realized she had exactly seventeen minutes to get changed before Paige was due to arrive.

She was in and out of the shower in less than five minutes, and quickly dressed in her usual leisure wear of black leggings and a chunky sweater. She rubbed her wet hair with a towel before working a small blob of mousse into it to get her preferred style.

Chelsea heard the knock on the door just as she was rinsing her hands. She took a quick look in the mirror before rushing out of her bedroom.

“Paige, it’s so good to see you,” Chelsea said as she gave her friend a warm hug. Taking a step back she ran an approving eye over Paige, her tall slender frame, the long glossy blond hair and clear blue eyes. “How is it possible that every time I see you, you look better than before? Isn’t a baby supposed to wear you out?”

Paige waved the compliment away. “Emily’s been a dream.”

“No, I’m serious,” Chelsea said. “Marriage and motherhood agree with you.”

“I’m very fortunate to have found Daniel,” Paige admitted. “And Jason and Emily are my world.”

“You’re lucky to have found each other,” Chelsea corrected Paige, and accepted the bottle of wine she held out. “Thanks for this. Very nice,” she added, reading the label. “I already have a Cab Sauv breathing in the kitchen. Would you prefer I opened this?”

“Oh, the Cab’s fine.” Paige hung up her coat and bent down to stroke Mindy. She sniffed the air as she rose again. “Smells good. What are we having?”

Chelsea laughed. “Well, about that... I was planning on veal parmigiana, but you know what they say about best-laid plans.” She led Paige into the kitchen and filled two glasses with wine.

“Any excuse to get out of cooking, huh?” Paige teased, then took a closer look at her friend. “Hard day?” she asked with concern.

Chelsea handed one of the glasses to Paige and took a sip from her own as they sat down at the kitchen table. “Oh, hard isn’t the right word. More...unexpected. You know the nice older couple who own All That Glitters and Shines, the jewelry store next to the gallery?”

Paige tasted her wine and nodded.

“Their store was robbed early this morning. Mr. Rochester, the owner, was there at the time and he was attacked.”

“Oh, no! Is he okay?”

“The paramedics said he should be. He got a deep gash in his head, and they took him to the hospital to check for concussion. He looked so pale and weak.” She closed her eyes for a moment, her worry resurfacing. “I’m glad Adam, his nephew, showed up in time to go to the hospital with him. Otherwise, I would’ve gone.”

“You were there when it happened?” Paige asked with alarm.

“No. It happened very early in the morning. The police and paramedics were already there when I...barged in.”

“Barged in?” Paige probed.

“Yeah.” Chelsea grinned. “That’s exactly what I did. The detective in charge wasn’t very happy about it, especially when I first got there.”

At the ding of the oven timer, Chelsea hopped up. “I’ll tell you more—especially about the good-looking detective—but our dinner should be warm by now. And I didn’t answer your question about what we’re having. Since I was running behind all day, pizza was the quickest option for me. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’m just happy we have a chance to spend time together.”

Chelsea slid a couple of slices on each of the plates and took them to the table.

“I have to say, it’s worrying to have something like this happen in Camden Falls,” Paige said. She took a bite of pizza before continuing. “One of the reasons I originally moved here with Jason was because it was such a safe, friendly place. That was also why Daniel and I decided to stay here after we got married.”

Chelsea and some of her colleagues had expressed similar sentiments during the day. “The police seem to be taking it seriously, if the number of cops at the store was any indication. I’m sure it’s an isolated incident and nothing to worry about,” she said, trying to mollify Paige. “I got the sense that the detective leading the investigation knew what he was doing and will get to the bottom of it soon.” She thought back to all the damage in the store. “I wouldn’t discount the possibility that it was kids causing trouble.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” Paige responded. “Is that what the police believe?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I have no idea what they’re thinking. The detective in charge—Eldridge, Sam Eldridge—was tight-lipped about it.” Remembering how frustrated he’d been with her when she’d first shown up, but how he was more...tolerant, maybe even amused, by the time she’d left, Chelsea grinned.

“What’s so funny?” Paige asked, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“Not funny, really. The detective in charge has got to be one of the most intense, serious people I’ve ever met.”

“Sounds like a recipe for a personality clash with you,” Paige said, returning Chelsea’s smile.

“You’d think so...”

Paige studied Chelsea with interest. “You like him?”

Chelsea swirled the wine in her glass as she considered Paige’s question. When Mindy strolled over, she reached down to stroke her. “I suppose I do. I can’t put my finger on why, though. He’s not the sort of guy I’d usually be attracted to. He seemed so somber and...brooding.” She glanced at Paige, with unconcealed amusement. “It would be an interesting challenge to see if I could get him to lighten up! As for his looks...” Her smile spread. “He’s the best-looking cop—heck, the best-looking guy—I’ve seen in a while.”

“You haven’t been interested in anyone since you and Joel stopped dating,” Paige observed. “I was hoping the two of you might get back together, especially since you see each other at the gallery most days.”

Chelsea lifted a shoulder, then let it drop as she thought about the gallery owner’s grandson. “Joel’s okay, but the relationship had run its course. It was a little awkward at work at first, but fortunately his job in marketing and promotions frequently takes him away from the gallery.”

“No chance the two of you might get back together, then?”

Chelsea shook her head. She regretted how far they’d drifted apart, but she couldn’t be in a relationship without that spark, and they’d definitely lost it. She wasn’t prepared to settle for anything less.

“Aw, Chelsea, he seemed to make you happy.”

“He did, for a while. It just didn’t last. We’re better as colleagues than partners.” She took a slow sip of wine. “What you and Daniel have? It’s special. That’s what I hope to find one day.”

Paige gave Chelsea’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve got a lot to offer. Joel didn’t realize how lucky he was.”

“That’s not fair,” she said in Joel’s defense. “It wasn’t his fault. It just...wasn’t meant to be. I’ll meet the guy who’s right for me one day. I’m sure of it. Yeah, Joel understands the world of art. We have that in common, even though he’s not as passionate about it as I am, but he isn’t particularly...sensitive. Nor did he want kids, which, as you know, is high on my priority list when I get married.”

“You’ve always said that as an only child, you’re keen on having a large, boisterous family. That shouldn’t have come as a shock to him.”

“He knew about that from the start. It only became an issue when the relationship began to get serious.” She stared into her glass for a moment. “I don’t know if that was the final straw,” she said pensively and gave her head another little shake. “Something changed. He...he wasn’t as attentive as he’d been at first. He seemed to become preoccupied.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know. He started canceling dates. Lost track of conversations.” Chelsea frowned. “He forgot the second anniversary of our first date. On the positive side, I’m glad it hasn’t affected my relationship with his grandmother. Being in the gallery owner’s bad books would not have been a good outcome, especially with my career aspirations.” Chelsea clinked her glass against Paige’s. “So it’s all good, and I wholeheartedly believe that I’ll meet the person I’m meant to be with. We’ll find each other when we’re intended to. In the meantime, I love my job at the gallery but I don’t want to be a sales associate forever. I want to get the curator position when Charles Hadley retires in a couple of years. He’s been the perfect mentor, and he’s been super sweet about helping me. I’ll focus on my career for now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a great-looking guy like Detective Eldridge!”

* * *

“WHAT HAVE YOU got on the jewelry store robbery?”

Sam glanced up at Colin Mitchell, surprised his captain would be inquiring about the occurrence the day after it happened. “Why do you ask?”

