Sketch a Falling Star (16 page)

“He was able to make out enough of what was there to be 95 percent certain about his accuracy,” BB said, pumping up the volume of his voice too. But as the sentence left his mouth the wind fell silent, and he found himself shouting as if he were trying to reach the upper decks of a football stadium without benefit of a microphone. He glanced around, clearly relieved to see there was no one else in the area.

“That’s great news,” Rory said, forgetting about the goose bumps that were marching up and down her arms. “It was such a mess that I didn’t know if he’d be able to figure it out at all.”

“The man never fails to amaze. Not only does he have an amazing mind, but he also has an innate ability to see things that others of equal experience and training discount or miss entirely.”

“So did he tell you what was written on the tag?” she pressed him, unable to restrain herself for another moment.

“
Mais oui, por cierto
, yes, of course. You must be dying to know and here I am just rattling on. He actually gave me a note spelling it out.” BB came to an abrupt stop while he checked the pockets of his pants. He came up with an old, scuffed wallet, a handful of coins and a crumpled tissue with a questionable past. “I know I had it here somewhere.”

Rory had a mental image of herself grabbing and shaking him until he produced the information without further delay.

“Ah, here it is,” he declared triumphantly, withdrawing a single, folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handing it to her. “It appears that whoever tampered with your frog has literary leanings.”

“Literary?” she said, thoroughly bewildered. “You mean it wasn’t a threat?”

“Not unless playwrights scare you.”

“‘
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Zeke asked, frowning at Reggie’s note as if he could coerce it into disclosing more by the sheer force of his will.

“It’s a paraphrase of a famous quote,” Rory said. “It means you’d better watch your back if you do your woman wrong.”

“Thanks, professor,” Zeke said dryly, “but I want to know what it means turnin’ up on the mutt’s gift frog.”

“BB doesn’t think it’s a real threat,” she replied between sips of coffee that were helping to thaw her out. They were upstairs in the study, she behind the desk and the marshal in the old armchair where she used to sit and read while her uncle Mac worked. Hobo, who’d followed them upstairs, was lying on the area rug using his teeth to comb out a mat of fur on his left haunch.

“BB doesn’t, huh? When was the last time this fella found himself lookin’ down the business end of a.45?”

“I don’t see why that matters,” Rory said, rushing to the medical examiner’s defense.

“It matters because BB ain’t the one at risk here; you are. Everythin’ about the break-in was top-notch professional. And no one with that level of trainin’ breaks into a house without havin’ a damn good reason for doin’ it.”

“Then why use such a vague threat? If what you’re saying is true, why be so timid with the note?”

Zeke ran his fingers through his hair as he wrestled with her question. “Because it’s more than a threat,” he said finally. “I think it’s also meant as a clue.”

“Someone broke in here to leave me a clue? They could have sent me a letter or given me a call.” As theories went, this one had holes big enough to drive a double-decker bus through without nicking the paint job.

“Like I said before, the breakin’ in was to show you how vulnerable you are. The note’s to point you in a specific direction. For some reason, the intruder doesn’t want to threaten you outright, but he’s lookin’ to get the most bang for his buck.”

Rory clamped her lips shut to hold back a grin. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to hearing modern expressions roll off the marshal’s tongue. But this wasn’t the time to indulge her amusement. He’d be doubly annoyed that she was taking her safety so lightly. So she ironed the would-be smile into a suitably sober expression before speaking.

“Okay, let’s say you’re right. How do we know if the note is a clue or misdirection? Is it pointing to the killer or protecting the killer by trying to frame someone else?”

“There’s no tellin’ yet.”

She sighed. “What if you’re wrong about this intruder? Maybe he’s eccentric. Maybe he’s trying to help us in his own crazy way.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Zeke shot back, “anyone who tampers with your alarm system and just sashays on in here is already a dangerous criminal.”

