Deep Freeze by Lisa Jackson Page B

single bloom on the Christmas cactus that rested on the corner of his desk, the only plant he hadn’t killed. Yet. “Things a little tense around here lately?”
    “I suppose.”
    “Have an ID on that woman up at Catwalk Point?”
    “You came here to try and pry information out of me? What happened, did you give up the theater for the newspaper?”
    “No—it’s just on everyone’s mind, I guess.”
    “Are you worried?”
    “Are you?”
    “Trying to keep things in perspective,” he said, not ready to admit to anyone, not even Rinda, that the Jane Doe case bothered him on a lot of levels. There was something about it that gnawed at him. Yeah, he was worried. Big-time. “Look, I guess I’m here because we’re friends.”
    “What’s on your mind?” he asked, as the old heater kicked into overdrive and the sound of air being pushed through old ducts muted the hum of computers and ring of phones outside his office.
    “Some things are missing from the theater,” Rinda announced.
    “What kind of things?”
    “Props. Costumes. Fake jewelry. Nothing all that valuable.”
    “You’re sure they’re not misplaced?”
    She shot him a look that reminded him she wasn’t an idiot. “At first, I didn’t know. But the last thing bothered me. It’s a black dress that Jenna Hughes donated. It’s probably only worth a couple of hundred dollars, except that it was a costume she’d worn in one of her movies. That ups the street value.”
    “You’re here because a dress is missing?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise. “Really?”
    Rinda shifted in her chair and avoided his gaze, instead staring through one of the windows in his office. Ice glazed the panes, blurring the lines of the buildings across the street.
    “Or is there something else?” he prodded. He hoped to hell she wasn’t going to try to get him to do something about the damned citation.
    “Okay…yeah,” she admitted, finally looking directly at him again. “I don’t know who else to tell, Shane. When I figured out what’s been happening, it kinda freaked me out.”
    “And what is that?”
    “That everything missing once belonged to Jenna Hughes, and not just that, but the items”—she opened her purse and pulled out a sheet of computer paper—“were from her movies. Two bracelets, a ring, a scarf, a pair of sunglasses, three pairs of shoes, all from different films. Now a black dress is missing. The one she wore in Resurrection .” She handed the typed list to Carter. “I guess I should have been more on top of it, but I thought we’d misplaced some of the items, and I didn’t really think that everything that was missing had been used in Jenna’s movies. Today, after Jenna and I couldn’t find the dress, I typed up the list. That’s when it really hit home.”
    He studied the piece of paper. “You’ve looked everywhere for these things?”
    “Of course!”
    “And asked the staff and actors?”
    “I spent all morning calling everyone who has access.”
    “You mean, all this stuff is locked up?”
    “Locked in the theater. I don’t have locks on the closets and wardrobes and cubbies.”
    “Maybe you should.” He glanced down at the typed sheet.
    “You’re patronizing me.”
    “No, I’m not,” he lied. “I just don’t know what I can do about it.”
    “You mean, you’re too busy.”
    “Right. Have you talked to the city police?”
    “Not yet. I figured they’d just laugh at me.”
    “And I wouldn’t?”
    “You might, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
    “I get it—this is a personal matter, not really a police matter.”
    “At least for now. I just thought I should talk to someone about it.” She leaned forward in the chair. “Don’t you think it’s odd that everything that was taken came from Jenna Hughes?”
    “Not really,” Carter said. “She’s the most famous person around these parts. It makes sense.”
    “In a sick sort of way.”
    “Right.” He slid the list back to her and