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Sketcher in the Rye:

Page 13

by Sharon Pape


  Three minutes went by with no sign of Zeke. What was going on in that house? If he’d messed up big time, wouldn’t she have heard a scream? Or had he given someone a heart attack and was now trying to revive them? A string of awful scenarios flashed through her mind.

  “What the hell happened?” she demanded when he finally reappeared beside her.

  “When was the last time you tried to juggle three hair samples without letting them touch or get mixed up?” he grumbled, still focused on doing just that. “It’s like jugglin’ little, bitty tumbleweeds.”

  “Sorry,” she said, startled into action. Grabbing the evidence bags, she snagged the samples out of the air as they rotated above the marshal’s hands. He identified the first one as belonging to James and the second one to his wife.

  “Wait a minute,” Rory said, reaching for the last one, “Why are there three of them? We’re not including the kids.”

  “They apparently have a live-in housekeeper, who also happens to be blonde. I didn’t know if you wanted a sample from her too, but I figured as long as I was there . . .”

  Rory tucked the housekeeper’s hair into an unlabeled bag. “I seriously doubt she’s the killer. Gil never even mentioned her.”

  “And yet, if the butler is so often guilty, why not the housekeeper?”

  “That’s mostly in stories, you realize.”

  “Well, of course,” Zeke said, clearly trying to save face, “which is why I never encountered such a butler in all my days as a federal marshal.”

  “I imagine there was a shortage of them in the western territories back then anyway,” Rory said, unable to resist teasing him.

  “Do you want to hear about the rest of my ordeal in that house, or are we going to sit here chitchatting all day?”

  “I didn’t realize there was more,” she said as she pulled away from the curb.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Zeke took a moment to stretch his arms as if they’d actually cramped from his juggling routine. “James’s wife was home, along with half a dozen little kids runnin’ all around the place. It was like navigatin’ an obstacle course at a rodeo. I came mighty close to collidin’ with a couple of them. Then, when I was collectin’ the last sample, the missus waltzed into the room and saw me drop the brush back into the drawer.”

  “She saw you?” Rory asked, not sure which part of that sentence was the most worrisome.

  “No, not me, she saw the darned brush fly through the air and tuck itself back into the drawer, which then shut itself.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She put her hand to her mouth like she was tryin’ to hold in a scream. Then she shut her eyes tight and sort of fell back against the wall. That’s when I left. I assume she’s since opened her eyes and decided she couldn’t possibly have seen what she thought she saw.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Rory said, “I don’t want to be responsible for anyone winding up on a psychiatrist’s couch.”

  The marshal’s mustache pumped up with a smile. “Maybe she’ll just blame the episode on the chaos in the house and think twice before hostin’ another herd of kids. Now, please tell me there are no more of the little darlins on the list.”

  “There shouldn’t be. Luke’s the youngest of Gil’s offspring, not married, no children as far as I know.”

  Luke Harper’s house was mercifully empty. But Zeke was still overdue returning to the car, and when he appeared, he was sporting a sour expression.

  “Now what?” Rory asked, as she retrieved Luke’s hair and dropped it into its bag.

  “He’s got dogs.”

  Oh no, she should have checked for dogs. Since Hobo had finally bonded with the marshal, she’d forgotten that canines generally took exception to his bodiless state. “I am so sorry; what kind of dogs?”

  “Big ones. A German shepherd and a Rottweiler, if I remember my breeds correctly.”

  “Did they injure you?” she inquired, for lack of a better way to put it.

  “Not so’s you would understand, but I drained a good parcel of my energy tryin’ to outmaneuver them and still get the job done.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Well,” he said, the grim line of his mouth lifting into a smile, “I choreographed it so both of them came runnin’ at me from opposite directions and at the perfect moment I moved out of the way.”

  Rory winced. “They crashed into each other?”

  “Yes they did. But don’t you worry; I peeked in on them again before leavin’ and they were fine. Just a little dazed is all.”

