Chapter 19
“S
top looking at me with those pathetic eyes,” Rory said. “I’m already late.” Hobo had raced ahead of her to the front door and was now sitting there blocking her way. He was a quick study. By his second day with her, he’d learned that when she picked up her handbag it meant she was leaving. He’d also learned that if he beat her to the door and looked forlorn enough, he could sometimes persuade her to take him along.
“Okay, okay,” she relented, “I’ll get your leash.” She went to the closet beneath the stairs and plucked it off the hook she’d put there to hold it.
Hobo was still sitting at the door, his tail swishing merrily at the sight of the leash in her hand. “You’d think I was going to leave you with a dog-eating monster,” she scolded gently as she pushed aside the thick fur at his neck to attach the leash to his collar. Then they were out the door and into the car. Hobo took up his usual position directly behind her on the backseat, his head out the window, hair blowing back from his face like a model on a photo shoot.
They arrived at the bakery less than ten minutes later. Rory pulled into a spot from which Hobo could watch her through the store’s plate glass windows. It was two o’clock and nearing the end of the Sunday crowds, so she didn’t have to wait long for her turn. The teenage girl she drew quickly located her order for a dozen assorted dinner rolls and a chocolate and raspberry mousse cake that read “Happy Birthday, Dad.”
When Rory was trying to schedule the family dinner, the earliest date they were all free had turned out to be the Sunday before her father’s birthday. That made selecting a dessert easy. Mousse had long been his favorite and her mother and aunt were also big fans.
She put the cake and rolls on the floor of the front passenger compartment where Hobo wouldn’t be tempted to sample them. With any luck she’d make it home before her family arrived so they wouldn’t have to sit in their car waiting for her. While she knew it wouldn’t matter to them, it mattered to her. This was her first dinner party in her own house and she wanted everything to go right.
She turned into the driveway. No other car yet. She’d timed it perfectly, Hobo’s neuroses notwithstanding. When she walked around to the far side of the car to retrieve the baked goods, he gave her a questioning little bark as if to ask why she’d cut their lovely outing so short.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said as she passed his window on her way to the front door. “I’ll be back for you in a minute.” She’d learned a valuable lesson the last time she’d tried to take him and groceries into the house at the same time. He’d probably caught a sudden whiff of ghost, because he’d plowed through her legs in a mad dash back to the sanctuary of the car. Rory and the groceries had hit the flagstone walk at the same time, breaking eggs, bruising peaches and leaving her with assorted abrasions and contusions. Since that day she left Hobo in the car until she’d brought everything else into the house. She was a quick study too.
The boeuf bourguignonne she’d left simmering in the slow cooker had filled the house with a warm, inviting aroma that brought back childhood memories of cozy winter evenings when her mother had prepared the same meal. Now if Zeke could just be counted upon to keep his word, the day should be enjoyable for everyone.
She stowed the cake in the refrigerator, set the rolls on the counter and was headed back outside for Hobo when she noticed the envelope lying on the floor in the entryway. When she’d walked in, the packages she’d been holding had blocked it from her view. She picked it up by one corner, determined not to compromise any potential fingerprints or DNA. There was no address, just her name written in stenciled letters. No return address, no postmark. No surprise. She thought about opening it, then changed her mind. The odds favored it being another threatening note, and she had no intentions of letting the creep who’d written it spoil her day. Whatever it was, she’d deal with it later when she was good and ready. She backtracked to the kitchen and shoved it into a drawer her mother and aunt weren’t likely to look in if they were helping her clean up after dinner.
When she walked outside she found her family clustered around the left rear door of her car, introducing themselves to Hobo, who was lapping at cheeks, arms, noses and whatever else he could reach through the partially open window. So far so good. No traveling marshal as self-appointed welcome wagon. But as she let Hobo out of the car and ushered everyone into the house, something elusive was niggling at her. Unable to pin it down, and with a dinner party to attend to, she banished it to the back of her mind.
“Your mother was thinking you were never going to invite us over,” Rory’s father said with a wink. The four of them were sitting in the living room, talking and nibbling on the stuffed mushrooms, mini quiches and artichoke dip she’d prepared as hors d’oeuvres.
