Sketcher in the Rye: (3 page)

Chapter 3

“It's Eloise, isn't it?” Zeke said, running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was irritated. “Why do you let her fill your head with her nonsense?”

Rory waited to a count of five before answering. “Because I've never found it to be nonsense,” she replied evenly. The marshal's opinion of Eloise was ever-changing. Her psychic ability had put him off from the first day they'd met. Rory wasn't sure if it scared him, worried him or both. When she'd asked him about it, all he'd say was that it was “plain unnatural.” She hadn't bothered to point out that hanging around for more than a century after you died wasn't exactly the most natural thing either. There had been one brief period, back when she and Zeke were working on the murder of an amateur actor, that he'd actually teamed up with Eloise in the interest of keeping her out of trouble. But the alliance hadn't lasted. Since that time, Zeke made a point of keeping his distance from her. Unfortunately Eloise didn't share his feelings. Every time she came to Rory's house, she was hoping to see him. Rory chalked it up to a case of unrequited like and tucked it away in a corner of her mind with all the other things over which she had no control. The older she got, the more crowded that corner was becoming.

The marshal had vanished from his chair to reappear in the same instant near the granite center island. Rory was surprised. He hadn't done that in months. He usually practiced the normal movements of a living person so he wouldn't forget them when he was out in public. He must be more upset than she'd imagined.

“Have you told me absolutely everything about
your
life?” he asked her.

“Well . . . no,” she had to admit.

“Then why do you expect to know everything about mine?”

He'd waltzed her right into a closet, locked the door and pocketed the key. Rory didn't know how to respond, because he was right. “I'm sorry,” she murmured finally. “I just wanted to understand you better.” The apology sounded lame, even to her.

“Okay then,” he said, obviously taken aback that his argument had worked. “Since we're agreed on that point, can we keep Miss Eloise out of our relationship from here on?”

Rory didn't answer immediately. How could she agree to that? She had no way to prevent Eloise from telling her things, unless she wore earplugs all the time. And although Rory wasn't about to admit it, she didn't want to shut down that information highway. It had proven to be too valuable in the past.

“Rory?” The marshal was scowling at her.

Stalling for time, she explained the earplug dilemma to him.

“All right, fine—just don't you go
solicitin'
information from her.”

“Done.” That wasn't how it worked with Eloise anyway.

“And don't you go nosin' around tryin' to find out what I haven't seen fit to tell you on my own.”

“Done,” she mumbled with far less enthusiasm.

***

Gil Harper called the next morning. His voice was hoarse, his tone subdued. He sounded like a man who needed some peace of mind and a week's worth of sleep. The conversation was short and to the point. He wanted to hire her private-eye firm, Drummond and McCain, to catch whoever was sabotaging his business. Could Rory stop by so he could fill her in on the rest of the details and pay her retainer? She said she could, and they settled on three o'clock that afternoon. When Rory arrived, there was one crime scene van parked in the lot along with Leah's unmarked car. Since she was a few minutes early, she wandered over to the corn maze to see what was happening. Although a colder front had moved in overnight, a dozen hard-core looky-loos in full winter regalia were standing behind the police tape sharing information and trading remarks. The crime scene investigators were nowhere in sight. Rory was about to head over to Harper's office when Leah walked out of the cornfield.

“Joining the police groupies?” she asked after they'd hugged.

“Harper hired me to investigate another matter,” Rory explained, once they'd moved away from inquiring minds and ears. “What's going on?”

“Jeff and I wanted to walk the place, chat with some of the employees, maybe pick up on something we missed yesterday.”

“I assume that means Dmitriev didn't die of natural causes.”

“The medical examiner hasn't released a cause of death yet,” Leah said.

“Medical examiner?” Rory repeated. “This is me you're talking to. I'm sure you asked the
medical examiner
for his unofficial opinion, and I'm equally sure BB gave it to you off the record like he always does. What's with all the formality?”

