by Sharon Pape
Rory realized that the attorney was still speaking. She forced herself to focus on what he was saying.
“. . . the house on Brandywine Lane is yours free and clear along with everything in it, all furnishings, artwork, et cetera. The mortgage was paid off last year, so if you want to hold on to it, all you’ll have to do is keep up with the taxes. Mac’s car is also yours free and clear.”
“Safe, yet sexy,” Mac had proclaimed when he’d stopped by three years ago to show the family the bright red Volvo convertible he’d just driven off the lot. They’d all piled in for a ride, Rory’s folks reminiscing about the convertibles of their youth. Her mom didn’t even complain that the wind was wrecking her hair.
“Of course you’ll have to change the title, registration and insurance. You also inherit Mac’s detective agency. In the beginning it wasn’t worth much, but then it took off suddenly about five years ago. That’s how he was able to renovate the house and all. I imagine you’ll want to sell the business name and client list. You’ll probably see a good profit from it.
“Mac’s only other assets were two bank accounts. There’s a checking account with three thousand dollars left in it after I paid the outstanding bills, as he’d instructed, and a savings account with another ten grand and change. Mac wasn’t a great believer in saving for the future.”
“I know,” Rory said. “Mac was all about the here and now.” By the time she was eleven, she pretty much understood why. Mac had lost the love of his life in a car crash two blocks from their home. They’d been married for less than a year.
Friedlander opened one of his desk drawers and withdrew a large manila envelope. “Mac’s checkbook and savings passbook are in here, along with the contents of his safety deposit box. He’d given me a key and made me a cosignatory on the box years ago when he first rented it. He never kept cash or valuables in it, just important papers relating to the house, the business and the car. In any case, in his will he requested that I empty the box and turn the contents over to you. I found one additional item in the box, a letter in a sealed envelope with your name on it. I have no idea what the letter contains, but he did leave a note to me asking that I encourage, no, the word he used was urge you to read it as soon as you can.”
Rory nodded, adding that bit of information to all the other bits that were already swirling around in her head like snowflakes in a crystal globe.
“I’ve put half a dozen copies of the death certificate in here as well,” Friedlander said, leaning across the desk to hand Rory the envelope. “You’ll need them for things like closing out the accounts and changing the titles. The keys to the house, the office and the car are also in there. I’ve labeled them for you and noted the security codes and passwords for each. I think it would be prudent to change the locks on the house and the security—” He interrupted himself with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I forget—you’re with the police department.”
Rory managed a smile. “That’s okay, I appreciate the concern.”
“So, that’s all of it. Do you have any questions?”
Rory shook her head. She had a lot of questions, but none that the attorney could answer. “Thank you.” She slid the will into the envelope with the other documents and stood up to leave.
Friedlander rose and came around his desk to take her hand again. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call on me. Mac wasn’t only my client, he was my friend.”
Rory thanked him again and assured him that she would.
Once she was back in her car she exhaled a deep, shaky sigh. She laid the envelope with the remains of Mac’s life on the passenger seat along with her pocketbook and turned on the air conditioner. “Get a grip,” she scolded herself. “Mac would never approve.” She did some deep breathing as the cool air washed over her, and after five minutes she felt better, steady enough to make the trip home. In this case “home” meant back to her parents’ house in Woodbury. Like so many other college grads who couldn’t find affordable housing on Long Island, Rory had moved back into the family nest. Although she got along well enough with her folks, who were only too happy to have their only child back under their roof, it was still awkward. She couldn’t very well entertain dates in her room, and telling her mom and dad not to worry if she didn’t come home on a Saturday night would never be a comfortable alternative.
Rush hour had wound down while Rory was in Friedlander’s office, and traffic was moving along Jericho Turnpike well above the posted speed limit of forty. She stayed in the right lane, too preoccupied to trust herself in the Indie 500 that was barreling past her on the left. Although she had intended to go straight home, when she reached the turnoff that would take her to Mac’s house, she changed her mind.
As she made the left into the West Hills section of Huntington, it occurred to her that the place of her own that she’d longed for but despaired of ever having was now hers. Along with the thought, a tidal wave of guilt broke over her. She knew that if Mac were there he would be laughing at her reaction, pointing out that since she hadn’t actually shot, knifed or poisoned him; hadn’t planned, abetted in or hoped for his demise, she had no right to the guilt she was feeling. Yet there it lay like a heavy, wet overcoat dragging at her shoulders and soaking into her.
She turned onto Brandywine Lane, following the graceful curve of the road past houses that had been built as long ago as 1798 or as recently as the previous year. Given the many inconveniences of older homes, buyers had three options. They could either raze the existing structure and start from scratch; save the shell but gut it to create a more modern, open floor plan; or just update the kitchen and bathrooms and restore the rest of the house to its original condition. Rory had been glad that Mac had chosen the latter route.
