Sketcher in the Rye: (21 page)

She didn't immediately notice the man walking the golden retriever. The two seemed to appear out of the shadows between the lampposts as if they'd just been born there. Rory ordered her imagination back in line. She'd clearly been hanging out with a ghost for too long. She waited beneath one of the lights for them to reach her. Most dog owners she knew walked their animals on a pretty regular schedule, and a detective couldn't afford to leave any stone unturned.

“I'm Russ Cavanaugh, and this is my gal Gracie,” the man said, after Rory introduced herself and explained why she was there. She put Russ on the far side of seventy. He was wearing a heavy parka, a wool scarf around his neck and a jaunty fisherman's cap on his snow-white hair. She could picture his wife of many years making sure he was adequately bundled up against the cold. Of course Rory didn't even know if he had a wife, but she liked the image that sprang to mind.

“I wonder if you'd be willing to answer a few questions,” she said, as the retriever nuzzled her hand with a snout as white as her owner's hair.

“All right,” Russ said reluctantly, “but only for a minute. I need to get Gracie here back home. She's pushing twelve, and the cold is hard on her.”

Rory considered inviting them to sit in her car while they talked, but she didn't know how Gracie would react to a ghost. “I'll make it quick,” she said instead. “Do you walk Gracie every night about this time?”

Russ seemed confused by the question. “As a matter of fact I do. But I don't understand why that would matter to you, or anyone else.”

“I believe Matthew may have had an argument with someone around this time of night, in the days before his death.”

Russ thought for a minute. “I live a few blocks over, so I don't know everyone who lives on this street. Which house was his?”

Rory pointed to the cottage. “The altercation may have ended with a man getting into a car and slamming the door.”

“Yes,” Russ said, his face lighting up. “Yes, that jogged the old gray matter. Gracie and I were taking our last walk of the night. We'd crossed the street on our way home when I heard some shouting. They were so loud I heard them even though the windows were closed.” He dropped his voice. “I hate to admit it, but I stopped outside to see if I could make out what they were saying. I'm getting to be a worse gossip than my wife. That's what retirement will do to you.”

“Can you tell me what you heard?” Rory asked, to refocus him before they all froze to death.

“I'll do my best, but I didn't hear all of the argument, and I've probably forgotten a good part of what I did hear.”

“Anything will help.”

“It was two men, and one of them was threatening the other. He ordered him to stop doing something or he'd see to it he lost his job and his mother was kicked out of her home.”

“What did the other man say?

“His voice wasn't as loud, so it was harder to make out, but I think he was trying to defend himself—verbally, I mean. I don't think they were actually throwing punches. Then one of the men stormed out of the house and got in his car, like you said. I pretended Gracie and I were just passing by, but he didn't even seem to notice to us.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Rory asked hopefully.

“As good as you can under these streetlights.”

“Then I need to ask a favor of you. I'd like you to describe the man, so I can sketch him. I was a police sketch artist,” she added in response to the puzzled expression on Russ's face. “It won't take long, and you can come sit in my warm car while we do it.” This was one of those times when push had actually come to shove. She'd have to take a chance that the dog and the marshal could coexist for a short time, because this was too important an opportunity to pass up.

When Russ didn't answer her immediately, she was afraid he might refuse. She couldn't let that happen. “You have no idea how pivotal this could be,” she said. “Your help might actually solve the case.” She could see by his expression that her words had hit their mark. “My car is right over there,” she said pressing her advantage. “Gracie sure looks like she could use some heat about now. I'll even drive you two back home as soon as we're done.”

“Elizabeth is probably wondering what's taking us so long,” he hedged. “Elizabeth's my wife.”

“You can call her from my cell as soon as we get in the car,” she promised, which sealed the deal. “I'll need to sit in the passenger seat to do the sketch, so I hope you don't mind sitting in the back with Gracie,” she said as she unlocked the car.

“Makes no difference to me.” He climbed in, but Gracie refused to follow. It took several stern commands from him before she finally ignored her better judgment and jumped inside. She planted herself up against him, her ears back and a low growl rumbling in her throat.

“I don't know what's gotten into her,” he said. “I've had her since she was eight weeks old, and I've never seen her act this way.”

