by Sharon Pape
Before the blacksmith finished his sentence, Drummond had spun the horse around and raced off.
He had no problem finding the farm from O’Donnell’s directions. The house itself was a white, two-story frame structure with a deep porch. He could see several outbuildings beyond the house as well, the largest of them clearly a stable. As there didn’t appear to be anyone around, he tied his horse to a convenient cherry tree and walked up to the front door. He was about to knock when he heard a young girl scream. The sound seemed to come through the partially open window to his right.
He tried the door and found it locked. Gun in hand he stepped back far enough to come at the door with a powerful kick that tore it away from its hinges and sent it crashing onto the entryway floor. There was a moment of silence that told him the occupants in the next room had been unaware of his presence until the door went down. Making the most of that surprise meant acting quickly. His finger on the trigger, he stepped around the partial wall that separated the entryway from the room on his right.
Trask was standing at the far end of what was clearly a parlor with a gun in his hand. Claire lay in a heap to one side of him, a deep gash in her temple bleeding freely. Drummond could just make out the subtle rise and fall of her chest. This time he wasn’t too late.
As soon as Trask saw the marshal, he dropped to his knees, pulling the limp girl up against his body like a shield. He pressed his gun to her temple. “You’re gonna turn right around and walk out of here, Marshal,” he said in a tone that was eerily calm given the circumstances. “No one has to die today. And you don’t need to worry about Claire here; I plan on takin’ real good care of her.”
Drummond had Trask framed in his sights. He wanted nothing more than to plant a bullet in the man and watch him die. But with the girl there, it was risky. His reputation as a marksman kept most men with a lick of sense from testing him. But it wasn’t only his life he was gambling with here. There was no room for error.
“I have a better idea. Give yourself up, and I’ll guarantee you live to stand trial,” he said, his voice so thick with anger he hardly recognized it himself.
“That’s not much of a deal.” Trask’s upper lip curled back from his teeth, giving him a feral look. “Here’s how I see it. She comes along with me till I’m feelin’ good and safe.”
“You know I can’t let that happen.”
“’Course you can, Marshal. You can say that when you got here, me and the girl were already gone. There ain’t no witnesses around to call you a liar. I’m sure you don’t want another dead girl on your conscience. What is it now—five or six? I lose count.”
Drummond’s mouth went dry. If Trask wasn’t making up that number, he’d violated and killed another girl somewhere along the way. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on that right now. Unless he shut and padlocked the door on his emotions, he didn’t stand a chance of saving Claire. “I’m not leavin’ here without you—dead or alive, it’s your call.”
Trask laughed. It was an ugly, high-pitched sound that raised the hair at the nape of Drummond’s neck. “Big talk when I’m the one holdin’ the ace in the game,” Trask said.
This was it then. One chance. Take it, or watch Trask carry her off. “I’m sure we can come to some agreement that suits both of us,” Drummond said, fine-tuning his aim on Trask’s forehead.
“Well, ain’t you the optimist.”
It was now or never. Drummond went to squeeze the trigger, but something was wrong. He could no longer feel the gun in his hand. And then his legs gave way.
Chapter 23
“Rory!” Helene’s voice boomed from the stage when she saw her niece enter the little theater. Everyone turned to look, including Stuart Dobson, who was standing below the stage. But the director immediately turned his back on Rory, making no attempt to hide his antipathy for her. If any of the cast members were of a similar mind, they were discreet enough, or perhaps guilty enough, not to show it.
Helene, who had garnered the role of Fanny Brice’s mother in their production of Funny Girl, was presently sharing the stage with Brett and Sophia. To Rory’s untrained eye, it looked like they might have been blocking a scene. The rest of the actors were scattered through the first two rows, with the exception of Jessica and Dorothy, who were having what looked like a serious tête-à-tête off to one side. Everyone was in regular street clothing with scripts in hand.
