Sketcher in the Rye: (8 page)

“Have you seen BB's report yet?” Rory asked, almost as much to change the subject as to hear the definitive facts about Matthew's death.

“Insulin overdose,” Leah said, apparently just as ready to drop the partner discussion for the day. “No alcohol or other medications in his system. BB thinks he was killed in the maze, probably in the area where we found the syringe, and that he tried to go for help, but collapsed in the row where you found him. He was dead five or six hours by then.” Leah's other line had started to ring, so they said a quick good-bye. Rory remained at her desk wondering why the killer hadn't injected Matthew some place more private and then dumped his body. Although a corn maze in the middle of the night was hardly Times Square, there was always the chance that a night watchman might hear screams of pain or cries for help. She supposed it would make more sense if the killer was a woman who didn't have the strength to drag a dead body around. That was being sexist, she scolded herself. There were plenty of bodybuilding women these days and flabby, couch-potato men to make such thinking obsolete. Maybe she was just trying too hard to come up with a theory when she and Zeke had barely scratched the surface of the case.

Chapter 8

The Arizona Territory

1876

“I'm afraid there's no way to restore these,” Clarence Higgs said, holding up the pants to have a better look at them. He was a small man with delicate features. He wore round spectacles, which were perpetually sliding down his nose. Pushing them back up had become as automatic to him as blinking.

Drummond frowned. “I thought for sure you could fix them up. You're the best tailor this side of the Mississippi.”

“Even if I was the best tailor this side of heaven, Marshal, to do what you're asking would require not tailoring skill but magic.” He let the pants fall into a heap on the counter. “Were you trying to fend off an entire army in them?”

“Two bank robbers and their dog,” Drummond said.

“Ah, that accounts for the tooth marks and the rending of the material. It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Every man meets his match eventually.”

“Well, I haven't met mine yet,” Drummond said with a slow grin. “The men are in jail, rethinkin' their career choice, I daresay. The dog was given over to a fellow who lives a solitary life up in the mountains away from what he calls the debauchery of modern civilization. He has an uncanny rapport with animals. There isn't a fur-bearing creature on four legs that he can't rehabilitate.”

“Too bad he can't do the same for these britches,” Clarence said, with a chortle that sounded as if it came from the belly of a larger man. “But I'll give you a fair price on a new pair.”

“I'll be needing them sooner than later.” Drummond said, eyeing the piles of clothing still awaiting the tailor's attention.

“No problem; I have help now,” Clarence said, his chest puffing up and a big smile splitting his face.

“Who did you find? No one in this town comes even close to your ability.”

“Imported her all the way from St. Louis.”

“Your daughter?” Drummond asked. Clarence had spoken of her often over the years. After his wife died of the cancer, he'd sent their young daughter back east to live with relatives, afraid that he couldn't work the hours he did and raise her properly.

“She turned twenty-three years of age recently and decided she wanted to get to know her father and experience life in the Wild West. At first I tried to talk her out of it, worried about her safety and all, but her mind was not to be changed. In that way, she takes after her dear mother. So we agreed on a trial period of six months, after which she can return to St. Louis if she finds the lifestyle here to be disagreeable.”

“I'm glad for you, Clarence,” Drummond said. “I'm sure she's a breath of fresh air in your life.” Small talk not being the marshal's specialty, he hoped that was an adequate response. He knew few details about the tailor's life, but Tucson was still a small enough town for most folks to know one another and for gossip to spread with the enthusiasm of fleas at a dog reunion. More than once he'd overheard women cluck their tongues over the fact that Clarence had never moved on with his life and remarried. One of them said she thought he was seeing the new schoolteacher; another heard that he frequented the ladies of the night. Drummond thought they ought to mind their own business, but he had no intention of saying so and incurring their displeasure. Truth be told, he'd rather face a band of marauding Indians with nothing but his fists for weapons.

“Celeste,” Clarence called out. “Celeste, dear girl, I'd like to introduce you to one of our fine customers.” A moment later, a young woman drew aside the curtain that led to the rear of the shop. She was petite like her father, with features as delicate as if they'd been wrought of fine china rather than flesh and bone. Her dark hair fell in gentle waves around her face, and her wide, hazel eyes remained steady under the marshal's gaze.

