Writ on Water (17 page)

Chloe's answer was indistinct, but Rory saw her wave.

He backtracked quickly to tomb forty-six where he had seen the cat. Roger was still there and still
pawing at the tomb door. Rory plucked a besotted Roger from the mausoleum's step and added him to the accumulation of bags slung over his chest and shoulders. The ungrateful cat complained bitterly about being taken away from the stone house.

“What? Did you hear something in there? A nice big cockroach? Well, it's your imagination. All the cockroaches in there are dead. You will simply have to make do with kibble for today. Or maybe Oleander has saved you some fish.”

Roger glared at him and wrinkled his nose. He sneezed delicately.

“Mmmmrrreeeooowww.”

“Yeah, I know I smell bad. Chloe didn't like it either. Just be glad that the vet gives you those drops every month or you'd have to use something like this too.”

The cat grumbled once, but settled down.

“Uh-oh.” Rory held up a flat hand. Droplets covered it immediately. He hurried toward the gate.

Roger's renewed complaints about the falling water were more emphatic and involved a bit of claw.

“You can hide in my shirt if you can stand the smell,” Rory offered the moaning cat, while struggling to secure the gate's lock.

“Let me do that.” A pair of feminine hands took the key from him and turned it in the lock until the tumbler clicked.

Surprised, Rory stepped back a pace.

“You didn't have to wait for us.”

“No problem. Digital Memories is a complete-service company.”

Rory studied Chloe's face as she pulled the vines back into place. It was studded with tiny silver drops and her shirt was very wet. The water-logged cotton was clinging like a second skin, showing the details of her undergarments. He was not surprised to learn that she favored plain cotton over lace.

“I didn't think we were paying you that much.”

“You aren't. But it's okay. The bags are waterproof and I don't melt,” she said cheerfully, returning the cemetery key to him. She rubbed her hand against her damp shorts, leaving a tiny brown smear. “You know, it's inconvenient having it rain like this, but it's broken the heat, and it'll wash the dust off the graves. I should be able to get some great shots when it stops.”

Rory stared at the smudge on her shorts. It appeared to be a lot like the ones on his handkerchief, except that the water had turned it red and made it look an awful lot like thinned blood instead of whisky-drenched dirt.

He looked down at the patch of darker earth that had been abandoned by the ants. The water was leaching the blemish away, but the twelve-inch oblong was still visible as a reddish stain.

He hadn't noticed any cuts on MacGregor's hands or arms while putting him to bed, but he decided that he would give his dad a look-over when they got back to the house. The old man
would kick up a fuss, but it had been years since his last tetanus shot. If he had so much as a scratch on him, the doctor was coming straight out to give him an injection.

In any event, it was time they talked about his midnight outing. Rory wanted to know just what MacGregor had been doing and what he had seen while wandering about last night. He hoped that his father hadn't been spying on him again. His constant checking up was annoying. Rory knew how to handle their business, and his private life was
private
.

“Come on,” Rory said. “I owe you a meal and a brandy.”

“Thanks.” Chloe smiled easily. “I could use both. It's actually a little bit chilly.”

Rory glanced once at her sopping shirt, but wisely made no comment. They were finally getting along, and he didn't want to upset the new harmony with the woman who could prove a valuable ally. And perhaps something more.

There are four kinds of homicide; felonious,
excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.
—Ambrose Bierce

The wild threnody of the storm continued through the night and into the next morning. Chloe knew that she wouldn't get any work done that day, but nevertheless rose dutifully to make first breakfast, since with Claude gone there wasn't likely to be a second sitting.

She found MacGregor and Rory already seated at the table. MacGregor wasn't eating, preferring to inhale the steam rising from his coffee and perhaps divine meaning in the fragrant clouds that floated there. The news from the spirit world that morning couldn't have been good; he looked far too grim and weary.

Chloe glanced at Rory's dark face and then checked the chandelier above the table. The overhead lights were on, but the atmosphere in the parlor was so thick with gloom that she felt she
was personally wading through the sticky black morass of MacGregor's lingering hangover.

