To Sketch a Thief (6 page)

Rory thanked her and promised to be in touch as soon as she had something to report. Then she sat down at her desk to create a new computer file for Tina’s case and to input her preliminary notes. To quote her former colleagues in the police department, Marti Sugarman had just become a “person of interest.”

Chapter 7

“I
didn’t know much about the spike in missing dogs either,” Leah said to Rory as they drove the two blocks from the cleaner’s to the supermarket. It was Leah’s usual lunch hour: short on lunch, long on errands. They’d each downed a slice of pizza in under three minutes. Rory could still feel a lump of the cheese clinging to her throat. That was the price you paid if you wanted to “do lunch” with Leah on a workday.

“It’s awfully hard to be sure a dog’s been stolen unless there’s an eyewitness,” Leah went on. “Dogs have been escaping from fenced-in yards for as long as people have been fencing them in. If they don’t jump over them or dig under them, then the gardeners or the pool boys or the oil delivery guys forget to close the gate when they leave.”

“That was my thought initially,” Rory said, wishing she hadn’t tossed her bottle of Coke before getting back in the car. “But more than thirty purebloods in the county over a few months does sound excessive.”

Leah turned into the supermarket parking lot. “I know, but as far as Tootsie’s concerned, we’re working under the assumption that her disappearance is unrelated to Brenda’s murder.”

“Which means that Crime Scene didn’t find any evidence to challenge that assumption,” Rory said, thinking aloud.

“I shouldn’t actually be talking to you about any of this.” Leah whipped into a spot and shut off the engine in one well-practiced motion. “But here I go anyway. The only blood found in the house belonged to Brenda. I made sure they tested for canine blood just to cover all bases.” She grabbed her handbag and jumped out of the car.

Rory trotted around from her side and they double-timed it into the store. “Any luck with fingerprints?”

“There was only one set on the knife and they weren’t Brenda’s. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a match for them in the system either. Nothing else in the house seemed to have been disturbed. Oh—and Marti Sugarman was telling the truth about getting a call from Brenda that morning.”

“Thanks. Of course it goes without saying that whatever you tell me I take to the grave,” Rory said, her stomach getting cranky about digesting and running at the same time.

“If it goes without saying, then why are you saying it?” Leah laughed. “I’ve never understood that expression.”

Rory helped her pick out some pears and a cantaloupe that might ripen before the end of the month and they were off to the deli counter for turkey and Swiss cheese.

“I wish I could help you out with names and numbers on those stolen dog reports,” Leah said, shaking her head, “but it’s not my bailiwick and there’d be too many raised eyebrows about my sudden interest, especially once it gets around that you’re investigating one of the cases.”

“That’s why I didn’t ask,” Rory said. “The breeder gave me the names of the people she knows personally who believe their dogs have been stolen. It’s enough for a start.”

“There is one thing I can do to help narrow the field. I’ll take a quick look through the reports and let you know if I find any common threads.” They’d reached the checkout line. “Just remember, McCain,” Leah said, lowering her voice, “you’re looking for a dog thief, not Brenda’s killer. If those two paths wind up intersecting along the way, you call me pronto.”

W
hen Rory arrived home she received a jubilant greeting from Hobo, who appeared to have weathered his first hour and a half without her unscathed. As she was letting him out back to tend to doggie business, the front doorbell rang.

She went to answer it, wondering who would come by in the middle of a workday. As she passed through the dining room, the silver and glass chandelier over the table flashed on, then off, and a second later the marshal fell into step beside her. Rory didn’t even flinch. She supposed it bode well for the future of the species that
Homo sapiens
could adapt to pretty much anything.

“I’ll bet that’s your aunt Helene again,” Zeke said. Since he never bothered with “hello,” Rory always felt as if she’d walked in on the middle of a conversation that he’d started without her.

“What do you mean ‘again’?” she asked, as they reached the entry.

“She came by while you were out and when you didn’t answer the door after she’d rung the bell three times, she yelled, ‘I’ll be back in a little bit, Rory,’ as if you were here and just didn’t want to let her in. She’s a mite on the strange side, ain’t she?”

