Sketch a Falling Star (6 page)

“Where were you at the time of Preston Wright’s death?” he asked, abruptly switching topics.

“In Tucson, doing research,” she replied evenly. The way things were going, she couldn’t very well lie and say she was visiting a nonexistent friend unless she was interested in some new accommodations at the local Navajo jail. “I’m sure the librarian at the Arizona Historical Society will vouch for me.”

Joe wasn’t taking notes, which told Rory that he wasn’t actually interested in her answers. He was just trying to make her sweat as payback for her transgression. She toyed briefly with the idea of breaking down in tears and confessing that she’d arranged for the rain and the flood specifically to kill Preston. But since Joe didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, she decided it wouldn’t be in her best interests to bait him further.

He asked her how well she’d known the deceased and how she’d describe his relationships with the rest of the troupe. She said that she’d barely exchanged two sentences with the man and that she had no idea about how he interacted with the other actors, since she wasn’t even part of the troupe. He seemed about to follow up with another question from his bottomless bag of tricks when his cell phone rang. He took the call and listened for less than ten seconds before hanging up. Rising from his chair, he dismissed Rory as if he were suddenly eager to be rid of her; he exited the office while she was still seated. Curious, she followed him out of the room and into the lobby, wondering what bigger fish had just beached itself on his shore.

Chapter 6

A
s Rory watched, Detective Joe strode across the lobby in the direction of his rookie. Begay was standing near the entryway beside a trim blonde who appeared to be in her sixties. She was wearing the same shell-shocked expression as the members of the troupe and kept dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a tissue. Begay was once again examining his shoes, the floor, any place other than the woman’s face. He looked even more uncomfortable than when he’d expressed his sympathies to Rory earlier, which led her to assume that the blonde was a close relative of Preston’s, probably his mother. That would also explain Detective Joe’s eagerness to meet her. He’d probably been waiting for her to formally identify the body and perhaps fill in some blanks in his report.

After a moment’s debate, Rory started walking nonchalantly toward them, hoping to get close enough to overhear what they were saying. She told herself she wasn’t looking for trouble. As far as she knew, there was no law against walking around a public space like a hotel lobby. Besides, Joe’s back was to her.

She saw Begay introduce the blonde to his boss, who not only dipped his head, but also shook her hand—VIP treatment, coming from Joe. Before Rory had navigated half the distance to the three, the officers whisked the woman out the front door.

Robbed of her destination, Rory stopped where she was, a human jetty to the ebb and flow of people moving through the lobby. She was trying to decide what to do next when she noticed that Sophia Caspian was waving her over to join them. Sophia, who was two years Rory’s junior, had been seated next to her on the flight west, and the two young women had spent most of the time in conversation. She was bright and funny, and to Rory’s artistic eye, quite beautiful. Although her individual features would never earn a ten by any plastic surgeon’s standards, the combination was striking, the whole much more than the simple sum of its parts.

It didn’t take Rory long to decide that some idle chitchat with Sophia and the others was vastly more appealing than listening to her aunt snore, so she headed in their direction. Once they’d all exchanged greetings, Dorothy Johnson excused herself and rose from her seat with the aid of a cane. Her left foot was encased in a bootlike contraption that was making it difficult for her to maneuver. Whenever Rory had seen her at the theatre, she’d been as vivacious and spry as the younger members of the troupe. Even in her present condition, it was hard to believe she was courting seventy.

“I’m off to see if I can catch me a sandman,” she said, shaking her head. “The older I get, the more sleep eludes me. And after our little skirmish with mortality, well…enough said…I’ll see you all later.” She limped off to the elevator.

As Rory settled into the empty seat, Richard Ames, pathologist and amateur actor, inquired how she’d enjoyed being interviewed by Detective Joe. The trademark British accent he’d held on to in spite of some thirty years in the United States added a delightful kick to his sarcasm. Tall, with graying hair and a strong jawline that had only started to soften now that he’d hit middle age, his accent suited him so thoroughly that it seemed to have been etched into his DNA.

