Sketcher in the Rye
Author: Sharon Pape
Date: 2013-12-17 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Paranormal
Description: In her new job as a private eye, former police sketch artist Rory McCain has a spirited partner: Old West marshal Zeke Drummond. He may be a ghost, but when these two combine their skills, they reap justice… Trouble has sprouted at Harper Farms. Top secret info has been leaked to the competition, and now there’s serious sabotage cropping up. So the farm’s beleaguered owner, Gil Harper, has called on Rory to dig up some dirt. But what Rory discovers raises a new field of questions… Someone shucked Harper’s accountant and left his body in the farm’s corn maze. While Gil is quick to hire Rory to
Publisher: InterMix

Also by Sharon Pape

Portrait of Crime Series

SKETCH ME IF YOU CAN

TO SKETCH A THIEF

SKETCH A FALLING STAR

CRYSTAL SHOP MYSTERIES

ALIBIS AND AMETHYSTS

Sketcher in the Rye

Sharon Pape

INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

SKETCHER IN THE RYE

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / December 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Sharon Pape.

Excerpt from Alibis and Amethysts copyright © 2013 by Sharon Pape.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63527-8

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Version_1

Contents

Also By Sharon Pape

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Special Excerpt from Alibis And Amethysts

About the Author

For Jack Moryl, a dear friend, lovingly remembered and sorely missed.

Chapter 1

When Rory found Hobo, he was frolicking in the mud with the pigs. By that time she was half crazy with worry. Harper Farms covered thirty-plus acres, with indoor and outdoor nurseries, a produce store and bakery, a petting zoo with pony rides and, since it was fall, a vast corn maze. There were too many places for a dog to hide, even a mutt as big and shaggy as Hobo. She was so relieved to see him again that his mud-caked appearance didn’t immediately register with her. Hobo appeared to be just as pleased to see her. He bounded over and launched himself, landing with his front paws squarely on her shoulders. The impact knocked the wind out of her and sent her staggering backward until she slammed into the side of the barn. Pinned there, she was treated to an enthusiastic face washing, which she wouldn’t have minded under normal circumstances. But the pungent smell of pig and overheated dog rose from Hobo in a steamy wave that threatened to bring her breakfast back for an encore. She grabbed his mud-soaked leash and ordered him “off” in the most commanding tone she could manage. After several failed attempts, she wound up having to push him into obedience. By then she couldn’t be sure if he was finally listening to her or was simply tired of standing on two legs. In any case, once he was back on all fours, he gave his coat a vigorous shake, the long fur spewing mud everywhere like a food processor at top speed without benefit of a lid. Being only a foot away from the eye of the mud storm, Rory got the worst of it. She was as muddy and stinky as he was, not to mention chilled from the stiff November breeze that had swept into the area while she’d been meeting with Gil Harper. In spite of it all, she started laughing. And for a couple of bellyaching minutes, she couldn’t stop. She was glad there was no one around to see her reaction, or they might have carted her off to a nicely padded cell somewhere. As much as she hated to admit it, Zeke was probably right. She really did need to hire a trainer for Hobo. She could just picture the marshal wearing his “told you so” grin that hiked his moustache nearly up to his sideburns.

What had possessed her to take Hobo along to a business meeting anyway? Oh yeah—a good, old-fashioned dose of guilt. Work had been taking her away from the house and her adjacent office so much lately that she was feeling bad about leaving him yet again. Of course he wasn’t completely alone in the old Victorian she’d inherited from her uncle Mac. Now that Hobo had adjusted to living with a ghost, and Zeke had worked out his own issues with the arrangement, the two could often be found engaged in a lively game of fetch, providing the marshal wasn’t too depleted from his own recent outings. Although his ability to manifest in full 3-D mode had improved well beyond Rory’s expectations, and often her tolerance level, Zeke was still frustrated by the limits death had imposed on him for more than a hundred and thirty years.

“You should be grateful you can leave the house at all,” Rory reminded him one day when he was brooding about his situation. “Before I moved in here, you couldn’t go anywhere.” Back when Mac had been alive, the marshal had partnered with him on his PI cases too, but always from the confines of the house. For some reason neither she nor Zeke could fathom, as long as she was with him or at the other end of his journey, he could now travel about. At least until sheer exhaustion pulled him bungee-like back to the house where he’d exhaled his last breath.

“Hey, glad to see you found your dog,” Gil Harper called out as he came around the corner of the barn and spotted them. The patriarch of the family business was tall, lean and sixtyish, with blond hair that was doing a nice job of masking the incoming crop of gray. “Looks like you’ll both be needing a bath though.” Although he sounded genuinely relieved that Hobo was okay, his lips were twitching as if he was trying hard not to laugh at the muddy spectacle before him. “Any idea how he got out of your car?”

Rory was wiping at the mud on her face with hands that were equally dirty. “Well,” she said, realizing it was pointless, “I must have forgotten to lock the car. Then I guess someone came along and thought it would be a good idea to set him free. Either that or he grew opposable thumbs during the past hour. “

“Anything I can do to help?” Gil asked, backing away as he spoke. He might have had the best intentions with his offer, but his subconscious was clearly not onboard with them.

“Thanks, but I’m afraid that soap and water are the only solution. The sooner I get us home, the better.” With a tight grip on Hobo’s muddy leash, she headed off in the direction of the car. But after the first few steps, Hobo dug in his paws and refused to move any farther. He’d never done anything like that before. Rory gave the leash a sharp tug and ordered him to heel. The dog looked at her, then looked over his shoulder at the pig pen and whined.

“You have got to be kidding!” she said. “Are you begging for more time in the mud?”

Harper started laughing. “I’m not laughing at you,” he assured her when he’d quieted enough to speak. “I think I understand Hobo’s problem.” He pointed to a little pig who was staring back at the dog and making a noise somewhere between a grunt and a squeal. “I believe what we may have here is a budding interspecies romance.”

Rory didn’t know whether to laugh again or cry. She couldn’t exactly scoop a dog of Hobo’s size into her arms and carry him back to the car.

“Let me grab Pigmalion and remove her from the equation,” Harper said, which was a much more realistic option. As soon as he and the little pig were out of sight, Hobo started whining again. Rory figured she could live with the whining as long as she could get him moving. In her most authoritative voice, she ordered him to heel, and to her relief, he stood up and padded after her, his shaggy head hung low in resignation.

The parking lot had been almost empty when they’d arrived at eight a.m., but now that it was close to opening time, cars filled nearly half of it. The corn maze and petting zoo were big draws until the season’s first hard frost or snowfall officially shut down those attractions for the winter.

Rory and Hobo had nearly reached the car when the wind gusted, blowing from the opposite direction. Hobo stopped and raised his snout to take stock of the incoming air. Rory hoped it was a promising sign that he’d forgotten Pigmalion and was moving on to other interests. A second later, she was nearly yanked off her feet as the dog raced helter-skelter toward the corn maze. Rory managed to stay upright, but she could feel the leash slipping through her fingers. At the entrance to the maze, Hobo plowed right past a group of teenagers about to enter it as the first visitors of the day.

“Coming through,” Rory yelled in case they hadn’t noticed she was attached to the crazy mutt who’d almost trampled them. Hobo sped on, taking the turns like a sailboat heeling in rough surf. On the other end of the leash, Rory was tripping over furrows and getting smacked in the face by dead cornstalks. She felt like she’d been conscripted into a remake of a Three Stooges movie. After one particularly bad stumble, she landed hard on her knees and the leash tugged free of her hand. Hobo careened onward, either unaware or unconcerned that he’d left her behind.

She jumped to her feet and took off after him, moving more quickly now that she wasn’t being buffeted by cornstalks along the way. Up ahead, Hobo had started some serious barking, what Rory called his all-points bulletin. He only used it when he was reporting trouble. It was hard to get a good fix on just how far ahead he was, because the cornstalks worked like a baffle, distorting the sound. She hoped he hadn’t cornered a wild animal. Raccoons were a problem on Long Island, and when they were prowling around during the day, it generally meant they were rabid to boot. Hobo’s up to date on his inoculations, her brain pointed out, whereas you have no such protection. Danger noted and filed, her heart responded as she ran on. After several wrong turns led to frustrating dead ends and wasted seconds, she rounded a curve and ran smack into the dog.

He was standing beside a man sprawled face down in the dirt. The good news—Hobo wasn’t in any danger. The bad news—someone else was having a really terrible day. Rory grabbed the dog’s leash to keep him from taking flight again. He didn’t appear interested in going anywhere else, but with Hobo, she couldn’t be sure. Now that he’d summoned the cavalry, his barking had ebbed to a breathless chuffing. Rory knelt quickly beside the man to assess the situation. There was no blood on or around him and no bullet holes or knife wounds, at least none she could see from his present position. When she checked his neck for a pulse, there was none, and his skin was cold to the touch. She was no doctor, but the few years she’d spent as a detective and sketch artist had given her a working knowledge of what constituted “dead.” She stepped back from the body, making an effort to walk in her own footprints. But she quickly realized that it was pointless. The soft, moist ground was already covered with overlapping footprints from all the people who’d visited the maze since it opened back in September. It would be impossible to get a cast of any one set.

She grabbed her phone from the muddy messenger bag slung across her chest and dialed Leah at the Homicide Division out in Yaphank. Without preamble, she gave her friend a rundown on the situation. It would take Leah and her partner forty-five minutes to reach Huntington, but once they notified the local precinct, patrol cars would be screaming to Harper Farms in a matter of minutes.

With that done, Rory needed to find Gil Harper and fill him in on what was happening. She had no idea if he knew the victim, but whether he did or not, he was bound to be distressed by the death. A dead body on the premises was never good for business, especially if the death wasn’t attributable to natural causes. She tried his cell number, but after several rings, her call went to voice mail. This wasn’t the type of news she wanted to deliver that way. She was torn between racing off to find him and keeping watch over the crime scene until the local cops arrived.

“I leave you on your own for a couple of hours, and you stumble over another body,” a voice behind her said. There was no mistaking the sarcasm or the drawl, but Rory was so caught up in her dilemma that she reacted as if someone had jumped out of a dark alley and yelled “boo!” Even Hobo, with his more finely tuned senses, yelped with surprise.

Rory wheeled around to face the marshal. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. He was standing before her in his well-worn western duds looking every bit as alive as anyone else on planet Earth. She was always nervous when he joined her out in public, due to the sheer potential for disaster. But in spite of her concerns, things generally went well enough as long as no one tried to touch him, and he remembered to use doors instead of walking through walls. Unfortunately though, there were a number of people in long-term therapy as a result of his mistakes.

“What in tarnation happened to you?” Zeke asked, convulsing into laughter now that she was facing him.

For a moment Rory couldn’t figure out what was so hilarious about a dead body, but then she remembered that she was still covered in mud. “Hobo happened to me,” she responded crisply. “And could you please try to focus on the bigger picture here?” She didn’t mind being the butt of a joke from time to time, but the marshal seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure from her predicaments.

“You smell as ripe as a pigpen, darlin’,” he chuckled, nearly doubled over in his glee.

“I’m aware of that,” she said evenly. Nothing fueled Zeke’s fire more than her irritation. “And you’re here because . . . ?”

The marshal’s laughter throttled down to a chuckle. “Well, I was feelin’ rested, so I popped in to say hello. But since you and the mutt weren’t home, I came to see what you were up to.”

“That’s nice, but you can’t be here,” she said firmly. “Any minute now there’ll be cops swarming all over this place.” As if on cue, sirens shattered the air, providing a soundtrack to her warning. Even if Zeke had been dressed for the twenty-first century, the police would want to know who he was and why he was there. If they tried to drag him down to headquarters for further questioning, there was a good chance he’d run out of the energy he needed to appear solid and three-dimensional. And then he would vanish before their eyes. Rory shut down the what-ifs before they could reduce her to a babbling fool. She needed to have her wits about her.

“Of course I can be here,” Zeke said, giving her a wink as he disappeared. “But only you and the mutt will know it.”

“Fine,” she conceded, since she didn’t have any real choice in the matter. “No comments out of you either.”

“Not a one.”

“Zip it.”

“Yes, ma’am . . . mmmmmmmm.”

There was the sound of squad cars screeching to a stop beyond the corn maze, then multiple car doors being slammed shut and a smattering of voices. Rory couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was no doubt standard police chatter. Some of them would be roping off the area with yellow crime scene tape and trying to disperse whatever crowd had gathered. Others would be making their way into the maze slowly and with guns drawn, since they couldn’t discount the possibility that a potential killer or killers might be waiting for them around the next bend. They also needed to stay together in the maze or risk mistaking a fellow officer for a suspect.

Spurred by the sounds of people coming, Hobo had started barking again, which was fine with Rory. The racket he was raising was far more effective than her own voice would be at letting the cops know they were in the maze too. When the police finally entered the row where she and Hobo waited with the body, Detective Harvey Cirello was in the lead. Terrific. Rory and he had disliked one another from the first time they’d met. He was one of the local detectives who’d responded when she’d found Hobo’s owner dead on the kitchen floor. Cirello looked every bit as dour as he had when she’d last seen him. If she were to sketch him, she’d place a lemon where his heart should have been. The two patrolmen with him holstered their guns but remained at the entrance to the row like bouncers ready to keep the riffraff out of an exclusive club.

“You again,” Cirello said when he saw Rory. He tucked his weapon into a shoulder holster under his jacket. “What is it with you and dead bodies?” Hobo growled, a menacing rumble deep in his throat, as if he remembered the detective had wanted to send him to the pound.

“Hobo found the deceased about nine a.m., before any of today’s visitors had a chance to come through here,” she said, ignoring Cirello’s question. “I checked him for a pulse, but I didn’t check his pockets or disturb the scene in any way.” Most cops would have appreciated her input. She wasn’t at all surprised to find that Cirello was barely paying attention.

“I see you kept the mutt,” he said, shaking his head as he pulled on latex gloves. He hunkered down next to the body. “Has the owner of the place been notified?”

“I didn’t want to leave the scene until you arrived. I’ll do it now.”

“No need. My partner will find him. You know the deceased?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure from this angle.”

Cirello searched the man’s pockets. All he came away with was a thin wallet. He straightened up as he rifled through it. “Matthew Dmitriev,” he said, pulling out a driver’s license. “Ring a bell?”

“I know the name,” Rory said, “but I never met him.” She’d heard the name for the first time that morning when Gil Harper hired her to find out who in his company was involved in industrial espionage and sabotage for the competition. Matthew was Harper’s CPA, and Gil had wanted her to meet with him about the sabotage.

“That’s it?” Cirello asked, as if he suspected she was holding out on him. Despite Rory’s antipathy for the detective, if he’d been with Homicide, she would have felt obligated to tell him everything she knew. But since he wasn’t, she didn’t intend to say anything more until Leah arrived.

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “How is it you know the name?”

Okay, she was going to have to answer that question or flirt with an obstruction-of-justice charge. And Cirello was just the guy to make sure it stuck.

“Gil Harper told me Matthew worked for him.” There, that should be enough to keep her out of jail. She glanced at her watch. It wouldn’t be too much longer before Leah made it there. Meanwhile, two more patrolmen had arrived, and their row in the maze was getting crowded. Cirello told them to walk the rest of the maze to see what they could find.

“Just don’t touch anything,” he shouted after them. One of the men raised his hand to indicate he’d heard the warning. Rory had a feeling he would have preferred to use four less fingers. Cirello’s attitude had probably made him the darling of the precinct.

“Is that him? Is that Matthew?” Gil Harper had just come around the bend accompanied by Danny, Cirello’s younger partner. “Oh no, no, no.” Gil was wild-eyed and ashen, a very different man from the one Rory had been with less than an hour earlier.

“Rory?” Gil’s voice seemed to be brimming with unasked questions. He searched her face as if he might find an explanation there.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. But his focus had already shifted back to Matthew. She exchanged a low-key greeting with Danny, surprised to see that he was still with Cirello. If she’d been saddled with the nasty curmudgeon, she wouldn’t have lasted a week. Maybe there was some secret perk to being Cirello’s partner. Like maybe he made the best barbeque or fudge on the Island. But somehow Rory doubted it.

“Mr. Harper,” Cirello said, without bothering to introduce himself.

“How can I ever tell his mother?” Gil was mumbling. “She’ll be devastated, destroyed. He was all . . .”

“Mr. Harper,” Cirello repeated, impatience sharpening his tone. But it was as if a wall had sprung up around Gil, insulating him from Cirello’s words.

Danny stepped closer to him. “It’s okay, Mr. Harper,” he said gently. “We’ll take care of notifying the next of kin.”

Gil turned to him and nodded. “Thank you. Please let Anya know we’ll take care of all the expenses, anything she needs. We’re here for her. She and Matthew,” his voice cracked, “like part of my own family, since Matthew was a little kid.”

“When did you last see the deceased?” Cirello asked, still using his naked-light-bulb approach. Rory wasn’t surprised to find that he hadn’t learned any compassion from the time he’d spent with his younger partner.

Gil’s brow furrowed, and he seemed momentarily lost. Danny didn’t try to rush him, but Cirello was turning an interesting shade of angry, and the muscles in his neck had started to bulge.

“I . . . I’m not sure,” Gil stammered finally. “A week . . . a week or so ago?”

“Maybe you could finish the interview in Mr. Harper’s office?” Rory suggested. Standing this close to the body had to be making it harder for Gil to concentrate.

Cirello glared at her. “Believe it or not, Ms. McCain, I’m quite capable of doing my job without your assistance.” Rory clamped her jaw shut before she could say something she was bound to regret. She didn’t want to make the situation worse for Gil or Danny. “In fact, there’s no reason for you to even be here,” he went on. “You and that dog belong on the other side of the police tape.”

From behind his partner’s back, Danny gave her a sympathetic shrug. Rory knew he couldn’t help her out. She was no longer with the police department, and Cirello had every right to banish her from the crime scene.

“You heard me,” Cirello snapped at her. “Take that mud-caked fleabag and get out of here.” The words were barely out of his mouth when his knees suddenly buckled under him, and he pitched forward onto the ground, landing on top of Matthew. One of the uniforms tried to help him up, but he waved the man off and scrambled to his feet on his own. “Which one of you jokers pushed me?” he demanded, glaring at each of them in turn.

“Nobody,” Danny said, looking equally surprised. “No one touched you.”

“Someone slammed me in the back of the knees hard enough to send me flying. I’ll find out eventually, so whoever did it might as well man up now.”

Rory had a pretty good idea who was responsible, but she had no intentions of sharing that bit of knowledge. “Maybe it was one of those microbursts they talk about on the Weather Channel,” she suggested.

“Localized at the back of my knees? What kind of fool do you think I am?” he shot back at her as he brushed the dirt off his suit.

“There’s actually a new phenomenon they’re calling a marshaled burst,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. The other policemen were looking at one another with raised eyebrows, but even if they thought she was nuts, they all chose to remain silent. If their emperor was naked, he wasn’t going to learn the truth from them.

“I thought I told you to get out of here,” Cirello growled, having apparently chosen her as his scapegoat for lack of a better candidate.

Rory placed her hand on Gil’s arm again. “We’ll talk soon,” she told him as she led Hobo past the patrolmen. “Try to stay out of drafts,” she called over her shoulder to Cirello. She knew she was baiting the beast, but she couldn’t help herself.

Chapter 2

Rory and Hobo waited outside the maze and beyond the police line for Leah to arrive. The small throng of people they’d barreled past on their way into the maze had grown into a substantial crowd. The haphazardly parked police cars were visible from the street, beckoning to passing motorists like a sideshow barker trying to fill his tent: come one; come all. Find out for yourself what’s going down. Is it a robbery? An assault? Perhaps even a murder? Be the first among your friends to learn the truth. No charge. Plenty of room for everyone. Come on in.

By the time Leah arrived with her partner, Rory’s mud-caked appearance had fielded enough curious stares and whispered comments to last her a lifetime. Leah’s reaction was the last straw. “Don’t you dare,” Rory warned her when she saw the surprise and amusement light up her friend’s police-business face.

Leah bit her lip, but a moment later, when she opened her mouth to speak, a giggle escaped. “What happened?” If she was trying to sound concerned, she was failing miserably. Her partner, Jeff, wasn’t having much success either.

“Are you all . . . all right?” he managed, before clamping his hand over his mouth.

“Sure, I’m just fine,” Rory said. “Isn’t getting a cold mud bath, being dragged through a corn maze and finding a dead body on everybody’s list of most fun days ever?”

“Sorry,” Leah murmured, trying for an expression that was more in keeping with a friend’s distress and a murder investigation. “Can you catch me up?”

“Of course not. I only waited here, shivering, because I love being laughed at.” Rory paused to take a deep breath. “Hey, I’m sorry too,” she said. “This hasn’t exactly been my finest hour. Make that hours.” She gave Leah a quick recap of events up until the time Cirello threw her out.

Leah put her hand on Rory’s arm. “You go on home and take a hot bath. I’ll talk to you later.”

“No way. I’m heading over to that Channel 12 News van that just pulled in to give them an exclusive.”

Jeff’s eyebrows nearly rocketed off his forehead, sending Rory herself into a brief fit of laughter.

Leah shook her head. “You are so bad.”

***

Hobo had fallen asleep in the backseat as soon as Rory started the car’s engine. At times like this, she wished she could trade places with him. Zeke had gone home after they left the maze. As he’d put it, “Makes no sense usin’ up my energy to hang around and hear you rehash what we already know.” Rory hadn’t argued the point. The prospect of a peaceful ride home was too tempting to pass up.

When she turned onto her street twenty minutes later, she noticed Eloise Bowman standing at her front door. She groaned loudly enough to wake Hobo, who’d been in such a sound sleep that he had a befuddled look on his shaggy face. Since Eloise had her back to the road, Rory batted around the idea of speeding away before she was seen. But where could she and Hobo go in their present condition? If they went to her parents’ house or to her aunt Helene’s, they’d certainly be welcome, but Rory was too weary and miserable to answer their inevitable questions. She felt positively snappish. Of course that didn’t bode well for a visit with Eloise either. Under normal circumstances, Rory was quite fond of her elderly neighbor and grateful for her help in finally discovering who’d murdered Zeke. This just happened to be the worst time she could have picked for a visit. Come to think of it, why was Eloise out alone? Where was Olga? The Bowman family had hired the woman to keep tabs on their matriarch, who had an uncanny knack for slipping out of the house and showing up on Rory’s doorstep. Eloise’s doctors may have diagnosed her with “diminished capacity” as a result of her stroke, and her family might consider her daft, but Rory knew they were all missing a huge piece of the new and improved Eloise puzzle. As a result of her stroke, Eloise had picked up the ability to communicate with spirits on the other side of the veil.

While Rory sat there weighing her options, Hobo, no doubt curious as to why they were stopped in the middle of the road, started clambering over the center console to reach her. He made it halfway through the narrow opening, scratching her hand and shoving his muddy face into hers, before she could stop him. “Okay, hold on; we’re going home,” she said. She really didn’t have a choice in the matter anyway. How could she drive off and leave Eloise outside unattended? There was no telling what might happen to her or where she might decide to go next. Besides, she’d probably risked life and limb sneaking out of her son’s house to bring Rory a new message from the other side.

Eloise turned around when she heard the car pull into the driveway. When she saw Rory, her cheeks filled up with a smile. Her white hair had been allowed to grow to chin length in an attempt to make it more manageable than the wild tufts that used to stand at attention across her scalp. The result was somewhat successful. On the right side, her hair was mostly smooth and curled under at the ends, but on the left, her hair was mashed against her head as if she’d just been sleeping on it. She was wearing a long, white summer skirt with a Yankees windbreaker and boots.

Rory grabbed Hobo’s leash, and the two of them jumped out of the car and ran up the walk to the porch. She wanted to get Eloise into the house before she caught pneumonia, but Hobo had his own agenda. As Rory was trying to unlock the front door and steer Eloise inside, Hobo insisted on giving her an exuberant welcome. For a crazy couple of minutes, the three of them went around in a circle tangled up in the dog’s leash as if they were playing a strange version of Ring around the Rosie. Worries about pneumonia were quickly replaced by more immediate concerns of brittle bones shattering. By the time they all made it inside, Eloise’s white skirt was smeared with mud. Eloise didn’t seem to mind. In fact she’d been laughing with delight throughout the whole vaudevillian routine.

Rory banished Hobo to the backyard, hoping he’d roll around in the grass and dislodge some of his dried mud. Now to get Eloise back to the Bowmans. Rory settled her at the kitchen table with a bowl of black-cherry ice cream, a tried-and-true method of keeping her happy and stationary. Then she called the Bowman’s number. Jean Bowman answered the phone breathless and distraught.

“She’s here and she’s fine,” Rory said instead of “hello.” They’d developed their own shorthand with regard to Eloise.

“Oh thank goodness,” Jean responded, with a shaky sigh of relief. “She and Olga both fell asleep watching a movie. Olga woke up a minute ago, and she’s so hysterical I could barely understand what she was trying to tell me. I’ll send her right over.” Jean thanked Rory and apologized for what was at least the thirtieth episode of “Where Is Eloise?”

For the moment, she was wearing a dreamy look of pleasure as she spooned ice cream into her mouth. But when Rory joined her at the table, she stopped with the spoon in midair, and her sparse brows bunched over her eyes. “Everything happens for a reason,” she intoned solemnly. “There’s more to your marshal Drummond than you know.” Then her face relaxed and she went back to eating her ice cream.

The remark caught Rory by surprise. When she’d finally learned that Zeke blamed himself for the deaths of the young girls who’d been killed by his escaped prisoner she’d thought she understood all the darkness he carried in his soul. Now Eloise was telling her she didn’t know everything.

“What do you mean?” she asked urgently, trying to snag a bit more information before her elderly neighbor reverted to her childlike demeanor.

Eloise was busy scraping the last of the ice cream from her bowl. “Can I have some more?” she asked, hope dancing in her eyes.

It was already too late. Eloise the medium was gone. With a frustrated sigh, Rory picked up her bowl and set it on the floor for Hobo to lick. “Olga is coming to get you,” she said, trying to keep her irritation in check. It wasn’t as if Eloise was consciously trying to drive her crazy. “You can have more ice cream next time.” At that moment the doorbell chimed. “See—there she is now.”

“Pistachio?” Eloise asked fervently. “Next time can I have pistachio?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rory promised, helping her to her feet.

“I don’t like Olga,” Eloise muttered, wrinkling her nose and pouting as Rory marched her to the front door. “Olga’s too bossy. And I haven’t even see Marshal Drummond yet.”

“He’s not here right now,” Rory told her, praying he didn’t suddenly appear out of the ether. She opened the door, never happier to see Olga’s broad face.

***

In the end, the bath turned into a shower. It was a simple matter of expediency. She could take Hobo into the shower with her, but two of them in the tub would never work. Whatever the combination of breeds that had given rise to Hobo, there was definitely no waterdog among them. As much as he’d enjoyed wallowing in the mud with the pigs, plain old water had always been anathema to him. By the time they stepped out of the shower, all Rory could be sure of was that they were cleaner than when they’d stepped in. The exact degree of cleanliness no longer mattered.

Once Hobo was out of the water he shook his coat vigorously, spackling the small bathroom with murky water. Another project she’d have to tackle later. She let him out of the bathroom so she could dry off and dress in peace. The floor space in there was limited, and with four legs, he’d taken up the majority of it. She was just pulling on a fresh pair of jeans when the lights flickered.

“I need a minute,” she called out. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

There was no response, but she hadn’t expected one. Unless Zeke had a problem with her request, he’d be waiting in the kitchen. They’d worked out their living arrangements to her satisfaction, and for the most part, the marshal abided by her rules. She drew on an old, fleecy-soft sweatshirt that always made her feel warm and cosseted, added a pair of socks, ran a comb through her short hair and padded down the stairs to the kitchen feeling like herself again. Hobo and Zeke were already there. Hobo was lying near his food bowl with big, pathetic “I’m starving” eyes, even though he’d already had breakfast and wasn’t due for dinner until the late afternoon. Romping with the pigs had apparently left him famished.

The marshal was at the table with his chair tilted back and his dirty boats propped up on the glass tabletop. There’d been a time when that would have drawn outrage from her, but she no longer had to remind herself that his boots weren’t actually there. Good grief, they were becoming like an old married couple.

“That’s an entirely better look for you,” Zeke said as he pulled his feet off the table and set the front legs of the chair back on the floor. “The mud wasn’t really you.”

“Thanks,” Rory said, wondering if he’d been watching Project Runway or some other fashion programs when she wasn’t home. She scooped a cup of kibble from the bin in the pantry and poured it into Hobo’s bowl. The dog stood and sniffed the kibble without enthusiasm. “That’s all you’re getting for now,” Rory told him, “no matter how cute you are.” With a sigh of resignation, he started eating.

Zeke shook his head and grinned. “I swear that mutt understands every word you say.”

“I know,” Rory said, “sometimes even better than certain people do.”

Zeke opened his mouth as if he was thinking of going a round or two with her, but then closed it, letting the comment slide by. “So, what’s the deal with Gil Harper?” he asked instead.

“Wow—with everything that happened, I almost forgot about our meeting. He said he’d decide about hiring me, I mean us, by the end of the week.” The marshal got testy when she didn’t give him the proper credit.

“What’s the case involve?”

“Someone’s been feeding information to the competition. He hasn’t been able to figure out who the turncoat is, and recently things have escalated to the level of sabotage. The climate control in his largest greenhouse was badly damaged.” She sat down in the chair across from Zeke. “But I don’t know where the CPA’s murder leaves us. Harper may decide to defer the investigation in case the two crimes are somehow linked. The police could potentially solve them both at no cost to him.”

“A man who’s built up such a gold mine of a business?” Zeke shook his head. “To my way of thinkin’, he’d want some measure of control over how the investigation goes. And the only way he’d have that is to hire a private firm like ours.”

“Well, you’ve got that right.” Rory knew from her time with the police that they didn’t appreciate being told how to do their job, and they definitely wouldn’t be giving Harper updates when he wanted them.

“How much has all this cost him?”

“Harper didn’t talk numbers; he just said it was generally low-level stuff that didn’t do much damage to his bottom line. But now that sabotage is involved, he realizes he needs professional help to catch the traitor. What bothers him the most is that someone in his family or in his employ would steal from him. He wants to know who’s guilty so he can start trusting everyone else again.”

“Sounds reasonable. But gettin’ at the story behind that young fella’s death is likely to be a heap more interestin’.”

“That’s not our job,” Rory said, although she’d been thinking the same thing.

“Once upon a time it was my job. Yours too, for that matter, Detective McCain.”

“That may be, marshal, but it isn’t anymore.”

“As I recall, we solved the murder of Hobo’s owner while catchin’ those dognappers,” he said, a mischievous smile twinkling in his eyes. “I guess we’ll just have to sit tight and see where this case leads us.”

Rory nodded absently. There was nothing to be gained by debating the issue until they knew if Harper was going to hire them. Besides, her conversation with Eloise was still on her mind and demanding satisfaction. Would she be courting disaster by mentioning it to Zeke? His reaction alone might tell her if he was harboring other secrets. But was it worth upsetting their finely balanced apple cart to find out if there was more to learn about her partner? Who was she kidding? She couldn’t leave the question unasked anymore than she could wait until Christmas morning to open her presents.

Chapter 3

“It’s Eloise, isn’t it?” Zeke said, running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was irritated. “Why do you let her fill your head with her nonsense?”

Rory waited to a count of five before answering. “Because I’ve never found it to be nonsense,” she replied evenly. The marshal’s opinion of Eloise was ever-changing. Her psychic ability had put him off from the first day they’d met. Rory wasn’t sure if it scared him, worried him or both. When she’d asked him about it, all he’d say was that it was “plain unnatural.” She hadn’t bothered to point out that hanging around for more than a century after you died wasn’t exactly the most natural thing either. There had been one brief period, back when she and Zeke were working on the murder of an amateur actor, that he’d actually teamed up with Eloise in the interest of keeping her out of trouble. But the alliance hadn’t lasted. Since that time, Zeke made a point of keeping his distance from her. Unfortunately Eloise didn’t share his feelings. Every time she came to Rory’s house, she was hoping to see him. Rory chalked it up to a case of unrequited like and tucked it away in a corner of her mind with all the other things over which she had no control. The older she got, the more crowded that corner was becoming.

The marshal had vanished from his chair to reappear in the same instant near the granite center island. Rory was surprised. He hadn’t done that in months. He usually practiced the normal movements of a living person so he wouldn’t forget them when he was out in public. He must be more upset than she’d imagined.

“Have you told me absolutely everything about your life?” he asked her.

“Well . . . no,” she had to admit.

“Then why do you expect to know everything about mine?”

He’d waltzed her right into a closet, locked the door and pocketed the key. Rory didn’t know how to respond, because he was right. “I’m sorry,” she murmured finally. “I just wanted to understand you better.” The apology sounded lame, even to her.

“Okay then,” he said, obviously taken aback that his argument had worked. “Since we’re agreed on that point, can we keep Miss Eloise out of our relationship from here on?”

Rory didn’t answer immediately. How could she agree to that? She had no way to prevent Eloise from telling her things, unless she wore earplugs all the time. And although Rory wasn’t about to admit it, she didn’t want to shut down that information highway. It had proven to be too valuable in the past.

“Rory?” The marshal was scowling at her.

Stalling for time, she explained the earplug dilemma to him.

“All right, fine—just don’t you go solicitin’ information from her.”

“Done.” That wasn’t how it worked with Eloise anyway.

“And don’t you go nosin’ around tryin’ to find out what I haven’t seen fit to tell you on my own.”

“Done,” she mumbled with far less enthusiasm.

***

Gil Harper called the next morning. His voice was hoarse, his tone subdued. He sounded like a man who needed some peace of mind and a week’s worth of sleep. The conversation was short and to the point. He wanted to hire her private-eye firm, Drummond and McCain, to catch whoever was sabotaging his business. Could Rory stop by so he could fill her in on the rest of the details and pay her retainer? She said she could, and they settled on three o’clock that afternoon. When Rory arrived, there was one crime scene van parked in the lot along with Leah’s unmarked car. Since she was a few minutes early, she wandered over to the corn maze to see what was happening. Although a colder front had moved in overnight, a dozen hard-core looky-loos in full winter regalia were standing behind the police tape sharing information and trading remarks. The crime scene investigators were nowhere in sight. Rory was about to head over to Harper’s office when Leah walked out of the cornfield.

“Joining the police groupies?” she asked after they’d hugged.

“Harper hired me to investigate another matter,” Rory explained, once they’d moved away from inquiring minds and ears. “What’s going on?”

“Jeff and I wanted to walk the place, chat with some of the employees, maybe pick up on something we missed yesterday.”

“I assume that means Dmitriev didn’t die of natural causes.”

“The medical examiner hasn’t released a cause of death yet,” Leah said.

“Medical examiner?” Rory repeated. “This is me you’re talking to. I’m sure you asked the medical examiner for his unofficial opinion, and I’m equally sure BB gave it to you off the record like he always does. What’s with all the formality?”

“Well, after you were almost killed capturing the creep who murdered Hobo’s owner, the lieutenant gave me a little speech about keeping civilians out of the loop and out of harm’s way.”

Rory went from indignant to apologetic in two seconds flat. “You never told me anything about that.”

Leah shrugged. “I’d appreciate your regret more if I believed you’d try to stay out of police business in the future,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Come on, Leah. I’m an investigator. Sometimes you and I are going to find ourselves headed down the same trail. And you know I can’t just walk away if things get a little dicey.”

“Sounds a lot like what I told the lieutenant,” she said dryly.

“I do have one more question.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you found a murder weapon?”

Leah went for her friend’s neck as if she intended to strangle her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m awfully good at keeping secrets,” Rory said sweetly. Aside from Eloise, no one had a clue she had a ghost for a housemate. Not even her aunt Helene, the queen of the pop-in visit. Of course she couldn’t give Leah that example without telling her about Zeke in the process, which would completely undercut the point she was trying to make, not to mention her promise to the marshal. “If you’re going to be around here tomorrow, I’ll meet you for breakfast at your favorite diner,” she wheedled. Leah had never turned down an opportunity to indulge in the crisp Belgian waffles they served.

“So now you’re bribing me?” Leah asked with mock horror.

“If I’d offered to buy you breakfast, that would have qualified as a bribe,” Rory told her. “I only offered to meet you there. As far as I know, tempting a detective with hard-core carbs isn’t a criminal offense.”

“Well, it certainly should be,” Leah muttered as Jeff strode up to them from the direction of the indoor nursery.

“Hi, Rory,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“I should be asking you that question,” she replied. “What’s the latest?”

“Come on, you know I can’t talk to the public about an active case.”

“But I was a comrade in arms,” she protested.

Leah laughed. “Forget it, Rory. You won’t get anything out of him—he’s incorruptible. And he doesn’t even like sweets. I’ll see you tomorrow—eight sharp.”

***

Rory was on her way to Gil Harper’s office when he came jogging toward her. “I have to catch the vet before he leaves,” he said, breathing hard. “The man’s the best in his field, but he refuses to carry a cell phone. Please make yourself comfortable in my office. I’ll only be a few minutes.” He took off again without waiting to see if she found that agreeable.

His office had been built onto the back of the Harper Farms bakery, but with access through a separate entrance. Rory had no trouble finding it, since she’d met with him there the previous day, which she now thought of as the “Day of the Pig.” She let herself in and closed the door behind her. It was a mellow, welcoming space, with soft leather seating in a caramel tone that managed to be as masculine as the dark, hulking furniture so many men seemed to prefer. A beautifully crafted bookcase covered one of the walls, and a large portrait of the Harper family dominated the wall across from it. The centerpiece of the room was an elegant cherrywood desk with an L-shaped side panel that held a computer and its components. The main desktop was remarkably free of clutter. Gil Harper appeared to be a well-organized man.

Rory didn’t mind having the time to peruse the books that lined Harper’s bookcase. What a person read offered a glimpse into his personality and interests, providing, of course, that the person in question had actually bought and read said books. Interior decorators were known to purchase huge lots of random books to fill bookcases such as these.

Rory found books on agronomy and agriculture, American history and economics, along with a smattering of the classics and a large collection of contemporary thrillers by James Patterson, Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler and other best-selling authors of their ilk. There were also a couple of shelves devoted to books by mainstream authors like Anita Shreve, Joyce Carol Oates and Jodi Picoult, no doubt selected by Harper’s wife, Ellen. There was even a shelf of children’s books. Seeing them made Rory smile. The fact that Gil hadn’t tossed the books once his kids outgrew them spoke of a sentimental nature. Either that or he was a cheapskate saving them for future grandkids.

Since Gil was still MIA, Rory walked across the room to take a better look at the family portrait. When she was close to it, she realized it was an oil-enhanced photograph. The artist had done such an amazing job that to most laymen it would appear to be an original oil that required endless hours of posing. Gil and Ellen were seated on an upholstered bench in the center of the canvas with their three adult children posed casually around them. They all had blonde hair and intense blue eyes, making their resemblance to one another particularly striking. Gil, James and Luke were dressed in beige chinos and pastel button-down shirts, open at the neck. Ellen and Lacey were in light, flowery blouses and ivory pencil skirts, Lacey’s substantially shorter and tighter than her mother’s. They were all smiling with orthodontic perfection. Rory couldn’t help wondering what secrets might be hidden behind those bright eyes and dazzling smiles.

“Love that picture.” Gil’s breathless voice gave Rory a start. The door had opened so silently she hadn’t heard him come in. “Sorry . . . to keep you waiting. Forgot to tell the vet . . . to look at one of our goats . . . before he leaves. Please, have a seat.”

“No problem,” she said slipping into one of the two armchairs positioned in front of the desk. Gil sank into the padded, high-back chair behind the desk with a groan. “I have to start exercising again.” He paused as if he’d run out of air or was expecting some kind of response from Rory.

“I know, it’s getting harder and harder to fit everything into twenty-four hours,” she sympathized.

“Isn’t that the truth,” he said, his breathing finally returning to normal. “Let me begin by filling you in a bit more on what I told you yesterday. Someone who works here is feeding information to our main competitor, Greenbrier Farms. Before the sabotage of my greenhouse, it was penny-ante stuff. We’d come up with a new idea, but they’d bring it to market first. We planned to add pony rides this past summer. They had pony rides up and running by spring. We were putting together a pie-baking contest. They ran one a month earlier and with better prizes. But now that it’s escalated to sabotage—well, let’s just say that my patience has its limits.”

“Then you have a lot more patience than I do,” Rory said. “I’ll need a roster of all your employees along with their job descriptions.”

“I anticipated that,” Gil said, withdrawing a stapled set of papers from the top desk drawer. “I originally compiled a roster of all the people who work here, including my family members. It was a pretty daunting list. So I conducted a little experiment to help whittle that number down. Instead of holding the big staff meetings we used to have where I’d tell all our employees about new ideas and changes that were coming, I started limiting the meetings to family and upper-echelon staff. Greenbrier kept right on stealing our thunder, so I have to assume the traitor is someone high up in my organization.” He leaned across the desk to hand her the pages. “This is the abbreviated list. You’ll see I noted everyone’s responsibilities and their hours so you’ll know when they’re on the premises. Anyone you want to speak with will automatically be given the time off. Just let me know what you need. I’m almost always around. And you have my cell number if you can’t find me. Harper Farms is a big place, as Hobo showed you yesterday.”

“That’s one memory that’s permanently etched in my mind,” Rory said with a laugh. It was definitely the kind of experience that became funnier with the passage of time.

Gil laughed with her. He had the deep, full laugh of a man who enjoyed life. “You two were quite the sight. Did you ever get all the mud off the dog?”

“Most of it. I’m still finding dry bits and pieces around the house.”

“I guess you can’t beat the love of a good pig,” he sputtered, setting the two of them off on another round of laughter. “Forgive me,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. I’m more devastated by Matthew’s death than you can imagine. I probably just needed to let off some steam.”

“No need to explain,” Rory assured him. “I understand completely.” She’d learned after the death of her uncle Mac that grieving was a lot like being attacked by a Great White. One minute you were managing to stay afloat, and the next, the pain sank its teeth into you and pulled you under. You struggled to the surface for a breath of air only to be dragged down again. And there was little comfort in knowing that grief didn’t have the kill record of sharks.

“I need to speak to you about adjusting our arrangement,” Gil said, back in business mode. “I hope it’ll be agreeable to you.”

Rory couldn’t imagine what he wanted to add or delete from their simple contract. Finding the traitor was a pretty black-and-white kind of case that didn’t leave a lot of room for embellishment. “Go ahead,” she said, “I’m listening.”

“I’d like you to look into Matthew’s murder as well as the issue of sabotage.”

Rory immediately came to attention, sitting up straighter in her seat. This was far from a little tweak to their agreement. But before she could say anything, Gil held up his hand. “Please, if I may explain myself more fully. Then we can thrash it all out.” Rory bit her lip, thoughts of her conversation with Leah swirling in her head. “The police, in spite of all their resources and manpower, have had less success than your firm in solving a number of murder cases over the past year or so.” Rory couldn’t deny that. Besides, she had to make a living, and it wasn’t a good marketing strategy to play down your accomplishments. Truth be told, though, she did have some of the same resources as the police—namely, a fabulous medical examiner, Barrett “BB” Browning, who wasn’t opposed to bending the rules, and his forensics partner, Reggie. Of course she would never compromise their jobs or good names by mentioning the fact that they helped her out from time to time. She also had her own skill as a sketch artist to call upon as well as another secret resource by the name of Ezekiel Drummond.

“I can’t help thinking that Matthew’s death might be linked to the sabotage,” Gil went on. “He may have been trying to investigate the matter himself and gotten too close to fingering the traitor.”

Rory waited an extra beat to be sure he was finished speaking. “Please don’t take offense at this question,” she said, “but are you one hundred percent certain that Matthew is blameless in everything that’s happened?”

Gil looked her directly in the eye. “I am as certain of his loyalty as one can be about another person. I actually trusted him more than my own children. In all the years he never once lied to me, disappointed me or tried to play me for a fool. I’m sad to say my kids didn’t come close to measuring up. After you’ve raised children of your own, you’ll understand how remarkable he was.”

Rory had trouble masking her surprise. Perhaps those radiant faces in the portrait really were a facade behind which lurked some deep ugliness. From the way Gil was looking at her, it was obvious he wanted her answer about taking on the murder case right then and there. She could probably ask for time to think it over, but that would be pointless. She already knew she was going to accept the case. The only reason she would need time was to find a good way to tell Leah.

“Okay,” she said, “we’ll look into Matthew’s death too.” The relief on Gil’s face prompted her to tack on a disclaimer. “But you need to keep in mind that the case is an active police investigation, and the police can be really territorial when it comes to murder. We won’t have the latitude we might have had in something like a cold case. That being said, we will do our level best to the extent the law allows.” It was common sense not to give a client false hope. That way they were less likely to be disappointed if she and Zeke failed and more likely to believe they were miracle workers if they succeeded.

“I understand.” Gil said. “Would doubling your retainer be acceptable, along with meeting to reassess the investigation’s financial needs at regular intervals?”

The moment Rory said it would, he opened the top drawer again and withdrew a check, which he handed her across the desk. It was already made out and signed, the mark of a confidant man. Rory stowed that bit of insight in a new mental file with his name on it. She’d found it useful to keep notes on the people who hired her as well as those she was hired to investigate.

“You should know,” Gil continued, “that I’ve purposely steered the police in the direction of my managerial staff, because I’d like you to focus on my family. I believe you’ll be less abrasive with them than the police might be. But I still want you to investigate them every bit as thoroughly. In any case, it should be simpler this way, less messy, if you and the cops aren’t constantly stepping on each other’s toes.”

Rory had no idea how to respond to that, so she nodded politely. People were always trying to point detectives in one direction or another, but she’d never met anyone who’d gone about it with such a deliberate sense of entitlement. Gil clearly thought he was the most qualified to run the case. “Confident” was too mild a description for him. She flipped to that new Gil folder in her brain and stamped it with the words “control freak.”

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“Actually I do have one.”

“Nothing’s off limits.”

“Did you file a police report about the damage to the climate-control system?”

“Sure; otherwise, the insurance company wouldn’t pay my claim. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, in fact you did precisely the right thing.” She didn’t need any unnecessary friction between her and Leah about overstepping her bounds. “Okay, that’s it for my questions at this point,” she said, standing.

Gil rose and came around the desk to her. “I’m glad you’re onboard,” he said, extending his hand.

Rory gave it a firm shake. “We’ll get to the bottom of all this,” she said. “I’ll be in touch soon.” She dropped the check into her purse and headed for the door.

“Oh, one last thing,” Gil said. Rory turned back to him. “If anyone in my family gives you a hard time, I want to know about it.”

***

“That’s an interestin’ tidbit he laid on you at the last minute,” Zeke said, wearing his deep-thinking frown. “You can’t underestimate the value of even the smallest piece of information.” He was sitting in the living-room chair where Rory had first seen him a year and a half ago. Back then, she wouldn’t have given their relationship, let alone their partnership, one chance in a million of succeeding. Not that it had been a rose garden, as the song goes. In fact, she still marveled regularly at the progress they’d made.

The marshal shifted in the chair as if he was trying to find a more comfortable position. He was back to practicing what he called lookin’ alive. “That may have been Gil’s subconscious havin’ its say.”

“But if he thinks he knows who’s guilty, why not just tell me?” she said. “We can get the job done a lot faster if we start by checking out the most likely suspect.”

