Sketcher in the Rye: (14 page)

Chapter 16

It's not supposed to be winter for another month, Rory grumbled to herself, since Mother Nature didn't have a gripe line she could call. She grudgingly dragged herself from the warm comfort of the bed and sprinted over to the closet. She shoved her feet into slippers and pulled on her cozy, old bathrobe, the one her mother had threatened to throw out when she'd lived at home. Arlene had even given her a brand-new robe for Christmas two years ago, and Rory had thanked her, assured her it was snuggly enough, then left it to languish on a hanger with its tags still dangling. New wasn't always better.

She went downstairs and started her coffee brewing, needing the warmth as much as the get-up-and-go it provided. Hobo appeared a minute later, gave his thick coat a good shaking and trotted over to the back door. When Rory let him out, a frigid gust blew in, taking her breath away. No wonder she felt so cold. In spite of the extra insulation Mac had installed when the house was renovated, it was still drafty when the wind howled. Hobo was back in record time, apparently not interested in chasing squirrels or doing his perimeter check on such a frosty morning. That gave Rory an idea.

Two hours later she was decked out in full winter gear—down parka, hat, scarf, gloves, the works. There was one good thing about a hard freeze, she kept telling herself as she scraped the ice off her windshield, and that was the hardening of the ground. She left the car running with the defroster at max to finish the deicing and ran inside to get Hobo. The moment she hooked the leash into his collar he broke into his happy dance, nails tapping on the hardwood, punctuated by bursts of jumping and spinning, an entire repertoire of canine glee. It was one of those times that made her wonder if he could read her mind.

Once they were out of the house, he bolted for the car and leapt into the backseat, nearly dragging her in with him. “Hobo,” she shouted to get his attention, “one of us has to drive!” He promptly sat down as though he'd understood every word, his whole body quivering with barely repressed anticipation. Except for an impatient whine or two, he managed to keep it together during the twenty-minute drive. But when Rory pulled into the parking lot at Harper Farms, he became totally unhinged. He bounced up and down, bumping his head on the ceiling of the car and barking his frustration at not having opposable thumbs with which to open the door himself.

Remembering the last time Hobo got free, Rory wound his leash around her hand several times, until she was sure he wouldn't be able to break away again. With all the passion of a lead dog at the Iditarod, he bounded out of the car and took off to find his lady love. Rory had all she could do to keep up with him. They were flying toward the petting zoo when she spotted Luke Harper. She recognized the young scion of the Harper family from the portrait and the signature blonde hair. He was coming from the direction of the office, hurrying along a path that was going to intersect with the one they were on in another thirty feet. His head was down, focused on the phone in his hand, and he clearly didn't realize he was on a collision course with them. Hobo, who was single-minded about his goal, didn't either.

Rory tried to dig in her heels and yank back on the leash, but she couldn't slow their headlong rush to disaster. When she called out to alert Luke, the wind snatched up her words and flung them back at her. With the distance between them rapidly closing, and no other option at her disposal, she kept shouting Luke's name. He finally looked up at the same time Hobo realized what was about to happen. But before Rory could heave a sigh of relief, both Luke and the dog changed course and veered off in the same direction. A second later they all went down in a tangled heap of leash and limbs.

Hobo was the first to stand up. Between the dazed expression on his face and his wobbly legs, he looked like he'd had one too many doggie cocktails. Luke, who appeared to be uninjured, was busy spewing profanities as he worked to free himself from the leash that was wrapped around his foot. He was making progress, until Hobo decided to check on Rory and tightened the leash's hold again, nearly upending him for a second time. Under other circumstances it might have been funny, but Luke was far from amused. The instant he was able to pull his foot free, he went scrambling after his phone, which had flown out of his hand on impact.

Rory stayed where she'd landed for another minute to catch her breath and conduct a quick inventory. Her jeans were ripped at the left knee, and the skin beneath was scraped from skidding along the pavement. There were also some bloody abrasions on the palms of her hands, nothing that a cookie or two couldn't have fixed when she was a child. Pushing herself to her feet, she took a few tentative steps and was rewarded by the lack of pain. She walked straight over to Luke and started to apologize, but he cut her short.

“You'd better get that dog trained properly before someone sues you,” he snapped.

