Come the Spring by Julie Garwood Page B

customer they helped.”
    â€œOnce we make the list of the names, then what?” Cole asked.
    â€œWe talk to all of them because one might have noticed something out of the ordinary.”
    â€œHas that ever happened before?”
    â€œNo, but we still have to ask. Those bastards are going to slip up one of these days. Maybe one of them came into the bank earlier to look it over.”
    â€œThat’s wishful thinking, Ryan.”
    â€œYeah, I know, but we still have to go through the routine. We have to cover all the possibilities. From the looks of all these stacks of paper, there were quite a few customers yesterday. It’s going to take us the rest of the day to go through them.”
    They divided the stacks between them. Ryan went back into the president’s office to work there. Cole stayed out in the lobby. He searched through the top drawer of the ink-stained desk for a notepad and pencil so that he could make his list, found what he needed, and put them on the desktop. He was on his way to get the chair Ryan had kicked over when a glimpse of blue on the floor under the desk’s kneehole caught his attention.
    â€œWe’re going to have to go through everything in here at least three times,” Ryan warned. “Just in case we miss something the first and second time around.”
    â€œWe’ll be here a week,” Cole shouted back as he bent down on one knee and reached inside the kneehole. He pulled out a pale blue bag with a blue-and-white satin string.
    He opened it and looked inside. There wasn’t anything there, just blue satin lining. Cole stared at the thing for several seconds, then called out, “Hey, Ryan, do you know who works at this desk?”
    â€œYes,” Ryan shouted back. He was seated at the president’s desk, methodically going through the contents in the top drawer. “I’ve got the name written down in my notes.”
    â€œDo you remember if it is a man or a woman?”
    Something in Cole’s voice caught Ryan’s attention. He glanced up, saw him down on one knee, and called out, “A man sits there.”
    â€œWas he one of the men killed?”
    â€œNo. He was home sick yesterday.”
    Cole stuck his head into the opening. “Well … well,” he whispered.
    â€œDid you find something?” Ryan shouted.
    â€œMaybe,” Cole answered. “Then again, maybe not.” He stood up and turned to Ryan. “Do you happen to know how often this place gets cleaned?”
    â€œThat’s the first question I asked Sloan, since we also have to go through the trash. According to him, MacCorkle was obsessed about keeping the place spotless. He had it cleaned every night and inspected every nook and cranny in the morning. All the trash in the bins is from yesterday’s business.”
    â€œYou’re positive it was cleaned Tuesday night?”
    Ryan stopped what he was doing and walked back to the lobby. He spotted the wad of blue fabric in Cole’s hand.
    â€œYeah, I’m sure. Why? What have you got?”
    â€œA possibility.”
    â€œA possibility of what?”
    Cole smiled. “A witness.”

Seven

 
    Three women had been inside the bank between the hours of one and three o’clock in the afternoon on the day of the robbery. Cole and Ryan knew that was fact, not speculation, because of Sherman MacCorkle’s taskmaster rules. Just as the sheriff had told Ryan, the president of the bank had demanded that every transaction—even change for a dollar bill—be recorded by name on a piece of paper and filed in the cash drawer. If the figures on the papers didn’t balance with the money in the drawer, the teller had to make up the difference. MacCorkle had also insisted that each day’s tallies be separated into the morning and afternoon hours. The receipts for Wednesday morning’s transactions were still on MacCorkle’s desk in three neat piles.