Sketcher in the Rye: (4 page)

“I'd like you to look into Matthew's murder as well as the issue of sabotage.”

Rory immediately came to attention, sitting up straighter in her seat. This was far from a little tweak to their agreement. But before she could say anything, Gil held up his hand. “Please, if I may explain myself more fully. Then we can thrash it all out.” Rory bit her lip, thoughts of her conversation with Leah swirling in her head. “The police, in spite of all their resources and manpower, have had less success than your firm in solving a number of murder cases over the past year or so.” Rory couldn't deny that. Besides, she had to make a living, and it wasn't a good marketing strategy to play down your accomplishments. Truth be told, though, she did have some of the same resources as the police—namely, a fabulous medical examiner, Barrett “BB” Browning, who wasn't opposed to bending the rules, and his forensics partner, Reggie. Of course she would never compromise their jobs or good names by mentioning the fact that they helped her out from time to time. She also had her own skill as a sketch artist to call upon as well as another secret resource by the name of Ezekiel Drummond.

“I can't help thinking that Matthew's death might be linked to the sabotage,” Gil went on. “He may have been trying to investigate the matter himself and gotten too close to fingering the traitor.”

Rory waited an extra beat to be sure he was finished speaking. “Please don't take offense at this question,” she said, “but are you one hundred percent certain that Matthew is blameless in everything that's happened?”

Gil looked her directly in the eye. “I am as certain of his loyalty as one can be about another person. I actually trusted him more than my own children. In all the years he never once lied to me, disappointed me or tried to play me for a fool. I'm sad to say my kids didn't come close to measuring up. After you've raised children of your own, you'll understand how remarkable he was.”

Rory had trouble masking her surprise. Perhaps those radiant faces in the portrait really were a facade behind which lurked some deep ugliness. From the way Gil was looking at her, it was obvious he wanted her answer about taking on the murder case right then and there. She could probably ask for time to think it over, but that would be pointless. She already knew she was going to accept the case. The only reason she would need time was to find a good way to tell Leah.

“Okay,” she said, “we'll look into Matthew's death too.” The relief on Gil's face prompted her to tack on a disclaimer. “But you need to keep in mind that the case is an active police investigation, and the police can be really territorial when it comes to murder. We won't have the latitude we might have had in something like a cold case. That being said, we will do our level best to the extent the law allows.” It was common sense not to give a client false hope. That way they were less likely to be disappointed if she and Zeke failed and more likely to believe they were miracle workers if they succeeded.

“I understand.” Gil said. “Would doubling your retainer be acceptable, along with meeting to reassess the investigation's financial needs at regular intervals?”

The moment Rory said it would, he opened the top drawer again and withdrew a check, which he handed her across the desk. It was already made out and signed, the mark of a confidant man. Rory stowed that bit of insight in a new mental file with his name on it. She'd found it useful to keep notes on the people who hired her as well as those she was hired to investigate.

“You should know,” Gil continued, “that I've purposely steered the police in the direction of my managerial staff, because I'd like you to focus on my family. I believe you'll be less abrasive with them than the police might be. But I still want you to investigate them every bit as thoroughly. In any case, it should be simpler this way, less messy, if you and the cops aren't constantly stepping on each other's toes.”

Rory had no idea how to respond to that, so she nodded politely. People were always trying to point detectives in one direction or another, but she'd never met anyone who'd gone about it with such a deliberate sense of entitlement. Gil clearly thought he was the most qualified to run the case. “Confident” was too mild a description for him. She flipped to that new Gil folder in her brain and stamped it with the words “control freak.”

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“Actually I do have one.”

“Nothing's off limits.”

“Did you file a police report about the damage to the climate-control system?”

“Sure; otherwise, the insurance company wouldn't pay my claim. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, in fact you did precisely the right thing.” She didn't need any unnecessary friction between her and Leah about overstepping her bounds. “Okay, that's it for my questions at this point,” she said, standing.

Gil rose and came around the desk to her. “I'm glad you're onboard,” he said, extending his hand.

Rory gave it a firm shake. “We'll get to the bottom of all this,” she said. “I'll be in touch soon.” She dropped the check into her purse and headed for the door.

“Oh, one last thing,” Gil said. Rory turned back to him. “If anyone in my family gives you a hard time, I want to know about it.”

***

“That's an interestin' tidbit he laid on you at the last minute,” Zeke said, wearing his deep-thinking frown. “You can't underestimate the value of even the smallest piece of information.” He was sitting in the living-room chair where Rory had first seen him a year and a half ago. Back then, she wouldn't have given their relationship, let alone their partnership, one chance in a million of succeeding. Not that it had been a rose garden, as the song goes. In fact, she still marveled regularly at the progress they'd made.