“I am
so
sorry,” she repeated. “He's never done anything like that before. I can't imagine what possessed him.” Of course she knew only too well what had possessed him, but she doubted Luke was in any frame of mind to hear that the dog was madly in love with one of the Harper pigs. She almost giggled at the thought but stopped herself in time. Laughing at the situation was bound to inflame Luke's ire, the last thing she needed, since she still had to interview him for the investigation. “Let me introduce myself,” she said, holding out her hand in the interests of a fresh start. “I'm Rory McCain, the private investigator your father retained to—”

“Yeah, he told me about you,” Luke muttered, not bothering to look up from texting. “That doesn't change the fact that you need to get that big oaf trained before you both wind up in trouble.”

Rory let her hand fall to her side, wondering if Gil's youngest was always this unpleasant or if she'd just caught him on a particularly bad day. “It's funny how things work out,” she said, refusing to be put off. “I planned to call you later to set up a time for us to talk. Is there any day this week that would be convenient?”

Luke looked up at her, scowling. “What? No, no, I don't have time for that now. I guess my father hasn't had a chance to call you yet, but we're dealing with another act of sabotage,” he said, stalking off and leaving Rory with a dozen questions buzzing around in her head.

Hobo tugged on his leash, and when she turned to him, she swore she saw an apology in his eyes. The mere fact that he hadn't attempted to resume his headlong dash to the pigpen told her that on some level he understood and regretted his part in the mishap. He added a heartbreaking whine to the effect, plainly begging to see Pigmalion in spite of his bad behavior. Rory melted. It would be heartless not to let him see her now that they'd come so close. But after they had a brief reunion, she needed to stop by Gil's office and find out the details of what had happened.

On his best behavior, Hobo walked docilely beside her the rest of the way. But she could tell by the strut to his step and the way his ears were pricked forward that he was totally fixated on their destination. When they reached the petting zoo, they found the outdoor enclosures almost deserted. Most of the animals had chosen to stay inside their mini barns to keep warm, making Rory think they were probably smarter than she was. Fortunately for the lovelorn dog, the pigs were among the hearty few braving the cold. Hobo froze in his tracks for a second, then lunged toward the gate, good manners evaporating in the presence of his beloved.

Since there was nobody around to ask, Rory took it upon herself to unlatch the gate of the pigpen and walk in with the dog. Besides, Gil hadn't seemed to mind the first time Hobo found his way in there. One of the pigs waddled right over to them. Judging by the way Hobo's tail went into overdrive, this had to be Pigmalion. He sniffed her and snuffled her all over with little manic cries of joy. Pigmalion was far more reserved, a very different pig from the one Rory had seen cavorting with Hobo on their first trip. She tolerated his advances for a short while, then uttered a single, haughty “oink” and trotted back to rejoin the other pigs, her squiggly little tail bouncing as she went.

Hobo watched her leave, his jaws slack with shock, his eyes filled with all the anguish of a jilted suitor. Rory hunkered down beside him, shaking her head in commiseration and scratching around his ears, which usually made him happy. But unrequited love was apparently as hard for an animal to bear as it was for a person.

She rose and opened the gate. There was no point in remaining there. Her feet were working their way from cold to numb, and she needed to speak to Gil. They left the enclosure, Hobo trudging along despondently, looking over his shoulder every few steps as if hoping Pigmalion might have changed her mind.

When they reached Gil's office, Rory rapped on the door. “It's open,” he called, his voice tight and preoccupied. She stuck her head in first, in case he'd been expecting someone else. “Rory, come on in,” he said when he saw her.

“If this isn't a good time, I can—”

“No, come in, come in. I was just about to call you.”

“I have Hobo with me.”

“Not a problem.” He remained behind his desk when they walked in. “Have a seat. You must be psychic—how did you know we had another incident?”

Rory sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk and Hobo sank to the floor next to her with a groan, a furry mound of misery. “I brought Hobo by to see his lady love,” she said, “and we ran into Luke.”
Literally
. “He seemed to be in a hurry, so I didn't ask too many questions.”
Not that he gave me the opportunity
. “What happened?”

“It looks like our saboteur took some batting practice on one of the greenhouses.”

“A lot of damage?” she asked, feeling guilty about not having cracked the case yet. But, then again, neither had the police.

Gil shrugged. “Two-thirds of the glass has to be replaced.”

“Where was the security guard?”

“According to him, he was patrolling the grounds. But he can't be everywhere at once, or so he informed me.”

“He didn't even hear anything? It's pretty quiet around here at night. Smashing that much glass would not only be noisy; it would also take time.”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I wouldn't be surprised if the guy left to knock back a glass or two. No matter,” he said dismissively. “You learn and you move on. I've already fired him and signed on with a service that provides security guards who are teamed with specially trained dogs.”

