Sketcher in the Rye: (19 page)

Chapter 23

“I thought of something I didn't mention when you came to see me,” Anya said. She was seated on the small sofa in Rory's office, kneading the tissue in her lap. “It's probably not important, but I'll leave that for you to decide.”

Rory was at her desk, her chair turned to face her visitor. “Sure, you did the right thing.”

“You asked me if Matthew might have kept some kind of journal, either handwritten or on his computer. I told you I doubted it, because it wasn't the sort of thing he generally went in for. I haven't changed my mind in that regard, but as I was thinking about computers, I realized I'd never told you about the computer he bought for me.”

Rory found herself inching forward in her seat, as if shortening the distance between them would bring her the rest of the information more quickly.

“I had it until about a week before Matthew died,” Anya said. “He'd insisted on buying it months ago. He said, ‘Mom, technology isn't going to slow down, and computers are not a fad. You can't afford to get too far behind or the world will pass you by.' I remember every single word, because he was so solemn about it. How could I say no? So he bought the computer and set up an e-mail account for me, even though I told him I had no one to write to. ‘You can write to me,' he said. He showed me how, and I started writing to him. He wrote back every time, even from work. He was such a good, sweet boy.” Anya sniffled and started rummaging in her purse. Since she'd already shredded the tissue she was holding, Rory handed her the little box she kept on her desk. Anya thanked her and daintily blew her nose.

“After a while, I ran out of things to say in the e-mails,” she went on. “Besides, I didn't want to keep interrupting his day, so I stopped, gradually, hoping maybe he wouldn't notice.” She gave a little hiccup of a laugh. “But of course he did. I stood my ground and told him I wanted to cut down to twice a week. I guess he saw that I meant business, because he finally agreed. About a week before he died, I somehow gave the computer a cold by opening some spam. I don't even understand what that means. Computer stuff is all gibberish to me.”

At another time Anya's words would have struck Rory as funny, but not today. And although she would have liked to ask her to skip to the chase, she had a feeling Anya needed to tell the story her way. Listening patiently was the least she could do for her.

“Mr. Gil has a friend who fixes computers, so I brought it to him,” Anya said. “That was just a few days before Matthew died. So I didn't have it in the house when you came by.”

“Have you gotten it back?”

“Yes, just yesterday. That's why I wanted to speak to you. The man who fixed the computer was wondering why I never came to pick it up. When he heard what happened, he insisted on bringing it back and hooking it up again for me. But I don't really have any use for a computer, so I'm going to tell him he can have it.”

“Wait,” Rory said as a thought occurred to her. “Have you checked your e-mail? There might be messages from Matthew that you missed while the computer was gone.”

“Oh,” Anya said, looking more anxious than hopeful about the prospect. “I didn't think of that.” She hesitated a moment before going on. “I know how busy you are, but maybe you could stop by my house one day to take a look? I don't know if I can bring myself to do it just yet.”

“I have an easier solution,” Rory said. “Do you remember your e-mail address and password?”

Anya looked perplexed. “Yes, but what good is that? I don't have my computer here.”

“We should be able to access your e-mail account from my computer. I know it's a long shot, but if Matthew did write to you, maybe there'll be a clue about what was going on in his life right before he was killed.”

She gave Rory the address and password as she pulled another tissue from the box. Rory swiveled around to the computer, plugged in the information and crossed virtual fingers in her mind. When Anya's e-mail popped up, she felt as if she'd been waiting hours rather than seconds.

“It's still there and I'm in,” she said, tempering her excitement in the face of Anya's grief. She turned to the older woman. “There's one unopened message from Matthew. It's kind of strange though; it's through a greeting-card company.”

Anya frowned. “But my birthday is in the summer and it's not a holiday. Why would he have sent me a card?”

“May I open it?” Rory asked, her itchy finger ready to mutiny and click the mouse even before Anya gave her the okay.

“Yes, please,” she said, her voice quavering.

Rory held her breath as she clicked on the e-mail. An envelope appeared. Another click opened it, and a sheet of plain stationery popped out and unfolded. Holy hyenas, as her uncle Mac used to say—her instincts were right. She had to read Matthew's short message twice before the words actually sank in. Then she read it aloud to Anya. “Mom, if something should happen to me, you need to know that Lacey Harper is behind it. Always remember that I love you, Matthew.”

When she turned back to Anya, tears were spilling down the older woman's cheeks. Rory gave her time to regain her composure. She needed a moment to get her own mind under control too. It was spinning in crazy eights at full throttle, kicking up so many questions that she couldn't think clearly. Was that it? Had Matthew given them his killer on a silver platter? Make that a silver e-platter.

“I don't understand,” Anya said, interrupting her thoughts. “How can Lacey be responsible? I was told she was flying somewhere when Matthew was killed.”

“She was,” Rory replied. She'd spoken to the airline herself, and they'd faxed her a copy of the flight manifest. Lacey was definitely on a plane bound for Virginia at the time of Matthew's death. The only way she could have been involved is by hiring a hit man. Rory didn't see any point in burdening Anya with such conjecture.

