by Sharon Pape
“There’s nothing better than ice cream,” she said, licking her lips in imitation of the dog.
He tried a different tack. “Did you and Rory have a nice talk?”
“I like Rory. She buys good flavors. Jean only buys chocolate and strawberry.”
“Surely you didn’t come here in the middle of the night just for ice cream.” A hint of irritation had crept into his voice.
Eloise turned to Rory as if the marshal’s words hadn’t even registered. “Would you call Douglas and ask him to come take me home now?” She yawned and rubbed her eyes like a child who was ready for a bedtime story.
“Eloise,” Zeke said sternly, “I asked why you came over here tonight.”
The abrupt change in his tone made Rory wonder how he’d treated suspects and uncooperative witnesses when he’d worn a real badge, back in the days before criminals had more rights than the law-abiding public.
Eloise finally turned to him with a shy smile. “There’s no need to be afraid of what’s coming, Marshal Drummond,” she said softly. “I promise—cross my heart.”
Rory saw Zeke’s face twist into a scowl. So much for their collaborative effort, she thought, happier about its demise than she probably ought to be. In spite of Zeke’s denial, she was sure she’d been the common ground in their short-lived truce. Although their intentions may have been noble, she didn’t need two of them trying to keep her out of harm’s way.
Zeke looked as if he wanted to grab Eloise and shake some sense into her. Before he could attempt any version of that scenario, Rory plucked the phone off the wall and dialed the Bowman household, sorry she was about to disturb their peaceful night too.
Rory was on her way home from the pet store with a thirty-pound bag of Hobo’s favorite kibble and a red Frisbee. She was looking forward to throwing it for him. With his natural exuberance, she could picture him leaping into the air to catch the toy, his shaggy fur blowing every which way. She was a few blocks from her house, doing the local speed limit of thirty, when a dark green SUV came barreling around a curve at her, hogging the center of the road. She pulled her wheel sharply to the right, barely avoiding a collision with the SUV, and then slammed on her brakes as she headed straight for an up close and personal with one of the stately, old oak trees that lined the road. She brought the car to a screeching stop inches from the tree trunk, memories of her last wild ride flashing through her mind. She was a little shaky and a whole lot of angry. It had happened so fast she didn’t see the SUV’s license plate, but she did catch a decent glimpse of the other driver. The woman behind the wheel had been staring straight ahead as if she had such important matters on her mind that she hadn’t noticed she’d run Rory off the road.
By the time Rory pulled into her driveway, her heart rate and blood pressure had fallen back into the normal range, and she’d given herself a rational pep talk. In spite of the fact that this SUV was the same color as the first one that had chased her and tried to run her off the road, the two incidents couldn’t be related. This driver hadn’t been following her; she’d been going in the opposite direction. It was simply one more case in a growing epidemic of drivers who believed that everyone else on the road should make way for them.
She lugged the bag of kibble, her handbag and the Frisbee to the front door, wondering why Zeke rarely showed up when there was heavy lifting to be done. She set the kibble down on the porch and unlocked the door.
Hobo and the marshal were in the entry waiting for her. Hobo welcomed her with his usual fanfare, but Zeke looked grim. “We’ve had another visit from the dog-toy fairy,” he said holding out his palm. There was a small stuffed pig riding the air above it.
Rory didn’t say anything. The color draining from her face, she dropped the Frisbee and her handbag on the floor and raced up the stairs, leaving both the dog and the marshal bewildered.
When she didn’t return after a couple of minutes, Zeke popped up to the second floor hallway to look for her, followed closely by Hobo, who took the stairs two at a time with the new red Frisbee in his mouth. They found her sitting on the edge of the bed with her sketch pad and pencil. Hobo went in without hesitation and lay down at her feet, where he proceeded to gnaw on the plastic disk. Zeke stayed on his side of the doorway. Rory was so absorbed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice him standing there.
“Looks like you had a sudden urge to do some sketchin’,” he remarked by way of announcing himself.
“Sorry,” Rory said without looking up, “I need to get this on paper before I forget any of the details.”
Five minutes later she turned the pad around so he could see it. The woman she’d drawn appeared to be in her thirties. She had sharp features, a strong jaw and short hair that was clearly a lifestyle choice rather than an aesthetic one, given that it did nothing to enhance her appearance.
“Who is she?” Zeke asked.
“The woman who ran me off the road a few minutes ago. I figured she was just another crazy driver until you told me about Hobo’s new gift. That’s when I realized she was probably racing away from the scene of her second break-in here.”
“Do you think she’s the one who followed you the other night?”
Rory shook her head. “Initially I didn’t, but now…It was so dark then I could barely see that the SUV was green. I couldn’t make out the brand or model, let alone what the driver looked like.” She detached the sketch from the pad and rolled it up before joining the marshal in the hall. “I’m going to make a copy of this and give it to Leah to run against the police database. Maybe we’ll get lucky. But first I want to take a good look at that pig.” She started down the stairs, Hobo and his Frisbee at her heels.
