Sketcher in the Rye: (15 page)

Chapter 18

When Rory returned home from her command performance at the Bowman residence, she put her sketch pad back in the study until she could figure out what the new picture was supposed to mean. Then she caught up on some laundry—it was that or buy new underwear—and played Frisbee with Hobo in the backyard until he was panting and she was thoroughly chilled. Over a quick lunch of yogurt, she made an executive decision. She wasn't going to sit around doing nothing while she waited for the marshal to rebound from his exhaustion. Other private-investigating firms didn't come to a standstill if one of the partners was sick with the flu or disabled by a broken limb. Okay—death was definitely in a category by itself, but it was a condition the marshal had chosen to “live with” in his self-imposed exile. He would just have to make peace with the fact that she was going to continue working while he convalesced. If he had a bone to pick with her regarding that decision, she was ready to go a few rounds with him. In the meantime, she intended to interview Ellen Harper.

It didn't take Rory long to realize that the family matriarch was the antithesis of her daughter. She was pretty in an understated way, her makeup just a bit of mascara on her lashes and a soft shade of coral on her lips. The only thing she and Lacey appeared to have in common was the shade of blonde they dyed their hair. Ellen came to the door in a pair of chinos, a roomy green sweater and loafers. She asked Rory if she'd mind conducting their interview in the kitchen, where she was keeping an eye on some carrot muffins she was baking. Rory thought that was a fine idea. And when Ellen offered her coffee, she accepted. She'd found coffee to be an excellent prop in an interview of this nature. It promoted a relaxed, chatty atmosphere that was conducive to letting down one's guard.

As she followed Ellen down the center hall of the colonial, she got a quick peek into the dining and living rooms. It was easy to see Ellen's hand in the décor, which was understated yet classy. Once Rory was installed at the kitchen table, Ellen filled two sturdy mugs with coffee from the large carafe on the counter and brought them to the table. After setting out milk, cream and assorted sweeteners, she took a seat across from Rory.

“When Gil decided to hire you,” Ellen said, stirring a splash of milk into her coffee, “he told me he felt obligated to have everyone in the family interviewed. That way no one would feel singled out. But I have to admit, I find the idea very uncomfortable.”

Rory wondered why she'd chosen to mention that. Was she so embarrassed by the fact that her spouse was having her investigated that she was trying to put a better spin on it? “I understand,” Rory said, since the growing silence seemed to require some comment from her. “I should be done here in no time,” she added, realizing too late that her gynecologist often used similar words. Ellen may have had the same thought, because her mouth curved in a tenuous smile.

Within minutes of her arrival, Rory had decided not to take notes during the interview, unless things became complicated with too many names or numbers she might not be able to keep straight. It was a terrible way to go about detective work, but her gut told her Ellen would be more likely to open up if she could forget even for a little while that Rory was an investigator. And the best way to achieve that goal was to base their conversation on emotion rather than on cold facts. Woman to woman. “I'm sure you've been a great comfort to Anya during this awful time,” she began. “She told me how grateful she is to your family, and especially to you, for everything you've done for her and Matthew over the years.”

Ellen's breath caught in her throat. “I have been trying to be there for her,” she said, her voice threatening to crack, “but I'm afraid nothing can help the kind of pain she's dealing with.” A frisson made her shudder. “No mother should ever have to outlive her child.” She excused herself to check on the muffins, but more likely to regain her composure. She opened the top door of the double oven, took a quick look, and then closed it again.

“Those smell heavenly,” Rory said. “I'll have to get your recipe.”

“I can e-mail it to you. I'm sure Gil has your card.”

Rory waited until Ellen resumed her seat before continuing. “Anya doesn't believe Matthew had an enemy in the world, much less one who would resort to murder.”

“He was a sweet boy who grew into a sweet man. I can't imagine who would want to kill him either. But I'm sure Gil told you his theory.”