“Well, after you were almost killed capturing the creep who murdered Hobo's owner, the lieutenant gave me a little speech about keeping civilians out of the loop and out of harm's way.”

Rory went from indignant to apologetic in two seconds flat. “You never told me anything about that.”

Leah shrugged. “I'd appreciate your regret more if I believed you'd try to stay out of police business in the future,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Come on, Leah. I'm an investigator. Sometimes you and I are going to find ourselves headed down the same trail. And you know I can't just walk away if things get a little dicey.”

“Sounds a lot like what I told the lieutenant,” she said dryly.

“I do have one more question.”

“What's that?”

“Have you found a murder weapon?”

Leah went for her friend's neck as if she intended to strangle her. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm awfully good at keeping secrets,” Rory said sweetly. Aside from Eloise, no one had a clue she had a ghost for a housemate. Not even her aunt Helene, the queen of the pop-in visit. Of course she couldn't give Leah that example without telling her about Zeke in the process, which would completely undercut the point she was trying to make, not to mention her promise to the marshal. “If you're going to be around here tomorrow, I'll meet you for breakfast at your favorite diner,” she wheedled. Leah had never turned down an opportunity to indulge in the crisp Belgian waffles they served.

“So now you're bribing me?” Leah asked with mock horror.

“If I'd offered to
buy
you breakfast, that would have qualified as a bribe,” Rory told her. “I only offered to meet you there. As far as I know, tempting a detective with hard-core carbs isn't a criminal offense.”

“Well, it certainly should be,” Leah muttered as Jeff strode up to them from the direction of the indoor nursery.

“Hi, Rory,” he said. “How's it going?”

“I should be asking you that question,” she replied. “What's the latest?”

“Come on, you know I can't talk to the public about an active case.”

“But I was a comrade in arms,” she protested.

Leah laughed. “Forget it, Rory. You won't get anything out of him—he's incorruptible. And he doesn't even like sweets. I'll see you tomorrow—eight sharp.”

***

Rory was on her way to Gil Harper's office when he came jogging toward her. “I have to catch the vet before he leaves,” he said, breathing hard. “The man's the best in his field, but he refuses to carry a cell phone. Please make yourself comfortable in my office. I'll only be a few minutes.” He took off again without waiting to see if she found that agreeable.

His office had been built onto the back of the Harper Farms bakery, but with access through a separate entrance. Rory had no trouble finding it, since she'd met with him there the previous day, which she now thought of as the “Day of the Pig.” She let herself in and closed the door behind her. It was a mellow, welcoming space, with soft leather seating in a caramel tone that managed to be as masculine as the dark, hulking furniture so many men seemed to prefer. A beautifully crafted bookcase covered one of the walls, and a large portrait of the Harper family dominated the wall across from it. The centerpiece of the room was an elegant cherrywood desk with an L-shaped side panel that held a computer and its components. The main desktop was remarkably free of clutter. Gil Harper appeared to be a well-organized man.

Rory didn't mind having the time to peruse the books that lined Harper's bookcase. What a person read offered a glimpse into his personality and interests, providing, of course, that the person in question had actually bought and read said books. Interior decorators were known to purchase huge lots of random books to fill bookcases such as these.

Rory found books on agronomy and agriculture, American history and economics, along with a smattering of the classics and a large collection of contemporary thrillers by James Patterson, Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler and other best-selling authors of their ilk. There were also a couple of shelves devoted to books by mainstream authors like Anita Shreve, Joyce Carol Oates and Jodi Picoult, no doubt selected by Harper's wife, Ellen. There was even a shelf of children's books. Seeing them made Rory smile. The fact that Gil hadn't tossed the books once his kids outgrew them spoke of a sentimental nature. Either that or he was a cheapskate saving them for future grandkids.