Rory didn’t respond. Something he’d said was troubling her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The bell rang again, causing her to tuck the question away for the moment. She peered through the peephole she’d recently had installed. Sure enough, there was Helene standing on the porch, smiling expectantly and wearing a low-cut sundress over a tank top, the tank being a concession to her version of propriety now that she was fifty.

As Rory unlocked the door she turned to Zeke, her eyebrows raised. “So, how do you prefer to be introduced? Ezekiel Drummond or Marshal Drummond?”

He vanished without a sound.

“Aunt Helene,” Rory said, opening the door, “what a great surprise. Come on in.”

Helene stepped inside and engulfed her in an enthusiastic hug. Although she was as petite as her niece, her effusive personality made her seem twice the size.

“I actually came by before, but you weren’t home,” Helene said, one arm still encircling Rory’s waist as if to prevent her from getting away this time.

“I had no idea you were coming.”

“Of course you didn’t; you’re not a mind reader. I was in the neighborhood, so I just stopped by to say hello. We don’t get to see you very much anymore.” By “we,” Rory knew she meant her parents, the other two members of what her dad referred to as the geriatric musketeers. To Rory they were somewhere between the musketeers and the three stooges, but she kept that thought to herself.

“If you’d called me on my cell, I could have told you when I’d be home and you wouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“I didn’t waste anything, my dear. I like it better when my day’s not completely planned out. It was more fun not knowing if I’d find you home. Like being on a treasure hunt. And when you weren’t here, I consoled myself with one of those sinful iced coffee drinks with chocolate syrup and lots of whipped cream.” She sighed happily, savoring the treat all over again in her mind. “I’m sure it had tons of fat and calories, but I said to myself, ‘Helene, what’s the point of living if you don’t indulge from time to time?’ Then I swung by again to see if you were home yet. So here I am, here you are and it’s been a perfectly lovely day.”

“Well, I’m glad you found me,” Rory said, “I’ve missed you too.” It wasn’t any secret in the family that Helene was a bit eccentric, a polar opposite to Rory’s mother, who was so rooted in reality that Helene often called her a “lovable old stick-in-the-mud.” From the time she was little, Rory had found that being within her aunt’s sphere of influence always made her feel delightfully off center herself.

“By the way,” Helene said, “there was a dog just barking his fool head off when I rang the bell before. Is there a new addition to the family I haven’t been told about?”

“That’s Hobo. His owner died suddenly, so I’m giving him a trial run. He’s out back if you want to meet him.”

“Another time, dear, I have to run.” She withdrew her arm. “We start rehearsing
Oklahoma
tonight.” Her eyes were sparkling like the eyes of a kid about to dig into a hot fudge sundae with extra whipped cream and two cherries on top.

So that was it. Rory was surprised she hadn’t picked up on it sooner. Helene had joined the Way Off Broadway Players only a few months earlier and had been dizzy with excitement over her role in the new production. Having inherited a windfall when an old and apparently nostalgic boyfriend passed away, she’d been able to retire from her thirty-year teaching career to pursue her lifelong interest in acting. It proved to be a match made in drama queen heaven. The troupe was strictly nonequity. They performed in a converted storefront in Bay Shore, half an hour south of Huntington. Over the years they’d developed a loyal following that could be counted upon to fill their fifty-seat theater on weekends.

“I’m Aunt Eller,” Helene said proudly. “It’s not a big part, but one I’ve spent years researching,” she added with a wink. She kissed Rory’s cheek. “Now remember, if you need help with any of your investigations, I’m just a phone call away. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed running interference for you the last time. I rather think I was born for espionage—it’s not unlike the stage, you know.”

Rory promised to keep her on speed dial. Helene and her parents had in fact made it possible for her to gather evidence that eventually led to the arrest of Vincent Conti. As Rory closed the door behind her aunt, she was thinking that she really owed her family an invitation to dinner, or at least a Sunday brunch. She hadn’t invited them over since it had become hers. The Zeke factor had a lot to do with that lapse. While he insisted that he didn’t want to meet her folks, there was always the chance he might decide to amuse himself by turning lights on and off, causing objects to move around the room or any number of other little tricks he had in his ghostly arsenal. She was pretty sure he’d enjoy making her squirm. And what about Hobo? Wouldn’t her parents wonder why he was so skittish, jumping with fright for no apparent reason or hiding like an ostrich with his head buried under her legs? She’d have to come up with some plausible explanations for the inexplicable.