Colin pulled back a chair facing Sam’s desk and folded himself into it. “I heard a couple of the techs talking about it in the lunchroom.”

Sam raised his brow. “That’s not unusual.”

“No. That isn’t. But what is unusual is that you wouldn’t predict whether they’d find any evidence.”

Sam nudged his laptop away and leaned back. “Yeah. That’s correct.”

“You want to tell me why?”

“Sure. I’d be interested in your take on this whole thing, anyway. And I’ll ask you to keep an open mind,” Sam added with a smile. “I believe whoever did it expected the place to be unoccupied. The fact that the owner was there at that time of day is outside the norm. Unexpected. Also, there was a lot of damage done. Too much. The time spent causing it could’ve been better used grabbing some pricey bits of bling. The most obvious items—engagement rings, high-end watches—were left untouched. What was taken, in comparison, is nickel-and-dime stuff. The extent of damage and low return for the effort says amateur to me, but it still doesn’t make sense. The time wasted on destruction, when it could’ve been put to smarter use, leads me to conclude that the person either panicked or flew into a rage. Carelessness and intentional vandalism doesn’t feel right. I’m leaning toward rage rather than panic.”

“I agree,” Colin said after a moment. “Panic due to finding the owner there could explain the attack, but would likely have caused the perp to flee. He risked getting caught by spending all that 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.

CHAPTER THREE

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 it reminded her of her grandmother, who’d died a few years back and whom she missed dearly.

Chelsea missed her mom and dad, too, but at least they were only a phone call or an hour-and-a-half’s drive away in Fitchburg.

To complete her attire for the evening, she’d decided on black stockings and—although she knew she’d regret it by the end of the evening—stiletto-heeled black pumps. Rather than using mousse to get her favored spiky look, she’d styled her hair straight and sleek that morning, parted on the side and tucked behind her ears. Because she opted for a lighter shade than she usually wore, her lips were a more natural-looking shimmery rose.

She studied herself in the washroom mirror with a critical eye, much as she’d assessed the showroom earlier.

Elegant wasn’t a word she usually associated with herself nor, frankly, was it something she normally strove for. But tonight? She thought she’d hit the mark.

It was important to her to set the right tone. Not just because she’d put so much personal effort into the event, but because of her goal to be the next curator. She wanted to ensure that Mrs. Sinclair found absolutely no fault with the evening...or her.

Soon after she reentered the showroom, the guests started to trickle in. By seven thirty, the gallery was packed. There were so many people, Chelsea worried that they’d run out of hors d’oeuvres. Or even more concerning, champagne.

Finding a moment to herself, she hurried to the kitchen to see how the supplies were holding up and passed several reporters along the way. She’d hoped there’d be a strong media presence, even though that fell in Joel’s area of responsibility. Getting excellent earned-media coverage was an important side benefit of the event. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have imagined that arts reporters for two Boston media outlets and one from Cambridge would be there, along with all the locals.

Assuring herself that everything was fine in the food and beverages area, she circulated through the room, much like a conscientious hostess. She engaged guests while leaving the media to Mr. Hadley until Mrs. Sinclair and Joel arrived. When she noticed Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, from All That Glitters and Shines, she excused herself from the couple she’d been speaking with and went to greet them. Placing kisses on their cheeks, she stepped back to scrutinize Mr. Rochester. Although they’d spoken on the phone, she hadn’t seen him since the robbery, because the store was closed while repairs were being made under Adam’s supervision.

Chelsea was relieved that the only indication of the trauma Mr. Rochester had suffered was the small bandage he sported on his temple. “How are you feeling?” she asked him with genuine concern.

“I’m fine. As well as can be expected, at my age.” He looked at his wife lovingly. “Between Carla’s fussing and Adam’s, I can hardly wait for the store to open so I can feel useful again.”

“Now, Arnold, don’t start complaining. We have every right to worry about you. It’s part of our job descriptions,” his wife said with a smile, slipping her arm through his.

He patted her hand. “I know, dear, but I really am okay. And speaking of Adam...” He turned back to Chelsea. “He’s here somewhere if you’d like to say hello. I’m afraid Carla and I won’t be staying long. I need my rest.”

“I understand perfectly, and I’m grateful all three of you could make it, especially under the circumstances.” She glanced around the room and saw Adam in conversation with someone in front of a Jose Royo painting. “Can I get you anything before I go see Adam? A glass of champagne?”

“Oh, we’re fine, thank you,” Mrs. Rochester replied.

“Well, then, I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves,” Chelsea added, before wishing them a good night.

She kept working the room and waited until Adam was alone before going to him. She’d known him for as long as she’d been at the Sinclair Gallery. They got on well enough, but with him she’d never felt the mutual affection she did with his aunt and uncle. She’d gotten to know him a little better while she and Joel had dated. Joel and Adam had been friends since they’d gone to school together. Although not as close as they used to be, they were still on good terms. Considering the hardships Adam had endured as a child, she understood why he was reserved. She told herself she should be more accepting, but their personalities were so different—Adam, being more of a loner and introspective—they’d never gotten close. Maybe part of it was that Adam didn’t seem to show an appreciation for art, one of her great loves.

No matter. He was a guest, and she’d make sure he was having a nice time.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, walking up to him.

“Yeah.” Adam motioned to the crowd behind them. “Impressive turnout. With deep pockets, I’ll bet,” he added.

“We have a good mix of people who appreciate art,” was Chelsea’s diplomatic response.

“As an example, how much is this piece?” he asked, turning back to the painting.

For the higher-valued works, they didn’t display the asking prices. They wanted to have the opportunity to discuss the paintings with anyone who might be interested, rather than immediately scaring them off with the price. Chelsea studied the Royo, too. “It’s a classic example of a contemporary artist whose work is favorably compared to old masters. The best we’ve had in some time. It’s valued at a hundred and thirty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a substantial amount of money, even for the wealthy. We don’t have anything in that price range at All That Glitters and Shines.”

“Trust me. We don’t sell many pieces in this price range, either,” she said and left as soon as she felt she could do so politely.

A quick perusal of the room indicated there were even more people present now. For her own peace of mind, she decided to pop into the kitchen to satisfy herself that they still weren’t running low on anything.

As she exited the kitchen, relieved that they had plenty of everything, she saw Joel with his grandmother. He was guiding her protectively into the room. One thing she’d always liked about Joel was how considerate and loving he was to his grandmother. Family was important to Chelsea, and the way Joel treated his grandmother had endeared him to her when they’d first met.

As usual, Mrs. Sinclair was elegantly dressed. Unless Chelsea was mistaken, today she was wearing a Chanel evening suit in rose, a perfect color to complement her pale and remarkably unlined skin and silver-white hair. Chelsea signaled one of the waitstaff to prepare a cup of the herbal tea Mrs. Sinclair preferred, before heading over to the entrance to greet the owner.

Chelsea was pleased by the smile that appeared on Mrs. Sinclair’s face when she reached her. “Mrs. Sinclair, it’s wonderful to see you. I hope you find everything at tonight’s event to your liking.”

Mrs. Sinclair took Chelsea’s hands in her own. Her grasp was cool and unexpectedly firm. “It’s all lovely, my dear. I’m certain our gala will be a success.”

“I hope so,” Chelsea murmured. “I’ve positioned your chair next to the Angelo bronze,” she said, gesturing. “Oh, and here comes Sandra with your tea.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Sinclair said, as she accepted the cup from the waitress. “That’s very sweet of you, but enough worrying about me.”