Although Rory didn’t like what he was saying, she knew he was right. She could change the alarm code and the locks on the doors, but she suspected that wouldn’t even slow down an intruder as sophisticated as this one seemed to be. She picked up the coffee, which had cooled to room temperature, and swallowed it down in a few frustrated gulps.

W
hen the doorbell rang an hour later, Rory was alone in the study writing progress reports on two of her more mundane cases. Zeke had retired to his niche between worlds, and Hobo was enjoying the comforts of the living room couch. By the time Rory came down the stairs, the dog was stationed at the front door barking his displeasure. Although he’d never met a person he didn’t like, with the understandable exception of the man who’d killed his first owner, his bark was sincere and ferocious enough to make strangers reevaluate their need to be there. On more than one occasion Rory had opened the door to find salespeople or poll takers scuttling off to the next house without looking back. She just wished she could teach Hobo to cut the Girl Scouts some slack. She really loved their Samoas.

“Good boy,” she whispered to the dog as she put her eye to the peephole. She drew back with a puzzled frown. What was Stuart Dobson doing there?

She opened the door just as the director was about to press the bell again.

“Hey,” he said. “There you are. I didn’t know if you’d be home.”

“Here I am,” she said pleasantly, wondering why he hadn’t tried calling first. “What can I do for you?”

“I was in the area so I thought I’d drop by. Do you have time for a quick chat?”

She’d used that same ploy herself enough times to be wary of the reason behind it. “I do have a few minutes before my next client,” she said. There wasn’t actually a next client that day, but she wanted an excuse to keep their impromptu meeting from dragging on for too long.

She stepped aside to let Stuart enter. Hobo was wagging and doing his happy little tap dance now that Stuart had apparently passed muster. The director ignored the dog, even though it would have required the bare minimum of effort to provide a scratch or two as a gesture of goodwill.

The entry area was small, certainly not the most comfortable place to hold a discussion. But Rory had no intentions of moving the meeting farther into the house or outside to her office. Whatever Stuart wanted to discuss, they could discuss right there. She knew she was being less than hospitable, but there was something about Stuart that irritated her even though she’d never spent more than a couple of minutes in his company at any one time. The fact that he’d snubbed Hobo wasn’t going to win him any points from her either.

“I understand Clarissa Carpenter hired you to look into her son’s death,” Stuart began once he realized he wasn’t going to be invited inside to sit down.

“That’s right,” she said.

“Well, the investigation seems to be having a deleterious effect on my troupe.”

“Really?” Rory was immediately more interested. “In what respect?”

“They’re moody, on edge, snapping at each other, even arguing with me.” He said the last with haughty indignation.

“That’s just awful,” she commiserated without much sincerity. “But I don’t know what I can do about it.” She’d only interviewed three of the players, not counting Helene, and tensions were already on the rise? Finger-pointing and fear of being falsely accused were no doubt promoting the general malaise. With any luck, that kind of behavior might even prove helpful in ferreting out the killer.

“I was under the impression that the medical examiner labeled Brian’s death accidental,” Stuart said.

“He did, but Clarissa doesn’t agree with him. I’m pretty sure she has the right to her own opinion under the law,” Rory added sweetly. She could tell by the way Stuart’s eyes narrowed that he’d caught the sarcasm beneath the candy coating. “And as long as she’s willing to pay for my services, I intend to help her find whatever closure she needs.”

Stuart opened his mouth then closed it again without uttering a sound, obviously at a loss for words. “I get it,” he said finally. “She has the right to hire you, and you have the right to investigate for her. But I also have some rights here. Like the right to protect my interests. Our little theater doesn’t exactly come rent free. And I can’t be expected to mount a quality production with a bunch of surly actors who can’t remember their lines.”

“Then it’s in everyone’s best interests for me to proceed at full steam and finish up the investigation as quickly as possible,” Rory said brightly.

Stuart wasn’t doing any cartwheels over her solution. Had he actually expected her to be so abashed by his plight that she would close the case, return Clarissa’s money and never darken the theater’s doorstep again?