When Rory had asked her aunt the best time to drop by the theater, Helene had told her to come near the end of rehearsals, most of which were held at night and generally ran until ten o’clock. At her aunt’s suggestion, she’d picked up a few dozen doughnuts to tempt the actors into hanging around awhile before heading home. Coffee and tea were always there for the troupe, compliments of Dobson, which was nice as long as you didn’t mind caffeine. Decaf wasn’t an option in his theater.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt you,” Rory called out, quickly sitting in the last of the twenty rows. The burgundy seats were hand-me-downs from an old theater that was being razed. Although they’d no doubt been splendid at one time, they were now swaybacked, the velveteen upholstery worn and stained, and they creaked and squeaked like a house of horrors in spite of frequent applications of WD-40. Their one redeemable feature was that they’d been free to whoever wanted to cart them away. It was hard to argue with a deal like that.
Rory had come down to the theater hoping to catch the interaction among the Players when they weren’t repeating lines someone else had written. She’d never worked a case that offered the unique advantage of having all the suspects gather together on a regular basis—a suspect zoo where she could come and observe the exhibits whenever she pleased. Okay, that was a stretch. Stuart Dobson was sure to ban her from the premises if she made a nuisance of herself. And as far as that went, she’d already racked up a couple of demerits in his esteem. She’d have to tread lightly around him. Very lightly.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t paid enough attention to the actors’ relationships and attitudes when she’d traveled to Arizona with them. She’d been too preoccupied with researching Zeke’s death. Even after the flash flood, her concern had been focused on her aunt; she’d had no reason to believe Brian had been murdered. When she’d said as much to Zeke at the beginning of their investigation, he’d wagged his head as if he had a dunce for a pupil.
“It’s what you don’t know that’ll get you killed,” he’d said. “You should always be observin’ your surroundin’s, the people as well as the places. You never know when some gunslinger’s goin’ to come up behind you, and if you’ve been payin’ attention to your whereabouts, you’ll know all your options. Saved my life on more than one occasion.”
Rory had been about to point out that there weren’t many gunslingers around these days when she’d realized that wasn’t actually true. It was just the terminology that had changed. Had she taken his advice to heart, she might have suspected earlier on last night that she was being followed. Instead of turning off the main road, she would have driven to the nearest police precinct and avoided the cat-and-mouse game with the SUV.
She set the boxes from the doughnut shop on the seat beside her, thinking this was one time when Zeke would have been a great asset. She couldn’t be everywhere at once, but he had the ability to bop around the room and listen in on conversations without anyone being the wiser. He was still away though, busy recharging himself. After his first such absence, Rory had conjured up a picture of him being pampered at a retreat for ailing spirits. Images of him having a mani-pedi, a facial and a massage were always good for a private laugh. But he’d already been gone for two days, and she was missing him. Well, maybe “missing” was too strong a word, but she couldn’t think of another that was quite as accurate. She missed his input on the case, missed running theories by him, even missed his unique take on things. She’d put aside her irritation over his new alliance with Eloise. After all, it wasn’t technically his fault. Eloise had lured him with the bait of information.
If Rory had been in his position, would she have walked away from information she might otherwise be denied? If she wanted to be honest with herself, the answer was “not likely.”
Fifteen minutes after Rory arrived at the theater, Dobson called an end to the rehearsal with a quick pep talk and an admonishment for everyone to be on time the next night. Helene, who was still onstage, took that opportunity to announce that her niece had brought doughnuts. Everyone seemed to perk up at that prospect. Taking her cue, Rory picked up the boxes and headed toward the front of the theater, where she was greeted with varying degrees of enthusiasm. She’d met most of the Players, if only briefly, after one performance or another. She’d naturally become better acquainted with those who’d been on the trip, but some of them seemed noticeably cooler to her now that she was looking for a killer among them.