“On the other hand,” Zeke said, still ridin’ his own train of thought, “it’s possible someone in the family’s been givin’ him a hard time lately and that statement was a knee-jerk reaction and nothin’ more. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to read too much into remarks like that.”

“Wait, you just said we shouldn’t underestimate the value of any bit of information.” The marshal had a knack for tying her brain in knots by taking two sides of the same argument.

“Just playin’ devil’s advocate and considerin’ all the angles,” he said. “It never pays to lock yourself into one way of thinkin’.”

For the sake of her sanity, Rory decided to change the subject. “Gil gave me this,” she said, scooting to the edge of the couch so she could hand Zeke the stapled pages. “It has the names, positions and background material on all the high-level employees and family members at Harper Farms.” Thankfully the marshal had become more proficient at “handling” objects. It had been a while since she’d had to clean up twenty pounds of kibble, or a thousand tiny pieces from a jigsaw puzzle he’d been trying to help her put together.

He floated the papers out of her fingers with a gentle tug of energy and held them a quarter of an inch above his own hands while he deftly leafed through them. “Impressive,” he said, floating the pages back to land on her lap. “Any thoughts about who our first interviewee ought to be?” “I think before we even start to tackle this list, we need to speak to Matthew’s mother and get some background on him,” she said.

“It’s unanimous then.”

Chapter 4

“I’d forgotten how amazing these are,” Leah groaned, savoring her first bite of the waffle.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have it with ice cream,” Rory said as she dug into her pumpkin pancakes.

“No, no way, evil one. It’s only eight in the morning, and this is going straight to my hips as it is.”

“Then start talking,” Rory threatened, “or I’ll be forced to order you one of their super-rich cocoas with gobs of whipped cream—on your dime of course.”

“Okay, okay—are you sure you’re not related to Torquemada?”

“Only on my father’s side,” she grinned.

“Well, since I can’t afford to buy a whole new wardrobe—”

“Hey, let’s be honest here. It has nothing to do with the threat of calories. I know how to keep a secret.” If you only knew how well. “And you trust me. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yes, even though I’m pretty sure it will be my undoing one day.” Leah speared another piece of waffle and tucked it into her mouth. “We found a syringe complete with needle near the end of the maze, no prints of course,” she said after swallowing. “BB’s waiting for toxicology to confirm it, but he believes the cause of death was diabetic shock. He estimated the time of death to be between ten p.m. and two a.m.”

Rory poured more maple syrup on her short stack. “Was Matthew diabetic?”

“Yes, his mother confirmed it. But according to her, Matthew only used the prefilled insulin pens. He’d stopped using syringes years ago.”

Rory frowned. “I get mixed up between diabetic shock and diabetic coma.”

“According to BB, shock is too much insulin, resulting in blood sugar that’s too low. Coma is the opposite—too little insulin and blood sugar that’s too high. Apparently either one can kill you.”

“So someone used Matthew’s illness to murder him. That’s nasty. But it also means the killer knew him well enough to be aware of the diabetes.”

“Exactly,” Leah said turning her attention back to her plate.

“There’s more that you’re not telling me,” Rory said after a few minutes.

Leah looked up with a huff of frustration. “Am I really that easy to read?”

“You’re eating like my father, who doesn’t come up for air until his plate is clean. That isn’t you at all.”

“Look, it’s just stuff you don’t need to know,” she said. “Be a good girl and concentrate on the case Harper hired you to investigate.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Rory replied, thinking this was as good a time as any to let her friend know she’d been hired for both cases.

***

“When Leah went to Matthew Dmitriev’s house, she found it totally trashed,” Rory said. “His computer and any other electronics he may have had were gone.” She and Zeke were in the car on their way to visit the victim’s mother, Anya.

“Either someone was lookin’ for specific evidence that incriminates them, or they were just makin’ sure nothin’ of that sort exists.”

“And there’s no way to know if they found whatever they were after,” Rory said. “I’m hoping Anya can shed some light on it all.”

“Leah must have talked to the woman by now.”

“She did. She also canvassed Matthew’s neighborhood, but no one saw or heard anything suspicious in the days or weeks before he was killed. But I can’t expect her to keep feeding me information or she’ll wind up losing her job.” As it was, she’d been surprisingly calm when Rory told her she’d taken on the murder case, treating her to only one mini lecture—on the necessity of requesting backup before, rather than after, putting herself in harm’s way. “Besides,” Rory went on, “Gil hired us to investigate Matthew’s death, not to rely on secondhand information no matter how dependable the source, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Zeke said. “I like a woman with integrity.”

“You mean if I was less ethical, you’d pack your bags and move out?” she asked smiling sweetly.

“You know somethin’, darlin’?” he muttered. “You have a peculiar sense of humor.”

Anya Dmitriev lived in a cottage behind Gil and Ellen Harper’s six-bedroom brick colonial in Lloyd Harbor where she’d worked as their housekeeper for nearly twenty-five years. Now that Matthew was gone, the Harpers were the closest thing to family she had left. Rory could have asked Gil to set up the meeting, but she wanted to give Anya the option of deciding if she felt up to it. For the last few days, the woman had been trapped in emotional limbo while she waited for BB to release her son’s body. He had that morning, and with the Harpers’ help, she’d finally been able to schedule the funeral for the following day. Rory knew this was hardly the best time to be requesting a visit with her, but there weren’t likely to be any better days for the foreseeable future. And as the marshal pointed out, the usual social proprieties didn’t apply when investigating a murder. With every day that passed, memories became compromised and distorted. Still it was one of the most difficult phone calls Rory had ever made. Once she’d introduced herself, offered her condolences and asked to meet with her, Anya had agreed without hesitation. She wanted justice for Matthew. It was the one thing she could still do for him.

To avoid the chance of anyone seeing his little vanishing act, Zeke disappeared when Rory turned into the Harper’s driveway. She followed the drive down past the main house and around to the right, where the cottage was located. Although Anya had called it a cottage, it more closely resembled a compact ranch house with gray clapboard siding and slate-blue shutters.

“Good luck,” Zeke said as she came to a stop. “See you inside.” If anyone else had been there to hear him, they probably would have taken his disembodied voice in stride, assuming it came through the car’s Bluetooth system. Too bad technology couldn’t account for the rest of the marshal’s anomalies

“Behave,” Rory reminded him, memories of past mishaps flashing through her head. It was something of a miracle that he hadn’t outed himself by now. No answering remark came from the ether. Zeke had already transited to the house or he simply didn’t want to acknowledge his previous lapses.

Anya came to the door dressed in black pants, a lavender V-necked sweater and black flats. She was a small, sturdy woman with ruddy cheeks and short brown hair, threaded with wiry, gray strands. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red from crying. She was clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand as she held the door open for Rory.

“Please, come in,” she said with only a hint of her Russian heritage.

Rory reintroduced herself and again offered her sympathies.

“Thank you, dear,” Anya said. “I thought we could talk in the kitchen if that’s okay.”

Rory assured her that would be fine and followed her through the ell formed by the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The house was simply furnished, without a lot of doodads and clutter. Although the couch and chairs showed wear, they managed to appear inviting, rather than shabby. The kitchen was just large enough to accommodate a small, wrought-iron table with two matching chairs that looked like they came straight from an old fashioned ice-cream parlor.

Anya offered Rory a seat and asked if she’d like coffee or tea, which she politely declined.

“I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” Rory said, taking a pad and pen from her handbag.

The older woman nodded and dabbed at her nose with her tissue.

“I want to apologize in advance if any of my questions are the same ones you’ve already answered for the police. And I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

“That’s all right,” Anya said. “I have nowhere else to be.”

“Did Matthew ever mention that he feared for his life,” Rory began, “or that he thought someone was after him?”

“No, this is all so hard to understand. Matthew has always been a good boy. I don’t think he’s ever had an enemy. I sit here hour after hour, racking my brain, trying to imagine who would want to kill him.” She looked at Rory with red-rimmed eyes that begged for the answers that eluded her.

“Did you know Matthew was trying to find out who’s been sabotaging Harper Farms?”

“No, not until the detectives mentioned it. I guess he didn’t want me to worry. He was always trying to protect me that way,” she added, her voice cracking with emotion. “Do you think his death is related to the sabotage?”

“There’s no way to be sure at this point,” Rory said, “and it’s too early to take any possibility off the table. It would help if you could give me a list of the people in Matthew’s life, along with phone numbers if you have them.”

“Certainly—of course he’d been living on his own for the last . . . let me see . . . seven years, so I may not be up to date on his friendships. I always tried to respect his privacy as an adult by not prying, and boys aren’t generally as chatty as girls, you know.”

“That’s okay,” Rory said, sliding the pad and pen closer to her. “Anyone you can think of will be helpful.”

Anya got up to retrieve her address book from one of the kitchen drawers, then jotted down names and numbers, pausing to think several times. When she set the pen down and handed the pad to Rory, there were only a handful of people on the list.

“You have the entire Harper family here,” Rory said. “Was Matthew close to them as friends, or did you include them because he works there and spends a lot of time with them?”

Anya frowned. “A little of both, I suppose. Mr. Gil was almost like a father to him. Mrs. Ellen was wonderful too, nothing but kind. With their children, it was more complicated. Matthew had his ups and downs with them over the years, but it was like sibling rivalry.”

“How do you mean?”

“Matthew was sometimes envious of all they had. It’s never easy to be poor,” she said, with a deep sigh, “but it’s even harder to be poor when you live among the wealthy. I know the Harper kids had their issues too. I could tell they were annoyed when their father gave Matthew expensive gifts or a lot of attention.”

“Any one of them in particular?” Rory asked.

“James, maybe, but they all had their moments.”

Rory looked down at the list again. “Who is Frank Leone?”

“Matthew’s best friend since the seventh grade. Back then they were part of a small group of boys who called themselves the nerd herd. They went through a phase where they devoured mystery books. And if they weren’t reading, they were pretending they were detectives working on a case.” Anya smiled, the muscles of her face relaxing as she remembered better times when her son was alive. When she’d believed he always would be. “Maybe that’s why he was trying to solve the sabotage at Harper Farms.” Her smile faded and her shoulders slumped as the weight of her new reality settled over her again.

“Did Matthew stay close to the boys in that group?”

“No, after graduation they went off to different colleges and lost track of one another. Matthew and Frank were the only ones who kept in touch, even though Frank lives in Boston now. It wasn’t like when they were kids, but sometimes Frank takes the train down here or Matthew goes up there for a weekend. I mean, he used to.” Anya’s eyes welled up with tears and she excused herself to grab the box of tissues from the countertop. She brought it back to the table with her, pulled one out and blew her nose.

Rory gave her a moment to compose herself before going on. “Has Matthew had any serious relationships with women that ended badly?”

Anya wagged her head. “He didn’t date that much. There was one girl a couple of years ago. I think her name was Kathleen. Yes, Kathleen Ryan. Nice girl. I actually had hopes it might lead to marriage, but Matthew broke it off after six months or so.”

“Did he say why?”

“He told me she wasn’t the right one. When I asked him why, he just shrugged and said he couldn’t explain it.”

A phone started ringing in the kitchen and elsewhere in the house. Anya rose and glanced at the shelf above the sink where the base unit was sitting. “Excuse me,” she said, rushing out of the kitchen. “I must have left it in the guest room.”

Rory felt a sharp jab in her ribs the second Anya was out of sight. “Hey,” she snapped in a hoarse whisper. “What’s that for?”

“Your attention,” Zeke replied.

“Well you’ve got it,” she said rubbing the sore spot.

“You need to find out if Matthew gave her a letter or a computer disc, somethin’ that was worth trashin’ his apartment for.”

“Hold on to your hat,” she said, “I’m getting to it.”

“I’m not wearin’ a hat if you recall, and you need to get to it now, before there’s another interruption and she decides it’s time to send us on our way.”

“Stop worrying. It’ll be my next question.”

“What’s that dear?” Anya asked, returning with the missing phone. She set it back on its base before resuming her seat across from Rory. “That was Frank Leone,” she said. “He’ll be arriving on the five o’clock train from Boston.” She seemed to draw some strength from the fact. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch what you were saying a moment ago.”

“Just talking to myself,” Rory replied with what she hoped was an embarrassed smile.

“Sometimes that’s the only way to have an intelligent conversation.”

“There are definitely times I feel that way,” Rory agreed, buying herself another stab in the ribs. She jumped, not having expected immediate retribution.

Anya’s brow creased with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, dear? Can I get you some water?”

It took Rory another minute to reassure her that she was fine. She only wished there was a way to give Zeke a dose of his own medicine. Make that an overdose. Payback wasn’t easy when you were dealing with a ghost. “Do you know if your son kept a journal or anything like that, either handwritten or on his computer?” she asked before the marshal felt the need to remind her again.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But he never went in for that sort of thing when he was younger, so I doubt it. The detectives asked me that question too. Is it very important?”

“If Matthew thought he was being targeted, he might have noted it somewhere and that could help us find his killer.”

“I see. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“That’s okay,” Rory said. “You’ve been very helpful already.” There was nothing to be gained by adding more worry beads to her chain. “Has Matthew ever given you anything for safekeeping?”

Anya shook her head. “That’s not something I would forget.”

“You’ve been so gracious to see me today,” Rory said, “but I don’t want to take up any more of your time.” She slipped the pad and pen back into her purse and withdrew one of her business cards. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

Anya walked her to the front door where they said their good-byes. Rory was glad that Matthew’s friend would be there soon. Anya seemed so lost and alone. At the last moment, Rory drew the older woman into a hug. “Please call me even if you just need to talk. I’m a really good listener.”

***

“Nice touch,” Zeke said once they were under way.

Rory took her eyes off the road to glance at him. “What’s that mean?”

“The hug—it was a nice touch. You’re good at knowin’ how to forge a bond with people.”

“That wasn’t a nice touch,” Rory responded, stomping on the brake as they came to a red light. Zeke flew forward, nearly becoming one with the dashboard. “I hugged Anya because I felt close to her and wanted to offer her some comfort. I didn’t do it as part of an agenda, and I’m insulted that you would think that of me.”

“My apologies,” the marshal said, after pulling himself back together. He sounded surprised by her reaction and suitably chastened. “I’ve never been much good at readin’ females.”

“Really?” Rory said. “What a shocker.” The light turned green, and she eased her foot off the brake and onto the accelerator.

“In the future I’d appreciate some warnin’ before you try to catapult me through the windshield.”

“Maybe you should use the seatbelt,” she said tartly, well aware that it wasn’t a possibility.

“We didn’t get much out of talkin’ to Anya,” Zeke murmured, as if testing the waters after several minutes of strained silence.

“No, I guess we didn’t,” Rory said, ready to forgive him. She realized that the marshal, in his own inimitable fashion, had merely been trying to pay her a compliment. Truth be told, she was annoyed with herself. She’d done what she wasn’t supposed to do—she’d lost her objectivity and become emotionally invested in Anya’s tragedy. “Oh no,” she said as she turned onto her block. Helene was standing on the front porch.

“What is this—national ‘visit Rory week’?” Zeke muttered, disappearing before the words were out of his mouth.

Chapter 5

“Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?” Helene asked, her eyes bright with excitement and mischief. It was a look Rory recognized, a look that worried her. They were seated at the kitchen table with steaming mugs of green tea parked in front of them and Hobo snoozing on the floor between them. Most of Helene’s impromptu visits had no itinerary other than an urge to hug her niece. But today was different. Today she had an agenda. Rory had learned the math years ago. Helene plus an agenda usually added up to trouble.

“Now I am wondering,” Rory said, hoping it was something that wouldn’t make her own crazy life more challenging. “Is your troupe working on a new play?” Although her aunt had been bitten by the acting bug late in life, the Way Off Broadway Players and its productions had quickly become the center of her universe.

“Well, it is,” she said, “but that’s the least of my news today.”

What other news could Helene have that would eclipse what was happening in her acting life? “That’s quite a statement. You’ve got my complete attention.”

“Oh no, I want you to guess,” Helene said, squirming in her chair like a little kid in anticipation of a hot-fudge sundae.

I just did, Rory thought. It had been a long day and she wasn’t in the mood for a game of Twenty Questions. But since she couldn’t bring herself to pop her aunt’s balloon, she took another stab at it. “Are you getting married?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you can do better than that. If I’d been dating someone, don’t you think the family would have met him by now? For that matter, wouldn’t I have been jabbering endlessly about the new love of my life?”

Rory had to admit that was true. She spent the next five minutes trying to imagine what other possible news could have pumped the normally vivacious Helene up to the next level of giddy euphoria. “You bought a puppy?” she asked, recalling the time Helene had almost purchased one from the breeder who’d hired Rory to find her missing dog.

Helene shook her head, a sly smile on her lips. “You get one more guess.”

Thank goodness. Rory realized she’d better make it a thoughtful one, or Helene might require her to come up with yet another. “You won the lottery?”

“If I’d won the lottery, would I be sitting here? I would have dragged you and your mom out on a shopping spree.” She paused to sip her tea. “Whatever happened to that imagination of yours?”

It took a sabbatical when it couldn’t compete with the reality of living with a ghost, Rory wanted to say. But she kept her mouth shut for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that neither she nor the marshal wanted their lives turned into a circus sideshow. Helene was notorious for her inability to keep secrets.

“Okay, okay—I can’t stand it a second longer,” she blurted out. “You know how your mom and dad keep talking about putting their house up for sale? Well, I found out today that the town house three doors down from me is on the market, and your folks decided its time to make the move.”

“Wow, that’s . . . that’s great,” Rory said, her head and heart reeling from the unexpected news. Her parents were actually going to sell her childhood home. The place where memories lingered in every alcove and around every corner. The backyard, which was the last resting place of Heidi the hamster. The cherry tree they’d planted out front the year she was born. The living room where the Christmas tree stood every December. The prospect of losing it all flashed in her head like a neon sign in the heart of Las Vegas, too garish to look at for long. She understood that her mom and dad were getting older and it was a lot of house and land for them to keep up. A town house would be much more practical; plus, the sisters, who’d always been extremely close, would become neighbors. On one hand, it made a lot of sense, but on the other . . . they were going to sell her childhood home. She blinked back the tears that were suddenly gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Helene regarded her with a look of concern. “Your words are saying one thing, but your face isn’t playing along.”

To short-circuit any pep talk Helene might have in mind, Rory did her best to produce a smile, but her facial muscles wouldn’t cooperate. The result was a lopsided facsimile that made her look like a dental patient before the Novocain wore off. “I know it’s the best thing for them; I just need a little time to wrap my mind around it, that’s all.”

Helene nodded. “It’s a big step for them too. And I know I’m the only one who’ll benefit from their moving with no down side.” She put her hand over Rory’s on the table. “Having your support will make it a lot easier for your mom. Your dad will be fine as long as she is.”

“And as long as he has his TV, remote and chair,” Rory added with a small but honest smile.

“So, are you ready for my next bulletin?” Helene asked with a renewed twinkle in her eyes.

“There’s more?” Rory wasn’t sure she could stand any more surprises at the moment.

“Don’t worry; you’re going to love it.”

“Okay,” she said, attempting to sound upbeat although she was still processing Helene’s first bombshell. “What is it?”

“It’s not a ‘what’; it’s a ‘who.’”

Uh-oh—Rory knew exactly where this was heading. Helene had fixed her up with half a dozen blind dates in the past, none of whom had been worth a second date. But she listened without interruption to the rest of her aunt’s recital.

“There’s a new member of our troupe by the name of Aaron Davis. Thirty-one, tall, washboard abs, dark hair and eyes, and for his day job—get this—he’s a pediatrician!”

“How do you know he has washboard abs?” Rory asked, almost afraid to find out.

“He was trying on shirts from the costume department—well, it’s not really a department; it’s more like a few racks of clothing they’ve accumulated over the years. Anyway, I happened to wander by.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t happen to take a picture of him while you were at it,” Rory said, thinking the guy was lucky he hadn’t been trying on pants.

Helene leaned down, plucked the smart phone from her purse on the floor, fiddled with it for a minute, then handed it to Rory.

“I should have known,” Rory mumbled, looking at the picture. It had been taken at an angle, featuring a close-up of Helene’s thumb. Even so it was easy to see that the guy in the background was good looking. But then so were the lawyer, the English professor and the tuba virtuoso. If nothing else, meeting them had provided her with a quick course on why appearances were not the most important attribute in a man. “Didn’t he wonder why you were taking his picture?” she asked.

“Oh he wondered all right,” Helene said with a sly smile, “so I showed him a photo of you. It turns out a picture really is worth a thousand words.”

Rory felt the heat rise in her face, even though Dr. Aaron was nowhere in sight. She hadn’t blushed like that since she was in her adolescence, when everything was embarrassing. “Aunt Helene,” she groaned, “you didn’t.”

“Well of course I did. What do you have to lose? If I were a couple of decades younger, I’d be after him myself.”

Rory shook her head, completely at a loss for words.

“Aaron asked me to give you this.” Helene pulled a business card out of her shirt pocket with all the flair of a magician making a dove pop out of a handkerchief. “He wrote his cell-phone number on the back. That’s the best way to reach him.”

Rory accepted the card with zero intentions of calling the poor man. He’d probably been coerced into providing the number anyway. She could picture her aunt grabbing his shirt and holding it hostage until he met her demands.

Helene took a last swallow of her tea, plucked her purse from the floor and stood up. “My work here is done!” she said triumphantly. “I’m off to learn flower arranging.”

Rory had barely closed the door behind her when the lights flickered and Zeke appeared. “What’s new with hurricane Helene?” he asked, falling in step with her as she headed back to the kitchen.

“You’re supposed to let me know when you’re around,” she said, ignoring his question. “A light tap on the shoulder—sound familiar?”

“I wasn’t around until Helene left,” he protested.

Rory took the teacups and spoons off the table and carried them to the sink. “If you weren’t eavesdropping, then how did you know the split second she was gone?”

“I could feel a lower energy wave rising from the house. When there are more people here, I can sense it. It’s like on the TV when they talk about barometric pressure rising and falling—except it’s not about the weather.”

Rory didn’t know whether or not to believe him. Sometimes it seemed as if his explanations were born of necessity rather than honesty. Okay, that wasn’t fair. But since there was no way to Google the truth, she relented and gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Hobo awakened from his nap with a wide, comical yawn. He stood up, stretched his two front legs out in front of him in what looked like a doggie version of yoga, then stretched each rear leg individually before giving his whole body a thorough shaking. He cocked his shaggy head and looked expectantly in Rory’s direction.

“Sorry pal,” she said, “it’s too early for dinner. If anyone’s interested, I’m going upstairs to pay the bills that keep this roof over our heads.”

“What’s this?” Zeke inquired as she was walking out of the kitchen.

Turning back she saw Aaron’s business card floating inches above the marshal’s palm. “Oh that?” she said nonchalantly, “Helene left it.” She’d wanted to dispose of it before the eagle-eyed marshal saw it, but she’d never had the chance. He was irritatingly protective of her, especially when it came to men. The fact that her last boyfriend had been a killer who’d almost added her to his list of victims might have had something to do with it. She understood that she was Zeke’s lifeline, his access to the world beyond the house, and that their PI firm provided purpose to his self-imposed limbo, but he was too fanatical about his concern for her. Not every man in the world was out to murder her.

“What would you be needin’ with a pediatrician?” he asked. “That’s a kid doctor, right?”

“Yes, it’s a kid doctor, and no, I don’t need one.” Why couldn’t he just let it go?

“Then why did Helene have it? And why’d she leave it here?”

Rory didn’t like being interrogated, but if she didn’t hold on to her patience, the discussion was bound to spiral into a full-scale argument. “She probably grabbed it to write a phone number on the back.” Which was true as far as it went.

“But why did she take it out here?” Zeke was like a lion who’d tasted blood and wasn’t about to let go of his prey until his appetite was sated.

“Why does Helene do half the things she does?” Rory said, with a shrug.

“Did she leave it for you?” He was steamrolling through every roadblock she could improvise. If she didn’t want to spend the rest of the day sparring with him, she had no choice but to tell him the truth. With the proper spin of course.

“Listen,” she said briskly. “Helene wanted to set me up with him, but I have absolutely no intentions of ever calling the guy. So, end of story. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” She made it into the dining room this time before he reeled her back in.

“Why did she want you to meet this Aaron fellow?” Zeke was scowling at the card as if he could intimidate it into revealing more about its owner.

“I guess she thinks he’s a good catch.”

Zeke vanished from the kitchen and immediately popped up a foot in front of her. “You mean like a fish?”

“No, but I suppose that’s where the phrase may have come from. These days, it usually means someone who’s got money, looks, personality, the whole package.”

“This Aaron has the whole package?”

“According to Helene. I myself have no idea if he does and no plans to find out.” That should certainly satisfy the marshal. Especially since it was none of his business to begin with. There went her patience slipping a notch. Instead of waiting for his reaction, she continued on her way to the stairs. When she walked into the study, he was already ensconced in the armchair.

“How would you describe me?” he asked her.

This conversation was getting stranger by the minute. “Let’s see,” she said, taking a seat behind the desk. “Tall, slim, strong face with good bone structure and a scruffy moustache. Oh—and dead, of course.”

“My moustache is scruffy?”

“Is that really the thing you’re going to focus on?” she said in exasperation.

“How about my ‘abs’ then?”

“Your—wait a minute,” she interrupted herself. “You were eavesdropping.”

“Based on what?” He sounded all huffy and defensive.

“You don’t even know what ‘abs’ are. If you did, you’d know I’ve never seen yours.”

For a moment, the marshal’s expression reminded her of Hobo’s the time she caught him eating a box of doughnuts he’d grabbed off the table. “I was curious,” he grumbled, as if that was somehow her fault. “Besides, I can’t protect you if you keep me in the dark.”

No way was she going to let him turn things upside down to make her seem guilty. “Are you saying I’d be in danger because I didn’t tell you about something that was never going to happen?” She heard the anger building in her voice, but she couldn’t reach the brake. “And by the way, Marshal, you’re not the only one entitled to secrets. You’ve got a lousy double standard when it comes to that.” She’d had no idea she was going to say those words until they erupted from her mouth. Apparently Eloise’s remark had made a bigger impression on her than she’d originally thought.

“Any secrets I’m hangin’ on to can’t do you any harm,” he said tightly. “Whereas secrets you keep from me stand a good chance of endangerin’ your life.”

So Eloise was right; he did have other secrets. Rory tucked that confession away for future scrutiny and tried to formulate a response that would put him in his place. Nothing came to her. The worst part was that she was going to wake up at two a.m. knowing exactly what she should have said. “I have a right to expect privacy,” she said, relying on her default position. “Do we really need to debate the subject again?”

“No, ma’am,” Zeke said. “I’ll do my best to keep you alive with the limited resources at my disposal.” He gave her a little bow from the waist that oozed with sarcasm.

Rather than repeat for the millionth time that she didn’t need protecting, Rory curtsied back in kind. There was a time when Zeke’s disregard for her rules would have made her consider moving out of the house and severing her connection with him permanently, but that time had passed. She knew it, and by now he knew it too. It would take something far more serious to drive her away.

As if to signal the end of their debate, Hobo started barking ferociously from the vicinity of the front door. Rory knew the dog’s full repertoire and this bark was especially nasty.

Chapter 6

Zeke was waiting by the front door when Rory and Hobo returned from their perimeter check of the house and grounds. “All he wanted to do was chase squirrels,” she said, stopping to set the day’s mail on the half-moon table she’d bought for that purpose. Her cheeks were a wind-whipped pink from the late day cold front plowing through the area. “I checked all the first-floor windows, and there were no signs of anyone trying to break in.” She unhooked the dog’s leash and put it on the table. Freed, Hobo headed off to the kitchen, where they could hear him noisily lapping water from his dish. “No footprints in the flower beds either,” Rory said, shedding her jacket and throwing it over the newel post.

“Ground’s cold and dry, not the best conditions for catchin’ them,” Zeke said, combing his hair back between his fingers. “I’ve been rackin’ my brain to figure out who or what could have sent Hobo into such an all-fired rage.”

Rory had been wondering the same thing without any better success. But since the bills still needed paying, she retrieved the mail, sidled past the marshal and started back up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked as if he’d expected her to stay right there until they’d figured out a reasonable explanation.

“To empty out my checking account,” she said, shuffling through the letters in her hand as she went. She didn’t have time to waste on idle conjecture, a hard concept for the marshal to grasp, since he’d had nowhere to be and no deadline hanging over him for well more than a hundred years.

“In my day,” Zeke said, “if I bought something, I paid hard cash for it on the spot. If I didn’t have the money, I did without. It was a whole lot simpler that way.”

Rory wasn’t listening to him. She’d stopped abruptly on a riser midway up. One of the envelopes had no postage or return address. She turned and plunked herself down on the step as she tore it open. Inside there was a folded sheet of paper with a single line that could have shot out of any printer: “Leave police work to the police.”

Zeke vanished and was instantly seated on the step above her. “What have you got there?” Rory held the paper up for him to see. “Since when do cops send threatenin’ notes?” he asked.

“Technically it’s not threatening. There’s no ultimatum, and there’s no mention of retribution if I don’t comply. And why are you assuming a cop left it?”

“Why would anyone else write a demand like that?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

“Any chance this is Leah’s attempt to keep you out of harm’s way?”

“No way. The note isn’t just telling me to stay out of the murder investigation. It’s telling me to steer clear of all criminal investigations. There’s no way Leah would ever ask that of me. Besides, if Hobo had seen Leah out there, he wouldn’t have been barking like that. He adores her.”

“Whoa there, darlin’. Don’t go makin’ the mistake that the person who left this note is willin’ to stop at advice.”

Rory knew he had a point, but she wasn’t going to close up shop and sit in the house trembling with fear about what might come next. If nearly losing Hobo during the dognapping case hadn’t made her change careers, the note didn’t stand a chance. She stood, and without waiting for the marshal to move aside, she continued on her way up the stairs. Her leg missed clipping his elbow by no more than an inch. She was feeling bulletproof.

“You do know advice isn’t the same thing as a dare, right?” the marshal muttered, following her up the stairs like any ordinary person. Rory chose not to reply. She went into the study and sat down at the computer. The marshal planted himself sidesaddle on the front edge of the desk so he could still see her. “With the limited information we’ve got, it’s my hunch your friend Cirello wrote the note,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “We already know Gil filed a police report about the damage to his climate gizmo; it’s possible Cirello caught the case.”

“I know he’s the obvious one,” Rory said, “but it’s hard for me to imagine him sneaking around to stick a note in my mailbox. He’s too much of an in-your-face kind of guy. If he wanted to say that to me, he would do it in person in that snide tone of his that makes me want to rearrange his features.”

“Not very ladylike,” Zeke observed dryly. In spite of the disapproving tone, his moustache was twitching with a barely suppressed grin. “You sound like a gangster on a TV show.”

Rory brought up her online checking account. “I’m not the least bit interested in sounding ladylike.”

“My apologies—I keep forgettin’ that callin’ a female a ‘lady’ these days is considered an insult.”

Rory filled in the amount she owed the electric company.

“If not Cirello, then who?” he asked.

“The saboteur,” she said, doing the same with her phone and credit-card bills.

“Why would he care? He’d still have the police after him.”

She hit “submit” and logged out of the account. “Because we’ve had a better success rate,” she said, looking up at him with a smirk. “Maybe he, or she, thinks they stand a better chance of getting away with the crime if we’re not involved.”

Zeke clucked his tongue at her. “You’d best watch out there, darlin’; my mama was always remindin’ me that pride goeth before the fall.”

Rory looked up at him with a mixture of amazement and interest. The marshal had never once mentioned his parents—or any other family members, for that matter. “Your mother was a Bible thumper?”

“Not really, but she did have her favorite passages, and she never tired of tryin’ to drum them into my rebellious little head.”

Rory was having a hard time imagining Zeke as a boy. All sorts of questions were bubbling up inside her, but she tamped them down. Talking about his childhood was bound to be a lengthy conversation, one best left for a time when there was less on their schedule.

***

“It was downright neighborly of James to call,” Zeke said from the passenger seat.

“Neighborly?” Rory repeated with surprise. “I think he’s working on some angle, and I’ve been trying to figure out what that is.” They were on their way to interview James Harper. At thirty-four, he was the oldest of Gil and Ellen Harper’s children. According to Gil’s information sheets, James lived with his own young family minutes away in Halesite, the area of Huntington where Nathan Hale had been hanged by the British during the Revolutionary War. As soon as Zeke heard they’d be conducting an interview there, he’d been as jubilant as a schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation. He’d recently taken to researching American history, the perfect hobby for the marshal, who’d played his own small part in the country’s past.

“Everyone has an angle, darlin’,” he said, “even you.”

“But most of us wait for trouble to come knocking. We don’t put out the welcome mat and invite it in for tea.”

“Okay, here are your two possibilities. Either James is innocent and wants to put the speculation behind him, or he’s guilty and thinks he can push us in another direction by bein’ one of the first to talk to us.”

“Thanks, that’s very helpful,” she said dryly.

“I was merely tryin’ to point out that we’re not goin’ to know the answer until we speak to the man. And maybe not even then.”

Rory slowed and pulled onto the shoulder of the road beside a pole with a small bronze plaque at the top.

“Why are we stopping here?” Zeke asked, turning so far to the right, then the left, that the motion more closely resembled an owl than a person.

“Human beings can’t swivel their necks like that,” she reminded him, “unless they happen to be possessed by the devil.” At her suggestion, the marshal had been using television to reeducate himself in the movements of the living. It had worked well enough until he tried out some moves he’d seen on the Syfy and FX channels and wound up traumatizing an elderly couple in the supermarket. After that she’d banned him from watching any show that featured nonhuman life-forms or strange, paranormal beings.

“Right, like in The Exorcist,” he mumbled, still trying to figure out why they were parked on a street of small businesses.

“We’re stopping here because you demanded to see the place where Nathan Hale was hanged,” she told him.

“How far away is it?”

“About two feet to the right.”

Looking even more perplexed, Zeke opened the car door and got out. He was paying so much attention to moving correctly that he almost smacked his head on the bronze marker. Rory winced in anticipation of disaster. An impact with a solid object would scatter his image, and there were too many people around to witness it. Thankfully “almost” didn’t count. The marshal spent a minute reading the sign, then folded himself back into the car with a look of disgust and disappointment.

“That’s it?” he grumbled. “The man was a patriot, a hero, and that tiny sign’s the only tribute to him?”

“I’m sure there are other places where he’s more properly honored,” Rory said off the top of her head. “This sign just marks the place where he died.” The marshal would probably research the topic until he was satisfied, but for now she needed to focus him on their case. He sat sullen and brooding as she pulled back onto the road, no doubt thinking about the significance of his own time on Earth if someone of Nathan Hale’s stature merited such meager recognition . She didn’t try to draw him out about his feelings or try to paint things in a better light. The best medicine for his current distress was immersion in work.

Five minutes later, they reached the home of James Harper and family. It was an impressive new Victorian, one of the many that had been springing up all over the Island for the past twenty years. It had all the typical hallmarks of that style, including a wraparound porch, peaked eaves and a turret or two. But as beautiful as it was, in Rory’s eyes it lacked the character and warmth of the original, nineteenth-century house her uncle Mac had so lovingly restored and left to her.

“Big son of a gun.” Zeke’s voice came from out of the ether. He’d disappeared before Rory turned onto the block so that none of the Harpers or their neighbors had a chance to see him or his vanishing act. Over time, he and Rory had decided it was the most efficient way to conduct interviews. By remaining invisible, he didn’t expend as much of his energy; plus, it eliminated the chance of anything going awry with his appearance. When his energy level dipped, he would start to lose cohesiveness. No matter how creative Rory was, it was next to impossible to explain why the marshal was suddenly missing body parts.

James Harper answered the door looking relaxed and stylish in chinos and a blue open-weave sweater. He greeted Rory with an easy smile and a dry handshake. If he had something to be worried about, it wasn’t apparent to her. He ushered her inside and led the way to a large den that flowed from the gourmet kitchen. Forsaking the traditional layout of a Victorian, the architect had embraced the open concept with twenty-foot ceilings and as few walls as he could manage without the whole structure collapsing. Except for the sound of their footsteps on the hardwood floors, the house was quiet. The children might still be at school, but where was the young Mrs. Harper? Rory knew from the info sheets that she was a full-time mom. Perhaps James had made sure she’d be otherwise occupied. Another good reason for him to be proactive about scheduling the date and time of the interview.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked after inviting her to have a seat.

“No, no thanks,” she said, choosing one of the upholstered armchairs. The seating in the room formed a semicircle around the stone fireplace, where a fire crackled pleasantly.

James settled himself on the couch directly across from her and lounged back against the cushions. “I’m not exactly sure how this works,” he said. “Until Matthew died, I’d never been interviewed by the police or investigated by anyone. It’s all very unnerving.”

Then why aren’t you unnerved? Rory wondered. James appeared to be caught in a paradox of his own making. Why say that you’re agitated when you’re doing such a dandy job of acting calm, cool and collected? Would the real James Harper please stand up?

“I understand,” she replied, her sympathy no more real than his alleged jitters, “but I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” She rummaged in her purse for a minute and came up with a mini legal pad and a pen. “I have to say I was a little surprised when you called. Most people aren’t so eager to be interviewed by an investigator.” She gave him the benign, unreadable smile she’d perfected in the bathroom mirror back when she was a newly minted detective. “You may be the first person ever to contact me before I had a chance to call them.”

James shrugged. “I’m not a procrastinator. If something needs doing, I prefer to get it done.”

Rory ratcheted up her smile by a notch. “Too bad everyone doesn’t share your philosophy; it would make my life a lot easier. Will your wife be joining us?”

“No, she’s busy as usual ferrying the kids around. With three of them, I don’t know how she keeps track of who has to go where. I’d probably end up taking one of the boys to my daughter’s ballet class, tutu and all,” he said with a chuckle.

Rory shook her head as if she shared his amazement about his wife’s organizational skills. “So,” she said, uncapping her pen, “I assume you know why I want to speak to you.”

“My father just told us all to cooperate with you.”

“That’s all he said?”

“Well, no, there was something else, something weird about ferreting out a spy. I should tell you that my father gets these episodes of paranoia from time to time where he’s sure someone’s stealing from him or the company.” He paused for a sigh of forbearance. All that was missing was some eye rolling. “What I mean to say is that we’ve been through this kind of thing before.”

Nice way to throw the onus back on your father, Rory thought. But was it fact or fiction James was trying to feed her? Unless she saw evidence that Gil was in need of psychiatric help, he was the one who’d hired her, and he was the one who had her loyalty. “My understanding is that the climate control system in the greenhouse was damaged, which would mean he’s right this time.”

“That’s strange,” James said, his eyebrows bunching together. “I was away for a few days, and when I spoke to him last night, he never even mentioned it.”

“Were you away on business or vacation?”

“Vacation—a little ski trip with fraternity brothers. We get together a couple of times a year. My wife refuses to go away unless it’s to someplace tropical.”

“Would you mind writing down the names of your fraternity brothers and their phone numbers?” Rory asked, passing the pen and pad to him. “And the name of the hotel where you stayed.” James didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t raise any objections. While he was writing the names and contact information, Rory looked around her. The house was remarkably neat and tidy in spite of the three young children who lived there. It made her think of the perfect family portrait hanging in Gil’s office.

When James finished writing, he handed the pen and pad back to her and glanced at his watch. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

“Oh yes, that’s only one of the reasons your dad hired me,” she said.

He looked surprised and annoyed. “Really—what was the other reason?”

“Were you close to Matthew?” she asked bluntly, trying to see if she could rattle him.

“Wait, wait a minute,” he said, no longer sounding quite so self-possessed. “What exactly are we talking about here?”

“Right now we’re talking about Matthew, if that’s okay.”

“I don’t . . . uh . . . yeah, I guess.” Well, look at that—James rattled nicely in spite of his earlier serenity. He was obviously struggling to keep his wits about him. In the past few minutes his body language had gone from wide open to defensive. Instead of lolling back against the cushions of the couch, he now perched at its edge like someone prepared to flee, his arms crossed against his chest as if to protect himself from whatever else was in her arsenal. If he’d lived in a castle, he would have pulled up the drawbridge and placed a rush order on a dozen starving alligators. “Did my father imply that Matthew was involved in the espionage?” he asked, clearly trying to figure out how far he needed to distance himself from the accountant.

“No, not at all.”

“Then why do you care how close he and I were?”

“Interestingly most victims know their killers. In fact, in many cases they know them very well. So it just makes sense to work from a list of those who were closest to Matthew.”

James’s frown deepened. “My father hired you to find Matthew’s killer?”

“He hired me to investigate his death, but of course the police investigation takes precedence over my little efforts.”

“Hold . . . hold on a second. Let me get this straight,” James said. “Am I. . . I mean, do you consider me a suspect in Matthew’s death?”

“No, of course not,” she replied with a breezy, “don’t be silly” laugh and a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s way too soon for that. I have a lot more investigating to do before I can call anyone a suspect.” He didn’t seem at all comforted by her answer, but then, comforting him had never been her goal. “How would you characterize your relationship with Matthew?” she went on.

James looked as if he wanted to curl himself into a tighter, smaller target. “Well, I’ve known him since we were kids, but we’ve never been very close. Back in school, he hung out with a different group of kids, never went out for sports, spent all his time with his nose in a book.”

“Sort of nerdy?”

“You could say that.”

“And as adults working together at Harper Farms?”

James shook his head. “We never had much to say to one another unless it concerned the business.”

“Were either of your siblings close to him over the years?”

A smile plucked at James’s grim lips, but he promptly shut it down. “He had a bad crush on my sister Lacey back in high school. It was sort of pathetic, really—he was totally out of her league.”

“Can you think of any reason why she or your brother Luke would want to damage the family business? Or maybe get back at your dad for something?”

James rocked back in his seat as if he was experiencing whiplash from the sudden change of topics. “I can’t imagine why they would,” he said after a moment’s pause to regroup. “My dad’s always been generous with our salaries. And he always comes through for us if we need help with an unexpected expense. Of course I don’t know how well Luke or Lacey manage their money,” he tacked on quickly, as if he’d realized that by letting them off the hook, he might be impaling himself on it instead.

Rory was about to push him on the subject to see if he’d reveal specific information about his siblings’ relationships with their father, when she was interrupted by a delicate explosion of something glass-like hitting the floor in the adjacent living room.

James jumped to his feet. “What the . . . ? Would you excuse me a minute?” Without waiting for a reply, he strode off to see what had happened.

Rory followed after him. When she reached the living room, she saw dozens of china fragments littering the hardwood around one of the end tables, the largest no bigger than a quarter. James stooped to pick up the pieces, muttering epithets under his breath.

“I hope that wasn’t something valuable,” Rory said. She had a pretty good idea who was to blame for breaking it.

“It was one of my wife’s Lladrós, and they’re all valuable to her,” he replied in a tone that made it obvious he didn’t share her passion for such things. “But for the life of me, I can’t understand how it fell off the table.”

“Do you have a pet who might have knocked it over?” she asked, or perhaps a resident ghost of your own?

James shook his head. “My wife refuses to have animals around to scratch the floors or drip water when they drink or break her knickknacks, for that matter.” There was a good shot of sarcasm riding his words. “Listen,” he said looking up at Rory, “I’m sorry this interrupted our . . . our talk.”

“It’s okay; things happen,” she said. If it weren’t a completely preposterous idea, she might have wondered if he’d rigged the piece of china to fall as a way to end the interview. But she suspected James dreaded his wife’s reaction to the pulverized figurine more than he’d dreaded the interview. “I have to get going anyway,” Rory added. There was no point in staying now that her offensive had lost its momentum.

***

“What was that all about?” she demanded in the car heading home.

Zeke took his time sifting into the passenger seat as if he was reluctant to be there—a schoolboy sent to the principal’s office for causing trouble in class. “I was browsing around the livin’ room,” he said, once he was there in his entirety, “listenin’ to you render the young Mr. Harper nearly senseless—good job by the way—when I must have bumped the dang table.”

Rory drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. If he’d just stayed put in the den with her, the accident would never have happened, and she would have been able to finish the interview. This wasn’t the first time the marshal had meandered off to check out the homes of the people she was questioning. She hadn’t spoken to him about it yet, because until now it hadn’t caused a problem. She’d assumed his wanderings were a product of boredom. For obvious reasons, he wasn’t as actively involved in the interviewing process as she was. Unfortunately there was no way around that. And discussing it further when her irritation was so close to the surface couldn’t possibly end well for either of them.

“So,” she said once she had her anger safely under lock and key, “what do you think of James?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t want him privy to any secrets I might have, ’cause under the right amount of pressure, the man would break and betray me.”

“But do you think he’s capable of murder?”

“Anyone’s capable of murder, darlin’, if pushed past their limit. The tricky part is figurin’ out exactly where that is.”

Chapter 7

The back door blew open and Hobo bounded inside, followed by the marshal, who threw the door shut with a sweep of energy from his arm. Rory turned from the counter where she’d just poured herself a cup of hot chocolate.

“You boys have fun?” she asked, bending to scratch Hobo’s head. The dog had made a beeline for her as soon as he picked up the scent of food.

“We had us a rousin’ game of fetch,” Zeke said, his cheeks rosy as if from the cold. He was steadily mastering details like that. “I’m sure the mutt could have gone another couple of hours with that shaggy hide of his. Cold weather seems to energize him, but it’s murder on me, if you’ll pardon the expression.” The cold was another immutable limit they hadn’t been able to conquer with time or practice. It sapped the marshal’s energy in much the same way it drained a car’s battery.

Hobo, who was sitting and looking up at her, whined and licked his chops in a canine version of charades. “You can’t have chocolate,” Rory told him, “but you can have something else you love.” She took the can of whipped cream out of the refrigerator, and after crowning her cocoa with it, she squirted a dollop into the palm of her hand for the dog to lap up. Satisfied, he wandered off to take a nap.

Rory leaned back against the counter sipping her cocoa and watching Zeke, who was trying to strike a similar pose against the center island. It was a tricky move, one that was likely to scatter his image unless he made contact with the barest minimum of pressure. After two failed attempts, he tired of reconfiguring himself and settled for occupying one of the chairs, a move he’d mastered back when Mac was still alive. On more than one occasion, the marshal had tried to educate Rory as to the dynamics of spiritual energy with regard to the mass and density of inanimate objects until she’d begged to be left in ignorant bliss.

“You’ll understand it once you depart your body,” he’d said, as if to console her. She’d thanked him, noting that she wasn’t interested enough to learn about it anytime soon.

“I can just about see those wheels spinnin’ in your head,” the marshal observed from his seat at the table.

“I’m toying with the idea of going to Greenbrier Farms next,” she said. “It’s a bold move, but Gil’s pretty sure they’re behind everything, and based on what he told me, I’m inclined to agree.”

“I’ve been givin’ that some thought myself,” Zeke said, “but we can’t just march in there and politely ask them to name the turncoat. And they sure as hell aren’t goin’ to own up to orderin’ the sabotage. Your usual tactics won’t work there. But if we were to come across a disgruntled Greenbrier employee . . .”

“Well, please be sure to let me know when you find one,” Rory said, with a hint of sarcasm, “because that doesn’t sound any more doable than my usual tactics.” Why was he so damn good at putting her on the defensive? For that matter, why did she react so defensively over such a simple comment? Unfortunately being aware that she played a part in the problem didn’t help to soothe her irritation.

“Do you want to hear the rest of my plan?” Zeke asked evenly, “or would you rather assume it won’t work?”

