No Offense - Meg Cabot Page 0,46
strong his hands looked, or imagine how those hands might feel on various parts of her body.
Fortunately she was spared from these very unprofessional thoughts by another officer she didn’t recognize—this one an older woman with thick dark hair coiled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a different-colored uniform than the others—entering the living room from one of the open French doors. She was carrying a paper bag.
“Chief,” she said. “We might have found something.”
The sheriff snapped his notebook shut. “Now that’s what I like to hear. What have you got, Marguerite?”
John stepped across the room to speak with the officer, whose nametag read Sergeant Ruiz. Molly didn’t want to look as if she was eavesdropping, but she also didn’t want to miss a single part of the first criminal investigation in which she’d ever taken part (obviously the search for Baby Aphrodite’s mother didn’t count because she’d already been found and she was clearly not a criminal).
So she asked Mrs. Tifton brightly, “More tea?” and before the old woman could respond, she leaped up to refill her cup, putting herself in a perfect place on the far side of the coffee table to listen to the officers.
“Found it out back,” Sergeant Ruiz was saying in a low voice, opening the paper bag and showing whatever was inside to the sheriff. “It was hanging from some of the bougainvillea along the homeowner’s fence.”
John nodded. “Maybe when he was making a run for it, it got snagged.”
“Would make sense that he’d leave it behind, rather than risk getting caught.”
“But it could be hers.” John nodded at Mrs. Tifton, who’d answered her cell phone (it had been ringing nonstop as news of the break-in spread across the island, and the widow couldn’t be persuaded not to answer it). She was twittering once more about how fortunate it was that she’d taken Daisy with her to the ball, since who knew what that nasty thief might have done to the poor animal if he’d found her there, all alone and defenseless (although Molly had once seen Daisy lunge at a chicken at the library, so she wasn’t entirely sure how defenseless the dog actually was).
Sergeant Ruiz shook her head. “And what, it blew off a wash line? Didn’t see a wash line, and this isn’t really her style. My boy’s got one just like it. This is menswear.”
“One way to find out,” the sheriff said with a shrug, and took the paper bag from her, turning just as Molly was lowering the teapot back onto the coffee table. They almost collided.
She thought she recovered nicely by smiling, hoisting the teapot high, and asking, “Tea, Sheriff?”
He looked at her with a comical expression—comical to her, anyway. His mouth was twisted as if he were trying not to smile—this was a serious situation, after all—but his blue eyes were alight with humor.
“Thank you for the offer, Miss Montgomery, but not right now.” He turned toward the homeowner. “Mrs. Tifton, this was found just now in your backyard. Does it look familiar to you?”
From the paper sack, he withdrew something black, using the pen with which he’d been scribbling in his notepad so as not to taint it with his DNA (or so Molly assumed). It took her a moment to realize that the object was a hoodie.
A black hoodie, exactly like the one Elijah wore nearly every day, despite Little Bridge Island’s heat.
Her heart seemed to skip a beat.
No. No, it wasn’t possible.
“What is it?” Mrs. Tifton asked curiously. “Is it a shirt?”
“It’s a hoodie,” Sergeant Ruiz said. “A men’s hoodie, size small.”
Mrs. Tifton shook her head in bewilderment. “No, that doesn’t belong to me. Or Norman, either. He wore a large. And he’d never have worn such a thing. He liked big, baggy, short-sleeved shirts. And he never wore black. And of course I donated all of his things to the Salvation Army a while back. They were so grateful. They really do need men’s clothing, you know.”
John allowed himself to smile this time. It was a kind and patient smile.
“That’s nice to know, Mrs. Tifton,” he said. “Do you know anyone else who might wear a shirt like this?”
Elijah, Molly thought to herself, feeling a little sick. Elijah wears a shirt like that. But it can’t be his. He’d never do a thing like this.
Except that he’d bragged that he was the High School Thief.
“Not really,” said Mrs. Tifton. “But I suppose I could. I do have an