But no one, from Cookie Tom to the Shomins to Shannon Hirsch, an attorney at the other end of downtown, would take their cash. “We’ll leave it for Pam,” the owner of the jewelry store said. “It’s not much, but she’s going to need it.”
Everyone nodded.
“Even if her insurance company pays out,” said the hardware store’s owner as he picked up a slice of pepperoni and sausage, “it’ll take weeks, if not months, to get a check, and she’ll need cash to replace stock.”
Which was far easier said than done, because Pam’s buying trips were done in the slower seasons, not in the busy summer. We all knew this, but since there wasn’t anything we could do about it, we ate and drank the soda and water that the Fat Boys had also donated, and got back to work.
Late in the afternoon, as Reva Shomin and the owner of the bike shop were trying to wrestle a corner cupboard back into the exact position we’d all decided it had been yesterday, a loud voice cut through the chatter.
“What on earth are you doing?”
The cupboard thumped to the floor, rocking a little, then going still. Everyone looked at each other, then as one, they all looked at me.
I swallowed and turned to face Pam, who was standing in the front doorway with her hands on her hips. Well, technically, one hand on one hip because the other hand was poking out of a sling, but whatever.
“Um,” I said. Earlier, I’d thought about calling her and making sure she was okay with us going ahead and cleaning up. But I hadn’t wanted to wake her if she was still sleeping, and since she’d left her purse behind in my car, a purse that had contained the keys to the store, I’d figured I’d get started, then call her a little later.
“I meant to call you,” I said lamely. And I had; I’d just ended up so busy I’d forgotten all about it. I suddenly remembered my mother’s admonitions to think first and act second. Maybe next time I’d remember her advice at a moment when I could implement it.
“Hey, Pam,” Cookie Tom said, nodding. He probably would have waved, but his hands were busy because he was hauling books from one of the carefully sorted piles. “Maybe you should sit down. You look a little pale.”
He was right. I guided her to a tall stool that the owner of a local bar had hauled in for us to use. “Just sit a minute,” I said. “You can direct everything from there.”
“But . . . but I don’t even know all these people,” she said, bewilderment clear on her face.
This was because our work crew had accidentally hauled in some passing tourists who had seen the activity inside and been more than willing to roll up their sleeves and pitch in.
“They’re people who want to help,” I said, opening a water bottle and handing it to her.
“But—”
“Drink,” I told her. “I’m willing to bet you haven’t had enough fluids today, and I know they told you at the hospital to make sure you stay hydrated.”
Not really paying attention to what she was doing, Pam took a sip of water. “How did . . . Why are . . .” She shook her head and glanced around, her eyes wide. “Everything’s almost done. I thought this would take days.”
“Many hands make light work,” I said, nodding as wisely as I could.
Pam blinked. “I can’t believe . . .”
Before she could go all teary, I nudged her hand, encouraging her to drink. When she was doing so, I started listing our accomplishments. “We decided to sort things into groups. Things broken beyond repair, things that were damaged but still saleable, and the things that weren’t damaged at all.” Her expression turned pensive, and I hurried on. “The busted-up pile was the smallest by far, and we took lots of pictures for your insurance claim.”
“Got them right here,” said Kirk, owner of the local photography studio, tapping his laptop. “I’m finishing up the file names.”
“Same with the slightly damaged stuff,” I said. “Kirk will burn DVDs so you and your insurance company will have records.”
“You . . . will?”
“Not a problem,” Kirk said, smiling at her. “Glad to help.”
“Really?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. “And over there, at the other laptop, Trudy is finishing up an inventory.” Trudy, an accountant, waved a manicured hand in our direction but didn’t look away from the computer. She’d been happy to help out, and even happier to know that her specific help wouldn’t involve the lifting of anything heavier than her computer’s mouse.
“When it’s done,” I told Pam, “Trudy will e-mail you the spreadsheet. We didn’t know how you track your stock, so Trudy put the data into lots of columns. You can sort it any way you need and compare it against your existing list.” I didn’t have any firsthand knowledge of Pam’s inventorying practices, but I knew without a doubt that this capable woman kept accurate track of the items in her store.
“I . . . don’t know what to say.” Pam clutched the water bottle hard enough to make the thin plastic crackle. “I . . .”
“Don’t say anything,” Kristen held up two large handfuls of antique cookie cutters. “Unless you want to tell me where these buggers go.”
Without a pause, Pam said, “In a wire basket. It was on the butcher-block kitchen island.”
As Kristen bustled off to display them properly, the owner of the shoe store held up a pair of large dolls and asked, “Pam? How about these?”
She slid off the stool and, within seconds, was deep into the business of directing the placement of the hundreds of items in her store.
I watched for a moment, making sure she was steady on her feet, breathed a short sigh of relief, and then returned to my self-appointed task of sorting the books.
* * *
“What’s missing?” I asked Pam.
We were eating the last of the pizza, and everyone else was long gone. For the past hour, Pam and I had been comparing her inventory list against Trudy’s list and the pictures Kirk had taken.
Pam swallowed a bite of mushrooms and olives and said, “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”
“Bzz! Wrong answer. We’ve worked too hard for that kind of response. Try again.”
She laughed, and I sent up a small prayer of thanks to whomever might be listening for the quick return of her warm laughter. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “What I meant was, I can’t see that anything has been stolen. It looks like this was just vandalism.”
I studied the two lists and murmured, “Another one.”
“That’s right,” Pam said. “You had two up at the library, didn’t you? The book-sale room and the poor bookmobile. Well, they say things come in threes.”
“They also say drinking coffee as a kid will stunt your growth.”
Pam looked at me. “You do drink a lot of coffee.”
“Didn’t drink a drop until I was in college.”
“Then why are you so short?”
“Because you can’t breed midgets and raise giants,” I said, quoting my grandfather, who had also told me to pay attention not just some of the time but all of the time. This was my mother’s father, and she’d learned many of her stock phrases from him, but somehow I’d always found it easier to listen to Grandpa.
And somehow that made me think of something. I went to the back of the store, trying to put myself back in time to when I’d walked in that morning. After a moment, I asked, “Can you pull up the first pictures Kirk took?” Kirk had been my second phone call and, after I’d explained what had happened, he’d been the first to arrive, camera and lighting equipment in hand. He’d set up quickly and snapped away, finishing just as the rest of the troops trooped in.
“Hang on a sec.” One-handed, she clicked open the appropriate computer file. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Three things.” I pointed toward the rear wall, to a display in the middle of the room, and to some shelving near the front door. “What do those look like in the pictures?”