Sketcher in the Rye: (9 page)

Chapter 10

Rory stormed into the house, threw the door shut behind her and strode into the living room, loudly demanding Zeke's presence. The only one who appeared was Hobo, his head popping up over the back of the couch, where he'd been sleeping. He regarded her with groggy, unfocused eyes and one ear flap folded inside out.

“Sorry,” Rory said softly, fixing his ear and scratching the ruff around his neck. “I'm not angry with you. Go back to sleep.” She planted a kiss on the short fur of his snout, and he sank back down with a grumble of pleasure.

“I'm waiting,” she said, lowering the volume for Hobo's sake. The truth was she didn't have to yell to catch the marshal's attention. Except for those times when he was off recharging his energy, he was capable of hearing her whether she whispered or screamed. His compliance was largely a question of his mood. “I'm not going to forget about this no matter how long it takes you to show your face,” she added menacingly.

“In that case,” he said, “you might want to turn around.”

Rory did a one-eighty, annoyed that he'd managed to startle her. “What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked in a “this had better be good” tone of voice.

Zeke's expression was impassive. “If you're referrin' to the doc's car, I did what needed doin'.”

“And why would you think he
needed
to have his tires slashed?” she demanded. Could this conversation get any more ridiculous?

“He was goin' to take you down to that bar and get you all liquored up so he could have his way with you,” Zeke said, as if he was amazed she couldn't see the obvious truth.

“‘Liquored up? Have his way with me?' Are you kidding?” Rory wanted to throttle him. There; “throttle” was a good, old-fashioned word he might understand. But she had an equally insane desire to laugh. Not just to chuckle but to collapse on the floor with full-blown, hysterical laughter. Unfortunately neither reaction was useful. The marshal was already as dead as he would ever be, and the damage to Aaron's property was totally indefensible and not in the least bit funny. She stood where she was as stupefied as Hobo when she'd awakened him. If she'd had ear flaps, she was sure they would also have been folded inside out by now.

“I don't rightly know how it's possible,” the marshal said, “for you to be smart as a whip in every other way, but still woefully naive when it comes to men.”

“Oh,” she snapped, “like when I agreed to live here with you instead of following my first instinct, which was to run out of this house as fast as my legs could carry me?”

Zeke looked wounded. “I would never have hurt you. From the day I met you, I've done everything in my power to protect you.” His voice was hollow, all the smug certainty gone. Rory almost felt sorry for him.

“I appreciate your zeal on my behalf,” she said firmly but without rancor. “The trouble is your nineteenth-century views—they don't cut it today. Stop trying to take care of me. I'm old enough to deal with the consequences of my actions. Why do you refuse to understand this?” Her voice cracked with frustration.

Zeke raked his hair back with his fingers and sighed. “You're wrong, darlin'; I do understand. I just don't agree. But I will do my best not to stick my nose into your personal life anymore.” With that he drifted off like smoke from a smothered candle.

Rory went upstairs and got ready for bed. She should have been happy with her little victory. So why wasn't she?, she wondered as she wiped off her makeup. In fact, she felt as if she'd swallowed a large stone that was sitting heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of her stomach.

The next morning the marshal showed up while she was drinking her coffee and picking at a small breakfast of cottage cheese and cantaloupe. She hadn't been hungry enough to tackle cereal or eggs. “You on a diet?” he asked as he joined her at the table.

Rory was surprised to see him. Based on past experience, she'd expected him to sulk for at least a day or two. What's more, he was speaking to her as if no sharp words had passed between them the night before. She was immediately suspicious of his motives and irritated with herself for assuming he had an agenda other than peaceful coexistence. Until he proved differently, she decided to accept him at face value and put their argument behind her too. “Lack of appetite,” she said, setting down the spoon and pushing away the small bowl with the remnants of her meal.

The marshal looked concerned. “You comin' down with the flu?”

“I'm fine, really.” She drained the last of her coffee and carried the dishes to the sink. “I thought I'd take that anonymous note over to BB,” she said to change the subject. “Maybe Reggie can lift some prints from it
other
than mine.”

“I was goin' to suggest you do just that,” Zeke said. “What did Leah have to say about the note?”

Rory ran some water over the dishes before responding. “I haven't told her yet.”

