the door to the coat closet. It had been left open, and everything in it had been pulled off the hangers or the upper shelf. A box of Christmas ornaments had been upended and many of the glass balls were broken. Two winter coats, and a host of sweaters and jackets were on the floor under a crisscross of hangers.
The entryway led into a small living room with a triple window on the right. They all stood there for a few moments, shocked at what they saw. Lamps were thrown on the floor and broken. Papers were scattered across the carpet, and chairs were overturned. Cushions from the couch had been dumped on the carpet and the couch upended over them. The thin fabric that covered its underside had been ripped away.
“Oh my Lord!” said Bershada. She put an arm around Doris’s shoulder. “I thought you said it was a burglar! Honey, this was a vandal !”
As Betsy led the way through the living room, everyone walked carefully, but still their feet crunched now and again on something frangible. The kitchen was another disaster. The refrigerator had been opened, and much of its contents had been pulled onto the floor. Every cabinet door and counter drawer had been opened and emptied. Sugar and flour canisters were spilled onto the floor.
Traces of black powder were on every surface, left by the sheriff’s department investigators.
Betsy said, “I had no idea it was going to be this bad.”
Alice said, “If I wasn’t standing here looking at this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”
Shelly said, “Some teenagers once broke into a school where I was teaching and spent hours trashing it. But it didn’t look as bad as this.”
“I hope this guy left lots and lots of fingerprints,” said Shelly in a low, angry voice. “I hope his fingerprints are on record somewhere.”
“I hope so, too, baby,” said Bershada. She turned to Betsy. “You get back downstairs. We’ll get started.”
Betsy, shaken, went back to work.
Hours later—only a few, but it seemed like many—the sale ended and the shop closed. Cleaning up, taking down signs, removing colored stickers denoting sale prices from products, counting the money, running the credit card machine and cash register, emptying the coffee urn and tea kettle, washing up, carrying out the trash, and writing up a deposit slip all took additional time after the door was locked. Krista said she’d take the money over to the night deposit at the bank, and Betsy gratefully handed the bag of checks and cash to her.
Then, upstairs again, Betsy looked over at Doris Valentine’s apartment door. It was partly open and there were two plastic garbage bags standing in the hall outside it. Betsy could hear the sound of cheerful voices coming from inside.
But Betsy needed to eat something. It had gotten too busy in the shop for her even to grab a snack at noon. She needed to sit down for at least a little while, too; not just her feet but her right leg, the one she’d broken last year, ached from being stood on for so many hours. Right beside her own front door was Sophie, mewing piteously for her supper.
Not that Sophie was as desperately hungry as Betsy was. She had spent the entire long day cadging treats from customers, some of whom knew to bring along a little something for her. In vain, Betsy had pointed at the needlepoint sign hanging on the chair with the powder blue cushion that the cat had claimed as her own: NO THANK YOU, I’M ON A DIET. People saw the sign, laughed, and slipped Sophie a fragment of cookie or bagel.
Betsy unlocked her door, and the cat led the way into the galley kitchen. Betsy followed, to feed her a single small scoop of Science Diet dry cat food, the variety designed for old, fat, lazy cats, though the package didn’t put it that bluntly. Betsy bought Science Diet because the package advertised it as a “complete” food, meaning it had all the nutrients to keep a cat healthy—something quite untrue of the goodies Betsy’s customers
The entryway led into a small living room with a triple window on the right. They all stood there for a few moments, shocked at what they saw. Lamps were thrown on the floor and broken. Papers were scattered across the carpet, and chairs were overturned. Cushions from the couch had been dumped on the carpet and the couch upended over them. The thin fabric that covered its underside had been ripped away.
“Oh my Lord!” said Bershada. She put an arm around Doris’s shoulder. “I thought you said it was a burglar! Honey, this was a vandal !”
As Betsy led the way through the living room, everyone walked carefully, but still their feet crunched now and again on something frangible. The kitchen was another disaster. The refrigerator had been opened, and much of its contents had been pulled onto the floor. Every cabinet door and counter drawer had been opened and emptied. Sugar and flour canisters were spilled onto the floor.
Traces of black powder were on every surface, left by the sheriff’s department investigators.
Betsy said, “I had no idea it was going to be this bad.”
Alice said, “If I wasn’t standing here looking at this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”
Shelly said, “Some teenagers once broke into a school where I was teaching and spent hours trashing it. But it didn’t look as bad as this.”
“I hope this guy left lots and lots of fingerprints,” said Shelly in a low, angry voice. “I hope his fingerprints are on record somewhere.”
“I hope so, too, baby,” said Bershada. She turned to Betsy. “You get back downstairs. We’ll get started.”
Betsy, shaken, went back to work.
Hours later—only a few, but it seemed like many—the sale ended and the shop closed. Cleaning up, taking down signs, removing colored stickers denoting sale prices from products, counting the money, running the credit card machine and cash register, emptying the coffee urn and tea kettle, washing up, carrying out the trash, and writing up a deposit slip all took additional time after the door was locked. Krista said she’d take the money over to the night deposit at the bank, and Betsy gratefully handed the bag of checks and cash to her.
Then, upstairs again, Betsy looked over at Doris Valentine’s apartment door. It was partly open and there were two plastic garbage bags standing in the hall outside it. Betsy could hear the sound of cheerful voices coming from inside.
But Betsy needed to eat something. It had gotten too busy in the shop for her even to grab a snack at noon. She needed to sit down for at least a little while, too; not just her feet but her right leg, the one she’d broken last year, ached from being stood on for so many hours. Right beside her own front door was Sophie, mewing piteously for her supper.
Not that Sophie was as desperately hungry as Betsy was. She had spent the entire long day cadging treats from customers, some of whom knew to bring along a little something for her. In vain, Betsy had pointed at the needlepoint sign hanging on the chair with the powder blue cushion that the cat had claimed as her own: NO THANK YOU, I’M ON A DIET. People saw the sign, laughed, and slipped Sophie a fragment of cookie or bagel.
Betsy unlocked her door, and the cat led the way into the galley kitchen. Betsy followed, to feed her a single small scoop of Science Diet dry cat food, the variety designed for old, fat, lazy cats, though the package didn’t put it that bluntly. Betsy bought Science Diet because the package advertised it as a “complete” food, meaning it had all the nutrients to keep a cat healthy—something quite untrue of the goodies Betsy’s customers
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