3. The Rent That Went

CHAPTER 3

The Rent That Went

T hanksgiving weekend brought us so many customers they could barely squeeze past each other in the shop. Surely, we were violating the fire code. Nick and I found ourselves repeatedly rushing to the stockroom to replenish inventory.

Once it was all over on Sunday, he closed the front door and locked the deadbolt. I ran a register tape. Reviewing the bottom line, I squealed in glee. I held up the long strip of paper. “Come take a look.”

Nick walked over and took the tape from me. His eyes popped wide. “I can hardly believe it!”

The shop had brought in over sixteen-thousand dollars. Woohoo! Though the money was great, of course, the thought that we’d bring joy to so many children was inspiring, too.

As I did every night, I left two-hundred dollars in start-up cash in the till for the following morning, counted out the rest, and wrapped a rubber band around the bills and the register printout verifying the cash sales. The cash intake normally didn’t amount to much, maybe a few hundred dollars at the most. Other than young children who brought in bills and coins they’d saved in their piggy banks—which we also sold—most people paid for their purchases with debit cards or credit cards these days. I slid the cash into a zippered vinyl bank bag and secured it in the office safe. Usually, every few days, Nick took the cash over to the bank for deposit. However, I noticed that, as the end of the month approached, he’d been retaining the cash so that he’d have enough on hand to pay the next month’s rent to Dale Dickson when he came around to collect on the first.

Knowing the next few weekends before Christmas would continue to bring more people to the mountains, Nick and I stayed late every night for several days in a row. On the last day of November, just after we’d closed the store for the night, Nick counted out cash for the December rent, slid it into an envelope, and secured the envelope inside the zippered bag in the safe. We worked on into the evening, listening to Christmas carols playing on the local radio station. Nick was a little tone deaf and I was entirely off key, but that didn’t stop us from singing along. We’d become quite comfortable with each other rather quickly, and I enjoyed his companionship.

It was nearing midnight when I sprinkled silver glitter over miniature pine trees to resemble snowflakes. The trees would be perfect decorations to accompany the train sets. When I went to screw the lid back on, the jar slipped from my hands and fell to the floor, bouncing and sending up a spray of silvery flakes in every direction. Exhausted, I put my face in my hands and groaned.

Nick looked down at the mess, then back up at my bloodshot eyes. “It’s late. Let’s call it a day and clean up the mess in the morning.”

I concurred. I could barely keep my eyes open as it was. The last thing I wanted to do was sweep the storeroom.

I rounded up my purse from the safe and, after we’d stepped outside, Nick turned back around to lock up the shop. He drove me back to my house and walked me to my door to ensure I got safely inside. It was a sweet gesture, though totally unnecessary. There was virtually no crime in town, and especially not violent crime. It was one of the small town’s many charms. Still, I can’t say I minded one bit. In fact, I hoped one day he might ask to come inside. The two of us got along very well on a professional level, and I believed we would on a personal level, too.

As I stepped inside, my three cats dashed over to perform figure eights around my ankles. I might have tripped had I not grown accustomed to their practice over the years. Whoever thinks cats aren’t affectionate has never seen these three. I turned back and said, “Goodnight, Nick.”

He gave me a soft smile. “Goodnight, Ciara.”

After the door closed, I could have sworn I heard a sigh from outside. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been having romantic thoughts.

I arrived at the shop a little before Nick the following morning, which was December first. To my surprise, I noticed that silver glitter had been tracked from the storeroom into the office. Although I’d gone into the office to retrieve my purse last night before Nick took me home, we’d both been careful to avoid the spill. A few flakes of glitter had landed atop my shoes when the jar fell, but I’d brushed them off. Hmm.

After stashing my purse in the safe atop the bank bag, I exited the office, grabbed a broom and dustpan, and walked over to the worktable. The pile of silver glitter on the floor had spread even more, as if someone had tramped through it. It couldn’t have been Nick or me. Could the shop have rats? I quickly dismissed the idea. We had nothing edible on site to entice them to take up residence, nor had I seen any droppings to indicate an infestation. Shrugging, I chalked it up to the heating system. After all, glitter was lightweight and the warm air flowing from the vents might be enough to blow the mess around.