Rory looked at her mom and laughed. “Seriously?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I know you’ve been busy getting your new career going and all. Dad just likes to turn my words around and needle me.”
“But with the best of intentions,” he pointed out, reaching for another mushroom, “only with the best of intentions.”
Being together in the house that had been Mac’s, it was inevitable that the conversation should find its way to memories of him. Time had been working its quiet magic, though, and the memories they shared were good ones. Memories that made them laugh without pangs of guilt for the joy they felt. Memories that assured them that Mac was woven as tightly as ever into the fabric of their lives.
The timer rang for the rolls that were warming in the oven. With dinner ready and everything still quiet on the supernatural front, Rory was actually starting to relax. They were seated at the dining room table, toasting the success of her new career with the bottle of red wine her parents had brought for the occasion, when Hobo jumped up and bolted out of the room making a horrible sound that was somewhere between a bark and a shriek.
“Is he okay?” her father asked as he ladled chunks of beef and vegetables onto his plate. “I didn’t know dogs could make noises like that. Could you pass those egg noodles, Helene?”
“Maybe he had a bad dream, the poor dear,” she said, handing him the requested bowl.
“But he wasn’t sleeping,” Rory’s mother said. “He was just sitting here between Rory and me waiting for handouts.”
Rory shrugged. “He acts a little strange sometimes. No reason to be concerned.” Unless you happen to be a federal marshal with a death wish. A moment later Hobo came tearing back into the room, executed a neat pirouette as if he were thinking of chasing his tail, then ducked under the table, trampling everyone’s feet until he landed against Rory’s legs with a dull thud and a groan.
“He’s trembling something awful,” Helene said when she reached under the table to pet him. She looked at her sister. “Remember Snuggles, that little dog we had when we were kids? Whenever there was a thunderstorm he’d shake like he’d swallowed a vibrator.”
“Except there’s no storm,” Rory’s father said. “And the expression is ‘shake like a leaf,’ not a vibrator.” He broke off a piece of a roll and used it to sop up some of the gravy on his plate. “Great stew, Rory, great stew.”
“So now you’re the word police?” Helene came back sharply.
“Who sees a dog shaking and thinks ‘vibrator’?”
“Someone with a bit of imagination.”
Rory didn’t pay attention to the little skirmish taking place beside her. As far back as she could remember her father and aunt had enjoyed sparring with each other.
Their sniping no longer even registered on her mother’s radar. “Maybe you should speak to a vet or a trainer,” she said to Rory.
Having had the last word, Helene claimed victory by refilling her wineglass and toasting herself. Then she turned to Rory and her sister and hopped aboard their conversation. “My neighbor swears by her vet. I can get you his name if you want.”
“Thanks,” Rory said, propping her lips into a smile, “but I know exactly who to talk to.”
“Z
eke!” Rory thundered. She was standing in the entryway after saying good night to her family. Not yet over his earlier trauma, Hobo was pressed against her like a bizarre conjoined twin. When she moved, he moved. When she stopped, he stopped. He’d become so proficient at matching her steps that they could probably do a dance routine for one of the talent shows on TV.
The hanging lamp above her blinked and a moment later the marshal appeared wearing a perplexed expression. “You’re sounding a mite vexated, Aurora,” he said. “Didn’t your dinner party go well?”
Hobo was caught in a conundrum. Although he wanted desperately to get away from the marshal, he was equally desperate to stay with his savior. His solution was to press his body more tightly against her leg, nearly knocking her over in the process.
“It went very well,” she snapped, once she’d regained her balance, “in spite of your efforts to undermine it.”
“My efforts?” Zeke managed to sound both surprised and indignant. “I just stopped by to get the feel of your family again. Surely I can’t be blamed for simple curiosity. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”
Rory applauded, causing Hobo to flinch. “Nice performance, but I’m not buying it. You promised to behave yourself.”
“I did. No one had any idea I was there.”
“Except poor Hobo, who might have to be surgically removed from my leg. I don’t even want to know what you did to make him flip out like that.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Hobo has a tendency to overreact when it comes to me,” Zeke pointed out. “But I’m more than willin’ to put that aside and talk about more important things, like that letter you got earlier.”
Rory didn’t want to let him off so easily, but she’d made her point and there was little to be gained by harping on it. She took a deep breath and changed gears.