She pulled to the curb in front of Mac’s home, her home now. She wondered how long it would take until she thought of it as hers. Built in 1870, the three-story frame Victorian sat well back from the road on an acre and a half of gently rolling land. The area was zoned for horses, two per acre, and the neighbors on either side had small, neat stables with rings and paddocks surrounded by whitewashed fences. On most days horses could be seen grazing in the paddocks or being put through their paces in the rings.
Rory turned off the engine and left the cool oasis of the car, pleasantly surprised to find that the air temperature had dropped a few degrees during her drive. A light breeze riffled through the leaves of the old oaks and maples that lined the street. The sun at her back, she leaned against her car and stared at the house as if she were seeing it for the first time. It didn’t have too much of the fussy gingerbread detail often associated with Victorian architecture, which was why Mac had liked it. It was graceful yet strong, a man’s Victorian. For Rory the best part was the deep, welcoming porch that embraced the front and sides of the house and invited you to come and relax on a warm summer’s day.
As she stood there, the sun dipped below the tops of the trees, casting dappled shadows across the lawns and houses, then winking at them through the wind-stirred leaves. In the shifting light, Rory saw something move past the center window in Mac’s bedroom. Her heart tripped into double-time. She forced herself to shut her eyes and take a deep breath. This would never do. The past week had been such an awful roller coaster ride, one soul-despairing drop after another, that it was no wonder she was seeing things that were nothing more than the tricks of light and shadow.
She waited until her pulse had slowed to something approaching normal before opening her eyes again. Across the lawn, the house sat quietly within its beds of azaleas, spirea and yews, Mac’s large bedroom window as clear and featureless as all the others.
Chapter 2
Rory sat on the floor with her legs curled under her in the larger of the two rooms that had been her uncle’s office suite in the old port town of Huntington. The rooms, like the squat brick building that housed them, were completely lacking in character or grace. The dull white walls were punctuated by Mac’s
diploma from the State University of New York at Stony Brook, his police academy certificate and his private investigator’s license, all framed in wood, and three large posters from Star Wars episodes IV, V and VI framed in silver. It occurred to Rory that the strange juxtaposition of professional certificates and sci-fi posters was an uncanny mirror of Mac’s personality, the serious businessman one minute, lighthearted child the next.
Faux wood miniblinds hung at the two large windows that overlooked West Carver Street, half a block from its intersection with Main Street. Two trailing ivy plants in blue and yellow ceramic pots crowded the top of a filing cabinet where they basked in the sunlight streaming through the partially opened slats. The plants had been gifts from Rory’s parents when Mac opened the office. To him they were proof that miracles still happened, given that he rarely remembered to water them.
Rory shifted her weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. The tightly woven gray carpeting had clearly been designed to last for the lifetime of the building or until the next ice age, whichever came first. It would never win any prizes for comfort. It rasped against her bare legs like sandpaper, and she found herself wishing that she’d worn pants instead of the narrow pencil skirt that kept riding up her thighs. While she’d known she’d be leaving work early to begin tying up all the loose ends of Mac’s business, she’d had no reason to suspect that she’d be spending the afternoon sitting on the floor. After all, Mac did have a desk. But it had quickly proven inadequate for the job of separating the files of ongoing investigations from those that had been completed or referred to other detective agencies, and those that were paid in full from those that had outstanding accounts. Apparently filing had not been one of Mac’s priorities. For that matter neither was the alphabet. He seemed to have had his own unique system, and Rory had yet to crack the code.
Mac had hired a secretary when he first opened the agency. Rory vaguely remembered a petite blonde with a dazzling white smile who’d once worked for the dentist across the hall. By the end of the second month she was gone. Now Rory wondered if she and Mac had argued over the best way to organize files. In any case, Mac had never looked for a replacement. The unused desk in the anteroom had quickly become the repository for cases that needed refiling, telephone books that needed recycling and the random article of clothing that Mac had forgotten to take home.
Although Rory had anticipated the controlled chaos associated with Mac’s work space, she was surprised at the extent of the disorder. It looked as if he’d spent his last days searching for a file that even he couldn’t find.
Still, it was easy to forgive Mac his lack of organizational skills, since he more than made up for them in intelligence, fairness and hard work. It had proven to be a successful combination. He never needed to advertise; satisfied clients begat new clients with the alacrity of rabbits. His reputation was impeccable.
After the funeral, with its attendant commotion, Rory had made her uncle a silent promise. Before she tackled any of the other details left unfinished by his sudden death, she would do right by his clients. She would contact them, refund their retainers and suggest other reputable detectives to handle their cases. She wouldn’t sell the business name and client list as his attorney had suggested. The extra money would have been nice, but there was no way to ensure that the buyer would be as ethical as Mac had been, no sure way to protect his good name.
By seven o’clock, Rory had compiled a list of eleven open cases. Grateful to finally be off the floor, she sank down in Mac’s scarred leather chair. She set the eleven files and her list to one side and pulled the telephone closer. The first call she placed was to order two slices of pizza, a tossed salad and a Diet Coke. She hadn’t eaten since the carrot muffin at work that morning and she was ravenous.