“I haven't had any success with the companies that supply your seed,” Rory said. “They gave me the typical boilerplate responses about how careful they are with every aspect of production, storage and shipping and how they've never had any instances of tampering.”

“Doesn't surprise me,” Gil said. “Seed isn't the type of thing that attracts your average criminal. We're just going to have to be more vigilant until we catch whoever's behind this. And if it is Greenbrier . . .”

Rory could hear the quiet fury behind his words and see it glinting in his steely blue eyes, but there was little she could do to defuse it, except remind him that one partially overheard conversation was not proof they could take to court.

“I know,” he replied. “And I have no intentions of taking the fight back to them. At least not until I'm sure.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink, but there was no humor in his voice.

Terrific. Now she had to worry that her client might go rogue and start dishing out vigilante justice. “It's not easy to be patient under this kind of stress, Gil,” she said reasonably, “but you have my firm as well as the police department working on it. Believe me, no matter what you're feeling right now, winding up in jail won't fix anything. Besides, you have your family to consider.”

He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the fire she'd seen had been tamped down. Or covered up. She couldn't be sure which.

***

Rory was on her way home when BB called. “I have some information for you,” he said, once the pleasantries were out of the way.

“That's the best news I've heard since I got out of bed this morning,” she said, happy to hear his amiable voice booming over the Bluetooth. Between poor Hobo's broken heart and Gil's thoughts of revenge, the frigid weather had turned out to be the best part of the day so far.

“According to Reggie, all the hair samples were dyed blonde.”

No big surprise there. Rory waited, hoping there was more coming.

“And,” he went on with dramatic flair, “the dye that was on the hair in the note matches two of the samples.”

“Which ones?” she asked, excitement bubbling in her veins.

“The ones marked Ellen and Lacey.”

Chapter 17

“When I first heard the names, I thought we'd hit the jackpot,” Rory said to the vacant chair across the kitchen table from her. “Of course it didn't take more than a second or two for me to realize that it barely narrowed the field.”

“And only as far as the writer of the note is concerned,” Zeke added. Although he was still too drained from their hair-raiding adventure to make an appearance, he was pitching his voice from the vicinity of the chair. Rory found it easier to hold a conversation with him if she had a focal point to address, and he was in an accommodating mood.

“I'm afraid that's not even conclusive. What if the hair in the note got there by simple transference? The Harpers aren't just family; they also work together. All you have to do is hug someone or pick up a pen they were using and you can wind up with a stray hair of theirs.”

“You know,” Zeke muttered, “sometimes I think things were just plain easier before all your fancy science and machines.”

“You mean back in your day when there was no way to be sure you were hanging the right person?”

“You twenty-first-century folks still manage to get it wrong, even with your newfangled technology.”

Rory decided to let him win that round in their ongoing debate over whose era was better. His voice was fading, and he needed to get back to his R & R. However, in spite of her best intentions, one remark slipped out. “It seems Lacey may not be as innocent as you thought.” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It wasn't like her to be that petty.

The marshal took his time responding, and when he did, his voice was measured and without acrimony. “As you so recently pointed out, darlin', even though her hair dye matches the hair in the note, any one of the Harper clan could still have been the writer. And, I might add, we're only talkin' about a note here. It's a real far leap from writin' to murderin'. I believe I'll stick by my original statement. I don't think Lacey is the killer. “

Well, you deserved that, she scolded herself as his voice faded away. But before she could do any further self-analysis, the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find Olga on the front porch shivering in pants, a thin blouse and her stocking feet.

“Oh, Miss Rory, is terrifically grateful I am to be finding you home,” she said, her voice quavering with the cold and obvious distress.

“Olga, come inside. Come inside. What happened? What's the matter?”

“Is Miss Eloise that is matter,” she said without budging. “I am mostly needing to get back to her. Is possible you are coming with me? Then may it be she lets me in.”

Rory was having trouble making sense of what she was hearing. But instead of wasting time on a game of twenty questions complicated by a Slavic syntax, she grabbed her purse from the bench in the entry, two coats from the closet under the stairs and rushed outside to Olga. She threw one of the parkas over Olga's shoulders, but with her broader frame, it looked more like a strangely shaped scarf than a coat. Rory pulled the other parka on as she started down the porch steps. When she turned back to see what was keeping the aide, she found her still rooted to the spot near the door.

“Your padding,” she said. “Is Miss Eloise insisting.”

It took Rory a second to realize what she meant. “My drawing pad?”

“Yes, yes.” Olga was nodding like a bobble-head in a car with no springs. Rory ran back inside for her supplies. A minute later, they were driving down the block to the Bowman house.