The marshal shifted in the chair as if he was trying to find a more comfortable position. He was back to practicing what he called lookin' alive. “That may have been Gil's subconscious havin' its say.”

“But if he thinks he knows who's guilty, why not just tell me?” she said. “We can get the job done a lot faster if we start by checking out the most likely suspect.”

“On the other hand,” Zeke said, still ridin' his own train of thought, “it's possible someone in the family's been givin' him a hard time lately and that statement was a knee-jerk reaction and nothin' more. Sometimes it doesn't pay to read too much into remarks like that.”

“Wait, you just said we shouldn't underestimate the value of any bit of information.” The marshal had a knack for tying her brain in knots by taking two sides of the same argument.

“Just playin' devil's advocate and considerin' all the angles,” he said. “It never pays to lock yourself into one way of thinkin'.”

For the sake of her sanity, Rory decided to change the subject. “Gil gave me this,” she said, scooting to the edge of the couch so she could hand Zeke the stapled pages. “It has the names, positions and background material on all the high-level employees and family members at Harper Farms.” Thankfully the marshal had become more proficient at “handling” objects. It had been a while since she'd had to clean up twenty pounds of kibble, or a thousand tiny pieces from a jigsaw puzzle he'd been trying to help her put together.

He floated the papers out of her fingers with a gentle tug of energy and held them a quarter of an inch above his own hands while he deftly leafed through them. “Impressive,” he said, floating the pages back to land on her lap. “Any thoughts about who our first interviewee ought to be?” “I think before we even start to tackle this list, we need to speak to Matthew's mother and get some background on him,” she said.

“It's unanimous then.”

Chapter 4

“I'd forgotten how amazing these are,” Leah groaned, savoring her first bite of the waffle.

“I'm surprised you didn't have it with ice cream,” Rory said as she dug into her pumpkin pancakes.

“No, no way, evil one. It's only eight in the morning, and this is going straight to my hips as it is.”

“Then start talking,” Rory threatened, “or I'll be forced to order you one of their super-rich cocoas with gobs of whipped cream—on your dime of course.”

“Okay, okay—are you sure you're not related to Torquemada?”

“Only on my father's side,” she grinned.

“Well, since I can't afford to buy a whole new wardrobe—”

“Hey, let's be honest here. It has nothing to do with the threat of calories. I know how to keep a secret.”
If you only knew how well.
“And you trust me. It's as simple as that.”

“Yes, even though I'm pretty sure it will be my undoing one day.” Leah speared another piece of waffle and tucked it into her mouth. “We found a syringe complete with needle near the end of the maze, no prints of course,” she said after swallowing. “BB's waiting for toxicology to confirm it, but he believes the cause of death was diabetic shock. He estimated the time of death to be between ten p.m. and two a.m.”

Rory poured more maple syrup on her short stack. “Was Matthew diabetic?”

“Yes, his mother confirmed it. But according to her, Matthew only used the prefilled insulin pens. He'd stopped using syringes years ago.”

Rory frowned. “I get mixed up between diabetic shock and diabetic coma.”

“According to BB, shock is too much insulin, resulting in blood sugar that's too low. Coma is the opposite—too little insulin and blood sugar that's too high. Apparently either one can kill you.”

“So someone used Matthew's illness to murder him. That's nasty. But it also means the killer knew him well enough to be aware of the diabetes.”

“Exactly,” Leah said turning her attention back to her plate.

“There's more that you're not telling me,” Rory said after a few minutes.

Leah looked up with a huff of frustration. “Am I really that easy to read?”

“You're eating like my father, who doesn't come up for air until his plate is clean. That isn't you at all.”

“Look, it's just stuff you don't need to know,” she said. “Be a good girl and concentrate on the case Harper hired you to investigate.”

“That's what I'm doing,” Rory replied, thinking this was as good a time as any to let her friend know she'd been hired for both cases.

***

“When Leah went to Matthew Dmitriev's house, she found it totally trashed,” Rory said. “His computer and any other electronics he may have had were gone.” She and Zeke were in the car on their way to visit the victim's mother, Anya.

“Either someone was lookin' for specific evidence that incriminates them, or they were just makin' sure nothin' of that sort exists.”

“And there's no way to know if they found whatever they were after,” Rory said. “I'm hoping Anya can shed some light on it all.”

“Leah must have talked to the woman by now.”