“I’ll keep Grandmother company,” Joel assured Chelsea. “Why don’t you go mingle and sell some art,” he said, not unkindly.

“I’ll do that,” Chelsea responded with a grateful smile for Joel. “If you need anything, Mrs. Sinclair, please let me know.”

Chelsea did as Joel suggested, and she began to relax. Every indication was that the evening would be a triumph. They’d received a few advance bids above the reserve for the works that would be auctioned at the end of the evening, and she personally made a couple of minor sales. Then she saw Mr. Anderson, one of their faithful patrons, standing in front of a Babineux, obviously admiring it. If she could make that sale, it would be a bonus to an already fantastic event.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she said as she stopped beside him to look at the painting of a woman and her child.

“Good evening, Chelsea.” He smiled at her briefly before turning his attention back to the painting.

“Henri Babineux, as I’m sure you know, is one of the most renowned artists of his day. This piece was painted circa 1862. Today is the first day we’re showing it. I don’t think we’ll have it long. Wouldn’t it look fabulous in your collection?”

“You might be right,” he replied. “Excellent turnout, by the way. I don’t usually go for these types of events, but I couldn’t resist coming this evening to see what new treasures you might have available.”

“I trust you’re not disappointed.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not.”

She stepped a little closer and lowered her voice. “Should I get a sold sign for it?”

“Now, now! I might be known for impulse buying, but even I’m not quite that spontaneous.” He turned shrewd eyes on her. “However, you could tell me how much it would set me back if I did decide to acquire this painting.”

Chelsea named the number in the mid six figures and knew that as pricey as it was, it wasn’t out of Mr. Anderson’s range.

His expression turned contemplative. “Let me think about it while I help myself to a glass of champagne and see what else might capture my interest.”

“Please do,” she said, not in the least disappointed. If she was a betting person, she would’ve laid money on Mr. Anderson’s buying the Babineux sooner or later. She was familiar with that look in his eyes. Once he’d moved on, she turned back to the painting. It wasn’t her preferred style, but she recognized the artistic talent. More important, she knew that the Babineux was to Mr. Anderson’s taste. She then studied the abstract next to it.

“Help me understand what, exactly, this painting is supposed to represent.” The deep voice, with a touch of humor, had Chelsea glancing over her shoulder.

Her courteous reply caught in her throat as she found herself staring into familiar bold blue eyes. “Detective Eldridge, I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”

His laugh was warm and masculine at the same time. “I don’t normally, no. And when I do, I tend to like...ah, the more mundane.”

He was standing so close, she could see the faint stubble of a day’s growth of beard, and the fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair. His scent, clean and woodsy, teased her nostrils. She let her gaze slide over him. She was sure there was a fit and impressive body under his conservative suit.

“I hope I’m not underdressed,” he said.

Chelsea felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She obviously hadn’t been as subtle in her perusal of him as she’d hoped. “Oh, no, you look perfectly fine.” Now she could feel her cheeks burn even more. “What I meant is your attire is fine. Black tie is optional. Are you here for professional or personal reasons?” she rushed on, wanting to change the subject.

“A bit of both.”

His answer perplexed her, but she remained quiet.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d enlighten me about this particular painting,” he said after a moment.

“Of course, Detective. This painting is by Jackson Pollock, who’s among the leaders of abstract expressionism.” Noting his blank look, she went on to explain. “In abstract expressionism, the artist is mostly interested in color, movement and rhythm, rather than trying to depict specific objects. The artists also worked with new ways of applying paint. Pollock, for example, used sticks to fling and drip paint on his canvases. This piece was painted in 1934 and was in a private collection until the gallery acquired it recently through auction.”

“That gives me its history, but tell me about the painting itself. And Sam is fine.”

His blue eyes and the sparkle of humor in them captivated her, and she missed his concluding comment. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

The smile became a wide grin. “I’d prefer it if you called me Sam instead of Detective.”

“Oh, okay...Sam.”

“Now, tell me about the painting. What is it supposed to be? Aside from blobs of color, I mean.”

Chelsea should’ve been offended by his barely restrained mirth but was instead tempted to laugh along with him. Instead, she ran through the sales pitch she’d developed for the painting. “Well, as you can see, this is a painting of an enchanted forest shrouded in mist,” she concluded and glanced up at Sam.

He was staring at the canvas intently, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. She tried not to feel disconcerted by his proximity.

Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see it at all. This,” he said, pointing, “looks like a sand crab to me, but mostly all I see is spattered paint.”

She was about to point out the key elements of the painting to him, but the absurdity of even trying struck her. “It’s a stylized depiction of the forest,” she conceded.

“Can we at least agree that it’s highly stylized?” he asked.

Now Chelsea did laugh, but quickly clamped one hand over her mouth, her eyes darting around. Satisfied that no one had noticed her outburst, she looked back at Sam.

“Well, am I right? Can you see the crab?” he asked. “I should help you sell paintings here.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” she countered under her breath when two patrons strolled over to admire the Pollock.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Sam said, as they moved away to give the couple space. “We each have our strengths. Do you have the time—and the patience—to show me around?”

Chelsea heard the humor in his voice again and found herself drawn to him. All their guests seemed to be engaged and enjoying themselves. Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Hadley were making the rounds, champagne glasses in their hands. Joel, Deborah and Tina were available to address any questions, and it was less than an hour before the auction started.

Happily, she noted that sold signs had been placed under a few more of the pieces. “Sure. I have some time. What interests you the most?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” he said with a chuckle. “Surprise me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

CHELSEA’S MISCHIEVOUS STREAK kicked in. Sam was someone who, by his own admission, knew little about art, and it stood to reason that he had equally limited interest. She’d see what she could do about turning him into an art aficionado.

“Why don’t we start with some baroques,” she suggested. “Are you on duty?” she asked, when she saw a waitress approach with a tray of champagne.

“Not at the moment. Why?”

Chelsea signaled discreetly to the waitress and she veered toward them. “Thank you, Marsha,” she said, taking two flutes from the tray and offering one to Sam. “If you’re not inclined to appreciate art, I thought this might help.”

He accepted the glass and took a sip. “Nice. Hmm...Krug Grande Cuvée, 2013.” When Chelsea raised her brows, he said, “I may not be an expert at art, but...”

“But you’re an expert in fine wines and champagnes?” she guessed.

“No, but I’m a detective and I have well-honed investigative and observation skills,” he said with a smug smile.

She stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant.

“There was an empty carton in the corner of the hall closet when I hung up my coat,” he explained. “It was clearly labeled.”

Chelsea wouldn’t have thought the intense cop had a sense of humor, but it appeared that he did. And when he smiled? He went from seriously good-looking to dangerously handsome.

“Why don’t we start here?” she suggested, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was blushing again, and led him to a watercolor of a Venetian canal by American artist John Singer Sargent.

“I personally like this painting,” she began. “Sargent was said to be fascinated with Venice, and I think it shows in his work. He’s captured the different shades of the water and the brightness of the light beautifully. It’s interesting that although he turns a commonplace neighborhood into something so romantic, he didn’t use much detail depicting the people on the bridge.” She smiled up at Sam. “Sargent’s passion for the city didn’t seem to extend to its inhabitants.”

Next, she showed Sam a Ralph Curtis painting, also of Venice. “Curtis was the son of Bostonians, who moved to Venice in the late 1870s. He was educated at Harvard, but then studied in Paris. We purposely juxtaposed these two paintings to allow our patrons to compare and contrast the style and emotion of the two. Sargent and Curtis were, in fact, distant cousins. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, how Sargent’s work evokes romance and joy while this one...well, is quite bleak.”