While she waited for her dinner to be delivered, she checked the names of the clients on the active list against the names of callers who’d left messages on Mac’s answering machine. No point in calling the same people twice. She’d spent the first twenty minutes when she arrived that afternoon just listening to all the messages and jotting down names and numbers. She hadn’t bothered to note the reasons for each call. They were all academic now.
Only three callers were not on the active list. That would cut down considerably on her phone time. She started dialing. The first two went directly to voice mail, and she left brief messages requesting a call back. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say that Mac McCain had passed away, not to such an impersonal piece of equipment.
The next three clients were home. Rory introduced herself and explained the reason for the call. In all three cases there was a moment of hesitation while the client made the connection between her and the private investigator they’d hired. Then there was stunned silence, followed by the inevitable “Oh my God!” and “What happened?” Rory tried to keep the answers short and to the point. “He had a heart attack. It was very sudden. No, no warning signs at all.” Then she told them that their retainers would be refunded in full and asked if they wanted her to recommend another detective.
When the delivery boy knocked on the outer door of the suite, she was glad to put the telephone aside. The calls had been more painful than she’d anticipated, like the deep, sharp pain of a paper cut you could barely see on the outside. She bit into the first slice of pizza with a little groan of pleasure. Crisp and oozing with melted cheese, pizza had always been her perfect comfort food. Well, that and ice cream.
“And brownies of course,” Mac would have added had he been there.
While she ate, she thought again about the shadow she’d seen moving across Mac’s bedroom window earlier in the week. She knew that at best it had been only a trick of light, at worst a hallucination conjured up by her overwrought mind. Before leaving, she’d walked the perimeter of the house checking for signs of forced entry, although that was highly unlikely now that the security system was engaged. She hadn’t told anyone, since in the end there was really nothing to tell. But neither had she gone back to the house. She told herself that she’d stayed away in order to focus on putting Mac’s business affairs in order. Once things in his office were properly squared away, she’d devote herself to the house. Her mother had offered to tackle it with her.
Everything had been left exactly as it was when Mac went to bed his last night on earth. He’d apparently been awakened around one twenty in the morning by a searing pain in his chest and had realized immediately that it wasn’t just indigestion from the fried chicken he’d picked up for dinner. He’d managed to pull the phone from its cradle on the nightstand and dial 911 before he lost consciousness. The emergency operator traced the call, and the paramedics pulled to a screeching stop in the driveway eleven minutes later. When they found Mac, his upper body was hanging over the side of the bed, his legs still tangled in the sheets, the phone on the floor near his outstretched hand. There was no pulse. They worked on him for half an hour anyway, in constant communication with the emergency room resident at Huntington Hospital. Rory’s parents were contacted just before three a.m.
They’d gone into the house just once since then, to clean out the fridge, dispose of the garbage and select the suit that Mac would be dressed in for his funeral. They set the alarm before they left. When Mac was home he never bothered with the alarm, contending that he invariably set the damn thing off every morning when he went outside to get the newspaper. Besides, he had a gun and he knew how to use it.
Rory was surprised to hear another knock on the outer door of the suite. Maybe the delivery boy had forgotten to give her a garlic knot that came with her meal. Almost anything that derailed her current train of thought would be welcome.
“Come in,” she called, and was immediately sorry that she had. Although it was not yet fully dark, the rest of the tenants in the building were probably long gone to a home-cooked meal and some quality time with their families or the television. She should have locked the door. Before the thought was fully formed, her hand slid to the Glock
that was clipped onto her belt. The pistol had become such a normal part of her attire that she hadn’t thought of removing it when she shed her blazer and settled down to work. Just as well. You could never be too careful these days. Suburbia was not the safe, insulated world it had been in her parents’ youth, as her mother was always quick to point out.
Even so, Rory had been surprised to find that as a sketch artist for the police department she would have to become a detective and carry a firearm. To her further amazement and Mac’s delight, she turned out to be an excellent marksman. But she was equally pleased that she’d never had to draw her gun on anyone. She had a hard enough time killing a moth that was on its way to a rendezvous with her sweaters.
Just beyond her line of sight, the door opened tentatively on its squeaky hinges. If a burglar or rapist was coming in, he wasn’t very self-assured.
“Hello? Uh . . . excuse me?” But apparently he was very polite.
“In here,” Rory called, her gun hand beginning to relax.
A moment later her visitor came into view. He was in his late twenties, average height, slender, with light brown hair that fell onto his forehead. He was wearing trousers from a suit and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, no jewelry other than a silver watch. As he came closer, she could see that he had brown eyes and an interesting cleft in his chin. No other distinguishing marks, no facial hair. She’d been drawing suspects for so long that she automatically drew a mental sketch whenever she met someone new. She’d make a great eyewitness.
“Hi, I’m Jeremy Logan,” the man said, weaving his way toward her around the stacks of folders that were still on the floor. “I was looking for Mac McCain.” He glanced around the office as if he expected to find Mac hidden somewhere in the corner.
Rory recognized the name. Jeremy was one of the two people she’d left messages for earlier. She rose from her seat and extended her hand across the desk. “I’m Rory McCain, Mac’s niece.”