“She did. She also canvassed Matthew's neighborhood, but no one saw or heard anything suspicious in the days or weeks before he was killed. But I can't expect her to keep feeding me information or she'll wind up losing her job.” As it was, she'd been surprisingly calm when Rory told her she'd taken on the murder case, treating her to only one mini lecture—on the necessity of requesting backup before, rather than after, putting herself in harm's way. “Besides,” Rory went on, “Gil hired us to investigate Matthew's death, not to rely on secondhand information no matter how dependable the source, and that's what we're going to do.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Zeke said. “I like a woman with integrity.”

“You mean if I was less ethical, you'd pack your bags and move out?” she asked smiling sweetly.

“You know somethin', darlin'?” he muttered. “You have a peculiar sense of humor.”

Anya Dmitriev lived in a cottage behind Gil and Ellen Harper's six-bedroom brick colonial in Lloyd Harbor where she'd worked as their housekeeper for nearly twenty-five years. Now that Matthew was gone, the Harpers were the closest thing to family she had left. Rory could have asked Gil to set up the meeting, but she wanted to give Anya the option of deciding if she felt up to it. For the last few days, the woman had been trapped in emotional limbo while she waited for BB to release her son's body. He had that morning, and with the Harpers' help, she'd finally been able to schedule the funeral for the following day. Rory knew this was hardly the best time to be requesting a visit with her, but there weren't likely to be any better days for the foreseeable future. And as the marshal pointed out, the usual social proprieties didn't apply when investigating a murder. With every day that passed, memories became compromised and distorted. Still it was one of the most difficult phone calls Rory had ever made. Once she'd introduced herself, offered her condolences and asked to meet with her, Anya had agreed without hesitation. She wanted justice for Matthew. It was the one thing she could still do for him.

To avoid the chance of anyone seeing his little vanishing act, Zeke disappeared when Rory turned into the Harper's driveway. She followed the drive down past the main house and around to the right, where the cottage was located. Although Anya had called it a cottage, it more closely resembled a compact ranch house with gray clapboard siding and slate-blue shutters.

“Good luck,” Zeke said as she came to a stop. “See you inside.” If anyone else had been there to hear him, they probably would have taken his disembodied voice in stride, assuming it came through the car's Bluetooth system. Too bad technology couldn't account for the rest of the marshal's anomalies

“Behave,” Rory reminded him, memories of past mishaps flashing through her head. It was something of a miracle that he hadn't outed himself by now. No answering remark came from the ether. Zeke had already transited to the house or he simply didn't want to acknowledge his previous lapses.

Anya came to the door dressed in black pants, a lavender V-necked sweater and black flats. She was a small, sturdy woman with ruddy cheeks and short brown hair, threaded with wiry, gray strands. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red from crying. She was clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand as she held the door open for Rory.

“Please, come in,” she said with only a hint of her Russian heritage.

Rory reintroduced herself and again offered her sympathies.

“Thank you, dear,” Anya said. “I thought we could talk in the kitchen if that's okay.”

Rory assured her that would be fine and followed her through the ell formed by the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The house was simply furnished, without a lot of doodads and clutter. Although the couch and chairs showed wear, they managed to appear inviting, rather than shabby. The kitchen was just large enough to accommodate a small, wrought-iron table with two matching chairs that looked like they came straight from an old fashioned ice-cream parlor.

Anya offered Rory a seat and asked if she'd like coffee or tea, which she politely declined.

“I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” Rory said, taking a pad and pen from her handbag.

The older woman nodded and dabbed at her nose with her tissue.

“I want to apologize in advance if any of my questions are the same ones you've already answered for the police. And I'll try not to take too much of your time.”

“That's all right,” Anya said. “I have nowhere else to be.”

“Did Matthew ever mention that he feared for his life,” Rory began, “or that he thought someone was after him?”

“No, this is all so hard to understand. Matthew has always been a good boy. I don't think he's ever had an enemy. I sit here hour after hour, racking my brain, trying to imagine who would want to kill him.” She looked at Rory with red-rimmed eyes that begged for the answers that eluded her.

“Did you know Matthew was trying to find out who's been sabotaging Harper Farms?”

“No, not until the detectives mentioned it. I guess he didn't want me to worry. He was always trying to protect me that way,” she added, her voice cracking with emotion. “Do you think his death is related to the sabotage?”

“There's no way to be sure at this point,” Rory said, “and it's too early to take any possibility off the table. It would help if you could give me a list of the people in Matthew's life, along with phone numbers if you have them.”

