Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

Bitsy was Russell’s Scottish terrier, or “Scottish terror,” as I called her. In fact, I was surprised she wasn’t yapping at Russell’s heels. Must have been asleep, thank God. Damn dog could puncture eardrums with that bark of hers.

“Oh, I don’t think Oscar will hurt little Bitsy—if she behaves herself,” I said.

“Aren’t you a stitch?”

“Just keep Oscar in a room. He won’t care, as long as you give him food and water. And keep a litter box in there, of course.”

Russell wrinkled his nose. “Jesus Christ—a litter box. Why the hell don’t you just give me the key and I’ll go upstairs and feed him there.”

“Because ...” I hesitated. “I’m worried. I don’t want to leave him alone. They might hurt him. Those guys who beat me up.”

Russell stared. “You think they’re coming here again? Jesus ... what the hell have you gotten into?”

I didn’t know what to say.

He heaved a sigh. “All right. Bring the little bastard down.”

“Thanks, Russell. You’re the best.”

“I know.” He tilted his head back with the air of a matinee idol and stared down his nose at me. “But you’ll never get to find out why.” He shut the door.

Chapter SIXTEEN

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If you have to be anywhere in Maryland during the summer, it should be on the water. The state’s claim to fame is the Chesapeake Bay, the haunt of boating enthusiasts and home to the blue crab, which everyone seems so keen on eating. There’s nothing very interesting about the bay. It’s a big, flat body of water with a lot of flat land around it. I’d rather have a nice cottage by a scenic river.

I guess Gibson Island has the best of both worlds, in a sense. Strictly speaking, it’s not an island, since it’s connected to the mainline by an isthmus, but Gibson Almost-Island doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. It has the mouth of the Magothy River on one side, the bay on the other. In between, you’ll find a lot of fancy houses and people with money.

After checking in with the guard, I followed the isthmus onto the so-called island. From the road, I caught glimpses of houses discreetly tucked behind tall trees, ranging in size and style from country rancher to mini-Buckingham Palace. I turned in at a gated driveway, wove briefly through a grove of oak trees, and emerged in the shadow of a huge house. The road ran in a wide, lazy curve to the entrance, revealing a bluish-green glimpse of water as I took the turn.

The house had an odd, thrown-together look—a stucco exterior with a Spanish tile roof, a kind of Tudor design around the windows, and a front porch, columned southern style and flanked with overgrown hydrangea and roses. If an average person lived there, the place would be ugly. Since the owner had dough, it qualified as unique and eclectic.

I parked beside a gleaming silver Lexus, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. The faint echo of its notes faded out, so the only sound was the hum of a bumblebee. The sweet fragrance of roses saturated the air. I was thinking about ringing the bell again, when the door opened. A fortyish man who looked like a model for Land’s End stared back at me. Square-jawed, with neatly combed, brown hair, he wore a golf shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I guessed he wasn’t the butler.

“Sam McRae?” he asked, with a look of pleasant curiosity. “Connie Ash.” We shook hands, and he invited me in.

The dark wood lobby looked bigger than my apartment. Dual staircases ran along the walls and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the center of a ceiling two stories high. Ash took me back through a series of rooms furnished in Danish modern, creating as jarring a contrast internally as I’d seen outside. I’m not a big fan of traditional furniture—seems stuffy to me. I could appreciate Ash’s desire to decorate for comfort rather than style, although with his money he could’ve at least redone the house to match the furnishings.

We ended up in a Florida room with a panoramic bay view through floor-to-ceiling windows. A back porch extended off the room for the length of the house. Ash gestured toward a wet bar in the corner.

“Drink? Beer, wine, something stronger?”

“Maybe a soda.”

He shrugged. “Name it, I’ve probably got it. I keep a good stock on hand for parties.”

“Ginger ale?”

“Sure.” He took out two tumblers, poured me a ginger ale, and a bourbon and water for himself. “Shall we sit outside? It’s been muggy the last few days, but tonight it’s actually decent.”

The porch furnishings were wicker chairs and a red lacquer table. I took a seat. A mild breeze blew off the water, making a set of bamboo chimes clink a haphazard tune. The lawn stretched in a lush green slope to the water’s edge, fringed with cattails. From behind one cluster, a pointy-billed blue heron appeared, taking slow, deliberate steps with angular, stilted legs, while scanning the water for dinner.

“This is nice,” I said.

“Isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.” He sank into his chair with a contented sigh. “So ... Tom Garvey’s dead and you want to ask me some questions. I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you. He worked for me for a while, that’s

it.”