As if he knew she was thinking of him, Hobo let out a plaintive bark at the back door, a bark that clearly meant “let me in, let me in.” She went to the kitchen and held the door open for him. He stepped inside, then immediately bolted past her with a yelp. When Rory turned around, she wasn’t at all surprised to find Zeke seated at the table. To give him the benefit of the doubt, she’d assume he’d blinked the lights when she was facing the door. On such a sunny day it was entirely possible that she hadn’t noticed the additional light.

“This is goin’ to be one helluva long month,” he said dryly.

“How did he act while I was out?” Rory asked, trying not to think about what on earth she was going to do if Hobo didn’t acclimate to living with the marshal. With each passing hour, she was growing more hopelessly attached to the dog.

“Well, I did my best to stay out of his way and for the most part he stayed out of mine. He seems partial to hidin’ under things, the table here, the desk upstairs. He even tried to squeeze under your bed, which didn’t go too well given his size and all.”

Rory shook her head and sank onto the chair beside Zeke, wondering if they made tranquilizers for dogs. Or ghosts for that matter. Hobo poked his snout around the corner from the dining room. He took one tentative step in, then quickly shuffled two steps back, dancing the approach avoidance two-step. He wanted desperately to be near her and just as desperately to stay away from whatever was sitting beside her.

Rory read the look in his eyes and relocated to the chair across from the marshal. Hobo dipped into his reserve of courage and made a beeline for her legs, nearly upending her and her chair in the process, all of which Zeke seemed to enjoy far too much. It was all so comical that Rory couldn’t help laughing along with him. But as the laughter subsided, the conversation they’d had earlier popped into her mind and demanded her full attention. What about it was bothering her? As far as she could recall, it had been brief and ordinary. He hadn’t said anything news shattering, yet all sorts of worrisome alarms had started going off in her head, as if she were bearing down on a
Titanic
-sized iceberg.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?” Zeke asked, still grinning.

And then she realized what it was. “How did you know it was Helene at the door?”

Zeke’s smile faded and he looked at her oddly. “Have you plumb forgotten how many times you and your family visited Mac in this house, darlin’?”

Rory hadn’t forgotten. She’d just failed to connect the dots. Of course Zeke knew what they all looked like, as well as how they sounded, and probably a hundred other things. Including things she might not have wanted him to know. It was entirely too creepy to dwell on, which was why, from the moment she’d met Zeke, she’d pushed the thought to the back of her mind and buried it under bushels of information she never intended to use again, like geometric formulas and the battles of the French and Indian War. Now that he’d forced her to drag that knowledge out into the light of day, she was having trouble accepting that Mac had been so cavalier about the family’s privacy.

“Mac didn’t mind you hanging around while we were here?” she asked. “He never set up any rules or anything?”

“Now, don’t you go thinkin’ that Mac sold you out,” Zeke said, as if he was able to read her thoughts from the set of her face. “Mac and I had us a very different relationship than you and I have. We were both men, lawmen, and we respected each other’s integrity. He took it on faith that I wouldn’t go crossin’ any boundaries of decency. When someone trusts you like that, you want to prove their trust is well placed.” Zeke’s face relaxed into a smile again. “Besides, it never bothered him if I floated an object now and then or provided the occasional strange noise. For my part, I generally abstained from that sort of thing around his family. But his friends were fair game, especially if they’d been drinkin’. Truth be told, he and I had us some good laughs over the reactions of some of them. And he usually managed to convince them it was all the alcohol.”

In spite of Zeke’s explanation, Rory felt like the unwitting star of some bizarre reality show. It bothered her to know that Mac had allowed it to continue and, by his silence, condoned it. Yet in all fairness, she had to admit that it was very Mac-like not to take such things too seriously.

“I have a question for you,” Zeke said, interrupting her thoughts. “Are you fixin’ to tell everyone who comes into this house about me?”

Rory found herself momentarily speechless. “Well, I . . . I guess I would, if you’d be willing to show yourself so that they don’t bundle me off to the nearest asylum.”