by Sharon Pape
“Almond-shaped. I remember reading that in a book once, and when she appeared in my head, I said to myself, ‘Look at that, Eloise. She has almond-shaped eyes.’ ”
“Deep set or shallow?” Rory could tell from Eloise’s frown that she didn’t know what that meant. Rory explained the difference, after which Eloise settled on “shallow.”
Proceeding in that fashion, Rory led her through each of the woman’s features until Eloise declared the drawing to be a perfect likeness.
Unfortunately, the woman looking up at Rory from the page didn’t resemble anyone who’d been on the trip. And if she had nothing to do with the investigation, why on earth was it so urgent for Rory to know about her? Maybe she was only a figment of a stroke-addled brain after all, a composite of people Eloise had known in her life, seen on television or read about in books. Maybe Eloise had simply made a lucky guess about the fatal flood. Life being what it was, a prediction of bad news was bound to come true—and probably sooner than later. She was starting to buy into the stroke theory when she remembered that Eloise had known about Zeke. Logic couldn’t explain that any more than it could explain the lingering spirit of the marshal himself. And after that merry ride aboard the logic carousel, Rory found herself right back at square one.
“Am I supposed to know this person?” she asked, trying to keep the lid on her growing frustration.
“Yes,” Eloise said with a relieved sigh now that her obligation had been satisfied. She reached for the TV remote that was lying on the end table next to her and turned on her movie again.
Rory made a few more attempts to coax information out of her, but Eloise was focused on the TV now, no longer interested in anything else.
“Jessica was awfully hostile for someone who’s innocent; that’s all I’m saying.” Rory poured two big scoops of kibble into Hobo’s dish. The dog was watching intently, but when she put the dish on the floor for him, he sniffed it, then padded away, his big head hanging down. He looked as disappointed as a kid who discovers that the lollipop he’s been coveting is broccoli flavored.
“She didn’t do it,” Zeke said. “I can feel it in my gut.” He’d hunkered down to scratch Hobo’s ears with fingers of energy, an activity that had taken hours of practice on inanimate objects. Hobo gave a low groan of contentment.
“You don’t have a gut anymore,” Rory reminded the marshal with a little “gotcha” smile.
“I don’t have ears anymore either, and yet here I am listenin’ to you jabber. I’m tellin’ you, Jessica’s just worried because she thinks she’s the only one with a motive for murderin’ Brian. I’d bet my boots she doesn’t know any-thin’ about the scam he pulled on Ames, or that Sophia Caspian was hidin’ a broken heart to keep her father in check. Of course, I’m takin’ your word on the last one, since I wasn’t privy to that conversation.”
Rory let the implicit dig go unchallenged. After all, it was true that she hadn’t told him she was going to interview her aunt Helene. And although he didn’t know it yet, that wasn’t her only transgression. Less than an hour ago she’d hidden the sketch of Eloise’s mystery lady behind her headboard so he wouldn’t find it. She’d told herself that she was just trying to avoid another argument over Eloise and that she’d show it to him eventually. But she knew concealing information from her partner in a case they were working together wasn’t right no matter how many ways she tried to spin it.
“For all we know, everyone in that canyon had a reason to kill Brian,” she said, picking up where the marshal had left off.
“It’s surely startin’ to seem that way. How many of the troupe were there that day?”
“Eight, not counting my aunt and Brian.”
“So we’re assumin’ Helene’s not guilty?”
“Don’t even think about going there,” Rory warned him. “I’d suspect myself before I ever suspected her.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you misjudged a person’s character.”
Rory knew by the sly grin on Zeke’s face that he was referring to her nearly fatal relationship with Vince Conti the previous fall. But she had no intentions of digging up those old bones and going another round in the “who saved Rory” debate. She gave herself an imaginary pat on the back for not latching on to the marshal’s bait.
“The bank statement!” Zeke said, switching tracks so abruptly that he left Rory behind. “I almost forgot about it.”
“What? What bank statement? What are you talking about?”
He vanished from the room only to reappear at the kitchen table so quickly that Rory could swear she briefly saw two of him.
“I found it when I was going through Brian’s files,” he said, setting one of the folders on the table in front of her and flipping through the papers in it without scattering a single one. “I don’t know much about banks and finances these days,” he said, “but take a look at this page here.”
Rory picked up the paper he’d uncovered. It was a statement from Brian’s savings account listing all the deposits and withdrawals for the month of October the previous year. The statement was unremarkable until she reached the middle of the page.
She issued a low whistle. “I see what you mean.” On October nineteenth, fifty thousand dollars had been deposited into the account. Based on what Brian had told his mother, he’d worked in the financial field. Based on his conviction, not in a legitimate fashion. “Did you find any regular monthly deposits that might have come from a salary?” she asked to cover all bases.
“Not a one.”
“What about any other large deposits?”
“Nothin’ near that amount. Back in my day, if a body suddenly came into a large sum of money, it was from an inheritance, a winnin’ night at the poker table, or the proceeds from a bank robbery.”