“Miss Higgs,” Drummond murmured, tipping his hat to her.

Celeste inclined her head. “Pleased to meet you, . . . Marshal?” she added the title, having noted the tin star on his vest.

“Marshal Drummond,” Clarence said, taking charge of the situation, “I'd like to introduce you to my daughter Celeste. My dear, this is Ezekiel Drummond, federal marshal for these parts and a loyal customer for many years. As a matter of fact, we're going to be sewing him a new pair of britches.”

“Then I imagine we'll be seeing you again sometime soon, Marshal,” she said with a warm smile that struck Drummond as genuine. He didn't like coyness in a woman, and he'd seen more than enough of it in his thirty-four years.

“I look forward to it,” he replied with a nod.

Clarence cleared his throat. “Give me three days,” he said, once they'd both turned to him. “I'll take the measurements from the old pair if that suits you,” the tailor added. “I can always make adjustments when you come back for them.”

“That'll do just fine,” Drummond said, finding himself reluctant to leave. But since he had no further business there, he tipped his hat to Celeste again and marched himself out the door.

Chapter 9

“Well, look at you gettin' all gussied up,” Zeke said, his arrival nearly simultaneous with the blinking of the bathroom lights. Rory was peering into the mirror to apply her mascara. One moment the doorway behind her was empty, and the next it was occupied by the marshal, who was leaning casually against the doorjamb as if he'd been there for some time. Way to give me a warning, she thought, but she chose not to say it out loud. No point in sabotaging the conversation from the start, even though it was bound to implode soon enough.

“You must be steppin' out tonight,” the marshal went on, “'cause you don't generally paint your face with that stuff.”

“You just can't fool a good detective,” she said lightly, dropping the mascara back in her cosmetics kit and taking out the compact with her blush.

“Goin' to see a movie with Helene and your folks?” he asked when she wasn't more forthcoming.

“No,” she said, swiping just enough color across her cheeks to give them a natural-looking glow.

“Dinner with Leah?”

She shook her head. “I have a date,” she said, waiting for the inevitable storm to break. Ever since she'd made the mistake of falling for a psychopath, Zeke went straight to DEFCON 1 the moment a new man entered the picture.

The marshal had come to attention in the doorway, a frown lowering over his eyes like dark clouds gathering. “Helene's actor friend?”

“Yes,” Rory replied, reminding herself that the storm would blow over faster and with less drama if she didn't get defensive or stoop to sarcasm. She picked up her brush and ran it through her hair, trying to focus on something else, something like . . . how glad she was that she'd made it to the hairdresser before her date. Even though her hair had grown a few inches past her chin, it was so well cut now that it fell right into place with little effort on her part.

“You told me you had no intentions of calling him,” Zeke said, clearly not interested in keeping the discussion short or sweet.

“And I didn't.” She rummaged through the makeup kit until she found the red lipstick she wanted.

Zeke chewed on her answer for a bit. “So
he
called
you
instead of waiting for your call. A real eager beaver, huh? Puts me in mind of that maniac who's servin' a double life sentence,” he added with a grumble. “Might have been triple if I hadn't shown up in time.”

Rory counted silently to ten as she applied the lipstick. Then she kept on going up to twenty, because the twin gremlins of irritation and anger were campaigning to be set free. She turned away from the mirror and pasted a smile on her face. “Excuse me,” she said, waiting for the marshal to move out of the doorway.

“What do you know about the man?” he asked, backing out of her way. It was an awkward maneuver for him, one he hadn't practiced enough. But rather than add another log to the already crackling fire, Rory let the critique go for now.

“You'll be happy to know I Googled Aaron, and he's a well-respected pediatrician. I couldn't find a single negative thing about him anywhere on the Internet.” She walked past the marshal and headed into her bedroom. Zeke followed, stopping at the threshold.

“I need to change,” she said. “This discussion will have to wait until later.” She closed the door softly so the marshal couldn't possibly mistake it for slamming. She knew he could easily cross into her room unseen and she'd never be the wiser, but she'd trusted him to abide by her rules for the past year and a half, which he had, for the most part, and she didn't see any reason to stop trusting him now.

