Sketch a Falling Star (20 page)

Hobo followed her downstairs and went straight to the back door to be let out. Either he was feeling her restlessness or his bladder was demanding attention. By the time he returned, she was sipping her coffee and trying to decide what to do with this unexpected, and largely unwelcome, bonus chunk of time. Watching an old Clark Gable movie was a heavy favorite, but paying the bills before finance charges were tacked on won in the end. Having fewer options to consider, Hobo curled into a tight circle and promptly fell back asleep.

After emptying her checking account, Rory cleaned the house and did the laundry. When she looked at her watch, it was 8:45—another fifteen minutes before the bank would even open. She peered out the living-room window. The street was wet, but from what she could see, it didn’t appear to still be raining. She’d treat Hobo to a nice long walk. She pulled a Windbreaker over her sweatshirt and jeans, hooked Hobo’s leash to his collar and tucked her cell phone into her pocket.

As soon as they stepped outside Rory realized that the view from the window had been deceiving. The air was so laden with moisture that it actually seemed to be raining in slow motion, the droplets of water moseying through the air as if they lacked the energy or ambition to do the job properly. But since rain of any speed was still wet, it was only a matter of time before it worked its mischief. Before they’d reached the end of the third block Rory’s hair was plastered to her head and Hobo was a bedraggled mess. Every few steps he looked up at her with eyes that clearly begged for a return to sanity.

Wet and miserable herself, Rory gave in and was heading home when Clarissa finally called. She sounded winded, her words jammed together between quick intakes of air. Rory had to ask her to slow down and repeat what she was saying.

“Brett,” she said, enunciating more carefully. “The check was signed by Brett Campbell.”

B
ack in the house, she toweled herself and Hobo as dry as she could, given that both of them had limited patience with such activities. Then she changed into dry clothing. Her hair was once again on its own, since she hadn’t yet replaced the defunct dryer.

On a whim, she went from room to room calling Zeke’s name in the hope that one place in the house might be closer to the plane he inhabited than another. No response. Apparently his dead zone wasn’t as quirky as the ones that plagued cell-phone systems. They really had to work out a way for her to contact him, if that was even possible. Since the last room in her grand tour happened to be the study, she sank into the chair behind her desk and tried to decide what to do next.

As much as she wanted to tell someone about the amazing turn of events in the case, with Zeke out of range, there wasn’t anyone she
could
tell. Leah didn’t know any of the pertinent details about the case or the people involved in it, and during a workday she definitely didn’t have the time to be brought up to speed. The rest of Rory’s friends were busy with careers of their own or young families or both. Their socializing had been whittled down to postings on Facebook and the occasional phone call. Getting together was a biannual event. The only person in the loop was her aunt Helene, and Rory knew it wasn’t a good idea to let on how close she was to solving the case. Her aunt not only loved counting chickens before they hatched, but was also known for helping them incubate. Rory couldn’t take the chance that she might say the wrong thing to the wrong person. On the other hand, she needed to speak to Helene to gather some background information on Brett before interviewing him. Since he was now the star suspect, she wanted to be as prepared as possible. That would have to satisfy her for now.

“He’s a sweet boy,” Helene said when Rory called and asked about Brett. “And easy on the eyes.”

Rory laughed. “Aunt Helene, don’t tell me you’re turning into a cougar.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun? If only I weren’t all bark and no bite,” she added with a sigh. “Seriously, though, I think Brett’s a gifted actor. He has great presence on the stage. But offstage, he’s kind of shy.”

“Did he have any issues with Brian?” Rory asked, grabbing a pen and legal pad from the top of the desk.

“None that I’m aware of.” Helene paused for a moment as if the hard drive in her head had spit out another byte for her to consider. “But now that I think about it, he did seem to be steering clear of Brian lately. I don’t know if that was based on intuition or because bad blood had developed between them. Brett is certainly from the opposite end of the personality spectrum.”

“Do you know what Brett does for a living?”

“Here’s the thing,” Helene said. “In the spirit of full disclosure, you should be aware that most of what I know about Brett I got from Jessica. He’s probably closer to her than to anyone else in the troupe. Now, it may all be 100 percent accurate, but I can’t actually vouch for any of it.”

