Sketch a Falling Star (21 page)

Rory was impressed. If he was guilty, he’d just walked away from an opportunity to lay the blame elsewhere. Murderers weren’t generally that altruistic. At least now she knew how far she could push him before he pushed back. Or set the dogs on her. Maybe it was time for a little fence-mending.

“Fair enough,” she said. “I guess I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes.”

Brett relaxed and sat back against the cushions. The dogs relaxed as well.

“The funny thing is that I’d initially shut the door on the murder theory myself and mostly for the reasons you cited. But after listening to Clarissa…well, she did manage to pry that door open a bit. According to her, Brian had more enemies than friends—real enemies who would have loved to see him dead.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Brett said. “But wanting Brian dead isn’t exactly in the same ballpark as killing him.”

“And yet it can be. Sometimes the distance between the ‘wanting’ and the ‘doing’ is only one quick step.”

He shrugged as if that statistic held no interest for him. “I guess you’d know more about that in your line of work.”

“Which is why I have to investigate every red flag that pops up.”

“Sure, I get it.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said opening her handbag and withdrawing the copy of the check. She left the bag partially open on her lap, the.45 inches from her hand should she need it.

“Are you saying you found a red flag by my name?” Brett asked, concern finally apparent on his face.

“I just have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

“What kind of questions?”

The kind that require answers, she thought. It was amazing how often she heard that line. “For example, did Brian ever work for you?”

“Work for me?” Brett asked, clearly puzzled by the question, which was Rory’s intention. “No, why?”

“Did you ever lend him money?”

“No.”

“Or invest in one of his scams?”

“No.” The actor’s irritation was beginning to show. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, if he didn’t work for you, borrow money from you or scam you, then I have to assume the fifty-thousand-dollar check you wrote him was a blackmail payment. And since he wasn’t killed until after that payment, I also have to assume that he’d approached you for more, and you decided to put a stop to further demands.”

“Wait, wait just a minute there,” Brett said, he and the dogs once more on full alert. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Damn, he was good. He knew the jig was up, but he was playing indignant and innocent so well that he almost convinced her she didn’t know what she knew. It was time. She unfolded the photocopied check and held it out to him.

Brett didn’t reach for it, but from the distress that flashed across his features, it was clear he recognized it immediately. In the tense silence that followed, Rory hoped he wouldn’t set the dogs on her. She really, really didn’t want to have to shoot a dog.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Brett said, standing abruptly as if his agitation was demanding some form of action. Rory and the dogs remained on their respective couches, watching and waiting as he started to pace around the couch where he’d been sitting.

Rory figured he was considering his options or building up the courage to confess. She was pulling for the confession. That was when the dogs started growling. Before she had a chance to worry about their intentions, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Zeke was back in town. For a split second, the marshal actually blinked into view, parts of him anyway. His face was hanging in the air wearing a jaunty expression, and floating in the air beneath it were several assorted limbs. In spite of the songwriter’s claim, this was one instance when the thigh bone was definitely not connected to the hip bone, or any other bone for that matter.

Brett rounded the couch on his second lap in time to see the pieces of Zeke vanish. He stopped short, his face draining of color as if he’d seen a ghost. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, and when he opened them again, he was clearly glad to find only Rory and the dogs in the room. Cagney and Lacey, with their superior senses, didn’t share his relief. Whimpering in confusion, they jumped off the couch and ran out of the room, tails tucked securely between their legs. Brett was still so focused on whether or not he’d had a hallucination that he didn’t try to call them back.

“I didn’t just…I mean, did you…no, no, forget it, never mind,” he sputtered, trying to mold impossible thoughts into rational sentences.

Rory knew exactly what he was asking, but she didn’t plan on clarifying anything. In fact, she was hoping the marshal’s little faux pas might have rattled Brett enough to convince him that confession would be good for his soul.

“Is something wrong?” she asked innocently.

Brett dropped down on the couch again, his earlier agitation having clearly been run out of town by more pressing concerns about his sanity. “I don’t think I’ve been getting enough sleep lately,” he mumbled. “Where were we again?”