“I’m listening,” she said in a tone that challenged him to impress her.

“We pay Greenbrier a visit, and while you wander around the place, I’ll be doin’ the same—a fly on the wall, listenin’ in on employee conversations. I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Okay,” she said grudgingly, “we’ll give it a try.” She had to admit it wasn’t an entirely awful plan. Every place of business had an employee or two with a bone to pick. “And I can certainly understand why the idea would appeal to you.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s all about eavesdropping.”

***

Ever since the Day of the Pig, if Rory wanted to leave the house, Hobo made it his mission to accompany her. In spite of his size and bulk, he’d managed to squeeze between her and the closing front door on several occasions. Each time she foiled his attempt, his distress was loud and pathetic. His howls of misery followed her until she turned off the block. She assumed he quieted down after a few minutes, but according to Zeke, who had a limited tolerance for such noise, Hobo kept on wailing for a good thirty or forty minutes before exhaustion knocked him out. But as much as her heart ached for the lovelorn dog, she had no intentions of taking him back to see Pigmalion until after the first hard freeze had put an end to the mud issue.

“Stay,” Rory commanded the dog with all the authority she could muster. She and Zeke were about to leave for Greenbrier Farms to test the marshal’s idea. Hobo looked up at her with desperate longing in his eyes. “No,” she said, as if he’d actually asked her a question. “I swear I’m not going where you want to go.” A brief tussle ensued, with feet and paws tripping and trampling each other before she made it out the door alone.

Zeke filled the passenger seat as she backed the car out of the driveway. “That’s one smitten dog,” he said with a chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” Rory chastised him. “His heartbreak may be as real and painful as yours or mine in a similar situation.”

“I don’t know about you, darlin’, but I’ve never once fallen in love with a pig.”

Rory felt the laughter bubbling up in her throat, but she squelched it as a matter of principle. Laughing at someone else’s pain was wrong, even if that someone else was a dog. They spent the rest of the drive going over the less sensitive matter of their Greenbrier plan. Zeke would have forty-five minutes to look around the place for a disgruntled employee. At the end of that time, Rory would return to the car. She’d give him an additional five minutes leeway before she left for home. At that point, the marshal would be snapped back to the house as if he were a rubber band stretched to its limits, then released. The other potential problem was what they’d come to call “the wall.” When he was away from the house, Zeke had never been able to stray more than a hundred yards from her without crashing into it . Regardless of how many times they’d practiced to extend that distance, it hadn’t increased by so much as an inch.

“Remember to come and find me if you hit the wall,” she said once they reached Greenbrier, “and I’ll reposition myself accordingly.”

“Don’t you worry; it’s not somethin’ I’m likely to forget.” It had happened more than a dozen times in the past, and although the marshal could no longer experience physical pain, hitting the wall drained his energy much like a pin popping a balloon. It took anywhere from several hours to a couple of days for him to recover, and it always left him in a sour mood.

After parking, Rory set out to explore the place while Zeke, hidden in thin air, started his search. They’d expected Greenbrier to be pretty empty on a weekday morning in November, and they were right. Rory passed more staff than customers as she roamed the grounds. In the greenhouse, she learned more about ferns than she’d ever wanted to know from a plant specialist who was obviously thrilled to have an audience. Once she’d extricated herself from the fern lady, Rory moved on to the petting farm, where most of the animals were curled up fast asleep. She skirted the corn maze and made her way past the empty corral of the pony ride to a small carousel spinning to the cheerful lilt of calliope music. The lone riders were a mother and her toddler who was so bundled up against the cold that only her nose and blue eyes were visible between the pink knitted hat and scarf. The elderly man operating the ride doffed his cap to Rory and wished her a good morning as she walked by. She hoped the marshal was having better luck, because everyone she’d encountered was smiling and pleasant.

By the time she reached the farm store, her feet were icy cold and the tip of her nose felt as red and raw as Rudolf’s. From what she’d seen of Greenbrier, it was remarkably similar to Harper’s, but why wouldn’t it be? They were in the same business. And there was nothing illegal about it, competition being the cornerstone of the economy. It was unfortunate that industrial espionage went with the territory. Rory had boned up on the subject after taking on the case. Unless patents or copyrights were infringed upon, stealing ideas was difficult to prove. Although destroying your competition’s equipment was a very different story, it still required proof.

Nosing around the produce section, she couldn’t resist buying some Fuji apples, a kirby cucumber, green bananas and, after dickering with her willpower, a pumpkin bread that smelled like heaven right through its plastic packaging. When she checked her watch, the forty-five minutes had nearly expired, so she paid and headed back to the car with her loot, feeling a bit like Benedict Arnold. She tried to tell herself that she was there due to her investigation and that the ten dollars she’d spent wasn’t going to make or break anyone’s business, but her conscience kept nagging at her anyway.

She waited out the extra five minutes in the car as she’d agreed and was reversing out of the parking spot when the marshal popped into the passenger seat. He looked as if he’d just run three blocks to catch a bus. His long hair was disheveled and . . . was that a sheen of sweat on his cheeks? Nice attention to detail.

“When you say five minutes, you give no quarter,” he grunted as though he was out of breath.

Rory decided to take the high road. Rather than start an argument about punctuality, she asked if his quest had been successful.

“Yes, just not in the way I expected,” he said. “I found a few employees in what looked like a break room. You know—refrigerator, sink, microwave and some tables and chairs. But they were chattin’ about their plans for the weekend. Then I came across a couple of men outside, smokin’ and arguin’ about sports of some kind. Now that I think of it, it was probably hockey.”

“But you said you were successful,” Rory said, wishing he’d get on with it. He could be as longwinded as her aunt Helene on a double shot of espresso.

“I’m gettin’ to it,” he muttered. “I’m gettin’ to it. Like I was sayin’, I was moseyin’ around listenin’ for other conversations when I heard someone talkin’ behind a closed door. His voice was so low I couldn’t make out what he was sayin’, so I slipped inside. I found this big guy, stout—put me in mind of a barrel-chested blacksmith I once knew. This fellow was sitting behind a desk with a nameplate that said Roger Underwood.”

“You found your way into Underwood’s office? He’s the man, the head honcho of Greenbrier,” she said with a laugh.

“That’s what I figured when I saw his fancy office and heard him on the phone talkin’ about dumpin’ some bad seed at Harpers.”

“Wow,” she said. Talk about catching a break. “I’m not even sure what that means. I just hope it’ll make more sense to Gil.”

“Like I said—it wasn’t what we came for, but it might help some.”

“It could help a whole lot,” she said. “Gil might be able to stop the next attempt to sabotage his business once we tell him this.” She added an enthusiastic “Way to go!” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the marshal sit up taller in his seat. Maybe she didn’t give him enough credit for his work. Who would have thought that a ghost needed an occasional pat on his virtual back too?

When they arrived home, the marshal went off to recuperate, and Rory went up to the study to make two calls. The first one was to Gil Harper; the second to Leah. She figured it was the least she could do, considering how often her friend had shared information with her.

“I appreciate being kept in the loop,” Leah said, after hearing about Rory’s trip to Greenbrier. “That’s impressive detective work.”

Rory tried to brush off the praise, since it wasn’t rightly hers. Although she’d suggested visiting Harper’s competition, it was the marshal who’d come up with and executed the eavesdropping plan that led him to Underwood’s office. Of course she couldn’t tell Leah that part, and she’d had to further tweak the truth by saying she was the one who’d overheard Underwood’s conversation.

“The only problem is that it’s hard to keep an eye on a place the size of Harpers when we don’t even have a specific date to work with,” Leah said. “Until we know more, Harper really needs to hire some security, especially overnight.”

“I already suggested that to him, and he told me he’d take care of it.”

“Good,” Leah murmured, sounding distracted.

Rory knew that tone. “Okay, what’s on your mind? Come on, spit it out.”

“I know you don’t like it when I get all smothery with worry,” Leah said, “but I really wish you had a partner instead of an empty name you dreamt up to give your firm more pizzazz.”

“I’m fine. Save your worrying for your kids. I’m a big girl now.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a reason why police detectives have partners,” Leah reminded her.

But I do have a partner, Rory was dying to say. A partner who can walk through walls and has the next best thing to a cloak of invisibility. Of course he also has some attitude issues and trouble staying intact—but hey, no one’s perfect. She kept her silence though, since the marshal was as intractable as ever about coming out of his ghostly closet. Not that she could blame him. The more people who knew, the greater the chance one of them would eventually spill the supernatural beans. Rory had no desire to live her life in the center ring of a media circus either. Besides, if everyone knew about Zeke, he’d no longer be as valuable an asset. “Fine, then you come be my partner,” she said, fully aware that Leah couldn’t take her up on the offer.

“You know I can’t do that, unless you were able to match my salary. My kids are growing out of their shoes every other day, and they’re going to run up some steep orthodontia bills in the not-too-distant future. But that still doesn’t buy you a pass from my better-safe-than-sorry speeches.”

“Have you seen BB’s report yet?” Rory asked, almost as much to change the subject as to hear the definitive facts about Matthew’s death.

“Insulin overdose,” Leah said, apparently just as ready to drop the partner discussion for the day. “No alcohol or other medications in his system. BB thinks he was killed in the maze, probably in the area where we found the syringe, and that he tried to go for help, but collapsed in the row where you found him. He was dead five or six hours by then.” Leah’s other line had started to ring, so they said a quick good-bye. Rory remained at her desk wondering why the killer hadn’t injected Matthew some place more private and then dumped his body. Although a corn maze in the middle of the night was hardly Times Square, there was always the chance that a night watchman might hear screams of pain or cries for help. She supposed it would make more sense if the killer was a woman who didn’t have the strength to drag a dead body around. That was being sexist, she scolded herself. There were plenty of bodybuilding women these days and flabby, couch-potato men to make such thinking obsolete. Maybe she was just trying too hard to come up with a theory when she and Zeke had barely scratched the surface of the case.

Chapter 8

The Arizona Territory

1876

“I’m afraid there’s no way to restore these,” Clarence Higgs said, holding up the pants to have a better look at them. He was a small man with delicate features. He wore round spectacles, which were perpetually sliding down his nose. Pushing them back up had become as automatic to him as blinking.

Drummond frowned. “I thought for sure you could fix them up. You’re the best tailor this side of the Mississippi.”

“Even if I was the best tailor this side of heaven, Marshal, to do what you’re asking would require not tailoring skill but magic.” He let the pants fall into a heap on the counter. “Were you trying to fend off an entire army in them?”

“Two bank robbers and their dog,” Drummond said.

“Ah, that accounts for the tooth marks and the rending of the material. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Every man meets his match eventually.”

“Well, I haven’t met mine yet,” Drummond said with a slow grin. “The men are in jail, rethinkin’ their career choice, I daresay. The dog was given over to a fellow who lives a solitary life up in the mountains away from what he calls the debauchery of modern civilization. He has an uncanny rapport with animals. There isn’t a fur-bearing creature on four legs that he can’t rehabilitate.”

“Too bad he can’t do the same for these britches,” Clarence said, with a chortle that sounded as if it came from the belly of a larger man. “But I’ll give you a fair price on a new pair.”

“I’ll be needing them sooner than later.” Drummond said, eyeing the piles of clothing still awaiting the tailor’s attention.

“No problem; I have help now,” Clarence said, his chest puffing up and a big smile splitting his face.

“Who did you find? No one in this town comes even close to your ability.”

“Imported her all the way from St. Louis.”

“Your daughter?” Drummond asked. Clarence had spoken of her often over the years. After his wife died of the cancer, he’d sent their young daughter back east to live with relatives, afraid that he couldn’t work the hours he did and raise her properly.

“She turned twenty-three years of age recently and decided she wanted to get to know her father and experience life in the Wild West. At first I tried to talk her out of it, worried about her safety and all, but her mind was not to be changed. In that way, she takes after her dear mother. So we agreed on a trial period of six months, after which she can return to St. Louis if she finds the lifestyle here to be disagreeable.”

“I’m glad for you, Clarence,” Drummond said. “I’m sure she’s a breath of fresh air in your life.” Small talk not being the marshal’s specialty, he hoped that was an adequate response. He knew few details about the tailor’s life, but Tucson was still a small enough town for most folks to know one another and for gossip to spread with the enthusiasm of fleas at a dog reunion. More than once he’d overheard women cluck their tongues over the fact that Clarence had never moved on with his life and remarried. One of them said she thought he was seeing the new schoolteacher; another heard that he frequented the ladies of the night. Drummond thought they ought to mind their own business, but he had no intention of saying so and incurring their displeasure. Truth be told, he’d rather face a band of marauding Indians with nothing but his fists for weapons.

“Celeste,” Clarence called out. “Celeste, dear girl, I’d like to introduce you to one of our fine customers.” A moment later, a young woman drew aside the curtain that led to the rear of the shop. She was petite like her father, with features as delicate as if they’d been wrought of fine china rather than flesh and bone. Her dark hair fell in gentle waves around her face, and her wide, hazel eyes remained steady under the marshal’s gaze.

“Miss Higgs,” Drummond murmured, tipping his hat to her.

Celeste inclined her head. “Pleased to meet you, . . . Marshal?” she added the title, having noted the tin star on his vest.

“Marshal Drummond,” Clarence said, taking charge of the situation, “I’d like to introduce you to my daughter Celeste. My dear, this is Ezekiel Drummond, federal marshal for these parts and a loyal customer for many years. As a matter of fact, we’re going to be sewing him a new pair of britches.”

“Then I imagine we’ll be seeing you again sometime soon, Marshal,” she said with a warm smile that struck Drummond as genuine. He didn’t like coyness in a woman, and he’d seen more than enough of it in his thirty-four years.

“I look forward to it,” he replied with a nod.

Clarence cleared his throat. “Give me three days,” he said, once they’d both turned to him. “I’ll take the measurements from the old pair if that suits you,” the tailor added. “I can always make adjustments when you come back for them.”

“That’ll do just fine,” Drummond said, finding himself reluctant to leave. But since he had no further business there, he tipped his hat to Celeste again and marched himself out the door.

Chapter 9

“Well, look at you gettin’ all gussied up,” Zeke said, his arrival nearly simultaneous with the blinking of the bathroom lights. Rory was peering into the mirror to apply her mascara. One moment the doorway behind her was empty, and the next it was occupied by the marshal, who was leaning casually against the doorjamb as if he’d been there for some time. Way to give me a warning, she thought, but she chose not to say it out loud. No point in sabotaging the conversation from the start, even though it was bound to implode soon enough.

“You must be steppin’ out tonight,” the marshal went on, “’cause you don’t generally paint your face with that stuff.”

“You just can’t fool a good detective,” she said lightly, dropping the mascara back in her cosmetics kit and taking out the compact with her blush.

“Goin’ to see a movie with Helene and your folks?” he asked when she wasn’t more forthcoming.

“No,” she said, swiping just enough color across her cheeks to give them a natural-looking glow.

“Dinner with Leah?”

She shook her head. “I have a date,” she said, waiting for the inevitable storm to break. Ever since she’d made the mistake of falling for a psychopath, Zeke went straight to DEFCON 1 the moment a new man entered the picture.

The marshal had come to attention in the doorway, a frown lowering over his eyes like dark clouds gathering. “Helene’s actor friend?”

“Yes,” Rory replied, reminding herself that the storm would blow over faster and with less drama if she didn’t get defensive or stoop to sarcasm. She picked up her brush and ran it through her hair, trying to focus on something else, something like . . . how glad she was that she’d made it to the hairdresser before her date. Even though her hair had grown a few inches past her chin, it was so well cut now that it fell right into place with little effort on her part.

“You told me you had no intentions of calling him,” Zeke said, clearly not interested in keeping the discussion short or sweet.

“And I didn’t.” She rummaged through the makeup kit until she found the red lipstick she wanted.

Zeke chewed on her answer for a bit. “So he called you instead of waiting for your call. A real eager beaver, huh? Puts me in mind of that maniac who’s servin’ a double life sentence,” he added with a grumble. “Might have been triple if I hadn’t shown up in time.”

Rory counted silently to ten as she applied the lipstick. Then she kept on going up to twenty, because the twin gremlins of irritation and anger were campaigning to be set free. She turned away from the mirror and pasted a smile on her face. “Excuse me,” she said, waiting for the marshal to move out of the doorway.

“What do you know about the man?” he asked, backing out of her way. It was an awkward maneuver for him, one he hadn’t practiced enough. But rather than add another log to the already crackling fire, Rory let the critique go for now.

“You’ll be happy to know I Googled Aaron, and he’s a well-respected pediatrician. I couldn’t find a single negative thing about him anywhere on the Internet.” She walked past the marshal and headed into her bedroom. Zeke followed, stopping at the threshold.

“I need to change,” she said. “This discussion will have to wait until later.” She closed the door softly so the marshal couldn’t possibly mistake it for slamming. She knew he could easily cross into her room unseen and she’d never be the wiser, but she’d trusted him to abide by her rules for the past year and a half, which he had, for the most part, and she didn’t see any reason to stop trusting him now.

“Later may be too late,” His grim pronouncement came through the door.

“I’ll just have to take my chances,” she called back.

“That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t mean to be.”

“Suit yourself,” he said gruffly.

Rory let him have the last word, even though it rankled. She turned her attention to her closet and immediately wished she’d thought about what to wear sooner, like when she would have had time to buy something new. Seconds short of selecting an outfit by the eenie, meenie, minie, mo method, she grabbed her black jeans and the emerald sweater that always earned her compliments. Thank goodness they’d decided to go someplace casual. It was Aaron’s alternative to just meeting for drinks. He maintained there was something naturally laid-back and relaxing about all-American favorites like burgers, ribs and fries. And it was hard to be anything but yourself when you were eating with your fingers and smearing barbeque sauce all over your mouth and chin. Rory couldn’t have agreed more. This blind date was already off to a far better start than any of the others she’d suffered through in the recent past. She only made one change to his plan. Instead of being picked up, she’d drive herself to the restaurant. It was a nonnegotiable term she insisted on when meeting someone for the first time. Despite Zeke’s opinion, she wasn’t a daredevil without a lick of common sense.

After she was dressed, she opened the bedroom door and was surprised to find the marshal still hanging out in the hallway. Since he’d been silent for the past five minutes, she’d assumed he’d gone off to wherever it was he spent his downtime. Apparently he wasn’t finished arguing with her. Well, she certainly didn’t have to make it easy for him by being a stationary target. She walked right by him and down the stairs to retrieve her handbag from the bench in the entry. He popped up beside her. Avoid eye contact, she told herself as she turned and headed for the door.

“Would you slow down a second,” he demanded, deftly blocking her way.

She made a show of checking her watch. “Look, I’m already late and—”

“You sure can be one exasperatin’ woman,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize for givin’ you a hard time is all.”

Rory was at a complete loss for words. She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. “Oh, I . . . I mean . . . thank you,” she stammered finally.

“You look mighty pretty,” he added before disappearing.

***

Aaron was already at the restaurant holding down a corner booth when Rory arrived. She recognized him immediately. If anything, the shirtless photo Helene had taken didn’t do him justice. When he saw her, he slid out of the booth and held out his hand. “Hi, Rory, glad to meet you,” he said with an easy, boyish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I feel like I already know you.”

Rory placed her hand in his and laughed. “What exactly has my aunt been telling you?”

He didn’t shake her hand, but squeezed it in his for a moment before letting it go. “So far, apparently nothing that isn’t true. She’d make a fine press agent if you ever have the need for one. Please, sit,” he said, resuming his seat.

Rory slid in across from him. While they talked, she tried to figure out why she found him so immediately appealing. His hair and eyes were a standard brown, his nose straight, his mouth not overly generous. But he had a strong jaw and his eyes shone with the intensity of a sharp and playful intellect. She had no trouble picturing him in his office caring for his young patients. And no doubt wowing their moms at the same time.

A waitress appeared to take their drink order and then left them to decide on dinner. When she returned ten minutes later with Rory’s diet soda and Aaron’s beer, they hadn’t yet opened their menus. She gave them another ten with the same result. They’d been so busy learning about each other that food had become an afterthought.

Rory looked to Aaron for help. “What do you recommend?”

“I love the burgers here, but I’ve never been disappointed by the ribs or salmon.”

She turned to the waitress. “Great—I’ll have a cheeseburger.”

“Make that two,” Aaron said. “Just wait till you taste their waffle fries,” he added after the waitress left.

Rory laughed. “How on earth did salmon sneak onto your list of favorites?”

“Hey, I eat healthy a lot more than you might think,” he protested.

She decided to take him at his word. He couldn’t look the way he did by eating a steady diet of red meat and saturated fat. After dinner they spent another hour talking over coffee and two refills. Rory explained why she’d chosen to be a sketch artist and then left to run her uncle’s investigating firm. Aaron told her he came from a family of doctors—his mom, dad and two sisters were all surgeons. He’d been halfway through his internship when he finally questioned his career choice.

“I’d honestly never considered an alternative,” he said. “And it’s not like my folks ever pressured me into the family business. Now don’t get me wrong; I liked medicine well enough, but surgery never drew me the way it did the rest of the clan. It wasn’t until I did a rotation in peds that I knew I’d found my place.”

“No regrets then?”

“Not a one. How about you?”

“Now and then there’s a moment when I wonder if I should have stayed with the police instead of going out on my own.” She didn’t add that the marshal often played a leading role in those moments. “But for the most part, I’m happy with the work.”

Although Aaron hadn’t asked for the check, the waitress came by and dropped it on the table with a polite but firm “Thank you, guys; have a good night.”

“I think they want their table back,” he said once she was out of earshot. “Can I interest you in an after-dinner drink and some decent jazz?”

“That new place in town?” Rory asked. “Sax something?”

“The Sax Spot—but it opened three years ago.”

“I guess I lost track of time. You don’t want to know how long I’ve been meaning to check out the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.”

“You’re on your own with that one,” he said. “I’m not a fan of little, crustless cucumber sandwiches.” They slid out of the booth, and he helped her on with her coat. “So, are you game?”

“Sure,” she said glad to spend more time with him. She thought she saw his eyes brighten at her response.

“Now that you know I don’t have two heads or carry an axe in my back pocket, why don’t you ride into town with me?” he suggested as they walked out into the parking lot. “I’ll drop you back here for your car later.”

“Sounds like a plan.” They chatted about jazz on their way to Aaron’s white SUV in the last row. He started to reach for the passenger door but stopped with his hand in midair. “Damn,” he said, his face gathered in a frown. Rory followed his line of sight to the front tire, which was pancaked on the macadam. “I didn’t drive over anything that could have done this,” he muttered. “And something small like a nail would have caused a slow leak, not this kind of damage.”

“Hey, I’ll take a rain check,” Rory said, although she was disappointed. “You need to take care of the car. What’s a doc without his wheels?”

“Yeah, I’m . . . I’m awfully sorry. Let me at least walk you to your car, then I’ll call for service.” As they turned around, they saw the flattened rear tire at the same moment. “No way,” Aaron said, anger rising in his voice. “This wasn’t accidental; someone did it on purpose.” He bent down to examine first one tire, then the other. “Look here. The tires were slashed with a knife. And not a small one.”

Rory shook her head. “Why would anyone do a thing like that?”

“Who knows,” he said in disgust. “Kids on a dare? An act of revenge that targeted the wrong car?”

Rory opened her mouth to speak, but shut it instantly when she realized she knew the answer. Knew it and couldn’t share it with him. “I’m right over there,” she said pointing to the red Audi convertible and trying to keep her voice even. It was hard to sound natural with anger constricting the muscles of her throat. Make that anger with a hearty splash of guilt, since she was separated by just one degree from the cause of Aaron’s distress.

“Nice car,” Aaron said when they reached the Audi. Rory had to give him credit for trying to end the evening on a pleasant note in spite of the incident. She wouldn’t have succeeded nearly as well under the same circumstances. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sell it,” she said.

“That special?”

“The dearest uncle a girl could have left it to me in his will.” Oops—melancholy wasn’t going to help the situation. What was she thinking?

But Aaron grabbed onto the subject as if it were a lifeline. “I had a terrific uncle who died way too young. He played baseball—almost made it into the majors. He left me his bat and glove. Not quite the same as a sexy car, but every bit as precious to an eleven-year-old boy.”

“Or a thirtysomething pediatrician?” Rory asked.

A grin transformed his face as if she’d flipped a switch somewhere inside him. “I knew right away that I liked you,” he said. When he reached for her hand, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek without a moment’s thought or hesitation.

“Thanks for a lovely night,” she said, opening the car door and sliding behind the steering wheel. Wow—she’d never done anything like that before. She started the engine and opened her window. “Good luck with the tires.”

Aaron leaned down on the window frame and peered in at her. “Thanks. I’m already feeling pretty lucky tonight.” Then he stepped back, and Rory reversed out of the spot. She waved as she drove off. She was feeling pretty lucky herself. But she knew someone else who was not going to fare half as well.

Chapter 10

Rory stormed into the house, threw the door shut behind her and strode into the living room, loudly demanding Zeke’s presence. The only one who appeared was Hobo, his head popping up over the back of the couch, where he’d been sleeping. He regarded her with groggy, unfocused eyes and one ear flap folded inside out.

“Sorry,” Rory said softly, fixing his ear and scratching the ruff around his neck. “I’m not angry with you. Go back to sleep.” She planted a kiss on the short fur of his snout, and he sank back down with a grumble of pleasure.

“I’m waiting,” she said, lowering the volume for Hobo’s sake. The truth was she didn’t have to yell to catch the marshal’s attention. Except for those times when he was off recharging his energy, he was capable of hearing her whether she whispered or screamed. His compliance was largely a question of his mood. “I’m not going to forget about this no matter how long it takes you to show your face,” she added menacingly.

“In that case,” he said, “you might want to turn around.”

Rory did a one-eighty, annoyed that he’d managed to startle her. “What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked in a “this had better be good” tone of voice.

Zeke’s expression was impassive. “If you’re referrin’ to the doc’s car, I did what needed doin’.”

“And why would you think he needed to have his tires slashed?” she demanded. Could this conversation get any more ridiculous?

“He was goin’ to take you down to that bar and get you all liquored up so he could have his way with you,” Zeke said, as if he was amazed she couldn’t see the obvious truth.

“‘Liquored up? Have his way with me?’ Are you kidding?” Rory wanted to throttle him. There; “throttle” was a good, old-fashioned word he might understand. But she had an equally insane desire to laugh. Not just to chuckle but to collapse on the floor with full-blown, hysterical laughter. Unfortunately neither reaction was useful. The marshal was already as dead as he would ever be, and the damage to Aaron’s property was totally indefensible and not in the least bit funny. She stood where she was as stupefied as Hobo when she’d awakened him. If she’d had ear flaps, she was sure they would also have been folded inside out by now.

“I don’t rightly know how it’s possible,” the marshal said, “for you to be smart as a whip in every other way, but still woefully naive when it comes to men.”

“Oh,” she snapped, “like when I agreed to live here with you instead of following my first instinct, which was to run out of this house as fast as my legs could carry me?”

Zeke looked wounded. “I would never have hurt you. From the day I met you, I’ve done everything in my power to protect you.” His voice was hollow, all the smug certainty gone. Rory almost felt sorry for him.

“I appreciate your zeal on my behalf,” she said firmly but without rancor. “The trouble is your nineteenth-century views—they don’t cut it today. Stop trying to take care of me. I’m old enough to deal with the consequences of my actions. Why do you refuse to understand this?” Her voice cracked with frustration.

Zeke raked his hair back with his fingers and sighed. “You’re wrong, darlin’; I do understand. I just don’t agree. But I will do my best not to stick my nose into your personal life anymore.” With that he drifted off like smoke from a smothered candle.

Rory went upstairs and got ready for bed. She should have been happy with her little victory. So why wasn’t she?, she wondered as she wiped off her makeup. In fact, she felt as if she’d swallowed a large stone that was sitting heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of her stomach.

The next morning the marshal showed up while she was drinking her coffee and picking at a small breakfast of cottage cheese and cantaloupe. She hadn’t been hungry enough to tackle cereal or eggs. “You on a diet?” he asked as he joined her at the table.

Rory was surprised to see him. Based on past experience, she’d expected him to sulk for at least a day or two. What’s more, he was speaking to her as if no sharp words had passed between them the night before. She was immediately suspicious of his motives and irritated with herself for assuming he had an agenda other than peaceful coexistence. Until he proved differently, she decided to accept him at face value and put their argument behind her too. “Lack of appetite,” she said, setting down the spoon and pushing away the small bowl with the remnants of her meal.

The marshal looked concerned. “You comin’ down with the flu?”

“I’m fine, really.” She drained the last of her coffee and carried the dishes to the sink. “I thought I’d take that anonymous note over to BB,” she said to change the subject. “Maybe Reggie can lift some prints from it other than mine.”

“I was goin’ to suggest you do just that,” Zeke said. “What did Leah have to say about the note?”

Rory ran some water over the dishes before responding. “I haven’t told her yet.”

Zeke arched one unruly eyebrow at her that spoke volumes.

“She worries about me too much,” Rory said. “Besides, the note wasn’t actually threatening.” Why did she feel compelled to make excuses?

“You’re splitting hairs, darlin’. When someone orders you to do somethin’, it generally means ‘or else,’ even if the words aren’t there.”

“I get it” she bristled, “and I have every intention of telling her after I hear back from BB.”

***

The medical examiner seemed pleased to hear from Rory. “Of course, dear girl, I’d love to get together,” he said. “Where shall we go this time?” He’d been meeting her away from the medical examiner’s office ever since she left the police department. Helping her now meant working outside the parameters of his job. “Ah—I know just the place,” he answered himself. “How do you feel about frozen yogurt and hot cocoa?”

“They’re both basics on my food pyramid,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, there’s a place near my office called Icy Hot that serves both. I’ve been there twice already this week. C’est formidable, maravillosa, truly amazing! One really must try it.”

“By all means,” she agreed, wondering what had happened to the diet BB had been put on by his doctor. When she’d seen him in early spring, he’d been positively morose about the situation. “How’s tomorrow?”

She arrived at Icy Hot within seconds of BB and pulled into the adjoining parking space. There was a cold wind whipping through the bare-limbed trees, so they hugged quickly and made a dash for the door. Or Rory did. BB lumbered after her, looking exactly as he had when she’d last seen him. Inside the shop it was deliciously warm, thanks to a smart entrepreneur who knew it would be hard to sell anything frozen this time of year in a less inviting setting.

“First you make your favorite yogurt concoction,” BB explained, “Then you order a piping hot cocoa to heat up your insides before you leave. It’s quite the perfect combination.” They had their choice of tables, since the only other patron was a middle-aged woman eating her yogurt and reading a newspaper at a small table in the back. “I never come here on weekends,” BB went on. “Bedlam would be too kind a description.” They decided on a table in a snug alcove away from the door, shrugged out of their coats and went off to create their sugar-rich lunches. Rory filled one of the smaller cups with chocolate yogurt and added a crown of strawberries and chopped almonds. When BB joined her back at the table he was holding a large container with four different flavors swirled to the top, all of it bathed in a mantle of hot fudge.

“You must be glad your doctor changed his mind about your diet,” she said when they were both seated.

“He didn’t,” BB replied evenly, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I simply told him I refused to give up everything I love. However, I did agree to include more of the supposedly good stuff; cut back on the bad stuff, which the medical profession changes every other Tuesday; and start an exercise routine.”

“That was okay with the doctor?”

“He wasn’t thrilled, but he couldn’t toss me out of his practice. He’s a personal friend, and I know all his secrets.” BB deposited the contents of the spoon in his mouth, savoring it with a sigh of contentment. “Now then, how can Reggie and I be of assistance? We’ve missed the clandestine activities of our little cabal,” he added with a wink. “Makes us feel like we’re living on the edge.”

Rory opened her purse and withdrew the plastic bag holding the anonymous note. “I’m afraid my prints are all over it,” she said, handing it to the ME. “I had no idea it was evidence until after I read it.”

“Reggie will give it his best shot, as always,” BB said, carefully tucking the bag into his shirt pocket. “I’m sure he still has your prints on file for purposes of exclusion.”

Rory thanked him. If anyone could tease information out of that note, it was Reggie. But even if he was able to lift a good print, there was still the issue of matching it to someone. If the culprit’s prints were not in the system, it would be a dead end.

“How are you spending Thanksgiving this year?” BB inquired, between dripping spoonfuls of yogurt and fudge.

“With my family,” she responded, surprising even herself with the melancholy in her tone.

“Surely it can’t be that awful,” he said, the furrow between his eyes deepening.

“It’ll be the last Thanksgiving we celebrate in that house,” she explained. She’d been too busy to think much about it since Helene broke the news. Whenever her mind began to wander in that direction, she’d reined it in sharply, applied rigid blinders and refocused it on her investigations.

“Ah, I see,” the ME murmured. “I was fifteen when my parents moved us from my childhood home to a grander house in a more prestigious neighborhood in their mad scramble up the social ladder. I’d always had a hard enough time making friends, so uprooting me during high school made me positively miserable. I spent a ridiculous amount of time plotting to run away and live with my best friend’s family. Of course they’d never actually invited me, and my parents would have found me in less than two minutes, but at the time, planning my escape helped me cope.”

Rory nodded, finding it difficult to speak around the substantial lump that had formed in her throat. If BB continued empathizing she’d be awash in tears in no time. “Where are you going for turkey day?” she managed to squeak out in an effort to redirect the conversation.

“The grander house in the more prestigious neighborhood,” he said with a wry smile. “I never would have believed it at the time, but that’s the place I associate with home now. Dear girl, chere amie,” he said, briefly covering Rory’s hand with his, “no se preocupe; we humans are amazingly resilient creatures. Now,” he continued brightly, “on to the most important question of the day. Do you prefer your cocoa with whipped cream or tiny marshmallows?”

***

Although it had been a late lunch, Rory was determined to take care of some errands on her ever-growing “to do” list before heading home. She needed to stop at the office-supply store, the dry cleaners, the post office and the pet store for another fifty pounds of kibble, all of which were located in small strip malls along Jericho Turnpike. Her last stop would be Leah’s favorite boutique at the Walt Whitman Mall to buy a gift for her approaching birthday. Rory was driving west on Jericho to her second stop when she noticed the nondescript gray Ford in her rearview mirror. It was several cars back, and she would never have given it a moment’s thought if the driver wasn’t acting so strangely. Whenever the two or three cars between him and Rory turned off into parking lots or down side streets, he switched lanes, often tucking in behind slower-moving vehicles. Why would a driver do that unless he was worried about being spotted?

The farther west she drove, the heavier the traffic became and she eventually lost sight of him. She told herself he probably hadn’t been following her after all. Just because she’d been followed while investigating other cases didn’t automatically mean it was happening again. She was getting as paranoid as the marshal.

By the time she reached the mall, the sun was low on the horizon. The parking lot was packed with early-bird Christmas shoppers. No surprise, since the stores had been decked out for the holiday season well before Halloween, and the ads in the newspapers were already promising huge savings. Rory didn’t have the patience to wait for a parking space to open up closer to the mall, so she parked in the last row and hoofed it to the entrance, telling herself it was good exercise.

When she made it into the boutique, it was so crowded that she had a hard time seeing all the displays. It reminded her of the movie theaters before stadium seating, where you were constantly trying to see around the heads of the people in front of you. Finding a salesgirl proved to be even more difficult. She’d been in the store for close to an hour by the time she’d selected a chunky, silver bracelet with intricate filigree work that the salesgirl assured her was the height of chic. With her other errands done and the beautifully wrapped gift in hand, she relaxed and took her time strolling to the exit. Along the way, she stopped at several other shops to look at their window displays, hoping to find inspiration for Christmas presents. Peering into the window of a women’s boutique, she caught the reflected image of a man standing behind several other browsers. She’d seen him reflected in the other windows where she’d paused, and a little warning alarm had started flashing in her head. Not a full-on red alert, more like a yellow caution light. She’d already noted the basics about him: midthirties, average height and weight, thinning brown hair and deep-set eyes, straight nose, ears flat against his skull, dressed in dark jeans, sneakers and a black ski jacket. He was an average Joe, the sort of man who could blend into any crowd: the hardest sort for a sketch artist to draw accurately from a witness’s description. But she was the witness here. She turned around and locked eyes with him. He didn’t bolt, turn away or show any signs of someone with mischief or mayhem on his mind. Okay, he was probably just looking for gift ideas like she and dozens of other shoppers were. She really had to rein in her imagination before she wound up in a nicely padded cell. But at the next few windows where she stopped—there he was. She ditched the notion of a psychiatric ward for the increasingly real possibility that he had criminal intentions. She stepped inside the store and pretended to browse through the dresses while she kept an eye on the esplanade. The man took out his phone as if he’d received a call or was making one. Of course that could also be a ploy to keep her under surveillance without appearing to. While she was trying to decide on her next move, he left—walked off as if he didn’t have the slightest interest in her. See, the boogeyman is gone, she chastised herself; get a grip! She waited another couple of minutes, then excused herself from the bubbly salesgirl who’d latched onto her like a barnacle to a boat.

When Rory reached the main bank of doors, she checked the busy concourse around her. The man was nowhere in sight. Satisfied, she joined a knot of shoppers who were leaving the mall. Outside, darkness had come down like a final curtain. After the bright lights and festive ambiance inside the mall, the scattered lights in the parking lot seemed to be losing their battle to hold back the night. Although Rory wasn’t a great fan of the cold, what she hated most about this time of year was the loss of light. She had no idea how the good folk of Alaska made it through six months of nearly total darkness without losing a substantial part of their minds.

She was barely a quarter of the way to her car when she found herself walking alone, the other shoppers having already reached the warmth and safety of their vehicles. She certainly hadn’t thought about that earlier when she’d parked in the hinterlands of the lot. She wasn’t even sure why it was bothering her now. It wasn’t as if she was walking alone at one in the morning in a crime-riddled neighborhood. She was in the crowded lot of a crowded shopping mall at dinnertime. She squared her shoulders in an effort to shake off the uneasiness that was stirring wormlike in her gut. She was a big girl. A big girl with a gun in her purse, which she unzipped just in case. There, that was better. Or it was until she heard the slap of other feet on the macadam. Purposeful feet somewhere behind her. Feet where there hadn’t been anyone seconds ago. She quickened her pace, resisting the urge to turn and look. That would only slow her down as well as hasten a potential showdown. Until she knew differently, she had to assume it was the man from the mall, and by extension, the driver who’d been following her. Mr. Average Joe must have left the mall before she did and hidden among the parked cars to wait for her. She slipped her hand into her purse and grasped the gun, flicking off the safety in one smooth motion. The footsteps were closing the distance. At this rate, he would reach her before she reached her car. If she tried to run, there was a good chance he would overtake her. But she had to do something proactive, and she had to do it now. There were two oversized SUVs parked ahead on her right. At the last second, she dove between them. Gathering herself into a crouch, she positioned herself for a shot. It wasn’t going to be easy. She couldn’t risk hurting an innocent person. She had to be absolutely certain that the owner of those footsteps intended to do her harm. The footsteps stopped. She strained to hear her stalker’s movements over the thudding of her heart and the hum of traffic from the nearby road, but it was as if the predatory darkness was swallowing sound as well as light. Was he moving slowly and silently around the SUVs to come up behind her? She flattened herself against one of the vehicles so that she could look in both directions. Her muscles were bunched with tension, but her mind was focused and clear. When a sudden bleat of raw terror shattered the silence, she jumped, nearly dropping her gun. What was that? Had another shopper come upon the man and been menaced with a weapon? Both hands gripping the pistol, her finger poised over the trigger, Rory peered around the front end of the SUVs and found herself face-to-face with the marshal. Beyond him, she saw her stalker racing away as if he’d just seen a ghost.

Chapter 11

“How did you know?” Rory asked as she drove home. The fear-spiked adrenalin was subsiding, leaving her relieved but rattled.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he replied from the passenger seat. “There I was, back home mindin’ my own business, when I just felt it in my bones, if you’ll excuse the expression, that you were in danger. I tried to ignore it, knowin’ how much you hate bein’ rescued and all, but in the end I decided I’d rather put up with your hot temper than blame myself for not takin’ appropriate action.”

“Thank you,” she said, eyes straight ahead on the road. If he was going to gloat, she didn’t want to see it. Although she could have defended herself, having the marshal there had made short work of it and probably spared her any number of abrasions and contusions, not to mention the possible discharge of her Walther PPK and subsequent police involvment. From the corner of her eye she could tell Zeke was frowning at her.

“Now I’m not complainin’, mind you,” he said, “but what happened to that woman who’s always gripin’ about how she doesn’t need my assistance?”

A smile tugged at Rory’s mouth. What had happened to that woman? “Maybe she doesn’t feel the need to prove herself anymore,” she murmured, coming to that surprising conclusion herself as she said it.

“I see. Sounds to me like she’s done some maturin’ of late.”

“Watch it, cowboy,” she said, “before you talk yourself right out of her unusually good graces.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a sharp salute. “This is one federal marshal who knows when to zip his lip.”

She suppressed a sigh. If only.

“Any idea who that guy was or what he was after?” Zeke asked.

“I’m pretty sure he was following me from the time I left BB, though I thought I’d lost him in traffic. It’s got to be related to the case. Either the sabotage or the murder, or both.”

“Odds are he was followin’ you from the time you left the house. You didn’t happen to get a look at the car’s license plate, did you?”

“No, he made sure there were always other cars between us.” It occurred to her that they might still glean something useful from the incident. “Any chance you could describe the guy well enough for me to sketch him?” she asked. At least then she would know for sure if it was the same man she’d seen inside the mall.

Zeke shook his head. “It was too dark and he was wearin’ one of those ski-mask things.”

“So much for silver linings.”

“You’re one hard woman to please. I’d say walkin’ away from an attacker without a scratch ought to be enough of a silver linin’ for anyone.”

“I meant with regard to our investigations,” she said. “What did you do to scare the guy off like that?” she asked to change the subject.

“I popped up in front of him. Didn’t even have to draw my gun. As you may have noticed, I seem to have that effect on people. Good thin’ I don’t take it personally or I might have developed a serious complex by now.”

An image flashed through Rory’s mind of the marshal lying on a psychiatrist’s couch. “I just hope he doesn’t feel the need to confide in anyone about the experience,” she said, battling a sudden case of the giggles.

“I don’t think we have anythin’ to worry about. If he’s a hired gun, he won’t breathe a word about his little adventure or he can kiss his career good-bye.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Without other witnesses, he’d still be a laughinstock.”

Rory supposed that was true. Besides, she already had enough on her plate without cramming in any extra what-ifs. There was the dual investigation, her parents’ move and her brand-new relationship with Aaron. Since he was the most pleasant topic at hand, she focused her mind on him.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Zeke said when they were nearly home. His voice jarred Rory out of her reverie. She’d actually forgotten the marshal was still beside her in the passenger seat. No way was she going to tell him the truth. Not for a penny, not even for a cool million. Well, maybe for a million.

“I was thinking about Thanksgiving,” she said, grabbing at the first idea that didn’t involve Aaron. “It’ll be the last one before my parents sell the house.” Talking about it brought on a wave of melancholy.

“Based on the faraway expression you had, I was hopin’ for somethin’ a mite more interestin’ .”

“Marshal,” she said, “didn’t anyone ever tell you to be careful what you wish for?”

***

“James is in the clear,” Rory said, setting the phone back in its base. She refilled her coffee mug, hoping the additional caffeine would clear the cobwebs from her head. She’d had trouble falling asleep, and when she finally did, she dreamed of faceless men hunting for her. It didn’t take a doctorate to figure out that her subconscious was trying to deal with her experience at the mall.

“Was that Maxwell?” Zeke asked. He was at the table, practicing to raise a mug to his mouth without spilling its contents or smashing it into his imaginary teeth. Rory didn’t see the need for him to master that particular skill, since he could always decline the offer of a beverage, but the marshal liked to challenge himself.

“Yup, Artie Maxwell makes it unanimous,” she said, leaning back against the counter. “All three of James’s friends, plus the manager of the ski resort, are willing to testify that he was out in Colorado the night Matthew was killed.”

Zeke made the mistake of trying to speak with the cup too close to his mouth and wound up spilling the water in it all over himself. His body wavered, looking like a warped image in a funhouse mirror, but he managed to restore himself in a few seconds.

“Aren’t you glad I told you not to practice with hot coffee?” Rory asked, trying not to laugh. They actually didn’t know what effect hot liquid would have if it spilled on him, but she’d pointed out that it might do more damage than tepid water.

The marshal set the cup down hard on the table. “Why in thunderation am I botherin’ with this nonsense? Nobody’s ever goin’ to hold a knife to my throat and demand that I drink somethin’,” he said, as if he’d come to that profound conclusion on his own. When he saw the smile hitching at Rory’s mouth, he added gruffly, “Shouldn’t you be gettin’ dressed? Or are you plannin’ to interview Lacey in your nightgown and robe?”

James had piqued their curiosity when he’d mentioned Matthew’s high school crush on Lacey. According to Gil’s info sheets, the twenty-seven-year-old woman lived in an expensive townhome in Huntington. Her parents had offered to buy her a house after she graduated from Yale with a double major in communications and philosophy but no discernible employment skills. Lacey had opted for a townhome where she wouldn’t have to deal with outside maintenance. She was, if nothing else, a clever girl. But then, Yale wasn’t known for admitting fools. When other corporations failed to scoop her up, Harper Farms hired her part-time as its public-relations administrator. Rory found it interesting that Gil and Ellen had never seen the need for such a position during all the years of growing their business into the lucrative enterprise it had become. Silver spoons were mighty handy utensils.

When Rory had called Lacey to set up an appointment, they’d settled on a Tuesday, one of her days off, at ten in the morning. Zeke had campaigned to accompany Rory as her partner, instead of going as the invisible fly on the wall. She had no idea why he was so adamant about it this particular time, but since he was generally willing to stay behind the scenes, she decided to grant his request. She should have known what was going on when he showed up that morning wearing chinos with a pale-blue V-necked sweater, his hair stylishly layered and his moustache trimmed into submission. “I copied a page out of one of your magazines,” he said when he saw the quizzical look on her face. “How’d I do?”

Rory was momentarily at a loss for words. He cleaned up really well. Not only did he seem as three-dimensional as any man alive, he was also a lot better looking than most of them. And thanks to his modern grooming, he finally appeared to be in his late thirties, which Rory had had trouble accepting when he was scruffy. “Fine,” she said, “but most people wear coats when it’s this cold out.”

“So,” he shrugged, “folks will think I’m hot-blooded like the men on those romantic book covers.”

“When did you start reading romances?”

“I’ve seen them in the grocery stores and other places we’ve been. Do you intend to spend the mornin’ interviewin’ me or are we goin’ to do some real investigatin’?”

Rory suspected there was more to it, and as soon as Lacey Harper opened the door, she had her answer. In person Lacey was even more dazzling than she looked in the portrait hanging in her father’s office. The marshal must have Googled her and been smitten by her image. Apparently not even death could keep a man from lusting after a beautiful woman. And Lacey played her looks to the hilt. No comfy sweats on her day off. She was clad in skin-tight jeans, knee-high boots with stiletto heels and a pink semi-sheer blouse and camisole. Her hair and makeup were perfect, down to the last detail. She smiled pleasantly at Rory but turned it up to a high beam for Zeke.

“Please come in,” she purred, stepping aside.

