Free To Sketch a Thief by Sharon Pape

silver and glass chandelier over the table flashed on, then off, and a second later the marshal fell into step beside her. Rory didn’t even flinch. She supposed it bode well for the future of the species that Homo sapiens could adapt to pretty much anything.
    “I’ll bet that’s your aunt Helene again,” Zeke said. Since he never bothered with “hello,” Rory always felt as if she’d walked in on the middle of a conversation that he’d started without her.
    “What do you mean ‘again’?” she asked, as they reached the entry.
    “She came by while you were out and when you didn’t answer the door after she’d rung the bell three times, she yelled, ‘I’ll be back in a little bit, Rory,’ as if you were here and just didn’t want to let her in. She’s a mite on the strange side, ain’t she?”
    Rory didn’t respond. Something he’d said was troubling her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The bell rang again, causing her to tuck the question away for the moment. She peered through the peephole she’d recently had installed. Sure enough, there was Helene standing on the porch, smiling expectantly and wearing a low-cut sundress over a tank top, the tank being a concession to her version of propriety now that she was fifty.
    As Rory unlocked the door she turned to Zeke, her eyebrows raised. “So, how do you prefer to be introduced? Ezekiel Drummond or Marshal Drummond?”
    He vanished without a sound.
    “Aunt Helene,” Rory said, opening the door, “what a great surprise. Come on in.”
    Helene stepped inside and engulfed her in an enthusiastic hug. Although she was as petite as her niece, her effusive personality made her seem twice the size.
    “I actually came by before, but you weren’t home,” Helene said, one arm still encircling Rory’s waist as if to prevent her from getting away this time.
    “I had no idea you were coming.”
    “Of course you didn’t; you’re not a mind reader. I was in the neighborhood, so I just stopped by to say hello. We don’t get to see you very much anymore.” By “we,” Rory knew she meant her parents, the other two members of what her dad referred to as the geriatric musketeers. To Rory they were somewhere between the musketeers and the three stooges, but she kept that thought to herself.
    “If you’d called me on my cell, I could have told you when I’d be home and you wouldn’t have wasted your time.”
    “I didn’t waste anything, my dear. I like it better when my day’s not completely planned out. It was more fun not knowing if I’d find you home. Like being on a treasure hunt. And when you weren’t here, I consoled myself with one of those sinful iced coffee drinks with chocolate syrup and lots of whipped cream.” She sighed happily, savoring the treat all over again in her mind. “I’m sure it had tons of fat and calories, but I said to myself, ‘Helene, what’s the point of living if you don’t indulge from time to time?’ Then I swung by again to see if you were home yet. So here I am, here you are and it’s been a perfectly lovely day.”
    “Well, I’m glad you found me,” Rory said, “I’ve missed you too.” It wasn’t any secret in the family that Helene was a bit eccentric, a polar opposite to Rory’s mother, who was so rooted in reality that Helene often called her a “lovable old stick-in-the-mud.” From the time she was little, Rory had found that being within her aunt’s sphere of influence always made her feel delightfully off center herself.
    “By the way,” Helene said, “there was a dog just barking his fool head off when I rang the bell before. Is there a new addition to the family I haven’t been told about?”
    “That’s Hobo. His owner died suddenly, so I’m giving him a trial run. He’s out back if you want to meet him.”
    “Another time, dear, I have to run.” She withdrew her arm. “We start rehearsing Oklahoma tonight.” Her eyes were sparkling like the eyes of a kid about to