“You didn’t happen to see who slipped it under the door, did you?” she asked as a matter of course.
“Yes, darlin’, I sure did.” Zeke’s mouth stretched into a grin as he waited for her reaction.
It took Rory an extra moment to absorb what he’d said. Then her brows arched up in amazement. Was this finally the break they’d been waiting for? “Give me a minute,” she said, already on her way up the stairs. When she returned with her sketch pad and pencil, Zeke had relocated to his favorite chair in the living room.
“Okay, fire away,” she said, perching on the edge of the couch, pencil poised to begin.
“He was a young fella, twenty tops. A couple inches shorter than me. Brown hair, real short the way soldiers wear it these days. His eyes were sorta squinty.”
“Thin or heavyset?” Rory prompted. “Tell me about the shape of his face, his ears, his mouth.”
“He was thin, gangly thin like he’d just got finished growing. Long face I guess you’d say. His ears stuck out from his head some, but that might have been because of that haircut. His mouth? Can’t say that I noticed, him not being a woman and all.”
Rory glanced up long enough to shoot him a disapproving look. “You need to focus. Any distinguishing marks or features?”
“Nothin’ that I can . . . no, hold on. He had a tattoo on his right arm. I only saw a piece of it stickin’ out between the sleeve of his jacket and his gloves, but I’m pretty sure it was the tail of a snake.”
She nodded. The gloves were pretty much a given, since there hadn’t been any prints or DNA on the first letter. “Regular leather gloves or the thin, latex ones I use for handling evidence?”
“Black leather gloves.”
She drew for another minute, then turned the picture around for him to see. “Tell me what needs fixing.”
Zeke issued a low whistle of appreciation. “I know this ain’t the first time I’ve seen you draw, but it’s a downright amazin’ thing.”
“Thanks,” Rory said, more taken by his praise than she would have expected to be. “But you need to help me finetune it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
He stared at the picture for a while and then had her make adjustments to the hairline and the thrust of the chin.
“Yup, that’s him all right,” he said when he saw the final product.
“Did you get a look at his car?”
“There wasn’t any car, at least none I could see.”
“The odds are he had one. Getting around the island is too difficult otherwise. Plus he had to be watching, waiting for me to leave. He probably parked down the street where we wouldn’t notice him.” She sighed. “I guess a license plate number would have been too much to hope for. First thing in the morning I’ll drive out to Yaphank and give this to Leah to run through the database. With any luck this guy is in the system, and she’ll be able to give me his name and last known address.”
“What will you tell Leah when she wants to know who gave you his description?” Zeke asked.
Rory hadn’t thought that far ahead yet, but he was right. She needed to have her answer ready if she didn’t want to say a ghost was her resource.
“I’ll tell her I saw him hanging around near Boomer’s Groomers the day I was there,” she said. That would have to do. If she said she’d gotten the description from someone else, Leah might want to interview that person too. They were both scraping the bottom of the barrel on their cases.
“What about the letter?” Zeke asked. “What did it say?”
Rory jumped up from the couch. “Damn, I got so caught up in drawing the guy, I haven’t opened it yet.”
Zeke beat her into the kitchen, since he didn’t have to deal with the inconveniences of gravity and friction. He was standing at the center island, arms folded as if he’d been waiting an hour for her to arrive. Rory pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then took the envelope out of the drawer and tore it open. In all likelihood the sender had been as careful not to leave prints or DNA this time either, but a girl could dream.
The writing on the sheet of paper inside was done in the same neat stencils as her name on the envelope. The last note had been pieced together using words from magazines and newspapers. Apparently her pen pal liked variety. Rory read the two short lines out loud. “Drop the investigation now. This is your final warning.” The words had no real impact on her. Like the previous note, it sounded like it had been lifted straight from the script of a hammy old movie. But taped to the bottom of the page was a grainy four-by-six photo of Hobo in her backyard with a large “X” drawn across him in permanent black marker. The nonverbal message slammed into her gut like a steel fist. If she’d harbored any doubts about the depth of her affection for Hobo, this threat put them to rest. No way was she going to let anyone lay a hand on him or disturb a single hair on his lovable, shaggy head.