by Sharon Pape
Marshal Ezekiel Drummond made his way to the Albuquerque blacksmith’s shop on legs that threatened to give out at any moment. When he’d been brought in to Dr. Walter Abbott more dead than alive, his horse had been taken to the smithy, where it was stabled to await the marshal’s eventual recovery or demise. Although still weak from the gunshot that had nearly killed him, Drummond had insisted on leaving his sickbed within hours of regaining consciousness. To his way of thinking, he had no choice. Too many days had already passed, and once again, the unthinkable had happened. While he’d lain senseless in bed, another young girl had been abducted. He knew without a doubt that John Trask was responsible. Only one question remained—was she still alive, or had Trask already killed her?
Dr. Abbott was a pragmatist as well as a quick study. He’d realized that no matter what he said, he would not be able to change the marshal’s mind. So he’d seen to it that his patient ate a decent meal before he left, and he sent his son, Henry, along to carry the marshal’s saddlebags down to the stable. At first, Drummond had declined even that help, announcing that he was perfectly capable of managing the bags himself. But Mrs. Abbott had stocked them so full of provisions that when he’d tried to lift them, he’d fallen back against a conveniently situated wall. Acknowledging that pride alone wouldn’t get the job done, he’d finally accepted Henry’s help.
The two-block walk to the smithy was difficult for Drummond, who was winded before he even left the house. It took every bit of his concentration to plant one foot in front of the other and remain upright. Every rock in the road, every rut could easily prove to be his undoing. Henry walked close beside him, brows pinched with concern, ready to jump into action if the marshal should stumble or otherwise require his assistance. Under most circumstances, the marshal would have chafed at being the focus of such attention, but it was somehow more palatable in that young Henry was himself training to be a doctor.
Although the day was not overly warm, by the time they reached the smithy, a fine sweat coated Drummond’s body and glistened on his face. Nausea had set his stomach to roiling like a boat riding heavy seas, and it was questionable whether his lunch would stay with him. He stopped to lean against a wall of the smithy until his body reached a decision.
“Mr. Drummond, is there something I can do for you?” Henry asked, clearly troubled by his patient’s current state. “Perhaps you should reconsider and stay on with us awhile longer. We’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time, I promise you.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Henry, since you and your father seem to have brought me back from death once already. But I have responsibilities and obligations I can’t ignore. And if I don’t take care of them, I’d just as soon be dead.”
Henry shook his head but kept his counsel to himself, for which the marshal was deeply grateful.
Once his stomach had quieted sufficiently, he bolstered himself with as deep a breath as he could manage given the pain in his shoulder and drew away from the wall. For the first time he noted the dense smell of horses. Dense but not offensive, an important distinction that meant the stable was clean, the horses well cared for. It lifted his spirits to know that the chestnut had been treated properly during his incapacity. With Henry by his side, he made his way through the courtyard, where the blacksmith sometimes shod horses in good weather, and entered the building. The inside space, which was loosely divided between the forge and the stable, was larger than Drummond had expected. And there was a back door near the stable that provided good ventilation for its occupants.
He’d barely stepped foot into the relative darkness of the smithy when the chestnut started to whinny. He recognized the sound instantly, in the way that a mother can pick out the sound of her child’s voice from a thousand others in a crowd. A smile pulled at his mouth. He hadn’t smiled in so long that his skin felt too tight, as if it could no longer accommodate that expression. With a spryer step Drummond followed the whinnying to where the chestnut was doing an excited little dance in the narrow confines of his stall, his head bobbing up and down with joy.
The horses in the other stalls watched with ears pricked forward as Drummond ran his hand along the side of the chestnut’s head, then laid his cheek against his muzzle. The animal immediately calmed, nickering softly in contentment. At that moment, the blacksmith entered the stable through the rear door. He was a burly man with the look of health in his plump, rosy cheeks. Henry introduced him to Drummond as Barrel Williams.
“Pleased to see that you’ve recovered,” Barrel said over a firm handshake that sent a shock of pain through the marshal’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Drummond replied, rescuing his hand at the first opportunity. “Much obliged for taking such good care of my horse.”
“I do the best I can for these fine creatures,” Barrel said. “Never once has a horse disappointed me. That’s a heap more than I can say about my own kind,” he added with a chuckle.
Under other circumstances, Drummond might have enjoyed a whiskey and lengthier conversation with the smith, who apparently shared some of his own philosophy. But things being what they were, he paid Barrel for the chestnut’s board and with Henry’s assistance saddled the horse. Henry laid the saddlebags across the horse’s withers and led him outside. Drummond managed to swing up into the saddle but nearly fell off the other side when a wave of dizziness gripped him. He gritted his teeth, holding on with sheer determination until the world stopped spinning around him. Then he thanked Henry and bid him and Albuquerque good-bye.
Late in the afternoon of his second day on the road he met up with the search party that had been out looking for the missing girl. They were as grim a group of men as he’d ever come across. Their words confirmed what their faces had already told him. They’d found the girl but too late to do her any good. Drummond hammered them with questions, but in the end, all they could tell him was the place where they’d found her and the fact that her killer had left no tracks. Despair in their eyes, they wished him Godspeed.