“None of this makes any sense.”

“It will, I promise you,” Rory said, looking into her eyes. “I'm going to find out who killed your son and why.”

***

Rory spent the next hour trying to meditate and relax before facing the marshal again. She'd never been very good at it, and that day wasn't much different. No matter how hard she tried, her mind refused to stay blank. It just kept wandering all over the place, but at least she didn't fall asleep like she usually did. Despite her failure, by the end of the hour she was feeling considerably more mellow, possibly even Zeke-proof. And wasn't that really all that mattered? If he wanted to argue with Eloise and keep secrets, why should she care? If he enjoyed gnashing his virtual teeth, she didn't have to be a party to it. In the future, she would simply rise above the nonsense with the serenity of a Zen master, albeit a Zen master who couldn't get the hang of meditation

“Well, doesn't that beat all,” Zeke said, after hearing about Matthew's e-mail. When he appeared, Rory was in the reading chair and Hobo was stretched out full length across the floor, so he took up a pose against the front edge of the desk.

“My thought exactly,” she said. “So where do we go from here? The police aren't going to arrest Lacey on the basis of Matthew's conjecture. We need more proof.”

“The situation calls to mind a case I had back in '75. 1875,” Zeke added, as if she needed clarification.

Rory settled back in her chair, prepared for one of the marshal's rambling stories.

“You see, there was a fella by the name of Grandy; his real name was Grandison, but he went by Grandy. Anyhow, he was accused of cattle rustlin'. In those days, it was a hangin' offense. Everyone in town was sure he was guilty, because the only evidence we had pointed to him. But I had a feelin' in my gut that he didn't do it. To this day I can't even tell you why. Maybe it was some of that sidekick ability I keep hearin' about.” Rory decided not to correct him. She'd tried in the past, but it hadn't taken. “The sheriff arrested Grandy and threw him in jail to await trial when the circuit-court judge came to town. Now, the judge didn't come around often, and by the end of the first week, people were clamorin' for Grandy's hide. They didn't see the need to bother with a trial. It took a lot of convincin', but I finally talked them into abidin' by the law and waitin'.”

“How did you manage that?” she asked, getting caught up in the tale.

“As I recall, I said somethin' like, ‘What's the difference if he dies today or a few weeks from now? If he's guilty, you'll have your hangin', and if he's not, you'll all sleep better knowin' you didn't lynch an innocent man. If we start livin' by vigilante justice, any one of you could be the next to face the noose.' I think it was that last part that finally got their attention, self-interest bein' the hallmark of our species.”

“So, was he guilty?”

“No, it turned out he was framed. Those extra days made it possible for me to find the real culprit.”

“Those people must have been very grateful you talked them out of hanging Grandy.”

“If they were, they didn't bother mentionin' it to me,” he said. “Folks don't like findin' out they're wrong. And these folks surely didn't want to be reminded about the terrible thing they nearly did.”

“So what you're saying is that we can't run right out and hang Lacey until we at least try to eliminate every other possibility.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh, while a pesky little voice in her head wondered if the marshal would have been as eager to give Lacey's brothers the same benefit of the doubt.

Zeke nodded and smiled at her as if she was a prize student who'd just aced a test. In spite of herself, his approval gave her a little boost. She shook off the ridiculous feeling. “But there's still the question of why Matthew pointed such a direct finger at Lacey. She must have said or done something threatening.”

“Or he was bein' threatened by someone and he jumped to the wrong conclusion, like those folks I was just tellin' you about. By the way, what happened to the theory that Greenbrier's involved in all this?”

“Until we get some solid evidence against them, it's going to remain a theory,” Rory said. “Who knows? Maybe Lacey's working with them. Maybe she's the turncoat.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don't know—it's not sittin' right with me. I'm tellin' you, there's more to this than we're seein'.”

“Okay, Marshal, where do you suggest we go to find the missing pieces?”

“We need to talk to Matthew's neighbors and find out if they heard or saw anything suspicious the night he was killed.”

“You know Leah canvassed the area immediately and came up empty.”

Zeke arched an eyebrow at her. “Aren't you the one who told me Gil wasn't paying us to base our investigation on secondhand information?”

“Then I guess we have some legwork ahead of us.”

“Yes, ma'am. We do.”

Chapter 24

The Arizona Territory

1876

Just before noon, Drummond left the boardinghouse where he lodged when he was in town, saddled up the buckskin and headed down to the tailor shop. He was sporting his Sunday best, the clothing he kept for special occasions like weddings and funerals, and in this case, an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. The invitation had come from Clarence Higgs's niece, Abigail. A few years older than Celeste, Abigail had married a successful rancher and lived a few miles north of Tucson with their three young children. When Abigail heard that Celeste had a gentleman friend, she insisted he join them for the holiday.