The coffee and tea were set up on a shaky, old bridge table off to the right, in the walkway between the stage and the first row of seats. Rory set the doughnuts down beside the cups and stepped back as the cast members flocked around to grab their favorites. Dobson was the only holdout. He made his way around the troupe to reach Rory. She’d just finished embracing her aunt and was standing alone waiting for the troupe to disperse a bit so she could start “working the room.”
“Are you wearing your PI hat tonight or your niece hat?” he inquired sardonically.
Rory had a hard time trying to remain pleasant when the director’s tone had already set off another salvo in their ongoing hostilities. “A little of each,” she said, pulling a smile out of her bag of tricks.
“Let me just remind you that you’re on my turf here, and I won’t have you creating more tension among my actors.” Dobson was clearly enjoying his “king of the realm” status.
“Understood,” she said sweetly, thinking how grand it would be to watch him being arrested and hauled off to jail. Too bad he was the least likely suspect in the troupe.
With nothing more to say, Dobson stalked off to meet with his set designer backstage. Grateful to be rid of him, Rory looked around, “observing her whereabouts,” as Zeke would have put it. The Players were drifting away from the table and into small groups, chatting and eating their doughnuts.
Sophia was in a tight knot with Jessica and Brett a few feet from the table. Rory was surprised to see them all being lighthearted and sociable together. Was it possible the two women had found a common bond after Brian dumped Sophia? And if they’d become united in their anger against him, had one plus one added up to murder? Rory decided it was time for her to have a doughnut. She passed as close to the trio as she could without bumping into them. From the few words she caught, they seemed to be talking about other productions of Funny Girl they’d seen. Since she wanted to listen in a while longer, she poured herself a cup of coffee and made a production of adding the right amount of milk and sugar. Then she took her time looking over the few remaining doughnuts. She wasn’t actually hungry, but she selected a glazed one and nibbled on it while she heard their conversation move from the musical to pop-culture icons and then to recent headlines in the news. Nothing interesting so far. If she stayed there eating alone and in slow motion, someone was going to notice and wonder why she’d bothered to stop by at all.
Where to next? Helene was talking to Adam Caspian and three of the Players who weren’t with them in Arizona. Given that she had a limited amount of time before everyone headed home, Rory needed to make the best use of every minute. Since Adam was the only potential suspect in that group, he would have to wait. Instead, she turned her attention to Greg and Amy Renato, who were laughing about something Richard Ames had said. Since Rory knew little about the young, married couple, this seemed like a good time to remedy that. Sometimes a casual meeting like this loosened people’s tongues, and they said things they would never reveal in a more formal setting. She ambled over to them as if she had no particular agenda in mind.
They all greeted her warmly. “You’ve won my husband’s loyalty forever,” Amy said. “Or at least until someone else brings in doughnuts.”
Greg swallowed the last bite of a custard-filled one. “Thank you sooo much,” he said, hamming it up. “All the food in our house is healthy and boring. I know it’s because she wants me to live forever, but I’m just not convinced it’s worth it.” That bought a round of laughter, and after it faded, Amy asked how the investigation was going.
“Making progress,” Rory said. Judging by their faces, they were all interested in her answer, but not heavily invested in it. She’d already decided she’d have to push the conversation in the right direction if she wanted to learn anything of value tonight.
“You know,” she added lightly, “from what I can tell, you and Greg may be the only ones who didn’t have a motive to kill Brian.” Her statement didn’t appear to trouble the Renatos in the least, but she could swear she saw Richard blanch a bit. Of course, she’d just called him a suspect to his face.
“I imagine, as motives go, there are a wide range of them,” he said, “some more pernicious than others.”
To Rory he sounded like he was trying to defend himself. She shook her head. “You’d be surprised. Vengeance, it turns out, is a very personal thing, and everyone has a different threshold. One person might only be compelled to take a life for a life, while another will kill over a broken heart or financial ruin.” She watched Richard carefully, but he was prepared this time, and his face told her nothing more.