“Certainly—of course he'd been living on his own for the last . . . let me see . . . seven years, so I may not be up to date on his friendships. I always tried to respect his privacy as an adult by not prying, and boys aren't generally as chatty as girls, you know.”

“That's okay,” Rory said, sliding the pad and pen closer to her. “Anyone you can think of will be helpful.”

Anya got up to retrieve her address book from one of the kitchen drawers, then jotted down names and numbers, pausing to think several times. When she set the pen down and handed the pad to Rory, there were only a handful of people on the list.

“You have the entire Harper family here,” Rory said. “Was Matthew close to them as friends, or did you include them because he works there and spends a lot of time with them?”

Anya frowned. “A little of both, I suppose. Mr. Gil was almost like a father to him. Mrs. Ellen was wonderful too, nothing but kind. With their children, it was more complicated. Matthew had his ups and downs with them over the years, but it was like sibling rivalry.”

“How do you mean?”

“Matthew was sometimes envious of all they had. It's never easy to be poor,” she said, with a deep sigh, “but it's even harder to be poor when you live among the wealthy. I know the Harper kids had their issues too. I could tell they were annoyed when their father gave Matthew expensive gifts or a lot of attention.”

“Any one of them in particular?” Rory asked.

“James, maybe, but they all had their moments.”

Rory looked down at the list again. “Who is Frank Leone?”

“Matthew's best friend since the seventh grade. Back then they were part of a small group of boys who called themselves the nerd herd. They went through a phase where they devoured mystery books. And if they weren't reading, they were pretending they were detectives working on a case.” Anya smiled, the muscles of her face relaxing as she remembered better times when her son was alive. When she'd believed he always would be. “Maybe that's why he was trying to solve the sabotage at Harper Farms.” Her smile faded and her shoulders slumped as the weight of her new reality settled over her again.

“Did Matthew stay close to the boys in that group?”

“No, after graduation they went off to different colleges and lost track of one another. Matthew and Frank were the only ones who kept in touch, even though Frank lives in Boston now. It wasn't like when they were kids, but sometimes Frank takes the train down here or Matthew goes up there for a weekend. I mean, he used to.” Anya's eyes welled up with tears and she excused herself to grab the box of tissues from the countertop. She brought it back to the table with her, pulled one out and blew her nose.

Rory gave her a moment to compose herself before going on. “Has Matthew had any serious relationships with women that ended badly?”

Anya wagged her head. “He didn't date that much. There was one girl a couple of years ago. I think her name was Kathleen. Yes, Kathleen Ryan. Nice girl. I actually had hopes it might lead to marriage, but Matthew broke it off after six months or so.”

“Did he say why?”

“He told me she wasn't the right one. When I asked him why, he just shrugged and said he couldn't explain it.”

A phone started ringing in the kitchen and elsewhere in the house. Anya rose and glanced at the shelf above the sink where the base unit was sitting. “Excuse me,” she said, rushing out of the kitchen. “I must have left it in the guest room.”

Rory felt a sharp jab in her ribs the second Anya was out of sight. “Hey,” she snapped in a hoarse whisper. “What's that for?”

“Your attention,” Zeke replied.

“Well you've got it,” she said rubbing the sore spot.

“You need to find out if Matthew gave her a letter or a computer disc, somethin' that was worth trashin' his apartment for.”

“Hold on to your hat,” she said, “I'm getting to it.”

“I'm not wearin' a hat if you recall, and you need to get to it now, before there's another interruption and she decides it's time to send us on our way.”

“Stop worrying. It'll be my next question.”

“What's that dear?” Anya asked, returning with the missing phone. She set it back on its base before resuming her seat across from Rory. “That was Frank Leone,” she said. “He'll be arriving on the five o'clock train from Boston.” She seemed to draw some strength from the fact. “I'm sorry, but I didn't catch what you were saying a moment ago.”

“Just talking to myself,” Rory replied with what she hoped was an embarrassed smile.

“Sometimes that's the only way to have an intelligent conversation.”

“There are definitely times I feel that way,” Rory agreed, buying herself another stab in the ribs. She jumped, not having expected immediate retribution.

Anya's brow creased with concern. “Are you sure you're okay, dear? Can I get you some water?”

It took Rory another minute to reassure her that she was fine. She only wished there was a way to give Zeke a dose of his own medicine. Make that an overdose. Payback wasn't easy when you were dealing with a ghost. “Do you know if your son kept a journal or anything like that, either handwritten or on his computer?” she asked before the marshal felt the need to remind her again.