In preparation for the day, Drummond had bought himself a hot bath and a proper haircut. He'd even had his moustache trimmed so there were no wayward hairs. Having an aversion to formal events that required spit and polish, he'd nearly declined the invitation. But there was the matter of Celeste. She'd seemed so pleased about it that he hadn't had the heart to disappoint her. Truth be told, he really didn't want to miss out on the hours they would be able to spend together. Since his job kept him away for long stretches of time, their relationship had been creeping along at a snail's pace. And he knew from the way other men looked at Celeste that she could have her pick of the lot, married or single. He worried that she'd tire of waiting for him, but he couldn't see any solution to his dilemma. He wasn't cut out to be a merchant or to ply any of the other trades that would allow a man to make a decent living within the confines of a town. Given his current line of work, the job of sheriff was the only one that made any sense, and that position was already filled. He was going yet another round with the issue when he arrived at the tailor shop.

Clarence was helping Celeste into a fancy, little surrey that had clearly never known a muddy street. For that matter, Drummond didn't recall Clarence owning the palomino that was hitched to its traces. But it was Celeste who captured the marshal's attention in a dress with a white satin and lace bodice, gray skirt and matching cape. Her hair had been gathered up from her shoulders and artfully arranged atop her head, wispy tendrils left to frame her face.

As they seemed ready to leave, Drummond didn't dismount but greeted them with a tip of his hat. “Nice wagon,” he said, as they got under way.

“But not in the least practical,” Celeste said with a sigh. “It can't even accommodate three people.” Drummond assured her he didn't mind. He much preferred sitting astride his horse to bumping along in a carriage anyway.

“Have you ever seen a more magnificent conveyance, Marshal?” Clarence asked, beaming in spite of her complaint. “It's the latest thing—they call it a surrey. Nothing but the finest for my little girl.”

“Marshal,” she said, “don't you agree that it's lunacy to spend a fortune on such an elegant wagon used to travel these filthy, rutted streets?”

Drummond, who was keeping pace alongside Celeste, knew a losing battle when it stared him in the eye. “You look pretty as a picture,” he replied to change the subject.

Celeste murmured a demur “thank you,” after which the three of them managed to keep the conversation light as if they'd all realized the folly of letting an argument ruin what promised to be a lovely day.

Their arrival at the ranch triggered a tumult of activity and noise. Abigail and her children flew outside to greet them, along with their three barking dogs. Her husband, William, trailed behind his boisterous family, more reserved but no less welcoming. After being introduced to the marshal, Abigail winked at Celeste and grabbed her arm to pull her inside, as if they were still schoolgirls. William offered to take the horses into the barn and get them settled.

“I appreciate that,” Drummond said, “but the buckskin's a mite high-strung and partial to my hand. I can see to them both if you don't mind.”

William told him where to find the oats and hay; then he and Clarence followed the women inside. The marshal unhitched the palomino from the surrey and put him into an empty stall with a forkful of hay, a cup of oats and fresh water. Then he unsaddled the buckskin, and led him by the bridle to the next stall. At the last moment the horse resisted, rearing up on his hind legs. Instead of fighting him, Drummond waited until he settled down, at which point he grabbed the bit, looked the animal straight in the eye and in a firm but gentle tone, ordered him to “Quit the crap.” Then he walked him in a circle and led him to the stall again. This time the buckskin went in without incident. As the marshal removed the bridle, he wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn't exchanged the horse months ago for a less ornery mount. Maybe he just liked the challenge—and the fact that the buckskin gave everyone else an even harder time. He left the horse food and water and was latching the stall door when Celeste appeared in the open doorway of the barn.

“I came to see what was taking you so long,” she said, walking over to him. “Abigail thought you might have run for your life after meeting her brood.”

Drummond laughed. “I won't deny I gave the option some thought, but I've never cut and run in my life, even when a smarter man might have. Give me a second to put this away,” he said, taking the pitchfork he'd used on the hay back to the wall where William kept it. When he turned around, he found that Celeste had come up directly behind him. They were only inches apart, and she was smiling up at him with mischief in her eyes.

“Celeste? Marshal?” Clarence called their names as he entered the barn. “Are you two planning to spend all of Thanksgiving with the horses?” He paused for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. “Where are you?” He started down the row of stalls, coming upon his daughter and Drummond as they emerged from the darker recesses at the back of the barn.

“What on God's green earth is going on in here?” Clarence demanded, his face cinched tightly with anger.

“Nothing, Papa,” Celeste said, looking him straight in the eye. “The marshal was having a difficult time getting his horse into the stall, and we just now put the hay fork back where it belongs.” Clarence looked them both up and down, his expression still twisted with disapproval.

“Papa, what exactly are you implying?” Celeste asked, sounding both hurt and angry. When he didn't reply she said, “Surely you know me better than that.”

Clarence cleared his throat. “I'm sorry if I judged too quickly,” he muttered to them, before turning on his heel to leave the barn. But Drummond could tell that he wasn't convinced, that he'd simply decided this wasn't the right time or place to pursue the matter. As the marshal followed Celeste outside, he noticed a few pieces of hay caught between the tiny buttons on the back of her blouse and he quickly plucked them off.