Sketch a Falling Star (30 page)

Since Rory couldn’t offer an explanation he would understand, she shook her head and smiled in commiseration. The marshal was often an enigma to her too. She set her handbag on the table and pulled out the photocopies of the diary and letters. As soon as she put the thin stack of them at Zeke’s usual seat, he abandoned his pacing and his faithful shadow to pop into his chair. Hobo lay down beside the island as if prepared to follow should the marshal choose to continue his strange journey.

Rory took a seat beside Zeke in case he became too excited or overwrought to turn the pages without flinging them across the room. Apparently of the same mind, Zeke didn’t even try to turn them himself. Instead, he gave a little nod as he finished reading each page. Although he didn’t make any comments while going through the diary entries, when he reached the one about Frank hiring Hargrave, she noticed his jaw tighten. It wasn’t until he started reading the letters that Rory was able to see waves of emotion pulling at his face.

August 22, 1878

My dearest Katherine,

I have been gone for nearly two weeks, and I already miss you and our boys desperately. Please be assured that I would never have left if there had been any other way. I discovered today that Hargrave’s body was found in an abandoned barn in the New Mexico Territory, half a day’s ride from Albuquerque. He’d been shot to death, but no one seems to know by whose gun. I must assume that Hargrave found either Trask or Drummond and was in the end outgunned. I am left with one last choice in this matter. I can look for these men myself, or I can give up and come home. Please trust that I have searched my heart well before deciding to continue on. Were I to come home now with this business left unfinished, I would not be able to live with myself, and over time you and the children would also find it impossible to live with me.

Your devoted husband,

Frank

August 28, 1878

My dearest Katherine,

Time has lost all meaning for me. I sleep when my eyes will no longer stay open. I eat when there is time and food available. I count myself lucky that there have been enough sightings of Trask and Drummond to make tracking them possible. It came as something of a surprise to me that the marshal had left his jurisdiction and is hunting Trask too. I wonder if guilt pushes him, or if he is driven only by the habit of his profession. In any case it makes my work easier. I will write again when I can.

Your loving husband,

Frank

September 7, 1878

My dearest Katherine,

I had to leave my horse in Colorado and continue by train to New York City and then onto the Long Island. At a farmhouse in a town called Huntington, I finally caught up with both Trask and Drummond. As fate would have it, I came upon them in a rather dramatic standoff. The marshal had his revolver on Trask, who was holding a young woman at gunpoint. I did not allow myself to think about what I was about to do for fear that my resolve might come undone. There is no need for you to know the details of what transpired there. Suffice it to say that I sent the marshal to his reckoning and wounded Trask, although he managed to get away on horseback. Once I saw that the girl was in no grave danger, I took off after him and tracked him to another town, where he had stopped to seek medical attention. At the first opportunity, I dispatched him to what I can only believe is his eternal damnation.

I send this letter to you as I am about to board the train to make my way home. I ache to see you and the boys again even as I wrestle with the knowledge that I have become a killer myself. Yet for me that is an easier pain to live with than the pain of letting our Betsy’s death go unpunished. I will not try to justify my actions by claiming that I did it to save other young girls from the same fate, because this was not an act of altruism. It is important to me that there be no lies between us.

Please embrace our boys for me and tell them I will be home before too much longer.

Your loving husband,

Frank

Zeke vanished from his chair the instant he finished reading the third letter. Before Rory could ask if he was okay. Before even offering her a “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she called out to him and then was immediately sorry for the sarcasm in her tone. She wasn’t being fair. She shouldn’t be putting etiquette before compassion. Big deal if he hadn’t rushed right out and sent her a thank-you bouquet. The guy deserved a break. He’d waited for more than a hundred years to find out the truth about his death. It was understandable if he needed some time alone to absorb it all. She was always criticizing Zeke for his lack of patience, and now it seemed she could use a few lessons in that gentle art herself. Where had she misplaced her much-vaunted sensitivity for that matter? By the time Rory finished scolding herself, she felt positively wretched. Apologizing would make her feel better, but without Zeke, there was no one to apologize to. She’d just have to keep busy until he was ready to return.

In that spirit, she headed back upstairs to finish unpacking her things. Hobo trotted past her and had already made himself comfortable on her pillow when she reached the bedroom. He remained asleep there even after she’d put away the suitcase and gone into the study to deal with what was sure to be a ridiculous amount of e-mail that had accumulated while she was gone. She was waiting for the computer to boot up when she noticed the sheet of paper lying in the printer tray. It turned out to be from a Pennsylvania newspaper dated April 2, 2003, and it contained several short articles and a photograph. Either Zeke had printed the page for her to see, or Hobo had recently grown an opposable thumb and an interest in detective work. Her money was on the marshal.

She was immediately drawn to the headline, “Suicide Linked to Scam.” But when she started reading the article, the very first line made her stop short.

York, Pennsylvania: Police have named Thomas Kent a person of interest in the Ponzi-like scheme that may have led to the suicide death of Jill Harrison.

“Thomas Kent”—the name rang a bell in Rory’s mind, though she couldn’t quite place it. She assumed that since Zeke had left the printout for her, the article had to be related to Brian’s death, but she couldn’t see the connection. She held the paper directly under the desk lamp to get a better look at the small photograph. It showed two women in their late thirties or early forties decked out in evening clothes. The caption beneath the photo read, “Jill Harrison with her sister Paula Imperiali in happier times.” Rory stared at the picture more puzzled than ever. Although she’d never heard either woman’s name before, she immediately recognized the woman identified as Paula.

