Free To Sketch a Thief by Sharon Pape Page A

dig into a hot fudge sundae with extra whipped cream and two cherries on top.
    So that was it. Rory was surprised she hadn’t picked up on it sooner. Helene had joined the Way Off Broadway Players only a few months earlier and had been dizzy with excitement over her role in the new production. Having inherited a windfall when an old and apparently nostalgic boyfriend passed away, she’d been able to retire from her thirty-year teaching career to pursue her lifelong interest in acting. It proved to be a match made in drama queen heaven. The troupe was strictly nonequity. They performed in a converted storefront in Bay Shore, half an hour south of Huntington. Over the years they’d developed a loyal following that could be counted upon to fill their fifty-seat theater on weekends.
    “I’m Aunt Eller,” Helene said proudly. “It’s not a big part, but one I’ve spent years researching,” she added with a wink. She kissed Rory’s cheek. “Now remember, if you need help with any of your investigations, I’m just a phone call away. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed running interference for you the last time. I rather think I was born for espionage—it’s not unlike the stage, you know.”
    Rory promised to keep her on speed dial. Helene and her parents had in fact made it possible for her to gather evidence that eventually led to the arrest of Vincent Conti. As Rory closed the door behind her aunt, she was thinking that she really owed her family an invitation to dinner, or at least a Sunday brunch. She hadn’t invited them over since it had become hers. The Zeke factor had a lot to do with that lapse. While he insisted that he didn’t want to meet her folks, there was always the chance he might decide to amuse himself by turning lights on and off, causing objects to move around the room or any number of other little tricks he had in his ghostly arsenal. She was pretty sure he’d enjoy making her squirm. And what about Hobo? Wouldn’t her parents wonder why he was so skittish, jumping with fright for no apparent reason or hiding like an ostrich with his head buried under her legs? She’d have to come up with some plausible explanations for the inexplicable.
    As if he knew she was thinking of him, Hobo let out a plaintive bark at the back door, a bark that clearly meant “let me in, let me in.” She went to the kitchen and held the door open for him. He stepped inside, then immediately bolted past her with a yelp. When Rory turned around, she wasn’t at all surprised to find Zeke seated at the table. To give him the benefit of the doubt, she’d assume he’d blinked the lights when she was facing the door. On such a sunny day it was entirely possible that she hadn’t noticed the additional light.
    “This is goin’ to be one helluva long month,” he said dryly.
    “How did he act while I was out?” Rory asked, trying not to think about what on earth she was going to do if Hobo didn’t acclimate to living with the marshal. With each passing hour, she was growing more hopelessly attached to the dog.
    “Well, I did my best to stay out of his way and for the most part he stayed out of mine. He seems partial to hidin’ under things, the table here, the desk upstairs. He even tried to squeeze under your bed, which didn’t go too well given his size and all.”
    Rory shook her head and sank onto the chair beside Zeke, wondering if they made tranquilizers for dogs. Or ghosts for that matter. Hobo poked his snout around the corner from the dining room. He took one tentative step in, then quickly shuffled two steps back, dancing the approach avoidance two-step. He wanted desperately to be near her and just as desperately to stay away from whatever was sitting beside her.
    Rory read the look in his eyes and relocated to the chair across from the marshal. Hobo dipped into his reserve of courage and made a beeline for her legs, nearly upending her and her chair in the process, all of which Zeke seemed to enjoy