Eleven
 Within an hour, they had it narrowed down to Claire, or someone at the agency, or possibly someone from the company she’d just worked at for three months, or Rob. She was embarrassed about Rob. "Did this new boyfriend of yours know you held a large check?"
"No, I know I never told him."
"What if someone in the company you worked for knew? You say the agency sent the check ahead to save you a trip."
"Yes." A whole new world of suspicion dawned on her. She ran through, one by one, the people she’d worked with, while Amal took notes. "Susan Burman; she was kind of bitchy at times… Roger Lovell; tried to hit on me, kind of sleazy… Tim Barnes; stuffed shirt; never said a word to me… Rosa Goldbaum; nice girl; very bright; too small to force her way in…" She laughed at the thought of little Rosa scaling the drainpipe to the second floor and than shouldering her way through a locked aluminum bug door.
In the end, she could think of no person in particular who might have done this to her. Detective Amal rose and shook her hand. "Unfortunately, we are busy with some very serious cases and this becomes an issue between you, the home owners’ association, and your insurance company. I wish you the best, Miss Bancroft. Oh, and one other thing. You should go through all your possessions and see if anything is missing. If nothing is missing, give me another call, because that would be very strange indeed.
Sylvie spent hours cleaning, and gradually her home began to look like itself again. The home owners’ president came over with an insurance person, and they took notes and photos and reminded her there was a $500 deductible on theft, in case she found anything missing. Two workmen came and installed new dead-bolts. They replaced the broken screen door with a heavy duty steel security door. They also hooked up a burglar detection kit that would go off loudly if a window were broken. The insurance company was paying, so Sylvie was at least happy about that. She whistled as she put her twelve roses back in a vase with fresh water.
The sun went down, the trash can overflowed, the condo smelled of cleansers, and Sylvie stepped tiredly into the shower. Soaping herself in the comforting hot water, she remembered Detective Amal’s suggestion. Honestly, she had not noticed anything missing.
After her shower, she dressed lightly, in shorts and a t-shirt. She slipped shower clogs on in case there was any broken glass left, though she’d swept, mopped, and waxed thoroughly. The phone rang as she went into the kitchen. It was Rob. "Hi, honey, I didn’t hear from you and I was worried."
"I’m okay now," she said. "Maybe it was just a prank by some teenagers, though I really can’t quite believe it."
"Would you like me to spend the night with you there? So you feel safe?"
She puckered her mouth and thought. "Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t I come over to your place and spend the night?"
"I’d love that. Want me to pick you up?"
And not have her car? She thought about that for a moment. "You know, after all that I’ve been through today, and all the work I’ve had to do cleaning up, and as tired as I am, you know what? Yes. I deserve to feel totally helpless, dependent, and cared for, even if it’s for one night."
"Want to go out to eat?"
"I’m just going to heat some soup. Want some?"
"Eh—I’ll pick something up along the way."
"No wine for me. No champagne. Nothing."
"We’ll drink imported spring water and I’ll pick up some crackers and cheese."
"Deal." They exchanged kissing noises and hung up.
Sylvie hummed to herself and warmed up a can of soup. Cheese sounded good. She took her small block of smoked cheddar from the refrigerator and put it on the counter. She took down the box of crackers from the cupboard. Finally she reached for her favorite, extra-large carving knife in the wooden block by the sink.
Empty. She peered at the block, counting her knives. They were all there except the biggest one. For a moment, she remembered Amal’s statement. Then she thought—nobody is going to burglarize my condo, leave my pc and all the other things, but take a battered old knife.
Rob arrived shortly thereafter. He kissed her passionately in the hallway. As she returned his kiss, she put her arms up around the back of his neck, and there she felt something raspy. She pulled her hand away and there was blood on it. "Ick!" she said. "What have you done to yourself?"
"Oh that," he said sheepishly, dabbing his neck with a tissue, "I was working on the sprinkler system in the yard. Little at a time, you know. I bent down, and when I rose up, I caught myself on a thorn bush. Nasty old thing."
"I’ll clean it up for you." She started for the bathroom to get the first aid kit.
"Don’t bother, it’s nothing."
"No really."
"If you insist." So he sat patiently while she dabbed at the crust that had formed. She dabbed with hot water until it had dissolved. Then she cleaned out the wound and applied an adhesive bandage. "That’s an odd looking wound," she said.
"It’s an odd looking rose bush." They both laughed.
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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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