Sketch a Falling Star (19 page)

“In answer to your question,” Zeke resumed, “Dobson’s not the one. Why would a killer with half a workin’ brain up and pay a visit on the investigator? Put himself under that kind of scrutiny?”

“To make me think he isn’t guilty.”

Zeke shook his head. “I might buy that if he hadn’t been so angry from the get-go. No, I think he’s miffed ’cause you’re messin’ with his troupe. He’s protectin’ his interests. He can’t go on bein’ king if he has no subjects.”

“And I suppose Brian must have wanted to stay in Dobson’s good graces in order to get the better roles,” she said musing out loud.

“Which means no scams, no blackmail. Dobson might be the one person in the troupe who didn’t have a motive to kill him. So, as much as we don’t like him, we’ve got to move on. You never get where you’re goin’ by constantly sniffin’ around the same tree.”

“By the way,” Rory said, “you shouldn’t have put that ball where he could trip on it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Zeke said with a grin. “I just couldn’t resist.”

They’d reached the intersection where Woodbine crossed the northern end of Main Street. As Rory turned onto Main, she checked for nearby cars and pedestrians. Fortunately, the town was quiet on weekdays, especially before the warm weather took hold. With no potential witnesses around, she told Zeke it was time for him to vanish, which he did, on cue and without argument. Rory wondered if it qualified as a miracle.

She pulled into one of the angled parking spaces a few doors down from the little storefront diner where Dorothy had suggested they meet. Inside, Rory found her waiting in one of the booths, adding milk to her coffee. Her chin-length brown hair seemed to be in the throes of indecision, some of it curling toward her face, some away. Her only makeup was an overly bright swath of blush on her plump cheeks, which added to her generally round appearance. From what Rory could tell from her brief encounters with Dorothy in the past, the older woman had surrendered to, if not welcomed, the additional pounds menopause offered.

Rory slid into the booth across from her, and by the time they’d exchanged their “hellos” and “how are yous,” the waitress appeared to take their order. Rory asked for coffee, orange juice and an English muffin, since there hadn’t been time for breakfast at home. Dorothy said that sounded good and ordered a carrot muffin, which apparently sounded even better.

“Now, what can I do for you?” she asked. “You were rather vague on the phone.”

“I guess you’ve heard that Brian’s mother asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding his death?”

“Yes, I couldn’t help but hear—you know, the old grapevine. How’s it going?”

“Investigations are kind of funny that way. You can’t always tell how they’re going until they’re over.”

“Sounds a lot like acting.” She laughed. “No matter how much work you do beforehand, there’s no way to be sure how it will turn out until the curtain comes down opening night. Can I be of any help?”

“Just making the time to see me today is great. What I’m looking for are any insights you might have into Brian and his relationships with the other Players who were there the day he died.”

“Such a horrible day,” Dorothy said with a little shudder. “It still doesn’t seem completely real to me. I guess when your time is up, it’s up. What else can you say when an old lady like me makes it out in almost one piece while a strong, young man like Brian drowns?”

“Then you think Brian’s death was a matter of fate, not murder?”

“I know Clarissa thinks he was murdered, but doesn’t a flash flood sound more like fate to you? Not that the two have to be mutually exclusive, I suppose,” Dorothy said, pausing as if to consider her own words. “I mean what if fate sent the flood that made the murder possible?”

The waitress arrived with their breakfast, and Rory waited until she’d set everything down and walked away before speaking. “That’s certainly one way of looking at it.” She added milk to her coffee and spread strawberry jam on her English muffin. “But getting back to basics, how would you say Brian got along with the rest of the troupe?”

Dorothy had cut her carrot muffin in half and was spreading each side with orange marmalade. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. “I don’t think I have the kind of insights into Brian that you’re hoping to hear,” she said after swallowing. “I had very little personal interaction with him.”

“Whatever you can tell me is probably more than I know.”

“Well, he could be…what’s the word…charismatic, that’s it. Like the cult leaders you hear about on the news from time to time. I think it was easy to be drawn in by him.”

“Slick?” Rory offered, quoting the others she’d interviewed.