“Uh-huh” was Sam’s noncommittal response.

Chelsea guided him to a Childe Hassam winter scene in New York next and continued talking until she could all but see his head spin. Since he’d said he was there for business and pleasure, she assumed the business had to do with the robbery next door, so she made a point of taking him to speak with the Rochesters. She almost laughed at the relief she saw on his face as they approached the elderly couple.

Chelsea introduced Sam to Mrs. Rochester, and he politely asked Mr. Rochester how he was feeling and just as politely answered that they still didn’t have any leads on the robbery. Adam joined them and also expressed an interest in the investigation. Chelsea was aware of how concerned he was about his aunt and uncle. He wanted the matter over with as much as anyone; she presumed that was so he wouldn’t have to worry about their safety, in case the perpetrator decided to return.

Adam questioned Sam until, eventually, Chelsea adeptly steered the detective away.

“The nephew, Adam, seems close to the Rochesters. What’s his story?” Sam asked when they were separated by some distance.

“Oh, yes, they’re close. Adam’s story is a sad one, though. Adam’s father—that’s Mr. Rochester’s considerably younger brother—was in the military and frequently deployed overseas. What I’ve heard is that Mr. Rochester was the principal father figure in Adam’s life as he was growing up. Adam’s mother was already struggling with alcohol and drug abuse by the time her husband was killed in the line of duty. His death pushed her over the edge. The Rochesters tried to get help for her, but it was futile. Although they didn’t have legal custody of Adam, they tried to be positive influences in his life.”

“Where’s the mother now?”

“Excuse me,” Joel interrupted, as he joined them. He glanced at Sam—seemed to size him up, Chelsea thought—before he turned his attention to her. “Mr. Anderson was looking for you. When we saw you were...occupied, he asked my opinion of the Babineux. I didn’t know enough about it, so I steered him to Mr. Hadley.”

Pushing aside her immediate concern that she’d dropped the ball, Chelsea asked, “Did Mr. Anderson buy the Babineux?”

Joel frowned. “No, he didn’t. He left.”

“Without buying anything? Is Mr. Hadley upset with me?”

“I smoothed it over for you. But the auction’s about to start, so I thought you might want to get ready for it.”

Chelsea had been enjoying herself with Sam so much, she’d lost track of time. “Thank you for reminding me,” she said gratefully. “I’ll get to it right away,” she added, but she couldn’t help noticing that Joel kept looking over her shoulder. “Oh, Joel, let me introduce you to Detective Sam Eldridge. Detective Eldridge...uh, Sam is leading the investigation into the robbery next door. Sam, this is Joel Sinclair, grandson of Nadine Sinclair, the owner of the gallery.”

“The last part of the introduction is superfluous, I hope, as I like to think my role at the Sinclair Gallery is earned rather than nepotism,” Joel said stiffly as he shook hands with Sam. “Are you working tonight?” he asked, with a meaningful glance at the flute Sam held.

“No, I’m not,” Sam replied and took an unhurried sip from his glass.

“What brought you to our gallery this evening? I don’t recall seeing your name on our invitation list.”

Sam glanced at Chelsea. “Curiosity.” There was something in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.

Joel took a sideways step toward her and ran a hand casually up and down her arm. “You enjoy art, Detective?” He continued probing, obviously not in any hurry to leave them alone, and she sensed friction between the two men.

“Not particularly.”

“The filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard said, ‘Art attracts us only by what it reveals of our most secret self.’”

“Very profound, but I like to keep my most secret self to myself,” Sam retorted.

Chelsea felt as if she was watching a chess game, and it had started with Joel’s inappropriate display of possessiveness. Two could play that game, she thought, and she moved away from Joel in a way that put her equidistant between the men. She intended to stay neutral.

“Well, Detective Eldridge,” Joel said after a moment. “I hope you got some pleasure from your tour. Even if you’re not a huge fan, the right work of art always adds richness and interest to a room. You should consider acquiring one of our...more traditional pieces.”

Sam stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “You’re correct that I am more of a traditionalist.”

They didn’t seem to want to let up, and Chelsea didn’t need to stick around while they jockeyed for alpha position. She cleared her throat. “I see Mrs. Fontaine admiring the Oldenburg. Joel, if you’d attend to the detective, I’ll see if she’s interested in making a purchase. Good evening, Detective,” she added, deliberately using his title rather than his name, before she walked away.

* * *

SAM WATCHED CHELSEA march off. March seemed to be the most accurate way to describe it. He had to give her credit for determination. There was no question she’d had enough of the verbal sparring he and Sinclair had been engaged in. His gaze still on her, he noted that she moved with poise, too.

She might not have been particularly tall, but she had long legs. Elongated by the sexy heels. How did a woman manage to stay on her feet all evening in a pair of those? And then there was her trim, shapely figure. Maybe not his type, but a man had to appreciate a form like that.

He kept his gaze on Chelsea longer than he might have, because he knew he was being watched by Sinclair. Sam could tell that it irritated him, and for some reason that gave him satisfaction. When he finally looked back at Sinclair, he wasn’t surprised by the scowl on the other man’s face. He hadn’t missed his possessive stroking of Chelsea’s arm, either. Boyfriend? They did appear to be suited, but the thought of the two of them together annoyed him for some reason.

Sam decided to test his hypothesis. “How long have you been seeing each other?” He noticed the immediate tensing, the breaking of eye contact. Both possible tells that Sinclair wasn’t comfortable with the question.

“Oh, we started dating about two and a half years ago.”

“Uh-huh.” Well, she was off-limits to him. Where did that come from? He hadn’t realized he’d been thinking about Chelsea in that context.

Forcing his thoughts onto a different subject, he looked at the statue on a pedestal not far from where they stood. From his discussion with Chelsea he’d gathered that statue would be priced in the six figures. With the value of the artwork displayed, if his theory about the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines was correct, the gallery could be the real target. Since Sinclair was still standing next to him, he’d take the opportunity to learn more about the gallery...and Sinclair himself. He pointed to the statue. “What can you tell me about that piece?”

Sinclair gave him the rundown. It was evident that he knew his facts, but he didn’t show any of the warmth or passion that Chelsea had. Sam deduced that for him it was a job. For Chelsea? More of a calling.

Sam decided to try another angle. “Chelsea mentioned your grandmother owns the gallery.”

“Yes. She does.”

Sam saw Joel glance around the room, his eyes resting briefly on the gray-haired woman dressed in a muted pink—he supposed it would be called rose—suit in the far corner of the room.

“Is that your grandmother?”

“What? Yes.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“I don’t see why—”

“You never know when connections to the Camden Falls Police Department might come in handy,” Sam interrupted in a tone that deterred argument.

“Yes, of course,” Sinclair said curtly.

Sam followed him to the corner where his grandmother was. They waited until she’d finished her conversation with a distinguished-looking gentleman.

“Grandmother, I’d like to introduce you to Detective Sam Eldridge,” Joel said when she turned to them. “Detective, this is my grandmother Nadine Sinclair.”

Sam noticed the slight narrowing of her eyes before she offered him a bright smile and held out her hand. Her charisma was powerful. Joel Sinclair didn’t inherit his lack of charm from his grandmother.

“It’s always nice to have a Camden Falls police officer visit our establishment.” Her expression sobered. “Do you have news about the robbery next door? What happened to Arnold Rochester is simply horrible.”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but we’re doing our best.”