Rory wished she could relieve his concern, but telling him that the dog had just met her first ghost was only bound to make matters worse. “Maybe she's upset because she smells my dog; his fur is all over the place.” She handed Russ her cell phone to distract him and excused herself to grab the sketch pad she always kept in the trunk. He was talking to his wife when Rory jumped into the passenger seat. The heated air wrapped around her like a warm bear hug. Letting the car run for the marshal had definitely turned out to be a good idea after all.

Gracie was still growling, and when Rory turned around to see how she was doing, the whites of the retriever's eyes were showing. Russ kept stroking her back, but even that didn't seem to reassure the dog. This would have to be one quick drawing. Russ clicked off the call with his wife and handed the phone back to Rory. “Whatever is bothering Gracie is getting worse by the minute,” he said. “If you want to do this sketch, we'd better get started.”

Chapter 26

Rory put the finishing touches on the drawing and clambered over the center console to sit behind the wheel. A minute later she was pulling up in front of Russ's house. By then Gracie was alternately whimpering and yelping. When Russ opened the rear door, the dog nearly trampled him in her mad scramble to get out.

“I can't thank you enough,” Rory called as he was yanked out by the leash wrapped around his wrist. “I hope she's okay.”

“Glad to help,” he called back, trying to keep up with Gracie, who was hell bent on reaching the sanctuary of the house. Rory had to get out of the car to close the rear door and by the time she slid back under the wheel, Zeke had reclaimed his seat.

“Why didn't you just go home and wait for me there?” she asked, thinking she might prefer to drive back alone after all.

“I was curious, same as you,” he said without apology.

“But you nearly gave the poor dog a heart attack. Let's face it; you chose to be there. I didn't have a choice. It was too cold and dark to do the sketch outside, and I had to get that description down on paper.”

“You're wrong; you did have a choice. You could have driven Russ home and done the sketch at his place. That way the dog could have hidden under a bed somewhere, and we all would have been a lot more comfortable.”

“I can't just invite myself into someone's home like that,” she said, pulling away from the curb. “I know you've been out of the social loop for a long time, but I doubt that would have been proper even back in your day.” Zeke didn't reply, which generally meant he knew she was right. Rory drove in silence until she'd found her way off Eaton's Neck and down Asharoken Avenue.

“Were you as surprised by the drawing as I was?” she asked once they were in more familiar territory.

“I've seen enough twists and turns in cases to expect pretty much anything,” he said. “But if you'd asked me who I thought I'd see looking back from that piece of paper, it would not have been James. He seems like a level-headed family man, and he has a rock-solid alibi.”

“In the end, all this sketch means is that he argued with the victim a few days before his death. It doesn't prove he had anything to do with killing him.”

“True, but James wasn't there to pay a social call. If Russ overheard him correctly, he went there to threaten Matthew.”

***

Rory called James early the next morning, hoping to catch him before he left for work. He seemed annoyed to hear from her again, but he agreed to stop by her office on his lunch break the next day. Then he rushed her off the phone, claiming he was late for an appointment. After clicking off the call, Rory remained at the kitchen table, stirring her coffee and watching it swirl around the cup. She had no plan mapped out for the day, but she needed to come up with one. When she took stock of what they knew and what questions were still unanswered, Luke was right up at the top of the list. His nonchalance about not having an alibi had been niggling at her ever since they'd first interviewed him. Did he truly not care? Or was he without a verifiable alibi because he was the killer? No, Luke was far from stupid. If he'd planned to murder someone, he would have done whatever it took to insure his freedom after the fact. There was definitely more to his story than they knew, but she doubted that speaking to him again would be productive. Following him, on the other hand, just might be. And even if it didn't help her solve the murder case, perhaps it would provide her with some clues about the sabotage.

When she laid out her plan for Zeke, he grudgingly agreed that it could prove worthwhile.

“I get the feeling you're not a hundred percent behind me on this,” she said, arching an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well, you're talkin' a lot of hours to keep him under surveillance, with no certainty of learnin' anythin'. Don't get me wrong here, I understand we could also catch us a big break from the effort. But I won't be able to ride shotgun most of the time. I need to conserve energy for the times you . . . I mean we . . . ,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I mean for the times having a partner might be a real benefit.”