“I’d add the lottery and blackmail to that list. But since I haven’t heard of any bank robberies or lottery winners around here, and Clarissa didn’t mention the passing of a rich relative, I’m leaning toward blackmail.”
“Blackmail…huh.”
While the marshal was still busy kicking the tires of this intriguing possibility, Rory was already taking it out for a spin. “The question,” she said, “is which member of the troupe has a secret worth fifty thousand dollars? And enough money to keep it a secret?”
Chapter 16
BB called the next morning to say that Hobo could have his frog back. He asked Rory to meet him in front of the Forensic Sciences Building at one o’clock. When Rory arrived, the medical examiner was waiting outside with a brown paper bag in his hand, looking like an overgrown schoolboy waiting for the bus. She waved to him and motioned that she was going to park the car. It wasn’t always easy to find a spot in the busy complex of government buildings, but since it was still lunch hour, many of the people who worked there were out eating or using the time to run errands.
As soon as she emerged from the car, she was glad she’d thrown the denim jacket over her sweater before leaving the house. Having lived on Long Island all her life, she knew better than to trust the month of April. The day had seemed warm by early spring standards, but when the wind blew, it carried a sharp reminder of winter. She took the shortest route from her car to BB, trotting across the grass that was just beginning to green up.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said when she reached him.
“You’re exactly on time, a l’heure, a tiempo, as always,” he said handing her the small bag, which at close range appeared to be adorned with grease stains. “I apologize for the packaging, but I didn’t want to walk through the building holding a mangled, stuffed frog. I already have a reputation as something of an eccentric. So I rummaged around in my desk drawers for an appropriate receptacle and discovered that bag. I have no idea how long it was in there or what it originally carried, but I’m pretty sure it was some type of food. I should probably clean out my desk more often.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Rory assured him, sidestepping the issue of his
cleaning ethic. She was hardly qualified to judge anyone, since last night’s dinner dishes were still in her sink waiting to be washed. “Was Reggie able to make any sense of the writing on the tag?” she asked to nudge him back to the purpose of their meeting.
“As a matter of fact he was. Do you mind walking while we talk?”
“Not at all,” she said stoically. Except that she would have taken her winter coat if she’d known their meeting was going to be al fresco and longer than two minutes. BB and Reggie had done so many favors for her, it seemed petty to complain about the windchill factor. She’d defrost with coffee or hot cocoa on her way home. Bolstered by that thought, she buttoned her jacket and plastered a smile on her face.
“Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid,” BB explained glumly as they set out to make a circuit of the building.
It occurred to Rory that she’d never seen him sad before. It was like seeing a clown without his happy makeup. “Is it something you want to talk about?”
“Ah, if only talking were the solution. I’d filibuster better than any ten senators. It seems that I have to exercise and shed some weight to get my blood pressure and cholesterol under control.”
“Ouch.” She didn’t know anyone who enjoyed food quite as much as BB did.
“To put it mildly,” he said summoning up a bleak smile. “If you don’t mind, I’d actually prefer to talk about your frog. With any luck it will distract me from my stomach’s grumbling over what I can only loosely call lunch.”
As they turned the corner of the building, a cold blast of wind almost knocked Rory off her feet. Deep in his misery, BB didn’t seem to notice it.
Rory leaned into the wind to regain her balance. “Did Reggie tell you what was written on the tag?” she asked in the spirit of distracting him and satisfying her gnawing curiosity. The wind swallowed her words, forcing her to raise her voice and repeat the question.
“He was able to make out enough of what was there to be 95 percent certain about his accuracy,” BB said, pumping up the volume of his voice too. But as the sentence left his mouth the wind fell silent, and he found himself shouting as if he were trying to reach the upper decks of a football stadium without benefit of a microphone. He glanced around, clearly relieved to see there was no one else in the area.
“That’s great news,” Rory said, forgetting about the goose bumps that were marching up and down her arms. “It was such a mess that I didn’t know if he’d be able to figure it out at all.”
“The man never fails to amaze. Not only does he have an amazing mind, but he also has an innate ability to see things that others of equal experience and training discount or miss entirely.”
“So did he tell you what was written on the tag?” she pressed him, unable to restrain herself for another moment.
“Mais oui, por cierto, yes, of course. You must be dying to know and here I am just rattling on. He actually gave me a note spelling it out.” BB came to an abrupt stop while he checked the pockets of his pants. He came up with an old, scuffed wallet, a handful of coins and a crumpled tissue with a questionable past. “I know I had it here somewhere.”
Rory had a mental image of herself grabbing and shaking him until he produced the information without further delay.
“Ah, here it is,” he declared triumphantly, withdrawing a single, folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handing it to her. “It appears that whoever tampered with your frog has literary leanings.”
“Literary?” she said, thoroughly bewildered. “You mean it wasn’t a threat?”
“Not unless playwrights scare you.”
“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Zeke asked, frowning at Reggie’s note as if he could coerce it into disclosing more by the sheer force of his will.
“It’s a paraphrase of a famous quote,” Rory said. “It means you’d better watch your back if you do your woman wrong.”
“Thanks, professor,” Zeke said dryly, “but I want to know what it means turnin’ up on the mutt’s gift frog.”