“The detective is nothing if not thorough,” Rory replied. Until she had a better sense of these people, she didn’t want to be the first to cast any weightier stones. It was a concern that became academic the moment Adam Caspian opened his mouth.

“If you ask me, Joe’s like the dictator of a two-bit banana republic,” Adam said, with a snap to his words that Rory hadn’t expected. Whenever she’d seen him in a play, he was cast in the part of the slightly nerdy, kindhearted friend of the lead. He had a round, open face exaggerated by round wire-rimmed glasses and a rounded paunch where his waist should have been. Sophia had clearly inherited her looks from her mother. Rory wondered how often she thanked her lucky stars.

“He’s in his glory now that he’s got himself an audience,” Adam went on, “and even though I’ve never met the man before, it’s obvious that he’s enjoying the hell out of the power trip.”

“Come on, Dad,” Sophia rebuked him. “That’s not fair. The guy’s trying to do his job. And it can’t be easy with all the media scrutiny.”

Adam looked at Rory and sighed a father’s sigh of love and bemusement. “My daughter adores the underdog even if he’s biting off her hand.”

“You don’t need to be patronizing,” Sophia said, her dark eyes flashing with indignation. “I know you’re probably glad that Preston’s dead, but that doesn’t mean the police can just shirk their responsibility. If I’d been the one who drowned, you’d be all over Joe to search through every needle in every haystack before they labeled my death accidental.”

Rory’s ears had perked up at Sophia’s accusation. Why would her father be glad Preston was dead? And how could she find out what Sophia meant by that remark without coming across as impossibly nosy and rude?

“I’d be a bit more careful with comments of that nature,” Richard said, lowering his powerful tenor to a whisper. “No need to give Detective Joe more grist for his mill, if you take my meaning.”

Sophia’s olive complexion paled a shade or two. “I didn’t actually mean my father would ever, could ever… I just…”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Adam said patting her hand. “I know you weren’t implying anything. But Richard does have a point there. I don’t think any of us wants to stay cooped up in this hotel longer than necessary.”

The questions were still alive in Rory’s mouth; words like tiny battering rams seemed determined to push their way through her lips. She’d nearly convinced herself she could live with being a little rude when Richard’s warning stripped away that option. She doubted Detective Joe had had the hotel bugged since it wasn’t on Navajo land and he was only there at the pleasure of the management, but that didn’t give her the right to take a chance with someone else’s reputation. Her curiosity would have to wait for a more discreet time to demand satisfaction. In any case, there was another matter campaigning for her attention.

“Does anyone know the name of the blonde who left with the police?” she asked.

“Clarissa Carpenter,” Adam said. “Preston’s mother.” The others murmured their agreement.

“Carpenter,” Rory repeated. “I guess she remarried somewhere along the way. What’s she like?”

He shrugged. “I only met her once, after a performance of
Guys and Dolls
. She seemed standoffish, but to be fair she didn’t know me.”

“I had much the same impression that day,” Richard said. “And I think it’s noteworthy that she didn’t give her son so much as a peck on the check. Not one ‘bravo’ or ‘well done,’ either.”

“Not all families are huggy-kissy,” Sophia pointed out, “especially in public.” She seemed calmer to Rory now that Clarissa was the center of the discussion.

“I’m proud to say that
my
family most certainly is,” Helene chimed in as she came up behind Rory. She bent to kiss the top of her niece’s head.

“Ah, if it isn’t Rip van Winkle,” Richard said. “The rest seems to have done you good.”

Rory was thinking the same thing, minus the literary reference. Her aunt was quickly returning to herself.

“Am I the only one who’s famished?” Helene asked. “Or is it inappropriate to talk about eating at a time like this?”

“I could eat,” Adam said, and the rest of them quickly seconded the idea.

“I must say I’ve had quite enough of the hotel’s cuisine,” Richard added. “Dare we venture out and risk capture by the media hordes?”

“I say we gird our loins and have at them,” Adam said, getting into the spirit of things.

“‘One for all and all for one.’” Rory checked her watch. “Detective Joe’s twenty-four hours is nearly up anyway.”