“Later may be too late,” His grim pronouncement came through the door.

“I'll just have to take my chances,” she called back.

“That isn't funny.”

“It wasn't mean to be.”

“Suit yourself,” he said gruffly.

Rory let him have the last word, even though it rankled. She turned her attention to her closet and immediately wished she'd thought about what to wear sooner, like when she would have had time to buy something new. Seconds short of selecting an outfit by the eenie, meenie, minie, mo method, she grabbed her black jeans and the emerald sweater that always earned her compliments. Thank goodness they'd decided to go someplace casual. It was Aaron's alternative to just meeting for drinks. He maintained there was something naturally laid-back and relaxing about all-American favorites like burgers, ribs and fries. And it was hard to be anything but yourself when you were eating with your fingers and smearing barbeque sauce all over your mouth and chin. Rory couldn't have agreed more. This blind date was already off to a far better start than any of the others she'd suffered through in the recent past. She only made one change to his plan. Instead of being picked up, she'd drive herself to the restaurant. It was a nonnegotiable term she insisted on when meeting someone for the first time. Despite Zeke's opinion, she wasn't a daredevil without a lick of common sense.

After she was dressed, she opened the bedroom door and was surprised to find the marshal still hanging out in the hallway. Since he'd been silent for the past five minutes, she'd assumed he'd gone off to wherever it was he spent his downtime. Apparently he wasn't finished arguing with her. Well, she certainly didn't have to make it easy for him by being a stationary target. She walked right by him and down the stairs to retrieve her handbag from the bench in the entry. He popped up beside her. Avoid eye contact, she told herself as she turned and headed for the door.

“Would you slow down a second,” he demanded, deftly blocking her way.

She made a show of checking her watch. “Look, I'm already late and—”

“You sure can be one exasperatin' woman,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize for givin' you a hard time is all.”

Rory was at a complete loss for words. She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. “Oh, I . . . I mean . . . thank you,” she stammered finally.

“You look mighty pretty,” he added before disappearing.

***

Aaron was already at the restaurant holding down a corner booth when Rory arrived. She recognized him immediately. If anything, the shirtless photo Helene had taken didn't do him justice. When he saw her, he slid out of the booth and held out his hand. “Hi, Rory, glad to meet you,” he said with an easy, boyish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I feel like I already know you.”

Rory placed her hand in his and laughed. “What exactly has my aunt been telling you?”

He didn't shake her hand, but squeezed it in his for a moment before letting it go. “So far, apparently nothing that isn't true. She'd make a fine press agent if you ever have the need for one. Please, sit,” he said, resuming his seat.

Rory slid in across from him. While they talked, she tried to figure out why she found him so immediately appealing. His hair and eyes were a standard brown, his nose straight, his mouth not overly generous. But he had a strong jaw and his eyes shone with the intensity of a sharp and playful intellect. She had no trouble picturing him in his office caring for his young patients. And no doubt wowing their moms at the same time.

A waitress appeared to take their drink order and then left them to decide on dinner. When she returned ten minutes later with Rory's diet soda and Aaron's beer, they hadn't yet opened their menus. She gave them another ten with the same result. They'd been so busy learning about each other that food had become an afterthought.

Rory looked to Aaron for help. “What do you recommend?”

“I love the burgers here, but I've never been disappointed by the ribs or salmon.”

She turned to the waitress. “Great—I'll have a cheeseburger.”

“Make that two,” Aaron said. “Just wait till you taste their waffle fries,” he added after the waitress left.

Rory laughed. “How on earth did salmon sneak onto your list of favorites?”

“Hey, I eat healthy a lot more than you might think,” he protested.

She decided to take him at his word. He couldn't look the way he did by eating a steady diet of red meat and saturated fat. After dinner they spent another hour talking over coffee and two refills. Rory explained why she'd chosen to be a sketch artist and then left to run her uncle's investigating firm. Aaron told her he came from a family of doctors—his mom, dad and two sisters were all surgeons. He'd been halfway through his internship when he finally questioned his career choice.