Zeke arched one unruly eyebrow at her that spoke volumes.

“She worries about me too much,” Rory said. “Besides, the note wasn't actually threatening.” Why did she feel compelled to make excuses?

“You're splitting hairs, darlin'. When someone orders you to do somethin', it generally means ‘or else,' even if the words aren't there.”

“I get it” she bristled, “and I have every intention of telling her after I hear back from BB.”

***

The medical examiner seemed pleased to hear from Rory. “Of course, dear girl, I'd love to get together,” he said. “Where shall we go this time?” He'd been meeting her away from the medical examiner's office ever since she left the police department. Helping her now meant working outside the parameters of his job. “Ah—I know just the place,” he answered himself. “How do you feel about frozen yogurt and hot cocoa?”

“They're both basics on my food pyramid,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, there's a place near my office called Icy Hot that serves both. I've been there twice already this week.
C'est formidable, maravillosa
, truly amazing! One really must try it.”

“By all means,” she agreed, wondering what had happened to the diet BB had been put on by his doctor. When she'd seen him in early spring, he'd been positively morose about the situation. “How's tomorrow?”

She arrived at Icy Hot within seconds of BB and pulled into the adjoining parking space. There was a cold wind whipping through the bare-limbed trees, so they hugged quickly and made a dash for the door. Or Rory did. BB lumbered after her, looking exactly as he had when she'd last seen him. Inside the shop it was deliciously warm, thanks to a smart entrepreneur who knew it would be hard to sell anything frozen this time of year in a less inviting setting.

“First you make your favorite yogurt concoction,” BB explained, “Then you order a piping hot cocoa to heat up your insides before you leave. It's quite the perfect combination.” They had their choice of tables, since the only other patron was a middle-aged woman eating her yogurt and reading a newspaper at a small table in the back. “I never come here on weekends,” BB went on. “Bedlam would be too kind a description.” They decided on a table in a snug alcove away from the door, shrugged out of their coats and went off to create their sugar-rich lunches. Rory filled one of the smaller cups with chocolate yogurt and added a crown of strawberries and chopped almonds. When BB joined her back at the table he was holding a large container with four different flavors swirled to the top, all of it bathed in a mantle of hot fudge.

“You must be glad your doctor changed his mind about your diet,” she said when they were both seated.

“He didn't,” BB replied evenly, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I simply told him I refused to give up everything I love. However, I did agree to include more of the supposedly good stuff; cut back on the bad stuff, which the medical profession changes every other Tuesday; and start an exercise routine.”

“That was okay with the doctor?”

“He wasn't thrilled, but he couldn't toss me out of his practice. He's a personal friend, and I know all his secrets.” BB deposited the contents of the spoon in his mouth, savoring it with a sigh of contentment. “Now then, how can Reggie and I be of assistance? We've missed the clandestine activities of our little cabal,” he added with a wink. “Makes us feel like we're living on the edge.”

Rory opened her purse and withdrew the plastic bag holding the anonymous note. “I'm afraid my prints are all over it,” she said, handing it to the ME. “I had no idea it was evidence until after I read it.”

“Reggie will give it his best shot, as always,” BB said, carefully tucking the bag into his shirt pocket. “I'm sure he still has your prints on file for purposes of exclusion.”

Rory thanked him. If anyone could tease information out of that note, it was Reggie. But even if he was able to lift a good print, there was still the issue of matching it to someone. If the culprit's prints were not in the system, it would be a dead end.

“How are you spending Thanksgiving this year?” BB inquired, between dripping spoonfuls of yogurt and fudge.

“With my family,” she responded, surprising even herself with the melancholy in her tone.

“Surely it can't be that awful,” he said, the furrow between his eyes deepening.

“It'll be the last Thanksgiving we celebrate in that house,” she explained. She'd been too busy to think much about it since Helene broke the news. Whenever her mind began to wander in that direction, she'd reined it in sharply, applied rigid blinders and refocused it on her investigations.

“Ah, I see,” the ME murmured. “I was fifteen when my parents moved us from my childhood home to a grander house in a more prestigious neighborhood in their mad scramble up the social ladder. I'd always had a hard enough time making friends, so uprooting me during high school made me positively miserable. I spent a ridiculous amount of time plotting to run away and live with my best friend's family. Of course they'd never actually invited me, and my parents would have found me in less than two minutes, but at the time, planning my escape helped me cope.”