Chapter 30

P
aula Imperiali’s face had been etched into Rory’s mind when she came barreling down the center of the road, forcing Rory onto the shoulder. She was the woman Rory had sketched and asked Leah to run through the police database. No matter how much some women teased their hair or how much mascara and lipstick they applied, they never really looked any different. Paula, with her sharp features and utilitarian haircut, was clearly one of them.

Rory sat back in her chair, thoughts swirling madly around in her head like lights from a disco ball. She wished Zeke was there so she could ask him how he’d found the article and if he’d printed it out only because he too had recognized Paula from the sketch. Since Rory had no idea when Zeke might return, she did a Google search that turned up several women who shared the name “Paula Imperiali.” But with only a name to go by, even Google wasn’t much help in narrowing the field. In the best of all possible worlds, one of the Paulas would have been listed as a skilled break-in artist and stunt driver. That not being the case, Rory set aside the article and her questions until Zeke was “back in town” and resigned herself to tackling the fifty-two e-mails waiting in her inbox.

S
he’d made it through a quarter of the e-mails when she remembered why the name “Thomas Kent” was familiar to her. It was one of the aliases Brian had used as he’d hopscotched across the country, leaving misery in his wake. Zeke had suggested doing Google searches of the names on all the false IDs to see if he could round up any useful clues, but until now the results had been dismal. While Rory was away in Tucson, he’d obviously hit pay dirt with the “Thomas Kent” pseudonym. It occurred to her that she might be able to follow up on the trail Zeke had left her. If she could learn more about these sisters, she might find a clue to the con man’s killer. She logged out of her e-mail account and found her way to the newspaper from which Zeke had printed the article. Then she checked the obituaries for that day. No mention of Jill Harrison. Rory checked the previous day’s obits and found it there. According to the short memorial column, Jill had lived a normal, unremarkable life and had been well loved by family and friends, who were all devastated by her loss. She was survived by her husband, Daniel; her son, Ryan; her sister, Paula Imperiali; and her mother, Dorothy Johnson.

Rory had to read the name twice to make sure she hadn’t misread it the first time. Helene had never mentioned that her colleague had lost a child. Of course, Helene had joined the troupe less than a year ago, and it was entirely possible that Dorothy was a private sort of person who chose to keep her pain a private matter. But it did help explain why she kept so busy. Less time to think about the unthinkable.

Rory sat back in her chair as the weight of this new information settled upon her shoulders like a coat of lead. A disturbing image of the elderly woman being led off to prison in handcuffs and shackles ran through her mind. As difficult as it was to accept, Dorothy had the best motive of all for killing Brian. Not to mention a broken foot that could have occurred in the commission of the assault. But Brian outclassed her in age and weight and testosterone. Any physical match between them would have made the battle of David and Goliath look like a bout sanctioned by the most reputable boxing associations. If her daughter Paula had been on the trip, it would have been easier to believe that
she’d
been the one who’d slammed Brian’s head into the rocky canyon wall, knocking him unconscious to drown in the flood waters. But Paula’s part in the crime seemed limited to trying to scare Rory off the case and breaking into her house to leave messages directing her attention to other suspects. If the murder had happened under different circumstances, Dorothy might have had the time to enlist someone else’s help, but premeditation wasn’t possible given the nature of a flash flood.

In any case, all of this was pure conjecture. Dorothy and Paula were the only ones with the answers, and Rory needed to find a way to question the two women. She knew where to find Dorothy, but Paula proved to be another story. Even her phone number was unlisted. Rory toyed briefly with the idea of getting Leah involved. Very briefly, because once the police knew what she’d discovered, they’d take over completely. What was the point of doing all the legwork in an investigation if you didn’t get to actually take down the bad guys? There had to be a shrink somewhere who would agree that Rory deserved to have “closure” in her work. Of course, Leah would brush that off as so much psychobabble. And Zeke could be counted on to deliver a stern, make that outraged, lecture on her foolhardy, strong-headed impulsiveness. Rory decided it was probably a good thing he wasn’t around right now.

A
fter a restless night of listening to Hobo snort and snore his way through an entire symphony of noises, Rory was exhausted, but she’d come up with a plan of action. She brewed a pot of strong coffee and let the dog out to take care of his necessities. Then, coffee in hand and Hobo underfoot, she went up to the study to create a mysterious note of her own. It was short and to the point, and with any luck it would produce the desired result.

I know what you did, Dorothy, and why you did it. I also know what Paula’s been up to. Bright and early tomorrow, I’m going to enlighten the police.

Rory hit “print,” and the machine spat out the note. She plucked it off the printer tray, folded it and slipped it into an envelope, which she addressed to Dorothy, leaving no return address. She didn’t need a stamp, since she intended to deliver it herself.

She dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved tee shirt, since the weatherman called for warming temperatures, and set about putting her plan into action. Her.45 nested in her handbag, along with two pair of plastic cuffs, just in case. She’d promised her conscience, which had begun to resemble Zeke in her mind, that she’d call the police if things started to get out of hand. Of course, she’d never been a particularly good judge of that moment just before the scales tipped against her.

At nine o’clock she called Dorothy’s home, drumming her fingers on the kitchen counter as she listened to the phone ring. When Dorothy finally picked it up, she was breathing hard.

“Am I speaking to Mrs. Johnson?” Rory asked in the deepest voice she could affect.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” Dorothy sounded rushed.

“We’re conducting a poll of TV viewers’ preferences. It will only take about twenty minutes, if you’d—”

“No, no. I’m sorry.” Rushed and flustered. “I’m already late for rehearsal.” She hung up before Rory could say anything else, which was fine with her. She’d found out what she needed to know. Dorothy was at home but would be leaving momentarily for an early rehearsal.