“BB doesn’t think it’s a real threat,” she replied between sips of coffee that were helping to thaw her out. They were upstairs in the study, she behind the desk and the marshal in the old armchair where she used to sit and read while her uncle Mac worked. Hobo, who’d followed them upstairs, was lying on the area rug using his teeth to comb out a mat of fur on his left haunch.
“BB doesn’t, huh? When was the last time this fella found himself lookin’ down the business end of a.45?”
“I don’t see why that matters,” Rory said, rushing to the medical examiner’s defense.
“It matters because BB ain’t the one at risk here; you are. Everythin’ about the break-in was top-notch professional. And no one with that level of trainin’ breaks into a house without havin’ a damn good reason for doin’ it.”
“Then why use such a vague threat? If what you’re saying is true, why be so timid with the note?”
Zeke ran his fingers through his hair as he wrestled with her question. “Because it’s more than a threat,” he said finally. “I think it’s also meant as a clue.”
“Someone broke in here to leave me a clue? They could have sent me a letter or given me a call.” As theories went, this one had holes big enough to drive a double-decker bus through without nicking the paint job.
“Like I said before, the breakin’ in was to show you how vulnerable you are. The note’s to point you in a specific direction. For some reason, the intruder doesn’t want to threaten you outright, but he’s lookin’ to get the most bang for his buck.”
Rory clamped her lips shut to hold back a grin. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to hearing modern expressions roll off the marshal’s tongue. But this wasn’t the time to indulge her amusement. He’d be doubly annoyed that she was taking her safety so lightly. So she ironed the would-be smile into a suitably sober expression before speaking.
“Okay, let’s say you’re right. How do we know if the note is a clue or misdirection? Is it pointing to the killer or protecting the killer by trying to frame someone else?”
“There’s no tellin’ yet.”
She sighed. “What if you’re wrong about this intruder? Maybe he’s eccentric. Maybe he’s trying to help us in his own crazy way.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Zeke shot back, “anyone who tampers with your alarm system and just sashays on in here is already a dangerous criminal.”
Although Rory didn’t like what he was saying, she knew he was right. She could change the alarm code and the locks on the doors, but she suspected that wouldn’t even slow down an intruder as sophisticated as this one seemed to be. She picked up the coffee, which had cooled to room temperature, and swallowed it down in a few frustrated gulps.
When the doorbell rang an hour later, Rory was alone in the study writing progress reports on two of her more mundane cases. Zeke had retired to his niche between worlds, and Hobo was enjoying the comforts of the living room couch. By the time Rory came down the stairs, the dog was stationed at the front door barking his displeasure. Although he’d never met a person he didn’t like, with the understandable exception of the man who’d killed his first owner, his bark was sincere and ferocious enough to make strangers reevaluate their need to be there. On more than one occasion Rory had opened the door to find salespeople or poll takers scuttling off to the next house without looking back. She just wished she could teach Hobo to cut the Girl Scouts some slack. She really loved their Samoas.
“Good boy,” she whispered to the dog as she put her eye to the peephole. She drew back with a puzzled frown. What was Stuart Dobson doing there?
She opened the door just as the director was about to press the bell again.
“Hey,” he said. “There you are. I didn’t know if you’d be home.”
“Here I am,” she said pleasantly, wondering why he hadn’t tried calling first. “What can I do for you?”
“I was in the area so
I thought I’d drop by. Do you have time for a quick chat?”
She’d used that same ploy herself enough times to be wary of the reason behind it. “I do have a few minutes before my next client,” she said. There wasn’t actually a next client that day, but she wanted an excuse to keep their impromptu meeting from dragging on for too long.
She stepped aside to let Stuart enter. Hobo was wagging and doing his happy little tap dance now that Stuart had apparently passed muster. The director ignored the dog, even though it would have required the bare minimum of effort to provide a scratch or two as a gesture of goodwill.
The entry area was small, certainly not the most comfortable place to hold a discussion. But Rory had no intentions of moving the meeting farther into the house or outside to her office. Whatever Stuart wanted to discuss, they could discuss right there. She knew she was being less than hospitable, but there was something about Stuart that irritated her even though she’d never spent more than a couple of minutes in his company at any one time. The fact that he’d snubbed Hobo wasn’t going to win him any points from her either.
“I understand Clarissa Carpenter hired you to look into her son’s death,” Stuart began once he realized he wasn’t going to be invited inside to sit down.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Well, the investigation seems to be having a deleterious effect on my troupe.”
“Really?” Rory was immediately more interested. “In what respect?”
“They’re moody, on edge, snapping at each other, even arguing with me.” He said the last with haughty indignation.
“That’s just awful,” she commiserated without much sincerity. “But I don’t know what I can do about it.” She’d only interviewed three of the players, not counting Helene, and tensions were already on the rise? Finger-pointing and fear of being falsely accused were no doubt promoting the general malaise. With any luck, that kind of behavior might even prove helpful in ferreting out the killer.
“I was under the impression that the medical examiner labeled Brian’s death accidental,” Stuart said.