“I’m the one who needs to apologize. How rude of me to ask about such a terrible incident when you’re a guest at our little gallery. I imagine your line of work is often thankless, but I’m grateful for what you and your colleagues do to keep our community safe and free from crime. I trust the investigation is in good hands.” The glint in her eye made Sam think she would’ve been a force to reckon with in her younger days, and probably still was. Age hadn’t dulled her intelligence or her perception. Although she made him feel as if he was her focus, she kept a vigilant eye on the room behind him.

“No apology necessary. I’m never entirely off the clock.”

She angled her head. “As I said, we’re grateful for your service and dedication. I noticed Chelsea showing you around. You haven’t been in here before, have you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I hope you like our gallery and will visit us again.”

“Thank you. You have an impressive place. I expect you have a sophisticated security system, too.”

“We do, supplemented by security guards and patrols,” Joel responded, drawing his attention. “But it’s also something we avoid discussing in public. Part of the system’s effectiveness has to do with the fact that it’s unobtrusive. If would-be thieves were to know the details of the system, it would be that much easier for them to disable or circumvent it.”

Mrs. Sinclair patted her grandson’s arm. A subtle sign of admonition perhaps?

“Joel can get very protective of the gallery...and me. So, Detective Eldridge, can I interest you in any of our works of art?”

“You’d be the third one to try,” Sam said with a smile. “And the one most likely to succeed, but no. I came more out of general interest today.”

Activity in another part of the room had all three of them turning in that direction, and Sam guessed the auction was about to begin. It was time for him to go—before an innocent scratch of his head ended up costing him a year’s salary for something he didn’t need or want. He thanked both Sinclairs and started to navigate through the crowd toward the door.

He’d ascertained that the gallery would be a viable target, if his theory held. Whether related or not, his gut told him not to trust Joel Sinclair. The grandmother seemed nice enough, but there was something about Joel that rubbed him the wrong way.

Chelsea came to mind, and he nearly laughed at himself.

No, it wasn’t because Sinclair had a relationship with Chelsea.

Sam admitted to a certain fascination with her, but she wasn’t available and Sam never poached.

Still, he couldn’t resist pausing before he left the room to search her out. She was near the podium he assumed the auctioneer would use, in animated discussion with another young woman. When she glanced in his direction and smiled, he returned her smile and waved goodbye.

Wondering if he’d see her again, he astonished himself for the second time that evening with how much he wanted to.

Business. He had to focus on business, he reminded himself. And he had the answer to his question, he thought, as he pulled away from the curb a short while later. The gallery housed valuable art. The most expensive pieces on display far exceeded the highest-priced items in the jewelry store. But while jewelry and watches could be easily fenced, priceless and readily identifiable works of art could not. Private collectors with immense wealth, a disregard for the law and secret collections would be the only potential purchasers of stolen art, in Sam’s opinion. He presumed that was a very limited group.

Since he was here, he’d take a drive down Willowbrook Avenue to see if there were any other probable targets for a major heist.

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he chuckled.

Major heist and the quaint, peaceful little town of Camden Falls was a contradiction in terms. He wondered if he was looking for something big he could sink his teeth into, because—admittedly—the job here didn’t present the challenges that being a cop in one of the seedier areas of Boston had. And without a personal life to speak of, the job was all he had, he mused as he drove slowly by a gift shop and a pet food store, neither of which he considered a viable target.

But then peaceful and crime free were two of the reasons he and Katherine had decided to relocate to Camden Falls when they’d learned Katherine was pregnant. They’d also wanted a strong sense of community, and Camden Falls offered that, too. They’d been ecstatic at the prospect of raising a family here.

Well, that didn’t turn out as planned, Sam thought ruefully as he passed a ladies’ clothing boutique and a shoe store. And the big city had lured Katherine back to reestablish her career as a financial planner, while he’d stayed right here in Camden Falls, consumed with grief. They hadn’t spoken since the divorce.

With their son, Nicolas, gone, there hadn’t been any reason.

By the time Sam reached the end of the retail section of Willowbrook Avenue, he’d narrowed potential targets down to the Sinclair Gallery and an electronics store—if his theory was correct. He would’ve put the gallery at the top of the list, except for the challenge of fencing stolen works of art. So, the jewelry store struck him as the best of the possibilities, after all. And that negated his response-time-testing theory.

Maybe he was grasping at straws.

This wasn’t Boston.

He thought about the people he’d met that evening and wondered if any of them could have been responsible for the jewelry store robbery.

Sam considered Joel Sinclair and his lack of passion for the business. He wondered how much Joel made from the gallery in comparison with his grandmother. Sam’s thoughts returned to Chelsea Owens as he took a right onto Cedar Lane to head home. There was an irresistible quality to the quirky, upbeat, high-spirited young woman. But was his interest professional? Was he drawn to her because his instincts told him she might have a connection to the robbery next door? Or was the attraction personal?

He had to be overtired if he was thinking along either of those lines.

She wasn’t his type. He wasn’t interested in a relationship, even if she was. And she wasn’t available, anyway.

He’d get a good night’s sleep and talk his theory through with Colin on Monday.

But try as he might, he couldn’t get Chelsea out of his thoughts.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHELSEA SAID GOODBYE to Sharon Robinson, the third-grade teacher at Camden Falls Public School, and the kids in her class for whom she’d conducted a tour of the gallery that morning. Chelsea loved kids and loved teaching them about art. Their insatiable curiosity and the way they saw everything so differently from adults never ceased to amaze and inspire her. She was always more than willing to organize and run the tours, but that didn’t mean the kids’ limitless energy didn’t take a lot out of her.

Still, when the time was right, she wanted to have kids. A number of them.

She’d have to work on her stamina, though, she decided.

Chelsea was glad the showroom was empty so she could have a well-earned lunch break. Deborah was off today, but Tina could keep an eye on things and Joel was due back from the Nightingale estate auction anytime now. Then he could attend to any walk-ins, although that wasn’t his favorite task.

Grabbing her sandwich, a bottle of water from the fridge in the lunchroom and one of the fashion magazines Tina habitually left on the counter, she sank down in a chair. She flipped the magazine open to a random page and had barely unwrapped her sandwich when she heard footsteps in the corridor. She glanced up to see Joel lean against the doorjamb. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and tucked his left hand in his pants pocket.

It was his GQ look, as Chelsea used to think of it. She knew it to be contrived.

“How was the tour?” he asked.

Chelsea smiled. “Great kids. As entertaining as always.”

“Any damage?”

“Oh, Joel! Can’t you forget about that one isolated incident?” She didn’t bother to hide her irritation. “That incident was more than a year ago, and you make it sound as if it was malicious. The poor kid tripped on his shoelace and, thankfully, fell against a promotional banner rather than a display case or stand. There was no harm done. And to answer your question, no, there was no damage today.”

His glower persisted and caused her to look away.

“I’m sorry. That was unwarranted,” he finally conceded, drawing her gaze back to his. “The children’s program is important to my grandmother and therefore the gallery. You’ve always been terrific with the kids. And since you handle it, I don’t have to be involved. So, I’ll apologize again.”

“Apology accepted.” As far as Chelsea was concerned, the discussion was over. She finished unwrapping her sandwich, but she could feel Joel’s eyes on her and looked up again. The expression on his face was inscrutable and made her uncomfortable. Looking down, she took a bite of her sandwich.

“Chels, have dinner with me tonight.”