Rory nodded, finding it difficult to speak around the substantial lump that had formed in her throat. If BB continued empathizing she'd be awash in tears in no time. “Where are you going for turkey day?” she managed to squeak out in an effort to redirect the conversation.

“The grander house in the more prestigious neighborhood,” he said with a wry smile. “I never would have believed it at the time, but that's the place I associate with home now. Dear girl,
chere amie
,” he said, briefly covering Rory's hand with his, “
no se preocupe
; we humans are amazingly resilient creatures. Now,” he continued brightly, “on to the most important question of the day. Do you prefer your cocoa with whipped cream or tiny marshmallows?”

***

Although it had been a late lunch, Rory was determined to take care of some errands on her ever-growing “to do” list before heading home. She needed to stop at the office-supply store, the dry cleaners, the post office and the pet store for another fifty pounds of kibble, all of which were located in small strip malls along Jericho Turnpike. Her last stop would be Leah's favorite boutique at the Walt Whitman Mall to buy a gift for her approaching birthday. Rory was driving west on Jericho to her second stop when she noticed the nondescript gray Ford in her rearview mirror. It was several cars back, and she would never have given it a moment's thought if the driver wasn't acting so strangely. Whenever the two or three cars between him and Rory turned off into parking lots or down side streets, he switched lanes, often tucking in behind slower-moving vehicles. Why would a driver do that unless he was worried about being spotted?

The farther west she drove, the heavier the traffic became and she eventually lost sight of him. She told herself he probably hadn't been following her after all. Just because she'd been followed while investigating other cases didn't automatically mean it was happening again. She was getting as paranoid as the marshal.

By the time she reached the mall, the sun was low on the horizon. The parking lot was packed with early-bird Christmas shoppers. No surprise, since the stores had been decked out for the holiday season well before Halloween, and the ads in the newspapers were already promising huge savings. Rory didn't have the patience to wait for a parking space to open up closer to the mall, so she parked in the last row and hoofed it to the entrance, telling herself it was good exercise.

When she made it into the boutique, it was so crowded that she had a hard time seeing all the displays. It reminded her of the movie theaters before stadium seating, where you were constantly trying to see around the heads of the people in front of you. Finding a salesgirl proved to be even more difficult. She'd been in the store for close to an hour by the time she'd selected a chunky, silver bracelet with intricate filigree work that the salesgirl assured her was the height of chic. With her other errands done and the beautifully wrapped gift in hand, she relaxed and took her time strolling to the exit. Along the way, she stopped at several other shops to look at their window displays, hoping to find inspiration for Christmas presents. Peering into the window of a women's boutique, she caught the reflected image of a man standing behind several other browsers. She'd seen him reflected in the other windows where she'd paused, and a little warning alarm had started flashing in her head. Not a full-on red alert, more like a yellow caution light. She'd already noted the basics about him: midthirties, average height and weight, thinning brown hair and deep-set eyes, straight nose, ears flat against his skull, dressed in dark jeans, sneakers and a black ski jacket. He was an average Joe, the sort of man who could blend into any crowd: the hardest sort for a sketch artist to draw accurately from a witness's description. But
she
was the witness here. She turned around and locked eyes with him. He didn't bolt, turn away or show any signs of someone with mischief or mayhem on his mind. Okay, he was probably just looking for gift ideas like she and dozens of other shoppers were. She really had to rein in her imagination before she wound up in a nicely padded cell. But at the next few windows where she stopped—there he was. She ditched the notion of a psychiatric ward for the increasingly real possibility that he had criminal intentions. She stepped inside the store and pretended to browse through the dresses while she kept an eye on the esplanade. The man took out his phone as if he'd received a call or was making one. Of course that could also be a ploy to keep her under surveillance without appearing to. While she was trying to decide on her next move, he left—walked off as if he didn't have the slightest interest in her. See, the boogeyman is gone, she chastised herself; get a grip! She waited another couple of minutes, then excused herself from the bubbly salesgirl who'd latched onto her like a barnacle to a boat.