To Sketch a Thief

by Sharon Pape

  Rory thanked her and left the office feeling a bit sorry for the additional scrutiny she’d unleashed on Deirdre’s unsuspecting staff.

  On her way to town hall, Rory had driven past the old Burying Ground, as she had countless times before. When she was in elementary school her third grade class had even made a trip there as part of a history lesson, since the cemetery dated from 1670 and contained the graves of more than forty soldiers of the Revolutionary War. These were the only facts lodged permanently in her head from that excursion, which was hardly surprising. Old tombstones have a limited appeal for the young. However, on this day as she drove by she remembered the article she’d read about Zeke’s death and she was struck by the thought that this was where he’d been laid to rest so many years ago.

  When she left the meeting with Deirdre Lopez it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. She didn’t have to be home for the repairman for hours. There was plenty of time to stop and pay her respects to the marshal’s mortal remains. She parked in the lot adjacent to the cemetery and walked around to the small museum at the entrance gate, where she asked how she would go about finding a particular grave. The woman behind the desk explained that while there were records of where family plots were located there was no easy way to find a solitary grave. She was sorry she couldn’t be more helpful. Rory thanked her, determined to give it a try anyway.

  The cemetery sprawled across a hill that was just steep enough to make her immediately sorry that she wasn’t wearing sneakers. The leather soles of her loafers were slip-sliding on the grass and weeds as she made her way up the slope. She passed tombstones that were only inches tall, as if the earth had been slowly devouring them. Many others were clean slates, the etching on them obliterated by time and weather so that not even a single letter or number remained visible to the naked eye.

  After an hour and a half of searching, Rory was ready to give up. What had she really hoped to accomplish by seeing his grave anyway? When she’d embarked on her impromptu search she’d had no particular goal beyond just finding it. A few words set in stone by people who hadn’t even known the marshal would hardly be enlightening.

  She’d started to pick her way back down the hill, taking care not to trip over the smaller headstones, when her foot slid out from under her. Arms flailing, she struggled to regain her balance, fully aware that she looked like a circus clown performing on a tightrope. In spite of her efforts, gravity won and she tumbled forward, her shoulder slamming into one of the larger tombstones. She got to her feet quickly and glanced around her. Well, at least no one had been there to witness her fall. She brushed the worst of the dirt and grass off her pants and was rubbing her sore shoulder when she thought she saw the word “Marshal” on the stone marker beside her. She dropped to her knees in the long grass in front of it, the pain forgotten.

  The etching had grown shallow, the words fading like invisible ink from paper. But after studying it from several angles, Rory was certain that she’d found Zeke’s headstone. If she’d fallen a few feet to the right, she would literally have stumbled upon it. This was one of those moments that the faithful accepted with equanimity and gratitude, and that the questioners, among whom Rory generally counted herself, tried to explain away with logic. For the moment logic abandoned her.

  She rummaged through her pocketbook until she found a pen and an old grocery list she could write on and she jotted down the inscription.

  MARSHAL EZEKIEL DRUMMOND

  1840–1878

  DIED PROTECTING ONE OF OURS

  She sank back on her heels, surprised to find her vision blurred with tears. What was all this emotion about? It wasn’t as if she’d just learned of his death. And yet somehow it was. Up until now the Ezekiel Drummond she lived with had just been an enigmatic and often irascible presence. But this tablet of carved stone attested to the fact that he’d once been a flesh-and-blood man. A man who’d died at too young an age, trying to save the life of a girl he’d probably never met. He was buried here, thousands of miles from his home and the only life he’d known. Chances were no one had ever come to visit his grave before today. She should be working harder to solve the mystery of his death. She was really all he had.

  Rory scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and chastised herself. She could either sit there getting all maudlin over Zeke’s death, which was clearly pointless, or she could go home and actually spend some time with him. How many people ever had that option?

  Chapter 12

  When Rory turned onto her block she found a van with the Atlas Oil name and logo parked at the curb in front of her house. The serviceman was hours early. It was a good thing she’d come home when she did, or he might have gone on to the next customer and left her to shiver through another night without heat. At the very least, he should have called to find out if she’d be home. As soon as she pulled into the driveway the man emerged from his van and picked up a toolbox and bucket he’d left sitting outside the van’s door. He had on charcoal gray coveralls that were a good match for any soot, grease and oil he worked around. Clever of the company. That way their representatives always looked clean and presentable, even at the end of a long shift mucking around in peoples’ basements.

  Rory stepped out of her car as he was coming abreast of it. “Hi. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Is it Joe?” she asked, reading the name sown on his pocket.

  “Sure is,” he said. He glanced down at the equipment he was holding, as if trying to decide if he should put something down so that he could shake her hand. But the moment passed before he could make up his mind.

  “We must have gotten our signals crossed,” she said. “I was under the impression you’d be here at three.”

  “Yeah, some of the emergencies before you turned out to be simple fixes.”

  “You’re so early I could easily have missed you,” she said more pointedly as she led the way up to the front door.

  “I tried to reach you,” Joe said affably. “Left a message on your house phone, then on your cell.”