The invitation, unexpected and spoken so softly, had her glancing at him with astonishment. It reminded her of his odd behavior the evening of the exhibit and auction, and made her wonder what was going through his mind.

Joel was still leaning casually against the doorjamb, his blond hair tousled, a playful smile spread across his face. The dimple she’d once found so sexy flickered on his right cheek.

“C’mon, Chels,” he said when she hesitated. “For old times’ sake. What do you say?”

For a moment—just one moment—she was tempted to say yes. The boyish grin had always drawn her in and she hadn’t been on a date since...well, since she and Joel had stopped seeing each other. But then she thought about some of the reasons she’d broken it off with him.

At first, he’d made her feel special. But by the end of their relationship, she felt he’d lost interest in her. There always seemed to be other priorities, and she’d begun to feel like an obligation.

Chelsea considered herself relatively easygoing and flexible, but she couldn’t be in a relationship in which she wasn’t valued.

Remembering how it had been between them when they’d first started dating, she felt a twinge of sadness over what they’d lost, but was careful not to let it show. She didn’t want to inadvertently encourage him. “Sorry, Joel. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

He straightened. “Have it your way.”

She wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or anger that sparked in his eyes before he turned and stalked away.

Well, that was fun. She sighed. This was justification for why she tried to avoid workplace romances. If they didn’t work out—which in her experience was usually the case—it could be awkward. She thought back to the easy friendship she and Joel had shared before they began dating. She wished they could recapture it but suspected that was unlikely, at least in the short-term.

As much as she regretted how everything had turned out between them, she hoped again that her relationship with his grandmother would remain unaffected. Not only did she like Mrs. Sinclair, but ultimately it would be Mrs. Sinclair’s decision whether to give her the curator position once Mr. Hadley retired. Joel had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in running the gallery, so it was either promote her or Mrs. Sinclair would have to go outside the organization to hire someone.

Chelsea didn’t want to lose Mrs. Sinclair’s friendship—or the opportunity to be the next curator.

No dating people in the workplace ever again! she resolved as she took another large bite of her sandwich.

When Tina called her from the lunchroom doorway, she wondered if she’d ever get a chance to finish her lunch.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Anderson is here and would like to talk to you about the Babineux.”

Chelsea put her sandwich down and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, careful not to smear her lipstick. “He didn’t have an appointment, did he?”

“No,” Tina assured her. “But as you know, he does most of his buying on the spur of the moment.”

“Yes, that’s true. Please tell him I’ll be out in a second.” Chelsea rewrapped the rest of her sandwich and stuck it back in the fridge. Looking in the mirror behind the door, she rubbed off a smudge of lipstick with her index finger.

Mr. Anderson was standing in front of the Babineux when she walked into the showroom. His back was to her, his head slightly tilted. He had a sparse frame, was shorter than average, and was impeccably dressed and groomed, as always. Chelsea had often thought that for the price of one of his elegant suits, she could’ve paid the rent on her apartment for at least a month.

“Mr. Anderson,” she said as she approached. “It’s nice to see you so soon.”

He spun around and smiled. “Chelsea, my dear, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She glanced at the painting. “I thought it would be only a matter of time before the Babineux graced your walls. Is this the day you make it yours?” she asked.

“Yes, I think it might be. I hadn’t planned to stop in today, but I was in the area with a few minutes to spare.” He grinned and spread out his hands. “I couldn’t resist. I suppose it’s meant to be.”

“That’s what I thought, too! Shall I get the paperwork?”

He stroked his chin as he considered the painting. “Why not? Let’s do it!”

Chelsea felt like doing a fist pump, but knew it would be unseemly. The commission on the sale would cover a brake job and new tires for her car. Both were very close to becoming a necessity. “Please have a seat in the sales office. Would you like a cup of coffee? A glass of champagne, perhaps?”

“As delightful as champagne sounds, it’s too early in the day for me. Let’s make it a coffee, and we’ll both have a glass of champagne when I come to pick up the painting.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be right back.”

With the folder in one hand and a cup in the other, Chelsea rejoined Mr. Anderson a few minutes later. “Here you go,” she said, placing the cup and a napkin in front of him before sitting down in the opposite chair. She reviewed the documentation with him. Once he was satisfied that all seemed to be in order, he handed her his credit card for the deposit. While Tina ran the card, she made copies of the appraisal and authentication documents for Mr. Anderson’s insurance company.

“I’ll call you if my schedule changes,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll see you on Friday to pick up the painting.”

“We’ll have it packed and ready for you, Mr. Anderson.” She held out her hand. “Congratulations on adding another magnificent piece to your collection.”

He took her hand in his. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Chelsea.”

As soon as he was out the door, not only did Chelsea do that fist pump, she did a little dance. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks when she turned around and noticed Joel watching her. “I sold the Babineux,” she said, to explain her behavior.

“Good for you,” he responded, but his tone was incongruous with the congratulatory words.

* * *

“DO YOU HAVE a minute?” Sam asked Colin from the doorway to his captain’s office.

Colin dropped the report he’d been reading on his desk. “Sure. What’s up?”

Sam took a seat on the other side of Colin’s desk. “We still don’t have anything on the jewelry store robbery.”

“You’re not bringing me a problem without a solution, are you?”

Sam knew his boss was half joking. He was always on them not to just come forward with a problem but to bring the options to solve it. “I’m working out the alternatives. First of all, if we go with the theory that the break-in was to test our response time because there’s another target in the area, my bet would be the Sinclair Gallery.”

“Why?

“The value of some of the pieces in there could pay for a small house.”

Colin leaned back and crossed his arms. “No kidding?”

“Nope.”

“I can’t see how there’d be a market for that kind of art in Camden Falls.”

“Good point. What I learned is that the gallery’s clientele is from a much larger catchment area. It’s international, in fact. When you’re dealing with rare works and there’s only a limited number of people with deep enough pockets and a desire to spend that much money on art, it doesn’t matter where the gallery is situated. There isn’t a critical mass of potential clients in any one location. They go where the art is.”

Colin nodded thoughtfully. “Regardless of what we find on the jewelry store break-in, I’ll have to think about increasing patrols in the area on a permanent basis.”

“Not a bad idea. Now here’s another long shot. I discovered that the jewelry store owners’ sister-in-law is estranged from her kid, who’s been raised mostly by them, his aunt and uncle. She has addiction issues, and was recently released from a mental health institution. You’d mentioned the possibility of an addict looking for easy money. Her last known address was Springfield, but she hasn’t been there for a while. There’s no record of employment. What if she resents the Rochesters for what might, in her eyes, amount to taking her only child away from her? And what if she’s desperate for a quick fix? Would she consider the jewelry store as a means to an end?”

Colin was silent for a moment. “I agree it’s a long shot, but I have to say that between the two alternatives, I’d consider the sister-in-law breaking in more probable. Where do you go from here?”

Sam shrugged. “I’ll try to determine the sister-in-law’s whereabouts. Continue to pursue the other avenues of investigation and so on.”

“What about the young woman who showed up at the store? We know the stats on how often perps return to the scene of the crime.”

“Not possible.” Sam was startled by the vehemence of his response. Colin was, too, if the look on his face was any indication. “What I mean is that she was too caring about Rochester. I don’t believe she’d hurt him.” Or anyone.

“Okay. Keep me informed.”

“Will do,” Sam said and rose to go.

CHAPTER SIX

THURSDAY THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Chelsea was discussing the merits of a Keith Hamilton sculpture with a couple when she heard the gallery’s front door chime. Turning, she saw Mr. Anderson hurrying through the front foyer.