“I'd honestly never considered an alternative,” he said. “And it's not like my folks ever pressured me into the family business. Now don't get me wrong; I liked medicine well enough, but surgery never drew me the way it did the rest of the clan. It wasn't until I did a rotation in peds that I knew I'd found my place.”

“No regrets then?”

“Not a one. How about you?”

“Now and then there's a moment when I wonder if I should have stayed with the police instead of going out on my own.” She didn't add that the marshal often played a leading role in those moments. “But for the most part, I'm happy with the work.”

Although Aaron hadn't asked for the check, the waitress came by and dropped it on the table with a polite but firm “Thank you, guys; have a good night.”

“I think they want their table back,” he said once she was out of earshot. “Can I interest you in an after-dinner drink and some decent jazz?”

“That new place in town?” Rory asked. “Sax something?”

“The Sax Spot—but it opened three years ago.”

“I guess I lost track of time. You don't want to know how long I've been meaning to check out the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.”

“You're on your own with that one,” he said. “I'm not a fan of little, crustless cucumber sandwiches.” They slid out of the booth, and he helped her on with her coat. “So, are you game?”

“Sure,” she said glad to spend more time with him. She thought she saw his eyes brighten at her response.

“Now that you know I don't have two heads or carry an axe in my back pocket, why don't you ride into town with me?” he suggested as they walked out into the parking lot. “I'll drop you back here for your car later.”

“Sounds like a plan.” They chatted about jazz on their way to Aaron's white SUV in the last row. He started to reach for the passenger door but stopped with his hand in midair. “Damn,” he said, his face gathered in a frown. Rory followed his line of sight to the front tire, which was pancaked on the macadam. “I didn't drive over anything that could have done this,” he muttered. “And something small like a nail would have caused a slow leak, not this kind of damage.”

“Hey, I'll take a rain check,” Rory said, although she was disappointed. “You need to take care of the car. What's a doc without his wheels?”

“Yeah, I'm . . . I'm awfully sorry. Let me at least walk you to your car, then I'll call for service.” As they turned around, they saw the flattened rear tire at the same moment. “No way,” Aaron said, anger rising in his voice. “This wasn't accidental; someone did it on purpose.” He bent down to examine first one tire, then the other. “Look here. The tires were slashed with a knife. And not a small one.”

Rory shook her head. “Why would anyone do a thing like that?”

“Who knows,” he said in disgust. “Kids on a dare? An act of revenge that targeted the wrong car?”

Rory opened her mouth to speak, but shut it instantly when she realized she knew the answer. Knew it and couldn't share it with him. “I'm right over there,” she said pointing to the red Audi convertible and trying to keep her voice even. It was hard to sound natural with anger constricting the muscles of her throat. Make that anger with a hearty splash of guilt, since she was separated by just one degree from the cause of Aaron's distress.

“Nice car,” Aaron said when they reached the Audi. Rory had to give him credit for trying to end the evening on a pleasant note in spite of the incident. She wouldn't have succeeded nearly as well under the same circumstances. “I don't think I'll ever be able to sell it,” she said.

“That special?”

“The dearest uncle a girl could have left it to me in his will.” Oops—melancholy wasn't going to help the situation. What was she thinking?

But Aaron grabbed onto the subject as if it were a lifeline. “I had a terrific uncle who died way too young. He played baseball—almost made it into the majors. He left me his bat and glove. Not quite the same as a sexy car, but every bit as precious to an eleven-year-old boy.”

“Or a thirtysomething pediatrician?” Rory asked.

A grin transformed his face as if she'd flipped a switch somewhere inside him. “I knew right away that I liked you,” he said. When he reached for her hand, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek without a moment's thought or hesitation.

“Thanks for a lovely night,” she said, opening the car door and sliding behind the steering wheel. Wow—she'd never done anything like that before. She started the engine and opened her window. “Good luck with the tires.”

Aaron leaned down on the window frame and peered in at her. “Thanks. I'm already feeling pretty lucky tonight.” Then he stepped back, and Rory reversed out of the spot. She waved as she drove off. She was feeling pretty lucky herself. But she knew someone else who was not going to fare half as well.