To Sketch a Thief Page 7

  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.”

  “Well, now, you know I can’t do that. In fact, you’re the one who keeps warning me to keep a low profile or quick as a cottontail there’ll be news people, ghost hunters and whatnot all over the damned place.”

  Rory realized he was right. It didn’t make her feel any better about having been a bug under the marshal’s microscope for all those years, but at least she understood why Mac had remained silent about his housemate. When Zeke had insisted that he didn’t want to be paraded around like some dog and pony show, the truth was that he couldn’t risk letting anyone else know that he existed. And now, like Mac, neither could she.

  “My uncle didn’t feel the need for rules,” she said, trying to find her equilibrium again, “but as you know, I do.” She had to try to mitigate the Big Brother aspect of having Zeke around. “I expect you to honor my guests’ privacy as you do mine. That’s assuming of course that you actually do honor my privacy.”

  Zeke’s expression tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait, which told her that he was taking the matter seriously.

  “You have my word,” he said. “I hope that’ll be enough for you.”

  Although there was no apparent sarcasm in his words, Rory was sure she’d find some if she dug deep enough. But she found that she had no desire to go excavating.

  Chapter 8

  Hobo bounded into Rory’s car, elated to be going with her wherever she was headed. She hadn’t told him that he had an appointment with the vet. Determined to do right by him, she’d bought a book for first-time dog owners and had read it from cover to cover, in spite of Zeke’s grousing that Hobo’s trial month was far from over. Rory had shrugged off his remark as she eased on down Dog Highway to the point of no return.

  In order to be sure that Hobo had no health issues of which she should be aware, she’d made an appointment with Dr. Stanley Holbrook, the veterinarian whose bill she’d seen on Brenda’s kitchen table. Continuity of care was as important for canines as it was for people, according to the book that was quickly becoming her bible. All it lacked, to her way of thinking, was a chapter on the interaction between dogs and ghosts. Maybe one day she’d write a book herself on coping with the dear, and not so dear, departed.

  She had one stop to make before the vet and that was at the home of Marti Sugarman. Since Tootsie might have been the most recent victim of the dognappers, and since there was no other trail worth following, Rory and Zeke had agreed that the next logical step was speaking to Marti again.

  Rory didn’t believe that she’d actually stolen the dog, unless she was planning to make a quick getaway to another state. If she stayed put, she’d have to keep Tootsie hidden. She certainly wouldn’t be able to enter her in dog shows, which was the reason she’d coveted her to begin with.

  “Not so fast,” Zeke had said. “I’ve seen the desire for revenge cause folks to come unraveled. And logic is the first casualty of that particular emotion.”

  “But even if she did steal Tootsie, I doubt she was involved in stealing all the other dogs that have gone missing,” Rory pointed out.

  “Granted. But what if Marti killed Brenda, then let the dogs run off to make it appear like the whole thing was part of another dognapping? Could be Marti’s even hopin’ that when Tootsie’s found, she’ll be able to adopt her.”

  “I think if you’d met Marti, you’d agree that’s a little farfetched for her.”

  “I may not know this Marti, but I’ve known me a few women capable of murder and worse,” Zeke said. “Though generally over a man or a gold mine, not a dog. And oftentimes it’s the ones you wouldn’t expect to have the backbone for it. There was this one gal, scrawny as a toothpick, who taught school in Tucson.” He shook his head as if he found his own story hard to believe. “She took a rifle nearly as big as she was and blew away the sorry fool who’d cheated on her. Didn’t even seem to regret it when I hauled her off to jail. I suppose every soul has its tippin’ point.”

  Since Rory had no basis for arguing the issue, she deferred to his experience. But she couldn’t resist teasing him. “I promise to keep my eyes open for any signs of murderous tendencies on her part.”

  “It’s not a jokin’ matter, Aurora.” He frowned. “I need to know that you’re takin’ Brenda’s death seriously, even though you’re not actually investigatin’ it.”

  Rory allowed her smile to evaporate rather than endure another lecture on safety.

  “Now, I don’t think you should let Marti know you’re comin’,” he went on, willing enough to sidestep an argument. “You’re bound to get more out of her if she’s not expectin’ you. The coyote don’t telegraph his intentions to the rabbit. If he did, he’d be one mighty hungry coyote.”

  Rory graciously accepted the advice, although she’d already come to the same conclusion, minus the coyote. She went through the notes she’d taken down the day Tina Kovack had retained her and found the Sugarmans’ address and phone number along with the information that the Sugarmans had no children, that Larry was a CPA and that Marti wasn’t employed. Morning seemed like a fine time to pay her a visit.

  With Hobo loaded into the car, Rory headed to Marti’s house with her wish list of questions. She’d have to be careful about what she asked and how she asked it, though, since Marti could just tell her to take a hike.

