Pleasant and Barnes had parked near the front door. Closer to the corner, the owner had parked a black luxury sedan across two spaces. Who else would buy a vanity plate that read 2BRIGHT?
“No sign of any intruders, boss.” Deputy Pleasant tipped her hat in my direction.
Inside the store, it was brighter than a desert sky laced with diamonds. I nodded as if I belonged there without question.
Barnes and an elderly woman in luxury loungewear and an expensive mink coat met us inside. The redheaded deputy tipped his hat. “Miss Callahan?”
“Community police academy,” I said without a flinch.
He shot Lightfoot a sideways glance. “Didn’t know we had one.”
“Trial run,” Lightfoot said.
The elderly woman with Barnes was wound tight as a two-day watch. She thrust a bejeweled hand at Lightfoot. “Melissa Gold. And it’s about time.” The rings almost camouflaged her painfully swollen knuckles.
He took her hand gently. “Ma’am, it’s a pleasure. I was sorry to hear of your loss. Mr. Gold was a fine man.”
The Bugle had run an expansive obituary back in January. Mr. Gold and his wife had retired to far West Texas from New York. At first, citizens had scoffed at the idea of anyone making a go out of a stand-alone lighting store, but it hadn’t taken long for the successful businessman and his wife to prove their business acumen.
“He wasn’t fine, young man. He was brilliant.” She cocked her head like a wary bird, her eyes bright and shrewd. “If Albert were still alive, God rest his soul, no thief would dare to break into our place.” She shook a finger at Lightfoot. “My husband had a way with people. They respected him too much to harm us or our business.” Her sad gaze swept the room. “I am grateful he did not live to see this day.”
She took Lightfoot’s arm and led us, like ducklings, into a store overflowing with desks, tables, and shelves. “Why is everyone here?” I murmured to Pleasant. It was unusual for both deputies and Lightfoot to make an appearance at what appeared to be a simple burglary.
“She claims to be afraid that someone is still on the premises,” Pleasant whispered. “If you ask me, she called the sheriff and reminded him of her many donations to the officers’ retirement fund.” We passed lamps of various shapes and sizes, including a children’s section with garish clowns, a Spider-Man knockoff, and a cowboy with a lasso-shaped lampshade.
Mrs. Gold caught me, my forehead wrinkled in bewilderment, as I tried to make heads or tails out of a lampstand that looked impossibly like a bowl of spaghetti.
“Isn’t it a beauty? I found that one on the Internet and had to have it.” She touched it tenderly. “Reminds me of my late Albert.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, vowing to keep quiet as Lightfoot had demanded. But I was dying to ask how a spaghetti art lampshade could possibly resemble her husband. Perhaps he loved a plate of pasta more than life itself?
“Mrs. Gold, would you take a closer look and double-check nothing is missing from the premises?” Lightfoot reached inside his jacket and removed his ever-present notebook. He flipped it open and waited expectantly.
She raised her chin and studied his raised pencil. “I will do what you ask after this deputy searches every nook and cranny where a criminal could be hiding.” She patted Barnes on the arm.
The detective nodded his agreement, and Barnes walked across the store and into a back room. “Why don’t we look around while he’s gone?” asked Lightfoot calmly.
Barnes stepped out. “All clear. I’ll check the bathroom.” Though he didn’t roll his eyes, his tone revealed his skepticism.
“I don’t know. Everything looks the same.” Her expression clouded. “Oy! Albert’s office!” We followed her into a small room with a desk, rolling chair, four tall filing cabinets, dusty wooden bookcases, and a hanging Tiffany lamp. Her gaze passed over each shelf, her arms reaching toward each item. “Let’s see.” She tried the filing cabinets, but they remained locked and untouched. “Such a relief.” She placed a hand over her heart. “If anyone disturbed Albert’s files, I’d never get our taxes completed.” On a pristine desk sat a new laptop. She ran her fingers along the desk. “Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.” Pursing her lips, she stepped back a few paces, placed her chin in her hand, and stared. “Do you see anything out of place, young lady?” Along the edge of the leather desk blotter, she’d lined up a brass pencil holder and matching letter opener.
Underneath the desk was a power strip with cords leading to the lamp and an electronic pencil sharpener. “No, sorry.” I shook my head in frustration. “If this were my office, which obviously it’s not, I’d have my laptop on a charger, but that’s because I always forget to charge mine.”
“Oh, my dear.” She placed a soft hand on my arm. “So do I. Yet, where is my charger?”
“Are you sure it was here? Not at home or in a drawer?” Lightfoot glanced at the desk drawers she’d yet to open.
“I never keep it there, but if it convinces you I’m not a forgetful old loon, then by all means, I’ll check the drawers.” After she and Lightfoot—at her insistence—had checked all the way to the back of both drawers, I crawled underneath the desk to make sure it wasn’t hidden from sight.
“Nothing there, ma’am.” I wiped a cobweb from the end of my braid.
“Is it possible you left it at home or in a briefcase?” His gaze took in the room again, lingering on the corners and the open closet.
With quiet dignity she said, “I don’t take it home and I don’t use a briefcase . . . not anymore.”
He made a note, but I had a feeling we both were asking the same question. Who would bother stealing someone’s laptop charger? What would be the likelihood that the brand would be the