  Rory was grateful they only had one more house left to visit. She imagined the marshal was too. But things didn’t go any smoother at the home of the elder Harpers. At first it seemed as if it would be an easy ending to their day, but while she was waiting at the curb for Zeke, Gil Harper came home. He slowed as he passed the Chevy, straining to see through the tinted glass. For a few frantic moments, Rory thought he was going to jump out of his Mercedes and knock on her car door to find out who was parked there. She said a quick prayer of thanks when he pulled past her and swung into the driveway. She didn’t wait around to see if he would walk back down to confront her. She put her car in drive and sped off, not stopping until she’d turned the corner. That had been close, way too close. She had no idea how she would have explained her presence to Gil, who certainly hadn’t hired her to investigate him. She drove back around, but stopped a house away, hoping she was close enough to retrieve Zeke. It didn’t take long to find out. He arrived with the impact of a cannonball, slamming into the passenger seat with enough force to blow his image apart. It had probably been a matter of inches that had kept him from being shot back to their house instead of into the car.

  Rory bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood as she watched the pixels of his image fly outward. Whenever he’d lost cohesion in the past, he’d disappeared for days. But this time, instead of vanishing, he slowly started coming together again, coalescing like a star after the big bang. She’d never seen him manage that before. And most extraordinary of all—as he became whole again, the strands of Gil’s and Faye’s hair were still hovering limply above his hands. The moment she took them, he disappeared. She had no idea how long it would be before she saw him again.

  Chapter 15

  The Arizona Territory

  1876

  “There you go, Marshal. You can’t buy a better shave or haircut at the swankiest place back east.” Antonio De Luca pulled the towel off the marshal’s shoulders with a flourish. “You’re a fine-looking man, but you gotta come in more than twice a year or you’ll never find yourself a wife. Word of advice?” He leaned closer even though they were alone in the shop. “Ladies, they have delicate sensibilities. They don’t like it when a fella looks scruffy. Listen to me; these things I know.”

  Drummond peered at his reflection in the mirror before he clamped his hat back down on his head. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, paying the barber and adding on a nice tip. He strode outside to find that the desert sun had chased the early morning clouds clear to the horizon and warmed the chill out of the air. Tucson’s citizens were going about their business without need of coat or cloak. It was the perfect day for a walk. He shook his head and chuckled at himself. When was the last time a thought like that had crossed his mind? Most likely ten, twelve years ago when he’d been courtin’ Grace Adams. He crossed the street to the tailor’s shop to pick up the new trousers Clarence Higgs had made for him. He wondered, and not for the first time, if Celeste had helped her father with the sewing of the garment, although he had no idea why that should matter. Women did strange things to a man’s mind.

  When he walked into the shop, Clarence was taking measurements on a customer. After they’d exchanged greetings, he called out to his daughter to join him. A few seconds later, Celeste pulled aside the curtain that separated the back of the store fr
om the front. “Yes, Papa,” she said, “what can I . . . ? Oh, Marshal Drummond, how are you?”

  Drummond tipped his hat. “I’m just fine Miss Higgs. And yourself?”

  “Never better,” she said, stepping up to the counter. “It seems that the weather here suits me well. I imagine you’re here to pick up your new trousers?” Before he could answer, Celeste disappeared behind the curtain, returning in moments to present him with the finished garment.

  Drummond made a show of inspecting it, although he had no idea what he ought to be looking for. All the stitches seemed uniform, the fabric smooth, free of pulls or puckering. “You did a fine job,” he said, looking up at her. “Or should I be thanking your father?”

  “I had no hand in the fabrication of the trousers,” Clarence put in as he jotted down measurements. “Celeste made them entirely on her own. As you can see, they’re flawless. She’s a regular chip off this old block,” he chuckled with the pride of a happy father.

  “Papa,” she said, a blush blooming on her cheeks. She turned back to Drummond. “You should try them on, Marshal, in case anything needs altering.”