“At the very least,” he said, glaring at her, “I expect you to stick to the facts that are germane to the case and avoid pitting the actors against one another unnecessarily.”

“Do I hear an ‘or else’ in there?” Although she knew it wouldn’t serve anyone’s purposes to ratchet up the animosity between them, the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“Of course not. I would never stoop to threats.” The director’s lips almost slipped into a smile before he shut them down.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Rory said, “because I don’t respond well to threats. Probably left over from my days as a detective.” She could tell from Stuart’s face that he’d received her message loud and clear. “And I’ll do my best to keep your guidelines in mind,” she added. She would have preferred to tell him where he could stuff them, but it wasn’t lost on her that he could easily retaliate against her via her aunt. Helene would be devastated if she were relegated to minor roles or sidelined completely.

Since Stuart seemed to have run out of momentum, Rory took the opportunity to wrap up the meeting. She said she was glad they’d had a chance to discuss their positions, and the director mumbled a few words that sounded roughly like ‘Thanks for nothing.’ ”

He’d turned and was starting toward the door when he suddenly stumbled. Flapping his long arms in a desperate effort to stay on his feet, he looked like a gooney bird on takeoff. After several, comical seconds, gravity won out, and he slammed onto the hardwood floor, his knees and hands taking the brunt of the impact. His head missed the door frame by inches. Rory and Hobo had jumped back before he could take them down with him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling down at his side.

Stuart gathered his gangly legs into a sitting position with a grunt. “What the hell did I fall over?” he asked, looking at the floor around him. Rory saw Hobo’s tennis ball at the same moment the director did. It was lying against the nearby wall where it had come to rest after he’d tripped on it.

“Where’d the damn ball come from?” he demanded. “It wasn’t there when I came in or I would have seen it.”

“I have no idea,” Rory said, trying to look as perplexed as he did. “But it couldn’t have just appeared out of thin air.” Of course, it might have been transported there by rather unconventional means, but she had no intentions of sharing that bit of information. She extended her hand to help him up, but he ignored the offer and dragged himself to his feet on his own.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, nothing,” he grumbled. “I’d just like to get out of here in one piece.” Keeping his eyes on the floor in case any other objects decided to make their debut, he limped out of the house without another word. Rory was about to close the door behind him when she noticed a police cruiser driving slowly past her house. She watched it continue down the street until it disappeared from sight beyond the curve. The police were not a common sight in this neighborhood. A security alarm or a resident must have alerted them to a potential problem. Rory wasn’t sure whether it was instinct or simple curiosity that caused her to remain at the door, but less than a minute later, she saw the cruiser come down the block again. This time it pulled to the curb directly across the street from her house and parked.

Chapter 17

A
s Rory approached the police car, the patrolman opened his window. He was young, around her age, thirty tops, with blond hair that made him look like a California surfer with a bad sense of direction. She’d never seen him before, but that didn’t surprise her. When she’d worked for the department, she’d been assigned to headquarters out east in Yaphank. This guy was from the local precinct and junior enough to pull protective surveillance.

“Ms. McCain,” he said smiling and clearly giving her the once-over.

“Officer…?” Because of her angle, she couldn’t make out the name on his steel ID tag.

“Cooper, Todd Cooper. Pleased to meet you.” He reached awkwardly across his chest to offer her his right hand. “I hear you were a detective before going the PI route.”

Rory gave his hand a quick shake. “Yes, a sketch artist.”

“Ah, an artist, huh?”

She could tell from his tone that she’d dropped several notches in his esteem with that admission. She tightened the lid on her already parboiled anger. Todd might be deficient in the social graces, but he wasn’t the source of her irritation.

“Who assigned you to watch over me?” she asked, doing her best to remain cordial.

He shrugged. “Some detective at headquarters.”

“Does the name Russell ring a bell?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, Russell sounds right. Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m here to keep you safe.”

“How nice,” she said. “I’ll finally be able to sleep tonight.”

If Officer Todd heard the sarcasm in her tone, he chose not to respond to it.