Whatever reserves of strength had seen Drummond through the last two days sluiced out of him, along with hope. Trask had another notch in his gun belt and time enough to disappear forever into the consuming vastness of the country. Weary of body and spirit, Drummond made camp for the night. Had he been a different sort of man, he might have prayed for death to come while he slept. Instead, he prayed for the strength to go on.
Chapter 9
Helene had insisted that the meeting take place in Rory’s office. She wanted the experience of being interviewed by a PI to be as authentic as possible. Either she’d found her interview with the Navajo police wanting or she was just trying to broaden her repertoire. Rory didn’t know exactly what her aunt was expecting. If it was a grilling under a naked lightbulb, she was going to be sorely disappointed.
Zeke had abruptly retired after their little argument, and Hobo was busy snoozing from his romp outside, so Rory went out the kitchen door alone to meet her aunt. She found Helene waiting near the old carriage house that now held the office of Drummond and McCain Investigations.
“How long have you been waiting?” Rory asked as she hurried across the yard to her.
“Only ten minutes or so.” Helene was decked out in a gray suit, complete with stockings and high heels. Her hair was pulled back in a tidy bun that didn’t do her face any favors.
Rory was surprised when her aunt didn’t immediately envelop her in an embrace. She was generally an enthusiastic hugger. Instead she greeted Rory with a rather formal “hello” and a handshake. Something was definitely up, but since Helene always had a specific method to her madness, Rory was willing to wait and see where she was headed.
“Why didn’t you just ring the bell?” she asked as she unlocked the office door. “You could have waited for me in the house.”
“I want to play by the rules, or it’s no fun playing at all,” Helene whispered as she stepped inside. “Not that Preston’s—excuse me—Brian’s death has been fun,” she quick
ly recanted. “But you know what I mean.”
Rory wasn’t entirely sure that she did. Her best guess was that her aunt was using their meeting as an impromptu little drama in which she played a character witness in a murder case. The acting bug had taken its pound of flesh.
Doing her best to play along, she offered her aunt a seat.
Helene thanked her and sat down in the armchair, smoothing her skirt demurely over her knees.
Rory took her seat behind the desk. “I asked you to come because I’m hoping you can give me a sense of Brian Carpenter’s relationships with the others who were in the slot canyon the day he died. I’m also interested in hearing your thoughts about the man himself.”
Helene adjusted her position in the chair and cleared her throat. “Well, if I had to describe him in one word, I think that word would be ‘slick.’ ”
“Slick? In what way?”
“He reminded me of a politician. He was always smiling and knew just what to say to ingratiate himself. I had the feeling he was acting even when he wasn’t on stage. And I don’t mean like what I’m doing today,” she whispered in another aside.
“That’s okay,” Rory whispered back, “I understand.”
“Having said that, I want to point out that initially at least he was extremely easy to like. Apparently, even to love.” Helene smiled slyly as if she knew her niece would pounce on the tasty little morsel she’d just set out.
Rory’s eyebrows arched with interest. One thing she’d learned during her short career was that love often played a role in murder. “Can you give me a name?”
“You mean names.”
Zeke was right—this case was getting better and better. “I’m listening.”
“There were plenty of rumors flying around, and lots of drama as you can imagine with a group of thespians, but I’m going to stick to the facts as I know them.”
Rory waited, pen poised over notepad.
“As far as I could tell, Brian was never without female companionship. He was like a chain-smoker that way. His first conquest in our troupe was Jessica Krueger. When that liaison cooled off, he hooked up with Sophia Caspian. They were together quite awhile. Her father wasn’t thrilled, to say the least, but I’m not sure if it was because of the big age difference between them or for some other reason. In any case, by the time of his death, Brian had moved on again to Amber Luft, who wasn’t on the trip with us.”
“I assume he ended one affair before starting another?”
“There could easily have been some overlap, judging by how out of joint certain noses were at times.”
“It must have been hard for all of them to work together under those circumstances.”
“Not as hard as you might think. As actors we’re used to putting ourselves aside and adopting other personas,” Helene said, as if she’d been on the stage for thirty years instead of two. “It’s part of our job description.”
“Would you happen to have phone numbers for the two women and Adam?”
Helene opened her handbag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is a list of the whole troupe with their numbers and addresses. I put a check mark next to the ones who were on the trip in case you’ve forgotten who’s who.”
Rory thanked her and set the paper on the desk. She shouldn’t have expected any less from her aunt. “You said that Brian was well liked by everyone in the beginning, but that Adam Caspian had no use for him even before he dumped Sophia. Who else defected from his fan club?”
“Jessica, of course, after he dumped her. She’s carried that chip on her shoulder for so long now it might need to be surgically removed.”
“And Sophia?”
“Sophia may be young, but she’s a smart cookie. I mean it was obvious she was upset when it was over, but she seemed determined to remain friendly with Brian. In my opinion, she was trying not to make too much of it, because her father was so irate. And he did mellow to some degree when he saw that she was okay.”