The marshal seemed so transfixed by Lacey that Rory worried he might walk right through her in his eagerness to get inside. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief once they’d negotiated the doorway without disaster. They followed Lacey into a great room that included a French country kitchen and a den that had been decorated with as much attention to detail as Lacey herself. To Rory the decor reeked of pink. There were soft pinks, hot pinks and every shade of pink in between. She glanced at Zeke to assess his reaction, but he didn’t seem to have noticed the ambiance. Great; he was going to be completely useless.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Lacey inquired after she’d taken Rory’s coat and deposited it on a pink-and-white-striped chair. If she was wondering why the marshal had no coat, she didn’t mention it. “Coffee, tea . . . ,” her voice trailed off. Either she’d run out of options or couldn’t remember them all. She appeared to be almost as distracted by the marshal as he was by her. Boy was she in for a surprise if she was angling for a date. Rory had to suppress a giggle at the thought. But if Zeke could mesmerize Miss Harper, having him there might be an asset after all.

Lacey told them to make themselves comfortable. Rory chose the mate to the striped chair that held her coat. The marshal sat at one end of the couch, lowering himself gingerly so he didn’t miscalculate and wind up inside the couch instead of on it. Judging by Lacey’s expression, she didn’t notice that he was moving in slow motion. Aside from a leather ottoman the size of a small coffee table, Lacey was obliged to sit on the couch as well. Not that she appeared to mind. “Okay,” she said, looking at Zeke. “I’m at your disposal.” Lacey was apparently not a big fan of subtlety, at least when it came to men.

Rory rummaged in her handbag to retrieve her pad and pen. “How would you describe your relationship with Matthew Dmitriev?” she asked, addressing the back of Lacey’s head.

Lacey dragged her eyes away from Zeke to look in her direction. “We grew up together, so I suppose you could call us friends.”

“You considered yourself his friend?” Rory rephrased her statement.

Lacey shrugged. “I guess.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, I mean yes, I thought of him as a friend. I just don’t know how he thought of me.”

“He never told you?”

“Not really.”

“Your brother seems to think Matthew had a serious crush on you in high school. Weren’t you aware of that?”

“Why look at you, Ms. McCain,” she said, her smile tighter, barely a smile at all, “trying to trip me up.”

Rory produced her own phony smile in response. “An investigator has to sort through discrepancies to get at the truth.”

“Let me give you a hand with that,” she said oozing condescension. “Of course I was aware of Matthew’s feelings for me back in high school. Everyone was. It was actually quite embarrassing. But that’s ancient history. For all of our grown-up airs, we were just kids. If Matthew still carried the proverbial torch for me, it wasn’t shining brightly enough for me to see it.”

“So he never asked you out in the years since high school?”

“I think he understood there was no point.”

“He wasn’t your type?” Zeke interjected, just when Rory had begun to wonder if the blonde bombshell had also rendered him mute.

Lacey turned back to him. “Did you ever meet Matthew?” she asked.

“Can’t say that I did.”

“He could have been the poster child for nerds. Now, Zeke, do I look like someone who would find that appealing?” She reached out to touch his arm as if for emphasis. Rory held her breath. But the marshal pulled his arm away in time, using his fingers to rake back his hair.

“No, ma’am. You surely do not,” he said with an appreciative laugh.

That was close, way too close. Rory would have liked to give him a good smack to jolt him back to reality. Of course that was out of the question on several levels, so she directed her attention back to Lacey. “You don’t seem at all shocked by your friend’s death,” she said, to get things back on track.

Lacey swiveled around to her again. “Actually I was at first. I mean who would even care enough to bother killing the guy?” She sounded positively incredulous.

Rory was taken aback by the comment, not only because of its cruelty but also because she suspected it was the most genuine feeling she’d heard Lacey express. Or had she said it precisely because she knew it would ring true and sound like a perfect defense? Rory decided to go with the latter. Miss Harper might just be the sharpest knife in the family drawer, in which case anything she said ought to be taken with a shaker full of salt. “Please don’t take offense at my next question,” Rory went on, “I have to ask it of everyone. Where were you the night Matthew was killed?”

“Visiting a guy friend in D.C.,” she said dismissively. “He’ll vouch for me.”

Rory couldn’t help thinking that Zeke would vouch for her too, even if it meant perjuring himself for eternity. “I’ll need his name and contact number.” She tore a page out of her notepad and passed it, along with her pen, to Lacey.

“The police already talked to him,” she said as she jotted down the information. “They seemed satisfied with what he told them.” Her tone made it clear that she considered Rory a petty annoyance with no official clout and that she was only talking to her as a favor to her father. She handed the paper and pen back to Rory.

“When was the last time you saw Matthew?” Zeke asked, after catching Rory glaring at him.

“Probably the day he left on vacation.” She thought about it for a moment. “Yes, my father was taking him to the airport. I didn’t see him after that. Is this going to take much longer? I’d like to get to the gym before lunch. It takes a lot of work to keep one’s body in the right kind of shape,” she added, with a sly smile at Zeke. Somehow the marshal managed to be exempt from her disdain.

“Not much longer,” Rory said, struggling to maintain a professional demeanor. Miss Harper might know how to enthrall men, but Rory was willing to bet she had few, if any, women friends. “To your knowledge, did Matthew ever have trouble with anyone at Harper Farms?”

“Not that I saw, but I’m not there all the time. And to be honest I didn’t pay much attention to him when I was there. You’d be better off asking my dad or the department managers.”

“What do you think of his mother?”

“Anya? She’s a nice woman, the type who works hard and is content to remain in the background. She adored her son, but then most mothers love their offspring, even after they turn out to be axe murderers.”

What a strange thing for her to say. “Did Matthew ever show any tendency to be moving in that direction?”

Lacey laughed. “No, Ms. McCain. I was just indulging in some hyperbole.”

“Then I think we’re done,” Rory said. She tossed the pad and pen back into her purse, thinking that she’d really like to smack the arrogant expression off Lacey’s lovely face. Rising, she plucked her coat from the other chair. Lacey and Zeke got to their feet too. “Thanks for your cooperation,” Rory said, choking back the sarcasm that was trying to hitch a ride on her words.

“Please give us a call if you think of anything else that could be useful,” Zeke said as Lacey led them to the front door. He was lagging behind Rory, and when they reached the entry, he stopped directly behind her.

“I won’t hesitate for a second,” Lacey assured him. She extended her hand to Rory for a brief, businesslike shake, but Zeke was out of range. She would have had to knock Rory aside to reach him. Well played, Rory thought, relieved that he’d remembered his unique disabilities when interacting with the living. He dipped his head at Lacey in his charming Old West fashion. She looked a bit disappointed but compensated with a dazzling smile that somehow managed to leapfrog over Rory and land directly on her intended target. The marshal had an extra bounce to his step on his way back to the car. But seconds after they drove off, he disappeared from the passenger seat without so much as a good-bye.

Chapter 12

When Rory walked into the living room, she found Hobo lying upside down on the couch, the fur on his belly riffling in the breeze. Breeze? She glanced at the windows, which she’d locked shut at the first cold snap of the season. They were all still closed. Then she realized what was happening. Zeke was giving Hobo belly scratches with carefully calibrated fingers of energy. A moment later he blinked into view on the couch beside the dog.

“Why did you run off?” she asked, shedding her coat as she sank into the armchair the marshal usually occupied.

“Thought I’d conserve my energy. I suspect I’m goin’ to be needin’ it the way this investigation is goin’.”

Or you were hoping I’d have time to forget I was annoyed with you. An old argument that wasn’t worth resurrecting. “So, what was your take on Lacey Harper?” she asked amiably, proud of herself for rising above her pique.

“I don’t think she did it,” he replied.

“And you’re basing that on . . . ?”

“Murder is messy business, and based on how meticulous she is about her home and her person, I don’t believe she’s got the character for it.”

“In other words, you don’t think a killer can be beautiful and tidy?”

“That’s not what I said, darlin’. Don’t go twistin’ my words around. Are you sayin’ you think she killed him?”

“I think she’s as good a suspect as anyone else, and she certainly didn’t say anything today to change my mind. In fact, I found her callousness about Matthew particularly troubling. I’m surprised you didn’t.”

“It seems to me that a guilty person would make an effort to sound bereaved, while an innocent person might be naive enough to admit her true feelin’s. There’s no crime in dislikin’ someone.”

“Naive?” Rory repeated. She knew her voice had an edge to it. “Miss Harper is anything but naive. She’s a conniving, conceited little—” She stopped herself before the epithet cleared her lips. So much for her determination not to lose her cool during this discussion. “I’m sorry,” she said after taking a deep breath, “but I’m completely baffled by the way you’ve chosen to overlook what she said and how she said it simply because she came on to you.”

Zeke’s brow knotted. “‘Came on to me?’ What is that?”

“She flirted with you. I assume you know what that means?”

“Course I do.”

“Did you notice that while she was batting her eyelashes at you, she was treating me like a pesky gnat?” The phone rang before the marshal could respond. Rory thought she heard him breathe a sigh of relief when she jumped up to answer it. The closest extension was in the kitchen. She’d been meaning to buy another one for the living room, but there were always half a dozen more important errands to see to.

The caller was her mother wanting to discuss Thanksgiving. Rory decided her dialogue with the marshal could probably benefit from the perspective of time anyway. They were miles apart in their reactions, and they weren’t going to resolve the question of Lacey’s guilt or innocence no matter how long they spent dissecting the interview. Eventually, when the investigation was complete, one of them would prove to have been right about her. Rory was confident she would be vindicated, and she didn’t mind biding her time until that day.

“Turkey, stuffing, candied sweets, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, creamed spinach and those little rolls you like so much,” her mother said, ticking off the menu items. “Am I forgetting anything?”

Rory laughed. “Stomach pumps?”

Arlene went on as if she hadn’t heard the remark. She’d never subscribed to the belief that less was more, especially on the holidays. “Oh, and dessert of course. I’m thinking pumpkin pie, apple pie with ice cream and something with chocolate.”

“Mom, there are only going to be the four of us. Five if you count Hobo. I know he eats a lot, but you’re going to have leftovers until Easter.”

“Actually we’re going to be seven with Hobo,” she said. “Cousin George will be down from Syracuse. He’s flying to London the next day. And Helene asked me to invite Dr. Aaron. He’s new in town and doesn’t have family nearby. But I guess you already know that since she said you and he met for dinner.”

Oops. Rory realized she should have mentioned the date. Her mother shouldn’t have to hear about things secondhand from Helene, no matter how close the sisters were. “Yes, we met. I’m sorry I didn’t call and tell you about it,” she said. “I’ve been so busy with work and all. . . .”

“Details please,” her mother said, gracefully letting her off the hook.

Rory was still trying to corral her wits after hearing about the extended guest list. Cousin George was no big deal. He flew in and out of their lives whenever he was on his way somewhere else. It had been hard for Rory to develop a true sense of him from these abbreviated visits. In fact, his name only summoned up images of a man with his mouth full of food, since her mother insisted on preparing an elaborate spread, even if George was just stopping by for fifteen minutes. Family affected her that way. But Aaron was the shocker. Rory was going to have to talk to her aunt about respecting boundaries. Although it was a generous and very “Helene” thing to do, having Aaron share Thanksgiving with them was definitely rushing things. She didn’t want him to think she was behind the invitation, fast-tracking him to a more serious stage in their relationship. Meeting the family and sharing holiday celebrations were supposed to happen eventually, not after one casual date.

“Are you there, Rory?” her mother asked when the silence stretched on for too long.

“To be honest, there’s not much to say. We had dinner and talked. He seems like a nice guy. But you’ll have a chance to judge for yourself in a couple of weeks.”

“Right, that reminds me—any chance you can stop by before then?”

“Why, what’s up?” Her mother rarely made such requests, especially when she knew Rory was busy with a big case.

“I wanted to show you what I found when I was cleaning out the attic. Tell you what—come by for a quick lunch one day, half an hour tops. I’ll make grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.”

“I haven’t had that in ages,” Rory said, the thought of it stirring up a kettleful of warm memories. It had been her favorite lunch when she was a child. She decided there was no good reason why she couldn’t carve thirty minutes out of her day, even if the attic treasure was only an excuse her mother was using because she missed her daughter’s company. “How’s tomorrow at noon?” she asked.

“Great. I’ll have the soup heating and the sandwiches ready to go into the skillet the moment you walk in. Do you still like it on rye bread with a little butter in the pan so it gets all crunchy on the outside?” Her mother sounded like a kid who’d just been promised a pony for Christmas.

“Is there any other way?” When Rory hung up her feelings were all in a muddle. Although she was looking forward to lunch the next day, she felt guilty for not making time to see her parents more often. After all, they only lived fifteen minutes away. Thanksgiving was also weighing on her mind now that Aaron would be there.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Zeke asked popping up a few feet away.

“No,” she said, with a weak attempt at laughter, “just my mother in full Thanksgiving mode.”

“I’ve never attended a modern Thanksgiving,” he said. “I believe I’ll tag along.”

Rory’s heart dropped to somewhere around her ankles. Leave it to the marshal to pick this Thanksgiving to indulge his curiosity. “But won’t it be hard for you to see all that food and not be able to enjoy it?” she asked, hoping to put a kibosh on his plans.

“It might have troubled me back a hundred years ago, give or take a few. Now I’m only interested in observin’ the event, gettin’ the feel of what it’s like to be part of a family’s festivities again.”

“Even though you’ll have to stay out of sight?” She was running out of ammunition.

“Don’t worry. I know the cans and can’ts.”

She was down to the last round in her clip. “But you’ll have to behave—I mean not even one tiny misstep. This is my last Thanksgiving in that house, and I intend to be left with good memories. I need to be left with good memories.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he assured her.

Rory would have liked to take him at his word, but she couldn’t—he didn’t know that Aaron would be there too. Maybe it would be better to say something now instead of springing it on him at the last minute. That way he’d have time to get over his objections or choose not to come at all. “I just found out that we’re having a couple of unexpected guests this year,” she said. “Cousin George will be there, and apparently Helene invited your favorite pediatrician.” She saw the marshal’s jaw harden and swore she heard his teeth grind against one another. His mastery of sound effects was increasingly impressive, but she could have done without them at that moment.

“Your family lookin’ to marry you off?” he asked tightly.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re not from the Dark Ages?” she teased. “Okay, look,” she went on when it was clear he couldn’t be jollied out of his mood. “The poor man has nowhere to spend the holiday, so my aunt took him under her wing. There’s no other agenda involved. And for the life of me, I don’t understand what you have against Aaron, since you don’t even know him.” She was trying to keep the growing exasperation out of her tone, but some of it seeped through anyway. “Bottom line, if you can’t handle being around him, you can always stay home.”

“I can handle anythin’ you throw at me,” Zeke groused.

“Do I have your word that you won’t slash his tires again or do anything else I might consider unacceptable?”

“I’ve already given you my word about behavin’, and nothin’s changed in that regard.”

“Good,” she smiled. “It’s all settled then.”

“I suppose it is,” he said, sounding composed but far from happy. “I believe I could do with some rest.” His image flickered for a moment before dissolving. Rory sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, thinking she could do with some rest too. From everyone. She was still sitting there, with her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, when Hobo ambled in from the living room. He sniffed at his empty food dish; then he came to sit down next to her, plopping one big paw on her thigh and mewling a plaintive request for dinner.

Rory glanced at her watch. “Oh Hobo,” she said, pushing back from the table. “I didn’t realize what time it was. Your dinner will be ready in two minutes.” She was actually glad to have a mundane task to occupy her thoughts. As she went about adding water to his kibble and cutting up the chicken, it occurred to her that dogs were a lot easier to live with than men, alive or dead.

Chapter 13

Within ten minutes of Rory’s arrival, she and her parents were seated around the kitchen table eating hot tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches. Her mother had also bought Rory’s favorite potato chips and baked dense, chewy brownies for dessert. Hobo, who’d initially thought he was going to see his piggy love, managed to get over his disappointment in time to beg for food. He was stationed close to her father, having learned early on that Dan was the most easily suckered by a furry face with hungry eyes, as well as the most apt to drop bits of food during a meal.

“Almost worth a heart attack,” her father declared, sharing the last bite of his sandwich with Hobo.

“Take it easy on the chips with your high-blood pressure,” Arlene chided him. “You’re not getting out of helping me with this move by landing in the hospital.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “sweet talk like that always leaves me weak in the knees. Who says there’s no romance left after thirty-two years of marriage?”

Once they’d finished their brownies, Rory helped her mother clear the table, while her father headed off to the den to read the newspaper and watch TV. Hobo trailed after him, no doubt ready for a nap.

“Leave the dishes in the sink,” Arlene said. “I’ll throw them into the dishwasher later. I want to show you the family heirloom I found.” Intrigued, Rory followed her into the study and sat on the tufted sofa that had been her favorite place to read growing up. The study was the smallest room in the house but also the coziest. Before she was born, her father had built bookcases across two of its walls, but they’d long since proven inadequate for the number of volumes the family amassed. As a result, there were books stored in every room. Electronic readers had come along just in time to keep the house from bursting at the seams with the surplus.

Arlene pulled a small photo album off the shelf where she’d tucked it after bringing it down from the attic. “I don’t know if you remember your grandmother Betty,” she said, sitting beside her daughter. “You were barely five years old when she died.”

“A short, chubby woman with white hair and powdered cheeks who smelled like a flower garden?” Rory hadn’t thought about her grandmother in years, but the memory had popped up readily at the mention of her name.

“That was definitely my mom,” Arlene said, clearly pleased that Rory remembered her. “Anyway, after she died, Helene and I had to dismantle her house. It was a huge job. Every closet and drawer was stuffed with papers she’d apparently been afraid to throw out. She must have kept fifty years of tax returns alone. There were also more than ten years’ worth of TV Guide magazines. We could never figure out why she’d held on to those. Of course if September third, 1982, ever came around again, she would have been one up on the rest of us,” she added with a laugh. “By the time we’d finished going through all the papers, Helene and I had had enough. We just boxed all the other stuff like photos and mementos and put them up in our attic to go over at our leisure. Then we promptly forgot about them. I found them when I started throwing out stuff for our move. I’m determined not to leave you the same kind of mess to deal with when we shuffle off.”

“So this album was Grandma Betty’s?” Rory asked, to derail any further discussion of the “shuffling off.” It was too hard, too weird to imagine a world in which her parents no longer existed. “It sure looks a whole lot older than that.” Threads dangled from the spine, where the binding was coming apart, and the burgundy material on the cover was faded and worn.

“I’m sure it is,” Arlene agreed. “Once we’re settled in the new place, I’ll have time to do some research on it, maybe even use one of those genealogy programs. You’ll see by the clothing that some of the photographs must go all the way back to the nineteenth century. Unfortunately a number of them have faded to near oblivion, because they weren’t properly preserved. I wonder if my mother knew the album was stored away in her attic.”

“But she must have brought it there with her when she moved in,” Rory pointed out.

“That’s just it.” Arlene opened the album and set it gingerly on her daughter’s lap. “The house originally belonged to my great-grandmother. Mom and her parents wound up living there with her. Eventually the house was passed down to her parents and then to her. So my mother spent her entire life there. There’s a real possibility she never saw the album or even knew it existed.”

Rory took her time poring over the sepia images as if she could will them back to clarity, but a number were difficult to make out, some downright impossible. In the best of them, the people were formally dressed, rigidly posed and unsmiling.

“Don’t they look terribly somber?” Arlene said. “I guess back then having your picture taken was an important event, and no one wanted to appear frivolous.”

“Or maybe no one back then had thought of asking them to say ‘cheese,’” Rory said, with a grin.

Arlene burst into laughter. “You and my sister—the same wacky sense of humor.”

As Rory made her way through the album, she could see how the quality of the pictures had improved as the science of photography advanced. It appeared that the family only had one or two pictures taken a year. Her family, she had to keep reminding herself. And there were some years with no pictures at all to mark their passage. What had happened during those times? War, financial problems, illness? “You know,” she said, closing the album and handing it to her mother, “they have amazing techniques for restoring photos today. I bet a lot of these could be enhanced. Even the worst ones might be salvageable.”

“I thought about that too,” Arlene said, putting the album back on the bookshelf, “but it’ll have to wait until we’re moved in and unpacked.”

Rory would have volunteered to tackle the job herself if there was some way to squeeze a few extra hours out of a day. Until someone came up with an app for that, she needed to devote her time to her livelihood. The odds were against Matthew’s killer or the saboteur showing up at police headquarters with a bad conscience and a confession on his or her lips.

***

Rory had just walked in the front door when her phone started ringing. She turned off the alarm, threw her purse on the bench beside the stairs and grabbed the handset in the kitchen just before the call went to voice mail. She could really use an extension on her new table in the entry too.

“You sound out of breath,” BB said instead of hello. “Did I catch you after a marathon?”

“No, I just got home from lunch with my folks, but a marathon sounds like a much more interesting story.”

“You’re quite interesting enough for me,” he assured her. “Speaking of which, Reggie stopped by my office a few minutes ago.”

“And?”

“Well, sorry to say the only prints on the note were yours.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said, feeling a bit disheartened about it anyway.

“However,” BB went on, “he did find a tiny hair lodged in the crease of the note.”

“Let me guess—it was red like mine.”

“As a matter of fact it was blonde,” he said, taking his time and obviously enjoying the drama of his revelation.

“Blonde?” she repeated.

“Yes, but dyed blonde. Do you think that might help at all?”

“It may,” she murmured, trying to absorb this unexpected but welcome news. As Zeke often said, “You never knew which tiny bit of information would break a case wide open.” Unfortunately every member of the Harper family was one shade of blonde or another. And given that most adults have lost the glowing blonde of their youth, there was a good chance the Harpers, like so many others, had turned to science to restore it. She’d have to check the photos in the info sheets from Gil, but to the best of her recollection, none of Harper Farms’ managers were blonde.

“Do you think Reggie could match the DNA in the hair to samples I collect?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” BB said. “He told me the DNA was compromised and he didn’t hold out much hope that it could be used as evidence.”

Rory felt like she was on a roller coaster—soaring one minute and diving the next. It was a ride she’d never enjoyed. “I understand,” she said, trying not to sound too deflated. Little as it was, it was more information than she’d expected. “Last question,” she said. “From what you just told me, it’s not hard to determine if hair is dyed, right?”

“Correct,” BB replied, already a step ahead of her. “Drop off whatever samples you obtain and Reggie will test them for you.”

“Please thank Reggie for me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate his help as well as yours.”

“De nada, Rory girl, pas de quoi. You are most welcome.”

***

“What brought about this sudden wave of domesticity?” Rory asked. She was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar in Leah’s kitchen watching her friend mix the ingredients for pumpkin pie.

“It’s Gary’s favorite; he’s always talking about the one his mother used to make for Thanksgiving.”

“In other words, he guilted you into it,” Rory said, stirring more sweetener into her coffee. Leah’s coffee was always too weak or too strong. She seemed incapable of making it “just right.”

“He’s racked up a lot of brownie points lately, so good wife that I am, I called my mom-in-law for her recipe. She swears it’s foolproof, but with my dismal record in the preparation of food, I figured I’d better make a trial attempt before the big day.” She started laughing. “Do you remember the brownies I made for the Christmas party your first year at headquarters?”

“I broke a tooth on one of those bricks,” Rory said, dissolving into laughter at the memory.

“Well, no one told me they’re supposed to come out of the oven when they’re still soft in the center,” she said indignantly.

“If you’d bothered to read the directions on the back of the box, you would have known.”

“Picky, picky,” Leah giggled, pouring the contents of the mixing bowl into the frozen pie crust.

“I’m surprised your mother-in-law uses a premade crust.”

“Shhh,” she said, even though they were alone in the house. “She doesn’t. But then I’ll bet she’s not as good with a gun as I am.”

“Say no more.”

Leah popped the pie into the oven and joined Rory at the breakfast bar with her own mug of coffee. “This is awful,” she said, grimacing after the first sip. “Why are you drinking it?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and you already feel like you’re missing the cooking gene.”

Leah snatched the mug away from her and poured all the coffee down the drain. “How about tea?” she asked. “I don’t think there’s any way I can ruin that.”

“Tea would be lovely.”

Leah set the kettle on the stove and dropped tea bags into two clean cups. “Now then, what have you come to confess?” she asked as casually as if she’d said, “Do you take milk or lemon?”

“What makes you think I have something to confess?” Rory said indignantly, although she knew it was pointless to evade the question. Her friend could sniff out ulterior motives better than a hound dog could sniff out foxes and moonshine.

“Just trolling. You do have an uncanny knack for getting into predicaments.”

Rory had been trying to decide how much to tell Leah about the note and the man following her. Withholding information from the police was a punishable offense, but she did have the right to pursue her own investigations as long as she didn’t get in their way. It sounded simple enough, but there were a lot of gray areas, and lately she’d been finding every one of them. In the end, Rory opted not to tell her how close she’d come to being attacked. There was no new information she could pass along as a result of the incident, no license plate to run and no description of the would-be assailant, since she couldn’t be sure it was the same man she’d seen in the mall. There was nothing Leah could do about it now but worry. The note was a different matter. It might have been written by the killer, so she didn’t feel right about keeping it from her friend. As much as Rory enjoyed solving a case and racking up the free publicity it garnered her, she wished it didn’t have to come at Leah’s expense. “There is something I wanted to mention while I’m here,” she admitted finally. “I don’t think it counts as a predicament, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

“I’m listening.”

“I received an anonymous note.”

“Of course you did,” Leah said, shaking her head. “I’ve been a cop for eight years, and I’ve never received a single anonymous note in all that time. And you’ve already gotten . . . ,” she paused as if she was trying to do a quick tally, “. . . how many? I should probably be insulted.”

“I had the note checked out,” Rory went on, choosing to cut to the chase, “but there were no usable prints. There was a tiny piece of dyed blonde hair on it though.”

“DNA?” Leah asked hopefully

Rory shook her head. “Damaged.”

“What did the note say?”

“That I should leave police work to the police.”

“Sounds like it came from a weary guardian angel,” Leah said with a wry laugh.

“Or someone who knows my record for solving murder cases and figures they stand a better chance if I’m not on their trail.”

“Which also implies that the police are less of a threat to the killer—now I am insulted.”

“Hey, we both know I’ve just had a run of beginner’s luck.”

The kettle had started whistling, so Leah took a moment to fill the mugs and carry them back to the breakfast bar. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a little help on the side. Other than BB and Reggie,” she added archly.

Rory set her tea down so hard it sloshed over the sides of the mug. She was mortified, not only for keeping their little arrangement a secret from her best friend but also for putting BB and Reggie at risk of losing their jobs. Of course she didn’t believe Leah would report them, but failure to report the unsanctioned use of government property made her friend an accomplice to their sub rosa activities. A fine mess she’d created. “How did you find out?”

Leah emptied a packet of sweetener into her tea. “Give me some credit. I’m a detective after all. And you can wipe that worry off your face; the secret is safe with me. What I meant by someone coaching you was someone like Mac if he were still alive. He had a pretty impressive track record himself.”

Rory sipped her tea and shrugged. “I guess I inherited the ability.” Which was true to a degree. She had inherited the marshal from her uncle. Sooner or later though, she was going to have to tell Leah about her not-so-silent partner. But for the moment, “later” still seemed like the better option.

Chapter 14

“I’ve got an easy solution for you,” Zeke said, sitting across the kitchen table from Rory while she drank her morning coffee. He was wearing his marshal duds and looking as if he hadn’t put a comb to his hair since their interview with Lacey. It was only a small detail of his manifestation, an oversight likely caused by a low energy level, but that morning it irked her.

“Let’s hear it,” she said, yanking her focus away from his appearance.

“If you need hair samples from every member of the Harper family, I can get them for you.” His face split with a self-satisfied grin. “I should be doin’ more to pull my weight around here anyhow.”

Rory opened her mouth to list every reason his plan wouldn’t work, but she couldn’t come up with a single one. She’d considered asking Helene to help her as she had in the dognapping case, but then she’d only needed one suspect’s hair. This time she needed five samples, including Gil’s. According to the marshal, even the person reporting the crime could turn out to be the culprit. She would have had to drag her aunt along to each of their homes to distract them while she made a beeline for their bathrooms to steal hair from their brushes. Using the same scenario over and over again, something was bound to go wrong. If she were still with the police, she’d have the clout to demand they each snip off a strand of hair right in front of her. But these days, she was only a private investigator, and she couldn’t trust the suspects to supply her with a sample at their leisure. It would be too easy to substitute someone else’s hair for their own. Zeke’s idea was definitely the best one, because he had the gift of invisibility. Unfortunately he also had other “gifts,” like miscalculating the energy needed for a given task and taking liberties with the scope of his assignment, to mention just a couple.

“So what do you say, darlin’?” he prodded. “You won’t be gettin’ a better offer anywhere else.”

“It sounds like it might work,” she murmured, trying to put the lid on a roiling pot of reservations. As good as the plan seemed to be, anything that involved the marshal had the potential to blow up in their faces.

“That doesn’t sound like a ringin’ endorsement.”

Rory did her best to produce a confident smile and immediately laid out the ground rules. He was to slip through the walls of each house, find the master bathroom and take a few strands of blonde hair from a brush or comb. If there was more than one occupant of the house, as in the case of the elder Harpers and James’s young family, Zeke was to find hair from each of their brushes, except, of course, the small children, and keep the samples separate from one another until he handed them over to her. Having him put the samples into individual, plastic evidence bags required fine muscle control, which was difficult for him and would waste too much time. Once he had the samples, he was to promptly leave the premises. She would be waiting in her car with prelabeled evidence bags at the ready. Remembering the broken figurine in James’s house, she made it clear to the marshal that he was not to touch anything else in the house or linger for any reason. It shouldn’t take him more than two minutes tops at each address. If Zeke was thinking of arguing with the strict parameters, one look at her steely expression changed his mind.

In fine-tuning the plan, Rory realized she’d have to park as close to each house as possible in order to give Zeke a long enough tether to conduct his search. To avoid the possibility that someone from the Harper family might recognize her car, she borrowed her mother’s Chevy, which had the benefit of tinted windows.

Their first stop was Lacey’s house. Rory figured it would be best to put the captivating Ms. Harper at the top of the list. If the marshal was going to try freelancing, it was more likely to happen near the end of the job when boredom might set in. She added one other safeguard for the first mission. She made sure it was a day that Lacey worked at Harper Farms, where she ostensibly earned her keep. The marshal didn’t need any visual distractions.

Zeke returned to the car in under a minute with several hairs from Lacey’s brush dancing the twist in the energy field above his palm. Rory placed them in the evidence bag with Lacey’s name, and they were off to James’s house. A silver Lexus was in his driveway and it was possible there were other vehicles in the two-car garage. It was a fair guess that at least one member of the household was inside.

“It shouldn’t make any difference as long as you’re careful not to bump into anyone or anything,” she told him.

“I heard you the first time we went over this,” he said, “as well as the second and third times. I may be dead, but I’m not deaf or forgetful.” Rory apologized, thinking that had to qualify as one of the strangest statements she’d ever heard, and thanks to the marshal, she’d heard quite a few.

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 from 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.

Since there was nobody around to ask, Rory took it upon herself to unlatch the gate of the pigpen and walk in with the dog. Besides, Gil hadn’t seemed to mind the first time Hobo found his way in there. One of the pigs waddled right over to them. Judging by the way Hobo’s tail went into overdrive, this had to be Pigmalion. He sniffed her and snuffled her all over with little manic cries of joy. Pigmalion was far more reserved, a very different pig from the one Rory had seen cavorting with Hobo on their first trip. She tolerated his advances for a short while, then uttered a single, haughty “oink” and trotted back to rejoin the other pigs, her squiggly little tail bouncing as she went.

Hobo watched her leave, his jaws slack with shock, his eyes filled with all the anguish of a jilted suitor. Rory hunkered down beside him, shaking her head in commiseration and scratching around his ears, which usually made him happy. But unrequited love was apparently as hard for an animal to bear as it was for a person.

She rose and opened the gate. There was no point in remaining there. Her feet were working their way from cold to numb, and she needed to speak to Gil. They left the enclosure, Hobo trudging along despondently, looking over his shoulder every few steps as if hoping Pigmalion might have changed her mind.

When they reached Gil’s office, Rory rapped on the door. “It’s open,” he called, his voice tight and preoccupied. She stuck her head in first, in case he’d been expecting someone else. “Rory, come on in,” he said when he saw her.

“If this isn’t a good time, I can—”

“No, come in, come in. I was just about to call you.”

“I have Hobo with me.”

“Not a problem.” He remained behind his desk when they walked in. “Have a seat. You must be psychic—how did you know we had another incident?”

Rory sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk and Hobo sank to the floor next to her with a groan, a furry mound of misery. “I brought Hobo by to see his lady love,” she said, “and we ran into Luke.” Literally. “He seemed to be in a hurry, so I didn’t ask too many questions.” Not that he gave me the opportunity. “What happened?”

“It looks like our saboteur took some batting practice on one of the greenhouses.”

“A lot of damage?” she asked, feeling guilty about not having cracked the case yet. But, then again, neither had the police.

Gil shrugged. “Two-thirds of the glass has to be replaced.”

“Where was the security guard?”

“According to him, he was patrolling the grounds. But he can’t be everywhere at once, or so he informed me.”

“He didn’t even hear anything? It’s pretty quiet around here at night. Smashing that much glass would not only be noisy; it would also take time.”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy left to knock back a glass or two. No matter,” he said dismissively. “You learn and you move on. I’ve already fired him and signed on with a service that provides security guards who are teamed with specially trained dogs.”

“I haven’t had any success with the companies that supply your seed,” Rory said. “They gave me the typical boilerplate responses about how careful they are with every aspect of production, storage and shipping and how they’ve never had any instances of tampering.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Gil said. “Seed isn’t the type of thing that attracts your average criminal. We’re just going to have to be more vigilant until we catch whoever’s behind this. And if it is Greenbrier . . .”

Rory could hear the quiet fury behind his words and see it glinting in his steely blue eyes, but there was little she could do to defuse it, except remind him that one partially overheard conversation was not proof they could take to court.

“I know,” he replied. “And I have no intentions of taking the fight back to them. At least not until I’m sure.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink, but there was no humor in his voice.

Terrific. Now she had to worry that her client might go rogue and start dishing out vigilante justice. “It’s not easy to be patient under this kind of stress, Gil,” she said reasonably, “but you have my firm as well as the police department working on it. Believe me, no matter what you’re feeling right now, winding up in jail won’t fix anything. Besides, you have your family to consider.”

He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the fire she’d seen had been tamped down. Or covered up. She couldn’t be sure which.

***

Rory was on her way home when BB called. “I have some information for you,” he said, once the pleasantries were out of the way.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard since I got out of bed this morning,” she said, happy to hear his amiable voice booming over the Bluetooth. Between poor Hobo’s broken heart and Gil’s thoughts of revenge, the frigid weather had turned out to be the best part of the day so far.

“According to Reggie, all the hair samples were dyed blonde.”

No big surprise there. Rory waited, hoping there was more coming.

“And,” he went on with dramatic flair, “the dye that was on the hair in the note matches two of the samples.”

“Which ones?” she asked, excitement bubbling in her veins.

“The ones marked Ellen and Lacey.”

Chapter 17

“When I first heard the names, I thought we’d hit the jackpot,” Rory said to the vacant chair across the kitchen table from her. “Of course it didn’t take more than a second or two for me to realize that it barely narrowed the field.”

“And only as far as the writer of the note is concerned,” Zeke added. Although he was still too drained from their hair-raiding adventure to make an appearance, he was pitching his voice from the vicinity of the chair. Rory found it easier to hold a conversation with him if she had a focal point to address, and he was in an accommodating mood.

“I’m afraid that’s not even conclusive. What if the hair in the note got there by simple transference? The Harpers aren’t just family; they also work together. All you have to do is hug someone or pick up a pen they were using and you can wind up with a stray hair of theirs.”

“You know,” Zeke muttered, “sometimes I think things were just plain easier before all your fancy science and machines.”

“You mean back in your day when there was no way to be sure you were hanging the right person?”

“You twenty-first-century folks still manage to get it wrong, even with your newfangled technology.”

Rory decided to let him win that round in their ongoing debate over whose era was better. His voice was fading, and he needed to get back to his R & R. However, in spite of her best intentions, one remark slipped out. “It seems Lacey may not be as innocent as you thought.” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It wasn’t like her to be that petty.

The marshal took his time responding, and when he did, his voice was measured and without acrimony. “As you so recently pointed out, darlin’, even though her hair dye matches the hair in the note, any one of the Harper clan could still have been the writer. And, I might add, we’re only talkin’ about a note here. It’s a real far leap from writin’ to murderin’. I believe I’ll stick by my original statement. I don’t think Lacey is the killer. “

Well, you deserved that, she scolded herself as his voice faded away. But before she could do any further self-analysis, the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find Olga on the front porch shivering in pants, a thin blouse and her stocking feet.

“Oh, Miss Rory, is terrifically grateful I am to be finding you home,” she said, her voice quavering with the cold and obvious distress.

“Olga, come inside. Come inside. What happened? What’s the matter?”

“Is Miss Eloise that is matter,” she said without budging. “I am mostly needing to get back to her. Is possible you are coming with me? Then may it be she lets me in.”

Rory was having trouble making sense of what she was hearing. But instead of wasting time on a game of twenty questions complicated by a Slavic syntax, she grabbed her purse from the bench in the entry, two coats from the closet under the stairs and rushed outside to Olga. She threw one of the parkas over Olga’s shoulders, but with her broader frame, it looked more like a strangely shaped scarf than a coat. Rory pulled the other parka on as she started down the porch steps. When she turned back to see what was keeping the aide, she found her still rooted to the spot near the door.

“Your padding,” she said. “Is Miss Eloise insisting.”

It took Rory a second to realize what she meant. “My drawing pad?”

“Yes, yes.” Olga was nodding like a bobble-head in a car with no springs. Rory ran back inside for her supplies. A minute later, they were driving down the block to the Bowman house.

“How did you wind up outside without your coat or shoes?” Rory asked her. “When I tell Miss Eloise is not polite to keeping pester you, she gets tricky. She sends me out to get mail. Is not far to curb, so I do a fast dash like I am dressed. While I am at mailing box, she slam shuts the door. I try to open, but is locked and no one else is being home. So I must come for pester you, me myself,” she concluded with a heavy sigh.

“That’s okay,” Rory assured her. “You can pester, I mean call or come by, whenever you need to.” She pulled up to the curb, threw the car into park and they both jumped out. Eloise had clearly been watching from the window, because she opened the door well before they reached it. She was standing in the doorway with a beatific smile that Rory knew was as phony as her ploy to lock Olga out of the house. This was not sweet, little-girl Eloise; this was crafty Eloise with a pressing agenda.

“What you did to Olga wasn’t right,” she told Eloise sternly, although with little hope that it would change her behavior. She didn’t seem to be in charge of herself when she was on one of her missions.

“I needed to see you, and she kept taking the phone away whenever I tried to call you,” Eloise said without apology. “We have to get started right away.” She grabbed Rory’s forearm and pulled her toward the family room.

Rory allowed herself to be led, as surprised as ever by the strength in such a frail-looking body.

Olga veered off to the kitchen with the parka still draped around her shoulders. “Inside me is needing hot tea,” she said. “I make too for you, Miss Rory?”

“There’s no time for tea,” Eloise snapped, tightening her grip on Rory’s arm.

“No thank you,” Rory called over her shoulder.

“Sit,” Eloise said when they reached the couch. She plunked herself down on the middle cushion. “I hope you remembered your pencil.”

Rory sat beside her and, after a moment’s search, produced the pencil from the depths of her purse. She opened the drawing pad to a clean page and began with her usual question. “A man or a woman?”

“A woman,” Eloise said. She was staring straight ahead of her, but as in the past, her eyes weren’t focused on anything in the room. “A young woman with a roundish face.” She appeared to recall the drill from previous sessions. “No, her chin is narrower,” she said glancing briefly at the pad. Rory altered the chin. “That’s better. She has dark hair—I can’t tell exactly what color—and big eyes with thick lashes.”

“Wait,” Rory interrupted, “tell me more about her hair—the length and style.”

Eloise pursed her lips and frowned. “Hold it still,” she muttered. “You have to hold it still.”

Rory could tell the demand wasn’t directed at her, but she’d never heard Eloise in conversation with any of the spirits who co-opted her. “Is everything okay?” she whispered, in case Eloise was trying to listen to a response from the other side.

“Well, it would be,” Eloise replied in apparent exasperation, “if she’d just hold the darn photo steady. Ah, okay,” she said a moment later, “that’s better.” She turned to Rory, “where were we?”

“Her hair.”

“It’s shoulder length and sort of wavy.”

Fifteen minutes and dozens of questions later, Rory showed Eloise the sketch. “What’s missing?”

Eloise studied the young woman in the drawing; then her eyes glazed over, as if she was consulting the photograph in her mind. “You made her too serious,” she said finally. “But don’t give her a big grin. Something in between.” Rory spent another few minutes fixing the sketch to give the woman a sweet, low-key smile.

“What’s taking so long?” Eloise wanted to know.

“Hold on, I’m working as fast as I can.” She knew Eloise didn’t understand that what sounded like a simple fix actually required a lot of changes. She not only had to redraw the mouth, but she also had to adjust all the other aspects of the face. When it was done, she turned it back to Eloise for her appraisal.

“Yes,” she said with obvious relief. “Maybe now she’ll leave me alone.” She picked up the remote that was lying beside her on the couch and clicked on the TV. The flat screen across from them jumped to life.

“Am I supposed to keep the sketch?” Rory asked the same question each time, and the answer was always yes, but she felt obliged to pose it anyway.

“Uh-huh,” Eloise mumbled, clearly no longer interested in the subject. Her eyes were glued to the rerun of Shrek she’d found. She was quickly reverting to little-girl Eloise.

But Rory had a few questions before that happened. “When you describe someone to me, is it always from a picture that you’re being shown?”

Eloise shook her head. “This was the very first time,” she replied in a child’s singsong cadence.

“The other times you were describing the actual person who contacted you?”

“Yup,” she said giggling at Donkey’s antics.

“Do you know why it was different this time?” When Eloise didn’t answer, she repeated the question. When there was still no response, Rory knew that any hope of continuing the conversation was gone. The Eloise who communicated with the dead was once more tucked away in some remote part of her stroke-altered brain.

Chapter 18

When Rory returned home from her command performance at the Bowman residence, she put her sketch pad back in the study until she could figure out what the new picture was supposed to mean. Then she caught up on some laundry—it was that or buy new underwear—and played Frisbee with Hobo in the backyard until he was panting and she was thoroughly chilled. Over a quick lunch of yogurt, she made an executive decision. She wasn’t going to sit around doing nothing while she waited for the marshal to rebound from his exhaustion. Other private-investigating firms didn’t come to a standstill if one of the partners was sick with the flu or disabled by a broken limb. Okay—death was definitely in a category by itself, but it was a condition the marshal had chosen to “live with” in his self-imposed exile. He would just have to make peace with the fact that she was going to continue working while he convalesced. If he had a bone to pick with her regarding that decision, she was ready to go a few rounds with him. In the meantime, she intended to interview Ellen Harper.

It didn’t take Rory long to realize that the family matriarch was the antithesis of her daughter. She was pretty in an understated way, her makeup just a bit of mascara on her lashes and a soft shade of coral on her lips. The only thing she and Lacey appeared to have in common was the shade of blonde they dyed their hair. Ellen came to the door in a pair of chinos, a roomy green sweater and loafers. She asked Rory if she’d mind conducting their interview in the kitchen, where she was keeping an eye on some carrot muffins she was baking. Rory thought that was a fine idea. And when Ellen offered her coffee, she accepted. She’d found coffee to be an excellent prop in an interview of this nature. It promoted a relaxed, chatty atmosphere that was conducive to letting down one’s guard.

As she followed Ellen down the center hall of the colonial, she got a quick peek into the dining and living rooms. It was easy to see Ellen’s hand in the décor, which was understated yet classy. Once Rory was installed at the kitchen table, Ellen filled two sturdy mugs with coffee from the large carafe on the counter and brought them to the table. After setting out milk, cream and assorted sweeteners, she took a seat across from Rory.

“When Gil decided to hire you,” Ellen said, stirring a splash of milk into her coffee, “he told me he felt obligated to have everyone in the family interviewed. That way no one would feel singled out. But I have to admit, I find the idea very uncomfortable.”

Rory wondered why she’d chosen to mention that. Was she so embarrassed by the fact that her spouse was having her investigated that she was trying to put a better spin on it? “I understand,” Rory said, since the growing silence seemed to require some comment from her. “I should be done here in no time,” she added, realizing too late that her gynecologist often used similar words. Ellen may have had the same thought, because her mouth curved in a tenuous smile.

Within minutes of her arrival, Rory had decided not to take notes during the interview, unless things became complicated with too many names or numbers she might not be able to keep straight. It was a terrible way to go about detective work, but her gut told her Ellen would be more likely to open up if she could forget even for a little while that Rory was an investigator. And the best way to achieve that goal was to base their conversation on emotion rather than on cold facts. Woman to woman. “I’m sure you’ve been a great comfort to Anya during this awful time,” she began. “She told me how grateful she is to your family, and especially to you, for everything you’ve done for her and Matthew over the years.”

Ellen’s breath caught in her throat. “I have been trying to be there for her,” she said, her voice threatening to crack, “but I’m afraid nothing can help the kind of pain she’s dealing with.” A frisson made her shudder. “No mother should ever have to outlive her child.” She excused herself to check on the muffins, but more likely to regain her composure. She opened the top door of the double oven, took a quick look, and then closed it again.

“Those smell heavenly,” Rory said. “I’ll have to get your recipe.”

“I can e-mail it to you. I’m sure Gil has your card.”

Rory waited until Ellen resumed her seat before continuing. “Anya doesn’t believe Matthew had an enemy in the world, much less one who would resort to murder.”

“He was a sweet boy who grew into a sweet man. I can’t imagine who would want to kill him either. But I’m sure Gil told you his theory.”

“About Greenbrier—yes. He thinks Matthew may have been getting too close to the truth, so they eliminated him.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“It’s never a good idea to investigate a case with a preformed opinion. It tends to cloud your vision. I try to give every possibility equal consideration. I promise you, we’re going to get to the bottom of this.” Rory paused to sip her coffee and change direction. “For argument’s sake,” she said, putting down the mug, “let’s say Greenbrier is behind the sabotage. Is there someone at Harper Farms who might be disgruntled enough to be helping them? Maybe by passing them information?”

Ellen shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone.”

“Then you don’t share your husband’s belief that it could be one of your children?”

Ellen looked like she’d been ambushed, which of course she had. “What?”

“It’s obvious Gil hasn’t ruled out a family member or I wouldn’t be here talking to you,” Rory said gently. “I’m sure you realize that.”

Ellen’s eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled. “I know he has suspicions, but I don’t understand how he can. I’ve been married to the man for thirty-eight years, and I thought I knew him, but I’m not sure anymore.” The tears spilled down her cheeks and she scrubbed them away as if she was angry with herself for shedding them. “I am so afraid . . . so afraid this witch hunt will do more to damage our family than any sabotage ever could.”

Rory regretted forcing Ellen’s distress to the surface. She had to remind herself that she wasn’t the actual cause of that distress, nor had she said anything that Ellen didn’t already know. If the marshal had been present, he would probably be whispering in her ear to toughen up and do her job—there was a killer to be found. Surprisingly just imagining Zeke’s input seemed to help restore her equilibrium. “The sooner we get this all sorted out,” she said firmly, “the sooner your family can start to heal.”