  Rory was stopped at a red light a quarter of a mile from Marti’s house when she spotted the first flyer stapled to a telephone pole. It was a standard-size sheet of paper with a close-up of a bowless Tootsie and the promise of a thousand-dollar reward for her safe return. The phone number beneath the photo was Marti’s. Rory threw the car into park, jumped out, pulled the flyer off the pole and was back in the car when the light turned green.

  By the time she reached the Sugarmans’ brick and vinyl–sided split-level, she’d passed a full dozen of the flyers. She folded the one she’d taken and stowed it in her purse, a secret weapon to be drawn at just the right moment.

  There were no cars in the driveway, which didn’t surprise her. The odds were that Larry Sugarman was busy crunching numbers at his local accounting firm and that Marti’s car was still tucked into its berth in the garage. Since Marti had made it clear that Hobo wasn’t welcome in her home, Rory pulled into the driveway and left the back window open enough for the dog to stick his head out and enjoy whatever smells wafted his way.

  Marti answered the door as Rory was about to ring the bell for the second time. Although the temperature had dipped into the low forties overnight, Marti was wearing a brightly colored caftan that stood out from her chest like a tent that slept three, and she had green flip-flops on her feet. She was cradling a bundle of white fur in her arms that looked a lot like Tootsie, except for the smudge of black on one of his ears, no doubt the flaw that was keeping him out of the show ring.

  “Ms. McCain,” Marti said, looking puzzled to find Rory on her doorstep. “Was I supposed to be expecting you?” In spite of her neutral words, she sounded more annoyed than courteous.

  “No, and I apologize, but I was on my way to the vet with Hobo when a question popped into my head and I thought I’d stop by to see if you could answer it for me. I would have called first, but I didn’t have your number with me,” she said, trying to judge by Marti’s expression whether or not she was buying the routine. “I hope that’s okay?” She asked timidly to cement the deal.

  “I guess so,” Marti said, ir
ritation drawing her mouth into a grim line, “but I have a lot to do today.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes,” Rory assured her, stepping over the threshold so that Marti had no choice but to back up and let her in. “What an adorable dog. What’s her name?”

  “His name is Falcon,” Marti corrected her. “As in Maltese Falcon.” Her tone dared Rory to deride the name.

  “I like that,” Rory said. “Very clever.”

  Marti’s expression softened and she produced a smile. “Thanks. My husband thinks it’s silly.” She closed the door behind her guest. “We can sit in the kitchen,” she said, leading the way up a half flight of stairs. “Has there been any news about Tootsie?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Rory said. She accepted a chair at the kitchen table. “No news about Brenda’s killer either,” she added pointedly. If Marti caught the irony, it didn’t seem to bother her.

  “It’s very disturbing to know that there’s a killer on the loose,” she muttered as if it were a personal inconvenience specifically intended to ruin her day. “I had to have our alarm system checked out and my husband had to install chains on all the doors and more security lights. It’s hard to know how to protect oneself in this day and age.” Winded from her little speech, she sank into the chair next to Rory and released her grip on Falcon. The dog curled into a circle in her substantial lap, his dark eyes focused on Rory as if sizing her up.

  “He’s adorable,” Rory said, holding her hand out to him. Falcon obliged her by licking the tips of her fingers. “Look, how sweet.” She knew she was laying it on a bit thick, but she needed to slide in under Marti’s radar and the only easy way appeared to be through Falcon.

  “Oh, he’s a love with people,” she said like a mother extolling the virtues of her child. “It’s other male dogs he doesn’t like, Hobo in particular. Like I told you. So Brenda and I just keep them . . . kept them apart.” She said the last with a heavy sigh. “It still hasn’t sunk in that she’s gone.”

  Showtime. “That sort of brings me to why I’m here,” Rory said. “You mentioned how close you and Brenda were, but from what I’ve been hearing, you two had a falling-out over Tootsie and hadn’t spoken in a couple of years.”

  “Gossips and busybodies,” Marti said, a nervous warble stitched through her words. “People should mind their own business.” Her eyes left Rory for a moment and wandered to the laundry room that was just off the kitchen.

  Rory followed her gaze, but all she could see there was a washing machine and a dryer with a row of white cabinets above them. “So you’re saying it’s not true?”

  “No, it’s true,” she admitted lamely, focusing her attention on Falcon. “I was just afraid if I told the police that, I’d wind up being a suspect. But Brenda did call here that morning, the morning of the day she was, you know . . . killed, and asked me to come over. She acted nice on the phone, like she wanted to be friends again.”

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” Rory said, aiming for the casual curiosity of a friend, “if you were so angry with Brenda that you didn’t speak to her for two years, why did you run right over there the minute she snapped her fingers?”

  “I wasn’t going to at first,” Marti replied, absently petting Falcon with such a heavy hand that he issued a little growl of displeasure and readjusted his position. Marti didn’t appear to notice, which Rory thought was strange given how much she doted on the dog.

  “In fact, I almost hung up on her,” Marti went on, “but then I thought of all the good times we’d had together and how much I missed her in my life. The worst part is that I’ll never know if that’s why she called.”