“Chelsea! This is outrageous!” he called to her the minute he stepped into the showroom.

Excusing herself, she left the couple she’d been with and hurried to Mr. Anderson. He hastened toward her, too, waving a document.

“This has never happened to me in all the years I’ve been collecting!” His face was flushed, and his nostrils flared with each rapid breath he took. “As soon as I got this, I drove straight here from Boston.”

Worried more about the fact that he seemed to be hyperventilating than what her potential new clients might think, Chelsea touched his arm placatingly. “Please calm down, Mr. Anderson. Why don’t we go into the office? You can explain to me what happened. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best to fix it.”

He let out a loud harrumphing sound.

Chelsea apologized to the couple she’d been with as she led Mr. Anderson past them, and signaled to Deborah to take over.

She got him seated in the sales office, but he declined refreshments.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Chelsea said.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He flapped the papers at her. “You sold me a forgery!”

Chelsea was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Here,” he said and thrust the papers at her. “Have a look at that. I had the Babineux authenticated myself, as I always do, and as my insurance company requires. And that!” he said, motioning at the document. “That’s what I got back. You tell me how this could’ve happened!”

Chelsea quickly scanned the document and felt the blood drain from her face. “This...this can’t be right. There has to be a mistake.”

Mr. Anderson’s jaw jutted out. “Murphy & McGuire is one of the most reputable art authentication and valuation companies in the nation. Their people have never been wrong for me before. If there’s a mistake, it’s on your end.”

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she asked. “I’d like to get Mr. Hadley.”

“Go on. Go get him.”

She left the document on the table and rushed out. As she reached Mr. Hadley’s office, Joel grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I have to get Mr. Hadley.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “I’ll tell you later.”

Fortunately, Mr. Hadley was in his office. She explained what had happened and remembered to pull the file with their copies of the authentication and appraisal reports. When they entered the sales office, Chelsea let Mr. Hadley take the lead.

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said, his British accent more distinct than usual. “I can’t imagine how it might have happened, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, please bring the painting back. We’ll have it reauthenticated and I will in good faith refund the full purchase price until we sort everything out.”

Mr. Anderson’s color was returning to normal and his voice didn’t sound quite as shrill. “That’ll be fine. I’ll have the painting brought in tomorrow. I’ve spent enough of my time traveling back and forth from Boston.”

“I understand. Why don’t I make it easier for you and arrange to have it picked up?”

“That would be appreciated.”

Mr. Hadley’s solicitousness and offer of transport seemed to appease Mr. Anderson, at least temporarily. The two men shook hands, neither paying much attention to Chelsea. She felt it was deliberate and wondered why this had become her fault, when she didn’t have any responsibility for acquisition, valuation or authentication.

She stayed back and waited until Mr. Hadley had seen Mr. Anderson out. When he came back, Joel and Tina were both with him. Mr. Hadley’s brow was furrowed, his mouth a thin, straight line.

“Can anyone venture a guess as to how this could’ve happened?” he demanded.

Joel seemed to know what he was talking about, but Tina looked perplexed. Chelsea gave a brief overview of the situation. Tina grabbed the file folder from the table and leafed through it. “Ridley’s did the authentication. They’re one of the most respected houses in the state. They wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

“Well, someone did. Anderson used Murphy & McGuire. It’s equally unlikely that they’d make such an enormous error. If this leaks out, especially before we get to the bottom of it, our reputation will take a huge hit.” Mr. Hadley turned to Joel. “I’ll need you to prepare for a media onslaught.” At Joel’s nod, he continued. “I’m going to have to tell your grandmother about this. I’d much rather she hears it from me than other sources—like the press.”

Joel raised his hands. “I have to agree. She won’t be pleased, I can tell you that. You know as well as I do that the gallery is her passion, and she cares deeply about it. This gallery is everything to her.”

“Other than you,” Chelsea added softly.

Joel shifted his gaze to her. “Yes. Thank you.”

* * *

MR. HADLEY DECIDED it would be best to deliver news of this import to Mrs. Sinclair in person. Joel went off somewhere shortly after their meeting, and Tina was arranging for the top authentication expert in New York State to have a look at the Babineux.

Chelsea and Deborah were covering the showroom. Not that there was a lot of walk-in traffic. Frankly, Chelsea wanted to go home. A headache was beginning to pound behind her temples and she was facing the possibility of losing a substantial commission. A commission she’d already spent on her car for the much-needed maintenance work.

As the front-door chime sounded, she sincerely hoped Deborah would take the customer. With the mood she was in, it was highly unlikely she’d be able to make a sale, anyway. When she saw Detective Sam Eldridge, her heart did a little skip. She glanced at Deborah, who was already sashaying over to greet Sam.

Chelsea felt an unexpected and unreasonable pang of jealousy as she watched Deborah turn on the charm for Sam. She really couldn’t blame Deborah, since a man’s looks were a priority for her, and Sam had them in spades. But she didn’t have to hang around and watch this, she thought, and turned to go.

“Chelsea!” She heard Sam call her name. “Do you have a minute?”

She swung around and saw the mildly annoyed expression Deborah gave her. “Yes. Certainly.” She walked back toward Sam.

“Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

“Sure. The sales office.”

Sam glanced over at it. “Somewhere without glass walls?” he asked.

It had been a long day, and the throbbing behind her temples was intensifying. “Can we—”

“Let me buy you a coffee,” he interrupted. She was about to refuse, but before she had a chance, he added, “official police business.”

It must’ve been loud enough for Deborah to hear. With a satisfied smirk, she tossed her long blond hair over one shoulder and walked back to the office area.

“All right. Give me a minute to get my things.” And take an aspirin.

Chelsea went to her desk and pulled her handbag from the bottom drawer. She took the painkiller first. With the drawer still open, she noticed the high-heeled pumps she’d worn to the gallery’s gala. Headache be damned, she took off her more practical shoes and slipped on the pumps. Using the small mirror she kept in her desk, she touched up her lipstick. Sam might want to talk police business, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look her best.

By the time she spritzed on some perfume, her headache was fading.

* * *

THE FIRST THING Sam noticed when Chelsea walked out of the back was that she looked...taller. He slid his gaze down and saw the shoes. Unless he was mistaken, they were the same shoes she’d worn the night of the exhibit, but they worked even better with the skirt she wore today.

Caught in the act, he realized when he looked up and saw Chelsea’s amused smile. “Ready to go?” he asked, proud of how smoothly he managed to recover from his lapse of professionalism. He helped her with her coat and walked her to his vehicle, having agreed that he’d drive her back to the gallery to get her car when they were done. “How was your day?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

She leaned back against the headrest. “Don’t ask. One of the worst.”

He thought of Joel Sinclair and how unpleasant he’d seemed and glanced at her. “Boyfriend trouble?”

“What?”

“Sorry. Too personal.” And where the heck did that come from?

“Oh, no. It’s not that at all. Just something...unusual happened at work today.”

He glanced at her again. She had her eyes closed and seemed unwilling to elaborate.

He drove into The Coffee Shoppe’s parking lot and took a spot close to the entrance, and let her precede him into the café

They both had coffee and Chelsea ordered an enormous cinnamon bun.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him after swallowing a generous bite.

He watched her tear off another sizable portion. “Where do you put all that food?” he asked.

“I get plenty of exercise walking around at work, and I try to do yoga a couple of times a week,” she explained. “Fortunately, I’m also blessed with a high metabolism,” she added with a flash of even white teeth. “But you said this was official police business. Do you know who’s responsible for the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines?”