Ellen heaved a weary sigh. “Thank you for your kind words and for your efforts.” Without giving it any thought, Rory reached out and placed her hand over Ellen’s, where it rested on the table. What happened to professional distance? she scolded herself. You’re a detective. You don’t hold hands with a suspect any more than you would play footsie with one. For all you know, this woman is the killer, the saboteur or both. But since Rory couldn’t snatch her hand away without making it seem as if Ellen had suddenly developed leprosy, she let it linger a few moments longer before removing it. The relaxed, chatty atmosphere she’d been aiming for had apparently tripped her up too.

“This may seem like a ridiculous question,” she said, back in business mode, “but do you have an alibi for your whereabouts at the time of Matthew’s death?”

Ellen seemed nonplussed for an instant; then she laughed. It was a sad, angry noise that sounded more like a bark. “You want to know where I was when Matthew was killed? I was in bed asleep right next to the man who is putting me through all this.”

“Does Gil sleep soundly through the night?”

“Yes. Well, mostly. At our age, it’s not unusual for us to get up and use the bathroom.”

“Then he might have noticed if you weren’t in bed at some point?”

“Yes, just like I might have noticed if he wasn’t—wait a minute, did Gil say he woke up that night and didn’t see me there?”

“No, he didn’t.” Normally Rory would not have volunteered that information to a suspect, but she could sense that Ellen was coming unraveled, that she was on the verge of abandoning any hope for her marriage. “It was a question I had to ask in order to do my job properly,” she explained. Besides, Gil had enough to apologize to his wife for, without Rory’s words misleading her. She pulled her coat off the back of the chair where she’d tossed it and stood up to leave. She’d never been so grateful an interview was over. She couldn’t imagine how much harder it must have been for Ellen. “Thank you for your time,” she said, but Ellen didn’t appear happy or relieved that this part of her ordeal was over. Her face was expressionless as she walked Rory to the front door. “One last thing,” Rory said, stopping to fiddle with the zipper as if it was giving her trouble. “Any idea who might have sent me a note telling me to drop the investigation?” She looked up in time to catch Ellen’s reaction and thought she saw a brief flicker of what might have been anxiety in her red-rimmed eyes.

***

As soon as Rory arrived home, she jotted down her impressions of the interview. They amounted to a short paragraph. Although she didn’t think Ellen was guilty, she had a hunch the woman hadn’t been completely forthcoming in their exchange. For now, she was staying on the suspect list.

Before leaving the study, Rory did a quick check of her e-mail and found the calendar alert reminding her that Thanksgiving was only three days away. She’d completely lost track of time, and she’d promised her mother she’d make the pumpkin pie this year. Leah had sent her a recipe that her mother-in-law claimed was foolproof. She found Leah’s e-mail with the recipe attached and read through it again. It didn’t sound at all complicated, but she’d learned from her friend’s baking disasters that it was always a good idea to try out new recipes before serving them to company. She printed it out and went down to the kitchen to see what ingredients she’d need to pick up. Okay—pretty much everything. She didn’t have flour or evaporated milk in the house, much less pumpkin, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger. What had she expected? She hadn’t baked anything since moving in two years ago, and her uncle Mac’s culinary talents had begun and ended with throwing steak on the grill.

She was in the checkout line at the supermarket when Aaron called to invite her out for coffee. He’d found himself with two hours of unexpected freedom before the Way Off Broadway auditions, where he was hoping to snag the role of Tony in West Side Story. Rory made him a counteroffer. If he was willing to help her with the baking, they could have pumpkin pie along with their coffee. He was on her doorstep ten minutes after she returned home.

After a quick tour of the main floor and some mandatory scratching of Hobo’s belly, they were ready to begin. Hobo joined them in the kitchen, taking up a strategic position between them in case anything fell on the floor.

“In the interest of honesty,” Aaron said, when she handed him the measuring spoons and spices, “I’ve never actually baked before, unless you count s’mores over a campfire when I was a Boy Scout.”

“That fits right into my plan,” she said, trying to sound nefarious, but coming off more like Captain Kirk. “If the pie turns out awful, I’ll have someone to blame.”

“I see. So neither one of us knows what we’re doing. With those kind of credentials, it’s a good thing we haven’t given up our day jobs.” He glanced down at the recipe. “Okay, let’s have at it. Mixing spoon, please.” He held out his hand, and Rory slapped the wooden spoon into his palm the way she’d seen nurses pass surgical instruments to doctors on TV. “Hey, I’m glad that wasn’t a scalpel,” he said, feigning injury, “or I’d be missing half my hand.”

“Ah, fear of sharp objects—now I see why you didn’t follow the rest of your family into surgery.”

Aaron chuckled. “And here I spent all those years and thousands of dollars on therapy trying to figure that out.” Miraculously, in spite of the joking and several close brushes with disaster, the mixture seemed to be the right consistency when Rory poured it into the frozen pie shell. She popped the pie into the oven and set the timer.

“I don’t suppose you’re one of those women who insists on cleaning up while her man checks out what’s on TV?”

“You don’t suppose correctly,” she said, handing him a plastic container for the remaining flour. He was pouring the last of it when she reached around him for the mixing bowl. Her elbow clipped the container and sent it sailing off the counter to land upside down on Hobo’s head. Rory and Aaron burst into laughter at the dog’s startled expression. He jumped up and gave himself a fierce shaking that sent a floury cloud of dust onto the two bakers. Rory was doubled over, laughing so hard that she didn’t notice the high hats in the ceiling blink.

“Forget to pay your electric bill?” Aaron asked between spasms of laughter.

“What?” Before he could repeat it, the lights flickered again. “Oh no,” she said, instantly sober, “I keep forgetting to have that fixed. But this is definitely not the best time to call an electrician.” She emphasized the operative words for the marshal’s benefit. But of course he already knew she had company. From his vantage point, he could see Aaron there as plain as day. He’d performed his little light trick on purpose to alarm her. Well, that might have worked back when she first met him, but at this point she knew there was no reason to worry. Zeke was dead set against outing himself. He would never actually appear when there was anyone else in the house. And then he did. He popped into view, in full 3-D glory, directly behind Aaron. His moustache was hitched up with his patented wry smile that as much as said “gotcha.”

Rory was so shocked that she realized too late she was staring straight at him. When Aaron turned to follow her gaze, her heart leapt into her throat, but Zeke vanished in the nick of time. As soon as Aaron turned back to her, Zeke reappeared behind him. “Is something wrong?” Aaron asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” she said, trying to affix a smile to her lips, but failing. “I thought there was a spider dangling from the ceiling, but it was just a dust web.” Aaron didn’t seem convinced. He was studying her, his eyebrows cinched tightly over his eyes.

“Hey,” she said, trying to recapture their lighthearted mood, “who knew baking could be so hilarious?” Great—that sounded perkier than a cheerleader at halftime. She needed to tone it down, find some middle ground before Aaron thought she suffered from multiple-personality disorder. She took a slow, measured breath. “I really don’t remember when I’ve had this much fun,” she said sincerely. Much better. She tried the smile again and this time it stuck.

“Same here,” Aaron said. “But I think we owe Hobo the snowman an apology and probably a bath.” The dog was trying to lick the flour off himself without much success, since the majority of it was on his head.

“I’ll clean him up after I clean up here and we have our pie and coffee. I’m pretty sure a slice of pie will buy back his love.”

“Tell you what—you take care of the dishes; I’ll tackle the floor,” Aaron said, bending over to retrieve the empty container. While he was in that vulnerable position, the marshal swung the refrigerator door open with enough force to knock him off his feet. Aaron went down with a grunt of surprise, arms and legs splayed. Shooting Zeke a venomous look, Rory stooped to help Aaron to his feet. But once she had a good look at him, she succumbed to a fit of giggles, in spite of herself. The entire front of his body was covered in white. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said brushing off the flour. “It’s just a pity I’m not auditioning for Casper the Friendly Ghost; I’d be a shoo-in. What the heck happened anyway?” He turned to look behind himself. At least Zeke had had the good sense to disappear.

Rory threw the refrigerator door closed. “If it’s not shut tightly enough the door swings open. Something to do with the way it’s balanced. My dad told me I had to get an appliance guy over to fix it.”

Aaron shook his head. “No offense, but that door didn’t just fall open. It felt like someone was giving it a good heave-ho on purpose. Are you sure you don’t have any poltergeists in this house?”

“You believe in ghosts?” she asked with a smidge of ridicule in her voice.

He shrugged. “I never gave the subject much thought before. When you’re raised by physicians, the supernatural doesn’t often come up in dinner conversation. But I guess I never completely discarded the possibility of things that go bump in the night. “

“So you think I have a ghost, huh?” she asked, one eyebrow arched skeptically. She really hated teasing him like this. How often did you find a nice guy with a great sense of humor, a good head on his shoulders and an open mind? If she went by the crop of men Helene had sent her way, the answer was almost never. But she couldn’t afford to have Aaron sniffing around for more evidence of the paranormal. Oh, the marshal had a lot to answer for.

By the time the pie was ready to be sampled, the kitchen had been put back to rights and the coffee poured. Rory watched Aaron’s face as he slipped the first forkful into his mouth. Words of praise were easy enough to fake, but initial reactions were a lot harder to disguise. His eyes closed for a moment and he sighed deeply. “Wow—I haven’t had pumpkin pie this good since my grandmother used to make it.” When he finished his slice and asked for seconds, Rory was convinced the recipe was a winner.

“Thanks for an interesting afternoon and some amazing pie,” Aaron said as she walked him to the door. “Now I’m really looking forward to Thanksgiving.”

“I guess my pie was quite a hit then.”

“Not just the pie,” he said, bending his head to kiss her. “Now I’m off to auditions, before I’m cut for being late.”

Rory was a little flustered. It hadn’t been a long and passionate kiss, yet it had flashed across every synapse in her body. “Break a leg,” she called, as he crossed the porch to the steps. “Or is that just for a full performance?”

He looked back and smiled. “I don’t actually know, but I can use all the good luck I can get.” His head was still turned to her when he reached the top step.

Chapter 19

If Rory hadn’t yelled “watch out” at the last second, Aaron might literally have broken a leg among other things. But he’d managed to turn around in time to navigate the stairs without mishap and drive away still in one piece. Relieved, Rory closed the door and was on her way back to the kitchen when she nearly walked straight into Zeke.

“You should be ashamed to show your face,” she said, retreating a few steps. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“It was just some harmless fun,” he replied, not sounding the least apologetic. “There’s no reason to get so danged uppity about it.”

“So your idea of having fun is to give me a heart attack?”

“Did it?” he asked.

“Did it what?”

“Give you a heart attack?”

“That isn’t the point,” she said indignantly

“You just claimed it was the point. Which is it, darlin’?”

If Rory had had anything in her hand at that moment she would have thrown it at him. Although he was managing not to smile, there was a definite twinkle in his eyes that told her he was thoroughly enjoying the repartee. She took a moment to regroup and come at the issue from another angle. “Showing up when Aaron was here was totally irresponsible. Why would you take a chance like that?”

“You two seemed to be having so much fun, I wanted to join in, is all.”

“Yes, we were having a good time, but knocking Aaron down like that was neither fun nor funny. He could have been hurt.”

“But he wasn’t,” Zeke said with a long-suffering sigh. “In fact, you laughed.”

“Only after I knew he was okay. Wait a second.” Rory frowned as a new possibility struck her. “Were you trying to hurt him?”

“Of course not. Why in tarnation would you say a thing like that?”

“Let’s see—the first time I went out with him you slashed his tires, literally and figuratively cutting our date short. And today you knocked him down with enough force to fell a redwood. Maybe you need to examine your motives.”

“Don’t you worry about my motives,” he shot back, no longer so cavalier. “They’re just fine, thank you. Now can we put this nonsense to rest and talk about the investigation?”

Rory hadn’t received an apology, but at least the marshal was no longer interested in fencing with her. That unruffled her feathers to some extent. Too bad she couldn’t shake off the rest of her irritation the way Hobo had shaken off the flour. Come to think of it, he still had a heap of the stuff matted in the fur on his head. “Give me five minutes to shampoo the dog,” she said, “and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

Five minutes later, as promised, a wet-headed Hobo bolted out of the bathroom and made a beeline for whatever part of the house was farthest from Rory or a water source. Zeke watched the action from the hallway, where he’d been waiting. When Rory exited the bathroom, he let out a whoop of laugher. “Looks like you got the worst of the deal,” he said merrily. She was dripping wet from head to toe, her feet squishing in her shoes as she walked past him to the bedroom.

“Not another word,” she warned him, “or we’re done for the rest of the day.” After she’d changed into dry clothes and done some deep breathing to restore her equilibrium, she found the marshal in the study. He was sitting in the big upholstered chair she’d named the reading chair in the days when she was a child visiting her uncle. Zeke looked up at her with a wary smile, lips still sealed.

“Okay,” she relented. “I guess it was kind of funny.”

“Funny? It was better than any of those sitcom things you watch on TV. First the mutt came flyin’ out of there like he had a posse hot on his tail and then . . . and then you came out a whole lot wetter.” Zeke did a good imitation of slapping his knee with delight.

“I’m glad I’m so entertaining,” she said evenly. “Would you like that update now?”

“Yes, ma’am. I surely would,” he said, trading the grin for a down-to-business face. He listened as Rory gave him a detailed recap of her talk with Ellen Harper. “So Luke’s the only family member we haven’t interviewed yet,” he said when she was finished.

“Right, and I happened to bump into him briefly the other day. Based on the few words we exchanged, I have a feeling he’ll be difficult to pin down. He acts like he’s got all of Harper Farms’ woes on his shoulders, but I think he was exaggerating for my benefit.”

“All the more reason to corral him. Why don’t you give him a call now—let’s see what he has to say.”

Rory picked up the phone from the base unit on her desk and punched in the numbers she referenced from Gil’s list. Luke answered on the first ring, as if he might have been expecting another call. He was cordial enough, but he claimed to be busy on every day she suggested. When she politely remarked that she’d leave their appointment for his father to schedule, Luke suddenly realized he was free the next morning at six.

“Six a.m.?” Zeke repeated once she was off the phone. “It’s still dark out at that hour.”

“I’m pretty sure he was just trying to discourage me, because he seemed flustered when I agreed to it. But why does the time matter to you? You live in your own version of Neverland. I’m the one who needs her beauty rest.”

“Darlin’, I believe you already have more than your fair share of that commodity. You ought to leave some for those less fortunate.”

Rory felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She didn’t blush easily, but she’d never received a compliment quite like that one before, and certainly never from the mercurial marshal.

Zeke cleared his throat as if to cover up the fact that he’d even surprised himself with his words. In the silence that followed, Hobo made a well-timed appearance in the doorway. He peeked in, clearly trying to assess the risks of joining them. Eager to diffuse the awkwardness between them, both Rory and Zeke did their best to coax him to come in. When he finally did, he headed straight to the marshal, casting Rory an unmistakable look of disdain.

***

It was dark and cold when Rory’s radio alarm jarred her awake. If a genie had appeared before her right then, she would have used up two wishes frivolously requesting a few more hours of sleep and a return to summer. But since the only paranormal oddity in her house was a ghost and not a genie, she dragged her weary butt out of bed.

Zeke didn’t join her until she’d scrambled into her car and turned the heat on.

“Sleep in?” she asked wryly.

“No point in wasting my energy hanging around the house waiting for you to get ready,” he said. He was wearing his marshal garb, which meant he had no intention of manifesting for Luke’s interview. Rory decided that was fine with her. He’d still be privy to everything that happened, so she wouldn’t have to rehash it all for him.

They’d been to Luke Harper’s home once before, to collect the sample of his hair. He lived in a townhome similar to his sister’s but at the other end of Huntington. Rory turned into the small community of attached homes a little before six. At that hour of the morning, all the residents still seemed to be tucked in their beds. Aside from the widely spaced street lamps, the only lights that glowed were the small ones immediately outside each door. Driving along the gently winding roads, she passed only one other car. The middle-aged driver was delivering newspapers, throwing spiral passes from his window onto the little porches with surprising accuracy. She wondered if he’d aspired to playing professional football in his youth.

Luke’s unit wasn’t hard to find even in the dark, since the street numbers had been strategically placed beneath the porch lights. The instant she rang his doorbell, the two big dogs Zeke had met on his earlier visit started a ruckus that probably awakened half the complex. Rory could hear Luke yelling at them to be quiet but to no apparent effect. Then she heard a door slam somewhere inside, and the barking became more muted. When he finally came to the door, he was dressed in nothing but pajama bottoms, his blonde hair sticking up on his head like a hay rick. He squinted at her as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Hi Luke,” she said brightly, determined not to let him know just how hard it had been for her to crawl out of bed a full hour earlier. She certainly had no regrets about dragging him out of dreamland. In fact, she was willing to bet that six o’clock didn’t sound like such a great idea to him anymore. “Rory McCain—I believe this is the time you asked me to arrive?”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, with no welcome in his voice. “Come in.” He shuffled out of the way on bare feet. “I need a minute—you can sit in the family room.” He pointed to the large room at the end of the hall as he headed upstairs. A real charmer, Rory thought. At the same moment Zeke whispered, “What a charmin’ fellow.”

“Shh,” she whispered back. “Behave.”

The family room was decorated in early bachelor. The large sectional couch and two armchairs were covered in black leather and clothing. For that matter, nearly every surface in the room was draped with one kind of apparel or another. There were sweatshirts, sweaters and tee shirts as well as a pair of jeans. Socks were strewn randomly across the hardwood, looking like alien wildflowers.

One glass side table was covered with remotes, presumably for the entertainment system that spanned one entire wall. The matching table held several empty beer bottles and one glass with a brownish liquid that Rory hoped was soda. In order to have a place to sit, she was forced to move a sweater off one of the chairs. She shrugged off her jacket but kept it draped around her shoulders. Luke definitely kept the place on the cool side. Maybe that was a good thing with all the dirty clothing lying around.

The man of the house entered the room a few minutes later. He was still sockless, but he’d traded his pajamas for jeans and a wrinkled tee shirt that looked like he’d dug it out of the bottom of a drawer. Young Mr. Harper was obviously not fond of doing laundry. He dropped onto the couch the way a kid would, making the cushion groan under his weight. “How long,” he asked, pausing to yawn widely, “is this going to take?”

“I promise to be out of your way as quickly as possible,” she said, pen and pad at the ready. “Let’s start with your whereabouts the night Matthew was killed.”

“I was here watching TV. Went to bed about midnight.”

“Was anyone here with you?”

“I’m currently between girlfriends,” he said, with what was either a wink or a tic. Rory’s money was on the wink. And it came as no shock to her that Luke was without female companionship. What woman wouldn’t jump at the chance to live with this ill-mannered slob? Handsome can only get you so far.

“Interested in auditioning for that position, sweetheart?” he asked with a predatory grin.

She froze for a moment, worried the marshal would take exception to Luke’s proposal. She was pleasantly relieved when nothing in the room suddenly developed the ability to levitate or fly. Luke looked as if he was still waiting for an answer to his generous offer. She decided the best way to defuse the situation, and Zeke, would be to ignore it. “Did you have pizza or anything else delivered that night?” she inquired.

“I usually pick up dinner on the way home,” Luke grumbled, clearly not cool with the brush-off.

“Did you bump into any of your neighbors?”

He shook his head. “Why does stuff like that matter?”

“It could have corroborated your alibi,” she said.

“I don’t need any corroboration; I didn’t kill Matthew.”

“Any lawyer will tell you that an alibi that can’t be corroborated is no alibi at all. And if the other persons of interest have solid, verifiable alibis and you don’t, then you could find yourself charged with Matthew’s murder.” Okay, maybe she was overstating things a bit, but she wanted to see if he would squirm.

“So hook me up to one of those lie detectors,” he said, fixing her with a sullen glare, “and then you’ll have your corroboration.”

“I’m afraid the results of those tests are not admissible in court.”

Luke came forward in his seat, his body gathered like a lion ready to pounce. “Oh yeah? Well in this country, you’re innocent until proven guilty.” If he’d added a childish “so there,” Rory would not have been surprised.

She leaned forward, matching him move for move. No way was he going to intimidate her. “That may be true, but unfortunately a lot of innocent people wind up in prison, or on death row anyway. Even when judges and juries try their best, they don’t always get it right.” Didn’t this guy ever read a newspaper or listen to the news?

For a second or two, his brow lowered over his eyes, and he appeared to lose his focus. Then he must have given himself a pep talk, because he settled back against the couch again with a smug grin. “Like I said—I didn’t do anything to be worried about.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said. If he caught the sarcasm, he chose to ignore it. “Why don’t you tell me what you thought of Matthew.”

Luke shrugged. “He’s always been around, sort of like the furniture.”

“Did you resent him?”

He looked genuinely stumped. “For what?”

“I know your father was always generous to him.”

“Yeah, that’s my dad,” he said wryly. “What a guy.”

“What does that mean?”

“Uh-uh, we’re not going to play psychologist. If you have any more legitimate questions, ask them or leave.”

“All right, who do you think killed Matthew?”

“I haven’t given it any thought. The dude never mattered much to me when he was alive, and now he doesn’t matter at all. I’m not big on pretenses, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Or sociability, she thought. But as much as she disliked Luke, there was a certain in-your-face kind of honesty about him.

“How did James and Lacey feel about Matthew?”

“Why don’t you ask them?”

“Right now I’m asking you.”

“I know Matthew used to have a thing for Lacey, and it really annoyed her. That’s all I’ve got.”

Time for the bait and switch. It had done a good job of rattling his brother’s composure. “What do you think about the sabotage at Harper Farms?” she asked.

Luke didn’t miss a beat. “It’s not good for the bottom line, and it’s added to my workload—you do the math.”

“Your dad seems pretty positive Greenbrier’s behind it. Do you agree with him?”

“Sure, why not? My dad and Roger have a lot of history, most of it bad.”

“All right, that is it for now,” Rory said, returning her pen and pad to her handbag and pulling on her jacket. Luke walked her to the front door with more enthusiasm than he’d exhibited up until then. But who could blame him? She had yet to meet anyone who enjoyed a good grilling. She handed him her card before leaving. “Give me a call if you think of anyone who can support your alibi.”

“Yeah,” he said, “as soon as I pull one out of my bag of tricks.”

Rory slid into her car and turned on the engine, expecting the marshal to pop in beside her. Although she’d worried about him losing his temper with Luke, he’d been exceptionally well behaved. But maybe that was because he’d checked out early and gone home. As if in answer to her thoughts, the marshal appeared in the passenger seat. He was wearing the self-satisfied grin of the cat who’d eaten the canary along with its extended family.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said, pulling away from the curb, “what kept you?”

“Some unfinished business. I didn’t care much for Luke’s attitude, so I left him a little partin’ gift.”

“Can you be more specific?” She realized she was cringing in anticipation of his answer.

“I piled all the clothin’ that was scattered around the room into the fireplace. And no, I didn’t actually start a fire there,” he added, “though it was mighty temptin’.”

Rory started giggling in spite of herself. “We’ve discussed this before,” she said, trying to sound serious. “You can’t keep doing weird things to people when I’m around. One day some sharp reporter is going to connect the dots.”

“I’m aware of your thinkin’ on the subject and for the most part I agree. But a few unexplained incidents won’t go causin’ any problems. Besides, Luke deserved some comeuppance for the way he treated you. I’d be willin’ to wager that he’ll be a mite less cocky now that he’s worried about his sanity.”

“Okay, I suppose he did deserve that,” she conceded. “I’m just sorry I didn’t get to see his reaction when he discovered his clothes were bent on self-immolation.”

“There is one other thing,” Zeke added.

Oh no. “What else did you do?”

“I may have found a few thumb tacks and dropped them on the floor—pointy ends up. He really ought to be wearin’ shoes when he’s entertainin’.”

Chapter 20

It was Thanksgiving morning, and for the first time in her life, Rory wasn’t looking forward to the day. In the past it had always been a warm and cozy family time, highlighted by her mom’s delicious cooking, but this year was going to be different. Not only was it the last Thanksgiving they’d celebrate in her childhood home, but Aaron and Zeke were also going to be in attendance. Since her impromptu baking date with Aaron, she was more comfortable with the idea of him sharing the day with her family, but the marshal was, as usual, an unknowable quantity.

The second pumpkin pie came out of the oven looking every bit as fine as the first one. After Rory was dressed and ready to go, she placed it in the sturdy pie carrier she’d bought for that purpose. With increasingly distracted and aggressive drivers, it was a miracle anyone reached their destination intact these days. The least she could do for her little masterpiece was to provide it with some form of protection against the vagaries of travel.

She hooked Hobo’s leash into his collar and called out to let Zeke know she was leaving.

“You’re goin’ already?” he asked, his voice a moment ahead of his appearance. “Do you have the turkey for breakfast?”

“No, of course not. I get there early to help my mom. Helene does too. Actually I’m not sure how much help we are, but our intentions are good and we have a lot of fun together. It’s a woman thing,” she added in answer to the befuddled expression on his face. “You know, like men bonding over sports.” The comparison didn’t seem to make it any clearer to Zeke. “What did men enjoy doing together in your time?” she asked, for want of another example.

“I don’t know,” Zeke said. “Playin’ poker, drinkin’, ridin’ with a posse if there was a need. Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”

“I guess.” When you came right down to it, there wasn’t that much difference between betting on a hand of cards or on a sporting event. Or drinking hard liquor instead of beer. But when she tried to come up with the modern equivalent of riding with a posse, she was stumped. Of course teenager boys had loved cruising in their cars from the time of the first horseless carriages, but as far as she knew, they were hunting down girls, not bank robbers and gunslingers.

“So when does the shindig really get started?” Zeke asked her.

“My mom usually tells guests to be there at two.” Rory wasn’t sure what a shindig entailed, but she hoped the marshal wasn’t expecting anything elaborate. “It’s not like there’s going to be music and dancing,” she pointed out. “We’ll spend most of the afternoon eating way too much, and when we’re sure we can’t stuff another thing in our mouths, we’ll have dessert.” Maybe if she stressed how much food figured into the celebration, Zeke would change his mind and opt to stay home.

“Then I’ll pop on over at two,” he said, shattering that hope.

***

Zeke showed up shortly after Cousin George, who’d had to check out of his hotel room at one. He let Rory know he’d arrived with a gentle tap of energy on her shoulder. Before he’d perfected that simple act, she’d had a hard time explaining to people why she was suddenly tumbling off a chair or stumbling across a room as if she’d been propelled by gale force winds.

The gentle pat was much easier on her nerves as well as her body.

Aaron was the last guest to arrive. When Rory opened the door for him, he greeted her with a chaste peck on the cheek, the kind one received from a distant relative. Although she would have liked a kiss more like the one at the end of their baking date, she was glad he was playing it low-key around her family.

She led the way into the kitchen so he could meet her mother and greet his fellow thespian. He seemed perfectly at ease making small talk with them until Arlene asked if he wouldn’t prefer hanging out with the men, who were watching football. And off he went to the family room.

A few minutes later, Arlene took the spoon away from Rory, who was stirring the gravy. “I appreciate all your help, but you should go be a hostess to your guest,” she said in her don’t-quibble tone of voice. Rory didn’t want to shine a spotlight on their relationship with her family in the audience, not to mention the marshal, who already had a lousy track record with regard to Aaron. But her mother didn’t seem to share that sentiment, and there was clearly no hope of enlisting her aunt as an ally. Helene had had a goofy-looking smile plastered on her face from the moment Aaron walked through the door. She was positively aglow with her triumphant turn as Cupid after all her years of dismal failure. Suppressing a sigh, Rory marched off to the family room, from which a round of raucous cheering had just erupted. Behind her, she heard Helene remark that someone must have hit a home run. Her aunt had always had trouble sorting out the lingo associated with each sport, and after endless efforts, they’d all given up trying to teach her. Hobo chose to stay in the kitchen, where he could guard the food and beg for the occasional sample.

Since her father and George were installed in the two armchairs, Rory joined Aaron on the couch. She thought she’d left enough room between them not to raise even Zeke’s critical eyebrows, but the couch was old, the suspension shot, and Aaron had a good eighty pounds on her. In no time she was sliding downhill to him. Not that he seemed to mind. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her more tightly to him. Her father and George were too hooked into the football game to notice. But the marshal, who had surely followed her into the room, had no interest whatsoever in that sport.

“Relax,” Aaron said, massaging her shoulder, “your muscles are tight as a knot.”

“That’s because we womenfolk have been slaving over a hot stove for hours to create a lavish spread for you menfolk.” Or possibly, because we’re also entertaining a federal marshal straight out of the nineteenth century, complete with that era’s moral code. Although Zeke had promised to behave today, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d broken such a vow. After several minutes passed without any paranormal hoopla, Rory exhaled a sigh of relief.

At halftime her father and George got up to stretch their legs and wound up following their noses into the kitchen to see how dinner was coming along. “It was great of your mom to include me today,” Aaron said once they were alone.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, meaning it more than she’d thought she would, in spite of the inherent dangers. With their faces only inches apart, it seemed completely natural when Aaron leaned closer and kissed her. It was a brief kiss that was over in seconds, but as their lips parted, Rory heard a grumble like the groaning of old floorboards or the moaning timbers of a house in high wind. Since the house was barely thirty years old and there was currently no wind, she could only attribute the sound to ghostly displeasure. But when she glanced up at Aaron, he didn’t appear to have heard anything out of the ordinary. Maybe she’d imagined it. She really had to stop worrying about Zeke’s reaction to everything. Right, talk about easier said than done. It was a good bet he’d considered the kiss a public display of affection and therefore terribly improper. Of course it wouldn’t have been public if he hadn’t been there, and Aaron certainly had no way of knowing there was an invisible pair of eyes watching his every move. But that was a bit of reasoning that could easily have eluded the marshal. In spite of all the time they’d spent together, she didn’t understand how a man of generally sound logic and keen perceptions could have such obvious and irritating blind spots.

Aaron tipped her chin up so that he was looking into her eyes for a moment before he bent his head to kiss her again. “Ow, what the—,” he yelped, jerking his arm back from her shoulder. When he pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, Rory saw a small red welt on his wrist.

“What happened?” she asked, although she already had a pretty good idea.

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing the spot. “It felt like a bee sting, but there aren’t any bees around this time of year.”

No, Rory thought, but there are ghosts. And she happened to know one in particular who’d learned how to narrow and concentrate his energy into a fine point that might feel like a sting and leave a bruise like the one Aaron was now examining. “Can I get you a bandage or anything?” she asked.

Aaron shook his head. “No, the skin’s not broken. It’ll be fine. I wouldn’t mind knowing what caused it though.”

Since Rory knew the cause, she was wishing exactly the opposite. She thought about demanding a meeting with the marshal in the privacy of the bathroom, but she decided to postpone such a discussion until they were home. There was always a chance that it might devolve into a heated argument and make matters worse. In the interests of a peaceful holiday, she counted slowly to ten, then twenty and on up to thirty, at which point her anger began to subside.

When her unofficial chaperones returned to their seats, she was both relieved and annoyed with herself for feeling that relief. What twenty-first-century woman in her right mind worries about the consequences of a brief kiss from the man she’s dating? Stop it, she scolded herself. If she didn’t shut down that train of thought, it was going to plough right through the safety crossing in spite of all the warning lights.

By the time her mother called everyone to dinner, Rory finally had her runaway emotions under control. Now if she could just make it through the rest of Thanksgiving without any more drama, she’d consider the day a success. Her father took his place at the head of the table. Rory sat to his right, with Aaron across the table from her and George on her other side. Helene was seated next to her acting buddy. And after setting the drunken cranberry sauce on the table, Arlene claimed the chair opposite her husband. Hobo took up his usual place at her father’s side.

At first everyone was busy passing around all the platters and casseroles. But after a few minutes, the conversation started up again with George’s praise of the cranberry sauce.

“Arlene, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said with a blissful smile. “What’s in this cranberry sauce that makes it so irresistible?”

“Probably all the brandy,” Helene replied for her sister. “The first time she made it, I didn’t realize how much brandy she used, and I wound up with a hangover.”

“That’s probably because you guzzled nearly the whole bowl by yourself,” Dan said. “Moderation has never been your strong suit.”

“Well, I’d rather be known for excess than moderation,” Helene told him indignantly. “No one is ever remembered for their moderation.”

“But excess often leads to an early demise.”

“Moderation can lead to boring yourself to death.”

Rory was enjoying the sharp interchange between them that was as much a part of their get-togethers as the meal itself. But Aaron looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call for peace talks.

“Welcome to my family,” she said brightly to dispel his concerns. “My dad and my aunt always graciously supply our dining entertainment.”

“They’re worse than siblings,” Arlene said, shaking her head. “Very immature siblings.”

Between mouthfuls, George came up for air. “Look who’s talking,” he said to Arlene. Then he launched into a story about when he and the sisters were kids and spent summers with their families in upstate New York. “These two siblings,” he said, pointing to the sisters, “were constantly sniping at each other. They’d concoct elaborate practical jokes to play on one another too. Somehow I always got caught in the middle and wound up in more trouble than either of them.”

Rory didn’t remember ever hearing about that time in their lives. She was listening so raptly to the tales of their exploits that she didn’t immediately notice that Aaron was choking.

Chapter 21

Helene was the first to react. Jumping up from her seat, she yelled for him to get up. Behind him in a flash, she tried to apply the Heimlich maneuver, but she’d never done it before, and it wasn’t working. Aaron grabbed her hands in a desperate effort to add his strength to hers, but his face was already turning a scary ashen color.

“Get over here and help me,” Helene screamed at her family, all of whom seemed frozen in panic. Rory flew to her aunt’s side. She had only the barest recollection of what to do, but she had to try. It was just too awful, too ridiculous to think that Aaron could be dead in moments, felled by a mouthful of Thanksgiving. But before she and Helene could change places, a lump of dinner roll flew out of Aaron’s mouth and he collapsed onto his chair, coughing and sputtering.

To Rory’s relief, his skin quickly turned from a mottled gray to a healthy pink. Although she wanted to have him checked out at the emergency room, he pulled rank on her. “Hold on there,” he said. “As the only doctor in the house, I believe I’m the most qualified to make that decision.” The remark bought a round of nervous laugher that swept the last of the tension from the room. Everyone started talking, comparing experiences they’d had and reminding one another that incidents like this were a wakeup call not to sweat the small stuff. And didn’t this really put the “thankful” into Thanksgiving?

Once Aaron had a chance to catch his breath, he went over to thank Helene, catching her up in a grateful bear hug. After he released her, she tottered for a moment before regaining her balance. For the first time, Rory noticed how pale and shaken she looked, as if the gravity of the situation had finally hit her. “Are you okay?” she asked, taking her aunt’s hand and leading her aside.

Helene’s eyebrows were bunched together like tiny fists. “I don’t know what just happened,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You saved Aaron’s life.”

“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t doing it right or I wasn’t strong enough, whatever. It wasn’t working,” she said, locking her troubled eyes on her niece.

“What are you saying?”

“I’d started to loosen my grip, so you could take over and that’s when . . . when I got this electric charge—like a shock, no, not a normal shock,” she corrected herself, “more like a powerful surge of energy.”

Zeke, Rory realized with a start. Zeke had saved Aaron’s life. But she couldn’t tell her aunt the truth. Helene had never been very good at keeping secrets, regardless of how hard she tried. She’d go crazy trying to keep something of this magnitude quiet. In the end, it would all come spilling out, and she’d be ravaged by guilt. “Come on, you’ve heard of things like this,” Rory said. “You know, when adrenalin gives someone superhuman strength in a life or death situation. There are lots of documented cases of ordinary people doing amazing things, like lifting a car off a loved one.”

Helene’s expression said she wasn’t buying the explanation. “You don’t understand,” she protested, “I was hardly—”

“Aunt Helene,” Rory said gently, cutting her off before she could sink any deeper into the quicksand of her doubts, “you can’t expect to remember things exactly as they happened during such a traumatic event. Time gets all scrambled in the brain; the order of events becomes confused. I’ve read all about it.”

“I guess,” Helene murmured without much conviction.

“Look, there’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on the details,” Rory went on. “What difference does it make how it happened or how you remember it happening? All that matters is that Aaron is alive because of you.” Unable to come up with more convincing words, she drew her aunt into a tight embrace, hoping time would whittle away at her remaining doubts.

The rest of the meal proceeded without further incident and with a lot less conversation. Everyone was focused on cutting their food into small bites and being careful not to eat and talk at the same time. Aaron had lost his appetite, which was understandable, but he appeared to be fine in every other respect. By the time dessert was served, he’d recovered enough to have a piece of the pumpkin pie and some of the apple pie with ice cream.

Before they started cleaning up, Rory excused herself to use the bathroom. She ran upstairs, where there was less chance of anyone overhearing her. The dressing down she’d considered giving the marshal hours ago had been supplanted by the praise she wanted to heap on him now. An unsettling thought occurred to her. Would Zeke have saved Aaron’s life if they’d had a big blowup earlier? For that matter, what if she’d sent him home as punishment, or he’d left in a snit? Let it go, she told herself; what’s the point of dwelling on what might have happened? Listen to your own advice and just be grateful everything’s okay.

“Zeke,” she called in a loud whisper, expecting him to pop right up. He’d never been reluctant to accept her gratitude. She called out to him again and waited. Five minutes passed, but he didn’t show. She told herself he’d gone home to rest after expending his energy, but she didn’t really believe that. He couldn’t have depleted himself with that one act. She had a working knowledge of how much it took to sap his energy these days, and saving Aaron didn’t come close to pushing the envelope. The marshal’s absence was a mystery that would have to wait until she went home.

Cousin George had left for the airport shortly after they’d finished dinner. And although Aaron insisted on helping to clear the table, he was willing enough to head home once that was accomplished. Without other guests to entertain, Rory’s dad pitched in to help put away the good china and all the platters and serving dishes that were only used for the holidays.

Helene was the next to leave, still wearing a slightly bewildered expression. Rory had hooked Hobo’s leash to his collar and was putting on her coat when her mother asked her to wait a minute. She reappeared carrying a cardboard box with the top flaps still open. “Please hang on to this for me until we’re done moving,” she said, setting the box on the kitchen table. “I don't want to take a chance on losing the things in here.”

Rory peered inside. There were half a dozen photograph albums of various sizes, including the one her mother had recently shown her. She was more than happy to take them. She’d wanted to have another look at the old pictures anyway.

***

Zeke was nowhere in sight when Rory and Hobo returned home. She unhooked the dog’s leash, then carried the cardboard box up to the study, where it would be out of the way until she had time to go through it. Now that she was home, she was starting to realize just how exhausted she was. Apprehension and anxiety packed a powerful one-two punch. Even though it was still early, she changed into her cuddliest pj’s and pulled on her old bathrobe and furry slippers. Hobo, who didn’t need to bother changing, was already out cold and snoring on the living-room couch, no doubt dreaming about Christmas goodies to come.

Rory went into the kitchen and set the teapot on the stove, thinking that maybe another cup of hot liquid would help her digest all she’d eaten. Stress and a full stomach were clearly not compatible. When the tea was ready, she took it upstairs to the study and settled herself in the reading chair before calling for the marshal.

He didn’t appear immediately, and when he did, he was surprisingly nonchalant. Rory had braced herself for some peacock strutting, given that he’d saved the day, but Zeke tucked himself into the chair behind her desk with only the thinnest of smiles.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said immediately. “Without your help, Aaron wouldn’t—”

“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted her. “I’m a regular hero. Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No, I mean that was a big part of it, but . . . why did you leave so abruptly?”

“I was tired and I figured you could manage on your own for a little while. At least you’re always tellin’ me how you can.”

“What’s on your mind, Marshal?” she asked bluntly.

“Your boyfriend needs to show you more respect,” he said without preamble.

Bingo—there it was. But how could she possibly demand that he get over it and get in tune with the times, when he’d just saved Aaron’s life? So she swallowed the little speech she’d prepared earlier and said she’d talk to Aaron about it. Of course she had no idea how to go about such a discussion, without giving Aaron the impression that she was a closet Puritan or planning to enter a convent. “Just to be clear,” she said, “you do realize that he didn’t know you were there?”

“I’m well aware of the fact that I was invisible, but anyone could have walked into that room at any moment.”

And the walls might have fallen down and left us exposed to the whole wide world, she felt like screaming in exasperation. But instead she said, “It was just a kiss.

“This time.” Zeke seemed determined to stand his ground, even if he knew how ridiculous he sounded, how out of proportion his reaction was to a simple kiss.

Rory’s gratitude had a brief knock-down-drag-out with her natural inclination to set him straight. Her gratitude won. But only by the slimmest of margins. With nothing left to say on the subject, she drank her tea, which was no longer hot or comforting.

“What’s in the box?” Zeke asked, breaking the silence between them. His black mood seemed to have lifted now that he’d said his piece. Rory wished she could feel as settled about the matter. But she knew that by placating him today, she’d set a bad precedent for future battles on the subject. She wasn’t going to be the prim and proper lady he expected, and he didn’t seem willing to adjust his way of thinking. All of his supposed progress since she’d met him had been snuffed out in an instant, leaving them locked in the same old stalemate. But after a long and harrowing day, she was more than willing to play Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow.

“Some photo albums my mother asked me to keep here until after the move,” she replied.

“Mind if I take a look-see?” Before she had a chance to answer, he was hunkered down next to the box. He pulled out one album and started flipping through the photos in their plastic sleeves. “What is this place?” he asked.

Rory leaned over to see what he was looking at. “That’s Disney World—my first time there. I think I was six.” After setting her empty teacup on the desk, she joined Zeke on the floor, sitting close enough to see the pictures. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at them.

Zeke seemed fascinated by the concept of such a huge and fabulous place created just for having fun. He roared with laughter when he saw Rory wearing her Mickey Mouse ears in one photo and being hugged by an enormous Pluto in another. The next album he picked had pictures from her first ten birthday parties. Her father had put them together to have a sort of time-lapse memento of her childhood.

“You were cute as a button,” Zeke remarked with a wink. “At least till you turned nine.”

“Thanks,” she said wryly. “Nine through eleven were my awkward years.”

“Well, you did a mighty fine job of growin’ out of them, darlin’,” he said, taking a third album from the box.

“Hold on,” Rory said when she realized it was the album from her grandmother’s attic. “We need to be really careful with that one.” Even though Zeke had refined his technique for “handling” objects of different sizes and masses, it was far from foolproof. Just one elevated pulse of energy could cause irreparable damage to something so old and fragile.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, with the album hovering above his open palms. “Don’t be such a nervous Nellie. It’s been a long time since I’ve destroyed anythin’.”

Somehow the remark didn’t make her feel any better, but she bit her lip.

Zeke opened the album in exaggerated slow motion to make his point. A frown pleated his brow as he studied the first photograph. “It’s hard to make out much detail,” he muttered, holding it up to the light of the desk lamp and squinting at it from different angles.

“I know,” Rory said. “It’s a shame how those early pictures have degraded. According to my mother, that should be . . . ” She paused, trying to recall what she’d been told. “My great-great-great-great grandmother with her family. The photos near the end are a lot clearer.”

After going through the remainder of the album, Zeke put it and the other two he’d seen back in the box. “I believe I’ll turn in,” he said, doing a good approximation of a yawn. “I’ll have a look at the others another time.”

Rory wished him good night and took her teacup down to the kitchen. Hobo was still snoring away on the living-room couch, but if she didn’t wake him to go outside now, he was bound to wake her in the middle of the night. When she called his name, he opened one sleepy eye, which promptly shut again. So she used her guaranteed Hobo-waker. She took two small pieces of American cheese out of the refrigerator and held one under his nose. In two seconds flat, his eyes were open, along with his mouth. She used the second piece to lure him off the couch and over to the kitchen door. After swallowing the cheese, he trotted outside without additional bribery. Rory wondered how long it would take him to realize that he could wangle more cheese from her by holding out a little longer.

Once Hobo was back inside, she locked the door and turned off the lights, and the two of them climbed the stairs. Hobo hopped on her bed, circled a few times, and was asleep an instant after he lay down. It took Rory a lot longer to calm her mind after all the events of the day. She was finally drifting off when an intriguing thought tugged her back from the edge.

Chapter 22

Rory threw off the covers and padded into the study without wasting time to put on her robe. She grabbed her sketch pad from the top of the filing cabinets and opened it to the last sketch Eloise had insisted she draw. Sketch in hand, she sat down beside the box of albums.

She took the old album out of the box and opened it to the first of the faded photographs. Holding her sketch up beside it, she compared the two. It was no slam-dunk, but neither was it beyond the realm of possibility that her great-great-great-great grandmother was the woman Eloise had described to her. The shape of the head appeared to be the same, along with the general arrangement of the features. But in the photo, her hair was piled on top of her head, not loose around her face the way Rory had been told to draw it. She sat there on the floor for several more minutes trying to imagine why her ancestor from so long ago might have reached out to her through Eloise. Wait, she corrected herself. Eloise had said it was the woman’s daughter who had contacted her and shown her a photo of her mother. Why hadn’t her great-great-great-great grandmother simply contacted Eloise herself? Surely there was some reason behind it, and more important, behind the daughter’s need to communicate from the other side. But it was all getting too confusing for Rory’s weary mind. Besides, she wasn’t even sure the sketch depicted someone related to her. Until she had more information, it was nothing but pointless speculation.

***

She awoke the next morning more refreshed but with the same questions tweaking her brain and no answers in sight. Before she had a chance to climb out of bed, the phone started ringing. Hobo, who was lying stretched out at the foot of the bed, grumbled and drew himself into a furry ball as if that could insulate him against the intrusions of the world. By the clock on Rory’s nightstand, it was not yet seven a.m. Her heart did a little flip-flop in her chest. Since social convention dictated that you wait until a civilized time to make phone calls, it was generally bad news that rode the early morning hours. She picked up the receiver, wary of what awaited her. Gil Harper was on the other end.

“I’m glad I got you at home,” he said after a perfunctory hello.

“Well I’m generally home at the crack of dawn,” she responded, unless I have to meet your son Luke at some ridiculous hour. “What can I do for you, Gil?” It was hard to be polite before she’d had her coffee.

“I want you to stop investigating my wife.”

“I’m only investigating her because you told me to,” she pointed out.

“Well, now I’m telling you not to.” He was definitely not in a happy place.

“Has something changed with regard to the case?”

“Yeah—Ellen’s threatening to divorce me.”

On one hand, Rory was glad to hear that Ellen had found the courage to stand up for herself. On the other, if Ellen was the killer, eliminating her as a suspect would put them at a serious disadvantage. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said to see if she could ferret anything else out of Grumpy.

“She’s taken exception to being investigated. She said a marriage is supposed to be based on trust, and if I can’t trust her, she doesn’t want to be married to me anymore. Listen, long as I have you on the phone, how’s the case going? Zeroing in anyone yet?” Gil was making her uncaffeinated head spin.

“Getting closer by the day,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. They had enough suspects, but they were still a long way from naming Matthew’s killer or the farm’s saboteur. She promised him a detailed report in the near future.

When she hung up the phone, she saw Zeke standing in her bedroom doorway, respecting the privacy clause in their verbal contract. She related the salient points of the phone call to him, which he shrugged off in favor of addressing his own agenda.

“I’d be mighty obliged if you’d give Eloise a call on my behalf,” he said. Despite his progress in other areas, using telephones was still problematic for him “Tell her she needs to come over here ASAP.”

Zeke speaking in acronyms was generally enough to tickle Rory’s funny bone, but today Gil had tainted her perspective. “Why do you need to see her?”