Irate Adam moved straight to the top rung of Rory’s ladder of suspects. “Anyone else?”
“Those are the only ones I know about in the romance department,” Helene said.
“There were other departments?”
“There must have been, because Richard Ames and Brett Campbell also jumped off the bandwagon, although months apart.”
“It sounds like it was easier to despise Brian than to like him, in spite of his initial charm,” Rory said. Clarissa was apparently right about her son’s talent for cultivating enemies.
“Even Dorothy Johnson turned on him,” Helene added as an afterthought. “One day she’s baking him ginger-spice cookies, and the next she won’t even say ‘hello’ to him. I’ve never figured out what happened between them. I asked her one day when my curiosity got the better of me, but she shrugged it off and changed the subject.”
Rory was about to ask if Brian ever talked about his past when the recessed lighting in the office started to flicker. Uh-oh. “Not now,” she said emphatically. She knew her aunt was going to wonder why she was scolding the light fixtures, but in the end, it would be easier to plead temporary insanity than to explain an appearance by Zeke.
“Excuse me?” Helene said on cue.
Rory dropped her pen and pad and pushed back from the desk. “Sorry. The lights in here have been driving me crazy lately. I really have to call an electrician. But, no harm—we were pretty much done anyway.” She walked over to the door and opened it. “Thank you so much for coming in.” For her aunt’s sake, she was trying to remain in character as she rushed to end the scene before Zeke could give it a paranormal twist.
Helene stood up, her mouth open as if she were trying to figure out what to say now that her costar had skipped past several pages of script. By the time she reached the door, she’d rounded up her composure. “I’m glad I’ve been able to help. Feel free to call me if you have any other questions.”
“That’s very kind. Why don’t I walk you to your car?” Rory said following her out. “I’ll take care of the problem in here later,” she added, ratcheting up the volume so that anyone in a five-mile radius would have heard her.
Helene came to an abrupt stop and turned back to her. “Are you okay, dear?”
Why? Can you see the steam coming out of my ears? Rory managed a smile and hoped it was convincing. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, if you’re sure….” Helene pulled her into a tight hug. “Thanks for playing along with me. It was really terrific, even though I thought it was going to be more intense.”
“You definitely would have gotten more bang for your buck if this was the police station and you were an actual suspect. But please don’t take that as a suggestion,” Rory said with a lighthearted laugh meant to reassure her aunt nothing was wrong. After Helene drove off, Rory marched back to her office minus the smile, with a very different sort of conversation in mind.
She found Zeke perched on the arm of the couch waiting for her. “What was that all about?” she asked, not bothering to sit.
“Some good old-fashioned eavesdroppin’,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “It would be a lot simpler if I could just hear things firsthand, at the same time you do.”
Rory was about to object, but she stopped herself. What was she doing? Either he was her partner or he wasn’t. She couldn’t have it both ways. She’d grown so accustomed to arguing with the marshal that it had become a reflex. Surely he’d earned the right to have his thoughts given consideration and not rejected out of hand. “And the flickering lights?” she asked.
“It seemed only right that I should let you know I was around,” he said, “although I can see as how we need a different signal when I’m plannin’ to stay out of sight.”
“Thank you. It might keep me from acting like a complete idiot again.”
Zeke grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well now, that’s a pretty tall order, and there’s only so much I can do.”
Rory shook her head and laughed.
Maybe a little more patience and restraint on her part would actually work. Hey, it was worth a shot.
“There you go,” Zeke said, “you didn’t leave your sense of humor out west after all.”
“Shouldn’t we be having this conversation in the house?” she asked, since he seemed to expend far too much energy even commuting the short distance to the office. From what she could tell, there was little if any correlation between measurements of time and distance in her world and the dimension he inhabited.
“Thoughtfulness and a sense of humor. Are you tryin’ to stun me into submission?”
“If only.”
Once they were seated at the kitchen table, Rory summarized her conversation with her aunt, since Zeke had only heard the tail end of it. He was right. It definitely made more sense for him to hear and see things firsthand, complete with facial expressions and body language. As long as he didn’t take the inch she was offering and stretch it into a mile. She shook off the little voice in her head that was second-guessing her decision. If she wasn’t willing to trust him, their relationship was never going to work in the long run.
“We’re sure as hell not lackin’ for motives,” Zeke said, already wading knee-deep in the possibilities of the case.
“Assuming it was murder,” she reminded him.
“I’ll bet there are other motives in the troupe Helene’s not even aware of,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re goin’ to have to interview everyone who was in the canyon. And bein’ actors, they’re likely to be real talented at hidin’ the truth.”
Rory got up for a glass of water. When the marshal was fired up, it was just easier to let him run out of steam than to try to stop him.
“I’ll tag along as often as I can, energywise. It’ll be like havin’ an extra pair of eyes and ears with you.”
As long as that wasn’t in the literal sense. Rory had a brief but horrible vision of Zeke’s eyes and ears blossoming out of thin air while she was interviewing someone. She told herself that would never happen, that he only appeared by choice. At least he’d always made it seem that way. Who was she kidding? She had to know for sure.