“You were about to explain why Brian was blackmailing you,” Rory said. Hey, it was worth a shot.

“Any chance I could expect you to keep something in confidence?”

“As long as it has no legal significance.” Like a motive for murder.

“It doesn’t,” he said finally, “but you’re going to think it does. Unfortunately, you don’t know me well enough to believe me when I say I didn’t kill Brian. I didn’t kill him even though I’m one of the people who wished him dead.”

Rory weighed her next move. She didn’t want to scare him off when he seemed so close to a confession of some sort. “How’s this—I won’t go to the authorities with what you tell me unless and until I have concrete evidence that you killed Brian. If you’re innocent, that should satisfy you.”

“Seriously?” He gave a bitter little laugh. “How do you think that would play with all the innocent people sitting in jail right now? And why should I believe you if you’re not prepared to believe me?”

“For starters, I’m not under suspicion for a crime of any kind. You, on the other hand, were with the victim when he drowned. That automatically makes you a suspect.”

“In a case that’s already closed.”

“There are no statutes of limitation when it comes to murder,” Rory reminded him. “Look at it this way; whether or not you tell me the whole story, I can still take this evidence to the police and let them decide if they should reopen—”

Zeke thumped her so hard on the shoulder that she almost flew off the couch. Grabbing the edge of the seat cushion, she caught herself before she wound up draped over the table. Brett was looking at her as if he thought this might be another hallucination.

“Back spasm,” Rory said, adding a groan for authenticity. She reached around to massage her back. When it came to acting, she needed all the props and affectations she could come up with.

“Are you okay?” Brett asked, doubt written large on his face.

“I will be.” She went on massaging and wincing at the nonexistent pain a bit longer. For the first time since the marshal had come into her life, she found herself wishing he could read her mind. What she was thinking at that moment might make even a frontiersman like him blush.

“The hell with it,” Brett said. “I can’t stand all these head games. I’m probably making the worst mistake of my life, but I’m going to trust you.”

Rory tried not to show him how surprised she was. “My business depends on my reputation for being trustworthy and discreet,” she said, as if she felt obliged to reassure him that he’d made the right decision. “And I have no intentions of putting that at risk.”

Brett wiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Brian found out I’m gay,” he blurted, as if he were ripping a Band-Aid off a deep wound. “Then he nosed around some more and found out I come from money and have a father who still lives in the Dark Ages.”

Rory didn’t know what to say. But she knew better than to go with a thoughtless platitude or any other inane attempt to make him feel better. At the very least, Brett deserved the dignity of her silence.

“It’s not even that I’d mind giving up the trust fund,” he went on. “I don’t need a lot of ‘stuff’ to make me happy. I would never have bought this huge house if it had been up to me. But my father insisted I have a place commensurate with
his
standing in the community.” There was no way to miss the anger and sarcasm that seeped into his words when he spoke about his father. “The only reason the money matters at all to me is what it can do for the shelter animals.”

Rory believed him. She believed him on a gut level. All you had to do was look at the inside of this house to know he was telling the truth about the money. All you had to do was look at how much time and energy, how much of himself he spent on the animals. But, unfortunately, none of it proved he was innocent in Brian’s death. If anything, it was a bright, neon arrow pointing to one hell of a dandy motive.

Chapter 21

“I
was just tryin’ to keep you from becomin’ the next corpse,” Zeke said, finally breaking the tense silence that had been building between them as they drove home from Brett’s interview. Until that moment, Rory had been wondering why he was wasting the energy to sit there when he could have simply popped back to the house on his own.

“By launching me off the couch?” she asked. “In case you’ve forgotten, we mere mortals can’t fly.”

“It got away from me.”

“Again.”

“I couldn’t just tap you on the shoulder like I do when I first arrive. It had to be different, stronger. And I had to get your attention fast, because the way you were baitin’ Brett, you were pretty much askin’ to be killed.”

“And yet here I am.”

“That’s because I interrupted and defused the situation,” Zeke said, patently pleased with himself.