  “Well, look at the bright side,” Rory said cheerfully, “with Brenda gone, if Tootsie shows up, you may be able to adopt her.”

  Marti bristled with indignation. “That never even occurred to me.”

  Rory pulled the the missing-dog flyer out of her purse and held it out to her. “Are you sure it never occurred to you?” She knew she was risking a quick dismissal from the Sugarman residence, but she couldn’t forgo the opportunity to shake things up a bit.

  Marti’s mouth opened, closed and opened again as if her words were caught in her throat like a big wad of phlegm. “I couldn’t help myself,” she said finally, her broad shoulders slumping and tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s bad enough if Tootsie was stolen, but I just can’t sleep imagining the poor baby might be out there somewhere, hungry and frightened and alone. I thought maybe the reward would get people out looking for her.”

  Rory had to give her credit. She was either telling the truth or doing a damn good job of ad-libbing. “How did you happen to have a picture of Tootsie?” she pursued.

  Marti shook her head. “That’s really Falcon. My husband just airbrushed away his black marking in Photoshop. Other than that they’re pretty much identical.”

  “One more thing, if you don’t mind?” Rory didn’t wait to see if she did. “I know you were hoping that Brenda called to put an end to your little cold war, but you couldn’t be sure about that. If I’d been in your place, I would have been wracking my brain trying to figure out what else she might have wanted to talk to me about after all this time.”

  “Well, I did.” Marti bobbed her head, clearly eager to grab on to this bit of common ground.

  Rory leaned in closer to her like a sympathetic confidant and whispered, “So what else could it have been?” She realized instantly that she’d overplayed it.

  Marti stiffened and squirmed in her seat, awakening Falcon, who’d started to doze off. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said plaintively. Her eyes flitted to the laundry room again.

  Rory started to wonder who or what might be hidden in there.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute?” Marti asked, already out of her seat and flip-flopping across the tile to the adjacent room, a groggy Falcon tucked under one arm.

  “Okay, sure.” Without taking her eyes off Marti, Rory unzipped her purse and slid her hand inside to grab the hilt of her Walther PPK. Zeke’s warning may have been more on-target than he knew.

  She watched Marti open the cabinet over the dryer and pull out a bottle of detergent, another of bleach, a couple of smaller items Rory couldn’t identify and finally a narrow box in a yellow wrapper. Without bothering to put anything away, she toddled back into the kitchen with the box.

  Rory let go of the gun and withdrew her hand from her purse as Marti opened the box and offered her a Mallomar. “Have one,” she said around a mouthful of marshmallow cookie. “They’ve been my favorite since I was a kid.”

  Stifling a laugh, Rory politely declined.

  Marti plopped down in her chair again. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she pleaded, as she withdrew another cookie from the box and tried to get it to her mouth before Falcon could snag it. “Especially my husband. We have a deal. If I lose weight, he’s going to take me on a second honeymoon to Hawaii. I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

  “I’m as discreet as a priest,” Rory assured her, choosing not to point out that Marti could sneak all the contraband she wanted, but unless her husband was blind, he was going to notice that she wasn’t getting any thinner.

  She glanced at her watch and realized that if she didn’t leave soon, Hobo would miss his appointment with the vet. And since it was unlikely that Marti was going to be any more forthcoming for the present, there was no reason to stay. Rory was about to thank her for her hospitality, when a fusillade of ferocious barking erupted outside.

  From where she was seated, Marti could see out the window that overlooked the driveway. The color drained out of her face, giving Rory a flashback to the moment in Brenda’s kitchen when the big woman had nearly gone down for the count.

  “It’s Larry,” Marti rasped, grabbing the box and Falcon and hurrying back into the laundry room. She threw the box into the cabinet, followed by the laundry products, and fell back into her seat as the front door opened.


  “Hey, Mart, do we have company?” a voice that was presumably Larry’s called out from the entryway.

  “Up here,” she answered him, licking telltale chocolate off her fingers.

  A moment later Larry appeared at the top of the stairs, Marti’s very own Jack Sprat, wearing khaki pants and a yellow dress shirt open at the neck. He had a long face that was accentuated by a receding hairline and blue eyes caught up in the fine lines of one who enjoys laughing.

  “I forgot you were coming home before the Bay Shore meeting,” Marti said, setting a wriggling Falcon on the floor. The dog headed toward Larry, his tail wagging so hard it was difficult for him to walk a straight line. When he was within arm’s length of his master, he flipped onto his back. Larry bent down to administer the expected tummy rubs while Marti took care of the introductions.

  “I see you wound up with Hobo.” Larry grinned as he stood again to offer Rory a handshake. “I haven’t seen him in . . . what is it, Mart . . . more than two years now?”

  “Something like that,” she murmured.

  “I guess after all that time he didn’t recognize me.”

  “Yeah, sorry about the greeting,” Rory said, “dogs can be so territorial when they’re in a car.” Another bit of wisdom gleaned from the dog bible. “I was just about to get going, but it was nice to meet you.”