“You know, not everything’s your business,” he said curtly.

Boy, everyone was in a foul mood today. And it was apparently contagious. Rory felt like pulling the covers back over her head and not resurfacing for twenty-four hours. But life refused to be put on hold. Hobo had given up trying to sleep with all the chatter. He jumped off the bed with a pointed huff of exasperation and headed straight for the stairs, which meant he needed to go outside. Rory knew from experience that ignoring a large dog with a full bladder was risky business. Given that her pj’s were less seductive than a nun’s habit, she dragged herself out of bed with the marshal still looking on. Since they’d met Eloise last spring, his attitude toward her had been in a constant state of flux. At first he’d forbidden Rory to have anything to do with her; then he’d collaborated with her in an effort to keep Rory safe, after which he’d gone back to banning her from the premises again. What was he up to now? “What if Eloise wants to know why you need her?” she asked, forgoing her robe and slippers in the name of expediency.

“She doesn’t always tell you what she wants until you get over there,” he countered. “What’s good for the goose is—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She had to squeeze past him to follow Hobo. “But Eloise doesn’t operate on logic, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Hobo was doing his little “let me out” tap dance when she reached the kitchen door. With just his four paws, he sounded like a whole Riverdance ensemble. The instant she opened the door, he spotted a squirrel at the base of a nearby oak tree and took off after it at warp speed. As usual the squirrel scampered up the tree to safety. One day Rory expected to find the dog clinging to a limb of a tree with no idea how to climb down.

“Then you’ll call her?” Zeke asked, having followed her into the kitchen.

“As long as I can have my coffee first.”

***

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang—twice. Eloise always got miffed if Olga reached for the bell first. Rory opened the door, still in her pj’s. With Eloise’s impromptu visits at odd hours, she’d had to answer the door in as little as a towel. As a result, she no longer worried about her attire when entertaining her elderly neighbor and her aide.

Under her jacket, Eloise was sporting yellow pajama bottoms featuring teddy bears, along with an oversized navy sweatshirt. Red flip-flops completed the ensemble. Her hair was combed neatly on one side but was sticking up at strange angles on the other. The odds were she’d lost patience with Olga halfway through the grooming process. Olga was the most elegantly dressed of them all in pants and a sweater that went nicely together along with a neutral pea coat. She was in her usual state of nervous agitation. “Here are we,” she announced when Rory opened the door. “Is everything being okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning,” Rory said. “I’m afraid the marshal can be very insistent.” Rory noticed how Olga’s eyes lit up at the mention of Zeke. It was obvious the woman still had a major crush on him. In spite of every effort to keep his existence a secret, Rory had had no choice but to introduce him to the aide several months earlier during one of Eloise’s visits. Luckily Olga had been so charmed by him that she hadn’t seemed to notice when he started to lose cohesion.

“I am understanding. Miss Eloise is top expert at being demanding,” Olga said as she stepped inside after her charge.

Rory took their coats and led them into the living room, where she asked them to make themselves comfortable. “Marshal, your guests are here,” she called once they were seated on the couch. Zeke walked in from the direction of the kitchen. He greeted them from a distance that made shaking hands impossible. Instead he dipped his head as though he was wearing a cowboy hat. Olga started blinking so fast that Rory thought she might swoon. And here she was with no smelling salts in the house.

“Mornin’ ladies,” he said pleasantly, but his expression was anything but cordial. He perched on the edge of the armchair diagonally across from them. Olga didn’t seem to have noticed his stony face. She blushed a feverish red, stumbling all over her “hello.” Eloise asked if she could have ice cream.

“Later,” Zeke said. He turned to Rory, who was hovering between his chair and the window, hoping to go unnoticed. “Some privacy, please.”

Although her curiosity was approaching critical mass, she excused herself to shower and dress. Marching up the stairs, she debated whether to risk eavesdropping on the conversation. Common sense and her conscience won out. She couldn’t expect Zeke to respect her privacy if she failed to respect his. But before she closed the bathroom door, she heard heated voices rising from below.

***

The women had left by the time Rory came back downstairs. Zeke was still in the living room, staring off into space as he absently scratched Hobo’s ears. “Eloise didn’t stay to have her ice cream?” she asked in surprise.

“She didn’t mention it again,” he said, looking up at her.

“Whoa—she must have been pretty angry. I’ve never seen her forget about her favorite treat. What were you arguing about?” she added casually.

“Let it go, Rory. Like I said before—not everything concerns you.”

“I guess I should start keeping secrets too,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. She was coming down with a serious case of too-much-togetherness. She headed for the closet beneath the stairs, grabbed her parka and stalked out the kitchen door to work in her office behind the house. She needed to get away from the marshal for a while. Of course he could easily pop in on her there too, but he preferred not to use up his energy that way.

He watched her leave without asking a single question. She would not have deigned to answer them anyway, and he probably knew that. She was halfway across the yard when she heard her business phone ringing in the house and in her office. Rather than backtrack, she ran the rest of the way to the office. It was barely nine o’clock, but there’d already been so much going on that it seemed like it should have been noon at the very least.

By the time she unlocked the door and picked up the receiver, Anya Dmitriev was about to leave a message. In a voice still hollowed by grief, she said she hoped it wasn’t too early to call and wondered if she could stop by. Rory assured her that would be fine, explained that the office was situated at the far end of her driveway and said she’d be expecting her.

Chapter 23

“I thought of something I didn’t mention when you came to see me,” Anya said. She was seated on the small sofa in Rory’s office, kneading the tissue in her lap. “It’s probably not important, but I’ll leave that for you to decide.”

Rory was at her desk, her chair turned to face her visitor. “Sure, you did the right thing.”

“You asked me if Matthew might have kept some kind of journal, either handwritten or on his computer. I told you I doubted it, because it wasn’t the sort of thing he generally went in for. I haven’t changed my mind in that regard, but as I was thinking about computers, I realized I’d never told you about the computer he bought for me.”

Rory found herself inching forward in her seat, as if shortening the distance between them would bring her the rest of the information more quickly.

“I had it until about a week before Matthew died,” Anya said. “He’d insisted on buying it months ago. He said, ‘Mom, technology isn’t going to slow down, and computers are not a fad. You can’t afford to get too far behind or the world will pass you by.’ I remember every single word, because he was so solemn about it. How could I say no? So he bought the computer and set up an e-mail account for me, even though I told him I had no one to write to. ‘You can write to me,’ he said. He showed me how, and I started writing to him. He wrote back every time, even from work. He was such a good, sweet boy.” Anya sniffled and started rummaging in her purse. Since she’d already shredded the tissue she was holding, Rory handed her the little box she kept on her desk. Anya thanked her and daintily blew her nose.

“After a while, I ran out of things to say in the e-mails,” she went on. “Besides, I didn’t want to keep interrupting his day, so I stopped, gradually, hoping maybe he wouldn’t notice.” She gave a little hiccup of a laugh. “But of course he did. I stood my ground and told him I wanted to cut down to twice a week. I guess he saw that I meant business, because he finally agreed. About a week before he died, I somehow gave the computer a cold by opening some spam. I don’t even understand what that means. Computer stuff is all gibberish to me.”

At another time Anya’s words would have struck Rory as funny, but not today. And although she would have liked to ask her to skip to the chase, she had a feeling Anya needed to tell the story her way. Listening patiently was the least she could do for her.

“Mr. Gil has a friend who fixes computers, so I brought it to him,” Anya said. “That was just a few days before Matthew died. So I didn’t have it in the house when you came by.”

“Have you gotten it back?”

“Yes, just yesterday. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. The man who fixed the computer was wondering why I never came to pick it up. When he heard what happened, he insisted on bringing it back and hooking it up again for me. But I don’t really have any use for a computer, so I’m going to tell him he can have it.”

“Wait,” Rory said as a thought occurred to her. “Have you checked your e-mail? There might be messages from Matthew that you missed while the computer was gone.”

“Oh,” Anya said, looking more anxious than hopeful about the prospect. “I didn’t think of that.” She hesitated a moment before going on. “I know how busy you are, but maybe you could stop by my house one day to take a look? I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it just yet.”

“I have an easier solution,” Rory said. “Do you remember your e-mail address and password?”

Anya looked perplexed. “Yes, but what good is that? I don’t have my computer here.”

“We should be able to access your e-mail account from my computer. I know it’s a long shot, but if Matthew did write to you, maybe there’ll be a clue about what was going on in his life right before he was killed.”

She gave Rory the address and password as she pulled another tissue from the box. Rory swiveled around to the computer, plugged in the information and crossed virtual fingers in her mind. When Anya’s e-mail popped up, she felt as if she’d been waiting hours rather than seconds.

“It’s still there and I’m in,” she said, tempering her excitement in the face of Anya’s grief. She turned to the older woman. “There’s one unopened message from Matthew. It’s kind of strange though; it’s through a greeting-card company.”

Anya frowned. “But my birthday is in the summer and it’s not a holiday. Why would he have sent me a card?”

“May I open it?” Rory asked, her itchy finger ready to mutiny and click the mouse even before Anya gave her the okay.

“Yes, please,” she said, her voice quavering.

Rory held her breath as she clicked on the e-mail. An envelope appeared. Another click opened it, and a sheet of plain stationery popped out and unfolded. Holy hyenas, as her uncle Mac used to say—her instincts were right. She had to read Matthew’s short message twice before the words actually sank in. Then she read it aloud to Anya. “Mom, if something should happen to me, you need to know that Lacey Harper is behind it. Always remember that I love you, Matthew.”

When she turned back to Anya, tears were spilling down the older woman’s cheeks. Rory gave her time to regain her composure. She needed a moment to get her own mind under control too. It was spinning in crazy eights at full throttle, kicking up so many questions that she couldn’t think clearly. Was that it? Had Matthew given them his killer on a silver platter? Make that a silver e-platter.

“I don’t understand,” Anya said, interrupting her thoughts. “How can Lacey be responsible? I was told she was flying somewhere when Matthew was killed.”

“She was,” Rory replied. She’d spoken to the airline herself, and they’d faxed her a copy of the flight manifest. Lacey was definitely on a plane bound for Virginia at the time of Matthew’s death. The only way she could have been involved is by hiring a hit man. Rory didn’t see any point in burdening Anya with such conjecture.

“None of this makes any sense.”

“It will, I promise you,” Rory said, looking into her eyes. “I’m going to find out who killed your son and why.”

***

Rory spent the next hour trying to meditate and relax before facing the marshal again. She’d never been very good at it, and that day wasn’t much different. No matter how hard she tried, her mind refused to stay blank. It just kept wandering all over the place, but at least she didn’t fall asleep like she usually did. Despite her failure, by the end of the hour she was feeling considerably more mellow, possibly even Zeke-proof. And wasn’t that really all that mattered? If he wanted to argue with Eloise and keep secrets, why should she care? If he enjoyed gnashing his virtual teeth, she didn’t have to be a party to it. In the future, she would simply rise above the nonsense with the serenity of a Zen master, albeit a Zen master who couldn’t get the hang of meditation

“Well, doesn’t that beat all,” Zeke said, after hearing about Matthew’s e-mail. When he appeared, Rory was in the reading chair and Hobo was stretched out full length across the floor, so he took up a pose against the front edge of the desk.

“My thought exactly,” she said. “So where do we go from here? The police aren’t going to arrest Lacey on the basis of Matthew’s conjecture. We need more proof.”

“The situation calls to mind a case I had back in ’75. 1875,” Zeke added, as if she needed clarification.

Rory settled back in her chair, prepared for one of the marshal’s rambling stories.

“You see, there was a fella by the name of Grandy; his real name was Grandison, but he went by Grandy. Anyhow, he was accused of cattle rustlin’. In those days, it was a hangin’ offense. Everyone in town was sure he was guilty, because the only evidence we had pointed to him. But I had a feelin’ in my gut that he didn’t do it. To this day I can’t even tell you why. Maybe it was some of that sidekick ability I keep hearin’ about.” Rory decided not to correct him. She’d tried in the past, but it hadn’t taken. “The sheriff arrested Grandy and threw him in jail to await trial when the circuit-court judge came to town. Now, the judge didn’t come around often, and by the end of the first week, people were clamorin’ for Grandy’s hide. They didn’t see the need to bother with a trial. It took a lot of convincin’, but I finally talked them into abidin’ by the law and waitin’.”

“How did you manage that?” she asked, getting caught up in the tale.

“As I recall, I said somethin’ like, ‘What’s the difference if he dies today or a few weeks from now? If he’s guilty, you’ll have your hangin’, and if he’s not, you’ll all sleep better knowin’ you didn’t lynch an innocent man. If we start livin’ by vigilante justice, any one of you could be the next to face the noose.’ I think it was that last part that finally got their attention, self-interest bein’ the hallmark of our species.”

“So, was he guilty?”

“No, it turned out he was framed. Those extra days made it possible for me to find the real culprit.”

“Those people must have been very grateful you talked them out of hanging Grandy.”

“If they were, they didn’t bother mentionin’ it to me,” he said. “Folks don’t like findin’ out they’re wrong. And these folks surely didn’t want to be reminded about the terrible thing they nearly did.”

“So what you’re saying is that we can’t run right out and hang Lacey until we at least try to eliminate every other possibility.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh, while a pesky little voice in her head wondered if the marshal would have been as eager to give Lacey’s brothers the same benefit of the doubt.

Zeke nodded and smiled at her as if she was a prize student who’d just aced a test. In spite of herself, his approval gave her a little boost. She shook off the ridiculous feeling. “But there’s still the question of why Matthew pointed such a direct finger at Lacey. She must have said or done something threatening.”

“Or he was bein’ threatened by someone and he jumped to the wrong conclusion, like those folks I was just tellin’ you about. By the way, what happened to the theory that Greenbrier’s involved in all this?”

“Until we get some solid evidence against them, it’s going to remain a theory,” Rory said. “Who knows? Maybe Lacey’s working with them. Maybe she’s the turncoat.”

Zeke shook his head. “I don’t know—it’s not sittin’ right with me. I’m tellin’ you, there’s more to this than we’re seein’.”

“Okay, Marshal, where do you suggest we go to find the missing pieces?”

“We need to talk to Matthew’s neighbors and find out if they heard or saw anything suspicious the night he was killed.”

“You know Leah canvassed the area immediately and came up empty.”

Zeke arched an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you the one who told me Gil wasn’t paying us to base our investigation on secondhand information?”

“Then I guess we have some legwork ahead of us.”

“Yes, ma’am. We do.”

Chapter 24

The Arizona Territory

1876

Just before noon, Drummond left the boardinghouse where he lodged when he was in town, saddled up the buckskin and headed down to the tailor shop. He was sporting his Sunday best, the clothing he kept for special occasions like weddings and funerals, and in this case, an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. The invitation had come from Clarence Higgs’s niece, Abigail. A few years older than Celeste, Abigail had married a successful rancher and lived a few miles north of Tucson with their three young children. When Abigail heard that Celeste had a gentleman friend, she insisted he join them for the holiday.

In preparation for the day, Drummond had bought himself a hot bath and a proper haircut. He’d even had his moustache trimmed so there were no wayward hairs. Having an aversion to formal events that required spit and polish, he’d nearly declined the invitation. But there was the matter of Celeste. She’d seemed so pleased about it that he hadn’t had the heart to disappoint her. Truth be told, he really didn’t want to miss out on the hours they would be able to spend together. Since his job kept him away for long stretches of time, their relationship had been creeping along at a snail’s pace. And he knew from the way other men looked at Celeste that she could have her pick of the lot, married or single. He worried that she’d tire of waiting for him, but he couldn’t see any solution to his dilemma. He wasn’t cut out to be a merchant or to ply any of the other trades that would allow a man to make a decent living within the confines of a town. Given his current line of work, the job of sheriff was the only one that made any sense, and that position was already filled. He was going yet another round with the issue when he arrived at the tailor shop.

Clarence was helping Celeste into a fancy, little surrey that had clearly never known a muddy street. For that matter, Drummond didn’t recall Clarence owning the palomino that was hitched to its traces. But it was Celeste who captured the marshal’s attention in a dress with a white satin and lace bodice, gray skirt and matching cape. Her hair had been gathered up from her shoulders and artfully arranged atop her head, wispy tendrils left to frame her face.

As they seemed ready to leave, Drummond didn’t dismount but greeted them with a tip of his hat. “Nice wagon,” he said, as they got under way.

“But not in the least practical,” Celeste said with a sigh. “It can’t even accommodate three people.” Drummond assured her he didn’t mind. He much preferred sitting astride his horse to bumping along in a carriage anyway.

“Have you ever seen a more magnificent conveyance, Marshal?” Clarence asked, beaming in spite of her complaint. “It’s the latest thing—they call it a surrey. Nothing but the finest for my little girl.”

“Marshal,” she said, “don’t you agree that it’s lunacy to spend a fortune on such an elegant wagon used to travel these filthy, rutted streets?”

Drummond, who was keeping pace alongside Celeste, knew a losing battle when it stared him in the eye. “You look pretty as a picture,” he replied to change the subject.

Celeste murmured a demur “thank you,” after which the three of them managed to keep the conversation light as if they’d all realized the folly of letting an argument ruin what promised to be a lovely day.

Their arrival at the ranch triggered a tumult of activity and noise. Abigail and her children flew outside to greet them, along with their three barking dogs. Her husband, William, trailed behind his boisterous family, more reserved but no less welcoming. After being introduced to the marshal, Abigail winked at Celeste and grabbed her arm to pull her inside, as if they were still schoolgirls. William offered to take the horses into the barn and get them settled.

“I appreciate that,” Drummond said, “but the buckskin’s a mite high-strung and partial to my hand. I can see to them both if you don’t mind.”

William told him where to find the oats and hay; then he and Clarence followed the women inside. The marshal unhitched the palomino from the surrey and put him into an empty stall with a forkful of hay, a cup of oats and fresh water. Then he unsaddled the buckskin, and led him by the bridle to the next stall. At the last moment the horse resisted, rearing up on his hind legs. Instead of fighting him, Drummond waited until he settled down, at which point he grabbed the bit, looked the animal straight in the eye and in a firm but gentle tone, ordered him to “Quit the crap.” Then he walked him in a circle and led him to the stall again. This time the buckskin went in without incident. As the marshal removed the bridle, he wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn’t exchanged the horse months ago for a less ornery mount. Maybe he just liked the challenge—and the fact that the buckskin gave everyone else an even harder time. He left the horse food and water and was latching the stall door when Celeste appeared in the open doorway of the barn.

“I came to see what was taking you so long,” she said, walking over to him. “Abigail thought you might have run for your life after meeting her brood.”

Drummond laughed. “I won’t deny I gave the option some thought, but I’ve never cut and run in my life, even when a smarter man might have. Give me a second to put this away,” he said, taking the pitchfork he’d used on the hay back to the wall where William kept it. When he turned around, he found that Celeste had come up directly behind him. They were only inches apart, and she was smiling up at him with mischief in her eyes.

“Celeste? Marshal?” Clarence called their names as he entered the barn. “Are you two planning to spend all of Thanksgiving with the horses?” He paused for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. “Where are you?” He started down the row of stalls, coming upon his daughter and Drummond as they emerged from the darker recesses at the back of the barn.

“What on God’s green earth is going on in here?” Clarence demanded, his face cinched tightly with anger.

“Nothing, Papa,” Celeste said, looking him straight in the eye. “The marshal was having a difficult time getting his horse into the stall, and we just now put the hay fork back where it belongs.” Clarence looked them both up and down, his expression still twisted with disapproval.

“Papa, what exactly are you implying?” Celeste asked, sounding both hurt and angry. When he didn’t reply she said, “Surely you know me better than that.”

Clarence cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I judged too quickly,” he muttered to them, before turning on his heel to leave the barn. But Drummond could tell that he wasn’t convinced, that he’d simply decided this wasn’t the right time or place to pursue the matter. As the marshal followed Celeste outside, he noticed a few pieces of hay caught between the tiny buttons on the back of her blouse and he quickly plucked them off.

Chapter 25

The days were growing darker and colder as November marched on toward December. Rory would have preferred to be snug in her house by dinnertime, but she knew it was the best time to canvas an area. Parents would be home from work, their children done with after-school activities. Unfortunately it was also one of the busiest times for families, and her present job simply didn’t carry the respect or clout of a detective’s badge. People, who hung up in anger when solicitors called, would have no compunction about slamming their doors in her face, if they even bothered to open them at all. Being a private investigator required growing a tough hide.

After living in an apartment for six years, Matthew had bought a cottage on Eaton’s Neck, an island connected to the rest of Long Island by a narrow thread of land called Asharoken. The Neck was as far north as you could go within the town of Huntington unless you had a boat. According to his mother, Matthew had always had an affinity for the water, and as soon as he was financially able, he’d purchased the cottage a block from Northport Bay. It had fallen on hard times, along with its previous owner, but Matthew had seen the potential in it. He’d spent every weekend for the better part of a year refurbishing it and making it his own. Anya said it was his pride and joy.

As Rory drove along Asharoken Avenue, she was glad there was no rain in the forecast. Northport Bay on her left and the Long Island Sound on her right were lapping at the berms on either side of the roadway as it was. Any decent-sized storm could swamp the road entirely. She’d been up there a few times before, but always on a clear day when the water was glittering in the sunlight and floods were the farthest thing from her mind. The night was a very different story though. Street lamps carved out circles of light along the narrow road, but beyond it the water stretched away in an unrelieved darkness that conjured up the sort of chilling images Dean Koontz and Stephen King painted so well in their novels. Rory turned up the heat against the cold that was shimmying up her spine and started singing along to “We Are Young” on the radio.

“Stop that awful caterwaulin’!” Zeke’s disembodied voice erupted from the ether, making her jump in her seat.

“Startling a driver isn’t smart,” she snapped, once her heart had subsided from her throat. “It’s not like I’m driving a horse and buggy here. I could have lost control of the wheel and gone straight into the water. What happened to blinking the lights to warn me?”

“I didn’t have time,” he said, filtering into the passenger seat more slowly than usual. “Your screechin’ just about shattered me. And would you please turn off that contraption,” he added, pointing to the radio. “Whoever that is you’re listenin’ to doesn’t have much more talent than you do. It’s a wonderment to me why folks these days seem to need constant noise. They even plug it straight into their ears.”

“Have you finished with today’s lecture?” Rory asked, switching off the radio. After the initial shock he’d given her, she was actually happy to have his company.

He crossed his arms. “I’ve said my piece.”

“So what happened? I thought you were going to meet me out there.”

“I was, until I got a gander at this godforsaken stretch of land.” Rory noted that he hadn’t come right out and said she needed a man to protect her. And although she didn’t like the thought of being “handled,” she was just fine with his efforts to respect her feelings. Every long-term relationship required adjustments by both parties. She’d read that in a women’s magazine at the dentist’s office. Although it was doubtful the author had human-ghost relationships in mind when she wrote the article, Rory didn’t see why the same advice couldn’t also be applied in their case.

“Will you be changing your clothes or coming as the invisible man?” she asked, since he was wearing his marshal getup.

“I didn’t feel like creatin’ another set of clothes. Invisible will suit me just fine for tonight.”

Ten minutes later, they were parked at the curb in front of Matthew’s cottage. The only house on the street without lights, it seemed bereft, in mourning for its most recent owner, who had tended to it so lovingly. Since there was nothing to be gained by letting emotions cloud her thoughts, Rory turned her attention to the other homes on the block. There were ten in total, five on each side. From what she could make out, they were all modest frame buildings. Matthew’s was easily the smallest one. They weren’t on large lots, but neither were they sitting cheek by jowl. If there had been an argument or scuffle in his house, the neighbors might have heard something had the windows been open. Unfortunately it had been an uncomfortably cold autumn.

“Let’s start with the houses next door to his and work outward from there,” Rory said.

Zeke’s voice piped up from somewhere behind her. “Will you look at that—we’re actually startin’ to think alike.”

Great, just what she needed. Although the marshal was intelligent, even insightful at times, his thought processes were often strangely off-kilter. She didn’t know if it was a side effect of being dead or if he’d always been that way. In either case, she wasn’t thrilled. One of them had to remain sound of mind and body.

She walked up to the house that was to the right of Matthew’s, passing the black mailbox with the name “Desmond” painted boldly in white. She’d flirted briefly with the idea of having the marshal pop into each of the homes to determine who was inside and what kind of reception she might expect from them. But it would be an unforgiveable breach of their privacy. She’d at least been able to choose whether to live with a ghost or walk away from the issue.

She rang the doorbell and heard it chime inside. Although she could pick out muted voices from what sounded like a television, no one came to the door. She rang the bell again. “Would you like me to scare them out of the house?” Zeke whispered, sounding far too partial to the idea.

“Don’t you dare,” Rory warned him, just as the front door finally opened. A woman wearing a gray sweat suit and a harried expression scowled at her from behind a glass storm door. In the background, Rory could see two children fighting over the TV remote.

The woman yelled at them over her shoulder, threatening to take away their TV privileges unless they behaved. As far as Rory could tell, her threat went unheeded.

The woman turned her attention back to Rory. “What do you want?” she asked warily.

Rory managed to come up with a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Desmond. I’m a private investigator.” She held up one of her business cards. “I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to talk to me about your neighbor Matthew Dmitriev.”

The woman squinted at the card, her curiosity clearly warring with her better judgment. “Yeah, I suppose,” she said, looking right then left, as if to make sure Rory was alone. Satisfied, she opened the storm door to let her in. Rory was immediately struck by the smell of frying fish. Back in her early teens, she’d suffered a terrible bout of food poisoning from eating bad fish sticks at a friend’s house. Even all these years later, her stomach started roiling the second she walked inside. To her dismay, the woman led her into the kitchen and offered her a seat at the table—ground zero of the offending odor.

The boy and girl stopped fighting over the remote and came to stand in the kitchen doorway. “This doesn’t concern you,” their mother said, shooing them back toward the living room. She stopped at the stove to turn the sizzling fish, which only served to intensify the smell. Then she sat down across from Rory, who was trying to breathe through her mouth instead of her nose. She wished the woman would turn on the fan in the range hood but decided it would be rude to mention the awful odor, given that it was no doubt the family’s dinner.

“Do they have a suspect in Matthew’s death yet?” Mrs. Desmond asked. “Do they have a motive? This block was crawling with cops when it happened, but we haven’t heard anything since then. There’s not even much in the newspapers.” The woman was good; Rory had to give her that. She’d managed to grab the upper hand, making Rory feel like the interviewee.

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” she said, reclaiming control. “First I need to get some information from you, starting with your name, please.”

“Carla Desmond,” the woman responded, not bothering to hide her annoyance at being preempted. “Spells like it sounds.”

Rory jotted the name on her pad. “Thank you—did you know Matthew well?” she asked without pausing, leery of giving Carla time to launch another coup.

Carla shrugged. “We weren’t BFFs, if that’s what you mean. He only lived here, what . . . a year? I have a family, and he was a single guy. We had very different schedules. I don’t think we ever talked for more than two minutes at a time. But he seemed nice enough. “Did you happen to notice if he had a lot of visitors?” In the next room, the kids were shouting at each other again. Carla didn’t seem to care.

“Look, I’m no busybody,” she said. “I don’t have time for that. Matthew’s mother was the only one I ever saw there on a regular basis. Nice lady.”

Rory smelled something acrid on top of the fishy odor. “I think your dinner’s burning,” she said, looking toward the stove, where smoke was rising from the skillet. Did Carla’s sense of smell work at all?

She jumped up and ran to the stove, where she pushed the pan onto a cold back burner and turned off the hot one. “The oil just cooked out,” she said, waving her hand over the smoke as if to disperse it.

“You’ll get rid of the smoke faster if you put on the fan,” Rory said. Considering the new circumstances, the suggestion was more helpful than rude. Carla followed her advice. The fan proved very noisy, which had the added benefit of drowning out the children’s screeching.

“I hope your dinner isn’t ruined,” Rory added, once Carla resumed her seat.

She laughed. “It’ll be fine. I’ll tell them blackened fish sticks are the latest thing. As long as they get to have cake for dessert, they’ll eat pretty much anything.”

Rory forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as phony as it felt. When Carla opened her mouth to continue, she beat her to the punch. “Do you remember hearing anything, maybe an argument, coming from Matthew’s house in the days before he was murdered? It would probably have been in the evening, since he was at work during the day.”

“No, I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary. Of course my husband and I watch TV at night. A lot of cop shows. With all the shooting and shouting, it’s hard to hear anything else. No—wait,” she corrected herself. “I did hear someone slam a car door really hard back around then. I’d come into the kitchen to get some ice cream, and I remember thinking, boy oh boy, somebody’s mad.”

Rory’s heart did a hopeful little jig. “Do you recall the time?”

Carla reflected for a minute. “I’d have to say about 8:30. I generally wait for the half hour commercial break to get my dessert.”

“Did you look outside to see who was slamming the car door or where the car was parked?”

Carla shook her head. “I didn’t have time—I wanted to get back to my program. But it sounded like it was close by.”

Rory thanked her for the help and promised to let her know when the police had the guilty party in custody. As she walked back down to the curb, she breathed deeply of the fresh salty air until she’d purged the smell of burnt fish from her nostrils. “Zeke,” she called in a loud whisper. “Where are you?” Why hadn’t he said anything now that they were outside? His response was barely audible, a staccato jumble of sounds as if he was on a cell phone with poor service. She’d reached the house to the left of the cottage by the time she figured out he was trying to say the word “cold.”

She’d forgotten that the cold drained his energy. Since he’d apparently forgotten about it himself, she didn’t feel too badly about her lapse. She hurried back to the Audi, turned on the engine and blasted the heat, which felt wonderful on her mortal flesh too. After a few minutes, the marshal appeared in the seat beside her. “That was frustratin’ as all get-out,” he said, looking chagrined.

“I can imagine,” she said to be sympathetic.

“I doubt it, but we can’t waste time debatin’ that now. Here’s what we’ll have to do,” he barreled on. “I’ll arrive once you’re inside a house and then I’ll meet you in the car after each visit so we can figure out our next move. You’ll have to leave the car runnin’ so it stays warm.”

Even though she thought it would be a huge waste of time to meet between each house, she kept that opinion to herself. The marshal wasn’t in the best of moods, and though she’d never admit it, she wanted his company on the drive home.

No one answered the doorbell at the next house or at the one beyond that. Rory drove to the last house on that side of the street, because the distance was too far to keep walking back to the car. Lights were blazing inside the house, and after one ring of the bell, a man in his forties opened the door. She held up her card again, and before she could even explain why she was there, he invited her inside. “I didn’t want to leave you freezing outside,” he said, taking the card from her and glancing at it. “Well, Ms. McCain, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Tony Valenti.” He held out his hand and Rory shook it, a little surprised by the uncommonly warm welcome. “I’m sorry to say I can’t be of any help to you, though,” he went on. “I just moved in last week, so I never met Matthew. Maybe I can interest you in a cup of coffee or cocoa before you go back out to brave the cold?”

“Thanks, that’s a very kind offer,” she said, thinking she probably shouldn’t have been so quick to enter a stranger’s house, even with a Walther PPK in her purse and a no-nonsense ghost hovering nearby. “But I don’t really have time right now.” She thanked him again and was out the door before he had a chance to insist, and before Zeke felt compelled to teach him any lessons. Since nothing had been gained by the visit, she made an executive decision to skip the car talk. She crossed the street, hoping for better results than she’d had so far, although neighbors this far from Matthew’s house weren’t likely to have heard anything either.

She didn’t immediately notice the man walking the golden retriever. The two seemed to appear out of the shadows between the lampposts as if they’d just been born there. Rory ordered her imagination back in line. She’d clearly been hanging out with a ghost for too long. She waited beneath one of the lights for them to reach her. Most dog owners she knew walked their animals on a pretty regular schedule, and a detective couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned.

“I’m Russ Cavanaugh, and this is my gal Gracie,” the man said, after Rory introduced herself and explained why she was there. She put Russ on the far side of seventy. He was wearing a heavy parka, a wool scarf around his neck and a jaunty fisherman’s cap on his snow-white hair. She could picture his wife of many years making sure he was adequately bundled up against the cold. Of course Rory didn’t even know if he had a wife, but she liked the image that sprang to mind.

“I wonder if you’d be willing to answer a few questions,” she said, as the retriever nuzzled her hand with a snout as white as her owner’s hair.

“All right,” Russ said reluctantly, “but only for a minute. I need to get Gracie here back home. She’s pushing twelve, and the cold is hard on her.”

Rory considered inviting them to sit in her car while they talked, but she didn’t know how Gracie would react to a ghost. “I’ll make it quick,” she said instead. “Do you walk Gracie every night about this time?”

Russ seemed confused by the question. “As a matter of fact I do. But I don’t understand why that would matter to you, or anyone else.”

“I believe Matthew may have had an argument with someone around this time of night, in the days before his death.”

Russ thought for a minute. “I live a few blocks over, so I don’t know everyone who lives on this street. Which house was his?”

Rory pointed to the cottage. “The altercation may have ended with a man getting into a car and slamming the door.”

“Yes,” Russ said, his face lighting up. “Yes, that jogged the old gray matter. Gracie and I were taking our last walk of the night. We’d crossed the street on our way home when I heard some shouting. They were so loud I heard them even though the windows were closed.” He dropped his voice. “I hate to admit it, but I stopped outside to see if I could make out what they were saying. I’m getting to be a worse gossip than my wife. That’s what retirement will do to you.”

“Can you tell me what you heard?” Rory asked, to refocus him before they all froze to death.

“I’ll do my best, but I didn’t hear all of the argument, and I’ve probably forgotten a good part of what I did hear.”

“Anything will help.”

“It was two men, and one of them was threatening the other. He ordered him to stop doing something or he’d see to it he lost his job and his mother was kicked out of her home.”

“What did the other man say?

“His voice wasn’t as loud, so it was harder to make out, but I think he was trying to defend himself—verbally, I mean. I don’t think they were actually throwing punches. Then one of the men stormed out of the house and got in his car, like you said. I pretended Gracie and I were just passing by, but he didn’t even seem to notice to us.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Rory asked hopefully.

“As good as you can under these streetlights.”

“Then I need to ask a favor of you. I’d like you to describe the man, so I can sketch him. I was a police sketch artist,” she added in response to the puzzled expression on Russ’s face. “It won’t take long, and you can come sit in my warm car while we do it.” This was one of those times when push had actually come to shove. She’d have to take a chance that the dog and the marshal could coexist for a short time, because this was too important an opportunity to pass up.

When Russ didn’t answer her immediately, she was afraid he might refuse. She couldn’t let that happen. “You have no idea how pivotal this could be,” she said. “Your help might actually solve the case.” She could see by his expression that her words had hit their mark. “My car is right over there,” she said pressing her advantage. “Gracie sure looks like she could use some heat about now. I’ll even drive you two back home as soon as we’re done.”

“Elizabeth is probably wondering what’s taking us so long,” he hedged. “Elizabeth’s my wife.”

“You can call her from my cell as soon as we get in the car,” she promised, which sealed the deal. “I’ll need to sit in the passenger seat to do the sketch, so I hope you don’t mind sitting in the back with Gracie,” she said as she unlocked the car.

“Makes no difference to me.” He climbed in, but Gracie refused to follow. It took several stern commands from him before she finally ignored her better judgment and jumped inside. She planted herself up against him, her ears back and a low growl rumbling in her throat.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” he said. “I’ve had her since she was eight weeks old, and I’ve never seen her act this way.”

Rory wished she could relieve his concern, but telling him that the dog had just met her first ghost was only bound to make matters worse. “Maybe she’s upset because she smells my dog; his fur is all over the place.” She handed Russ her cell phone to distract him and excused herself to grab the sketch pad she always kept in the trunk. He was talking to his wife when Rory jumped into the passenger seat. The heated air wrapped around her like a warm bear hug. Letting the car run for the marshal had definitely turned out to be a good idea after all.

Gracie was still growling, and when Rory turned around to see how she was doing, the whites of the retriever’s eyes were showing. Russ kept stroking her back, but even that didn’t seem to reassure the dog. This would have to be one quick drawing. Russ clicked off the call with his wife and handed the phone back to Rory. “Whatever is bothering Gracie is getting worse by the minute,” he said. “If you want to do this sketch, we’d better get started.”

Chapter 26

Rory put the finishing touches on the drawing and clambered over the center console to sit behind the wheel. A minute later she was pulling up in front of Russ’s house. By then Gracie was alternately whimpering and yelping. When Russ opened the rear door, the dog nearly trampled him in her mad scramble to get out.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Rory called as he was yanked out by the leash wrapped around his wrist. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Glad to help,” he called back, trying to keep up with Gracie, who was hell bent on reaching the sanctuary of the house. Rory had to get out of the car to close the rear door and by the time she slid back under the wheel, Zeke had reclaimed his seat.

“Why didn’t you just go home and wait for me there?” she asked, thinking she might prefer to drive back alone after all.

“I was curious, same as you,” he said without apology.

“But you nearly gave the poor dog a heart attack. Let’s face it; you chose to be there. I didn’t have a choice. It was too cold and dark to do the sketch outside, and I had to get that description down on paper.”

“You’re wrong; you did have a choice. You could have driven Russ home and done the sketch at his place. That way the dog could have hidden under a bed somewhere, and we all would have been a lot more comfortable.”

“I can’t just invite myself into someone’s home like that,” she said, pulling away from the curb. “I know you’ve been out of the social loop for a long time, but I doubt that would have been proper even back in your day.” Zeke didn’t reply, which generally meant he knew she was right. Rory drove in silence until she’d found her way off Eaton’s Neck and down Asharoken Avenue.

“Were you as surprised by the drawing as I was?” she asked once they were in more familiar territory.

“I’ve seen enough twists and turns in cases to expect pretty much anything,” he said. “But if you’d asked me who I thought I’d see looking back from that piece of paper, it would not have been James. He seems like a level-headed family man, and he has a rock-solid alibi.”

“In the end, all this sketch means is that he argued with the victim a few days before his death. It doesn’t prove he had anything to do with killing him.”

“True, but James wasn’t there to pay a social call. If Russ overheard him correctly, he went there to threaten Matthew.”

***

Rory called James early the next morning, hoping to catch him before he left for work. He seemed annoyed to hear from her again, but he agreed to stop by her office on his lunch break the next day. Then he rushed her off the phone, claiming he was late for an appointment. After clicking off the call, Rory remained at the kitchen table, stirring her coffee and watching it swirl around the cup. She had no plan mapped out for the day, but she needed to come up with one. When she took stock of what they knew and what questions were still unanswered, Luke was right up at the top of the list. His nonchalance about not having an alibi had been niggling at her ever since they’d first interviewed him. Did he truly not care? Or was he without a verifiable alibi because he was the killer? No, Luke was far from stupid. If he’d planned to murder someone, he would have done whatever it took to insure his freedom after the fact. There was definitely more to his story than they knew, but she doubted that speaking to him again would be productive. Following him, on the other hand, just might be. And even if it didn’t help her solve the murder case, perhaps it would provide her with some clues about the sabotage.

When she laid out her plan for Zeke, he grudgingly agreed that it could prove worthwhile.

“I get the feeling you’re not a hundred percent behind me on this,” she said, arching an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well, you’re talkin’ a lot of hours to keep him under surveillance, with no certainty of learnin’ anythin’. Don’t get me wrong here, I understand we could also catch us a big break from the effort. But I won’t be able to ride shotgun most of the time. I need to conserve energy for the times you . . . I mean we . . . ,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I mean for the times having a partner might be a real benefit.”

Rory had to choke back a giggle. Even though the marshal was trying hard not to step on her emancipated toes, his fundamental beliefs about the roles of men and women clearly hadn’t changed.

“I see your point,” she said soberly, letting him off the hook. “But if you think about it, you always seem to sense when I need assistance.” As well as plenty of times when I don’t, she added to herself.

“I’m not real comfortable leavin’ it to chance.”

“Life is all about chance,” she said. “There’s no way to control everything.” She could give him some instances from his own life, but that would only lead him to a dark place and solve nothing.

Zeke ran her words around in his head for a minute. “I suppose,that’s true,” he said, but he sounded far from happy about it.

Rory went through the sheaf of papers Gil had given her to find Luke’s work schedule. He worked Wednesday through Sunday, eight a.m. to four p.m., but Gil had noted that his schedule was subject to change based on the needs of the business. Fine, she’d begin by tailing him in the evenings when his time was generally his own. If he was involved in anything nefarious, it was most likely to be then.

***

Rory was blow-drying her hair when the doorbell rang. She only knew of two people who would consider dropping by so early in the morning without calling first: Eloise and her aunt Helene. Unless she’d scheduled a business appointment and forgotten? Since the answer was standing on her front porch, she tied her bathrobe securely around her waist and headed for the stairs. It occurred to her that Hobo wasn’t barking, which usually meant that he knew and approved of the visitor. But there’d been a few times lately that he’d slept right through the doorbell. Rory had improvised a few simple tests to check his hearing, but she hadn’t found anything wrong with it. She was left with the conclusion that the dog felt completely safe and secure when she was at home. In other words, she’d become his watchdog. Before she knew it, she’d be eating from his doggie bowl while he dined in style at the table.

When she reached the front door, she found him whirling in place like a fur-bearing dervish. His nose had clearly told him who was outside, and his reaction told her it was friend, not foe. But considering her present attire and wet hair, she checked the peephole for additional information. An anxious Olga and a grim Eloise filled her view. Grim Eloise always made her nervous. What type of news was she there to impart today? And just how much would it rock Rory’s world? At that moment, Olga shifted her weight, and Rory caught a glimpse of her aunt Helene standing behind them. This really did not bode well. She flirted briefly with the notion of running back upstairs and hiding under the covers, but sadly enough, reason beat back insanity, and she turned the key in the lock.

Her guests filed in one after the other, Olga issuing her standard apology, Eloise asking what flavor ice cream she had on hand and Helene all smiles and sociability. Rory’s own unique version of the Three Stooges.

“I was at the doughnut shop getting coffee and I decided to buy some doughnuts and invite myself for breakfast,” Helene said, holding up a box. “I couldn’t decide which kind to take, so I wound up with a dozen. Isn’t it wonderful how things work out? I have enough here for everyone.”

“Let me introduce you all,” Rory said, after hugging her aunt.

Helene was already on her way to the kitchen. “No need—we took care of the formalities while we were waiting outside.” Since Olga and Eloise were following her, Rory trailed after them. Helene set her coffee container and the doughnuts on the table and threw her coat over the back of a chair before taking a seat.

Olga made sure her charge was settled before plopping into her own chair. She seemed transfixed by the doughnut box and the promise of what it contained. Eloise didn’t even glance in its direction. Apparently her obsession for ice cream didn’t extend to all sweets. Rory offered to make coffee or tea for them, but they both declined. She rummaged in the pantry, finally coming away with paper plates and napkins, which she set in front of her three guests, along with glasses and a container of orange juice in case the doughnuts made them thirsty. She opened the box of doughnuts and passed it first to Olga, who dithered a bit before selecting a jelly doughnut covered in confectioner’s sugar. Eloise glanced in the box and shook her head before handing it on to Helene, who took a dense, chocolate-cake one. Rory went for her usual custard-filled doughnut with chocolate icing. But when she set it on her plate, she found she didn’t have much of an appetite. She was too busy waiting for trouble.

“I have to speak to you.” Eloise said impatiently.

“Okay, we’ll go into the living room,” Rory said, thinking they might as well get it over with. She helped her elderly neighbor up from the chair, answering Helene’s questioning look with a “just-humoring-the-old-lady” wink. Olga, who knew the ropes, reached for another doughnut.

Once they were alone, Eloise got right to it. “You have to ask your mother for the Bible,” she blurted out, not bothering to sit down.

“What Bible? What are you talking about?” Rory didn’t recall ever seeing a Bible lying around the house.

“The old one in the attic of course.” Eloise sounded peeved, as if Rory was playing stupid just to irritate her.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about it?”

“No. I always tell you exactly what I’m told.”

Rory tried another angle. “Who gave you this message?”

“The woman holding the photograph.”

“The daughter of the woman you described to me?”

“Yes. I’d like my ice cream now.” Rory was about to escort her back to the kitchen when the table lamp blinked. Less than a second later, Zeke appeared. He was standing on the other side of the couch decked out in what had become his cold weather go-to—chinos and a light sweater. He was dressed for company, namely Helene, the only one in the house who’d never met him. Rory inadvertently groaned out loud.

“I’m always pleased as punch to see you too,” he said gruffly, “but if you don’t mind, I’m actually here to talk to Eloise.”

“Anything you want to say to her, you can say to me too,” Rory replied politely, standing her ground.

“Fine,” he said, turning to Eloise. “Mind your own business and stay out of ours.” His voice was low and tight, as if he was talking with his teeth clenched. “If you don’t, I promise you’re going to regret it.”

“Oh no, big scary ghost,” Eloise said, with her playful, little-girl laugh. Grim Eloise had left the building. “I’m going to have ice cream—Rory says she has vanilla fudge. Want some?”

The marshal didn’t say a word, but he glared at Rory as if she was the puppeteer who controlled the two faces of Eloise.

“Marshal Drummond!” Olga’s delighted squeal gave Rory a start. She’d been facing Zeke and hadn’t heard the aide come to the living-room doorway. Helene was there too, eyes as wide with surprise as Rory had ever seen them.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Olga,” Zeke said, sending some old western charm in her direction. Having apparently lost her ability to move or speak, Olga just beamed back at him.

Helene had to squeeze past her to enter the room. “It’s like a flash-mob party thing,” she said, having her usual trouble with the current jargon. “I didn’t even hear the doorbell.”

“That’s probably because he knocked,” Rory said.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Helene asked, heading in the marshal’s direction as if she intended to correct the oversight herself. Rory tried to think of a way to keep her from reaching him, but the only option that came to mind was tackling her. And how was she ever going to explain that?

“Glad to meet you,” Zeke said as Helene drew closer. He did his no-hat-head bob, which had helped him avoid handshakes in the past, but it didn’t keep Helene at bay. Rory felt like she was in a dream where she kept running but got nowhere, unable to escape the axe murderer or save a loved one from tragedy. She watched helplessly, dreading the moment when her aunt touched the marshal and realized he wasn’t made of flesh and bone.

At the last moment, Zeke withdrew an imaginary paper from his imaginary pants pocket and promptly dropped it. He bent to retrieve it just as Helene was about to extend her hand. Talk about good timing. He made a big show of fumbling and dropping the paper a few more times, chuckling at his own clumsiness.

“I’m Rory’s aunt Helene,” she said brightly, giving up on the handshake, to Rory’s relief.

“Zeke Drummond,” he said, holding the paper in both hands as if it was a shield, a barrier to keep others from getting too close.

“Did I hear Olga call you marshal?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a federal marshal.”

Helene looked duly impressed. “I bet you have some great stories to tell. Come sit in the kitchen; we have doughnuts.” Her brow furrowed. “Or is it only police who like doughnuts?”

Zeke smiled. “I like them fine, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time today.”

Or the ability to eat, Rory thought. “The marshal just stopped by to give me some information for one of my cases.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Helene said. “Maybe next time?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

No way, Rory wanted to shout. In fact, the sooner he left, the better. “Now why don’t you all go back to the kitchen and have another doughnut so Zeke and I can discuss the confidential material he brought me.” It was as good an excuse as any, to get them to vacate the room so he could perform his “now you see me, now you don’t” routine. Helene led the retreat, but Olga seemed rooted to the spot, clearly crestfallen about having to leave the marshal.

