Sketcher in the Rye: Page 7

  “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 nothi
ng 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.