  Rory was about to tell him that wasn’t possible, since her cell phone hadn’t rung, when she realized that she’d changed it from ring to vibrate before her meeting with Deirdre Lopez and never switched it back. She shouldn’t have been so quick to indict him.

  “I guess it was a case of bad timing,” she said in a more cheerful, “these things happen” tone of voice. “I was in town hall on business and I had to turn the ringer off on my cell. I’m really grateful that you were kind enough to wait for me.”

  “Not a problem,” Joe assured her. “Gave me time to catch up on my paperwork.”

  Rory was glad he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, but before she could step inside, she was knocked off her feet by ninety pounds of fur and love barreling full tilt into her. Joe’s broad chest saved her from crashing to the porch floor. She fell backward against him, throwing him off balance in the process. Although he wasn’t prepared for the sudden onslaught, after a moment of teetering uncertainty, he managed to stay upright, saving them both from landing in a heap.

  Hobo was joyful and unrepentant, bouncing around them as if he had pogo sticks for legs, lapping at whatever parts of them he could reach. Between stern but ineffective commands to sit and stay, Rory apologized to Joe for the dog’s behavior. She explained that she’d recently rescued him, which was true as far as it went. She didn’t bother to add that the dog was having a hard time acclimating because of the ghost in her house. Even though the cold had probably kept Zeke from making an actual appearance while she was gone this time, Hobo seemed able to sense him in the ether. For Hobo, every time Rory returned home it was as if she were once again rescuing him.

  Joe was taking the dog’s assault in stride, laughing and giving him a good rubdown. “Hobo and I are old friends,” he said, shooing him back into the house.

  Rory followed them inside, completely baffled.

  “Soon as I saw the address and the name McCain on the work order I k
new it had to be you,” he said.

  That bit of information didn’t help Rory’s confusion any. “We’ve met?”

  “Not directly.” Joe grinned. “But I knew Mac. Your uncle, right?”

  “Yes, but I still . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried to put the pieces together. Even if she’d forgotten that she knew him, which wasn’t likely, it didn’t explain how he knew Hobo.

  “Okay.” He laughed. “I won’t keep you in the dark. We’ve never actually met, so your memory isn’t failing you. But Hobo and I have known each other ever since Brenda got him.”

  While that didn’t answer all of her questions, it definitely narrowed the field. Joe had known Brenda and Mac. That was fine as far as it went, but there was still some missing connection.

  “My last name’s Kovack.”

  It was Rory’s turn to laugh. She never would have figured him for Tina’s husband. Not that they were a particularly strange pairing. Joe was about Tina’s height, though she might have had an inch or two on him. He had dark blond hair, receding at the temples like the sea at low tide, and a face that was ordinary except for wide, blue-green eyes with thick lashes that had probably wowed all the girls back in high school.

  “I guess since Tina was so involved with dogs, I assumed that her husband worked in the family business too,” Rory explained, hoping that he wouldn’t take her laughter the wrong way.

  Luckily Joe didn’t seem to offend easily. “Hey”—he shrugged—“if we were together twenty-four/seven what would we talk about over dinner? Now, you oughta make yourself a cup of something hot, while I see about getting this place toasty warm for you.”

  Forty minutes later Joe came back up the stairs. “I’ve got her chugging along fine now,” he said, “just needed a good cleaning and a little sweet talk.” He gave her a good-natured wink that didn’t hold a hint of flirtation.

  Rory offered him coffee from the pot she’d brewed.

  “Smells great, but I gotta get a move on,” he said. “I’m real glad I got the chance to meet you, though. Tina’s been so down in the dumps since the dogs were stolen and now with Brenda being killed—well, I’ve never seen her like this in all the years I’ve known her. Anyhow I gotta tell you, from the moment you agreed to take the case, she’s been calmer. More like my old Tina girl, and you’ve got my thanks for that.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Rory assured him, thinking that she would have preferred not knowing that in addition to finding the dogs, she was also responsible for the state of Tina’s mental health. No pressure there.

  She walked outside with him to check the mailbox. Hobo waited anxiously behind the screen door. He’d already learned that when she left the main door open, she wasn’t actually leaving. Still he watched her like a hawk sizing up a rabbit, ready to complain if she dared to deviate from her routine.

  Rory waved good-bye to Joe, scooped the day’s mail out of the box and headed back inside. She was glancing through the envelopes on her way into the kitchen when the pendant lights over the table flickered and Zeke appeared. He was leaning against the counter, looking well rested and enormously pleased to be there.

  “Thanks for tendin’ to the heat,” he said.

  Rory sat down at the table, frowning at one of the envelopes. “You’re welcome, but I didn’t actually do it for you,” she said distractedly.

  “Now, why’d you want to go and shatter my illusions like that?” Zeke hung his head with a bereft sigh. “That’s a hard heart you’ve got there, Aurora.”

  Rory clenched her teeth and managed not to react, which wasn’t all that difficult since she was focused on the handwritten address that was shaky and distorted as if a three-year-old had penned it. She tore the envelope open and unfolded the piece of paper she found inside.