“What about my ice cream?” Eloise whined, sounding like she was a foot stomp away from a full-blown tantrum. Olga was forced into action. With an unmistakable sigh of frustration, she bundled her charge off to the kitchen.

“The ice cream is in the freezer,” Rory called after them.

Chapter 27

“The marshal is a good-looking man,” Helene said, putting the juice glasses in the sink.

Rory was carrying the container back to the refrigerator. “Zeke?” she said, stopping in her tracks.

“Yes, don’t look at me like that. I know he’s older than you are, but he can’t be that much older.”

Rory laughed. “I’ve just never thought of him that way. He’s a friend, that’s all.” She knew plenty of people would have accepted her answer and moved on, but she should have realized that her aunt wasn’t one of them. Helene leaned back against the sink, arms folded across her chest, waiting for the truth. But Rory knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t like the truth if she did hear it. As open-minded as Helene always seemed to be, believing in ghosts required a vastly different sort of open mind. Rory knew from experience. Accepting the existence of ghosts meant rethinking the possibility that other paranormal phenomena might also be real, and that was a daunting prospect.

“You don’t know Zeke like I do,” she said, stowing the juice in the refrigerator. “He can be as stubborn as a mule. And don’t even get me started on his views regarding women. He could make a peace-loving feminist homicidal.”

Helene shook her head. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Besides, if you’re looking for Mr. Perfect, I can save you the trouble, honey. He doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t want a man who’s perfect,” Rory responded. “If he was, he’d never be able to put up with me.”

“Listen, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” Helene said, putting her hand on Rory’s arm. “And above all, I want you to find the right person. But if Aaron’s got competition, maybe he should know about it. He’s a great guy. In fact if I were only a few decades younger . . .”

So that’s where this was going. “Don’t worry,” Rory said, “Aaron doesn’t have any competition. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to marry the guy either,” she added quickly. “We’re barely off the starting blocks.” She locked eyes with her aunt. “So don’t you give him any false expectations.”

Helene seemed taken aback. “Who, me?”

***

Rory planned to be at Harper Farms before the end of Luke’s workday. She would have loved to stop for an extra-large coffee with a shot of espresso, since she had no idea how late she’d be out. But she’d learned an uncomfortable lesson early on in her career as a PI. A successful stakeout or tailing of a suspect required an empty bladder. So she bought caffeine pills instead of coffee, along with an assortment of snacks to munch on. She’d borrowed her mother’s nondescript gray sedan, which looked like half the other cars on the road. It was perfect for the job. The red convertible she’d inherited from her uncle Mac would have been far too easy to spot. One day she’d have to give it up and buy a more practical vehicle for her line of work, but she wasn’t ready to part with it yet.

She arrived at Harper Farms at three thirty. There were only a handful of cars in the parking lot. With winter around the corner, no one was buying outdoor plants or fertilizer to green up their hibernating lawns. The folks who were there had mostly come to purchase produce or items from the deli and bakery counters.

Early on in her investigation, Rory had asked Gil for a list of the vehicles his managers and family members drove. When she pulled into the lot, she had no trouble spotting Luke’s black Lexus SUV parked in the last row. It was standard business practice for employees to leave the good spots for the customers. Rory tucked the gray sedan between two other cars in the second row, where she could keep a discreet eye on the Lexus from her rear-view mirror.

By the time Luke appeared, she’d been waiting for nearly an hour, and her toes were getting numb, in spite of the two pair of socks she had on in her fur-lined boots. She’d worried that letting the engine run might draw his attention, especially once the cars on either side of her left. Now she was one of only two cars in the customer section of the lot. It was a good thing they were just weeks away from the shortest day of the year. With any luck, darkness would keep Luke from noticing that the same gray sedan was parked there every day when he left work.

Rory didn’t start her engine until the Lexus passed her. She watched it turn right out of the lot before putting her car in gear. Although the descent of night helped hide her from Luke, it also made following him at a safe distance more difficult.

Since it was the end of the workday for most of the office buildings along the Route 110 corridor, all the additional vehicles had slowed traffic to a crawl. Rory was three cars back from Luke, but she realized she was going to have to get closer or risk losing him at one of the many traffic lights. With a few lane changes, she managed to work her way around the intervening cars until there was only one car between them. As far as she knew, he had no reason to suspect he was being followed. She should be okay for now.

Luke’s first stop was at a sporting-goods store. He spent fifteen minutes inside and came out with a large shopping bag. Next was a dry cleaner, where he carried in an armful of clothing, then on to a gas station. Rory waited at the curb on a side street. She was getting bored and hungry. If her mind wandered, she could easily miss seeing him leave. She dug into the goody bag she’d brought along and nibbled on almonds and dark-chocolate-covered raisins while keeping her eyes glued on the Lexus.

Over the next hour she lost track of all the places Luke stopped, but he seemed to be on a trajectory that would ultimately bring him to his town house. He pulled into a small strip mall and disappeared into a pizza joint. By the time he emerged, carrying one of the large square boxes, Rory was salivating like Pavlov’s dogs. She followed him until he turned into his driveway. Then she drove on by, in case he was checking to see if she was tailing him. A few right turns brought her back to the pizza place, where she ordered a slice with mushrooms to go. Technically she shouldn’t have left his street, but her pizza craving had convinced her that he wasn’t going anywhere until he ate his dinner.

She drove back to continue her surveillance, parking at the end of his block, where she could once again keep tabs on his comings and goings from her mirrors. The pizza was as delicious as she’d imagined, but after it was gone, she had nothing to mitigate the tedium of waiting. It was dull enough to follow someone who was running what appeared to be a series of innocent errands, but sitting in a parked car, waiting for a suspect to leave his house, was a lot like torture. She hadn’t brought along any electronic gadgets for entertainment, since she couldn’t afford to be distracted and miss seeing Luke leave. This was the kind of situation when having a partner would have been useful. Conversation would have helped pass the time, and they could have taken turns catching a nap. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, despite the advertised claims on the bottle of caffeine pills. At ten o’clock, she started bargaining with her work ethic. And at eleven, she caved and headed home.

***

James Harper arrived at Rory’s office behind her house at the appointed time. He was polite, but he made it clear that she was wasting his time. “I hope this won’t take long,” he said, perching on the edge of the armchair as though he was prepared to leave at the first possible instant.

“I’ll get right to the point then,” Rory said, pulling up her desk chair. “Why did you go to Matthew’s house in Eaton’s Neck a few days before he was found dead?”

James shifted in his seat, as if it had suddenly become uncomfortable. “Who said I was there?”

Rory knew from experience that answering a question with a question was an unconscious stalling tactic. James was trying to give himself time to come up with a plausible explanation. “I have two witnesses who placed you at Matthew’s house that night.” She knew she was seriously stretching the truth, given that Carla Desmond could only attest to having heard a car door slam shut. But if James believed there were two witnesses, he was more likely to give up on the pretense that he wasn’t there that night. “From what I’ve been told, you and Matthew were having quite a heated argument,” Rory went on, “one that included some very specific threats on your part.”

James had started chewing on his lower lip. “Okay,” he said, “I did go to see him, but I had no choice in the matter. He refused to leave Lacey alone.”

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” she said. “What exactly was he doing to your sister?”

“Like I told you the last time we talked, Matthew’s always had a huge crush on Lacey. His infatuation seemed cute when they were little kids, but it became creepy by the time they were in high school. Lately it had been getting worse. Even though she told him a million times she wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t let it go. He was really obsessed with her. Anyway, she’d finally had enough. She decided the only solution was to make him hate her.”

Rory was jotting down notes as fast as her hand could go. “And how did she go about that?”

“She posted something on Facebook, something she knew would embarrass him.” James looked down at his hands, as if he too was ashamed of what she’d done. Rory waited quietly for him to continue, afraid to break his momentum. “A couple of weeks ago she invited him over to her place and gave him this speech about how she’d come to her senses and realized he was the man for her. She said she was going to give him a night he’d never forget to apologize for how she’d treated him. She went all out, cooked him dinner, even did a striptease for him. Then she asked him to strip for her.” He paused as if he was trying to summon up the courage to continue. “Matthew didn’t know she had a camera recording it.”

Rory had to fight the urge to gasp at the cruelty of what Lacey had done. But everyone had a breaking point, and if James was to be believed, she had reached hers. “She posted the video on Facebook?”

“On YouTube, actually, but from there it went viral and wound up on Facebook and everywhere else.”

“What did Matthew do after that?”

“He went to her house, called her every name in the book, including some that were probably Russian, because she didn’t know what they meant. But instead of leaving her alone, he started stalking her even more. Popping up wherever she went and scaring her half to death. That’s why I went to see him that night.”

“Why didn’t Lacey go to the police and get a restraining order against him?”

“It’s complicated,” James said, with a heavy sigh. “His mother, Anya, and he have become part of our family over the years. Even though Matthew’s behavior changed our feelings for him, we all still love Anya. Getting a restraining order against him would have put her in a terrible position. How could she choose between her only child and the family who took them in when she was in desperate need of a job and a place to live?”

Rory had no answer for him. Had she been in his position, she might have gone to see Matthew herself and she too might have issued him an ultimatum. On the other hand, she could barely imagine the devastating humiliation Matthew must have felt. Lacey had apparently succeeded in making him hate her after all. Rory was finding it hard to shut the door on her emotions and move forward with some objectivity. “What threats did you use against Matthew that night?” she asked.

James was bent over with his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. He sat up to answer her. “I told him that he’d lose his job and that we’d throw Anya out of the house where she’s been living for the past thirty years.” He sounded ashamed of himself. “I hadn’t planned on saying that,” he murmured, “but it seemed like Matthew still didn’t get it.”

“Did he stop harassing Lacey after you talked to him?”

James wagged his head.

“Did you kill him?” Rory asked point blank.

“No,” he replied, but he didn’t look her in the eye.

“Did the thought ever cross your mind?”

James didn’t respond immediately. “Yes, I’m sorry to say. But that’s where it ended.”

“Did anyone else in your family know about the video or that Matthew was stalking your sister?”

“Lacey and I agreed to keep it between ourselves. Our father has a nasty temper and a short fuse. There was no way to tell how he’d react, what he might do to Lacey or Matthew if he found out.”

“You didn’t tell Luke either?”

James issued a short grunt of a laugh. “My brother is a joke. If you knew him better, you wouldn’t have even bothered asking the question.”

“Okay, thank you for your cooperation,” Rory said, putting her notes down. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

James rose from the chair looking like a broken man. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes had a heart-heavy sadness in them. But Rory knew she hadn’t broken him. She’d just peeled away some of the surface layers he showed the world.

Chapter 28

“I’ve been summoned to Harper Farms,” Rory said the next morning. She had her hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, when Zeke appeared in the entryway and asked where she was going.

“Summoned, as in ‘you’ve been a bad girl and we need to talk?’”

“I don’t know about the bad-girl part,” she replied, “but he did say we have something to discuss.”

“Sounds ominous. Do you want some invisible moral support?” Rory really didn’t need anyone to hold her hand. It wasn’t as if she was going to be tied to a post and subjected to forty lashes of the whip. But the marshal looked so concerned and earnest that she found herself saying, “Sure, if you’re up to it.”

“I’m at your service,” he said, bowing with a flourish.

“Just remember, no parlor tricks and no—”

“Righting wrongs,” he chimed in. “You made it clear you don’t need a Donkey-Oatie, whatever that is.”

“Close enough,” she said, punching in the code on the alarm keypad.

“You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Great, but it’s actually Gil who shouldn’t know you’re there.”

***

“It’s open,” Gil called, in response to her knock.

“I’ll be right beside you,” Zeke whispered in her ear.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Rory whispered back.

Gil was seated behind his desk, which was as neat as always. If he’d been working on something before she arrived, it wasn’t evident. He asked her to have a seat but skipped over the usual amenities. “I asked you to come in so we could discuss your investigation with regard to the sabotage,” he said grimly.

“Has there been another incident?”

“Last night, but I decided it could keep till this morning.”

“For future reference, I’d prefer to be notified immediately,” she said, shutting her mouth before other, more adversarial words could escape. Valuable evidence may have been compromised or lost entirely during the intervening hours. How did he expect her to solve the case if he was keeping her at arm’s length? “What happened this time?”

“They put sugar in the fuel tank of one of our trucks,” he said, without acknowledging her request. “We’ve been keeping all the vehicles locked in the garage overnight since this whole mess started. Someone must have given them the heads-up that the truck had been left out.”

“Or someone left it out on purpose,” she added.

“Either way, it’s obvious they’re not going to stop until we stop them. And that needed to happen yesterday. How close are you to zeroing in on the culprit?”

“I’ve interviewed everyone with access to your data systems and keys to your secured areas, but I haven’t found evidence to link any one of them to the sabotage.”

“Did you find any dissension among them? Anyone with a bone to pick? Remember, I expect you to be investigating everyone with equal vigor, family member or employee.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

“Would it be fair to say that you’ve been spending more time working on the murder case?” he asked, perhaps hoping to catch her off guard.

“Yes, that’s probably true,” she answered honestly. Lying to your client was never a good policy, especially if your business was built on word-of-mouth referrals.

Gil leaned forward over his desk, locking eyes with her. “I know what I’m about to say may sound cold and uncaring, but I can’t afford to tiptoe around the matter anymore. You and I need to be on the same page, so I’m going to lay it out for you. Even if you were to find Matthew’s killer today, the most we could hope for is that justice will eventually be served. Unfortunately it won’t bring Matthew back, regardless of how fast it’s served. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Rory said, hating the fact that logic was on Gil’s side. He was right about another thing too; he did sound cold and uncaring. She couldn’t help wondering if Gil’s initial reaction to Matthew’s death had all been for show. From there it wasn’t much of a leap to wondering if Gil could be the killer. What better way to keep suspicion off himself than to shift it to everyone else? That left her with the question of why. Why would a man who’d been so generous to Anya and Matthew for all those years suddenly feel the need to kill him and, by so doing, destroy her? If James had told her the truth, his father didn’t know about the video or the fact that Matthew had been stalking Lacey. As far as Rory could see, Gil had no motive to kill Matthew. “Then I can expect you to focus on the saboteur?” Gil asked, pulling her back to the moment.

“Yes, you can,” she replied. But since he didn’t order her to put the murder investigation aside temporarily, she felt she had enough wiggle room to continue pursuing it as well.

***

“Hey, I understand that Gil has to protect his business,” Rory said, as she and the marshal drove home, “but he sounded awfully callous about Matthew.”

“When I heard him say that, I figured it wasn’t goin’ to sit right with you,” Zeke said. “But much as I don’t like the man, he was doin’ what any good businessman would do—mourn the loss and move on. There are a lot of people who depend on Harper Farms for their livin’.”

“I suppose,” she said grudgingly. She was having a hard time making peace between what logic dictated and what felt right.

“If you think about it, you did the same thing after Mac died. Even though you were still grieving, you took care of his clients and kept the business going.”

Rory bristled. “It’s not the same thing at all.” But when she tried to offer a cogent explanation of the difference, she came up empty. Maybe it just galled her that the marshal had taken Gil’s side. She was still in a huff over the meeting when she turned onto her block, so she didn’t immediately notice the strange car parked in front of her house or the man sitting on her porch swing. When she did, adrenaline shot through her body, snapping her to attention. She wasn’t expecting anyone. And what salesman or solicitor in his right mind would sit outside in the cold waiting for her to return, when he didn’t know if she’d be gone for an hour or a month?

“Zeke—we have company,” she said, slowing to a crawl so he could disappear before he was spotted.

“It’s your doctor friend,” he muttered as he winked out. By the time she turned into the driveway, Aaron was waiting for her at the top of the porch steps, a smile spreading across his face. Rory parked and hurried up the steps to him, her misgivings about the meeting momentarily forgotten. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright red from the cold, but he seemed otherwise unscathed by his vigil. Stuck in the house and frustrated by not being able to greet his new friend, Hobo had resorted to scratching madly at the door as if he could burrow through to the porch. Rory had lost count of how many times she’d had to repaint the door and the trim around it because of his enthusiasm.

“Hi,” she said, giving Aaron a quick kiss and a lingering hug. “You must be frozen. How long have you been out here? And where’s your car?”

“Slow down,” he laughed, without letting her out of his arms. “I’m using the loaner down by the curb while my car is being serviced, and I’ve only been here twenty minutes tops. No big deal; I still have feeling in some of my toes.”

“A good doctor would have told you to stay out of the cold.”

“Then I’d better get me one of those,” he said, releasing her.

She rummaged in her purse for the house keys. “You should have called me first.”

“I tried, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Oops,” she said, with a sheepish grin. “I guess I forgot to turn the ringer back on after my meeting.” Key in hand, she unlocked the front door and held the storm door open so he could get out of the cold. “I’ll make you some hot coffee,” she said, following him inside.

“No way. I’m here to take you out to lunch.” Aaron’s words were punctuated by a grunt as Hobo launched himself into his arms. He staggered backward under the impact, his arms windmilling for balance like a tightrope walker in a nor’easter. At first he seemed to be winning his battle with gravity, but at the last moment he thumped to a hard landing on the entryway floor. They had to suspend further conversation until Hobo had been reprimanded and then given a proper greeting. Once he’d calmed down, Rory sent him out in the backyard to relieve himself. Then she gave him his favorite chewy treat to make up for the fact that they were leaving again.

Once they were settled in the loaner, Aaron pulled away from the curb. “I almost forgot,” he said, “but before you turned into the driveway, I could swear I saw someone riding shotgun.”

Rory laughed, hoping it sounded more genuine than it felt. She was running out of explanations and excuses. “You must have been hallucinating,” she said lightly. “I’ve heard that can happen with frostbite to the brain.”

***

Aaron dropped her back home after a hearty lunch of French onion soup and spinach and goat-cheese crepes at a local bistro. Rory felt positively stuffed. Her lunch usually consisted of yogurt or salad, with the occasional peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. If she had too many lunches like the one she’d just polished off, she wouldn’t be able to run after suspects—or run away from them, for that matter.

Hobo was happy to see her; at least, his wagging tail said so. He’d mellowed into his afternoon napping mode, and instead of jumping up to greet her, he rolled onto his back for tummy rubs. After she’d tummy-rubbed him back to sleep, she went up to the study to check her e-mail. She found Zeke in the reading chair, staring at her sketch pad.

“Hi,” she said, surprising him so completely that he lost cohesion for a few seconds.

“You’re back,” he observed, once he’d regrouped. Rory suspected that if he’d had a tail, it would not have been wagging.

“Yes, and lunch was delicious. Thanks for asking.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, he turned the sketch pad around to face her. “Who is this?”

“Someone Eloise made me draw,” she said, wondering why he was interested in it.

“She didn’t tell you her name or anything?”

“Nope, but you know how Eloise operates. I assume she’ll tell me more when the spirit moves her.” She smiled at her own pun.

It didn’t seem as though the marshal caught it. “It’s not important,” he said, flipping the sketch pad closed. A moment later he was gone, the pad all that remained.

Chapter 29

By day three of tailing Luke, Rory was ready to give up. She felt as if she’d toured every parking lot in the entire township of Huntington with nothing to show for it but the two pounds she’d gained from eating pizza and doughnuts on the fly. For a guy with good looks and a bad-boy attitude, Luke lived an extremely dull life. He went to work, ran errands and went home. From what she could tell, each of his days was pretty much the same as the next and the one after that. If he entertained, it must have been on the weekends. She’d even endured a sleepless night to see if he went out prowling after midnight. In spite of her best efforts, she’d dozed off a few times and awakened with a start, both relieved and disappointed to find his SUV still parked in the driveway. All her dedication bought her was a stiff neck and a cranky mood that caused both Hobo and the marshal to keep their distance.

Sitting in her car, eating yet another slice of pizza, she argued with herself about when to stop the surveillance. What if she stopped it just one day too soon? Well, she had to stop it sometime. How was she supposed to know when? She was so exhausted from her nights that she wasn’t getting anything accomplished during her days. Okay, she put her figurative foot down on the two warring hemispheres of her brain. She’d follow Luke one more night but only until the stroke of midnight. At that point, her surveillance of the youngest Harper would officially be suspended. She was surprised by how much calmer she felt having made that decision.

After the first two days of her surveillance, Rory had made a strategic change by waiting for Luke in the parking lot of the medical building across the street from Harper Farms. There simply weren’t enough other cars to hide among in Harper’s lot that late on a winter’s day. From the other lot, she had an unobstructed view of the exit Luke had to take when he left work. He always turned right, and her last day was no exception. But instead of running errands, he headed straight home. He didn’t even stop at any of the fast-food places he usually frequented. Rory refused to let herself get too excited. Maybe he was going home because he was ill. Or because he was expecting a repairman, or because he was having company. Or because he was as tired of his tedious routine as she was.

Instead of waiting down the street from his town house, Rory stopped a few houses before it, just in case he’d finally made her. There was a curve in the roadway there and a tall stand of arborvitae that provided a natural blind. From his house, Luke wouldn’t be able to see her car. The trade-off was that she’d couldn’t see his house either. No problem if he left and drove past her. But if he pulled out of his driveway and turned the other way, she’d only have a few seconds to spot him before the road curved again and swallowed him. She’d simply have to be vigilant.

Three hours came and went, taking with them Rory’s hope that on this last night she might finally learn something of value in return for all the hours she’d wasted following Luke and staking out his house. Her eyes ached with fatigue. She didn’t dare fall asleep, but it was getting hard to keep her eyelids from closing, until the whirling lights in her rear-view mirror jarred her back to full attention. Now what? What if Luke took off while she was entertaining the cop who’d just appeared at her window? Would the officer understand if she left to chase after him? Doubtful. She opened her window, squinting into the sharp glare of his flashlight.

“Can I see your license and registration, miss?”

Between the darkness and the flashlight, Rory couldn’t make out the name on his uniform. But he didn’t look familiar. “Of course, Officer,” she said, taking her license out of her wallet and the registration from the glove compartment, where her mother kept it. “Did I do something wrong?” One of the things she missed most about working as a sketch artist at police headquarters was her detective’s shield. A shield would have made this whole, inconvenient matter vanish with a smile and a “sorry to have bothered you.”

The cop didn’t respond until he’d checked out her ID cards and handed them back to her. “A home-owner called in to report a strange car parked across the street for the last few hours. Mind telling me why you’re here?”

“I’m a PI. I’ve been staking out a house on this block. If you call Yaphank, they’ll vouch for me. I was on the job there before going out on my own.”

“Hang on.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket as walked away from her window to make the call. As the minutes passed, Rory couldn’t figure out what was taking so long. Her status should have been confirmed by now. Unless he was talking to a newbie who had no idea who she was. Then she heard him laugh. Okay, maybe he knew the cop on the other end of the line, but this was no time for a reunion. When he finally returned to her window, she’d been on the verge of getting out to inquire, as politely as possible, what the problem was.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” he asked her, without the least change to his official demeanor for a former comrade in arms.

“Midnight at the latest.”

“I’ll inform the home owner.”

“Thank you, Officer,” she said. “You have a good night now.” In spite of her best intentions, a bit of sarcasm hopped a ride on her words. Fortunately he seemed as immune from irony as he was from camaraderie. She watched him cross the street to update the person who’d reported her. Then he moseyed back to his cruiser, where he spent the next fifteen minutes. With laptops now standard issue in patrol cars, Rory figured he was probably writing up his incident report. When he finally left, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Less than ten minutes later, Luke pulled out of his driveway and sped off in the opposite direction. Showtime. She started her engine and took off after him. Talk about cutting things close.

Since it was well past rush hour on a weekday, traffic was light, and Rory had to hang farther back than she would have liked. But it became apparent in a matter of minutes that Luke was returning to Harper Farms. Rory’s heart sank. He’d probably left something behind earlier and was going to retrieve it. She had half a mind to give up and go home. But she hadn’t been raised to be a quitter. If a job was worth starting, it was worth finishing, and finishing to the best of her ability. She’d committed herself to this final night, and she intended to see it through.

Waiting once again in the parking lot across from Harper Farms, Rory watched the minutes creep by with agonizing slowness. She was itching with anticipation by the time headlights reappeared at the exit. After the vehicle turned onto the road, she realized it wasn’t an SUV but a large pickup truck. But who was driving? Had Luke changed vehicles for some reason, or was another person behind the wheel? Should she follow the truck in the hope that it was Luke or continue waiting in case it wasn’t? Something in her gut told her to stick with the pickup. Of course it might have been nothing more than her natural inclination to choose action over inaction, but she didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on her decision. While she still had the truck in sight, she took off after it.

The driver wound his way through back roads until he reached Route 110, where Rory was caught twice by traffic lights that turned red after the pickup went through them. Had he turned onto a side street, she probably would have lost him, but since he didn’t, she was able to catch up and keep the truck in sight. She whispered a thank-you to whatever guardian angel was smoothing the way for her that night, because given their route thus far, there was a good chance he was headed to Greenbrier Farms.

In spite of the potential risk of exposure, Rory had to find out who was in the pickup. She started closing the distance between them, planning to pull even with him at the next red light. If he saw her, she’d act surprised, wave and give him a wry smile that said, “What a small world.” The light ahead turned red. The pickup braked. She eased up beside it, glancing quickly into the cab. Luke was behind the wheel. In the wash of his dashboard lights, she could see he had his cell phone to his ear. Her instincts had been right. When the light turned green, she let him get ahead again. No point in pressing her luck.

Possibly because he was distracted by the phone call, Luke seemed totally unaware that he was being followed. He didn’t try any of the moves designed to check for a tail—or lose one, for that matter. But from what Rory had learned of his personality, it was just as likely that a heady mixture of self-confidence and youthful arrogance had lulled him into believing he was untouchable.

When they reached Greenbrier, Luke turned into the lot. Rory had to scramble to find a place to leave her car. They weren’t any commercial buildings nearby with parking lots, nor could she see any up ahead. If she drove too far, she’d have a long walk back to the farm, and there was a good chance she’d never find him in all of that unfamiliar acreage. Especially at night. Decision made, she swerved off the road onto the narrow dirt shoulder, grabbed her cell phone, LED flashlight and .45 Smith and Wesson and started running back to the farm.

She had to be careful navigating the parking lot with its bright security lights. Half crouched, she scuttled between the handful of vehicles there, noticing that the pickup was not among them. Once she reached the far side of the lot, she found herself in the dark, both literally and figuratively. From that point on, the lighting seemed to range anywhere from minimal to nonexistent. Since she’d been there just once, she had only a vague memory of how the place was laid out and no idea at all where Luke and his truck might be found.

Harper’s had an access road that led from the parking lot to other areas of the complex. It enabled trucks to haul their deliveries closer to specific buildings and made it easier for employees to move machinery around the complex. In all likelihood, it made sense for Greenbrier to have a similar setup. Rory checked the perimeter of the lot where she was standing and spotted the access road. With the macadam worn down to loose gravel and dirt in many places, it could more accurately be called a path than a road. She aimed her flashlight downward so she could avoid stumbling in the ruts or attracting attention and made her way along it as quickly as she dared.

She’d gone what seemed to be the equivalent of two blocks when she heard the sound of a truck’s door being slammed shut, followed by other noises she couldn’t immediately place. There were men’s voices too, but she couldn’t make out their words. One thing was clear, they weren’t concerned about how much of a racket they made. Greenbrier was a safe place for them.

Rory stayed on the path until she saw a well-lit area up ahead. Coupled with the fact that the noises had grown considerably louder as she approached, it was most likely the place where the men were working. She switched off her flashlight, tucked it into her jacket pocket and struck out across a grassy area to a large wooden structure that appeared to be either a barn or a garage. The Smith and Wesson had grown heavy in her hand. Having taken that possibility into account, she’d been carrying it in her left hand. She paused in the lee of the building and transferred it to her right hand while she tried to determine how many men were involved in this after-hours operation. She counted three distinct voices, one of them definitely Luke’s, his cocky tone as identifiable as a fingerprint.

Being careful not to step on any fallen branches that could crack and give her away, Rory crept to the side of the building, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the action. Heart pounding, gun at the ready, she peered around the final corner. Luke’s pickup was there, its bed partially filled with large burlap sacks. As she watched, Luke emerged from the building with another sack in his arms and hefted it onto the truck bed with the others. A man of about the same age followed him out, closed the wide doors and padlocked them. A third man was standing and watching. He was older, upwards of fifty, stocky, but well dressed. He had a smug little smile on his lips. Although Rory had never met Roger Underwood, the owner of Greenbrier, she was willing to bet she was looking at him now.

She moved the gun to her left hand again and withdrew her cell phone from her coat pocket. Turning off the automatic flash, she positioned herself to take a one-handed shot featuring Luke and the cargo in his truck, but the older man crossed between her and the truck, blocking her view.

“Come on inside,” he said, giving Luke a hearty clap on the back. “We’ll have a drink to our mission. Those doors locked up good, Kevin?” he asked the other young man. Kevin assured him they were.

“Why not?” Luke replied, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Rory watched the three of them stroll off to a small, vinyl-sided building diagonally across from the wooden one. If they were going to have that drink, she should have time to find out exactly what was in those burlap sacks and take a photo for proof. She ran over to the truck. The tailgate was still open, so she climbed aboard. Unfortunately the sacks were all sealed, but when she grabbed a handful of the burlap, she felt something like seeds sift through her fingers. Was this the poisoned seed Zeke had heard Underwood discussing on the phone that day?

She had to be sure, but she needed to find a knife or scissors to open one of the sacks. All she had with her was a gun, a phone and a flashlight. And her car keys, she realized. She pulled them out of the pocket where she’d stowed the flashlight. The ring from which the keys were suspended had been a stocking stuffer from her aunt Helene years ago. It contained a mini pocketknife, which included a teeny scissors. Rory pulled out the scissors and tried cutting into the burlap. If the fabric had been capable of laughter, it would have been doubled over in its mirth by the size and bluntness of the tool. Rory kept at it though, sawing away at one spot until the threads finally began to fray and separate. Another minute and she’d have a hole just big enough to allow some seeds to spill out. Single-minded about her task, she was startled when she heard the men laughing.

Chapter 30

Stowing the handful of seeds in her pocket, Rory dove behind the burlap sacks, crouching as low as possible, but still ready to leap up and over the side of the truck if it became necessary. She held her breath, expecting to hear one of the men shout that he’d seen someone on the truck. But the alert was never sounded. The laughter of the men died down, followed by a brief round of good-byes. Then a single set of footsteps approached the pickup—Luke, no doubt. Rory heard the tailgate groan and clang shut, after which the truck shuddered briefly as he jumped aboard. He closed the door and started the engine.

Okay, it could have been worse, she told herself. All she had to do now was endure a rough ride back to Harper Farms in the bed of the truck. She’d have to leave her mother’s car where she’d parked it and call someone to come fetch her, but for the moment, none of that mattered. The most dangerous part of her mission was over.

“Luke, wait,” Kevin yelled, sprinting up to the truck.

What was happening? she wondered. She’d been as still as a statue. If they hadn’t seen her when she’d taken cover, how had they spotted her now? The truck started to move forward, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Wait,” Kevin shouted again. Luke must have finally heard him, because the truck bucked to a stop. This time Rory was prepared for it and braced herself. She heard Kevin trot past the side of the truck and up to the cab, but she couldn’t hear what he and Luke were saying over all the engine noise. A minute later, Luke put the truck in gear, and Rory heaved a sigh of relief. Then she sneezed.

She must have inhaled some little fibers when she was cutting into the burlap. But worrying about the why of it was a lot like closing the barn door when the horses were already in the next county. The only question that mattered was, how well had the engine noise camouflaged the sneeze? The answer wasn’t long in coming. The truck stopped again. Seconds later the tailgate was opened, and the truck bed bounced as someone jumped on. Rory pulled the gun out of her pocket, clicking off the safety in one fluid motion. But Luke was on her before she could even fire a warning shot. Spewing profanities, he caught her forearm in a vice-like grip and wrenched the .45 out of her hand. By the time he’d hauled her to her feet, his Greenbrier coconspirators had caught up to the truck again. They were definitely not pleased to see her either.

Luke handed her down to Kevin. “I should have known she was going to be trouble,” he said, jumping down after her.

“I thought you had everything under control,” Roger Underwood snapped. “Who is she anyway?”

“Rory McCain—she’s the PI my dad hired.”

“Way to go, Luke,” Kevin said, with a nasty curl to his upper lip. He was holding Rory with her arms pinned behind her back. If he pulled any tighter, they would pop out of their sockets.

“Let go of me,” she said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. “There are three of you, and you’ve got my gun. What are you afraid of?” The odds were clearly in their favor. Although she might have successfully taken on one adversary, maybe even two, she knew that three was probably beyond her ability. Where was a ghost when you needed one?

“She’s right,” Luke said, training the gun on her, “she’s not going anywhere. Let her be.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Who died and made you king?”

Rory was in too much pain to wait for the rest of their little power struggle to play out. She lifted her foot and stomped down hard on Kevin’s instep. He howled and released her. “You’re going to regret that,” he muttered.

“Roger,” Luke said, “you ought to check her for other weapons or a phone.”

“I should have thought of that myself,” Roger said, stepping over to her. He patted her down and came away with her phone, flashlight and keys.

“You know she’s a liability now that she’s seen us,” Kevin said sullenly. “And it’s all thanks to this jerk.”

Luke didn’t reply, but his jaw clenched as if he was holding himself back from punching the sarcasm out of Kevin’s mouth, along with his teeth.

“You need to keep it together, son,” Roger warned him. “Finger-pointing solves nothing.”

Neither does compounding a crime like property damage with kidnapping, assault or murder, Rory wanted to interject, but she decided this wasn’t the best time to irritate anyone.

“Then what do you propose we do with her now?” Kevin came back. “We can’t just let her go.”

“Take her into the office and tie her up. I need time to think without you yammering at me. Give him the gun, Luke.”

“Don’t do it,” Rory said, with more authority than she had any right to feel in her present situation. “You know in your gut you shouldn’t trust him with the gun.”

“You shut up,” Roger barked at her. He wrested the weapon from Luke’s hand and passed it to his son.

Kevin’s mood appeared to lighten now that he was in charge of the .45. “What am I going to tie her up with?” he asked.

“I have something you can use,” Luke said, walking back to the cab of the truck. He leaned inside, and when he stepped away, he was holding a length of cord. “My dad’s a real Boy Scout,” he said with a sour laugh. “Every vehicle he owns is equipped with stuff he thinks he might need someday.” He handed the cord to Kevin. “It’s kind of poetic that his thoughtfulness is helping us.”

Kevin stuck the muzzle of the gun into Rory’s back and marched her toward the office. Once they were inside, he ordered her into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Then he just stood there for a while looking perplexed.

“You’ve got quite a dilemma,” she said in an understanding tone. “Your father doesn’t think ahead much, does he? How does he expect you to tie me up and keep the gun on me at the same time?”

“Yeah,” Kevin mumbled. “He thinks he’s the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he isn’t.”

“I guess you could set the gun down while you’re tying me.”

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other as if he was considering her suggestion.

“I’m sure you’re not worried about me overpowering you,” she said.

“You got that right,” he said standing a little taller. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d flexed a bicep for her benefit.

“One thing’s for sure though—your father’s not going to be pleased when he comes in and finds me sitting here all untied like this.”

Kevin chewed on his lower lip as he considered his options. They were both so focused on their thoughts that they jumped when the office door flew open, and Luke stalked in. Rory could tell from the expression on Kevin’s face that he was relieved it wasn’t Roger.

“Your dad wants you,” Luke said. “Give me the gun. I’ll take over here.”

“Why—where is he?”

“Over at the barn.”

“Yeah, okay,” Kevin mumbled, turning to go.

“Hey, the gun,” Luke reminded him.

Kevin didn’t seem at all happy about relinquishing the weapon, but he handed it over and left the office.

“You have to get out of here,” Luke said, once Kevin was out of earshot. “Get out of here and wait for me in my truck.” Rory was too startled to react immediately. She stood up, still trying to process what he’d said. Why should she trust him? What if Roger had decided to let her go with just a threat to kill her if she went to the police? What if Luke was the one who’d decided she had to be killed tonight? For all she knew, he was the one who’d murdered Matthew. A second murder would hardly matter to him.

“Hey—I don’t have time for this,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her out the door with him. “Go! Now!” He pushed her in the direction of the pickup as he took off toward the barn. Action is always better than inaction, a voice piped up in her head. Rory started running. The truck was still parked a good forty yards away, where Luke had left it when her sneeze had changed the course of her life. She couldn’t run any faster, but she had the nightmarish sensation that she was hardly moving at all. That a bullet from the .45 would slam into her back at any moment. Then she heard Kevin cursing at the top of his lungs, followed by the sounds of a bare-fisted fight. She didn’t glance behind her. It would only slow her down. She’d cast her die with Luke. She just hoped it wasn’t her last bad decision

When she reached the truck, she jumped into the passenger seat and locked the doors. Too bad she didn’t know how to hotwire a car. She wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving the whole lot of them behind. She watched for Luke out her side window. Hugging herself and shivering, she was aware for the first time that night just how cold she was. Cold inside and out.

“Are you okay?” The voice came from the driver’s seat. Rory knew that voice. A wave of relief washed over her as she turned to find the marshal behind the wheel. “Rory, are you okay?” he demanded.

“Yes . . . yes, I’m fine,” she said trying to bring order to her reeling thoughts. She really wouldn’t have minded a brief pause in the action. She was beginning to feel shell-shocked.

“How did you know?”

“I thought we gave up wonderin’ about that months ago,” he said impatiently. “A better question would be, why didn’t you let me know what was goin’ to happen tonight?”

“Because I didn’t know until it happened. And then I didn’t have a second to spare.” Even as she said the words, she knew the excuse was lame and would never appease him. But for the moment, it was all she had. “Luke will be back any second,” she warned him.

“All right, but we’re not done with this.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said as he faded out.

Luke had opened the driver’s door. “What did you say?” he asked as he slid behind the wheel. He had a gash on his forehead, some blood on the knuckles of his right hand and no idea how close he’d come to comingling his flesh with pure essence of ghost.

Chapter 31

As he drove, Luke described how he’d knocked Roger Underwood out with a two-by-four lying outside the barn. Then he’d taken his key, dragged him into the barn and locked him inside. Kevin wasn’t as easy. He put up quite a fight once he’d realized that the turncoat had turned again. But as it happened, he wasn’t much of a fighter. He wound up locked in the barn with his father.

“Why did you do it?” Rory asked.

Luke kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. “Do what? Sabotage Harper’s or rescue you?”

“Both.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she said. It was never enough to just break a case and catch a criminal. The interesting part was the why of it.

He shrugged as if she’d asked him why he preferred the Yankees to the Mets or chocolate ice cream to vanilla. “Payback,” he said, after a minute’s thought.

“For what?”

“A childhood of not measuring up to my father’s standards.” He didn’t say any more, and Rory thought he was done. She could prod him, but she was already dancing on a tightrope, and it wouldn’t do to antagonize the guy in charge of the net. In the same way that Luke had decided to save her, he could change his mind again and decide she wasn’t worth jail time. “You see, by the time I came along,” Luke went on, apparently needing to vent, “James was already the golden boy, and Lacey was Daddy’s little darling. The only position open was for an also-ran.”

Rory wondered if that was true, or if it was simply the way Luke perceived it. “He never scolded or punished your siblings?” she asked, trying to get past the vagueness.

“Yeah, sure. He’d take things away or ground them, but I never once heard him call them ‘stupid’ or a ‘screwup.’”

“He called you those things?”

Luke laughed. “When I was seven, I started keeping a list of the ways he put me down. At ten, I was planning how I’d become a lawyer and sue him for psychological abuse. But it wasn’t until my teens that I realized it wasn’t going to get me what I needed.”

Rory was a little scared to ask what that was. But not scared enough to keep her mouth shut. “What did you need?”

“Payback, like I said.” He was starting to sound irritated. “Payback in the only way he’d understand. I had to hit him in his pocket and keep him up nights worrying about his business.”

“How did Matthew figure into it?” She felt a sharp jab in the ribs and had all she could do not to react. She should have known the marshal would be hanging around.

Luke turned away from the road to glare at her. “He didn’t.”

“I mean, how did your father treat him?”

“Like the family pet. My dad can be charitable, even generous, but it’s all to make himself feel bigger and the recipient smaller.”

Luke’s grudge against his father had clearly grown over time, like certain reptiles that grow to fill the dimensions of their cages. “You weren’t worried about Matthew figuring out you were the saboteur?” Rory asked.

“No. He may have been school smart, numbers smart, but when it came to living skills, he was clueless.”

“Then you didn’t kill him.” She made sure it sounded like a statement, not a question. In spite of what Zeke might think, she wasn’t actually trying to bait Luke into killing her.

“No way. What possible reason would I have for killing the fool?”

“Then the reason you’ve refused to give an alibi for the night he was murdered is because the alibi would also be incriminating. You were at Greenbrier that night.”

“Give the little lady a prize.” Luke said sardonically. He turned into the parking lot at Harper Farms and brought the truck to a stop.

“What were you doing with the seeds in those sacks?” Rory asked.

“We were switching my dad’s shipment of rye seed for a duplicate order infected with blind-seed disease. You can’t detect it at this stage. But once the seeds are in the ground and start growing, it spreads like wildfire.” Luke sounded a bit wistful, as if he regretted having to abandon the plan.

“Should I call the police to come here?” Rory said, “or do you want to drive down to the precinct?” Not the easiest question to ask someone who still had your gun and might have a change of heart at any moment.

Luke heaved a weary sigh. “Tell them to come here.” There was a hollowness to his voice, as if the events of the night had left him emotionally scooped out. “And let my father know you found his Benedict Arnold. Hey, let everyone know. Call the news services.” His mouth twisted into a malevolent smile. “Why spare my father the embarrassment of having a criminal in the family?”

“Uh, one problem,” Rory said. “Roger took my phone.”

Luke pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Don’t you just love irony?”

“You should probably give back my .45 before the police get here,” she said. He handed it over to her. “One last thing,” she said, her finger poised to make the call.

“Why did I rescue you?”

She nodded.

“It turns out I’m not a murderer. Who knew?”

***

Rory was wiped out by the time she and Hobo finally crawled into bed close to two a.m. After hearing a well-expurgated account of the evening’s festivities, her parents had insisted on helping out by rescuing their sedan from the side of the road. Helene was drafted to drive Rory home from Harper Farms. At first, Rory had insisted she’d just call a taxi, but her mother pointed out that Helene would feel left out of the excitement if she did that. Rory relented. Her aunt arrived twenty minutes later with her winter coat over her pajamas, a slash of red lipstick on her mouth and her usual high spirits. On the ride home, she pumped Rory with questions. But Rory, who’d already run through everything with the police, was so exhausted she had a hard time remembering exactly what she’d told her parents. There was always a chance they’d compare notes.

Strangely enough, Zeke hadn’t shown up to continue their discussion as he’d threatened. Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t been around much lately. That usually meant he was irritated with her or upset about something. But at this hour, on this particular night, she was happy to let sleeping ghosts lie or sulk or whatever he happened to be doing.

The next morning, the phone woke her at six o’clock. When she answered it, all she heard were two people arguing in the background. She was about to hang up and try to go back to sleep when she heard her name.

“Rory? Rory? Hello? Are you there?” It was Eloise.

She debated hanging up anyway and then felt bad about the impulse. It wasn’t poor Eloise’s fault if spirits kept plaguing her with their messages. “Hi, I’m here,” she said, trying to sound awake and pleasant.

Olga was apparently still trying to grab the phone away from her charge, because Eloise’s voice kept getting lower, then louder, then lower again. It took a while before she managed to get a full sentence out that Rory could understand. “Did you ask your mother about the Bible?” Eloise asked, her voice distraught from her struggle with Olga or from dealing with a difficult spirit or both.

“I forgot,” Rory had to admit. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t bother trying to explain how upside down her life had been lately. It wasn’t something Eloise would understand or care about. “I promise to ask her today.”

Suddenly Olga was on the line, apologizing in an odd mixture of Polish and English, with a little Spanish thrown in, a crazy quilt of languages. Rory assured her it was okay in English and Spanish. She didn’t know any Polish, but given the way things were going in her life, maybe she ought to learn some.

By the time she got off the phone, she’d crossed sleep off her agenda. It seemed that Hobo had as well. He jumped off the bed, stretched his legs and gave his fur a thorough shaking. They went downstairs together, Rory to make coffee and wait for a reasonable time to call her mother, and Hobo to water the plants and conduct his morning inspection of the backyard.

When Rory had her mother on the line, she asked how the packing was going and if she’d found any other interesting things in the attic.

Arlene laughed. “You and I seem to be on the same wavelength. I keep meaning to tell you about the Bible I found. It has a list of names going back generations with the dates they were born, got married and died. It’s fascinating.”

“I’d love to see it,” Rory said. Especially since Eloise and her spirit pal were making such a big fuss about it.

“I’ll drop it off with you the next time I’m headed in your direction. That way it will be safe from the moving men.”

After Rory got off the phone, she threw a load of towels into the washing machine. Somehow laundry was always at the bottom of her “to do” list. It was the chore most likely to be postponed at crunch time, which lately seemed to be every day. But this time it had reached such a critical mass that she wouldn’t be able to take a shower if she didn’t wash some towels. She was still in the laundry room when Zeke blinked the lights and appeared in the doorway.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said flatly. The laundry room was too tight a space for them to occupy comfortably at the same time. Rory watched him walk away. She’d seen no light in his eyes, and there was no spring to his step. Something was definitely preying on his mind. She started the washing machine and followed him into the kitchen. He was seated at the table, staring off into space. Hobo had taken up his position under the table in case food was in the offing. She took a seat across from the marshal. “What’s up?” she asked, hoping he’d volunteer whatever was troubling him.

He turned his eyes to her. “I was wonderin’ what happened when the police got there last night.”

“I was surprised you didn’t stay to find out.”

“I was tired,” he said dismissively.

Rory wondered why he was so tired when he hadn’t done much of anything lately. Had he taken on another gig? Was he moonlighting—haunting another house somewhere? She promised herself she’d get to the bottom of it today, but first things first. “Well, Luke confessed to everything,” she began, “including where he’d locked up his collaborators. His folks arrived right after the police. Ellen was all weepy. Gil was beet-red angry. I thought he was going to have a stroke or a heart attack. For someone who told me from day one that a member of his family might be involved, he seemed completely unprepared for it.”

“Where does that leave us with Matthew’s murder? Now that Luke has an alibi, there’s no one left.”

“I know,” Rory said. “I keep going over it in my head. We must have missed something.”

“Or someone lied when they vouched for a suspect’s whereabouts that night.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “We did miss someone. When we visited Anya that first time, she mentioned Matthew’s best friend was coming down from Boston for the funeral. Frank . . . Frank Leone.”

“Did she say anything about him or his recent relationship with Matthew? Any red flags?”

“No, or I would have remembered him a lot sooner.”

“At the very least, he may be able to give us a different look at Matthew. Everything we have so far comes from Anya or the Harper clan. I’m guessin’ Frank knows a heap about that family, includin’ stuff they’d never tell outsiders like us.”

“It’s definitely worth a call,” she agreed, leaving the table to grab the house phone from its base, along with the list of names and numbers Anya had given her. She brought it all back to the table with her. “Hang out while I do this?” She was still determined to find out what was bothering him, even if she had to drag or nag it out of him. But she wanted to speak to Frank first.