Rory had to choke back a giggle. Even though the marshal was trying hard not to step on her emancipated toes, his fundamental beliefs about the roles of men and women clearly hadn't changed.

“I see your point,” she said soberly, letting him off the hook. “But if you think about it, you always seem to sense when I need assistance.” As well as plenty of times when I don't, she added to herself.

“I'm not real comfortable leavin' it to chance.”

“Life is all about chance,” she said. “There's no way to control everything.” She could give him some instances from his own life, but that would only lead him to a dark place and solve nothing.

Zeke ran her words around in his head for a minute. “I suppose,that's true,” he said, but he sounded far from happy about it.

Rory went through the sheaf of papers Gil had given her to find Luke's work schedule. He worked Wednesday through Sunday, eight a.m. to four p.m., but Gil had noted that his schedule was subject to change based on the needs of the business. Fine, she'd begin by tailing him in the evenings when his time was generally his own. If he was involved in anything nefarious, it was most likely to be then.

***

Rory was blow-drying her hair when the doorbell rang. She only knew of two people who would consider dropping by so early in the morning without calling first: Eloise and her aunt Helene. Unless she'd scheduled a business appointment and forgotten? Since the answer was standing on her front porch, she tied her bathrobe securely around her waist and headed for the stairs. It occurred to her that Hobo wasn't barking, which usually meant that he knew and approved of the visitor. But there'd been a few times lately that he'd slept right through the doorbell. Rory had improvised a few simple tests to check his hearing, but she hadn't found anything wrong with it. She was left with the conclusion that the dog felt completely safe and secure when she was at home. In other words, she'd become
his
watchdog. Before she knew it, she'd be eating from his doggie bowl while he dined in style at the table.

When she reached the front door, she found him whirling in place like a fur-bearing dervish. His nose had clearly told him who was outside, and his reaction told her it was friend, not foe. But considering her present attire and wet hair, she checked the peephole for additional information. An anxious Olga and a grim Eloise filled her view. Grim Eloise always made her nervous. What type of news was she there to impart today? And just how much would it rock Rory's world? At that moment, Olga shifted her weight, and Rory caught a glimpse of her aunt Helene standing behind them. This really did not bode well. She flirted briefly with the notion of running back upstairs and hiding under the covers, but sadly enough, reason beat back insanity, and she turned the key in the lock.

Her guests filed in one after the other, Olga issuing her standard apology, Eloise asking what flavor ice cream she had on hand and Helene all smiles and sociability. Rory's own unique version of the Three Stooges.

“I was at the doughnut shop getting coffee and I decided to buy some doughnuts and invite myself for breakfast,” Helene said, holding up a box. “I couldn't decide which kind to take, so I wound up with a dozen. Isn't it wonderful how things work out? I have enough here for everyone.”

“Let me introduce you all,” Rory said, after hugging her aunt.

Helene was already on her way to the kitchen. “No need—we took care of the formalities while we were waiting outside.” Since Olga and Eloise were following her, Rory trailed after them. Helene set her coffee container and the doughnuts on the table and threw her coat over the back of a chair before taking a seat.

Olga made sure her charge was settled before plopping into her own chair. She seemed transfixed by the doughnut box and the promise of what it contained. Eloise didn't even glance in its direction. Apparently her obsession for ice cream didn't extend to all sweets. Rory offered to make coffee or tea for them, but they both declined. She rummaged in the pantry, finally coming away with paper plates and napkins, which she set in front of her three guests, along with glasses and a container of orange juice in case the doughnuts made them thirsty. She opened the box of doughnuts and passed it first to Olga, who dithered a bit before selecting a jelly doughnut covered in confectioner's sugar. Eloise glanced in the box and shook her head before handing it on to Helene, who took a dense, chocolate-cake one. Rory went for her usual custard-filled doughnut with chocolate icing. But when she set it on her plate, she found she didn't have much of an appetite. She was too busy waiting for trouble.

“I have to speak to you.” Eloise said impatiently.

“Okay, we'll go into the living room,” Rory said, thinking they might as well get it over with. She helped her elderly neighbor up from the chair, answering Helene's questioning look with a “just-humoring-the-old-lady” wink. Olga, who knew the ropes, reached for another doughnut.