  “I doubt there’ll be anything that requires fixing,” he said, “but I defer to you.” He took the pants and disappeared into the makeshift changing room Clarence had created by installing a rod and curtain across one corner of the shop. When he emerged, he was wearing the new trousers. “As you can see, they’re perfect. No need to change a single stitch.”

  Celeste’s smile was somehow less brilliant than it had been just minutes earlier, although the marshal couldn’t fathom why. “Seein’ as how I’m all decked out in my new duds,” he said, “do you think your father can manage without you for a short while? It’s a grand day for a stroll around town.” When had his mouth started bypassing his brain?

  She seemed caught off balance by the invitation. “I don’t know; there’ so much—”

  “Yes, Marshal,” Clarence interrupted her. “I can most certainly manage on my own for a time. It’s too nice a day to spend the whole of it cooped up in here, Celeste. Go on now,” he said, shooing them out with his hands. “Go on.”

  Celeste came around from behind the counter, her smile radiant again. Once they’d stepped outside, Drummond offered her his arm and she threaded hers right through it, as if they’d done this a million times before.

  What in the world was he doing? His life didn’t lend itself to the requirements of a normal relationship. He was away far more than he was home, and each time he rode out of town, there was a fair chance he wouldn’t make it back. But the joy he was feeling in her company was making quick work of both his common sense and his powers of reason.

  Chapter 16

  It’s not supposed to be winter for another month, Rory grumbled to herself, since Mother Nature didn’t have a gripe line she could call. She grudgingly dragged herself from the warm comfort of the bed and sprinted over to the closet. She shoved her feet into slippers and pulled on her cozy, old bathrobe, the one her mother had threatened to throw out when she’d lived at home. Arlene had even given her a brand-new robe for Christmas two years ago, and Rory had thanked her, assured her it was snuggly enough, then left it to languish on a hanger with its tags still dangling. New wasn’t always better.

  She went downstairs and started her coffee brewing, needing the warmth as much as the get-up-and-go it provided. Hobo appeared a minute later, gave his thick coat a good shaking and trotted over to the back door. When Rory let him out, a frigid gust blew in, taking her breath away. No wonder she felt so cold. In spite of the extra insulation Mac had installed when the house was renovated, it was still drafty when the wind howled. Hobo was back in record time, apparently not interested in chasing squirrels or doing his perimeter check on such a frosty morning. That gave Rory an idea.

  Two hours later she was decked out in full winter gear—down parka, hat, scarf, gloves, the works. There was one good thing about a hard freeze, she kept telling herself as she scraped the ice off her windshield, and that was the hardening of the ground. She left the car running with the defroster at max to finish the deicing and ran inside to get Hobo. The moment she hooked the leash into his collar he broke into his happy dance, nails tapping on the hardwood, punctuated by bursts of jumping and spinning, an entire repertoire of canine glee. It was one of those times that made her wonder if he could read her mind.

  Once they were out of the house, he bolted for the car and leapt into the backseat, nearly dragging her in with him. “Hobo,” she shouted to get his attention, “one of us has to drive!” He promptly sat down as though he’d understood every word, his whole body quivering with barely repressed anticipation. Except for an impatient whine or two, he managed to keep it together during the twenty-minute drive. But when Rory pulled into the parking lot at Harper Farms, he became totally unhinged. He bounced up and down, bumping his head on the ceiling of the car and barking his frustration at not having opposable thumbs with which to open the door himself.

  Remembering the last time Hobo got free, Rory wound his leash around her hand several times, until she was sure he wouldn’t be able to break away again. With all the passion of a lead dog at the Iditarod, he bounded out of the car and took off to find his lady love. Rory had all she could do to keep up with him. They were flying toward the petting zoo when she spotted Luke Harper. She recognized the young scion of the Harper family from the portrait and the signature blonde hair. He was coming from the direction of the office, hurrying along a path that was going to intersect with the one they were on in another thirty feet. His head was down, focused on the phone in his hand, and he clearly didn’t realize he was on a collision course with them. Hobo, who was single-minded about his goal, didn’t either.