Rory decided she was too tired to go a full fifteen rounds with him. “So, you think Brett’s the killer?” she asked in an effort to reboot the conversation.

Thankfully, Zeke was amenable. “Can’t say for sure. Blackmail’s the strongest motive we’ve come across so far in this case, but unless he’s willin’ to confess that he killed Brian, we can’t prove it. We don’t have a shred of genuine evidence. Just because Brett was the victim of blackmail doesn’t automatically prove he’s guilty of murder.”

“I know,” Rory said. “It’s probably going to take a confession to close the case. And since the killer isn’t likely to break down and confess just to make my life easier, I’m going to have to push him or her into it. So you’d better learn to show some restraint or you won’t be welcome to tag along anymore.” It was an empty threat that she had no way to enforce, so she was surprised when the marshal bid her good night and vanished without any attempt to plea bargain.

R
ory was sitting on a small, upholstered bench in the department-store dressing room, critiquing a succession of cocktail dresses as Leah tried them on. Leah’s sweater, jeans and sneakers were piled in one corner with her handbag, and there were dresses hanging from every hook in the tiny room. Rory was in charge of rehanging the ones they’d already eliminated and keeping them separate from those that were still in the running.

“This is what comes of procrastination,” Rory pointed out as her friend executed a weary pirouette for her appraisal.

“No, this is what comes of not sticking to my diet,” Leah replied glumly. “I was counting on wearing my navy blue dress with the bolero jacket, but when I tried it on last night I looked like a navy blue sausage in it.”

“Don’t despair,” Rory relented in sympathy. “I’m sure there’s a dress somewhere in this mall that’s meant for you. But that little number you’ve got on is definitely not it.”

“I really appreciate your coming to my rescue on a moment’s notice,” Leah said, shimmying out of the dress. “I hate clothes shopping alone.” She handed the dress to Rory who was ready with the hanger.

“Hey, that’s what friends do. Besides, you’re always there for me.”

Leah paused as she was about to pull a black, silk sheath over her head. “That reminds me—it looks like Brian Carpenter managed to stay below police radar after that one mail-fraud conviction. I couldn’t come up with anything else on him.”

“Impressive, considering the way he earned his living.”

“Unfortunately, not all geniuses are saints,” Leah said. “For every genius who spends his life trying to cure disease, there’s another one busy inventing a new doomsday weapon.” She popped her arms through the sleeves and wriggled into the dress. “Any early favorites among your suspects?”

“Conventional wisdom points to the blackmail victim as the killer, but I’m not convinced. There are also jilted lovers, an irate father, and the victim of a financial scam. And we haven’t finished talking to everyone who was there.”

“How about if I run their names and see if they have any priors? Someone with a general predilection for crime. That might help you narrow the field a bit.”

“Sure, if you’re twisting my arm—wait, that’s it!”

“You’re kidding—you just figured out who killed Brian?”

“No, but I think we just found your dress. Come here; let me zip that up.”

I
t was already dark when Rory and Leah left the store and parted to go to their respective cars. As she drove home, Rory’s thoughts wound back to her case and its suspects. What was it that made a person capable of killing another if the perfect opportunity came along? She knew a lot of people who’d voiced the desire to kill someone out of momentary frustration or anger. Yet she couldn’t imagine any of them taking the leap from the thought to the action regardless of how golden the opportunity. Preoccupied with these thoughts, she didn’t immediately notice that the car that had followed her out of the mall parking lot was still behind her when she turned off Jericho Turnpike onto the winding, single-lane road she always took home. With its minimal lighting, headlights in the rearview mirror loomed large, especially when those headlights were so close they were blinding. Their height suggested an SUV, but in the dark that was all Rory could tell. The other driver was either aggressive or drunk or quite possibly both. She would have loved to pull him over and write him up, but since she no longer carried a police shield, she didn’t have that option. Instead she hit her flashers and edged over to the dirt shoulder to let him pass. But the SUV followed her onto the shoulder and came to a stop behind her. Okay, he wasn’t just aggressive or drunk; he’d targeted her.