“About Greenbrier—yes. He thinks Matthew may have been getting too close to the truth, so they eliminated him.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“It's never a good idea to investigate a case with a preformed opinion. It tends to cloud your vision. I try to give every possibility equal consideration. I promise you, we're going to get to the bottom of this.” Rory paused to sip her coffee and change direction. “For argument's sake,” she said, putting down the mug, “let's say Greenbrier
is
behind the sabotage. Is there someone at Harper Farms who might be disgruntled enough to be helping them? Maybe by passing them information?”

Ellen shook her head. “I can't think of anyone.”

“Then you don't share your husband's belief that it could be one of your children?”

Ellen looked like she'd been ambushed, which of course she had. “What?”

“It's obvious Gil hasn't ruled out a family member or I wouldn't be here talking to you,” Rory said gently. “I'm sure you realize that.”

Ellen's eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled. “I know he has suspicions, but I don't understand
how
he can. I've been married to the man for thirty-eight years, and I thought I knew him, but I'm not sure anymore.” The tears spilled down her cheeks and she scrubbed them away as if she was angry with herself for shedding them. “I am so afraid . . . so afraid this witch hunt will do more to damage our family than any sabotage ever could.”

Rory regretted forcing Ellen's distress to the surface. She had to remind herself that she wasn't the actual cause of that distress, nor had she said anything that Ellen didn't already know. If the marshal had been present, he would probably be whispering in her ear to toughen up and do her job—there was a killer to be found. Surprisingly just imagining Zeke's input seemed to help restore her equilibrium. “The sooner we get this all sorted out,” she said firmly, “the sooner your family can start to heal.”

Ellen heaved a weary sigh. “Thank you for your kind words and for your efforts.” Without giving it any thought, Rory reached out and placed her hand over Ellen's, where it rested on the table. What happened to professional distance? she scolded herself. You're a detective. You don't hold hands with a suspect any more than you would play footsie with one. For all you know, this woman is the killer, the saboteur or both. But since Rory couldn't snatch her hand away without making it seem as if Ellen had suddenly developed leprosy, she let it linger a few moments longer before removing it. The relaxed, chatty atmosphere she'd been aiming for had apparently tripped her up too.

“This may seem like a ridiculous question,” she said, back in business mode, “but do you have an alibi for your whereabouts at the time of Matthew's death?”

Ellen seemed nonplussed for an instant; then she laughed. It was a sad, angry noise that sounded more like a bark. “You want to know where I was when Matthew was killed? I was in bed asleep right next to the man who is putting me through all this.”

“Does Gil sleep soundly through the night?”

“Yes. Well, mostly. At our age, it's not unusual for us to get up and use the bathroom.”

“Then he might have noticed if you weren't in bed at some point?”

“Yes, just like I might have noticed if he wasn't—wait a minute, did Gil say he woke up that night and didn't see me there?”

“No, he didn't.” Normally Rory would not have volunteered that information to a suspect, but she could sense that Ellen was coming unraveled, that she was on the verge of abandoning any hope for her marriage. “It was a question I had to ask in order to do my job properly,” she explained. Besides, Gil had enough to apologize to his wife for, without Rory's words misleading her. She pulled her coat off the back of the chair where she'd tossed it and stood up to leave. She'd never been so grateful an interview was over. She couldn't imagine how much harder it must have been for Ellen. “Thank you for your time,” she said, but Ellen didn't appear happy or relieved that this part of her ordeal was over. Her face was expressionless as she walked Rory to the front door. “One last thing,” Rory said, stopping to fiddle with the zipper as if it was giving her trouble. “Any idea who might have sent me a note telling me to drop the investigation?” She looked up in time to catch Ellen's reaction and thought she saw a brief flicker of what might have been anxiety in her red-rimmed eyes.

***

As soon as Rory arrived home, she jotted down her impressions of the interview. They amounted to a short paragraph. Although she didn't think Ellen was guilty, she had a hunch the woman hadn't been completely forthcoming in their exchange. For now, she was staying on the suspect list.