When they reached the living room, Zeke was waiting. “There’s a note sewn onto it like last time,” he said lobbing the toy to her. Hobo tried to snag it out of the air, but Rory grabbed it first, promising he could have it back soon. This time the lettering on the added label was larger and easier to read since the quote was shorter: “Pretty is as pretty does.”
“Nothing newsworthy there,” she said. “The writer is still trying to point us in Jessica’s or Sophia’s direction. For now, the messenger is more interesting than the message.”
“With her expertise at breakin’ and enterin’, this can’t be the messenger’s first job,” Zeke observed.
“That’s what I’m counting on. If she has a rap sheet, we’ll find her. Then it should be easy enough to convince her it’s in her best interests to give up her employer.” Sketch in hand, Rory grabbed her purse from the entry floor where she’d dropped it. On her way out, she tossed the pig to Hobo, who immediately got down to the business of disemboweling it.
“No problem,” Leah said as she walked Rory back to her car at the Suffolk County Police Headquarters in Yaphank. “I’ll come in early tomorrow and run the sketch when there aren’t so many prying eyes around. But you do realize you have a perfectly legitimate reason for requesting it? Someone’s tried to run you off the road twice since you’ve been investigating this case.”
“But I’d have to file a report, and I want to avoid that.”
“I know—you don’t want the police looking over your shoulder. You want to do things your way,” Leah parroted, having learned the routine by rote. “I’m afraid one day I’m going to be saying ‘I told you so.’ I just hope you’re still alive to hear it.”
Chapter 26
“Are you sure?” Rory asked, fully aware of how stupid the question was but unwilling to make peace with the answer. “I was so certain we finally had a break in the case.” She’d been cleaning the last of winter’s debris out of the flower beds in the front yard when Leah called.
“That’s why I ran the sketch twice. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’s innocent; it just—”
“… Means she hasn’t been caught committing a crime yet.” Rory completed her sentence. There was no doubt in her mind that the first attempt to run her off the road had been premeditated. But even if
the second time was accidental, there was a good chance it was connected to the second break-in at her house. The woman she’d drawn was guilty. She felt it in her gut. But guilty of exactly what?
They talked for another minute; then Rory clicked off the call and looked up at Zeke, who’d been leaning against the house watching her work. Since he was in view of anyone walking or driving by, he’d changed into what he called his “public duds.” Given time and his well-honed observational skills, he’d learned what type of apparel was called for in most situations. That day he’d imagined himself into jeans and a white Polo shirt. Rory thought he looked like the real deal, even if his hair could have used a good stylist. Now if he could just keep his body intact.
“I take it she couldn’t find a match,” he said.
“No.” She pulled a matted pile of leaves from between two pink azaleas that were on the verge of blossoming. “How much easier life would be if the damn trees would just hold on to their leaves.” She threw the pile of them into the garbage can she’d lined with a plastic bag for that purpose.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it,” Zeke said.
“The leaves?”
“You know how I keep sayin’ the intruder is way too good to be an amateur?” he went on, ignoring her attempt at humor. “I think that’s the point we need to be focusin’ on.”
“Meaning?” Rory brushed off her hands and stood up.
“I’m willin’ to bet my spurs our intruder’s in law enforcement of some kind.”
“A cop?”
“Or the FBI. Maybe even the CIA.”
“Moonlighting with her own agenda,” Rory murmured, rolling the idea around in her mind. “The trouble is, asking Leah to check the police personnel records for a match is one thing, but I don’t have any pull with the clandestine services.”
“Okay, that’s not all bad news. Let’s see if Leah can help us,” Zeke said. “A starvin’ man never throws out an apple that’s only half rotten.”
Rory smiled. “You paint a lovely picture. Ever consider going into the greeting-card business?”
Spurred by Eloise’s prognosis for Abner Jensen, Rory started making plans to fly to Tucson. Her first order of business was to call the Jensen home, where she spoke to a woman who didn’t bother to identify herself. In a clipped, no-nonsense tone she informed Rory that Abner wasn’t having a good day and then only grudgingly agreed to take a message for him.
It took Rory a moment to come up with one that was succinct and would still make sense to the man, since he had no idea who she was or what she wanted. “I’m doing research on Tucson’s history,” she said after making a point of introducing herself, “and since Mr. Jensen’s family has lived there for so many generations, I was hoping I could stop by and have a little chat with him on the subject.” Not bad as explanations went and completely truthful, which wasn’t often the case when working on the marshal’s behalf.
“I’ll let him know,” the woman said, “but I can’t make any promises. He’s quite ill, and it’s hard to say in advance when he might be feeling up to company.”
That wasn’t the answer Rory had hoped to hear. “Of course, I understand. I’ll call again when I’m in town.” She left her cell number with the woman in case there was any change in Abner’s condition.
She was surprised to find a reasonably priced flight, but because she was booking it so few days in advance, she was stuck with a middle seat. If she’d been willing to wait a couple of weeks she could have had a much-coveted aisle seat. Of course, Abner might well be dead by then, which made her decision easier. As her uncle Mac liked to say, “Sometimes you’re the bug; sometimes you’re the windshield.”
She arranged to bundle Hobo off to her parents again, which seemed to suit all concerned. Her father promised to teach his “granddog” the finer points of Frisbee playing during her absence. Since Rory couldn’t say she was going out west to do more research for her resident ghost, she’d also recycled the cover story for her trip. She was going back to finish the visit with her college friend.