Working on another mouthful, Dorothy just nodded.

“Do you think all the Players were taken with him?”

Dorothy sipped her coffee. “To one degree or another. Unfortunately, for a few it was hook, line and sinker.” Her lips tipped up in a nostalgic smile. “My late husband liked that expression, used it all the time. I guess that’s because he loved to fish. Isn’t it strange the things that stay with you after you lose someone?”

Rory could certainly have empathized if she’d had the time for that. But the half hour was flying by, and soon Dorothy would be off to her quilting class.

“Charlie, that was my husband, he always wanted me to go fishing with him,” Dorothy said with a soft chuckle. “But the very first time I did, the boat capsized. It’s funny now in the retelling, but it wasn’t at all funny back then, because I’m not much of a swimmer. It’s like another time when we were up in Montreal….”

Rory was waiting for the right moment to interrupt, but Dorothy was on a roll, barely coming up for air. One story segued into another. She seemed to be enjoying her memories so much that Rory hated to spoil her fun. She promised herself she’d get the conversation back on track at the end of the current story no matter what. But she never had the opportunity. She was reaching for her coffee cup when her hand somehow clipped the glass of orange juice. It toppled over, splashing juice across the table and onto her lap. She quickly slid out of the booth, but the damage was done. The lap of her jeans was soaked through. She excused herself and hurried off to the ladies’ room to try to clean up the mess.

As soon as the bathroom door closed behind her, the fluorescent lights blinked and Zeke appeared, arms folded over his chest like a principal about to lecture a delinquent student.

Although words were piling up in her mouth, Rory didn’t say anything until she’d checked the two stalls to make sure they were empty. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t just pop up in a ladies’ room. What if someone else was in here?”

“I checked it out myself,” he said, “before I—”

“Before you knocked over the juice,” she said, the truth dawning on her. “I didn’t think my hand was close enough to have done it. Good job! Look at me—I’m dripping wet!” Her voice was getting louder by the second, and she didn’t even try to rein it in.

“What was going on out there?” Zeke asked, clearly trying to contain his own irritation. “How much longer were you goin’ to let her ramble on like that? This is an investigation, not a tea party.”

“I was just about to stop her when you butted in. Talk about wasting time.” She pulled a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser beside the sink and started blotting at her jeans.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, finally sounding a bit contrite. “I was aimin’ to knock the little jam container on to you to get your attention, but I used too much power. I didn’t exactly have time to practice, you know.”

Rory wasn’t in any mood for lame excuses. She balled up the wet towels, threw them into the wastebasket, then pulled down another bunch. The juice had soaked through the jeans into her underwear, making her even more uncomfortable. “We’ll talk about this later,” she snapped, tossing away the rest of the towels and storming out of the bathroom directly into Dorothy, who was about to walk in.

“Is everything okay in there?” the older woman asked, craning her neck to see over Rory’s shoulder as the door swung closed behind her.

Rory held her breath for a second, praying Dorothy hadn’t caught a glimpse of the marshal. When the concern on the older woman’s face didn’t change to shock, Rory knew she’d dodged the bullet. A man in the ladies’ room would be hard enough to explain, much less a man straight out of the nineteenth century, complete with badge and gun. Zeke hadn’t bothered to change into modern clothing, having assumed he’d be staying out of sight.

“I couldn’t help but overhear—it sounded like you were yelling at someone. Is there a man in there?”

“No, no, everything’s fine. I was on the phone. I accidentally had it on speaker at one point, that’s probably what you heard. A repairman was supposed to come later today to fix my TV, and he called to say he can’t be there until tomorrow. I guess I lost my temper.”

Dorothy didn’t seem completely convinced. “Well,…as long as everything’s okay,” she murmured. “I’ll just be a minute. Too much coffee this morning.” She limped into the restroom leaning on her cane, her left foot still encased in an orthopedic boot.

When Rory returned to the table, the spill had already been cleaned up. She sat down and finished half of her English muffin while she waited for Dorothy to return. When the actress hobbled back, Rory glanced at her watch. Only ten minutes left.

“To get back to Brian,” she said as soon as Dorothy settled herself. “Did you have the feeling he was going to be trouble from the start?”