I swept up as much glitter as I could, and followed up by thoroughly vacuuming the area. Each time I thought I’d finished, the overhead lights would reflect off yet another errant silver flake. Ugh! I finally threw up my hands and abandoned the impossible task. A few flakes of glitter never killed anyone as far as I knew, and I had more important things to do.

I set to work painting a set of blocks for the window display. I planned to rotate funny and festive holiday messages that would also promote our wares:

TOYS TO THE WORLD

TOYS WITHOUT BATTERIES GIVE YOU A SILENT NIGHT

PA RUM PA PUM-PUM, BUY A TOY DRUM

Okay, so the last two were a bit contradictory, but so be it.

Nick arrived a few minutes later. After greeting me with a “good morning,” he went into the office. I heard the sound of him opening the safe followed by a zzzip as he opened the bank bag. There was silence for a moment, then he called, “Ciara? Where’s the rent money? And yesterday’s cash intake?”

What?! My heart spun like one of his wooden dreidels as I walked into the office. “What do you mean? The money’s not in the bag?”

When I’d put my purse in the safe earlier, I’d assumed the cash receipts and the rent envelope were still inside the bank bag where we’d put them last night.

Nick shook his head, his eyes flashing in alarm. “The money was here when we left last night, but now it’s gone.”

“How can that be?” My heart rate ratcheted up even further. Had someone broken into the store overnight?

“I don’t know,” Nick said, “but I’d better call the police.”

As he placed the call, I glanced around. Other than the glitter that had been spread about earlier, I saw no other signs of an intruder having been in the shop.

In minutes, an officer arrived, a fortyish guy with dark skin and a stocky build. The name badge on his chest read GIBBS.

Nick filled Officer Gibbs in. “Two grand in cash for the shop’s rent is missing, as well as three-hundred and eighty-nine dollars in cash receipts from yesterday. It was in the safe when we left around midnight last night.”

“Two grand?” The cop whistled. “That’s a large chunk of change.” He glanced around at the ceiling. “Got any security cameras?”

“No,” Nick said. “I didn’t see the need for them. I wouldn’t expect there to be much of a black market for classic toys and, other than the end of the month when the rent is due, we keep very little cash on hand.”

I chimed in with what I knew, which was precious little. “When I arrived for work this morning, I noticed that the glitter I’d spilled next to the worktable last night was all over the floor. I didn’t realize the money was missing, and I assumed the air coming through the vents had blown the glitter around, so I cleaned up the mess.” I showed both of them the contents of the vacuum cleaner bag. The glitter flashed from among the dirt and sawdust the vacuum had also picked up. The broom likewise contained a few pieces of glitter among the straw, and three or four glitter flakes were stuck to the dustpan, as well. The shiny stuff spread like the flu virus and was impossible to get rid of.

After taking a careful look around inside, the police officer examined the exterior windows and doors, all of which were intact and undamaged. “I don’t see any signs of forced entry. Who has keys to the shop?”

Nick said, “Just me, Ciara, and my landlord.”

“Your landlord?” The cop cocked his head. “That’s the Dickson brothers, right? They own most of Main Street.”

“That’s right,” Nick said. “Dale comes by to pick the rent up on the first of each month. That’s why I had it in the safe.”

“I see,” Gibbs said. “Who else knows you pay your rent in cash?”

Nick gestured to me. “Ciara, of course. The other tenants who rent their space from Dickson Brothers would be aware since they pay their rent in cash, too.”

Gibb’s head bobbed slowly as he took in the information. “I assume the safe had already been installed when you leased the space? A safe come standard with most retail spaces.”

“That’s correct,” Nick replied.

“Did you reprogram the safe with a new passcode when you took over the store space?”

“I sure did.” Nick punctuated his words with an emphatic dip of his chin.

Gibbs cocked his head. “Does your landlord have an override code?”

“No,” Nick said. “I verified that fact with Dale Dickson when I leased the shop. I even contacted the manufacturer of the safe to double check. I didn’t want to worry that someone would be able to circumvent my new combination if they somehow got wind of the override code. The only person I’ve shared the combination with is Ciara.”