T
he intrepid little group returned from lunch in an upbeat frame of mind, quite proud of how well they’d run the media gauntlet. They’d answered every question that was thrown at them with a smile and nothing more, except for Helene, who’d ground her high heel into one reporter’s foot when he tried to grab her arm. They’d escaped into a small luncheonette around the corner, where the owner not only barred the press, but gave the survivors free desserts with their meals.

“I think I could get used to this celebrity treatment,” Helene announced as she slid the last piece of cinnamon-rich apple pie into her mouth. Rory led the others in a round of good-natured booing that quickly turned to laughter, her aunt laughing so heartily that she almost choked on the pie. Rory knew that the emotional issues Helene and company were struggling with in the aftermath of the flood weren’t likely to resolve themselves in a week or even a month, but the laughter was a fine indication they were headed in the right direction.

As they made their way back into the hotel, they were again assaulted by a barrage of questions. This time, the reporters played it safe and kept their distance from Helene’s lethal footwear.

Inside, a hand-lettered sign had been posted atop the reception desk announcing that the Navajo Police Department would hold a press conference at two fifteen in the conference room. Well-timed, Rory thought. The police injunction would run out at two anyway, marking the start of open season on the survivors. The media was sure to be in attendance, cameras and microphones at the ready.

Rory and her lunch group headed to the conference room, which turned out to be a relatively small space with a grandiose title. The rest of the troupe was already in attendance, along with the hotel manager, who was supervising the removal of the twenty or so chairs that were usually in there. In order to accommodate more people, the briefing would be standing room only. He left one chair off to the side for Dorothy Johnson, who wasn’t supposed to stand for too long on her injured foot.

At exactly two o’clock the media laid siege to the hotel. One minute the lobby was peaceful; the next it was swarming with reporters and cameramen, cursing and shoving each other out of the way in a mad dash to reach the survivors and get on air with their story before their colleagues did. When they reached the conference room, they were pleasantly surprised to find all the survivors waiting there as if they’d been corralled expressly for their purposes. In less than two minutes, every member of the troupe had a microphone thrust in his or her face. Rory lost count of how many eager reporters she disappointed with the fact that she hadn’t been in or even near the canyon at the time of the flood. She finally slipped away from the chaos and went back to the lobby to wait for Detective Joe’s arrival.

He and Begay arrived a few minutes late without Preston’s mother in tow. Presumably she’d already identified her son’s remains and been given the official police report, including the cause of death. Rory would have liked to believe that Detective Joe talked Clarissa into skipping the press conference because he had a kind, well-intentioned heart and wanted to protect her from the feeding frenzy going on at that moment in the shark tank otherwise known as the conference room. But with one look at the hard set of his face as he hurried past her, Rory let that particular fantasy expire.

She followed the two policemen back to the room, which came to order as soon as the detective appeared on the raised platform. The reporters stepped back from their subjects; all eyes turned to Daniel Joe.

“I’m going to read a brief statement,” he said, “after which I’ll take some questions.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and started reading slowly and without inflection. “The investigation into the death of Preston Wright at Gray Wolf Canyon on April 14th has been completed. It is the opinion of the medical examiner that Mr. Wright died of drowning. The various contusions and abrasions he sustained are consistent with a body being thrown against the walls of the canyon by the force of the water. Particles of canyon rock were found inside the largest gash, at the base of his head. It is most likely that that injury knocked him unconscious and led directly to his drowning.”

Joe looked up from his paper. “As many of you are aware, there is a system in place meant to prevent this type of tragedy from happening. The tour company that takes people into the canyons shuts down whenever the weather bureau predicts rain north of here. From what we have uncovered, it appears that the warning did go out to the other slot canyons in the area yesterday but not to Gray Wolf Canyon. The person who was ultimately responsible for making that call claims to have become distracted by another matter, and by the time he remembered to issue the warning for Gray Wolf, it was too late. That person’s employment with the weather bureau has been terminated. If you have any questions, I’ll take them now.”