  “How’s the mutt holding up?” Zeke asked, noting that Hobo was once again snoring under the table.

  “What the hell is this?” she muttered, oblivious to the marshal’s question.

  He was at her side in an instant, peering over her shoulder at the paper. It was a crazy quilt of letters cut from newspapers and magazines and pieced together to form the words:

  Stop the investigation or we’ll stop you.

  It was the type of threat or ransom note that had been used in so many movies over the past fifty years that it was trite, even laughable, but neither Rory nor Zeke was laughing.

  “That came in today’s mail?” Zeke asked, popping into the chair next to her.

  “I got it today,” she said, picking up the envelope that she’d dropped onto the table, “but I don’t think it actually came through the mail.” She studied the plain white envelope front and back again. “There’s no canceled stamp. Someone must have driven by and stuck it in my mailbox.”

  Damn, she wished she’d noticed that sooner, but she’d had no reason to expect such a letter. Now she’d compromised potential evidence. She pushed back from the table and went to the cabinet where she kept rolls of tin foil, plastic wrap and storage bags. She took one of the bags, placed the letter and envelope inside and sealed it shut. With any luck Reggie, CSI extraordinare and old college chum of BB’s, would once again be willing to help her out.

  “You’ll be takin’ that over to the police, then?” Zeke asked cautiously, as if he were lifting a rock to see what was hiding beneath it.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And exactly in what manner would that be?”

  “I’m going to give it to Forensics.”

  “In other words ‘on the sly’—so Leah doesn’t find out.”

  “If I told Leah she’d feel obligated to report it and that could mean the end of my case,” Rory said with the defiant lift of her chin that meant there was no room for negotiation.

  “You’ve been threatened—you don’t think the police should know?” It was clear he didn’t intend to let it go.

  “Up until a few months ago I was the police, in case you’ve forgotten, and I know how to take care of myself,” she said, clipping her words off with a steel-edged tone that she instantly regretted. What had happened to the grand compassion and empathy she’d felt for him at his gravesite this morning? It seemed like years since then. First Joe had been waiting for her, and then she’d found the letter. Hardly a moment to catch her breath. She made herself stop and take a long, unbiased look at Zeke, and instead of seeing him only as an obstacle blocking her way, she saw the concern etched in the tight line of his jaw and in the lines around his eyes and the furrow between his brows.

  “Believe me, I know what I’m doing,” she said softly, shrugging off the attitude.

  “I’m sure you think you do.”

  “I’ll take Hobo with me as protection wherever I go.” She smiled, determined to steer the conversation onto a less rocky path.

  Zeke’s face remained grim. He wasn’t going to be wheedled into a better mood.

  “So, based on the letter, I guess you could say we’ve rocked the thief’s boat.” Maybe if she got him thinking about the case, he’d let go of his obsession with her safety.

  “That’d be helpful if it meant the thief has to be one of the few people you’ve already talked to, but all it likely means is that word about our investigation is spreading through the dog community like wildfire. It could have been sent by just about anyone who knows Tina hired you, then there’s the vet and the people who work for him, the rest of the dog community and anyone they’ve talked to.”

  Rory could tell from the monotone quality of his voice that he was answering her by rote, his mind still hooked into their argument.

  “Then we might as well add the town clerk and everyone she tells,” Rory said, taking a minute to update him on her meeting with Deirdre Lopez.

  “Well, when you can’t see the forest for the trees, you gotta start by choppin’ down some of those trees. And you can begin right off with that repairman, Joe.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “The man was sittin’ out there right
by your mailbox and he knew you wouldn’t be home for a spell. He could have slipped that envelope right in there without fear of bein’ seen.”

  Rory shook her head in disbelief. “You’re actually telling me you think Joe stole two of his own dogs?”

  “His wife’s dogs.”

  Rory rolled her eyes. “Oh, well, that makes a whole lot more sense.”

  “Don’t you go bein’ naïve, darlin’. Folks are capable of some crazy things.”

  Naïve? He would never have been so condescending to Mac or dared to insult him that way. “I guess you’d know about crazy,” she snapped. Her temper was hurtling headlong toward the edge of the cliff with all of her good intentions strapped to its back and she’d willingly let go of the reins.

  Zeke looked genuinely surprised by her sharp response. “Why are you gettin’ yourself all in a dither?”

  That did it. “Listen,” she said, rising from the table, “I am not naïve and I don’t get into dithers, whatever the hell they are.”

  “That would be one right there,” he pointed out.

  Rory stormed out of the room before she said something she couldn’t take back. Death may have conferred an aura of saintliness on Zeke, but as far as she could see, it was one that stopped at the edge of his grave and had no bearing on the reality of living with him.

  Chapter 13

  Rory spent a restless night punctuated by dreams in which she searched endlessly for Hobo and a few thousand of his canine chums. Although the dreams had been unnerving in the dark landscape of her mind, daylight quickly revealed them for the silly mental antics they were. Even before she opened her eyes she felt the warm pressure of Hobo’s back against her own, safe and sound, his legs twitching as he chased some bugaboo of his own.