Since Gil was still MIA, Rory walked across the room to take a better look at the family portrait. When she was close to it, she realized it was an oil-enhanced photograph. The artist had done such an amazing job that to most laymen it would appear to be an original oil that required endless hours of posing. Gil and Ellen were seated on an upholstered bench in the center of the canvas with their three adult children posed casually around them. They all had blonde hair and intense blue eyes, making their resemblance to one another particularly striking. Gil, James and Luke were dressed in beige chinos and pastel button-down shirts, open at the neck. Ellen and Lacey were in light, flowery blouses and ivory pencil skirts, Lacey's substantially shorter and tighter than her mother's. They were all smiling with orthodontic perfection. Rory couldn't help wondering what secrets might be hidden behind those bright eyes and dazzling smiles.

“Love that picture.” Gil's breathless voice gave Rory a start. The door had opened so silently she hadn't heard him come in. “Sorry . . . to keep you waiting. Forgot to tell the vet . . . to look at one of our goats . . . before he leaves. Please, have a seat.”

“No problem,” she said slipping into one of the two armchairs positioned in front of the desk. Gil sank into the padded, high-back chair behind the desk with a groan. “I have to start exercising again.” He paused as if he'd run out of air or was expecting some kind of response from Rory.

“I know, it's getting harder and harder to fit everything into twenty-four hours,” she sympathized.

“Isn't that the truth,” he said, his breathing finally returning to normal. “Let me begin by filling you in a bit more on what I told you yesterday. Someone who works here is feeding information to our main competitor, Greenbrier Farms. Before the sabotage of my greenhouse, it was penny-ante stuff. We'd come up with a new idea, but they'd bring it to market first. We planned to add pony rides this past summer. They had pony rides up and running by spring. We were putting together a pie-baking contest. They ran one a month earlier and with better prizes. But now that it's escalated to sabotage—well, let's just say that my patience has its limits.”

“Then you have a lot more patience than I do,” Rory said. “I'll need a roster of all your employees along with their job descriptions.”

“I anticipated that,” Gil said, withdrawing a stapled set of papers from the top desk drawer. “I originally compiled a roster of all the people who work here, including my family members. It was a pretty daunting list. So I conducted a little experiment to help whittle that number down. Instead of holding the big staff meetings we used to have where I'd tell all our employees about new ideas and changes that were coming, I started limiting the meetings to family and upper-echelon staff. Greenbrier kept right on stealing our thunder, so I have to assume the traitor is someone high up in my organization.” He leaned across the desk to hand her the pages. “This is the abbreviated list. You'll see I noted everyone's responsibilities and their hours so you'll know when they're on the premises. Anyone you want to speak with will automatically be given the time off. Just let me know what you need. I'm almost always around. And you have my cell number if you can't find me. Harper Farms is a big place, as Hobo showed you yesterday.”

“That's one memory that's permanently etched in my mind,” Rory said with a laugh. It was definitely the kind of experience that became funnier with the passage of time.

Gil laughed with her. He had the deep, full laugh of a man who enjoyed life. “You two were quite the sight. Did you ever get all the mud off the dog?”

“Most of it. I'm still finding dry bits and pieces around the house.”

“I guess you can't beat the love of a good pig,” he sputtered, setting the two of them off on another round of laughter. “Forgive me,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I don't mean to give you the wrong impression. I'm more devastated by Matthew's death than you can imagine. I probably just needed to let off some steam.”

“No need to explain,” Rory assured him. “I understand completely.” She'd learned after the death of her uncle Mac that grieving was a lot like being attacked by a Great White. One minute you were managing to stay afloat, and the next, the pain sank its teeth into you and pulled you under. You struggled to the surface for a breath of air only to be dragged down again. And there was little comfort in knowing that grief didn't have the kill record of sharks.

“I need to speak to you about adjusting our arrangement,” Gil said, back in business mode. “I hope it'll be agreeable to you.”

Rory couldn't imagine what he wanted to add or delete from their simple contract. Finding the traitor was a pretty black-and-white kind of case that didn't leave a lot of room for embellishment. “Go ahead,” she said, “I'm listening.”