“Duly noted,” Rory said. She didn’t like getting information through a second party, let alone a third, but she wasn’t in any position to be picky. If need be, she could always try to corroborate the facts later. In a surprising about-face, she caught herself wishing Zeke would hurry up with his recharging so she could get his take on things.

“Brett works for a nonprofit animal shelter,” Helene went on. “But he mostly lives off a big, juicy trust fund. His folks are loaded. The father owns a company somewhere on the Island. I forget what kind. Anyway, one of the conditions of the trust is that Brett be gainfully employed. At first, his father wanted Brett to work for him. The two of them fought about it for a couple of years. In the end, the old man sucked it up and agreed his son could work wherever he chose to as long as the work was legitimate and he lived responsibly. If not he could kiss the trust fund good-bye. Jessica thinks he was worried Brett would turn into one of those jet-setting good-for-nothings who are always popping up in the news. According to her, if the man had worked less and spent more time getting to know his son, he would have realized Brett was the least likely candidate for that kind of lifestyle.”

“Wow.” Rory laughed. “Here I was hoping for some crumbs and you handed me nearly the whole cake.”

“Crumb cake—mmm,” Helene murmured. “I can’t remember the last time I had it. You know, if I leave right away, I’ll have time to swing by the bakery and pick some up before my Zumba class.”

After they said “good-bye,” Rory spent a few minutes digesting everything she’d heard. She already knew the blackmail had been paid by Brett, and now she understood how he’d come by so much cash. What was still missing from the puzzle, however, was the nature of the secret he was trying to keep hidden.

Chapter 20

W
ith no way to reach Zeke, Rory decided to proceed on her own. They could discuss that decision, or more likely argue about it, when he was back in the neighborhood. Brett Campbell proved to be more accessible. When he answered the phone that evening, Rory could barely hear him above the riotous barking in the background. He excused himself and tried to quiet the dogs with only marginal success. Trying to make herself heard above the commotion, Rory felt like she was at a wedding reception where the music was amped way up. She had to shout to be heard, and even in the most amicable of settings, shouting had a tendency to come across as aggressive. Fortunately, Brett didn’t take it that way. When he heard her name, he didn’t sound the least bit guarded or apprehensive. In fact, she would have described him as surprisingly calm in spite of the hullabaloo raging around him.

“Oh, Rory, hi,” he said. “Sorry about the noise. I brought a couple of new dogs home with me and there’s some jockeying for position going on in my little pack here.”

To Rory, it sounded more like a major uprising. She would have been calling for reinforcements, dart guns and armor, but Brett seemed to be taking it all in stride. That explained a lot. For a man who refereed canine brawls and dealt with blackmail, it was clearly no big deal to talk to a PI about a case the police had officially closed. That suited Rory just fine. If he believed he had nothing to fear from her, she stood a better chance of surprising him with what she already knew and catching his unguarded reaction.

Brett agreed to see her the next night. Rory wasn’t sure if she was hoping Zeke returned in time or not. Although stress often seemed to hitch a ride with him, having an extra pair of ears for this interview could be helpful. Especially now that Brett had snagged the lead in the escalating drama of Brian’s demise.

R
ory tucked a copy of Brett’s fifty-thousand-dollar check to Brian in her handbag, along with her loaded.45. Her aunt had characterized the actor as shy, but when murder was the topic of conversation it didn’t pay to take chances. How many times had she heard a killer described by friends and family as “such a nice, quiet guy”?

As she approached Brett’s stately fieldstone-and-clapboard colonial at the eastern edge of Huntington, she could hear a chorus of canine vocals like the ones she’d been treated to over the phone. This time they were coming from the fenced-in backyard. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with them. But when Brett opened the door, there were two more dogs flanking him, both of indeterminate lineage, no doubt the result of many generations of carefree crossbreeding. One appeared to be a border collie mix; the other looked a lot like a golden retriever. Neither of them was a breed associated with ferocity or aggression. Of course, she had no way of knowing what Brett had trained them to be.

