Hart and Hunter

Chapter 3

Ch. 3: Julian

"Who was that?" I ask when Dane gets off the phone.

"Stephanie Wong," he says, swiping a hand over a chin rough with two days' growth of stubble. "Someone broke into her shop last night and stole some things."

"Our thief?" I ask, perking up. Across from me, Ingrid looks up from her toaster waffles. She'd taken a keen interest in our detective business, and offered to help however she could to earn her keep.

"Seems like it," Dane says.

"What will we do?"

He finishes a bite of waffles and takes a gulp of coffee before he speaks, probably giving himself time to think.

"We do our job," he says at last. "We investigate."

***

After convincing Ingrid to stay home and practice for her first meeting with the orchestra, Dane and I drive into town. Stephanie greets us when we arrive, wrapped in a loose cardigan and hugging herself against a nerve-induced chill.

Her shop is only a short distance down the street from the spot Dane and I had staked out the night before last, though the area is far more charming in the daytime.

Trees line the sidewalks, their leaves just turning from summer's green to autumn's brighter colors, and rustic brick and wood facades define the historic buildings. Usually, the large glass windows of the store-front displays are full of choice tourist-bait, but recently they've been empty or papered over; no one wants to tempt the thief. In the distance, the mountains rise, their tops capped with the remnants of last year's snow.

Per Dane's instructions, Stephanie has kept her store closed and held off on calling the police, leaving the scene undisturbed. She lets us in with her key, pushing open the old-fashioned door, painted bright red, and shakes her head.

"Who robs a thrift-shop?" she complains, waving a hand at the confines of her store. She wears comfortable slacks and slip-on shoes, and her casual attire reminds me that a lot of the shop-owners see their business as a second home. The sense of violation probably hurts more than the relatively minor financial loss. "And who steals costume jewelry?"

She leads us through the small, cluttered store to a glass display case. It's intact, but the sliding side panel is open and the case is empty.

"Maybe the thief didn't know the jewelry was fake," Dane suggests.

Stephanie laughs. "I think he'd know."

She pulls out her phone and shows us a picture. It's the display case, full of obviously fake jewelry: gaudy baubles, rhinestones, plastic painted to look like pearls and gold.

"I get a lot of customers who want costume pieces for Halloween, so I try to bulk up on the fake bling this time of year," she says.

"None of this was valuable?" Dane asks.

Stephanie shrugs. "Doing inventory in a thrift-shop is a pain in the ass. Unless it's something really special, I just take pictures when I change the display. I don't even know exactly what was in there, but none of it was worth more than five dollars."

"What else is missing?" I ask, scanning the shop. There's a little of everything: furniture, lamps, books, framed pictures, knickknacks, kitchenware, toys, clothing and accessories. Never having had much interest in antiques, I have no idea what's treasure and what's trash.

"Nothing," Stephanie says. "At least, nothing I've noticed so far. All the valuable stuff is accounted for."

"Does that camera work?" Dane asks, pointing to a small security feature mounted in the corner.