Rory managed a preoccupied smile and word of greeting as she headed for the sideboard, but MacGregor, chin on chest, never broke his rapt communion with his pained, inner self. Apparently, he really did have the mother of all hangovers since he was still suffering thirty-six hours after the offense. Chloe made an effort to walk softly and not rattle the dishes.

“Are you going into work today?” she asked Rory, more to make conversation than out of any real curiosity. She kept her voice soft and low.

“I'll have to,” Rory said unhappily. “We had a break-in.”

“Last night?” She turned and stared. The previous night fell into that category of not being “
a fit night out for man nor beast
.” It didn't seem a likely time for a burglary at the back end of nowhere.

“Or perhaps the night before.” Rory shrugged. “It was in the outbuilding where we keep the mossed pots. Everything is on timers. No one has been out there since the day you visited.”

“Is it very bad?” she asked sympathetically. For Rory, having his business robbed would be as bad—and maybe worse—than having his home invaded.

“There was apparently a bit of vandalism. I'll know more when I've been in.” Rory looked at his father. His expression was strange and she couldn't guess at its meaning.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry.” Even as Chloe sympathized with the news, half of her brain was on MacGregor. No wonder Rory was staring. MacGregor didn't react at all to the revelation that someone had invaded Patrick property. Perhaps he was already aware of it and had ranted himself out, but such calm acceptance coming so quickly was out of character. It would have been more normal for him to be blustering and waving a shotgun, demanding that the sheriff make an immediate arrest.

“But it was only pots that were damaged?” Chloe asked carefully, wondering if Rory was holding back worse details so as to not upset his father. She took a muffin and returned to the table. Her own appetite wasn't at its best that morning. Storms often left her feeling stupid and sluggish, and today she was feeling especially mollusk-brained and unable to read the underlying emotional currents that eddied about the table. Maybe the ozone in the air was jamming her brain waves.

“Just pots,” he said reassuringly, but his eyes again flicked over his father's slumped form. “It was probably some kids messing around. I'd have let it go, but the sheriff's already been called out and is taking all the employees' fingerprints. A little later, he'll come by here and—”

“I don't want that busybody here,” MacGregor said, rousing himself from his stupor. He raised his head to glare at them with sunset-colored eyes. Chloe was shocked at how haggard he looked. The sybaritic, bluff MacGregor had aged a
decade overnight and looked on the verge of the coronary Rory had been worrying about.

“But he must take your and Chloe's prints so that he can eliminate—”

“Fine. But we'll go to the gardens with you. I don't want strangers on the property right now.”

“As you like,” Rory said quickly, also noticing his father's drawn appearance. “But we'll need to go soon, or Bell will come calling.”

“I'll set the dogs on him,” MacGregor snarled, showing more of his usual spirit.

“We don't have any dogs,” Rory said witheringly, also reverting to form. Chloe found the bickering a change for the better, but still didn't enjoy it.

“Why the hell not?” MacGregor demanded. “We used to have dogs!”

Chloe sighed softly and pushed away her barely touched muffin.
Patricks!
They made everything so hard! She couldn't fathom why she liked them.

“Let's get this over with,” she said, rising. Knowing that she risked being rebuffed, she still went over to MacGregor's chair and offered him a companionable hand.

He stared blankly for a moment and then took her outstretched palm. He squeezed the fingers lightly and then let go. She could feel Rory's eyes on them.

“Don't worry, girl. I'm fine. No need for fussin'.” MacGregor shoved back his chair and rose with something like his normal vigor. He
marched for the door. “Just couldn't sleep last night with all that damned thunderin'. And when I did sleep I had bad dreams.”

“
I could be bounded in a nutshell and still count myself the king of infinite space, were it not for the fact that I dream
.” Wasn't that what Shakespeare had said? Chloe couldn't stop a small shiver from coursing down her body.

“It was a real loud storm,” she agreed tactfully to MacGregor's back. “You don't usually get them this early in the season, do you?”