Before leaving the study, Rory did a quick check of her e-mail and found the calendar alert reminding her that Thanksgiving was only three days away. She'd completely lost track of time, and she'd promised her mother she'd make the pumpkin pie this year. Leah had sent her a recipe that her mother-in-law claimed was foolproof. She found Leah's e-mail with the recipe attached and read through it again. It didn't sound at all complicated, but she'd learned from her friend's baking disasters that it was always a good idea to try out new recipes before serving them to company. She printed it out and went down to the kitchen to see what ingredients she'd need to pick up. Okay—pretty much everything. She didn't have flour or evaporated milk in the house, much less pumpkin, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger. What had she expected? She hadn't baked anything since moving in two years ago, and her uncle Mac's culinary talents had begun and ended with throwing steak on the grill.

She was in the checkout line at the supermarket when Aaron called to invite her out for coffee. He'd found himself with two hours of unexpected freedom before the Way Off Broadway auditions, where he was hoping to snag the role of Tony in
West Side Story
. Rory made him a counteroffer. If he was willing to help her with the baking, they could have pumpkin pie along with their coffee. He was on her doorstep ten minutes after she returned home.

After a quick tour of the main floor and some mandatory scratching of Hobo's belly, they were ready to begin. Hobo joined them in the kitchen, taking up a strategic position between them in case anything fell on the floor.

“In the interest of honesty,” Aaron said, when she handed him the measuring spoons and spices, “I've never actually baked before, unless you count s'mores over a campfire when I was a Boy Scout.”

“That fits right into my plan,” she said, trying to sound nefarious, but coming off more like Captain Kirk. “If the pie turns out awful, I'll have someone to blame.”

“I see. So neither one of us knows what we're doing. With those kind of credentials, it's a good thing we haven't given up our day jobs.” He glanced down at the recipe. “Okay, let's have at it. Mixing spoon, please.” He held out his hand, and Rory slapped the wooden spoon into his palm the way she'd seen nurses pass surgical instruments to doctors on TV. “Hey, I'm glad that wasn't a scalpel,” he said, feigning injury, “or I'd be missing half my hand.”

“Ah, fear of sharp objects—now I see why you didn't follow the rest of your family into surgery.”

Aaron chuckled. “And here I spent all those years and thousands of dollars on therapy trying to figure that out.” Miraculously, in spite of the joking and several close brushes with disaster, the mixture seemed to be the right consistency when Rory poured it into the frozen pie shell. She popped the pie into the oven and set the timer.

“I don't suppose you're one of those women who insists on cleaning up while her man checks out what's on TV?”

“You don't suppose correctly,” she said, handing him a plastic container for the remaining flour. He was pouring the last of it when she reached around him for the mixing bowl. Her elbow clipped the container and sent it sailing off the counter to land upside down on Hobo's head. Rory and Aaron burst into laughter at the dog's startled expression. He jumped up and gave himself a fierce shaking that sent a floury cloud of dust onto the two bakers. Rory was doubled over, laughing so hard that she didn't notice the high hats in the ceiling blink.

“Forget to pay your electric bill?” Aaron asked between spasms of laughter.

“What?” Before he could repeat it, the lights flickered again. “Oh no,” she said, instantly sober, “I keep forgetting to have that fixed. But this is
definitely not the best time
to call an electrician.” She emphasized the operative words for the marshal's benefit. But of course he already knew she had company. From his vantage point, he could see Aaron there as plain as day. He'd performed his little light trick on purpose to alarm her. Well, that might have worked back when she first met him, but at this point she knew there was no reason to worry. Zeke was dead set against outing himself. He would never actually appear when there was anyone else in the house. And then he did. He popped into view, in full 3-D glory, directly behind Aaron. His moustache was hitched up with his patented wry smile that as much as said “gotcha.”

Rory was so shocked that she realized too late she was staring straight at him. When Aaron turned to follow her gaze, her heart leapt into her throat, but Zeke vanished in the nick of time. As soon as Aaron turned back to her, Zeke reappeared behind him. “Is something wrong?” Aaron asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”