“How did you wind up outside without your coat or shoes?” Rory asked her. “When I tell Miss Eloise is not polite to keeping pester you, she gets tricky. She sends me out to get mail. Is not far to curb, so I do a fast dash like I am dressed. While I am at mailing box, she slam shuts the door. I try to open, but is locked and no one else is being home. So I must come for pester you, me myself,” she concluded with a heavy sigh.

“That's okay,” Rory assured her. “You can pester, I mean call or come by, whenever you need to.” She pulled up to the curb, threw the car into park and they both jumped out. Eloise had clearly been watching from the window, because she opened the door well before they reached it. She was standing in the doorway with a beatific smile that Rory knew was as phony as her ploy to lock Olga out of the house. This was not sweet, little-girl Eloise; this was crafty Eloise with a pressing agenda.

“What you did to Olga wasn't right,” she told Eloise sternly, although with little hope that it would change her behavior. She didn't seem to be in charge of herself when she was on one of her missions.

“I needed to see you, and she kept taking the phone away whenever I tried to call you,” Eloise said without apology. “We have to get started right away.” She grabbed Rory's forearm and pulled her toward the family room.

Rory allowed herself to be led, as surprised as ever by the strength in such a frail-looking body.

Olga veered off to the kitchen with the parka still draped around her shoulders. “Inside me is needing hot tea,” she said. “I make too for you, Miss Rory?”

“There's no time for tea,” Eloise snapped, tightening her grip on Rory's arm.

“No thank you,” Rory called over her shoulder.

“Sit,” Eloise said when they reached the couch. She plunked herself down on the middle cushion. “I hope you remembered your pencil.”

Rory sat beside her and, after a moment's search, produced the pencil from the depths of her purse. She opened the drawing pad to a clean page and began with her usual question. “A man or a woman?”

“A woman,” Eloise said. She was staring straight ahead of her, but as in the past, her eyes weren't focused on anything in the room. “A young woman with a roundish face.” She appeared to recall the drill from previous sessions. “No, her chin is narrower,” she said glancing briefly at the pad. Rory altered the chin. “That's better. She has dark hair—I can't tell exactly what color—and big eyes with thick lashes.”

“Wait,” Rory interrupted, “tell me more about her hair—the length and style.”

Eloise pursed her lips and frowned. “Hold it still,” she muttered. “You have to hold it still.”

Rory could tell the demand wasn't directed at her, but she'd never heard Eloise in conversation with any of the spirits who co-opted her. “Is everything okay?” she whispered, in case Eloise was trying to listen to a response from the other side.

“Well, it would be,” Eloise replied in apparent exasperation, “if she'd just hold the darn photo steady. Ah, okay,” she said a moment later, “that's better.” She turned to Rory, “where were we?”

“Her hair.”

“It's shoulder length and sort of wavy.”

Fifteen minutes and dozens of questions later, Rory showed Eloise the sketch. “What's missing?”

Eloise studied the young woman in the drawing; then her eyes glazed over, as if she was consulting the photograph in her mind. “You made her too serious,” she said finally. “But don't give her a big grin. Something in between.” Rory spent another few minutes fixing the sketch to give the woman a sweet, low-key smile.

“What's taking so long?” Eloise wanted to know.

“Hold on, I'm working as fast as I can.” She knew Eloise didn't understand that what sounded like a simple fix actually required a lot of changes. She not only had to redraw the mouth, but she also had to adjust all the other aspects of the face. When it was done, she turned it back to Eloise for her appraisal.

“Yes,” she said with obvious relief. “Maybe now she'll leave me alone.” She picked up the remote that was lying beside her on the couch and clicked on the TV. The flat screen across from them jumped to life.

“Am I supposed to keep the sketch?” Rory asked the same question each time, and the answer was always yes, but she felt obliged to pose it anyway.

“Uh-huh,” Eloise mumbled, clearly no longer interested in the subject. Her eyes were glued to the rerun of
Shrek
she'd found. She was quickly reverting to little-girl Eloise.

But Rory had a few questions before that happened. “When you describe someone to me, is it always from a picture that you're being shown?”

Eloise shook her head. “This was the very first time,” she replied in a child's singsong cadence.

“The other times you were describing the actual person who contacted you?”

“Yup,” she said giggling at Donkey's antics.

“Do you know why it was different this time?” When Eloise didn't answer, she repeated the question. When there was still no response, Rory knew that any hope of continuing the conversation was gone. The Eloise who communicated with the dead was once more tucked away in some remote part of her stroke-altered brain.