Once they were alone, Eloise got right to it. “You have to ask your mother for the Bible,” she blurted out, not bothering to sit down.

“What Bible? What are you talking about?” Rory didn't recall ever seeing a Bible lying around the house.

“The old one in the attic of course.” Eloise sounded peeved, as if Rory was playing stupid just to irritate her.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about it?”

“No. I always tell you exactly what I'm told.”

Rory tried another angle. “Who gave you this message?”

“The woman holding the photograph.”

“The daughter of the woman you described to me?”

“Yes. I'd like my ice cream now.” Rory was about to escort her back to the kitchen when the table lamp blinked. Less than a second later, Zeke appeared. He was standing on the other side of the couch decked out in what had become his cold weather go-to—chinos and a light sweater. He was dressed for company, namely Helene, the only one in the house who'd never met him. Rory inadvertently groaned out loud.

“I'm always pleased as punch to see you too,” he said gruffly, “but if you don't mind, I'm actually here to talk to Eloise.”

“Anything you want to say to her, you can say to me too,” Rory replied politely, standing her ground.

“Fine,” he said, turning to Eloise. “Mind your own business and stay out of ours.” His voice was low and tight, as if he was talking with his teeth clenched. “If you don't, I promise you're going to regret it.”

“Oh no, big scary ghost,” Eloise said, with her playful, little-girl laugh. Grim Eloise had left the building. “I'm going to have ice cream—Rory says she has vanilla fudge. Want some?”

The marshal didn't say a word, but he glared at Rory as if she was the puppeteer who controlled the two faces of Eloise.

“Marshal Drummond!” Olga's delighted squeal gave Rory a start. She'd been facing Zeke and hadn't heard the aide come to the living-room doorway. Helene was there too, eyes as wide with surprise as Rory had ever seen them.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Olga,” Zeke said, sending some old western charm in her direction. Having apparently lost her ability to move or speak, Olga just beamed back at him.

Helene had to squeeze past her to enter the room. “It's like a flash-mob party thing,” she said, having her usual trouble with the current jargon. “I didn't even hear the doorbell.”

“That's probably because he knocked,” Rory said.

“Aren't you going to introduce me?” Helene asked, heading in the marshal's direction as if she intended to correct the oversight herself. Rory tried to think of a way to keep her from reaching him, but the only option that came to mind was tackling her. And how was she ever going to explain that?

“Glad to meet you,” Zeke said as Helene drew closer. He did his no-hat-head bob, which had helped him avoid handshakes in the past, but it didn't keep Helene at bay. Rory felt like she was in a dream where she kept running but got nowhere, unable to escape the axe murderer or save a loved one from tragedy. She watched helplessly, dreading the moment when her aunt touched the marshal and realized he wasn't made of flesh and bone.

At the last moment, Zeke withdrew an imaginary paper from his imaginary pants pocket and promptly dropped it. He bent to retrieve it just as Helene was about to extend her hand. Talk about good timing. He made a big show of fumbling and dropping the paper a few more times, chuckling at his own clumsiness.

“I'm Rory's aunt Helene,” she said brightly, giving up on the handshake, to Rory's relief.

“Zeke Drummond,” he said, holding the paper in both hands as if it was a shield, a barrier to keep others from getting too close.

“Did I hear Olga call you marshal?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm a federal marshal.”

Helene looked duly impressed. “I bet you have some great stories to tell. Come sit in the kitchen; we have doughnuts.” Her brow furrowed. “Or is it only police who like doughnuts?”

Zeke smiled. “I like them fine, but I'm afraid I don't have the time today.”

Or the ability to eat, Rory thought. “The marshal just stopped by to give me some information for one of my cases.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Helene said. “Maybe next time?”

“I'll look forward to it.”

No way, Rory wanted to shout. In fact, the sooner he left, the better. “Now why don't you all go back to the kitchen and have another doughnut so Zeke and I can discuss the confidential material he brought me.” It was as good an excuse as any, to get them to vacate the room so he could perform his “now you see me, now you don't” routine. Helene led the retreat, but Olga seemed rooted to the spot, clearly crestfallen about having to leave the marshal.