Taking inventory…
As soon as Molerno dismissed her, Amanda rushed toward her own booth. Ignoring the angry stares of Carlson and Maribelle Porter, she shoved past Jack and June Harris, who seemed determined to confront her as she ducked under her blue tarp. She quickly tested the new key, and then passed into her workspace. When she locked that door behind her, she suddenly appreciated the fact that now no one could barge in and hassle her.
Taking a deep breath, she sank onto a plastic folding chair she’d hauled up from Florida and took stock of her fragile emotions. While she breathed in, then out, Amanda gazed at her pile of welding equipment stacked in one corner, at the Monroe pottery wheel and kiln, at Marc’s stash of old wood flooring and various architectural salvage, and collected her thoughts. The studio smelled of damp clay, linseed oil and dust.
Oddly, it also smelled of hope. Not because those odors were comfortingly familiar from warehouse studios where she’d worked in the past, but because of what Detective Molerno had just said: I cut her loose. So Sara wasn’t suffering in some awful jail. She was free—at least for the moment.
The thought lifted her spirits and moved her to action. So what if half her fellow exhibitors hated her guts? She could live with that. Yesterday Metrolina had seemed a gloomy, foreboding place, causing her to wonder if she could break her lease. But now everything had changed.
Amanda got up, turned on the lights and got busy with the inventory she’d tried to accomplish since Saturday. She unpacked a box including her welding clothes: face shield with adjustable headband, leather gloves, work apron, leather jacket, high-top shoes and safety glasses. If Sara saw her in this getup, would she be impressed?
The next box included her tools: chipping hammer, wire brush, vice-grips and clamps, anvil, tongs, long-handled pliers. Simply handling these items was a joy, and she imagined the art she would create—maybe even a special piece for Sara’s apartment, as she had requested.
She had a few welding rods on hand which were used to make the strong seams in her metal constructions, but she’d need to buy more. Finally, she carefully unpacked her portable oxygen/acetylene outfit on wheels. She inspected the cylinder, valves, gauges and hose. The system had cost Amanda a small fortune, but in light of the lucrative Wells Fargo commission, it was worth every penny. She kept her cutting torch and welding tips in a special case, and figured she’d easily find a shop to supply her with gas. So she was all set.
But her head was spinning. Weaving in and out of the tapestry of designs she was mentally composing were the nagging threads of worry, all about Sara. It made it hard to concentrate. Where was Sara now? With Lena, or at home in her balcony hidey-hole?
Most important, how could she get in touch with her? She didn’t have Sara’s phone number. Suddenly she realized she was pacing and directed that movement south, toward Marc’s studio. If only he were there, perhaps he’d give her the number? Along the way, just for fun, Amanda quietly tested the door into June Harris’s booth. It was firmly locked. She smiled in satisfaction.
But when she tried Marc’s door, it too was locked. Damn! Putting her ear to it, she heard only silence. When the hell would Marc put in an appearance? Frustrated, Amanda sat down on an old window seat much like the one that had served as Ben Marsh’s coffin.
Shivering involuntarily, she took out her cell phone, found the number for Metrolina Main Office among her contacts, and impulsively dialed. When the lease manager answered, she introduced herself and asked for Marc’s number. Miraculously, the man complied.
Oh my God! She quickly entered it into her phone and began working up the courage to dial. In the meantime, her phone began playing “Disco Inferno,” her personal ringtone. The sound made her leap like Stephen Curry on a jumpshot.
“Hello?” She didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Hi, Amanda, it’s Sara. Thank God I got you!”
Amanda immediately sat down again. “Sara, I’ve been trying to reach you too. Are you okay?”
“I just got a call from Detective Molerno. He told me what happened with you and the Porters. Jesus, Amanda, I’m so sorry!”
Sara sounded breathless and frightened. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I can’t believe those shits wouldn’t back up our story.”
“I know, but I sense Molerno thinks they’re lying. And I want to thank you for trying, Amanda. In person.”
Amanda nearly slid off the window seat. “You want to see me? When?”
As Sara explained that she was still living in the building behind her parents’ house, and that she wanted to see her as soon as possible, Amanda was on her feet, running back toward the door to her booth so she could leave immediately.
“I’ll be right there!” she promised Sara.
None of the other exhibitors approached her on the way out, but the guard at the north exit searched her purse, causing her to wriggle with impatience. When he finally let her go, she was momentarily disoriented because she could not find her car.
But then she remembered. She had parked in the alley behind Building 15, one door down, hoping to sneak into Metrolina unnoticed. Walking fast in the right direction, Amanda was surprised to see that the sun was setting, and she hoped she’d find her way to the Orlandos’ house in the near darkness.
As soon as she rounded the corner and saw Moby, Amanda realized something was terribly wrong. And when she got close, the enormity of the problem brought tears of anger to her eyes. Her big white van seemed to be sinking into the alley, and when she rounded it, she saw that all four tires had been slashed. Moby Dyke was resting on her rims.
Oh God damn! She unlocked the driver’s side, slid in, and lay her forehead on the steering wheel. Who would do such a thing? She came up with quite a few likely suspects. She’d tell the cop, but that wouldn’t help her one little bit when all she wanted was to get to Sara. She’d have to call and cancel.