“No, and I’m embarrassed to admit that,” Dorothy said sheepishly. “I’ve always considered myself to be a good judge of character. But like everyone else in the troupe, I thought Brian was an all-around great guy in the beginning. He was charming, well-mannered, always quick with a compliment; he’d bring in treats for everyone, roses for all the ladies on Valentine’s Day and so forth. But then I started to hear about some of the things he was pulling on the others.”

“That’s when you stopped baking him cookies?” Rory asked bluntly, hoping to catch an unvarnished reaction.

Dorothy’s brows bunched together like little fists. “Who told you about that?” she asked sharply, surprise and irritation seasoning her tone. Rory had never seen this side of the troupe matriarch before, but then she barely knew the woman. When you watched actors perform, it was easy to fall under the assumption that you knew them, knew their character, their weaknesses and strengths, even their moral code. A risky assumption if you were an investigator working on a murder case.

“Forgive me,” Dorothy sighed. “That didn’t come out at all how I meant it. It’s just that I don’t like people telling tales or sticking their noses into my business. But we are only talking about cookies here. My daughter tells me I need to lighten up. She’s probably right.”

“Did Brian ever try to involve you in a scam or anything shady?” Rory asked. The clock was ticking, and she didn’t have the time to nudge the conversation back onto the right track in a more subtle fashion.

Dorothy didn’t seem to mind. “No, I don’t have the kind of money that would have interested him, and he certainly wasn’t after my body,” she added with a self-deprecating laugh. “Even in my prime, I wasn’t the type to catch the eye of a man like him. And I was probably better off for it.” She paused for a moment and looked up at the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter. “Oops. I hope you’ll excuse me, Rory,” she said as she waved her hand, trying to catch the waitress’s eye. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my class.”

“That’s okay—you go ahead,” Rory told her. “Breakfast is on me.” As soon as she heard her own words, she started laughing. “Literally as well as figuratively, you might say.”

Dorothy, who was sliding out of the booth, dissolved into laughter too. It was the kind of full, well-used laughter that Rory thought of as jolly. The actress rose to her feet, holding onto the table until she found her balance with the boot and cane. “Thanks for breakfast, and give me a call if you have any more questions,” she said, still chuckling as she headed to the door.

Chapter 19

C
larissa Carpenter had gone with friends to an upstate spa for some R&R after the stress of settling her son’s affairs. It was only for a few days, but from Rory’s perspective, it was the epitome of bad timing. Of course, Clarissa had no way of knowing that the investigation was about to uncover the big, fifty-thousand-dollar question.

Rory had considered calling her cell, but since the information they needed wasn’t going to vanish, and there was nothing Clarissa could accomplish while she was away, there was no point in interrupting her vacation. Instead, Rory left a message on her home phone. With her usual “get it done yesterday” ethic, Clarissa called back within minutes of arriving home and listening to her voice mail.

“I thought I’d heard it all when it came to Brian,” she said after Rory laid out the theory of blackmail to explain the sudden infusion of funds in his account. “But even dead and gone, he’s still managing to surprise me.”

She didn’t sound at all surprised to Rory. Her tone was businesslike, devoid of emotional distress, the words a simple statement of fact. Rory struggled with her response. It seemed like she should offer a comment, something supportive that wasn’t trite or sappy. While she was digging around in her etiquette file, Clarissa took charge.

“We have to find out who gave Brian that money.”

“As his next of kin, you’re the only one who can access his records,” Rory said, glad to be moving on.

“But I’ve already closed out all his accounts.”

“No problem. Banks are required to keep records for years after an account is closed. According to the statement we saw, the fifty thousand was deposited in the form of a check. All we need is a copy of that check to tell us who gave him the money and we may just have the name of his killer.”

“I’ll be at the bank when it opens tomorrow.”

R
ory’s eyes popped open at five a.m. with no intentions of closing again anytime soon. After fifteen minutes of concentrated effort she gave up and accepted the fact that she wasn’t going to fall back to sleep. She crawled out of bed in need of a strong cup of coffee. If she had to be awake, she should at least feel awake.