“Not often.” MacGregor clomped toward the hall. “Made Roger nervous too. The bloody fool howled his head off all night long. I finally had to shut him up in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“Claude's room?” Rory asked, opening the front door, and a wave of damp air rolled in. The rain fell steadily, but already the temperature was beginning to climb.

“Yes.” MacGregor paused to look at his son. “I believe it was.”

Chloe had the impression that Rory intended to say something else about either the cat or Claude, but changed his mind at the last moment.

“Wait on the porch and I'll fetch the van,” he told them. “No point in you two getting wet.”

Rory sprinted off into the rain before they could answer.

It took Rory a moment to pull the van around to the portico, and it gave him time to think. He'd
been in a sort of shock since Dave had called and told him about discovering the break-in. Often an entire week would pass without anyone going into those outbuildings. It was simply bad luck that one of Rory's newest employees had discovered the break-in before he did and had called the sheriff.

Suspecting what he did about the identity of the clumsy culprit, he wasn't thrilled that nosy Sheriff Bell had been called out to investigate. It was unlikely that the incompetent lawman would discover anything about the break-in, but one never knew when he might actually stumble onto some uncomfortable fact or another. And anytime Claude was in the area, the possibility of there being some uncomfortable facts to discover grew immensely.

There hadn't been any mention of blood at the scene, but it wouldn't be surprising if there were. It would have been a logical place for MacGregor to cut himself—if he was in fact the one who had broken in. There were other likely parties with as good a motive. Claude might be stupid enough to look for cash out at the greenhouses. Hell, Claude would do it out of sheer meanness.

But Claude was gone. It couldn't have been him. Not if the break-in happened last night.

“Damn.” Rory didn't know what to think. MacGregor had flatly refused to let himself be examined for wounds, saying he was unhurt. He claimed that he had drawn a complete blank
about the night of his bender—which was possible, of course, but Rory didn't believe him. MacGregor had drunk himself blind on several occasions since his wife's death and had always been able to cheerfully recall every drunken peccadillo. It was more likely that MacGregor had seen or heard or done something upsetting and used whisky as a palliative after the fact.

The burning question, of course, was just what his father had witnessed that so upset him. Rory could think of one thing, and he prayed it wasn't what MacGregor was drinking over.

On the other hand, this vandalism wasn't MacGregor's usual style. He had never attacked the nursery. Truly, Rory had thought that MacGregor was actually proud of what his son had built. Proud that his son wasn't some dilettante leech living off the family money.

But, of course, this only led straight back to the subject of leeches. . . .

If Claude hadn't gone from the scene on Monday morning, Rory would have suspected him of being the perpetrator of this midnight high jinx. It was definitely Claude's style: petty and stupid. But if Claude and Isaac had been up half the night raising hell at the local tavern, they would never have been able to pull themselves out of bed at dawn and head out to perpetrate more mischief.

And, of course, they couldn't have done anything later, not after they were gone. And they
were gone. As MacGregor had pointed out, the sheriff would have heard if Claude were still in the area. He wasn't popular in town.

No, it seemed most likely that MacGregor had had a blow-up with Claude and made it plain that he wasn't giving him any money—at least not twenty thousand dollars. Nothing was missing from the checking account and MacGregor didn't keep that much cash at the house. And then, feeling mean and angry that his son hadn't been there to deal with Claude after he had promised to be home for dinner, MacGregor had tied one on and gone up to the nursery to smash some things. That's where he'd cut his arm, or maybe his leg, and bled on the cemetery key he always kept in his pocket. Then on the way back home, he had gotten to feeling guilty about what he'd done and had gone into the graveyard to talk to Rory's mom and receive forgiveness, leaving some of his blood behind.

It was all very understandable, if you knew MacGregor. But there was no way on God's green earth that Rory was going to explain this possibility to that gossipmonger, Sheriff Acton Bell. The only thing to do was to get rid of him as immediately as possible before he came around making more trouble at Riverview and accidentally found something. More than ever, he didn't want Bell near the cemetery. There was too much uncovered at present to allow anyone in. And Bell would make trouble for them out of sheer, jealous spite:
The envious boy who had gone to school with Rory hadn't outgrown his hatred of the gentry.