“If we managed to stay out of Brian’s web, all the credit goes to my wife,” Greg said proudly. “She has this sixth sense about people, and the day that man joined the troupe, she told me to steer clear of him, that he was nothing but trouble.”
“I’m afraid my fan club here tends to exaggerate things,” Amy said. “I’m far from always right.”
Rory would have liked to take Amy aside right then and there to ask who she’d finger as the killer. Of course, it would be purely academic, since a sixth sense was hardly enough to indict, let alone convict, someone. “Maybe you should go into the PI business,” she suggested.
Amy laughed. “No thanks, I’ll stick with teaching. Fifth graders are about as much danger as I can handle.”
Rory felt a tap on her shoulder. Zeke was finally back in town. Another tap, this time harder and accompanied by a woman’s voice. “Excuse me?”
Rory turned around to find Dorothy Johnson standing there. “I just wanted to thank you for the surprise doughnuts, dear. Such a thoughtful thing to do.” She leaned in to touch her cheek to Rory’s. “Time for this old lady to be getting home. You take care. Night all.”
After Dorothy left, the rest of the impromptu party started to break up, some of the actors grumbling about having to get up early in the morning for work. With the exception of Stuart Dobson, everyone made sure to thank Rory for the doughnuts; several voiced the hope they’d see her opening night.
“You couldn’t keep me away,” Rory assured them as she and Helene cleaned up and tossed the empty doughnut boxes into the garbage. But the more important question, she thought, was which member of the cast would not be there when the curtain rose on opening night?
Chapter 24
Zeke was standing near the living room window when Rory and Hobo came in the front door. “I was about to go lookin’ for you,” he said.
Rory unhooked Hobo’s leash from his collar, and the dog trotted off to the kitchen. A moment later she heard him slurping up water from his bowl. They’d taken a long walk to enjoy the first truly mild day of the month. The air had finally lost its bite and lay as gently against the skin as a baby’s breath. Hobo had been so pleased with the weather that he’d strutted beside her with all the nobility of a dog trailing a long pedigree.
“Marshal, we have to talk,” Rory said as she also headed to the kitchen. Zeke was leaning against the center island when she reached the sink. She ran the cold water and filled up a glass from the cabinet. The walk had left her as thirsty as the dog.
“Sounds seriou
s,” he said.
Rory drained her glass before speaking. “It is.”
“Tell the hangman I’m ready,” Zeke said with a wink.
Rory leaned her back against the edge of the sink so that they were facing one another with only three feet between them. “You were in my bedroom a couple of nights ago.”
“Yes,” he said although it hadn’t been a question. His directness bought him some points in her regard but not nearly enough to table the subject.
“I thought I could trust you.” It was an effort to keep her tone and temper even. She’d purposely waited a couple of days to broach the issue in the hope that time would mellow her anger so they could have a discussion instead of an argument.
“You can trust me.”
“I’m afraid I have a problem believing that now.”
“Look,” he said, “I could tell you it was an impulsive mistake, but that wouldn’t be true. I knew damn well what I was doin’, thought hard about it, and I knew you’d be madder than a bear in a circus wagon.”
Rory shook her head, temporarily at a loss for words. “Then why…why in hell would you do it?” she sputtered finally.
“You needed the comfort of another soul,” he said without melodrama.
“In your estimation.”
“In my estimation.”
“That’s not good enough,” she said. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”
He looked her directly in the eye. “If I’d asked permission to be there, what would you have said?”
She took a minute to consider her answer, wanting to be truthful with herself as well as with him. “I’m not sure. That night was difficult; I might have opted for the company.”
She saw the skepticism flash across his face, but he didn’t try to argue the point. “Then you have my apologies,” he said stiffly. “It won’t happen again.”
With a start, Rory realized there was nothing more he could say. It was up to her to either accept the apology or pack her things and move out. Although that had once been a much easier option, the past year had made it gut-wrenching. She loved the house, and in spite of the difficulties in living with the marshal, she loved her life there. Case closed, at least for now.