  Rory tried to dig in her heels and yank back on the leash, but she couldn’t slow their headlong rush to disaster. When she called out to alert Luke, the wind snatched up her words and flung them back at her. With the distance between them rapidly closing, and no other option at her disposal, she kept shouting Luke’s name. He finally looked up at the same time Hobo realized what was about to happen. But before Rory could heave a sigh of relief, both Luke and the dog changed course and veered off in the same direction. A second later they all went down in a tangled heap of leash and limbs.

  Hobo was the first to stand up. Between the dazed expression on his face and his wobbly legs, he looked like he’d had one too many doggie cocktails. Luke, who appeared to be uninjured, was busy spewing profanities as he worked to free himself from the leash that was wrapped around his foot. He was making progress, until Hobo decided to check on Rory and tightened the leash’s hold again, nearly upending him for a second time. Under other circumstances it might have been funny, but Luke was far from amused. The instant he was able to pull his foot free, he went scrambling after his phone, which had flown out of his hand on impact.

  Rory stayed where she’d landed for another minute to catch her breath and conduct a quick inventory. Her jeans were ripped at the left knee, and the skin beneath was scraped from skidding along the pavement. There were also some bloody abrasions on the palms of her hands, nothing that a cookie or two couldn’t have fixed when she was a child. Pushing herself to her feet, she took a few tentative steps and was rewarded by the lack of pain. She walked straight over to Luke and started to apologize, but he cut her short.

  “You’d better get that dog trained properly before someone sues you,” he snapped.

  “I am so sorry,” she repeated. “He’s never done anything like that before. I can’t imagine what possessed him.” Of course she knew only too well what had possessed him, but she doubted Luke was in any frame of mind to hear that the dog was madly in love with one of the Harper pigs. She almost giggled at the thought but stopped herself in time. Laughing at the situation was bound to inflame Luke’s ire, the last thing she needed, since she still had to interview him for the investigation. “Let me introduce myself,” she
said, holding out her hand in the interests of a fresh start. “I’m Rory McCain, the private investigator your father retained to—”

  “Yeah, he told me about you,” Luke muttered, not bothering to look up from texting. “That doesn’t change the fact that you need to get that big oaf trained before you both wind up in trouble.”

  Rory let her hand fall to her side, wondering if Gil’s youngest was always this unpleasant or if she’d just caught him on a particularly bad day. “It’s funny how things work out,” she said, refusing to be put off. “I planned to call you later to set up a time for us to talk. Is there any day this week that would be convenient?”

  Luke looked up at her, scowling. “What? No, no, I don’t have time for that now. I guess my father hasn’t had a chance to call you yet, but we’re dealing with another act of sabotage,” he said, stalking off and leaving Rory with a dozen questions buzzing around in her head.

  Hobo tugged on his leash, and when she turned to him, she swore she saw an apology in his eyes. The mere fact that he hadn’t attempted to resume his headlong dash to the pigpen told her that on some level he understood and regretted his part in the mishap. He added a heartbreaking whine to the effect, plainly begging to see Pigmalion in spite of his bad behavior. Rory melted. It would be heartless not to let him see her now that they’d come so close. But after they had a brief reunion, she needed to stop by Gil’s office and find out the details of what had happened.

  On his best behavior, Hobo walked docilely beside her the rest of the way. But she could tell by the strut to his step and the way his ears were pricked forward that he was totally fixated on their destination. When they reached the petting zoo, they found the outdoor enclosures almost deserted. Most of the animals had chosen to stay inside their mini barns to keep warm, making Rory think they were probably smarter than she was. Fortunately for the lovelorn dog, the pigs were among the hearty few braving the cold. Hobo froze in his tracks for a second, then lunged toward the gate, good manners evaporating in the presence of his beloved.

 

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