Zeke ran his hand through his hair as if he couldn’t make up his mind. “All right,” he said finally.

Number in hand, she punched it in and hit the speaker button so she wouldn’t have to repeat everything to Zeke afterward. When Frank answered, Rory explained who she was and why she was calling. His tone went from polite to short and guarded in under two seconds. “I can’t talk now, Ms. McCain. I’m at work.”

“What would be a good time for me to try you again?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m busy tonight and tomorrow night.”

“Do you have a lunch hour?”

“I work through lunch.”

“This is important.”

“It might seem that way to you, but unless you can bring Matthew back from the dead, I have no interest in your mission. Excuse me now; I have to get back to work.” With those words, he hung up.

“He’s involved somehow,” Rory said, putting the phone down. “I’m not saying he killed Matthew, but he knows who did.”

“His attitude sure changed as soon as you introduced yourself. Sounds like a man who’s got somethin’ to hide. A man who thought he’d dodged the bullet till you called.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, setting the phone back on its base. “I’m not going to play phone tag with him. I’ll be on the first train up there as soon as I get a few things here squared away.”

“I’ll see you there.”

She was about to get moving when she remembered there was still one topic on her agenda. “Zeke, hold on a minute,” she said, turning back to him. “Neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me what’s been bugging you.”

“There’s no time for that now, but I promise you’ll be the first to know when I’m ready to talk about it.” He was gone before she could protest.

“This isn’t over!” she shouted, waking Hobo, who jumped up with such a start that he banged his head on the underside of the table.

Chapter 32

Rory settled into her seat for the train ride up to Boston. She’d called Anya for Frank’s address and dropped Hobo with her parents. Although Arlene and Dan were always happy to help their only child, it wasn’t the best of times for the dog to be there. When Rory escorted him in, he balked, refusing to take another step. She couldn’t blame him. This was definitely not the house she remembered either. At least she had the advantage of knowing what was going on. There were boxes stacked everywhere, leaving just a narrow aisle to pass through in some spots. When her father had appeared from behind the cardboard forest, Hobo’s tail gave a tentative wag. Then he’d barked sharply as if to complain about the current state of affairs. Dan had taken his leash from Rory.

“Thanks, Dad, I’ve got to run.” As she’d opened the door, Hobo had issued a plaintive wail.

“Poor baby—he thinks I’m abandoning him in this upside-down house.”

“He’ll be fine. Take care and don’t worry about a thing.”

Easier said than done, since she was on her way to surprise someone who’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk to her, let alone find her camped outside his apartment door. Add to the mix one ghost who’d been testing his limits of late, as well as keeping some disturbing secret from her, and she had a veritable cornucopia of things to worry about.

Rory had left her car in the commuter parking lot in Huntington and hopped on the Long Island Rail Road train with a tote for an overnight bag. At Penn Station, she’d taken the long escalator up to the Amtrak level and boarded the Acela Express with fifteen minutes to spare. At one time, flying would have been faster, but with ever-longer security lines on top of possible flight delays, the train was often the better option for short distances. Unless, of course, you flew Air Zeke.

She arrived in Boston at four o’clock. The sky was gray and swollen, promising a delightful mixture of sleet, ice and snow. Too bad Frank didn’t live in Florida. To lay the groundwork for her plan, she’d called him from her cell phone. When he saw the area code, he might be annoyed, but he wouldn’t be alarmed. As far as he knew, she was still some one-hundred and ninety miles away on Long Island. The phone rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. There was no way to tell if he was away from the phone or saw her number and decided not to answer it. It didn’t matter to Rory, as long as her message got through.

“Hi Frank,” she said, in a light, breezy tone. “This is Rory McCain. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. I sent you a diary of Matthew’s that I think you’ll find interesting. Anya gave me your address. According to FedEx, it will get there after four today. Give me a call if you want to discuss it. Take care.” She’d thrown in the remark about Anya to make it sound legitimate. Which, of course, it wasn’t. All she’d sent Frank was herself.

Before leaving home, she’d printed the photo from Frank’s Facebook page, so she would recognize him. It was a head shot of a young man with short brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses. She was counting on the fact that he didn’t know what she looked like. Even if he checked her Facebook page, all he would find was a rather silly picture of Hobo with a rubber chicken in his mouth.

She’d also called the management corporation of Frank’s apartment building on the pretense that she was in the market for an apartment with a concierge or doorman. She feigned disappointment when they told her that the building had neither one. In reality, she was thrilled. If she had to wait in the lobby for a while, no one would be there to question her or tell her to leave.

According to Anya, Frank was an actuary for an insurance company, which meant his hours were likely to be nine to five. Rory thought he’d make it home sometime between five thirty and six, unless he had plans for the evening and wasn’t coming straight home. If that was the case, she had a long night ahead of her. By the time she reached his building, it was almost dark, and the sky was spitting ice pellets at her. To get inside, she pressed a random buzzer and when a woman asked who was there, she said she was selling Girl Scout cookies. It took only two tries before she found someone with a craving for Thin Mints to buzz her in. While standing there, she noted that Frank lived in apartment 4D.

The lobby had a neat but institutional look, with a couch, two chairs and a coffee table on either side of the entry. Rory chose a chair with a good view of the sidewalk. She’d bought a newspaper on her way there, so she would look like she was simply relaxing and waiting for someone.

People started arriving home from their workday, umbrellas dripping on the tile floor as they made their way to the elevators. None of them looked anything like Frank. Under normal conditions, Rory would have expected the marshal to have checked in with her by now. The fact that he hadn’t was further proof that things were definitely not normal in his world. The minutes ticked by as she read and reread the same articles without absorbing any of them. By six thirty she started wondering if Frank might have stayed home sick. The flu season had gotten off to an early start according to the news reports over the past week. She should have tried to find his office number. Too late now. She decided that if he didn’t walk in by seven, she was going up to his apartment to ring his bell. But her plan required a little help from the marshal. She waited for a lull in the traffic through the lobby. “Zeke,” she called out softly. “Where the heck are you?” A minute went by before she felt the familiar tap on her shoulder. Before she could explain what she needed him to do, a knot of people came in, commiserating about the lousy weather. It was the safe, standard topic for neighbors who barely knew one another. They walked to the elevators together, but it wasn’t until they’d entered the cab and turned to face forward that Rory realized one of them was Frank.

After the elevator doors closed, she gave Zeke his instructions. Then they waited ten minutes so Frank would have time to shed his coat, use the bathroom and make himself comfortable. Rory rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, where the marshal was supposed to meet her. She walked down to 4D. Unfortunately the door had a peephole, which she’d forgotten to take into account. Having the marshal identify himself as FedEx by just using his voice was not going to cut it if Frank could easily check out his claim.

“You’re going to have to make an appearance,” she whispered to Zeke. “In a FedEx uniform.”

“You might have mentioned that before,” he grumbled. “That’s goin’ to take a minute.”

Rory had no choice but to wait. She hoped that no one got off the elevator or left their apartment, because anyone who saw a stranger hanging out on their floor was sure to ask her if they could be of help. Although the question might sound polite, the intent would no doubt be to determine if the superintendant should be called or possibly even the police.

Rory nearly groaned out loud when a woman in her seventies came out of an apartment a few doors down with a little, white fluff of a dog on a leash. She gave Rory a wary smile and immediately turned to double lock her door. “All right, how’s this?” Zeke said, winking into view before Rory could stop him. And of course the woman glanced Rory’s way again before heading to the elevator. Only this time Rory wasn’t alone. This time there was a strapping FedEx man standing beside her in the standard gray pants and black jacket.

The woman’s eyebrows jumped together in alarm. “Did I . . . was he . . . I mean . . . when did . . . ,” she babbled, unable to sew a full sentence together. Rory was equally at a loss for what to say, so she just smiled as sweetly as she knew how. In the end, the dog saved the day. He whined and strained at his leash, reminding his owner that he might spring a leak if he didn’t get outside in a timely manner. The woman turned away, shaking her head and still babbling under her breath as she hurried off to the elevator.

“That was almost a disaster,” Rory snapped, once she and Zeke were alone again. “What’s wrong with you, appearing like that without waiting for my ‘all clear?’”

“My mistake,” Zeke mumbled. “I’m a little off my game today.”

“All right,” she relented. “I guess we all have our lapses.” The marshal didn’t often apologize, and she wanted him to know it was appreciated.

“This getup is ridiculous, by the way.”

“It serves a purpose,” she said to shut down any further complaints. “Now let’s get this over with before anything else goes haywire.” She pressed Frank’s bell and stepped to the side, so that when he looked through the peephole he would only see a FedEx employee.

“Who is it?” Frank’s tone was understandably wary, since he hadn’t buzzed anyone in at the front door.

“FedEx,” Zeke said, as if he’d been on the job for years. There was a pause, during which Frank was no doubt peeking into the hall to confirm that an agent of FedEx was indeed outside his door. Then Rory heard a safety chain being disengaged, followed by two locks clicking open. When Frank opened his door, Rory was standing there front and center with no FedEx man in sight. She and the marshal had decided it would be best to leave that company out of the rest of their scheme, if they didn’t fancy being sued. Besides, if Frank was confused or knocked off balance by the bait and switch it was likely to work in their favor.

“Where’s the FedEx guy, and who are you?” Frank asked, looking up and down the hallway for the man he’d seen barely two seconds ago. Rory appreciated his dilemma. Not even the Road Runner could have disappeared as quickly from a jet-propelled Wile E. Coyote.

“He had to leave,” she said, as though she hadn’t noticed anything strange about a person being there one moment and gone the next. “I’m Rory McCain, and we need to talk. May I come in, Frank? Great, thanks.” Asked and answered before he had a chance to utter a word. She was sidestepping past him into the apartment before he knew what was happening.

“What? What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, having to step back inside to confront her. “Oh, I get it; you’re the PI investigating Matthew’s death,” he muttered as if to clarify things for himself. “So the FedEx package was just a ploy to help you get past my door. Well, you have a minute to tell me what you want before I call the police.”

“I’ve talked to everyone else who was close to Matthew. I’m out of suspects and out of information. You’re the only one who might be able to shed some new—”

Frank turned and shut the door, no doubt to prevent his neighbors from hearing what transpired in apartment 4D. “You have the nerve to force your way in here and accuse me of killing my best friend?” His dark brows had lowered menacingly over his eyes as he advanced on her. Although he was short and slight of build, Rory found herself backing away. She could feel the anger rolling off him in shock waves. “I should call the cops on you right now,” he went on, “for sneaking in here, harassing me at home and at work, collaborating with someone to pose as a FedEx employee—”

“Calm down,” Rory said, keeping her voice low, but firm. Ratcheting up hostilities wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interests. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’m just hoping you have a piece of the puzzle that will help me find Matthew’s killer. If you had been willing to talk to me on the phone, I wouldn’t even be here now.” She hadn’t come up to Boston because she thought he was the killer. It wasn’t until she felt the raw emotion rising off him like steam that she began to think maybe he had murdered his best friend after all.

Frank lowered his voice, but his words were still throbbing with fury. “I told you the first time you called that I don’t care if you catch his killer. It won’t have the slightest impact on my life one way or the other. All the talking heads are wrong about closure. There is no such thing. It’s just a way for psychologists to tie up their theories with pretty little bows. I’ve never met a single person who suffered a loss and was in anyway healed by the capture of the responsible party.”

“Believe whatever you want to believe, Frank, but please talk to me, for Anya’s sake.”

“Anya has been on my mind more than you know,” he said, dropping onto a nearby chair, the anger suddenly drained from his tone, leaving it bleak and hollow. Apparently Anya was the secret password to get past the bulwark of Frank’s defenses. “She’s been like a second mother to me nearly all my life.” A fine sheen of tears covered his eyes, but he didn’t try to blink them away.

Rory perched on the edge of the chair closest to his. “Have the police been around to question you?” she asked. Frank wagged his head, concentrating on the cuticle of his left index finger. “I can assure you they’ll be here soon. When every suspect has a verifiable alibi, the next thing you do is widen the circle. I know, because I was a detective. Sooner or later you’re going to have to open up to someone, Frank. Volunteering the information can only help you down the road.” He didn’t look up or answer her. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding between the two of you,” she went on. “Maybe things got too heated, one thing led to another and—”

“Shut up,” Frank erupted, jumping to his feet again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then correct me; tell me what to believe,” she implored him. “Tell me what happened.”

He started pacing back and forth in the living room, rubbing his hand across his forehead, as if in the throes of a decision. “It should never have happened,” he said finally, coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room. “He didn’t even give me a chance, let me try . . .” His voice trailed off, and his shoulders slumped. When he looked up again, tears were running down his cheeks, but he appeared more serene. “I’m done,” he said with a sigh so deep it rattled in his chest and seemed to leave his body depleted. For a moment Rory thought he was about to lose his balance and faint. But by the time she jumped up to steady him, he’d regained his equilibrium.

“Come with me,” he said, heading off to another room in the apartment. Rory hoped he wasn’t going for a gun. She had her Walther PPK in her purse. Given the tight quarters of most big-city apartments, she hadn’t felt the need for more firepower. As she followed him through the dining room and into what appeared to be an office, she quietly opened her purse

Frank went straight to the computer on the desk and sat down in the padded swivel chair. A touch of the mouse brought the monitor back to life from sleep mode. Rory watched as Frank’s fingers flew over the keyboard, the images on the screen rapidly changing. Then he got up and motioned for her to sit there. Although she was dying of curiosity, she didn’t intend to turn her back on him.

“Go ahead,” he said, as if it were a dare. “Read it.”

“I need you to sit down right over there,” she said, nodding to a small sofa that probably converted into a sleeper. It was only a few feet to her left. That way she could keep an eye on him while she read what was on the screen. Frank did as he was told. With her purse in her lap and one hand resting on the Walther, Rory started reading.

Chapter 33

On the screen was a note card from an e-card company a lot like the one Anya had received from Matthew. But this one had shown up on Frank’s computer a week after Matthew died. It wasn’t bad enough that someone had killed him, but they’d gone one step farther in their cruelty by making it seem as if Matthew was reaching out to Frank from the grave. Rory clicked on the card to open it and immediately realized she was wrong

Frank—in the end, I had to come clean with you. I know you’re going to be angry after you read this. You’ll probably call me every name in the book, and I guess I deserve all of them. I hope you’ll at least try to understand things from my point of view, the way you have in the past. You know how I’ve always felt about Lacey. Well, at least that’s gone now. The only feeling I have left for her is anger. No, not anger, more like rage. For some time now, all I’ve been able to think about is how to hurt her, how to get back at her for the misery she’s caused me over the years. I’ve even started dreaming about killing her. In some of the dreams, I grab her around the neck and squeeze until she begs me to stop, until I feel the life go out of her. In others I have a big kitchen knife that I plunge into her over and over. When I wake up I’m not revolted or horrified. Just the opposite—I’m relieved, satisfied. I’m afraid I’ll eventually act out one of those scenarios. So when James threatened to fire my mother and take away her home if I ever bothered Lacey again, he made this decision easy for me. I came up with a plan to even the score and ensure that our paths would never cross again. I bet it makes her feel bad for everything she’s done to me. Maybe she’ll even realize what she’s lost. I don’t think it will be hard to do. After all the doses of insulin I’ve given myself over the years, this will simply be one more. I’ve even researched the right way to inject it, so it will appear as though someone else did it. One last thing—after I sent you this card, I trashed my computer so the police couldn’t search it. I think that about covers everything. Now that I’ve unburdened my heart to you, Frank, I have to ask one last favor of you. You are my best friend, the one person I’ve entrusted with every secret of my life. I beg you now to keep this last secret for me. Matthew

Rory leaned back in the chair, feeling as if she’d been sucker punched. Zeke had nailed it when he’d said someone must have lied, but neither of them ever entertained the possibility that the lie had been staged by Matthew himself. When she turned the chair to face Frank, he was hunched over, his head in his hands, sobbing silently. After a minute, he composed himself enough to sit up.

“I keep wishing I’d never read that e-mail,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “Matthew was right about one thing. I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier or more hurt. He should have come to me. Together we would have figured out some other way to deal with it all. And now he expects me to keep his damn secret, a secret that could wind up putting the wrong person away for life. I feel betrayed, and I feel used. He should have known that by unburdening his heart like that, he’d be shifting the burden to mine.” Frank slumped back against the sofa. “I haven’t slept properly since the day that letter showed up. I have no appetite. I can’t concentrate at work.” He looked at Rory. “If you were in my position, Ms. McCain, what would you do?”

While she’d been listening to Frank, Rory had begun to wonder that very thing herself. No easy answer sprang to mind. “It’s hard to say, because imagining yourself in a situation like this is not the same as actually experiencing it. Having said that, here’s what I think. Matthew made the choice to end his life, but you still have a long life ahead of you. You shouldn’t be forced to carry such a terrible secret around with you for the next sixty or seventy years. It will eat away at you. Matthew may have been too distraught to fully understand the scope of his request. Knowing the truth, I don’t think I could remain silent and let an innocent party be punished, regardless of my personal feelings for them.”

“Even if you took into account how much Lacey deserves to be punished for a long list of terribly cruel acts?” he asked, his voice thin and tortured.

“That’s not your call,” Rory said. “Besides, with or without this letter, there’s not enough evidence to indict her. If you want my advice you’ll take the letter to the authorities as soon as possible. Matthew is past being hurt, but you could be facing charges of withholding evidence, interfering with a police investigation and conspiring to frame someone for murder.” She could see Frank blanch as she laid it out for him. “You need to let the police know about the devastating psychological stress you’ve been under since receiving the letter. I’ll go with you if you’d like.”

Frank nodded. “Okay, you’re right. I’ll do it. I’ll come down to Long Island and give the police the letter. I guess I should have a lawyer to contact if things go south for me.”

“If it comes to that,” Rory said, rising from the chair, “a New York lawyer would be your best bet. There are a few I can recommend.” She opened her purse and took out one of her business cards. “Let me know when you’re coming to town, and I promise to do whatever I can to help.”

***

Rory was seated in Gil’s office at Harper Farms. She’d asked for the entire family to be present when she came to discuss the resolution of the murder case. Gil was behind his desk as usual. Ellen and their three children were arrayed around the room. Ellen was fidgeting with a rubber band she’d picked up from the floor. James was beside her on the couch, as still as a mannequin. In her chair across the room, Lacey was wearing a sullen expression, angry that she was being forced to miss her regular mani-pedi. Luke slouched in the chair next to her, constantly checking his watch and yawning widely with unconcealed boredom. Every time he reached for his phone, his father glared at him, and he quickly put it away, apparently aware that he had to tow the line, at least temporarily. Gil had refused to press charges against him for the property damage to the farm. Although the assistant district attorney had tried to convince Gil that his son would learn more if he was forced to face the full consequences of his actions, Gil had told her point blank what she could do with her advice. She prosecuted the case anyway on behalf of the insurance company. The judge who heard the case told Luke he would have to make full financial restitution to the company for any money they had paid out to Harper Farms and then he sentenced Luke to one hundred hours of community service, which amounted to a slap on the wrist.

With the family all assembled, Rory began. After telling them that Matthew had taken his own life, she went on to detail how Lacey’s actions had contributed to that decision and how James’s threat was the proverbial final straw. Lacey didn’t seem at all affected by the news.

“He left me no choice,” she said with a shrug. “Everything that happened was his own fault.” To James’s credit, he squirmed in his seat when Rory spotlighted him in her narrative. Gil and Ellen had certainly raised a dandy crop of kids who were, at best, self-involved, and at worst, insensitive and downright cruel. And even though Gil and Ellen seemed truly stricken by her report, Rory suspected they were equally relieved to hear that none of their flock would have to stand trial.

When the briefing was over, Gil dismissed them all, but he asked Rory to stay so he could settle up with her. They went over the list of expenses she’d handed him earlier. He didn’t try to argue his way out of any of them and wrote her a check on the spot.

“While you were in Boston,” he said, passing the check across the desk to her, “we plowed the corn maze under and in the process turned up a pair of those latex gloves, the kind doctors use. They were buried under a few inches of dirt in the area where the police found the discarded syringe. I don’t think they have the DNA results back yet, but after what you told us today, I’m pretty sure they’ll find out it was Matthew’s.”

With the check and Gil’s gratitude, Rory left the office and headed back to the parking lot. She was thrilled to finally be done with the Harpers, so she was surprised to see Ellen waiting at her car. “Could I have just a minute of your time? she asked, her voice riddled with anxiety. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Sure,” Rory said. So much for being done with them.

“Thank you. Could we possibly sit in your car, though? It’s freezing out here.”

Rory agreed, just as eager to get out of the biting wind. She unlocked the doors and they both jumped in. “What can I do for you?” she asked as she started the engine and turned on the heat. Even out of the wind, the cold was flesh numbing.

Ellen was sitting in the passenger seat, her arms crossed over her chest for warmth or comfort, or more likely both. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I thought I could just live with it, but my conscience refuses to let it go.”

Rory was tempted to tell her how refreshing it was to hear that someone in the Harper clan actually had a conscience, but she let it go.

“I’m ashamed to say this,” Ellen went on, “but for quite a while I suspected Lacey might have killed Matthew.” She shook her head. “You have no idea how much she detested him. Not that that’s an excuse for murder. But in spite of all of Lacey’s shortcomings, she’ll always be my baby. I had to do something to protect her. So I tried to scare you into dropping the case.”

Rory had been wondering if she’d ever find out who’d sent the anonymous note and arranged for the men who’d followed her. Yet she was confused by Ellen’s admission. “Even if you’d succeeded in getting me to drop out, the police would still have been looking for Matthew’s killer.”

“I know; that’s the crazy part. I was still compelled to do it. I couldn’t just twiddle my thumbs like Gil and wait for my baby to be arrested and carted off to jail for the rest of her life. I convinced myself that it might help Lacey’s chances if I could eliminate even one of the investigators on the case. And whether you’re aware of it or not, you have an impressive record for solving murders.”

Rory thanked her for owning up to what she’d done. To some small degree, she could even understand the need Ellen had felt to do something. Action was better than inaction.

“And I want you to know that when I hired the men to follow you, l made it clear that they were not to harm you in any way or they wouldn’t be paid the rest of their retainer.”

Rory didn’t know if Ellen was expecting another thank-you, but if so, she was going to be sadly disappointed.

“I know it may be too much to ask,” she went on when Rory remained silent, “but I’m hoping you’ll accept my heartfelt apology and forgive me.”

“I accept your apology,” Rory said, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually say the words “I forgive you.” Apparently the one Harper with a conscience saw nothing wrong about playing fast and loose with the law. Rory could turn her in, but that would mean more interaction with the family, which quite simply wasn’t worth it. After Ellen left, Rory sat in the parking lot for a few more minutes thinking about how good and decent her own crazy family was compared to the Harpers. Then she backed out of the parking spot. She had one last stop to make before heading home, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Anya deserved to learn the truth about her son’s death in person.

Chapter 34

Zeke was in the entry when Rory walked in. “How did it go?” he asked.

“Pretty much the way we both thought it would. Those Harpers are quite a crew. A psychiatrist would have a field day with them.” She set her purse and coat on the bench beneath the stairs, then sat down to tug off her boots. The entire way home she’d been craving a hot chocolate to kick the chill out of her bones. With that in mind, she padded off to the kitchen, Zeke right behind her. She set the kettle on the stove and poured the powdery contents of the just-add-water packet into a mug.

Zeke was leaning against the island watching her.

“By the way,” he said, “your mother stopped by while you were gone.”

“Did she leave something for me?” Rory asked. Her mother had said she might be by with the Bible.

“As a matter of fact she did. She left it at the door in a shopping bag.”

“There wasn’t anything there when I came home.”

“After she drove off, I brought it in and put it in the study.”

“Okay, thanks.” The kettle was whistling, so she poured the water into her mug and stirred it until all the lumps were gone. The rich aroma finally awakened Hobo who’d been fast asleep beneath the table. When he saw that Rory was not only home, but preparing food, he jumped up so fast he banged his head on the underside of the table for what was easily the hundreth time. The sound made Rory wince and Zeke shake his head in sympathy, but Hobo didn’t seem at all fazed by the impact. Shaking it off, he trotted up to her, tail wagging madly. Rory bent down to plant a kiss on his furry snout and massage his head. Hobo was completely focused on the steaming mug on the counter.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to forget you.” Already squirming with anticipation, he watched her take the can of whipped cream from the refrigerator. After shaking it, she squirted a swirl into her palm and held it out to him. Hobo lapped it up with relish. Then Rory topped off her cocoa with a tall mound of the cream, returned the can to the refrigerator and headed for the stairs, both of her housemates hard on her heels.

As promised, the bag her mother had left was waiting on her desk. She sat down and set the cocoa on the blotter.

“It’s a Bible,” he said before she had a chance to look. “A really old Bible.”

“I know.”

“Then you’ve already seen it?”

“No, my mother told me about it,” she said, sliding it carefully out of the bag.

“Why are you so interested in it?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Have I exceeded my limit?” he asked dryly.

Rory sighed. “No, of course not. “And to answer your previous question, I find it interesting, because it’s my family’s Bible that goes back generations. This and the old photo album are family heirlooms we didn’t even know we had.” She opened the Bible, taking care not to put too much pressure on the spine, which was pulling away from the book. On the inside of the cover, in faded ink, she found a list of her ancestors on her mother’s side. It appeared to go all the way back to the nineteenth century, if she was reading the date on the earliest entry correctly. But she wanted to start with the most recent one and follow the timeline back from there. The final entry listed her grandmother Betty, along with her five siblings. Moving up the list was Sarah, who would have been Rory’s great-grandmother. Then Mary, her great-great-grandmother and on up to the first name on the list—Rory’s great-grandmother four times over, who had begun the list with her marriage in 1880. “Wow!” Rory said, leaning back in her chair. “This is amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Zeke replied solemnly. He’d settled himself in the reading chair while Rory was studying her ancestry.

She picked up her mug and sipped the cocoa. “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming, but I suppose that’s because it’s not your family’s history.”

“Let me tell you a little story,” he said.

Rory barely managed to keep from groaning out loud. She really wasn’t in the mood for one of the marshal’s tales. She was still all wrapped up in thoughts of the women who’d preceded her.

“Before my death here, in 1878,” Zeke said, “I’d been keeping company with a woman from Tucson. Given my line of work, I’d never considered the prospect of marriage. But all that changed when I met Celeste. I was head over heels in love with her. She made me happier than I’d ever thought I could be.” His mouth curved into a bittersweet smile. “Even after her father caught us foolin’ around in the back of the barn and tried to keep us apart, she found ways to sneak off and meet me. It would have been hard to say which one of us was the more smitten. I’d even planned to ask for her hand when I returned home. But as it happened, I never saw her again.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rory said, touched by his loss. Out of respect for the sensitive nature of his revelation, she waited a minute before pointing out what had immediately occurred to her. “Celeste is the same name as my—”

“As your great-grandmother four times over,” he said, finishing the sentence for her.

She set her mug down half finished. “Come on, I know what you’re thinking, but it can’t be,” she said with a little laugh. “Celeste was probably just a popular name at the time.”

“My Celeste had the last name of Higgs, not the sort of name you often come across. Take another look at that Bible.”

Rory looked down at the Bible, which was still lying open on the desk. Surely the marshal was mistaken. She hadn’t paid much attention to the surnames on the list in her first run-through, because they didn’t hold any particular meaning for her. Now, as she read Celeste’s full name, her breath caught in her throat. Celeste’s last name was Landour, but that was her married name, since the date of her wedding to Robert Landour was noted right beside it. But in lieu of a middle name she’d written her maiden name, “Higgs.” The letters were so faded and difficult to make out that Rory studied the entry to be sure.

“Celeste Higgs Landour,” Zeke said, when she looked up at him, her eyes filled with questions she couldn’t begin to form into words.

No wonder he’d been in such a peculiar mood lately. If the realization had hit her this hard, how must he have felt? “You’d already figured it out before seeing the Bible?” she asked.

“The photograph in that old album started me thinking, but it was in such bad shape I couldn’t tell for sure. It wasn’t until I saw your drawing that I was just about positive.” His lips canted up in a nostalgic smile. “You did a great job of capturing her. Anyway, Eloise confirmed it for me.”

“Was that the day you and she were arguing?”

“Yes. As it happened, she was about to come over here with the news when you called her for me. And she intended to tell you right then and there, but I couldn’t let her do that. Not while I was still so overwhelmed by the news. I needed a little time to absorb it and make peace with it first.”

“Are you okay?” Rory asked, unable to come up with anything better to say. She wished she could put her arms around him and console him.

“Much better than I’ve been in quite a while. I think learnin’ that Celeste married and had a family with another man was the most difficult part. Not that I would have wanted her to waste her life pinin’ over me. But it brought back all the old feelin’s I thought I’d exorcised a long time ago.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Great. Talk about inane questions. Unless she had a time machine and the power to change history, what could she do for him?

“Actually you’ve already done a lot,” he replied, to her surprise.

“I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything.”

Zeke’s mouth turned up in a genuine smile. “You’ve helped just by bein’ you,” he said. “Toleratin’ my moods, keepin’ me busy with good, honest work.” He paused for a moment. “Now I hope what I’m about to say doesn’t hit you the wrong way, but it also dawned on me that to some degree Celeste still resides in you. You are her livin’ legacy.”

Rory understood why he’d struggled with how to say that last part. At worst, it could be construed to mean her only value to him was as a link to his past. If this conversation had taken place early on, when their relationship was more contentious, there was a good chance she might have taken it exactly that way. But as things stood now, she was fine with it. She didn’t begrudge him the feeling of connection she provided. “Glad to be of help,” she said, smiling back at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anythin’.”

Well that was a new one. “When Eloise was here that day, did she mention how Celeste came to live in New York?’

“Her husband was offered a high-payin’ position here. So they packed up their family and came east. They even persuaded her father to move with them. Eloise told me that Celeste had a good life with Robert, even though he never took my place in her heart. Of course she might have added that part just to make me feel better.”

Rory shook head. “I’ve never known Eloise to editorialize.”

“Thank you for that,” Zeke said, the light in his eyes glowing more brightly.

“Did Eloise happen to say why Celeste’s daughter reached out to her, instead of Celeste herself?”

“No, she never mentioned that at all, but it is curious.”

“When I asked Eloise about it, she didn’t seem to know.”

“Then it’s not likely to be of any immediate consequence,” he said. “For better or worse, the woman is downright obsessed with deliverin’ those messages as soon as she gets them. Now, I can’t speak for you, but I could do with some rest before she hits us with the next one.”

At that moment, the phone rang, and Rory excused herself to answer it. She was on the line for a while, and when she hung up, she turned to the marshal. “We’ve been hired to solve another murder. If it’s too soon for you to jump back in with both feet, just say so. I can manage on my own until you’re ready.”

“Darlin’,” Zeke said, his face stretching into a grin, “I was born ready.”

Keep reading for a preview of the first book in the Crystal Shop Mystery series by Sharon Pape

ALIBIS AND AMETHYSTS

Available now from InterMix

Jaye Saylor was already late. She turned off the lights that bathed the little crystal and gemstone shop in a rosy glow during business hours and switched on the harsher security fluorescents for the night. Her last customers, two middle-aged sisters, had dawdled and browsed, dithered and debated for over an hour before finally settling on a small fluorite pendant for a friend dealing with arthritis. Normally Jaye didn’t mind the lingerers, but this day had been one of her busiest since opening Crystal Clear. She hadn’t even had time for lunch, so she was hungry as well as tired. And Sierra was no doubt holding down a coveted table in the cozy back room at Finnegan’s Fajitas, waiting for her. As a general rule, Quinn Finnegan wouldn’t seat anyone until their whole party was present, but he made discreet exceptions for the other shopkeepers. Sedona was, after all, a small town with a residential population of ten thousand. This was a fact that could easily be overlooked, since the tourist presence could swell that number well into six figures for a good portion of the year.

Jaye stole a quick look at herself in the mirror atop the display case. Her ponytail had survived the long day, except for a few stray wisps that had escaped the elastic band. Her face was another matter. She looked as drained as she felt. Nothing that a bright punch of color on her cheeks and lips couldn’t fix, but that would mean running upstairs to her apartment over the store. The natural look would have to do. Patience was not one of Sierra’s virtues.

Jaye plucked her handbag and a sweater from beneath the counter, set the security system and double-timed it to the front door. She had turned the “Open” sign to “Closed” as soon as the sisters had cleared the threshold, so all she had to do was lock the door behind her.

She hadn’t even had a chance to poke her head outside for a breath of fresh air until now. Inhaling deeply, she thought about how much cleaner that air must have been back before Henry Ford. To her way of thinking, the government had dropped the ball when it came to Sedona. The entire Red Rock area should have been declared a state or national park long ago, before contractors with dollar signs for scruples started chopping it up and selling it off. To their credit, most of the architects had made an attempt to blend their structures into the natural landscape. But how much more spectacular it would have been if left untouched by human hands?

A cool breeze caught Jaye as she hurried across the tiny parking lot to her car. It was mid-April, and the temperature had been lolling in the fifties for a week now as if lacking the energy to make a run for higher numbers. Although Arizona didn’t switch to daylight saving time with the rest of the nation, the sun was still a good hour or more away from setting. It was perched atop the westernmost cliff as if it had been snagged by that craggy summit and prevented from continuing its journey to the horizon.

Jaye slid into the driver’s seat, as wowed by the stunning beauty of the red monoliths as the first time she’d seen them. It was easy to understand why Sedona had been an artist’s community even before it became a mecca for tourists and New Age enthusiasts. She’d lived there for nearly six months now, but it never got old. She’d taken to factoring a few extra minutes into any errands she had to run, because somewhere along the way she was bound to lose herself in the view. There was simply no point in fighting it. She’d also given up trying to keep her car the sparkling white it had been when she’d proudly driven it off the dealer’s lot. After a month of diligent but futile washings, she’d learned to love the dusty red patina it so quickly reacquired courtesy of the local sediment.

She eased into the traffic that was thankfully beginning to thin out at that hour. According to the locals, the congestion had been worse before the introduction of the roundabouts that did away with a lot of the traffic lights and the long queues of cars that built up at them. Unfortunately, on the weekends even the roundabouts often became bogged down in gridlock. The merchants all grumbled about the situation, but good-naturedly and in the nicest of terms. After all, tourist dollars supported the town, and with the exception of a small airport atop Airport Mesa, those tourists needed cars and buses to transport them there.

The location of Jaye’s shop at one of the three entrances into Sedona was also a mixed blessing. While it gave her the jump on a lot of the other crystal shops in the center of town, it was hard for her to attend to mundane necessities like shopping for groceries or going to the post office and dry cleaners during the abbreviated lunchtime she usually allowed herself. She’d been thinking of hiring some part-time help if business continued at its present clip. Even then it would be hard to stay away for too long, since her success in such a saturated market was due in large measure to the expertise she brought to the subject.

Back in her sophomore year at Cornell when she’d elected to major in geology, she could never have imagined that after teaching earth science to middle schoolers for eight years, she’d find herself the proprietor of a crystal shop in the middle of Arizona. And all because her college roommate and best friend had come through Sedona on vacation, fallen in love with the place and decided to stay. A fairly common occurrence in the town, as it turned out. When Sierra had called Jaye to tell her that she wouldn’t be returning to the East Coast and that she was opening a bakery in Sedona, Jaye had literally dropped the phone.

“Do you even know how to bake?” she’d asked once she’d retrieved it.

“Not exactly,” Sierra had hedged, “but I always watched my grandmother bake. Anyway,” she’d added brightly, “how hard could it be?”

Jaye hadn’t felt equipped to answer that question. All she had were a few hazy memories of helping her mother bake brownies and cupcakes. But that was before she’d turned seven. She was very sure about the timing of it, because on her seventh birthday a drunk driver barreling down the highway in the wrong direction had left her an orphan. Although she didn’t remember if baking was difficult or if it took a specific talent, common sense told her that it would require being awake before the roosters. She’d felt obliged to point out this inescapable truth, because Sierra was hard to drag out of bed before noon; the girl loved her sleep.

“Have you considered the fact that you’ll have to be up before dawn every day in order to have fresh inventory when you open?” Jaye had asked. There’d been a brief pause during which she could picture the wheels spinning madly in Sierra’s head as she tried to navigate around this little speed bump.

“Then I’ll learn to be a morning person,” she’d said finally and with an edge of pique, indicating that she’d not only committed to the idea but slammed the door firmly shut on any further debate.

Jaye inched past the entrance to Tlaquepaque, the open-air arts and crafts mall that resembled a lovely, old Mexican village. As she stopped to leave room for a car that was exiting the mall, she reflected on the irony of her current situation. After trying to play devil’s advocate for Sierra, here she was a year later, having followed in her friend’s “westward ho” footsteps. Uprooting herself had been a lot easier than she’d anticipated, mostly because she was pretty much rootless. With no close family to take her in, she’d grown up in a series of foster families who’d treated her well for the most part but had shown no interest in adopting a child already half grown. Since moving from one family to another often meant switching schools, her first enduring friendship had been with Sierra, and Jaye was grateful every day that fate and Cornell University had brought them together.

Had she not known Sierra, she would never have moved to Sedona or opened her shop, probably the two best decisions of her life. Working with the crystals and gemstones appealed to an artistic side she hadn’t even known she had. And dealing with tourists was almost always an upbeat experience. People on vacation were people at their most carefree and happy.

She’d reached the intersection where the road to the left led to West Sedona, where most of the stores and businesses that served the resident population were located. Sierra’s bakery, Cravings!, was to the right in the quaint, touristy section known as Uptown Sedona. During the day, parking along the main street there was close to impossible, but at six twenty in the evening Jaye had her choice of several prime spots, including one right in front of Finnegan’s. She found Sierra, as expected, in the restaurant’s back room. She was sipping an apricot margarita, heavy on the salt, and drumming her fingers on the tabletop.

“Hey, girl—I was about to give up on you.”

“I doubt it,” Jaye said with a grin, “unless you were planning to take your drink home in a doggie bag.” She slid into the seat across from her friend. “You forget that I know all your secrets. Anything apricot is impossible for you to pass up.”

“Okay, you’ve got me there. But you still owe me big-time—I packed away a whole basket of tortilla chips while I was waiting for you. I don’t even want to guess how many calories and fat were involved.”

Jaye smiled and shook her head. “Put it on my tab.” They’d started “running tabs” for each other back in college when Jaye had agreed to a double date with Sierra, her boyfriend at the time and his cousin. The cousin had proven to be as arrogant as he was nerdy—a hard combination to beat. As payback, Sierra had had to do Jaye’s laundry for a month.

A busboy appeared to replace the empty basket of chips with a full one and to give them some fresh salsa. Quinn Finnegan came by right behind him to tell Jaye how glad he was to see her there. The man had restaurant savvy down pat. He made every patron feel as if he’d opened his doors specifically for them. Plus his kitchen served up great food at reasonable prices.

“Susana made some great fish tacos tonight,” he said. “Even better than Luisa’s,” he added in a discreet whisper.

“Who’s Susana?” Sierra asked.

“Luisa’s cousin; she’s filling in while my wife’s down in Mexico visiting her family. Would you believe I ate ten of those tacos today?”

Jaye had no trouble believing it. Quinn was looking more like a red-haired Pillsbury Dough Boy every day. The shirt buttons over his ballooning waist were on the verge of popping like mini champagne corks. But in spite of Quinn’s glowing recommendation, when the waiter appeared to take their order, the two women passed on the tacos and ordered fajitas instead, chicken for Sierra, vegetable for Jaye.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Sierra said, shaking her head.

Jaye loaded some salsa onto a tortilla chip. “What’s that?”

“Being a vegetarian for so many years without ever falling off the wagon. When I tried it, I didn’t make it past the first week.”

“Yeah, and I remember that week. You weren’t any fun at all. What was your name then?”

“Brooke,” Sierra said. “I figured if I was going to be a vegetarian, I should sound like I was in sync with nature.”

“Let’s see. . . . By my count ‘Sierra’ is . . . number eight?”

“Legally I only changed my name five times,” Sierra said. “Besides, different stages in life call for different names. Of course, you have to know your limitations. Personally, I could never pull off ‘Tiffany’ or ‘Lola.’ But with your looks, you could pull off just about any name—maybe even ‘Gertrude.’”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Of course not.” Sierra smiled in bemusement. “Dark hair, green eyes, heart-shaped face . . . Seriously, girl, why would anyone be complimenting you?” She took a moment to drain the last of her margarita. “You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to change your name,” she pursued. When Sierra hooked into a subject, it wasn’t easy to change the trajectory of the conversation.

“Actually, I did think about it once during our freshman year. You were calling yourself ‘Hannah’ at the time, because you thought it was a good, solid name, the name of a scholar who would work hard and earn a high GPA. I guess I was intrigued by the concept of takig on a different persona—sort of like starting over.”

“You never told me that.” Sierra sounded surprised and a bit offended that her friend had been holding back.

Jaye shrugged. “It wasn’t worth mentioning. After all of two seconds I realized I could never do it. My name is the only thing I have left from my mom and dad.”

“Okay, I get it,” Sierra said. “But FYI—you shouldn’t play the ‘poor little orphan’ card too often.”

If those words had come from anyone else, Jaye would have immediately deleted that person from her list of friends, both on and off Facebook. But since they’d come from Sierra, she found herself laughing instead. “You’re rationing me?”

“I’m just looking out for you. You don’t want your material to lose its punch, do you?”

Jaye nearly choked on the chip she was nibbling. There was no way to predict what might come out of Sierra’s mouth at any given moment. She’d made Jaye so wary and uncomfortable when they’d first met that Jaye had considered asking for a different dorm assignment. But after a month of living together in close quarters, it had quickly become apparent that there was no one kinder or more compassionate than her eccentric roomy.

Dinner arrived, sizzling hot and smelling richly of peppers, onions and garlic. Conversation was suspended while they went about assembling their fajita wraps.

“I forgot to tell you—Peggy Krueger literally crashed into my cart in the supermarket yesterday,” Jaye said, using her napkin to blot a drop of sauce that was working its way down her chin. “I guess I should be grateful we weren’t in our cars. She rounded the corner into the cereal aisle like she thought she was at Daytona. It took a while for my arms to stop vibrating from the impact. She got all flustered and started to apologize—until she realized it was my cart she’d hit. Good-bye, apology; hello, venomous glare.”

Sierra took her time chewing a mouthful. “I guess you’re guilty by association,” she said finally.

“A little over the top, don’t you think? I know you’re in competition with her, but everyone in business has to deal with that sooner or later. It’s called ‘capitalism.’”

“Change comes hard for some people,” Sierra said without rancor. “Peggy had the only bakery around here for almost twenty years. To her I’m the usurper of customers, the black hole of profits. And if I’m the devil incarnate, I guess she sees you as one of my handmaidens. What I don’t get is why she hasn’t tried to up her game to lure her customers back or to hold on to the ones she still has. From what I’m told, her line of baked goods has been exactly the same for two decades. Even she should be bored to death by now. Speaking of which,” she said, “you’re coming back to my house after dinner to try my new apricot Linzer tortes.”

“Have you ever considered framing an invitation in the form of a question?” Jaye asked with a laugh. “For example, ‘Would you like to come over after dinner? I have a fabulous new dessert I’d like you to try.’”

“I like my way. It makes it harder for the invitee to refuse.”

“I guess I’ll take the rest of my dinner to go,” Jaye said with an exaggerated sigh, “since you’re apparently going to be force-feeding me dessert.”

***

Jaye followed Sierra into West Sedona, where her friend had plunked down half of her inheritance from her grandmother on a small, older home that had started to fall apart the day after she went to closing. As a result, renovating the kitchen and tackling other cosmetic issues had had to wait until the roof, plumbing and appliances underwent repairs. After a brief but rowdy meltdown, Sierra had meditated herself into a generally peaceful acceptance of the situation. Whenever Jaye had tried to practice that art during times of stress she’d only succeeded in falling asleep. Not half bad as failures go.

They had one stop to make on the way to Sierra’s house—Dee’s Play and Stay, which offered day care for dogs as well as boarding. Jaye pulled into the lot and waited in her car while Sierra went inside. She reappeared a minute later holding the leash of a prancing, snow-white American Eskimo who answered to the name of Frosty. Sierra had adopted him from the elderly woman whose house she’d bought. Unable to take the dog with her to the nursing home, the woman had begged Sierra to keep him or she’d be forced to leave him at a shelter. Sierra had never owned a dog before, but with her usual “how hard could it be?” philosophy, she’d agreed. Within a week she was completely besotted with him. Unfortunately, it took Frosty the better part of a month to accept his new housemate. He ran away five times, soiled the rugs, couch and linens with every orifice he had, and even went on a hunger strike, although that had only lasted for one day.

As soon as they arrived at Sierra’s house, she let Frosty out in the backyard to attend to doggie matters while she started the coffee. He hadn’t been outside long when he started barking full throttle as if he’d been ambushed by a band of starving zombies with a yen for dog stew.

“Could you go see what’s got him in such an uproar?” Sierra asked as she measured the grounds into the filter. “I’m afraid one day he’s going to corner a snake or a coyote back there. He doesn’t seem to realize when he’s outmatched.”

“But I certainly do,” Jaye said, stopping with her hand on the doorknob. “Exactly how many snakes and coyotes have visited since you moved in here?”

“None, or at least none that Frosty or I have seen. If you’re worried, turn on the outside lights. There’s also a flashlight in the pantry.”

Flashlight in hand, Jaye switched on the lights and headed out the back door. The elderly woman who’d lived there for three decades before Sierra had let the property return to its natural state of high desert scrub. When Sierra had still been riding her home-buying high, she’d talked at length about whipping the land into shape, buying some ornamental plants and maybe even seeding for grass. But getting her bakery up and running while she was teaching herself the art of baking had barely left her with time to breathe.

Since the backyard wasn’t large, it was immediately obvious that Frosty had to be somewhere else. His barking had taken on a hysterical, high-pitched quality. Jaye tried calling his name, but when he didn’t appear she followed his barking around to the left. Whoever had installed the outdoor lighting had clearly not anticipated a need for it on the side of the house, so she had to rely completely on the old flashlight’s narrow amber beam. She found Frosty frozen in place in the darkness, still issuing the doggie equivalent of a call to arms. Jaye couldn’t see any reason for his distress until she used the flashlight to follow his line of sight. She gave a startled yelp of surprise when the beam revealed what appeared to be a woman sprawled facedown on the ground a good twelve feet away.

It took Jaye only a moment to throttle down from her initial shock and shift gears into action. She moved forward cautiously, half expecting the woman to jump up and apologize for stopping there to take a nap. But the woman didn’t move. Frosty’s barking had ebbed to a breathless chuffing now that he’d done his job and summoned the troops, but he kept his distance, clearly not interested in accompanying Jaye on a closer inspection.

When Jaye was at the woman’s side, she ran the beam of light down the length of her body and noticed that her limbs were splayed at odd angles like a rag doll flung aside by a child who’d moved on to other toys. She considered the possible reasons why a person might be lying there. There weren’t many. Either the woman was a victim of foul play or she’d been felled by a stroke, a heart attack, or some other fatal condition. Or maybe she wasn’t dead at all. Fighting a sudden case of squeamishness, Jaye managed to hunker down and check for a pulse in her neck. It was only then, with the flashlight so close to the woman’s head, that she realized her dark hair was thoroughly matted with blood.

Sharon Pape is the author of the Portrait of a Crime Mysteries and the Crystal Shop Mysteries. She lives on Long Island with her family.