“I did say it’s police business,” he replied, although he’d nearly forgotten, enjoying her company as much as he was. “It’s about the robbery, although regrettably we haven’t caught the responsible person yet.”

Chelsea had been about to put another bite of the pastry in her mouth but paused. “Does it usually take this long with a robbery of this sort?”

“Generally not. The longer it takes, the lower the odds that we’ll be able to catch the perpetrator. This case is somewhat out of the norm. And that’s part of the problem.” He preferred not to tell her outright what he was considering, for two reasons. He didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily; she looked troubled enough as it was. Also, if he was going to share his theory with anyone, it should be the curator or owner of the gallery. His purpose in meeting with Chelsea was to get her take on whether there’d been anything out of the ordinary that could indicate the gallery might be a target.

Or so he told himself.

“What’s unusual about it?” Chelsea probed. “Is it that Mr. Rochester was hurt? There aren’t many incidents like that in Camden Falls. Not that I’ve heard of, anyway.”

“You’re correct. We don’t see a lot of crime like the jewelry store break-in. Generally, that makes my job a lot easier,” he said with a smile. “But since it did happen, we don’t want to see a recurrence. Catching the perpetrator will not only keep him or her from a repeat performance, but it’ll also act as a deterrent to other potential thieves.”

“Sounds like a plan. How can I help?”

Her hands were wrapped around her mug, and her smile was warm and inquisitive. She looked so appealing, he had to force himself to remember what he’d been about to say. “Uh, Willowbrook Avenue is home to most of Camden Falls’s retail stores, the most likely targets for a thief. I couldn’t help noticing,” he said, smiling again, “that you seem to be aware of what goes on in the neighborhood and don’t mind getting involved, if the need arises. I don’t mean that as a criticism,” he added quickly, when he saw her eyes narrow. “I was wondering if you’d seen anything suspicious in the area, either before or after the robbery.”

Her brow furrowed. “Not that I recall. The store owners and employees along that stretch of Willowbrook all know each other and we’re a close-knit group. We tend to look out for each other. If anyone had seen anything, I would’ve found out.”

“Have you seen or heard of anyone unfamiliar or someone who seemed out of place visiting the gallery or any of the other stores?”

She took a sip of her coffee but kept her eyes steady on his. Finally, she shook her head. “You’re asking me because you don’t think the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines was an isolated incident. You think the gallery or one of the other businesses on Willowbrook might be targeted.”

It wasn’t posed as a question. Her agile mind impressed him. “We haven’t discounted the possibility. We’ve arranged for extra patrols along Willowbrook for the time being. Just in case.”

Chelsea nodded. “Thank you. There wasn’t much of value stolen from All That Glitters and Shines, was there?”

“No.”

“But there was a great deal of damage. I can’t imagine Mr. and Mrs. Rochester having enemies. So, I don’t think it was targeting them.” Sam assumed she was looking for confirmation or denial. Careful to give her neither, he was again struck by how bright she was. He was starting to respect her intelligence as much as her courage, kindness and humor.

“It wasn’t strictly vandalism, though,” she continued. “There are easier, less risky ways to accomplish that than breaking into the store. What was the motivation, then?”

“Interesting line of reasoning,” he said. “You’ve taken courses in criminology?” he teased.

Her delighted smile caused a twinge—like extreme hunger—in his gut.

“No, but I love reading crime novels.” Her expression turned serious. “I can put two plus two together well enough to know that if you considered it a routine robbery, we wouldn’t be here having coffee.”

The thought of them doing just that, but for personal reasons, ran through his mind. “Maybe I used it as an excuse to get you here.”

She rolled her eyes, but not before she smiled at him again—flirtatiously this time. “I understand you can’t tell me more,” she said, “but I honestly don’t know what I can say that would help. Believe me, I want the person who hurt Mr. Rochester caught.” The intensity in her voice underscored her words.

“You care about him,” he said, stating the obvious.

She raised her hands. “Of course I care about Mr. Rochester. And Mrs. Rochester, who’s been worried sick about her husband. They’re a sweet couple. The way they are with each other, you’d think they were in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They’ve been married more than forty-five years.”

He mentally added romantic to the list of her attributes. And the list was getting long. She had intelligence, warmth and compassion. She had a spirit of fun that he readily admitted he was lacking but admired. And, needless to say, he loved the way she looked.

But she had a boyfriend and he had to stay focused on the case. “Another question, if you don’t mind. Is there anything more you can tell me about Adam Rochester or his mother?”

“Not really.” She stared down at the table. “I told you everything I know the other night.”

He’d been watching her intently—couldn’t take his eyes off her. So he’d noticed that the warmth fizzled out as she talked about the nephew. “You don’t like him.”

She raised startled eyes to meet his. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m a detective, remember. Well-honed observation skills,” he responded, trying to put her at ease again and lighten the mood. It had the desired effect, making her smile again. “So, why is that?” he asked.

She seemed to consider his question for a moment. “I don’t dislike Adam. We’ve just never...connected.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since I started working at the gallery. Nearly five years ago now.”

“That’s a long time not to connect with someone.”

“Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “But I don’t think connecting is a function of time. We’re too different.”

Soon after, Sam ran out of questions, and he needed to take Chelsea back to the gallery. He dropped her off there and said good-night.

But he found himself thinking about her as he drove home.

He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t remember being drawn to anyone else...other than Katherine. He’d been tempted to ask Chelsea about her relationship with Joel again, but he didn’t want to cross the line from business to personal. Her reaction to his impromptu question in the car had told him she was sensitive about it.

Didn’t it just figure that when he finally met a woman he could be interested in, it was during an investigation and she was in a relationship. Even if those obstacles didn’t exist, he recalled her comment about not connecting with Adam Sinclair because they were too different.

Weren’t they too different? Sam wondered grudgingly as he let himself into his apartment. Not from his perspective. And her comment about connecting not being a function of time? His own reaction to her had been almost immediate, so he had to agree.

It was only when he closed the door behind him that he realized he’d neglected to ask her what she’d meant about this being one of her worst days.

CHAPTER SEVEN

VERY GENTLEMANLY, CHELSEA mused, how Sam had walked her to her car at the gallery and waited until she’d pulled out of the parking lot. It was a thoughtful gesture.

Although Detective Sam Eldridge was about as far from what she considered her “type” as she could imagine, he intrigued her. He was undeniably attractive, but it was more than that. She found his personality appealing, so steady and solid—and her complete opposite.

Wouldn’t it be fun to throw him off his game? Get him to be a little more spontaneous?

And she was known for her spontaneity!

There was no ring on his finger—she’d checked—and she was sure he’d be the kind of man to wear one if he was married. She went into her apartment, hung up her coat and scooped Mindy into her arms as she headed to the kitchen. She placed the purring cat on a kitchen chair and searched through her handbag for the business card Sam had given her.

Samuel D. Eldridge.

The name suited him. She wondered what the D stood for but wasn’t surprised to see the use of his middle initial. He just seemed to be the type. Stuffy was the wrong word. Proper was more like it.

Mindy meowed and Chelsea scratched her behind the ears.

Sam looked like someone who could use some fun in his life, she decided.

It was less than a half an hour since he’d dropped her off. Chances were that he’d be home or wherever he’d been going.

She tapped the card against her fingers and grinned.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed his cell number.

“Eldridge here,” was the brusque response.

“Owens here,” she said, mimicking him.

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