by Sharon Pape
Time had little meaning. A minute might easily have been an hour. Drummond fought to stay awake and aware. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he heard the crunch of boots on underbrush. The footsteps closed in on him, then abruptly stopped. He kept his breathing as shallow as possible, depending on the dark shadows in the barn to hide the subtle rise and fall of his chest. If his assailant were to simply shoot him again to ensure that he was dead, the game would be over.
As one second became two, Drummond thought he might still have a chance. He strained to hear any sound that would help him get a better fix on the man’s location, but his heart was hammering too loudly. Since he couldn’t risk opening his eyes, he’d have to make his play blind. But in the next instant the gunman launched a devastating kick to his gut. This time he didn’t try to stifle the roar of pain, but used it as a warrior’s cry as he rose up shooting. The first round went wide, but the second slammed into his assailant’s throat, dropping him before he could get off a single shot.
Drummond wanted desperately to lie back down and rest, but he knew that if he did, he might never wake again. He’d already lost a lot of blood. He had to find help. He holstered his pistol, picked up the Winchester and dragged himself up on legs that made no promise to hold him. The dead gunman lay sprawled a few feet away. Drummond looked at him hard, but he was as sure as he could be in his present state that he’d never seen the man before. He stumbled over to him and checked his pockets for something that might identify him, but he found nothing. He’d have to puzzle it out later. If indeed he had a “later.”
His head spinning, his shirt plastered to his body with blood and sweat, he staggered out of the barn into the late afternoon sun. He saw the chestnut in the distance grazing tranquilly. He summoned up a painful breath and issued a thin whistle. The horse looked up at the familiar sound and came trotting toward him as if they’d simply paused to rest there on a perfectly ordinary day.
When the horse came to a stop beside him, Drummond immediately grabbed for the canteen that was hanging by its strap from the saddle horn. He tried to drink slowly, but his need overwhelmed him, and he was soon guzzling the water, letting it splash over his mouth and chin and down the front of his shirt. When the canteen was empty, he looped it back over the saddle horn and stepped into the stirrup. It took him several agonizing attempts to lift himself onto the saddle, but the chestnut stood there patiently. By the time he was seated, the bleeding, which had subsided to a trickle, was flowing freely again from his exertions. He took hold of the reins in a hand that was too weak to grip and headed the horse back onto the trail to Albuquerque. An hour later and still several miles from his destination, Drummond slumped forward onto the chestnut’s neck, where he balanced awkwardly for a few seconds before tumbling to the ground.
Chapter 18
Zeke practiced traveling from the house out to the backyard until the sky was a dusky blue-gray. By then his energy level was so low that he could barely make it through the walls of the house let alone materialize. Rory was happy to pack it in. Even though she was wearing a cozy shearling jacket and had been running laps around the yard to keep warm, she was shivering well before the sun slid below the horizon. October was a fickle month on Long Island, one day as mellow as summer, the next as bitter as winter. In his permanent cloak of fur Hobo showed no signs of discomfort or fatigue. Content to have Rory nearby, he patrolled his domain, staunchly defending it against trespassing squirrels and the occasional cottontail rabbit. At times he was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t seem to notice Zeke’s attempted comings and goings, which gave Rory some real hope that a future of peaceful coexistence might be possible after all.
Zeke’s practice session itself proved somewhat less successful. It was a complicated business involving two different components—breaking through the bonds that kept him housebound, and then materializing once he was outside. Neither of these appeared to be even remotely possible unless Rory figured into the equation. Unless she was at the other end of his journey, he simply wasn’t going anywhere. Even with her in place, leaving the house was the most difficult part of the process for him. Although he’d proven that he could travel to her at will when her life was in jeopardy, traveling at other times required such a deep concentration of energy and determination that when he did make it out of the house, he was too depleted to manifest completely in three-dimensional form. His first attempt, at Brenda’s house, had been a dismal failure, but he had improved substantially by the time he tried it again at the grocery store.
The results that afternoon could only be characterized as bizarre. In one appearance Zeke had a head and legs, but just an empty space where his torso should have been. In another, there was a head-to-toe Zeke with no arms. And then there was a full-body Zeke with a neck, but no head. He actually appeared intact once, but only as a flat, partially transparent image that reminded Rory of some filmmakers’ visions of what a ghost should be. Still, he’d managed these travels all in one afternoon with no rest between them. Based on such progress, there was every reason to believe that he would eventually learn how to travel and materialize whenever and wherever he wished. Not surprisingly, Zeke found even this limited success heartening, while Rory was considerably less thrilled by the prospect of what lay ahead.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here having brunch with you,” Leah said, taking a sip of hot chocolate and coming away with a whipped cream mustache. “And I can’t believe you talked me into this evil drink.” She licked the residue from around her mouth, not looking the least bit remorseful.
“Well, I’ve been craving it since the weather turned cooler and it’s much more fun being bad with an accomplice.” Rory grinned. “Besides, you’re right about it being forever since we’ve enjoyed our little Sunday ritual. So consider it a celebration.” She clinked her mug against Leah’s.