The cop turned my way. His pointed gaze locked on mine, his brows arched in suspicion. “Judges go easier on thieves who confess and return the stolen funds. A first offender is likely to get off with just probation.”

As insulted as I was, I could understand why he’d consider me the most likely suspect, so I tried not to get too defensive. “I didn’t take the money.”

Nick reached out a hand and put it on my shoulder. His gaze locked on mine, just as the officer’s had a moment before. But while the officer’s had been accusatory, Nick’s was reassuring. “I know you didn’t, Ciara.”

The cop looked far less convinced. “If there was no forced entry, your landlord doesn’t have an override code, and only the two of you know the combination …” He let the insinuation hang in the air.

Nick looked the officer directly in the eye. “It wasn’t Ciara. I know that.”

Gibbs spoke as if I wasn’t there. “How long has she worked for you?”

“A few weeks.”

“That’s not long,” Gibbs pointed out, the implication being that Nick might not know me as well as he thought he did.

Nick repeated, “It wasn’t Ciara.”

“All righty, then.” The policeman tried a different tack. “You’re sure you remembered to put the money in the safe? You didn’t accidentally take it home with you or get distracted and stash it in a file cabinet or on one of these shelves somewhere?” He gestured around the stockroom.

Nick shook his head. “It wasn’t misplaced. I’m one-hundred percent certain I put it in the safe.”

“I saw Nick do it,” I said. I fought the urge to tell Gibbs that if I’d truly been guilty, I would have jumped on the maybe-Nick-accidentally-misplaced-the-money bandwagon to deflect suspicion from myself. I thought better of it, though. The officer was only doing his job and, heck, I’d be asking the exact same questions if I were in his steel-toed tactical shoes rather than my favorite mock-suede ankle boots.

The man didn’t argue further with Nick and me. He simply said, “I’ll dust for prints. See if anything comes up.”

Nick nodded. “Please do.”

The officer retrieved a fingerprinting kit from his patrol car and proceeded to dust graphite over the safe’s keypad and handle. When he finished, he used clear tape to lift the prints. “I’ll need prints from you two so that I can identify any that might be yours. You’ve both touched the safe, I assume?”

“Yes,” Nick and I said in unison.

Gibbs took our prints the old-fashioned way, by having us press our fingers on an ink pad and roll them on a card. When he finished, he said, “I’ll let you know if anything turns up. It won’t be quick. We’re a small force and we don’t have our own crime lab. We use the state’s regional lab over in Edneyville. Christmas is a high-crime period, what with porch pirates, and burglaries, and people driving home drunk from holiday parties, so it’ll likely be a week or two before we get the results.”

“Understood,” Nick said.

Before Officer Gibbs left, he said, “I’ll check with the officers who worked the night shift. See if they noticed anyone about.”

Nick thanked him, and the man left the shop. I turned to Nick. The deep lines between his brows told me he was upset. Like me, he was likely experiencing a competing set of emotions. Anger. Confusion. Anxiety. Outrage.

He exhaled sharply. “Two grand is a big hit. I invested everything I have in this shop. I put a lot of time and materials into these toys, but I keep the markup low so people can afford them. This is really going to set me back.”

“I’m so sorry, Nick. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the lab will be able to identify the burglar’s fingerprints.” Even as I said it, I knew the probability was slim. A burglar who knew his prints were on file would have likely worn gloves to avoid leaving prints. Heck, we hadn’t even been able to figure out how anyone had gotten into the shop without busting a lock or a window. Could they have come through an HVAC vent? Crawled through the ductwork like they do in the movies? A glance at the unfinished ceiling in the storeroom told me that there was no way anyone could fit inside the small vents. They were only six inches or so in diameter. Besides, they were made of flimsy, flexible material that wouldn’t support much weight and, as far as I could see, the entire system was contained within our shop space. Even if the ducts had been large and sturdy enough to accommodate a human being—which they weren’t—the only place a person would get by moving through the ducts was somewhere else within the store.

Who had taken the money and how had they gotten inside?