Since she was still working for Clarissa, she felt obliged to let her know she was taking a few days off to attend to personal matters but could still be reached by phone.
At the eleventh hour, it occurred to Rory that she’d made provisions for everyone but Zeke. She certainly didn’t want him showing up at the Jensen house and sabotaging her mission.
Although he should have been thrilled that Abner Jensen was still alive and might be able to shed some light on the question of his killer, the marshal had been dead set against her plan to interview him. There was clearly some information he didn’t want her to uncover even if it meant never finding out the killer’s name. That, of course, made the matter irresistible to Rory. But if she wanted free rein when she talked to Abner, she had to make the trip alone.
Since the only fail-safe solution was to deplete Zeke’s energy reserves, she demanded a lengthy practice session with him out in public. It happened to be a reasonable request given that his last few appearances had been somewhat less than tidy. Fortunately, Zeke was in an accommodating state of mind. They spent the day before her secret trip running errands together. The bad news was that several people at the supermarket and dry cleaners were going to be hustling off to the optometrist or opting for long-term psychotherapy. The good news was that the marshal could barely croak “good-bye” before he limped off to recharge. That should buy her several days of ghost-free interference. Now, if Abner Jensen would just cooperate and hang in there a little longer.
Chapter 27
After landing in Tucson, Rory rented a car and drove to the same chain hotel where she’d booked a room on the previous trip. By the time she checked in she felt as if she’d been traveling forever. And since Arizona doesn’t observe daylight saving time, she was dealing with a three-hour time difference as well.
Although she was hungry and nearly asleep on her feet, she pulled her phone out of her handbag and dialed Abner’s house as soon as she was alone in her room. It rang five times. She was about to end the call when the same woman she’d spoken to previously picked it up. She sounded breathless and annoyed.
“Have I called at a bad time?” Rory asked after identifying herself.
“There never seems to be a good time anymore,” the woman said with a heavy sigh. “I’m trying to do three things at once, and the damn phone hasn’t stopped ringing since it woke me up this morning.”
Under any other circumstances, Rory would have politely apologized for the interruption and called back later in the week. But the reality was that she’d flown across the country and she had little more than forty-eight hours before she had to turn around and make that same trip home. If she had to deal with a disgruntled relative, aide, housekeeper or whoever this woman was, so be it. Abner Jensen might well be her last chance to get at the truth behind who’d killed the marshal, and she intended to speak to him while he still resided on this side of the veil.
“I’m really sorry to bother you, Ms….” Rory said, trying to coax a name out of the woman.
“Hathaway. Lydia Hathaway,” she supplied grudgingly, as if she suspected Rory was actually a solicitor who wanted to sell her vinyl siding or a cleaner chimney.
“Hi, Lydia,” Rory said sweetly, hoping to wheedle her way into the woman’s good graces. “I just got into town, and I was wondering if Mr. Jensen is feeling any better?”
“He’s better than I am,” Lydia said. “He ate his breakfast without too much fuss and he’s not complaining for the moment. I suppose I should be grateful. I guess you’re calling because you still want to see him?”
“Very much so,” Rory replied, investing her words with as much sincerity as possible.
“I suppose you can stop by for a little while as long as you don’t get him all riled up.” She sounded as if she’d rather undergo a root canal without the benefit of Novocain than handle a “riled-up” Abner.
“Of course,” Rory promised. Although she h
ad no idea what might rile the elderly man, she didn’t ask Lydia to elaborate. The less she knew, the easier it would be to excuse herself if she unwittingly crossed some arbitrary line in the sand.
They agreed on two o’clock. That gave Rory time to change out of her jeans and sweater and into lightweight chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, which were better suited to early May in the desert southwest. Since the trip was a short one, she’d brought only a carry-on with essentials. At the last minute, and based solely on a hunch, she’d thrown in the picture of the woman Eloise had insisted she sketch, the woman Zeke had seemed to recognize. It was a long shot, but maybe Abner could shed some light on who she was. Rory removed the travel tube holding the sketch from her suitcase and tucked it into her oversized handbag. The next item on her agenda was to scout out some food to appease her empty stomach.
Armed with caffeine, a GPS and Lydia’s directions, Rory found her way to the Presidio, where the oldest homes in Tucson stood. According to the travel guide she’d picked up on her first trip there, the Jensen house dated back to the last half of the nineteenth century and had remained in their family from the day it was built to the present. Since Abner had bequeathed the house and its contents to the historical society, Rory assumed the family line ended with him.
Even if she wasn’t going to the house specifically to talk to its owner, she would have been interested in visiting a place where so many generations of one family had lived. What treasures might one find stored away in the attic of such a house, assuming, of course, it had an attic. But the fact was that she did have a discrete and singular purpose in going there, and she didn’t need to remind herself to stay focused on it. Although she’d initially been reluctant to take on the search for Zeke’s killer, somewhere along the way, when she wasn’t paying attention, the need to know had become hers too, as if it were contagious, a pathogen that had worked its way into her bones.