The dogs looked at her, then back at their master, as if trying to assess her status. When Brett smiled and held the door open for her, their plumed tails echoed his welcome. Rory held out her hand for them to sniff before she gave them each a good scratch around the ears. The golden groaned with delight. Okay, maybe there wasn’t any cause for concern.

“How many dogs
do
you have?” she asked, realizing belatedly that the question might have come across as rude.

“Cagney and Lacey here are the only ones that are officially mine. I got them as pups. The three you hear making such a racket out in the yard I’m just fostering until they’re adopted. When dogs have lived in a shelter, they need to be reminded of proper social etiquette from time to time. Sort of like continuing-ed courses for doctors and lawyers. That way when they’re adopted—the dogs, not the doctors and lawyers—they transition into their new families more easily.”

Rory laughed, then scolded herself. She was there to draw out a possible killer, not to be charmed by him. Too bad, her shameless alter ego sighed. Not only was he movie-idol cute, with thick dark lashes and a sensuous mouth, but he also seemed to have a sense of humor. What a pity he was probably a murderer. Falling for one was unfortunate. Falling for a second would be a wake-up call for therapy. Wouldn’t the marshal have a field day with that?

“Come on inside,” Brett said, leading the way into what the architect had probably intended to be a formal living room. The available seating consisted of two brown couches that looked like they’d been snatched from the maw of a garbage truck and partially reupholstered with fur. They faced each other across a low table embellished with a crosshatch of scratch marks. Three empty dog crates were lined up along one wall, each with a thick pad and chew toy inside. Clearly none of the trust fund had been used on interior decorating.

Brett didn’t try to apologize for the décor, for which Rory was grateful. If he had, she would have been in the awkward position of politely assuring him it was lovely. He gestured to one of the couches. Once she was seated, he took the couch across from her. Cagney and Lacey hopped up on either side of him.

“So I hear Clarissa thinks one of us killed her son,” Brett said amiably.

“That’s right, but it sounds like you’re not at all worried there may be a murderer in the troupe.”

“Well, I imagine I would be if I thought it was an actual possibility.”

“And you don’t?”

“In a flash flood like that? Not a chance.”

“Even if someone wanted him dead and saw the flood as the perfect opportunity?”

At least Brett had the good sense to frown and appear to give the possibility some thought before responding. “No, no way. If you’d been there, you’d understand. It happened so fast, it was all we could do to save our own lives. There was no time to
think
about killing someone, much less to carry it out.”

Well played, Rory thought. Not too much angst, not too little. If this were a play she was watching, she would have applauded. She wondered if he’d practiced in front of a mirror or if it was all raw talent.

“Then you subscribe to the theory that it was just a tragic accident?”

“An accident, yes. But I’d hardly call it ‘tragic,’ ” Brett said, a curl of disgust snarling his upper lip.

“Was there bad blood between the two of you?” Rory asked, feigning shock to see how much more he might reveal.

“There didn’t have to be; I saw how he treated Jessica and Sophia. And from the bits and pieces of conversation I’ve overheard, it wasn’t hard to figure out that he’d scammed Richard as well as some of the other Players. You don’t have to be sprayed by a skunk to know he’s not someone you want to hang out with.”

Rory had to admit that Brett was making a believable pitch for his innocence. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the devastating evidence Rory had in her handbag. And she wasn’t quite ready to pull it out yet.

“Let’s say the situation in the canyon hadn’t been quite so critical and there’d been enough time for Brian to be murdered,” she proposed. “Who would have your vote as the killer?”

Brett issued a low whistle. “That’s quite a question.”

Rory shrugged. “I’m on the outside; you’re on the inside. I’d just like to get your perspective. No big deal. I’m not asking you to sign an affidavit.”

Brett sat up straighter, his body and face more rigid. Cagney and Lacey seemed to feel the shift in his attitude. Their ears pricked forward, and they stared at Rory as if to put her on notice. “There’s no way I’m going to point a finger at any of my colleagues,” Brett said tightly. “Not even in the guise of an intellectual game.”