“No doubt about it, kids and husbands take a real toll on a girl’s social life.” Leah chased a piece of crisp bacon around her plate with a fork, then gave up and snagged it with her fingers. “How goes the case of the purloined pooches?”
“Slowly. Ve-r-ry . . . slow-w-ly.” Rory took a couple of minutes to tell her about the interview with Joanne Lester.
“Holbrook,” Leah repeated, thinking aloud. “I guess if she’s right about his involvement with the thefts, it’s possible he went to snatch Tootsie and wound up killing Brenda in the process.” She took a sip of her hot chocolate. “I actually have a little news for you too.”
Rory put her English muffin down before taking a bite. “Start talking.”
“I was at ‘meet the teacher’ night at my kids’ school Thursday, and I bumped into a friend who’s been working that case. We got to talking and she told me it seems that it’s mostly breeders and pet stores who have reported stolen puppies. For some reason the thieves are not just targeting private owners for them.”
“That is peculiar. Did your friend have any theories about it?”
“She thinks it has to do with the fact that puppies grow so quickly. She asked a number of breeders, and they told her that most people in the market for a puppy want one that’s two or three months old. It’s probably too difficult for the thieves to find one in that narrow an age range from a private owner, so they hit the nurseries, so to speak—breeders and pet stores.”
“That makes sense,” Rory said. She didn’t know how much the information was going to help her, but at least it was one more avenue to explore.
“I also have a couple of new stolen dog reports for you,” Leah said, already rummaging through a handbag the size of a briefcase. “One chocolate Lab and one sheltie. It’s in here somewhere. Ah, found it.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the recesses of the bag and handed it to Rory. “I noted the same type of information I gave you on the others.”
Rory thanked her and deposited the paper in her own pocketbook. When she got home she’d cross-reference the new data with the information she had on the other dogs and see if there we
re any more commonalities.
“I don’t get it,” she said, after swallowing a piece of her muffin. “Either the thieves don’t know I’m investigating these cases, which I doubt, given the speed of today’s high-tech grapevine, or they think they’re untouchable.” She didn’t mention the possibility that the thieves were depending on their threatening letter to scare her off. Since she’d never told Leah about the letter, now hardly seemed like a good time to bring it up.
“I pity the dognappers,” Leah said wryly. “If they don’t think you pose a threat, they don’t know you like I do.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence and the new info. How are you guys doing on the Brenda Hartley murder?”
“I’m afraid we’re not doing much better than you are.” Leah forked the last of her scrambled eggs into her mouth. “Of course I shouldn’t be talking about this with anyone outside the department,” she said, lowering her voice, “but I’d trust you with my life, let alone some fairly useless data.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, Brenda’s only family was a sister by the name of Eileen who lives upstate in Duchess County with her husband and two daughters. She told me she and Brenda were close growing up, but after she moved off the island in the early eighties, they only got to see each other on holidays. Now here’s where it gets interesting. Eileen told me that she talked to Brenda a few days before she was murdered, and Brenda was extremely depressed over a relationship that had gone sour.”
“Does Eileen know the name of the guy?”
“Of course not. That would make my life way too easy,” Leah said wryly. “Whenever she asked, Brenda would only give her a first name—Bob. Eileen doesn’t think that’s even his real name, because during one conversation Brenda called him Jim instead, and then got all flustered and defensive when Eileen pointed out the discrepancy.”
Rory drained the last of her hot chocolate and blotted her mouth with a napkin. “Married guy.”
“That’s what Eileen thinks and I’m inclined to go with that too.”
“Did she know any other details about him or the breakup?”
“About the breakup—nothing significant. But she did say Brenda was always going on about how the guy was wining and dining her, buying her gifts and all.”
“If you could find out whom she was seeing, you might have the murderer.”
“No kidding. We’ve followed every lead and more than a few hunches, but it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.”
“You’ve spoken to the other women in that photo on Brenda’s mantel?”
“Several times.”
“I guess you’ve got more pull than a lowly PI. I haven’t been able to pin them down.”
“You haven’t missed much. They both had alibis that checked out. One of them was out of the country at the time Brenda was killed, and the other one was on jury duty. We’ve also canvassed every restaurant, diner and deli in a ten-mile radius and shown them Brenda’s picture in the hope that she might have been seen there with the guy. We’ve sent her picture to every precinct on the island and asked them to do the same. So far—nada. But enough about work,” she said firmly, “I don’t get to see you all that often and I don’t want to spend all our time talking shop.”
Rory was in complete agreement. Half an hour later they were still chatting about everything and nothing, just glad to be in each other’s company, when Leah glanced at her watch.
“Oh, crap, I’m late.” She dug into her purse for her wallet and handed Rory a twenty-dollar bill. “You don’t mind if I run? I promised my son I’d get back for his soccer game. Being with you is like being in a time warp.” She slid out of the booth. “You know I mean that in the best possible way.”
Rory assured her that she did. She hadn’t realized how long they’d been sitting there either. She motioned to the waitress to bring the check. She had to get home too, before Hobo destroyed any more of her house.
Chapter 19
“Stop 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 walk
ed 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.